Fic: Gather Ye Rosebuds
Gather Ye Rosebuds
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, Mike Yates
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1035
Warnings: subtext Speyside single malt scotch
Author's Note: The title comes from a poem by Robert Herrick, which, while not about the same thing as this fic, thematically sort of tied in enough that I decided since I needed a title, what the heck. How's that for a vote of confidence? This is set somewhere before Mawdryn Undead. Uhh, don't think too hard about what year it technically is here, or you'll give yourself a headache.
The garden was modest, but well-tended; indeed, the Brigadier nearly felt a pang of jealousy at the state of the runner beans. A few stalks of rhubarb poked out from their bed, and nasturtiums and zinnias lined the garden path in playful shades of pink, yellow, and red. The quince tree that stood in the centre of the garden was barely a sapling, but in a good season or two’s time, it would surely bear fruit. He had never known Mike Yates to be such a keen gardener, but then, he supposed, there was not much call for gardening skills at UNIT. Their place had been to defend, and sometimes to destroy, but never to nurture.
He hoped that he might have a chance at a little garden of his own.
Somehow, it felt right to deliver the news in person; somehow, the telephone seemed altogether too impersonal. Perhaps, he thought, it had just been too long since the last time they had sat down and had a drink. He drew in a deep breath, and knocked at the door.
Mike looked better: his hair was longer, in that way that the Brigadier supposed was the fashion for those sorts of groovy rock and roll chaps he had never had the time to understand, but Mike looked at home in corduroy. In ways the Brigadier could not quite place, Mike looked more like himself than he ever had in UNIT.
“Hello, Brigadier,” he said fondly, with a warm handshake. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, Mike,” replied the Brigadier. “Nice house.”
“Thanks,” said Mike, ushering the Brigadier into a small, comfortable sitting room. “Fancy a drink, sir?”
“I certainly wouldn’t say no,” the Brigadier grinned, reclining into a soft brown chair. The room was warm and filled with light: a cluster of potted plants sat by the window, and a stack of art books sat on a small, dark wooden table.
“I tried making my own sloe gin once, you know,” Mike recalled, fetching two glasses from the cabinet.
“Oh?” The Brigadier raised an eyebrow at him.
“I made a mess,” Mike replied with a shrug, handing the Brigadier a drink. “Don’t worry, I promise the scotch isn’t homemade.”
“Thank heavens for that,” chuckled the Brigadier, taking a grateful sip. It was earthy and almost sweet, a fine vintage indeed.
“So tell me,” said Mike, settling into the other chair, “is this purely a social call, or have you come to recruit me for some top-secret business? Is the Doctor back?”
“I’m retiring from UNIT,” he said, as matter-of-factly as he could. He was grateful for the ease with which matters of fact came to him.
“Oh,” said Mike. He looked surprised, but that was to be expected; after all, it was surprising news. The Brigadier had almost surprised himself when he made the decision. “Have you come to ask me to congratulate you, or talk you out of it?”
“I’ve accepted a teaching post at Brendon Academy,” he continued. “Mathematics, of all things.”
Mike scoffed. “What, you, chasing after a bunch of snotty teenage boys all day?” he asked.
“Mike, really,” replied the Brigadier, raising an eyebrow at his friend. “If I can handle Autons, Yeti, any number of blasted alien invasions, I think I can handle two dozen unruly teenagers.”
“I don’t doubt it for a minute.” Mike drew a thoughtful breath, setting his drink on the table. “But aren’t you afraid you’ll get bored, sir?”
“For God’s sake, man, this isn’t UNIT HQ,” sighed the Brigadier. “You know you don’t have to call me sir anymore. I do have a first name.”
Mike chuckled. “Old habits die hard, sir,” he said. “I mean Brig - I mean, Alistair. Oh, this is weird.”
It was weird. They had seen each other only infrequently since the incident with the dinosaurs some years before: whether this was out of a sense of guilt on Mike’s part, or his own uncertainty of how to approach the whole affair, the Brigadier could not say. He had never been angry with Mike, not really: surprised, perhaps, and concerned, certainly, but never angry. He hoped Mike knew that. He downed the last half or so of his drink in one good slug, bracing himself against the smooth warmth.
“I might get bored, I really can’t say,” mused the Brigadier, watching little twinkles of light catch the sliver of amber that coated the bottom of Mike’s glass as he turned it in his hands. “It’s time, my dear fellow. Old soldiers, and all that.”
“You’ll miss it,” he said, holding the Brigadier’s gaze, “if you don’t already. I know I could never have done it again, and I love what I do here, and my home, but... if I know you at all, Alistair, I know you’re going to miss it.”
“Quite possibly,” replied the Brigadier, with a sigh. “How about you? Do you miss it?”
“I miss you,” Mike said softly. “and... Benton, Jo, Corporal Bell and her dirty jokes. And the Doctor, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed the Brigadier, with a quiet nod. It was out of instinct far more than volition when his hand inched outward toward Mike’s, and joined them with a light squeeze. Mike looked surprised. “Dammit Mike, I’ve missed you too.”
“Do you remember Devil’s End?” asked Mike. He looked serene, thought the Brigadier. He looked happy.
“Of course I do, old chap,” said the Brigadier. “You don’t honestly expect me to forget something like Devil’s End, do you? I may be an old soldier, but I’m not that old.”
As if he could have forgotten Devil’s End, he thought. The Brigadier was sure there was no chance of ever forgetting the things he had seen and done with UNIT.
Mike grinned. “I was just remembering that you still owe me a dance, sir,” he said.
“Is that so, Captain Yates? Do I really, now?” The Brigadier could not help but smile. “I think you should ask me again after another drink.”
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, Mike Yates
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1035
Warnings: subtext Speyside single malt scotch
Author's Note: The title comes from a poem by Robert Herrick, which, while not about the same thing as this fic, thematically sort of tied in enough that I decided since I needed a title, what the heck. How's that for a vote of confidence? This is set somewhere before Mawdryn Undead. Uhh, don't think too hard about what year it technically is here, or you'll give yourself a headache.
The garden was modest, but well-tended; indeed, the Brigadier nearly felt a pang of jealousy at the state of the runner beans. A few stalks of rhubarb poked out from their bed, and nasturtiums and zinnias lined the garden path in playful shades of pink, yellow, and red. The quince tree that stood in the centre of the garden was barely a sapling, but in a good season or two’s time, it would surely bear fruit. He had never known Mike Yates to be such a keen gardener, but then, he supposed, there was not much call for gardening skills at UNIT. Their place had been to defend, and sometimes to destroy, but never to nurture.
He hoped that he might have a chance at a little garden of his own.
Somehow, it felt right to deliver the news in person; somehow, the telephone seemed altogether too impersonal. Perhaps, he thought, it had just been too long since the last time they had sat down and had a drink. He drew in a deep breath, and knocked at the door.
Mike looked better: his hair was longer, in that way that the Brigadier supposed was the fashion for those sorts of groovy rock and roll chaps he had never had the time to understand, but Mike looked at home in corduroy. In ways the Brigadier could not quite place, Mike looked more like himself than he ever had in UNIT.
“Hello, Brigadier,” he said fondly, with a warm handshake. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, Mike,” replied the Brigadier. “Nice house.”
“Thanks,” said Mike, ushering the Brigadier into a small, comfortable sitting room. “Fancy a drink, sir?”
“I certainly wouldn’t say no,” the Brigadier grinned, reclining into a soft brown chair. The room was warm and filled with light: a cluster of potted plants sat by the window, and a stack of art books sat on a small, dark wooden table.
“I tried making my own sloe gin once, you know,” Mike recalled, fetching two glasses from the cabinet.
“Oh?” The Brigadier raised an eyebrow at him.
“I made a mess,” Mike replied with a shrug, handing the Brigadier a drink. “Don’t worry, I promise the scotch isn’t homemade.”
“Thank heavens for that,” chuckled the Brigadier, taking a grateful sip. It was earthy and almost sweet, a fine vintage indeed.
“So tell me,” said Mike, settling into the other chair, “is this purely a social call, or have you come to recruit me for some top-secret business? Is the Doctor back?”
“I’m retiring from UNIT,” he said, as matter-of-factly as he could. He was grateful for the ease with which matters of fact came to him.
“Oh,” said Mike. He looked surprised, but that was to be expected; after all, it was surprising news. The Brigadier had almost surprised himself when he made the decision. “Have you come to ask me to congratulate you, or talk you out of it?”
“I’ve accepted a teaching post at Brendon Academy,” he continued. “Mathematics, of all things.”
Mike scoffed. “What, you, chasing after a bunch of snotty teenage boys all day?” he asked.
“Mike, really,” replied the Brigadier, raising an eyebrow at his friend. “If I can handle Autons, Yeti, any number of blasted alien invasions, I think I can handle two dozen unruly teenagers.”
“I don’t doubt it for a minute.” Mike drew a thoughtful breath, setting his drink on the table. “But aren’t you afraid you’ll get bored, sir?”
“For God’s sake, man, this isn’t UNIT HQ,” sighed the Brigadier. “You know you don’t have to call me sir anymore. I do have a first name.”
Mike chuckled. “Old habits die hard, sir,” he said. “I mean Brig - I mean, Alistair. Oh, this is weird.”
It was weird. They had seen each other only infrequently since the incident with the dinosaurs some years before: whether this was out of a sense of guilt on Mike’s part, or his own uncertainty of how to approach the whole affair, the Brigadier could not say. He had never been angry with Mike, not really: surprised, perhaps, and concerned, certainly, but never angry. He hoped Mike knew that. He downed the last half or so of his drink in one good slug, bracing himself against the smooth warmth.
“I might get bored, I really can’t say,” mused the Brigadier, watching little twinkles of light catch the sliver of amber that coated the bottom of Mike’s glass as he turned it in his hands. “It’s time, my dear fellow. Old soldiers, and all that.”
“You’ll miss it,” he said, holding the Brigadier’s gaze, “if you don’t already. I know I could never have done it again, and I love what I do here, and my home, but... if I know you at all, Alistair, I know you’re going to miss it.”
“Quite possibly,” replied the Brigadier, with a sigh. “How about you? Do you miss it?”
“I miss you,” Mike said softly. “and... Benton, Jo, Corporal Bell and her dirty jokes. And the Doctor, of course.”
“Of course,” agreed the Brigadier, with a quiet nod. It was out of instinct far more than volition when his hand inched outward toward Mike’s, and joined them with a light squeeze. Mike looked surprised. “Dammit Mike, I’ve missed you too.”
“Do you remember Devil’s End?” asked Mike. He looked serene, thought the Brigadier. He looked happy.
“Of course I do, old chap,” said the Brigadier. “You don’t honestly expect me to forget something like Devil’s End, do you? I may be an old soldier, but I’m not that old.”
As if he could have forgotten Devil’s End, he thought. The Brigadier was sure there was no chance of ever forgetting the things he had seen and done with UNIT.
Mike grinned. “I was just remembering that you still owe me a dance, sir,” he said.
“Is that so, Captain Yates? Do I really, now?” The Brigadier could not help but smile. “I think you should ask me again after another drink.”