Title: The Coat
By: bittersweet
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Note: Exams have reared their ugly head but I am irrepressible. Hence this rant about… you guessed it, Jack's coat. Well, it is pretty awesome. BTW I'm Australian, so forgive the zero knowledge of Wales and welsh-isms.
Summary: This is a rant about… you guessed it, Jack's coat. Well, it is pretty awesome.
Disclaimer: Pop pop pop pop. That's the sound bubbles make. I don't own Torchwood. Pop pop pop. (Remind me to eat less sugar, yeah?)

***

"Thanks."

"No, thank you. And you are?"

"Jones, Ianto Jones."

"Nice to meet you, Jones, Ianto Jones… Cap'n Jack Harkness."

"Lucky escape."

"I had it under control."

"You think so? It looked pretty vicious. You're, um... You were bleeding."

"Had worse from shaving."

"Looked like a Weevil to me."

"I've no idea what you're talking about."

…

…

"I'll take him from here…Thanks for the assistance."

"Anytime. By the way, love the coat."

He had meant it, too. From the first moment that coat had caught his eye. He loved it immediately. Ianto Jones, the man who created an impenetrable barrier with a perfectly cut suit, the man whose choice of shirt colour sent a dozen subtle messages, the man whose father had been the greatest tailor in Cardiff … he knew the importance of a coat.

He loved the way that it was the kind of coat his Tad would have adored. Seeing the coat brought back memories, memories of a childhood watching his father at work with awe and fascination. Days spent sitting on the counter holding the oversized scissors, running and hiding under the fur coats when a customer came in. Fetching the measuring tape for his Tad. His father had been so proper, so polite, so gentle. A man from another age, really. He had taught the young Ianto everything, and that old fashioned etiquette, those quirks of manner that made it so easy for him to play butler – they all came from his father. These memories weren't painful, though… these were the good ones. These were the ones he liked to remember.

He loved the way the threads had held their colour, a muted midnight blue verging on coal black. The cut, the way the fabric fell, unmistakably military, flamboyant and bold and so very Jack. It wasn't a coat you forgot in a hurry. It was a statement, and yet underneath it remained in essence the clothing of a soldier. Ianto had lost count of the times he had seen that coat slashed or shot, covered in blood both alien and human, singed and torn. But it always survived.

It always survived, and every time he would take it as Jack slept and gently spread it out, pinning the ripped fabric together as he readied it for the cleaning process. It had been easy for him to find the original design sheets for this type of coat, but harder had been thread and fabric that was right colour, from the right period. He had not accepted anything but perfection – he really was his father's son in that regard. He had visited old friends of his father, some for the first time since the funeral, talking with them about sewing machine speeds and thread count and the alloy of the replacement buttons, but never anything about that day… the day his Tad hadn't come home. These were men of a certain era, and they believed in the dignity of reserve.

And so, with care and distant memories to help him, he would piece the broken garment back together again, and hang it on the wall, as perfect as it had ever been. Sometimes he wondered what he would do if one day it was damaged beyond repair. He honestly could not imagine Jack in anything else. During a couple of particularly playful "paperwork" sessions in the basement, Ianto had ended up in Jack's suspenders and the older man in Ianto's waistcoat and jacket…it had been funny, but Ianto had pulled it off him. It had looked wrong. Although maybe the fact the two of them hadn't been wearing anything else had had something to do with it. Whatever the reason, they threw the clothes aside… but kept the suspenders. Jack had a thing for bindings, and Ianto didn't mind. In fact, he was always curious as to what he'd end up tied to next.

He loved the way it was so conspicuously out of its time. It was, after all, a RAF greatcoat. Not something you saw everyday, something that evoked idealistic images of a golden era, of a time he knew only from the silver screen. Like Jack, it didn't really belong, and was all the more entrancing for its exoticism. It certainly got them a hell of a lot of looks when they walked down to the Bay or out to eat. Although part of that may have just been Jack. He attracted attention like honey attracts bees. And bears.

What's more, though Cardiff was in general an accepting place, Jack didn't seem to be able to comprehend that this was the 21st century, and 'quaint' little labels still had importance. Ianto was not afraid for himself. He'd dealt with worse before. But sometimes he did wish Jack would be a little more aware of his own… obviousness. Especially in certain parts of town. It would mean a lot less trouble for everyone, and he wouldn't have to spend every second date talking Jack out of shooting some idiotic drunk homophobe in the foot. And then retconning the aforesaid drunken idiot if he failed to put forward a convincing case.

He loved the way that it smelled like Jack. Centuries of wear, every day for so many days, meant the scent of Jack had infiltrated every fibre of that coat. Those damned 51st century pheromones. They messed with his head, they really did. Sometimes he'd moan to Jack about having an unfair advantage, but Jack would just roll over and say incredulously that someone who made coffee like him couldn't talk about unfair advantage. When Jack left his place earlier in the morning - to avoid Owen's snide remarks when they arrived together - Ianto would sometimes go back to bed and just lie there, burying his face in the sheet and breathing in pure Jack.

He loved the way Jack always paused, no matter how urgent or dramatic his exit from the room, to allow Ianto to put the coat on him. It was an act of tenderness and affection, putting the coat on Jack. It was so simple, and Ianto loved that. The fact Jack never acknowledged it didn't matter in the least – he didn't mind if Jack didn't notice, because that wasn't the point. The point was that it was their own little routine, something that a normal couple might do.

So, when a glance at the screen told him those things - Daleks, Jack had called them - were coming, when he looked into Gwen's eyes and silently agreed to die with her so Jack could do what he had to do, Ianto was very careful to remember to get the coat and carefully slip it around Jack's shoulders like they always did. Jack couldn't be allowed to know that this was the last time they would see each other, touch each other. Today, Jack had to be the hero.

All in all, Ianto thought as Jack disappeared, it wasn't such a bad way to say I love you and goodbye.

***