#cherazor's stuff

She weaves the garland between her fingers, little bits of golden tinsel fluttering to the floor as she twists the string of glitter tighter around her digits. Her back is turned to him, but he can just make out the reflection of her unfocused eyes in the window in front of her.

The room feels oddly quiet, the only sound he can make out is her breath and he watches as each little puff of air causes a small blossom of condensation to bloom on the glass. Stepping forward, the sound of his slippers nearly inaudible against Jackie’s carpeted floor, he reaches her with three long strides and a small part of his mind can’t help but note how the length of his gait is almost the same as it was before. Yet, his steps feel different – springier, bouncier, happier – as though he has far too much energy contained within his new, slim form.

He longs to run.

“Still in the jammies?”

Gaze meeting through the fogged image of the windowpane, the Doctor can just make out the dim outline of Rose’s curved lips – it should be a smile, but the faint shadow contained in her eyes makes him hesitate to call it so.

“Yeah,” he replies, “I don’t know what to wear.”

“Oh,” she says, and he is close enough for the sound of her hesitation to reverberate through his chest.

He echoes her, his tongue tilting the word into a question even as he realizes he’s not entirely certain what he’s asking. “Oh?”

“It’s just…I guess I didn’t realize you’d wear something different.”

“Oh,” he croaks, the soft repetition the only sound he can manage force out through his suddenly constricting throat, and a vague sense envelops him, as though an invisible hand has used his soul to strum a dissonant chord.

“’S just me being stupid. I didn’t think. I keep forgetting, you know?” she says, her voice so carefully neutral he knows it cannot be anything except a fragile facade. With every word she utters, he feels them come adrift, the understanding that previously had kept them tethered apparently washed away by the forceful tide of his regeneration.

Another scattering of tinsel falls loose from the garland and into the palm of her hand as her fingers continue to pick at the glitter still wrapped around them.

“I---” he starts, only for the word to trail off into a useless exhale of air as a full sentence fail to form. For the first time since he woke up on the grated floor of the TARDIS, he has no idea what to say. He swallows, the urge to do something so strong within him he has to physically hold himself back. His arms hang useless at his sides as he yearns to fold her into his embrace.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, he would have.

Today he can feel the vastness of a world confined in the inches dividing them.

The energy zipping around his system has taken on a nervous edge, and he knows it won’t rest until Rose is happy again. It is a feeling he knows well – perhaps he should be surprised that out of all the aspects of his previous personality he could have retained, this particular quirk would be one to survive his regeneration, but he is not. An instant later, it is also that part of him which forces his brain back into relative clarity. “You’re not stupid,” he says, but even as he utters the words, he feels their insufficiency. Their impression is nothing more than a shadow of the things he wishes to say.

She snorts. “Yeah? You know anyone else who’d travel around through time and space in a ship bigger on the inside, and forget that their host is actually alien?”

“Rose…”

“I knew you’re different. I saw all the amazin’ things you could do – s’ like anything’s possible and I still just…didn’t think.”

“And I should have told you.” Desperate to offer any comfort he can, he reaches for her, gripping her hand within his before she can move away. It’s not perfect, her hand caught in his rather than curling around his palm, but he can see the tight lines of her shoulders relax all the same and he feels his racing hearts calm in response.

“Yeah, you should have,” she replies and the tinsel pressed between them tickles against his palm as he flinches.

“I thought I’d have more time.” Turning over her hand in his, he lets it rest palm up as he begins to untangle the garland from her digits. “But I guess I should have known better – my regenerations always come as a surprise to me. Each of my bodies can last upwards a millennium or two if I’m careful.”

“S’lucky you lasted two weeks, the way you go on about it, then.”

In the corner of his eyes he catches the reflection of her lips curling, and he feels his own twist upwards in response. “Take that back!”

“You’re so different.” Hand finally free of the string of glitter, she tugs it out from his grasp. “How does it feel, becoming a new person?”

“But I’m not.” Shaking his head, he can feel the near contradiction of his words in the gentle brush of his fringe against his forehead. “I’m still me – still the Doctor.”

“Yeah, ‘course. But---”

“No. No ‘but’s. I’m the same man I was yesterday.”

She shifts, right foot digging further into her mother’s weathered carpet. Her socks are new and soft, he can tell, probably the one purchase she managed to get before her confrontation with the pilot fish in London. “But you changed,” she whispers.

“Everyone changes, Rose. Every experience you have affects you, little by little – you’re not the same person who decided to travel with me in the TARDIS, either. Sure, my overall packaging changed a bit more than the human norm, perhaps…”

Another smile tugs at her lips. “And your accent.”

“Right, yes,” he says as the unfamiliar sensation of a blush begins to dance across his cheeks and he can only hope she will not think to ask from where his new accent originated. “And my accent.”

She turns, her gaze finally meeting his own without the aid of their reflections as she glances up at him from beneath her lashes. “How much…I mean, is it just---” There’s a short pause, as though she doesn’t know quite what to say, before her hand comes up into an awkward wave over his face. “---Cosmetic?”

“Yes and no. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t know what sort of man I am now. But…some things don’t change. They can’t, because without them I wouldn’t be me.”

“Like?” The word quivers in the air between them, brittle and frail, as though any sudden movement would shatter it to pieces and it is in that moment that he finally sees.

Warmth begin to blossom within him and he licks his suddenly dry lips. “You.” He smiles, hesitantly reaching for her hand yet again. “Whoever I am, it’s still the man who wants you beside him.” Fingers fumbling, their hands slide together a moment later like two pieces of a puzzle and it is if something within him has burst lose.