It had been little more than a week since he had died. Except he hadn't, not really, he'd merely changed. Like he'd goneand hadplastic surgery or something, but rather than coming back with flatter ears and a smaller nose, he'd gone for a complete restructure. He was unrecognisable to her. It didn't matter that the initial swelling had gone down; he wasn't the same any more, not in any way. She knew that she still had a Doctor travelling beside her, but it wasn't the Doctor, her Doctor.

No he was dead, gone, lost somewhere in the back of one huge intergalactic wardrobe, just like his leather jacket, gone. Funny really, she couldn't stand that jacket at first, thought he was pretending to be something he wasn't by wearing it, but over time she had grown to like it because she realised he wasn't pretending anything by wearing it. It was a bit tattered, a bit rough round the edges, and a lot like him, which she decided was the reason why he wore it. It was unconventionally charming in a way, just like him. She loved him for that.

There was none of that unconventional charm in his new suit. It wasn't blemished by creases or stains or tears. It was just perfect, just like he was trying to be, and it made her want to scream because the Doctor's imperfections were what had made him perfect to her. But no one is ever meant to be truly perfect, not to anyone; perhaps that's why he left her.

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It's very hard, adjusting to your new self. The new hair, which you now have to style in the mornings (inconvenient changes to the bathroom rota ensue), the glasses (which you're not sure if you even need, but put them on anyway when you want to look intelligent), the change in your accent (less tough, put-upon alien, more care-free, cheeky chappy), and other changes to your general self (much improved, even if you do say so, although it takes some time to get used to).

Imagine then, if you were someone else looking on, someone who has never experienced a regeneration themselves, nor have you witnessed anyone else do so. How hard it would be when the person you have fallen in love with changes so completely that you can't believe that they aren't some kind of impostor, and you just need to find the real version and rescue them from some prison somewhere so that you can have your happy ever after.

It's heartbreakingly hard. The Doctor understands that.

He could see she was hurt and angry and that she grieved for his old self. He saw it and he thought that what she needed was time and space until the feeling of abandonment began to lessen, and she was finally capable of accepting him again, changed, but still the same somewhere inside.

He kept a respectful distance but did not go out of his way to avoid her. He was polite and friendly, but not overly so, and found that he could hold a conversation with her still, but there was none of the banter or laughter they had previously shared. If only he had realised, clever as he was suppose to be, that that was all they both need to bring the magic back. Some normality, some happiness. Change didn't have to mean the end of their bond.

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Peroxide blonde hair fell in waves over her face as she scrubbed furiously at the tiles on the bathroom floor, the force of her movement gently dislodging it from the elastic band which she had scraped messily through. Having had enough of sitting in her room and going through all of the memories she had of him in her mind, with tears splashing down her rosy cheeks, she had donned her oldest pair of denim dungarees and a tatty blue t-shirt and had set about hunting down the TARDIS cleaning supplies, which, she soon discovered, was no easy feat.

She had never seen once seen the Doctor, old or new, lift a finger to clean his home; for a while she had believed that the TARDIS cleaned herself, but when she asked the old Doctor one lazy Sunday afternoon when they weren't busy saving the universe, he merely laughed and made some comment about the ignorance and naivety of the human race, before patting her condescendingly on the head and wandering off to make himself a cup of tea, still grinning from ear to ear. Since then she hadn't brought up thesubject again, but she realised now, once she had resolved to begin the job of cleaning, what a mistake that was. Judging purely on the state the bathroom was in, the place couldn't have been cleaned for years. She was appalled that she had managed to ignore that fact for so long, considering how tidy things used to be at home. She thought perhaps that in the same way the TARDIS could translate any language presented to it that perhaps it could make anyone think they were seeing a tidy ship, so that he got away with not doing the cleaning. If that was the case, then her systems had failed at last, because there was no way Rose was going to believe that one moment longer. She was going to get the ship cleaned from top to bottom, even if it took her whole life to do so. This wasn't a distraction technique anymore; this was her human duty.

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To her eternal shame, she screamed when it happened. Not just a short, sharp scream of shock, but a full-blown high-pitched and ear-splittingly shrill girly scream that bounced from wall to wall and echoed throughout every room on board.

Just a slight overreaction Rose, a simple 'ow' would have done.

She clutched her throbbing, rapidly swelling finger to her chest as a stinging pain lanced viciously through it, tears forming in her brown eyes and tumbling down her face to splash on the floor at her feet.

"Rose, what happened? Are you alright?"

The Doctor suddenly appeared in her blurred vision, running towards her through one of the many doors that lined the control room at the heart of the TARDIS.

"I don't know," she sobbed as he reached her side, wrapping a strong arm gently round her shaking shoulders, "I was just cleaning, then I felt something crawling on my hand so I flinched and then it was gone again, but it must have gone for my finger I think, because it hurts, it really hurts."

She turned and burrowed her face deep in the crook of his neck, her tears soaking his perfectly pressed shirt. He held her closely, rubbing a hand in soothing circles round her back.

"It's alright now Rose, hush now, its okay. Do you want me to take a look?"

He felt her nod, so he carefully disentangled her from his arms. She gingerly held out her injured digit and he took it delicately in his hand, popping his glasses on for a closer inspection of the wound.

"Just as I suspected," he said seriously, after a minutes' silence, "it was a Wadjahoobit. You've been stung by a Wadjahoobit."

"A what?" she managed to choke out, laughing incredulously despite her tears.

"You shouldn't laugh you know Rose, creatures like that should always be taken seriously. It's just a good job it was you that got stung rather than me, else we would be in serious trouble."

His expression grew increasingly grim as he spoke, and he shuddered involuntarily. Her still-watering brown eyes widened to the size of saucers.

"Could it have killed you?" she asked urgently, suddenly seized by a child-like curiosity.

"Of course it couldn't! It's little more than a wasp really. But-" he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "-I'm absolutely terrified of them. If I'd even seen it I would have been reduced to a gibbering wreck in a matter of seconds. I don't want word of that spreading round, mind you, could be very dangerous for us both, so keep it to yourself okay?"

"Keep what to myself?" she grinned. He sighed exasperatedly.

"The thing about the- oh, I see!" His face lit up when comprehension dawned on him, "I like your style Miss Tyler."

"Why thank you Doctor," she said, batting her eyelashes at him in a girlish fashion, "so do I."

They beamed at one another, and for the first time since he had changed, Rose felt truly connected to the Doctor.

"Now I expect that's still sore, right?"

She nodded.

"Come on then, let's go and get it fixed."

He took her good hand in his and led her away to the TARDIS's medical room for some ointment and a bandage.

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"There you go Rose, all done!" he exclaimed proudly as he wrapped the last of the bandage around her finger, which now resembled a very plump sausage.

"Thank you Doctor!" she said, hugging him gratefully.

"That's quite alright Rose."

He released her from his arms and she turned to go in the direction of her bedroom, in desperate need of a lie down following the morning's events.

"Rose, it will stop hurting I promise, just give it some time."

She didn't need to look at him to know he meant it, and she knew he wasn't just talking about her finger.

"I know," she said quietly, "I'll see you in a bit."

She left, realising that it didn't matter that he wasn't same any more. Old Doctor, new Doctor, it didn't matter who he was or how much he had changed; her love for him would always remain. Change would never mean the end.

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A/N: Just a little bit of fluff and angst inspired by my holidays, when I screamed or shouted at least once a day because of wasps, those things freak me out so much, and they made it their mission to set up home by our pool!

Hope you enjoyed it. Please, if you can spare the time, do let me know what you think. All readers are appreciated, all comments treasured, so any comments, questions or suggestions, just let me know and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

Also, I'm going to try and write my first ever song fic this week, obviously a DW one, so I was wondering if any one fancied beta-ing it for me, I would appreciate a hand. Just drop me a review if you would like to and I'll mail you when I've started!

Until next time………

SmileyHalo