Title: The Wrong Years
By: bittersweet
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Warnings: If you don't like it when I do nasty things to Ianto, don't read this one. (I never claimed to be well adjusted.)
Disclaimer: I like ice-cream, but I don't own the rights to it. Now replace 'ice-cream' in that sentence with 'Torchwood'.

***

She was chained, and it was wrong. For a year she was bound by the dark intruder, shackled to a fractured reality, holding a flawed and tainted universe together at the seams. For a year she waited, and then finally he came again and set her free. Her Lord of Time, glowing with the power of the vortex, released her. And so she reached out through the myriad of tangled timelines, through the infinitely expanding alternate planes of existence, searching for the one that felt right...

.

.

.

Owen was doing it again. Pacing up and down, tapping his wrist with that damned pen. Ianto clenched his teeth and said nothing. He couldn't blame Owen. The tension was unbearable. It was bad when you were in the truck, but it was worse sitting here in the Hub when it was Tosh and Gwen's turn to make the trip.

Torchwood: Alien Hunters. That's what it said on the label, and that's what Saxon used them for. Hunting, tracking and killing. Then taking the remains in a truck so he could watch them burn. Except that the bodies came from the morgue more often than not, and they had done for two months. That was two months longer than Ianto had thought possible. Two months, and forty three aliens safely out of Britain.

The comm. crackled, and Ianto hit the button.

"Gwen? On schedule?"

"Yeah, but there seems to be a hold up at the checkpoint."

"What sort of hold up?"

"I don't know, I...hey!"

Owen's head jerked up, and a moment later he was at Ianto's side leaning over the communications set up.

"Gwen? Gwen, talk to me."

Silence, then some muffled crashes and what could only be gunshots.

"Ianto? It's Tosh, you have to run, they know, you have to get out...you hav-"

She trailed of with a scream, and he didn't even notice Owen pulling the handset out of his suddenly nerveless fingers. They'd expected this. It's just he'd always been sure he'd be the one in the truck when it happened.

"Tosh? Gwen? Speak to me, speak to me! Damn it, talk to me!"

Owens cries were drowned out by the siren. Hub breach. One glance and Ianto saw they were more than surrounded, the life-signs of humans and Toclafane filling every screen. A sudden feeling of purpose gave him strength. He reached out and pulled Owen away from the comm. Owen was crying, trembling. Ianto pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead and cradled the doctor's head in his hands, forcing him to meet his gaze.

"They're gone, Owen, but we'll join them soon. I need you to go down there and flick the switch. You know which one. I'll give you the time you need. Go."

"But the guns...Yan, it will hurt..."

"I know. Go, and go now."

Without waiting for a reply he pushed Owen towards the stairs, and then turned to face the door. He was surprised to find he wasn't shaking, not even when it opened and the soldiers flooded in.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Is there anything I can do for you?"

A dozen semi-automatics swung his way, and masked lieutenant stepped forward to point a handgun in his face.

"Where's the other one?"

"He's gone out for pizza. Nice little place, just a few blocks away. If you care to wait he'll be back shortly, although I'm sorry but I don't think he'll have got enough for everyone."

"Tell me where he is, and you will be permitted to live."

Ianto hesitated, then leaned forward conspiratorially. The lieutenant took a step closer.

"Get fucked."

Ianto's last thought as the machine guns mowed him down was a twinge of regret that Saxon hadn't come himself. Two minutes later Owen overrode the main safety of the generator.

The resulting explosion tore up most of Roald Dahl Plass, taking down more than a third of Harold Saxon's personal guard. Rebels hailed it as a victory. The Master just laughed.

.

.

...WRONG...

.

.

It was just a few miles away from Berlin that Martha Jones gave up. She had come so far. She had done so much. Wherever she went she always left with a few more followers, a few more passionate young men and women dreaming of freedom. But as they moved across the irradiated wasteland that was once Russia they had been found. It was a massacre, a bloodbath, a scene from a nightmare. All they could do was flee, leaving the dying to scream alone. Her last companion had bled to death just an hour ago, leaving her to stagger forward through the wind and the snow towards the city. That was when the ice broke.

She never stood a chance. She was exhausted, starving, and the water was just a degree above freezing. She gave up. This was the end. She accepted that she was dead, allowing herself to sink down into the darkness.

It came as a considerable surprise when she woke, and even more bizarrely not to bitter cold but to warmth and flickering light. Slowly a face came into focus.

"How are you?"

"Cold."

"Well, that isn't surprising. What's your name, Miss?"

"Martha. Martha Jones."

The young man nodded at the name. He sounded welsh, and he had the saddest eyes she had ever seen. She wondered how old he was. He looked even younger than her.

"We've heard of you. Rest now. You'll be safe here."

She tried to shake her head, tell him she didn't need rest, but it was too much effort. She tried to keep her eyes open, and failed.

Time moved in a haze and Martha slipped in and out of consciousness. Faces came and went, speaking quickly in German, English, French and a blur of other languages. Occasionally a small Asian woman with a burn scar on her cheek would sit by her bed. Once the young man with the welsh accent brought her a cup of steaming coffee. As she reached out to take he had started, staring at her hand with what she could swear was recognition. No, not her hand. Her wrist-strap. He left before she could open her mouth.

When she could walk without assistance Martha was taken to meet Joshua Hall. An ex-UNIT officer, he was one of the many who deserted when the Master had shown his true colours. She liked him immediately – he was a straight-talking Scotsman with a fatherly air. After numerous unsuccessful attempts to convince her to stay, on the third day he finally offered her an escort as far as the new trainlines, where if she was lucky she could stowaway to any of the surviving European centres. She accepted gratefully, and within hours was ready to go.

They set off at sunrise and made good time, skirting the great furnaces and heading west. One of her escort, a young Italian woman, entertained them with stories of her childhood in Tuscany and the family goat, known affectionately as Dante. The welsh boy was with them too, walking a little behind in watchful silence.

The sun was just beginning to dip in the sky when Martha heard a familiar mechanical whine, a rush of air. She started to run.

They separated and fled, splitting the targets. Martha ran for the nearest building. Just as she crossed the threshold of the crumbling warehouse the ground beneath her moved, and she fell to the ground, only to be pulled up again by unknown hands.

Dragged inside, she looked around with increasing despair. There was no cover here, just blank walls. Then she spotted a patch of shadow, a small enclave hidden behind a fallen beam.

"There!"

Climbing into the tiny space, Martha turned to pull her rescuer down beside her. Beautiful, sad eyes met hers.

"Only room for one, Martha."

"No..."

"I'm sorry."

He pushed her down, out of sight, and turned away.

Soon after the screaming started.

She stayed in the enclave long after the sounds had stopped. Time had no meaning, only fear existed. Finally it started to get dark, and she forced herself to climb out.

The body of the young welshman lay right in front of her, every inch of the torso shredded but, somehow, the face untouched. Martha carefully lowered herself onto the bloodstained floor, nestled against the still-warm body and began to cry her heart out. She had never even asked him his name.

.

.

...WRONG...

.

.

They spent two weeks tramping around the Himalayas before they realised everything was going to hell. Cut off from the world they didn't have access to the news, and by the time they put all the pieces together it was too late.

They arrived at the safe house in Brazil to find a message waiting – hundreds of photos covering the walls. Photos of Rhys in shackles, Tosh's mother and Owen's parents blindfolded and chained, friends Ianto hadn't seen since school lying senseless on bloodstained floors. Other people too, faces they didn't know but didn't need to. And scrawled in letters three metres high across the grisly collage, the words 'come home.'

Three days later they handed themselves in. Owen and Tosh were led away first, holding hands as they were dragged down the corridor, fingers interlaced and faces free of tears. Gwen clung to him like a child, and he stroked her hair with a steady hand.

"We did the right thing, didn't we? We had to save them. We had to."

He didn't have the heart to tell her that, realistically, the hostages had probably died weeks ago, and if not they were now no longer any use and would not survive the night.

"Yeah. We did the right thing."

Ten minutes later they came for him, and at that moment all he wanted was for Gwen to stop crying out, to let him go and not fight them, because the sight of her fear was breaking his heart.

They blindfolded him and led him down endless halls, into the cold accompanied only by darkness and the echo of boots. Eventually he was forced to his knees, and he braced himself, hoping for the quickness of a gunshot, knowing that it wouldn't be so easy. The blindfold was pulled away, and he the first things he saw were eyes of a figure kneeling opposite, less than a metre away.

"Ianto?"

"Jack!"

The distance between them disappeared, and nothing else mattered. The feel of his skin, the scent of him– the two men gripped each other tightly, pressing closer and closer as if by force of will they could fuse themselves as one, inseparable to the end. Lips met then parted, tracing the curves of a face and the arch of a neck. Hands frantically caressed, reassuring that this was real, and they were here together. It was a bittersweet reunion; both mumbling the same thing through their tears; 'I thought you were gone. I thought you were safe, far away'. Laughter filled the room.

"If I had known it would make you this excited I would have brought your sex toy to you sooner, freak."

Saxon's words were ignored, Jack and Ianto unaware of anything but each other. Saxon frowned, and gestured for his soldiers to pry them apart. Slowly and deliberately he walked towards Jack, spinning what Ianto vaguely recognised as Jack's own gun around in his fingers. Leaning down, he spoke softly and clearly.

"I have a craving today, freak. I want to watch someone die properly. Permanently. And because I'm such a good host, I'm going to let you choose how. You have five minute before I come back in here and start playing."

Saxon grinned, and for a moment Ianto saw the madness that was there, just under the surface, veiled by games and words and arrogance. Madness and something that looked suspiciously like pain. The gun dropped in front of Jack. It was loaded - one bullet. The slamming door accentuated the silence. Jack picked up the gun.

"Ianto... the things he does... I have to. I have to do it."

"I know."

"I'm so sorry..."

"Shh."

"Oh god, oh god... I can't..."

"You don't have to, Jack. Give it to me."

"But..."

"Trust me. You trust me, don't you? It will all be alright. All I need you to do is hold me."

Two trembling bodies curled together. Arms tightened around waists, forehead rested against cheek, gun barrel pressed against temple. Outside the Master cursed at his monitor, because this wasn't how it was supposed to go. This was no fun.

"I would come with you if I could."

"I know. I love you, Jack."

"I love you. Oh Yan, I love you so much..."

Bang.

.

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...WRONG...

.

.

"Stop sulking, Owen. Just because you chased the wrong person. I mean, it could happen to anyone. Well, it could happen to any man. I, on the other hand, have female intuition and a police officers eye for druggies. Even if they do have scales."

"Oh yeah, you're well known for your 'female intuition'. I mean, you voted Saxon. And he turned out so well. Oh wait... wasn't he the one who disappeared a week after being elected? You know, the giant conman?"

"Shut up. I didn't vote Saxon."

"Like hell you didn't! 'Oh, he's so eloquent... he's gonna bring about changes...' You were in practically in love with the man! You and enough of England for him to win."

"I keep telling you, Owen, I didn't vote Saxon!"

"Me, I always knew he was a loony. Completely bonkers. He twitched all the time, did that funny tapping thing with his fingers. And he always talked about bloody drums..."

Ianto leaned back and let the comfortingly familiar sound of Gwen and Owen bickering wash over him. Owen definitely had the upper hand in this one. Harold Saxon had seduced the nation. Well, most of the nation. In all honesty Ianto had always been a little frightened of him. Despite all that charisma, that brilliant wit and flair, when Saxon smiled into the camera his eyes had been empty.

In a way Owen was right. The man had been completely mad. But not your average crazy – he had never 'twitched'. It had just been as if he wasn't all there, some part of him obsessively pursuing an unknown goal, perhaps seeking something to alleviate that terrible emptiness.

"They are complete children, aren't they?"

Ianto nodded, smiling at the almost maternal note in Tosh's voice. Gwen often said that Torchwood was a kind of family. She had a point, though the truth was that none of them kept to any single role, whether it was as a sibling, a child or a parent. They all took their turns; they all spilled over into each others duties. Just like they did in their work. With true Torchwood timing, Tosh's monitor chose that exact moment to begin beeping. Very insistently.

"What is it?"

"It's the local police... something to do with a stolen car..."

"Um... you better take a look at this."

The four of them clustered around Tosh's desk, peering at the fuzzy footage onscreen. Owen rolled his eyes.

"A blowfish driving a sports car. Only at bloody Torchwood."

.

.

...RIGHT...

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.

Radiating happiness as only a sentient time-travelling phone-box can, the Tardis carried the Lord of Time and his children home.

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***