Doctor Who | As a Picture
Mar. 22nd, 2008 11:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eponymous_roseTitle: As a Picture
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eponymous_rose
Word Count: 890
Rating: G
Characters: Mike Yates, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart
Spoilers: References to The Green Death and set shortly after Invasion of the Dinosaurs.
Author's Note: My parents' terrible internet gave up the ghost last night, alas!
"I mean," said Mike, and reached for the sugar, "it's all a bit cliché, isn't it?"
The Brigadier shrugged, stirring his own cup of tea with the sort of carefully casual look that Mike assumed, with some satisfaction, to be hiding a deep unease. "Why do you say that?" he said, and took a sip, wincing at the heat.
Mike shifted back in his chair and stirred his own cup rather longer, letting the Brigadier hang on his reply while he waited for the tea to cool down, and finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "Me going round the bend and all," he said, and saw the Brigadier's gaze waver. Formality and rote were his area, after all; candour caught him off-guard, the chink in an otherwise formidable suit of armour. "It's not as though it's entirely unexpected. I mean, you always hear about the lads who can't take the pressure, who wind up selling out to the first enemy with a rational plan because it's their first chance to take control."
Now the Brigadier leaned closer over the table, intent, weighing up an opposition he hadn't yet faced. "Yates," he said, "we all feel the pressure, and we all show it in different ways." His voice was calm, steady - not pitying, but sympathetic. Mike hated the rationality of it, the sheer inability to argue with such an implacable statement.
Not you, he almost said. You never feel the pressure.
"Yeah," he said instead, and drank his tea. "But I nearly got the Doctor and Miss Smith killed. They probably write Greek tragedies about that sort of thing, betrayal and all."
The Brigadier's gaze was still calculating, but the tightness around his eyes had vanished. "Why did you do it, Mike?"
"They were going to build a better world," he said instantly, and saw the look of concern flicker across the Brigadier's face before he caught himself. "No," he said, "that's probably not it at all."
"You don't think humanity's got a chance, here?" the Brigadier said, and he was smiling, dismissive, and Mike wanted to-
With some effort, Mike forced a civil smile. "Of course I do," he said. "There are- well, there are people trying to fix these things. The Doctor says he's been to the future, and it sounds like we're still about at some point. Something must change, and I understand now that we're at least partly capable of cleaning up our own messes."
"Good," said the Brigadier, and leaned back in his chair.
"That's what the Doctor said, you know," said Mike. "He pulled me aside and said something about having to instill in yourself a faith in the human race. I don't think even he really believed it, but it sounds good, doesn't it?"
"It does," said the Brigadier, with more graveness than Mike had expected.
They were silent for another long moment, but this time it was more contemplative than antagonistic. Finally, Mike said, "Well, there are the Nut-Hutches of the world, I suppose, chasing after edible fungi and the like."
The Brigadier glanced up sharply, and a knowing look came into his eyes, and Mike hated that he was so transparent, so predictable. "That's what this is about, is it?"
"Haven't exactly saved the world yet, have they?" said Mike, and reached for a biscuit. "People starving everywhere, and they're just off on a lark down the Amazon. The political process will make any worthwhile changes go so slowly that everyone who ever cared about it will be dead by the time it makes any headway. Always waiting for the next new thing-"
He caught the look in the Brigadier's eyes, actually pitying this time, and stopped himself once more, wondering how much longer he'd be spouting his canned motives.
"Well," said the Brigadier, and set his cup and saucer on the table. "Maybe I should set off, then. Leave you to your-" He paused, glanced around the cluttered flat. "-cleaning," he hazarded.
Mike stood automatically as the Brigadier did. "Thank you for stopping by, sir," he said.
The Brigadier's smiled faded slightly, and he regarded Mike with a thoughtful air. "You're not a cliché," he said.
And with a start, Mike remembered the box of candies he'd bought for Jo, ages and ages ago, gathering dust in one of his cupboards, the last remnant of his old life growing stale. "I think you might be overestimating me," he said, and opened the door. "Goodbye, Brigadier."
The Brigadier nodded, started to step out, and paused in the doorway. "Yates," he said, "I can offer you a note of reference if you'd like to seek other work. It's the least we can do after all your services."
"I'll keep that in mind, sir," said Mike.
With another smile and a nod, the Brigadier stepped through the doorway. "Goodbye, Mike," he said.
The use of his first name under any other circumstances would have been a commendation, a show of camaraderie under fire, a mark of esteem - but this time, just as Mike's candour had been a goad of sorts, the casual address was made all the more obvious by the ghost of the title that had once come before it: a calculated attack, a subtle barb.
Mike closed the door.
Author:
eponymous_roseWord Count: 890
Rating: G
Characters: Mike Yates, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart
Spoilers: References to The Green Death and set shortly after Invasion of the Dinosaurs.
Author's Note: My parents' terrible internet gave up the ghost last night, alas!
"I mean," said Mike, and reached for the sugar, "it's all a bit cliché, isn't it?"
The Brigadier shrugged, stirring his own cup of tea with the sort of carefully casual look that Mike assumed, with some satisfaction, to be hiding a deep unease. "Why do you say that?" he said, and took a sip, wincing at the heat.
Mike shifted back in his chair and stirred his own cup rather longer, letting the Brigadier hang on his reply while he waited for the tea to cool down, and finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "Me going round the bend and all," he said, and saw the Brigadier's gaze waver. Formality and rote were his area, after all; candour caught him off-guard, the chink in an otherwise formidable suit of armour. "It's not as though it's entirely unexpected. I mean, you always hear about the lads who can't take the pressure, who wind up selling out to the first enemy with a rational plan because it's their first chance to take control."
Now the Brigadier leaned closer over the table, intent, weighing up an opposition he hadn't yet faced. "Yates," he said, "we all feel the pressure, and we all show it in different ways." His voice was calm, steady - not pitying, but sympathetic. Mike hated the rationality of it, the sheer inability to argue with such an implacable statement.
Not you, he almost said. You never feel the pressure.
"Yeah," he said instead, and drank his tea. "But I nearly got the Doctor and Miss Smith killed. They probably write Greek tragedies about that sort of thing, betrayal and all."
The Brigadier's gaze was still calculating, but the tightness around his eyes had vanished. "Why did you do it, Mike?"
"They were going to build a better world," he said instantly, and saw the look of concern flicker across the Brigadier's face before he caught himself. "No," he said, "that's probably not it at all."
"You don't think humanity's got a chance, here?" the Brigadier said, and he was smiling, dismissive, and Mike wanted to-
With some effort, Mike forced a civil smile. "Of course I do," he said. "There are- well, there are people trying to fix these things. The Doctor says he's been to the future, and it sounds like we're still about at some point. Something must change, and I understand now that we're at least partly capable of cleaning up our own messes."
"Good," said the Brigadier, and leaned back in his chair.
"That's what the Doctor said, you know," said Mike. "He pulled me aside and said something about having to instill in yourself a faith in the human race. I don't think even he really believed it, but it sounds good, doesn't it?"
"It does," said the Brigadier, with more graveness than Mike had expected.
They were silent for another long moment, but this time it was more contemplative than antagonistic. Finally, Mike said, "Well, there are the Nut-Hutches of the world, I suppose, chasing after edible fungi and the like."
The Brigadier glanced up sharply, and a knowing look came into his eyes, and Mike hated that he was so transparent, so predictable. "That's what this is about, is it?"
"Haven't exactly saved the world yet, have they?" said Mike, and reached for a biscuit. "People starving everywhere, and they're just off on a lark down the Amazon. The political process will make any worthwhile changes go so slowly that everyone who ever cared about it will be dead by the time it makes any headway. Always waiting for the next new thing-"
He caught the look in the Brigadier's eyes, actually pitying this time, and stopped himself once more, wondering how much longer he'd be spouting his canned motives.
"Well," said the Brigadier, and set his cup and saucer on the table. "Maybe I should set off, then. Leave you to your-" He paused, glanced around the cluttered flat. "-cleaning," he hazarded.
Mike stood automatically as the Brigadier did. "Thank you for stopping by, sir," he said.
The Brigadier's smiled faded slightly, and he regarded Mike with a thoughtful air. "You're not a cliché," he said.
And with a start, Mike remembered the box of candies he'd bought for Jo, ages and ages ago, gathering dust in one of his cupboards, the last remnant of his old life growing stale. "I think you might be overestimating me," he said, and opened the door. "Goodbye, Brigadier."
The Brigadier nodded, started to step out, and paused in the doorway. "Yates," he said, "I can offer you a note of reference if you'd like to seek other work. It's the least we can do after all your services."
"I'll keep that in mind, sir," said Mike.
With another smile and a nod, the Brigadier stepped through the doorway. "Goodbye, Mike," he said.
The use of his first name under any other circumstances would have been a commendation, a show of camaraderie under fire, a mark of esteem - but this time, just as Mike's candour had been a goad of sorts, the casual address was made all the more obvious by the ghost of the title that had once come before it: a calculated attack, a subtle barb.
Mike closed the door.
