deleted scene fic: something different
I asked firstofoct what she wanted me to write her for her birthday and this is what she said. So she is entirely responsible for the first fic I’ve written in months being about this. Although the last thing I wrote before this was about Desperate Scousewives, so.
Title: Something Different
Rating: G
Genre: lol god knows. Angst/fluff/humour?
Author: _thirty2flavors
Length: ~1,000 words
Summary: In which the Doctor contemplates changing his appearance.
Excerpt: He ran his fingers through his hair, his forehead furrowed in consideration. He liked his hair, truth be told -- and if the vast array of products he’d found in the cabinet were any indication, that was one of the few similarities between who he’d been and who he was.
Author’s note: This is actually more of a deleted scene type fic than a standalone, and is really two separate scenes that belong somewhere in the continuity of Identity Theft, in which [Spoiler (click to open)]the Doctor suffers alien-octopus-induced memory loss. (Which, for the record, is also why he’s called “John”.). There’s really two scenes here, one that belongs somewhere in Part 4 and one that acts more like an epilogue, so I apologize for the tonal whiplash between the two.
John squinted at the bathroom mirror, leaning in closer as he sized himself up. It was strange, he thought. Enough time had passed that he was finally beginning to recognize the reflection as his own, and yet it still didn’t feel like his. It was as though he’d slipped into someone else’s skin, and now he was wearing a mask that wouldn’t come off.
He ran a hand along his jaw, pulling faces and studying his image carefully. The cheeks were a bit thin, and the nose was weird, and there was no upper lip to speak of, but all things considered, he supposed it wasn’t the worst face one could wake up with. (He had a strange, fleeting image of a man with curly blond hair and an unnerving stare.) But much like everything else in his life, it didn’t seem to fit. It didn’t match whomever he was now.
Or maybe the face is just fine, he couldn’t help but think. Maybe it’s the person wearing it that’s all wrong.
He pulled his hand away and frowned.
What he needed to do, he thought, was change something -- anything -- to distinguish the man he was now from the man in those tabloid photos. That was the only way forward, wasn’t it? Change? That was why he’d started introducing himself as “John”. It was why Rose had gone.
Something tight coiled in his chest, and he sucked in a breath to try and clear the feeling away. Right, something to change. Instinctively he raised a hand up to his hair. He could get a cut. Rose’s mother had mentioned something about that, hadn’t she? He ran his fingers through his hair, his forehead furrowed in consideration. He liked his hair, truth be told -- and if the vast array of products he’d found in the cabinet were any indication, that was one of the few similarities between who he’d been and who he was. He didn’t particularly fancy cutting it all off. If Rose’s mum had noticed the length, he supposed it must be a bit longer than normal already. Maybe that was change enough.
His hand moved down to his chin, stroking the line of his jaw in contemplation. He could grow a beard. That’d be different. Had he ever grown a beard before? He couldn’t remember. Would a beard look good? He tried to picture it and found he couldn’t. Maybe not, then.
John sighed, bracing the sink with both hands and bowing his head. You can be anything, Rose had said, do anything, like it was some fabulous opportunity. But it was difficult to reinvent yourself when you had little idea where you’d come from and even less idea where you wanted to go.
All he wanted was to be settled, to know who he was, who his friends and family were. He wanted to love someone and remember why; he wanted to remember why someone might love him. He just wanted to be happy again -- hell, he’d settle for even remembering what it had felt like.
All that seemed so far away it was hard to believe he’d ever get there.
He shook his head, squared his shoulders and looked back up at his reflection. Blimey, he was being maudlin. Had he always been like that? It was useless to stand there ticking off all the things he might never have again. Rose had left him in the hope that he might be able to make something new out of himself. If he ever wanted to stop living off her charity he’d have to try and move forward. Someone from Torchwood had called some days ago to tell him about a support group for Squadra victims. He’d shied away from the idea at first, unwilling to have more to do with Torchwood than was necessary and worried that spending time where Rose worked would be counterproductive. But maybe he ought to consider it.
Straightening up, he ran two fingers along his sideburns and scrunched up his nose in consideration. Did anyone really have sideburns these days?
Well, he supposed, change had to start somewhere.
--
“Sideburns!” Rose exclaimed suddenly in the back of the taxi, and the Doctor jumped. She pointed at the side of the Doctor’s face. “That’s it! I knew something was different.” She grinned, looking quite proud of herself. “Your sideburns are gone!”
The Doctor raised an eyebrow, amused. “That’s right, they are. I’d forgotten about that.” He stroked his cheek. “What d’you think?”
Rose’s mouth pulled to one side as she contemplated. He could see her trying to balance honesty and tact. “Think I liked it the way it was,” she decided. She ran her thumb over the spot where his sideburns should be, then twined her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. “Mum was right, you could use a trim too. S’getting a bit long back here.”
He leaned back against her hand and sent her a mock glare. “Rose Tyler, are you only with me for my hair?”
“Mmhmm,” she said, nodding as seriously as she could. “You ever go bald, I’m going back for Jack.”
The Doctor gaped at her in horror. “Rose Tyler, that is rude,” he told her. He held his chin higher. “Besides, if we’re nitpicking, your roots are in need of a touch up, Blondie.”
Rose’s eyebrows shot up and she squeaked indignantly. “Excuse me? Now who’s being rude?”
He shrugged, unable to suppress his grin. “Oh, I’ve always been rude. You should be used to it by now.”
“Believe me, I am.” She nudged his foot with hers and chewed on her bottom lip, suddenly looking shy. “I’d started to miss it, to be honest.”
“Really?” He took her hand and squeezed it. “You missed me being rude?”
“I missed all of it,” she admitted softly. He brushed her thumb with his, and she smiled. “Well... some things more than others.”
The Doctor grinned. “The sideburns?”
“Oh,” she laughed, sidling up next to him and leaning her head on his shoulder, “top of the list.”
Title: Something Different
Rating: G
Genre: lol god knows. Angst/fluff/humour?
Author: _thirty2flavors
Length: ~1,000 words
Summary: In which the Doctor contemplates changing his appearance.
Excerpt: He ran his fingers through his hair, his forehead furrowed in consideration. He liked his hair, truth be told -- and if the vast array of products he’d found in the cabinet were any indication, that was one of the few similarities between who he’d been and who he was.
Author’s note: This is actually more of a deleted scene type fic than a standalone, and is really two separate scenes that belong somewhere in the continuity of Identity Theft, in which [Spoiler (click to open)]the Doctor suffers alien-octopus-induced memory loss. (Which, for the record, is also why he’s called “John”.). There’s really two scenes here, one that belongs somewhere in Part 4 and one that acts more like an epilogue, so I apologize for the tonal whiplash between the two.
John squinted at the bathroom mirror, leaning in closer as he sized himself up. It was strange, he thought. Enough time had passed that he was finally beginning to recognize the reflection as his own, and yet it still didn’t feel like his. It was as though he’d slipped into someone else’s skin, and now he was wearing a mask that wouldn’t come off.
He ran a hand along his jaw, pulling faces and studying his image carefully. The cheeks were a bit thin, and the nose was weird, and there was no upper lip to speak of, but all things considered, he supposed it wasn’t the worst face one could wake up with. (He had a strange, fleeting image of a man with curly blond hair and an unnerving stare.) But much like everything else in his life, it didn’t seem to fit. It didn’t match whomever he was now.
Or maybe the face is just fine, he couldn’t help but think. Maybe it’s the person wearing it that’s all wrong.
He pulled his hand away and frowned.
What he needed to do, he thought, was change something -- anything -- to distinguish the man he was now from the man in those tabloid photos. That was the only way forward, wasn’t it? Change? That was why he’d started introducing himself as “John”. It was why Rose had gone.
Something tight coiled in his chest, and he sucked in a breath to try and clear the feeling away. Right, something to change. Instinctively he raised a hand up to his hair. He could get a cut. Rose’s mother had mentioned something about that, hadn’t she? He ran his fingers through his hair, his forehead furrowed in consideration. He liked his hair, truth be told -- and if the vast array of products he’d found in the cabinet were any indication, that was one of the few similarities between who he’d been and who he was. He didn’t particularly fancy cutting it all off. If Rose’s mum had noticed the length, he supposed it must be a bit longer than normal already. Maybe that was change enough.
His hand moved down to his chin, stroking the line of his jaw in contemplation. He could grow a beard. That’d be different. Had he ever grown a beard before? He couldn’t remember. Would a beard look good? He tried to picture it and found he couldn’t. Maybe not, then.
John sighed, bracing the sink with both hands and bowing his head. You can be anything, Rose had said, do anything, like it was some fabulous opportunity. But it was difficult to reinvent yourself when you had little idea where you’d come from and even less idea where you wanted to go.
All he wanted was to be settled, to know who he was, who his friends and family were. He wanted to love someone and remember why; he wanted to remember why someone might love him. He just wanted to be happy again -- hell, he’d settle for even remembering what it had felt like.
All that seemed so far away it was hard to believe he’d ever get there.
He shook his head, squared his shoulders and looked back up at his reflection. Blimey, he was being maudlin. Had he always been like that? It was useless to stand there ticking off all the things he might never have again. Rose had left him in the hope that he might be able to make something new out of himself. If he ever wanted to stop living off her charity he’d have to try and move forward. Someone from Torchwood had called some days ago to tell him about a support group for Squadra victims. He’d shied away from the idea at first, unwilling to have more to do with Torchwood than was necessary and worried that spending time where Rose worked would be counterproductive. But maybe he ought to consider it.
Straightening up, he ran two fingers along his sideburns and scrunched up his nose in consideration. Did anyone really have sideburns these days?
Well, he supposed, change had to start somewhere.
--
“Sideburns!” Rose exclaimed suddenly in the back of the taxi, and the Doctor jumped. She pointed at the side of the Doctor’s face. “That’s it! I knew something was different.” She grinned, looking quite proud of herself. “Your sideburns are gone!”
The Doctor raised an eyebrow, amused. “That’s right, they are. I’d forgotten about that.” He stroked his cheek. “What d’you think?”
Rose’s mouth pulled to one side as she contemplated. He could see her trying to balance honesty and tact. “Think I liked it the way it was,” she decided. She ran her thumb over the spot where his sideburns should be, then twined her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. “Mum was right, you could use a trim too. S’getting a bit long back here.”
He leaned back against her hand and sent her a mock glare. “Rose Tyler, are you only with me for my hair?”
“Mmhmm,” she said, nodding as seriously as she could. “You ever go bald, I’m going back for Jack.”
The Doctor gaped at her in horror. “Rose Tyler, that is rude,” he told her. He held his chin higher. “Besides, if we’re nitpicking, your roots are in need of a touch up, Blondie.”
Rose’s eyebrows shot up and she squeaked indignantly. “Excuse me? Now who’s being rude?”
He shrugged, unable to suppress his grin. “Oh, I’ve always been rude. You should be used to it by now.”
“Believe me, I am.” She nudged his foot with hers and chewed on her bottom lip, suddenly looking shy. “I’d started to miss it, to be honest.”
“Really?” He took her hand and squeezed it. “You missed me being rude?”
“I missed all of it,” she admitted softly. He brushed her thumb with his, and she smiled. “Well... some things more than others.”
The Doctor grinned. “The sideburns?”
“Oh,” she laughed, sidling up next to him and leaning her head on his shoulder, “top of the list.”