fic: merry christmas, brigadier
Dec. 24th, 2008 04:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carmen_ljChristmas fluff for Christmas thus it is okay to have fluff, meaningless fluff, yes. Good.
Title: Merry Christmas, Brigadier
Characters: Ten, Martha, Four, Romana II
Rating: G
Summary: Because nobody wants to be fighting aliens on Christmas Day.
Merry Christmas, Brigadier
“Romana, I don’t mean to find flaws in this extremely well thought-out wardrobe plan of yours, but wouldn’t it make more sense for me to wear the Santa costume?”
Romana adjusted the white beard, tucked the elastic behind her ears and perched the fluffy red Santa hat at a jaunty angle on her head. “Perfect,” she said, standing back from the mirror and looking at the Doctor. “Are you ready?”
“I am far too large to be an elf, Romana!”
“Nonsense,” she said, “the costume fits perfectly and green is definitely your colour.”
The Doctor sniffed, and took a hesitant glance at the mirror. “You think so?”
“You look very dashing.”
The Doctor stood up a little straighter. “I suppose I do. Yes, yes I think you’ve hit the nail right on the head: I look dashing.” He flicked back his hat, the little bell sown on the end tinkling merrily. “Alright, now where did you put the presents?”
-
Martha rushed back to the bottom of the expansive garden, freshly fallen snow crunching beneath her feet. The Doctor’s head popped out of the TARDIS and he smiled. “That was quick, well done. Don’t worry, I’m almost ready.”
Martha passed back the sonic screwdriver and shook her head. “Breaking in was no problem. It’s what’s inside that’s the problem.”
The Doctor reappeared, half a dozen floridly wrapped boxes balanced in his arms. “Uh, Martha?” She grabbed the top two boxes just as they toppled forward and heard the Doctor give a little yelp. “Some very delicate stuff in here, you know. Wouldn’t want to blow a hole in the Brigadier’s garden, not when I know how fond he is of his begonias.” He took two steps towards the house, then stopped. “Did you say there was a problem?”
“Yes,” said Martha. “There’s a very large elf in there, and a very pretty Santa Claus.”
The Doctor blinked. “You’re sure about that?”
“Pretty sure, yeah. She was delivering presents, and the elf seemed pretty interested in where the Brigadier kept his whisky.”
The Doctor blinked. “I...ah...oh.”
-
Martha sat by the fireplace, munching on a mince pie she’d pilfered from the kitchen. The only illumination came from the lights decorating the Christmas tree in the corner, but it was enough to see that the Doctor wasn’t looking happy. “But if you’ve already given the Brigadier the...the anti-zap thing, then why are we here now?” Martha asked. “He doesn’t need two, does he?”
“Might be an idea,” said the giant elf, who the Santa had claimed was actually the Doctor. He was slumped back in an armchair, eyes half-closed, whisky bottle cradled in his arms. “Bound to invade again, very temperamental lot, the Vorn. Very...” He waved a hand, then seemed to forget he’d been speaking at all.
“Very persistent,” said Romana who, Martha thought, was looking extremely nice in her Santa outfit. She shot an irritated look at the Doctor in the chair, now snoring gently. “And I can see why you might have forgotten about this.”
“Yes, well, sorry about that,” said the Doctor, Martha’s Doctor. He’d gone slightly pink and was studiously avoiding looking at his former self. “Really, very-” the snoring grew louder and the Doctor winced, his eyes rolling towards the ceiling, “-very, very sorry.”
“Hmph,” said Romana. She looked at Martha. “I don’t suppose this really is a human tradition?” she asked, nodding at the sleeping Doctor.
“Sort of,” said Martha. “Though we usually don’t break into other people’s houses and nick their drink. We buy our own.”
“I think it’s got to be us who leave the convertor,” said the Doctor. “I mean, I had it now, so you can’t have left it then.”
“If it’s the same convertor,” said Romana. “Let me see.” She knelt down by one of the Doctor’s boxes and carefully unwrapped it. “It’s in even worse condition than ours,” she said, opening it up to take a look at the circuitry inside. “But it’s going to have to do, since it’s obviously the same one as ours.”
“What about the whisky?” Martha had wrested the bottle from the Doctor’s arms and was examining the label. “I don’t know much about it, but I don’t think this is the cheap stuff.”
The other Doctor woke suddenly and sat up, eyes wide. “Last orders already?” he said. He blinked, eyes coming into focus. “Romana, this whisky’s been poisoned.” She looked at him, unimpressed. He pulled a wounded face. “There’s plenty left, taste for yourself. Not too much. A few sips were enough for me to have to shut down my body to recover.”
Romana sniffed dubiously at the open bottle, then ran her finger round the lip and licked the residue. She looked at the older Doctor. “He’s right,” she said, passing the bottle to him.
“But who’d want to poison the Brigadier?” asked Martha.
The Doctor rocked on his heels, considering. “Well, he has thwarted more than a few alien invasions over the years-“
“-with my help, of course,” added the younger Doctor.
“Our help,” corrected the elder. “Where d’you find the bottle?”
“On the sideboard,” said the other Doctor. “I thought he’d left it out for Santa.”
“I didn’t want any,” said Romana.
“Only children do that,” Martha told him, “and they don’t usually leave alcohol.”
The Doctor waved a dismissive hand. “I can’t keep track of all your bizarre human customs, young lady. The elf suits are quite enough for one evening.”
The other Doctor had taken out his sonic screwdriver and was running it over the whisky bottle. Romana looked at the gadget with some interest, much to the other Doctor’s annoyance. “Aliens, of course,” he said quickly.
“Aliens,” agreed the other Doctor. “This wasn’t manufactured on Earth.”
“Might I take a look?”
“I’d find out where it’s from much faster if I could just finish this scan.”
“It’s just that that sonic screwdriver of yours doesn’t look quite so sturdy as the old model. I’m sure if I just had a quick look-“
“Just give me a second. I’m almost...” He paused and looked up. “Martha?”He spun round. “Martha, where are you?”
-
“Is it safe out there?” asked Martha as she stepped up onto the window sill.
“Not very, no,” said Romana. She sidled along the roof, fingers gripping the slates. “It’s rather slippery actually. I hope you’ve got a good sense of balance.”
“Guess I’m about to find out,” Martha muttered, jumping up and out. Romana caught her arm as she found her footing and together they clambered awkwardly towards the roof’s summit. “What’re we looking for?”
“The Vorn,” said Romana. “The recon scout, anyway. If they’ve decided there’s a target worth eliminating before they begin their invasion, then they’ll have set up a reconnaissance post nearby.”
“How nearby?”
“Very.”
Martha followed Romana’s look. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope. I’d bet my degree that our would-be assassin is hiding in the chimney.”
They scrambled over the roof, the cold air burning in Martha’s throat. She could barely feel her fingers and rather envied Romana her thick velvet coat and woolly white beard. As they perched by the chimney top, Romana put a finger to her lips and reached into her pocket. Martha raised an eyebrow and Romana made the universally recognised hand-sign for Big Explosion, before taking out a match and lighting what looked very like a firework.
She dropped it down the chimney and stuck her fingers in her ears. Martha followed suit.
Fifteen seconds later, there was an explosion inside the chimney and a fountain of red and blue sparks came flying out. There was a nasty crack that sounded a lot like some brickwork giving way, then a squelch and a short furry figure flew out of the chimney and flung itself straight at Romana.
She yelped and toppled backwards, sending tiles flying as she struggled to find a handhold. Martha hooked her feet round the chimney and flung herself forward, catching Romana’s arm as she managed to disentangle the Vorn from her hair and throw him off.
The lump of fur made a screech of annoyance and leapt from the roof, landing softly in the garden below and running off into the darkness.
“Well, this is very undignified,” said Romana, sprawled across the roof, in no position for either her hands or feet to find purchase. “How are things your end?”
“Brilliant,” said Martha, then, “That’s what’s invading?”
“Mmhmm.” Romana shifted her weight ever so slightly then thought better of it. “Don’t be deceived by appearances – their technology outstrips yours by centuries and they’re quite keen to get their hands on the mineral resources of your world. Could you possibly give me your other hand?”
Martha edged forward, reached out with her left hand. “Now what?” she asked, almost afraid to breath incase she fell.
“Patience,” said Romana, biting her lip and very carefully using the counterbalance of Martha’s weight to edge herself round so her feet were pointed towards the ground. She let go of Martha’s hands and slid down the icy incline using the friction of her gloves to control her speed. With a gentle bump, she halted herself at the gutter. “Perfect!” She looked over her shoulder, up at Martha. “Your turn.”
-
If there was one situation the Doctor was quite keen on stopping ever happening again, it was having two of his companions meet and have conversations that involved going quiet and giggling very suspiciously as soon as he appeared. Romana and Martha, legs dangling over the edge of the roof, were really far too amused for it to mean anything good.
“Um, Martha?” he said.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” she called.
“It’s a bit of a jump,” he pointed out.
“I’ll fly.”
The Doctor frowned. “What have you been talking about?”
“Oh, nothing scandalous,” said Romana, “nothing to ruin your immaculate reputation. As a matter of fact, we were taking care of the Vorn scout. What were you two doing?”
“Taking care of the whisky,” said the Doctor. “Not drinking it, replacing it. Finding a replacement, for Alastair. For a present. Since it’s Christmas.” He stared up at them a few moments longer and they stared back.
This really wasn’t fair at all.
+
“That seems to be everything,” said the Doctor, who’d traded his elf costume for a long coat and incredibly long scarf. “Romana?”
“We should probably leave a note,” she said. “Incase he tries to stop the invasion before he’s opened the presents.”
“Ah, there’s a point. Doctor? Would you care to do the honours?” He retrieved a pen and notepad from somewhere in his capacious pockets and handed them to his older self.
“Thanks very much, Doctor,” muttered his self as he scribbled down a few brief instructions for dealing with the Vorn and then pinned the note to the mantelpiece. Just above it sat a particularly fine bottle of Martian whisky, a 2132 - a year good enough that the Doctor had been saving it for when he’d had a really, really good day and managed to save at least two universes from untimely oblivion.
“For you,” said Romana to Martha, taking off her Santa hat and Santa jacket, underneath was a loose white blouse. “They’re terribly cosy. Very suitable for a night like this. We’re parked inside.”
“Thanks very much,” said Martha, slipping the jacket on.
“Oh, don’t forget the beard,” said Romana, handing it over too.
The door burst open. The four intruders looked up to see a very sleepy, very irritated Brigadier standing in the doorway. “What the devil is going on in here?” he demanded, looking from one awkward Doctor to the other.
“We’re stopping a Christmas invasion,” said the older, recovering first.
“Or rather you are,” said the other.
“You’ll thank us in the morning.”
“I doubt it,” said the Brigadier. He opened his mouth to ask another question, then sighed and, very deliberately, turned around and went back upstairs to bed.
Title: Merry Christmas, Brigadier
Characters: Ten, Martha, Four, Romana II
Rating: G
Summary: Because nobody wants to be fighting aliens on Christmas Day.
Merry Christmas, Brigadier
“Romana, I don’t mean to find flaws in this extremely well thought-out wardrobe plan of yours, but wouldn’t it make more sense for me to wear the Santa costume?”
Romana adjusted the white beard, tucked the elastic behind her ears and perched the fluffy red Santa hat at a jaunty angle on her head. “Perfect,” she said, standing back from the mirror and looking at the Doctor. “Are you ready?”
“I am far too large to be an elf, Romana!”
“Nonsense,” she said, “the costume fits perfectly and green is definitely your colour.”
The Doctor sniffed, and took a hesitant glance at the mirror. “You think so?”
“You look very dashing.”
The Doctor stood up a little straighter. “I suppose I do. Yes, yes I think you’ve hit the nail right on the head: I look dashing.” He flicked back his hat, the little bell sown on the end tinkling merrily. “Alright, now where did you put the presents?”
-
Martha rushed back to the bottom of the expansive garden, freshly fallen snow crunching beneath her feet. The Doctor’s head popped out of the TARDIS and he smiled. “That was quick, well done. Don’t worry, I’m almost ready.”
Martha passed back the sonic screwdriver and shook her head. “Breaking in was no problem. It’s what’s inside that’s the problem.”
The Doctor reappeared, half a dozen floridly wrapped boxes balanced in his arms. “Uh, Martha?” She grabbed the top two boxes just as they toppled forward and heard the Doctor give a little yelp. “Some very delicate stuff in here, you know. Wouldn’t want to blow a hole in the Brigadier’s garden, not when I know how fond he is of his begonias.” He took two steps towards the house, then stopped. “Did you say there was a problem?”
“Yes,” said Martha. “There’s a very large elf in there, and a very pretty Santa Claus.”
The Doctor blinked. “You’re sure about that?”
“Pretty sure, yeah. She was delivering presents, and the elf seemed pretty interested in where the Brigadier kept his whisky.”
The Doctor blinked. “I...ah...oh.”
-
Martha sat by the fireplace, munching on a mince pie she’d pilfered from the kitchen. The only illumination came from the lights decorating the Christmas tree in the corner, but it was enough to see that the Doctor wasn’t looking happy. “But if you’ve already given the Brigadier the...the anti-zap thing, then why are we here now?” Martha asked. “He doesn’t need two, does he?”
“Might be an idea,” said the giant elf, who the Santa had claimed was actually the Doctor. He was slumped back in an armchair, eyes half-closed, whisky bottle cradled in his arms. “Bound to invade again, very temperamental lot, the Vorn. Very...” He waved a hand, then seemed to forget he’d been speaking at all.
“Very persistent,” said Romana who, Martha thought, was looking extremely nice in her Santa outfit. She shot an irritated look at the Doctor in the chair, now snoring gently. “And I can see why you might have forgotten about this.”
“Yes, well, sorry about that,” said the Doctor, Martha’s Doctor. He’d gone slightly pink and was studiously avoiding looking at his former self. “Really, very-” the snoring grew louder and the Doctor winced, his eyes rolling towards the ceiling, “-very, very sorry.”
“Hmph,” said Romana. She looked at Martha. “I don’t suppose this really is a human tradition?” she asked, nodding at the sleeping Doctor.
“Sort of,” said Martha. “Though we usually don’t break into other people’s houses and nick their drink. We buy our own.”
“I think it’s got to be us who leave the convertor,” said the Doctor. “I mean, I had it now, so you can’t have left it then.”
“If it’s the same convertor,” said Romana. “Let me see.” She knelt down by one of the Doctor’s boxes and carefully unwrapped it. “It’s in even worse condition than ours,” she said, opening it up to take a look at the circuitry inside. “But it’s going to have to do, since it’s obviously the same one as ours.”
“What about the whisky?” Martha had wrested the bottle from the Doctor’s arms and was examining the label. “I don’t know much about it, but I don’t think this is the cheap stuff.”
The other Doctor woke suddenly and sat up, eyes wide. “Last orders already?” he said. He blinked, eyes coming into focus. “Romana, this whisky’s been poisoned.” She looked at him, unimpressed. He pulled a wounded face. “There’s plenty left, taste for yourself. Not too much. A few sips were enough for me to have to shut down my body to recover.”
Romana sniffed dubiously at the open bottle, then ran her finger round the lip and licked the residue. She looked at the older Doctor. “He’s right,” she said, passing the bottle to him.
“But who’d want to poison the Brigadier?” asked Martha.
The Doctor rocked on his heels, considering. “Well, he has thwarted more than a few alien invasions over the years-“
“-with my help, of course,” added the younger Doctor.
“Our help,” corrected the elder. “Where d’you find the bottle?”
“On the sideboard,” said the other Doctor. “I thought he’d left it out for Santa.”
“I didn’t want any,” said Romana.
“Only children do that,” Martha told him, “and they don’t usually leave alcohol.”
The Doctor waved a dismissive hand. “I can’t keep track of all your bizarre human customs, young lady. The elf suits are quite enough for one evening.”
The other Doctor had taken out his sonic screwdriver and was running it over the whisky bottle. Romana looked at the gadget with some interest, much to the other Doctor’s annoyance. “Aliens, of course,” he said quickly.
“Aliens,” agreed the other Doctor. “This wasn’t manufactured on Earth.”
“Might I take a look?”
“I’d find out where it’s from much faster if I could just finish this scan.”
“It’s just that that sonic screwdriver of yours doesn’t look quite so sturdy as the old model. I’m sure if I just had a quick look-“
“Just give me a second. I’m almost...” He paused and looked up. “Martha?”He spun round. “Martha, where are you?”
-
“Is it safe out there?” asked Martha as she stepped up onto the window sill.
“Not very, no,” said Romana. She sidled along the roof, fingers gripping the slates. “It’s rather slippery actually. I hope you’ve got a good sense of balance.”
“Guess I’m about to find out,” Martha muttered, jumping up and out. Romana caught her arm as she found her footing and together they clambered awkwardly towards the roof’s summit. “What’re we looking for?”
“The Vorn,” said Romana. “The recon scout, anyway. If they’ve decided there’s a target worth eliminating before they begin their invasion, then they’ll have set up a reconnaissance post nearby.”
“How nearby?”
“Very.”
Martha followed Romana’s look. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope. I’d bet my degree that our would-be assassin is hiding in the chimney.”
They scrambled over the roof, the cold air burning in Martha’s throat. She could barely feel her fingers and rather envied Romana her thick velvet coat and woolly white beard. As they perched by the chimney top, Romana put a finger to her lips and reached into her pocket. Martha raised an eyebrow and Romana made the universally recognised hand-sign for Big Explosion, before taking out a match and lighting what looked very like a firework.
She dropped it down the chimney and stuck her fingers in her ears. Martha followed suit.
Fifteen seconds later, there was an explosion inside the chimney and a fountain of red and blue sparks came flying out. There was a nasty crack that sounded a lot like some brickwork giving way, then a squelch and a short furry figure flew out of the chimney and flung itself straight at Romana.
She yelped and toppled backwards, sending tiles flying as she struggled to find a handhold. Martha hooked her feet round the chimney and flung herself forward, catching Romana’s arm as she managed to disentangle the Vorn from her hair and throw him off.
The lump of fur made a screech of annoyance and leapt from the roof, landing softly in the garden below and running off into the darkness.
“Well, this is very undignified,” said Romana, sprawled across the roof, in no position for either her hands or feet to find purchase. “How are things your end?”
“Brilliant,” said Martha, then, “That’s what’s invading?”
“Mmhmm.” Romana shifted her weight ever so slightly then thought better of it. “Don’t be deceived by appearances – their technology outstrips yours by centuries and they’re quite keen to get their hands on the mineral resources of your world. Could you possibly give me your other hand?”
Martha edged forward, reached out with her left hand. “Now what?” she asked, almost afraid to breath incase she fell.
“Patience,” said Romana, biting her lip and very carefully using the counterbalance of Martha’s weight to edge herself round so her feet were pointed towards the ground. She let go of Martha’s hands and slid down the icy incline using the friction of her gloves to control her speed. With a gentle bump, she halted herself at the gutter. “Perfect!” She looked over her shoulder, up at Martha. “Your turn.”
-
If there was one situation the Doctor was quite keen on stopping ever happening again, it was having two of his companions meet and have conversations that involved going quiet and giggling very suspiciously as soon as he appeared. Romana and Martha, legs dangling over the edge of the roof, were really far too amused for it to mean anything good.
“Um, Martha?” he said.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” she called.
“It’s a bit of a jump,” he pointed out.
“I’ll fly.”
The Doctor frowned. “What have you been talking about?”
“Oh, nothing scandalous,” said Romana, “nothing to ruin your immaculate reputation. As a matter of fact, we were taking care of the Vorn scout. What were you two doing?”
“Taking care of the whisky,” said the Doctor. “Not drinking it, replacing it. Finding a replacement, for Alastair. For a present. Since it’s Christmas.” He stared up at them a few moments longer and they stared back.
This really wasn’t fair at all.
+
“That seems to be everything,” said the Doctor, who’d traded his elf costume for a long coat and incredibly long scarf. “Romana?”
“We should probably leave a note,” she said. “Incase he tries to stop the invasion before he’s opened the presents.”
“Ah, there’s a point. Doctor? Would you care to do the honours?” He retrieved a pen and notepad from somewhere in his capacious pockets and handed them to his older self.
“Thanks very much, Doctor,” muttered his self as he scribbled down a few brief instructions for dealing with the Vorn and then pinned the note to the mantelpiece. Just above it sat a particularly fine bottle of Martian whisky, a 2132 - a year good enough that the Doctor had been saving it for when he’d had a really, really good day and managed to save at least two universes from untimely oblivion.
“For you,” said Romana to Martha, taking off her Santa hat and Santa jacket, underneath was a loose white blouse. “They’re terribly cosy. Very suitable for a night like this. We’re parked inside.”
“Thanks very much,” said Martha, slipping the jacket on.
“Oh, don’t forget the beard,” said Romana, handing it over too.
The door burst open. The four intruders looked up to see a very sleepy, very irritated Brigadier standing in the doorway. “What the devil is going on in here?” he demanded, looking from one awkward Doctor to the other.
“We’re stopping a Christmas invasion,” said the older, recovering first.
“Or rather you are,” said the other.
“You’ll thank us in the morning.”
“I doubt it,” said the Brigadier. He opened his mouth to ask another question, then sighed and, very deliberately, turned around and went back upstairs to bed.
