Disclaimer: my brother once had a job as a newspaper photographer's assistant, otherwise I neither know or own anything here.
A/N: progress is slow on my other fic, so I'm playing with a different AU.
A/N2: I was inspired by a beautiful Crowley manip created by satiaentreri on tumblr. Shame I can't link to it here.

Part 1

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When Donna Noble had been told by the temping agency that her next assignment was for a fashion photographer, she had immediately thought she would be knee-deep in designer handbags or footwear. Bring it on! Especially if it meant getting freebies.

Okay, the freebies had been her paramount thought, let's be honest here. She had visualised working for someone like Miranda in "The Devil Wears Prada", with all the available accessories. A bitchy boss would be a doddle since it they weren't exactly thin on the ground.

Fortunately, Daniel Masterson was a sweetheart compared to most of the temporary bosses she had endured. Being his PA was easy as long as you were professional and efficient. Qualities his photographic assistant often had difficulties with.

In fact, the little weasel was demonstrating his underwhelming qualifications that day by not being well, thus forcing her to help out. Now if it'd been the bags and shoes she had previously envisioned, she would not have complained much. But Daniel Masterson was a fashion photographer who worked with real, life models of the people kind.

Over the past couple of weeks, she had dealt with several of these models. They may be known as 'the beautiful people' but in her experience they were, in fact, whiny brats. Since when had she become a slave to someone who wouldn't, couldn't do up their own buttons, or pick up a flipping drink? And that was before they made remarks within her hearing about her larger size. In relating her tales to her family at night she had, to her former disgust, referred to them as 'the Skinnies'.

To add to her usual disgust, she had found out that morning that the normal photography assistant wasn't feeling well, so she'd been commandeered into helping out with dressing the models. Ugh! Daniel could smile at her all he wanted; it did not endear her to the task. Could this job get any worse?

At eleven o'clock because, god forbid that they actually got up at a normal time, the models arrived for the photoshoot. Daniel bounced about in excitement, ready to get on with his creative day. But Donna's interest perked up a little bit when it emerged that todays fashion models were all males.

Well, that certainly made a pleasant change. No doubt they were too young for her, as breakable as twigs, and probably on the other bus, but they definitely gave her something to look at. She ticked off each model on the photoshoot sheet for the prominent men's magazine on her clipboard.

There was one name unaccounted for. Oh. She turned to ask someone if they knew where he'd got to, when the door opened and a tall, slim man sauntered in unapologetically. Her gaze swept upwards, from his bare feet, across his cream linen suit, to land on his long hair. Long, luxurious, ginger hair. She'd never seen anything like him before and the effect was stunning.

"Are you John Smith, by any chance?" she asked him as he ignored her to join the other models.

"Of course," he replied, glaring at her for not knowing. She was of little consequence to him, and he turned his attention to the others and the rack of clothing before them.

So Donna stepped into his path, determined to get his attention. "Excuse me, but I have the information you need," she pointed out. To her discomfort, he was already stripping off his clothing to reveal a nicely toned body. And why was she so enchanted by him flipping his hair about? She mentally shook herself for being so stupid; and remembered there was a detail that needed ironing out. "It says here," she said, pointing to her clipboard, "that there is a slight discrepancy. Can I talk to you in private about it?"

"You can talk here," he answered dispassionately as he lowered his trousers, revealing tight white pants that gave her a very pleasing view of his backside. Standing up again, he asked, "What did you want to know?"

Giving a tiny cough to clear her suddenly constricted throat, she replied in a much quieter voice, "Your contact details give the name of a company. When I double checked who that is, it turns out that they are a detective agency. Is that right? Do you want us to pay you via a detective agency?"

He moved closer to answer, giving her an unrequested waft of his expensive aftershave as he did so. Wow, did he smell nice, she thought. Then his warm amber eyes bore into her, his mouth set in a tight line to denote his conceit. "Just pay who it says on the paper and stop wasting my time."

"But..." she tried again to question this in case it was an error.

"No buts. Do your job, and I'll do mine. I don't have time to deal with some bint who can't read properly," he growled.

Of all the cheek! "Rightio," she said, adding a little symbol to her paperwork over his name. John Smith was officially marked as a prat. "I'll add some charm lessons to your Christmas list, and a pig's trough for your lunch to go with your sexism."

"Why you-!" he fumed, ready to give her a mouthful of abuse. "Do you have any idea who I am?!"

"Yes. You're a man stood in his underpants, waiting for me to dress him. Like a baby," she mocked.

"I could get you fired for this!" he threatened, but Daniel called across to them at that precise moment.

"Everything alright over there? Hurry up John. We need you in the tweed jacket within the next thirty seconds."

With his nostrils flaring, John glared at her as he requested, "The tweed outfit, if you please."

Knowing she had sufficiently got to him, she silently complied by handing over the relevant shirt before passing the trousers and jacket.