Fic: No Expectations (alt!John Benton/alt!Liz Shaw)
Title: No Expectations
Author: safcooper
Pairings: alt!John Benton/alt!Liz Shaw
Rating: PG
Words: ~950
Summary: Without the Doctor, all they have is each other.
Notes: Based on the Doctor Who Unbound 'Sympathy for the Devil' so this takes place in that alternative universe. Oddly, there are far more spoilers for 'Invasion of the Dinosaurs' than the Unbound audio.
John wakes chilled and disorientated to find that she’s already left his bed. Dawn is just breaking across the capital, and in the early light he sees her standing at the open sash window, the breeze wafting the dark curtains and her long strawberry blonde hair obscuring her face.
"Liz?" His voice sounds rough, and he’s dimly aware that in the commotion yesterday he’s probably strained it. He clears his throat and tries again. "Liz, what are you doing?"
The clock on his bedside reads that it’s not quite five ‘o’ clock. He knows it was gone two by the time they’d got back to his flat; him dazed and exhausted, her fighting against tears. Her lab coat is hanging on a hook on the back of the door, his beret on the next peg over. The rest of their clothes are still strewn haphazardly across the carpet. It would be nice, he thinks, if one day she'd come back to his without a national emergency first. He no longer deludes himself that it'll happen though.
Liz doesn’t move, doesn’t turn to him. She’s wearing his uniform shirt, and it’s very nearly long enough on her to pass for fashion these days.
"It’s still burning," she says, her voice carrying clearly, her tone matter-of-fact; a scientist making an observation. He knows her well enough to understand that the clinical detachment is just a front. She wouldn't be standing there at this hour if she didn't blame herself for not finding an alternative course of action.
He struggles from beneath the tangled sheet, using it to cover his modesty as he makes his way to her. Every muscle feels sore, and his left shoulder protests all movement regardless of Sullivan’s assurance that it isn’t dislocated.
She has mascara in dismal grey lines down her cheeks, he notices, though her eyes are dry now. She's still beautiful, but it hurts to see her so defeated and he focuses instead on the world through the window.
Outside, in the distance, he can see the smoke still rising from the centre of London. The fires seem finally to have been brought under control if not completely dowsed. Come the morning proper he'll be back down there helping the Regulars with the clean up operation, as they in turn sneer at him and UNIT in general and doubtless make snide remarks regarding the Brigadier's almost inevitable hangover.
These last few years have taken their toll on everyone; he knows he's not the man he once was either. Once, he would have mourned yesterday's loss of life, now he's only relieved it wasn't so much worse.
But that's something to worry about later. Tucking her hair behind her ear, he kisses her temple and finally she looks him in the eyes.
"There must’ve been a better way. I keep thinking, if only we’d…" She trails off, shaking her head. Then, taking a deep shuddering breath, she says, "He didn’t need to bomb the bloody city."
"The Brigadier," John starts wearily, "was just doing what he thought-"
"Oh, sod the Brigadier," she says, almost spitting the words out. "He doesn't know what he's doing! None of us do."
He flinches at the vehemence in her voice though it's difficult to argue the point. "We have to try, Liz. There isn't anyone else to do it."
She shudders, and he reaches round her to pull the window down even though he's fairly sure that isn't the problem.
"This isn't what I expected when I agreed to work with UNIT. Aliens and monsters are bad enough, but our own friends working against us!"
"No," he agrees, anger lending a hard edge to his voice, "No one expected that."
She closes the curtains, plunging the small bedroom into shadow, and leans against him. He wraps his arms around her automatically, and she returns the gesture. "He'll… They won't actually execute him, will they? He's not well, the stress, all that business in Wales…"
Shaking his head he admits, "I honestly don't know." Part of him, the part he's ashamed of but seems to rear its ugly head more frequently than he'd like these days finds it hard to care. He'd thought Mike Yates had been a friend, he'd respected him as an officer, but there seemed to be nothing left of that man in the one the redcaps had dragged away screaming that humanity didn't deserve to survive. Perhaps it'd get to them all in the end, not the stress as much as the continual failure to make things any better.
"The Brig'll put in a good word," he says after a moment. The Brigadier who is still trying where plenty would have given in, even if he needs a scotch or two to shore him up. He doesn't have long left as CO, John knows; this'll probably be the final straw as far as Geneva is concerned. "Course, we both know how much his word is worth right now. He's just bombed London, and evacuation or not, no one's going to thank him."
Something that is almost but not quite a laugh escapes her lips. "Everything's gone to hell since I started as Scientific Adviser, John. Sometimes I wish I'd stayed in Cambridge and never met any of you," she murmurs it against his skin though, and holds him more tightly.
"You've got us this far, Doctor Shaw."
He leads her back to the bed, checks the alarm's set for seven, and simultaneously hopes that the morning never arrives.
She kisses him, desperate and lost, and he kisses back, his eyes closed against the growing light in the room.
In the darkness, he thinks maybe they can convince themselves that what they've got really is good enough.
Author: safcooper
Pairings: alt!John Benton/alt!Liz Shaw
Rating: PG
Words: ~950
Summary: Without the Doctor, all they have is each other.
Notes: Based on the Doctor Who Unbound 'Sympathy for the Devil' so this takes place in that alternative universe. Oddly, there are far more spoilers for 'Invasion of the Dinosaurs' than the Unbound audio.
John wakes chilled and disorientated to find that she’s already left his bed. Dawn is just breaking across the capital, and in the early light he sees her standing at the open sash window, the breeze wafting the dark curtains and her long strawberry blonde hair obscuring her face.
"Liz?" His voice sounds rough, and he’s dimly aware that in the commotion yesterday he’s probably strained it. He clears his throat and tries again. "Liz, what are you doing?"
The clock on his bedside reads that it’s not quite five ‘o’ clock. He knows it was gone two by the time they’d got back to his flat; him dazed and exhausted, her fighting against tears. Her lab coat is hanging on a hook on the back of the door, his beret on the next peg over. The rest of their clothes are still strewn haphazardly across the carpet. It would be nice, he thinks, if one day she'd come back to his without a national emergency first. He no longer deludes himself that it'll happen though.
Liz doesn’t move, doesn’t turn to him. She’s wearing his uniform shirt, and it’s very nearly long enough on her to pass for fashion these days.
"It’s still burning," she says, her voice carrying clearly, her tone matter-of-fact; a scientist making an observation. He knows her well enough to understand that the clinical detachment is just a front. She wouldn't be standing there at this hour if she didn't blame herself for not finding an alternative course of action.
He struggles from beneath the tangled sheet, using it to cover his modesty as he makes his way to her. Every muscle feels sore, and his left shoulder protests all movement regardless of Sullivan’s assurance that it isn’t dislocated.
She has mascara in dismal grey lines down her cheeks, he notices, though her eyes are dry now. She's still beautiful, but it hurts to see her so defeated and he focuses instead on the world through the window.
Outside, in the distance, he can see the smoke still rising from the centre of London. The fires seem finally to have been brought under control if not completely dowsed. Come the morning proper he'll be back down there helping the Regulars with the clean up operation, as they in turn sneer at him and UNIT in general and doubtless make snide remarks regarding the Brigadier's almost inevitable hangover.
These last few years have taken their toll on everyone; he knows he's not the man he once was either. Once, he would have mourned yesterday's loss of life, now he's only relieved it wasn't so much worse.
But that's something to worry about later. Tucking her hair behind her ear, he kisses her temple and finally she looks him in the eyes.
"There must’ve been a better way. I keep thinking, if only we’d…" She trails off, shaking her head. Then, taking a deep shuddering breath, she says, "He didn’t need to bomb the bloody city."
"The Brigadier," John starts wearily, "was just doing what he thought-"
"Oh, sod the Brigadier," she says, almost spitting the words out. "He doesn't know what he's doing! None of us do."
He flinches at the vehemence in her voice though it's difficult to argue the point. "We have to try, Liz. There isn't anyone else to do it."
She shudders, and he reaches round her to pull the window down even though he's fairly sure that isn't the problem.
"This isn't what I expected when I agreed to work with UNIT. Aliens and monsters are bad enough, but our own friends working against us!"
"No," he agrees, anger lending a hard edge to his voice, "No one expected that."
She closes the curtains, plunging the small bedroom into shadow, and leans against him. He wraps his arms around her automatically, and she returns the gesture. "He'll… They won't actually execute him, will they? He's not well, the stress, all that business in Wales…"
Shaking his head he admits, "I honestly don't know." Part of him, the part he's ashamed of but seems to rear its ugly head more frequently than he'd like these days finds it hard to care. He'd thought Mike Yates had been a friend, he'd respected him as an officer, but there seemed to be nothing left of that man in the one the redcaps had dragged away screaming that humanity didn't deserve to survive. Perhaps it'd get to them all in the end, not the stress as much as the continual failure to make things any better.
"The Brig'll put in a good word," he says after a moment. The Brigadier who is still trying where plenty would have given in, even if he needs a scotch or two to shore him up. He doesn't have long left as CO, John knows; this'll probably be the final straw as far as Geneva is concerned. "Course, we both know how much his word is worth right now. He's just bombed London, and evacuation or not, no one's going to thank him."
Something that is almost but not quite a laugh escapes her lips. "Everything's gone to hell since I started as Scientific Adviser, John. Sometimes I wish I'd stayed in Cambridge and never met any of you," she murmurs it against his skin though, and holds him more tightly.
"You've got us this far, Doctor Shaw."
He leads her back to the bed, checks the alarm's set for seven, and simultaneously hopes that the morning never arrives.
She kisses him, desperate and lost, and he kisses back, his eyes closed against the growing light in the room.
In the darkness, he thinks maybe they can convince themselves that what they've got really is good enough.