Chapter Text
Chapter One
It always ended in a quarry outside of London, didn’t it? Maybe the universe was trying to tell him something. What, the Doctor had no idea. But there was some sort of message trying to get through. Well, if he was supposed to learn anything from all of this, it hadn’t worked so far. Because here in a quarry outside of London he was. And with a merry band of military idiots to boot.
Okay, that wasn’t fair. They weren’t all idiots. Some of them were quite clever when they put their mind to it. But right now, the Doctor didn’t see any cleverness in this exercise. The UNIT team had chased today’s ‘bad guys’ (a few human henchmen for the aliens trying to conquer Earth) right into an open field. And then, as always, the shooting had started.
Always the shooting.
If there was one sound the Doctor could go the rest of his lifetimes without hearing again, it was the sound of a gun. But now wasn’t the time for griping about it; the damned Brigadier was charging forward ahead of his men, calling orders half of them couldn’t hear, and the Doctor had to run after him to make sure he didn’t get himself hurt.
Honestly, sometimes working with UNIT felt more like working at a daycare center. Wrangling a screaming bunch of toddlers may have been easier, actually.
“Brigadier!” the Doctor shouted above the gunshots and grenades creating a slight fog in the air. “Get back here!”
If the Brigadier heard him, he certainly didn’t pay any attention. All of his focus was on one of the henchmen, who was fleeing toward his van with a pistol in one hand and car keys in the other.
“Stop!” the Brigadier shouted, raising his own gun toward the man.
He fired once, shocking the Doctor just enough to falter his step for a moment. Then he fired again. Again. Each one was, gratefully, in the Doctor’s opinion, wildly off target due to the whole running-while-shooting thing the soldier was trying to do. The Doctor frowned sharply at the whole idea of it. Honestly, hadn’t humans found more civil ways of dealing with crime and punishment by now?
The henchman leaped into the driver’s seat of the van, then glanced back warily. The Brigadier was gaining on him as he fumbled with his keys and the engine and the gear shift and-
Finally, the Brigadier did something clever with his gun. He hit the back right tyre, with an almost perfect aim that even the Doctor had to appreciate.
A moment later, as the Doctor came to stand a little ways back from the Brigadier, the henchman turned his head out the window. The Brig was still aiming at the tyres - the left, now - and seemed not to see him. Which, of course, wouldn’t have been a problem if the henchman had kindly returned to his keys and engine controls and drove peacefully away. But this henchman was the angry sort. The sort that was scared and nervous and, unfortunately, stupidly bold.
The Doctor saw the gun appear in the window. He traced the path a bullet would take from the end of it. And that path ended right where the Brigadier was standing, still focused intently on the car tyres.
“Lethbridge-Stewart!” the Doctor shouted, breaking into a run toward the man.
But as soon as his feet slipped along the muddy ground to gain traction, that terrible sound met his ears in two-fold. The first came from the Brigadier’s gun, hitting the back left tyre.
The second came from the henchman’s gun, hitting with the same level of precision.
………………………………………………………………………………..
For a split second, life in the English quarry stood still. A few birds beat their wings to escape into the sky as the earth settled and the sounds of gunshots and grenades were suddenly silenced. For a moment it was almost peaceful. The wind blew softly through the Doctor’s hair. Life felt like a simple and manageable thing.
And then the Brigadier staggered forward. The pistol dripped out of his right hand as he latched onto his left shoulder. Then, before the Doctor could tell himself that this was some kind of strange UNIT ritual, the Brigadier fell to his knees, sinking into the mud.
A second later, he was laid on his stomach on the dirty ground.
The Doctor’s breath caught in his throat, legs frozen where they stood. A million and a half possibilities whizzed through his brain at lightning speed. Was the man dead? Or only injured? Perhaps it was a flesh wound. But maybe it was something serious? And where were all those other damned soldiers; weren’t they supposed to be a team of some kind?
“Brigadier,” he murmured, rushing forward without a care in the world about the henchman still sitting in the van up ahead.
The Doctor crashed to his knees in the mud beside his friend, setting a hand on his right shoulder as he gave him a once-over. His eyes were closed. But he was definitely breathing, and rather harshly. Awake, or near enough, and in some pain.
Without further delay, the Doctor flipped the Brigadier onto his back, cradling his head as he did so. The first thing he noticed was the mud caking the man’s face, neck, uniform.
The second thing he noticed was the patch of red on the upper left section of his jacket.
Swearing under his breath, the Doctor ripped open the clasps and belt that held his uniform over his torso, ripping the jacket away from the injury before there was time for the Brigadier to protest. The poor chap did, unfortunately, feel it; his eyes blinked open with a grunt of pain and a few choice words the Doctor was glad Jo wasn’t around to hear.
“Ah, so you’re awake then,” the Doctor said through chattering teeth, tearing the cape off of his own shoulders.
“Doctor,” the Brigadier mumbled, “the van. Stop the…”
“Yes yes, we’ll handle all of that.” The Doctor looked up to find Sergeant Benton and Captain Yates approaching with worried expressions and almost trepid movements. He offered them a reassuring nod and sat up to get their attention. “Sergeant Benton, I believe you’ll find the man you’re looking for in that van.”
Benton stared at the Brigadier for a second longer, then registered the Doctor’s words. With a nod, he hurried off to bring in UNIT’s latest prisoner.
“Yates,” the Doctor said, “Call an ambulance; let them know precisely where we are. And get those guns and explosives out of here; there are residences not two miles from here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man.” With that, the Doctor turned back to the Brigadier. “Now, as for you Lethbridge-Stewart, I suggest you count to three.”
“Count to-?”
The Brigadier’s sentence was cut off by a high-pitched yelp that made the Doctor’s blood curdle. It was a necessary evil, pressing his cape into the Brig’s injured shoulder. But it made him feel like a torturer nonetheless. Especially looking at the poor man’s gritted teeth, his tightly shut eyes, his thrashing head.
“Sorry about that, old chap,” murmured the Doctor.
“Mmhmm.” The Brigadier slowly opened his eyes, releasing a shaky breath as he did so. “You’ve been waiting your chance to do that for...over a lifetime.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Doctor spat back, then shook his head. “But you know this was always going to happen. Playing with guns, indeed. When will your species learn to talk things out, hmm?”
“Doctor,” said the Brigadier, wincing as the Doctor’s hands shifted on his shoulder.
“Yes?”
“I believe...I am absolutely covered in mud.”
The Doctor’s shoulders relaxed as he let himself smile. It was nice to hear a bit of humor in all this mess; it really helped to tamp down the panic running through his veins.
“Yes, Brigadier,” the Doctor chuckled. “You certainly are.”
Yates crouched down on the opposite side of the Brigadier, watching his commanding officer with wide eyes and a deep frown. When he looked at the Doctor, he looked much younger than he ever had before.
“The ambulance should be here in ten minutes or so, sir.” He stayed crouched, looking from the Brigadier to the Doctor with that same boyish expression. “Is the Brig gonna be alright?”
The Brigadier stirred at that, forcing his eyes open wider. He gave Yates a lopsided smile the almost reached his eyes.
In a voice that was trying to be his sternest and most Brigadier, he barked “I can speak for myself, Captain Yates.”
But, of course, under the circumstances he just sounded like a sleepy child telling his parents he was a big kid now that he could go to the shops by himself. Yates and the Doctor shared a quick smile at his expense, and then the Captain went off to figure out what to do with the rest of their squadron.
At this point, the Doctor had given up trying to stay clean of the mud. He sank into a seated position next to the Brigadier, apologizing as his hands shifted on his injury again, and looked at him very closely. It always seemed to be the good people who got themselves caught up in messes like this. In fact, it seemed that the Doctor had always had the fortune of making the best of friends and then the misfortune of seeing them get into trouble time and time again. Maybe it was him.
“What’re you on about?” the Brigadier muttered, words slurring so badly the Doctor began applying more pressure just to keep him awake.
“I’m just thinking.”
“I know.” The Brigadier took in an extra deep breath, gasping over a sudden ache in his shoulder. He swallowed, and then continued in that same slurred voice, “I can practically hear you. What’re you thinking about?”
The Doctor checked beneath his cape and the Brigadier’s shirt to find the wound still bleeding, if less than before. He sighed as he set his cape over the injury again.
“I’m thinking about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re bleeding all over my good cape. You know, Jo Grant gave me that cape.”
“‘M sorry.”
And honestly, the Brigadier really did sound sorry. He winced, lips turning into a frown. Even his eyebrows softened.
The Doctor shook his head, knelt upright again, and shoved his palms, his cape, and the Brigadier’s shirt into the wound. The Brigadier hissed in pain, but didn’t otherwise protest.
“It’s alright,” the Doctor said. “Just don’t make a habit of it.”
“I will try not to.”
“Well then,” the Doctor said with a small smile. “You just buy me a new cape, and we’ll call it even.”
“Even?” The Brigadier opened his eyes, a humored smile playing at his lips. “You’ve been using UNIT funds for years now. I think we’re a long way from even.”
The Doctor’s jaw dropped, but ended in a smile.
“I should think saving your life counts for at least half of that.”
The Brigadier tilted his head. “You’ve borrowed some expensive equipment. Most of which hasn’t been returned.”
“Right, well, I’ll get on that.”
“Later,” the Brigadier mumbled, settling his head deeper into the muddy pillow of the ground. He released another shaky breath, which fell into a more even rhythm as his eyes flickered shut.
“Later,” repeated the Doctor.
He watched the Brigadier’s body relax as he fell into sleep, brows and lips twitching every so often as he entered the land of nod. His skin was paler than usual and there was a sheen of sweat dotting his forehead, but the Doctor was hopeful that he’d make a full recovery. He always did, the Brigadier. He had to.
After wiping his hands in the clean portions of his cloak, the Doctor pulled off his jacket. And, with the edge of his sleeve and the sound of an approaching ambulance behind him, the Doctor began cleaning the mud off of the Brigadier’s face.