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The Weird Of The White Witch

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Summary: The Doctor regenerates and things are, of course, never quite the same again. On this occasion, even more so than usual. Uberfic. Willow!Ten/Tara.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Dr. Who/Torchwood > Willow-CenteredRebeccaAshlingFR1543,2080143,11018 Feb 1210 Mar 12No

Chapter One: To The Land Of Nod

DISCLAIMER: "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" is owned by Joss Whedon and his corporate affiliates. "Doctor Who" is owned by the BBC and its corporate affiliates. The Daleks were created by the late Terry Nation and owned by his estate and its corporate affiliates. I own none of these properties and am writing this story for fun, not profit.
AUTHOR NOTE: The title is a riff on the title of the novel "The Weird Of The White Wolf" by Michael Moorcock. One of our greatest fantasy authors. Read him.


Chapter One: To The Land Of Nod

The Doctor found, as he had all too many times before, that regeneration was not a trivial matter. In point of fact, it had always been quite the event. It certainly bloody well hurt, something he had forgotten. But then, it damn well ought to be painful, it was his death after all. Sort of. His body and mind, possibly his soul too, dissolved into agonised, amber light, flowing and fluxing, writhing and wriggling. His old self was dissected and demolished, his constituents sifted and sorted, until out from the humongous phase space of all potential Doctors, a new Doctor was elected to the position, forged and annealed, woven and knitted together, then quenched and cast off, to fend for himself, ready to stand on his own two feet. Or not. He felt very giddy, very wobbly on his pins, tummy a bit queasy.

The Doctor's first act in his new incarnation was to squeak in panic, to reflexively clutch at his jeans as they slithered footwards. His kecks, also overlarge, soon followed their denimy associate at the Doctor's feet. This. Was. Mortifying. Hadn't he suffered enough trauma today? He scrounged up all of his available hauteur and tried to ignore, no, deny, definitely deny, the fruits of his embarassment. A common or garden cat was good at putting on the affronted I-DELIBERATELY-meant-to-lool-like-an-utter-prat-and-DON'T-YOU-DARE-suggest-otherwise lark. A Time Lord was more than just some mere moggie so he should be miles better at this. Right? RIGHT? Of course he was right! He was, after all else, the Doctor.

"Hello, okay." The Doctor absently wiggled his fingers in a little wave at a young woman watching him. He grinned at her. Reassuringly, he hoped. His mouth felt bigger in proportion to his face than it had been. He ran the tip of his tongue along his lips, exploring their new texture. Softer. "New lips, that's weird." He frowned in thoughtful consideration. "And new teeth to go with them." He widened his eyes as an alarming thought struck him. "My teeth are clean, aren't they? They have been flossed and stuff?" He scraped a fingernail along his upper gnashers to check. As smooth as a baby's bottom, no plaque.

"So, where was I?" The Doctor continued, as nonchalantly as he could under these undignified circumstances. "Oh, that's right. Barcelona!"

But which Barcelona? The capital of Catalunya, the city of Antoni Gaudi's never finished basilica, the Sagrada Familia? Or the planet where the dogs had no noses, and unimaginatively jokey tourists got torn to pieces by enraged locals? He honestly couldn't answer that question. Not that any of his memories had been lost, oh no. They were still there in his infinitely capacious Gallifreyan brain, refiled, recatalogued, reorganised. And without an index. This happened every time he regenerated, he couldn't find a sodding thing. It was a nuisance, really it was.

Like now, for instance. Who was that woman looking at him in consternation? Short, with golden-brown hair and greenish-bluey-grey eyes. Teeth gnawing on her lower lip as if chewing the cud. Giving the impression of an especially dim-witted bovine...

"Jo! Jo Grant! Josephine Grant!" exclaimed the Doctor triumphantly. Who else could it possibly be? Sweet girl, not that bright. "Hey, Jo!"

Beaming, the Doctor rushed forward to embrace his companion, unmindful of the trousers and underwear clogging his feet. His momentum body-slammed him on to the Tardis' deck, his face whamming in it an instant later. "Owie." he whimpered plaintively, before deciding that unconsciousness was perhaps, in this case, the better part of valour, and let himself be hurtled down like a meteor to the land of Nod.
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