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bantha_fodderAll the Flickering Lights, by Pen
The Pretender, Miss Parker, PG. Wing!fic.
I still love this genre, after all this time.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
twicetoldfandom, using this picture as inspiration. You can read all the fic here.
***
She sits at her desk, thumbing through reports of Jarod's shadow, Jarod's bread crumbs. She imagines capturing him, bringing him in, giving him a fucking ulcer. "Sis," Lyle says, pushing through the doors.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you to knock?" she snaps; doesn't look up.
"I was adopted out to parents who didn't think to teach me that," he replies, and when she glances up at him he meets her eyes. She looks away first; worries for a heartbeat that she's the weak twin.
"What do you want?" she asks.
"I'm going to Minneapolis. I need you to water my plants for me."
She rolls her eyes. "Like you can keep anything alive."
"I've a better chance than you do, Sis," he says, and skips out with a whistle before she can reply. She balls up a report, throws it at the door closing behind him.
She scratches at her shoulders; itches for a cigarette.
**
Broots runs into her office; leans on her desk, huffing. "What?" she snaps.
"Miss Parker," he gasps out, wheezing. She raises an eyebrow, waits for him. "Jarod's in New York."
"You're sure?" she asks, unhurried. She's been tricked by him before, she'll not race now.
"Well, as sure as I ever can be, with Jarod," Broots replies, his breath and his insolence returned. "He's in Westchester County, a town called North Salem."
"Call for the plane," she says, pushes to her feet. "If he leaves me anything that looks like a pointy hat, I'm going to kill him."
**
They have to take a public flight. She's going to kill him anyway.
**
On the flight, she peers out the window; imagines the wind lifting her higher and the sun on her face.
She closes her eyes and tugs at her collar; the tag keeps itching her shoulder blades, and she swears it's the last time she's buying off the rack.
**
In Westchester County they meet an old, bald man. "No, I'm sorry," he says softly, before she's finished pulling Jarod's photo from her pocket. "We've had no visitors all week. We're a quiet school, you know, for gifted children."
"I bet you are," Parker says, suspicious of his easy grin and the small faces peering down the stairs. "We've seen schools like this before," she says, and her heart aches.
"Yes," he says, "you have."
Halfway to the car, Parker turns. He waves. "I'll see you soon, Miss Parker," he calls, and she almost runs back to shake him, ask him what he means, but inexplicably, they're in the car and halfway into the nearest town before she can think of it again.
As they reach the airport, her shoulders start to ache again, and she double checks she's still in business class, that no Jarod-gremlin should have changed her booking.
She spends the flight home sulking, longing for a cigarette, her gun, a punching bag with Jarod's face.
**
It's midnight when they land. "I'll see you at nine," she says to Broots.
"But Miss Parker," Broots begins, fades off before he starts to whine too much. She rolls her eyes.
"Fine," she says. "Ten. And no complaints when you get in."
The tag itches her the whole drive home.
**
Parker wakes up grumpy, her shoulders tight and sore. In the shower she turns the tap as hot as it'll go, lets the water pound hard against her shoulder blades until it hurts, until she can't stand it anymore, and then she stands there five minutes longer.
She pads from the bathroom, the carpet soft beneath her damp feet. The water drops from her hair to the floor; she flexes her hands, stretches her arms.
Flaps her wings.
**
"Shit," Parker says aloud.
Naked, she gets as far as a glass on the bench and the scotch in her hand before she starts thinking again.
She puts the scotch away; reaches for the cigarettes instead.
She locks the doors.
**
A pair of scissors in her hand, she pulls on one wing; pulls until it hurts, and fuck, it's sooner than she thought, and she stops. She has no urge to injure herself, wings aside.
She makes a mess of her bedroom; pulls out every belt and every scarf and contorts herself, binding the wings to her body. It takes three tries, but in the end it's passable, her wings bound tight against her back, their shape barely noticeable beneath her shirt. She slips her jacket over her shoulders, slips her sunglasses onto her nose, slips her gun into its holster, nestled in the small of her back between two large wings.
She takes a deep breath.
Heads for the Centre.
**
She's snappish, uncomfortable in her skin, but the clip of her heels as she strides through the halls brings her comfort.
What's wrong?" Sydney asks from behind her, and Parker jumps.
"What?" she snaps.
"I thought you'd given up," Sydney explains; looks at her pointedly.
"Get the hell out of my way, Freud," she says; keeps on walking.
She can feel Sydney watching her, and when she steps into the elevator she turns around; presses the button and meets Sydney's eyes, doesn't look away and the doors close between them.
He knows something, of course he does. He's Sydney.
Her wings sit heavy against her skin, and she thinks about tearing them out, her blood on the floor.
When the doors open, Lyle smiles at her, and she steps out of the elevator.
Thinks about his blood on the floor.
**
She sits at her desk, flipping through reports of Jarod and fiddling with the knife she keeps in the third drawer down. It's sharp, and it's thin, and she imagines herself in a glass box, strapped to a table, Raines and Lyle looming above her, and she thinks, no.
She cuts her finger, and the blood drips to the table.
It doesn't hurt.
**
A sighting of Jarod so soon after the last is rare, unlikely, but she runs anyway. Chases him through the streets of Denver, the traffic and the smog and the heavy weight of her gun her only comfort as the sweepers drop away, as her brother loses ground. She rounds a corner, and the streetlight above her dims, flickers. As a hand circles her wrist, the lamp gives one last burst and fades away. In the soft gloom his shadow looms beside her; she tries to shake free of him, but his grip is tight.
"Let go," she whispers.
Slowly, Jarod reaches for her shoulder, slides his hand down her back. She watches him, but doesn't flinch. She's better than that, stronger than that, and his breath, warm on her ear, hitches as his hand encounters the bump of the wing, and she knows he will not give her away.
"Ah," he breathes softly. "Are you flying yet?"
She pulls away. "You knew? You shit." She pauses. "How did you know?"
"In Westchester. At the school. The Professor knows."
"Great," she says. "I'm a freak in a world of freaks."
"That's nothing new," he says. Grins. "Ocee. Angelo. Ethan."
"Raines," she says, and when he laughs, she laughs, and she thinks, maybe, and her stomach flutters. "I tried to cut them off," she says, instead of doing anything stupid, like asking for his help. He tightens his grip on her shoulder.
"Don't be stupid," he hisses. "Let me help you."
She looks up at him; meets his eyes, wishes he wasn't so reliable.
"Fine," she says. "Whatever."
**
In the Centre, she's on edge; taps her nails on her desk and jumps at every shadow. "What's wrong, Sis?" Lyle asks. Doesn't knock. He scratches behind his neck and grins at her.
"Get the hell out," she snaps.
**
He steps out of the shadows; unwraps the bandages from her back and runs his fingers through her feathers. She sighs as her wings unfurl.
"They're beautiful," Jarod says, and she knows he's not lying.
"Can we get rid of them?" she asks, pulling them close to her body.
Slowly he coaxes her wings out, grooms them with his hands; slowly he convinces her, with tales of mutants and wars and powers greater than them, greater than the Centre.
She believes him.
**
Her brother smiles at her, and though her shoulders are tight, and her wings heavy, she smiles at him.
She knows how to fake it.
END
The Pretender, Miss Parker, PG. Wing!fic.
I still love this genre, after all this time.
For
twicetoldfandom, using this picture as inspiration. You can read all the fic here.***
She sits at her desk, thumbing through reports of Jarod's shadow, Jarod's bread crumbs. She imagines capturing him, bringing him in, giving him a fucking ulcer. "Sis," Lyle says, pushing through the doors.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you to knock?" she snaps; doesn't look up.
"I was adopted out to parents who didn't think to teach me that," he replies, and when she glances up at him he meets her eyes. She looks away first; worries for a heartbeat that she's the weak twin.
"What do you want?" she asks.
"I'm going to Minneapolis. I need you to water my plants for me."
She rolls her eyes. "Like you can keep anything alive."
"I've a better chance than you do, Sis," he says, and skips out with a whistle before she can reply. She balls up a report, throws it at the door closing behind him.
She scratches at her shoulders; itches for a cigarette.
**
Broots runs into her office; leans on her desk, huffing. "What?" she snaps.
"Miss Parker," he gasps out, wheezing. She raises an eyebrow, waits for him. "Jarod's in New York."
"You're sure?" she asks, unhurried. She's been tricked by him before, she'll not race now.
"Well, as sure as I ever can be, with Jarod," Broots replies, his breath and his insolence returned. "He's in Westchester County, a town called North Salem."
"Call for the plane," she says, pushes to her feet. "If he leaves me anything that looks like a pointy hat, I'm going to kill him."
**
They have to take a public flight. She's going to kill him anyway.
**
On the flight, she peers out the window; imagines the wind lifting her higher and the sun on her face.
She closes her eyes and tugs at her collar; the tag keeps itching her shoulder blades, and she swears it's the last time she's buying off the rack.
**
In Westchester County they meet an old, bald man. "No, I'm sorry," he says softly, before she's finished pulling Jarod's photo from her pocket. "We've had no visitors all week. We're a quiet school, you know, for gifted children."
"I bet you are," Parker says, suspicious of his easy grin and the small faces peering down the stairs. "We've seen schools like this before," she says, and her heart aches.
"Yes," he says, "you have."
Halfway to the car, Parker turns. He waves. "I'll see you soon, Miss Parker," he calls, and she almost runs back to shake him, ask him what he means, but inexplicably, they're in the car and halfway into the nearest town before she can think of it again.
As they reach the airport, her shoulders start to ache again, and she double checks she's still in business class, that no Jarod-gremlin should have changed her booking.
She spends the flight home sulking, longing for a cigarette, her gun, a punching bag with Jarod's face.
**
It's midnight when they land. "I'll see you at nine," she says to Broots.
"But Miss Parker," Broots begins, fades off before he starts to whine too much. She rolls her eyes.
"Fine," she says. "Ten. And no complaints when you get in."
The tag itches her the whole drive home.
**
Parker wakes up grumpy, her shoulders tight and sore. In the shower she turns the tap as hot as it'll go, lets the water pound hard against her shoulder blades until it hurts, until she can't stand it anymore, and then she stands there five minutes longer.
She pads from the bathroom, the carpet soft beneath her damp feet. The water drops from her hair to the floor; she flexes her hands, stretches her arms.
Flaps her wings.
**
"Shit," Parker says aloud.
Naked, she gets as far as a glass on the bench and the scotch in her hand before she starts thinking again.
She puts the scotch away; reaches for the cigarettes instead.
She locks the doors.
**
A pair of scissors in her hand, she pulls on one wing; pulls until it hurts, and fuck, it's sooner than she thought, and she stops. She has no urge to injure herself, wings aside.
She makes a mess of her bedroom; pulls out every belt and every scarf and contorts herself, binding the wings to her body. It takes three tries, but in the end it's passable, her wings bound tight against her back, their shape barely noticeable beneath her shirt. She slips her jacket over her shoulders, slips her sunglasses onto her nose, slips her gun into its holster, nestled in the small of her back between two large wings.
She takes a deep breath.
Heads for the Centre.
**
She's snappish, uncomfortable in her skin, but the clip of her heels as she strides through the halls brings her comfort.
What's wrong?" Sydney asks from behind her, and Parker jumps.
"What?" she snaps.
"I thought you'd given up," Sydney explains; looks at her pointedly.
"Get the hell out of my way, Freud," she says; keeps on walking.
She can feel Sydney watching her, and when she steps into the elevator she turns around; presses the button and meets Sydney's eyes, doesn't look away and the doors close between them.
He knows something, of course he does. He's Sydney.
Her wings sit heavy against her skin, and she thinks about tearing them out, her blood on the floor.
When the doors open, Lyle smiles at her, and she steps out of the elevator.
Thinks about his blood on the floor.
**
She sits at her desk, flipping through reports of Jarod and fiddling with the knife she keeps in the third drawer down. It's sharp, and it's thin, and she imagines herself in a glass box, strapped to a table, Raines and Lyle looming above her, and she thinks, no.
She cuts her finger, and the blood drips to the table.
It doesn't hurt.
**
A sighting of Jarod so soon after the last is rare, unlikely, but she runs anyway. Chases him through the streets of Denver, the traffic and the smog and the heavy weight of her gun her only comfort as the sweepers drop away, as her brother loses ground. She rounds a corner, and the streetlight above her dims, flickers. As a hand circles her wrist, the lamp gives one last burst and fades away. In the soft gloom his shadow looms beside her; she tries to shake free of him, but his grip is tight.
"Let go," she whispers.
Slowly, Jarod reaches for her shoulder, slides his hand down her back. She watches him, but doesn't flinch. She's better than that, stronger than that, and his breath, warm on her ear, hitches as his hand encounters the bump of the wing, and she knows he will not give her away.
"Ah," he breathes softly. "Are you flying yet?"
She pulls away. "You knew? You shit." She pauses. "How did you know?"
"In Westchester. At the school. The Professor knows."
"Great," she says. "I'm a freak in a world of freaks."
"That's nothing new," he says. Grins. "Ocee. Angelo. Ethan."
"Raines," she says, and when he laughs, she laughs, and she thinks, maybe, and her stomach flutters. "I tried to cut them off," she says, instead of doing anything stupid, like asking for his help. He tightens his grip on her shoulder.
"Don't be stupid," he hisses. "Let me help you."
She looks up at him; meets his eyes, wishes he wasn't so reliable.
"Fine," she says. "Whatever."
**
In the Centre, she's on edge; taps her nails on her desk and jumps at every shadow. "What's wrong, Sis?" Lyle asks. Doesn't knock. He scratches behind his neck and grins at her.
"Get the hell out," she snaps.
**
He steps out of the shadows; unwraps the bandages from her back and runs his fingers through her feathers. She sighs as her wings unfurl.
"They're beautiful," Jarod says, and she knows he's not lying.
"Can we get rid of them?" she asks, pulling them close to her body.
Slowly he coaxes her wings out, grooms them with his hands; slowly he convinces her, with tales of mutants and wars and powers greater than them, greater than the Centre.
She believes him.
**
Her brother smiles at her, and though her shoulders are tight, and her wings heavy, she smiles at him.
She knows how to fake it.
END
