An Anon asker asked for John, Noise and Fear.
People always get it wrong. They think that it's noise that John hates. It's the noise that keeps him in space. That forces him from his home. Even his brothers get it wrong sometimes.
John likes noise. Noise is good. Noise is alive. Even in space, holed up in Five, there is noise. The chatter of radio communications, the multitudinous sounds of Five herself. All of which is soothing.
Then there are the noises that John loves the best. The sounds that are specific to each of his brothers. Scott's huffs of frustration, and that wordless sound of pleasure he makes when he's happy. Virgil's piano, the sound of Gordon swimming, the sound of Alan and Gordon laughing. Those are noises he treasures.
There are the noises each of the Thunderbirds makes – John can tell you that there is a different sound to each leaving the island and returning home. One is all business, and tense and "let's get this done". The other is the purr of homecoming, and whether the mission was successful or not, the occupants are home safe.
And then there's his favourite noise. It's not always been his favourite, but in the past six months, he's surpassed every other noise. It's the sounds Kayo makes when they are together. The sound of his name when she speaks it – the "oh" slightly extended, and he can feel it caressing him. The sounds when they make love. The ones that tell you they are giving each other pleasure, and then there are the sounds their bodies make. Kissing, caressing, loving sounds that should be embarrassing, but instead speak to him of how much they do love and desire each other.
Oh yes – John loves noise.
It's the absence of noise that is John's fear. The absence of noise that says to him "the people I love are in danger". That first time – that dreadful silence in the wake of the avalanche that tore his mama from them. Then there was the silence as she stopped breathing, her final breath given as a kiss to his father. His father's silence as he realised what had happened, a look of absolute devastation and disbelief on his face, mirroring the same expression on the faces of his sons.
It was the silence in the split second after Gordon's accident, when the noises of the world stopped and John saw the hydrofoil cartwheeling and his little brother's body flung from the cockpit, the craft itself breaking into pieces that tore into the flesh of Gordon. And for John, there was no sound at all while it happened.
Just like when Mama was taken.
It's the silence of the radio channel that his father used to communicate with them. The channel that used to be filled with personal chatter between the family, their father telling them how proud he was, telling them what he had been doing, passing love to them from their Godmother.
And then it stopped. There was no signal, no chatter, not even a hiss of static. Silence. Absence of noise.
Silence. Bringing with it to John a gut-twisting, soul-stealing fear.
No. It's not noise that John Tracy fears. It's silence.