Spacewives Oneshot

4

                  penny in the air

                   madasaboxofcats

This isn’t where she was supposed to be.

She was supposed to be on a beach somewhere doing lovely beach things to recover from, you know, dying, but no. She’s here. In Scotland, of all places.

She looks at the console, shiny and new and so beautifully, vibrantly blue.

“When I said I wanted an island, this wasn’t what I meant, and you bloody well know it.”

The responding whir sounds almost chipper. The TARDIS has a twisted sense of humor on her, she does.

The Doctor is scarcely two steps out the door when she nearly falls on her face, stumbling around in shoes that are in no way practical for running or adventuring or saving people.

Stealing River’s high heels from the back of the closet – her 12th self had never been able to bring himself to get rid of her things, sentimental old kook – was perhaps not her best idea, but one must improvise when one wakes up in a body that no longer fits one’s clothes. She’s been essentially the same height for centuries and waking up to find herself suddenly six inches too short for her trousers was a bit disconcerting.

Which is how she ended up with these godawful torture devices on her feet. They’re painful and wholly impractical, but they’re tall enough to keep her trouser legs out of puddles and such, if she rolls them up just a bit.

Maybe she needs more of a new wardrobe than just shoes.

But first thing’s first. The TARDIS brought her here for a reason, and the Doctor doubts it’s to provide her with more suitable attire. If that had been the goal, surely the TARDIS would have landed her in a Harrods or something, not dropped her the middle of a street in late-21st century Aberdeen.

She looks around.

No immediate signs of distress. She’s standing in front a museum (the Gordon Highlanders Museum, to be exact). It’s still intact, the handful of people exiting the building look healthy and well-informed, there aren’t any Daleks or Cybermen or Sontarans that she can see.

She makes her way towards the building. If anyone thinks it’s strange how slowly the Doctor is walking, they don’t say anything about it. If anyone thinks her outfit is strange – a waistcoat, a button down shirt with sleeves that swallow her hands, a belt cinched tightly around her hips to hold up her too-long pants, and red high heels – they don’t say anything about that either.

When she makes it to the ticket counter, the woman scarcely looks up at her before passing a ticket under the plastic partition in exchange for a bit of psychic paper that she’d dug out of her pocket.

If there aren’t any immediate signs of danger, she may as well go look for herself in the museum somewhere. It’s been ages since her last museum perusal.

It’s a military museum, commemorating a Scottish army regiment. There are life-size replicas all over the place and for a moment, the Doctor thinks about mannequins come to life, wonders if these figures are the reason she’s here. But they don’t move or attack the people who walk by, so she moves along.

She’s standing in front of a display case for a Sir George White – lovely fellow, lousy at cards – when she hears it.

“Sweetie! There you are. I’d begun to think you’d forgotten.”

The Doctor freezes. It can’t be.

“And what on earth are you wearing?”

She stutters out her response. Apparently this body stutters too, if sufficiently provoked. “River.”