Pages from a Broken Book - His Name (Redux)
Title: Page Nine: His Name (Redux)
Author: azriona
Beta: the oh-so-fantabulous jlrpuck
Rating: R
Warning: Spoilery like crazy for Journey’s End.
Page Nine of the Pages from a Broken Book series
Page One ~ Page Two ~ Page Three ~ Page Four ~ Page Five ~ Page Six ~ Page Seven ~ Page Eight
Summary: He wants to hear Rose say his name. He wants to hear that who she wants him to be is someone he can offer. Told from 10.5’s POV.
Characters: Rose & 10.5
His Name (Redux)
He moves above her, within her, lost in the smooth skin of her body, the way it curves beneath his fingers. His hands rest on her hips, the curve fitting perfectly into his open palm, before her legs move up to curl around his own. He lets his fingers drift upwards, burrow under her shoulders. Her breath comes in short staccato; he can feel her heart pounding, connected to his own, as though the skin and muscle and bone between them does not exist.
She throws her head back, exposes her neck, and he kisses the hollow of her throat, licks the skin. Oh, she cries out, and he does it again. She rushes against him, salt and sweet musk, strawberries and cream. The cries continue; when he touches her cheeks, they are wet.
Say my name, he whispers, urgently, his heart pounding in his chest. He wants to hear her say his name. He knows who he is - or he thinks he does, alone together in these deep dark moments, when only the two of them exist. He wants to hear it. He wants to hear that who she wants him to be is someone he can offer.
John, she says, John, and he cannot hold back. He explodes within her, the cry escaping him, her mouth soft beneath his. The tears run from his cheeks to hers.
John, she called him, John.
He is growing into this man, this John, in fits and starts. It isn’t quite his name, but he knows to answer when it is called. He feels as though he is an actor, playing a part, the Role of John, and he thinks he might be good at it. No one seems to believe he is out of character.
He does not call himself John, nor think of himself that way. At times he believes his true name, his never-told name, is on the tip of his tongue. When he is asked his name, half the time he nearly says something that isn’t John at all. Something stops him.
He is almost glad for it.
She is crying when he wakes. The sobs rack her body and she lies curled on her side, pressed into the pillows and blankets as though trying to burrow herself into their protection. He is bleary with sleep, and he watches her in a long moment as he tries to understand.
She has not cried, not once that he can see, since the day they said goodbye on Dålig Ulv Stranden. Those were different tears, he thinks. She withstood those tears, remained strong and standing. These are deeper, he thinks, with the low moans and choking gasps he associates with the worst grief.
He touches her shoulder, and she moves away from him, as if his fingers burn. Perhaps they do. His heart chills as his hand remains immobile in the air, but continues to thump, now in time with her frenzied breath.
“Rose?” he whispers. His throat is raw and tight. She doesn’t answer; perhaps doesn’t realize he has spoken. He wants so badly to hold her, let her tears rain down on his chest and not the pillow.
“Rose, please. It’s me.”
“I don’t know you.”
The words cut him cleanly. He, who did not know himself only a few hours before, feels his heart slide just a bit down, further into him, further away from him. The crushing madness he has only barely escaped beckons, waiting, and he clings with bloodied fingers to the narrow ledge.
“Rose-“
“Why’d you make me say it?” she sobs. “I know you aren’t him - you aren’t. I went to hell and back and nearly destroyed everything, and you aren’t him.”
His hand falls to the bed. He thinks his heart has slowed to a stop.
“No,” he says, and the word echoes like thunder in his mind. “I’m not. Did you - think I was? When we-“
He cannot finish. He can’t even think it. She stills, her shoulders and her sobs rest. “No,” she whispers, soft and uncertain at first, and then more vehemently. “No!”
Her voice, so very small, still frightens him, but his heart thumps once in his chest. “Do you want me to be him?”
Her sharp intake of breath cuts quickly. He waits, thinking it odd that after so long of being able to feel, now he should feel drained of emotion, numb and cold.
“He lied to me,” says Rose, and he listens. “Everything he ever said to me was a lie. Wait five and a half hours, he’ll come back. He won’t leave me behind, won’t watch me wither and die. He said it was impossible to go between the parallel worlds. But it was a lie - he didn’t know. He didn’t even try. He left me on a beach - with you. You’re trapped here, same as me, in a single time and place and he left you nothing. No name, no TARDIS, not even your brown pinstripe suit, just a mangy blue suit pulled at random from the Wardrobe. He left you with me, a poor sort of broken consolation prize, and off he goes, without so much as a proper goodbye. The last thing he said was yet another deflection of a question he won’t ever have to answer.”
Rose rolls over, gathering the blankets to her. Her eyes are red and swollen, but are not the pools of despair he imagined - they flash in the dim light, anger and venom. “And you think I want you to be him? I want him gone. I want him to stop haunting us. I close my eyes and I see him, feeling so horrible and wretched at the choices he feels he has had to make, and I want to choke him. You aren’t him. I don’t ever want you to be him.”
“Rose-“
She reaches and touches his cheek. Her fingers are cold. “You’re John,” she tells him, almost desperate. “I know it now and I knew it when you made love to me. But in my dream, I saw him walking away, fading into the air, and taking everything good with him.”
He rests his hand over her fingers. “You dream of him?”
“No. Yes. Only this once, since you were here.” She swallows, her sudden courage failing her, and the tears which have remained on her lashes begin to fall again. “I-“
Now he pulls her into him, and she willingly lets the tears wash down his chest. He buries his face in her hair, smelling the mint of her shampoo mixed with the salty musk of their lovemaking. She is warm, and she is his, and they both belong to Him, he knows.
“I love you,” she whispers, so quietly he strains to hear. “I don’t know who you are,
but I love you. And I don’t want you to be him.”
“I won’t be,” he says. “I’m not.”
She kisses him. He loves her, and his heart hurts from the sudden shift from fear to joy.
Jump to Page Ten: The Role of John
Author: azriona
Beta: the oh-so-fantabulous jlrpuck
Rating: R
Warning: Spoilery like crazy for Journey’s End.
Page Nine of the Pages from a Broken Book series
Page One ~ Page Two ~ Page Three ~ Page Four ~ Page Five ~ Page Six ~ Page Seven ~ Page Eight
Summary: He wants to hear Rose say his name. He wants to hear that who she wants him to be is someone he can offer. Told from 10.5’s POV.
Characters: Rose & 10.5
His Name (Redux)
He moves above her, within her, lost in the smooth skin of her body, the way it curves beneath his fingers. His hands rest on her hips, the curve fitting perfectly into his open palm, before her legs move up to curl around his own. He lets his fingers drift upwards, burrow under her shoulders. Her breath comes in short staccato; he can feel her heart pounding, connected to his own, as though the skin and muscle and bone between them does not exist.
She throws her head back, exposes her neck, and he kisses the hollow of her throat, licks the skin. Oh, she cries out, and he does it again. She rushes against him, salt and sweet musk, strawberries and cream. The cries continue; when he touches her cheeks, they are wet.
Say my name, he whispers, urgently, his heart pounding in his chest. He wants to hear her say his name. He knows who he is - or he thinks he does, alone together in these deep dark moments, when only the two of them exist. He wants to hear it. He wants to hear that who she wants him to be is someone he can offer.
John, she says, John, and he cannot hold back. He explodes within her, the cry escaping him, her mouth soft beneath his. The tears run from his cheeks to hers.
John, she called him, John.
He is growing into this man, this John, in fits and starts. It isn’t quite his name, but he knows to answer when it is called. He feels as though he is an actor, playing a part, the Role of John, and he thinks he might be good at it. No one seems to believe he is out of character.
He does not call himself John, nor think of himself that way. At times he believes his true name, his never-told name, is on the tip of his tongue. When he is asked his name, half the time he nearly says something that isn’t John at all. Something stops him.
He is almost glad for it.
She is crying when he wakes. The sobs rack her body and she lies curled on her side, pressed into the pillows and blankets as though trying to burrow herself into their protection. He is bleary with sleep, and he watches her in a long moment as he tries to understand.
She has not cried, not once that he can see, since the day they said goodbye on Dålig Ulv Stranden. Those were different tears, he thinks. She withstood those tears, remained strong and standing. These are deeper, he thinks, with the low moans and choking gasps he associates with the worst grief.
He touches her shoulder, and she moves away from him, as if his fingers burn. Perhaps they do. His heart chills as his hand remains immobile in the air, but continues to thump, now in time with her frenzied breath.
“Rose?” he whispers. His throat is raw and tight. She doesn’t answer; perhaps doesn’t realize he has spoken. He wants so badly to hold her, let her tears rain down on his chest and not the pillow.
“Rose, please. It’s me.”
“I don’t know you.”
The words cut him cleanly. He, who did not know himself only a few hours before, feels his heart slide just a bit down, further into him, further away from him. The crushing madness he has only barely escaped beckons, waiting, and he clings with bloodied fingers to the narrow ledge.
“Rose-“
“Why’d you make me say it?” she sobs. “I know you aren’t him - you aren’t. I went to hell and back and nearly destroyed everything, and you aren’t him.”
His hand falls to the bed. He thinks his heart has slowed to a stop.
“No,” he says, and the word echoes like thunder in his mind. “I’m not. Did you - think I was? When we-“
He cannot finish. He can’t even think it. She stills, her shoulders and her sobs rest. “No,” she whispers, soft and uncertain at first, and then more vehemently. “No!”
Her voice, so very small, still frightens him, but his heart thumps once in his chest. “Do you want me to be him?”
Her sharp intake of breath cuts quickly. He waits, thinking it odd that after so long of being able to feel, now he should feel drained of emotion, numb and cold.
“He lied to me,” says Rose, and he listens. “Everything he ever said to me was a lie. Wait five and a half hours, he’ll come back. He won’t leave me behind, won’t watch me wither and die. He said it was impossible to go between the parallel worlds. But it was a lie - he didn’t know. He didn’t even try. He left me on a beach - with you. You’re trapped here, same as me, in a single time and place and he left you nothing. No name, no TARDIS, not even your brown pinstripe suit, just a mangy blue suit pulled at random from the Wardrobe. He left you with me, a poor sort of broken consolation prize, and off he goes, without so much as a proper goodbye. The last thing he said was yet another deflection of a question he won’t ever have to answer.”
Rose rolls over, gathering the blankets to her. Her eyes are red and swollen, but are not the pools of despair he imagined - they flash in the dim light, anger and venom. “And you think I want you to be him? I want him gone. I want him to stop haunting us. I close my eyes and I see him, feeling so horrible and wretched at the choices he feels he has had to make, and I want to choke him. You aren’t him. I don’t ever want you to be him.”
“Rose-“
She reaches and touches his cheek. Her fingers are cold. “You’re John,” she tells him, almost desperate. “I know it now and I knew it when you made love to me. But in my dream, I saw him walking away, fading into the air, and taking everything good with him.”
He rests his hand over her fingers. “You dream of him?”
“No. Yes. Only this once, since you were here.” She swallows, her sudden courage failing her, and the tears which have remained on her lashes begin to fall again. “I-“
Now he pulls her into him, and she willingly lets the tears wash down his chest. He buries his face in her hair, smelling the mint of her shampoo mixed with the salty musk of their lovemaking. She is warm, and she is his, and they both belong to Him, he knows.
“I love you,” she whispers, so quietly he strains to hear. “I don’t know who you are,
but I love you. And I don’t want you to be him.”
“I won’t be,” he says. “I’m not.”
She kisses him. He loves her, and his heart hurts from the sudden shift from fear to joy.
Jump to Page Ten: The Role of John