Warnings/Spoilers: Femslash? Slight spoilers for plot points in Tooth and Claw, Wormwood, Oblivion and vague ones for Season 4 of the New Series.
Disclaimer: I do not claim anything remotely like ownership of these characters. Dr Who belongs to the BBC, Fey, Shayde and Izzy belong to Panini comics and sundry writers and artists for DWM. The Avengers belong to ABC...actually the whole lot could probably be claimed by Sydney Newman. Diana Rigg belongs to no-one but herself, and she's pretty damn cool with it.
Author's Notes: Written for ionlylurkhere in the dwfemslash ficathon over at lj. There's a chronic lack of DWM comics fic out there.
There are two ways to go with immortality and fashion. Change with the times, and risk never quite getting it right, or find a timeframe and stick with it. She's seen both tactics employed with greater or lesser success by immortals, time travellers and other assorted aliens, but when it comes right down to it one thing still holds true. Whatever the timeframe: you can never go wrong with a good suit.
Shayde disagrees, but then Shayde still doesn't entirely understand the complexities of human identity especially not when related to outward appearance. Not that Fey should be surprised at that attitude from a creature without facial features, far from it, but after all this time sharing a body, one might expect him to have picked some things up from her. Though when she thinks about the Doctor's continuing cluelessness about human nature, she finds herself smirking and blames it on Gallifreyian idiocy. Though actually she met Romana a few times and she most definitely had a sense of style, as well as excellent taste in bodyguards, so probably just Gallifreyian male idiocy there.
Not that she doesn't appreciate the utilitarian outfit that comes as part and parcel of their bonding, perish the thought. It's perfect work-wear, whether the labyrinthine lair she's sneaking round is in twentieth century Switzerland or on 42nd century Betelgeuse. The lines, she will admit are elegant, it never needs dry-cleaned, and quite frankly she's grateful for avoiding eighties fashion – big hair, shoulder pads and lycra may work for alien villains but most of the time its all she can do not to give herself away by sniggering. Sometimes though, it reminds her all too much of how much of her life is spent in shadows. She's always been a creature of the shadows, first her job and then her blending with Shayde have only served to accentuate it. Some days she misses the light. Those days, it's good to feel a finely tailored suit against her skin, the burn of whiskey in the back of her throat, and to let Shayde guide their feet to the kind of gentlemen's club that caters to her majesties most loyal servants, comforted by his overly formal description of the excellent tailors of thirtieth century Pakhar.
In the meantime there remains an excellent tailor on Saville Row, resisting the pressure of the passing years and changing fashions, continuing to provide the best of suits to the men and women who serve their ever so peculiar circus. The perfect mix of discrete and airy, the shop is almost as comforting as the ritual of buying the suit. The discrete murmur of the proprietor as he offers suggestions of cloths and cut, pitched perfectly to be heard without disturbing the flow of her thoughts. Shayde indulges this of her, and in return she tries not to damage the fabric of time too much.
This particular spring afternoon, there is an added frisson to this rare pleasure. She has allowed another to trespass on her territory. She is not the only one here for a fitting and for once she does not mind. Her companion twirls in her new suit, smiling wryly as she weighs up the merits of a waistcoat. Fey's own appreciation of what the waistcoat does to her companion's skinny frame must show on her face, for she blushes and adds it to her purchases. Eager to hide her blushes her companion begins a rambling soliloquy on the merits of tailoring in nineteen sixties television spy shows. Fey still doesn't get all Izzy's cultural references but she can contend with conviction that the scene in the tailor's was the best bit of the horrendous Avengers remake and they fall to light-hearted banter over which version of John Steed was superior. Emma Peel doesn't even come up for discussion, whatever the charms of Uma Thurman they both know she can't hold a candle to Diana Rigg.
It's sort of a uniform in itself. Saving the world in style. Suits aren't always the most practical of outfits, too warm by half for taking down spaceships in decaying orbits. However there is something about shirt-sleeves, braces and waistcoats, combined with a good healthy sweat that makes crawling through miles of ducting all worthwhile. The dry cleaning bill may be huge, but its well worth the price for time spent slowly unpeeling the layers from one's partner in crime. Wounds to clean, bruises to soothe, 'fraternising' is back up there in Fey's favourite activities. Running for one's life all the more fun when it ends with a tumble into clean crisp sheets, and the entanglement of more than just fingers.
Somewhere up ahead the stars are going out. (They will steal a motorbike, and Izzy will drive while Fey blasts Daleks, heavy-duty gun held firmly in one arm, other arm equally firmly round Izzy's waist.) Further ahead, if they get through that, time will eventually, inevitably run out for them. Izzy has a finite amount of time to live and Fey an infinite amount of the same to spend among the shadows. However for now, this matters little. For today the bees are disappearing and Izzy has dredged up a classic car from somewhere. There is an afternoon drive in country ahead, a mystery to solve, an adventure to be had, a beautiful young woman in an excellent suit to walk arm and arm with, and somewhere a field just crying out for a picnic. (This older, bolder Izzy will lean close and tease her that there are better uses for the field and the blanket than picnics and Fey will laugh and savour how far they've come.) So much of her life is honour and duty and shadows, always has been always will, but for now, Fey has sunlight and suits, and something perilously close to happiness.