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I woke up with this in my head this morning. Nice when that happens! :-)
Title: 1869
Fandom: Doctor/Torchwood
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
unfeathered
Pairing: Jack Harkness/OFC
Rating: PG
Warnings: D/s
Word Count: 150 words
Spoilers: Utopia
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: What got Jack through when he ended up in 1969 Cardiff?
Beta:becky_h
Author’s Note: This is a companion to two other, previously unconnected, drabbles: Right Place, Wrong Time and Lick Here (my Userpic Drabble)
Forchatona, because I couldn't come up with a birthday drabble for her and said I'd dedicate the next thing I wrote to her.
The collar was a gift from the widow who took him in after he landed in Cardiff in the early hours of Christmas morning, 1869. He was lost and flailing, trapped in a time – on a planet – that wasn't his, and he'd given up. He was slowly freezing to death in the snow by the time Hannah found him, long after sunrise, on her way to church.
She brought him home, warmed him with blankets and brandy and later with love. And in time, she gave him, if not hope, then at least some measure of calm and acceptance. Some peace.
She'd given him the collar as a tangible, physical symbol of being wanted, needed. He'd cherished it, a daily reminder that he had something, someone to live for.
It would be a long time yet before he found out that living was something he didn't have a choice about.
Title: 1869
Fandom: Doctor/Torchwood
Author:
unfeatheredPairing: Jack Harkness/OFC
Rating: PG
Warnings: D/s
Word Count: 150 words
Spoilers: Utopia
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: What got Jack through when he ended up in 1969 Cardiff?
Beta:
becky_hAuthor’s Note: This is a companion to two other, previously unconnected, drabbles: Right Place, Wrong Time and Lick Here (my Userpic Drabble)
For
chatona, because I couldn't come up with a birthday drabble for her and said I'd dedicate the next thing I wrote to her.The collar was a gift from the widow who took him in after he landed in Cardiff in the early hours of Christmas morning, 1869. He was lost and flailing, trapped in a time – on a planet – that wasn't his, and he'd given up. He was slowly freezing to death in the snow by the time Hannah found him, long after sunrise, on her way to church.
She brought him home, warmed him with blankets and brandy and later with love. And in time, she gave him, if not hope, then at least some measure of calm and acceptance. Some peace.
She'd given him the collar as a tangible, physical symbol of being wanted, needed. He'd cherished it, a daily reminder that he had something, someone to live for.
It would be a long time yet before he found out that living was something he didn't have a choice about.
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