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The Eleventh Doctor thinks bow ties are cool. (the11thhour) wrote in wariscoming,

"The coral wasn't half bad, I'll give you that," the Doctor couldn't help but agree. He could certainly appreciate the older TARDIS design (he had, after all, once been the man complimenting the way she had looked prior to the new changes, once upon a time), though he did enjoy her new look quite a bit. When he underwent his regeneration, so did the TARDIS. They changed together, seemingly matched out perfectly for one another when they were both complete. Yes, the Doctor and the TARDIS were always very much meant for one another (at least, that was how he liked to look at it), but that particular turn in change had turned from horrible to actually quite decent once it was good and through. They were wiped clean. A fresh start, away from all the bad that they had been put through together only just before.

Though his former self had plenty of memories worth repeating, the Doctor couldn't help but find that he didn't envy him all that he was feeling and going through now. And no, it wasn't just the radiation, though there was that too. Real painful, that. He could only hope that his next run, should he survive it, would be less so.

Not that he wanted to start thinking about that just yet.

Thoughtfully, the Doctor led the way to the infirmary, pushing the door open and shifting off to the side to give his other self access to the room as he pleased. The Doctor picked up a box of bandages (the last he'd used them, it was to chuck them at poor Rory, who had tripped up over his own two feet down the steps at the control room of the TARDIS and faceplanted onto the floor - proud bugger wouldn't let him use his sonic screwdriver to mend him, so he'd wound up hobbling about the TARDIS for a week out of pure need to be outrageously stubborn and difficult) and turned them over in his hands, namely because of that continuous need to keep himself occupied while in the presence of his former half.

"I don't imagine your visit with Rose went terribly well," he couldn't help but find himself saying. If there was anything the Doctor could not deny, it was that he was very nosey. Probably not the best quality a person could have, but what could he say? He was the sort of person who needed to know things. Especially things that were, in a way, in relation to himself. As he spoke, the Doctor simultaneously found himself examining his other half carefully, half considering the procedures necessary to heal him. It would take some work, but considering that he wasn't already dead and gone, the Doctor was sure that they'd manage to find some way to improve his physical health. He appeared to be stable, at least. Stable was good. The Doctor liked stable.