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marag.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crack_van2007-04-15 09:37 am
marag.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2007-04-15 09:37 am
Entry tags:
Torchwood/Vorkosiganverse (R)
Title: Can't Trace Time by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
legionseagle
Pairing: Owen Harper/Bel Thorne
Author on LJ:legionseagle
Author website: None I could find
Why this must be read:
Oh god, because the characterization is spot on and...legionseagle made me like Owen. I dislike Owen, yet in this story I sympathized with him and followed him avidly through 10 chapters. (They're not incredibly long chapters, so don't let that put you off reading.) The grasp of the Miles Vorkosigan universe and the Torchwood universe are fabulous, and this is a truly enjoyable story.
I think it explains Owen a bit without whitewashing the fact that he's a bastard at heart, and I do so love fic that explains something about the characters.
It wasn't as if Owen hadn't woken up before in places he couldn't recognise, with a mouth that felt like the bottom of a parrot's cage and an imp on time-and-a-half operating a pneumatic drill enthusiastically somewhere behind his left eyebrow.
It was just that the previous places in which he'd found himself hadn't included an executive swivel chair with armrest controls which looked as though they'd been designed to pilot the Enterprise, located behind a massive mahogany desk with hand-tooled leather top, in an office half the size of the pitch at White Hart Lane with picture windows extending from floor to ceiling on three of its four sides.
Oh yes, and with views through the windows of a snow-bound, sun-lit city which looked unnervingly like Budapest. Or St Petersburg. Or Prague.
Or rather; like any of the above might have looked if it had had a constant stream of sleekly alien-looking low-level aircraft buzzing around in all directions above its streets and what looked like space shuttles ascending and descending in plumes of white fire on a rapid and planned schedule from somewhere in its outer suburbs.
Looking on the bright side, at least this time there wasn't a naked female who looked like the bastard offspring of Jabba the Hut and Jade Goody beaming down at him from an uncomfortably intimate angle.
But otherwise -
"You've fucking well landed yourself on another planet, mate," Owen said aloud.
Can't Trace Time
legionseaglePairing: Owen Harper/Bel Thorne
Author on LJ:
legionseagleAuthor website: None I could find
Why this must be read:
Oh god, because the characterization is spot on and...
legionseagle made me like Owen. I dislike Owen, yet in this story I sympathized with him and followed him avidly through 10 chapters. (They're not incredibly long chapters, so don't let that put you off reading.) The grasp of the Miles Vorkosigan universe and the Torchwood universe are fabulous, and this is a truly enjoyable story.I think it explains Owen a bit without whitewashing the fact that he's a bastard at heart, and I do so love fic that explains something about the characters.
It wasn't as if Owen hadn't woken up before in places he couldn't recognise, with a mouth that felt like the bottom of a parrot's cage and an imp on time-and-a-half operating a pneumatic drill enthusiastically somewhere behind his left eyebrow.
It was just that the previous places in which he'd found himself hadn't included an executive swivel chair with armrest controls which looked as though they'd been designed to pilot the Enterprise, located behind a massive mahogany desk with hand-tooled leather top, in an office half the size of the pitch at White Hart Lane with picture windows extending from floor to ceiling on three of its four sides.
Oh yes, and with views through the windows of a snow-bound, sun-lit city which looked unnervingly like Budapest. Or St Petersburg. Or Prague.
Or rather; like any of the above might have looked if it had had a constant stream of sleekly alien-looking low-level aircraft buzzing around in all directions above its streets and what looked like space shuttles ascending and descending in plumes of white fire on a rapid and planned schedule from somewhere in its outer suburbs.
Looking on the bright side, at least this time there wasn't a naked female who looked like the bastard offspring of Jabba the Hut and Jade Goody beaming down at him from an uncomfortably intimate angle.
But otherwise -
"You've fucking well landed yourself on another planet, mate," Owen said aloud.
Can't Trace Time
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Thanks for the rec.
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