Thanks to Axalendra and to Whovian Dragon for beta-reading.
"Well," said the Brigadier, straightening his uniform, "now that that beastly business with the giant robot is over, I believe it's time to… I say, Doctor, are you listening to me?"
The Doctor was in front of a mirror — yet again! — inspecting his new face. He bared his impressive profusion of teeth, then turned to profile, frowning critically. "Well," he sighed at last, "I suppose I shall get used to the new me. Eventually. At least the hair is somewhat familiar. Curls, you know." He peered at his reflection again. "But that colour…!"
"Ah, speaking of colour, Doctor…" The Brigadier stepped closer, eyed the Doctor from tip to toe and back again, then ventured to lift with one finger the formidable length of multihued scarf wrapped around the man's neck. "You must, of course, accept the new features which this latest regeneration has bestowed upon you. This attire, on the other hand, is purely your own choice." He paused a beat before adding, "And don't you think the scarf is a bit, well… much?"
The Doctor looked down at himself, then took another glance in the mirror. "But I like the scarf!" he proclaimed proudly. "Gives me rather an air of panache, don't you think?"
The Brigadier sighed, trying to look on the bright side, that if this version of the Doctor had some sort of panache in mind, at least it hadn't taken the form of a great plume of feathers! "But my word, man! That scarf! It's nigh on long enough to trip you at every step!"
The Doctor grinned and tapped at his nose. "Ah, but I thought of that. That's why I've wrapped it about my neck, you see? Shortens it enough to make it safe."
"Make… make it safe," the Brigadier echoed.
"Mm-hmm!" the Doctor responded cheerily. He referred to his reflection again and gave a satisfied nod. "Yes, I dare say this attire is perfect. Absolutely perfect!"
"I see. In light of its purported perfection, might I offer a small bit of advice?"
"If you must," said the Doctor with the air of one who is prepared not to listen.
"Merely this," said the Brigadier, stepping closer and clapping his friend on the shoulder. Looking the Doctor sternly in the eye, he somberly intoned, "Remember Isadora Duncan."
The Doctor frowned for a second, striving to place the name. "Isador… ah!" The frown vanished, replaced by a look of horror, eyes popping wide as he envisioned the scene: the celebrated dancer, one of her famed yards-long scarves wafting along behind her, climbing into the backseat of a roadster. The driver starting off, the scarf rippling in the breeze, swirling to its full length from the lady's neck, only to dip down, down, and tangle about one of the car's wheels. A shriek, a squeal of brakes, a driver finding to his horror that it was already too late…
The Doctor shuddered. But then his cheerful mien quickly reestablished itself. "Now, now, Brigadier, no worries, no worries. I'm sure I shan't follow in the esteemed Miss Duncan's, er, tyre tracks. Among other things, the tragic accident that claimed her life occurred in late Summer, whereas I have this curious notion that I would be better served to be careful of the, ah, Fall."
FIN
