Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. Abigail belongs to me.
When the Doctor woke up, it took him a moment to remember what had happened. No, her. That was right. She'd… regenerated, yes, that was it. Like Koschei. The Master. Mistress.
"Whatever," she muttered, sitting up and swinging her legs off the bed. She looked down at her shirt. Reddish-orange blood covered the entire right side. "Well, this won't do at all," she said, and pulled it off. The shirt was tossed to a corner of her room.
The Doctor wandered around her room, pausing to look in the mirror. Yep, definitely ginger. A lovely bright coppery color, it was. Her hair was straight and fell a little past her shoulders, and there was a splash of freckles on her nose. Her eyes were a warm brown, and her face was round and cheerful looking.
"Not bad, I must say," the Doctor said to her reflection. She hooked her fingers inside her mouth and pulled her lips up to examine her teeth. She made a face and almost immediately let go. "Bleh. Crooked. But at least my ears are a normal size." Realizing she actually hadn't checked to see if they were, the Doctor pulled her hair away from her face. "Oh, good, they are." She paused, then scowled at her reflection. Then she gave it the Hairy Eyeball. "Scary faces are going to need work, though. Not a problem, I shouldn't think! Though the nose might be holding me back. Looks like a button, it does. A little button squashed onto my face that's perching there like some ugly bird." She tapped her reflection's nose a bit harder than necessary before turning and leaving the room, muttering about how birds and buttons were ruining her life.
She could smell the delectable scent of coffee wafting from the kitchen. Ooh, coffee. And was that… brandy she smelled as well? Oh. Abigail was probably drinking it with the coffee. Why that girl insisted on ruining perfectly good coffee with brandy, she'd never know.
Coffee. Coffee sounded very good right now.
She made her way to the kitchen, where she found Abigail sitting at the table, her hands cupped around a steaming mug for warmth. Her thick brown hair was pulled into a sloppy bun, and from behind her glasses, her blue eyes were staring unseeingly into her drink.
The Doctor cleared her throat and Abigail looked up. Her eyes went huge, and she turned bright red. "Doctor!" she said, her voice easily half an octave higher than normal. "Why—are you—why are you not wearing a shirt?"
The Doctor looked down at herself. "Oh. OH! Right! I'm not supposed to not wear a shirt anymore, am I?"
Abigail groaned and pulled off her sweatshirt. "Just—just put this on, please." She held it out, keeping her eyes averted.
The Doctor eyed the sweatshirt for a moment before taking it and putting it on. "Very well," she said, sighing heavily. "If you insist." She sat at the table and crossed her arms, looking for all the world like a petulant child.
Abigail opened her mouth to say the Doctor had taken her seat before deciding it was better to not say anything at all, and sat opposite the Doctor, dragging her mug across the table to her. "How are you feeling?" she asked hesitantly.
"Oh, better, I suppose," the Doctor said, still looking sullen. "I was having a lovely nap until somebody woke me up." She gave Abigail the as-of-yet-unperfected Hairy Eyeball.
"But…" Abigail gave her a look. "I wasn't making any noise."
"Well, something woke me up!" the Doctor said, throwing her hands in the air. "I don't know what, but it did! Maybe it was one of those buttons, I never liked them. Evil little things, buttons, always popping off when you need them. Like companions." She jabbed a finger at Abigail. You're always popping off when I tell you to stay put!"
"Doctor, you're rambling," Abigail said, scooting her chair slightly away. "Are you sure you're feeling better?"
The Doctor hmmed and looked at the ceiling. "Let's see, it's been… four hours since my regeneration. I'm done cooking after about fifteen, delirium usually ends a bit before that…" She beamed at Abigail. "Only ten more hours to go!"
"...Eleven," Abigail corrected after an awkward pause.
The Doctor frowned. "Damn, this is worse than I thought." She reached across the table and snatched the mug out of Abigail's hands, downing its contents in one.
Abigail just stared at her. "That was my coffee!"
"It tasted horrible!" the Doctor said, slamming the mug down. "I was doing you a favor!"
"You drank my coffee!"
"Yes, I did! Do you have any more?"
Abigail stared some more before getting up and going to the coffeepot. She filled a mug about halfway before she glanced over her shoulder at the Doctor. "D'you want brandy—?"
"No, I don't want brandy!" the Doctor snapped. "I told you, the coffee tasted absolutely foul! Just give me coffee!"
Abigail wrinkled her nose, but did as asked. Ordered. Same difference right now, really, but the Doctor had only eleven hours of this behavior left. She could put up with it until then. She set the mug down on the table and turned to fix herself a cup as well.
The Doctor took a long draft, made a face, and got up. She stumbled over to the sink, coffee sloshing out of the mug, and dumped what remained in the sink before grabbing the brandy bottle out of Abigail's hands. "Give me that," she said. "Don't need coffee, need the brandy."
"Can't I just—?" Abigail gave up and went to the cabinet to get a new bottle while the Doctor retreated to the table, nursing her bottle and glaring around the room. Abigail abandoned the task of fixing herself a new cup as she watched the Doctor go through the entire bottle. "Are you sure you should be drinking right now? And, er," she added, "that's an awful lot you're drinking, too."
"Two livers," the Doctor muttered between gulps. She shook a finger at Abigail. "I could drink you under the table any day, you know! Just watch me!"
"I'll pass," Abigail muttered. Two livers. Well, the Doctor already had two hearts, why should an extra liver be any different? She shook her head and turned her attention back to her coffee.
She heard a chair scrape against the floor and turned, groaning inwardly when she saw the Doctor was trying to leave the kitchen. "Doctor, where are you going?"
The Doctor stopped dead, rocking back on her heels, then spun to face Abigail. "I'm going to get new clothes!" she declared. "And this time, I want something, something, something—" She snapped her fingers. "Something with color this time, that's it!" She spun back around and marched away, moving to pull off her borrowed sweatshirt as she walked.
Abigail ran after her and pulled her arms away. "Can you please stop trying to take off your clothes?" she asked, her voice pained.
"Oh, fine, if it means that much to you," the Doctor huffed.
When they got to the wardrobe room, though, the Doctor promptly began shucking off her clothes. Abigail quickly ducked back outside. "I'll just, er, wait here for you then, shall I?" she called.
The Doctor, who was already busy examining a very loud patchwork coat, didn't answer. "Hmm, that's colorful, all right, but not quite what I'm looking for. Maybe…" She grabbed a hideous orange cardigan and held it up for examination.
After about an hour, the Doctor, feeling satisfied with her clothing at last, stopped in front of a full-length mirror to see the ensemble. A plain white collared shirt under an argyle sweater vest was covered by a nicely fitted leather jacket, though she'd made sure there was enough room to move her arms around. She was also wearing a black, knee-length A-line skirt and black heels, while her legs were clad in neon-blue leggings. She nodded slowly, satisfied. "Yes, this will do nicely."
"Er, Doctor?" Abigail peered into the wardrobe room. She wrinkled her nose. "Are you sure about that?"
"Hm? Oh, do you think the heels are a bit much?" The Doctor lifted one of her legs to inspect her shoe. "Yes, I suppose that might present some problems while running away from hostile aliens, mightn't it? Only one way to find out for sure, though!" She began stamping her feet, at first in place in front of the mirror, then around the wardrobe room. Her every stomp landed with a thud that echoed around the room.
Abigail folded her arms and leaned against the doorway, watching in bemusement as the Doctor stomped her way around the room, until—
CRACK.
The Doctor barely stumbled when the heel of one of her shoes snapped off. "Good call! Not these, then!" Without another word, she kicked the shoes off to a corner and padded away in search of something else.
"Mad, you are," Abigail muttered.
"Madman with a box, I am!" the Doctor agreed cheerily, tugging on a pair of pink and orange polka-dotted socks. "At least, I was. I suppose I'm a madwoman now, aren't I? But that just doesn't have the same ring to it. I much prefer 'madman'. Rolls off the tongue nicely." She stuffed her feet into a pair of black combat boots. "What about now?" She held out her arms and turned for her companion's inspection.
"Well—" Abigail hesitated, then shrugged. "If people stare, it's going to be at you. Just a fair warning."
"Let them stare! They stare at me all the time!" the Doctor proclaimed. She looked down and realized her boots were unlaced, and she bent to correct that. "I wear combat boots now. Combat boots are cool—wait, no, that's what my old self said. I'm not him anymore! What am I saying?!"
"Doctor, you've never said that before," Abigail said, giving her a funny look.
"Oh, yes I have, that was just a me you haven't met."
"You mean you've done this before." Abigail dragged her hands down her face. "Of course you have. Don't know why I'm surprised, this isn't the weirdest thing that's happened today."
"Young lady, I am over two thousand years old! Of course I've done this before!" the Doctor snapped, stamping her feet to make sure her boots were on correctly.
"How many times, then?"
"Right, clothing's picked out, all that's left is to wait to be done cooking," the Doctor said, talking over Abigail. While she spoke, her long fingers were working her hair into a fishtail braid. "Anyone up for parcheesi? Hehe, that's a funny name for a funny game. Parcheesi. Parcheesi. Paaarcheeesi. So much more fun to say than Ludo!"
Abigail, not having any idea what to make of this, just nodded and smiled. She checked her phone; ten hours left.
This was going to be a long day.
A/N: To those of you who write fem!Doctor stories and put her in heels, I beg of you: go outside and pretend you're trying to save the world from aliens.
Bonus points if you don't twist your ankle at the end of the day.