He examined himself in the mirror for what must have been the hundredth time since he got his new face. The lines were long and deep, and his eyes were heavy with – something. Remorse, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or both.
Why? Why was he so old? Why now, for the first time in – in so, so long? He didn't want to be old. He wanted to be young. He wanted to be full of life! He wanted to fight Daleks and Cybermen and the Silence. He wanted to laugh in the face of death and make dashing, last minute rescues. He wanted to be from the North and have spiky hair and wear a bow tie. He wanted to be young. He didn't want to be grey. He didn't want to startle himself when he spoke or moved or saw his reflection. He didn't want to be . . .
This.
He ran a hand down his cheek, just to see if his reflection truly was his, or if it was some cruel, terrible trick. And of course, it wasn't. No, it wasn't a trick, or a joke, or an illusion. It was just him. Grey, Scottish, angry 'the Doctor.'
Was he fit to call himself that anymore? What happened to the Oncoming Storm? What happened to the Raggedy Man?
Who was the Doctor?
One thing was for sure – whoever this man was, he wasn't the Doctor. The Doctor was a protector. He knew his limits and he broke them. This old man felt cautious and broken down and plain. Boring. Not the Doctor.
He took slow steps toward the door, unable to take it anymore. He was going to take Clara home. Enough of this pretending. He wasn't the Doctor, not anymore, and he needed her to go before she realized it as well. It would hurt less for him.
"Where are you going?" The Doctor stopped, a lump in his throat. He turned slowly, not wanting to look because he knew she wasn't really there. But she was. She was standing there just as she always did, leaning against the console on the TARDIS. She smiled, and tilted her head.
"I can't," he said hoarsely. "I – I'm old."
"You were always old," she told him, standing up straight. He took a few steps towards her, stopping a few feet away. "Even if you never wanted to believe it. Just 'cause you look it, that doesn't mean a thing, you know?"
"You don't understand, I can't be this man," the Doctor said softly. "I don't want to be this man."
She grabbed his hand. And he could feel it. He could feel her warmth, like the exact moment, the moment when he grabbed her hand that first time. And she repeated the first words he'd ever said to her now.
"Run," she whispered, grinning broadly. "Run to save the day like you always have. Run towards the danger and laugh in its face. But don't run away from yourself, Doctor. Please." She stood on her toes, kissing him lightly on his aged cheek. He closed his eyes, leaning into her, but when he opened them, she was gone.
He stood there for a moment, visibly shaken. Wonderful. His new body was as mad as he was old. He turned, and his heart squeezed.
"Don't forget who you are." Her eyes were wide and wet, like they were the day when he took everything from her, their adventures, her memories. She smiled. "Don't forget like I forgot."
"I made you forget," he choked.
"You saved me," she told him forcefully, grabbing his arm. "Because that's what you do. You save people."
"I lose people."
"And you'll keep on doing just that, you keep up this nonsense. Who is the Doctor? That what you're wondering? The Doctor is in here . . ." She laid her hand on his chest. The she took his hand and pressed it against her heart. ". . . And in here. I said I was going to be with you forever. How can I do that if you forget about it all?"
He blinked, and she was gone. His eyes were wet now, but he restrained himself, keeping his tears from falling. Bringing back these memories, these ghosts, that hurt more than anything. And if this was going to be his life, he certainly didn't want to live it.
He started to leave again. This time, he felt it. Another presence in the room. And he knew exactly whose.
"No," he said quietly. "Please, no. I – I can't. Not you. Please."
But he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned, and when he saw her face the tears fell down his lined cheeks.
She reached up, laying her hand on his cheek. He laid his hand over it, leaning into her touch and never wanting to let go. "You're not here."
"My raggedy man," she whispered, and a tear trailed down her face, too. "I am always here."
"I can't do this," he whispered. "I can't be the man I was."
"Then be a new man," she told him, laying her free hand on his arm. "But never stop being a hero."
He was in agony. He wrapped her hand in his, kissing her knuckles. "I can't keep saying goodbye to people I care about. It – it hurts too much. And I'm just . . . I'm too old. I can't be who I want to be."
She laid her forehead against his. "Who do you want to be?"
He swallowed. "I want to be the man I was for you."
"You don't have to be young for that. You don't have to be young, or wear a bowtie, or a fez," she laughed, smiling. "You just have to be the Doctor."
She released his hand, and was gone.
He turned back to the mirror, examining his tear stained face. He hesitantly laid a hand on his chest. And he felt something. Something young and silly and brave and amazing. He watched his reflection as something odd happened – it smiled.
Was that him? He felt his face. Yes, indeed it was. That wasn't just an old face after all. It was the face of a Doctor.
"Clara, get ready! We're going on a trip!"
"Where?" she called from somewhere upstairs in the TARDIS.
"I don't know!" he laughed, and he hit a switch on the console. There was a whole world out there, waiting for him! And with Clara by his side, they were unstoppable! How foolish he had been to think she'd want to leave him - they would be mad to split up!
He laid his hand on his chest again, smiling broadly. Because even though only two hearts beat inside him, at least four others beat for him elsewhere.