He picked up the book, and eyed the cover before turning to the page it was left on. Stable Timeloops, the page read. Chapter eight. Impressive.

The Doctor stood there, with his hands behind his back, simply watching the young troll sleeping amidst the several books on the table. The books he had given her to study, and learn from. To realize her true potential. It was a long, boring process for her, but she had to do it. To fulfill her destiny.

He lifted a book off from her hair, being gentle as to not wake her. She had let her hair out again. Best to remind her about the rules next time he spoke with her. He picked up the needles, sitting on the table, and pocketed them in his blazer.

The young Handmaid let out a quiet snore, and nudged a little bit. Even though she was not more than 2 sweeps old, which was the term of age used by the trolls, (It's not like time mattered to him, why would it?) she was a pretty young lady. And would be even more so in the future. He would see to it.

He slowly pulled out the chair, and lifted her out, simply teleporting away to her bedroom. The fenestrated wall stood there, propped against the literal wall. Turned off, just as it was supposed to. The being that laid beyond it's boundaries was quite the unwholesome one.

The Doctor laid his young Protegee into the bed, pulling the covers over her, tucking them in. He stood back, watching her smile as she slept. It was a unique experience, being in such a position to such a person. It had, equally, it's ups and downs, but it was destiny's work at hand, not his. He had realized this. And there is no escaping destiny. "Sweet dreams." He said, clearly and loudly, but not loud enough to wake her. As if anyone else could hear him.

He noticed a small drawing on the dresser next to the bed. He picked it up, giving it a look. It was small girl, clad in a green dress, standing next to a familiar man in a white suit. He stared long and hard at the scribble.

It was moments like these that made him feel less like a mentor, and like something more. Something spoken in another language, from a far-off universe, that could describe it all in one word.

Father.

And if he could, Scratch might've cried. But why would he? The First Guardian has no need for things like tears.