Lady Paperclip (paperclipbitch) wrote,
Lady Paperclip
paperclipbitch

"No Straight And Narrow", Doctor Who, Eleven

Title: No Straight And Narrow
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Eleven; Donna, Lucy, Sarah Jane, Martha, Jack
Challenge/Prompt: The Lucy part of this has been submitted to doctorwho_100, 029. Body.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5160
Genre: Gen
Copyright: Tickle Me Pink, Johnny Flynn
Summary: The Doctor isn’t entirely sure who he is, but he does know who he was.
Author’s Notes: Congrats to Matt Smith (even if he does have the most boring name ever)! We can come back to this in 2010 and laugh at how horribly wrong I was. Oh, and since I don’t even know what costume Eleven is going to wear, I’ve dressed him up in what he’s wearing in the promo shot with the TARDIS. Unless that is his costume… As for adding lyrics to each vignette, that was ‘cause I was listening to Johnny Flynn while finishing this and I got distracted by how well the song fit what I wrote. I’m sure you’ll see what I mean.



{tickle me pink
i’m rosy as a flush straight off the skin
except i have never been as sweet}


“Well,” he decides in front of the mirror, “It’s different.”

The pinstriped suit hangs off him, and the big ankle-length coat seems to swamp his frame. He’s delicate now, he realises, bemused. And terribly young-looking, he notes after another moment of making faces at his reflection. Of course, on Gallifrey, things like this were always happening; there was the time one of his friends physically became a teenager, which lead to all sorts of problems for a few years until he’d adequately gone through puberty again.

It could be a lot worse, he decides.

The TARDIS has helpfully provided all kinds of clothes for him to choose from, but the Doctor hates regenerating alone. It makes it that bit harder to work out who he’s become; he has a moment of nostalgia, remembering Rose’s horrified expression. Now there’s no one to look at him and ask him pertinent questions; perhaps that’s the problem.

Draining his mug of tea, he chooses some clothes that won’t show him up on Earth – nothing he’ll wear forever, but he needs to be inconspicuous – and walks back to the control room.

{i’ve rolled around the orchard
and found myself too awkward
tickle me green; i’m too naïve}


Sheets of rain are bouncing off the pavement; typical British weather. The Doctor closes the TARDIS doors and then tips his head back, appreciating the feeling of water running over his new skin. All of him is alive with bright sensation; every breath he takes is a novelty, even the slightest movement gives him an adrenalin thrill of excitement. It’s all he knows, this constant changing, but even so he can’t begin to comprehend how any other race in the universe can live with just the one flesh, without the wonder of discovering a whole new body, a whole new existence with fresh eyes.

When his recently-acquired body starts informing him that he’s getting cold, he hunches his shoulders under his jacket and begins to walk. He can sense the whereabouts of another Time Lord as easily as he can sense his own whereabouts, and even if they’re not a true Time Lord and even if they don’t know they’re a Time Lord at all, it still works.

The last two years have been a constant battle; losing a companion is never easy, but this has been particularly hard. Rose is stuck in a parallel world so he couldn’t go anywhere near her even when he wanted to, and it’s easier to stay away from Jack because that’s never been an easy situation, but at least he has the option of dropping in unannounced to see other friends, even if he technically hasn’t. But he hasn’t been able to see Donna because her life depends on it, and that thought has never been anything but depressing.

Now, though; now Donna won’t recognise him, not even as that lanky geeky guy she ran into in her kitchen once. And he may not be able to talk to her but at least he can see her without running the risk of her mind breaking apart.

Donna is in a pub with a load of her friends; all of them talking and laughing and being obnoxiously loud. She looks happy, the Doctor notes; though of course she doesn’t know what she once had, what she once did. As far as she’s concerned, she’s never amounted to all that much and Pringles are about as good as life gets.

The Doctor sits at the bar with a glass of water; the bartender gives him a suspicious look, but the Doctor gives him a friendly smile and the man turns away. He thinks that maybe this new body is going to come with a few unforeseen problems; and immediately mentally practices making the psychic paper look like an ID, a problem he’s never actually had before. But his eyes keep straying over to where Donna sits, cheerfully bickering with her friend over whether two of their workmates are actually having it off in the copy room.

“That kid keeps looking at you,” one of Donna’s friends stage-whispers urgently to her; the Doctor carefully switches his gaze to the door, as though he’s waiting for someone.

“Oh my God, is he even old enough to be in here?” One of the other women adds. “He looks about sixteen.”

The Doctor can’t quite hear what gets said next, but the word toyboy gets thrown in, which is… disturbing, but also kind of amusing given how vehement Donna was about funny business once upon a time. And anyway, he’s sure he looks older than sixteen, at least from certain angles.

“…Probably got a load of ASBOs,” someone else says, and Donna laughs. Her eyes linger on him for a moment though, expression curious.

“Hey, mate,” she calls across from her table.

He could go over there, it’s true; he could possibly even have a conversation, and she would almost definitely not know anything was wrong. Donna would be safe, and for a few minutes… but he can’t. He just can’t. Instead, he shakes his head, feigning embarrassment, and looks away.

The women burst into happy, raucous laughter.

The Doctor tells himself he isn’t disappointed as he finishes his glass and slips out the door.

{time is too early
my hair isn’t curly
i wish i was home and tucked away}


UNIT are bastards, Lucy has decided. Cruel bastards who have shut her away in a room forever, even though she keeps telling them she isn’t mad and almost definitely isn’t going to kill anyone. It’s the Doctor’s fault of course; the Doctor who told them she needed looking after and, more importantly, needed watching. While Lucy has been forced to conclude that she’s not quite in her right mind, she’s not exactly insane. It’s… it’s more complicated than that.

She’s read Mansfield Park six times cover to cover in the last week.

The only person who comes to see her, other than the nurses who have pills and needles and reassurances – though the whole thing is futile, she hasn’t told them that yet – and a UNIT psychiatrist who mostly uses phrases like it’s for your own good, is the Doctor. He’s sporadic and unreliable, sometimes coming three times in a fortnight, sometimes not turning up for months at a time. But Lucy knows too much about what time is like for Time Lords, so she is never disappointed. After all, she has no expectations. She doesn’t really like the Doctor, though she does enjoy pointing out that she’s seen something that he never has.

(The End of the Universe; it’s not much to boast about, but it is something.)

The Doctor seems to think he has some sort of duty towards her, though, because he keeps coming back. Keeps coming to talk to her, to spend time with her. If Lucy were capable of anything but bitterness, she might think it was sweet. As it is, it just makes her angrier.

She’s lying on her narrow, uncomfortable bed, Mansfield Park lying cracked open on the floor beside her. Her eyes are closed, and she’s trying to get some rest. Not that it’s any good; the door opens and one of her nurses, the one who smiles so widely all the time that it makes Lucy want to hurt her, comes in.

“You’ve got a visitor,” she says.

Lucy keeps her eyes closed. “Who is it?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” the woman replies.

It’s the Doctor, of course. There are enough shreds of the Master left inside her that Lucy can sense Time Lords; her skin breaks out in goosebumps, all her hairs standing on end.

“Blimey, she’s cheerful, isn’t she?” the Doctor remarks disparagingly, closing the door. His voice is unfamiliar, but there’s no one else he could be. Even if she couldn’t feel his presence, the Doctor is the only one who knows that she’s here. “Hello, Lucy.”

“You’ve regenerated,” she accuses, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking. She doesn’t really want to know anyway.

“I have,” he agrees. He hesitates. “I’m still getting used to it.”

Lucy doesn’t bother moving, doesn’t give him that satisfaction. “You’re different now,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”

“I brought you a present,” he offers, ignoring her. “I brought you Emma. Thought you might like to try a different Austen.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lucy sighs. “Whatever I read, it’s Mansfield Park.”

She tried War and Peace once, but after about twenty pages realised that the words weren’t right. For some reason, she’s incapable of reading any other book.

“Did the Master do that?” the Doctor asks.

“I’m insane,” Lucy reminds him. “It doesn’t matter.”

His voice is all wrong; she doesn’t want to see what he looks like. She doesn’t want to know who he’s become.

“I brought you Emma anyway,” he says quietly.

Lucy doesn’t move.

“Aren’t you curious?” the Doctor adds, after a minute of silence.

“No,” Lucy replies. “I don’t care.”

She can hear him moving, hand reaching out to smooth her hair off her face. Her eyelids flicker, but she still doesn’t look.

“I want to know what you think,” the Doctor tells her. He’s close, voice quiet. “Please.”

“What I think doesn’t matter to you,” Lucy points out.

“It does,” the Doctor replies. “Please, Lucy. You’re the first person I’ve come to see who knows who I am.”

Lucy doesn’t know what to do with that, but she obediently cracks one eye open. The first thing she sees is his hand, on the pillow beside her head. He’s crouched on the floor next to her bed, brought down to her level. His fingers are long, slim, pale. Different, of course. He looks young; younger than her, as though he can just slough off everything and turn, radiant and beautiful, back to the light. That thought makes her feel angry, just for a moment.

She closes her eye again and rolls over, away from him.

“Well?” the Doctor asks, after a moment.

“You should do something about your hair,” Lucy tells him.

He laughs.

{when nothing goes right
and the future’s dark as night
what you need is a sunny, sunny day}


Bannerman Road is bathed in sunlight, though the Doctor can’t tell if this is before or after the rain he encountered when going to see Donna. The TARDIS is playing up as the two of them get used to each other; there’ll be teething problems, so to speak, for the foreseeable future.

The Doctor makes his way to Sarah Jane’s house by following three teenagers apparently on their way home from school; two boys walking shoulder to shoulder, and a girl. When one of the boys turns his head, the Doctor recognises him as Sarah Jane’s son – Luke, wasn’t it? – and decides the most logical thing to do would be to follow them back to where Sarah Jane lives.

“Are you coming to my house?” the girl asks. “Mum said she’d make dinner.”

“Is your dad going to be there?” the boy who isn’t Luke asks. “I thought I was, like, practically banned from your house.”

“He likes you a lot more since you’ve started dating Luke,” the girl shrugs.

The boy looks at her.

“I didn’t tell him that’s why your behaviour in class has improved,” the girl adds. “He just noticed.”

“I’m a good influence,” Luke says smugly, elbowing the boy.

“I know, it’s dreadful,” the other boy replies, draping his arm easily around Luke’s shoulders. “I don’t know how I put up with it.”

The Doctor smiles slightly, and then notes them crossing the road away from number thirteen, which he knows is Sarah Jane’s house. This is useful, since he isn’t sure he wants to explain everything to people he hasn’t met yet; it’s difficult enough explaining it to people he has. He feels something that isn’t nervousness, because he doesn’t get nervous – well, maybe this body does, he doesn’t know, after all – but is definitely slightly awkward, and goes to ring the doorbell.

Sarah Jane opens the door after a moment, and though he’s still shocked that she’s actually aging, her eyes are as bright and alive as they were the day he first met her.

“Can I help you?” she asks, carefully polite but with a shred of suspicion in her voice.

“I’ve come to check your gas meter,” the Doctor offers with a grin, holding up his psychic paper.

“That’s blank,” Sarah Jane responds sharply, and then realisation unfolds over her face. “Doctor? Is that you?”

The Doctor nods, smiling. “It’s so good to see you,” he tells her genuinely.

“You’d better come in,” Sarah Jane tells him, stepping back.

Her house is big and airy and full of photographs. There’s a neat line of trainers on the floor near the front door, and the Doctor reminds himself that Sarah Jane really is a mother now; he’s happy for her, but it’s still a little strange. After all, in the back of his head, she’s still the young reporter who stared at the universe with sparkling eyes.

“Tea?” Sarah Jane offers.

“Please,” he replies, sitting down at her kitchen table. While the raw energy from the regeneration has almost entirely dissipated – and he’s managed not to lose any body parts for Jack to keep in jars this time around, which is probably a good thing – the more tea he drinks, the better.

While she waits for the kettle to boil, Sarah Jane leans against her sideboard and silently appraises him. The Doctor lets her, aware that it’s strange for her.

“It hardly seems fair, Doctor,” she says at last, with a smile, turning to pour hot water into a teapot. “As I get older, you just keep getting younger and younger.”

When he first met her, when she was bright and young, he was in one of his older bodies; wild grey hair and his opera cloak and his ruffled shirts. Now, Sarah Jane is the one with lines beginning to web from the corners of her eyes, and he thinks he might look younger than her at the very beginning. Passing each other through time, and yes; it is a little strange.

He smiles slightly, taking the warm mug from her. Sarah Jane sits down opposite him, still scrutinising his every movement, every facial expression.

“When did it happen?” she asks. The Doctor loves her for not asking how it happened, because it’s not something he’s ready to talk about. He’s not ready to smile and laugh about it just yet. After all, no matter how short the time period actually was, for a few seconds there, he was dead. It’ll linger with him for a little while longer.

“Recently,” he admits, sipping the hot tea.

Sarah Jane smiles at him; the smile is definitely maternal, which is new.

“Do you know who you are yet?” she adds.

The Doctor shrugs, fighting down awkwardness. “Not quite,” he admits.

“I’ve got a teenage son,” Sarah Jane tells him, sipping at her own drink. “He was born already aged fourteen; it took him a while to work out who he was. And, of course, as a teenager, he spends most of his time trying to figure out his identity anyway.” She smiles gently at the Doctor, still so very maternal. It’s disconcerting, but quite nice too. “I’m sure you’ll work it all out.”

The Doctor stares at the fruitbowl on her table for a moment. “I used to hate pears,” he says, apropos of nothing.

Sarah Jane picks one out of the bowl and holds it out to him. The Doctor reminds himself that he has brand-new tastebuds and that the feeling of revulsion is just a memory, and bites into it. Juice runs down his chin and sweet, pulpy flesh fills his mouth.

“Well?” Sarah Jane asks, as he chews and swallows.

“I… apparently like pears now,” he says slowly. And a smile spreads across his mouth. It doesn’t feel like his old smile, but he thinks it’ll work anyway. “Thank you.”

Sarah Jane winks at him, and he stands, knowing he has to get back to the TARDIS. She stands too, and wraps her arms around him. He hugs her back; he hasn’t been hugged in this body yet, and it’s strange but nice. After all, that’s regeneration through and through; strange but nice.

“Mum!” Apparently Luke has come into the house without either of them noticing; his boyfriend has come too, because he adds: “Well done, Sarah Jane! You’ve got yourself a toyboy…”

This is, the Doctor notes, rather becoming a pattern.

{don’t know where i can buy myself
a brand new pair of ears
don’t know where i can buy a heart}


Martha isn’t entirely surprised when the Doctor doesn’t make it to the wedding. She’s disappointed, of course, because she talked to Jack and got him to send the invitation out into time and space where it would probably have got into the TARDIS, but definitely not surprised. What with his somewhat shaky grasp of chronology, it’s possible he tried to come but turned up a month late. Something like that.

It’s as quiet a ceremony as she can manage, given how many people were are. Her whole family of course, and Tom’s, who are considerably quieter, and lots of colleagues from the various hospitals the two of them have worked in. No one from UNIT is there, of course, but Jack and the rest of the Torchwood team come – Martha spends a good ten minutes desperately missing Owen and Tosh, but there isn’t anything she can do – and Sarah Jane comes, along with her teenage son, his boyfriend, and their friend Rani. All in all, there are kind of a lot of people for the quiet celebration Martha initially had in mind.

But the Doctor doesn’t come, and she doesn’t say it out loud, but Tom seems to understand and doesn’t mention it.

She’s working in casualty a week after the honeymoon when one of the nurses, Karen, comes up to her.

“There’s a man at reception who wants to talk to you,” she says.

“Is it Tom?” Martha asks.

Karen shakes her head. “I don’t know who it is, but he says it’s urgent.”

Martha thinks about it, and then hands Karen the chart. “This man’s ankle needs bandaging,” she says. “I’ll be back soon.”

It’s stupid to hope, but she can’t help thinking that this is the Doctor, with his mixed up chronology, coming to see her. Her feet start speeding up almost of their own accord, and she’s practically running by the time she bursts through the doors into reception. But there’s no familiar gangly figure by the desk, just a young man in a black jacket who grins widely when he sees her. Uncertain, Martha offers him a small smile back.

“Hi,” she says. “Were you waiting for me?”

“I was,” he replies. He’s still grinning as he holds out a hand. “John Smith.”

Martha takes it; his grip is firm but his skin is cold, and in that moment she knows him. She feels an uncontrollable grin spread over her own mouth.

“Hang on a moment,” she tells the Doctor, and turns to the woman manning the reception desk. She unclips her pager and hands it to her, before slipping off her white coat. “I’ll be back soon,” she promises, and she and the Doctor walk outside.

“I can’t believe it’s you!” Martha says, and he pulls her into a tight hug. He doesn’t feel right, of course, and it’s strange to think that this is the same person she travelled in time and space with. Finally, she lets go and steps back, but he keeps hold of her hands. “You look… different,” Martha tells him, before shaking her head. “Sorry, that’s such a stupid thing to say.”

He smirks, but seems distracted by something. He looks down at their joined hands, and so Martha does too.

“You’re… married,” he says slowly, running his thumb over the gold band on her finger.

“I sent you an invitation,” Martha points out.

He smiles sheepishly. “I know. I was meant to be visiting you before the wedding so it wouldn’t be a shock when I turned up different to the ceremony.”

“I got married a just over fortnight ago,” Martha tells him. “Sorry.”

He sighs, letting go of her hands. “It’s the TARDIS,” he explains. “She’s still getting used to me, it’s even harder than it used to be to keep track of time.”

“Do you get the title Time Lord taken away from you if you fail miserably at actually being able to utilise it?” Martha asks, keeping a straight face.

“Very possibly,” the Doctor replies, equally gravely. He tips his head to one side. “Did you save me some cake?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

She shivers; it’s cold out here, and the wind is driving straight through her thin scrubs. The Doctor immediately pulls off his jacket, draping it around her shoulders. It’s not exactly warm, since Gallifreyans have a lower body temperature to humans, but the gesture is sweet and it makes her smile. “Thanks.”

Martha looks up at him, drinking in his new features. He looks about her age; but when she meets his eyes she can see the centuries in them, the weariness and the time that don’t show on his face. The Doctor’s eyes look older than they did during that year that didn’t happen; old and tired and so very lonely.

“Are you still alone?” she asks him at last.

He nods.

“You should come to dinner,” Martha tells him. “Meet Tom. Take an evening out from saving the universe.”

“I will,” he promises, which Martha takes to mean that he won’t, but he’ll mean to, which is the important bit. He frowns at her. “I thought you were supposed to be working for UNIT.”

Martha shrugs uncomfortably. “I couldn’t do it, not after… the Osterhagen Key and everything. And Jack offered me a job at Torchwood, but I didn’t want to work there either. I mean, I help out when they need it, but…” She trails off.

“You went back to what you originally wanted,” the Doctor says slowly. Martha can’t read his tone, can’t tell what he’s thinking. “Before you ever met me.”

Martha genuinely doesn’t know what to say, and while he’s still the Doctor he’s also a complete stranger and she doesn’t know him at all. Realising this makes her feel sad, a bite of loss low in her stomach. She wonders if Rose went through something similar.

“I should get back to work,” she says at last. She pulls off his jacket and hands it to him.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, and they embrace again.

“Bye,” Martha calls, walking back towards the hospital. When she glances over her shoulder the Doctor is still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching her go. And she realises that somewhere along the line she really has got over him.

Martha can’t work out if what she feels is relief or resignation.

{the one i’ve got is shoddy
i need a brand new body
and, well, then i can have a brand new start}


Torchwood has some admirable security systems, and the Doctor feels a smile of reminiscence tug at his lips when he realises that the lift that takes you down into the Hub is on the exact spot the TARDIS stood all that time ago. Or maybe it really wasn’t that long; but he was a different person then and he’s a different person now and he really really misses having other Time Lords around who can understand.

It takes about a minute and a half with his sonic screwdriver, being grateful for the chameleon circuit, to bully the lift into taking him down. It takes its time, and gives him lots of time to look around Torchwood Three’s somewhat underwhelming base of operations. It’s impressively large, of course, with the Rift manipulator at the centre, but the whole place is battered and rundown. Finally, the paving slab comes to a halt, and he steps off. The place seems to be deserted, he finally notices, as a quick buzz with the screwdriver sends the slab back up to the surface again.

The Doctor walks through the silent Hub, watching complicated equations scroll across computer screens, smiling slightly at neatly-labelled alien items scattered across desks. Abandoned coffee mugs, lots of paperwork. But no employees at all.

He finally spots an open sort of office in the corner, the walls seemingly made of dirty glass, and walks towards it. And inside, Jack Harkness is sitting with his feet up on his desk, a small smile on his face.

“Hey, Doctor.”

The Doctor isn’t surprised that Jack recognises him; the man probably knows what he’ll look like in future regenerations too. Diligently stalking him in a way that isn’t even disturbing because the Doctor understands the loneliness behind it.

“It’s quieter around here than you implied it would be,” he says.

Jack shrugs. “The others are Weevil chasing.” When the Doctor frowns curiously, he adds: “There are only so many times in a week I can put up with being gutted. I have no shirts left that aren’t torn open and bloody.”

The Doctor is watching Jack Harkness’ mind fall apart by degrees with a degree of sympathy. Jack dies and comes back to life and no matter how many times he does it there doesn’t ever seem to be an end. The Doctor is fully aware that unless he comes up with something really clever – which, quite frankly, is not outside the realm of possibility – is one day going to stop regenerating and then just stop, but as far as Jack is concerned, he’s going to live forever. And while the Doctor thinks that eventually he’s going to become the Face of Boe and finally find some rest, there are no guarantees.

Being around Jack always gives him a migraine, but he’s learning to cope with it.

“How’s Mickey settling in?” the Doctor asks, settling for keeping the conversation light. They’ve had the dark, edgy conversations before – variations on you’re wrong, Jack, and being around you is physically painful, and also you left me and I looked for you for centuries and I will hate you forever for that – and it tends to be easier to stay away from them.

“He’s all right,” Jack smiles. “I think I caught him flirting with an alien last week, so I think it’ll all work out fine.”

The Doctor stopped trying to understand Torchwood and the mindset its employees get themselves into a long time ago.

Jack sighs, sitting up properly, and the Doctor can’t read the look he momentarily shoots him. It looks like anger, and that’s fair enough, because Jack is always angry with him and possibly always will be, but he’s usually less blatant about it.

“I like the new look,” Jack says aloud. “It’s… interesting. I think you’ll be breaking hearts.”

The Doctor could point out that Jack seems to be the man who leaves trails of broken hearts behind him, but he thinks that would end in an argument that neither of them really want to have.

“I thought I was fairly good-looking before,” he says mildly.

Jack shrugs.

“Ah, right.” The Doctor smiles. “I forgot, you preferred me when I had giant ears and an unexciting dress sense.”

Jack shrugs. “Great arse, though,” he offers. He smiles slightly, getting up and walking around the desk. “The Doctor has come to Torchwood,” he says thoughtfully. “I think I’m supposed to take you into custody.”

The Doctor smirks. “I’d like to see you try,” he offers.

But Jack doesn’t move; doesn’t even try and molest him, which is something the Doctor has become increasingly used to in recent years. He just looks at him, that tightness in his jaw again.

Ah well. “Is there any special reason you’re angry with me today?”

Jack actually looks surprised. “I’m not angry with you,” he says, as though he’s amazed the Doctor hasn’t figured it out for himself. “I’m jealous.”

Jealous? The Doctor frowns, and then realises. Jack is aging; very slowly, but steadily nonetheless. Every new death, every new year shows up somewhere on him, though it probably won’t be noticeable for another couple of centuries. But the Doctor… he changes, and while it’s all still there beneath the surface, he still looks young and fresh and new. Jack must be bored with his own image in the mirror by now, outstaying his welcome in a body designed for a century at most.

“Yeah,” Jack says, as the Doctor’s realisation must show somewhere on his face. “Exactly.”

The Doctor shrugs, and doesn’t apologise. He knows Jack doesn’t want to hear it, and he’s not entirely sure he’d mean it anyway.

“It’s good to see you,” Jack tells him. “But you should go.”

One day, the Doctor hopes that they’ll get to something beyond this. Of course, they’ve got centuries and centuries to get it right, to become something other than awkward around each other.

The Doctor nods. “Have you considered redecorating around here?” he asks, smirking.

Jack’s smile becomes a little more genuine, and he leans forward to press a quick kiss to the Doctor’s mouth; the Doctor thinks he’d be disappointed if Jack didn’t.

“See you around, Doctor,” Jack says.

{monsters in the valley
and shootings in the alley
and people fall flat at every turn}


The TARDIS console lights flicker as the Doctor runs his hand over the machinery. He and his ship might have a symbiotic relationship, but they’ve still got to get used to each other. After all, he’s changed beyond recognition; it’s a lot to get used to. He likes pears now, but can’t stand jelly babies. He’s apparently allergic to any kind of plant grown on the planet Hrothgar, and while he still isn’t ginger he can’t help thinking he has the potential to be rude. He has all kinds of potential. His skin is still alive and bubbling with the newness of it all; if he felt like it he could cut his hand off and stick it in a jar and another one would grow back.

It’s a pity that he doesn’t have that ability all the time; it really would come in handy, given some of the situations he’s found himself in.

The Doctor pushes a lot of switches, and the TARDIS grinds into life. He isn’t entirely sure where he’s going, but that’s all right. After all, he’s seen everyone who knew who he was; but he hasn’t yet met anyone who knows who he is.

He thinks it’s about time that he found out.

Tags: challenge: doctorwho_100, character: donna noble, character: jack harkness, character: lucy saxon, character: martha jones, character: sarah jane smith, character: the doctor, pairing: clyde langer/luke smith, pairing: tom/martha, tv show: doctor who, type: gen
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