Fandom: Torchwood

Characters: Ianto, Ianto's dad

Author: m_findlow

Rating: PG

Length: 2,009 words

Content notes: none

Author notes: Written for Challenge 279 - Amnesty and 277 - Cross

Summary: Ianto is angry at the unfairness of the world.


Ianto cringed as the sad grey sedan pulled up out outside the police station. The driver didn't even get out of the car. There was a silent agreement that Ianto was supposed to get in quickly without making a scene, lest anyone they know see either of them here. Ianto however didn't hurry, pulling himself up from the spot where he'd been sat on the low stone steps, pulling his jeans up a little so that the waistline was hanging somewhere it was supposed to and not any lower. It wasn't cool, but it would be one less thing to be in trouble for - as if anything else could possibly compare to what he was going to have to confront. He begrudgingly wandered over to the car, its engine still running as Ianto slipped into the passenger seat without a word. His dad didn't even spare him a glance as he hastily pulled away from the curb.

Ianto knew he was in deep shit - probably as deep as it could possibly go. In his pocket was the letter requiring him to front up before the magistrates court next week, charged with petty theft. He wondered if it counted as theft when you never even got to keep the stuff you stole. He hadn't even made it out of the store with his booty before the irate shopkeeper was threatening him and his mates with a broom. His mates had for the most part got away. One shoved the man over on his backside and two more had followed after him, leaping over the man lying prostrate between the shelves. Only Ianto had been inept enough to hesitate, just long enough for a wandering patrol to hear the commotion and check on things, quickly nabbing him in the process.

It wasn't like what he'd seen on The Bill. They didn't grab him and shove him to the ground, cuffing him like some hardened criminal and reading him his rights. It had been more of a quiet corralling him to the back of the shop for a few questions, before he was very diplomatically lead out of the shop without incident and into the police a car. His mates were nowhere to be found. He wondered if they knew what had happened and felt sorry for him, or if maybe they were having a good laugh at his expense for being stupid enough to get knicked.

He'd lost track of just how many times the female officer had told him he'd made a very silly mistake on their way to book him at the station. It was silly, but it still warranted a formal charge and a request to appear in court. Since he was underage, the police had at least done him the favour of calling his parents and explaining what had happened. That was one phone call he wouldn't have wanted to make himself.

It felt like the longest drive of his entire life, his Dad giving him the sullen, silent treatment. Normally he was soft-spoken, but always with a word for Ianto when he thought he could do something better, or when he wasn't dressed properly, or when he was late showing up for tea. It was fussing more than it was nagging, but it grated on his teenage nerves all the same. Right now though, he'd give anything for his Dad to talk to him or even acknowledge him.

When he finally pulled up outside the run down old house, Ianto thought he was going to continue being ignored. Instead his Dad rounded the car and stood face to face with him, still a good few inches taller than Ianto despite his most recent growth spurt.

His Dad grabbed his wrist hard, twisting it almost painfully as he pulled it towards him, inspecting it. Ianto instinctively pulled back, but his Dad's grip was too strong.

'Just as I thought,' he said, giving it another sharp tug forward, inspecting the patches of black and other colours on Ianto's fingertips and under his short, chewed fingernails. 'You've been off with that lot painting graffiti all over, haven't you?'

Ianto cringed as his Dad finally let go, almost thrusting his own hand back at him. He'd tried to wash the worst of it off, but there was always some he couldn't get off, where his finger had been pressed tight against the nozzle of the can, and the liquid paint seeped under his nail, into the crevices at the sides or deep within the whorls of his fingerprints. Also there of course was the ink from his actual fingerprinting, even harder to remove despite the alcohol wipes he'd been given. Red and black were always the hardest to get out of his skin and nails, but he favoured them nonetheless. His graffiti tags were small and unspectacular compared to everyone else's. Most of the time he just sat and watched the others creating giant murals of huge balloon letters and punk cartoon kids with backwards caps and hoodies. He wasn't at all artistic, but he could sit and smoke and watch for hours as someone else added new artwork along the Grangetown railway line or in the underpasses by the river. He'd convinced himself that it wasn't criminal and that the walls were just begging for a bit of colour to add life to the otherwise drab city streetscape. If they didn't do it, someone else inevitably would.

'I thought we raised you better.' The comment cut right to the quick. Ianto didn't think of himself as being bad. Quite the opposite. There were kids on the estate that went around with knives, and sometimes even guns, threatening or terrorizing people for money, or just for the fun of giving them a scare. There were guys who beat their wives or their kids, off their heads on drugs or just preternaturally angry and violent, and kids that then did it to everyone else just to stop themselves from feeling powerless. Some gangs existed only to get into fights with other rival gangs. His mates weren't that sort of gang. They were just bored and hard up for money to entertain themselves. The cinema was expensive, as was keeping themselves flush with bootleg cigarettes and six-packs of cheap lager. Hanging around the high street shops didn't cost them anything. Not until you decided to go and in and steal stuff, anyway, he conceded.

'Maybe a few months in prison would sort you out,' his Dad said. 'Make you appreciate what you've got.'

The observation hit him hard. Would they really send him to prison for trying to knick a few CDs? He hadn't hurt anyone. And how long for? Three weeks? Three months? Three years?

'You can be the one that tells your Mum. God only knows how she'll take it. Brought shame down on this whole family, you have.'

Ianto felt his anger welling up inside him. He'd shamed them? What about when his sister had gotten herself knocked up at nineteen and then moved out with her boyfriend three months later? She was meant to be getting a job and instead she'd spent most of her pregnancy lounging on that moth eaten sofa back at home, complaining that the rent was too high and Johnny could only get contract work, which meant they couldn't afford the heating bill, and it was too cold to stay at their place all day. His Mum and Dad had been cross with her for about two weeks, but after that, his Mum doted on her endlessly.

'Poor Rhiannon. She can't very well sit in that freezing flat all day. She's eating for two now, as well.' Everything became baby this and baby that and he might as well have not existed for all the attention he got, and he still lived there under his parents roof. Gone were the cups of tea shared over the kitchen counter with his Mum after school, or the reruns of old TV soaps and Top of the Pops that they'd watch together. He couldn't even get excited when finally Rhiannon had the baby, bringing it around for cuddles. The thing always cried and he was terrified of dropping it or doing the wrong thing, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been replaced by it. He'd become irrelevant. He had to get out of the house, if only to prove to himself that he still existed. At least his mates didn't care about babies and stuff, but neither did they want to sit around watching afternoon TV. That sort of thing wasn't cool.

He was angry at his Dad as well. All he cared about was that stupid job of his. Ianto hardly saw him, choosing as he did to work all of the night shifts at the store, not coming home until ten most nights, even though the store closed at nine. When he was home for tea, he'd sit there and pepper Ianto with questions. What did you do at school today? Have you done your homework? Where are you off to after tea? Who are you going with? When will you be back? Why don't you apply for a part-time job at the store? He was constantly being harangued, especially about the getting a job part. He was only sixteen. Why did he have to get a job when he still had school? Why couldn't he just leave Ianto alone? Why couldn't he just ask his Mum about anything he wanted to know about what went on in Ianto's life? She already knew most of it from earlier.

'I should have gotten you that job,' his Dad said, as if reading his mind. 'Idle hands are the devil's work.'

'I don't want your stupid job!' And it was a stupid job. He sold clothes at a boring department store, but always made out that he was some kind of expert tailor. Maybe he could have been if he'd had the guts to do it, but he was just a nobody. His nobody Dad who thought Ianto was a nobody and that he knew what was best.

His Dad narrowed his eyes at him, lips pursed in anger. No. You'd rather steal what you can't afford,' he replied, succeeding in wounding Ianto with the hard truth of it.

'I didn't want them,' Ianto replied half-heartedly. He truly hadn't. But they were all in the shop and the others were helping themselves, slipping them into jacket pockets and down the backs of jeans. 'What d'you fancy, Iant? None of that Queens of the Stone Age bollocks, I hope.' He should have spent less time deciding what to steal and more time thinking about what might happen if they got caught.

His Dad folded his arms, s across his body and squared him up with a look. 'Oh? So why did you steal them, then? Thought it would make you look good in front of your friends? Good friends of yours. Let you take the fall for the whole thing.'

He slumped against the battered passenger door, unable to go anywhere else with his Dad standing there, blocking his path. He folded his arms across his chest, giving his best petulant glare. Because there was nothing else to do in this crappy town, he thought. The notion was sullied only by the thought that his friends had indeed abandoned him to face justice for their actions alone.

His Dad sighed, the sound laden with weariness and disappointment. 'Don't know what I'm supposed to do with you. Thought you were smart enough to go and make something of yourself. Looks like I was wrong.'

Ianto balled his hands up into fists, just barely holding back tears that threatened to well up in his eyes at the insinuation he was worthless. He was cross at a lot of people, but he was equally cross at himself. Prison or not, he was going to prove to his Dad that he was worth something. Just you wait. I'll show you.