Prompt: In which Kurt's dad is Captain Jack Harkness and he's running the Manhattan branch of Torchwood. Blaine is a Timelord.

Machinery hummed all around him, his nimble fingers zipping across his keyboard as he tried desperately to save his program. It was no use, however; after another minute the screen went blank.

"Dammit!" Kurt shouted, slamming his foot against the computer box. Hard. It hurt, a lot, but he didn't care at the moment. He was pissed. "You just had to go and crash on me! I almost had it, too! I almost had it!"

Kurt was around 5′8″, in his mid-twenties, with porcelain skin an accent implying that, if Brooklyn had had a baby with Wales, the result would be him. His shirt was tucked into his khakis, neatly buttoned up, complete with black suspenders and a faded blue baseball cap to cover his mess of chestnut hair. He was easily pissed, frowned a lot, and was probably the most flaming homosexual on this of Manhattan.

A man's voice sounded from behind him, playful and slightly deeper than Kurt's, but a little raspy from the cigarettes he'd given up on hiding from him. "System crash?" he asked, slipping into the room and peeking over his boss' shoulder, dark brown curls spilling over his ears to frame his lightly tanned face. He turned his bright blue eyes back to Kurt, so out of place in the darkness of his complexion. Not that Kurt cared; he liked it, even, and would often give a silent thanks to his co-worker's whiter-than-white father and latina mother for mixing their genes.

"Mhm," Kurt muttered in response, huffing softly and flopping back against the nearest column. He could feel the electricity humming through it, like blood through an artery, helping to power the vast metal body that was Torchwood Institute. "You know, Mickey, the Doctor's really starting to piss me off."

Mickey laughed, nudging Kurt's shoulder gently. He was shorter than Kurt, and Kurt would often catch himself wondering just how neatly he'd fit bent over the nearest table, only to curse himself for thinking something as obscene as that.

"You really should take a day off," Mickey suggested, a mischevious glint in his eye. "Ya know, before the stress of this job starts making you gray."

Kurt rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly. "I don't think I could do that. I made a promise to my father; if I risk missing the Doctor..."

"Oh, just go with him!" a woman called from the other side of the room. "The sexual tension between you two is killing me!"

"Oh, can it, Daphne!"

"Fight me, Hummel!"

Daphne was a technician, the best there was. Need the police records of a suspect? On it. Need to break through the Queen's firewall? Piece of cake. You want to watch some expensive, high-quality porno? She'll download it to your device absolutely free. Daphne was a genius, trained by her mother, Toshiko Sato herself. Without her, Manhattan Torchwood would be clueless.

She also shipped Kurt and Mickey harder than anyone ever could.

Mickey was looking up at Kurt hopefully, batting his eyelashes pleadingly. "Please?"

Kurt's insides must've melted then and there, because he couldn't help but give in. "I guess... One night off won't hurt anyone..." He glanced over at Daphne, who had a pleased look on her face. "Just make sure you and Dave are monitoring the machinery, okay? Notify me immediately if anything happens."

"Mhm. No prob, boss," Daphne complied. "Now go! Get ready!"

"What, now?!" Kurt spluttered, but Mickey was already tugging on his hand with a grin, and he was being led to the exit. He waved goodbye to Dave on the way out, and up into the real world they went.

Music pounded in Kurt's ears and color danced over his closed eyelids, a steady beat accompanied by a set of fingers in his hair and a pair of lips crashing against his own, lips that tasted like sweat and alcohol and faintly of cigarette smoke. Something hard was rubbing against his groin, stimulating the erection straining against his zipper, making Kurt want more, more, more of the man he was ravishing. He would bend him over and fuck him right now, if he could, but he couldn't; not in the middle of a nightclub. They'd be kicked out for sure. Then again, they wouldn't be staying for long anyways.

"You. Me. My place," Kurt ordered, tugging the other man forward by the waist. "Now."

The shorter man nodded, flustered, allowing Kurt to lead him outside, his already disheveled dark curls tousled by the wind. "What's your name again?" he asked, out of breath, running his fingers through his hair.

"Kurt. Kurt Hummel-Harkness. Remember that if you need something to cry out," the taller man answered, winking and tugging his companion forward by the belt loops in his jeans. "What's yours?"

"I'm the Do- Mmf~" the shorter's words were cut off by a soft moan as Kurt kissed his neck, tilting his head back. "B-Blaine Anderson. How far is your home?"

Blaine Anderson. Normally Kurt would have investigated further, figured out what 'the Do' meant, but at the moment he was too drunk and horny to think straight and, as far as he knew, The Doctor's preferred alias was John Smith. So, all he did was kiss Blaine's neck and whisper in his ear, reassuring him that, no, his apartment wasn't too far away, and that yes, he'd be fucking him until he could hardly walk in just a few minutes.

Kurt woke up sometime in the middle of the night, bare naked and with a killer headache. Wonderful. Then again, it could be worse. He could be dead. Again.

He'd been woken by a strange humming noise beside him, the source of which was a thin, glowing metal rod in the hand of the night's lover, Blaine Anderson, who was, apparently, still handcuffed to the headboard.

"Crap. I completely forgot about those," Kurt said softly, sitting up and frantically looking for the key. "Give me a second..."

"No, don't worry, I've got it," Blaine reassured him as a click sounded from his direction and the handcuffs came undone. He let the cylinder fall into his lap, rubbing his wrist. "Damn. That took longer than I thought. Think maybe it needs to be recharged..."

Kurt had propped himself up on his elbow, looking over at Blaine with a puzzled expression. "How long was I out?"

Blaine looked up at him, as though remembering that Kurt had been watching them the whole time. "Oh, not too long, don't worry. Thirty, maybe forty minutes at most." He held up the cylinder that had been producing the noise. "Sonic Pen took care of the cuffs, though."

A sudden realization dawned over Kurt. "A sonic... Oh my god." He sat up ubruptly, tossing away the blankets that had been hastily tossed over him. "Who the hell are you?"

Blaine - or, whoever he was - blinked. "I'm Blaine. Blaine Anderson, remember? I didn't think you were that wasted."

Kurt furrowed his eyebrows, quickly crawling over and pinning Blaine too the headboard roughly. The smaller man's eyes widened in alarm as the sonic device was knocked from his fingertips, rolling onto the floor.

"Who. Are. You?!" Kurt demanded once more, his tone harsher than he intended it to be. But he was desperate; if this 'Blaine' was who he thought, then this was serious. "And don't give me any of that 'Blaine Anderson' crap! I know its a lie. Nobody named Blaine Anderson would have access to sonic technology."

Blaine's gaze took Kurt in, bare naked and heaving with the sudden exertion, and chuckled. Kurt stared at him, puzzled.

"You're so much like your father, you know," he breathed, words falling in soft breaths against Kurt's lips, so close to his. "The same intense passion in your eyes. You're a lot better in bed, though. Way better."

Kurt sucked in a breath, gritting his teeth. "Who are you?" he asked once more, softer, gentler now, even as he applied more pressure to the other man's wrists, keeping him pinned. "Who are you, really?"

Blaine leaned forward as best he could, tilting his head so his lips brushed over Kurt's ear.

"Well, if you must know, he whispered, a hint of British accent seeping into his speak. "I'm the Doctor."

TO BE CONTINUED...