"So this is the Fairyland?" Orla breathed.
Martha waited patiently as her friend took in the control room, which, even in its grayer, less ostentatious emergency power mode, was really quite something to behold.
She looked about curiously for a moment, surveying the expansive coral beams and corridors, branching from the center like spokes on an impossible wheel, before fixing the same inquisitive glance on her friend.
Martha waited some more.
And then a little longer.
Until finally, she realized Orla wasn't going to say the thing, because what she said in its stead was, "What, what's wrong?" in response to Martha's expression, which was nothing short of
incredulous.
"Nothing!" Martha exclaimed, more perplexed than anything at the unphased Scot before her. Could it be that she was still in shock? "It's just—you could stand to be a little more impressed, ya know?"
"No, I think I've got it now," she interjected with a matter-of-fact air. "Fairyland," Orla gestured to encompass the control room, "Fairy," she pointed down one of the many hallways probably containing the lurking Doctor, "And seduced!" She grabbed Martha by the shoulders and shook. Violently.
Martha couldn't help but break out into a bout of giggles. Sure, a little trauma was bound to make anyone a smidge hysterical, but she suspected this was something else entirely. No, this was just Orla being Orla: stubborn, quick to poke fun, and possessing a frankly ridiculous need to be right, always. Because, from where Orla stood, a foot deep into a seemingly magic portal far beyond even her wildest imaginings, the TARDIS had managed to, in a way, meet her expectations.
So yes, Orla was impressed, if that's what you call awe with a generous helping of fear, but God be damned if she'd show it.
Though Martha, still stuck on the image of the Doctor in a set of Poundland fairy wings and maybe one of those ditsy pink wigs to match, was still laughing through the words, "He's not—he's not a fairy!" to bother showing any real conviction with the statement.
"Alright," Orla teased before launching a series of tickle-attacks at Martha's armpits. It was something she usually did to Ian whenever he got giggly: a sound so lovely and tinkling that Orla couldn't help but want to prolong it (with the added benefit of annoying the ever-loving hell out of him, too). But Martha wasn't Ian, and sobered by the thought, Orla withdrew her hands quickly and asked, "What then?"
"An alien," Martha answered smugly, awaiting some of the well-deserved astonishment she had thus far been deprived of.
Orla mustered a "What's 'im bein' a Londoner got anythin' do with this?" of bold-faced confusion before Martha was off choking down another tirade of guffaws and giggles at her expense. Finally, collecting herself once a pang had begun to form in her abdomen, Martha started making some calculations.
1913. No moon landing for another fifty or so years, but at least Mary Shelley has definitely invented science fiction by now. But aliens? Did they have those yet? And if they did, was the concept common knowledge?
"Ah, well…" Martha petered out, unsure how to even begin to explain any of this. "You know how the earth, and the sky, and, uh, stars! And uh–"
"Jesus woman, we donnae got all day," Orla interjected before proceeding to slap Martha's back as if she'd literally choked on the words and needed the additional assistance to get them back up.
"Oh, but we do!" Martha exclaimed and gave her friend a half-hearted shove. "Have all day, that is. I'll start there then, come along," she grabbed Orla by the hand and hauled her to the center console.
Orla observed the sea of buttons with hesitation. Eventually, Martha was able to encourage the girl to have her curiosity out on an unimposing panel after flicking a few levers herself in a sort-of-but-not-really demonstration. Under normal circumstances, Martha would be just as, if not more, hesitant to mess around with the settings. But as she knew they had all been overridden by the emergency power, Martha could say with a fair bit of confidence (and a decent amount of button-mashing glee) that they weren't poking any sleeping bears, literal or metaphorical.
And so, unhurried by curiosity, Orla took her time poking and prodding before settling on a hesitant, "It's a handsome bit of machinery…" as the dimmed green light of the Time Rotor bled from between her fingers from where they were splayed out against the glass.
"A time machine," Martha corrected, somewhat proudly.
And before Orla could ask about the specifics of that claim, a faint hum rumbled through the floor grating.
"What was that?" Orla gasped, dropping into the jumpseat and proceeding to gather up her limbs in the center as if it were a lifeboat.
"She's alive, is all," Martha grinned, patting the metal railing for added effect. Good girl, she thought.
"What?!" Orla squeaked, now standing on the chair, which, by the way, was trembling just as hard as she was. "Where on God's green Earth do ye find livin' machines!"
"Well for starters," Martha smirked harder than what was perhaps strictly necessary, "not on Earth." But still, wanting to be at least a little bit useful, added, "Outer space, actually."
"Outer…space?"
What was the period accurate term for outer space? Martha had been almost certain Copernicus had figured that one out a while ago, or maybe even H.G. Wells, at the latest. But then again, would a 20 something maid working in the countryside really be getting any wind of it if they had?
"Uh, what is it called, beyond the sky?" Martha asked. Then, remembering that most of England was still dutifully attending Sunday mass in 1913, tried, "The Heavens?"
"Okay…" Orla hedged, reseating herself despite the persisting skepticism in the arch of her brow. "Is that what an alien is? Something from the Heavens?"
Martha nodded helpfully. "Yeah, kind of. This machine is alien, for instance."
"And the stars?"
"No," Martha shook her head, somewhat relieved Orla hadn't said God when she followed up with, "only living things can be aliens." Though, Martha wondered, does that make Jesus an alien?
Orla nodded, absorbing this tidbit. "Okay."
"Okay?" Martha asked, having expected that at least a few more examples would have been necessary to get her point across.
"Okay," Orla confirmed.
"You're really taking this well, aren't you?"
The girl shrugged. "My brother almost died today," she said, shooting one last scowl at the floor as if to say Don' go eating me before standing up to investigate one of the coral beams. The look she gave it seemed to ask if they were as good at emotional support as they were structural, and Martha, doubting she'd be getting an answer any time soon, pulled her friend in for a quick hug to make up for it.
"Anyway, it's just a different vocabulary," Orla mumbled into Martha's uniform before pulling away to elaborate. "Where I call a different realm with non-human creatures and time that passes differently the Fairyland, ye call it a—"
"Pocket dimension," Martha supplied.
"Exactly!" She beamed, glad her friend seemed to agree. "And my heavens are yer…?"
Martha grinned back, enjoying Orla's savvy display. "Outer space."
"And my faeries are yer…"
"Timelords," the Doctor interjected, and both girls' heads whipped backward to meet him.
The Timelord in question stepped out from a shadowed hallway, hands tucked deep into his pockets in an almost sheepish display.
"Och," Orla scowled. "Walter's back."
The Doctor heaved out a long-suffering sigh. "For Rassilon's sake, I'm not Walter!"
"If we're still hung up on aliases, we could try somethin' else?" Orla offered, fixing him with a concentrated squint, not unlike a food critic prodding at a bit of uncooked linguine with the pointy end of her knife.
"Well—" the Doctor fumbled.
"I was thinking Tinkerbell?"
Hook, line, and sinker. Martha howled, hands clawing at her aching lungs.
"Walter's just fine," the Doctor sighed with the weight of bruised pride. But like an absolute masochist, he kept talking. "But I suppose fairy wouldn't be the most inaccurate term."
"Wha–" Martha started but was quickly cut off.
"If you want to know, you have to quit laughing!" The Doctor laid out his terms. And it was difficult, but eventually, Martha's face returned to the picture of innocence, and Orla, despite her distaste for the man, alien, Timelord, whatever!, was intrigued enough to join her.
With all smirks safely tucked away, the Doctor continued. "From a strictly human, strictly etymological standpoint, the word fairy came through English from the Latin word fortum, meaning 'that which has been spoken.' In modern terms, the equivalent concept is fate," he began, falling as easily and passionately into the explanation as he usually did. "So a fairy, then, is any creature that has the ability to alter human fate."
This made a lot of sense to Orla who knew that even something as harmless as a Brownie, a creature who could scrub all your pots to a shine for nothing but a thimble of milk in return, was just as much a faerie as a Banshee, who foretold the death of loved ones with a shriek that could inspire them, too.
And strangely enough, Martha's own mental list—Judoon, Carrionite, Dalek, Timelord—suited that definition just as well. "Sooo," she teased, all too pleased by this particular turn in events, "You self-identify as a fairy?"
"Etymologically speaking!" The Doctor's shrill words came at the exact same moment as Orla's triumphant, "I told ye so!"
But immediately put off by what ostensibly appeared to be a display of camaraderie between herself and him-whatever it was he wanted to call himself-Orla snapped back in a blink, attentions returned and twice as frigid as before. In other terms, her stare was positively lethal. Because faeries aside, her true priorities could be summed up in a single, scathing sentence: "So how's Ian?"
Her companions' faces slackened, troubled by how quickly they'd allowed themselves to forget.
"He's going to be okay," the Doctor assured after a moment, though knowing by now that Orla wasn't about to start taking his word for it, turned back into the corridor from which he came and motioned for the two girls to follow.
And follow they did. Winding paths, curving hallways, never-ending doors. Orla was more than confused by the time they were finally approaching the Medbay. And Martha, who had visited the TARDIS a handful of times in the past two months, was surprised herself to find the ship somewhat restored to her previous capacity. As far as she could tell, though this Doctor wasn't her Doctor, per se, the TARDIS seemed to recognize him well enough to willingly grant their little trio VIP access into her bowels.
Immediately upon arrival at their destination, Orla, predictably, launched herself to Ian's bedside.
"Aren't ye just a sight for sore eyes?" She whispered, brushing the bit of Ian's overgrown fringe out of his eyes even though they were closed and probably wouldn't be opening for a while longer. Then, spotting the needle shoved deep into her brother's flesh, turned to Martha and asked, "What's that hooked up to his arm?"
To Orla's ignorant eyes, the sight was grotesque, barbaric, even. There was a tube attached to the needle, too, feeding Ian some type of clear liquid from a bag hung on a nearby metal pole. Not that Ian, drooling lightly onto his new paper gown, seemed to mind all that much.
"It's an IV," Martha began and immediately elaborated with "and it feeds Ian his medicine," upon realizing the acronym alone didn't explain very much at all. And also taking note of the drool, added "I'm guessing some type of sedative, too?" in the Doctor's direction. He nodded in confirmation.
A new wave of exhaustion swept over Orla as her body, straight out of tears, started spasming lightly with the effort to fight back a sob. So instead, she whispered, "Okay," and went searching for a chair she could pull up to Ian's cot before she collapsed entirely.
"Nopenopenope," Martha took her by the shoulders, steering the girl straight out of the Medbay with half a glance over her shoulder to the Doctor who shot back a supportive thumbs up. "We're doing everything we can for Ian and now all he needs is rest," she explained when Orla was looking more than ready to protest. "You, too," she added, somewhat gentler.
And feeling her lips wobble, and her legs shake, and herself succumb bodily to exhaustion's siren song, Orla allowed her friend to drag her away.
"Alright, looks like you're staying in mine," Martha sighed through another aggressive chorus of rattles.
As it turned out, the many many doors they'd passed on their way to the Medbay didn't actually open. None of them. And though Martha suspected this was another side effect of the TARDIS's emergency setting, that particular theory failed to explain why the doors existed in the first place. And Orla, who had shared a bed with Martha for the past two months anyway, had to stop her roommate from violating another door knob so they could finally get to bed.
Upon reuniting with her room, Martha's mood was instantly restored. The decor reminded her of all the Home Digest magazines she'd pored over as a little girl, and the king bed with its soft, squashy pillows and gauzy princess canopy, looked like something straight out of the 2003 Spring edition. The windows were another plus. Big ones—the floor-to-ceiling kind that a pervy neighbor would surely appreciate if there were any of those on the TARDIS—which were designed to let in nice big streams of light timed perfectly to her circadian rhythm.
And though it was all superbly suited to Martha's modest tastes, the only truly outrageous bit was an enormous bookshelf on the back wall which lived up to all her Harry Potter fantasies by also being a secret passageway. One to the kitchen, no less. And despite Martha's own pure glee at having discovered this fact after trying to take The Science of Nutrition off the shelf for a bit of revising, it'd been nothing short of concerning when the Doctor found her sobbing over a head of cabbage on the dining room floor some moments later.
So after a bit of well-deserved gawking from Orla—the most she'd done throughout her entire duration in the TARDIS thus far—Martha decided that the arrangement wasn't all bad.
Some rustling later, Martha settled on a jumper and joggers for bed-a luxury compared to the thin linen chemises provided by Farringham-and threw a matching pair in Orla's face. Martha missed her friend's skeptical look upon catching the ensemble, having been distracted by the imminent reality of a real shower!, so Orla decided it was worth voicing her concerns.
"What are these?"
Martha squinted, fairly certain, even from across the expansive room, that she'd handed over the right things. "Pajamas, why?"
Orla looked vaguely scandalized. "Trousers to bed? Whose are these?" She questioned. Then, with a furtive glance at the door, whispered, "Are they Walter's?"
Martha giggled, wanting to explain that Walter's narrow hips could try their absolute darndest to hold those joggers up, but it'd be nothing short of a miracle if they didn't immediately start pooling at his ankles. Instead, she said, "Try them on. You'll like it," before snatching up a towel and doing a full-on sprint to the showers in her excitement.
Orla got her turn in the shower afterward, though she'd had to call in Martha on more than one occasion to explain which knobs rained water down from the ceiling and which gushed streams from the side, and which would randomly turn off the mood lighting and leave her standing stark naked in the dark. Eventually, Martha'd given up on explaining and drew her a hot bath, for which Orla was deeply grateful.
They'd said their goodnights once smelling significantly better. And though Orla made a big show of pinching the fabric of her joggers and stretching them away from her skin, as if the loose garment were somehow too revealing, she secretly really really liked the way they felt like a warm hug on her legs.
The next morning, after properly wiping the grime from her eyes and doing one of those morning stretches that leave your head vibrating with reinvigoration, Martha was left with the mystery of finding out where Orla had snuck off to in the middle of the night.
So we're gonna be in the TARDIS a little while longer as Ian heals up! And personally besties, I'm glad for the break from Farringham. Shit gets depressing.
Thank you as always to bestie Alikai for reviewing! You don't know how cool it is to hear that I'm kinda maybe doing the Doctor's voice justice? Ten's whole hyperactive 900-year-old man child bit is deeply endearing if not a bit finicky, so trying to capture that vibe is always the goal! Anyway, you're an absolute doll and the actual 10/10 over here
And to Isabelnecessaryonabicycle, hope I've still managed to keep you on your toes ;) Thank you so so much for reviewing!