eloriekam: (Doctor (Ten) Ood by jordansavas)
[personal profile] eloriekam
Title: New Face, Old Ghosts, Vast Wardrobe (1/3)
Author: [personal profile] eloriekam/[livejournal.com profile] eloriekam
Rating: Teen
Characters: Twelve, Clara
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Summary: He's still not much good after regenerating, but he might be better at picking what this face will usually wear... assuming he can get over the shock of his face, and avoid some garments he hasn't seen for a few bodies, and doesn't want to see again.
Word Count: 730
Author's Notes: I'm still not sure why I keep getting the urge to write Twelve, but the second scene here is one I think we as fans kind of expect (though it did go on for a while--sorry about that, but they kept going on and on), and I'm not sure we'll get that scene. The foreign phrases (Ch. 3) were obtained with Google Translate and Freelang. And I'm posting this before I completely lose my nerve.


Clara had been giving him slightly odd looks ever since.... well. It had hurt, and he was quite worried about something he'd seen a few bodies back, now, but she was alive and everyone was fine, and... truly, he could count this as a good day, surely?

"Now," he muttered, patting his pockets, "where did I put the... oh, I know." He snapped his fingers. Clara looked at him as if he were completely mad, but the TARDIS doors opened. "I did that before, didn't I?"

"I don't... oh, never mind. You're still you?"

"Yes. More or less. Impossible girl."

"Oi."

"Sorry." He leans against the TARDIS railing and tries to take some deep breaths. "Oh. This is a bit..."

"Are you all right?" She touches him tentatively with one hand, her eyes a mix of curiosity and hope, trust and mistrust mixed in with each other.

"The time shortly after regeneration tends to be a bit... uh...." He pauses and waves one hand around, but discovers he actually did need it to hold himself up just now.

"Doctor!" There is pure fear in her tone.

"I'm all... it's going to be fine, Clara. Truly, I'm not going to die, or change again. I will change again, at least I think I will, but not for a while... not just now. Regeneration makes me ill, that's all. Could you help me up, please?" He flops around a bit, and hooks his arm onto something again, but can't pull himself up.

"It saved your life, and it makes you ill? That's a rubbish survival mechanism, Doctor." She leans down and hooks an arm under his shoulder, then heaves upward. "Have you gained weight?"

"Could you possibly heckle me later, please?" He groans.

"Why do you want to get up, anyway?"

"I want to leave." She lifts her face and meets his eyes, really, properly meets his eyes, and frowns in worry, her gaze turning more compassionate.

"I didn't think."

"It's all right... just, ah, help me to the console, please?" He continues to grasp at the railing, anything he can, and with Clara's support he staggers slowly, bent over and head hanging, to one long step from the controls to his dear ship. He can hear her, humming and sighing, reserving some of her strength so she can help him in the time ahead. The ache, the pain, the odd twisted tangles of his own time lines all tell him this will be quite the rough spot.

"I'll help you across," Clara says gently, when they've been propped there for several long moments as he thinks.

"I'll have to throw myself forward," he mutters. "Clara, move over a bit, please. You'll get between me and the console, otherwise." He gasps and winces. Oh, his head.

"I can't support you enough," she objects.

"I don't want to hurt you when I fall on the console."

"You might not fall if you let me help you more!"

"Clara," he starts, then stiffens with the pain. "Oh, Omega, ow." He draws in deep breaths, feeling one of her hands clutch anxiously at his shirt. "Very ill, Clara. I'm sorry if I'm going to scare you. The TARDIS will help." He lifts his head and stares across at the console. "Onwards... my first leap across a chasm, this time. Not much of a chasm, but can't be helped."

She helps shove him up against the console, giving an extra burst so he doesn't fall on the floor. He can feel her body jolt up against it, and gently brushes her hand with one of his own as he reaches for the controls. He quite suspects he hasn't reassured her at all.

"We're away," he whispers. "Clara, don't let us land." The pain increases, and the aching, and he's dizzy, and it's as though the worst bits of every post-regenerative illness before this one have melded and are holding a warped dance at his very core. "Can't..."

He barely has the energy to think that hitting his head on the floor is the least of his worries as Clara exclaims over it and takes one of his hands in hers, checking his pulses with the other.

Then it all spirals into a darkness where he can hear him yelling at himself, and every Time Lord in the trial room staring at him in angry, arrogant judgment.

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April 2016

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