A/N: Hello, dear reader.

I started this story way before Series 8 started, and even though I completed it in 2015 I never tried to adapt it to what was happening on screen: this wanted to be what I imagined series 8 and the Twelfth Doctor would be like, and that's what you're going to find if you keep reading. Since I had it all planned before I actually wrote it down, you will find some things very contrasting with the canon and others that are very similar (for casual and unfortunate coincidence), especially in the last chapters, but I didn't want to change anything anyway.

TW: mention (just mention) of rape, murder, death penalty.

I hope you enjoy this story, and I'll appreciate it if you want to drop a review, be it compliments or constructive criticism. Enjoy the fic :)

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"Do you happen to know how to fly this thing?"

Clara's eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She was still shocked by his sudden regeneration and all the events of that impossible Christmas Day and now, now he didn't even remember how to fly the TARDIS. This could be far too much.

"No." The Doctor said, "No no no. Wait. Ah!" he grinned "TARDIS! Time Lord!" his grin turned manic. "Yeah. Hmm…lever, yes!" he pulled down a lever. "And… this!" He pushed a button and the TARDIS's walls stopped shaking, and her sound turned into the gentle humming she made when they were in the Vortex.

"Here we are! Safe and sound."

He proudly clapped his hands once to underline his success. In that moment he seemed to realize something, and he looked surprised. He gazed at his hands, eyes wide open, over-sized grey eyebrows raised:

"New hands! That's odd" he stated, examining the palms and the backs of his hands repeatedly. "I like them, though… let's see…" he took his fingertips to his neck, and slowly, almost shyly, he went up. "…oooh. Normal-sized chin! That's good. That's very good…" both his hands kept going up. "…hmm. I don't like the nose. Oh, but I've had worse. Eyes, two, very well. And…oooh yes, normal-sized ears too. Thank Rassilon. Love them. Hmm… hair…curly? Oh, it's been a while. Wait. I need a mirror."

With that, he turned on his heels and headed to the wardrobe in quick steps, without a single glance at Clara, who could simply blink, stunned, as she heard his steps trail off. She heard a door slam and then a distant voice shout in a sharp Scottish accent:

"No! Not again! Again! I'm not ginger!"

Clara sighed and leaned against the console, intending to wait for him, desperately trying to hold back her tears.

The young human understood that he had regenerated, she had known all his faces. And indeed he was always the same man, basically. Rationally, her brain did know all of this. But, sentimentally, her heart didn't care at all. She missed her Doctor already. She missed his green puppy eyes, so young and so ancient at the same time. She missed his childish manners and his playful little smiles. She missed his stupid bowtie, his floppy hair and his ridiculous chin. Clara missed the man she had fallen in love with and given her life for, the man who was now buried somewhere behind the silver hair and the ice-blue eyes. Still, he was buried.

When the new Doctor didn't return for several minutes, Clara took a deep breath and decided to go looking for him. She would have time to cry for her Doctor later: now, this Doctor may need her, and she had to be there for him. Maybe it was hard -and, oh, it was- but she was his companion, and she had to be with him despite his face, despite everything.

Clara rubbed her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt, and headed to the wardrobe.

In front of the door, she knocked, twice, very gently.

"Doctor? Can…can I come in?"

"You can if you want" his new voice answered.

Clara opened the door and stepped inside, finding him in front of a full-length mirror: he had changed. He wore dark trousers and black shoes, a white shirt, a dark-blue waistcoat and a jacket of the same blue, even if with red lining. He was now brushing his hair lightly, staring intently at his reflection:

He glanced at her by looking her reflection in the mirror.

"Hmm, silver hair" he said, "I think I like it. It was quite about time to grow up a little. I'm older this time. But you know what? I feel younger. Full of energy. New regeneration cycle." He rubbed his hands contently and turned towards her "I guess I'm…younger on the inside." He seemed to remember something all of a sudden, and smiled happily. "Clara." his grin grew wider. "My Clara."

His expression was light, tender, now so similar to her Doctor's one, and Clara noticed his ice-blue eyes weren't as cold as they seemed.

He stepped towards her and took a lightly shaking hand to her cheek. Clara covered his hand with hers and shivered as he gently caressed her face as her Doctor used to do.

"My Clara." He hadn't miss the fear and the concern in her eyes. "Same man. I'm the same man deep down."

Clara's hand left his and went to his cheek, barely brushing his jawline.

"You're not my ChinBoy anymore," she said in a trembling voice, eyes bright. She had thought she could do this, but now she realized that no, she wasn't ready. Actually hearing this man call her as he used to call her, feeling his hands touch her as he used to touch her, was too much. Far, far too much.

His hearts stopped, and his gaze turned sad.

"I…I could still be your Doctor."

Clara said nothing. She seemed about to cry.

His hearts broke, at least a little bit. His predecessor would stop breathing and tremble slightly, his eyes would become bright with tears and he would beg her: please, please, don't leave me alone, I can't stay alone. But not this Doctor, no. His hearts had hardened during centuries protecting Trenzalore. He had become stronger. This incarnation wasn't going to be a sensitive, loving boy: his former self was fading, leaving him. He would maybe remotely resemble him for some minutes, but that man was dead.

The young Doctor with the bowtie was still a part of him, but he really was just that: one part of his complex personality, and not the part that was in charge now. That man was being buried, and every minute, every breath, every heartbeat was a little mass of earth thrown in his grave, on his corpse. Nonetheless, the same man was standing in front of Clara now, wearing a new outfit and a new face: same memories, same thoughts, same feelings. The same man.

This new Doctor knew who he wasn't, but he didn't know who he was yet. He needed time. But without doubt he was the Doctor. What he felt he could do was simply let Clara understand it as well. His Clara. His Impossible Girl.

He cupped her face with both hands and locked his eyes with hers, ice-blue meeting chocolate-brown for a second before she glanced away.

"Clara," he breathed, "My Clara. You are still my Impossible Girl. Clara… Look at me."

And finally, finally Clara looked, looked in those grey eyes and saw, just for an instant, a flash of green, a flash of her Doctor. Same centuries of pain and loss and regret, same wonder and curiosity and wanderlust, same selfishness and anger and hatred, same altruism and goodness and love. Same man, deep down.

"You're…you're still you," she said, two twin tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Yes. Still me."

Clara closed her eyes and flung her arms around his neck, burying her face against his chest and letting warm tears soak his jacket. The Doctor held her tight and kissed the top of her head.

"My Clara."

The old Doctor would probably break the embrace after a few seconds and make some joke, but this man was different. He hugged her tighter than ever, not embarrassed of physical contact or afraid of hurting her, and he didn't let go of her, letting her cry all her tears. His lips curved ever-so-slightly in a smile at the thought that, actually, she was crying for him. A past him, of course, but still him. New discovery: in this body, he was selfish. He didn't mind that much that she was crying: the woman he loved was holding him tight, crying for him, and he didn't even have to worry about some other man consoling her, because he was consoling her. His lips curved a little more and his heart flipped contently. Wait. Heart? Singular? Oh, dammit. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

"Aaah. C-Clara?"

Clara was just starting to calm down and try to stop her sobs.

"C-Clara…I've-I've…only one heart's working…aaah"

He pulled away from his companion and clutched at his chest, wincing in pain. He fell on his knees, then struggled to make himself stand again. Clara was shocked at the beginning, but after a few seconds she helped him on his feet. He was breathing heavily and his eyes were shut.

"Doctor, what do I do?" Clara asked, putting one of his arms around her shoulders and trying to support him.

He inhaled sharply and tried to find some strength to answer.

"Take me to the TARDIS's infirmary…pro-problem is I can't quite remember where the hell it was."

His former self wouldn't take this seriously. He would joke, find the ironic side, maybe he would even find this the slightest bit exciting, or even funny. This new Doctor, on the other hand, was not amused. Not remotely amused.