"The Old Soldier
Title: The Old Soldier
Fandom(s): Doctor Who
Characters: Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, Eleventh Doctor
Pairing(s): None
Rating: G
Genre: Adventure
Word Count: 784
Summary: The Brigadier Alistair doesn't feel all that useful anymore.
As he settled himself into the uncomfortable chair of painted metal filigree and wrestled with the plastic lid locked over the lip of his disposable paper cup of tea, Alistair drew in a great breath and sighed. Doris loved the fancy coffees these new trendy American cafés offered, but he couldn’t see it himself. Ordering a simple cuppa was a jumble of choices - tall or short... black or herbal...a shelf-full of blends... sugar, lemon, milk… and that opened another can of worms: whole, skimmed, semi-skimmed, soy, or what-have-you, he couldn’t keep track of it all. Time was when a man could order tea and a steaming cuppa would be presented to him, no questions asked.
Everything had been so much simpler at UNIT. He hadn’t even had to ask for tea there: they’d known his daily routine down to the minute, so a corporal would scuttle in with a cup prepared to his liking at the right moment and he could accept the refreshment and continue to concentrate on defending the kingdom and the planet with little interruption. Nowadays, someone else was fighting off the aliens and uncovering the infernal plots against the human race, while he… Well, while I’m left to get my own tea.
The world was moving on without him. Even he must acknowledge the popularity of this new-fangled style of café, evident from his being forced to take the only empty table in the outdoor seating to wait for his wife, crammed in the corner against the wrought-iron fencing that fronted the pavement. He fiddled with the lid of the cup, finally managing to remove it without spilling any of the steaming liquid, and took a long draw before dropping it back on the table with a sigh. Perhaps all this would be worth it if the tea were any good.
“Ah! Yes! You. Here. Now. Good.”
Startled by the voice behind him, he turned to face a young boffin leaning over the railing, his nose inches from his own. His floppy hair hung into his eyes and his fingers twitched restlessly against the black iron.
“Excuse me, young man,” Alistair barked. “You will step back to a respectful distance. This table is taken.”
The man glanced at the table, making no move to withdraw. “Is it? Crafty rogues ‘round here, nicking tables and leaving them right where they found them.” He reached over the fence and rapped the metal surface smartly. “Or do you mean it will be? You’re always one step ahead, aren’t you? Always been. So will you have the constable here to prevent it, or let it be taken so that they can nab the vast syndicate of table thieves?”
“What in the blazes are you on about?” the old soldier roared. He had never put up with such nonsense while he served Queen and country, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“Never mind that. Retired, aren’t you? Living in a cosy bungalow up the road, oh, thataway?” The man spun almost all the way around on his heel, the tail of his tweed jacket flaring out, and pointed.
Bemused by the machine-gunned questions, Alistair murmured a “yes” then frowned. “Who are you? How do you know where I live?”
The man ignored him. “Good, good. I’ve got to run - giant centipede to catch… a few of ‘em, really - but you know, just because you aren’t there doesn’t mean you aren’t doing good work. Just on a smaller scale, maybe in just one place or for just one person, perhaps for one very important person.” Winking, he poked Alistair in the chest. “And it doesn’t mean you won’t do more. Because I have a feeling you will. Not too long now.” He clapped, then clicked with both hands. “Right. Must run. Pitter-patter of tiny feet. Well, more like climpy-clompy of enormous feet. A lot of them. Hundreds of really big feet.” He dashed off without another word.
Alistair settled back in his chair and took another long draught of barely passable tea. “Odd chap,” he mused out loud, but the man had put him in mind of a dear old friend - long gone; he hadn't seen him in, what, thirteen years now? - whose cryptic advice had always been incisive and spot-on, if you could figure out what he was saying at all. He had to admit that this time, it hadn’t been all that cryptic.
Scraping his chair back the scant inches he could, Alistair pushed himself to his feet, the table providing firm leverage. “I ought to get a cuppa for Doris. Coffee. One of those coffees,” he murmured to himself as he threaded his way between the tables back into the café.
Fandom(s): Doctor Who
Characters: Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, Eleventh Doctor
Pairing(s): None
Rating: G
Genre: Adventure
Word Count: 784
Summary: The Brigadier Alistair doesn't feel all that useful anymore.
As he settled himself into the uncomfortable chair of painted metal filigree and wrestled with the plastic lid locked over the lip of his disposable paper cup of tea, Alistair drew in a great breath and sighed. Doris loved the fancy coffees these new trendy American cafés offered, but he couldn’t see it himself. Ordering a simple cuppa was a jumble of choices - tall or short... black or herbal...a shelf-full of blends... sugar, lemon, milk… and that opened another can of worms: whole, skimmed, semi-skimmed, soy, or what-have-you, he couldn’t keep track of it all. Time was when a man could order tea and a steaming cuppa would be presented to him, no questions asked.
Everything had been so much simpler at UNIT. He hadn’t even had to ask for tea there: they’d known his daily routine down to the minute, so a corporal would scuttle in with a cup prepared to his liking at the right moment and he could accept the refreshment and continue to concentrate on defending the kingdom and the planet with little interruption. Nowadays, someone else was fighting off the aliens and uncovering the infernal plots against the human race, while he… Well, while I’m left to get my own tea.
The world was moving on without him. Even he must acknowledge the popularity of this new-fangled style of café, evident from his being forced to take the only empty table in the outdoor seating to wait for his wife, crammed in the corner against the wrought-iron fencing that fronted the pavement. He fiddled with the lid of the cup, finally managing to remove it without spilling any of the steaming liquid, and took a long draw before dropping it back on the table with a sigh. Perhaps all this would be worth it if the tea were any good.
“Ah! Yes! You. Here. Now. Good.”
Startled by the voice behind him, he turned to face a young boffin leaning over the railing, his nose inches from his own. His floppy hair hung into his eyes and his fingers twitched restlessly against the black iron.
“Excuse me, young man,” Alistair barked. “You will step back to a respectful distance. This table is taken.”
The man glanced at the table, making no move to withdraw. “Is it? Crafty rogues ‘round here, nicking tables and leaving them right where they found them.” He reached over the fence and rapped the metal surface smartly. “Or do you mean it will be? You’re always one step ahead, aren’t you? Always been. So will you have the constable here to prevent it, or let it be taken so that they can nab the vast syndicate of table thieves?”
“What in the blazes are you on about?” the old soldier roared. He had never put up with such nonsense while he served Queen and country, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“Never mind that. Retired, aren’t you? Living in a cosy bungalow up the road, oh, thataway?” The man spun almost all the way around on his heel, the tail of his tweed jacket flaring out, and pointed.
Bemused by the machine-gunned questions, Alistair murmured a “yes” then frowned. “Who are you? How do you know where I live?”
The man ignored him. “Good, good. I’ve got to run - giant centipede to catch… a few of ‘em, really - but you know, just because you aren’t there doesn’t mean you aren’t doing good work. Just on a smaller scale, maybe in just one place or for just one person, perhaps for one very important person.” Winking, he poked Alistair in the chest. “And it doesn’t mean you won’t do more. Because I have a feeling you will. Not too long now.” He clapped, then clicked with both hands. “Right. Must run. Pitter-patter of tiny feet. Well, more like climpy-clompy of enormous feet. A lot of them. Hundreds of really big feet.” He dashed off without another word.
Alistair settled back in his chair and took another long draught of barely passable tea. “Odd chap,” he mused out loud, but the man had put him in mind of a dear old friend - long gone; he hadn't seen him in, what, thirteen years now? - whose cryptic advice had always been incisive and spot-on, if you could figure out what he was saying at all. He had to admit that this time, it hadn’t been all that cryptic.
Scraping his chair back the scant inches he could, Alistair pushed himself to his feet, the table providing firm leverage. “I ought to get a cuppa for Doris. Coffee. One of those coffees,” he murmured to himself as he threaded his way between the tables back into the café.