Fic: The Art of Communication
Title: The Art of Communication
Summary: She hears his words, but she doesn't understand.
Characters: Ten/Martha
Spoilers: Gridlock
Rating: Mild PG
Word count: 1522
Notes: A huge thank you for my ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
xwingace, who is always such a great, calm and quick help. In memory of Paul Watzlawick and his 5 axioms of human communication
Fic Masterlist: Here.
One Cannot Not Communicate
She sees it in his stance, in the way he flinches and avoids her eyes that she's hit a vulnerable spot.
Martha just doesn't understand why he - as alien as he claims to be - can't see how compelling the planet of the Time Lords must be for a simple human like her. She's never travelled further than Greece, he should understand her curiosity.
Instead of answering, he tries to divert her attention, babbling about a million other things, about the 699 wonders of the universe (he claims to have blown up the 700th and knowing him it's probably true), but she can see that something is not right.
She opens her mouth to repeat her wish to see his home, but closes it again when he suddenly looks up, his sad eyes seemingly begging her to stop talking. Rose would understand, those eyes say, and grow cloudy with memories again.
He takes her to the slums, and she's soaking wet in seconds. She's tired of being the rebound, and if he is indeed a Time Lord, he's clearly chosen to live in the past. She sighs, letting the rain of New New York hit her face while he's doing what he's best at, distracting himself with other people's problems.
She hears his words, but she doesn't understand.
*
Every communication has a content and relationship aspect such that the latter classifies the former and is therefore a metacommunication
He's doing it again, talking without saying anything.
She's seen it lots of times, doctors like her train it to perfection. It's the ultimate lie, hiding harsh truths behind soothing, simple words.
He talks about his planet, not because she asked, but because he doesn't want her to ask again.
She listens, even takes his hand when a single tear travels down his cheek. She hears about the beauty of Gallifrey, nothing more. Nothing about his people, nothing about his life or family there, just an accumulation of words.
His eyes warn her not to question his stories, so she keeps silent.
When they're finally back at the TARDIS she can't help but notice how lovingly he touches his wooden ship. It's that moment that she knows this police box has always been more of a home than the planet with the orange sky. Maybe he was a criminal, she muses, maybe an exile.
He talks about companions finally one evening, about adventures they had with him, but she knows he's avoiding her questions still. She doesn't want to hear about him meeting the Loch Ness Monster, or how he met Dickens or how he faked the Mona Lisa. She wants to know about Rose, about the pain and the loss.
She listens for the story behind the words, but the painful memories stay always hidden in those dark eyes, behind that stupid grin and insane adventures. He grabs her hand when he thinks he said enough, dragging her along to one of those places to prove he didn't make it all up.
He tells her fairy tales, and his eyes warn her to question their happy endings.
*
Both the talker and the receiver interpret their own behaviour during communicating as merely a reaction on the other's behaviour. Human communication appears to be cyclic.
He's talking at the speed of light again, explaining something 'simple', but she lost him right after the first sentence. It's infuriating sometimes, and it gets on her nerves more and more. She cuts off the rest of the explanation by finally giving in to some impulse within her, and kisses him.
It's his fault, she thinks when her hands creep under his shirt, tearing at the buttons, trying hard not to remove her lips from his.
He and that bloody flirting, that leaning too close to her, the winking, the encouraging smiles. She only took the definitive step over the precipice, doing what his smug retorts always dared her to do. If he won't stop talking about humans and apes and the state of the universe in general while his eyes twinkle with flirtation, she'll make him shut up.
Later, when both are sated, they can't agree who is to blame, but decide that it really doesn't matter anymore.
The smiles directed at her get more frequent after their first night together, but she can't help feeling that something has changed. There's something like hunger burning in his eyes where there was only fondness before. Sometimes it scares her, yet most of the times she grins back, knowing what that will do to his self-control.
It's not her who comes looking for him at nights, it's him, knocking on her door like an addict, claiming her mouth with his in the dark.
She has the power, yet she feels like his prey. She won't complain. She hasn't heard the name Rose in weeks.
*
Human communication involves both digital and analog modalities: Communication does not involve the merely spoken words (digital communication), but non-verbal (analog) communication as well.
He tells her to be careful, tells her that the local tribe doesn't approve of companionship, of any signs of affection, and his eyes twinkle with mischief.
His hand brushes against hers, his body presses just a bit too close when he tries to get past her in the tribe's cave. If the locals notice something, they don't show it.
He ambushes her in dark corners and steals kisses, strolling off when someone else approaches. How do they want to save the locals from an alien invasion with this? She has no idea, but she really doesn't care. His smile tells her he has a plan.
It's later that she sees his scheme fall into place, watches him as he negotiates peace with the rivalling species, sees his grin spread when everyone agrees and the funny little people are finally safe.
It's much later, after more secret touches that leave her breathless, that they have to run for their lives again. The Doctor neglected to mention just what constituted 'affection' in this place. Who would've thought laughing at a male's joke could be a deadly sin to those pygmies whose existence they saved just hours ago?
It's all his fault, and the smirk tells her how much he enjoys this, how much he needs the danger.
They reach the TARDIS, breathless, sweating, and the spark in the Doctor's eyes is a blaze by now. Martha swallows, she has no idea how she'll last the night still to come.
*
Inter-human communication procedures are either symmetric or complementary, depending on whether the relationship of the partners is based on differences or parity.
He can tell she tries hard not to cry while she watches the planet die below, the continents wilting away in a wave of pure Entropy. Soon there will only be the darkness of space left, and the planet will have never existed.
She clings to his hand, but humans can never understand, he muses while the temporal shockwaves shake him to the core.
They have been down there; just hours ago they were walking down that coastline eroding into nothingness in front of their eyes. Arcadia is dying and there is nothing he can do, because it's already history.
He only took her there by mistake. He just wanted to take her to some random beach, get her to wear a really tiny bikini and lick salt water off her skin. She would've taken some convincing, but the hunt was as satisfying as the catch. Arcadia had been so beautiful once that it had blinded him now. He never suspected how close they were to the War. When he realised it, he just kept following her silently, looking back over his shoulder and hoping for once she'd ask why. If she'd asked, he could have taken her away.
The TARDIS wails through the doors of his mind, hurting, remembering. Martha would never understand what it cost him to just stand here and watch.
He wanted to take her away before she saw anything, but now Arcadia burns before her eyes. He's sorry, he mutters as he puts an arm around her, gently guiding her away from the console monitor and into her bedroom.
She doesn't resist, her tears flowing freely. Her mind is probably replaying Arcadia's destruction (funny little ape brains, like a broken record in so many ways), and he knows he'll see it in her eyes if he dares to look. But he won't.
He drops a kiss onto her forehead and sighs, watches over her as she cries herself to sleep. He doesn't stay, knows he can't do much about the nightmares that will haunt her soon. He's always been a coward, and he knows those dreams far too well.
He closes the door behind him and leans against it, letting out a shaky breath. Something egoistical in him is glad that she understands now, knows she'll never leave him, will never be angry for not talking again. Never ask again about the things he can't answer.
He rigorously pushes the feeling down. He never wanted her to understand.
tired
