Spacewives Oneshot

9

              By the Order of Sappho

                       electricmisso

It had arrived in a gilded envelope, swirling in soft clouds of tufting pink and lavender. It even smelled of violets, but not strongly, so that only those who already knew of its presence could detect the scent. The Doctor had hastily placed it under the console of the TARDIS when it had arrived weeks ago, not forty-eight hours after her regeneration, and hoped it would go unnoticed by her new cohorts; time and space travel brought up enough questions without having to explain interplanetary post delivery. But she hadn’t forgotten, the smell of its garden, or the clouds calling her into the sky.

She. The Doctor was still getting used to that; adventures with her three new companions, helping them acclimate to space and time travel, had been distraction enough from this most recent transformation. It was different from her previous go-arounds, tremendously so, no matter how much she wanted to move past that simple fact. The Doctor’s core was made of justice; while she knew in her hearts that walking through the universe as a woman should be no different than the past twelve times as a man, that didn’t make it true. She was looked at differently; she’d even been occasionally oogled, something she had no intention of getting used to. The Doctor’s formative experiences in this body had been somewhat unnerving, and settling into it was taking longer than usual.

But the team would never see that of course, not when there were adventures to be had. And yet now, as she’d left her three humans to recharge in Sheffield, the scent of that gold and spun-sugar envelope grew so strong that it could no longer be ignored. She retrieved the dispatch from its hiding place, reconsidering its exterior for the first time in weeks. There was no recipient addressed; what if it were meant for Yaz or Ryan? Or even Graham - far be it for the Doctor to question him for receiving something fluffy and pink. But it couldn’t have been; they hadn’t been travelling in the TARDIS long enough for the post to register their location, and they hadn’t smelled the flowers. So the Doctor ran a finger along seam of the envelope, hearing the faintest sounds of strings as it opened, and read:

By the Order of Sappho, the pleasure of your company is requested upon Star Date 869214SL6, in the Flying Temple of Aphrodite, Galactic Coordinates 477-2625493°YC. Your attendance is mandatory. Dress Code: Skimpy.

It was quite odd, she thought, for an emergency decree from Sappho to arrive in the post, as opposed to a detectable distress signal, but if anyone would favor drama over haste, it would be the Ancient Greeks.

But the why of a call had always been the last of the Doctor’s concerns; where are they, when are they and how fast can we get there took precedence over whos and whys. And the one thing that the Doctor could recognize coursing through this body, through any body this being had ever inhabited, was that devilish curiosity, always nudging the Doctor to go. And so, she went.

The trip was quick, if bumpy. The TARDIS seemed to be taking extra care to land at the exact specified coordinates; they were going to be entertained by one of Greece’s most famous poets, after all. Entertained, or detained, or assailed. Regardless, accuracy was key. The doors opened upon a set of marble steps, but they were still floating, as instructed, above Earth, and what looked to be rocky Greek shores; the steps, and wherever they led to, were ensconced the same pink clouds that had carried the Doctor’s invitation.

As she ascended the stairs, a chorus of delicate instrumentals began to manifest. The steps led to a hall without walls or a roof, a sheath of marble among the clouds in a bright blue sky. The music came from a dozen lithe women, draped among various lounges, and covered in skant pastel fabrics, each strumming a golden lyre. That cannot possibly be the proper playing stance, the Doctor thought to herself.