In fact, it’s so difficult not to stare that John fails entirely at the task.
“Do you have a problem with my attire, Mr Benton?” the Brigadier asks. His raised eyebrow dares John to respond, but there’s a wry smile playing on his lips; they’re in private after all, even if they are on duty.
John stares a second or two longer before dragging his eyes back to the Brigadier’s face. “No, sir,” he says, “I just wasn’t expecting you to be wearing… that, sir.”
“It’s just a kilt, Benton.”
Well, yes, John thinks, that’s really rather obvious. Not to mention extremely distracting. It’s an effort, frankly, to keep his gaze up above the Brigadier’s waist. Of course, ‘up’ is not necessarily best for everything. He shifts awkwardly, trying to make his interest less obvious.
He’s pretty sure it hasn’t worked though because the Brigadier looks rather pointedly at his camouflage-print trousers before launching into a lecture about Stewart tartans and hunting variations.
John’s not really listening though.
He can see the Brigadier’s knees. He knows that there are far more exciting parts to be seen, and that knees and elbows are only really notable in that they tend to get in the way during hurried fumbles, but they’re a tantalising glimpse of bare flesh that would ordinarily be covered with drab army green.
John has never understood the fascination that women seem to have for a man in uniform. To him there are days when the uniform feels like nothing more than a barrier, physically and psychologically.
The uniform reminds him that they have greater responsibilities, higher loyalties, and never forget, Mr Benton, a code of conduct.
The uniform signifies he’d die for his CO, but can’t even call him by his given name.
But that uniform is strikingly absent from the Brigadier right now.
John really can’t help but grin. “If you don’t mind my saying, sir, I rather like it.”
“I’m not wearing it for you, Benton,” the Brigadier says, suddenly stern. “It’s a fine Scottish tradition. As you know, I’m very proud of my heritage.”
“Yes, sir,” Benton says, snapping to attention and cursing himself for forgetting that despite appearances they aren’t on their own time yet.
“Of course,” the Brigadier says, stepping closer. Closer than is strictly necessary in a quiet backroom of a small country pub. “There are plenty of traditions associated with the actual wearing of kilts too…”
Benton relaxes fractionally; just enough to bring them face to face. “There are, are there, sir?”
“Oh yes. Particularly regarding what a true Scot wears under his kilt.”
No one can ever accuse John Benton of being slow on the uptake when it really matters. “So,” he replies, throat dry, “are you a true Scot, sir?”
“What do you think?”
The Brigadier steps away, but not before letting his fingers brush almost casually against John’s. It’s about as much contact as they ever allow themselves on duty and it sends a shiver right through him.
“Well, I’m sure I know the answer, sir,” John replies distractedly, watching the gentle, hypnotic sway of the fabric as the Brigadier heads for the door. “But I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t investigate fully.”
The Brigadier pauses, hand on the doorknob, and looks back at him. “Then I shall have to hope the Doctor arrives shortly and that he can solve the mystery of these missing oil rigs.” He smiles, his warm private smile, just for a second. “I should hate for you to be remiss, after all.”
John watches the Brigadier leave knowing full well that his silly grin, never mind anything else, will have to be brought under control before he can step out and face the troops.
He also wonders how long it'll take for the Doctor's psionic beam to… well, do whatever a psionic beam does. Perhaps, he thinks, he could take one of the Land Rovers out for a quick spin, check the countryside for odd blue boxes.
It wouldn’t do, after all, to postpone his investigation for too long.
Requests: Jack Harkness/Fitz Kreiner, Vislor Turlough/Captain Wrack (Enlightenment), Sarah Jane Smith/Liz Shaw
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart/John Benton
In fact, it’s so difficult not to stare that John fails entirely at the task.
“Do you have a problem with my attire, Mr Benton?” the Brigadier asks. His raised eyebrow dares John to respond, but there’s a wry smile playing on his lips; they’re in private after all, even if they are on duty.
John stares a second or two longer before dragging his eyes back to the Brigadier’s face. “No, sir,” he says, “I just wasn’t expecting you to be wearing… that, sir.”
“It’s just a kilt, Benton.”
Well, yes, John thinks, that’s really rather obvious. Not to mention extremely distracting. It’s an effort, frankly, to keep his gaze up above the Brigadier’s waist. Of course, ‘up’ is not necessarily best for everything. He shifts awkwardly, trying to make his interest less obvious.
He’s pretty sure it hasn’t worked though because the Brigadier looks rather pointedly at his camouflage-print trousers before launching into a lecture about Stewart tartans and hunting variations.
John’s not really listening though.
He can see the Brigadier’s knees. He knows that there are far more exciting parts to be seen, and that knees and elbows are only really notable in that they tend to get in the way during hurried fumbles, but they’re a tantalising glimpse of bare flesh that would ordinarily be covered with drab army green.
John has never understood the fascination that women seem to have for a man in uniform. To him there are days when the uniform feels like nothing more than a barrier, physically and psychologically.
The uniform reminds him that they have greater responsibilities, higher loyalties, and never forget, Mr Benton, a code of conduct.
The uniform signifies he’d die for his CO, but can’t even call him by his given name.
But that uniform is strikingly absent from the Brigadier right now.
John really can’t help but grin. “If you don’t mind my saying, sir, I rather like it.”
“I’m not wearing it for you, Benton,” the Brigadier says, suddenly stern. “It’s a fine Scottish tradition. As you know, I’m very proud of my heritage.”
“Yes, sir,” Benton says, snapping to attention and cursing himself for forgetting that despite appearances they aren’t on their own time yet.
“Of course,” the Brigadier says, stepping closer. Closer than is strictly necessary in a quiet backroom of a small country pub. “There are plenty of traditions associated with the actual wearing of kilts too…”
Benton relaxes fractionally; just enough to bring them face to face. “There are, are there, sir?”
“Oh yes. Particularly regarding what a true Scot wears under his kilt.”
No one can ever accuse John Benton of being slow on the uptake when it really matters. “So,” he replies, throat dry, “are you a true Scot, sir?”
“What do you think?”
The Brigadier steps away, but not before letting his fingers brush almost casually against John’s. It’s about as much contact as they ever allow themselves on duty and it sends a shiver right through him.
“Well, I’m sure I know the answer, sir,” John replies distractedly, watching the gentle, hypnotic sway of the fabric as the Brigadier heads for the door. “But I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t investigate fully.”
The Brigadier pauses, hand on the doorknob, and looks back at him. “Then I shall have to hope the Doctor arrives shortly and that he can solve the mystery of these missing oil rigs.” He smiles, his warm private smile, just for a second. “I should hate for you to be remiss, after all.”
John watches the Brigadier leave knowing full well that his silly grin, never mind anything else, will have to be brought under control before he can step out and face the troops.
He also wonders how long it'll take for the Doctor's psionic beam to… well, do whatever a psionic beam does. Perhaps, he thinks, he could take one of the Land Rovers out for a quick spin, check the countryside for odd blue boxes.
It wouldn’t do, after all, to postpone his investigation for too long.
Requests: Jack Harkness/Fitz Kreiner, Vislor Turlough/Captain Wrack (Enlightenment), Sarah Jane Smith/Liz Shaw