Fic: The Week-End (3/4)
The Week-End (3/4)
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Three, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1564
Warnings: Feels
Author's Note: This chapter comes with an illustration and a song. The illustration is below, and the song is here.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
“Just a little further now,” the Doctor announced as they arrived at the foot of tall slope. “Brigadier, you’re bleeding.”
Blast, he thought, glancing down at the ugly gash on his arm. He had not even noticed.
“Must have been when I scratched it on one of those blasted bushes we passed through,” he frowned, stopping to examine his arm.
“Oh dear,” said the Doctor, testing the irritated skin with his fingertip, applying gentle pressure as though looking for something. “I probably should have mentioned that those bushes are toxic.”
“Yes, I’d say you bloody well should have,” snapped the Brigadier, eyes widening in surprise.
Just brilliant, he thought. Twenty proud years of military service, and how should he die? On holiday with his very special friend on the planet Lake District, felled by a pokey branch. He took a deep breath.
“How bad is it?” he asked gravely.
“Oh, nothing as bad as all that, old chap,” smiled the Doctor. “Might be a bit of swelling for the next few days, that’s all. Let me just get some antiseptic on it.”
The Brigadier heaved a sigh, half out of relief, two-thirds out of annoyance. He was not surprised to see the Doctor produce a small first aid kit from his ostensibly bottomless rucksack.
“Now, I should warn you that this will sting a little,” the Doctor said, moistening a small puff of absorbent cotton wool.
The Brigadier rolled his eyes. “No need to patronize me,” he replied. “If I can survive bullet wounds, I think I can survive an attack by a bit of soft cotton.”
In spite of himself, the Brigadier let out a small hiss of protest, grimacing slightly as the
antiseptic made contact with his broken skin. The Doctor quietly hummed a soothing, unfamiliar tune as he dabbed at the wound, gently holding the Brigadier’s arm with his other hand.
The Brigadier was loath to admit just how comforted he was by the contact.
“There we are,” announced the Doctor, smoothing a fresh bandage into place.
The Brigadier had casually noticed the Doctor’s tattoo, on those rare occasions he had his sleeves rolled; it was only here, however, that he allowed himself to wonder what it might mean. It would seem, thought the Brigadier, that in spite of their close - albeit sometimes trying - companionship, there were many things he still did not know about the Doctor, and, in turn, many things the Doctor did not know about him.
“Just what is the story of that tattoo of yours, if I may ask?” he ventured as they began their ascent.
“What, this?” replied the Doctor, glancing at his forearm. “Came with this new body of mine. Well, I guess you could call it a prison tattoo.”
“A planet-sized prison?” squinted the Brigadier. “That’s not very charitable of you, dear fellow.”
“Yes, and neither were the stuffy old fusspots who decided to strand me without a working TARDIS,” observed the Doctor, crossing his arms petulantly.
“It suits you, for what it’s worth,” he said, by way of some little consolation.
“Ah, well, thank you,” replied the Doctor, grinning to himself.
Being on Earth never seemed like a limitation to the Brigadier. Sometimes he forgot that the Doctor was accustomed to a range of travel so vast that, not long ago, it would have been impossible for the Brigadier to conceive of. As terrifying as it was as times, he was grateful to the Doctor for that knowledge.
---
“It’s getting late, don’t you think?” worried the Brigadier as they reached the top of the hill. “You do know we need to be back at HQ eventually.”
“My dear Lethbridge-Stewart, must you be so linear?” sighed the Doctor, laying a bright, soft blanket across the soft grass. “If you’d like, I could have us back at HQ a mere five minutes after we left.”
“That won’t be necessary,” replied the Brigadier. Time travel, of course, he thought. For all he knew they were visiting this planet in the year five trillion and six, and would be home in time for tea. That was, of course, if the Doctor did not overshoot their return by several weeks and the Brigadier found himself facing a court-martial for wandering off.
“Whatever you say,” shrugged the Doctor. “Just name a time, and I’ll have us back in time for it.”
“Just so long as we’re not back late, that will do,” eyerolled the Brigadier.
“You have my word,” grinned the Doctor, patting the blanket beside him.
“Yes,” smirked the Brigadier, sitting beside him, “for what it’s worth.”
“Tsk, cheeky!” replied the Doctor, feigning insult with a wink. “Now, let’s open up the picnic hamper, shall we?”
It was then that the Brigadier took a moment to survey their surroundings: a vast field of tall grass shimmered beneath them to the west, almost iridescent beneath the waning sun; to the east, fireflies glittered in and out of tall trees which swayed in the gentle breeze, as though performing an elaborate dance for the two of them alone.
“Incredible,” he whispered. The Doctor seemed to take no notice, instead opening the hamper, and placing its contents before them on the blanket.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” he asked, unwrapping a wedge of brie.
“Hmm? Oh, nothing,” flustered the Brigadier, feigning interest in their bottle of wine.
“You’ll like that red,” said the Doctor, handing him a corkscrew. “A handsome vintage, very dry, with an assertive personality, but a very kind heart.”
“Thank you Doctor,” he smiled.
---
The Doctor had rather slightly overestimated the amount of food the two of them could eat in the course of one picnic; nevertheless, the Brigadier had managed to polish off three miniature pork pies, half a baguette, most of a wedge of brie, rather a lot of prawn salad, heaps of tomatoes, more wine than sense, and a chutney and cheese on soft brioche.
“Judy Collins,” said the Brigadier, finishing his sandwich.
“Sorry?” blinked the Doctor, just about to bite into a cherry tomato.
“Judy Collins,” repeated the Brigadier. “Are you fond of her?”
“Is that the one who works in the canteen, short hair, big glasses?” he guessed. “Yes, very nice girl. You’re not thinking of asking her on a date, are you?”
“No, that’s Jodie, and she always puts too much mayonnaise in the egg sandwiches,” sighed the Brigadier. “Judy Collins is a singer. I have - had, rather - a few of her records. Lovely voice.”
“Had?” asked the Doctor.
“Fiona has them,” he elaborated.
“Ah, right,” said the Doctor. “Well, there’s no reason you couldn’t replace them. I’d love to hear them.”
“Quite,” agreed the Brigadier, allowing himself a small smile. “Gorgonzola, is it?”
The Doctor nodded. “You should try it with a bit of the pear,” he said.
---
Having finished off an abundance of sandwiches, cheese, fruits, vegetables, a lovely bit of foie gras, and an admittedly very moreish red wine, the Doctor announced with an almost worrying grin that it was time for pudding. Their pudding, it turned out, was an exceptionally good single malt. The Brigadier was already feeling the glow of a few glasses of wine and the sleepy satisfaction of having spent the day leisurely hiking across a foreign planet; a good dose of quality scotch was, it turned out, the perfect thing to finish off the evening. He was not sure at what point in the bottle that the conversation had turned to the awkwardly serious, but once it had, he was too fuzzy to steer it away with any skill.
“Tell me something, Doctor,” he began carefully, “did you invite me on this weekend because you felt bad about my divorce?”
“Not at all,” shrugged the Doctor. “Do you feel bad about your divorce?”
“Not especially,” replied the Brigadier, idly swirling the liquid in his glass, transfixed by the smooth waves. “As much as is to be expected, I suppose.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” agreed the Doctor, pouring himself a refill. “If you must know, I just wanted to show you this planet, dear chap. Besides, I am awfully fond of your company, you know.”
“Ah,” nodded the Brigadier with a small smile. “Well, I’m rather fond of you as well, as it happens.”
The Doctor nodded quietly, watching the lights of the fireflies twinkling through his glass.
“I do miss Kate,” the Brigadier continued, downing the last of his drink, relishing the smooth burn. “It feels as though she barely knows me. Now she just knows I don’t live with them anymore.”
“She knows you still love her,” the Doctor said softly.
“Does she, though?” the Brigadier was not so sure. He knew well enough how easy it would be for Kate to resent him for missing so many school plays and football matches and half her birthdays, and just the everyday, dinnertimes and bedtimes and Sunday breakfasts.
“She knows,” repeated the Doctor, placing a reassuring hand on the Brigadier’s arm. The Brigadier had not meant to become so maudlin. The single malt had been a bad idea. “Brigadier, have I ever told you about my granddaughter?”
Chapter Four
by me, doctorpancakes
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Three, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart
Rating: PG-13, this chapter
Word Count: 1564
Warnings: Feels
Author's Note: This chapter comes with an illustration and a song. The illustration is below, and the song is here.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
“Just a little further now,” the Doctor announced as they arrived at the foot of tall slope. “Brigadier, you’re bleeding.”
Blast, he thought, glancing down at the ugly gash on his arm. He had not even noticed.
“Must have been when I scratched it on one of those blasted bushes we passed through,” he frowned, stopping to examine his arm.
“Oh dear,” said the Doctor, testing the irritated skin with his fingertip, applying gentle pressure as though looking for something. “I probably should have mentioned that those bushes are toxic.”
“Yes, I’d say you bloody well should have,” snapped the Brigadier, eyes widening in surprise.
Just brilliant, he thought. Twenty proud years of military service, and how should he die? On holiday with his very special friend on the planet Lake District, felled by a pokey branch. He took a deep breath.
“How bad is it?” he asked gravely.
“Oh, nothing as bad as all that, old chap,” smiled the Doctor. “Might be a bit of swelling for the next few days, that’s all. Let me just get some antiseptic on it.”
The Brigadier heaved a sigh, half out of relief, two-thirds out of annoyance. He was not surprised to see the Doctor produce a small first aid kit from his ostensibly bottomless rucksack.
“Now, I should warn you that this will sting a little,” the Doctor said, moistening a small puff of absorbent cotton wool.
The Brigadier rolled his eyes. “No need to patronize me,” he replied. “If I can survive bullet wounds, I think I can survive an attack by a bit of soft cotton.”
In spite of himself, the Brigadier let out a small hiss of protest, grimacing slightly as the
antiseptic made contact with his broken skin. The Doctor quietly hummed a soothing, unfamiliar tune as he dabbed at the wound, gently holding the Brigadier’s arm with his other hand.
The Brigadier was loath to admit just how comforted he was by the contact.
“There we are,” announced the Doctor, smoothing a fresh bandage into place.
The Brigadier had casually noticed the Doctor’s tattoo, on those rare occasions he had his sleeves rolled; it was only here, however, that he allowed himself to wonder what it might mean. It would seem, thought the Brigadier, that in spite of their close - albeit sometimes trying - companionship, there were many things he still did not know about the Doctor, and, in turn, many things the Doctor did not know about him.
“Just what is the story of that tattoo of yours, if I may ask?” he ventured as they began their ascent.
“What, this?” replied the Doctor, glancing at his forearm. “Came with this new body of mine. Well, I guess you could call it a prison tattoo.”
“A planet-sized prison?” squinted the Brigadier. “That’s not very charitable of you, dear fellow.”
“Yes, and neither were the stuffy old fusspots who decided to strand me without a working TARDIS,” observed the Doctor, crossing his arms petulantly.
“It suits you, for what it’s worth,” he said, by way of some little consolation.
“Ah, well, thank you,” replied the Doctor, grinning to himself.
Being on Earth never seemed like a limitation to the Brigadier. Sometimes he forgot that the Doctor was accustomed to a range of travel so vast that, not long ago, it would have been impossible for the Brigadier to conceive of. As terrifying as it was as times, he was grateful to the Doctor for that knowledge.
---
“It’s getting late, don’t you think?” worried the Brigadier as they reached the top of the hill. “You do know we need to be back at HQ eventually.”
“My dear Lethbridge-Stewart, must you be so linear?” sighed the Doctor, laying a bright, soft blanket across the soft grass. “If you’d like, I could have us back at HQ a mere five minutes after we left.”
“That won’t be necessary,” replied the Brigadier. Time travel, of course, he thought. For all he knew they were visiting this planet in the year five trillion and six, and would be home in time for tea. That was, of course, if the Doctor did not overshoot their return by several weeks and the Brigadier found himself facing a court-martial for wandering off.
“Whatever you say,” shrugged the Doctor. “Just name a time, and I’ll have us back in time for it.”
“Just so long as we’re not back late, that will do,” eyerolled the Brigadier.
“You have my word,” grinned the Doctor, patting the blanket beside him.
“Yes,” smirked the Brigadier, sitting beside him, “for what it’s worth.”
“Tsk, cheeky!” replied the Doctor, feigning insult with a wink. “Now, let’s open up the picnic hamper, shall we?”
It was then that the Brigadier took a moment to survey their surroundings: a vast field of tall grass shimmered beneath them to the west, almost iridescent beneath the waning sun; to the east, fireflies glittered in and out of tall trees which swayed in the gentle breeze, as though performing an elaborate dance for the two of them alone.
“Incredible,” he whispered. The Doctor seemed to take no notice, instead opening the hamper, and placing its contents before them on the blanket.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” he asked, unwrapping a wedge of brie.
“Hmm? Oh, nothing,” flustered the Brigadier, feigning interest in their bottle of wine.
“You’ll like that red,” said the Doctor, handing him a corkscrew. “A handsome vintage, very dry, with an assertive personality, but a very kind heart.”
“Thank you Doctor,” he smiled.
---
The Doctor had rather slightly overestimated the amount of food the two of them could eat in the course of one picnic; nevertheless, the Brigadier had managed to polish off three miniature pork pies, half a baguette, most of a wedge of brie, rather a lot of prawn salad, heaps of tomatoes, more wine than sense, and a chutney and cheese on soft brioche.
“Judy Collins,” said the Brigadier, finishing his sandwich.
“Sorry?” blinked the Doctor, just about to bite into a cherry tomato.
“Judy Collins,” repeated the Brigadier. “Are you fond of her?”
“Is that the one who works in the canteen, short hair, big glasses?” he guessed. “Yes, very nice girl. You’re not thinking of asking her on a date, are you?”
“No, that’s Jodie, and she always puts too much mayonnaise in the egg sandwiches,” sighed the Brigadier. “Judy Collins is a singer. I have - had, rather - a few of her records. Lovely voice.”
“Had?” asked the Doctor.
“Fiona has them,” he elaborated.
“Ah, right,” said the Doctor. “Well, there’s no reason you couldn’t replace them. I’d love to hear them.”
“Quite,” agreed the Brigadier, allowing himself a small smile. “Gorgonzola, is it?”
The Doctor nodded. “You should try it with a bit of the pear,” he said.
---
Having finished off an abundance of sandwiches, cheese, fruits, vegetables, a lovely bit of foie gras, and an admittedly very moreish red wine, the Doctor announced with an almost worrying grin that it was time for pudding. Their pudding, it turned out, was an exceptionally good single malt. The Brigadier was already feeling the glow of a few glasses of wine and the sleepy satisfaction of having spent the day leisurely hiking across a foreign planet; a good dose of quality scotch was, it turned out, the perfect thing to finish off the evening. He was not sure at what point in the bottle that the conversation had turned to the awkwardly serious, but once it had, he was too fuzzy to steer it away with any skill.
“Tell me something, Doctor,” he began carefully, “did you invite me on this weekend because you felt bad about my divorce?”
“Not at all,” shrugged the Doctor. “Do you feel bad about your divorce?”
“Not especially,” replied the Brigadier, idly swirling the liquid in his glass, transfixed by the smooth waves. “As much as is to be expected, I suppose.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” agreed the Doctor, pouring himself a refill. “If you must know, I just wanted to show you this planet, dear chap. Besides, I am awfully fond of your company, you know.”
“Ah,” nodded the Brigadier with a small smile. “Well, I’m rather fond of you as well, as it happens.”
The Doctor nodded quietly, watching the lights of the fireflies twinkling through his glass.
“I do miss Kate,” the Brigadier continued, downing the last of his drink, relishing the smooth burn. “It feels as though she barely knows me. Now she just knows I don’t live with them anymore.”
“She knows you still love her,” the Doctor said softly.
“Does she, though?” the Brigadier was not so sure. He knew well enough how easy it would be for Kate to resent him for missing so many school plays and football matches and half her birthdays, and just the everyday, dinnertimes and bedtimes and Sunday breakfasts.
“She knows,” repeated the Doctor, placing a reassuring hand on the Brigadier’s arm. The Brigadier had not meant to become so maudlin. The single malt had been a bad idea. “Brigadier, have I ever told you about my granddaughter?”
Chapter Four