Disclaimer: I don't own the plot or characters of Doctor Who, I just occasionally sneak them out the back and drive them to the bar to meet up with the muse. All thing considered, its for the best; I would only mistreat them.
A/n: Strange things happen when you leave me alone in the dark at 3am after a Doctor Who binge. This is merely one of them. Pretty much wrote this whole story in one sitting, with very little editing to my stream-of-consciousness, so while I think it's perfectly coherent, let's just say I bet Faulkner felt the same way about As I Lay Dying. In case it is not obvious, this fic is set during Series 8, italicized quotes are flashbacks to previous seasons. Thank you in advance for putting up with my allegedly methodical madness!
Prologue: The Ones He Chose
1.
Clara is not Rose.
Just as Nine is not Ten, and Eleven is not Twelve.
Just as coffee is not chips, but he'll get to that in a minute.
The point is, they are unique, individual, different.
And yet - and yet! - even so, just think! – well, goes without saying, he can't help that, he's tried and it doesn't work - Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve! All different, yet just the same, they are that. That being the same. (Semantics, nothing but trouble, no one ever bothers to keep up.)
He wants to say it makes the whole analogy false, but much to his fascinated dismay, it doesn't.
For so, he is forced to concede, are Clara and Rose.
The same, that is.
'Clara is Rose?' you inquire somewhat skeptically. And the Doctor gives you one of those looks, just to let you know, for your own good, that you should stuff a sock in it now and start paying attention.
Clara is not Rose, not remotely the same, and yet in spite of that very clear and simple fact, it remains that they are uniquely alike, for they share a key commonality, and it is, perhaps, he thinks, where this whole fiasco started – at the beginning.
Well, no, not really, and really, it started with coffee and chips, but really, no really, if you'll jut hang on a tick, he'll get to that in a minute.
Because even before that, they had something essential in common.
"I never know why. I only know who."
They are the ones he chose.
2.
Regeneration is the greatest vulnerability the Doctor ever knows. Disoriented and defenseless as a newborn, malleable as wet clay, lost in a new body, a new brain, a new world, mumbling like a mad man, utterly alone, a head full of memories that belonged to other men, a stranger even to himself, totally at the mercy of a merciless cosmos.
It never becomes less harrowing. It never becomes easier to trust.
That is why he chooses so carefully.
That is why he chose Rose.
That is why he chose Clara.
3.
Sometimes he can't choose. Sometimes causality, coincidence, fate (if you really must), takes the matter totally out of his hands. Sometimes there are unwanted guests, and sometimes the ones he would choose to stay have gone beyond reaching. More often than not, he finds his privacy either violated or enforced beyond the scope of his influence.
Only twice has he been afforded the luxury of self-determination in this most intimate of affairs.
Only twice has he chosen.
Others friends are valued, enjoyed, missed, but these – the ones he chooses – these are the trusted, when no one else, no matter how beloved, is ever, ever that.
4.
They matter the most, the ones he chooses. It isn't favoritism, it's only fact.
"I never know why. I only know who."
They bear witness, and the burden of memory. When all the dross and darkness and damage are shed, they are the fragile remnant around which he would build the future, no matter Who he becomes next. They stand as mirrors of his fear and wonder, and shine like madonnas through new-made eyes, the first faces he sees when he burst through the crumbling shell of his old world, into the harsh and alien light of a new one.
They are the bridge between who he was and who he will be – the lifeboat of his virtue. The very best of him.
They are the salvation that stands waiting for him one step over the edge of oblivion.
That is exactly how important they are, the ones he chooses.
5.
Clara is not Rose.
Same as coffee is not chips.
But in this, though different, they are the same. And maybe, when he says it, that's why he says it.
Because they are the ones he chose.
.
.
.
Pause to reflect - take a moment to question the author's life choices - leave a review - okay, now keep reading!