A rap on the doorframe gets the Doctor’s attention, and he looks up to see Benton lurking just inside the half-open door. “Am I interrupting anything important?” Benton asks, casting a cautious gaze at the array of electronics spread over the lab bench.
While there are several people the Doctor wishes would be put off by the complicated equipment, the ever-affable and pleasant Sergeant is not one of them. “Not at all,” he assures Benton. Setting aside the circuits, he swivels on his stool to face him. “Merely tinkering to pass the time. What can I do for you?”
Letting the door swing shut behind him, Benton wanders over to stand at the end of the bench with a thoughtful look on his face. “Well, I was wondering something about that fancy fighting that you do.”
“Ah, the Venusian aikido.” The Doctor nods. “Very useful, that.”
“That’s just it,” Benton says. “I mean, we’ve got all these guns, but half the time they don’t do any good at all. Your karate business though, that seems to work no matter what kind of aliens we end up with. Can anybody learn how to do it?”
The Doctor hides a smile at the way Benton thinks his curiosity is hiding what he’s leading up to. “Well, the precise form that I practice does require a rather higher level of strength and dexterity than most humans have.” Benton looks crestfallen until the Doctor adds, “However, there are other forms which could be mastered with a little effort. You’d like me to teach you, I take it?”
“If you’re not too busy,” Benton says hopefully.
Clapping Benton on the arm, the Doctor replies, “For you, my dear Sergeant, I shall make the time not to be busy.”
-- -- -- -- --
By necessity, the form which the Doctor teaches Benton is far more hands-on than that which he himself uses, tailored for species with far more enthusiasm than precision. An apt and eager pupil, Benton turns up most lunchtimes to practice, while Jo leaves them to it and heads out to her lunch dates with Corporal Bell. Shoes safely stowed under the lab bench and jackets laid over the back of a chair, they face each other on the mat they’ve appropriated from the gym, Benton with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a determined look on his face.
Benton takes his tumbles with good grace, letting himself be hauled back up again to have another go at incapacitating the Doctor with a cheery smile. He’s got a good ear for advice and a knack for not getting ruffled in the heat of the moment, reflexes nowhere near as fast as many species but a strength to his movements that serves him well. His easy humour doesn’t go amiss either, and all in all the Doctor finds he rather enjoys grappling with Benton in their free time.
The first time Benton gets a jab in to the pressure point the Doctor has been demonstrating for the last few weeks, neither of them are expecting it. With a surprised sound, the Doctor stumbles back off the mat, stopped when Benton grabs him by the arms with a solid grip. Looking slightly panicked, Benton then doesn’t let go until he’s entirely satisfied that the Doctor is all right.
“Do calm down, Sergeant,” the Doctor tells him, half amused and half insulted by the outright concern on Benton’s face. “I assure you, there’s very little you could do that would permanently damage me. I’m far stronger than I look, as I know you’re well aware given how many times you’ve ended up on the floor, hmm?”
Sheepishly, Benton lets go. The Doctor pats him on the arm. “Good chap. Let’s have another go now you’ve got the hang of it, shall we?”
-- -- -- -- --
As Benton continues to pick things up, their practice sessions get steadily more enthusiastic and somewhat less sophisticated. It’s not uncommon for one of them - usually Benton - to end up sprawled out on the mat with the other either looking smugly down at them. The tendency is then for things to devolve further into a laughter-filled battle to bring the other down to join them, with the use of some rather dirty tactics neither of them have learned by official means. More often than not the result of that is that Benton is defeated again, pinned to the mat by strong hands but grinning up at the Doctor unconcernedly.
“Dear me, Sergeant,” the Doctor chides. “You really must learn that such childish tactics aren’t going to work. I’m beginning to think you like being in this position.”
Interestingly, Benton flushes slightly, but doesn’t look away from the Doctor’s gaze as he replies, “If at first you don’t succeed...”
Chuckling, the Doctor lets go of Benton’s wrists. “That’s the spirit!”
Benton never says anything, but the Doctor doesn't miss the glances that sometimes linger, the way Benton yields when he's down and stops straining against the Doctor's hold, how he waits a moment longer to get up than he should when the Doctor is leaning over him. His silence on the matter is a puzzle for a while, until the Doctor watches his respectful greeting to Jo as they pass each other on their respective ways in and out of the lab, and notices how Benton defers to her in conversations which involve the three of them. Then he realises that Benton has come to an erroneous conclusion, which is foolish of him but at least easy to resolve.
The next time they spar, the Doctor lets them both work up a bit of a sweat, leads them on a merry dance around the mat, bringing them into brief contact with playful touches that make no effort to incapacitate. When Benton's flushed and breathing hard, somewhat frustrated but nowhere near to giving up, the Doctor brings them both to the ground with a swift but careful move that Benton never sees coming.
Sliding a leg between the splayed ones beneath him, the Doctor grips Benton's wrists and stretches over him, pressing their torsos together as he holds Benton's arms above his head. Lowering his head, he watches in satisfaction as Benton's eyes focus unwaveringly on his, wide and confused and hopeful.
“Well now,” the Doctor says, voice low. “What am I going to do with you now, hmm?”
It takes Benton a moment to work out a reply, and when it comes it's precisely the one the Doctor expected of him. Firmly, he asks, “What about Miss Grant?”
“Unless you're harbouring an affection for her that I don't know about, the answer is 'nothing'. As fond as Jo is of me, and I of her, she is considerably more fond of Corporal Bell.”
Benton's face clears. “Well, that explains a lot,” he says thoughtfully. “Now I know why Corporal Bell vanishes at lunch time, and why Miss Grant is never here when I am.”
“Quite,” the Doctor replies. Then he moves the conversation on by way of loosening his hold on Benton's wrists, curling his hands around strong forearms to stroke slowly down them while Benton shivers beneath him but otherwise doesn't move. Settling himself properly against Benton, the Doctor hovers his mouth just over the slightly parted one below and murmurs, “Feel free to touch me; I shall certainly be doing the same to you.”
With a hand sliding into Benton's hair, he brings their mouths together, light and teasing until Benton evidently decides he's had enough of that and wraps his arms around the Doctor's back to drag him closer. What follows is a highly undignified, thoroughly enjoyable tangle of limbs and wandering hands, rubbing against each other through their clothes for what little remains of their allocated hour, which ends with them both rather out of breath and pleasantly flushed when they pull apart.
“Same time tomorrow?” the Doctor asks as he watches Benton tidies himself up, redoing his tie and pulling his jacket back on while he glances over at the Doctor every so often.
“Right you are,” Benton agrees, and whistles his way out of the door and down the hallway.
-- -- -- -- --
Seeing as Benton does actually want to carry on practicing the karate, and as dalliances in the lab during office hours are likely to incur the Brigadier's wrath, they keep the unofficial business until after hours and reserve lunch times for honing Benton's skills. Of course, as with most physical exercise involving two spirited participants, they don't always manage to keep their sparring as clean as it should be.
The Brigadier walks in one lunchtime looking for Benton, and finds him face-down on the floor with the Doctor seated across his hips, one arm across Benton's back to hold him down and a hand pressed against the side of his neck. They're both down to their shirtsleeves, neither of them have got shoes on, and somewhere in the suggestive arrangement of limbs the Brigadier is sure exists a reason for their current position but he'll be damned if he can find it.
“What the devil is going on here?” he demands, stepping up to the mat to glare at them both.
Beneath the Doctor, Benton goes stock-still and then says, slightly muffled, “Could you let me up, please, Doctor?”
The Doctor swings his leg over Benton and stands in one smooth movement, straightening out his shirt and brushing off his trousers. “I'm teaching Benton some Venusian aikido,” he explains, as Benton scrambles to his feet and sends agonised glances to where most of his uniform is on the other side of the room.
Snorting at the temerity of the claim, the Brigadier replies, “Doctor, I'm well aware of what your fancy martial arts look like, and that wasn't it.”
“Yes, well, I've had to adapt it a little for use with humans.”
Turning to Benton, the Brigadier tells him sternly, “As for you, Sergeant Benton, might I remind you that you're meant to be on duty? For heaven's sake, go and put your uniform back on, you look more like a truant schoolboy than a soldier.”
“Yessir!” Benton says smartly, and half runs, half slides across the room.
“Really, Brigadier, are you objecting to one of your men getting valuable extra training during his own time?” the Doctor says disapprovingly. “After all, Sergeant Benton is still on base, and easily accessible in an emergency. In fact, he's probably more ready to leap into action than the rest of you, sitting around with your cups of tea and sandwiches.” With that, he crosses his arms across his chest and raises an eyebrow at the Brigadier.
Mentally cursing the man's infernal ability to talk his way out of anything, the Brigadier glares at him and refuses to rise to the bait, despite the urge to form a response in the form of several loud words.
From the side, Benton steps hesitantly closer and says, “Ah... I'll just get back to work then, shall I?”
“At once, if you please,” the Brigadier snaps, satisfied at the immediate salute Benton gives him. “Dismissed, Sergeant Benton.”
“Do come back soon,” the Doctor calls out, unquelled by the half-step closer that the Brigadier takes to him.
“You, too, Doctor,” the Brigadier instructs firmly, well aware of the threat in his voice. “I'm sure there are things you should be doing.”
Swiftly, he leaves, without waiting to see what the inevitably infuriating response will be.
-- -- -- -- --
At the end of the day, Benton sticks his head around the lab door, only coming all the way in when he sees that the Doctor is alone.
“You didn't get into too much trouble with the Brigadier, did you?” he asks, a look of touching concern and slight hint of guilt on his face.
“Me?” The Doctor sets his pen down gives Benton his full attention. “I was rather under the impression that I'd put him in a bad enough mood for me to be asking you that question.”
With a smile and a shake of his head, Benton walks over to stand within reach of the Doctor. “He just needed to shout a bit, I think. After that he was fine.”
“Well, I'm glad to hear it,” the Doctor says. Reaching out, he tugs at Benton's belt loops, and Benton takes the necessary step closer to stand between the Doctor's outstretched legs. “Now then...”
Nowadays that's all the encouragement that Benton needs. Resting his hands on the Doctor's shoulders, he leans in to kiss him, slow and firm and gentle until the Doctor makes an impatient sound and lets his hands fall to Benton's arse and tug him closer. Then Benton happily lets the Doctor take control of the kiss, concentrating instead getting a few of the buttons of the Doctor's shirt undone so that he can push the edges aside and slip his fingers to rest on the skin beneath.
So far they've stuck to over the clothes for the most part, but the Doctor is wondering if now might be the time to move on, a question borne out by the insistence with which Benton is pressing into his personal space and the enthusiasm with which he’s exploring the Doctor’s chest.
“Shall we take this somewhere more private?” the Doctor asks, pulling back to cast a glance over at the shut door, which would provide a deterrent to absolutely no-one in the building.
Flashing him a grin, Benton asks, “Where did you have in mind?”
Benton takes the interior of the TARDIS rather well, and after a confused moment looking around the console room, says, “Is there a bedroom somewhere in here as well? Because if it's a choice between here and back out there, I'll take the lab bench over those levers any day.”
Taking hold of Benton's tie, the Doctor leads him into the hallway, where thankfully the first door they open does in fact hold a bed large enough for their purposes. The speed with which Benton gets his clothes off is rather impressive; the way he stands there slightly awkwardly afterwards is an endearing counterpoint to the lack of modesty he displayed while stripping off. The Doctor pauses, shirt unbuttoned and fingers hovering over the cuffs, and casts an appreciative gaze over him.
“My my,” he remarks, looking back up to meet Benton's slightly uncertain eyes. “You are a big chap, aren't you?”
Benton flushes but his posture eases, and he comes closer while the Doctor finishes undressing, hands reaching out to help push his shirt down his arms and then curve in appreciation around the biceps beneath. When the Doctor steps out of his underwear, Benton casts a gaze down, and then says with a half-shy smile, “You're not exactly lacking in anything either, are you?”
“One of the perks of being a Time Lord,” the Doctor replies with a wink, which makes Benton laugh before the Doctor slides a hand around the back of his head and presses their mouths together again. There's no hesitation in Benton's response, and he's the one to close the few inches between them, a rough, satisfied sound escaping him when their skin touches and their erections rub against each other.
Despite all that though, his touch is light and gentle, soft and slow as he trails his fingers down the length of the Doctor's back. Curious, the Doctor lets their lips part, and slips his hand to curve around Benton's face. Stroking his thumb across Benton’s cheekbone, he asks, “Forgive me, but you have done this before, haven't you?”
“Oh, yes,” Benton assures him. “Captain Yates and I used to...” He coughs and trails off, obviously debating the wisdom of continuing that line of conversation at the moment. “Not that you need details, obviously.”
“'Captain Yates', hmm?” the Doctor asks with a wink. “Did you call him that when you used to...?”
Mischief flashes across Benton's face. “Only if he asked really nicely.”
The Doctor files that away for future reference, and leans in to press his lips to Benton's collarbone. Smoothing his palms down sides which twitch at his touch, the Doctor enjoys the moment and lets Benton get them to the bed in his own time.
-- -- -- -- --
The second time that the Brigadier walks in on them at lunchtime, the only possible improvement is that their shoes are still on.
Other than that, they're rolling around on the mat and wrestling each other with no concern for personal space, and apparently at a crucial moment if their lack of attention to the outside world is anything to go by. Benton gets the upper hand long enough to secure his position above the Doctor, arms trembling slightly with the effort of holding him there, crouched over him in an uncomfortable-looking position that pulls his trousers tight across his -
“That's quite enough of that!” the Brigadier says sharply.
The result of this is to shake Benton's concentration enough that he collapses over the Doctor, which really isn’t any better at all.
“If you two are going to get up to this kind of thing, you might at least put a sign on the door to warn the rest of us,” the Brigadier tells the breathless pair on the floor, who may or may not be listening to him. His eyes trail over where Benton's legs are tangled with the Doctor’s slightly longer ones, and then he shakes his head and draws his gaze back up to meet the Doctor’s knowing gaze with a stern one. “It's simply not on,” he announces, and leaves before he looks at anything else he shouldn’t.
As the door swings shut, the Doctor looks up at Benton and says, “Do you know, I think your Brigadier might be jealous?”
Benton blinks, then rolls off the Doctor and sits next to him. “Of who?”
Leaning back on his hands, the Doctor tells him, “Well it wasn't my backside he was staring at just now.”
Opening his mouth, Benton realises he has no idea what to do with that information, and shuts it again.
“Don’t worry; I’m sure we can persuade him to join us sooner or later,” the Doctor adds.
That doesn’t seem to ease Benton’s befuddlement in the slightest, so the Doctor pats him on the shoulder and goes to make him a nice calming cup of tea, which Benton drinks sat cross-legged on the floor while he thinks things over. Whether he reaches any conclusions is unclear, but he looks much better when he’s finished, and gives the Doctor a cheerful kiss before he leaves.
-- -- -- -- --
It becomes a routine that Benton will pop by before the beginning of the day, occasionally bringing a selection of biscuits for Jo and the Doctor to enjoy, always making sure there's something with coconut in for Jo. The Doctor feels sure that the offerings are at least partly to stay in Jo's good books and make sure he has her approval of the relationship between himself and the Doctor. It's entirely unnecessary, of course, and typical of Benton to think of it.
“John, why don't you show Jo what you've been learning?” the Doctor suggests one morning, interrupting their conversation about the merits of almond and walnut in fruitcakes.
“Oooh, yes please!” Jo says.
“I don't know if that's such a good idea,” Benton demurs. “I mean, I'm not really very good at it yet.”
“False modesty will get you nowhere,” the Doctor informs him, all of a sudden determined to encourage Benton to show off at least a little. “You're coming along very nicely. Come along, we've enough time to go through a couple of the simpler routines before you're summoned to the drudgery of the day.”
When Jo chimes in her encouragement, Benton gives in. “Just quickly though,” he cautions, and slips out of his jacket.
He really has come a long way over the last few months, far more disciplined and sharp than when they'd first begun. Initially somewhat nervous with the audience, he relaxes when Jo claps to convey her admiration, and gets into the swing of things. Still no match for the Doctor when they're actually competing, nonetheless in the frame of the practice they're doing at the moment, he's quick with his hands and steady on his feet and demonstrates the various moves with barely a slip-up.
Then the Doctor suggests that they go through them again but this time he'll actually put some effort into stopping Benton. With a look that says he knows he’s going to regret it, Benton agrees, and gives it his best.
After being knocked to the floor for the fifth time in two minutes, he gives up with a groan and opts to stare up at the ceiling instead. Glumly, he tells it, “I'm going to have bruises all over for a week.”
Jo and the Doctor appear in his field of view, Jo's concern considerably more genuine than the Doctor's. Crouching down either side of him, they reach out to help him sit up, and the Doctor offers an insincere, “Terribly sorry, my dear chap.” A moment later he adds, “You did do rather well though.”
Gingerly rubbing the back of his head, Benton wonders if that makes up for the indignity he’s suffered.
“You really did,” Jo agrees, patting his arm and smiling at him. “I've never seen anyone fight the Doctor like that; you're really good at it!”
Chuffed, Benton replies, “Thank you, Miss. I'm glad you think so.”
The Doctor ruffles Benton's hair and Jo leans in to kiss him in the cheek, which is when the Brigadier walks in with Yates by his side.
Benton does the only thing he can, which is freeze in place and gulp.
The Brigadier takes one look at three of them in a far-too-close together pile on the floor, Jo and the Doctor with their arms around Benton, whose jacket has disappeared along with his sense of decorum. He doesn’t even want to know where the hands that he can’t see are. Bringing his mouth closed with an audible click of his teeth, he gives them all a furious gaze, spins on his heel and strides out again.
Yates stifles his laughter until the door has swung shut behind the irate Brigadier, and then comes over to drop down next to Jo. Shaking his head with a fond look at Benton, Yates says, “You know, I didn't entirely believe the Brigadier when he said you'd been getting up to no good down here. Shows what I know, hmm?”
“It's not exactly what it looks like,” Benton says in a half-hearted attempt to stop things getting out of control.
Winking at Jo, Yates says, “I should think not; Corporal Bell would have a fit.” Jo sticks her tongue out at him in return, and they chuckle. “Cheer up, Benton,” Yates says, patting his knee consolingly. “I’m sure the Brigadier will calm down soon.”
“What, is it ‘Pet a Benton’ day?” Benton grumbles.
The Doctor snorts, squeezes his shoulder, and then takes the hint and stands. Extending a hand down to Benton, he says, “Not if the Brigadier has anything to say about it.”
“Speaking of which,” Yates adds as they all get to their feet, “We’d better get back upstairs before he remembers that he came down here to get you.”
Sighing, Benton brushes himself off, squares his shoulders, and resigns himself to dealing with the Brigadier's icy glare and Yates' ribbing for the rest of the day.
-- -- -- -- --
For the rest of the week, the Brigadier steadfastly refuses to go anywhere near the science department, and works on not scowling at the Doctor and Benton every time he sees them together. To be fair to them, the only time they ever spend time together in his company is because he’s summoned them, but that doesn’t do much for his mood. They’re both perfectly professional - well, Benton is anyway - and don’t give him cause to shout at them, which would do wonders for his mood.
Eventually he realises how ridiculous it is for him to avoid an area of his own base simply due to suspicions about what two members of his staff might be getting up to down there. Whether based in truth or not, he can’t steer clear of the lab indefinitely. He’ll just make sure that he only goes down there when he’s reasonably sure that Benton is elsewhere.
Looking up at the clock, which says it’s just gone five pm, the Brigadier decides there’s no time like the present. There’s a detail on the paperwork that could use the Doctor’s clarification, and while Benton will be on his way home, the Doctor will still be in the lab working on whatever mad experiment he’s got going this week.
As it turns out, the Brigadier’s logic turns out to be wrong in both cases. The laboratory is oddly minus the Doctor, the room empty save for the TARDIS in the corner and the usual array of equipment all over the surfaces. It is however plus Benton’s hat, lying on the floor outside the slightly ajar TARDIS doors. At the sight, the Brigadier’s annoyance comes back full force.
“Oh good Lord,” he mutters to himself, scowling at the box inside which Benton and the Doctor are doing who knows what. “Benton!” he bellows, striding across the room to rap on the door with his baton. “Get yourself out here on the double, and bring that dratted Doctor with you.”
After a few moments there's the sound of feet pounding on the floor. The Brigadier steps backwards and Benton comes running out, skidding to a stop with his tie askew and hands fumbling to fasten the belt on his jacket, a flush on his cheeks and hair distinctly mussed. The Doctor strolls out after him, not bothering to do up the several buttons that are undone on his shirt, but instead choosing to smooth his hair back into some semblance of order. Then he leans back against the TARDIS, crosses one long leg over the other, and looks highly amused at the whole situation.
“This isn't funny, Doctor,” the Brigadier snaps. “As for you, Benton, what have you got to say for yourself? Do you really think that my base is the appropriate place for you and the Doctor to go at it like rabbits?”
“It is after hours, sir,” Benton offers apologetically, giving up on his efforts to set himself to rights.
“I'm well aware of that!” the Brigadier says. “It's bad enough that I can't come in here during the day without finding you all over each other; now you're at it in the evenings as well. Really, it's gone quite far enough. For heaven's sake, you could at least show a little consideration for the rest of us and leave the base!”
In truth, he's not quite as angry as he sounds, but really it's more than one man can be expected to put up with. How can he be expected to concentrate knowing that the Doctor and Benton are having all sorts of fun down here, while he's stuck in his office trying not to daydream about the specifics?
“Might I make a suggestion?” the Doctor says, pushing himself smoothly away from the TARDIS with all of his usual elegance still present despite his rumpled appearance. “I do believe there's an Earth saying which is of particular relevance here.”
“And what, pray, might that be?”
“'If you can't beat them, join them'.”
Benton lets out a hastily smothered laugh which turns to a smile when the Brigadier looks at him, and tilts his head in assent.
Mood rapidly improving, the Brigadier deliberately taps his baton against his hand, and does his best to maintain his glower as he asks, “Who's to say I can't do both?”
At that, Benton and the bulge in his trousers stand to attention. The Doctor chuckles and pushes the door to the TARDIS wider open. “Certainly not us, my dear chap.”
Nudging the Doctor on his way with a sharp tap to the rear, and resting a hand low on Benton's back, the Brigadier follows them both into the TARDIS and down the corridor to a room which looks well-used, and contains in it nothing but a bed and a desk. The only apparent use of the desk is for the Brigadier to fuck Benton over, which he does with pleasure.
Benton braces his arms against the desk, bent over it wearing only the crumpled shirt which is pushed half-way up his back, pushing back against the Brigadier with a low groan every time the Brigadier rocks into him. Unthinkingly he calls the Brigadier 'sir', which gets a low laugh from the Doctor and a satisfied growl from the Brigadier, who strokes one hand across his shoulders and up to curl around the back of his neck while the other grips tighter at Benton's hip.
Rubbing his thumb across the pulse that’s jumping at the side of Benton’s neck, the Brigadier slows and turns to look at the Doctor. “Is he always this obliging?” he asks, as Benton drops his head forwards with rumbled plea for more that vibrates against the Brigadier’s palm.
From where he's leaning against the wall, stroking himself leisurely, the Doctor chuckles. “That depends on your definition of 'obliging'. Quite often our Sergeant Benton has me on all fours on the bed, which he's perfectly willing to do.”
Intrigued, the Brigadier murmurs, “Is he now?”
Benton draws his attention back by pushing insistently back against him, and asking with a slightly put-out tone, “Can we save this discussion for later please? I was rather enjoying things until you two started waffling.”
“'Waffling', Benton?” the Brigadier asks, tightening his hand on his neck just slightly. Shivering, Benton mumbles an apology which ends with another 'sir', rumbling it out so nicely that the Brigadier can't help rewarding him. The sounds that Benton makes when the Brigadier wraps a hand around his cock are low and satisfied and desperate all at the same time, but he keeps his hands firmly on the desk as the Brigadier jerks him off, and manages to stay upright until the Brigadier comes and collapses against his back with a groan.
Afterwards, the three of them make it to the bed which has yet to be used, half-clothed and sticky as they sprawl out over each other. Benton lies with his legs dangling off the edge, head using the Brigadier's stomach as a pillow, while the Doctor raises himself on one elbow and reaches out to trail a finger across the Brigadier's moustache.
Seeing the expression on his face, the Brigadier warns him, “You’d better not be expecting anything of me for the next little while.”
The Doctor pouts. “Not even a kiss?”
“If only to get that ridiculous expression off your face,” the Brigadier mutters, and pulls him down to press their mouths together while Benton rolls over to rest his chin on the Brigadier's hip.
A short while later, the two of them decide to take the Brigadier's warning as a challenge. Subjected to the mercies of one man who is a good ten years younger than him, and another who has at least that on him but doesn't seem to realise it, the Brigadier decides the easiest path is that of least resistance and just goes with it. There are worse ways to spend the evening than being buggered by Benton while the Doctor sucks him off, after all.
-- -- -- -- --
The Brigadier doesn't stop huffing his annoyance when he comes across Benton and the Doctor doing something they shouldn't, but as long as they're being relatively circumspect about it he usually leaves them be. Shouting at the Doctor when he's been particularly troublesome does no more good than it ever did, but now their disagreements tend to end with the Doctor letting himself be tugged to the nearest surface so the Brigadier can have his way with him, assisted in one form or another by Benton's handy strength.
Yates comes down to the lab one morning in search of the Brigadier and Benton, who are nowhere to be found in the office, and walks in to find them pinning the Doctor to the ground with hands that wander all over him when they've got him there.
“Good morning, Captain Yates,” the Doctor grins from the bottom of the pile, waving his one free hand. “Care to join us for a spot of Venusian aikido?”
Grinning, Yates hangs his hat on the stand and walks over to join them. “I thought you'd never ask,” he replies, and gets stuck in with immense satisfaction.