He didn’t go to see the angels, this time. Too many of him there as is, and besides, his ninth self had gone just to prove to himself that some things remained the same; his tenth self had gone to prove that he remained the same, although he hadn’t thought to ask “the same as what?” This self skipped all that because he’s remembering now the power of stories, especially those that might be true, and the angels weren’t the story. This is, the exhausted new mother, the baby whimpering unhappily, the smell of straw and manure and sweat, the father who both is and isn’t.
This story, which managed to happen unchanged, even when all the stars had gone out and the universe was shredding itself to nothing. (He hadn’t stayed long, that time, just enough to see yes, angels, and yes, baby, and maybe it had been the TARDIS keeping Earth alive and maybe it had been something else, but he won’t speculate because this event has never made any sense, no matter how many times he comes back to it.)
He doesn’t go in, not this time. Maybe next time. There’s another side to the stable, and if he tried, maybe he’d be able to feel his future self there. If he looked, maybe he’d see himself falling in behind the bewildered shepherds just beginning to straggle up the road. Maybe. Right now, though, he should probably go see whether Amy and Rory need rescuing from their honeymoon yet. That’s his story, and he knows it’s real, true, even the parts he wishes weren’t.