Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Fourteenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Characters: Rose Tyler, Thirteenth Doctor, Tenth Doctor (Doctor Who), Fourteenth Doctor (Doctor Who)
Additional Tags: Regeneration (Doctor Who), From Thirteen to Fourteen?, Tenteenth?, Ten the third?, Whatâs his face, That beanpole who keeps showing up at BBC studios, Fluff and Angst, Full Regeneration scene, Telepathic Bond, I donât want to go, Haha guess what bitches Iâm back, But with Rose present, Time Lord Telepathy (Doctor Who)
Series: Part 2 of Chaos Verse
Read now on Ao3
Summary:
This is the full regeneration of the Thirteenth Doctor to the Tenth!Fourteenth Doctor, but with Rose present. This is now part of the canon of my story âWhen the Chaos Calls Me Out.â You donât have to have read it to understand this, but it is recommended because there are a few things mentioned.
Obvious spoilers for The Power of the Doctor.
I hope it continues to portray my love for Jodie and how she played the Thirteenth Doctor. Before everyone gets obsessed with having our beloved Space Man back whenever the new episodes come out, letâs please remember that Jodie changed everything. She brought representation for women in the role of the Doctor, and she brought representation of the LGBTQIA+ community. She was color, and she was light. She was energy and she was love.
While I love Tenâs era the most and heâs also my favorite, Jodie is MY Doctor, because she represents me.
It whispers her nameâŚit always has.
Now, intricate and ethereal phosphenes and spinning galaxies whirl through her vision as though she were a child again, pressing on her eyelids with the heels of her hands, counting down the days when sheâd get to travel in time and space.
Theyâre manifested by her consciousness, this time though.
Her vision is blurred, like looking through droplets dragged down glass.
Each burst of light bubbling, rippling up her skin and into her periphery; each crawling snarl of pressure, each pulse in her muscles, each grasp by gnarled hands, and each alternating, fluttering palpitation of her hearts scream out that itâs time for change.
The gasp of regenerative hemoglobin pulsing through her veins due to the Masterâs violent act is much like an allergic reactionâ like a rash, only add dynamite instead of red, itchy bumps.Â
It gets more painful every time, standing on this precipice and refusing to fall in.Â
The manifestations of her consciousness- some of her most outspoken incarnations one could sayâhad just gotten done telling her NOT to regenerate, and now sheâs being left with no choice.
Sheâs being forced to the edge of that cliff anyway, skidding past all of them and giving a tiny wave and a powerless shrug as they continue to alternate between forms, shaking their head.
Still, having her first âDoctor-shapedâ incarnation there, grabbing his snappy lapels and telling her to hold it off was a bit odd given their last encounterâlike he was still very much against the whole regenerating business (but heâd still yank out a lifeline in a pinch).
Sheâs losing hope. She needs more time. More time. Why is it that she canât ever get more time when she really needs it? Sheâs a TIME LORD for Rassilonâs sake. Her designated occupation is gift wrapping Time to the rest of the universe, but she always gets tangled in its thorny trap on her own. Like sheâs breathing life into the cosmos, reducing her own existence until sheâs degenerated to that warped, jagged timeline in the mangled TARDIS on Trenzalore, all those centuries agoâbecause what was she, really?
Sheâs always managed to make this process bloody complicated by purposely holding it off, though. Like sticking her finger inside the spout of a shaken can of soda, watching as it trembles heedlessly with potentiality.
Like a bomb thatâs not only suppressed, itâs expanded and gone nuclear.
This incarnation had felt so much different. It had been brilliance, and colour. So much lighter than carrying the burdens of her other bodies. It had almost felt easier to bear. Sheâd been able to laugh and smile easier. To love more readily.
And she had. This incarnation was special.Â
Partially because sheâd been the one reunited with Rose Tylerâ and this was the incarnation still carrying her scent on her skin.
Her mind works in overdrive again, just like the first time she had regenerated in front of her. What if Rose didnât love the person on the other side of this? Of course, that was ridiculous, Rose had gotten over the last time this happened fairly quickly. And yet, she had rejected that incarnation at firstâŚ.
As she stands limp in Roseâs arms, Rose leaning heavily on the TARDIS console for support, sheâs helpless.
Sheâd had just enough strength to say goodbye to Yaz. Enough resolveâŚbut then it had broken her. And it has broken Rose, tooâ Yaz was like a sister.
But itâs much like the universe is serving her an eviction notice. Again. Get out of that body, or else.
She feels sick. Her flesh feels like itâs no longer her own⌠sheâs being forced to give it to someone else. Like itâs smudged onto someone elseâs canvas, and sheâs no longer in control of the brush.
Sheâs sick with sadness, sick with worry, sick with the energetic phenomenon thatâs happening to her body, sick with this fever, sick with exhaustionâŚ
And sick with the knowledge if who inhabited and completely changed the blueprints of this body, even temporarily. She feels dirty, taintedâhe had worn her clothes. Her coat, and her earring. Her shirt, with the rainbow of hope across her chest. Her skin is already burning from being the Master, even a brief period, his hatred suffocating her. She had BEEN the Master. For the first time, she understood. Because sometimes the night falls and doesnât stop unravelling.Â
And at times in her life, she hadnât been that far off from him. The warrior. The one-time Destroyer of Worlds, as Davros had once said, as she remembers the timeline where she had left a trail of Gallifrey all across the Medusa Cascade.
And she had FELT herself screaming at the TARDIS, and to Yaz, and then to Rose.
And all of this had happened in a glass booth, no less. The irony was almost as suffocating as the terror clawing up her back..
What if she regenerated into HIM again? Â
First of all, he would kill Rose, now that they were alone. Or he would enslave her and make the Doctorâstill in his consciousnessâwatch.
He would take over her TARDIS.Â
She has to get a grip on herself, and start examining logic. It is going to be just like every other time.
Maybe she could tell the TARDIS⌠or signal to Rose if that if something bad happened, to remember the TARDIS always looks after the Doctor and her companions.Â
She canât speak, words are torn from her mouth like useless birds, rising with a violence against the original translation. How sheâs feeling now involves transfer across a spatial dimension, across territory that is currently hijacked, and she is helpless to do anything about it.
She asks Rose telepathically to remind the TARDIS to look after the next oneâ as though she needed to ask. However sheâs robbed from saying it out loud, which would give it agencyâŚmore sincerity, transferring it into the performative.
She is waiting for the moment that she canât hold it off any longer and the ancient instinct etched in her DNA starts to erupt. But not yet. Not with Roseâs lips against her ear, whispering reassurances. Not with her soft fingers in her hair.
Not with the taste of her skin still fresh on the Doctorâs lips from the previous night. Not with the press of her shape, and how the planes and curves of this body fit oh, so beautifully together with Roseâs. Not with the dance between their two bodies nearly written in the stars.
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