"Milk, bourbon, an' honey."

Mr. Smith paused his pouring.

God why did she have to say that? It couldn't be an inside joke if she was the only one that understood why it was an inside joke. Would he believe that she was simply being facetious? And if he did, would he sack her for it?

It was true though, wasn't it? After Orla had been reunited with the drink back on the TARDIS, it's how she'd been taking her tea ever since. Even Martha and Jenny had given it a crack the other night.

But that didn't mean she had to bring it up to her superior! Stupid, stupid Orla...

Mr. Smith stood with a smile, drawing Orla out of her embarrassed musings.

"Actually," he padded to a chest at the foot of his bed, rifling through it for a moment before pulling out a handsomely sized bottle of bourbon. "I might be able to oblige that request."

Orla's face went scarlet. "Nae, nae, nae tis okay, sir. Really, sir! I was just-"

Mr. Smith rejoined her at the table. "I have no use for it. I'm fairly certain the previous tenant forgot it here. Or maybe it was a welcome present?" He frowned before perking back up. "In any case, I've never been a fan myself. Please," he set it on the table in front of her, peering from beneath his fringe. "Feel free to take it off my hands."

Orla hesitated. She realized now how the Doctor had known back on the TARDIS. It had been her all along. Not mind reading. And that meant whatever she said to John Smith, she was effectively telling the Doctor.

In which case, it wasn't impossible that the dreams truly were the Doctor coming through Mr. Smith. Orla hadn't a clue how to approach the situation, but damn did she need to tell Martha, and quickly.

"Here," Mr. Smith set a tin of Earl Grey and a small jar of honey on the table next to the bottle.

"Okay," Orla said, plastering a pleasant expression to her face before pouring a cup for herself. It wasn't nearly enough bourbon to make her tipsy, so she excused herself the misstep and hoped Mr. Smith will have slept off the memory by morning. But knowing that in the future, the Doctor did remember…

Gah, curse her.

Mr. Smith took a sip from his own tea cup. "It is a rather peculiar combination. How did you come across it?"

"Och, ye ken, the maids," she lied. "There's no' a ton to do here once the work is over, but 'spose we do have full access to the kitchen. A little experimentation over the years..."

She rambled on like this for about a minute, taking note of Mr. Smith's languid nods. Orla wondered if he was even registering her words as he slouched further and further into the couch.

"...but I think the boys may 'ave us beat in that particular department…."

His head dipped.

"...Just the other day, I watched a boy mix mashed asparagus into his milk..."

It was a miracle.

"...and that's when their no' just eating their boogeys on a dare…"

Mr. Smith was asleep. Well, at least he looked it.

Orla braved the short distance to get a closer look. His hands were still cradling the teacup he'd been drinking from. He couldn't have taken more than two sips, which was strange seeing as she'd estimated he'd be needing at least the three.

She scooped the cup from his floppy hands before he could spill the liquid and measured his breathing. Heavy, slow. Orla wondered if there was any reason for faking sleep after he'd been so insistent that she stay, but a sudden, sharp snore confirmed it.

Orla brought the cup to her nose for a sniff. Maybe she'd brewed it too long?

Okay then.

Unsure whether to be relieved or concerned, Orla arranged the cups back onto the tray and tucked the bourbon under her arm before puttering off to the kitchen where she returned everything to its proper place. She'd most certainly be discussing that entire interaction with Martha.

But first, Ian.

It took a chorus of knocks before Ian, resignedly, let her in.

"Orla–"

"Out of the way, skinny malinky."

"Orla, pleaaaase," he begged, moments away from getting onto his knees, she was sure. "I've already done three worksheets today. Let off it for one night, alright?"

Orla shot a glance to his school desk.

"Ye've hardly made a dent!" She exclaimed, pinching the massive wad of untouched school work between her fingers. It was at least three inches thick. "Let's say three more an' then off to bed with ye?"

Ian sighed, snatching three sheets from the top of the stack. "Fiiiine."

Orla pulled up a second chair to the desk with a self satisfied grin.

Orla's own education was spotty. She attended classes at the local school house up until 8th grade or so (not that anything was standardized. Orla suspected she'd learned Algebra 1 three times over). But that was before her mother started having difficulties tending to her little brother, the house, and making a living with their father still abroad and checks getting slimmer by the month.

Orla dropped out. Helped. She'd go house to house, offering her services. Laundering, cleaning, gardening, whatever it was that could earn them enough coin for the groceries and new shoes every two years.

It's why she put so much stake into Ian's education. He learned five days a week, a broad range of subjects in the humanities and sciences, and would, inevitably, find a job straight out of secondary school. He'd have a better life. One worth living. And if Orla had to launder and clean and garden in the meantime, well, it wasn't so different from before.

And it wasn't like Orla hadn't essentially been in school these past two years with him. Cleaning out the classrooms were her lessons.

The teachers were never too keen on wiping down their own boards at the end of the school day when someone else was going to come in and do it for them anyway. And when that someone else was Orla, she liked to copy down whatever it was in a notebook and piece together the lessons in what little free time she could afford.

If it was a math equation, she'd reverse engineer it with her wealth of Algebra 1 knowledge. If it was a name, she'd go down to the library and skim the history books until she knew at least three facts about whoever it was. And if it was a phrase in French, well…it wasn't like she'd be going to France any time soon.

So, splotchy as her knowledge was, Orla was good for Ian's productivity, at the very least. And sometimes, even helpful on a particular subject that he'd missed out on in his period of unconsciousness.

Either way, it wasn't like Orla needed the excuse to visit anymore. Perhaps it had been like that before, like with the banana. But how Orla could go days, sometimes a week, without checking up on her brother before the incident now seemed absurd.

Now, when Orla folded the laundry, or changed the sheets, or scrubbed the floors, it was in a constant state of anxiety. There was not a single moment of silence in this past week in which Ian did not cross her mind. It was exhausting. But it made seeing Ian now, awake, studying, complaining, all that much better and her heart ache just that much less.

They worked through the assignments quickly. A paragraph on King Louis XIV, a series of math equations, and a short essay in French which Ian dictated and Orla transcribed to much giggling and insults.

An hour passed. Ian's eyes were puffy, their laughter lessened by the call for sleep.

"Bed time!" Ian shouted gleefully as he dotted his last i on impuissant, which Orla did not understand the context of, nor did she want to understand.

"Ye used to hate bedtime," Orla mused. "Never thought I'd see the day."

Ian slipped under the covers, already in his pajamas. "A'm a growing boy, what can I say?"

Orla settled into a corner of the room with a book and a single candle for light, so as not to disturb Ian. She glanced up at him with every completed sentence, checking if was asleep yet. He never questioned why she stayed. Perhaps the best answer she could give was that she did it at all.

When his breath finally evened out, Orla tiptoed to the bed.

Her heart squeezed.

She hated it. Hated seeing him asleep. His closed eyelids immediately brought her back to the TARDIS and she could already feel the bile creeping her throat.

Deep breaths. Orla counted to ten.

She went through his vitals as efficiently as possible, just like she had learned. Heart rate, pupil dilation, temperature: all normal. The anxiety lessened but never quite left.

Orla switched off the light and hurried back to her room.

In the attic, Orla found Martha dressing for bed..

"There's my night owl," her roommate grinned with a head of flyaways and sweat, no doubt from a busy day of work.

"This is the first time I've caught ye this late in a while, Granny! More bloody noses keepin' ye up?"

Martha laughed. "No, actually. Diarrhea. Had to coach the boy off the toilet. He was positively terrified of shitting his trousers. Thought I'd be there all night."

Orla snorted before beginning the process of dressing herself for bed.

It was a good thing that Martha was still up. They had much to discuss. Helping braid her roommates' hair for bed, Orla let the two of them settle under the covers before discussing the events of the day.

"I think there's somethin' wrong with Mr. Smith."

Martha stirred, propping herself up on an elbow with a concerned furrow to her brow. "Do tell."

And Orla did. About finding Mr. Smith asleep in his classroom. About the dreams. About the tea. She excluded the episode with the bourbon but the rest was laid bare for her friend's consideration.

"Okay," Martha breathed at last. She'd taken the news well enough from what Orla could tell. She was relieved that perhaps this hadn't been nearly as serious as she had suspected.

"Now what," Orla asked after a beat of silence.

Martha rolled onto her back to stare at the ceiling. The candles had already been blown out and the moon was new, but all the same, Orla didn't like the expression on her friend's face.

"Do you think," she started, hesitant, "if I step down from my nursing duties, I'll be reinstated as Mr. Smith's maid? So I can keep an eye on him?"

Orla was horrified. That was the last thing she had suspected from her friend. "I mean, maybe," she sputtered. "But why in the world would ye want to do a thing like that?"

Martha sighed, drawing the blankets tighter around her. "He's my responsibility. It's like you said, if he's started dreaming about the Doctor, who's to say he won't start remembering him fully? Then what? We open the watch, the Family sniffs him out, all hell breaks loose?" Martha let out a groan. Beneath the covers, Orla found her friend's hand and squeezed. "I have to keep an eye on this now."

"But Martha, working in the infirmary...I've seen ye this past week!" Glowing, happy, going to sleep early and waking up at the ass crack of dawn to attend to her patients. The difference was undeniable. "Tis the one thing that makes ye happy here. How can I ask ye to give that up?"

"I have to-"

"Nae," Orla interjected. "Tis fine. I'll keep an eye on 'im. I'm assigned to his schedule anyway." She paused as Martha squeezed her hand. "I just want ye happy, ye hear?"

Martha let out a grateful breath. There was no doubt that she was willing to throw away her happiness for Mr. Smith's protection. It was exactly why Orla couldn't let her.

Now that she was liberated from her position as a maid, Martha didn't have to juggle her cleaning duties and secret doctoring practice every day. Orla's best friend had less than a month left at Farringham with her, and she'd be damned if she'd let it be as miserable as her first two.

"Are you sure?" Martha whispered, feeling both horrible and relieved.

"Certain," Orla assured.

"What about you?"

Orla groaned. "What about me?"

Martha flopped back over to face Orla, something intent to the arrangement of her features, even in the dark. "You're so concerned with my happiness, but what about you? What makes you happy at Farringham."

"Ian," Orla answered immediately. There was no need for thought. The answer was Ian and would always be Ian.

Martha frowned. "But wait a minute. Isn't Ian just as much a responsibility to you as the Doctor or John Smith are to me?"

Orla's follow up answer was just as immediate.

"But I love Ian. It's different."

Martha laughed. Because wasn't that just the thing? The reason why she left her life to travel with the Doctor? Why she was here at Farringham in the first place? Why she had to take care of that imbecil John Smith, even though it shattered her to pieces to see that blankness in his eyes whenever he addressed her-and then to know it hadn't been all that different with the Doctor, either.

That even it was never different, could she ever bring herself to leave?

Her grip on Orla's hand grew almost painful.

"Love isn't always happiness," Martha bit out. "Love can be the most painful thing there is."

Orla thought back to Ian.

Maybe Martha was right.

How could seeing someone sleep tear at her so? The thought of losing her brother scared her beyond belief, and yet, it was inescapable. If she had lost him—no, it was unthinkable. She couldn't think.

But the worst part was that Orla didn't need to think. She knew it like she knew her parents were dead. Like she knew there would be no need for Farringham without Ian. Like she knew of her lack of money and prospects and aid. If Orla had lost him—if, if, if—there was no one else. Nothing else.

She loved Ian, and it hurt beyond words.

"So what makes you happy, Orla?"

She let the question hang in the air, wondered if she could swat it away with a joke and watch its weight disperse with practiced levity.

Is there anything that makes me happy?

"I 'spose that remains to be seen."

The next morning, Orla prepared Mr. Smith's breakfast.

She wondered how she should broach the topic of his dreams. The tea seemed effective enough, seeing as the teacher had been knocked out within two sips. Hopefully, he would see that as a good thing, and not a drugging.

In some ways, Orla regretted bringing the tea to him at all. Now, she was obliged to actually help him, because she knew if she didn't, Martha would go ahead and throw away her nursing gig for the miserable man. And, Orla supposed, her act was potentially world saving, if any of this Family business was to be believed. But as it were, Orla couldn't bring herself to mind the end of the world if it meant she could go on ignoring the man for a little while longer.

Loading up the final things onto the breakfast tray, Orla marshaled her way to the teachers' wing with a sigh.

At Mr. Smith's door, she gave a knock.

There was a long pause. Orla tried again. A sort of clattering sounded from the other side, and then a loud thud. Orla wondered if perhaps this was a bad time…

More than ready to set the tray on the floor and be done with this business (though, regrettably, she knew she had to stay), Orla jumped as the door, finally, flew open.

Mr. Smith looked a mess.

Hair mussed, crease lines decorating a cheek, eyes still half closed. And, Orla noticed, he was still wearing his clothing from yesterday. His dress shirt and trousers were rumpled beyond belief and Orla cringed knowing she'd have to do his pressing later.

Had he really not woken up last night? At all? That thud from earlier…he must've fallen from the sofa! Orla glanced at the teapot on the tray. Perhaps she had drugged him (unintentionally) after all. She'd have to investigate that valerian root she'd used later.

"Miss Orla!" Mr. Smith exclaimed, rubbing the sleep from the corners of his eyes, perhaps in an effort to appear alert.

"Mornin', sir," she replied, preparing to bustle into the room and place the tray on his coffee table as she did every morning since her assignment to him.

Mr. Smith stopped her at the door. He took hold of the breakfast tray by either handle, and for a startled moment, Orla forgot to let go. A second later, she allowed the teacher to take the tray from her hands, arms falling limply to her sides.

"Stay right there," he called, disappearing into his rooms. "I'll be just a mo'. I have something to tell you."

Dear Lord. Was he really going to accuse her of drugging him? Was he going to get her sacked? What possibly did he have to say to her? She was the one that needed to talk to him! Keep an eye on him and those blasted dreams!

Mr. Smith stepped back into the hall, closing the door behind him with a barely audible click.

Orla held her breath.

"I need to apologize."

"Pardon?" She squeaked out, adding a belated, "sir," when remembering her looseness from the previous night. Had she spoken with honorifics at all? And bourbon, Lord! Perhaps Orla was the one who had been drugged.

"Last night…My motives were not as I said. Inviting you for tea," he paused, glancing at her with a half-smile that looked more like a wince, "it was selfish of me."

Selfish? Had he been…oh Lord, how hadn't she seen it sooner!

Idiotidiotidiotidiot—

Orla felt a twitch in her feet. If he was about proposition her, well…she would run! Or jump out the window, or, or…but then she'd be sacrificing a leg, and she couldn't work on one leg. She'd be sacked, and Ian wouldn't get an education, and—

"And not only selfish, but unforgivably inappropriate!" Mr. Smith continued.

Okay, perhaps he wouldn't proposition her after all. But he had thought to do so last night, had he not? Fallen asleep before he could do so?

"My state of undress…I can't imagine what you thought. And inviting you into my rooms, at night, unchaperoned! What was I thinking!" A closed fist knocked against his forehead, as if he were attempting to actually beat some sense into himself.

Orla stared in unveiled confusion. So he hadn't been trying to proposition her?

His gaze returned to Orla, an unwavering sincerity in his eyes. "My only excuse is my exhaustion. Truly, I have not been myself. It's only now—because of you, no less!-that I am able to find reason once more. I only hope you can forgive me. It's just these night terrors—"

"Night terrors?" Orla interjected in lieu of forgiveness. Now that she saw he was no threat, she couldn't be bothered with more self pity. No, she would guide this conversation back on track. To the dreams. The Doctor. And, hopefully, not the end of the world.

"Ah," Mr. Smith deflated. "I meant only to say dreams."

"But ye didn't," Orla insisted. "What did ye mean by it, sir?"

"I just…" Mr. Smith had a hard time finding the words. "God, I'm going to sound like such a twat," he muttered, and Orla felt the corners of her lips tip upward. "I just thought, if someone were here when I fell asleep, like you were, that perhaps, maybe, I don't know…I would feel safer and the nightmares would go away?" He looked just about ready to die of embarrassment, and Orla allowed herself a real smile. A comforting one, even, if he wanted.

"Stupid, I know. Kiddy stuff…" he rambled on.

Orla was relieved beyond belief.

"Well did it work?" She teased, feeling familiar with this particular topic. "Did ye have any nightmares?"

He met her eyes with the smallest of smiles. "No actually. I dreamt I met Shakespeare. It was quite nice actually, I think Martha was there."

Martha had told her about that one! Her first trip into the past, was it? What a blast that must have been, to be doted on by the Shakespeare. Orla had been jealous beyond belief, but the talk of witches had tempered her enthusiasm significantly.

"My brother always did say I scared his night terrors away." Orla reminisced on those nights when Ian would climb into her bed, sticky-faced, and trusting her to brave the dark when he could not. "Mind you," she admitted. "I was half the reason he got them in the first place."

"Why was that?" Mr. Smith squinted, surprised

"Love a story, me," Orla blinked innocently. "Personally, the scarier the better. It makes the adventures more adventurous. The dramas more dramatic. The romances more romantic. Buuuut," she conceded, "I don't think my brother would agree."

Mr. Smith took a moment to ponder this declaration. "Is there a position for that on the Farringham staff? A guardian of dreams, perhaps?"

"The very best," Orla joked, feeling she had successfully molded the conversation into what it needed to be. "Have any ye'd like to share? Like what happened with Shakespeare?"

"Oh, just the most ridiculous things," he grinned. "You wouldn't like it."

"Try me."

Mr. Smith's stomach rumbled in the ensuing silence, and Orla remembered his breakfast, cooling rapidly in his room.

"Tonight," she insisted. "Ye tell me stories and I keep ye company until ye get to bed. I think that sounds fair, don't ye?" She was so close. But why was he staring at her like that?

"I can bring the tea again, sir?"

"Alright," he relented with a gleam in his eyes. "I would like that a lot."

TheGuestAlikai: Ahhhhh! My first criticism! Like a proper criticism! This is so exciting! To think someone likes my story enough to take the time out of their day to let me know how it might be improved. It means the world to me, thank you :D

As for your concerns: Spoilers? Do I dare pull a River? All I can really say is remember that the Doctor came back for a reason! One important enough to go messing with the fabric of time in an objectively stupid and myopic way.

And I totally understand where you're coming from when you say Orla wouldn't be thinking about the TARDIS or the Doctor or any of it in light of Ian's state. And to that, I say you're right! She wouldn't (for the most part. I mean, who could really resist. Just a little bit, no?)! You've hit the nail right on the head, and themes of Orla's quasi-parenthood, as you put it, are so so integral to the rest of the plot and will absolutely continue to inform her actions, don't worry.

I tried my best to balance that fact (her quarantine to the Medbay) with some character development. Perhaps it could have been executed better, but I do stand behind introducing the Doctor this early. Because frankly, if Orla's suspicions about Mr. Smith were never lifted/addressed at all I (or much later), what reason would she have for interacting with him? How would their relationship progress? The way I chose to circumvent that was having Orla be "indebted" to the Doctor for saving Ian, and therefore helping him as John Smith, as grudging as that help is. And honestly, I quite enjoy the "will they find out the secret trope" (like you mention), but that's Joan Redfern's story! And what is fanfiction if not an exploration of alternate ideas?

Thank you thank you again for the critique. I really do appreciate it, and I'm glad to hear you're still enjoying. Feel free to PM if you want, too (that's open to everyone)! I'm happy to discuss more and perhaps more openly.

Lil Sparrow7: Thank youuuuuu! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and thank you for reviewing :)))