Well, thank you, the_10thdoctor
Word Count: 585
The swirled silk was completely ruined, he thought sadly, as he stripped in the locker room of some hospital or other. Still, it was high couture and he'd never see another like it, so he stuffed the poor battered thing into his newly-acquired pockets. Maybe he would be able to salvage it later and leave it in the TARDIS wardrobe for future hims to admire.
The Doctor loved ties. Absolutely loved them. There was just so much to choose from. Pattern, texture, colour - a little sharp shock of 'Wow, look at that!' amidst the long bleak expanse of plain shirt, plain coat, plain plain boring Earth male dress.
Boring, boring, boring...he thought, sorting through the ties the other men he'd never meet had left behind. A green thing, a paisley thing (done that to death lives ago!) a red stripey thing, and...
What was that? A thistle on a string? Two thistles? No, it was an old-fashioned bowtie!
He could feel Amy's eyes on his now-clothed back, and was thankful for the clothes, even if they didn't quite fit and the brass clips of the braces were digging into shoulders that weren't as broad or well-muscled as they'd been just hours before. He made a mental note to swap these out for some nicer ones he had back in the TARDIS.
As he talked, and the Atraxi stared, he fussed with the knot.
He was vaguely aware that bowties were out of fashion in this particular decade, on this particular planet. But Martha had taught him a few of the euphemisms in her time with him. He'd learned that he was apparently a 'science geek' and that he was a bit 'James Bond.' Of course that was back then, in the days of the swirly tie (Sr LaCroix would kill him all over again if he knew it had taken a swim!) and now he wasn't quite sure who he was, but he had his tie on, and it was cool.
'Cool,' yes. That was the other word Martha had taught him, and despite the fact that bowties were out of fashion and his trousers were doing a rather undignified pouf in the front thanks to the braces, he also knew that being cool meant not caring whether others thought he was cool or not. Doing what he wanted to, what he had to, despite the opinions of others. Rebellious.
And as the knot settled into place on his collar, he thought of other collars, other ties. Red silk and velvet and brocade, history clamped round his neck, suffocating, choking, a red planet falling, a collar to weight them down as they sank to the bottom of Time itself.
He straightened the knot and raised his head.
It would be a while before 'Geronimo' came more naturally to him than 'Allons-y', or before he'd stop cringing at the sight of an apple (though to be fair, those apples on Doxana Seven did stare back in a most unnerving fashion, and once you've been stared at someone while you try to eat them...) or whether he'd ever stop the rapidfire nonstop mental chatter remained to be seen (unlikely) and yet, standing on this little rooftop staring at quite possibly the biggest hairy eyeball he'd ever seen in all his just-over-a-thousand years -
- the Doctor knew he was ready for anything, because his hearts were both hammering in his chest and his hair was a mess, but at least his tie was on straight.