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“Oh, you damage that coat, i’m jumping over this bar to protect it.”
Jack froze, his body tensing as the man before him transformed into someone else. The pub beneath him clattered about, lights dancing over his skin. The drink is his hand burnt his throat as it travelled along it, dragging a knife along with it; jack raised an eyebrow, staring at the bar tender. He held his hand out in a way of greeting. “Jack.” He said, His mouth tipping into a smirk, “You like the coat?”
“Brad,” the man leered, “Passionately.”
“By the way, love the coat.”
“Really? Suppose the three of us go out some time then?”
“Or the two of us, i was thinking the coat could stay on the floor.” Now Brad raised an eyebrow, leaning far over the bar and breathing the words onto jacks neck. His hair stood on end and it all of Jacks willpower not press himself against Brad. “Bathroom?” the man breathed, fisting jacks coat and licking a bead of sweat off of jacks jawline.
“Who would i be to decline?” He murmured , repressing a slight groan and letting his eyes shut.
“I really like that coat!”
In a flurry of movement, the pair rushed to the bathroom, lips crushing together, hands roaming anywhere they could find. Hot breathe moulded together as jack felt the wall crushing into his back. Everything happening seemed to also not be happening: in his mind, it wasn’t Brad pushing him against the wall; in his mind, it wasn’t an American accent drooling from those lips; in his mind, this skin wasn’t as tanned and in his mind, those hands where covered in gun calluses. To jack, this man was the mere age of 26. Nothing more, nothing less. To jack, in just a few short months this man was going to be 27, living life like there was no tomorrow- because there just might not have been. To jack, he revelled in the closeness of the touch, and to jack -for a brief moment- this wasn’t just sex.
Because with him, it was love.
Everything about him made jack melt into a puddle, and the more that puddle transformed into blood, the harder it became to deny the love hidden beneath the glances. So right now, the smooth hands covering his body, and the toned skin pressed against his chest weren't really there: everything was a ghost. Every part of him aching and burning, blood rising from whispered touches, was yearning for a ghost. Yearning for a miracle, yearning for a lost soul, for a moment of relief, for a thing he could never have, for something more; for everything. For him.
For Ianto Jones.
“I like the suit, by the way.”