Title: Out Of The Corner
Characters/Pairing: Eleven, Amy
Genre: humorish
Disclaimer: Not the least bit mine.
Rating: G
Spoilers: takes place just after the new Who episode, so references to that.
Summary: His twenty minutes are well up, and she still believes him. If she didn't, he thinks, he might well go back to that short period of time, just for the feel of it. He likes, he finds out, to be believed. To be trusted.
A/N: No, I told myself firmly. Do not write fanfic. I'm really bad at taking my own advice.
When I was a child,
I caught a fleeting glimpse, out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look, but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
-Pink Floyd, Comfortably Numb
Out of the Corner
"Alright," the Doctor says experimentally to his reflection, and his reflection says nothing, merely looks back at him as he ducks his head this way and than, opens his mouth wide and examines his teeth, dodges so closely that he bumps noses with himself, and raises a hand to flick nervously at his hair.
Then his reflection says, still experimentally, "Okay."
He stands up straight, pats himself down as though he may have a concealed weapon and is trying to enter a public venue for, oh, he doesn't know-- the Olympics? Wrestling? He wonders, with a worried expression, if he likes wrestling this time around; and bends toward the mirror again. The worried expression makes him look like a puppy. No, the fact that he looks like a puppy makes him look like a puppy. Why is he so young?
"Alright?" says Amelia/Amy Pond from behind, and he straightens up again and turns to her. Points a long finger at his own face.
"This is a worrying trend," he says.
She crosses her arms, scoffs at him. "I told you the bow tie was a bad idea."
He clutches at it protectively. "Not that. This."
"Your face?" She still looks skeptical.
The Doctor twitches his mouth to one side, thoughtfully, both hands still at his collar. "Seems a bit random, doesn't it? That every time I regenerate, lately--" He drops his hands, spreads his arms wide, offers himself for her scrutiny and then joins her in it, chin on his chest. "I didn't always look like this, you know."
"You didn't?"
"Nope." He does not, he notes, pop his p's. He doesn't have the right shape of mouth for it this time, nor the requisite desire to shove his own voice in everyone's face.
"Funny." She's not laughing, though. "You've looked like that all my life. Minus the bow tie."
"All your life," says the Doctor. "Not all mine."
She leans against the door, looks at him speculatively. "What, then? Were you into--" A shrug. "--belts, instead of braces?"
He hooks a thumb under the braces, snaps them back against his shoulders, grins a little. "Among other things."
"So-- what, then?"
"The hologram the Atraxi showed us. Those men, at the end."
"Ten of them," she says, and straightens up.
He nods, hair flopping forward, turns for another glance in the mirror to ascertain he hasn't changed again in the last five seconds. This body feels like it could do that, somehow; feels as though he's struggling for control with himself. "Ten of them. Ten of me. I'm them. They're me."
There's something about this Amy/Amelia, something he likes-- she doesn't tell him this is impossible. Doesn't argue. His twenty minutes are well up, and she still believes him. If she didn't, he thinks, he might well go back to that short period of time, just for the feel of it. He likes, he finds out, to be believed. To be trusted.
All Amy says now, though, is, "And this. This is you too?"
He runs a hand along the open edge of his coat, half-grins.
"Yeah," he says. "This is definitely me."