A/N: I've had to make a few changes to this story; somehow, the most current version of this didn't get posted, and I've really no idea how that happened, as I only have one copy of the file. I've posted this without the benefit of a beta reader; I quite literally wrote and posted this in an hour, so there are bound to be some mistakes. Thank you to those of you who have already added this to their favorite story lists; I appreciate it more than you know. I'd also like to thank any reviewers in advance for taking the time to read and respond.

Doctor Who is the creative property of the BBC and is used here without permission. No profit or copyright infringement is intended as the result of this work.

"For the apparel oft proclaim the man."

-William Shakespeare,

Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3

The Doctor stepped into the wardrobe room of the TARDIS and took a long look around. There was a little ritual he always liked to perform when he retired one of his outfits: piece by piece he removed each bit, tucking the accessories into ornate little boxes, leaving hats and the odd umbrella or walking stick in the cupboard that he kept solely for those artifacts of his. There was closure to removing each garment for the last time, folding or hanging it carefully and putting it away with the other remnants of his past lives.

It left him free to really enjoy dressing in whatever each new form found appropriate or attractive and to let his mind think ahead to what adventures he might face in his new costume. It gave him permission to wonder what kind of man would choose the clothes he found himself donning and to speculate what self-discoveries he'd make in the coming weeks.

He was really going to miss the ritual this time. He wasn't sure when he'd ever been more distraught at the prospect of regeneration. His ninth form had still been so new to him, and had only just begun to accept the absolution offered to him in the smile of one tiny pink and yellow human. It seemed tragic for him to carry the burden of the Time War and then be shuffled off just as it began to ease; to die just as he grasped the concept of living.

And so, he wandered the wardrobe in borrowed jimjams and a dressing gown remarkable only for the fruit stashed in its pockets, waiting for something to catch his eye. It would be easier if that eye would stop wandering to the cupboard he'd neglected out of necessity, and that would be easier if the cupboard didn't seem to be staring resentfully at him.

The Doctor sighed deeply as he held up an ancient, red military jacket and the vast quantities of air these lungs held did not escape his notice. He could have asked for his clothes back, had meant to even, but when he went to retrieve them, they were gone. He presumed Rose had taken them to remember him by; even for the brief moment he'd awakened to deal with the remote controlled Christmas tree, he'd been aware of the scent of her tears clinging to the leather jacket, and the black folds of his jumper. It was touching, really, except it bred the terror that she might not be able to accept this new form.

And that, he decided while he considered a smart-looking pin-striped suit, would be unbearable. He grabbed a brown long coat hanging conveniently nearby and broke into a wide smile and hurried into his new kit. After only a brief consideration, he shoved a pair of trainers on his feet and regarded himself in the mirror, turning this way and that to admire the effect of the ensemble.

Not bad, he decided, taking in his reflection. He ran his hands across his cheeks and mouth, testing the soft flesh, pushing it this way and that. His regeneration had been hurried, but he couldn't have asked for a better face. He thought he might be as good-looking in this regeneration as any of Rose's pretty boys had been and if her blush when he wondered aloud if he was sexy had been any indication, she might even agree. Well, he thought the blush was at that remark, but she might as easily have been embarrassed by the wink he'd thrown her way when he said it.

The teeth really were going to take some getting used to, though, he decided giving them a once-over with his tongue. With a last look and a nod of nervous approval, he turned away from the mirror. It was time to re-introduce himself to Rose, properly this time.

Almost of his own volition, his right hand shot out and grabbed a pair of brainy-looking spectacles and tucked them absently into his pocket. That's something else to think about, he realized, as he contemplated his unusually empty pockets, I can't take the jacket and the jumper from Rose if she needs them as a memento, but I do have to have the sonic screwdriver. He remembered putting it into the pocket of his borrowed dressing gown after he dispatched of the psychotic Santas, but it hadn't been there when he'd awakened. Rose would likely have put it back into the jacket's pocket to keep it safe when they were moving him around, so maybe he'd be able to sneak into her room and just grab it back.

In the end, she offered it to him after dinner, while Jackie and Mickey dashed ahead of them into the Christmas 'snow.' She held it out to him, almost shyly, telling him without words that she wouldn't be returning his jacket and jumper any time soon.

One of his hearts nearly burst with the happiness of knowing that he'd meant as much to her as she did him, despite the ears and the madness. The other sank into his canvas enclosed feet; if she'd cared so much about the other him, surely she wouldn't like this new and very, very different persona.

His worst fears became reality when she asked him if he'd be leaving on his own, but then reality upended itself when she disabused him of that notion. How strange to think she'd been nervous he wouldn't want her when the whole of his being had been created specifically with her in mind.

Then, she was looking at him with excitement and trepidation and maybe a little fear at the idea of traveling with this new him, and he said the only thing he could think of to reassure them both that they still belonged together, "It's going to be fantastic." As memorials went, it wasn't quite as consoling as his little ritual, but it was them acknowledging what was lost before they moved forward together.

Just like that, they were hand in hand, planning and dreaming. The future was theirs; it was right in front of them, so near that his pointed finger brushed up against it, and he was right: it really would be fantastic.