Disclaimer: Much though I might wish it, Captain Jack Harkness is not mine...
A/N: This was inspired by A) a silhouette of Jack in 4.1 which made me do a double-take before I realized he wasn't wearing his WWII coat, and B) the fact that he wore a tie, when we all know Ianto was the one who looked cute in a suit. Though it is a "missing scene" from the same episode, there are no spoilers, but it will probably only make sense if you are familiar with the previous episodes of Torchwood. It is very much in a different style for me, so any feedback you want to leave would certainly be appreciated. I would like to thank my sister and my betas jolinarjackson, czarinakitty, and keyjahn for their input also. Any remaining mistakes are one hundred percent mine.
Ghost
by outlaw author
Jack was choking. Not literally, mind you. No, not literally. But it didn't hurt any less.
He had suited up in front of the warped, dusty mirror in his warped, dusty room – fingers lingering with a few reverent, solemn caresses on the elegant material that was so out of place there. (It was a poor substitute.) Dressed, he had peered through the grime to regard his reflection with an attention he was no longer used to, gaze sharply assessing though no less melancholy for it. (This was someone else's job…)
His throat had constricted, and hesitant, uneager fingers reached for the tie draped over a nearby chair. They were steady, unable to betray so many fond memories (unable to betray him), though he wanted nothing less than to tear the damnable thing to shreds with a guttural cry…! But his muscle memory was unerring, his composure flawless, and soon enough the tie was perfectly knotted and centered at the base of his throat.
Then he had turned, picked up the final element of his ensemble, a black trench-coat also conveniently placed nearby, (but it was the wrong coat; his eyes were caught by the right one where it hung on a peg in the wall, but that too was wrong) and slid into it as quickly as possible, not wanting to prolong the process anymore (and even that was wrong when he had savored it before).
Jack had examined himself in the mirror once more, outfit complete. He had straightened his posture and hardened his composure. (But something was still missing.)
There was a hole at Jack's shoulder, in his heart, and Jack had not been able to bear looking at his reflection any longer. He had left the apartment before the emptiness swallowed what was left of him.
Impersonating an FBI Agent he most certainly wasn't, with his elegant suit, his perfect tie, the wrong coat, and his granite composure, hollow Jack choked on memories and emptiness and struggled just to breathe.
A/N: Feedback is love! And you know it's always best to share love...