Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who or its characters.
This Face Shall See No More
It starts in a different place each time, the cold tingling. This time, it begins in his hearts. He expected as much, really; they had been very busy this time round. All that laughing and crying and loving and losing. It made sense that they were the first part of him in need of renewing.
The feeling trickles through him, slivers of ice reaching every last tip of his body before the next sensation starts. He sees the golden light beginning to blaze from his hands and grimaces in paltry preparation. This is it. There's no going back; not for this face, not now. Clara's perturbed cries of his name barely reach his ears as the burning starts, right at the bottom of his hearts.
He realises then that he isn't ready for it like he thought he was. It's piercing him, tearing him, and his glowing hands shoot to his chest. Clara's follow, pressing and searching and fumbling, her cold fingers useless against his shirt, his skin. Somewhere in his mind he registers the tears on her face, and he moves a shaking hand away from himself to wipe them away. A second later, he shouts. The scorching heat has spread, up and down and left and right and anywhere it can reach. Then Clara's voice breaks through.
"Doctor, please! Please stop this!" Her voice breaks as she cries desperately at him. It's then that he notices he has collapsed, and she is kneeling beside him. Her hands are still on his chest as snow sprinkles onto her hair. The image is so out of place in that moment, he thinks, the peaceful journey of the snowflakes.
"It's all right. Don't worry. It's just the silly old Doctor, I'm nothing –" he pauses, wincing as the pain worsens, before finishing his sentence. "I'm nothing special."
"Don't say that! Please don't do this!" Clara shouts. She keeps repeating that word, please, as she grasps one of his hands and holds onto it as if his life depends on it. Perhaps it does.
He knows he should be cold; he is vaguely aware of the snow biting into him as he lies on it, but inside he is on fire and it is consuming all of his nerves. The next words he speaks are to himself.
"It – it shouldn't be taking this long, why is it so long?" He grips Clara's hand tightly, his vision blurring.
"I don't know," she whispers feebly. He gasps, clenching his free hand into a fist.
"Oh, I'm too old, I'm far too old for this," he mumbles. Then he turns his head slightly, as much as he can manage. "Clara, I need you to promise me something." She nods silently, reaching a hand out to touch his cheek. Her hand is wet, he's confused to find – no, that's him, it's his cheek that is wet. He didn't notice that; he didn't expect to cry. "Promise me you won't leave." He gives no further explanation, and she does not know whether he is asking her not to leave while he regenerates or not to leave his new self afterwards. Either way, she answers him firmly.
"I'll never leave you." Somehow, he smiles, and then he closes his eyes in quiet acceptance of the change to come.
Almost. I am almost done.
He knows now that there is nothing to be done, but he is ready. This life has reached its end. He always hated endings, but these eyes have seen so many of them that they know it is time for their own.
This is it. He can feel it now. Just another moment of this body, this life. And there she is, her face in his mind. The Scottish girl in the English village, the girl who waited for him; for so long, for so many years of being called mad and ridiculous. But she believed. She never stopped believing, Amelia Pond. The first face this face saw. He always knew it would be the last. She'd given him this fairytale, and now it would end, as it was always going to. Her shining smile alive in his mind, he takes a deep, ragged breath.
And then the Doctor ignites the sky, his shower of golden sparks brighter than the stars above him, and one final shout escapes his lips.
"Geronimo!"
I'm sorry for throwing this upon you. Please tell me what you think x