Chapter Text
The old war dog, grizzled and broad-shouldered, stood with his feet firmly planted on the deck, a weathered hand gripping the back of the command chair as he surveyed the battered Starship's bridge. The overhead lights flickered, casting uneasy shadows across the scorched consoles, evidence of the recent onslaught. The ship itself drifted through the void—its hull peppered with scars, the metal groaning with each micro-movement. With a voice that carried the weight of countless battles and losses, he barked, "Report."
A frazzled Ensign, his uniform torn and smeared with soot, frantically hammered at the sparking control panel. His eyes darted between dead screens while beads of sweat rolled down his soot-streaked face. His voice cracked with urgency and exhaustion as he replied, "Sir, we've only got left thrusters, that's all we have left." His hands didn't stop moving, desperately trying to coax life from dying systems amid the cacophony of alarms and the acrid scent of burnt circuits.
The commander's jaw tightened as he turned sharply to his acting second-in-command, his gaze searching and grim. "Well, do you have any suggestions?" he demanded, the strain in his voice mirroring the ship's battered state.
With dry, blackened humour, the man's eyes dropped to the slumped figure sprawled across the floor between mangled beams and shattered glass. "Well, I'd suggest you find another Number One," he replied flatly. The lifeless body of the First Officer lay at a grotesquely unnatural angle, his neck twisted in a way that left no hope. The battle had been brutal—smears of blood and scorch marks painting a grim picture around the bridge—and the First Officer was only one of many casualties among the crew; the cost of defiance hung heavy in the recycled air.
Here they were, stranded in the outer sector—the most forgotten, forsaken corner of the galaxy, as far from civilisation as one could be—alone at the arse end of space. Their mission had ended in disaster. The entire fleet was a graveyard: some ships listing helplessly, adrift with gaping wounds in their hulls leaking precious air, others reduced to fields of twisted debris. As the commander straightened his back, striving to exude a sense of courage for the battered survivors around him, his thoughts briefly slipped from duty. He thought of his son, his family light years away, and the crushing uncertainty of whether he'd ever see them again.
And in the fleeting quiet, he sent a desperate prayer to the Gods—pleading for the safety of his loved ones, hoping they would remain untouched by the massacre that was surely moving inexorably toward home, a horde leaving only ruin and sorrow in its wake.
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ONE MONTH EARLIER
It was just another day of orchestrated chaos in Ianto's office. He sat at his unusually cluttered desk, stacks of reports threatening to tumble as he tried—vainly—to focus over the din. Outside in the corridor, the shrieks and yells of children echoed, bouncing off metal walls. The twins were in full swing, in the throes of what Jack called 'The Maddening'—a tantrum that was legendary for its drama and destruction. To make things worse, one of Toshiko and Owen's younger children had joined the fray. Ianto, without looking, instinctively knew it was the youngest—a child with Owen's cunning and a penchant for trouble, clever and wild as a cornered shithouse rat.
The cacophony swelled until Jack's voice thundered through the chaos—resonant and commanding—"Cut it the hell out!" The words rang clear, silencing the squabbling, at least for a heartbeat. Ianto grimaced, knowing Jack had reached his limit. The final trimester of Jack's pregnancy had been tough on everyone—tempers were frayed, patience worn thin. They were both starting to acknowledge, with a rueful kind of amusement, that perhaps they were too old for sleepless nights and endless nappies. The house was full, the children a wild, demanding presence—and perhaps, just perhaps, they didn't need any more.
The sharp chime of the Vidcom sliced through the mayhem, drawing a relieved smile from Ianto. Swivelling in his chair, he tapped the screen, which flickered to life to reveal his father's familiar face, lined and kind. Ianto's smile transformed into genuine warmth. "Hey, I thought you were in the outer Northern sector," he greeted his father, his tone lifting for the first time that morning.
"Hello, son," Whitt replied, his face softening with pride at the word. "No, I'm on my way back to the command post. Apparently, something's stirring in one of the outer regions, and they want me to have a look at the numbers—though why they can't just send them to me, I'll never know." Behind him, the pale light of a distant star system glowed through the viewport.
Ianto's brow furrowed, concern creeping into his voice as he leaned back. "Well, they don't want to go over open comms. That doesn't actually bode very well, does it?"
Whitt's lips pressed in a thin line as he nodded, "No… no, it doesn't, son." The unspoken threat lay heavy between them—a shadow from the farthest reaches of space.
"Well, if you're passing this way, don't forget, Tad. The kids would all love to see their grand Taddy." Ianto's request came with a note of longing—for connection, for normalcy amid the chaos.
Whitt's smile widened into a gentle grin as he leaned closer to the screen. "Has Jack popped yet?" he asked in a teasing tone, the affection evident in his eyes.
"Not yet, Tad, but if it doesn't happen soon, Jack might just pop himself—or at least his head will explode," Ianto replied with a wry grimace. On the screen, Whitt's laughter rumbled, seeing a reflection of himself in Ianto's weary expression—a mirror image from years past when he'd been summoned home by family duty.
"I'll be sure to visit for a cuddle with my grandkiddies—and all the little ones who call me GrandTad, too. But for now, you look after Jack. If there's one thing I know, it's that Jack will bring the next generation of soldiers into the world," Whitt said, pride and love warming his tone even through the cold distance of space.
After the call had ended, Ianto stood and stretched, feeling the tension in his shoulders. He wandered over to the wide windows overlooking the red, windswept sands of his adopted planet. In the distance, a faint, emerald shimmer marked the return of life—a hopeful contrast to the desolation he'd first encountered. Every day, the green belts grew, merging into larger swathes, and lakes began to dot the landscape, blue mirrors of the sky. He wondered how long before all this red dust would give way to thriving ecosystems, before the new marine life they'd just discovered would fill these waters and transform this barren world into a haven of vitality once again.
As life surged back outside, life inside their home refused to be ignored. The children's squabbling erupted again from the next room, only to be punctuated by a sharp, piercing whistle—Amilie's signature attempt at order. Then, Lucifer's triumphant scream of glee and Nic's yodelling reply made Ianto smile despite himself; he could easily picture the two mini-soldiers squaring off in exaggerated hero poses. The sound of something smashing followed, then Jack's exasperated roar, echoing through the halls that had become their battlefield.
With a weary chuckle, Ianto muttered, "Waging war was never like this," as he shrugged his tunic from the back of his chair and squared his shoulders, readying himself to re-enter the fray and marshal his wild little devils with all the courage and patience he could muster.