Pages from a Broken Book - The Quiet Persistence of Noise
Title: Page Four: The Quiet Persistence of Noise
Author: azriona
Beta: the ever lovely jlrpuck
Rating: PG
Warning: Spoilery like crazy for Journey’s End.
Page Four of the Pages from a Broken Book series
Page One ~ Page Two ~ Page Three
Summary: The hum should have been comforting, but he only wants it to stop. Told from 10.5’s POV.
Characters: Rose & 10.5
A/N: I was going to hold this until tomorrow...but the plethora of reviews waiting for me really did convince me otherwise. And I'm quite pleased with how it turned out, and couldn't wait to share.
The Quiet Persistence of Noise
They arrive at the transit station, one duffel bag each. Rose has the money and - amazingly - her superphone. His new passport burns like ice in his front shirt pocket, and the mobile they’ve found for him makes a heavy lump in his trousers. The salesman claimed it would work world-wide, but he has his doubts.
“The only thing to decide is domestic or international,” says Rose. Voices echo in the busy terminal. No one pays them any attention, which suits him just fine. The large departure board ticks away above them; every so often, a flight departs, and the letters scroll with a ta-lick ta-lick ta-lick to the next flight on the line. He is mesmerized by the rapidly changing destinations. Rose nudges him back to reality.
“Shame to have a passport and not use it,” he says, and she hefts her bag onto her shoulder.
“International it is. Come on.”
He follows her, wondering if he should take her bag to carry, before deciding that she probably wouldn’t like it. He clutches his own bag closer. He’s never once had to travel with things before. He always had the TARDIS, the limitless supply of fresh clothing and food. He always knew where he’d sleep that night - well, perhaps not sleep, but he knew where he’d be at the end of the adventure.
They enter the international hangar, where rows of zeppelins wait. There are lines of people boarding some; others are clearly in the process of departure or landing. The humming is loud enough to shake his bones and make his hair stand on end, and Rose looks up at him expectantly.
“Go on!” she shouts over the noise. “Pick one!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! You always picked our destinations before, you might as well do it now!”
The droning of the zeppelins hurts his head. He hadn’t eaten anything at breakfast, and they’ve barely stopped since then, what with packing, and finding him a mobile, and stopping by the bank. Rose didn’t even tell her mum they were off, saying it would be easier to ring once they were in the air. It’s barely ten in the morning, and he’s exhausted.
“That one,” he says, pointing at one of the closest, where the last person is boarding. Rose grins and takes his hand.
“Better run for it,” she says, and pulls him along. The bag bangs against his legs; he’d like to just drop it, but knows he’ll only regret it later. He does drop it, finally, at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the second-level passenger bay, and takes the claim ticket from the waiting crew member. He follows Rose up the steps, wincing. The hum is almost louder now, the everlasting drone of a bee in an echoing chamber.
Inside the passenger bay, the hum is gone, but it’s far from quiet. The seating area is very nearly full. Passengers chat with each other, greeting their neighbors with handshakes and hellos, is that seat taken, why no, please do sit down, might I borrow that newspaper when you’re done with it, of course, give me about an hour.
He traveled on a bus of strangers once and made friends with them all - or nearly all. He doesn’t want to do it now, and when Rose stops at the first open set of seats, surrounded by people, he gives her a pleading look. She nods, and walks to the far end of the bay, where it’s a little quieter, where there are several rows between them and the others.
“All right?” she asks when he collapses in the window seat and closes his eyes.
“Yeah, always,” he replies absently, and covers his face with his hands. It’s not his head hurting; it’s the single heart, which has the audacity to continue beating as though nothing is wrong. The persistent humming isn’t quite as loud as before, but he can still hear it under everything, a dull roar that will underscore the trip. It’s low and unfamiliar and the Doctor hates it almost instantly for those very reasons. He thinks it might have comforted him, but it’s not nearly close enough to the hum he’ll never hear again.
Rose’s fingers brush through his hair gently; she kisses him on the cheek and then moves away, presumably to find an attendant and purchase their tickets. He listens to the noises around him, because there isn’t much else to do, and he has to focus on something other than the sound of the zeppelin’s motors. There’s a bit of laughter, the small, high voices of children asking questions, the slap of hands hitting backs. He can hear drinks being poured, and his stomach growls and twists. It all sounds very far away, as if he’s dreaming it, or perhaps falling back asleep, and he opens his eyes abruptly, giving himself a shake to stay awake. He mustn’t fall asleep. Not here. Not with the hated humming, not with the strange voices surrounding him, not without Rose nearby.
He looks out the window - they’ve taken off now, are maneuvering out the hanger along the paved road. Once they’re clear, the zeppelin begins to rise slowly into the air. The buzzing softens once they’re free of the earth, no longer lined up with other zeppelins, but still remains a persistent and angry burr in the background. He wonders if he will ever be able to tune it out, or if it will torment him the entire trip.
Dimly, he can hear Rose speaking to an attendant, the surprise in her voice, the questions she’s asking and the answers she’s given. He hears her give her name, and then “John Noble”, and the way she says it, he thinks she might have been practicing, because except for the very small pause before it’s said, one would never think it’s brand-new to them both. Rose’s voice is clear against the backdrop of hum and speech, and it takes a moment for him to realize why.
Rose returns to the seat, a queer smile on her face. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I can’t understand them,” he says, and his heart thumps oddly in his chest. His stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. “The people - they’re not speaking English.”
She bites her lip. “No - it’s Russian. Mostly Russian. The crew speaks English, though, so we’ll be all right.”
“But I can’t understand.”
She sits and rests her head on his shoulder, putting her arm over his chest to pull him close. “I know,” she whispers. “It’s - you’ll get used to it.”
He doesn’t want to get used to it. The same way he doesn’t want to get used to the buzzing hum of the zeppelin, or carrying a bag when he travels, or having to worry about his next meal. It’s all a reminder of what he’s lost.
Rose hasn’t moved; her voice is nearly muffled by his clothing. “Do you want to go to our room?”
“Room?”
“It’s a long flight - we’ve got a stateroom on the lower level. It’ll be quieter.”
“Yes. How long?”
She’s quiet for a moment, but bravely goes right into her answer, as if the words aren’t quite as awful as they really are. “Oh, long. About a week.”
“...A week?”
“Do you want to know where we’re going?”
He thinks for a moment, and thinks about the Russian, the flat faces of the other passengers. “No,” he says. “Can we go?”
She takes his hand and pulls him up. His head is pounding now; his stomach rolls in circles. He grips the back of the chair for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as the dizziness washes over him.
“Are you-"
“Didn’t have breakfast,” he mumbles, and she squeezes his hand.
“Let’s get you into the room, and I’ll find you something.”
He barely looks around as they go down the twisty stairs into the lower level. The lower level is darkly lit, with rows of doors on either side of the corridor. Rose leads the way, peering at the numbers on the doors before stopping at one near the middle of the corridor, and she fumbles with the key before the latch catches and the door swings open. The room is small, but pleasant enough, with a single large bed in the center, and he falls on this, letting his arms cover his head.
“Oh, good, we can make tea right here,” she says, very pleased, and though he’d like to stop hearing anything at all, the sounds of water poured and prepared are almost soothing. He can feel the minutes tick by to the beat of the humming, counting down the time he knows he’ll spend in its shadow.
“Tea,” she says, and he moves his arm, wondering why his sleeve is damp. If Rose notices, she doesn’t say anything. He sits up and takes the tea, and as soon as he starts drinking, his stomach calms down.
“Sorry,” he mumbles into the cup, and Rose lays her cheek on his shoulder.
“S’all right. Do you mind, a week on a zeppelin?” The “with me” goes unsaid.
“Yeah. No. Ask me in a week.”
She shifts, burying her face in his shoulder, and sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” He leans over and sets the teacup on the ground, and turns to her, wrapping his arms around her, resting his head against her breasts. He can hear her heart beating, a slow and steady drum. He closes his eyes and focuses on the beat, searching out his own to accompany it. They don’t drown out the hum of the zeppelin, and they won’t translate incomprehensible words, but still, the sound of two hearts beating in time is the closest he’ll come to comfort. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the rhythm.
Jump to Page Five - The Very Center of Being
Author: azriona
Beta: the ever lovely jlrpuck
Rating: PG
Warning: Spoilery like crazy for Journey’s End.
Page Four of the Pages from a Broken Book series
Page One ~ Page Two ~ Page Three
Summary: The hum should have been comforting, but he only wants it to stop. Told from 10.5’s POV.
Characters: Rose & 10.5
A/N: I was going to hold this until tomorrow...but the plethora of reviews waiting for me really did convince me otherwise. And I'm quite pleased with how it turned out, and couldn't wait to share.
The Quiet Persistence of Noise
They arrive at the transit station, one duffel bag each. Rose has the money and - amazingly - her superphone. His new passport burns like ice in his front shirt pocket, and the mobile they’ve found for him makes a heavy lump in his trousers. The salesman claimed it would work world-wide, but he has his doubts.
“The only thing to decide is domestic or international,” says Rose. Voices echo in the busy terminal. No one pays them any attention, which suits him just fine. The large departure board ticks away above them; every so often, a flight departs, and the letters scroll with a ta-lick ta-lick ta-lick to the next flight on the line. He is mesmerized by the rapidly changing destinations. Rose nudges him back to reality.
“Shame to have a passport and not use it,” he says, and she hefts her bag onto her shoulder.
“International it is. Come on.”
He follows her, wondering if he should take her bag to carry, before deciding that she probably wouldn’t like it. He clutches his own bag closer. He’s never once had to travel with things before. He always had the TARDIS, the limitless supply of fresh clothing and food. He always knew where he’d sleep that night - well, perhaps not sleep, but he knew where he’d be at the end of the adventure.
They enter the international hangar, where rows of zeppelins wait. There are lines of people boarding some; others are clearly in the process of departure or landing. The humming is loud enough to shake his bones and make his hair stand on end, and Rose looks up at him expectantly.
“Go on!” she shouts over the noise. “Pick one!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you! You always picked our destinations before, you might as well do it now!”
The droning of the zeppelins hurts his head. He hadn’t eaten anything at breakfast, and they’ve barely stopped since then, what with packing, and finding him a mobile, and stopping by the bank. Rose didn’t even tell her mum they were off, saying it would be easier to ring once they were in the air. It’s barely ten in the morning, and he’s exhausted.
“That one,” he says, pointing at one of the closest, where the last person is boarding. Rose grins and takes his hand.
“Better run for it,” she says, and pulls him along. The bag bangs against his legs; he’d like to just drop it, but knows he’ll only regret it later. He does drop it, finally, at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the second-level passenger bay, and takes the claim ticket from the waiting crew member. He follows Rose up the steps, wincing. The hum is almost louder now, the everlasting drone of a bee in an echoing chamber.
Inside the passenger bay, the hum is gone, but it’s far from quiet. The seating area is very nearly full. Passengers chat with each other, greeting their neighbors with handshakes and hellos, is that seat taken, why no, please do sit down, might I borrow that newspaper when you’re done with it, of course, give me about an hour.
He traveled on a bus of strangers once and made friends with them all - or nearly all. He doesn’t want to do it now, and when Rose stops at the first open set of seats, surrounded by people, he gives her a pleading look. She nods, and walks to the far end of the bay, where it’s a little quieter, where there are several rows between them and the others.
“All right?” she asks when he collapses in the window seat and closes his eyes.
“Yeah, always,” he replies absently, and covers his face with his hands. It’s not his head hurting; it’s the single heart, which has the audacity to continue beating as though nothing is wrong. The persistent humming isn’t quite as loud as before, but he can still hear it under everything, a dull roar that will underscore the trip. It’s low and unfamiliar and the Doctor hates it almost instantly for those very reasons. He thinks it might have comforted him, but it’s not nearly close enough to the hum he’ll never hear again.
Rose’s fingers brush through his hair gently; she kisses him on the cheek and then moves away, presumably to find an attendant and purchase their tickets. He listens to the noises around him, because there isn’t much else to do, and he has to focus on something other than the sound of the zeppelin’s motors. There’s a bit of laughter, the small, high voices of children asking questions, the slap of hands hitting backs. He can hear drinks being poured, and his stomach growls and twists. It all sounds very far away, as if he’s dreaming it, or perhaps falling back asleep, and he opens his eyes abruptly, giving himself a shake to stay awake. He mustn’t fall asleep. Not here. Not with the hated humming, not with the strange voices surrounding him, not without Rose nearby.
He looks out the window - they’ve taken off now, are maneuvering out the hanger along the paved road. Once they’re clear, the zeppelin begins to rise slowly into the air. The buzzing softens once they’re free of the earth, no longer lined up with other zeppelins, but still remains a persistent and angry burr in the background. He wonders if he will ever be able to tune it out, or if it will torment him the entire trip.
Dimly, he can hear Rose speaking to an attendant, the surprise in her voice, the questions she’s asking and the answers she’s given. He hears her give her name, and then “John Noble”, and the way she says it, he thinks she might have been practicing, because except for the very small pause before it’s said, one would never think it’s brand-new to them both. Rose’s voice is clear against the backdrop of hum and speech, and it takes a moment for him to realize why.
Rose returns to the seat, a queer smile on her face. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I can’t understand them,” he says, and his heart thumps oddly in his chest. His stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. “The people - they’re not speaking English.”
She bites her lip. “No - it’s Russian. Mostly Russian. The crew speaks English, though, so we’ll be all right.”
“But I can’t understand.”
She sits and rests her head on his shoulder, putting her arm over his chest to pull him close. “I know,” she whispers. “It’s - you’ll get used to it.”
He doesn’t want to get used to it. The same way he doesn’t want to get used to the buzzing hum of the zeppelin, or carrying a bag when he travels, or having to worry about his next meal. It’s all a reminder of what he’s lost.
Rose hasn’t moved; her voice is nearly muffled by his clothing. “Do you want to go to our room?”
“Room?”
“It’s a long flight - we’ve got a stateroom on the lower level. It’ll be quieter.”
“Yes. How long?”
She’s quiet for a moment, but bravely goes right into her answer, as if the words aren’t quite as awful as they really are. “Oh, long. About a week.”
“...A week?”
“Do you want to know where we’re going?”
He thinks for a moment, and thinks about the Russian, the flat faces of the other passengers. “No,” he says. “Can we go?”
She takes his hand and pulls him up. His head is pounding now; his stomach rolls in circles. He grips the back of the chair for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as the dizziness washes over him.
“Are you-"
“Didn’t have breakfast,” he mumbles, and she squeezes his hand.
“Let’s get you into the room, and I’ll find you something.”
He barely looks around as they go down the twisty stairs into the lower level. The lower level is darkly lit, with rows of doors on either side of the corridor. Rose leads the way, peering at the numbers on the doors before stopping at one near the middle of the corridor, and she fumbles with the key before the latch catches and the door swings open. The room is small, but pleasant enough, with a single large bed in the center, and he falls on this, letting his arms cover his head.
“Oh, good, we can make tea right here,” she says, very pleased, and though he’d like to stop hearing anything at all, the sounds of water poured and prepared are almost soothing. He can feel the minutes tick by to the beat of the humming, counting down the time he knows he’ll spend in its shadow.
“Tea,” she says, and he moves his arm, wondering why his sleeve is damp. If Rose notices, she doesn’t say anything. He sits up and takes the tea, and as soon as he starts drinking, his stomach calms down.
“Sorry,” he mumbles into the cup, and Rose lays her cheek on his shoulder.
“S’all right. Do you mind, a week on a zeppelin?” The “with me” goes unsaid.
“Yeah. No. Ask me in a week.”
She shifts, burying her face in his shoulder, and sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” He leans over and sets the teacup on the ground, and turns to her, wrapping his arms around her, resting his head against her breasts. He can hear her heart beating, a slow and steady drum. He closes his eyes and focuses on the beat, searching out his own to accompany it. They don’t drown out the hum of the zeppelin, and they won’t translate incomprehensible words, but still, the sound of two hearts beating in time is the closest he’ll come to comfort. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the rhythm.
Jump to Page Five - The Very Center of Being