Jack Harkness doesn’t know the name of his latest lay.
What he does know is that the line of the young man’s cheekbone is wide, and that his bony body looks good in the black Italian suit he’d bought for Angelo Colosanto on the fifth of January, 1928.
He knows the young man has a preference for fizzy drinks, and carries his own straw so as to wring every last burst of carbonation from any given beverage.
He knows the young man has cool skin, like a dead man he used to date on Cephali Prime. Only that lover had been an android with no head, a robot with a knack for numbers and a real taste for a dry martini, no onion, hold the olive.
As he considers the young man sleeping in his bed, he remembers the name he’s taken for himself, in this room full of sparse furniture and strewn clothes, on this planet thick with space and light and parks and silver buildings. Steve. Late night, he’d finally just taken to calling the young man Slim, because the pale beauty hadn’t given a name. “No names, no consequences,” Slim had told him, when he’d stepped out of the giant fire engine red pyramid cake like a model, all legs and distance.
“Are you married, I wonder?” Jack muses aloud, his thoughts idling for a moment on the golden ring carved with roses sitting on the squarish, modern-glass nightstand by the bed.
The black suit is in a pile on the floor, more of a pool, really. A white dress shirt sits on top like a kitten at the top of a pile.