The Doctor

After stumbling around England for a few days in a sort of confused daze, the Doctor finally managed to talk her way into a small hotel room with a rather dingy and depressing décor. Still, it was something. A very little something that couldn’t hold a candle to her TARDIS, but, well. And unlike the TARDIS, it boasted an unreasonably static form, which she noted only now because it seemed to have changed overnight. It was certainly an improvement, at least – the bed was a lot nicer and bigger, and the room was decorated in some sort of pseudo Greco-Roman style, which was quite charming in its own way.

Also, she was naked under the sheets. That was a tad awkward, since she distinctly recalled wearing a shirt to bed, but the early days of a regeneration are always dicey. Maybe she’d taken to sleep-undressing. It certainly could happen, couldn’t it? Or maybe she’d taken her new sexual organs for a test drive. That was nice. It would certainly help her get used to the new neural pathways, and anyway, getting comfortable with it when she was half-asleep would probably help her adjust to it when awake. At any rate, it was hardly worth worrying over. And the relaxed cocktail of hormones and so on that she could feel running through her certainly helped – female bodies really had a nice post-orgasmic glow. This was the first comfortable rest she’d had since escaping from Gallifrey, which meant she could enjoy it for now and worry about sleep-undressing and paying her compliments to the excellent taste of the hotel owner later. She buried her face back into the pillows and went back to sleep.

About an hour or two later, she sat bolt-upright in the bed and said, “This is the wrong century for morphic resonance décor, isn’t it?”

Right, so. Obviously, something had gone very wrong. The Doctor finally extracted herself from the tangle of bedsheets and cautiously poked around the room for her old clothing. It didn’t fit right anymore, Rassilon knew, but she had quite a few useful little knick-knacks in her pockets. Instead, she found a dresser full of very nice, completely unfamiliar clothing and spent a few moments taking advantage of her good fortune to pick out what felt right: a plain white shirt, patterned green skirt, and a lovely little green scarf. Thus outfitted, she was ready to – realize that she was also wearing a sort of ribbon in TARDIS-blue around her neck. She didn’t remember putting it on, but it did look nice, didn’t it? She adjusted it slightly before smiling at the mirror and giving it a sharp nod. That’d do.

And then her eyes landed on the communications device.

To be filled out properly shortly.

A billion speckled ponies and rainbows to whoever bought me paid time and icons. ♥! ♥!

It's funny, considering that she almost doesn't notice it at first. She thinks, vaguely, that something's fallen on her stomach or some such, and doesn't think much until she opens her eyes and tries to sit up and the... weight goes with her.

Naturally, she glances down to see what it is.

And looks again, just in case.

After a few moments, she presses a finger to the bandage on her arm, and then to the definite swell in her stomach.

All things considered, it's perfectly natural that her next act is to fill the immediate area with the sound of loud and creative cursing in multiple languages.

Context: For LA!plot, Three got shoved into the role of 'Susan Foreman', a somewhat well-known B movie actress dating the lead of the hit show Professor What.




( The rest cutted for the sake of your f-lists )

How to Show Your Best Enemy You Care
Or, five gifts the Master attempted to give the Doctor for St. Valentine’s, and one she accepted.


1. Buy her a dozen roses.

The Doctor held the bouquet at arm’s length, sniffing it gingerly for some sign of poison or explosives or anything else likely to put a crimp on her day. Once she was satisfied that it was merely a harmless armful of roses sprayed with some sort of cheap daisy perfume, she lay them back down in their box, an elegant silk-lined affair that had arrived anonymously that morning. Immediately, as if on cue, the phone rang.

“Aren’t these left over from your business with the Autons?” she said into the receiver, without bothering to wait for an introduction. “Don’t even try to deny it, they’re made of plastic. You didn’t even scent them with the right perfume. And, seeing as how you tried to kill my friend with one of these, I really don’t think they count as a proper romantic gift under any circumstances.”

The other end of the line hung up.


( And Roses Suit You So )

PEER REVIEW: or, why Three is the prettiest Doctor barring Eleven, because I'm never picking between the two and you can't make me.




( Click the cut for the pretty Doctor! )

Test test test.