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Chapter Text

Four weeks into the end of the world, and Martha Jones had learned three important things.

One: You never run in the open. Not even if the Toclafane are behind you. Especially if they're behind you.

Two: People will do anything to survive. Anything.

Three: Hope is the most dangerous weapon she has left.

The world had ended with a laugh. Not a bang, not a whisper, not even a scream. Just the Master's laughter ringing through the Archangel Network, bouncing off satellites and sinking into every ear like poison. 

The Toclafane followed soon after, metal spheres with the voices of children and the hearts of monsters. They fell from the sky like rain, shrieking and spinning, slicing through crowds, cutting through cities.

London was first. Then Washington. Then everything. 

Ten percent of humanity, gone in days. The rest herded into labor camps, rounded up like cattle, told to kneel and obey. The Master's voice never stopped. On every screen, on every wall. Always laughing.

And the Doctor… the Doctor hadn't said a word in twenty-nine days.

She didn't even know if he could anymore.

Jack was gone too. Left behind with her family aboard the Valiant. She hadn't wanted to go (God, she hadn't) but the Doctor had looked her in the eye, wild and ancient and afraid, and told her what she had to do.

Survive. Run. Spread the word.

That was her job now. Hope-bringer. Myth-maker. Whispering the name of the last Time Lord into ears grown deaf with grief and despair. She was the story that had to travel the world, one desperate camp at a time. The legend of the Doctor, planted like seeds in ashes.

And she was so, so tired.

She kept Jack's wrist strap in her pocket, fingers curled around it like a lifeline. She didn't know how to use the teleport, couldn't make it jump, but three nights ago, it had blinked to life. A single line of code. Coordinates. No message. No ID.

Could be a trap.

Almost certainly a trap.

But she came anyway.

Now, she ducked behind the crumbled shell of a wall, a bombed-out church, just dust and jagged stone. Through the ruined archway, she could see the UNIT checkpoint. Floodlights cut through the darkness, sweeping across the yard in methodical arcs. Overhead, a Toclafane buzzed like a metal wasp.

The camp was busy. UNIT personnel, what was left of them, guarded the prisoners with guns that shook in their hands. Some of them were loyal to the Master now. Some were just trying to stay alive. All of them were dangerous and the Toclafane didn't care who they killed.

Her fingers closed around the handle of the gun she barely knew how to use.

Then she saw him, a figure moved in the dark ahead. Tall, lean, walking with purpose. A UNIT soldier. Red beret. Standard issue rifle slung over one shoulder.

Martha swore and slipped deeper into shadow, mind racing. If this was a setup, she had seconds, maybe less. She already had three exits mapped; through the cemetery rubble, over the south wall, or straight into the sewer grates behind the church.

But then… the man stopped. Right at the coordinates. Slowly, deliberately, he unhooked the rifle from his shoulder and knelt, laying it down in the dirt like an offering. Both hands rose. Empty. Open.

"I know you're there," he said, voice low, Welsh accent curling softly at the edges. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Martha didn't move. Her breath hitched in her throat.

"I sent the signal," he went on. "To the wrist strap. You have it, don't you?"

Martha's fingers twitched around the device in her pocket. She hadn't told anyone she had Jack's strap, didn't know how to use it herself, and wasn't sure she should trust someone who did.

So, she said nothing. The world was full of liars now. Survivors who sold trust for rations, smiles that masked knives. She'd been burned more than once.

"I'm not with them," he said, gesturing toward the camp with a slight tilt of his head. "Not really. Look, just... don't shoot me, yeah?"

She stood slowly, cautiously rising from behind the shattered wall. Her gun stayed up, loose in her grip but ready. The shadows fell away as he turned towards her, enough to show his face. He was young, younger than her, but worn. There were lines under his eyes that didn't belong to youth.

He met her gaze, and nodded once, cautious. "Hello," he said. "Nightingale, I assume?"

She hesitated, narrowing her eyes. "And you are?"

"Let's go with Robin."

She snorted softly, despite herself. "Seriously?"

His mouth tugged upward, almost a smile. "Better than 'Raven.' Figured we could skip the doom metaphors. Bit of mischief. Bit of red. Seemed right."

She edged closer, gun still loosely in her grip. "Codenames are cute, but if I'm going to trust you, I need more than that. What's your real name?"

Another pause. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, "Agent Jones. Ianto Jones."

"UNIT?"

"Kind of," he said. "Not anymore. Not since everything went to hell."

Her eyes searched his face again, this time slower. He didn't flinch under the scrutiny. Didn't lie. She'd learned how to read people, especially the ones trying not to be read.

"Why are you here?" she asked. "Why contact me?"

He took a slow breath. "Because I watched the world fall apart from the inside," he said, voice quieter now. "Because I saw what the Master did, what we let him do. And I didn't stop it. I couldn't. But I won't stand by again. Not when I can do something."

"Plenty of people say that," she said, cool but not unkind. "And plenty of them break the first time they're offered food or safety in exchange for silence."

"That's not me," he said, evenly. "I don't break."

"Big words, soldier," she replied. "But anyone can say the right thing when there's a gun pointed at them. Prove it."

He didn't hesitate. Reached into his coat slowly, deliberately. Pulled out a small device and tossed it gently onto the ground between them.

"Encrypted comm scans," he said. "Surveillance logs. Patrol routes. Weak points in the camp's perimeter. Took me three weeks to gather it without getting caught."

Martha bent, keeping her gun trained on him, and picked it up. Flipped it open. A glance told her it was real. Detailed. Dangerous. The kind of thing people died for.

"You've been planning this," she said.

He nodded once. "Waiting for the right person. The right moment."

"And you think I'm it?"

"I think you're the only one he couldn't catch. You're still running. That means something."

She looked at him. Really looked. His uniform was torn and ash-stained. His boots were caked in dirt. But his stance didn't waver. His eyes were clear.

She believed him. Against all odds, against every broken promise the world had offered since the Master took power… she believed him.

Martha lowered the gun.

Extended her hand.

"Well then, Agent Jones," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "Welcome to the resistance."

He took her hand, firm and steady, and gave it one short shake.

"Put me to work, Nightingale," he said.

She exhaled slowly, and for the first time in twenty-nine days, she felt the smallest flicker of something she'd nearly forgotten how to name.

Hope.

Chapter Text

Ianto Jones wasn't a hero.

He knew that about himself, he was a pretender, a fraud, a con in and of himself.

He smiled at the right moments. He nodded when spoken to. He answered roll call, cleaned his gun, marched when ordered, and kept his mouth shut. He filed reports that no one read and followed orders he had no intention of completing.

And he lied.

Every hour. Every day. To their faces. With his eyes wide open and his voice calm.

It was the only way to stay alive.

The UNIT checkpoint outside Cardiff was a rotting skeleton of what it once was. The soldiers still wore the uniform, but their eyes were glassy, hollowed out by the Archangel Network. The Master's voice lived behind their smiles. The psychic influence was like fog; thick, invasive, constant. You could see it in the way they twitched, how their heads tilted when no one was speaking, as if listening to something just out of earshot.

Some of them were clearly puppets. Empty and obedient. Some weren't, those were worse.

The ones who still had their minds and chose to follow the Master? Monsters. The kind of men who didn't need a signal to obey tyranny. The kind who enjoyed it.

He kept his distance from them when he could. Walked the edge, too sharp to be dragged under, too deep in to walk away.

He'd learned to keep his shields tight. Yvonne Hartman had made sure of that.

Back in the old Torchwood days, when paranoia was policy and psychic interference was just another hazard in the workplace, Yvonne had personally overseen resistance training for her best operatives. Ianto had hated it at the time, hours of mental drills, pain thresholds, exposure to hypnotic pulses. He used to think she was obsessive. Now, he knew she'd been right.

Without those defences, he'd be one more glass-eyed husk, saluting at every joke the Master cracked through the walls.

He was good at shielding. Too good, maybe. Some days he wondered if the others noticed. Wondered if they looked at him just a second too long, eyes narrowing, heads tilting, that fog whispering he doesn't belong here.

So he stayed quiet. Kept his pace steady, his expressions dull, his tone flat.

Just another loyal soldier. Nothing to see.

But behind the mask, he was cracking.

He slipped intel to Nightingale when he could. Patrol shifts. Weak security points. Smuggling codes. Names of collaborators. It wasn't much, not enough to tip the balance, but it helped.

He had to believe it helped.

He didn't know if Martha trusted him. Not really. She accepted the data, met him in the shadows, let him pass her notes and codes and scraps of stolen hope. But she still kept one hand on her gun when they met. Always watching. Always weighing.

He respected that, because trust these days was a luxury neither of them could afford.

And through it all, the Toclafane hovered above. Watching. Laughing. Waiting.

He hated them. More than the soldiers. More than the Master. They weren't just monsters, they were wrong.

The way they moved, erratic and gleeful, like children let loose with knives. The way they talked, sing-song voices filled with glee as they killed. Sometimes they whispered his name in the middle of the night, just outside his tent. He never saw them do it. But he felt them.

He didn't sleep much anymore.

He couldn't risk showing weakness in front of the others. Couldn't risk giving them reason to look closer. But every day felt thinner than the last, like walking a wire that frayed more with each step.

He helped where he could. Protected civilians when possible. Slipped ration packs into the hands of starving children. Looked the other way when someone bolted for the trees, then doubled back to throw the tracking drones off the scent.

Small mercies. Small rebellions.

Sometimes he wondered if they mattered.

He walked among monsters, barely holding onto the pieces of who he used to be. The quiet archivist. The man in the suit. Coffee in hand. Desk in order. Torchwood One. The Torchwood that didn't exist anymore. Blown apart at Canary Wharf, along with his job, his city, and the person he might've become.

He remembered the fire. The screams. Lisa's body on the slab. The silence after.

He hadn't stopped running since.

And now, here he was, wearing a fascist uniform and smiling like it didn't burn his very soul to do so. Pretending he was something he wasn't. Trying not to flinch every time the Master's voice rang through the speakers, praising obedience and punishing doubt.

He couldn't do this much longer.

Every lie cost more. Every moment surrounded by the enemy scraped another layer off his soul.

He watched a fellow soldier, glass-eyed and slack-jawed, beat a civilian for asking a question. The man didn't even flinch when blood spattered his boots. Didn't seem to see it. Just smiled and walked away, like nothing had happened.

Ianto clenched his jaw and looked away.

One day at a time. 

One lie at a time.

He waited until nightfall. Made the drop, small flash drive, hidden in a crushed food tin, tucked into the old tree stump near the ruins of the church. Martha would find it. She always did.

He sat there a moment longer, back to the wood, head tilted toward the stars.

The Master had stolen the world. Twisted it into something unrecognisable. But stars still burned. The sky still turned. Some truths couldn't be erased.

Martha's voice echoed in his memory.

"Prove it."

He was trying. God help him, he was trying.

But how long could you walk the line before the line blurred? Before you couldn't tell which side you were still on?

He didn't have an answer, he just knew he wasn't ready to give up. Not yet. Not while there were still people who believed. Not while she was still out there, carrying the story.

The Nightingale sang because the world was silent.

And Robin, he was just trying to keep the forest from burning down around her.

Chapter Text

Four months into the end of the world, and Martha Jones had learned one more truth:

If someone missed a check-in, it probably meant they were dead.

The thought gnawed at her as she looked over the wind-scraped edges of the Mongolian plains, wrapped tight against the bitter cold, her boots cracking frost with every step. The resistance camp behind her was still mostly asleep, a cluster of low shelters stitched together by desperation, guarded by rusted weapons and hollow eyes.

She'd done what she came to do there. Planted stories like seeds. Whispered the name that still carried weight in some corners of the world.

The Doctor. A myth now, more than a man. But myths had power and so did whispers.

The people at the camp had listened. They always listened. That was what gave her hope. What kept her running, when everything else told her to stop. But even that hope was dim today, because Robin hadn't checked in.

Their system was simple, every three days, a coded ping through Jack's wrist strap. It wasn't much, just a tiny burst of data. A pulse. A signal that said, I'm still here. I'm still fighting.

It had been over a week since she'd received his last.

And Martha didn't scare easy, but this… this terrified her in a quiet, bone-deep way she didn't want to name.

At first, he'd just been a contact. A soldier on the inside. A source.

But something had shifted. Somewhere between code drops and back-channel messages, late-night transmissions laced with weary sarcasm and unexpected warmth, he'd become more than a voice in the dark. He'd become real.

A friend.

That word felt impossibly rare now. Like water in the desert.

They still didn't know much about each other. He never talked about his past, and she didn't press. She didn't talk about the Doctor, not the real man behind the myth. Some stories were too sacred, but they shared what they could. Cold facts, warm sarcasm, strange dreams in stranger times.

It was enough.

Now, as she packed her things, shouldering the familiar weight of her medical bag and strapping down what supplies she could carry. Martha paused outside the edge of the camp. Snow drifted softly around her boots, pale and soundless. The world felt too still.

Behind her, a voice cut through the frost.

"You're really going, then?"

She turned. Crow stood there, arms crossed, coat hanging off him like loose skin. His face was all sharp edges and scar tissue now, one eye blind and filmed with white, the other burning with the kind of anger that never really cooled. The Toclafane had taken everything from him, his team, his sight, the man he used to be. And somehow, he was still standing.

Owen Harper had been a doctor once, like her. Now, he patched wounds and made biting commentary in equal measure.

"You'll miss me," Martha said, managing a tired smile.

He scoffed. "Yeah, like I miss root canals."

But the edge in his voice was duller than usual. His way of saying be careful.

"Crow," she said, adjusting her pack. "Thanks. For the intel. And the company."

He nodded once. Brief. Enough.

Then she turned, and started walking, unaware that by this time next week, he'd be joining his teammates in the darkness.

She was halfway across the ridge when the wrist strap pulsed.

Her breath caught.

She ducked behind a ridge, kneeling in the shadow of a jagged boulder. The cold bit deep, but she didn't care. Fingers trembling, she activated the display.

ROBIN
Message received 03:16 GMT

Sorry for the silence. Compromised comms. I'm alive.
Moving post. Reassigned. Tokyo next.
Will send coordinates soon. Stay safe. Stay hidden.
I didn't forget. —Robin

Martha exhaled slowly, as if the message itself had been holding up her lungs.

He was alive.

He was alive .

She tapped out a reply, fast but deliberate:

TO ROBIN

You better not have forgotten.
Tokyo in two weeks, travel permitting.
Got a lead on a scientist. Might help. Crow says the good kind of insane.
Stay warm. Try not to get yourself shot.
I'll find you. —Nightingale

She watched the words vanish into the ether, a message in a bottle tossed into the storm. No guarantee it would reach him. But it was all she could do.

She stood, rolling her shoulders against the wind, and hitched her bag higher.

Tokyo was two weeks away. Between her and the city lay scorched villages, ruined highways, and Toclafane patrols.

But Martha Jones had walked through hell already, she could do it again, for him.

Chapter Text

Ianto had been trained to endure pain, but no one had prepared him for betrayal, especially from the people he was trying to save.

The bruises mottled his face in sickly purples and yellows now, throbbing with every blink. One eye was swollen nearly shut. His lip had split again that morning, just from yawning too wide. His ribs were cracked (maybe broken) but he didn't have the luxury of medical confirmation. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. The taste of blood still lingered behind his molars, faint but persistent.

He'd helped a group of survivors escape UNIT processing. Risked everything to get them through a checkpoint, false IDs, re-routed patrols, blackout cover. It had worked.

Until they turned on him.

Maybe they thought it was a trap. Maybe the uniform was all they could see. Or maybe they'd just been starving, scared, and desperate enough to betray something before it betrayed them.

Either way, the result had been the same. A beatdown in an alley. Boots and fists and not a single word spoken. They'd vanished before he could get up again.

He hadn't blamed them. Not really.

But it had made him wait a full day longer before contacting Nightingale. He didn't want her to see him like this, but Martha was persistent and some things couldn't be kept buried forever.

By the time he slipped out of the Tokyo UNIT compound under the cover of predawn mist, he had his bruises hidden under a scarf and a hood, his stolen intel packed tight in the lining of his coat, and a thin ember of pride still burned in his chest.

Just yesterday, Martha had used one of his intercepted maps to blow a hole through the Master's supply line. A munitions depot, one of the big ones, fuelling the nuclear plans he'd been hearing about over encrypted channels for weeks. Gone in a blast of fire and defiance.

The Master had been furious.

Rumour had it, he'd killed three guards and screamed for blood.

Let him scream, Ianto thought, slipping through the fence and into the city's ghosted outskirts. Let him rage.

It meant they were finally hurting him.

He found Nightingale in the ruins of an old greenhouse on the city's eastern edge. Half-buried in ash, the glass shattered, ivy strangling the skeletal frame. She sat cross-legged by a cold camp stove, coaxing heat from a tin mug of something that might have once been coffee.

She looked up and froze.

"Oh my God. Robin, what the hell happened to you?"

He flinched, but didn't move when she strode up to him and took his face gently in her hands, tilting his head to inspect the damage.

"You should've called," she murmured, voice equal parts doctor and friend. "You absolute idiot. You're concussed, probably still bleeding internally-"

"I'm fine," he muttered, then winced, more from guilt than pain. "You should see the other guys."

"I'm not joking." She was already moving, pulling out her med kit. "You look like someone tried to put you through a wall."

"Not a wall," he said. "Just… people. Survivors. It got messy."

Her hands stilled.

"You helped them?"

"I tried."

She exhaled through her nose, tight and controlled. Then Doctor Jones snapped fully into gear. Brisk, efficient movements. Ribs checked. Bruises inspected. Bandages pulled tight with muttered curses, "idiot," and "you're lucky nothing's collapsed."

"You don't have to-"

"I do," she cut in. "So sit still and shut up."

So he did.

He let her clean the split on his lip, press cool fingers against his bruised neck, brush ash from his hair. It wasn't just the care that undid him. It was being seen. Past the uniform. Past the silence.

Later, once the worst of the blood was gone and he was more or less upright, they turned to business.

"I've got a lead," Martha said, flipping open a weather-beaten notebook. She tapped a map covered in cryptic scrawls. "Crow told me about someone named Tanizaki, codename Magpie. He's somewhere in Japan. Knows alien tech. Rumour is… he might've figured out how to disable a Toclafane."

Ianto tensed. "That rumour could get a lot of people killed."

"I know. That's why I need to find him first. Before the Master does."

He nodded, slow and cautious. "Be careful. A man like that won't be unprotected. Or sane."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Careful's my middle name."

"I thought it was bloody determined."

"Both," she said, smiling now, just a little. "What about you? Got anything for me?"

He passed her the drive.

"Factory schematics. Reactor blueprints. The Master's been using the old shipping ports to rebuild a nuclear strike platform. Or he was  Until someone torched his supply line yesterday."

Martha grinned. "That someone might've been me."

"I figured," Ianto said drily. "You should've heard him over comms. I think he actually broke something."

"I live to inconvenience him."

Silence stretched for a beat, twin smiles on their faces, when his comm unit decided to ruin everything with a crackle.

He froze.

One tap. One glance. And his face drained of colour entirely.

"Robin?" Martha asked sharply.

"Get up," he said. Already moving. "Now."

"What is it?"

He grabbed her wrist. "They're launching. Not targeting camps. He's aiming for the city."

She stumbled. "Wait what?!"

"Warheads. All of Japan. He's wiping the slate clean."

"Because of me?"

"No," he said grimly. "Because of us. We humiliated him. He wants revenge."

They ran.

Through broken alleys and shattered storefronts, past gutted trams and flickering signs. Ianto's ribs screamed with every step, vision swimming but he didn't stop. Didn't let go.

They reached the docks just as the sky began to glow.

He stole a boat, an old skimmer, barely functional, running on jury-rigged solar. They shoved off just as the first shockwave rolled through the earth like a growl. Martha turned to look and saw Tokyo burn.

Mushroom clouds bloomed over the skyline, fire folding in on itself like a flower made of ash. The horizon ruptured. Glass shattered. The sea roared.

Neither of them spoke. There were no words for this. Only the hiss of water beneath them, the crackle of static over the comms.

They watched the city die.

He didn't let go of her hand until the flames had faded into distant thunder.

"I guess you're stuck with me now," he said, voice hollow.

She didn't answer, just squeezed his hand back and together, they drifted into the smoke.

Chapter Text

They made it to South Korea by boat, the little solar skimmer chugging its way through black water and fallout haze. From there, they hiked. Through the cracked edges of civilisation, past burned-out villages and rusted checkpoints. Down the spine of the peninsula, across the tattered remnants of borders, and into the lush, overgrown heat of Thailand.

Along the way, they'd done what they could. Whispered the Doctor's name. Left messages carved into tree trunks, etched into tunnel walls, passed information from hand to trembling hand like sacred texts. Some people still believed. Some wanted to. That was enough.

At night, they'd camp under broken temple roofs or in hollowed-out shipping containers, watching each other's backs, telling stories to chase away the silence.

It was one of those nights now. 

They were holed up in a disused ranger station high in the hills. The jungle pressed against the cracked windows, thick with heat and the low hum of insects. A storm rolled far off in the distance, a soft growl beneath the tree line.

Martha hunched over a salvaged camp burner, boiling something vaguely edible in a dented tin pot. The smell was… ambiguous. Ianto, cross-legged on the floor nearby, was locked in battle with a cracked radio, armed with a bent paperclip and sheer, furious willpower.

"You know," she said, stirring the pot with a twig, "we've officially reached the stage of the apocalypse where I miss airplane food."

Ianto glanced up, expression bone-dry. "Ah yes. Lukewarm rubber chicken and pasta that tastes like sorrow. Truly, a golden age."

A smile tugged at her mouth. They let the quiet settle for a while, the comfortable kind. Then Martha's gaze dropped to the fire, her voice turning softer.

"My family's on the Valiant."

Ianto stilled.

"My mum, my dad, my sister… the Master keeps them close. Insurance." She scraped the bottom of the tin, more for something to do than anything else. "Sometimes I think maybe I should turn myself in. Make it easier for them."

"You won't," Ianto said gently.

"No," she admitted. "I won't." She took a breath. "Jack's up there too. Somewhere. I think he's still alive. He has to be. He's too stubborn to die."

"I met him once, you know? Briefly," Ianto said. "He came to see the Director of Torchwood London."

Her eyebrows lifted. "You were with Torchwood?"

"Before UNIT. Torchwood One." His voice was careful. "I was there for the attack on Canary Wharf."

Her expression shuttered. "My cousin… Adeola. She died there."

"I know," he said. "I remember her."

Martha blinked. "You knew her?"

"She was bright. Fierce. Funny." His voice dropped, quieter now. "Took her job seriously. We were friends."

She swallowed and Ianto continued. "She looked like you," he said with a faint smile. "Only with a worse temper."

"Oi."

He chuckled, but it faded quickly, the silence that followed heavier.

"She didn't deserve what happened," he said. "None of them did."

Martha reached across the fire and placed her hand on his. He looked down at it, as though unsure whether to pull away or hold on tighter.

"I lost someone too," he said, voice brittle around the edges. "My girlfriend. Lisa. She was… converted. Halfway. I tried to pull her out. It didn't work. She got sucked into the void. I didn't even have a body to bury."

"Oh, Ianto…"

He didn't respond right away. He just stared at the fire, jaw tight.

"After that," he said finally, "UNIT took me in. Gave me orders. Structure. A way to keep busy so I didn't have to think. I thought maybe I could still do some good. Save people. Save the world." He gave a bitter laugh. "Now look at me. Wearing the same uniform while blowing up the Master's supply lines."

"You are doing good," she said, fierce and unshaken. "You've saved lives. You helped me get this far. You're still fighting. That counts."

The fire snapped and popped. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called, strange and solitary in the dark. They leaned in, forehead to forehead, a shared ache radiating in silence.

"I-" Ianto started to say.

But then was interrupted as lips bumped into his. 

The kiss was was brief. Awkward. Soft and intense and immediately, undeniably wrong. They both pulled back at the same time, eyes wide in mutual horror.

"Okay," Martha said, wiping her mouth like she'd just licked a battery. "Nope."

"Nope," Ianto echoed. "That was… sibling energy. That was deeply unfortunate."

"Never again."

"Agreed."

A beat passed and then they both burst out laughing. Raw, exhausted, ridiculous laughter that echoed through the shattered ranger station and out into the dark.

It felt good.

When it faded, they sat shoulder to shoulder, breath syncing, watching shadows dance on the walls.

"I'm going back," Ianto said quietly.

She turned sharply. "Back where?"

"UNIT. I still have access. If I can get close enough, I might be able to reach the Valiant. Find your family."

"Ianto-"

"I'm not asking for permission."

"No, you're just asking to get yourself killed."

He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I won't get caught."

"You will," she said, jaw tight. "You'll throw yourself headfirst into whatever gets the job done and you'll pretend it's fine."

"I'll try, then," he said, softly and that, at least, was honest.

They sat there for a long moment, hands clasped, the fire burning low between them.

"Come back in one piece," Martha said.

"I'll do my best."

She stared at him for a long moment. Then pulled him into a hug so tight he thought his ribs might crack again. "If you die," she muttered into his shoulder, "I'll kill you."

"Noted."

At the door, he slung his pack over one shoulder. Rain had started to fall, light at first, then heavier, sweeping down the hills in sheets.

"Goodbye, Nightingale."

"Goodbye, Robin."

And then he was gone, vanishing into the downpour, footsteps lost in thunder.

Chapter Text

Getting back into UNIT had been easier than he'd expected. No one questioned an extra redcap, not these days. Not with half the chain of command dead or hypnotised and the rest too exhausted to care. If you had credentials, a name, a crisp salute, they let you in.

But getting aboard the Valiant? That had taken work.

Weeks of manoeuvring. Favours, bribes, half-lies whispered in all the right ears. He pulled strings until his hands bled, and still, he thought it might not happen. But then came the orders. A reassignment. A ride up to the sky.

And now he was here.

The skyship drifted above the world like a vulture, calm and omnipresent. The air tasted of steel and ozone and something rotting just out of sight. The Valiant was a marvel. It was also a nightmare.

One that Ianto was trying not to lose himself in. 

He felt like a hummingbird caught in a jar. Wings beating against glass. No air. No sky. Just the echo of his own panic pressing in around him like walls.

Moving through the corridors with purpose, silent, measured, every step choreographed. He kept his face unreadable. Kept his breath even. But underneath it all, a war raged in his gut; nausea, dread, and the cold, gnawing sensation of being too deep to climb out.

In two days, he'd seen more than he'd ever wanted.

Toclafane slicing people to ribbons in the hangars. Screams echoing through metal hallways, UNIT officers laughing as they kicked prisoners, snapping bones like twigs. Civilians forced to scrub floors until their hands bled, flinching when soldiers passed by.

The red cap on Ianto's head marked him as one of them. The enemy.

He caught the looks from the enslaved. Hatred. Contempt. Some looked through him. Most didn't bother to hide the loathing in their eyes. He couldn't blame them.

But he was in.

That was the point.

He'd seen Martha's family. Just glimpses so far. Her mother worked in the officers' galley, pouring tea while her father pushed a mop down endless corridors. Her sister, Tish, flitted past in a maid's uniform, her back straight, her eyes downcast. They looked healthy at least. Clean clothes, no visible bruises.

They were alive. 

It wasn't much. But in a world like this, it was everything.

Still, it felt like failure. Like he'd arrived too late, and now all he could do was bear witness.

Every corner of the ship buzzed with tension. Guards snapping salutes, eyes always watching. The gleam of weaponry. And worst of all, the Master's laughter, cutting through the ship like a blade, echoing down the halls at strange hours, unmoored from time or reason.

The Doctor was here too. Technically.

Ianto had seen him once, during inspection rounds. Or what was left of him. A thin, twisted figure inside a cage, barely alive. Eyes wide and empty. Hair white, skin parchment-pale. The Time Lord who had saved the world, reduced to a brittle husk.

Martha's miracle man.

It made Ianto's stomach twist. He'd barely kept down his rations since arriving. Not that he'd had much to eat.

And then there was her.

Lucy Saxon.

The Master's wife drifted around the ship like a ghost, beautiful and ruined. Ianto had caught sight of her near the observation deck, her face bruised, one eye dark with shadow. She smiled too much. Never blinked. She laughed at things that weren't funny and held the Master's hand like she was trying not to fall.

They whispered that she was enchanted.

Ianto believed it.

He was trying to get his bearings. Mapping the ship in his head. Looking for cracks. Weaknesses. An opening.

He needed a plan.

And time was running out.

He was standing near the aft corridor, pretending to inspect a panel when a soldier strode up beside him. Tall, broad, no name badge.

"Your turn to hose down the freak," the man said, tone bored.

"…Sorry?"

The soldier raised an eyebrow. "You new?"

Ianto gave a stiff nod. "Fresh transfer."

"Right. You'll love this. Down near the engines. Take the industrial hose." He smirked, "don't get too close. It bites."

The man laughed and walked off.

Ianto stood there for a moment, the words replaying in his head like static. Hose down the freak.

He didn't want to understand.

But he did.

The directions led him below decks, past the crew quarters and mess halls, into the mechanical belly of the ship. The air grew hotter and wetter.

The door at the end of the corridor was unmarked. He keyed it open with his passcode and stepped inside.

And stopped dead.

The room beyond was dark. Lit only by a single flickering strip of overhead light and the orange-red glow of the engine core bleeding through metal grates. There were chains on the walls. Blood on the floor. The stink of copper and oil and something feral.

And in the centre of it all, chained to the wall, was a man.

Or what was left of one.

Captain Jack Harkness looked up, eyes dark and wild. His face was a mess of bruises, dried blood crusting along his jaw and into his hairline. One arm was twisted awkwardly, clearly broken. He was shirtless, ribs visible, skin slick with sweat and grime. His mouth was split. His nose bled. His expression was full of hatred.

He looked at Ianto like he was the devil himself.

And why wouldn't he?

Red beret. UNIT boots. Gun on his hip.

Ianto stood frozen.

This was so much worse than he'd imagined.

Worse than he could've dreamed.

He thought he'd seen the worst the Master had to offer. Thought he could stomach it. Stay cold. Controlled.

But this?

This was a man. And he was alive. He was fighting, even now. Even chained. Even broken.

And they were torturing him.

Systematically. Repeatedly. Like it was protocol.

Ianto's stomach twisted. He thought he might be sick. But he swallowed it down, pressed his lips into a line, and stepped forward like he belonged there.

Jack didn't speak. Just glared. Watching. Waiting.

The hose was heavy in Ianto's hands. He turned the valve slowly, letting the water spill out in slow, steaming arcs across the floor. He aimed for the blood, the gore, the filth, trying not to let it splash back on the man.

He didn't speak. He didn't dare.

Jack did.

"You enjoying the show?" he rasped.

Ianto flinched.

"Go on," Jack growled. "Do your job. Hose down the freak."

"I'm just here to clean," Ianto said, voice low. Careful. Measured.

Jack laughed, a harsh, cracked sound. "Right. Just following orders."

Ianto didn't answer. He couldn't.

He kept hosing the floor, eyes never rising above Jack's knees.

And all the while, his mind was spinning.

He needed a plan. A way out. A way forward. Something that wouldn't get him killed, or worse, expose the people he was trying to save. He needed to stay invisible. Needed to stay useful. Needed to survive long enough to make this worth it.

But in that moment, all he could feel was the scream fluttering in his chest.

Trapped.

Panicked.

Wings beating frantically against the glass.

Chapter Text

Jack Harkness had lost count of how many times he'd died.

This time had been fire. Before that, acid. Once, just for fun, the Master had pushed him out of the skyship three times in a row, resetting his spine before it could even fully heal.

Today's execution had been clean. Quick. Just a bullet to the head. Cathartic, apparently, for the Master, who'd been in a foul mood after hearing Martha Jones had slipped through his fingers yet again.

Jack would take it a thousand more times, gladly, if it meant she was still out there, still running, still fighting. But he'd be lying if he said it wasn't wearing him down. Each death left its mark, and each rebirth came with a fresh scream, the breath torn from his lungs, chained up in the dark like something less than human.

He'd survived worse, he reminded himself. The Time Agency's black cells. The Year of the Beast on Zed-Alpha Nine. A five-year time loop with a partner who tried to kill him every third cycle. But this… this was something else entirely.

The Master didn't just kill. He played. Tore Jack apart like a sadistic child ripping wings off flies. Then, with a snap of his fingers, brought him back to start all over again. Sometimes he sang. Sometimes he laughed. Sometimes he made Lucy watch.

And the Doctor? The Doctor never came.

Jack held onto that fantasy anyway. Imagined him bursting through the doors, all fire and brilliance, coat swirling, sonic screwdriver blazing. Brilliant rescue, Captain, he'd say with a grin bright as starlight. Took me long enough, yeah?

But it never happened.

No Doctor. Just guards. Just pain. Just a cage that seemed to shrink a little more each day.

So when the door groaned open again, Jack didn't look up. Probably another soldier. Maybe the one with the scar who liked the chains. Maybe the other one, the one who asked him to scream louder. Maybe the Master himself, come to gloat.

Didn't matter.

"Come to take a swing?" Jack rasped, spitting blood onto polished boots. "There's a queue, sweetheart. Try not to trip on your own cowardice."

But the figure didn't reach for a weapon. Didn't head toward the rack or smirk or throw a punch. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and locked it with a soft click.

"My name's Robin," the man said quietly. "Nightingale sent me. I'm here to get you out."

Jack blinked. Twice. Then laughed, short and sharp.

"Sure you are. And I'm the Easter Bunny. Go on, tell me a bedtime story while you're at it."

"I'm serious," the man said, stepping closer. His accent was clipped, careful. His eyes, dark and harried, kept scanning the room like someone expecting to be shot mid-sentence. "I'm part of the resistance. I'm getting you out of here. You, and the Joneses."

Jack's body went rigid.

Francine. Clive. Tish.

He narrowed his eyes, suspicion cutting through the fog of pain. "You want me to believe Martha sent you? Prove it."

Robin hesitated, then leaned in close and whispered, "She said to tell you this, Yana wasn't Yana. Not really. And the last thing Chantho did was shoot him in the back."

The words hit Jack like a lightning bolt. No one else knew that. No one could.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

Robin nodded, already crouching to unlock the shackles. The cuffs hit the ground with a heavy clang, and Jack crumpled forward, his weight no longer held up by the chains. Pins and needles tore through his arms as blood returned to numbed limbs. He caught himself on trembling hands, groaning as pain rolled over him in sickening waves.

Robin pressed a gun into his palm.

"Can you stand?"

Jack looked up, smiling through cracked lips and blood-streaked teeth. "For Martha? I can do anything."

"We've got five minutes," Robin said, already moving toward the door. "Tish is on the upper deck with her dad. I'll grab them. You go to the kitchens, get Francine. It should be empty. Meet me at Hangar 3. I have a jet ready."

Jack pushed himself upright. Every joint screamed. His body wasn't healed, not really, but it would do.

"Right," he said, shaking out the pain. "Hanger 3, got it."

Robin gave a tight nod and slipped through the door, gone before Jack could say anything else.

He stared at the empty doorway, heart thudding like it was trying to punch through his ribs. He wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream until the ship shattered. Instead, he moved.

One foot in front of the other. Through the maintenance corridors, past the boilers and humming pipes, each step slick with the blood still drying on his boots. Every inch of him ached, but his chest burned with something dangerously close to hope.

The kitchen door loomed ahead.

He counted to three and shoved it open.

The kettle clattered to the floor. Francine Jones stood frozen beside the counter, her eyes wide with shock and terror. Jack caught her arm before she could scream.

"Francine. It's me. We're getting out. Right now."

She stared at him, her eyes filling with tears, voice trembling. "Jack? Oh my god- Jack?"

"Alive and full of bullets," he croaked, managing a grin. "Let's go."

They ran.

Down quiet corridors. Past locked rooms. Every step faster, every breath sharper.

Toward the hangar.

Toward freedom.

Toward the fire waiting to be reborn.

Chapter Text

The alarms were already blaring by the time Ianto slammed the hatch shut behind Tish and Clive Jones.

He could hear them, a high, whirring shriek outside the hangar doors. Toclafane. Damn things were always too fast, too eager. He shoved Clive toward the back seats, barked at both of them to buckle up, then slid into the cockpit, heart thundering.

Jack stumbled in a moment later, Francine half-draped over his arm. They both looked like they'd run through a meat grinder. Francine was pale but breathing, her fingers clenched tight around Jack's wrist. Ianto didn't waste time with questions.

"Close the door. Now."

Jack didn't argue. He hit the panel beside him and the plane hissed shut just as the first clang rang out from above. Ianto threw the engine into ignition. It purred, then roared, and the whole ship trembled beneath them. He was already sweating through his shirt, praying the perception filter would kick in once they cleared the hangar.

If they could clear the hangar.

He'd flown before, technically. Basic flight training back when he joined UNIT, but that had been in ancient tin buckets compared to this sleek, high-tech monster. Half the controls in front of him didn't even have labels, just symbols he didn't recognise and lights that blinked in angry red.

He swore under his breath, toggling switches and scanning readouts with zero confidence. A glance sideways showed Jack easing Francine into a seat, strapping her in with surprising gentleness. Then he slid into the co-pilot's chair like it was second nature.

"You know what any of this does?" Ianto muttered.

"Some," Jack said, flipping a few switches with the ease of muscle memory. "Enough to keep us from crashing. Maybe."

"Good enough," Ianto replied, gripping the controls. "Hold on."

The plane surged forward. Toclafane screamed outside, colliding with the hull like hailstones with teeth. They shot out of the hangar into open sky, dodging towers and antennae as the ship gave chase.

"Get us higher!" Jack yelled. "They're faster low!"

"I'm trying not to die, thanks!" Ianto banked hard right, narrowly avoiding a blast that rocked the tail of the plane. One of the Jones' screamed in the back. Ianto didn't look to see which.

"We're fine!" Ianto shouted over his shoulder. "Stay calm! Stay seated!"

He nosed the craft up, gaining altitude at a dangerous angle, alarms wailing. Jack adjusted power to the left thruster, rerouted control flow, and they evened out just enough to stop the cabin from spinning.

"You're not bad," Jack said, glancing at him. "For someone flying blind."

"Thanks," Ianto muttered. "Terrified out of my bloody mind, but glad I'm making a good impression."

"Remind me to buy you a drink if we live."

Ianto snorted, then dove the plane without warning.

Francine screamed.

Jack swore.

Ianto's stomach tried to crawl out through his throat. "Hold! Hold- now!" He slammed the yoke back and the jet arched skyward in a teeth-rattling climb. The Toclafane couldn't follow the angle. They overshot.

"We're clear!" Jack said, wide-eyed.

Ianto exhaled, muscles trembling. The plane levelled, skimming the upper atmosphere, and the cloaking tech kicked in with a soft chime.

"Perception field's online," he muttered. "We're ghosts now. They won't see us."

He let go of the controls, muscles trembling. He levelled them out and aimed south. Toward Yemen. Toward Martha.

"Here," he said, flicking the autopilot on and sliding the comms unit out of his pocket. "You've got the controls."

Jack took over without question.

As Ianto tuned the device in his hands, Jack glanced over. "So. Robin, was it?"

"Agent Jones," he corrected. "Ianto Jones. Robin's just a callsign."

"Right." Jack nodded slowly, eyes studying him. "And how exactly do you know Martha?"

"We've been working together since the beginning," Ianto said. "I've been her inside man. Feeding her intel, helping plan the broadcasts. Making sure she stays ahead of the Master's reach."

Jack let out a low whistle. "Hell of a risk."

Ianto cracked a tight smile. "Some of my best work gets done when I'm scared out of my wits."

"Looks like it paid off." Jack leaned back slightly, watching him. "You pulled off a rescue mission inside the Valiant. That's not just resourceful. That's insane."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

The comms unit crackled and Ianto sent a coded pulse. It would take a moment to transmit, secure channel, low frequency, shortwave ping. Once Martha picked it up, she'd know. Her family was safe.

He took back the controls and adjusted their course. Jack leaned back, eyes still on him.

"There's a bathroom in the back if you want to wash up," Ianto offered. "Bag of spare clothes too. Black fatigues. No spare cap, sorry."

"Shame," Jack said, voice dry. "You make the evil bad guy look work for you."

Ianto snorted and yanked the red UNIT cap off his head. He tossed it behind him like it was on fire. "Can't stand the sight of it anymore."

Jack grinned and rose, stiffly stretching as he turned toward the back.

"Don't crash the ship," he said over his shoulder.

"No promises," Ianto muttered, adjusting their heading one last time.

Jack headed toward the back of the plane and Ianto watched him go, the adrenaline finally starting to ebb. Behind them, the Jones family huddled together, dazed and silent. Jack crouched beside them, saying something low and steady, a hand on Francine's shoulder.

Ianto turned back to the sky ahead.

Next stop: Yemen. And Martha Jones.

Chapter Text

Martha had imagined this moment a thousand times.

In stolen seconds between skirmishes. In fitful dreams under makeshift blankets. In the silence after another name was added to the dead. Again and again, she'd let herself believe, just for a heartbeat, that somehow, someday, she'd see them again.

But no dream, no fantasy, had prepared her for this.

She didn't even make it halfway across the base before her mother's arms were around her.

Francine clutched her like she might vanish again, fingers tangled in her coat, shoulders shaking. Martha didn't try to speak. She couldn't. Her breath hitched and she just held on, burying her face in her mum's shoulder as the world narrowed to warmth and tears and a heartbeat she thought she'd never feel again.

Her father was next, voice thick with emotion as he wrapped them both up in his arms. "You did it, sweetheart," Clive murmured. "You brought us home."

And then there was Tish, sprinting across the dusty courtyard like a mad thing. She collided into Martha so hard they nearly toppled, both laughing and sobbing, clinging like children who never wanted to let go.

They were alive. All of them.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she whispered into Francine's hair.

"We never gave up hope," her mother whispered back.

Martha trembled, overwhelmed and undone. Then she turned and there he was. 

Jack Harkness.

Bruised, clearly only half-healed, but alive. Still standing. 

She crossed to him in three steps and flung her arms around him without thinking. He let out a breath like he'd been punched in the chest.

"You idiot," she muttered into his shoulder, her voice thick with relief. "You bloody, stubborn idiot."

Jack gave a low, broken laugh, his arms curling around her. "I've missed you too."

They didn't speak for a moment. They didn't need to. It was enough to stand there, to exist in the same place again. They had only known each other for a handful of days in the grand scheme of things, but after everything, the deaths, the silences, the worry and unanswered prayers, that didn't matter.

And then she saw Ianto.

He stood just off to the side of the courtyard, hands awkward at his sides, posture military-sharp despite the clear exhaustion on his face. His face was smudged with dirt, his shirt wrinkled, and he looked like he didn't quite know where to put himself.

Martha didn't hesitate. She moved to him in a heartbeat and wrapped her arms around him before he could react.

He went stiff for a second, surprised. Then his arms came up slowly, hesitantly, and returned the hug.

"You brought them back," she said, fierce with emotion. "You actually brought them home. Thank you."

"I-" He cleared his throat, awkward and quiet. "You don't have to-"

"Yes," she cut him off, voice fierce. "I do. You saved them, Ianto. You got them out of there. You got Jack out. You risked everything."

"Well," his eyes met hers, dark and steady. "We Jones' have to stick together, right?"

That got a laugh out of her, a wet one, tears still glinting in her eyes. "Yeah. We do."

Behind them, the sun had started to fall, painting the resistance base in amber and rust. The dust in the air turned golden. Shadows stretched long across the walls. The sounds of survival; distant voices, boots on gravel, radio chatter, faded into a low hum. For a moment, the war didn't matter.

Jack watched them from the edge of the courtyard.

Martha and Ianto, standing side by side like something out of a story. 

Objectively, they were both gorgeous, resilient, brilliant, mythic in their own ways. Martha, the legend with the weight of the world on her shoulders. Ianto, reckless, stubborn, knight in slightly dented armour. They looked right together, standing there, laughing in the glow of survival.

Jack couldn't help but feel it. That familiar ache in the ribcage. The echo of something lost. Of being almost part of something.

He'd felt it before, watching the Doctor and Rose from just out of step, forever the third note in a two-part harmony.

This was different, though. Smaller. Less cosmic. But more real. He'd only just met Ianto Jones, but Jack could already see it, that steadiness beneath the quips, that quiet kind of loyalty that didn't flinch when the world caught fire.

Eventually, Ianto stepped back, murmuring something about seeing to the jet before someone went poking around. Martha let him go with a nod, watching him walk away like she already missed his presence.

Jack sidled up beside her, arms crossed. "So... what's the deal with you two?"

She glanced at him sideways. "Seriously?"

"Hey, I'm just saying," Jack said, holding up his hands. "He's hot, heroic, probably well toned under that uniform. You're a literal legend. Sparks could fly."

Martha rolled her eyes, snorting. "We're friends, Jack."

"Uh-huh."

"Only you would be worried about flirting during the apocalypse."

"Hey," he said, nudging her gently. "It's been slim pickings in the sky. You can't dangle a tasty treat like him in front of me and not expect me to want a bite or two."

She burst out laughing, full and bright and warm, and pulled him into another hug. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," he murmured.

They stood there for a while. Jack, weathered and worn down to the bone; Martha, still standing tall despite everything. Around them, the resistance base buzzed quietly, people preparing rations, checking maps, running cables. But for this moment, it didn't matter.

Tonight wasn't about missions.

Tonight was for breath.

For coming home.

Like a homing pigeon with soot-stained wings and a stubborn, beating heart, every one of them had made it back, against every odd, every rule, every cruel twist of time and fate.

Tomorrow, the world would still be broken.

Tomorrow, they would fight again.

But tonight? Tonight was for living.

Chapter Text

The camp was quiet and the Jones family were safe for now.

They were curled up together inside one of the canvas tents, their breathing finally even, dreamless and heavy. Martha had joined them and fallen asleep too, eventually. Relief could do that to a person.

But not Ianto.

He paced the perimeter of the camp like a ghost, his boots  scuffed softly against the dry earth as he looped the edge of the resistance camp, staying just within the shadows. He'd already swept the jet four times since landing. No trackers. No bugs. Nothing to signal the Toclafane.

And yet, the paranoia didn't ease.

The stars stretched endlessly overhead, uncaring and cold. Moonlight spilled across the resistance camp but for all the beauty of the night, Ianto couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were still watching them. The Master's eyes. The Toclafane's laughter still echoed faintly in his ears.

He rubbed at his face, dragging a hand through his hair. No amount of patrols or vigilance could change the fact that he was tired down to the bone. But sleep meant letting his guard down. And he couldn't. Not yet.

Because he was still alive, and staying alive required vigilance. Especially now.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

The voice was soft but unmistakable. Jack.

Ianto turned slowly, not surprised as he'd felt him approaching, in that way soldiers sometimes could when they'd been through too much for too long. Jack looked… better. He wore a clean shirt, fresh fatigue trousers, boots polished to a shine that didn't belong in a war zone. His injuries had faded so fast it made something uneasy turn in Ianto's stomach.

So it was true, then. The dying-and-coming-back thing. Immortal. Martha hadn't been exaggerating.

"Didn't realise we were taking shifts," Ianto said, voice low.

"We're not," Jack replied, falling into step beside him. "I just saw you out here, and figured you could use the company."

They walked in silence for a moment. The air was cool, dry, filled with the buzz of insects and distant, muffled snores from camp. Jack didn't press, and Ianto didn't offer. It was… peaceful. Almost.

"You checked the jet," Jack said eventually. "Again?"

"Four times now," Ianto murmured.

"Find anything?"

"No."

"But?"

"But I keep thinking I missed something." He exhaled, frustration curling at the edges of his words. "They were right behind us, Jack. The Toclafane. Close enough to taste our tailwind."

Jack nodded, solemn. "You did good, though. Getting out. Getting us out."

He didn't feel like he'd done good. He felt like he'd gambled wildly and somehow won the hand by accident. It still didn't seem real. They were safe. For now. But the world was still burning.

Ianto gave a soft snort. "I also nearly nose-dived a hijacked aircraft into the side of a mountain."

Jack grinned. "Bit of flair never hurt anyone."

They made another slow loop of the perimeter, the moon trailing them like a spotlight. Jack, to his credit, didn't fill the silence with empty platitudes. Instead, he glanced skyward and pointed.

"That one there," Jack said, nodding at a particularly bright star. "That's Proxima Centauri. Been there. Beautiful beaches, terrible food."

Ianto arched an eyebrow, unconvinced.

"And that one," Jack continued, pointing further left, "not actually a star. That's a K-class dwarf. Once got arrested orbiting that one naked. Long story."

"I'm sure," Ianto said drily, but he felt the corner of his mouth twitch, just a little.

Jack caught it and grinned. "You smiled. I saw that. Admit it, you're warming up to me."

"Don't push your luck."

But there was no venom behind it.

They kept walking. Jack tilted his head, considering him for a moment. "You don't trust me."

Ianto gave him a sidelong look. "You're Torchwood."

Jack pulled a face. "Ah."

"I worked for UNIT," Ianto added after a beat. "So I'm hardly blameless."

Jack hummed. "We've both seen how the systems fail."

"Yvonne Hartman failed a lot more than that," Ianto said bitterly. "She…" He stopped. Let the rest hang in the air like smoke.

"I'm not Yvonne Hartman," he said quietly.

"No," Ianto agreed. "You're not."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Maybe."

They walked a little longer. Jack kicked a stone off the path, watching it tumble into the dark.

"Martha told me about you," he said eventually. "How long you've been helping. Running messages. Smuggling people. Getting intel."

"Guess I had a lot to make up for," Ianto replied, voice low.

"Don't we all," Jack said. "Martha ever tell you how the TARDIS ended up at the end of the universe?"

Ianto shook his head.

"The TARDIS only ran because of me." Jack admitted, "I chased the Doctor, latched on, the TARDIS ran. Took us straight to the end of time. That's where we found him. The Master. The only reason he got back here, the only reason he has a foothold in this timeline... was me."

"That's…" Ianto turned to face him. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

Jack blinked.

"You're blaming yourself for a time machine's decision? A sentient time machine?"

Jack looked sheepish.

"Captain, respectfully, bollocks. You don't get to claim cosmic guilt over something that wasn't yours to control. I lay the blame at the Timelords feet."

Jack looked at him for a long beat. Then, quietly he snorted. "Thanks."

Ianto gave a half-shrug, eyes drifting back to the stars.

Jack followed his gaze. "You don't like the Doctor."

"I don't know him," Ianto replied, flat. "But I know he didn't do enough. Not at Canary Wharf. Not when we were screaming for help."

Jack was silent again.

They stood like that for a long while, the war miles away for just this breath of time. Stars wheeled above them, ancient and indifferent. 

"You're different from what I expected," Ianto said finally.

"So are you," Jack replied. "Agent Jones."

"Ianto," he corrected, quietly. "Just Ianto."

Jack smiled. "Nice to officially meet you."

The silence between them softened again, stretching out like the sky above.

Jack pointed out another star, then another, spinning tales of alien markets and lunar colonies and the time he almost married a sentient cloud. Ianto couldn't tell what was real and what was Jack being Jack, but it didn't matter.

It was better than being alone with the ghosts.

By the time the moon dipped behind the hills, their shoulders were brushing when they walked. Ianto still didn't quite trust him. But maybe that wasn't the point.

Maybe trust wasn't something you decided in a moment. Maybe it was something you earned one star story at a time.

Chapter Text

They met in the old storeroom tucked behind the medical tent, barely wide enough for the three of them, with crates stacked along the walls and a single, flickering bulb hanging overhead. It wasn't exactly a war room, but it was quiet, and more importantly, out of earshot from the rest of the camp.

Martha stood at the makeshift table, hands braced on either side of a weather-worn map covered in loops of faded marker and hasty scrawls in three different handwritings. The paper crinkled under her fingers.

Outside, she'd just said goodbye to her family.

Again.

Francine had been tight-lipped, eyes red but dry. Clive hadn't spoken at all, jaw clenched, holding Tish as she tried, unsuccessfully, not to cry. They didn't argue this time. They didn't have to. The disappointment in their eyes had said it all.

Martha had felt it break something inside her. A fresh wound layered over the old ones.

She'd only just gotten them back. She'd touched them, held them. Heard her mother's voice. She'd gotten to breathe them in. And now she was leaving again.

Because she had to.

"I hate this," she murmured.

"I know," Jack said gently.

Ianto stood on her other side, arms folded, brows low over his eyes. "They'll be safe here. You saw the perimeter. You trained them yourself."

"I know," Martha echoed, but her voice cracked at the edge.

Jack reached over and gave her hand a brief, firm squeeze. "Then let's make it count."

She nodded, swallowing the ache, the guilt, the sheer exhaustion threatening to drown her. She'd had a thousand moments like this. Saying goodbye. Moving forward. But it never got easier.

"Right," she said, clearing her throat. "Back to work."

Her hand moved to the map, tapping a red ring scrawled around Kazakhstan. "I've been in contact with Professor Docherty. Codename: Big Bird."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Big Bird?"

"All our contacts are bird-themed," Martha replied, glancing sideways toward Ianto with a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Robin, Nightingale, we've even got a Tit in South America."

Jack smirked. "Do I get a code name?"

"Peacock," Ianto said flatly, without missing a beat. "Obviously."

Jack looked offended. "Excuse you."

"I had you down as a Phoenix," Martha offered. "You know. All that dying and coming back."

Jack grinned, some of the weight lifting from his shoulders. "Much better. I'm definitely the hot one of the group."

"Definitely a show-off," Ianto muttered.

Martha rolled her eyes, but her lips curled upward briefly. Then she turned serious again, reaching into her coat and pulling out a small silver disc, setting it gently on the table. 

"This is what matters." 

Jack leaned in. Ianto mirrored him.

"This was recorded after the strike in South Africa. A lightning bolt, natural, one in a billion chance, hit one of the Toclafane. It dropped. Dead. We've never managed that before. Ianto got me the data."

Ianto gave a modest shrug. "Stole it off a UNIT server before they noticed it'd gone missing."

Jack picked it up carefully, squinting. "You are good when you're scared."

"Terrifying," Ianto replied, dry.

Martha tapped the disc. "According to the recording, a current of 58.5 kiloamperes transferred a charge of 510 megajoules. That's what it takes to disable them. That's our benchmark."

Jack let out a slow whistle. "That's not lightning in a bottle. That's a storm in a warhead."

Martha nodded. "Which is why we need time. And cover. We can't let the Master know what we're actually doing."

Jack leaned back, arms crossed. "So this is the part where we lie."

"Spectacularly," Ianto confirmed, with a flicker of a smile.

"We tell a story," Martha said. "One loud enough to drown out the real plan. Something the Master can't ignore."

Jack stepped back, pacing a little. "We could tell them the Master and the Doctor have been visiting Earth for years. They've been watched, studied. Torchwood. UNIT. Everyone's been preparing."

Ianto caught on immediately. "And now we've made the ultimate defence."

"A weapon," Jack said, eyes bright.

"One with scattered parts that have to be collected," Ianto added. "Across the globe. San Diego. Beijing. Budapest. London. All red herrings. We feed intel to UNIT, let it leak. We let the Master chase shadows while he spread the story."

"And meanwhile," Jack said, stepping closer, "you do the real work."

"Like a wild goose chase," Martha murmured. "Lead the Master off the scent. If he thinks I'm trying to build a weapon... he'll be watching the wrong thing."

"And the real plan?" Jack asked.

Martha looked down at the disc again. "When the countdown hits zero, I need to be back on the Valiant. That's when we move. That's the only time we can. That's when we fix it all."

Ianto moved beside her, resting his fingertips lightly on the map. "You'll need more than time and cover. You'll need coordination. Decoys. Communication lines. Someone to help keep the smoke and mirrors convincing."

Martha looked at both of them. "That's why I need you. Both of you. I can't do this alone."

Jack nodded instantly. "You've got me."

Ianto's response was quieter, but no less certain. "All the way."

She exhaled slowly, bracing herself as she reached for her pack and slung it onto her shoulders. It was heavier than she remembered.

"This is it, then," she said. "Us three. Nightingale, Phoenix, and Robin. Humanity's last hope."

There was a pause.

Then Ianto, deadpanned. "Well. Better get to work then."

Chapter Text

It had been nine months since the world ended, and Perth was boiling.

The sun beat down like it held a grudge. The air shimmered with heat, thick with dust and sweat and distant smoke. Palm trees wilted. Pavement cracked. The ocean nearby offered no breeze, just the taunt of a horizon they'd risked their lives to cross.

Ianto Jones hated everything about it.

He was more suited to grey skies and the comforting damp of Cardiff drizzle. Here, the humidity made his shirt cling like a second skin, and the sweat trickling down his spine had become a constant reminder that he was absolutely, unequivocally not built for this climate.

"Not that I'm complaining," Jack said cheerfully as they jogged through an overgrown courtyard, "but I think my internal organs are trying to melt."

"I hope they start with your mouth," Ianto muttered, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm.

Jack grinned, flashing white teeth through the grime. "Was that a joke, Ianto? Are we bonding?"

"I'm considering homicide," Ianto replied.

"Oh, I love it when you talk dirty to me."

"Shut up," Martha hissed from up ahead, crouched behind a rusted delivery truck. "We've got movement, five o'clock."

They all dropped instantly into silence.

Across the ruined street, three Toclafane zipped low, their spherical forms glinting in the sunlight. They hovered, searching, chirping in their eerie, childlike voices. A distant scream cut the air.

"Three minutes until this area's crawling," Martha warned, scanning the horizon.

"Two, if they're as twitchy as last time," Jack corrected, glancing at Ianto.

"I'm aware," Ianto replied, tone clipped. He wiped sweat from his brow once more and muttered something vicious under his breath about Australian summers and demonic weather systems.

"Aw, sunshine, you're glowing," Jack said cheerfully, slapping Ianto on the back.

Ianto shot him a look that could curdle milk. "If I die of heatstroke, I'm haunting you."

"Get in line," Martha said drily, yanking open a rusted service door and ushering them into the cool, shadowed corridor beyond.

They moved like parts of a machine, no words, no hesitation. Jack passed Ianto the torch without a word. Martha handed over a canister of water as she keyed in a code they'd picked up in Oakland. Ianto opened his satchel, double-checked their stolen data, and wordlessly passed the first drive to Jack.

They were a unit. Efficient. Fluid. Unspoken understanding in every glance.

But every now and then, Martha caught the cracks in the silence.

The way Ianto lingered half a step behind Jack. The way Jack's hand brushed Ianto's shoulder a moment too long when they took cover. The way neither of them quite met each other's eyes unless they had to.

They shared a bed most nights, because resources were limited, sure, and because safety meant proximity and the cold made Ianto shiver and Jack ran warm. 

And okay, Martha got stuck sharing with them too and it's not like any of them had had any real privacy in months but still… come on.

She was going to lose her mind. Or kill them both just to get it over with.

They surfaced from the building's side into the open just as the Toclafane rounded the corner.

Three of them. Spherical, silver, screaming death.

"Move!" Jack shouted, yanking Martha down an alley. Ianto took the lead, already scanning for exits.

They ran.

Perth blurred around them, red brick ruins and ghostly high-rises, a sky like bleached bone overhead. The Toclafane pursued relentlessly, their chittering laughter echoing down every street.

"I hate this," Ianto wheezed.

"Hate what?" Martha shot back.

"Everything!"

A plasma bolt slammed into the wall just behind them, sending a shower of sparks into the air. Jack pulled up short beside a service tunnel. "In here!"

They ducked into the narrow chute. The heat was worse inside, trapped and sticky. Martha's lungs burned. Ianto's face was flushed beneath the sweat. They didn't stop moving.

The tunnel opened into a shattered loading bay.

One of the Toclafane made it through.

It zeroed in on Martha.

She turned just in time to see it surge toward her, blades whirring, lights glowing red.

Then Ianto was there.

He didn't hesitate. He threw himself sideways into the Toclafane, slamming it into the concrete. It shrieked. He grunted, grappling with the sphere, using all his weight to pin it down.

"Run!" he shouted.

Jack didn't.

Instead, he sprinted past them, grabbed a broken steel rod, and jammed it into the Toclafane's central panel. It sparked violently, spasming in Ianto's grip.

A second Toclafane streaked through the tunnel behind them.

Jack turned.

"I've got this!" he yelled.

"Jack-" Martha started.

But it was too late.

The blast hit him full in the chest.

He flew backward, hit the wall with a sickening crack, and crumpled to the floor.

"Jack!" Ianto yelled.

The Toclafane retreated, presumably for backup, or to report a sighting of the 'big three' but Martha and Ianto had other priorities right now.

Ianto scrambled to Jack's body, half-blinded by sweat and dust. "No, no, no come on, you stupid bastard, don't do this now."

Martha stood guard, breathing hard, eyes on the corridor, but she didn't miss the way Ianto sank to his knees, pulling Jack into his lap.

Jack was dead. Eyes open, chest still.

Dead as a dodo.

"You absolute idiot," Ianto whispered, cradling him. "You reckless, self-sacrificing twat."

He didn't look at Martha. Didn't need to. She was watching from a short distance, her arms crossed, her eyes tight with worry and something else. Tired acceptance, maybe. Or grim inevitability.

Because she'd seen this before. Not just the dying. The holding.

He ran a hand through Jack's hair, fingers trembling, "Every fucking time-"

Jack gasped, his body jerking violently as his lungs sucked in air like he'd been drowning for hours.

Ianto flinched, then clutched him tighter as Jack collapsed against him, breathing hard, body still shaking.

"Ianto?" he rasped.

"I've got you," Ianto said. "Just... stay still."

"I'm okay," Jack managed, voice hoarse.

"Liar."

Jack smiled faintly, eyes fluttering shut. "You stayed."

Ianto didn't reply.

He just held him.

Martha watched from a few feet away, arms folded and took a polite step back. Then two more. She decided to make it five. Maybe six. Just in case.

Whatever it was between those two, whatever strange, maddening, burning thing this was, it was going to snap one day.

And when it did? Martha was pretty sure she didn't want to be within half a mile of it.

Chapter Text

Snow didn't fall anymore. Not proper snow, not the kind that blanketed rooftops and softened the edges of the world. What dusted the cracked remains of what used to be Colorado was ash-white, sure, but it was bitter and wrong, heavy with fallout and silence.

Still, it was Christmas.

Or close enough.

They were holed up in what had once been a suburban home on the outskirts of Denver, the kind of place that probably had a dog named Max and a subscription to a baking magazine. There was a plastic Christmas tree tipped over in the corner, still tangled with faded tinsel and cracked baubles. A stocking hung crooked on the fireplace, marked in glitter pen: To Jake, From Santa.

The electricity was long gone. The heat too. But there was shelter, and there was rainwater enough to bathe in, and for one night, they weren't running.

Martha was in the next room, soaking the road from her skin. That left Ianto and Jack alone in the living room, perched on opposite sofas salvaged from the detritus. A half-burnt candle flickered between them on a chipped saucer, casting golden light across their tired faces.

Ianto sat hunched, hands wrapped around a mug of something vaguely tea-like. He stared at the fireless grate, as if he could will flames into being.

Jack broke the silence softly. "What're you thinking about?"

Ianto didn't answer at first. Just took a long, slow sip.

"About home." He said eventually, "my sister Rhiannon, her annual attempts to burn a turkey into oblivion. Her kids sneaking chocolate while pretending not to."

Jack smiled faintly. "Sounds festive."

"My brother in law always insisted he hated Christmas," Ianto added, "but he was always the first one to unwrap presents. It was all loud and chaotic and borderline traumatic."

He paused, the smile fading.

"I'd give anything to have it back."

"Do you think they made it?" Jack asked.

Ianto swallowed hard. "I think… if they did, it's not the kind of life worth celebrating. I hope they didn't. Not like this."

Jack nodded. "Yeah. I get that."

Ianto glanced up. "You?"

Jack shifted, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Gray. My little brother. He was taken when we were kids. I was meant to protect him. Never found him."

The words came heavy, dusted with old guilt and quiet pain.

"I'm sorry," Ianto said gently.

Jack shook his head. "It's ancient history now. But I think of him. Every Christmas. We didn't have it where I grew up, but we had something similar. We used to sneak sweets and build sand sculptures with four arms. Said it made them better fighters."

He laughed, but there was something hollow in his voice.

"And later, after I got stuck on Earth, there was Alice. My daughter. She wanted a normal life, no aliens, no time travel. She made me promise to stay away, mostly. I broke that promise a few times, but I respected it. I'd get an email sometimes. A photo. I used to leave presents where I knew she'd find them. Her son, Stephen, he was... he was brilliant."

He trailed off.

"I'm guessing they're gone too," Ianto said quietly.

"Most likely." Jack looked down at his hands. "It's the not-knowing that's the worst."

Martha returned then, wrapped in a towel, face flushed from scrubbing. She looked tired but content. "If I have to go another month without washing my hair, I might riot."

"You look radiant," Jack said warmly.

She rolled her eyes. "Save it, Captain. I'm claiming the single bed upstairs tonight. And you two can argue over the sofas. And if either of you tries to sneak up there and cuddle me, I will stab you with the toothbrush I sharpened into a shiv."

Jack gave an exaggerated salute. "Understood."

She yawned and padded off, pausing at the door. "Watch out for Santa."

The room fell quiet again after she left.

Jack leaned back on the sofa and sighed. "This time last year I was buying whiskey for Gwen, stealing mistletoe photos of Tosh and Owen, and pretending I wasn't playing secret Santa for the whole damn team."

Ianto glanced at him. "They were good?"

Jack smiled. "Tosh was. Gwen's heart was stronger than her head sometimes but she was brilliant. Owen was a grump and a genius, sometimes in that order. I once caught him trying to sneak a turkey into the furnace to warm it up faster."

Ianto laughed. "You're joking."

"I wish."

Jack's expression softened. "You'd have liked Tosh."

"I think I would've."

Silence again. But it was softer now. Not awkward, just companionable.

Ianto set his mug down. "Once, at a work Christmas party, I got caught under the mistletoe with Director Hartman."

Jack's eyes went wide. "Yvonne Hartman? No!"

"I froze. She leaned in. And just as her lips were about to make contact, I panicked and said I was gay."

Jack laughed so hard he nearly fell off the sofa.

"I mean, everyone knew I wasn't, I was very obviously head over heels for another coworker of mine," Ianto muttered. "But still. Not my most graceful moment."

Jack wiped tears from his eyes. "You didn't actually kiss her?"

"No! God, no. She had power in her eyes, Jack. The kind that says 'kiss me and you'll wake up promoted and terrified.'"

Jack snorted. "That's horrible. And slightly arousing."

Ianto gave him a sidelong look. "I never slept with her."

Jack shrugged, teasing. "Too bad. I admire the initiative of those willing to climb the corporate ladder."

"I don't make a habit of sleeping with my bosses."

"Good to know," Jack said, gaze lingering a beat too long. "For future reference."

The candle flickered.

Ianto looked away, but his voice was low, amused. "Depends on the boss I suppose."

Jack smiled, slow and warm. "Merry Christmas, Ianto."

Ianto's lips curved just slightly. "Yeah. You too."

Outside, the wind howled through the broken remnants of the world. But inside, for a moment, there was warmth.

Two turtle doves in the ruins, sitting apart. Not quite ready to fall, but close enough to touch.

Chapter Text

They stood on the outskirts of what used to be Rapid City, the ruins of Mount Rushmore looming in the hazy distance. The granite monument had long since been defaced, now it bore the grinning face of the Master, carved over Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln in grotesque triumph. A cruel joke, etched into history.

Ianto stared up at it one last time and quietly vowed never to set foot on this side of the Atlantic again.

The wind tore across the abandoned airfield at their backs, tugging at coats, at hair, at nerves worn thin from months of running. The sky was steel-grey, stained with smoke, the kind of sky that warned of storms, or something worse.

It was time to split up.

Their stories had taken root. Whispers of the Doctor were spreading, like sparks waiting to catch. But now, they had to scatter, to fan those flames into a blaze the Master couldn't ignore.

Martha zipped her pack with clean, precise efficiency. Her face was calm, but her eyes were anything but.

"This is it then," she said. "London in thirty days."

Jack nodded. "Don't be late. I hate being stood up."

They all knew what was riding on the next month. It had to be perfect. It had to be loud. The kind of lie so bold and brilliant, the truth would vanish beneath it.

Martha stepped forward and pulled Ianto into a firm, lingering hug. "Take care of yourself. No heroic solo nonsense, yeah?"

"I could say the same to you," he said, voice wry as they broke apart.

Then it was Jack's turn. Martha wrapped her arms around his middle, holding him tight like she could keep him safe with sheer will.

"You come back," she said, fierce and unflinching. "Both of you."

"We will," Jack promised, quietly.

She looked between them one last time, then narrowed her eyes. "Thirty days," she repeated, shouldering her pack. "Try not to do anything stupid without me."

And just like that, she was gone.

Leaving just the two of them.

Jack stared after her for a long moment before turning back to Ianto. The sudden quiet between them felt louder than gunfire.

"I don't want to split up," he said finally.

Ianto glanced at him, caught off guard. "We have to."

"I know," Jack said. "Doesn't mean I want to."

There was a beat of silence before Ianto offered a faint smile. "Don't tell me you’re going to miss me."

"I'm going to miss you constantly," Jack said, voice low, raw. "You and Martha… it's been months. The three of us. I've had someone to watch my back every second. It's going to feel like I'm missing a limb."

Ianto managed a crooked smile. "We'll survive. We always do."

But Jack wasn't smiling.

He was looking.

Really looking, at the early light and how it softened Ianto's face, how it caught in the strands of his hair, made his lashes glow faintly golden. Jack had always known Ianto was beautiful. But standing here, at the edge of this broken world, he realised something else had crept in along the way.

He was in love.

Ianto stepped in for a hug and Jack's arms went around him easily, automatically, like they belonged there.

But when Ianto began to pull away, Jack didn't let go.

"Ianto," he said, barely a breath.

Ianto looked up. "Jack?"

Jack's hands moved up, cupping Ianto's face gently, thumbs resting near his temples, fingers brushing the stubble on his jaw.

"I love you," he said, voice steady.

Ianto blinked. Once. Twice.

His lips parted, but no sound came out.

Jack didn't release him. Didn't soften it. "I love you, Ianto."

Finally, Ianto found his voice. "You mean… in the way you love Martha?"

"No," Jack said, firm, eyes never leaving his. "I'm in love with you."

"Oh," Ianto breathed.

Silence stretched.

Just wind. Breath. The far-off rustle of dry leaves.

"Oh," Ianto said again.

Jack's hands began to fall away and he started to pull back, expression shuttering, but Ianto's hand shot out. He gripped the front of Jack's shirt, fingers fisting in the fabric.

"Don't," Ianto said, breath catching. "Don't move."

Jack stilled, he could hear his heartbeat in his ears.

Ianto's hand trembled slightly as he tugged him forward. He held Jack's gaze, unflinching, uncertain, brave 

And then he kissed him.

It was soft, hesitant at first. Jack's heart stuttered in his chest. Ianto's mouth was warm, soft but firm, tasting faintly of rain and something sharp like mint. His hand stayed tangled in Jack's shirt, and Jack let his own slide down, fingers settling on Ianto's waist as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss just a breath more.

It was everything. A slow-burn explosion. A thousand almosts turning into one certainty.

Ianto pulled away first. His cheeks were pink, his eyes bright, and he gave Jack the smallest, shyest smile he had ever seen.

Jack grinned, slow and dazed. "The next thirty days are going to be torture."

Ianto raised an eyebrow. "You'll survive."

"Barely," Jack teased. "Think I could get another one? For the road?"

Ianto rolled his eyes, but leaned in again, this time with a bit more confidence. The kiss was shorter but sweeter. Jack's hand found the back of Ianto's neck, and Ianto didn't pull back right away.

A promise this time, instead of a confession.

A low whistle cut through the air. On the ridge, a figure was waiting, a tall woman with a long coat and a rifle slung over her back.

"Your lift?" Jack asked.

Ianto sighed. "Woodpecker, yeah."

Jack smirked. "If she pecks your wood, I'm coming to Budapest and fighting her."

Ianto groaned, but he squeezed Jack's hand. A long, lingering squeeze.

"See you in London," he said softly.

Jack nodded. "I'll be there."

And then Ianto turned and walked away.

Jack stood there, watching, heart pounding, lips still tingling, soul aching just enough to remind him he was alive.

Thirty days.

He could survive thirty days.

He'd survived worse with far less waiting for him at the end after all.

Chapter Text

The sky over Lima was streaked with crimson and gold, the sun clawing its way up over the Andes. Martha crouched beside a cookfire in the ruins of what used to be a community centre, scratching out notes on scrap paper and muttering coordinates to a wide-eyed group of survivors. Her Spanish had improved fast, necessity was one hell of a motivator.

The whispers had spread this far. The Doctor lives. The Doctor is coming. She made sure of it.

Still, her shoulders ached from too many days on the move. Her boots were worn through at the toes, her coat reeked of smoke and engine oil, and she'd give anything for five uninterrupted hours of sleep.

But what she missed more than anything (more than clean sheets or real coffee) was them.

*

In Beijing, Jack had just finished climbing down from the top of an old government broadcast tower, grinning through the smudges on his cheeks and the wind in his hair. He'd overridden the signal (again) sent a looped message across half of Asia. A story, an idea. Something to cling to in the dark.

He landed with a grunt and pulled his coat tighter around him. His comm crackled, just faintly. A time check.

04:08.

Perfect.

"Morning, gorgeous," he said into the com with a slow smile. "Did I wake you?"

*

In Budapest, Ianto rolled over in the bed of a half-collapsed hostel, blinking blearily at the broken ceiling above. His back ached, and his elbow had gone numb from how he'd been sleeping, but he smiled anyway. Jack's voice was like whiskey and thunderstorms and every reason not to sleep.

"Not quite," Ianto murmured, lips curving. "Did you climb something heroic and dangerous again?"

Jack's chuckle crackled through the line. "You know me. If it's tall, unstable, and illegal to access, I'm halfway there before I remember there's no one to admire my ass on the way up."

Ianto huffed a laugh and stretched, the blanket slipping low across his hips. "Bit early for bragging, even for you."

"Oh, I can do much more than brag," Jack purred. "You should see me right now. Covered in grease. Little bit sweaty. Still panting."

"You're the worst."

"You love it."

"Maybe. But if Nightingale tunes in right now, I am never speaking to you again."

There was a pause, then Jack said, mock-innocent, "She's probably still asleep. It's the middle of the night in Peru. She won't hear a thing."

Ianto rolled onto his front, resting his chin on his arms. "You said that last time. She heard everything. I thought she was going to throw her communicator in the ocean."

"She probably should've. But she didn't. You know why?"

"Because she's nosy."

"Because," Jack said, his voice dropping into something low and intimate, "she's into it."

Ianto made a strangled noise. "No. Don't you dare."

"Come on. I miss you. Let me have this. I've been fantasising about you all day. It's not fair, you with that delicious stubble, all wrapped up in tight black fatigues, and me here with no way to get to you."

"When we fix this, I'm going to spend a ridiculous amount of money on a spa weekend," Ianto murmured, changing the subject. "Goodbye stubble, and Nightingale's tragic attempts at cutting my hair. I can't wait to return to fine tailoring, anything but these damn fatigues."

"That I'd pay to see," Jack was quiet for a second then sighed.  "Thirty days is too long."

"Twenty-four now," Ianto said. "We're nearly there."

"Still feels like forever."

"I know."

*

In Peru, Martha lay in the dark, listening.

She should've turned off her comm. Should've respected their unspoken early morning truce. But she hadn't.

And now she was lying there, face buried in a thin pillow, half-laughing into the silence.

"They're getting worse," she whispered to herself, grinning. "Absolutely hopeless."

But she smiled anyway, because the flirting meant they were still alive. The teasing meant they still had hope. And if they had hope, then the rest of the world might just catch on.

She was going to pretend she hadn't heard a thing.

Until she needed a favour.

*

The days were long. The cities brutal. But the lie was spreading. Stories of rebellion. Of resurrection. Of something beyond the Master's grip.

In Beijing, Jack danced with revolutionaries.

In Budapest, Ianto whispered in markets and under bridges, a ghost in the shadows with a secret in his smile.

In Lima, Martha stitched wounds and lit fires in hearts that had all but gone cold.

*

They didn't talk every day. Sometimes the silence stretched too far. Sometimes the batteries failed. Sometimes they were too far underground, or too close to danger, to risk speaking at all.

But when the sun crept up and the hour was just right, they found each other.

A voice. A breath. A promise.

Eighteen days to London.

Each step took them closer.

And when they got there, when they were finally back in the same room, Martha knew one thing for certain.

She was not hanging around for the reunion.

Chapter Text

It had been thirty days.

Thirty days since Jack Harkness kissed him outside Rapid City. Thirty days since Jack had told him he was in love with him. Thirty days since Ianto realised, with all the warm dread and terrifying clarity those words bring, that he felt the same.

And not just in a 'you're fit and I'd like to shag you into next Tuesday' kind of way. No. This was the kind of love that lodged itself in the quiet places. In the silences between words. In the way Jack always made space for him without being asked. In the way he never stopped watching Ianto's back, never stopped listening when Ianto needed him, even when Ianto didn't know how to say anything out loud.

He'd known for weeks now. But he wasn't going to say it over comms.

Telling someone you loved them didn't belong in the crackle of long-distance frequencies and awkward time zone math. It deserved presence. Skin. Eye contact. A kiss that could follow immediately after, with no waiting and no static.

And as… interesting as it had been navigating their attraction via audio-only, really testing the range and limits of what could morally be whispered at 5am with Martha potentially listening in, Ianto was desperate to be in the same room again.

Going cold turkey from kissing Jack Harkness had been a trial of almost biblical proportions. His dreams had been scandalous. His mornings had been worse. Which made it all the more disappointing that he was the first to arrive at the rendezvous.

An abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of London. Three days ahead of the final countdown. They'd built in buffer time, in case anything went wrong en route. Meant to link up with Professor Docherty (codename Big Bird) to put the last pieces of the plan in place.

The farmhouse was quiet. Empty. Dusty and drafty and very much lacking in Jack Harkness.

Ianto sat on the edge of a splintering windowsill, twirling his earpiece between his fingers, letting the silence chew at him. He'd never been good at waiting. Not when he knew what he was waiting for.

Then, mercifully, the door creaked open.

Not Jack.

"Ianto!" Martha called, shaking the cold out of her coat as she stepped inside. "Still brooding, I see."

Ianto's shoulders relaxed. Of course he was glad to see her, relieved even, but he couldn't help the slight dip of disappointment.

"I was kind of hoping you were going to be taller. And cockier. And immortal," he said, dry as anything.

Martha smirked, peeling off her gloves. "What, missing your Captain are you?"

"Only in every conceivable way," Ianto deadpanned, then offered her a wry smile. "It's good to see you."

She crossed the room and hugged him hard, the kind of hug that said, we're almost through this. "You too. You holding up okay?"

He hesitated. "Aside from the desperate sexual frustration and mild emotional spiralling? Peachy."

Martha laughed. "God, I missed this. And hey, it's not like I haven't had weeks of listening to your little flirtathons over the comms. Some of us had to sit through the entire 'morning glory' conversation. Twice."

"I thought we agreed you were going to start turning your comm off."

"I meant to. But then I got curious. Sue me."

"You're such a perv."

"You weren't exactly whispering," she said, dumping her bag on the floor. "And anyway, it's been a year, Ianto. A year. I haven't even been flirted with, unless you count a warlord in Ecuador who tried to buy me a goat."

"Desperate times?"

"Exactly!" she said, throwing up her hands. "Let me live vicariously through your disgustingly desperate, flirty airwave erotica."

Ianto arched a brow. "So now I'm the desperate one?"

Before Martha could shoot back, the front door burst open again.

"Speaking of desperate," Jack's voice cut through the room, smug and unmistakable, "Hey, hot stuff. Long time no see."

Ianto's breath caught.

Jack looked... unfairly good. Dusty and windblown, jacket slung over one shoulder, grin just crooked enough to be dangerous. He looked like he'd walked out of one of Ianto's worse (better) dreams, all swagger and heat and trouble.

Their eyes met. Held. Everything else fell away.

But duty had to come first. Barely.

They debriefed. Efficiently, professionally, with only the occasional smirk from Jack and pointed sigh from Martha. They ran through timelines. Checked comms. Reviewed the escape routes and triggers. Martha had to link up with Tom (AKA Bluebird.) to handle the last recon.

Jack made a predictably filthy joke about blueballs. Martha rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn't dislocate something.

"I'm going. You two, try not to burn the farmhouse down."

And then she was out the door.

No static. No time zones. No interruptions.

Just Ianto and Jack, in a room.

Jack turned to him.

They stared.

Three whole seconds of wide-eyed, stunned stillness.

Then they were kissing.

It wasn't neat. It wasn't slow. It was clumsy, hungry, real. Hands fisting in jackets, knocking into furniture, breaths coming hard between laughs and gasps.

Ianto's hands were in Jack's hair, dragging him in as their mouths collided. Jack pressed forward, walking Ianto back until his shoulders hit the nearest wall, one hand braced beside his head, the other on his waist.

They kissed like drowning men. Like they'd been waiting thirty years, not thirty days.

"I missed you," Jack breathed against his lips.

"Not as much as I missed this," Ianto murmured, catching Jack's bottom lip between his teeth and tugging just slightly. "God, this is perfect."

Jack groaned. "I've been dreaming about this."

"Same," Ianto said, flipping them, slamming Jack into the wall now, pressing up against him with a very unambiguous roll of his hips. Jack made a strangled sound and grabbed him harder.

Their hands wandered, tugging coats aside, yanking shirts loose, exploring whatever skin they could reach in the frantic rush of reunion.

Jack nipped at his jaw. "If you want to stop-"

"Do I look like I want to stop?"

"Ianto."

"We've got thirty minutes and I've been thinking long and hard about what I'd do to you the moment I got you alone again."

Jack swallowed, pupils blown. "Yeah?"

Ianto's response was to bite gently at the curve of Jack's neck, licking the sting away with a grin. His hands slid lower, bold and unrepentant.

Jack hissed, hips jerking. "What've you been daydreaming about, Agent Jones?"

Ianto squeezed his arse, slow and deliberate.

"Oh," he whispered against Jack's ear. "Plenty of things."

Jack rocked against him. "Give me a highlight reel."

"I'll do you one better," Ianto murmured, walking him back toward the dusty old table with purpose. "I'll show you."

The table creaked beneath them as Ianto pushed Jack back against it, never breaking eye contact, never easing the pressure. His hands were sure, decisive now, like he'd been rehearsing this moment in his mind for weeks, because he had.

Jack's hands found Ianto's hips, fingers digging in, pulling him closer by his belt loops, anchoring them both. Ianto responded with a grind of his body that nearly made Jack forget what air was.

"Fuck, I missed you," Jack gasped against his mouth.

Ianto didn't respond with words, he kissed him again, rough and sweet, then pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

"I've been thinking about this," Ianto said, voice low and honest and just a little breathless. "Every night. Every bloody morning. What your skin would feel like. The way you'd sound when I touch you."

Jack's breath hitched, eyes searching his. "Yeah?"

Ianto nodded, dragging his hand down between them, settling over the bulge in Jack's trousers with something that looked suspiciously like a smirk. "Yeah."

The pressure made Jack groan and drop his forehead to Ianto's shoulder. "You're trying to kill me."

"No," Ianto said, brushing his lips along Jack's ear, "just trying to make good on a month's worth of promises."

Jack caught his mouth again, hungrily, but Ianto was already undoing Jack's belt with shaking fingers, determined. Jack's hands fumbled back in kind, mirroring the motion, trousers tugged down just enough, the rest forgotten in the urgent press of skin on skin.

Ianto wrapped a hand around both of them, lips parted, cheeks flushed. "Been thinking about this for weeks."

"You and me both," Jack managed, his voice a low rasp.

They moved together, rhythm syncing almost immediately, instinct and want guiding every thrust of hips, every roll of wrist. Jack's hand joined Ianto's, fingers tangling together, both of them stroking, gasping, chasing the high together. Ianto's forehead dropped against Jack's, their breaths mingling, their bodies impossibly close.

"Ianto," Jack groaned, jaw tight, one hand fisted in Ianto's shirt.

And then…

"I love you," Ianto whispered against his mouth. "I do. I love you, Jack."

Jack froze, just for a heartbeat. Then his eyes opened, and what Ianto saw there nearly undid him. Relief, hunger, love, need, all of it crashing over them like a wave.

"Say it again," Jack breathed.

"I love you." He repeated, firmer now. Certain.

Jack came first soon after, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut, a soft curse falling from his lips as he spilled across Ianto's hand, hips twitching. Ianto followed moments later, pressed flush against him, groaning into the crook of Jack's neck, fingers tightening where they gripped his shirt.

"I cannot believe we just did that," Ianto murmured, somewhere between giddy and stunned.

Jack chuckled, fingers tracing lazy patterns along Ianto's side. "I can. I've dreamed about it."

"Well," Ianto said, nuzzling into his neck, "next time you can dream about a bed."

"Only if you're in it." Jack smiled against his skin. "You're never allowed to leave me again."

Ianto huffed a soft laugh. "Wasn't planning to."

Jack pulled him closer. "Good."

They stayed there for a long time, tangled in each other, the farmhouse still cold and dusty, but neither of them noticed anymore.

Because thirty days had passed and they were here. Together. And for now, that was everything.

Chapter Text

North London was a graveyard.

The houses still stood, rows of terraces like broken teeth, but they'd long since been stripped of warmth, repurposed into barracks the regime didn't even bother to dignify. People called them slave quarters now. Because that's what they were.

Crammed with families. Strangers. Children. A hundred souls or more per house. No electricity. No heat. Just thin walls, thinner blankets, and the cold knowledge that morning meant another march to the shipyards.

And now... they were just waiting.

The plan was in motion. Big Bird (Professor Docherty) had everything she needed. The worst was behind them. All they had to do now was survive the night.

But time stretches in strange ways when you know it might be your last.

They were staying in a two-storey terrace near the edge of the sector, tucked in among the quiet despair of those who no longer had the strength to hope. Their hosts didn't ask questions. They didn't need to. Everyone knew who Martha Jones was.

Which was why, when the whisper spread through the house like wildfire, they want them to talk, Martha didn't hesitate.

The living room was too small. Too full. People packed wall to wall, kids curled on laps, the elderly leaning in doorframes. No one spoke. No one stirred. They all stared at her, Jack, and Ianto like they were waiting for absolution. Like they needed someone to tell them this hadn't all been for nothing.

So they stood. Together.

Jack spoke first. His voice was steady, cutting through the quiet like a fault line.

"We travelled across the world. From the ruins of New York to the fusion mills of China. Across the radiation pits of Europe. And everywhere we went, we found people like you. Living as slaves."

His voice didn't tremble, but his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Martha stepped forward.

"If Martha Jones became a legend, then that's wrong. Because my name isn't important. There's someone else. The man who sent me out there. The man who told me to walk the Earth. And his name is the Doctor. He has saved your lives so many times… and you never even knew he was there."

A ripple moved through the room. Some recognised the name. Most didn't. But no one looked away.

Then Ianto. His voice, when it came, was clear and certain.

"He never stops. He never stays, but I've seen him. I've seen what he can do."

Jack's voice dropped lower. More personal.

"I know him, and I believe in him."

It settled over the room like a weight. Like a prayer.

And then a woman by the door screamed, panic breaking the silence like glass. "It's him! Oh my God, it's him! It's the Master, he's here."

A little boy's voice, thin and terrified, followed. "But he never comes to Earth… he never walks upon the ground."

The woman dropped to a crouch, shielding him. "Hide them."

Tom (Bluebird), was already moving. He tossed a battered tarp toward the stairs where the three of them had been sitting moments ago.

"Use this!"

Jack, Martha, and Ianto dove for it, pulling it over themselves, holding their breath as boots started to echo in the street.

A shadow passed the window.

A child whimpered. Someone shushed them.

Bluebird crouched by the letterbox, gun ready in shaking hands.

Outside, the Master's voice rang out like poisoned honey.

"Martha. Martha Jones. I can see you. Out you come, little girl. Bring your pet freak and my wayward soldier. Come and meet your Master. Anybody?"

Silence reigned.

Jack's hand gripped Ianto's beneath the tarp. Martha's shoulder pressed against his. The three of them were a knot of tension and quiet defiance.

The Master's voice sharpened. "Nobody? No? Nothing?" He paused, then issued an order. "Positions."

Soldiers marched into place, guns were cocked, the hum of spheres filled the air.

"I'll give the order unless you surrender," The Master warned. Then, almost coy, he added. "Ask yourself, what would the Doctor do?"

They didn't speak, but they didn't need to.

A glance passed between them. Jack nodded. Martha swallowed hard. Ianto tightened his grip. And then, together, they stood.

They walked out, fingers linked, shoulders square. A front of calm against the coming storm.

The crowd parted. A gasp. A prayer. But no one moved to stop them.

Outside, the Master grinned, lit with manic delight.

"Ohhh, yes. Very well done." He clapped once, mockingly. "Good girl," he purred at Martha. "He trained you well. And look at these loyal little dogs. Sit. Stay. Fetch."

Ianto flinched, jaw tight. Jack squeezed his hand harder.

The Master pointed his laser screwdriver at Martha. "Bag. Give me the bag." 

Martha moved to step forward. 

"No," the Master snapped, holding up a hand. "Stay there. Just throw it."

She threw it. It hit the ground halfway between them. The Master didn't even flinch, just flicked his screwdriver at it. It disintegrated in a flash of blue-white heat.

His grin twisted into something monstrous. "And now, good companions…"  His voice dropped, falsely gentle. "Your work is done."

He raised the screwdriver again. Aimed it at Martha's chest.

"No!" Bluebird burst from the house, gun raised, heart in his throat, but it was all for naught. 

The Master didn't even look. Just turned, fired. Bluebird dropped mid-stride, body crumpling like paper.

Martha didn't flinch. Jack allowed himself a single blink. Ianto's breath caught silently in his throat.

The Master looked at them and tilted his head, like a cat batting at a dying bird.

"But you, Martha Jones… when you and your little friends die, the Doctor should be witness, hmm?"  He looked up at the clouds. "Almost dawn. And planet Earth marches to war. Seize them."

The spheres rose.

The guards advanced.

They were pulled apart in seconds, dragged by fists and tasers, cuffed, manhandled, kicked. Jack shouted something. Ianto fought back, teeth bared, bloodied lip. Martha didn't scream.

They were forced into black, unmarked transports. Metal doors slammed shut.

The last thing Jack saw was Ianto's face through the crush of bodies. Their eyes met.

No fear.

No tears.

Just fierce, silent determination.

Then the truck roared to life. The convoy moved.

Toward the sky.

Toward the Valiant.

Toward the endgame.

Chapter Text

Jack hated being back on the Valiant.

He could see the same soldiers who'd brutalised him. Blank-eyed men with quick fists and slower consciences. And the Master… the Master gave him the hives. Even now, just standing here, it made Jack feel like something was crawling under his skin.

What hurt more was seeing the Doctor. Locked in a cage like some twisted joke. Frail, bird-boned, shrunken to almost nothing. Helpless. The Time Lord who once held the stars in his hands now curled like a dying dog in a cage.

Jack's jaw clenched. He didn't let himself look for too long.

He glanced to his left.

Martha was on her feet, proud and calm. Ianto stood beside her, lip split, cheek swelling, blood drying dark on his collar. Jack's jaw clenched. That bruise would blossom by morning, if they lived to see it.

It could've been worse, Jack reminded himself. It could always be worse.

On the flight deck, cameras blinked red. A broadcast was live, reaching every corner of the Earth.

The Master stood in the centre like a conductor before an orchestra. "Citizens of Earth," he purred. "Rejoice. And observe."

He turned back to them, Martha, Jack, Ianto, his smile full of venom.

"And now... kneel."

With little other choice, they obeyed him.

Beneath them, on Earth, the fleet was preparing to launch. Two hundred thousand ships. Ready to burn. Ready to conquer.

"Down below," he gestured grandly, "the drums are ready to sound. Are we ready?"

A voice crackled over the comms. "The fleet awaits your signal. Rejoice!"

The Master's eyes gleamed.

"Three minutes to align the black hole converters," he said, gesturing to the ticking countdown. "I never could resist a ticking clock."

He turned to the Toclafane. "My children, are you ready?"

"We will fly and blaze and slice. We will fly and blaze and slice," they chanted in chorus.

The Master beamed, proud as a twisted father.

"At zero, to mark this glorious day, the Jones children will die." He pointed his screwdriver at Martha first. "Any last words?"

Martha said nothing, Jack kept his chin up and Ianto met the Master's gaze with quiet defiance.

"No?" He clicked his tongue. "Disappointing. Once upon a time, Doctor, you had companions who could absorb the Time Vortex. Now? This lot's just sad."

He lifted the laser screwdriver, aim steady.

"Bow your heads."

They obeyed. Heads down, silent. Waiting.

"And so it falls to me," the Master declared, "as Master of all, to establish a new order of Time Lords. From this day forw-"

Martha laughed. Quiet but sharp.

The Master's eyes narrowed. "What," he snapped, "is so funny?"

Martha raised her chin, smirking. "A gun."

He frowned. "What about it?"

"A gun in four parts?" Jack said, voice light.

The Master rolled his eyes. "I destroyed it."

Ianto had the audacity to scoff. "A gun in four parts scattered across the world?"

Jack grinned. "I mean, come on, did you really fall for that?"

The Master bristled. "What are you talking about?"

From his cage, the Doctor stirred, voice was hoarse but steady. "As if I'd ask her… to kill."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," the Master snapped. "You're still going to die. Especially you, freak."

Ianto growled low, dragging the Master's attention off Jack.

"Don't you want to know," Ianto said, "what we were really doing, travelling the world?"

The Master slumped onto the steps like a bored god. "Indulge me."

Martha's voice was steady. "We told a story. That's all. No weapons. Just words. We did what the Doctor asked."

Jack picked up the thread. "We told people about the Doctor."

"And we told them to pass it on," Ianto said. "Spread it."

The Master sneered. "Faith? Hope? That's your weapon?"

Martha shook her head. "No. We gave them an instruction. Just one."

The three of them rose. Together.

Ianto spoke, firm and clear. "We told them… if everyone thinks of one word, at the same moment- "

The Master snapped, "Nothing will happen! That's not a weapon! That's prayer!"

Martha didn't flinch. "All across the planet. One thought. One moment."

"With fifteen satellites," Jack finished.

For the first time, the Master looked rattled. "What?"

"The Archangel Network," Ianto said.

"A telepathic field," Jack added, "Connecting the whole of humanity. And at this exact moment-"

Martha looked toward the clock. "-they're thinking one word."

The clock struck zero.

And the word was: Doctor.

The world chanted it. On screens. On radios. In whispers and shouts. Doctor. Doctor. Doctor.

The Doctor's form shimmered, light gathering around him like starlight. The Master staggered back, eyes wide.

"No. No, no, no! You don't-!"

Jack could see it on the monitors. Could feel it in his chest. He, Ianto, and Martha joined in, voices steady, sure, rising with the tide.

Inside the cage, the Doctor transformed, bones straightening, skin glowing, limbs stretching. Floating now. Whole. Timeless.

"No," the Master hissed, stepping back. "No, no, no!"

Doctor. Doctor. Doctor.

The light filled the flight deck. And then… He was there.

The Doctor.

Restored.

No longer frail and withered, now radiant, powerful, floating in the air like the storm and the calm. Jack stared, breath caught in his throat.

If Jack hadn't known the Doctor was on their side, he might have been afraid.

"I've had a whole year," the Doctor said, his voice strong, clear, ringing through the air, "to tune myself into the psychic network. To integrate with its matrices."

The Master shouted, "I order you to stop!"

But the voices kept rising.

"The one thing you can't do," the Doctor said, drifting closer. "Stop them thinking."

The Master fired his laser screwdriver but the blast struck the field around the Doctor and fizzled, harmless.

The Doctor advanced. "Tell me the human race is degenerate now, when they can do this."

"THEN I'LL KILL THEM!" the Master shrieked, turning the screwdriver on Martha, on Jack-

On Ianto.

But the Doctor stretched out his hand. The screwdriver tore itself from the Master's grip and flew across the room.

The Master stumbled backward.

"You can't do this!" he begged. "You can't do it- it's not fair!"

The Doctor floated closer, arms outstretched. "You know what happens now."

"No!"

"You wouldn't listen-"

"No!"

The Master curled into a ball in the corner, childlike, trembling.

The Doctor knelt beside him. And gently, softly, impossibly…

"I forgive you."

The silence was deafening.

Jack, Martha and Ianto all stared, stunned. Horrified. Disbelieving.

The Master choked out, "My children!"

The Toclafane responded, voices rising. "Protect the paradox. Protect the paradox. Protect the paradox."

"Captain," the Doctor said suddenly, voice sharp. "The paradox machine!"

Jack snapped out of it, grabbing Ianto's wrist. "Come on, we've got work to do."

And together, they ran.

Chapter Text

They ran.

Boots slammed against metal floors, alarms wailed, and behind them the world was on fire.

Ianto gripped the stolen UNIT rifle tighter, his breath ragged in his throat. Jack was ahead, moving like he was made for this as Ianto struggled to keep up.

"Where are we going?" he shouted.

"The TARDIS," Jack called back. "It's the paradox machine now."

"Right," Ianto panted. "And how, exactly, are we supposed to destroy a paradox machine?"

Jack gave him a grin over his shoulder, too wild for comfort. "First guess? Shoot it."

Ianto cursed under his breath. "Of course."

They turned a corner and stopped dead.

Toclafane.

Half a dozen of them hovered like wasps around the familiar blue box, humming, twitching, whispering to themselves in static.

Jack didn't hesitate. He raised his rifle and fired the first shot. "Ianto, GO!"

The Toclafane responded instantly, screaming, spinning, flying toward him like hornets.

"Jack!" Ianto shouted, furious.

But Jack didn't even look his way. Just kept shooting, kept shouting, a one-man war.

Ianto cursed under his breath and ran.

He hated this. Hated Jack for always throwing himself in front of bullets like he didn't care what it did to the people left behind. Hated how fast he'd gotten used to the idea of Jack dying and coming back, over and over. Like it meant it was fine.

It's not fine, he thought, sprinting for the doors. It's never fine.

He hit the TARDIS hard, yanked the doors open just wide enough, and slipped inside.

The noise dulled immediately.

But there was something really, really wrong with the ship. Ianto had never been aboard the TARDIS before now, but he knew from feeling alone that she was sick. Very sick.

The TARDIS was humming with unstable energy. She was twisted, pulsing, glowing with power. And in the middle of the room, the machine. The thing they'd built from her bones.

The paradox engine.

He lifted the gun and emptied the clip.

Bullets ripped through the air and into the machine. Sparks exploded. A bang louder than anything he'd ever heard cracked the air and the world bent.

The blast threw him backwards. His spine hit the floor hard, knocking the wind out of him.

The walls twisted. The floor swam. Light bent sideways and colours bled out of the edges of everything. For a moment, Ianto didn't know where he was, or when. He didn't even know who he was, only that something fundamental had been torn open and everything inside him was scrambling to stay anchored.

Then came the sound.

Muffled. Distant. Desperate.

Bang bang bang!

Jack. Pounding on the TARDIS doors. Screaming something. Or maybe just screaming.

Ianto tried to respond, to move, to reach him.

But the lights flared.

The air buckled.

And then the darkness came fast and heavy, pulling him under like the sea.

*

The whole world was unravelling.

Martha held tight to a support beam, knuckles white, as the Valiant trembled beneath her. The ship groaned like it was being torn apart, Toclafane disappearing mid-flight, papers swirling like frantic birds in a storm. Wind howled through the flight deck as reality came undone.

Her heart raced, but she wasn't afraid. Not really. Not anymore.

She grinned, breathless, clinging on as the paradox unravelled itself.

"They did it," she whispered. "Jack and Ianto. They actually did it."

The Doctor's voice cut through the chaos. "Everyone get down! Time is reversing!"

The Master clung to a railing, the Doctor clutching him like a lifeline. Around them, people were vanishing (soldiers, weapons, statues, rockets) all dissolving into nothing. Lucy Saxon curled in on herself behind a row of stunned UNIT soldiers, her eyes wide, her arms wrapped tight around her knees.

And then there was a moment of silence, broken only by a red bus that trundled through Piccadilly Circus on the monitor as though nothing had ever happened.

"The paradox is broken," the Doctor muttered, turning to the controls. "We've reverted. One year and one day. Two minutes past eight in the morning."

A UNIT voice crackled over the comms. "This is UNIT Central. What's happened up there? We just saw the President assassinated!"

"Right after the President was killed," the Doctor replied calmly, "but before the spheres arrived. Everything back to normal. Planet Earth restored. None of it happened."

Martha stepped forward, shaken. "But… I remember it."

"We're at the eye of the storm," the Doctor said. "The only ones who'll ever know."

The Master saw his chance and bolted.

Jack came through the doors at just the right moment, solid and unstoppable, gun raised.

"Whoa, big fella." Jack smirked coldly. "You don't want to miss the party." He grabbed a pair of cuffs from a nearby UNIT soldier, one of the few who hadn't joined in with the full extent of the Master's madness, and snapped them on with precision.

He barely looked at the Doctor. "The TARDIS. Ianto's still inside. I can't get the doors open."

"I'll be down in a minute," the Doctor said softly, stepping forward.

Jack didn't let go of the Master.

Martha tensed. "What are you going to do with him?" she asked.

Jack's face darkened. "We should kill him."

The Doctor's disappointment came like a gust of cold air. "No, Jack. That's not the solution."

Jack raised the gun higher, jaw clenched. "Oh, I think it is. Because all those things, they still happened. I saw them. He killed my friends. My family. He slaughtered the planet."

"Go on then," the Master hissed, eyes alight. "Do it, freak."

Martha's breath caught.

The Doctor's voice was low and certain. "Jack. You're better than him."

Jack trembled for a second, lips pressed in a tight line, then lowered the gun. But his eyes stayed sharp. Cold.

The Master sneered. "So what happens to me now?"

"You're my responsibility," the Doctor said. "The only Time Lord left."

Martha couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You can't trust him."

"No," the Doctor agreed. "But the only safe place for him… is the TARDIS."

"You mean you're just going to keep me?" the Master spat.

"If that's what I have to do," the Doctor said. "It's time to change. Maybe I've been wandering too long. Now I've got someone to care for."

That's when Lucy moved.

One quick step forward.

A gun in her hands.

A crack.

The Master jerked and staggered backward, falling into the Doctor's arms again.

Martha rushed toward her, pried the gun from her shaking fingers. The woman didn't fight.

Jack's stomach turned. He watched the Doctor cradle the dying monster, holding him close after everything he'd done. It made him sick.

"There you go," the Doctor whispered. "I've got you. I've got you."

The Master smirked, blood on his lips. "Always the women. Dying in your arms. Happy now?"

"You're not dying," the Doctor said, shaking him. "Don't be stupid. It's just a bullet. Regenerate."

"No," the Master whispered.

The Doctor's desperation grew. "Come on. One little bullet. Regenerate!"

But the Master was smiling. Fading. "Guess you don't know me so well. I refuse."

Martha couldn't watch. Jack couldn't look. They turned away, shame burning under their skin as the Doctor begged.

"You've got to. It can't end like this. You and me, all the things we've done. Remember the Axons? And the Daleks. We're the only two left. There's no one else. Regenerate!"

The Master's last words were barely a whisper. "How about that. I win. Will it stop, Doctor? The drumming. Will it stop?"

And then he was gone.

The Doctor wept.

Martha stood frozen. And Jack… Jack felt hollow. Not for the Master. Never for him.

But for the Doctor.

Because he could see the heartbreak tearing the man apart from the inside and he couldn't even bring himself to feel pity, just a deep, painful indignity.

Jack reached for Martha's hand, gently. "Come on," he murmured, his voice raw.

They turned together, left the grief and guilt behind them.

Back to the TARDIS.

Back to Ianto.

And Jack, for once, offered a silent prayer to any Gods who might still be listening, that the man who mattered had made it through.

Chapter Text

Waking up was strange.

Not just groggy or disoriented, but strange in the way that felt like waking up inside someone else's dream, quiet, warm, and for the first time in what felt like forever… safe.

He blinked up at a domed ceiling speckled with softly glowing light. The walls had round things on them. Not quite circles. Not quite windows. Just… round things. Odd.

He was in a bed. A real bed, with sheets and blankets and pillows, and it was soft, like sleeping in the middle of a cloud. His aching body had... stopped aching. In fact, it felt fantastic. 

And then he noticed the arms.

Strong ones. Warm and wrapped protectively around his waist, one hand resting gently over his heart. Ianto tilted his head just a little and followed them upward until he found Jack's face, watching him with a furrowed brow and eyes so full of a thousand things, concern, relief, exhaustion. The edges of a smile just barely tugging at his lips.

Ianto tried to speak.

It came out as a cough.

Jack shifted instantly, hand rising to cup his cheek. "It's alright," he said softly. "You're okay. Everything's alright."

There was a shuffle of blankets and repositioning of limbs. Jack sat him up with a pillow behind his back and passed over a glass of water. Ianto drank it gratefully, the coldness hitting his throat like a soothing remedy.

And yet… he felt amazing.

Suspiciously so. Like, too-good-to-be-real good. His limbs were light. His chest didn't ache. No bruises, no soreness. He hadn't felt this whole in… a year? Maybe longer?

Jack was still watching him like he might vanish at any second.

"What?" he asked. "Why are you looking at me like I've grown another head?"

Jack's lips quirked, but his eyes stayed serious. "You were trapped inside the paradox machine when it blew. You were inside it, Ianto. Time rewound around you."

"…we did it, then?" Ianto asked, mind still catching up. "We stopped it?"

Jack nodded. "Yeah. You blew it up. Saved the world."

"Oh." Ianto took a sip, then another. "Nice."

Jack smiled at that, genuine this time. "Martha's resting in one of the guest rooms. You're in my room onboard the TARDIS."

Ianto looked around again, properly this time. The space was… nice. Not overly neat, but lived-in. Eclectic. Trinkets and mementos from all over the galaxy littered the shelves. There was a small, surprisingly classy bar cart in the corner with a decanter of something amber and glasses that didn't match. Photos. A lava lamp. An old leather flight jacket. It was oddly… domestic. And Ianto liked it more than he expected.

He turned to find Jack watching him again.

"The Master's dead," he said softly. "Shot. By his wife."

Ianto didn't answer right away. His fingers tightened around the glass. "And the Doctor?"

Jack grimaced. "Built him a pyre. Couldn't stop crying. He's off saying goodbye."

Ianto blinked at him. "That was his reaction?"

Jack's laugh was bitter. "Yeah. I know."

Ianto leaned back against the pillows, letting the silence settle for a beat. "Jack?"

"Hm?"

"Not to be ungrateful, but I feel like I just time-travelled through a blender, only without the bruises. What happened to me?"

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "That's the thing. When I finally got the TARDIS doors open, you were passed out cold but you looked… different."

"Different?" Ianto asked warily.

"Not bad. Not at all. Just… fresh." Jack gave him a half-apologetic smile. "Haircut. Shave. You looked like you'd just stepped out of a spa, not the core of a collapsing paradox machine."

Ianto reached up and ran his fingers through his hair. Huh. He hadn't felt this clean since… well, he couldn't remember.

Jack continued, voice careful. "I think your body might've rewound. Like… time snapped you back to how you were a year ago."

Ianto frowned and glanced at his left elbow. He twisted it around, looking for the scar, the one from Tibet, the glass cut from when he'd slipped during that awful water tank incident.

Nothing.

Clean skin.

"Huh," he said again.

Jack watched him closely. "You alright with that?"

Ianto shrugged, a little dazed, then turned to Jack with an expression just slightly sheepish. 

"Are you alright with it?" He asked, trying to keep his voice light but failing, just a little. "That I'm… younger? Or newer?"

Jack stared at him for a beat, then leaned forward and kissed him. Slow. Firm. Steady.

When he pulled back, he rested their foreheads together. "Of course I am."

Ianto exhaled, a small smile blooming. "Good. Problem sorted, then."

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door.

Martha's voice, cheerful and teasing. "Are you two decent or will I need a time machine to unsee something?"

Ianto snorted.

Jack just grinned and called back. "Come in, Martha. But be warned, Ianto's got a new haircut and a clean conscience."

"Oh dear," Martha said as she peeked in. "That's dangerous."

"Tell me about it," Ianto muttered, tugging the blanket a little higher.

Martha's face lit up when she saw him awake. "Glad to see you alive, Jones."

"Glad to be alive, Jones," he replied with a smirk. "Though I'm still not sure how I managed it. This bed is amazing, I'm not convinced I'm not just dreaming."

"Don't get too comfortable," Jack warned, though his tone was light. "We're going back to our time as soon as the Doctor finishes mourning his psychopathic ex-boyfriend."

"Now Jack, be fair," Ianto smacked him lightly on the arm, "we don't know if they ever dated, it could just be his psychopathic ex-best friend."

Martha stepped fully into the room, hands on her hips as she gave Ianto a once-over.

"You look disgustingly healthy for someone who just rewrote reality with a machine gun."

Ianto gave a sheepish shrug. "Blame the paradox. Apparently, I got a free reset."

"Only you Ianto." Martha chuckled and sat at the foot of the bed. "So, what now?"

Jack leaned back against the headboard, one arm still casually looped around Ianto's waist. "Back to Cardiff for me," he said. "I've got a team down there. Torchwood. They'll be wondering where I've been."

Martha tilted her head. "You know, I met Owen. Codename Crow. During the resistance. He was a good man."

Jack blinked, "really?"

Ianto perked up. "I traded a few messages with him once as well," he said, "before everything went sideways. Never got the chance to meet him in person."

Jack's gaze shifted, soft and searching. "You could, you know. Meet my team, come with me," he said, voice gentle. "To Cardiff. Join Torchwood. Forget UNIT. We need people we can trust now more than ever. I need you."

Ianto blinked at him, surprised but not startled. It was a generous offer. It was also, he realised, exactly what he wanted.

"I don't think I can put on the red beret again," he admitted, quietly. "Not after this year. Not after everything it came to represent."

Jack's hand squeezed his side in silent understanding.

Martha looked between them, her expression thoughtful. "I don't know what I'm going to do," she said eventually. "My family… they're safe. They don't remember any of it. They weren't onboard when time rewound. They're just… home. Living normal lives. I think I need to join them. For a while, at least."

Ianto nodded. "You've earned that."

"You could come to Torchwood," Jack added after a beat. "No pressure. But if Nightingale ever needs anything-"

"Phoenix will be there," Martha finished, lips tugging upward.

"Robin too," Ianto added, a bit cheekily.

That earned a genuine laugh from her. "You two are ridiculous," she said, standing. She crossed to them, leaned down, and kissed Ianto's cheek first, then Jack's. "But I needed to hear that."

Jack gave her a small salute. "You always have a place with us. No matter what."

"I know," she said, voice suddenly thick with emotion. "Thank you."

She paused at the door. "You boys be good, alright? Or at least try."

"No promises," Ianto called after her.

The door closed behind her with a quiet click, leaving the room still again.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The TARDIS hummed softly around them. Safe. Warm. Alive.

Ianto let out a slow breath. "So. Torchwood?"

Jack turned to him with a grin. "Torchwood."

"I suppose someone's got to keep you from getting into trouble."

"Pretty sure that's a full-time job."

Ianto smirked. "Lucky for you, I'm a workaholic."

Jack laughed, leaned over, and kissed him again, shorter this time, but no less sincere.

"Welcome to the team," he whispered.

Chapter Text

The TARDIS wheezed and groaned, the time rotor pulsing with light as Jack leaned against the console, trying not to stare at the man he would've followed to the ends of the universe. The man who called him wrong. The man who let the Master die cradled in his arms while the rest of the world burned.

He'd asked the Doctor for one thing, Take us back to the day I left. No fanfare. No detours. Just drop them off and let them try to salvage whatever came next.

Jack didn't want to lose anymore time.

He heard the soft tap of shoes and turned. Ianto stepped into the console room like he owned it, wearing a sharp, charcoal three-piece suit that he had clearly stolen from the TARDIS wardrobe. It clung in all the right places. Jack barely managed to stop his jaw from going slack.

He couldn't even be mad. He'd pinched a new RAF coat himself, nearly identical to the one he'd lost during the occupation. Some part of him had needed it. The coat was armour as much as anything.

"You clean up well," Jack said, unable to stop the grin.

"I figured if we were stepping back into the world, I should at least look like I belong in it," Ianto replied, adjusting his cufflinks. "Love the coat, by the way."

Jack grinned, but the Doctor wasn't smiling.

He'd gone still the moment Ianto entered. Watching him like a hawk, like something dangerous had slithered onto his ship. He circled once, eyes narrowing, and then sniffed him. Actually sniffed.

And recoiled.

Jack stepped in, instantly protective, slipping closer to Ianto's side. "What's your problem?"

The Doctor didn't answer right away. His expression was grave, wary, as if Ianto were a loaded weapon.

"There's something wrong with him," the Doctor said finally.

"Excuse me?" Ianto said, lifting an eyebrow.

Jack stiffened. "You don't get to say that. Not again. Ianto's fine. He's alive, he saved the world, and he's fine."

"No," the Doctor's voice was tight. "He's been affected by the paradox machine. Badly."

"Yes, I know," Ianto cut in, sharp. "I was there when it exploded, remember? My body reset. Year back. Nice perk, actually."

The Doctor shook his head. "It's more than that. Much more. You didn't just reset. You absorbed paradox energy. You're carrying a self-sustaining temporal contradiction."

Ianto blinked. "You want to try that again in English?"

The Doctor scowled but started again, this time more carefully. "When the paradox machine exploded, time snapped back. But you…you were inside the epicentre. Your body didn't just reset. It anchored to the loop. You're stuck."

"Stuck?" Jack repeated, his stomach sinking.

The Doctor nodded. "Every day, at 8:02 in the morning, the exact moment the paradox collapsed, your body will reset to this state. This version of you. No ageing. No injury. No death. You've become a fixed paradox loop. An impossible constant."

Silence stretched in the TARDIS.

Jack's jaw clenched. "So… he's like me."

The Doctor looked uncomfortable. "Worse. You're immortal, Jack, a fixed point in time. But Ianto is a loop. He's unstuck. A contradiction that keeps rewriting itself to prevent collapse. The universe doesn't like things like that."

Jack stepped forward. "Don't call him a thing."

The Doctor didn't flinch, but he didn't apologise either.

"Ianto's not broken," Jack growled. "And he's not some accident you get to dissect!"

Before the situation could spiral, Ianto placed a calm hand on Jack's arm. "It's alright. Let him say what he wants. I'm not offended by him."

But inside, he was reeling. No ageing. No dying. No end. The implications slammed into him like cold water, but he refused to show it. Not in front of the Doctor. Not after what he'd heard that man cradled.

"Can you reverse it?" he asked.

The Doctor didn't meet his eyes. "If I try, I risk reactivating the paradox. That means time reversal. Everything could unravel again."

Ianto nodded once, sharply. "Then don't."

They all stood in silence for a moment.

Jack looked at Ianto again, this time with a softer gaze. "You okay?"

"Not remotely," Ianto said, with a small, bitter laugh. "But I will be. Eventually."

The TARDIS gave a low thunk as it landed.

Ianto didn't hesitate. He took Jack's hand.

Then, turning to the Doctor, his voice cool and even, he said, "I hope we never have the misfortune of crossing paths again."

Jack followed him, without looking back, as the doors creaked open.

They stepped out into the crisp morning air of Cardiff, into a city that didn't remember the year that had been stolen.

The sun was rising.

And behind them, the TARDIS doors slammed shut and the blue box disappeared with a soft wheeze.