The Sum of His Parts (Who fic)
Title: The Sum of His Parts
Characters: Eleven
Rating: All Ages
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and its characters are the property of the BBC. No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.
Summary: A newly-regenerated Eleven wonders who he'll be this time. (Basically an excuse to sum up One through Ten.)
He doesn't exactly have a lot of time to think much beyond the immediate situation. As usual, there's a civilization to save, a freaked-out companion to reassure, and new clothes to choose, once the regeneration sickness has passed. Surprisingly, it's not as severe as it sometimes has been in the past, which is a mercy he is more than grateful for.
Especially since there's just one to go, now. He thinks. He's not altogether sure, actually, thanks to that spiffy little trick he pulled off with the hand during his last incarnation. Did that count? Probably. A regeneration is a regeneration, whether there's an actual change or not, isn't it? Or is it? Oh well, he'll find out, he's sure.
"Spiffy" -- new buzzword? Hmm, lacks a certain gravitas. But he's done "fantastic" and "brilliant". Guess he'll get back to that later.
Right now there are ten men inside his head, ten voices to sort out. So different, but all of them him. The Doctor.
The rebel, the one who fled his home with his granddaughter in a stolen TARDIS, then kidnapped two humans. The only incarnation that got to see its old age, only because he'd waited so long to start running. No one could see how young he truly was under the white hair and the wrinkles, or that the cantankerousness was that of a (relative) adolescent desperate to prove himself.
The clown, kindly and scatterbrained, who loved to fool people into thinking he was less than he was. His were the clever fingers that had made his first sonic screwdriver, that coaxed simple, beautiful music from that silly little recorder. And he was the first and last incarnation to recognize when something was too big for him and actually ask for help, even though it cost his freedom.
The exile, who discovered that he didn't need to wander to find excitement and challenge; they came to him. It didn't stop him from chafing to be gone, even as he sipped Jo's awful tea and sparred with the Brigadier. But even after his sentence was lifted, something kept him hovering there until his next regeneration. He never did figure out what it was.
The eccentric, who reclaimed the stars and the whole of time. Unique and unpredictable as a feather's fall, gliding merrily from one situation to the next, pockets full of jelly babies and yo-yos. Baffling everyone present with that bizarre grin so that they'd never notice that he had completely taken over, then whooshing off again, that ridiculous scarf flying behind him.
The cricketer, possibly the most likely to pass for sane, if not for the celery. Boyish charm and mild reserve in counterpoint to the wide-eyed whimsy of his last self, but by then he'd noticed a certain amount of rebound with each change. This time he was almost a little too nice, too prone to hesitate when action was needed. But it was still a good time.
The egotist, strutting through the universe with that brashness and that caustic wit and that horrible patchwork coat, the memory of which has made every succeeding incarnation cringe. Oh, he's always been a tad arrogant, but this him took the biscuit. Still, it felt good for a while to be so sure of everything, most of all his own wonderfulness.
The gamemaster, so unexpected behind that goofy smile and question mark jumper. Mangled metaphors and spoons and sleight of hand. Secrets and lies and twisted threads of truth. Means to ends. The big picture, the greater good. Ironic, the stupid way he'd lost that life after all that heady, addictive cosmic manipulation. One step into the path of a bullet. Just goes to show.
The romantic, dreamy and gentle. The one who most of all should never have had to be the one to do the unthinkable. To become what he despised, a warrior of weapons rather than words. And then to make the choice that ripped his people and his home from the cosmos for eternity. But then, he'd also been the first one brave enough to love a human, if only for a short while.
The loner, who never expected to survive, and then had to go on doing just that, much to his horror. No more silly Edwardian get-ups and strange accessories. Now it was hard edges and cynicism. Tough as an old leather jacket, but not nearly as impenetrable. All it took to undo him was one hot little human hand gripping his.
The flirt, in love with sensation, reaching, touching, tasting. The foxiest body he'd had yet, that was for sure. But the hardness wasn't gone, it was just better hidden. Mad grins, madder hair, and a gob that wouldn't quit. A social butterfly who kept attracting people, then losing them or driving them away. And couldn't make himself stop caring.
Who is he now?
Maybe this incarnation can cherry-pick only the best bits of all of them and make them into one whole Doctor. His first self's refusal to compromise, his second self's willingness to look the fool, his third self's style, his fourth self's wit, his fifth self's courage, his sixth self's confidence, his seventh self's farsightedness, his eighth self's strength, his ninth self's resilience, his tenth self's zest for life.
Maybe this incarnation will be the one who will finally get it right.
~end
Characters: Eleven
Rating: All Ages
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and its characters are the property of the BBC. No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.
Summary: A newly-regenerated Eleven wonders who he'll be this time. (Basically an excuse to sum up One through Ten.)
He doesn't exactly have a lot of time to think much beyond the immediate situation. As usual, there's a civilization to save, a freaked-out companion to reassure, and new clothes to choose, once the regeneration sickness has passed. Surprisingly, it's not as severe as it sometimes has been in the past, which is a mercy he is more than grateful for.
Especially since there's just one to go, now. He thinks. He's not altogether sure, actually, thanks to that spiffy little trick he pulled off with the hand during his last incarnation. Did that count? Probably. A regeneration is a regeneration, whether there's an actual change or not, isn't it? Or is it? Oh well, he'll find out, he's sure.
"Spiffy" -- new buzzword? Hmm, lacks a certain gravitas. But he's done "fantastic" and "brilliant". Guess he'll get back to that later.
Right now there are ten men inside his head, ten voices to sort out. So different, but all of them him. The Doctor.
The rebel, the one who fled his home with his granddaughter in a stolen TARDIS, then kidnapped two humans. The only incarnation that got to see its old age, only because he'd waited so long to start running. No one could see how young he truly was under the white hair and the wrinkles, or that the cantankerousness was that of a (relative) adolescent desperate to prove himself.
The clown, kindly and scatterbrained, who loved to fool people into thinking he was less than he was. His were the clever fingers that had made his first sonic screwdriver, that coaxed simple, beautiful music from that silly little recorder. And he was the first and last incarnation to recognize when something was too big for him and actually ask for help, even though it cost his freedom.
The exile, who discovered that he didn't need to wander to find excitement and challenge; they came to him. It didn't stop him from chafing to be gone, even as he sipped Jo's awful tea and sparred with the Brigadier. But even after his sentence was lifted, something kept him hovering there until his next regeneration. He never did figure out what it was.
The eccentric, who reclaimed the stars and the whole of time. Unique and unpredictable as a feather's fall, gliding merrily from one situation to the next, pockets full of jelly babies and yo-yos. Baffling everyone present with that bizarre grin so that they'd never notice that he had completely taken over, then whooshing off again, that ridiculous scarf flying behind him.
The cricketer, possibly the most likely to pass for sane, if not for the celery. Boyish charm and mild reserve in counterpoint to the wide-eyed whimsy of his last self, but by then he'd noticed a certain amount of rebound with each change. This time he was almost a little too nice, too prone to hesitate when action was needed. But it was still a good time.
The egotist, strutting through the universe with that brashness and that caustic wit and that horrible patchwork coat, the memory of which has made every succeeding incarnation cringe. Oh, he's always been a tad arrogant, but this him took the biscuit. Still, it felt good for a while to be so sure of everything, most of all his own wonderfulness.
The gamemaster, so unexpected behind that goofy smile and question mark jumper. Mangled metaphors and spoons and sleight of hand. Secrets and lies and twisted threads of truth. Means to ends. The big picture, the greater good. Ironic, the stupid way he'd lost that life after all that heady, addictive cosmic manipulation. One step into the path of a bullet. Just goes to show.
The romantic, dreamy and gentle. The one who most of all should never have had to be the one to do the unthinkable. To become what he despised, a warrior of weapons rather than words. And then to make the choice that ripped his people and his home from the cosmos for eternity. But then, he'd also been the first one brave enough to love a human, if only for a short while.
The loner, who never expected to survive, and then had to go on doing just that, much to his horror. No more silly Edwardian get-ups and strange accessories. Now it was hard edges and cynicism. Tough as an old leather jacket, but not nearly as impenetrable. All it took to undo him was one hot little human hand gripping his.
The flirt, in love with sensation, reaching, touching, tasting. The foxiest body he'd had yet, that was for sure. But the hardness wasn't gone, it was just better hidden. Mad grins, madder hair, and a gob that wouldn't quit. A social butterfly who kept attracting people, then losing them or driving them away. And couldn't make himself stop caring.
Who is he now?
Maybe this incarnation can cherry-pick only the best bits of all of them and make them into one whole Doctor. His first self's refusal to compromise, his second self's willingness to look the fool, his third self's style, his fourth self's wit, his fifth self's courage, his sixth self's confidence, his seventh self's farsightedness, his eighth self's strength, his ninth self's resilience, his tenth self's zest for life.
Maybe this incarnation will be the one who will finally get it right.
~end