Disclaimer: Doctor Who and all associated content is not mine. However, if you happen to have the Doctor in your possession and want to send him my way, I won't complain.

It has been the equivalent of eternity since I posted any sort of original post on here, but it's about damn time to change that. The new season of Doctor Who is surpassing all of my expectations; I love love love Capaldi's Twelve, and the fact that Clara is an actual character now makes me happier than I have the words to describe.

The influx of new DW material is excellent fic fodder, too, so I thought I'd post an introspective Twelve-centric blurb I hashed out during one of my classes the other day.

He was old.

He could feel it in his bones, a great wash of cold awareness that previously had been absent. It wasn't a physical issue—this new body looked old, certainly, but that came and went with regenerations. The grey was nothing new for him, though it had been a while since it had surfaced. No, for the first time in a long span of years, the Doctor felt old as well.

Once so self-assured and cocky, insistent that every action he took, every path he chose was the right one, he now struggled with the morality of even the smallest of deeds. Was he being selfish, or did the grounds for him to act actually exist? So many questions, and not enough answers.

He wasn't done with life yet, though, oh not at all—not when there were so many more places to explore and so many people left to protect. The Doctor's sense of adventure had not dulled at all, was still a roaring flame flickering at the heart of him and driving him on to new heights. Where in regenerations past it had burned unhindered, a brilliant flame evident to all, it was now sheltered from sight, cloaked in the shadow of two millennia's worth of burdens that had descended to the front of his mind.

He had never professed to be a "good" man—never outwardly. He strove to do good, to be the best man he could be, and in his own mind he certainly hoped that he was good. Time and time again, his companions swore that he was the best man that there was, that his compassion and genius and inherent drive to protect those who can't protect themselves set him in a position of morality regardless of all of the deaths and calamities that often accompanied them.

Even Clara—brilliant, wonderfully frank Clara—saw good in him: or, if not in him, at least in his intentions. He might not always be a good man specifically, but he sought to be, and so in resolve thus in reality.

Where his companions saw brilliance and success, though, he saw failure.

Never kill, he swore, never take an innocent's life. But, what were the wars in which he had fought, the lives he had manipulated, but an extension of that base act of killing? There was blood on his hands, the blood of more people than he cared to consciously address. His past was rusty red, trailing splotchily behind him and wet as though it were spilt only hours previous. It preyed upon his mind, chipping away at his defenses until he was left raw and real and exposed, unable to avoid the knowing leer of his conscience.

His life was a perpetual string of disappointments, every small victory flanked by an equal or greater defeat. In the beginning, all had been well—he minded his own business, kept choice company, and existed quite happily exploring the universe and all that it had to offer. With time, however, the desire, the roiling, pounding, uncontrollable need to do more, to use his TARDIS and superior biology to help and heal took on a life of his own. He could make a difference. He could be needed and loved and accepted, and truly have a positive impact on the lives of others.

It was a heady feeling, and one he wished he could profess to enjoy purely for the sake of those he aided; however, nothing could quite compare to the rush he got in a crisis, of working frantically to unravel the interlocking pieces of whatever puzzle he faced. He lived for the adrenaline, for that sudden burst of absolute intoxication that flooded his system, piquant and thrumming with latent energy.

With these past few younger regenerations, that manic energy had manifested itself tenfold, accompanied by the fervor of youth; he acted rashly, sometimes selfishly, always seeking the acceptance and humanity of his treasured companions.

Humanity—his saving grace and his golden apple, the driving force behind all of his best deeds and all of is worst as well. The empathy and utter humanness of his friends moved him to make choices he otherwise would not, to spare lives and try to make at least a small impact on an otherwise inevitable past. His own "humanity", when left alone, drove him toward a precarious peak perched dangerously close to godhood and far too high above the ground.

It was this flaw that haunted him, the deeds that followed such misconstrued acts of "justice" and "righteousness" that haunted his daily reality.

This regeneration was well-equipped to handle the past. It was as though his subconscious had thrown in the towel in the long fight against himself—against his morality—and simply sculpted a new, more heavily-armoured version of himself. At this point in his remarkably long life, he simply embraced the agony, took his problems by the horns and met them head on—or, at least tried to do so. There were things to be done, adventures to be had, and heaven help whatever got in his way.

The Doctor in the TARDIS, with space and time spread out before him like a blank canvas—wasn't that how it was always meant to be? So much of who he was—past, present, and future—derived from his adventures and the people he met through them. Regeneration after regeneration, he went through spurts of solitude and companionship alike; too much time alone and he transformed into a stranger, a man driven by the ambient desire to do right by the worlds but caught in a howling vacuum of emotional detachment and disjointed "heroics".

The Doctor was not human, no matter how hard he had—in regenerations past—pretended otherwise.

Always, his disconnect from humanity, that sense of utter alienness, had plunged its hand directly into the heart of whatever good he sought to accomplish and turned it from its intended path. He was not proud of his darkest days, the deeds he had committed either out of necessity or as some form of misconstrued sense of justice.

Guilt plagued his quietest hours, and so he had filled his days with noise. Regeneration after regeneration, he occupied himself with jaunts around the galaxies, showing off the universe to new companions and burying his conscience in exploration and heroics and companionship. As long as he could pretend to be human, he could ignore the burdens of the Time Lord. Whenever his guard dropped, the guilt sought out the chinks in his armour, dark demons galloping in on sable steeds to storm his sleep and corrupt his every waking moment. Alone, he sank farther and farther into his nightmares, that light of adventure and fun and good heartedness growing increasingly dimmer as he gradually succumbed to his inner demons. It was far too easy to lose sight of who he was.

For whatever reason, this regeneration was better than others at coping with the oozing black guilt. This regeneration was crafted to survive. It was harder, sharper, more armored than others in the past—less dependent on companionship and compassion, built on self-sufficiency, resilience, and detachment from emotional situations.

Oh, he still craved emotional connections, craved the friendship and companionship of others like a drug, drinking in time spent with his companions like a desert wanderer quaffs water. He was better now at pretending, though. Two thousand years of having been chewed up and spat back out (literally, on occasion) had hardened him and turned him into a man both inwardly and outwardly fierce.

Once on a mission, he could not be stopped; once set on a moral stance, he could not be swayed.

Yet, he was still the Doctor—always the Doctor, always striving to help and explore and heal, defender of universes and ambassador of adventures. He was old, and young—millennia of experiences and burdens bearing down upon him. Yet, still he met friendship and acceptance with the tentative hesitancy of a newborn, always unable to comprehend why his friends and companions elected to remain with him, coming back time and time again to show him love and acceptance and adventure.

He was the Doctor, savior of countless worlds, hero and defender of an incalculable number more. He was old, and tired, but he never forgot—not one life, not one adventure, not one companion. They kept him young, hopeful. They kept him humble, and real, and reignited the beauty in the universe of which he all too often lost sight.

He was still the Doctor, and as long as there was the Doctor, there was hope.

First fic in a while, so I'm probably a little rusty...reviews are a wonderful means of feedback (so get off your ass and review, yo)!