In which there are three oblique references to other TV shows, a new member is added to the Doctor's Angels, and the Fourth Wall gets, if not broken, at least slightly cracked.

-DC-

Martha sat beside the couch, in a chair which she had borrowed from one of the desks, watching the Doctor as he slept. Jack had run out on Torchwood business (promising to pick up lunch for them all), and she was left to watch over the Universe's watchman. Every once in a while he began to sob and whimper in his sleep; painful, pitiful sounds which broke Martha's heart with every twitch and cry. He quieted again when she soothed him with soft words and gentle touches, and didn't wake.

It was so unfair.

That was all she could think as she looked at him, the man who had saved so many people, so many times, the man who now shivered on a ratty couch beneath his coat, looking pale and exhausted and underfed.

It was so bloody unfair, that someone could give and give and give until they were empty and broken, and receive nothing but pain in return. The Doctor was not perfect by any means, not omniscient, not infallible – he could be arrogant, oblivious, cold, even cruel – but everything he did was for the good of other people, of the Universe. He had never done anything to deserve what had happened to him. No one deserved what had happened to him.

She was jolted out of her thoughts by her mobile ringing, the sound unnaturally loud in the gloomy silence of the Hub. She answered quickly, not bothering to check the caller ID as she shot a worried look at the Doctor. He shifted, his breath catching, but his eyes remained closed.

"Dr. Jones," she said, trying to sound brisk and professional while keeping her tone low.

"Hey, Martha. Stuck in traffic?"

"Oh, god," said Martha, standing up and moving away from the Doctor. "Saturday. Lunch. I completely forgot; I'm so sorry, Tom –"

"No, that's alright," replied Tom, though there was a sigh in his voice. "I'm sure I can hold the table for a while longer. Where are you?"

"Cardiff."

There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

". . . sorry?" he asked at last.

"Cardiff. Wales. Something came up."

"Work?"

"Not . . . exactly." It would have been an easy excuse – he was always very understanding when it came to the demands and odd hours of her job – but she cared about Tom, and he deserved her honesty. "Jack called me last night – you remember Jack?"

"Flirty, clothes like he stepped out of a time portal, looks almost as good as he thinks he does?"

"That's the one," said Martha, smiling despite herself. "We have this mutual friend of ours who we've been worried about. He had a rough time of it a while ago, and then he sort of . . . disappeared. He's back now, but . . ." She glanced back at the Doctor's huddled form. "He's in a bad way, Tom. I don't feel right leaving him until he's back on his feet."

"Is he ill? Physically?"

"Not that I've noticed, but it would definitely be a bad idea to leave him alone."

"I understand. Do you need anything? I could drive down, bring you a bag."

"Oh, you don't have to do that –"

"No, no, I want to." There was a genuine enthusiasm in his voice, and Martha grinned. Tom was never happier than when he was helping someone, especially her, and she rarely gave him the chance. "I don't have work again until Tuesday night, and a couple days by the sea might do me good. I'll be there by evening; we can go out to dinner, make up for missing lunch. Unless you want to stay with your friend? We could order takeout."

"Dinner sounds wonderful," she said, and meant it. "You, Tom Milligan, are absolutely the most wonderful man on the planet."

"And you, Martha Jones, are absolutely the most exciting woman. I haven't been this spontaneous since I developed impulse control."

"So around halfway through medical school, then?"

"Sometime thereabouts," agreed Tom with a chuckle. "I'll just grab lunch, pack a couple bags, and head over. I should be there by about . . . five-thirty?"

"Sounds good. Just go to the Plass and call me when you get here."

"Right. See you soon, honey."

"See you." She closed the phone and turned back to the couch, a fond smile on her face and a warm feeling in her stomach. Tom really was a sweetheart. He and Jack had gotten on pretty well when they met, and hopefully Jack wouldn't raise objection to bringing a civilian into the Hub. If he did, well, he would just have to get over it. Tom knew how to be discrete when he needed to, and Martha could do with the professional support of having another doctor on hand, as well as the emotional aspect of having her boyfriend around.

She leaned over the couch to check that the Doctor was still asleep, and was startled to find his eyes open as he stared blankly at the back of the couch.

"Hey, Mister," she said softly, laying a hand on his shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"You don't have to stay, you know," he said, voice low enough that she had to lean in to hear. "Not because of me. If your family needs you –"

"You need me," she said firmly, cutting him off. "Like I told you at breakfast, my family is doing much better. They'll survive without me for a while."

He was silent for a long time, eyes blank and body more still than it ever was in sleep. Even utterly shattered, having already bared his soul to her in a flood of tears and confessions, the Doctor still couldn't let go of his shields completely.

"Tom Milligan," he said at last, flatly and emotionlessly, as if he couldn't muster the energy to make it into a question.

"Um, yeah," she said, disoriented by the subject change. "That pediatrician, remember? We've been dating for a while now; he's bringing down a bag for me."

"Who's doing what?" asked Jack, trotting up the stairs with a bag of takeout in hand. Martha jumped, not having heard the door. Really, for something so large and elaborate, it was extremely quiet. The Doctor gave a sharp intake of breath and jerked upright, but quickly registered that it was only Jack. He relaxed somewhat and slumped back on the sofa, folding in on himself and wrapping his arms around his torso. Jack glanced towards him momentarily, but didn't comment.

"Tom's coming," said Martha, tearing her eyes away from the broken form of her friend and turning to her (mostly) whole one instead.

"To Torchwood?" asked Jack, with the beginnings of a protest in his frown.

"Yes, to Torchwood," she answered, in a tone the allowed no argument. "He can keep a secret, Jack, and I'm not going one more night without my toothbrush. Also, normal people don't wear the same clothes every day."

"They're not the same clothes," protested Jack, his indignation just as shallow as her teasing, both of them forcing light-heartedness that they didn't feel into their tone, trying to think about each other and the banter and the Chinese food and anything besides the dullness in the Doctor's eyes and the defeat in his posture. "It's a look. A isignature/i look."

"Right," said Martha, rolling her eyes. "Because all the people who watch you on the telly would get confused if you ever skipped the coat."

"I have a huge fan base," said Jack with a cheeky grin.

"I dread to think of the fanfiction."

"The what?" he asked confusedly.

"Never mind. Hungry, Doctor?" she asked, turning to the Time Lord, who hadn't made a sound during the whole exchange. He shrugged apathetically, eyes fixed on the ground. "Well, hungry or not, you have to eat something."

The Doctor complied mutely, eating his way through two egg rolls and half a container of cashew chicken without so much as a word. Martha let him be, but kept a worried eye on him as she ate her own meal.

"'A good horse is like a member of the family,'" said Jack suddenly.

"Sorry, what?" sputtered Martha, completely bewildered.

"Fortune cookie," he explained, holding up a strip of paper. "Here." He tossed one to her, and to the Doctor, who caught it automatically.

"'There are many paths to the same place,'" she read. "That is not a fortune."

"Something wrong, Doctor?" Jack questioned. She glanced up to find the Doctor frowning at his fortune. He blinked and looked up.

"The 'learn Chinese' is wrong," he said, with a listless sort of gesture.

"Not surprising," said Jack with a shrug. "It is made in . . ." He dug a wrapper out of the bag and examined it. "California."

The Doctor made a vague noise of agreement before turning back to his blank staring. Listening with half an ear as Jack tried to initiate conversation, Martha picked up the fortune which had slipped from the Doctor's limp fingers.

'Upon seeing old friends, remember that change is inevitable and often irreversible.'

-DC-

The Doctor remained quiet and reticent throughout the afternoon. He answered direct questions with nods and shrugs, and otherwise sat huddled on the sofa, eyes fixed on the ground but not really seeing it. The silence, from a man who normally couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life (literally, on occasion), was getting increasingly worrisome.

At one point, in desperation, Jack dragged them all out of the Hub and onto the Plass. The Doctor merely trailed after him, hands in his pockets, staring at the sky. In the bright sunlight he looked paler than ever – like paper, like a ghost.

They went back inside.

Jack was actually glad when Martha's boyfriend arrived.

-DC-

Tom stared around the complex with unabashed awe. There was no question that it was incredible, this place with its insane security and its obviously alien technology, hiding beneath Cardiff, Wales.

"Impressed?"

And, of course, its ridiculously flashy keeper.

"Very," Tom replied, still a little dazed. He looked up at Jack Harkness, who was standing at the stop of the stairs to his left, looking very smug. ". . . who exactly pays for all this?"

"It's a government agency," said Jack with a careless shrug. "No one can know about it, obviously, so the money's siphoned off a bit at a time from various other funds."

"Yeah," said Tom slowly, regaining his footing. "About that 'no one can know' thing –"

"No one who I haven't personally screened," Jack cut him off harshly, his friendly, casual manner suddenly gone and replaced by the steel countenance of a man who ran the organization responsible for defending the Earth. "Secrecy is a top priority. If you can't keep quiet, we have ways of making you."

Martha, who had been watching amusedly until that moment, gave a shocked exclamation from beside him. Tom felt himself pale, his stomach lurching. He had no doubt that the Captain was more than capable of carrying out his threat.

All three of them were distracted, however, by a sharp "Jack!" from behind the head of Torchwood.

The source of the rebuke was a thin, pale man whom Tom hadn't noticed before – that friend whom Martha had told him about, he realized. He looked as battered as the old sofa he was hunched on, but his dark eyes blazed with righteous indignation as he glared at Jack.

"I meant Retcon," Jack explained hastily. "I'm not going to kill Martha's boyfriend," he added, sounding torn between amusement and offense. Tom relaxed slightly.

"No, you'd just wipe his memory!" the man growled, springing to his feet. Tom tensed again, partly at his words but also at the way he swayed, barely catching himself before he fell. Jack didn't appear to notice through his own irritation.

"It's better than killing anyone who stumbles across us!"

"You mean anyone who gets anywhere near the truth!"

"Humanity isn't ready for the truth!" This was evidently an old point of contention between the two of them, and at a different time Tom would have been more than happy to take part in the debate, but at the moment his doctor's instincts were screaming at him that Martha's friend was in no condition to be rowing with anybody.

He apparently hadn't realized that himself, however, and seemed to be using every last vestige of his obviously depleted energy to match Jack's volume.

"It never will be if you keep hiding it from them!"

He glanced at Martha – these were her friends, after all. She appeared to be having similar thoughts as he was, and she strode forward as Jack issued his retort.

"Like you're one to talk about hiding the truth!"

"Alright, enough!" snapped Martha, stepping between the two men. The ill man's mouth snapped shut with an audible click, and Jack seemed to recover himself as his anger drained away, looking guilty. "Captain, a word," said Martha sternly, her eyes flashing. "Keep an eye on him?" she added softly to Tom as she passed, nodding back toward her friend.

"Sure." He watched as she dragged the sheepish captain out the door, and then turned back to his newest acquaintance.

The man had slumped back onto the couch now that he no longer had a reason to remain upright. Tom glanced around, hoping that what he was looking for was somewhere easily accessible – ah.

He jogged up the stairs and selected a mug that at least looked clean. Finding the tea to be cold, he took a chance on the tap water, instead. He took a seat beside Martha's friend and handed him the cup, helping to steady it when he saw that his hands were trembling.

"Thanks," said the man, his weak voice and dull eyes a sharp contrast to his earlier passion.

"Don't mention it," said Tom, setting the empty mug aside. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. Tom Milligan."

"The Doctor."

"Just 'the Doctor'?"

"Yep."

"Hm." Tom glanced at 'the Doctor,' examining him in a new light. He looked human – but his fingers had been icy when they brushed his, there was something about those eyes – and considering where they were . . . . "Are you an alien?" he blurted out.

"Yep." There was no emotion in his tone: no surprise that Tom had guessed; no fear of his reaction; no pride at distinguishing himself from the common human; just – exhaustion. Complete and utter weariness. Alien or not, this was a man who had nothing left to give.