The idea of regeneration is something that fascinates me, so I thought I'd write this, so as to see it from the point of view from the Doctor himself.
Eleven.
His boots creaked wearily as he took each step. They scuffed as he felt the reluctant pull to stop, to turn back around and make his way back down those stairs. But he didn't. He saw one foot go in front of the other in a dull, repetitive pattern and marvelled at how simple and brilliant it was. How it was something so ordinary and tedious, but now it felt like the most important thing in the world. Because he wasn't going to be able to see this again. Not with this face, anyway. Not with these eyes.
Ten.
A smile had blemished painfully over his face as he saw her. A refreshing relief that she was there – but conflicted with fear. The fear that she was going to have to watch this. Watch him… change. And he couldn't do anything to stop it. Not now. It had already started; the clock was ticking. It always had been: from the moment he'd been thrown against the console with a new shock of dark hair, a new mind strung with new shapes and colours and preferences and opinions – from the beginning the countdown had struck. Ever since he'd collapsed out of the Tardis and his gaze had fallen upon a little girl in a garden. The countdown was always there. Always looking over from behind his shoulder, keeping him in check.
Nine.
Hello, he had told her. How bitterly ironic. It was a far cry from hello, now. But there was still a reluctance to tell her the truth. To say, this is it. I've run out of time. There were so many more things he'd wanted to do, so many more places he'd been waiting to tell her… and here he was, slowly disappearing. Too late. His eyes stayed on her, studying every detail. He didn't want to forget what it was like to look at her with these eyes. To watch her smile and immediately have the itch to do the same; to see her eyebrows raise questionably before she would laugh; to grin as her nose would scrunch up in deep thought.
Eight.
The process was sending tingles through him – along his spine, to the ends of his fingers, from the roots of his hair down to his feet. He took his steps with care, each footstep sending another spark, another reminder. His fingers curled into his palm as his other hand reached for the console: he was starting to feel the pressure begin to weigh down, like a burden he was forced to carry. The burden of the Time Lords. A limited renewal of lives – and he'd thought he had reached the end of his. Yet, he wasn't sure he particularly approved of its decision. Surely, somehow, he could go beyond the impossible just one more stretch, and take a different way out?
He finally had what he wanted. He had been a part of a small family, and now he was with her, and he found himself fighting against his forever burning desire for change. For something new, something different. He liked this face because she liked it, and because they had liked it – he felt wanted; he felt like he belonged. He'd misguided himself to the belief that this could go on forever; he hadn't wanted to consider the inevitable eventuality. He'd constantly pushed it aside: now it was here, and he wasn't ready. He'd grown too accustomed to the idea that he was in control – but he'd lost grip of the wheel and could no longer regain a secure hold.
Seven.
He had spent the last 300 years welcoming death, only to find himself forced to welcome life. Maybe that had been his mistake. 300 years he could have continued his curious, wandering adventures throughout all of time and space, and instead he had cooped himself up and settled down on a small planet, in a humble town. And every day, he'd reminded himself: tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll leave. Tomorrow, I'll end this continuous cycle I've trapped myself in and I'll step into my box and I'll run away. But then he'd think back to the last time he had done that: he'd remember all the chaos, all the panic and the tears and the blood. He would fall weary to the plaguing guilt holding him down and he'd decide: tomorrow. Not today. Not yet.
Now there were no more tomorrows.
Six.
He was talking to her in a jagged fashion. It was all a riddle; everything that left his lips was a puzzle to solve. His mind was steadily being broken down, realigned and reordered – nothing made sense. Words mixed uncomfortably across his tongue, leaving a foreign, unpleasant aftertaste. The background metallic hum of machinery grated like a brittle, static, grey sound, rather than its usual accomplishment of being a reassurance. What his eyes saw was a blunt, colourless scrawl: save for the weak, green glow of the time rotor, and for the girl stood opposite him, everything else was dimmed to that of black and white. His hands shook, his body weakening rapidly, and still he talked. To prolong what was coming; to keep the both of them distracted.
Five.
He focused on her. Observed her affectionate tilt of the head, ran his eyes along her sad smile, and noted the watery glisten magnifying her wide eyes. She was a beacon of colour.
Always so impossible.
He had abandoned her, twice now; she still found a way to get herself back here. She was stubborn like that. How she still trusted him, he didn't know. But this – what was about to happen – will throw even her back. He was going to leave her, and this time, for good. He didn't have a choice – she was arguing with him, telling him there was always another way. Always. This was the only exception, it would seem. He inwardly yelled in agreement with her, pleaded that she was right – there was always another way, so where was his escape route here? But all he could do was shake his head with a small laugh, give her a smile and tell her that, 'it's going to be okay. I promise.'
They both knew he was lying.
Four.
Colour. There was… colour, everywhere. Out of the blue: one moment, another mangled sentence at his had trailed away unfinished, and the next, his eyes were blinded. Bombarded with a sudden vivid explosion. His brow furrowed, eyes squinting at his surroundings.
Paper. Pinned to the railings, carpeted over the metal flooring, plastered against the curved walls: hundreds of sheets of paper, varying in all colours – and scribbled upon them were drawings. Doodles from that of a child.
A change of pressure in the atmosphere, a flutter of a breeze through the air; a pleasant, young laugh made him turn in surprise.
There: a flash of red hair, a glimpse of a memory. The air emptied his lungs and his hands curled into loose fists. He was confused. Nervous. Worried. Elated.
Three.
The pace of his hearts quickened as his eyes searched desperately through the confetti of drawings. It couldn't be her.
His gaze swung to his current companion, his impossible, beautiful, Clara. His jaw slackened in his state of shock; his eyebrows lifted in the small spark of hope grinding his countdown to a brief, jarring halt.
Boots clacked softly down the staircase, and he turned.
His rigid shoulders weakened as his eyes caught hers. She was mere steps away from him; and so very real.
His little Amelia Pond, all grown up.
He was scared. His chest lurched, his eyes stung, and his mouth broke into the smallest of smiles. His hand shook as it lifted from his side and reached painfully towards her. The tips of his fingers tingled against her cheek. She mirrored his smile, copied his actions: he could sense a reassuring warmth to the side of his face, one that began to spread throughout him completely. A laugh softly brushed her lips, and her words rang with a sincere clarity through his head.
Raggedy man, goodnight.
She faded away, and one of his hearts flickered, blown out like the flame of a candle.
Two.
The colours leaked away. The paper was no more. His head dipped, his hand falling back to his side. Everything was once again bland and uncomfortable. Well – almost everything.
Clara studied him from where she stood, her cheeks tear stained. That hit him with both guilt and sympathy. His lips parted; he continued from where he left off in his myriad of rambling. If only to comfort her. His sentences resumed in their lost, mismatched ways, battling her denial that this was all going to end, very quickly.
He eventually couldn't even work speech. He looked to her with a smile, but his mild expression didn't quite voice his desperate pleas for her to understand. He was terrified; he was about to die and it hurt so, so much and he knew that she was scared too but he didn't want to be stood here, alone. Not like last time.
She stepped towards him. Her hand outstretched, and his remaining heart ached. Ached with sorrow, with gratitude; with things that had never been said, and things that should have been done. She spoke her own plea – the one they both knew was too late to have a reason to be voiced. And her words weren't like the grey static buzz drilling through his mind. It was quiet, delicate; something precious and beautiful to savour. His eyes misted as he glanced to her hand.
He went to retaliate, just as time began to slow down. His fingertips were close to brushing hers. If he could just reach a little closer, just make that last, small stretch…
One.