if you are out to describe the truth, leave elegance to the tailor- for donna_human_no

[poeticnpedantic]

This Donna Noble, the Doctor had decided, was a harpy; vile-tempered, hot-headed, and decidedly intemperate.  Not to mention the sheer cheek of the girl!   The gall not only to criticise his sartorial sense but to mock his indisputably elegant way with words, and completely discount the wisdom he had to share about the universe.

... He could see why

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[donna_human_no]

Donna's eyes dart about the TARDIS curiously. It looked much the same on the outside, but this is... different.

"It's smaller," she remarks, finally, ignoring the Doctor quite completely.

[poeticnpedantic]

Given the frequency with which the Doctor hears the TARDIS greeted with an awestruck 'It's bigger on the inside!', that is, perhaps, the last comment he expects to hear, and he gapes for a moment at her. 'Smaller than what?' he finally sputter, indignant. 'She's dimensionally transcendental! Her interior is infinitely large, what do you mean "it's smaller"?'

The smug hand on the console turns into something more comforting. Ignore her, old girl, she doesn't know what she's talking about.

[donna_human_no]

"Just smaller than I'm used to, is all," she says this completely casually, shrugging her shoulders with an indifference that is not at all feigned. She walks over to the console and peers down at the controls.

"He'd been teaching me how to fly her, you know. Under a ridiculous amount of supervision, but still."

She reaches down to pat the console, a fond gesture honed on a ship that doesn't exist. Not yet.

"This is all different, though."

[poeticnpedantic]

Ah, the desktop theme, she must be talking about. He is, perhaps, a touch quick off the mark to leap to the defence of his ship, but there's nothing wrong with that. She's a beautiful, unique vessel, as everyone who travels in her ought to know.

... As Donna seems to know, as she's learning to fly the TARDIS?

Companions of his have learned some of the basics of piloting the ship in the past- Nyssa and Adric both had a fair grasp on it, but neither of them were human, and both had a far better grasp of high mathematics than someone from the 21st Century would have. He eyes her in much the same way he might a particularly intriguing equation or experiment.

'Is he indeed? And what has he- have I taught you?'

[donna_human_no]

A slow smile creeps across her face.

"Mainly how not to crash, I expect."

Her expression brightens as she glances up at him, deftly turning the subject back on him.

"But the real question is whether or not you can fly this thing. The Doctor I know can't seem to land where he means to even half the time."

[poeticnpedantic]

'Well, that's a place to start,' mutters the Doctor a trifle mutinously. As if he could somehow be resentful of his future self, which is frankly silly. (Not that that's ever stopped him before).

When Donna directs the subject back to him, he switches neatly to harrumphing indignance, as if on cue. Looks like the girl knows him already. 'Clearly,' he intones severely, eyebrows making a valiant effort to meet in the middle, 'my time and experience-honed skills must dull as I get older. Because I- and I mean I I- can pilot my TARDIS with pinpoint precision. You need but tell me where it is we're meant to be going, and I shall get us there precisely where and when I mean to.'

His track record isn't exactly perfect, of course, but there are extenuating circumstances to take into consideration. Outside interference, the TARDIS not liking the idea of landing in a particular place, circuits occasionally on the fritz... but none of those have anything to do with his piloting skills, which happen to be prodigious, thank you very much.

[donna_human_no]

"Well, if you're certain, perhaps you could get us to London sometime in the 21st century."

The tiny smile she levels at him suggests she has her doubts.

"That's London, England, Earth, mind you."

[poeticnpedantic]

The relevant switches and knobs and dials are easily turned and flicked and adjusted, the Doctor's cavalier manner suggesting he's done as much a thousand times before. Not that he's counted, but it's entirely likely that he has; 20th and 21st century England are some of the places he ends up visiting most often. Sometimes by choice, sometimes not, but it has been remarked on no few occasions that he displays an irrational fondness for Sol 3 and the little wet island of Great Britain.

That done, the eyebrow goes up again. 'Any chance you could be a trifle more specific? London covers quite a few miles, as I'm sure you know, and the 21st century any number of years, though judging by your clothes and vernacular, I'd say you're early days yet. Telling me to land in London in the 21st century is like asking someone to land, oh, on Mars, somewhere. The TARDIS is liable to end up anywhere without specific direction.'

[donna_human_no]

She gives him a look that would seem to suggest she in no way believes his navigational skills are in any way superior to those of the Doctor she knows. After all, that coat in no way inspires confidence -- which is the whole problem, anyway.

"Surely even you could find Harrods without too much direction."

She pauses for a moment to think.

"Will 'sometime in 2008 do,' or do I need to give you a precise date? Not Christmas."

[poeticnpedantic]

The ostentation and show with which he concludes his dial-toggling and switch-flicking is most likely entirely unnecessary, but it gets the job done, and with a lurch, the time rotor judders into life. Around them, the hum of engines ratchets up to a grinding groan, and the Doctor flashes Donna a positively coruscating grin. 'Harrods, London, England, Earth, 2008, sometime in... oh, let's say September, shall we? I'm in the mood for a crisp autumn afternoon

[donna_human_no]

Donna is not so steady on her feet during the trip -- and this TARDIS is lacking for the railings she's accustomed to. She holds on to the console as best she can and levels her best glare at the Doctor. When they land, her expression softens (a bit) as she circles the console to stand next to the Doctor and peer at the scanner (the excitement of exploration trumping annoyance). She shoots him a small, self-assured smile.

"When is still yet to be determined."

She heads towards the doors, flipping the switch to open them and then peering out, cautiously. A storage room, yes, piled with neatly arranged boxes and unused mannequins.

"It better not be Christmas, spaceman."

And she strolls out, not stopping to see if he's following.

[poeticnpedantic]

'I did say September,' begins the Doctor in an aggrieved tone, but Donna's marching past him without even waiting to catch his eye. Well, he supposes there's something about an assertive companion, and he follows her at a walk that quantitatively refuses to hurry to catch up to her

[donna_human_no]

"In my experience what you say and what actually happens can be a world apart."

She arches an eyebrow at the Doctor as he takes her arm, but... well... trusts him, she supposes, even if it's not the him she knows... enough not to do anything more. And then there they are, the Doctor leading them neatly through the crowds -- who, somehow, hardly seem to pay them any mind. Huh.

She glances about, catching her bearings and making an effort to gauge when, exactly, they are. Not Christmas, at least. And if the styles meeting her eyes are any indication, they can't be too far off their intended destination. Not that she needs to say anything about it. It would only go straight to his head, and he already looks entirely too smug.

So she gives his arm a tug. "This way."

[poeticnpedantic]

If he's already looking far too smug, it is, perhaps, because he's watching her as she looks around, deciding that perhaps she doesn't have anything to complain about. Hah, he had told her as much. Harridan. When she tugs on his arm, he doesn't precisely resist, but he does lift an eyebrow.

'And what, precisely, is this way?'

Dare he even ask? They are here, after all, on he promise of her clothing him in something more suitable, whatever that means.

[donna_human_no]

"You agreed," she reminds him crisply, tugging at his arm firmly. And if the smile on her face isn't the perfect picture of innocence, well, it's not as full of mischief as it might be, either.

"You agreed," she repeats, in a slow, patient tone one might use to explain something to a child. "...that you would come shopping and that we would find something--" she gives him a quick sideways glance "--more presentable to dress you in."

And the section of the store they find themselves in now is filled with displays of immaculately tailored suits in all colors and styles -- or at least all colors and styles that could be considered fashionable on Earth at the time, which is perfectly enough to Donna's mind.

"Here we are. Lovely!"

[poeticnpedantic]

Yes, he was aware of that, thank you. He had meant more specifically; how, after all, is he to know what Miss Donna Noble considers presentable? Suits, apparently, is the answer to that, and the Doctor takes in the racks surrounding them with a faint wrinkle to his nose. They're all the height of fashion, of course; sleek, well cut, fabric so expensive it could buy a small third world country, but they're all awfully plain. The Doctor is many things, of course, but plain is not, and never has been, one of them, and he firmly believes that his clothes should reflect that