Notes: AU from Dalek; picks up just after Parting of the Ways. Assumes that the Doctor's incarnations are not set in stone, i.e., that if he dies differently than in canon, his next incarnation will be different.
This is more of a thought experiment than anything. It expands on a couple lines in Alternatives, a chapter of Hi Qui Custodiunt Ipsum Custodem, but is meant to be read alone. It's a one-shot, and will remain so, but I have a couple other ideas for possible sequels/prequels. Tell me what you think!
Rated for some disturbing concepts.
-DW-
"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." – Friedrich Nietzsche
-DW-
He wasn't supposed to regenerate. He didn't expect to; he didn't intend to; he didn't want to. The Delta Wave was supposed to fry his brainstem just as thoroughly as everyone else's. It was supposed to end it.
The Universe is not that kind.
-DW-
History repeats itself. He awakes in a fresh, young body, covered in his own tears and other people's blood. A Delta Wave is a very neat way to kill, so the blood is figurative.
The tears are not.
-DW-
Jack doesn't know. He thinks it was just the station and the fleet; doesn't realize that it was the whole Earth, another planet made victim to Ka Faraq Gatri, the Oncoming Storm, the Destroyer of Worlds. He can't know, because if he did he would be shoving him away, running as fast and as far as he can, or better yet, pulling out his blaster and shooting him on the spot, again and again until there are no more unanticipated, unwanted regenerations . . . .
But he's not. He's comforting him, taking his hand and leading him to the TARDIS, opening the door for him and pulling him down the hall to the medical bay and touching him so, so gently and it's so much more than he deserves and the contradiction is more than his battered, broken mind can handle and –
Rose. Where's Rose? They need to find Rose; he left her in that bunker and there was Dalek; they need to save her – what's wrong with Harkness? Idiotic, useless human, prattling on about some foolish, imagined need for calm and looking at him as if he's insane when Rose in danger. What does he mean, who's Rose –?
Ah. That would be the regeneration sickness, then.
-DW-
Somewhere in the haze of memories and madness, he comes to a decision: he did the right thing. He must to have done, because if he didn't – if he made the wrong choice – well, that would kill him. And obviously, something out there will not let him die. Therefore, he did the right thing. He must have.
When he returns to relative lucidity, he refuses to examine that logic too closely.
If he did, it might just kill him.
-DW-
The Universe, he decides, enjoys spitting in his face. He spent his last lifetime complaining about pretty boys, and now he is one. Harkness is never going to let him live this down. The worst part is that he's actually more of a pretty boy than the good Captain – Jack's not just pretty, he's handsome, bright blue eyes and perfect hair offset by a strong jaw and broad shoulders. This regeneration, though – he grimaces, brushing his longish, tawny hair away from his youthful, ghostly-pale face. This regeneration is delicate, positively elfin. And it's so young – twenty-five, and the most, more like twenty if he's being honest.
Still – he tries a smile, one that shows his unusually pointed canines and doesn't reach his amber, predatory eyes – maybe it has promise after all.
-DW-
He can work with this.
This regeneration is impossibly young, but with the right wardrobe he may be able to get around that. Jack watches (and delivers a constant stream of highly suggestive commentary) while he tries on outfits that range several species and dozens of millennia. Eventually, he settles on a three-piece suit, solid black.
The dust stirred up by his regeneration is still settling. His brain is just as fresh and raw as the rest of him, sparking frantically, his mind jumping from important things that feel meaningless (Jack is making a reference that he should understand; that tunic behind him once belonged to someone that he cared about) to inane details that seem vitally important (his new ears are slightly uneven and that bothers him; Jack is laughing too loudly out of awkwardness and it grates). All of a sudden, the tie feels like it's choking him. He tears it off, his fingernails leaving marks on his paper-white skin. Jack pauses in his verbal observations and looks at him with alarm. He ignores his companion's worried glances, and instead begins to search for the object that he knows is around here somewhere.
"Alright, Doc?" questions Jack, painfully cautious and concerned.
"Don't call me Doc," he says, without the heat of the last him but with just as much acid. His anger is quieter, now, but it is far from gone. "And I'm fine," he adds, in a milder tone. "Just need to find something . . . . There."
He straightens, holding a gold pocket watch. Technically speaking, it's a five-dimensional Universal Positioning System (or was, and will be again when he's finished with it), but it looks like a pocket watch. He clips the chain to his waistcoat and slips it into his pocket – not dimensionally transcendental yet, but he'll fix that soon enough.
He raises his eyebrows at Jack expectantly. This face is good at that, the sharp, twitchy bits, and he's already beginning to get used to it.
"Well, you don't look ten years old anymore," says Jack, eying the garb critically. "Still, it's a bit gloomy, don't you think?"
He rolls his eyes. It probably doesn't have quite the same effect as in his last body, but it will do. "I'm going to have enough trouble getting respect this time around without looking like a walking rainbow."
"Doctor," says Jack, coming to stand behind him and placing a hand on his shoulder. Their position emphasizes the new height difference between them. "The things you do, I think you'd get respect no matter what you looked like."
"There's a difference between fear and respect, Harkness." His voice is silky-smooth, slithering off his tongue with the kind of cultured venom that he couldn't have managed in his last regeneration if he had tried.
"I know," states Jack with rare solemnity, not quailed. A moment later he grins, and says in a lighter tone, "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. I'll whip us up some lunch. Just so you know," he adds over his shoulder, "I still think you look like you're going to a funeral."
"I don't attend funerals," he replies, almost to himself as the door swings shut.
Left on his own, his thoughts turn back to his outfit. There is still something missing. The TARDIS, accommodating as ever in the wake of regeneration, gives him a nudge. There they are, on a shelf just to his right – a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, sharp and rectangular. Sophisticated.
He slips them on, and examines his reflection, stubbornly refusing to meet his own eyes. Behind him, there is a flash of red – his Gallifreyan robes, untouched by his perusal of the wardrobe. He ignores them.
"Not funerals," he murmurs, feeling something icy solidify between his hearts. "Executions."
The Doctor smiles.