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“I wish,” Charlotte murmurs, “you’d unplug that telephone of yours. Just for one day.”
He sighs, nestling into the pleasurable comfort of her warmth. Soft, affectionate… strange. Everything that is the polar opposite of soldiers, ranks, orders.
Just for one day. It’s a pleasant thought; tempting. A free day — a day to himself. A chance to relax, enjoy life, and forget all about international security.
Hah. As if.
“I have responsibilities,” he reminds her. “Anything could happen. My men need me available at any hour.”
He can feel the tension in her; the way she pulls slightly away from him in bed. “It isn’t only men who need you,” she says. “You want to talk about availability? Alistair, you’re hardly ever really here. Even at night, even when you’re with me…”
“You’re the one who decided to date Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart,” he informs her, more sharply than he intended, then immediately regrets it.
They’re rapidly approaching a breaking point, he can tell — the same breaking point that all of his relationships seem to hit eventually — and he just accelerated the end.
Maybe it’s for the best.
“But I’m not dating the Brigadier,” Charlotte says. “I’m dating Alistair.”
Ah.
Alistair; the Brigadier. Is there even a difference, anymore, between the two? He wonders if this is how the Doctor feels — nameless, his entire identity boiled down to a single title.
Charlotte exhales, sharp and frustrated, still waiting for a response.
He opens his mouth, perhaps to attempt to make an apology. He isn’t good at apologies. Isn’t good at relationships in general. The traits that make him a good commander don’t seem to translate well to romance.
“Charlotte—“ he begins.
The phone rings, cutting off whatever else he was about to say.
“One moment.” Wearily, Brigadier Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart reaches for the receiver.