m_findlow

Title: Better late than never
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Ianto
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 775 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for m_findlow's prompt "Any, any, late again" at fic_promptly
Summary: Ianto is trying hard to be a good son.

'What time do you call this then?' his mother asked as he squeezed past her in the narrow hallway of his childhood home. It had felt as big as a railway tunnel when he'd been younger. Now he just saw it for the pokey little house it has always been.

'Rhi here?' he said, avoiding answering the question. He knew perfectly well he was late.

'No.'

'What's her excuse this time?'

'Now don't you start,' his mum warned him, giving him the eye. 'She's got kids and that Johnny of hers. At least she's got an excuse to be late.'

The comment rankled but he held his tongue. It wasn't his fault that Owen needed help trying to round up his lab rats who had mysteriously escaped their cage. Ianto had been the only one still there, apart from Jack, and Owen knew Jack would go ballistic about the rats. Rodents and Jack just didn't mix, so it turned out. He couldn't even say that he was late on account of saving the world. At least that might have bought him some leeway, assuming he could ever admit to his mum what he actually did for a living.

'Late from work again,' she tutted, heading back down the hall and into the small sitting room, parking herself in the armchair with the weariness of a woman in her sixties. 'I don't know what's got into you these days,' she said. 'Never used to be late for tea. Then again, I don't know what you got up to in London. Two years and barely a word.'

'I came home for Christmas.'

'Oh, aye. Christmas, Easter, the odd bank holiday. D'you want a medal for that? Bloody cheeky boy. Then you suddenly come back home tail between your legs and all. Fancy London job didn't work out, you said.'

'It didn't,' he replied, albeit a little terser that he intended. Nothing about London had worked out. He held back a sigh. Bloody Owen. It was his fault for being late and now it gave his mum free reign to have a go at him about everything wrong he'd ever done. At least he was here, unlike his sister, late or otherwise. He wanted to bite back but what was the point?

'How are you anyway?' he asked. It had become a bit of a trite question between them. There she was perched on the edge of the armchair, bandana covering her head. He'd said she should get a wig and she'd very firmly told him that if God wanted to test her, then she'd live with it. He didn't think God had anything to do with the tumor. Wasn't it bad enough that it was there? Did it then have to go and strip her of her dignity, the radiotherapy causing her to have lost all her hair?

'I'm fine,' she said, just as she always did. 'Can't keep a bloody thing down, mind.' She must have caught the worried look on his face because she immediately reached across and put a hand on his knee. 'Don't you start fretting about me,' she demanded. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

'I wasn't worried.'

'You're as bad a liar as your father was.'

He said he'd be fine too, if Ianto recalled correctly, the one time he'd bothered to call his father. The guilt that he hadn't done more still gnawed at him. Wasn't that why he was here now? He didn't need his mum nagging him about everything, but what else was he supposed to do, given the circumstances.

'You hungry, pet?'

'Not really,' he lied.

'Never eat enough, you. All skin and bones.'

He wanted to laugh and tell her that Jack had said as much. He wished everyone would stop mothering him. He wasn't a child.

'Come on,' she said, patting his knee again. 'There's a casserole in the oven.'

'Thought you were waiting for Rhi.'

'Bugger that. She knew what time she was supposed to be here. Bad as each other, you are, keeping on time. Don't know what I did wrong raising you lot.'

He looked at her again, noticing how pale she seemed, whiter than her usual fair skin tone. All the radiotherapy was taking its toll on her. He didn't want to lose her. A bloody nag she might be, but he already felt alone enough in the world. He couldn't bring himself to tell Jack. He had enough on his plate.

'You didn't do anything wrong, Mum.'

She stood up and ruffled a hand through his hair, knowing he hated it. 'Of course I didn't, daft boy. Now get yourself into that kitchen.'