Chapter Text
Out of fire and starlight, illuminated against the orange sunset sky, the Doctor regenerated.
Regeneration was always a gamble. The only guarantee was that nothing was guaranteed. Two heads and no shoes or regeneration comas that turned everything pear-shaped.
That, and that it burned. The golden light blanketing a Time Lord’s skin changing every single cell. From the inside out, biology being rewritten in a matter of seconds. The greatest loss, and a most wondrous new beginning.
What once burned began to ripple, began to tear and shred. This feeling was entirely new.
The last remnants of regeneration energy sent the Doctor stumbling back, breathless and awestruck. Memories flooded, a swarm of thousands of years and infinite loss.
The first breath, but the rush of oxygen wasn’t so cold. It was comforting, welcoming, even. It was as if nothing happened at all.
The Doctor ran their tongue along their teeth. Familiar teeth.
“I know these teeth,” the Doctor said, running a hand down the lower part of his face, stubble and all. This was not the first incarnation who had a preoccupation with teeth. At that, he caught a glimpse of his hand.
Oh, that hand. From Christmas Day with the Sycorax to a jar in Torchwood Three and in the most unlikely of circumstances-
A distant song of the DoctorDonna chimed in the back of his head.
He stuck his hand out, followed shortly by the other. He didn’t need to examine the backs of them to recognize which incarnation had seemingly returned.
Cool air whisked away the remaining heat of regeneration. His coat billowed in the wind, his tie with it.
The dark blue, thick material of the coat did not match that of the previous incarnation, her memories still flooding through his head. Everything was still so new, so unfamiliar. But those were not the clothes she claimed with her identity.
He ran a hand down his entire outfit. The body of a previous incarnation, sure. But regeneration didn’t claim clothing, at least not until this moment.
He brought both hands to cover his face, pressing his palms into every feature of a face he had fought against ever losing.
The realization was a pit in his stomach as he dragged his hands down, pulling at his skin. His tenth face reincarnated.
Questions raced through the Doctor’s mind. He had been born again alone. How different from this face’s first time around. How much like it’s final death. There was no one to ask, no one to bounce off of. No one to use to convince himself that everything would be alright. Time Lords do it all the time.
He turned to the TARDIS behind him, the only constant he could rely on-
The inside was nothing like he remembered.
Large, golden jewels grew up from the floor and up to the time rotor, like the legs of a spider. It gave the illusion of a cave, or the inside of a hidden gem. The walls were a cold, dark blue light from the round, casting deep purple shadows against the yellow glow from the jewel-like structures. This TARDIS was defined by its stark, geometric shapes. Hexagons and sharp lines created an almost steampunk illusion.
It could not compare to the organic structures of the last TARDIS that housed this face. The branching coral struts along a bare console and rotor, the soft greens and yellows from its center a calm cry for a lost home.
He scowled, running up the steps to the console. Upon closer inspection, the controls themselves were also out of place, some damaged, and others operated by completely new parts. The Doctor groaned, and gave himself a small smack to the back of his head, hoping to catch any remnants of knowledge from his previous self.
Memories were still flooding, and the Doctor reeled against the onslaught of information. Faces flicker and fade, faces that a distant part of him demand he remember, but he does not have the names to match with such faces. A red head who looked nothing like Donna. The gaps of River Song filling in. An extravagant loss. The friendliest woman with a love of Little Mix and chips that he couldn’t save from a brand of Cybermen he’d never seen before. The faded etching of Yasmin Khan’s name along his hearts, a love claimed by his previous incarnation as all her own. The desire for a family, a young boy with so much potential, his grandparents his greatest cheerleaders. A man called Dan.
What stuck out most prominently, through the flood of never ending thoughts and memories he had no recollection of, was a call to one of his dearest friends. What had happened that he lost her as well? This face, the one that had returned to the Doctor, it had lost so much, but there was even more it had not witnessed?
If the Doctor had not been so preoccupied, he would have felt the distinct swirl of timelines in flux, of powers beyond the known universe pulling at old threads.