Ianto raises his drink and takes another long sip of it to keep himself from saying something bitter or mean. It's not John's fault all of those options sound dreadful to him. Nor is it John's fault that he might have to settle for one, in the end.

"Maybe," he replies at last. Playing with his glass in his hands as the next words spill out of their own accord. "My father was a master tailor." Shit.