John takes the cloak with immediate appreciation, turning and weighing it in his hands. Perhaps he has little to work from, but the fabric is lovely. He shrugs it on immediately, in the same clumsy way he always seems to get dressed, his two hands never quite moving in unison: it drapes nicely over his shirt and trousers, and John spreads his arms to feel the weight on his shoulders.

"It is perfect," he declares. That strange gravitas has come into his voice again, inhuman and regal, too deep a growl beneath the words. "I will try to see this one safely through the next Moon Warp. Thank you, Jack."