Title: The Secret Life of Ianto Jones
By: ninefics
Characters: Ianto Jones, OCs
Rating: All ages
Words: 1340
Warning(s): Mention of guns; death.
Spoiler(s): No — set (very) pre-series
Summary: The pre-Torchwood life of Ianto Jones.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. I am not affiliated with the television series Torchwood, nor any of the cast and crew. No harm is intended. It's all just for fun.

Francis Happ was a German expatriate. He was tall and lean with a hawkish nose and a perpetually raised eyebrow. He was a proud and educated man. He seldom spoke of his reasons for coming to Wales initially, but would tell anyone who listened that he stayed because he fell in love with Mildred.

Mildred, was short and plump with an upturned nose, freckles, and an infectious smile. She met Francis Happ in 1964, when she was just sixteen. He was thirty. It was love at first sight and they married almost immediately.

Eleven months later, Sian was born.

Catrin was born in 1969. Jessica arrived in 1971, and Megan in 1973.

Mildred's fifth pregnancy, in 1979, was a surprise.

The baby was born in the darkest part of the night, just about three in the morning. His mother had been in labor for nearly thirty hours. The doctor was afraid they might have to resort to a cesarian birth because it should have taken much less time.

"It's a boy!" The midwife announced, then repeated it in Welsh. "A perfect, healthy, beautiful son."

The baby's father stood up tall and proud. A son. After four girls he'd given up hope; at last he had a son.

After the baby was cleaned, weighed, and checked over, the midwife put him in his mother's arms.

"Ieuan Francis Rhydderch Happ," she said and sighed contentedly, cuddling her newborn son.


Ieuan Happ was not a normal boy.

The first thing his parents noticed about him was that he never cried. They had his hearing tested several times, and every time they were told it was normal, if not actually slightly better than normal. Painful, intrusive tests of his throat and vocal cords showed them to be normal as well.

He didn't cry, but he frowned. Ieuan made his displeasure known with a stern look that would freeze even his father (who was a formidable man in his own right) in his tracks. Of course, a smile or a laugh or one glance at those wide blue eyes had similar results.

He learned to walk and use the potty. He could dress himself and feed himself. He was continually under the ideal weight for his age, but taller, and much less clumsy than his agemates, and by age three he still hadn't cried and he was not yet talking.

"Well you go on speaking Welsh and German to him as well as English. Poor thing probably doesn't know what anyone is saying." Mildred's sister said. "And you did have him late in life, you know. Might be something wrong with his brain."

Mildred didn't feel it was worth the argument to point out that thirty-two was far from old. She did, however, point out that Ieuan was average or above average in all other areas of development.

Ieuan's father had a much more philosophical approach to the issue. "Maybe he just hasn't got anything to say."


He started speaking when he was four. At five years old, Ieuan's vocabulary surpassed that of the youngest sister, and his father was teaching him to read in all three languages (something the girls had been interested in).

Ieuan's sisters doted on him, even if they did occasionally treat him like a doll. More than once he had to be rescued from the clutches of his adolescent sisters who were putting him in their old clothes.

His mum shook her head and peeled the dress off. "Ianto, why do you let them get away with this?" She asked in Welsh.

He replied in English. "It makes them happy," he said calmly as she scrubbed bright pink blush from his cheeks.

"Well you can't let this go on. What will your father say if he comes home and sees you all tarted up in women's clothes?"

"They'll get bored and stop," he said with the absolute surety only a five-year-old could have. Truthfully, they had mostly given up. It was only Megan who kept doing it, and since Ieuan realised she didn't enjoy it if he didn't struggle, her interest was waning.

School was uneventful, even boring at times. Ieuan tended to stay near the back of the room and seldom participated. Notes were sent home frequently. "He's not working up to his potential" and "Lack of socialisation skills may hold him back" and "Seems bright but withdrawn."

When he was eight, he had his first session with a therapist who asked him if he was mistreated by his parents or sisters, and if he ever thought about harming himself or others. Ieuan had stared at the woman for several long minutes, a slightly incredulous look on his face.

"I just don't have anything to talk about with them," he said in French. Then he blushed and looked down at his shoes. "Sorry. Your accent. I just assumed. I shouldn't do that."

It was her turn to stare incredulously. Then she smiled and shook a finger at him, scoldingly. "You can read my certificates. You know I studied in Paris. You cheeky boy."

"Well, yes. But your accent isn't Parisian. You were raised in the South of France. Close to Italy, right? Nice?"

"That is astounding. How did you know that?"

Ieuan gave a small shrug. "Papa and I talk about a lot of things. He has books and tapes of languages and sometimes when I can't sleep I listen to them."

The therapist declared him completely normal, curious, and exceptionally bright. She informed his parents that what would be best for him would be more interaction with children his own age. She suggested sports or other group activities.

His mother was relieved. His father wasn't the least bit surprised.

Ieuan started playing football a few weeks later, then rugby a few months after that. Mildred was alarmed by how often he came home bruised and bloody, but he assured her he was fine. He was learning, he said, and was getting stronger and smarter and faster.


Mildred died from a particularly aggressive cancer soon after Ieuan's tenth birthday. His sisters were essentially grown. Sian was married with a toddler and a new baby. Megan moved in with her to help out. Catrin lived on her own and Jessica was living in London.

"Let's travel," Francis Happ said. It was a week after the funeral and neither of them had spoken out loud in the time since. His words hung in the air for a moment.

Ieuan tipped his head to the side and looked thoughtful. "What about school?"

"The world is much more interesting."

And so, the two Happs began to roam.

June, 1990. Germany

Francis Happ had not been in Germany since he was a young man. He was saddened to see how much had changed and surprised to see how much hadn't.

Düsseldorf was still beautiful. They spent days strolling through the streets, visiting shops and museums. Nights were spent at the ballet or the opera or simply sitting having coffee and watching people stroll by.

Francis had taken up his wife's habit of addressing Ieuan as Ianto. Francis had never been partial to pet names, but he used it in her memory.

Some days Francis would drop Ianto off at a museum or a library. He would go off on his own, leaving Ianto to read or study or sketch. He never talked about where he went or what he did during those hours; he was more content to let Ianto talk about his day.

"I learned to dance today," Ianto said. He was stretched out on the grass of the Hofgarten, hands folded over his stomach and his eyes closed against the setting sun.

"Did you?"

"Mm-hmm. At the library. There were videos. I watched a few."

"And that makes you a dancer?"

Ianto rolled to his feet. "Yes," he said, and offered his hand.

After several moments of struggle, Ianto sighed. "Papa, you're just going to have to let me lead."


February, 1991. London

Familiar, Ianto thought as he stood on the platform at Paddington. When he was a small boy they'd made weekend trips to London. Before Mum got sick they'd come a few times to visit Jessica. Before Mum got sick they'd come a few times because Papa had to work in London.

It was then that Ianto realised Papa was still working. That that was where he was when he left Ianto at museums or malls or libraries.

"Where do you go all day," Ianto casually asked one afternoon.

"Here and there."

"And what do you do here and there?"

"This and that."

"And for whom do you do this and that when you're here and there?"

"Men and women."

"And these men and women, they pay you well for your this and that at the here and there?"

"Well enough."

"Well enough to buy me an ice cream?"


They visited Jessica while they were in London. Ianto hadn't seen or spoken to any of his sisters since their mum's funeral. Jessica looked so much like their mother he wanted to cry, although he was nearly eleven and practically a young man and crying would have been such a baby thing to do. Instead he hugged her tight and whispered "I miss mum" in her ear. Jessica's cheeks were wet when she let him go.

The last night they stayed with Jessica there was some sort of an argument. Ianto was supposed to be asleep but the raised voices in the sitting room woke him. He crouched near a heating vent and listened intently.

"Let him stay here with me," Jessica said. "Or better, with Catrin or Sian! He could stay in Wales. He could have a normal childhood. He could be a normal child."

"Ianto has never been a normal child, Jessica. You know that. He'd be bored. He'd become unruly. He's much too smart, and he's safer with me."

"Safer for now, but what if things go badly? I know you were in Germany. I read the reports. Papa, what if it had gone wrong and they'd ..." her voice dropped to a whisper.

"But they didn't, and I'm very much alive. And if you haven't noticed, it worked. Germany is on its way to becoming whole again."

"I think it's stupid," she said. "Stupid and cruel and unfair. He won't have any friends, he won't have any sense of community. He won't fit in anywhere."

"He'll fit in at Torchwood!"

Jessica laughed. It was a short, harsh sound that made Ianto jump. There was a pause in their conversation and for a brief moment Ianto thought he'd made noise and they had heard him through the vent. Jessica's voice shook when she spoke again. "You're grooming him, aren't you. It's not enough that I was hired on. You've got to get your son in there, too. Papa, please. Send him home to Sian."

"No," he said flatly. "We're leaving in the morning. Goodnight."

On his eleventh birthday, his father gave him a gun. A COP 357 Derringer that was almost too heavy for Ianto to handle.

Francis Happ taught Ianto to shoot without goggles or ear protection. "You need full command of your senses. You need to hear everything around you over the sound of the gun. It will also teach you to respect the weapon and how to protect yourself with yourself.

"Always assume it's loaded," he said. "Even when it's in pieces in front of you, assume it's still deadly. Do not ever point it at someone unless you're fully prepared to shoot. If you draw it and aim it, use it. A gun is meant to be a last resort."

"Brains, body, ballistics," Ianto yawned. Think your way out first, fight your way out if you can't, and only rely on a weapon when all else fails.

"Are you bored with your lessons?"

"No. But I would like to go shoot things now."

Ianto's first targets were waxy boxes of juice and plastic bottles of jam. The resulting mess was more than pleasing for a pre-teen boy, even a clever one.


They lived in Cairo, Egypt for three years. There were occasional trips to outlying areas, and sometimes Ianto was left behind at the hotel. The manager and his family lived in the hotel, and Ianto formed a friendship with the manager's son, Marcus.

Marcus was a year older than Ianto, tall, athletic, sharp-tongued and a prankster. Combined with Ianto's knowledge, their troublemaking reached new levels and frustrated the hotel staff. They would find kitchen machinery had been disassembled in the night, vacant rooms would have the furniture re-arranged, and towels and sheets would go missing (only to turn up later in the form of a tent, usually in the middle of the lobby).

Most of the time their pranks were harmless, but when the guests started complaining they heard rats in the ventilation system, the manager put a stop to their games.

Francis was not pleased, but he convinced the manager that the boys were just restless and that neither should be punished if they promised to behave themselves. Ianto and Marcus just had to find other ways to occupy their time.

Marcus didn't have as much patience for museums and would often get bored and complain while Ianto stared at art and artifacts. They explored the Cities of the Dead, the monuments, and the streets. As they got older, they learned how to sneak into clubs, though they reserved that misbehaviour for times when Francis was out of the city.

When Ianto wasn't with Marcus, his father was continuing to teach him to shoot. Ianto became familiar with several rifles, and a selection of handguns. By the time he was twelve he had perfected his disabling shot. By thirteen, his kill shot was impeccable.

At the same time, Ianto was taught unarmed combat. His father taught him how to take a punch, how to fall to the ground safely and in a way that would enable him to regain his footing quickly, and how to deliver a blow that would render his attacker helpless long enough for Ianto to run.

"The smart man survives," his father said. "The weak man kills."


Ianto had just turned fourteen when Marcus kissed him.

"What was that for?" He asked.

Marcus shrugged. "Your birthday."

"I've had two other birthdays here," he replied casually.

Marcus kissed him twice more.

"I've had fourteen birthdays total."

Marcus stared at him for a few seconds.

"Eleven more," Ianto said with a slightly exasperated sigh.

Marcus counted each kiss out loud.

The fourteenth kiss lingered and grew, and turned sloppy with inexperienced tongues and noses and hands getting in the way, and got noisy with stifled laughter and snorted breaths. It ended with Ianto pinned under Marcus, red-faced and laughing and without a single thought or care that snogging your best friend might be considered "wrong".

Francis found them together one night when he returned earlier than expected from an assignment. They were asleep in Ianto's bed. Angrily, Francis shook them awake and ordered them to get dressed.

Marcus cried. He fell to his knees and begged Francis not to tell his father. "He'll kill me. Please, mister Happ, don't tell him. I'll promise you anything. He can't find out."

Ianto stood beside Marcus, helpless, hands folded repentantly behind his back.

Francis glowered. He threw a damp towel at the boy. "Clean yourself up. Go back to your room. Tell your father we've checked out."

"Papa!" Ianto interjected.

"We would have been leaving for Italy in the morning regardless. This just hastens things." Francis' eyes were so cold Ianto thought his blood might freeze. Then, inexplicably, he turned his back on Ianto. "Say your goodbyes. I'll give you ten minutes."

The moment Marcus left, Francis slapped his son hard across his face. "Stupid. Stupid boy." Tears welled up in Francis' eyes and he hugged his son tightly. "Discretion, Ianto. Be discreet."

"I didn't know. I didn't know it was wrong."

"It's wrong to some people. That's why you must be discreet."


Six months in Italy were followed by six months in Colorado. His father was away almost continuously during that time, and Ianto had little to do. He tried learning to ski, but somehow never caught on. There seemed to be a lot of work for very little payoff. Cross-country skiiing was even worse.

He learned to drive on the Air Force base where they were staying. He wasn't old enough to get a license, but as long as he stayed on-base and didn't damage anything, no one minded. Ianto was discreet about driving.

Ianto was also discreet about the fact that he was seeing an eighteen-year-old girl from a nearby university.

They broke up when his father said it was time to move again.

Things began to change in China.

Ianto was no longer Ianto. His father declared him too old for pet names and addressed him only as Ieuan. "You're a man now," he said. "You need responsibility. You need to define yourself."

Ianto's free time was severely limited. He spent hours in their hotel room studying. When he wasn't in the hotel he was with his father, practicing unarmed combat, practicing with firearms, practicing running for his life.

He was eighteen when they returned to London, and his father took him to Canary Wharf. Ianto was fingerprinted. His retinal scan and DNA were put on file. He was photographed, examined, studied, and tested.

"Ieuan's an exceptional boy, Francis," Howar d Torres said as he reviewed Ianto's scores. "Brilliant, competent, capable... but his psychiatric evaluation doesn't make him a suitable candidate for field work."

Francis and Howard sat in Howard's office. It was cool, dimly lit, and the walls were lined with glass cases containing various artefacts and scale models of the creatures that had created them. Many of the artefacts were marked with tags that bore Francis' name; he had been the agent responsible for finding (or at least retrieving) them.

Francis frowned and considered Howard's words. "What's wrong with my boy?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all. He just doesn't have the killing instinct. He's likely to get himself hurt or worse if a retrieval goes wrong." He shook his head sadly. "Too much of his mother in him, perhaps."

Francis' eyes grew dark. "My son is not soft."

Howard reached over and laid a hand on Francis' arm. "No. He isn't. He just doesn't have the natural inclination for field work, but he's young. It's possible that he can learn. I'll make the recommendation that you take him on as a trainee. You can let him see what assignments are really like. Then we can re-evaluate him in a year."

Francis nodded grimly, somewhat mollified. Nineteen was the Torchwood average for interns in the field, but Ieuan was meant to be different. Better than average.


Kazakhstan was hot and sticky. Ianto peeled his tee-shirt away from his chest and fanned himself with it. Somehow, despite the fact that he was dressed in a well-tailored suit and a tie, Francis didn't look warm or even slightly uncomfortable. Ianto envied his father.

His father tucked his gun in his sholder holster and Ianto raised an eyebrow. He'd always assumed his father's assignments were little more than business meetings. Two men in suits discussing an artefact and then making an exchange. He'd never noticed his father carrying his ancient Mauser HSc before. Although once Francis' suit jacket was buttoned the gun was almost invisible.

Ianto struggled into his shirt, tie, and jacket and followed his father to the lift, out of the hotel, and into the car that waited for them. The car was air-conditioned almost to the point of freezing and the man already in the back seat wore gloves against the chill.

"Who is he?" He asked Francis in Russian.

"My assistant. A trainee."

"Should I be insulted that you bring a child to our meeting?"

"He's fully qualified. You should be honored that I'd bring him. I think so highly of you, Diemchuk, that I want you to meet my son."

Diemchuk laughed, rich and deep, and clapped his hands together. "Your son . I see now. You're teaching him the family business. I suppose Happ the younger will be your replacement when you're gone."

Francis nodded politely. "Hopefully not for many years to come, but yes."

"Hopefully not, indeed!" Diemchuk took a briefcase from the floor and handed it to Francis. "A Gyrospatial Level. Non-toxic, non-threatening. Just a simple household repair tool."

"How does he know what it is?" Ianto asked his father.

Diemchuk laughed and said in heavily accented English, "You might say I'm not from around here."

Ianto stared, wide-eyed.

He was an alien, Diemchuk explained, and he owned and operated a quarry. Artefacts were continually turning up during their excavations. Torchwood considered him harmless and allowed him to live his life as a free man as long as he turned over anything he found.

Francis sat quietly between the two of them, letting them speak freely for several minutes before he whispered "enough" in Welsh. Ianto fell silent and looked to his father.

He leaned across Ianto and opened the door, ushering him out. "Diemchuk, I thank you for your help and for your hospitality. Torchwood thanks you for your contribution."

"I thank you for introducing me to your son, Happ. May it be a long time before he fills your shoes."

Francis slid from the car and bowed low, respectfully. "May it be a long time before someone fills yours." He took the gun from under his jacket and shot Diemchuk in the head.

Ianto stood there, gaping and trembling. "F-francis... father... what? Why?"

Francis holstered the gun and gave his son a freezing look. "Diemchuk was becoming a threat. He's found twenty-six alien weapons in the past four months and reported none of them. A response team will be searching his home right about now." He glanced at his watch, then looked at his son again. "This is how it works, Ieuan. Sometimes elimination is necessary for the safety of the Earth."

Ieuan Happ learned to stand, sit, speak, and walk like a gentleman before he was ten years old.  By the time he turned sixteen he could use a bow like Robin Hood, run like an Olympic sprinter, and could handle any firearm offered to him.

And now, in less than one year, he had to learn to be a killer.

"Excellence in all things," his father growled in his ear. Ianto pulled the trigger five times. Five kill shots clustered so close together in the paper target that it seemed to be only one hole. 

Paper targets were easy.

Torchwood had their version of a crime scene simulation.  The trainee would walk into the room, never knowing what to expect. There would be clues, of course, or perhaps a briefing before the simulation was started so the trainee would know what he was looking for, how many civilians were involved, and what sort of alien was being dealt with.  Sometimes the type of alien was unknown, forcing the trainee to think on his feet, choose the best weapon, and make the capture (or execution).

Sometimes the aliens looked human. Even like children.

No one was ever killed in the simulations, of course. The aliens and the civilians involved were all Torchwood staff. Each one in light body armor and covered in sensors.  The weapons used were harmless - emitting light or shooting paint that the sensors would interpret and report accuracy and level of damage.

Francis would sit in the control room with the technicians, watching.  Like the "aliens" and "civilians" involved, Ianto was covered in sensors.  They monitored his heart rate, temperature, and breathing, right down to what elements were contained in his exhalations. Body odor - sweat and pheromones - was monitored as well. Anything that might alert an alien (or a human) to his presence was recorded and calculated.

Ianto was swift, silent, and perfectly controlled. He could approach, assess the situation, choose the right weapon to get the job done, and often he was able to get the civilians clear before the carnage.

"Look at 'im!" One of the technicians sneered.  "He's a fucking diplomat!"  The tech hit the intercom button. "He don't speak English, Cupcake, so talking will get you nowhere." he shouted. "Bang. Bang. You're dead. You've just had your head ripped off by a rabid Gnotelo." 

He switched the intercom off and turned to Francis. "No offense, sir. You're one of the best field agents Torchwood's ever seen, but your son? Just ain't a killer."

The look in Francis' eyes reminded the young technician that Francis was a killer.  He inched away from the man, stammering apologies.

"I need to take him out in the field," Francis told his superiors.  "He knows the simulation is just a simulation. He knows the 'aliens' are friends and doesn't want to risk hurting anyone even accidentally. Please, let me take him on a few more assignments. I promise you, when it comes down to the crucial moment, my son will make the right choice."

Permission was granted grudgingly.


Through the 1990s, the alien population of China had been growing exponentially, but discreetly.  The already large population made it easy for the aliens to slip in almost undetected. Some merely transformed themselves to blend in with the population. Others wore the skins of people unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place.

When Torchwood became aware of the situation, twenty agents were dispatched.  Francis and Ieuan were among them.

"You cannot back down, Ieuan."

"I know, sir."

"This is a trial by fire. If you hesitate, you will die."

"I understand, sir."

"I hope you do, boy."  Francis squeezed his son's shoulder.  "You have to be ready."

Ianto found it hard to sleep on the flight. "You have to be ready" echoed in his head and he traced the pattern on the grip of his gun, hidden neatly beneath his tailored jacket.  He knew he wasn't ready.  He had sneaked a look at hispersonnel file and the note (highlighted in yellow) that stated he lacked the killer instinct. 

He knew this was true.  He was his mother's son. Careful and kind and patient.  The sort of boy who could tolerate three older sisters who treated him like a doll.  The sort of boy who could spend hours in a museum and never once think of getting into trouble or feeling bored.   He had his father's breeding and efficiency and ability to strategise. But the idea of killing someone - even an alien - was the one thing he couldn't find room for in his mental archives.

He wasn't ready. He would never be ready. All his research indicated that the majority of the aliens were living peacefully, finding jobs, learning skills, and generally blending in with the population.  Torchwood made no distinction between them and the aliens that were supplanting humans.  They were all scheduled for elimination.

Hopefully the others wouldn't need him. Hopefully he would only be required for cleanup and coverup.

Ianto fingered the gun again and wished he could solder the safety in place. 


Torchwood moved through the streets of North Lantau New Town.  A quick scan with a device that read energy signals separated the aliens from the humans.  The aliens were collected and "purged." The humans were given a quick blast of a spray that put them to sleep. 

Field Commander Lang, a lanky black man with an easy smile and a Northern accent explained that it adjusted their memories.  "They'll wake up in about ten hours convinced they saw a movie about aliens. Everyone will have the same recollection, so no one will think it's strange."  He gave Ianto a friendly slap on the back and laughed (though not unkindly) when the force made Ianto stumble.

Ianto managed to avoid the "purging" by volunteering to scan and spray. He was fluent in Chinese and glib enough to get people to opentheir doors to him. The ones who wouldn't be convinced were "influenced" by Francis' gun - subdued long enough to get a scan. The ones exposed as aliens were shot immediately.

Ianto's legs and jacket were splattered with ichor. It would never come clean. He wasn't sure he'd ever get the acrid smell out of his mouth and nose, either.

They were in the fifth house that had denied them. The man was against the wall, protesting loudly as Ianto scanned him and identified him as alien.  Sticky, spongy chunks spattered against his chest as Francis purged him.  And then, in less than a heartbeat, something crashed through from the floor above and grabbed Francis around the waist before rebounding.

Several shots were fired and Ianto heard a heavy thud.  Dust filtered through the hole, and then there was silence. Francis lowered himself through the hole in the floor and gave Ianto a tired smile. "I thought I was a dead man," he said softly.

Ianto drew, aimed, and as his father was saying "What the hell are you doing, boy", he pulled the trigger.  Francis exploded into glutenous fragments.

Ianto thumbed his Bluetooth. "This is Agent Happ. Senior Agent Happ was compromised," he said. "He's been purged."

Lang's voice came through as smooth and calm as if he'd been standing next to Ianto. "Shit, Ieuan. Return to the drop off point immediately."

"Right away, sir," he said, and severed the connection. He studied the display of his scanner and the steady red light, and then the spray device in his other hand.


The slim young man in the perfectly tailored suit gave a tight smile as the receptionist handed him an application and a pen.  He accepted them both and took a seat on the soft leather couch.

"Name", the application said. He carefully filled in "Ianto Jones."

"Position applying for," it asked. "Archivist," he wrote in his perfect handwriting.

"Are you related to anyone already/previously employed by Torchwood Industries?"  Ianto hesitated a moment and then wrote "No."