One More Goodbye, All Over Again
Sat at his desk, the old man remembered. Remembering the days when his work had really mattered, not like it did now. It was all pitiful bureaucracy; that's it, let's wheel out Sir Alistair now, impress everybody. Look at him, he was there when the Silurians attacked, he dealt with Cybermen and the like, fought off the Master more times than anyone cares to recall. He knew the Doctor. Sometimes it seemed like they were more interested in his friendship with the eccentric Time Lord than any of his other achievements. Made a change from the old days, when everyone had doubted and heckled and questioned the Doctor's knowledge, qualifications, or authority – or on especially good days, all three. No, now he had a whole cult of personality percolating in those trainspotting types within UNIT. The ones who cultivated scarf collections, unironically wore frilled shirts or terrible suits, or whatever the latest look was. There had been an embarrassing phase not that long back where several employees had wondered in wearing leather jackets and shouting 'Fantastic!' in the worst approximation of a Northen accent known to man. Most recently, it was long coats and shocking attempts at French, though soon enough that would change replaced by something equally faddy. That was the way of it.
Former Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart shook his head and sighed. Soon he would be gone whereas the Doctor would continue, surpassing them all in years without even trying, thanks to certain advantages known as being centuries old already and also not being human. The Doctor would continue; he always did. And UNIT would put him up on a pedestal, forgetting that he wasn't always right, that he did make mistakes. It'd go to his head, make the man even more insufferable than he already was. Modesty was not the Doctor's strong point. He hardly needed help with his ego, did he now?
Still, you couldn't help but miss the old boy sometimes. The old days, when no-one gave UNIT any respect, when you had to fight for every inch while another species turned up every other week. They had seen wonders; and the Doctor had proceeded to ruin those wonders with his endless technobabble. Or the wonders had ruined themselves by trying to obliterate human life from the face of the Earth. Either/or, really. Frequently both.
On slow moving days like this one, Sir Alistair's unsentimental nature softened and he found himself wishing he could pop back to those infuriating long-ago times. How he had hated them. How he had enjoyed them.
Countless years had passed since then and now he was here, sat at his desk, looking over notes from his recent trip to Peru. That had been when that Atmos thing had occurred, apparently the Sontarans all over again. One thing he had learnt from his time at UNIT was to distrust new technology; it was inevitably a front for an alien invasion (he was highly suspicious of that 'Apple' lot, it was only a matter of time before they made their move). Pity he had been trapped in South America the entire time, though he was getting far too old to send those jumped-up potato men packing. It would've been nice to give them a damn good thrashing, that was all, whatever moral quibbles the Doctor might've had. And the Doctor was always very quick to complain about military interference/existence whenever he got the chance. Back in the day, Yates and Benton had a running bet as to how long into each incident it would take the Doctor to make some sort of snide dig at their profession. This game had been banned within a week for financial reasons.
The door opened suddenly, a young man, Corporal Tindale, entered. He was a decent enough fellow with minimal clearance, unfamiliar with all the Great Nonsense, knew nothing more than what the public did. He saluted awkwardly, as people often did in the presence of the stern gentleman regardless of whether they knew the stories or not, feeling his grey eyes boring into them. Tucking away under Tindale's other arm was a set of folders, numerous standard-issue, distinctively generic beige files. Probably some dusty old notes they wanted him to look over, pure admin work. Internally, Sir Alistair groaned but put on a brave face and attempted to smile politely.
"Yes Tindale, what is it?"
The young man lowered his hand, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "A man to see you. Top level clearance but I thought...well, he seemed a bit weird sir."
"These top clearance fellows usually are. Did he give you these?"
Tindale nodded, putting the files on the desk and backing away, pressing himself against the door as if he could escape via osmosis through the wood or something along those lines. Sir Alistair sighed deeply and opened the top file. His heart stopped. With bated breath he reached for the next, and the next, flicking through each one, reading only what he needed to.
The Brigadier complained incessantly and refused to listen to common sense (as per usual)...
...the Cybermen insisted upon existing which was a shame as I had better things to do, like watching paint dry...
The Daleks. Enough said.
...wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey...
Why do I bother writing these reports? It's not like Lethbridge-Stewart will understand any of them.
SCIENCE
(This latter one was emboldened, circled and underlined three times, not to mention the fact it made up the entire report for the incident it pertained to. Sir Alistair could not be sure what the incident itself had been because all the report contained was that single word which really, really didn't help. Absolutely typical of the Doctor. Absolutely bloody typical.)
Stuck dumb, unable to think straight, he dropped the reports in shock. Years worth of reports of the Doctor's contributions to UNIT, all of them long overdue. In the total time he had worked for them, he had only ever written three reports and those he had were so passive-aggressive they had needed to be sent back for redrafts. Over twenty-five violently sarcastic reports, appearing unprompted. A man with top clearance who was 'a bit weird' according to Tindale, who knew nothing of the Doctor because he didn't have the clearance. Who else was it ever going to be?
And why was he here? Something seemed off. Had not the Time Lord once said he would rather devour his own feet than hand in those 'extended works of fiction' as he referred to them. He didn't write reports. So what had spurred this sudden outpouring of them? What was going on?
"Show him in."
Tindale saluted again and walked out, leaving Lethbridge-Stewart waiting apprehensively. He prepared himself to be presented with an unfamiliar face. A stranger. The Doctor.
In came a sickeningly young and handsome man, hair spiked up in a fashionable way. Long coat, like the current weirdos at UNIT. Pinstripe suit. Sir Alistair had seen this man before in the more recent photographs. There was that intensity in his eyes that never changed, a glint found in no-one else. A faint smile flickered sadly on his face. Sir Alistair dismissed Tindale and couldn't help but return the Doctor's smile.
"Hello Brigadier," the Doctor said in his new voice – new to his old friend at least – Estuary-accented and tinged with sadness. The former Brigadier – emphasis being on the word former, not that Sir Alistair objected or intended to correct the Doctor – felt his emotions swing right around from happiness at seeing a friend to concern for the often lonely Time Lord. "I don't have very long. This is just-" he choked off.
"You're putting us all to shame, Doctor. As we get older, you get younger. Frankly, it's difficult for us humans to cope." The Brigadier – he found himself thinking in such terms again – tried to diffuse the situation, but seemed to only make things worse. Something was very wrong. "Doctor? What is it?"
"I-" he stopped, struggling to get the words out. "I'm dying."
If the world could have stopped, this would have been the moment. Everything was swept away in a tide of hopelessness. The despair with which the Doctor said those words, why, they cleaved his old friend's heart in two. And he was by no means an affectionate or sensitive man.
"What about that thing you always do? The new body? Can't you just do that?" The Brigadier tried to make sense of the situation. Couldn't. Refused to. What he was hearing...
"Yeah. That." the Doctor muttered bitterly. "You don't understand what that's like. How could you? It's like dying, you know. Afterwards, I – me, as I am now, me as an individual being – I cease to exist. I'm just a memory, Brigadier, one more in a long line of Doctors. Someone else starts calling themselves by my title. The worst part is I know they'll have my memories but I don't want to- don't want to-" he broke off again, choking back tears. "I don't want to lose who I am. I don't want to become somebody else. I don't want to...I don't want to go."
By now, tears were rolling down the Time Lord's cheeks. He was a mess. And he seemed so unbearably human in that moment the Brigadier had to go to him, to offer him a chair and guide him gently to it. Breathing heavily the Doctor composed himself until he was able to shakily stand again.
"You never told me what it was like before," the Brigadier said, choosing his words carefully, conscious of his friend's fragile state. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't be. It's got nothing to do with you. This is all me. I just thought, you know, we've never properly met with me like this, and so I'd make this the first and last time. Drop off those reports I owe you." Despite it all, the Doctor managed a smile and the Brigadier shook his head in amazement. "Did you like them?"
"They certainly made for an interesting read. I do however resent the implication I wouldn't understand them."
A laugh. Through his obvious emotional and perhaps physical pain, the Doctor laughed. "Sorry. Wrote that one a few years back. Always intended to drop it off. Never got around to it though."
Silence. What did you say? An old friend and colleague turns up for a visit out of the blue, tells you he's dying and breaks down in your office. There was very little that could be said. But there was a lot that could be done. Offering the Doctor his hand, they shared a handshake.
"I may not have known this version of you very well, but I wish you nothing but the best, Doctor. You are by far my oldest friend. Do keep in touch."
Another smile, a broader, more hopeful smile. "Thank you. I- I hope my successor will be able to visit you more than I have. I'm sorry I couldn't be here more."
"But you have been. Not for me personally. For Earth. Promise me you'll keep on protecting us. That you will stand up for this planet like it were your own. Or perhaps not, from what I know of your people. Just promise me, Doctor."
The Doctor said nothing and nodded, and then, seemingly on a whim, hugged the uptight ex-Brigadier tightly, much to the older-looking man's consternation. He put that aside. And he hugged the Doctor back.
After the Time Lord had left, he found himself dabbing tears from the corners of his own eyes. It seemed he was going soft in his old age. Wiping them away, he picked up the first of those reports once again:
The Brigadier complained incessantly and refused to listen to common sense (as per usual) regarding the homicidal daffodils and honestly I wished I had never come to the planet Earth nor encountered the human race because no other species whinges quite as much. Even the Daleks are placid in comparison, and they're pseudofascist genocidal maniacs who want to ex-ter-min-ate everything else. But at least they don't complain, not like the Brigadier does, and I know he's reading this right now and thinking 'Doctor. NO' (which sounds awfully like a Bond title). I on the other hand take the alternate opinion, that being 'Doctor YES' and so this report which is so out-of-date if it were milk it would be chemical warfare, is intended primarily to infuriate said Brigadier who will no doubt be reading this through gritted teeth-
He wasn't. He was reading it through almost-tears, which he refused to give into on principle.
-but he knows I mean well. And if he doesn't, then he does now. My dear Brigadier. I'm so sorry for all the slights, and for the lack of meaningful content in this report which need I add has taken me some decades to piece together thanks to all of my collective lack of attention spans. This is in a sense a goodbye. But it's also a new chapter.
It's also a new beginning.
One more goodbye, all over again, and then onto a new dawn.
Blinking back tears, he clung on to the last façades of the British stiff upper lip he wore so well, which he had to admit had been torn apart by this visit. Typical of the Doctor. He burst into your life like a cannonball and nothing would be the same ever again.
But first, the rest of this stupid BLOODY REPORT I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY SIR ALISTAIR.
He smiled. The Brigadier smiled. And somewhere a new day was beginning.