There is a man at the bar, Jack notes. The man’s delicate back sports a Victorian jacket, velvet, green maybe. Or blue. It’s hard to tell at this distance with all the smoke. A lit cigarillo peeks from one side of the dark strawberry-blonde curls. The smooth, wiry shoulders are seals about to slip into the water, slumped and obfuscated, as though their owner hates himself.
Cut to the piano in the darkest corner of the long, disarranged room full of knocked over chairs and floor-bound drinkers. Long fingers leap into the strains of Satie again. A creamy camel trench settles across shoulders that are slightly wide and tensed and slumped, as though the piano man’s muscles are aching to play anywhere but here, despite the reek of surety aching from the keys, and so Gymnopédie 1 sallies forth, undaunted.
But then, Jack reasons, his eyes flipping back toward the Victorian gent at the bar, pianists always seem that way.
Jack feels a chill again, that warmth he gets as though someone’s poured bourbon down his spine.
“Jack Harkness, you can come over here now. I’m not going to bite. As if I ever could again. As if I never had before. As if I never will, over and over. As if… oh, it doesn’t matter. Come here. Sit.” A hand taps on the short stool beside the speaker.