Martha spent the next few days in the TARDIS showing Orla quite nearly everything. Everything that was available, that is. Orla could hardly fathom that there was more under "normal circumstances," taking in these new portions of the TARDIS with open-mouthed awe all while Martha bemoaned that her favorites weren't open. Again, Orla was reminded that there wasn't just more, but infinitely more.

Not that Orla minded the "dearth" of the available rooms in the least. Because those that were open, namely the library, observatory, and gardens, were likely enough to entertain her for an entire year. There was of course that persisting notion, filed right next to knowledge on that cat allergy Orla would like to pretend she didn't have, that maybe this was the Fairyland—it's many attractions the venus flytrap to her butterfly. But in the end, it had taken all of one day for Orla to reason that if a grave were at the end of this little adventure, then perhaps she'd die happy.

It was the wardrobe that'd convinced her in the end.

"You know," Orla began, tipping her head up to meet the magnificent sight. "I've never had the money to be materialistic, but I think today is as good as any to make a start."

She spent most of her time in the portion of the wardrobe sectioned off for 1910's clothing. The majority of it was made up of silly day dresses and flouncy chemises and bodacious evening gowns. It was all very Titanic, and not particularly to Martha's taste, but Orla's joy at simply petting the dresses? Now that was infectious.

"You can wear them," Martha said after another vigorous round of petting. "If you like."

Her friend's head shot up to look at her with owl eyes. "Really?!"

After Orla was well and changed into a lovely blue number, Martha made a few half-hearted attempts to introduce her friend to some modern fashions—the usual jeans and pullovers and bikinis, the latter of which quickly became a topic of much discussion.

"Ye mean to tell me girls go to the beach in their knickers?"

"I mean, kind of, but it's all very normal. I particularly like the high-waisted ones," Martha replied, holding up a skimpy little red thing with the cutouts and thong to match. Even if Orla's cheeks heated up to the color of a tomato, as it turns out, she was rather enthusiastic about the whole thing.

Privately, it was the liberation, and not the knickers, that Orla had found so fascinating. In fact, knickers rather made the girl uncomfortable in the context of her own time. She had three linen drawers back at Farringham, rotating between them and hand washing on a daily basis. The only time she wore real knickers—though Orla supposed the French, who had invented the impractical things, might prefer the term lingerie—was on Headmaster Rocastle's time and money.

She hated it, but there wasn't much to do about the matter either. At the very least, Orla should like to keep the knickers for herself (it would let her stretch out her rotation a little longer). But the Headmaster always asked for them back once they finished up, tucking the pair into a wooden chest at the end of the bed before sending her off with the breakfast tray and half a glance. Why he was so particular about hanging onto the things…Orla didn't very much care to think about it.

But women wearing—what was it?—bikinis? For themselves! In public of all things, and certainly not under the strange and perverted circumstances Orla found herself in on a weekly basis.

Well…the notion was lovely, wasn't it?

That arms could be arms. Legs could be legs. Stomachs stomachs. A woman simply existing and not immediately becoming the subject of scorn or desire was so incredibly foreign a concept, and a refreshing one at that.

And perhaps sensing some of this, Martha cut into Orla's thoughts. "Maybe we haven't freed the nipple," she smirked mischievously, propping up a leg on a stool and drawing up her trouser leg with an air that evoked a strip-tease, "but at least we've freed the ankle."

The conversation had paired well with Martha's next stop on the tour—the pool. And invigorated by women's rights, Orla had even picked out a bikini for herself. A modest one, to be fair (her entire bum was covered thank the lord), but a bikini nonetheless!

Well on her way to becoming a Renaissance Woman with all that she had learned in the past few days alone, Orla was exhausted. Not the bone weary sort, but the kind that deserved a kip a bit better than that the Medbay could provide.

Once the pair had toweled off by the pool, Martha invited her friend to stay the night in her room for the first time in a week. Orla agreed.

Orla couldn't sleep. Despite how comfy the feather-down pillows were or how long she squeezed her eyes shut, Orla couldn't sleep. It got to the point where she couldn't just ignore how her stomach was rumbling some odd hour in the early morning, if you could call it morning.

She stole a glance at Martha. The false moonlight from the near window lit her soundly sleeping face. Good. Orla swung her legs over the side of the bed and made her way to that magnificent bookcase. The one with the secret door. That nutrition textbook, was it?

Finding the thick purple book amongst the rest, Orla tugged on its lip. Immediately, the shelf fell away, revealing a narrow corridor. Though she couldn't quite spy the end, Orla advanced on quiet feet, trusting that the light at the end of passageway would guide her.

And she had to admit, for all the incredible places a secret passageway could lead, the kitchen was truly a favorable one.

Except for what she did find at the end, because marring the delightful vision, hovering in front of the oven, was John Smith.

No. It couldn't be. But it certainly looked like him.

His back was to her, fixing something up on the stovetop. And he wasn't wearing that suit or coat Orla remembered from their meeting, but a white dress shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbow, leaving swaths of pale forearm on display. And his hair, messy, yes, but the kind of styling done by a pillow and some good sleep rather than pomade and a bolt of lightning—as he'd appeared before.

The vision reminded her of Sunday mornings. Orla superimposed the image of Mr. Smith in his dressing gown, yawning through the motions of fixing up a breakfast over the scene. With the servants and staff all sleeping in or off at church, it was only ever the two of them in the kitchen that early on their day off. Of course, Orla would be attending to her own breakfast—or rather, Headmaster Rocastle's—astutely ignoring the man. But she always kept a close eye on the new teacher. The faerie. The enemy.

Or at least, back when she thought that was the case. Orla was coming around to the other possibilities, albeit slowly.

If Orla thought she was seeing a ghost in this moment, it was because he looked more human this way. When he ran a hand through his hair and water droplets fell from it, Orla filed it away in her head that the Doctor was a night showerer. Quickly, she unfiled the information, suddenly feeling it was too intimate a detail for her to know about him.

It was how she knew John Smith, Orla reasoned with herself. The details. His existence had been an ongoing mystery, a never ending series of question marks, and the details were how she made sense of him.

It had been a constant effort to sort through them back at Farringham. Which to discard, which to take note of. Was it really important that she knew John Smith forgot a pencil behind his ear on a nearly daily basis? That he inspected the ripeness of fruit with his nose rather than his eyes? That he folded his dirty clothes before delivering them to the maids on Fridays?

It wasn't likely. But it seemed, looking at the Doctor now, that this wealth of information was set on confusing the everloving hell out of Orla.

Unnerving. That's what it was.

She tiptoed back into the secret passageway, hoping to leave unacknowledged.

But of course, her stomach just had to grumble. Loudly.

The Doctor jumped as if it'd been a bomb that'd gone off and not her sense of hunger. He'd taken out a whole shelf of special variety tea-packets before spinning on his heels to meet her eyes.

"Ah!" He exclaimed, leaning not so casually against the kitchen counter. "Orla!"

She attempted to shrink further into the shadows. He looked just as uncomfortable. "Was just 'bout to put the kettle on. Would you like to…?" A hand reached back to scratch at his nape as he searched for the words. "Join me?"

It was perhaps the last thing on this earth she wanted to do. Orla was ready to say as much when her stomach let out another ferocious protest. There was a bowl of fruit on the kitchen table calling to her. With a sigh, Orla resolved to pull out a chair next to him, hoping it was enough of an answer. She sank her teeth into one of the apples with resignation.

John S—The Doctor turned back to the stove with a curt nod, filling the kettle with enough water for two.

Orla tried not to stare. It was difficult. How much of him was John Smith, anyway? Were they the same person? Did the Doctor remember his life as a teacher, or were they separate entities altogether?

"How do ye feel about pears?" She asked to the Doctor's back.

The Doctor shot a curious glance at her from over his shoulder. "Hate them. Terrible things. Why do you ask?"

Why did she ask? Why should she care if John Smith and the Doctor were the same person?

Still…she was curious.

"It's just…when we met," she started, waiting to see if she could glean any recognition in his face, a stiffening in his shoulders, something. For the moment, he remained still. "Ye spat out a pear," she continued, face contorting into a frown at the memory. "Said somethin' about not havin' had one in a few centuries."

The Doctor seemed to consider her account, distributing the contents of the now steaming kettle into two mugs with a ponderous expression. "'Spose I did, yeah," he nodded, reaching for a jug of milk from one of those new-fangled refrigeration devices. "Hate pears. Think only my third and sixth faces could stand them. Or was it my seventh? Not sure. Either way, terrible texture. Very…" and for lack of a better word, "blah."

Could he not feel Orla's eyes burning into his back? Did he always spout such nonsense without feeling further explanation was required?

"Faces?" She said in lieu of a response.

Humming his assent, the Doctor set both mugs onto the counter. The blue one got a splash of milk and two spoonfuls of honey. The other remained black. "Faces, bodies, yeah. I change them on occasion. Or 'spose they change me. Depends on your perspective," he mused, rustling through one of the cabinets to grab a bottle. He poured a liquid into the mug. "900 years, something's got to give. I'd certainly rather it be my body than my mind."

Faeries could live thousands of years, so the fact that the Doctor was 900 years old didn't really surprise Orla. In fact, she almost suspected it.

"Doctor, when ye change faces, do ye sort of…" she gestured in a way that could be interpreted as either jazz hands or sun rays. "Sparkle?"

The Doctor paused his tea-making ministrations to shoot her a surprised look. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"'S sort of like a cloud o' light, aye?"

"Regeneration energy," he confirmed with a blink. "How'd you figure that?"

"Daoine Sìth," she responded, only a little smug. Okay, a lot smug. "Ye're sure ye're no faerie?"

The Doctor suppressed a grin. "There you go," he said, returning with the mugs. He pushed the one with the suspicious liquid in it towards her. She almost hoped it was poison. At least she'd finally get some shut-eye that way.

Orla took a sip.

The Doctor smiled, something eager and knowing in his eyes. "What d'you think?"

She could cry.

It was exactly how her Da had made it whenever he would come from deployment. Milk, honey, and bourbon. He'd slip some into Orla's tea cup whenever her Mam wasn't looking. He'd wink, she'd giggle. And they'd keep giggling.

Orla's lips wobbled as she sat the cup back down on the table. Some sloshed down the side.

"Good. Yeah. Thanks."

How did he know? She hadn't taken her tea like that since…well, since her father died.

Can you read minds? Is this another alien thing?

There was a silence as the mug burned against her palm. The Doctor seemed oblivious.

Why was he looking at her like that? Tracing her face with his eyes. It was like he was—wait, was he leaning in?

Panic coursed through her veins as his hand lifted to meet her cheek. His fingers were soft, swiping just under her eye and up to her temple before retreating just as quickly. Recoiling, really. Something dark took over his tender eyes before going carefully blank.

Orla sat processing for a moment. "Pardon?" was all she could manage.

"You were crying." He whispered. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

She swiped at her cheeks, surprised to find the moisture on her fingertips.

"What else?" He asked, breaking the awkward spell.

"What else what?"

"What other questions do you have?

She took a nonchalant bite of her apple. "Who says I have questions?" Her mouth still tasted of the tea.

The Doctor raised a brow.

Fine. She might as well ask what she's actually thinking.

"How come ye still look human?" She asked. "I expected pointier ears, at least."

"I don't look human. You look Gallifreyan."

It was Orlas turn to raise a brow.

"It's true!" He pouted. "There are physiological differences. Ears, not so much, but there's this machine, a chameleon arch, that can rewrite biology. Literally changes every single cell in your body. It's what I used to become human. The TARDIS substituted my Time Lord memories with humans and—badaboom!—John Smith is born."

Orla had heard enough. How could he just…become human? Shapeshift, sure. A glamour? Now that made sense. Orla would like to at least think that humanity, real humanity, was exclusive to, well, humans. Perhaps she was a bit old fashioned that way.

"If ye're jus' gunna keep takin' the piss," she huffed, pushing off the table to stand.

The Doctor's hand grabbed her wrist. His hold was just loose enough that she could wriggle out if she really wanted to, but she chanced a curious glance back instead. His skin. It was cooler than she'd anticipated. Goosebumps trailed up her forearms, and for some reason, she didn't want him to let go.

"No really." He guided her now, slowly, slowly, encompassing his hand firmly over hers until he could press it into his chest. There was nothing but thin cotton between her palm and his beating heart.

Her breath stuttered briefly.

Then she came to her senses.

"Kindly, what the feck are ye—"

He switched sides. On the right side of his chest was another heartbeat. She let it pound for a few breathless moments before withdrawing.

Orla could feel her own heartbeat in her throat.

Well that certainly wasn't human.

Why then…"Why humans?"

"Why humans what?"

Orla huffed, returning to herself. "Why travel with them? Ye've the whole universe. I'm sure there's another species more…up to par?"

The Doctor took a moment to consider. Of course, the answer was obvious to him. Even when there were other Time Lords around, there was something about humanity that he'd always been taken with. Something good. Something he couldn't explain in words.

"Let me show you," he said instead, blazing out the kitchen without confirmation that Orla would follow. She almost didn't want to. Almost.

She set her half-eaten apple down on the table and followed with a sigh.

By the time she found him, he had been in the console room a whole five minutes. He was leaning against the doors looking smug.

Orla swallowed thickly as she approached. "I'm sure ye ken I'm no' leavin' without Ian. I'm sorry if I've offended ye somehow, but—"

"No, no nothing like that," he waved her off. And when he pulled the doors open, it wasn't to the little hill where she remembered seeing the big blue box last.

Darkness. It was the sky, but not quite. Beyond the sky—outerspace Martha had called it. The Heavens. Black and foreboding and…beautiful.

She stepped closer now, the tip of her nose just skirting past the door frame. Could she…?

Orla looked at the Doctor and he nodded. He held onto her hand as she tipped forward, arm stretched, hand grasping, heart pounding. It was like she could touch it, but not quite.

There were stars as far as her eyes could see. Pinpricks of light that shone like the bowl of a spoon once polished, but brighter. And the sky wasn't actually black, on further inspection. A deep blue, purples too, and hazy pink patina of coalescing clouds encompassing it all.

"It looks like faerie dust," she breathed, and the Doctor's hearts beat almost as hard as they had when her burning fingers had been splayed out against them. Almost.

"That's why," he whispered, just as softly.

She'd almost forgotten he was there. "What was that?"

She disengaged his hand, taking a step back into the TARDIS to give him the space to occupy the opposite door jamb. His side profile was illuminated gold as he looked out on the blackness of space.

"I can name every last star out there," he sniffed. "What planets orbit them, how many moons they have. I can tell you which are habitable or when they will be habitable. That one there?" He pointed to a glowing red dot. A speck, really. "That's Gliese 581c. It's an exoplanet 192 kilometers from Earth in the constellation of Libra. In 2008, just one year after Martha's time, humans will send a radio message to Gliese. In 2020, the aliens will answer."

Looking at him now, he looked less like John Smith.

"I travel with humans because I am 900 years old, and when I look out on space, I don't have questions. I have answers," he sighed. "You get to be as old as me, and even the impossible starts looking plausible," he said, shifting his gaze to Orla. "I miss impossible."

"You miss the magic," Orla corrected.

"Yeah," he breathed. "I do."

"And you're lonely?"

His eyes darkened, and suddenly, Orla could see the years in them. Centuries of them.

How could he not be lonely?

Orla looked out on space, and yes, she saw the stars, but she also saw the darkness between them. Two points of light separated by unfathomable distances. For as beautiful as it was, it was just as terrifying.

Orla had spent 3 days holed up in the Medbay, cramped and scared and surrounded by beauty she despised out of ignorance and fear. It took Martha, her friendship, her perspective to show Orla just how wonderful the TARDIS could be. And how thankful she was for that.

"Lonely, yes," the Doctor replied. "HUMANS!" He boomed, and Orla reeled at the sudden change in volume and mood. "I was never lonely as a human. How could I be? Constant interaction, you lot. Gossip and chit-chat and small talk. I think the only bit of hush I got was during my office hours. No one went to those. Why does no one go to office hours?" He whined and Orla struggled to keep up with his ramblings.

"And questions! I was burning with questions," the Doctor fiddled with something on his finger and Orla recognized it as the silver ring from the carriage ride to the TARDIS. "Big questions"

"Are ye married?" Orla wondered suddenly.

The Doctor's eyes widened briefly. When he spoke, it was a pitch higher. "Not even a little. Well, not unless you include Cleopatra. And Ada Lovelace. Possibly Audrey Hepburn, but I was never clear on whether the officiant was properly certified or a silk aerialist," he tugged on an ear. "But I don't include them so…Why do you ask?"

Orla blinked. After a moment, she nodded towards the ring.

"Ah!" the Doctor slipped it off to hold it inches from her nose. "Bio damper. I'll explain later. We'll be needing it," he effused before slipping it into his trouser pocket and out of sight. Orla accepted the vague statement in her fatigue. She'd figured it'd been more space junk anyway.

She yawned. Stealing one last glance at the stars, Orla retreated back into the console room. Something heavy in her dressing gown pocket beat against her thigh. Slipping a hand down the pocket in question, she pulled out the apple she'd been eating earlier (same bite marks, so at least she hoped it was the same) and giggled.

The TARDIS?, she thought and the console room just barely hummed.

Mind reading?

It hummed again, as if in confirmation, and Orla smiled. Of the two aliens she knew, she was relieved that it was the box in control of the food supply and apparently aware of her hunger levels who was the one that could read minds.

Biting into the apple, a memory popped into her head.

"I think ye told me once that apples were used to propose," Orla mused with a small smile. All of her conversations with John Smith had been a bit bananas, but only now was she able to truly appreciate why.

The Doctor grinned back. "For a history teacher, you'd think he'd know his history."

Orla gasped. "So it's not true?"

"So so," he said with the accompanying hand motion. "Apple-throwing was less a declaration of love and more a ploy at seduction. Antiquity was weird."

"There you go! Sucking the magic out of everything!"

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. John Smith was a romantic anyway."

"Are you?"

"What?"

"A romantic!" She huffed.

His eyes softened. There was something tender about the way he was looking at her now. "I've never been one to avoid sentimentality."

And when she finally flopped back down next to Martha, Orla slept.

Finals week. Studying. No time to write. Blah blah blah. You've heard it all before! I'll be released from my educational prison in approximately 3 weeks :)

Hope y'all enjoyed! Enough of the emotional development, we get some PLOT next chapter

And thank you again Notary Sojac for your kind and thoughtful comment on last chapter!