Disclaimer: I don't own anything Doctor Who related.

Rose languidly stirred the onions and peppers as they caramelized in the pan. She picked up her glass of wine and took a sip as she glanced around the flat. Ten months and his place was still pretty bare; nothing on the walls, no knick knacks, all the books he owned were in his study. She heard a small hiss from the soldering iron as he worked at the dining table. His black framed glasses were perched at the end of his nose. He stared intently through the magnifier in from of him as his tweezers moved carefully over the item.

"What you working on?" Rose asked.

"Energy," he said without looking up. Rose nodded. The Energy project was one of his more consuming ones. Only four or five people at the university knew about it. As he had explained it to Rose, it would make cold fusion look like the combustible engine. He set down the iron and looked up at Rose, herself focused on the stove. He liked watching her cook. She carefully poured the peppers and onions over baking dish of sautéed chicken. He rose from the table and walked into the kitchen. He stood behind her as she carefully added some grated provolone to the pan. Wrapping his hands around her waist, he pressed a small kiss to her temple.

"Smells good," he said quietly

"What? My hair or the food?"

"Both," He moved to the counter and bounced up, taking a seat. Rose glanced at him from the corner of her eye. As much as she had loved pinstripes and overcoats, she had to admit this look was pretty tasty as well: thin grey tee, low slung jeans, barefoot. He still had his suits for classes and meetings, but on his off time this had become his apparel of choice.

"You know what I was thinking about today?" he said, running a hand through his soft, un-gelled hair.

"What?"

"A name. I need one."

"You have a name: the Doctor." Rose slipped the baking dish into the oven.

"Yeaaah, but I mean a proper name."

"You have a proper name: John Smith" Rose opened the pantry door and grabbed a two boxes of pasta. She turned toward him and held up both boxes, silently asking for his decision. He pointed to the box of farfalle. Rose returned the other box to the pantry.

"That's the thing though. I never really liked the name John Smith." He picked up an apple off the counter and tossed it casually from one hand to the other. "I mean, sure, it was fine for temporary situations and if I wanted to remain anonymous, but now it feels like I need something more permanent." He stepped down from the counter. Rose poured the box of pasta into the boiling water and stirred it carefully. She turned toward him.

"I thought John Smith was a fine name," Rose said, matter-of-factly

"Well, yeah, it's fine, but it's boring," His eyes went wide at the last word. "I want something with a little more… y'know, Spark."

"Any name in particular?" Rose inquired. His grin widened as he lifted his eyebrow.

"Glad you asked. I was thinking,"-He set down the apple and flashed his hands out-"Giacomo!" Rose let out a snort of laughter.

"What?"

"Giacomo? Really?"

"You don't like it?" He almost sounded hurt.

"Well, it's not that I don't like it, it's just… I don't know," She giggled once more

"I knew a Giacomo once. Great bloke. Funny, Talented, a bit of a skeeze at times, yes, but in general a really decent guy." he walked over to the stove and stirred the pasta. Rose gave him a skeptical look. He laughed quietly at the adorable way her nose scrunched up.

"It just seems like such an old name," she said. "I mean, are you trying to be Casanova or something?"

"That was the Giacomo!" He yelped excitedly, waving the pasta spoon toward Rose. She giggled and took the spoon from him, placing it back on the counter.

"Even so, it seems a little old for you."

"Excuse me, I'm a 900-and-something-year-old Time Lord,"

"Actually you're a 10-month-old human, but we'll split the difference and say 40." He peered over his glasses, flashing Rose a quizzical look. She gave him a wry smile. "Fine, 38. But you're still not old. 'Giacomo' seems soooo antiquated, and dusty, and … 18th century." He laughed at this last bit. Rose grabbed a strainer and placed it in the sink.

"What would you recommend then?" He asked. She had grasped the handles of the pasta pot and slowly poured the hot water into the strainer, steam rising all around.

"I don't know," she thought for a moment. "What about 'Jack'?"

"Jack?"

"Yeah, I mean, it's kinda like Giacomo but more, y'know, modern," She dumped the drained pasta back in the pot. "It's quick, it's snappy, it's tight…"

"Like Me." He grinned wide. "Jack. Jaaack. Jackjackjack." He repeated the name several times. He nodded his head, satisfied. "Yeah, that works. Yeah, I like that. Jack." Rose handed him a bottle of olive oil, which he drizzled lightly over the pasta.

"So Jack Smith it is then?" She asked, pulling the baking dish from the oven and setting it on the stove top.

"No, no more Smith," he grimaced and his brow furrowed as he thought about it. "Tyler, maybe?"

"Ugh, no," Rose bristled. "That'd be too weird." She thought for a moment, before turning around and facing him.

"What about Harkness?" She offered. His eyes went wide as one brow raised in confusion.

"You're not serious?"

"Yeah, Why not?"

"Jack Harkness. Captain Jack Harkness. Nymphomaniac of the 51st century. Boffing everything that moves in this galaxy and the next." He gave Rose a worried glance.

"Well, I'm not asking you to be him, just use the name. As far as we know, there isn't one yet in this universe. You could use the name in tribute." She sipped her wine. The Doctor still looked unconvinced.

"Really, though… Jack Harkness?"

"Well, think about it: he was your friend, a companion, saved both of our lives on numerous occasions, and, most importantly," She set down her glass and walked toward him, slipping her arms around his waist. "If it wasn't for Jack carrying around that damn hand for so long"-she slipped her hand into the one in question and looked into his eyes-"You… wouldn't be here with me."

His mouth went slack as he looked into her eyes, so sincere, so empathetic, so devoted, and realized the depth of what she was saying. He wasn't her second place trophy. He wasn't her consolation prize. He was hers. He was what she wanted. Not an alien zipping around the universe in a blue box. Just a man (a brilliant man, but still a man) who could make her laugh and cook dinner with her. Who was able to enjoy wasting time on Sunday mornings and playful arguments. Who she could love and who she knew would love her back. Her lifted her hands to her cheeks and pulled her face towards his. There lips met in a raw and unbridled kiss. He ran his tongue against her teeth, reveling in the feeling of her mouth. Rose hands slipped up the back of his head and into his hair. Their tongues twisted together as Rose let out a soft moan. His thumb softly caressed her cheek as his hand slipped around to the nape of her neck. As they pulled away, Rose caught his bottom lip in her teeth for a moment before letting go. He leaned his forehead against hers.

"I love you," he whispered. "So very much." Rose smiled. She took his face in her hands and looked him in the eyes.

"I love you," she said warmly. Once again, he saw that look in her eyes and knew what she meant. A large grin swept across his face. His heart could've leapt out of his chest if he'd let it. He inhaled deeply, thinking for a moment.
"Jack Harkness… Yes, I do believe that'll work," suddenly a look of concern crossed his face. "Does this mean I have to attempt to shag everyone I come in contact with?" He asked.

"No. Just me," Rose laughed. "Aaaannnddd maybe an 'Ianto Jones' if we ever come across one."