A/N: This is the first fanfiction I've actually had the nerve to put up here. So, constructive criticism is welcome, but no flames please.
This is just a little something I had rattling around in my mind. I'm actually rather enjoying Matt Smith's take on the Doctor, but the idea of a regeneration completely changing the personality of the Doctor never quite set right with me. Also, and I've seen where a few other people have remarked on this as well, 11 seems to be trying just a bit too hard to come off as more alien than human. My own personal theory for why that might be, plus my nostalgia for my favorite 10 accessory, inspired this.
Also, the tiniest bit of 11/Amy, just because I do like the potential there and wanted to get some out before "The Big Bang" does something that makes imagining them together even harder.
General spoilers for all of DT series. I imagine this takes place some time after "Victory of the Daleks" and before "The Time of Angels."
DISCLAIMER: I do not own "Doctor Who". Unfortunately, I was outbid on Ebay by someone with the screen name EXTERMIN8R. Hopefully they're treating him well.
"If the Shoe Fits"
The Doctor whistled an off-key melody as he searched his room for an appropriate bow tie to complete his outfit. He was in a good mood, despite being soaking wet and in need of a fresh change of clothes, for he had finally managed (with some help from the laws of gravity) to find the swimming pool (It was hiding in a niche just inside the Grand Foyer of the Opera House.)
However, his good mood began to fade as he surveyed the inside of his wardrobe. Apparently, his appreciation for the "coolness" of the bowtie as a fashion accessory was a relatively new one, and the TARDIS' selections were meager at best.
"A-HA!" he cried triumphantly. This one would do nicely. Not only was it a lovely plaid, but it completely mis-matched his purple suspenders. Amy would hate it. If he was lucky, she would even argue with him about it and he would get to see that brilliant glint her eyes took on when she was being stubborn and Scottish about something. When she was angry, she was really quite beaut….
The Doctor's hands immediately stilled on the bowtie that he was (rather expertly, it must be said) securing around his neck, and he forced the unwelcome and traitorous thought squarely to the back of his head. Amelia Jessica Pond's eyes could glow with all the lights of the Medusa Cascade as far as he was concerned. It meant nothing to him.
Satisfied with having once again mastered his own (rather brilliant, it must be said) mind, the Doctor turned towards the closet to pick up his shoes. He was so lost in self-congratulation, in fact, that it took him .57 seconds longer than it should have to realize that his hands were wrapped around, not the solid leather of his boots, but the familiar canvas of a pair of trainers.
The Doctor slowly turned the shoes around in his hands. Bright red, the trainers looked almost too ridiculous to be decent (which had, of course, been the major appeal when they had been acquired). The Doctor was surprised to find that he had not immediately replaced the trainers on the floor and reclaimed his boots. After all, such shoes belonged to the person he no longer was. So why did he find himself handling them with a gesture that could only be called a caress? Why did he have a nearly painful desire to put them on? Those shoes had carried him out of many difficult situations. But, then again…
The Doctor found himself blinded by the pain of sudden flashes of memory.
Those shoes, dangling helplessly in the air, unable to get him to the one person who brought the hope of happiness back in his life as she was pulled out of his life forever..
Those shoes, unable to truly touch the sand of a beach where he said a more painful goodbye than he'd imagined still possible to feel.
Those shoes, impossibly out of place in Joan's world, marking him as the man who always would yet never could quite be John Smith.
Those shoes, failing to hold his weight, as he fell before a triumphant Master and a screaming Earth.
Those shoes, caught beneath him as he knelt, with a dying Jenny in his arms.
Those shoes, making footprints in the sand of that damned beach, as he walked away to let mankind's most brilliant flower live a life of happiness, not just adventure.
Those shoes, forcing him across the 5 feet of the TARDIS' control room to steal his best friend from himself and the knowledge of how wonderful she truly could be from herself.
Those shoes, carrying him step by painful step as he made his final goodbyes.
Those shoes, worn with a forced smile from one loss to another, until he found himself alone and terrified, for perhaps the first time, to face the future.
"GAH!" The Doctor hurled the shoes across the room as far as his arm would allow, shocked by the hold those memories still had over him. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Like he'd told Wilf, back when he was wearing those damned shoes, regeneration was supposed to leave him a brand new man. In the past, it had always been that way. Yes, the essence of who he was always carried over, but the mechanics of it changed. His new self was never exactly the same as the previous, so the pain of the past was dulled a bit. Not forgotten, not less important, but not so defining either. It was one of the only things that made living with 907 years of emotional experiences bearable.
The Doctor had to admit, as scared as he had been in that last moment before regeneration, he had experienced relief as well. Maybe, with a new face, he could escape the seemingly endless cycle of loss he had found himself in the last few years. And yet, here he found himself trapped in its hold still.
This wasn't the first time some aspect of his last self had grabbed his attention. The Doctor had never before found himself so trapped between who he was and who he should have become. True, when he had regenerated from his 9th self to his 10th, a larger part of his personality than normal had stayed behind. But, he had always assumed that was an exception, because he had such a desire to still be Rose's Doctor at the moment of regeneration. But now…now he had to admit that he would be only to happy to distance himself from his recent past, and the memories that haunted it.
The Doctor raked his hands through his hair in frustration. There had to be an explanation for this! He shouldn't feel as if he was at war with himself. He had replaced every single cell in his body. The pain, no; worse than that—the numbness of the past years' losses should no longer be stealing every breath he took.
The explanation; what was it? Think, think, think, think!
His regeneration had been rushed! That had to be it. The transformation had been the most violent in his recent memory. It had torn the TARDIS apart for Rasillon's sake! And then he'd tumbled directly out of the wreckage and into an impossible (for anyone but him) situation with Amelia Pond and Prisoner Zero. Just because the regeneration energy had faded doesn't mean he wasn't still cooking!
The Doctor sighed in relief as he moved once more to pick up his shoes—his proper shoes, the boots. Yes, that explained it. A few more days and he would be completely himself, the 11th Doctor as he wanted to be. Until then, all he had to do was make sure not to let any unwanted aspects of his past personality to sneak in. He was the Doctor now. He could certainly stop anything that was characteristic of a man who always lost everything from gaining a foothold within himself if he wanted to. He just had to keep focusing on how he wanted to live this time around.
Like his boots. They were sturdy and practical. They would let him get the job done and move on. He was getting too old to be constantly forming attachments anyway. His thoughts again drifted dangerously in Amy Pond's direction.
"Well, that was different. I owed her after making her wait all those years and plaguing her childhood with those psychologists."
Still, a proper distance must be kept. He would see to it that his feet stayed firmly on the ground this time. No forgetting who and what he was. No chance for either of them to get hurt that way.
The Doctor finished lacing up his boots and prepared to exit the room. And, if the justifications of the last half hour didn't hold up to his usual standards of brilliance, that's just because he was worn out after his swim. And, if his feet felt constrained and pained in his leather testament to practicality, that was just because he had been doing so much running lately. Not because he couldn't really make them fit right. Certainly not.
As the Doctor swept out of the room, he forced himself not to notice the trainers now lying in a crumbled heap against the wall. The boots would do just fine. After all, they let him keep running. And, at the end of the day, that's all the really mattered.
Well, there you have it. I've finally managed to get something from an idea in my head to a physical reality on this site. Party hats all around!
I'd love to know what everyone thought, of the story itself, and of this idea that 11 is struggling to keep himself very un-10-ish because he doesn't want to be that guy that is always losing everyone and everything.
So, [insert customary plea for reviews here]. And, remember-"Never ignore a coincidence. Unless you're busy, in which case, always ignore a coincidence."