Savile Row [Ten, Martha, 578 words]
Ten, buying a suit, for sloganeer
title: Savile Row
author: Sabine
size: 578 words
category: Ten, Martha, gen
The blue suit got bloodstained, toxic sucking alien blood, so Martha took him shopping.
They went back to London, but snuck in about a year before Martha’d left hoping she wouldn’t feel compelled to visit her folks and screw with the timeline. Now it’s London, 2005, and the department stores are right where Martha remembered them, and the dollar value’s close enough for her to feel right at home.
“So somewhere out there there’s another me, yeah? Going to class, working in the hospital, seeing my mum for dinner maybe…”
“Yep,” says the Doctor. “And we’re going to stay far, far away from anyone here who might carry the name Jones.”
“We’re gonna buy you a suit, is what we’re doing,” Martha says, and she takes his arm and leads him into the Norton and Sons on Savile Row.
“Got anything lined with that nice flannel?” the Doctor asks the tailor. “Gets chilly where I come from.”
The tailor, a tiny, ginger-haired bloke squinting behind thick, wire rimmed specs, pulls out a tape measure and orders the Doctor to strip down to his skivvies and touch his toes, and any last bit of regret Martha might have had for not being able to see her family is immediately replaced with the swelling thrill of lust. The Doctor stands again, and his chest rises and falls with each breath, and Martha has to resist the urge to run her hands down that long, lean Time Lord frame.
Sixteen measurements later, the Doctor’s dispatched to put his clothes back on, and when he zips up his pants he throws Martha a wink, conspiratorial, and she can feel herself flush.
“I want pockets,” says the Doctor, while the tailor scribbles notes. “Some of those hidden pockets, good for bits of space junk and matchbooks, you know?”
The tailor snuffs and makes more notes.
“And one pocket just for me,” says the Doctor. “Put it anywhere you like, just make sure it’s bigger on the inside.”
Now the tailor looks at Martha, who laughs and shrugs. “I sold him on the idea of bespoke,” she says. “Told him he could get anything he wants.”
Six weeks later they return in the TARDIS to pick up the suit, a deep grey flannel that hugs the Doctor’s body in all the right places, and before he makes Martha pay the man the Doctor inspects every inch, tracing seams with his sonic screwdriver. Excited, he waves for Martha to come over.
“It’s bigger on the inside!” he says, showing her a pocket tucked into the lining. “Look!”
He shoves his sonic screwdriver in the pocket, then Martha’s wallet, then his glasses and tie. This time the tailor winks.
“Made to measure,” says the tailor.
They pay, and then, decked out in his new finery, the Doctor and Martha hit the town to find a chip shop and watch the humans who haven’t been to space yet and probably never will.
“How d’ya think he did it?” Martha asks, pulling open the Doctor’s jacket so she can pull out her wallet. She feels his warm breath on the back of her neck as she ducks her head.
“Ohhh, you Londoners,” says the Doctor, dismissively. “You’ve got your own sort of magic.”
Martha raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” says the Doctor. He eats a chip and turns to look out the window before he says, “Haven’t gotten anything from London yet that wasn’t just what I wanted.”
title: Savile Row
author: Sabine
size: 578 words
category: Ten, Martha, gen
The blue suit got bloodstained, toxic sucking alien blood, so Martha took him shopping.
They went back to London, but snuck in about a year before Martha’d left hoping she wouldn’t feel compelled to visit her folks and screw with the timeline. Now it’s London, 2005, and the department stores are right where Martha remembered them, and the dollar value’s close enough for her to feel right at home.
“So somewhere out there there’s another me, yeah? Going to class, working in the hospital, seeing my mum for dinner maybe…”
“Yep,” says the Doctor. “And we’re going to stay far, far away from anyone here who might carry the name Jones.”
“We’re gonna buy you a suit, is what we’re doing,” Martha says, and she takes his arm and leads him into the Norton and Sons on Savile Row.
“Got anything lined with that nice flannel?” the Doctor asks the tailor. “Gets chilly where I come from.”
The tailor, a tiny, ginger-haired bloke squinting behind thick, wire rimmed specs, pulls out a tape measure and orders the Doctor to strip down to his skivvies and touch his toes, and any last bit of regret Martha might have had for not being able to see her family is immediately replaced with the swelling thrill of lust. The Doctor stands again, and his chest rises and falls with each breath, and Martha has to resist the urge to run her hands down that long, lean Time Lord frame.
Sixteen measurements later, the Doctor’s dispatched to put his clothes back on, and when he zips up his pants he throws Martha a wink, conspiratorial, and she can feel herself flush.
“I want pockets,” says the Doctor, while the tailor scribbles notes. “Some of those hidden pockets, good for bits of space junk and matchbooks, you know?”
The tailor snuffs and makes more notes.
“And one pocket just for me,” says the Doctor. “Put it anywhere you like, just make sure it’s bigger on the inside.”
Now the tailor looks at Martha, who laughs and shrugs. “I sold him on the idea of bespoke,” she says. “Told him he could get anything he wants.”
Six weeks later they return in the TARDIS to pick up the suit, a deep grey flannel that hugs the Doctor’s body in all the right places, and before he makes Martha pay the man the Doctor inspects every inch, tracing seams with his sonic screwdriver. Excited, he waves for Martha to come over.
“It’s bigger on the inside!” he says, showing her a pocket tucked into the lining. “Look!”
He shoves his sonic screwdriver in the pocket, then Martha’s wallet, then his glasses and tie. This time the tailor winks.
“Made to measure,” says the tailor.
They pay, and then, decked out in his new finery, the Doctor and Martha hit the town to find a chip shop and watch the humans who haven’t been to space yet and probably never will.
“How d’ya think he did it?” Martha asks, pulling open the Doctor’s jacket so she can pull out her wallet. She feels his warm breath on the back of her neck as she ducks her head.
“Ohhh, you Londoners,” says the Doctor, dismissively. “You’ve got your own sort of magic.”
Martha raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” says the Doctor. He eats a chip and turns to look out the window before he says, “Haven’t gotten anything from London yet that wasn’t just what I wanted.”