Ok, ok, I promise I will write serious-minded "Day of the Doctor" stories soon. But I had to write something funny first. I'm loving the outpouring of heartwarming, sad, hopeful, deep, celebratory fics. But, this was just begging to be written.
Ears
It hurt. It all hurt so much, the burning the searing the changing. And that was ok, he wanted it to hurt, needed it to hurt just like burning Gallifrey hurt so much—too much.
Because when the Doctor opened blue eyes for the first time, he didn't remember that he'd tried to save his home; he only remembered that it was gone, by his hands.
He couldn't think of that now, though, he needed to think of something, anything other than that. Otherwise, he might be lost to such thoughts—the counting—forever. He needed to think, to do something, to—
Breathe. The bandolier was suddenly too tight for his expanded chest, and he gingerly undid it, the one piece that had anchored his past self to the cause, the fight, the war. He wanted nothing to do with that now. The scarf, tattered and long past its threadbare time, joined the worn bandolier with a clatter on the new grating floor, that felt strange and yet right under new feet.
In the dim lighting, with these pitiful creature comforts he didn't deserve out of the way, the Doctor assessed himself. His chest and shoulders were broader, certainly fitting the battered leather jacket better, and the skin felt tighter, newer, the muscles stronger. He likely looked more a warrior now than his past self had in the final days, in the last Moment.
That was enough comparisons. He needed to stop thinking like that, though a niggling thought, a few murmured words about something—I hope…this time—flitted through his mind. He shook his head to clear it, and when the air whooshed cool and unimpeded against his neck, his face, even just slightly his scalp, he suddenly realized his hair was almost entirely gone.
Large hands went up to feel the incredibly short strands, and it was strange against the new fingertips. And then fingers traced down his forehead, a long nose, smooth cheeks, and chin. But there was something else, something that to that terrible man, that last face, had been very important at the end.
The ears.
He clapped hands over them, running over the shells and lobes, absolutely stunned. No, oh no. He deserved no kindness after everything he'd done, he knew, but this—
The Doctor stepped around the console, coming at last to a surface that reflected enough to see what this regeneration had ended up with; ending the war, sacrificing who he'd been, making the only decision however wrong, and what had the universe given him? Ears.
"Oh, great then. Well that's just fantastic."
And that's how the 9th Doctor got his catchphrase. Or maybe not. Sorry, again, after that last line from John Hurt's War Doctor about hoping the ears were less conspicuous, I couldn't just let that go. So yeah. Again, I've quite a few things I want to write that are 50th anniversary episode inspired, so stay tuned for that. For now, I'd just like to thank you for reading, please review!