Chapter Text
The Doctor stumbled through the muck and the scattered hay outside the Paternoster Gang’s home, his body tired from trying to do too much while he was still regenerating. The TARDIS ahead of him blurred at the edges of his vision. He urged himself just a bit further, reaching out a hand as if it would get him to the doors faster. He then hit a particularly thick patch of muck that sent him careening into the door with a loud crash! He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, feeling his cheek and his heavily clothed chest pressed against the bright blue wood. He tapped the pads of gloved fingers in a rhythm as he gathered his balance again.
He knew he should get Clara. He knew she was scared, overwhelmed by the change in his appearance and his voice and his demeanor, but the fact was that he was more scared than her at this point. His previous regeneration thought he was scared to try out a new form, wondering who he would become, but nothing could prepare him for the woman he trusted so much to turn on him just because he no longer had a pretty face and limbs that acted of their own accord. He had trusted her with both his hearts to embrace him however he turned out, but she had let him down. “Sorry, Clara,” he whispered. “I just need a moment.”
He needed a moment to breathe.
With as little effort as needed, he slowly pushed the right door open and stepped inside.
The Old Girl was still the same as she had been just a day before: cold, stark neon glowing on cold, bare metal and glass. The Doctor stood just two steps inside, looking all over the console room as he removed the matted and holey gloves from his weathered hands. This design wasn’t comforting. In fact, it made the dark tightness in his chest bleed deeper into his ribcage. He breathed out slowly as he took in the warmer aspects of the room: the Gallifreyan text dotted around the time rotor, the round things on the walls, the warm glow emitting from various knobs and buttons on the controls. The corners of his mouth momentarily flinched upward.
He stepped up to the center console and very gently touched the commands that got the box to dematerialize, and then put her in earth’s orbit. “How about a change, Dear?” he then said, circling the console. There was pain prickling at the corner of his words, like he was afraid the TARDIS was going to reject him, too. “I’m in need of a change. Out with the cold, dreary console. How about it?”
The hum of her engines grew louder and the lights brightened. He almost gasped, pleased to see she was still willing to stand by his side, but kept his emotions in check with a very pointed clearing of the throat. “Well, let’s do it, then.”
One of his previous incarnations described it as changing a desktop theme, and it wasn’t inaccurate. No longer trying to fawn on his Old Girl, his movements quickened, long fingers pressing buttons and flipping switches and tapping away at keys. A new set of small lights lined the base of the raised platform around the edge of the console room. He switched the focus from the aqua lights on the round things to the red and yellow bulbs in the center, commanding them to pulse like a slow heartbeat. He added some chalkboards and bookcases to add some warmth to the frosty walls, and even gave himself a large, deep cognac-colored leather chair (after trying out eight different styles). He gazed up at his changes to admire his handiwork. While it was much more inviting than before—more than it had ever been, actually—something didn’t feel right. He could feel that the TARDIS felt the same way, and then he felt her nudge at his brain.
“You’re right. That’s just what we need,” the Doctor said as he typed away at the keys beneath his fingers. Just a second later, the unfriendly neon blue light in the time rotor changed to an inviting orange, casting a welcoming glow over everything in the room.
Feeling that he had gotten the room where he wanted, he slowly turned on his heel to give it all a good look-over. He slowly removed the smelly, moth-eaten coat, dropping it to the grates beneath his feet. He felt the weight change in two ways; he hadn’t just removed the coat, but also part of the doubt and fear that he had before he stepped foot into the TARDIS. Cautiously, he removed the thinner jacket he wore beneath the large wool coat, and let it drop to the floor as well. Even better yet.
With a lunge he ran for the staircase leading down a hallway. He needed a new look. He didn’t just need to get out of his hobo clothes, but out of the plum-colored frock coat and bowtie and trousers a bit too short and into something for him. He ran down hallways and slid around corners and finally came to a rare ornate metal doorframe. He went through it and into the wardrobe, packed full of shirts and trousers and shoes of every size and style and color. He quickly picked through a rack of trousers and found a slim black pair that looked to be about his size. He grabbed a crisp white button down from the end of a rack. He came to a screeching halt by the hats, trying on something large and floppy. He looked in the mirror and instantly regretted that choice, tossing it like a Frisbee off to the entrance to the room. No flashy statement pieces this time (except maybe a ring, he thought).
Full of adrenaline now, he dug through a box of jumpers and came across a deep grey cardigan, done in a large cable knit. He thought about it, but decided that this wasn’t him. It didn’t feel right. Just like floppy hats and scarves didn’t feel right.
He roughly hurled the cardigan back into the newly messy pile, and ran for coats. “No, no, no, no, definitely not, no, no, no,” he said to himself as he flicked through every option.
He stopped abruptly at an acid wash jean jacket, shuffling his eyes side-to-side as he took in a long, sharp gasp. He went back to a coat he had prematurely given a firm no, and gently lifted the bottom hem to expose a brilliant red silk lining. He weakly smirked as he rubbed the lining between his fingers. This felt good, this felt right.
He yanked it off the hanger then dashed over to get a matching black waistcoat and a pair of sturdy black shoes. He changed a bit too quickly, falling over into a rack of eyewear after he failed to get his second leg into his trousers on his first try. He left the spilled glasses on the floor, too excited to care about them now. He hastily tucked his shirt in to his trousers, tossed on the waistcoat after twirling it around his back in a spectacular arc, buttoned it up with shaking fingers, and then slid into the coat. Everything fit like a dream, he realized, and ran both hands down the sides of his stomach as he looked at it all. Remembering that it would be better seen in a reflection, he darted toward an extra-tall mirror. There he stopped, getting his first real glance at himself not only in his new clothes, but also in his new face. Sure, he did see himself in the Paternoster house, but he was so out of it then. He barely remembered it. And yes, there was his reflection in the mirror in the alley and the silver of the tea tray, but nothing was as clear as it was right now. He stepped closer, nearly pressing his new face into the surface of the mirror, giving himself as close of a look as he could get. There were lines and grey hairs, but his posture was confident and his eyes were bright (old, sure, but there was still a spark there). The eyebrows were just as cross as he had said they were several hours ago—he had hoped he had exaggerated when he was in a regenerative stupor. He then stepped back so he could get a good glimpse at his new look. He found himself smoothing down the front of his coat again, acknowledging the excellent cut on a beautiful style. Yes, this was him, he knew it. While redecorating the console room renewed a spark, a change in clothes truly fueled the fire. He was ready to put this last day behind him: his former self, his exhausting regeneration, his trying evening, and his doubts about Clara’s dedication to him.
The Doctor smirked as he flattened the coat once more, and then had an idea. He unbuttoned the two lowest buttons on the coat then flipped the hem so he could put his hands in his trouser pockets. The red silk was exposed, shining in the spotlights above. He laughed, deep and velvety in his throat, forgetting his problems for just a moment.
However, reminders came flooding back and this fleeting instance of happiness was stopped dead in its tracks when he thought, I can’t wait to see what Clara thinks. Clara. He had to go back for her, and soon. There was a small, very frightened portion of him that wanted to run from this because he couldn’t bear to hear the uncertainty in her voice. He still wasn’t so sure about himself; he didn’t want her to be unsure of him, either. But he couldn’t leave her there any longer, not after all they’d been through.
He slowly left the wardrobe with his hands still in his pockets. For the last few hours he had kept thinking about the phone call his former self had made to a future Clara, and he remembered how frightened she sounded. How far away was it? Minutes? Hours? Days?! That too had been eating at him, the thought of waiting for this thing to happen. Why did waiting have to be an option? Couldn’t he just find the spot where this phone call happened so he didn’t have to feel this constant anxious beating in his chest?
No. He had to play it out. For this one time, he had to let time go the way it was meant to happen. No skipping ahead.
When he reached the control panel, he paused with his hands over the controls. He sighed, bowing his head chin to his chest. “Please, Clara. It’s me. It’s still me.”
After a moment’s pause he pressed the controls, and the sound of materialization filled the console room. The Doctor walked up the stairs and slowly sat down in his new chair. With yet another sigh, he steepled his fingers, resting the fingertips on his lips. He slowly closed his eyes, and waited for Clara.
If she even wants to come back.
Then, the door opened.