Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood.

A/N: Day one of the July One-shot Challenge. Today's prompt was "babysitting." I have no idea how old David and Mica are in the show, but she looked about 5 or 6 and he looked around 10 or 11.

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Autumn 2003:

Ianto swore to himself that he was never, ever having children. Ever.

He'd shove sticks of bamboo underneath his fingernails before he would even consider such a thing.

And he'd cut off his own tongue before he agreed to babysit his sister's hellspawn even once more. Rhiannon usually just asked their dad to babysit—a poor parental decision if Ianto had ever heard one—but lately he'd been feeling ill. Not ill enough to stop smoking and drinking, but enough that he couldn't keep up with these two.

Ianto wasn't surprised. He was only 20 and he couldn't keep up with them. Mica wasn't that difficult, he supposed, once you figured out how to change her nappies. She was only a few months old, but cried loudly enough to wake the dead and wiggled like a demon. As it was, he was covered in enough baby powder to make him look like a cokehead. He did not think it was a good look for him. Especially as Rhiannon was already convinced he was dealing in drugs. She just could not fathom how someone in a coffee shop managed to pull so much in tips. She thought the whole thing was stupid, anyway.

David—and he still wondered what kind of twpsyn his sister had to be to name a child David Davies—was the real culprit. While his hapless uncle was tending to the baby, he'd snuck out into the back garden to kick the football around. Ianto was forced to hose the absolutely ridiculous amounts of mud off before he let the boy back into the house. Then he tried to climb the drapery "because I'm Spiderman, Uncle Ianno!" and tore it down. And then he decided that he could not wait for Ianto to finish putting the baby down for her nap for a piece of toast and had nearly set the kitchen on fire.

Ianto very much doubted his nephew would survive to see the age of seven. He clearly the boy had his father's brains.

"Listen , David. No...No, don't stand on the sofa. Listen," he tried. Maybe the boy had that ADHD they were always chatting about on the news. He felt a bit guilty for the...unkind things he'd thought about his nephew if that was the case. "I'll give you twenty quid if you just sit—calmly!—and watch cartoons until your mum gets home."

Thank merciful Christ the kid agreed.

Ianto fetched the tool kit from underneath the kitchen sink, resolutely ignoring the severely burnt toast on the counter, and set about fixing the curtain rod. He tried to tune out whatever insipid cartoon David was watching and let himself daydream. Soon, he'd leave this place and never look back. No babysitting, no "Ianto, be a good lad and pick your old man up. I'm down at the pub!" when he had to be up with the larks. No estate hoodies thinking they're tougher than him.

He'd be in London. He'd be happy there, he just knew. He planned to get a boring job in a boring office, maybe with a temp agency. He'd get a swanky flat and an even swankier espresso machine. Find a girlfriend or maybe just pick up a few pretty girls after winning a pub quiz or a karaoke competition. However you were supposed to pick up girls. Ianto wasn't sure. He'd grown up knowing everyone around him...there was no point in going out on the pull. The local girls seemed to be happy with a quick tumble in the back of his dad's shitty car.

He was still cleaning up—how could a baby and a small child make so much mess in such a short time?—and daydreaming when his sister came home from her shift. Thankfully, Mica was still sleeping and David was serious about his twenty quid. Ianto fished out his wallet and paid the boy before Rhiannon made her way into the room.

She looked pointedly at the powder on his dark T-shirt and gave him her best "disapproving sister" glare. At least she knew her children could drive someone to drugs.

"Never again, Rhi," he said, wagging his finger at her. "Never, ever again."

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