Composure was a natural imperative for a Time Lord, the ability to keep ones wits about them in compromising situations could prove an unparalleled ally when called for. Nine hundred years of dutiful practice and the Doctor had become something of an old pro. Not surprisingly, this caused certain social interactions, specifically those that dealt with unpredictable human sensitivities, to grow quite awkward at times. He was familiar with the territory to be sure, after spending all of those years with various human companions it was only a matter of time before their sentimental disposition started to bleed off on him.
It was much easier remaining indifferent, but Rose Tyler had a knack for throwing his chatty act of misdirection straight into the rubbish bin. There were no valiant feats of self-preservation attempted in her presence, because he'd done it all before and it simply didn't work anymore.
That didn't make their current predicament any less difficult to suffer through, however, and so there he sat, his plastic fork stabbing distractedly at a neglected pile of chips in a newspaper wrapped basket on the table. His attention didn't leave the greasy food in front of him, instead he seemed too fascinated by the motion his utensil was making to look up and notice the withdrawn girl across from him. He was disappointed and just a little bit perturbed by the appearance of his previous incarnation. First there was the meta-crisis and now big ears and that filthy leather jacket he'd loved so much. It was too much too soon and quite frankly, he was growing tired of himself.
The initial fear of an impending paradox had subsided and now all he was left with was the sour taste in his mouth. Happiness didn't seem to be possible for very long when it came to Rose, he always found a way to muck it up good and proper, even when he wasn't trying. Ever since they'd parted ways with Jack, Ianto and himself, she'd become taciturn and inaccessible toward him. The presence of her first Doctor was no doubt unsettling and he imagined it had opened up old wounds, but there was little he could do to comfort her on the matter beyond simple understanding.
His fork pierced a fried chip from the basket, wrist twisting enough to raise it to eye level, where he considered it solemnly. Rose slowly bled into focus over the speared piece of food, her arms crossed and looking miserable as ever. He hated that he was so bad at this, that conversation with Rose had somehow lost its comfort and ease.
“Not quite the same as London,” he murmured conversationally, indicating the chip—French fries, they called them here, not chips. They served them with ketchup instead of malt vinegar. One less familiarity and while he knew it irrational and silly, it bothered him.