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Two thousand years, two minutes at a time. One deep gasping breath, followed by immediate choking horror, his mouth and lungs clogged with dirt, a thousand of pounds of soil crushing his chest and cracking his limbs. He feels the merciless press against his face, making his head pound in agony until his eyeballs pop. There is only endless frantic struggle; the earth above him, the planet he loves so well, betrays him with its weight against his bones. He scrabbles like an animal in a trap. There is nothing but a two-minute lifetime of nameless terror and crushing pain.
Oblivion.
One deep gasping breath.
Two thousand years, two minutes at a time.
*****
She has no need to travel to the stars when she can bring them to her desk. Telescopes reaching far beyond the solar system gather them to her eyes where she can examine them in the finest detail. She can analyze them in any frequency and manipulate the view at the twist of a dial. She sees thousands of years into the past; she has a front-row seat to the death of stars and the birth of supernovas. She sees thousands of years into the future; the flow of tachyons in their heavenly particle-wave duality soothes her like nothing else; time is not ending, far from ending, not yet. She sees microwaves, she sees the Big Bang, she sees the very beginning of everything there is. She sees the Alpha and Omega.
She sees God.
*****
It gets into his clothes and his skin and the hairs in his nose. He hates it. He loves it. Every day he dives into the reek of rotting food and festering shit as he cuts into the guts of another alien. He swims in formaldehyde, Betadine, Povidone, Acetozone; the harsh aromas of sterilization and preservation echo in his nose and the back of his throat like a song.
Not that he'd ever say that out loud. He'd sound a right bloody pillock.
Oh, yeah, blood -- he loves the smell of blood as well.
When he gets home he showers. He washes with scented soaps to blot out the smells he wallows in by day. He never seems to succeed. He imagines himself surrounded by a cloud scented of life and death.
He kind of gets off on it.
Still, he scrubs and scrubs, and sometimes he finds himself muttering, "Out, damned spot."
What a twat.
Oh, yeah, twat -- he loves the smell of that as well. He loves to shove his face into it. He spends hours rooting like a pig, musky cunt and pungent arse hardening his prick like oak.
And they wonder why a bastard like him can pull so easily.
Sometimes Jack walks by a little too close, and there's some kind of elusive scent that makes his head swim.
He tries not to think about that.
*****
No matter how late, if she manages to ring (if she can find time between aliens and explosions), dinner is always on the table when she gets home.
He sits across from her and watches as she eats. He loves her so much, and she loves him. And by God she loves his curry. It's spicy against her tongue. With his help she's learned to taste everything -- tart ginger and tangy yoghurt and that weird taste he calls umami . He's proud of that word. She smiles to see it roll off his tongue as if he can taste the sound of it.
When she asks Tosh about umami , Tosh hums, "Mmmm..." and licks her lips.
She remembers the taste of lipstick. Carys's lipstick, the taste of naughty, cherry-flavoured pleasures. Hart's lipstick, the taste of treachery.
She never wants to taste lipstick again. She wants to taste curry. She wants to taste her husband, who loves her so very much. She wants to swallow his come. It tastes of salt, and (she smiles as she thinks of it) a bit like cucumber. A bit like the sake they drank when they went out for Japanese that one time, when he made her shriek by eating raw octopus and slurping the tentacles -- all those suckery things -- in and out of his mouth.
Sake, sushi, umami. Salt and cucumber and curry. How could she possibly wish for anything else when she has all the spice she needs right at home?
She remembers the taste of Jack's lips, and shivers.
*****
It's a ritual. A sonata.
Exposition : The water must be 95 degrees C, no more, no less; if you hear it boil, lower the heat. The beans must be ground finely; listen until the rough rattle in the grinder settles into a whir.
Development : The filter slips into the slot with a decisive "click". The pressure builds to a crescendo. Listen carefully as the tone rises and you can hear the exact moment when it reaches 132 pounds per square inch (or nine atmospheres, if you're a scientific genius or a once-and-future spaceship pilot). At the moment of climax, one pull of a lever releases a tremendous hiss merging with a quiet gurgle as the cup is filled.
Resolution : The lever is pushed back with a sigh. The frothing pitcher is tucked into place, and there is another hiss, a mere echo of the climax forming a background to the harsh gargle of steaming milk.
The final flourish is the art of the froth. A flick of the wrist creates the sweep of the definite integral (if you're a scientific genius) or a heart (if you're a sentimental former constable).
Yes, it's a cliché. But when he hears them moan in ecstasy over the perfect cup, he smiles.
The machine is his instrument, he is a virtuoso, and he basks in their applause.
(******)
(She is insane.
She slips the cold metal gauntlet over her hand. She feels the heady rush.
She senses the Power.)