Warnings: Introspection, Character Study, Speculation, Angst, References to Eighth Doctor Movie, Mild Slash
A/N: Written for who_contest's Prompt: Noise. This one sprung out of nowhere on me - and as with my last few fictions, I have no idea what is truly being said here, though I am sure I will understand later. I just let the characters speak and hope it makes for a good read. It seems my driving obsession with Eight (and referencing him while writing Eleven), has come to the fore again - and Jack is still hanging around for it all. A touch of darkness, a taste of the past - and some slashiness thrown in for good measure. I don't know from whence it came, I just hope you all find it mildly entertaining and maybe a bit thinky. I also ask forgiveness for the shift in tense in the beginning. I have no idea why that shift is there, but it seems important. Lyrics and translation of 'Madame Butterfly' can be found online (sorry, formatting here would not allow for the link). Hopefully all is correct in that regard. As always, mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/blithery and unbeta'd.
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!
He hears the first notes and breathes deep, eyes snapping open as one hand unconsciously drifts over his hearts – feeling their double-beat, assurance within the thrum of his veins.
The air is cold, but not frigid. It is dark, but not bleak. He is not surrounded by cold metal walls – but humming, warm (alive) orange-white. She sings in the Vortex, Her song mixing and drifting within the music of another voice –
"Madame Butterfly," he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides on the bed, wrists up…death in pale imitation, in remembrance. Scattering of hair across his forehead – darker, finer. Long gone are the golden curls. Many years and many lifetimes away.
His eyes drift to Jack, green meeting blue (as it they had once, so long ago – different eyes, but just as weary, no less kind); his hand rising to brush over a phantom twinge beneath his breastbone. Jack smiles softly, eyes crinkling at the corners, as if he was also remembering.
"Puccini wrote this," Jack started to say, voice low, smoky with joy and sorrow – notes of his breathing mingling with the mourning croon of the aria. The Time Lord could almost see the words waft away from them, sinking into the walls of the TARDIS, to be held as intimate and close as a haunting melody about a long lost love. "He wrote this –"
"Before he died," the Doctor finished, eyes closing (so much to remember, so much to forget), letting his hand fall back amongst the bedclothes, allowing Jack to tangle their fingers together. Maybe if Jack held tight enough, it would keep him from floating away, keep him from getting lost in the past; times that were happier in their innocence, even if that was only in his own mind. "It was so…sad."
Mi metto là sul ciglio del colle e aspetto, e aspetto gran tempo/e non mi pesa/la lunga attesa.
"I stay upon the edge of the hill," Jack murmured, fingers squeezing the Doctor's as if to let him know he is still there; feeling the hitch of breath as the Doctor rubs and rubs just under his sternum, fingers catching on the ghost-pain that sings under his right heart. "And I wait a long time."
Please, I'm not like you –
They all wait. Except for one. Grace – made of grace, forged by destiny. She didn't wait. Maybe that was for the best.
He held tighter to Jack's fingers. He didn't know why he felt wetness under his eyes – but he let Jack wipe it away, breath catching again as his hearts sang the climax with the soprano, Jack's mouth at the edge of his jaw, lips hovering near his ear. Soft caresses of human warmth and compassion. Understanding of feeling, even as the context was lost.
Sometimes words were not needed…but other times –
"But I do not grow weary of the wait," Jack whispered, voice a mere hum of sound, a snatch of melodic noise against the pulse of his hearts – words muffled, almost lost against the vulnerability of the Time Lord's throat.
The Doctor could feel the words slide into the thrum of his blood; that blood alien, but so, so human in need, in passion, in loneliness. He wanted that to be the truth. He wanted Jack to turn away – to never wait for him again. So many had. Lost souls.
All but a few. Grace within grace founded upon a dream.
Holding back death.
She would have loved Jack.
I can't make your dream come true forever. But I can make it come true today.
But did he? Did he ever make their dreams come true? Or was that, in itself, a dream – dreamed by an old man who just couldn't let go…of the past, of his Loves, of his heartaches.
The aria rose, danced madly up, up and mourned what may never come: that endless wait for a man long lost. Someone there to catch him, to love him if he would come home again.
The Doctor breathed with lungs that no longer tangled within the notes, his hearts beating sure and strong as Jack pressed his own fingers over the phantom ache – holding it at bay, keeping him steady with the burning warmth of his oh-so-human touch. He would not let him pull away, he would not let him go; keeping him safe, grounded amongst the rumpled clutch of blankets.
A man who waited upon a hill.
Jack's lips found his own, spilling him open, keeping him fierce and warm – his solitary human heart beating so close to his own. To keep him was to hurt him. To let him go was to kill him. What was the better choice? Was the ending already decided?
Was the choice even his to make?
Tienti la tua paura/io con sicura fede l'aspetto.
Jack smiled against his mouth, the ache in his bones fading, fading as the Captain caressed vitality and love and the presence of Now against the tingle of the Doctor's lips.
In the end, one of them would always be waiting, always be watching, chasing the future as it bled into the past. There was a sense of comfort in that, though there shouldn't be. He was an impatient man – but he could wait, as so many had. Who was to say they waited for him? It could be he was always, always searching for them. Eventually, he found them. Some would come with; butterflies to be held so briefly within the jar of his love for them. Some stayed behind – their colors shining against the canvas of history.
"Hold back your fears," the Captain said softly, his gaze serious – layers of meaning within the folds of his tone. He paused, letting the Time Lord weigh the words against the measure of himself – against the lock of their fingers. The answer was there, all the Doctor had to do was find it.
"I with secure faith wait for him," the Doctor finally replied, kissing the promise into Jack like he could hide it there. A treasure to be carried throughout all of Time. A flicker of understanding shining from the depths of blue. Eyes that held secrets. Secrets that were like books to those who knew the language.
The notes faded. The story was complete. But here in the warm darkness, with someone to hold – the Time Lord knew it would happen all over again. It brought a pang to his hearts, but solace to his mind. The songs (the true ones, the good ones) never really ended. They stayed within your blood. They left an ache that was never forgotten by your bones.
They held your hand long after sleep should have come.
The Doctor held tight to Jack's hand, head tucked under the Captain's chin as the aria started from the beginning. This time there was no visit to the long past. This time he just let himself drift in the beauty of the singing sorrow, sleep eventually coming to cover him with a different sort of warmth.
For once he didn't fear the land of dreams, of dreaming. Someone would be waiting there, with security, with unflinching faith.
And eyes of the deepest blue.