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bantha_fodderStrangest Quiet in the Street by Pen
The Pretender, Miss Parker. PG.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
piecesofalice.
Thanks to my girl K.
**
She trips over the box on her way out the door. "Shit," she says as she leans down to pick it up. She shakes it cautiously, and the wide green ribbon reflects in the early morning sun.
She deposits the carefully wrapped package on her coffee table, and slowly loosens the ribbon. When she removes the lid, she is confronted by a diorama: a perfectly designed savannah, giraffes and lions and elephants congregating around an oasis.
It's like nothing she ever expected, and when she replaces the lid it is with more than a little bit of force.
"Fuck you, Jarod," she says aloud, and wonders if he can hear her, as she heads back out again, the package held in her arms.
**
She dumps the diorama on Broots' desk; savours the way he still jumps in surprise, even after all these years.
"Wonder Boy left me a present." She longs for a vice, a cigarette between her fingers or something strong and alcoholic between her lips, but she blinks her eyes instead and keeps her ears open for unwelcome listeners.
"Oh, wow, this is really good, really professional," Broots says with an admiring grin, and Parker thinks, of course it is.
"Stop wetting your pants over Jarod's skill with the model paint, and tell me what you can get from it." She rubs the back of her neck, and grimaces. "I have to go visit Lyle."
"Good luck!" Broots calls, as the door swings shut behind her.
She lets the clip of her heels on the floor soothe her as she reaches her brother's office. Halfway down the hall, he falls into step beside her. "There you are, Sis," he grins. "You were a bit late this morning."
"What can I say? I slept in," she lies through gritted teeth, and she knows he knows it.
"Not sleeping well?" he tsks. "Perhaps you should talk to Sydney." He pauses, his cheerful expression artfully false. "Speaking of, no-one seems to have seen the good doctor this morning. Any clues?"
"Not a one," she says. "Was that all? I've got a thing."
"You can get back to Jarod's present in just a moment," he says, and of course he knows. "Raines has asked me to visit our offices in Europe, and I thought you might like to come with me."
"What is this, an olive branch?" she asks; tries to decipher the trick in his words.
"You're my sister," he says, and laughs at her disbelief. "You're better with a gun," he says, leans forward. "And you're hot when you're angry, and the European accounts are going to make us all very angry," he says, his voice low. She rolls her eyes and walks away.
"You'll be fine on your own," she snaps, and behind her, she hears Lyle laugh.
**
She peers over Broots' shoulder, eyes the eBay logo on his screen. "You're not buying second-hand porn, I hope," she says, and he jumps.
"Miss Parker, no!" he protests. "It's Debbie's birthday in two weeks, and she really wants this band shirt, and I thought -"
She holds up a hand. "Spare me," she says, and smirks at him. "You should be more organised, Broots, I bought her a present three weeks ago." He blushes, and she takes pity on him. "What have you got for me?"
"The sand isn't from around here."
"Neither is the package, Broots."
"Well, I checked the postmark, and the sand isn't from there, either. So I did some checking, and." Broots pauses; glances around the office and leans forward. She sighs and leans in slightly. "The sand is actually from Africa," he whispers. "And with the giraffe and the lions around a waterhole, I thought."
Miss Parker frowns and leans back. "Yes," she says, and pushes to her feet. "Let me know what else you find. I'm going to see if I can steal the jet before Lyle gets to it.
**
She doesn't, and Raines looks pretty unhappy about sending her to Africa. "Why would Jarod leave the States?" he asks. "He's only done that once before, and Scotland was an aberration."
"Maybe he thought it was time for a change," she says. "It's as good as a holiday."
"You can follow it up," Raines grinds out, the miserable old bastard, "But you'll do it on your own. You can contact the Centre's offices in Africa if you really need assistance." The way he says 'assistance' is a promise, and she knows she'll pay if she's wrong.
**
"It's a South African giraffe, and an African lion." Broots pauses, pleased.
"You got that much detail out of a couple of models?"
"Jarod's really very good. It was difficult, there's not a lot of difference between the South African giraffe and the-" he looks up and trails off when he meets her eyes. "Sorry," he says. "You can find them both in South Africa."
"Okay," she says. "That's great. Are you sure he's there?"
"I'm pretty sure," he says, and she just looks at him, unimpressed, because she's not flying all the way to fucking South Africa to be confronted with a maybe and then a nothing. "Yes," he says, nodding his head after a moment. "He's there, the clues don't lead anywhere else."
He's not sure, that's pretty clear; she ends up boarding the plane anyway.
She's never been to Africa before; it might be fun.
**
In the airport in Cape Town, she flips through a trashy magazine. "Always the same," she notes aloud; buys it and two others regardless. The air outside is hot: not oppressive and humid, just hot, and she fans herself with her newly purchased magazines as the taxi trundles to her hotel.
No champagne when she checks in, and she worries that Broots has read the clues wrong. She entertains the thought that Jarod might not know where she is, but dismisses it just as quickly. He's Jarod, of course he knows.
Her room is spacious and average; ugly painting on the wall, too-soft mattress and a view from the balcony. Spread across the coffee table are pamphlets for the sights, and she notices one on the carpet. The Blue Train she reads, transport of kings, and thinks of Jarod's clues. She keeps on reading, and looking at the pictures she knows that no cleaner knocked this one by accident.
She grins, and reaches for the phone.
**
In the pre-departure lounge, she sips on a martini and, for a second, doubts she has read the clues right. He could be anywhere, and it's only her gut that tells her he will be on this train. It's not his thing, she knows, opulence and wealth in the middle of a country filled with the poor and the sick, but he's lived his whole life in the Centre and the large scale is different from the individuals in the US, so.
She shrugs to herself; watches two old guys talking about antique this and priceless that in crisp British accents.
She smiles over the rim of her glass, and boards the train.
**
Out the window of her suite she watches Africa pass her by. She thinks of books she's read, The Power of One and The Women of South Africa and Gordimer's novels; wonders what she would see if she stepped off the train, an American in Africa.
The dining carriage is huge and brightly lit. She listens to the babble of voices, the mixture of languages she knows and languages she doesn't. She learnt Afrikaans, once; she orders in English, though. She's not going to push her luck.
She plays nice with a tall Englishman; flirts with a short Spanish lady and smiles at the waiter. It doesn't matter; none of them have seen Jarod, and she sighs.
In her suite, she's pushed the door half closed before she realises she's not alone. "Fuck you," she says as the lock snicks home, and Jarod looks up from one of her trashy magazines.
"Do you actually read these?" he asks her.
She rips the magazine out of his hands. "Fuck you," she repeats, and he frowns. "Fuck you for bringing the Centre into my house."
"I didn't," he protests, still looking a little confused. "I would never."
"The diorama," she says. "It was a clue."
"Ah," he says, and though she can feel the slow curl of his pleasure in the air he doesn't smile, and she hates him a little bit more. "The diorama wasn't for the Centre, Miss Parker," he says. "It was for you. So it was you who brought the Centre into your house." He shrugs. "But, well, your father did that years ago."
She strides past him into the bathroom; slams the door behind.
With any luck, he'll be gone before she's done.
**
Her luck has always been pretty shit.
**
"What do you want?" she asks.
"World peace," he says. "Equality and a viable social service system. Maybe a haircut." She rolls her eyes and leans against the door frame, five feet and twenty years between them.
"Dumbass," she says, and it's almost affectionate but mostly not. "Why am I in Africa, Jarod?"
He stands. "I thought you could do with a holiday."
She laughs. "A holiday. Right. You couldn't have picked Spain?"
"Habías ido a la España," he says, his voice low. "I wanted somewhere new." He presses her against the doorframe.
"Oh, what?" she says, softly. It's not a question.
"Parker," he says. "Please," and then he kisses her.
Her hands upon his shoulders, she kisses him back; pulls his head closer to hers and feels his fingers skim the skin under her shirt. She pulls back.
"This doesn't change a thing," she says. "I'm still taking you in." He grins at her and kisses her neck. She pushes him slowly back towards the couch, and when they tumble she pins him there, his wrists beneath her hands and his body beneath hers. "I mean it," she whispers.
"So do I," he whispers back, and he doesn't let her speak again until her clothes are on the floor and she has left welts upon his back.
She writes her name into his skin, and he doesn't stop her.
He never does.
**
They dress, and Jarod talks as if they're friends. "I'm going to Australia," he says. "There's this chain of men's stores that's become a little too successful a little too quickly, with a few too many payouts, and I'm curious."
"Australia," she says, casually. "That's a bit far."
"Not really," he replies absentmindedly, though she knows he's anything but. "It's about an eleven hour flight from here, it's not too bad. I've done it before."
His declaration stuns her. "When?" she demands, all pretense of casual gone.
"The Centre doesn't follow everywhere I go," he says, suddenly serious. "The Centre follows where I want it to follow."
"And me?" she asks, ready to hate his answer.
"Parker," he says. "You can follow me anywhere you want."
She freezes; meets his eyes. After a long moment, she looks away first. When she looks back, he's gone, but she doesn't run after him, and she doesn't curse his name.
They're on a train, after all. There's nowhere for him to go.
**
When the train stops at Pretoria, she looks out the window and down at the brochure in her hand. Visit the Alice, it says, the bright red Uluru on its glossy cover. They'll never find you, Jarod has written in his familiar hand, and when she opens the brochure an itinerary, Johannesburg to Perth, falls out.
She crushes the itinerary in her hands, and closes her eyes.
**
She boards the plane, and the chocolate scotch finger biscuits with lunch are the best biscuits she's ever eaten.
She takes a deep breath.
Her brother's going to be fucking pissed.
END
THE CLUES TELL YOU WHICH FLIGHT SHE'S ON: Johannesburg-Perth or Johannesburg-New York.
things that this fic had to include:
giraffes
choc scotch finger biscuits
Antiques Roadshow
Rodd and Gunn
Hawksley Workman
eBay
a penguin
sex-on-a-train
compulsive magazine buying
historical novels
Alice
champagne
I got all but the penguin. AND TO THINK SHE DOUBTED ME.
The Pretender, Miss Parker. PG.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY,
piecesofalice.Thanks to my girl K.
**
She trips over the box on her way out the door. "Shit," she says as she leans down to pick it up. She shakes it cautiously, and the wide green ribbon reflects in the early morning sun.
She deposits the carefully wrapped package on her coffee table, and slowly loosens the ribbon. When she removes the lid, she is confronted by a diorama: a perfectly designed savannah, giraffes and lions and elephants congregating around an oasis.
It's like nothing she ever expected, and when she replaces the lid it is with more than a little bit of force.
"Fuck you, Jarod," she says aloud, and wonders if he can hear her, as she heads back out again, the package held in her arms.
**
She dumps the diorama on Broots' desk; savours the way he still jumps in surprise, even after all these years.
"Wonder Boy left me a present." She longs for a vice, a cigarette between her fingers or something strong and alcoholic between her lips, but she blinks her eyes instead and keeps her ears open for unwelcome listeners.
"Oh, wow, this is really good, really professional," Broots says with an admiring grin, and Parker thinks, of course it is.
"Stop wetting your pants over Jarod's skill with the model paint, and tell me what you can get from it." She rubs the back of her neck, and grimaces. "I have to go visit Lyle."
"Good luck!" Broots calls, as the door swings shut behind her.
She lets the clip of her heels on the floor soothe her as she reaches her brother's office. Halfway down the hall, he falls into step beside her. "There you are, Sis," he grins. "You were a bit late this morning."
"What can I say? I slept in," she lies through gritted teeth, and she knows he knows it.
"Not sleeping well?" he tsks. "Perhaps you should talk to Sydney." He pauses, his cheerful expression artfully false. "Speaking of, no-one seems to have seen the good doctor this morning. Any clues?"
"Not a one," she says. "Was that all? I've got a thing."
"You can get back to Jarod's present in just a moment," he says, and of course he knows. "Raines has asked me to visit our offices in Europe, and I thought you might like to come with me."
"What is this, an olive branch?" she asks; tries to decipher the trick in his words.
"You're my sister," he says, and laughs at her disbelief. "You're better with a gun," he says, leans forward. "And you're hot when you're angry, and the European accounts are going to make us all very angry," he says, his voice low. She rolls her eyes and walks away.
"You'll be fine on your own," she snaps, and behind her, she hears Lyle laugh.
**
She peers over Broots' shoulder, eyes the eBay logo on his screen. "You're not buying second-hand porn, I hope," she says, and he jumps.
"Miss Parker, no!" he protests. "It's Debbie's birthday in two weeks, and she really wants this band shirt, and I thought -"
She holds up a hand. "Spare me," she says, and smirks at him. "You should be more organised, Broots, I bought her a present three weeks ago." He blushes, and she takes pity on him. "What have you got for me?"
"The sand isn't from around here."
"Neither is the package, Broots."
"Well, I checked the postmark, and the sand isn't from there, either. So I did some checking, and." Broots pauses; glances around the office and leans forward. She sighs and leans in slightly. "The sand is actually from Africa," he whispers. "And with the giraffe and the lions around a waterhole, I thought."
Miss Parker frowns and leans back. "Yes," she says, and pushes to her feet. "Let me know what else you find. I'm going to see if I can steal the jet before Lyle gets to it.
**
She doesn't, and Raines looks pretty unhappy about sending her to Africa. "Why would Jarod leave the States?" he asks. "He's only done that once before, and Scotland was an aberration."
"Maybe he thought it was time for a change," she says. "It's as good as a holiday."
"You can follow it up," Raines grinds out, the miserable old bastard, "But you'll do it on your own. You can contact the Centre's offices in Africa if you really need assistance." The way he says 'assistance' is a promise, and she knows she'll pay if she's wrong.
**
"It's a South African giraffe, and an African lion." Broots pauses, pleased.
"You got that much detail out of a couple of models?"
"Jarod's really very good. It was difficult, there's not a lot of difference between the South African giraffe and the-" he looks up and trails off when he meets her eyes. "Sorry," he says. "You can find them both in South Africa."
"Okay," she says. "That's great. Are you sure he's there?"
"I'm pretty sure," he says, and she just looks at him, unimpressed, because she's not flying all the way to fucking South Africa to be confronted with a maybe and then a nothing. "Yes," he says, nodding his head after a moment. "He's there, the clues don't lead anywhere else."
He's not sure, that's pretty clear; she ends up boarding the plane anyway.
She's never been to Africa before; it might be fun.
**
In the airport in Cape Town, she flips through a trashy magazine. "Always the same," she notes aloud; buys it and two others regardless. The air outside is hot: not oppressive and humid, just hot, and she fans herself with her newly purchased magazines as the taxi trundles to her hotel.
No champagne when she checks in, and she worries that Broots has read the clues wrong. She entertains the thought that Jarod might not know where she is, but dismisses it just as quickly. He's Jarod, of course he knows.
Her room is spacious and average; ugly painting on the wall, too-soft mattress and a view from the balcony. Spread across the coffee table are pamphlets for the sights, and she notices one on the carpet. The Blue Train she reads, transport of kings, and thinks of Jarod's clues. She keeps on reading, and looking at the pictures she knows that no cleaner knocked this one by accident.
She grins, and reaches for the phone.
**
In the pre-departure lounge, she sips on a martini and, for a second, doubts she has read the clues right. He could be anywhere, and it's only her gut that tells her he will be on this train. It's not his thing, she knows, opulence and wealth in the middle of a country filled with the poor and the sick, but he's lived his whole life in the Centre and the large scale is different from the individuals in the US, so.
She shrugs to herself; watches two old guys talking about antique this and priceless that in crisp British accents.
She smiles over the rim of her glass, and boards the train.
**
Out the window of her suite she watches Africa pass her by. She thinks of books she's read, The Power of One and The Women of South Africa and Gordimer's novels; wonders what she would see if she stepped off the train, an American in Africa.
The dining carriage is huge and brightly lit. She listens to the babble of voices, the mixture of languages she knows and languages she doesn't. She learnt Afrikaans, once; she orders in English, though. She's not going to push her luck.
She plays nice with a tall Englishman; flirts with a short Spanish lady and smiles at the waiter. It doesn't matter; none of them have seen Jarod, and she sighs.
In her suite, she's pushed the door half closed before she realises she's not alone. "Fuck you," she says as the lock snicks home, and Jarod looks up from one of her trashy magazines.
"Do you actually read these?" he asks her.
She rips the magazine out of his hands. "Fuck you," she repeats, and he frowns. "Fuck you for bringing the Centre into my house."
"I didn't," he protests, still looking a little confused. "I would never."
"The diorama," she says. "It was a clue."
"Ah," he says, and though she can feel the slow curl of his pleasure in the air he doesn't smile, and she hates him a little bit more. "The diorama wasn't for the Centre, Miss Parker," he says. "It was for you. So it was you who brought the Centre into your house." He shrugs. "But, well, your father did that years ago."
She strides past him into the bathroom; slams the door behind.
With any luck, he'll be gone before she's done.
**
Her luck has always been pretty shit.
**
"What do you want?" she asks.
"World peace," he says. "Equality and a viable social service system. Maybe a haircut." She rolls her eyes and leans against the door frame, five feet and twenty years between them.
"Dumbass," she says, and it's almost affectionate but mostly not. "Why am I in Africa, Jarod?"
He stands. "I thought you could do with a holiday."
She laughs. "A holiday. Right. You couldn't have picked Spain?"
"Habías ido a la España," he says, his voice low. "I wanted somewhere new." He presses her against the doorframe.
"Oh, what?" she says, softly. It's not a question.
"Parker," he says. "Please," and then he kisses her.
Her hands upon his shoulders, she kisses him back; pulls his head closer to hers and feels his fingers skim the skin under her shirt. She pulls back.
"This doesn't change a thing," she says. "I'm still taking you in." He grins at her and kisses her neck. She pushes him slowly back towards the couch, and when they tumble she pins him there, his wrists beneath her hands and his body beneath hers. "I mean it," she whispers.
"So do I," he whispers back, and he doesn't let her speak again until her clothes are on the floor and she has left welts upon his back.
She writes her name into his skin, and he doesn't stop her.
He never does.
**
They dress, and Jarod talks as if they're friends. "I'm going to Australia," he says. "There's this chain of men's stores that's become a little too successful a little too quickly, with a few too many payouts, and I'm curious."
"Australia," she says, casually. "That's a bit far."
"Not really," he replies absentmindedly, though she knows he's anything but. "It's about an eleven hour flight from here, it's not too bad. I've done it before."
His declaration stuns her. "When?" she demands, all pretense of casual gone.
"The Centre doesn't follow everywhere I go," he says, suddenly serious. "The Centre follows where I want it to follow."
"And me?" she asks, ready to hate his answer.
"Parker," he says. "You can follow me anywhere you want."
She freezes; meets his eyes. After a long moment, she looks away first. When she looks back, he's gone, but she doesn't run after him, and she doesn't curse his name.
They're on a train, after all. There's nowhere for him to go.
**
When the train stops at Pretoria, she looks out the window and down at the brochure in her hand. Visit the Alice, it says, the bright red Uluru on its glossy cover. They'll never find you, Jarod has written in his familiar hand, and when she opens the brochure an itinerary, Johannesburg to Perth, falls out.
She crushes the itinerary in her hands, and closes her eyes.
**
She boards the plane, and the chocolate scotch finger biscuits with lunch are the best biscuits she's ever eaten.
She takes a deep breath.
Her brother's going to be fucking pissed.
END
THE CLUES TELL YOU WHICH FLIGHT SHE'S ON: Johannesburg-Perth or Johannesburg-New York.
things that this fic had to include:
giraffes
choc scotch finger biscuits
Antiques Roadshow
Rodd and Gunn
Hawksley Workman
eBay
a penguin
sex-on-a-train
compulsive magazine buying
historical novels
Alice
champagne
I got all but the penguin. AND TO THINK SHE DOUBTED ME.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-17 11:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-18 12:14 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-17 11:54 pm (UTC)*DED.*
This could quite possibly be the best birthday fic ever. I can't believe you got everything in - you, my Pendolyne, are a wonder.
Thank you so much - I just love it. *wants to read it again, and again, but is going to Ikea now*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-18 12:16 am (UTC)Do you like how your request for "alice" became me writing about the Alice? That totally wasn't what you meant at all, but I am hilaritised by myself. :o)
HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAVE A GOOD BRUNCH/IKEA.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-18 03:47 am (UTC)OOOOh I tell you, I let out this little squeak when I see your name and Pretender next to it. I *SERIOUSLY* do. It is of the ZOMG *SQUEEBLE* variety which people probably think means I am a lonely and disturbed woman but, ZOMG *SQUEEBLE* because it always means things like this and *INCOHERENT GLEE*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-18 06:17 am (UTC)All I ever do is write about Jarod and Miss Parker being awesome, and COME ON, the world totally needs more of that.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-19 07:15 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-19 10:22 am (UTC)I was always surprised that Jarod didn't venture out of the US - yes, he needed a passport, but I have no doubt his skills would have extended into that area. And Jarod's skills again - once he'd left the US, just headed for somewhere random, there'd be no way the Centre could find him. CUNNING, JAROD.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-19 07:17 am (UTC)That was awesome beyond words.
God, I miss those two.
Excellent writing =)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-19 10:40 am (UTC)Thank you for letting me know that you liked this. :o)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-19 10:41 pm (UTC)No prob, great job =)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-19 10:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-19 10:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-19 04:06 pm (UTC)I almost don't care which flight she's on--either way, Lyle ends up screwed. *grin*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-20 09:22 am (UTC)And isn't that a thought to make you cheerful? I love Lyle, I think he's an amazing, ugly character and an essential part of the whole Pretender dynamic, but I love him most when he fucks up (that is, all the time).
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-21 07:05 pm (UTC)<3
Date: 2007-03-19 06:32 pm (UTC)Re: <3
Date: 2007-03-20 09:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-19 09:39 pm (UTC)*loves the two of them together, in real life or otherwise*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-20 09:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-22 05:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-24 06:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-24 05:07 am (UTC)(and the Alice! My sister just spend a week there)
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-24 06:22 am (UTC)But Jarod and Parker, aldkfjalkfsda.