A/N: So, just to clarify – this story will go through all of the Doctors, but the characters I have listed in my description are the ones that are in every most recent update and the soon-to-be released chapters. Once we get to 11, I'll switch to him instead.
There'll be another chapter, probably in a day or so, so keep an eye out.
Enjoy!
TETHERED TOGETHER
"A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies...
The man who never reads lives only one."
George R.R. Martin
"The Library?" the Doctor asked incredulously. Hartley hid a wide smile, adjusting the sweater on her shoulders and watching as he reluctantly keyed in the coordinates. "I give you the entirety of the universe as a playground, and you choose the Library?"
"Don't pretend you don't love it there too," she scolded him playfully. She liked to think she knew him well enough by now to know he was plenty at home in a library.
"Well yeah, but not for an adventure," he complained, and though he was facing away, she could just tell he was rolling his eyes in exasperation. "How'd you even know about it, anyway?" he asked suddenly, an upsetting suspicion to his voice, as though this whole time had been one big lie, and she was actually conducting some sort of trick against him.
"Read about it in one of the pamphlets in the media room," she explained, brushing off her downtrodden feelings and instead bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. Nothing ever made her feel better than a trip to the library. "A whole planet full of every book ever written!" she gushed, ignoring his chagrin. "Do they let you hire books out?"
"If you've got a library card, yeah. Though most people just read while they're there."
"Can I get one?" she asked eagerly. "A library card of my own?"
The Doctor rolled his eyes again, though the action was decidedly less annoyed then usual – maybe he really was warming up to her. With a beautiful metallic groan, the TARDIS landed on the planet, and then the Doctor was heading for the doors, leather jacket crinkling as he moved.
"Come on, then," he muttered as though he was above this whole thing. "Before I die of old age," there was a hint of amusement in his words, like they were somehow an inside joke she wasn't yet privy to. Hartley burst out into the Library, and was immediately encompassed by the beautiful, familiar scent of dusty old books.
The room they'd landed in was full of people, however the noise was low, filled with the kind of humming quiet that only a library could ever achieve. Nobody so much as blinked an eye at the sudden appearance of the TARDIS in the room. Hartley supposed that, on a planet made entirely of books in a very distant future, a materialising blue police box was probably bordering on old hat.
"Alright, what'd you wanna look at first?" the Doctor stepped up beside her, already appearing to be bored by the whole expedition. She vaguely wondered exactly how many times he'd been here before.
"Fiction," she told him with all of her usual enthusiasm, keeping her voice low out of courtesy to the readers surrounding her. He sighed like she were asking him something terribly tiresome, but still licked his finger and held it up to the air before nodding to himself like a scientist having an important theory confirmed.
"The border for the fiction section is only a short ride away," he told her, already setting off into the towering stacks of books. Scurrying after him, Hartley darted around the people milling about, slipping past them with as much care as she could manage, struggling to match the Doctor's long, sure strides.
He led her down a long, seemingly endless hall. It felt like they walked miles, Hartley's legs beginning to ache.
"I thought you said it was only a short ride?" she asked once she finally couldn't keep her mouth shut any longer, her breath coming out in pants. She didn't want to sound like she was complaining, even though that was exactly what it was, and they both knew it.
"Ride," he repeated with exaggerated slowness. "I said it was a short ride. I didn't say anything about how long it would take to get to the ride."
"I see you're a fan of technicalities," she puffed, wincing at the stitch beginning to stab at her gut.
The Doctor didn't answer, but thankfully not a full sixty seconds had passed before he abruptly turned left, pushing open a door and waving her impatiently through. Before her was a craft of some kind, large and silver, seeming to hover in the air, emitting the soft, humming sound of a futuristic engine.
"A shuttle," the Doctor explained lazily, already walking towards it. "Thousands of them all over the planet. They're automated, on a rotation – like a bus service."
"Are they free?" she asked curiously.
The Doctor shot her a look of utter exasperation. "It's a library," he reminded her dryly. "Everything's free."
"What about late fees?"
His exasperation seemed to only grow, so she wisely sealed her lips shut tight as she followed him onto the shuttle. It was small but roomy inside, the layout reminding her of one of the capsules on the London Eye. The only difference was instead of the walls being made of glass, it was the floor.
She realised as she stepped onto the craft that the entire surface beneath her feet was see-through. She gasped, the sound echoing across the shuttle. The other three people inside turned to look at her with frowns, as though wondering why she'd made such a sound. Hartley didn't care, she just stared down at the view below, feeling her stomach swoop as she realised how very high up they were.
"We have to be at least a thousand metres high right now," she hissed at the Doctor, squinting as she tried to make out the tiny, tiny little shapes on the ground so very far below.
"About one thousand, two hundred and fifty three, to be exact," he said primly, adjusting his leather jacket then leaning against the wall, unaffected by the thin sheet of glass separating them and what would be one hell of a fall.
She only continued to stare, stifling another gasp when the craft left the platform it was hovering near, beginning to swoop through the sky with a surprising amount of grace.
"Not so good with flying?" asked the Doctor after a long minute of her gaping at the planet below her in shock. There was a nonchalance to his voice, like he knew the polite thing to do was make conversation, and only did so out of obligation.
"Wouldn't know," she replied, her voice distracted. "Never been on a plane before."
"That so?"
"Never even been out of London," she admitted with a shrug, mind drifting to the sheer irony of a homebody such as herself running away with an alien on a mission to explore the entire universe, one planet at a time.
The Doctor fell quiet, but Hartley didn't mind, gripping onto the railing and continuing to stare down through the glass floor, eyes wide with wonderment. She thought she rather liked flying. She enjoyed the swoop of her stomach and the rush of adrenaline it brought.
The ride ended too soon for Hartley's liking, the shuttle pulling onto another platform. The door opened with a suctioning sound once the craft had stopped, and the others onboard began to depart, taking their things and stepping onto the platform like it were any everyday train station.
The Doctor waved her forwards impatiently, and she hurried to follow him off. This building looked almost identical to the one they'd just left, but she'd been in enough libraries to know not to judge them by their interior design.
"Go on, then," said the Doctor as he led them into a large room off the main hall, "have at it."
He swept his arms at the towering shelves filled with hard cover editions of hundreds of thousands of books. Hartley didn't so much as hesitate, speeding up and darting into the forest of stacks climbing up towards the rounded, cathedral style ceiling, holding all the same majesty as the oaks and firs which made up the nature reserve on the edge of the city.
Her father used to take her there sometimes, whenever she claimed to be suffering writers block. He always said that all she needed was some fresh air and a change of scenery; he was usually right.
But this was even better than the forest, better than anything nature could provide. She was in a library, so as far as she was concerned, she was home. She moved through the stacks like an otter in the water, her eyes narrowed as she eagerly read the spines of the thousands of books she'd never even heard of.
"What happens if I pick something that is from my future?" she asked, a genuine query as her hand hovered over a thick tome with expensive gold binding. The Doctor was trailing behind her, looking bored with his surroundings, but otherwise not complaining, for which she was grateful.
"Tell me what you want to read, and I'll tell you whether or not you can see it," he answered her evenly. She heard the sound of plastic crinkling and turned to raise an eyebrow at the Time Lord, watching as he stuck a lollypop into his mouth and stuffed the wrapper into his pocket. She didn't agree with eating in a library, but she wasn't about to say anything.
"Can I go find the final Harry Potter book?" she asked eagerly.
"What year are you from?" he countered instantly.
"2005."
"Then no."
She pouted but otherwise didn't argue, knowing it wouldn't have been well received. Instead she turned back to the rows upon rows of endless, wonderful novels, breathing in the scent of dusty parchment that she desperately wished she could bottle and use as a perfume.
"Why books?" the Doctor asked abruptly after a long few minutes of easy silence. The sound of his voice took her attention from the perusal of books stacked from floor to ceiling before her.
"Hm?" she hummed distractedly, busy running her fingertips over the colourful spines of the books before her, marvelling over the beautiful array of intricate binding.
"I gave you all of time and space, and you chose books," he elaborated, and she glanced back to see a look of complete and utter bemusement spread across his lined features. "And all you ever want to do on the TARDIS is read. I've got millions of films to choose from, an arcade and a swimming pool, but all you ever do is skulk around in my library." She didn't appreciate the use of the word 'skulk', but she put that aside for the moment, focusing on his confusion. He was acting as though this was the most mysterious thing about her, when in reality, it was actually rather simple.
"I'm a writer," she told him with a shrug, going back to tracing over the calligraphed writing on the books before her. She recognised none of them, and she knew she'd have been content to stay in that library for the rest of her days, reading book after book, her appetite for words never satiated.
"I know," he said shortly, and she took the time to frown back at him in confusion. She hadn't told him that yet, how could he possibly know? "I looked you up," he explained, and she blinked.
"On what database?" she exclaimed, struggling to keep her voice low in the surprise. A tall woman with long, platinum blonde hair at the end of the aisle turned to shoot her a scolding look.
The Doctor, unperturbed, gave a shrug and easily admitted, "all of them."
Swallowing around the ball of irritation in her throat, Hartley turned back to the books without really seeing any of them. "And what did you find out?" she asked, voice carefully measured.
"That you're a writer. Your mum's name is Penelope, she's a publisher. Your dad's name is Jacob, and he's a retired firefighter. Your sister is Lucy Richards – different fathers – and you live in central London with a friend. You have two unpaid parking tickets and one time when you were twelve you got caught shoplifting a copy of Pride and Prejudice from a bookstore."
Hartley nodded along, listening to the dirt he'd dug up on her with a calm that surprised her. When he was done, she cleared her throat, considering her response carefully. "And why didn't you just ask me?" she asked him, tone miraculously lacking any hint of accusation. "I have nothing to hide, I would have told you everything."
"Even the shoplifting?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Even the shoplifting."
The Doctor was quiet, and she slipped a book from the shelf and cracked it open, trailing her fingers over the crisp paper within, halfheartedly reading the blurb inside the cover. "You didn't answer my question," he said and she looked up to frown at him. "Why books?"
"I already told you; I'm a writer."
"That's not an answer," he argued.
"Yes, it is," she insisted, but he only continued to frown.
"Why would you stow away with an alien in a box only to go to another planet full of the very thing you already do for a living?" he demanded in discontent, his crisp Northern accent even more pronounced than usual. Hartley got the feeling he was always vexed by what he couldn't understand.
"First of all, I didn't stow away anywhere," she corrected him primly, shutting the book with a snap and gently sliding it back into its place, "you kidnapped me."
"I did not-"
"But––" she interrupted his defence, and when he fell silent like a trained dog, she continued with an echo of a smile, "––I suppose the answer is a little bit more complex than that." The Doctor watched her as she strolled along the shelves, fingers trailing over the slightly dusty wood. He followed her, probably having been to the Library a thousand times before, and therefore losing interest quickly. "My mum's a publisher, as you already know. She raised me on books. We didn't have a TV in my house, just walls and walls of books."
"I love reading as much as the next Time Lord," the Doctor interjected. "But don't you ever get sick of it?"
"No," she answered honestly, the smile on her lips becoming more concrete. "Before I learnt to read myself, my dad would wrap me up under a blanket fort and he'd read to me. Literally book after book, and I'd always keep asking for more. He was a champ, though, and never complained, just read and read until his voice went hoarse."
"So, it's a sentimental thing," the Doctor assumed with a nod.
"Yes, and no," she replied, stopping by a series of purple books and stroking the covers thoughtfully. "I live and breathe literature, I always have. Maybe it was my mother's influence, or my dad's dedication, but at the end of the day, it's also just me. It's as much a part of my identity as my blue eyes or my strawberry-blonde hair."
"So...books are your home," he summarised with a satisfied nod to himself, like he'd finally solved the puzzle that had been vexing him. She found that a nice way to put it.
"You could say so, yeah," she agreed with an easy smile. "Maybe it's also a bit of an attempt at immortality," she added thoughtfully.
"Immortality?" he echoed, that look of frustration making a reappearance.
"A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies... The man who never reads lives only one."
"George R.R. Martin?" he asked, and she was pleasantly surprised he'd been right.
"It's apt, wouldn't you say?"
The Doctor said nothing for a few moments, pondering her answer. "You want immortality?" he finally asked, a disapproval in his voice that didn't go unnoticed.
"Not necessarily," she replied, calm and even, meeting his icy blue eyes in the low lighting of the aisle. "I just don't want to die."
"It's the same thing."
Hartley's lips quirked upwards in the tiniest hint of a smile. "Is it?" He didn't seem to understand. "One is born from a lust for power," she explained patiently. "The other from fear."
"That doesn't make it any better though, does it?" he snapped, strangely defensive.
She just barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. "I'm not saying my mission in life is to become immortal," she said with a low, unladylike snort that made a passing man in a fancy suit scowl at her. "It was a metaphor that artists use sometimes, as a reason for why they create or enjoy art," she paused, taking the time to shoot the Doctor a narrow-eyed look of contemplation. "Do you always take things so literally?"
He appeared less than pleased with the playful jab.
"If we're talking about literal immortality..." she added thoughtfully, turning back to the books, once more running the tips of her fingers over the spines. Some were covered in velvet, a subtle detail that made her smile with aesthetically-driven satisfaction. "It's the last thing I want."
"Is that so?" he asked, picking out a book at random and cracking it open, running his fingers down the page for lack of anything better to do with them.
"Of course. While the concept of dying might not sound too pretty, the idea of outliving everyone I love sounds far, far worse," she muttered thoughtlessly, already busy looking for the perfect book to sit down and read – assuming the Doctor would allow her the time.
She suddenly realised he was suspiciously silent from his place behind her, but she didn't turn to look. She'd come to know his silences either meant he was sulking or thinking, and she knew by now to let him work through it himself.
"I'm 900 years old," he eventually said, his voice even and unemotional, purely matter-of-fact. It was as if the information didn't matter, as if it were nothing. But Hartley knew better, and slowly she turned, grip on the books she'd been browsing uncomfortably tight. She had to consciously keep her jaw from dropping open to gape at him in shock.
He was staring – glaring – down at the book in his grasp, looking without really seeing, just somewhere to keep his eyes other than on her.
"I completely just put my foot in my mouth, didn't I?" she asked with a sinking horror. There she was, prattling on about how awful immortality must have been while the Doctor was standing right beside her, he himself being nine centuries old. "I really did. My foot is so far down my throat, I think I'm choking on it," she muttered to herself, struggling to fight the urge to slap herself in the face with one of the thick tomes she held.
But the Doctor surprised her by chuckling, the sound stunning her into silence. He smiled at her, no hint of bitterness or sarcasm in sight, just pure amusement. "You're rather funny for an ape," he told her blithely.
"Oi," she cried, blindly shoving one of the books back onto the shelf so she had a free hand to jab at his chest. "Who're you calling an ape?"
He chuckled again, utterly at ease as he slid the book his was holding onto the shelf behind him. "That's what you are," he told her matter-of-factly.
She wanted to be offended, but it was difficult when he was smiling at her genuinely for the first time since they'd been unceremoniously thrown together all those weeks ago. "You're immortal, then," she said as casually as she could manage, peeking down at the book in her hand.
The Adventures of Walter Piggybaton, Edna Vicehard, and Piccolie Strangia.
It sounded interesting but it was about as thick as her torso, and she doubted the Doctor would wait long enough for her to read the whole thing.
"Not immortal," he replied as she slid it back into place, continuing her stroll through the long, unending aisle. "Just got a longer lifespan, is all."
"How long?" she enquired curiously.
He didn't answer, and she found herself disappointed. She shouldn't have been surprised, really. He wasn't the most forthcoming when it came to trivia about himself or his people and planet. She wasn't sure why she'd expected that to change. Sometimes she felt like with every step forward in their just-barely-a-friendship, they only took two massive ones back.
"Found something to hire yet?" he asked, wandering over to a large collection of blue books and eyeing them curiously.
"I can hire something?"
"I'm not the Gestapo, Hartley," he told her dryly, and she got the impression she'd done something to annoy him again. "Of course you can hire something out."
She nodded but decided saying thank you would make it worse, so she returned to her search for a book, eager to find something worth reading in this brave new world. She saw a promising collection of novels in the next aisle, so told the Doctor she'd find him soon. He nodded back, absorbed in some thick blue book titled, A Man of Little Else.
"Okay," she said once she'd finally come up for air, having been up to her elbows in dusty books – exactly where she most belonged. The Doctor started, apparently having lost track of time in his own reading material. "Got something," she told him, holding up the small, hard-cover novel with the words, Lost Girl and the Time Machine written on the front in pretty golden script.
The Doctor cocked a single eyebrow, looking wholly unimpressed. "Really?" he asked dryly, icy eyes flickering between her and her chosen novel.
"I could classify it as research," she chirped, unbothered by his malevolence.
He gave a deep sigh, but shut his book with a snap, turning back the way they'd initially come. She hurried after him, eager to dive into her new book, but knowing from experience that walking and reading didn't mix well.
"How long do I get to borrow it for?" she asked conversationally, and though her voice was calm and collected, her excitement was given away by the way she bounced as they walked, like a child on their way to get ice cream.
"A month, typically," he replied over his shoulder, doing his best to ignore her enthusiasm. "Most people don't bother though, because it takes them about that long to get to and from here and wherever they're staying."
The lady at the counter was tall and stern-looking, with horn-rimmed glasses perched low on her nose and an unfriendly scowl sitting on her lips. "Library card?" she asked them around her large, horse-like teeth.
"New member," the Doctor replied cheerfully, grinning at her like she'd just complimented his jacket. "Signing her up today."
"Name?" she droned, utterly uninterested.
Hartley turned to the Doctor, expression conflicted. Was it safe to tell people her name? What if this librarian looked her up on some kind of database and found out she was really from 2005? Would they get in trouble? Was it breaking some kind of space rule for her to be there?
But the Doctor only nodded his head for her to continue, looking unconcerned, so Hartley told her in a clear voice that shook just the tiniest bit, "Hartley Daniels."
There was a pause filled with a sharp clacking of a keyboard. "Address?" the librarian asked in the same, droning voice. Hartley got the feeling she'd have rathered be anywhere other than there, like she had better things to be doing in that moment.
She paused again, glancing to the Doctor, a question in her eyes. He nodded his head again, and she figured telling the truth would just have to do – she'd never been much of a liar anyhow. "42 Prescott Street, Westminster, London," she said as confidently as she could.
The mean looking librarian lady didn't so much as bat an eyelid. She held out a small device – it kind of looked like one of those things that took your pulse in the hospital. She stared at Hartley like she was already supposed to know what to do with it. Awkward and unsure, Hartley glanced once more to the Doctor.
"You prick your finger," he told her in a low voice, and with a grimace she reached out, letting the woman prick her thumb, smear the droplet of blood onto the device, then slip it into a machine behind her. "Biometrical cataloguing system," the Doctor explained as the woman typed a little more on her computer. "They use it in place of photo ID."
"And you're done," said the lady briskly, the abruptly spun her chair away, ending the transaction.
"That's it?" Hartley asked, bringing her thumb to her lips and gently sucking at the prick on its pad.
"That's it," the Doctor confirmed. "Ready to head back to the TARDIS now?"
Truthfully she wanted to stay longer, explore the Library a little more, spend some time in the squishy armchairs that dotted the place like islands, just calling out to be laid upon. But she knew the Doctor was getting restless, and she figured she'd pushed him enough for one day.
"Sure," she said, holding her books against her chest and letting him lead the way back to the shuttle that would take them to the TARDIS.
The ride back on the shuttle was a quiet one, and Hartley spent it people watching. She'd eye the people opposite her and wonder what their stories were, wonder whether they were here to study for a midterm, or do research for their job, or simply for pleasure, like herself.
They made it back to the TARDIS in record time, and Hartley sighed as the doors creaked shut after her, sealing the Library away. The Doctor moved up to the console, beginning to pilot them away.
Hartley leant against the railing surrounding the console, newly borrowed book held close to her chest. She considered what she wanted to do next. Her stomach gave a low grumble, and she became aware of the ache in her gut that told her she needed to eat. She considered asking the Doctor to take her somewhere for food, but instead an idea struck her, and she lit up with excitement.
"Do you think you could take me to a farmers' market?" she asked the Doctor impulsively. The Time Lord looked up from the monitor, leaning around the time rotor to pin her with a befuddled look.
"A farmers' market?" he echoed. "Why would you wanna go to a farmers' market?"
"Because I feel like doing a bit of cooking, and I want fresh ingredients to work with," she told him, before glancing curiously towards the door at the other end of the console room, where the rest of the rooms in the TARDIS awaited. "Unless you've got some kind of farm already on board. You did say it was infinite..." she trailed off thoughtfully.
The Doctor looked like he very much wanted to roll his eyes, but was holding back the urge. "Nope, no farm," he said shortly. "Which farmers' market?" he continued in the same breath, already moving back to the console to begin piloting the ship in the right direction.
"I don't mind," she told him, and he sent her an impatient look. She thought she understood – all of time and space, his sheer array of options must have been somewhat overwhelming. "Earth, mid 2000s," she narrowed it down, but she could tell he wanted more. "Uh, I dunno, England?" she suggested uncertainly.
"An entire planet of farmers' markets at your fingertips, and you pick England?" he asked, unfairly derisive, though she didn't point it out. It would be starting more trouble than it was worth.
"Why, what country would you choose?" she countered.
"Depends on what kind of food do you want," he said, hurrying over to the other side of the console when it began to spark.
"Fruit," she told him with a nod. The look he shot her told her to be more specific. "Plums," she said, exasperated.
The Doctor nodded once, sending the TARDIS into flight, the floor rattling beneath their feet. "Italy it is," he proclaimed, and before she knew it they were landing. "Go on, go fetch your plums," he said, waving a hand towards the door.
Hartley didn't argue, stepping out into their new location. It was the very early hours of the morning, the sun only just beginning to rise over the horizon, and the wind whipping by with thunderous speed, making the hem of her sweater flutter in the breeze. They'd landed in some nondescript street full of market stalls overflowing with various fruits and flowers. The scent carried of the wind was floral too, and she breathed it in, feeling it relax her very bones.
She'd never been to Italy before, and despite being nearly desperate to take her time soaking it in, she didn't want to keep the Doctor waiting too long. She made her way quickly down the street, dodging the people beginning to rapidly fill the small marketplace as she scanned the stalls, searching for the magnificent plums the Doctor was so sure she'd find there.
She found them at last, nestled between succulent peaches and little bags of cherries. Hartley picked one up, feeling it on her fingertips, testing how ripe it was. She bought five, then on her way back to the TARDIS spied a honey stall. Thanking the stars, she picked up a jar of organic honey as well.
By the time she got back inside the TARDIS, she was shivering from the cold, the chill of the wind soaking down to her very bones. But she was smiling happily, content with the experience. The Doctor looked up from the console as she shut the door behind her.
"Why d'you wanna cook, anyhow?" he asked as though it were unfathomable. "We've got every restaurant in the universe to choose from," he reminded her – as though she could forget.
"There's nothing quite like a home-cooked meal," she told him simply, the little plastic bag with her purchases singing by her side as she made her way up the ramp and around the console, heading for the door leading through to the rest of the ship. "Besides, I like cooking," she added, pausing in the doorway. "It can be fun."
"How…domestic of you," he said with a curl of his lip.
Hartley ignored him with an ease that was beginning to become second nature by this point. "I'm making a plate for you, too," she told him over her shoulder. He didn't argue as she turned to leave, which she figured was some kind of progress.
The kitchen was also attached to the dining room, and in the corner was a large, retro jukebox, its colours glimmering in the low, ambient lighting of the two rooms. Hartley was quick to set the music that would play while she cooked. She picked things she could sing along to, and the lights got a little bit brighter at her happier song choices. She marvelled again at the sentience of the ship as she set about making their snack.
Growing up, there had been a time when she'd considered being a chef. This was nothing but the musings of a child who liked food a little too much, and nothing ever came from it except an array of experimental dishes that nobody but her dad ever ate.
She never got the chance to cook anymore. At first it was because she'd been getting her Masters in Literature from Cambridge University – she'd barely had time to make herself a bowl of cereal, let alone cook a three-course meal. She'd thought that once she graduated she'd have all this free time – but that was hardly the case.
Writing a book was hard work, and what was even harder was getting it published. She didn't like to rely on her parents for anything, so to keep the money coming in she wrote another, and another, until she had meetings and readings and editing sessions coming out of her ears. And in it all, she'd completely forgotten how much she'd once enjoyed cooking.
But there was something about being aboard the TARDIS that reminded her. The brilliant, wonderful, impossible ship inspired her in a way she hadn't anticipated. She suddenly had so much time on her hands – literally – and she could go anywhere, and do anything, and that little girl from long ago, buried deep in her subconscious, was whispering excitedly about chocolate chip cookies and blueberry muffins and homemade ice cream, and she found it impossible to ignore.
If she could go get plums from Italy, then was there no limit to what she could work with? Sushi from Japan, croissants from France, mangoes from Australia – it was endless and exciting and beyond anything she could have possibly imagined.
Softened plums was something she'd been making since she was allowed to use the oven. She'd found the recipe in a cookbook of her dad's, and she'd become addicted.
Although it had been years since she'd last made them, she found the movements came easy as she worked to the beat of old Nirvana records, combining butter and honey in a large skillet, cooking until the butter melted. She added the plums to the pan, cut sides down, then hummed along to the music as she gently prodded at them, waiting for them to become lightly brown and tender.
Once they were ready she divided them evenly onto two plates, then moved onto cooking the orange juice until it was thickened, drizzling it over the plums when they were ready and adding yogurt, a sprinkle of granola and the juice.
Satisfied with her meal, she moved over to the door, leaning out into the hall and calling out, "Doc?! Food's ready!"
She set the table, pouring them both two glasses of some kind of fizzy drink that sat in the fridge and smelt like limes. The music drifting from the jukebox was nice, calming and ambient, and Hartley took her seat at the table, waiting patiently for the Doctor.
A long few minutes passed, and she began to worry. Would the Doctor not come? Did he think her tendency for domesticity so pathetic that he wouldn't even eat lunch with her? She began to feel kind of stupid. What was she doing, trying to be friends with this alien? He didn't even want her here – she was nothing but an inconvenience, a thorn in his side that he was stuck with for the foreseeable future.
She was just beginning to spiral into a sinkhole of self-loathing when the Doctor suddenly appeared in the doorway, dusting his hands off on his pants and making a beeline for the table she'd set.
Although flooded with relief that he'd come, she said nothing as he took his seat. "What are we having?" he asked, picking up his knife and fork, only to frown down at his meal in befuddlement.
His words broke some of the ice, and Hartley relaxed a fraction in her seat. "Softened plums in an orange juice sauce," she told him, picking up her own utensils and beginning to cut into her food. The tender flesh of the plum on her plate parted easily, and when she tasted it she very nearly moaned aloud in pure pleasure.
It was even better than she remembered, made all the more better by the top notch ingredients she'd gotten from the marketplace.
The Doctor said nothing as he ate, not even mentioning whether or not he liked it. He just brought forkfuls, one after the other, to his lips, almost robotic in his movements. Despite the brilliance of her food, Hartley felt the tension between them like a stench, and she found she couldn't enjoy it as much, stuck focusing on the Doctor's hunched shoulders and discontented frown.
Hartley put down her knife and fork, the sound of the metal clinking against the ceramic plate loud even over the sound of the music floating from the speakers behind them. The Doctor looked up at the sound, shaking his head a little, as if coming from a deep train of thought.
"You don't like me," she stated, blunt and matter-of-fact.
The Doctor blinked in bafflement, and she could understand that the words might have seemed to have come from nowhere. "What?" he asked once he'd found his voice.
"It's obvious that you don't like me, and I don't want to dance around the issue," she said, chin tilted upwards in an attempt to produce some sense of bravery. Not for the first time, she wished she were a courageous Gryffindor, instead of a mild-mannered Hufflepuff. "I know I can be a bit intense at times," she confessed, dropping her eyes to her plate in embarrassment. "I can get a little overexcited, and I think it's been making you uncomfortable."
She stopped, not knowing where to go from there. She picked up her glass of fizzy drink, taking a sip that she barely tasted around her anxiety. The Doctor was disconcertingly silent from his spot across the table, and she swallowed around the lump in her throat.
"I know you're stuck with me, and I'm sorry if I've been making it harder than it needs to be," she told him quietly, tracing her fingertip along the edge of her glass.
Opposite her, the Doctor sighed. "You don't need to apologise, Hartley," he said, and she looked up in surprise. His blue eyes were sincere, and more timid than she'd yet seen them. "You haven't done anything wrong."
It certainly felt like she had, she wanted to say, but didn't.
"I don't mean to make you feel unwelcome," he told her, and there was suddenly a sadness to him, one that went bone-deep. She couldn't help but think it was because of her.
"I know you want me to leave as soon as possible," she began quickly, eyes stinging with the prickle of tears.
"That's not true," said the Doctor before she could continue, and she looked up at him in surprise. "I've been alone a long time now," he told her, the words a confession, the magnitude of which she could barely even see. "Having you here, on the TARDIS, it helps me not to feel so lonely," he said, but the words were slow and reluctant, like she were wrenching them forcibly from his lips. To her, it lessened their sincerity, but there was also no glint of dishonesty to his icy blue eyes.
Chewing on her next words carefully, Hartley took her time before speaking. "Do you consider us to be friends?" she asked, hesitant and wary, wondering vaguely what she might do if he said no.
The Doctor didn't quite wince, but it was certainly close. "I don't have any friends," he said, and it didn't escape her notice that it wasn't a real answer.
"I think I'd like to be your friend," she told him, chin tilted upwards in a stubborn move that told him it was very much her intention to become one, whether he wanted it or not. "Although you don't make it very easy," she added, while a little playful, still sincere.
But the Doctor didn't smile, that haunted look returning to his eyes. Her sheepish smile faded, replaced by a frown of concern.
"What happened?" she asked him gently, and her meaning was clear.
She could sense that he wanted to clam up, that he wanted to change the subject and move on; and if he did, she'd probably let him. But as she stared back at him, patient and full of a weighty compassion that was rare for her species, he felt his resolve waver.
"There was a war," he told her quietly, pain glittering in his eyes. "I'm the last of my kind. All the others died."
Hartley was silent, processing the magnitude of what he'd just told her.
The last of his kind – the only living Time Lord in existence. And it hadn't been famine, or disease, or global warming that had destroyed his people – there had been a war, the likes of which she was sure she could barely even begin to imagine. She could barely conceive what he was feeling, what it must be like to be the very, very last of an entire race.
But he had a time machine, she thought suddenly. Why not go fix everything? Why not save someone; anyone?
"Can't you just go back?" she quickly asked, frown pulling at her face as she struggled to understand. "Change the fate of the war? Save someone, so you're not the last?"
But the Doctor was already shaking his head. "The whole war's been time-locked," he told her. She didn't understand, but nodded like she did. "And even if I could..." he trailed off, not seeming to know where the sentence was going. He didn't bother to finish, looking down at the softened plums on his plate, the crease between his brows deep.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Hartley reached out, touching her fingers to the back of the Doctor's hand, which lay idle on the tabletop. His head snapped up in surprise, staring at her with a frown, like she were a riddle he couldn't quite figure out.
"I'm sorry," she told him, but the words were weak, not nearly enough to convey the sorrow she felt on his behalf.
"Yeah," he replied, just as soft.
Hartley decided a change of tone would do a world of good. "I know that the fact I'm here with you wasn't something either of us asked for, or chose," she began, steady and slowly growing in confidence. "But I'm trying to make the most of it. Help me do that."
The Doctor didn't look convinced, frowning at her pensively. "How?" he asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion, as though thinking she might have had some kind of an agenda.
"Maybe start by trying not to push me away," she said simply, a small smile growing on her face. "Trying to let me be your friend."
The Doctor seemed to process her words, weighing them carefully before replying. "Been a while since I had one of those," he finally admitted.
"Not to sound arrogant, but I think I'm probably a good place to start," she told him gently.
To her surprise, the Doctor smiled. "And how d'you suppose we begin this new friendship?" he asked curiously, eyes a few shades lighter than they had been only moments before.
"Well, you could start by telling me how much you like my food," she suggested playfully, picking her knife and fork back up and nodding for him to do the same.
"It's good," he told her before taking another bite. "Nine hundred years of time and space, and I've never tried softened plums before."
A thought came across her mind, and she spoke it aloud before giving it any real thought. "You're an alien," she said bluntly.
The Doctor looked up from his plate to shoot her the most dry look she'd ever received. "Just figuring it out now, are you?" he deadpanned, and an amused smile flickered at her lips.
"What I meant was, does your body work the same way as a human's?" she asked conversationally. "Do you need food to survive?"
"Yeah, but not as often as you do," he said. "I only need about a quarter of your recommended daily intake to function. Personally, however, I do tend to eat a little more than the average Time Lord."
"Why?" she pressed, curiosity gnawing at her gut. Maybe it was the writer in her, but there was just still so much she didn't know about the Doctor – he was still one great, big, giant mystery.
He shot her a perplexed sort of a look, as though she'd just asked a stupid question. "Because it's fun," he said, and she smiled at the honest simplicity of his answer. "I usually go out to restaurants – no point in cooking for just yourself – and it's like I said earlier, I have every restaurant in the universe to choose from."
She was beginning to understand him the more they talked, like everything he said had an element of universal truth to it. He was letting her in, slowly but surely, and she smiled at him with all the brilliance of a newborn sun.
"Well, I've always wanted to cook more, but I've never really found the time," she admitted.
"Nothing but time, aboard the TARDIS," he replied. Hartley smiled. "Speaking of the TARDIS," he began, and she looked up from her plate with curiosity. "I have some more tests I'd like to run – to see if I can figure out how you got here in the first place."
"And how to get me back home?" she finished the unspoken part softly, putting down her fork, suddenly not so hungry.
"Even if you don't actually go back home, wouldn't it be nice just to know you could?" he countered, and she had to admit he had a point.
"All right," she agreed, trying not to sigh as she forced herself to finish her softened plums, finding them not quite as delicious as they had been only moments ago.
They finished their food in companionable quiet, only the music coming from the jukebox playing in the air between them. When they finished, Hartley put the dishes in the dishwasher and followed the Doctor through the halls, back towards the infirmary.
"I've been running tests on your blood this whole time, or rather, the TARDIS has," he explained as she took a seat on the bed in the corner, exactly where she'd sat last time. "It hasn't shown anything out of the ordinary – apart from a slight iron deficiency, but that's really nothing to be concerned about," he added quickly.
"What are you hoping to find?" Hartley asked him carefully.
"Dunno," he replied. "I know literally nothing that would be able to cause this. Nothing at all." He paused, eyeing the monitor showing the results of her tests with a critical eye. "There is something else I thought I'd try, however," he said, already beginning to pull out a bunch of thin circles attached to wires that he quickly began to apply across the curve of her forehead.
"What's this do?" she asked as he pressed the sticky little circles against her skin.
"Measures and records higher brain activity," he told her succinctly, finally pressing two slightly large circles to either of her temples, then hurrying over to a large device that the wires were all connected to.
"And what'll it tell you?"
"If there's some kind of a psychic link you've managed to create," he said, tapping away at the machine, which abruptly began to give a series of loud beeps. "Your right parahippocampal gyrus is unusually active, but that's not alarming," he muttered to himself. "Think about the colour yellow," he ordered her suddenly.
Bewildered by the request, Hartley hurriedly pictured sunflowers and bananas and sunshine, the most yellow things she could think of. The Doctor continued to tap away at his machine.
"You've got an extra synaptic engram, but that's nothing that should affect you without an evolutionary jumpstart – incredibly rare, so don't think on it," he told her blithely. Hartley could only blink back at him, utterly uncomprehending. It all seemed like pure gibberish to her – she was great with words until they became scientific in nature, then she started to feel like an eight year old at a board meeting; lost, confused and out of place.
"So, what you're saying is, you don't have a clue what's causing our whole … cosmic-magnet situation," she said plainly.
The Doctor didn't answer, tapping away for another few moments before rocking back on his heels and sighing. "I have no clue," he begrudgingly admitted.
"Do you think we'll ever know?" she asked softly.
The Doctor sighed. "I just don't know."
They were quiet for a few long, patient moments.
"I could still drop you home," he offered, and she glanced up in sharp surprise.
"But wouldn't I just get dragged back here?"
"Eventually yes," he nodded. "But you don't have to stay stuck here if you don't want to. You can try going home; see how long it lasts."
Hartley frowned, considering what he was saying. She thought of her friend and roommate, Emma, and how she'd miss her snorting laughter and orders of copious amounts of Chinese food. She thought of her editor, and the book she'd been halfway through publishing. She thought of her mum, who honestly probably wouldn't even notice her missing, and her dad, who definitely would.
But then she thought of what the TARDIS was, what it represented; the kind of adventure most people only ever got to daydream about – and here she was, living it! She was presented with the kind of opportunity that people wrote poems and songs and novels about. She'd been handed this on a silver platter by the universe itself, and who was she to argue with the universe?
"I want to stay," she told the Doctor.
"Are you sure?" he asked slowly, as though bewildered by the decision.
She'd never been more sure of anything in her life, but she couldn't tell him that. "Yes," she nodded, absolutely certain. "But, do you think I could have a chance to just tell someone I might be gone awhile?" she asked.
The Doctor shrugged as though it made no difference to him. "S'pose so," he said as he began to peel off the little stickers on her forehead. She winced as they pulled at the fine hairs on her face. "You do know I can get you back the same day – the same hour – that you left, right? No matter how long you stay aboard?"
"I know," she said. "But I just feel like I need to do this."
To his credit, the Doctor seemed to understand, even when she herself wasn't sure she did. "Back to your flat?" he asked once she was free of the sticky little dots, climbing happily to her feet.
"Yeah," she confirmed, and they made their way through the halls back towards the console room. "April 19th, please. The street outside my building," she added as the Doctor began to do his thing around the console. The Doctor nodded, and they landed with a wheeze. She pulled her jacket tighter around her body, and glanced over at the Doctor, suddenly a little scared to leave the TARDIS.
The Doctor seemed to read her mind. "I'm not going anywhere," he assured her with a roll of his eyes that seemed to say 'silly ape...'.
Hartley smiled back before stepping from the TARDIS. She was back on the street she lived, the world around her utterly ignoring the giant blue police box sat on the curb beside her building. Hartley pulled her coat tighter again against the slight chill of the wind, and began to make her way up the flight of stairs that led to her flat.
"Hart?!" came Emma's voice as she opened the door to the flat they shared. "That you?!"
"Yeah!" Hartley called back. "It's me."
Emma was in the kitchen, eating something straight out of a pot, and Hartley grinned at the familiar scene.
"Where've you been?" her friend asked around a mouthful of noodles. "You've been gone all day. Your mum's called about a dozen times, something about missing your brunch appointment."
Hartley smiled, the expression a little rueful. "I'm just here to get a few things," Hartley told her. "I'm actually going away for awhile."
Emma blinked in surprise. "Away for awhile?" she echoed dubiously. "Away where?"
"Travelling," Hartley told her, the honest truth.
Emma stared back at her in bewilderment. "Hart, you've never even been outside of London," she reminded her slowly. Hartley grinned at the words, thinking of how false they were, and how much more false they were going to get. "You've got your book coming out in a few weeks," Emma added, putting down her pot of noddles to look at her friend a little closer. "Are you sure this is such a good time to be going somewhere? Are you feeling all right?"
"Never better," Hartley told her surely, turning away so Emma wouldn't see the turmoil in her eyes as she stepped into her bedroom, picking up the few things she didn't want to be without. Emma followed her into her room, watching as she gathered her things. "I just need to get away. Not sure how long I'll be gone. Could be a day; could be a few months."
Emma was staring at her like she was suspicious this might be some kind of body-swap con, and the person in front of her wasn't Hartley Daniels at all, but rather a convincing imposter, or clone of some kind.
"Are you in some kinda trouble?" she finally asked, watching as Hartley put her phone, her favourite lipstick and a small selection of precious jewellery in a bag, then took the purple quilt her grandmother had made for her when she was little and wrapped it securely around her shoulders.
"Nope," Hartley told her gently. "No trouble."
"Melia's going to kill you if you just skip town," Emma reminded her of her agent and editor, who was stern as could be, but still a good person.
"She'll live."
"Is this about a guy?"
Hartley paused. She didn't want to lie. "There is a guy," she confessed. "But it's not what you think."
Emma smirked. "I think it most definitely is what I think," she teased giddily. "You're running off with a guy!"
"Maybe I am," Hartley shrugged. She didn't bother trying to explain that it wasn't like that between her and the Doctor at all. Emma wouldn't understand. "Would that be such a bad thing?" she asked quickly.
Emma's expression evened out into something more sincere. "Hart, it's a wonderful thing," she said honestly. "You deserve to do something spontaneous for a change."
Hartley smiled, overcome with warmth for her friend. She glanced out the window, seeing the sun begin to set. She was getting antsy – she didn't think the Doctor would leave without her per se, but the knowledge that he could sat big and heavy in her brain. "I should get going," she said reluctantly. "He's waiting for me."
"At least give me a name," Emma begged her as they made their way back towards the door.
"The Doctor," Hartley told her without hesitating.
"I said a name, not what he does," Emma complained. Hartley smiled to herself, a secretive little twitch of her lips. "Will you at least call and check in?" she continued, moving from one thing to the next. Hartley thought – not for the first time – that if Emma were an animal, she'd be a hummingbird. "Let me know you're okay and not dead in a ditch."
"Promise," Hartley told her, pausing at the door.
"Do your parents know?"
Hartley froze, the question one she'd been hoping to avoid. She didn't care much about telling her mother – they weren't on good terms, and hadn't been for a long time; it didn't matter to her what she thought – but her dad, well, the thought of leaving him without a word was almost enough to split her heart into two. But at the same time, she knew that saying goodbye would be impossible.
But it wasn't goodbye, she reminded herself, she'd be back before he knew she was gone.
"Nah," she said aloud, and Emma's eyebrows went high in surprise. "When mum rings back again, tell her I'm out of the country."
Emma's eyebrows rose up even higher. "But you don't even have a passport."
Hartley laughed, a deep, full, lively laugh that came from deep in her belly. Emma was taken aback by the force of it. "I love you, Emma," she told her roommate affectionately.
Confused, Emma could only blink back before she finally found her voice. "Love you too, Hart," she said, brow furrowed as she tried to keep up with everything happening. "You're sure you're okay?" she checked again.
"Like I said; never better," she promised, and it was the absolute truth. "I'll see you soon," she said, leaning forwards to peck her soundly on the cheek before turning and slipping through the door.
The Doctor looked up from the monitor when she stepped back into the TARDIS, eyebrows raised at the handmade quilt held around her shoulders like a fashionista might wear an expensive shawl. It was certainly as precious to Hartley as if it were.
"All done?" he asked simply.
"All done," she confirmed, and with a small smile the Doctor sent them off into the vortex, leaving her friend, her life, and her world behind.
A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed! Getting the beginning stuff out of the way, so the next chapters are adventure after adventure. Hope you enjoy the circus ;)
Let me know what you thought of the chapter, and what you're hoping/wanting to see in the future! xx