A/N: Here be spoilers for The End Of Time. I can't quite wrap my head around everything at this point, so to distract myself, I write regeneration-high fic instead.

Film At Eleven

Singes his eyebrows right off the bat, now there's a way to start things with a bang. Nearly trips over his feet— big feet? Shoes feel tight. Cracked leather. Except they're not leather, they're canvas. Cracked canvas? Cracked head?

Thinking caps on, chaps, he orders himself busily, and glances around once or twice to see just who he's talking to. Just who does he think he is?

Right, right right. That fellow. This fellow, he means, this fellow with the singed eyebrows; at least he has eyebrows. Doesn't he. Does he?

He takes inventory. His fingers are light and his hearts flutter wildly, trapped in the rib cage, the cage of ribs, at least he didn't break anything. Not in his body, at least, not this body or that body or any other bodies he might currently possess. The TARDIS, well, the TARDIS is not looking so swell. Well, swell. He'll fix it. He'll fix it. He's good at fixing things, or he has been.

He doesn't think he's ever set things on fire before. Not through regeneration, at least. He is different, isn't he? He's thinking quickly, fast as lightning bugs, mind churning till he feels like he could have froth coming out his ears. He knows, he knows it, he knows he's different because he's not thinking of Rose. Till just now, that is. But now that you mention it— he puts on his teatime voice to have a little conversation, a little chat with himself— what about Rose?

Nothing. Nothing about Rose.

Good, he says, unfirmly, unchastely, uncharitably, uncomfortably, uniformly. No point carrying things to such an extent. Love for the ages, all that. Time and space transcended by a single deep desire to acknowledge the fallacies of human attachments. He thinks of the series of goodbyes he made, the visits he paid, just before regeneration, and has the grace to feel a little ashamed of himself. Humans, he thinks, are so changeable. Think with what little effort they can be spun into different shapes, different faces. Think of the cloth, the pattern. Think of the knitting. Maybe he'll take up knitting this time.

This post-regeneration high is quite a lark, isn't it? He wants to take all his clothes off and go for a run in the snow. He wants to chase cats up trees. He wants to get a haircut.

He doesn't want to die, he didn't want to die, and though he can't remember why for sure, he's almost certain there's a reason.

Newsflash! he shouts at himself mentally, and winces at the force of his own thought. Brand new day! Brand new Doctor! Brand new, brand new, brand new!

Going down already, certainly, but there appears to be no reason he shouldn't enjoy the ride.

He feels ridiculously optimistic. He carries the weight of his former selves, of their former loves, but not on his back; he ties them around his waist. They're solid, but buoyant. They keep him from floating away, and they keep him from drowning. So, as he falls, he also rises.