Passing the Time
May. 21st, 2008 05:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shapinglightWas stuck in the boss's office again this morning, for the first time since I was signed off sick back in April. As a consequence, I have a horrible ache in my neck and shoulders, and a Torchwood drabble.
I've no idea why sitting in that office brings on Torchwood drabbles. Maybe they're one of the lesser known symptoms of neuralgia?
Anyway...
Setting: Post-Torchwood season 2
Pairing: None as such, though Jack/John implied
Rating: R for implied offscreen nastiness with Captain's John's favourite breed of dog (and no, I never thought I'd see JM in a TV show that threw in casual references to bestiality either).
Author's Note: No offence intended to the citizens of Port Talbot, which I'm sure is a lovely place.
Passing the Time
His hand left bloody fingerprints on his empty glass. The corpse on the floor was already cold.
He'd thought the Centauri dust mines in the 35th century were the pits- literally -but Port Talbot on a wet Wednesday night in January had them beat hands down.
But then anywhere would start to drag when you were marking time – waiting for a call that never came.
Well, Jack couldn't resist him forever, and in the meantime, life had its compensations.
He grinned.
"So, your place or mine?"
The poodle stopped licking its dead master's face. Turning big, scared eyes on him, it gulped.
I've no idea why sitting in that office brings on Torchwood drabbles. Maybe they're one of the lesser known symptoms of neuralgia?
Anyway...
Setting: Post-Torchwood season 2
Pairing: None as such, though Jack/John implied
Rating: R for implied offscreen nastiness with Captain's John's favourite breed of dog (and no, I never thought I'd see JM in a TV show that threw in casual references to bestiality either).
Author's Note: No offence intended to the citizens of Port Talbot, which I'm sure is a lovely place.
Passing the Time
His hand left bloody fingerprints on his empty glass. The corpse on the floor was already cold.
He'd thought the Centauri dust mines in the 35th century were the pits- literally -but Port Talbot on a wet Wednesday night in January had them beat hands down.
But then anywhere would start to drag when you were marking time – waiting for a call that never came.
Well, Jack couldn't resist him forever, and in the meantime, life had its compensations.
He grinned.
"So, your place or mine?"
The poodle stopped licking its dead master's face. Turning big, scared eyes on him, it gulped.