A/N: This fic is a companion piece to my other story, "Inner Nine". I would suggest checking that story out first, as it better outlines the premise of this story. However, I'm sure that this can suffice as a stand alone fic. In fact, I'm considering making it multi-chap.
This story takes place during "The Eleventh Hour" during the time when the Doctor had to leave young!Amy in order to ensure that the engines of the TARDIS stay functional.
As always, please review! :)
-Liyrah
Perhaps if his previous self hadn't been so bloody terrified of regenerating, he would have been more inclined to shut his trap.
The Doctor rubbed his temples and leaned over the TARDIS console in a fatigued manner. He couldn't help it—he had barely just regenerated and was already facing crisis. Not only was there a rambunctious little girl named Amelia eagerly awaiting his return to her yard, but she also happened to have a 'Prisoner Zero' living in her wall. He shook his head, somewhat amused at the whole thing. Never a normal day, not for him.
"Now," a familiar voice in his head chided, as if addressing a small child in little league instead of a 900 year old man, "You're going to wanna hop about five minutes into the future. Eh, make it ten, just to be sure."
"I. Know. What. I'm. Doing." the newly regenerated Doctor said allowed, punctuating each word as if it were a clause of its own.
The disembodied voice of the man he had been mere hours ago continued as if the current Doctor had not spoken. "And really, fish custard? I would've thought we were more refined than that," he mused. Eleven could just picture the cheeky smile that Ten would have on his face if he were there. Physically, that is.
"Go away," the Doctor ordered, internally this time, "You've had your fun."
The Eleventh Doctor was surprised at his own brashness. Of course, everything was new to him—his voice, his hair, his entire personality was completely—no pun intended—alien to him.
The TARDIS shook violently. The Doctor looked around himself, taking in for the first time the extended of the damage. By this time, most of the flames had extinguished themselves, although a few rogue fires still licked away at the corners of the control room. The Doctor resigned himself, begrudgingly, to the fact that his ship would need to regenerate herself after the damage.
"You certainly managed to go out with a bang," he thought bitterly to himself as he was nearly thrown to the ground by another of the ship's violent convulsions.
"Huh? What?" the voice in his head stirred, feigning tiredness, as if he had just been awoken from some sort of slumber.
The Doctor rose to his feet, bracing himself against the TARDIS console. His body, by now, although bursting with excess energy, felt strangely fatigued. A familiar feeling—he simply had not fully regenerated yet. Odds and ends of excess and old cell tissues floated throughout his body. He could feel them. "Oh knock it off," he choked out irritably, "We both know that you aren't going away that easily."
The disembodied voice chuckled with no discernable emotion behind it. "Yeah," he remarked, "Took forever to finally get rid of Nine, you know."
"Well don't you jinx it, or he'll come back! I mean blimey, we still hear from Four every once and a while. And Six on occasion!"
This time, the laugh echoing around in his head sounded morbidly genuine, "Oh now THAT would be fun," he commented excitedly, his voice unaffected by the increasingly violent jolts of the TARDIS, "In fact we could get the entire gang back together again, all eleven of us, even!"
"No," Eleven deadpanned, "That would NOT be fun."
"Spoilsport," Ten sniffed, "You aren't going to be much fun, are you?"
Eleven sighed as the TARDIS subsequently stopped seizing and began to materialize at its chosen destination.
"I don't know," he said honestly, aloud this time, "I mean, I hope I'm fun. Kind of fun, at least."
He felt the phantom demeanor of the man inside his head soften a bit. "Don't worry about it," he advised solemnly, "I'm sure you'll end up liking whoever you are. Well, think about it, we never really dislike ourselves until after the fact, do we?"
The Doctor took solace in his predecessor's assurances, "Yeah," he decided, "Yeah, I suppose you're right."
The damaged ship finally sputtered to a complete stop. Eleven absentmindedly fiddled with a few flickering display screens, not paying much heed to the information that the ship was desperately trying to feed him. And then, out of nowhere, his memory kicked in.
"Amelia!" he exclaimed, "I have to make sure she's okay!"
He ran towards the door and, in his hurry, failed to notice that his dying TARDIS seemed to be emitting a sort of sticky substance from the floor. This fact, on top of the fact that Ten's shoes, which were still on his feet, didn't fit properly and were falling apart in the toe, caused him to slip and fall at the foot of the door. He muttered a swear word under his breath as he pulled himself to his feet.
The TARDIS groaned obnoxiously, desperately trying to convey some sort of message to her owner.
"Woah there, hold on a sec," Ten cautioned, paying more attention to the TARDIS than his successor.
Eleven cut him off before he could continue, "Hush please, for a minute. I need to concentrate."
The Doctor's second attempt to throw open the door was successful. He ran out of the TARDIS at the quickest speed his new body would allow.
"Amelia!" he called into the cold, spring morning air. He whipped his head to and fro, looking for the little Scottish girl who he had spoken to only moment before. "Amelia!"
"Um, if I could interject—"
"Not now, please," Eleven thought to himself. "Listen, I know you aren't happy about this whole regenerating thing, and I promise we will have a nice, long chat about it later, but NOT NOW."
"But—"
"QUIET!"
If it was possible for one to yell internally, the Eleventh Doctor had just done it. He felt Ten withdraw into the recesses of his consciousness, an air of defeat about him.
"I think you may have gone a bit too far," was his last fleeting comment.
But the Doctor—the brand new, younger than ever Doctor—had already stopped listening.