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Disclaimer: People who aren't me own The Pretender and its characters. I'm not making any money from this, either. (As if anyone would pay me.)
A/N:
First off: This fic is slash, so don't say I didn't warn you.
Much thanks to Sezzie for being to blame for this, and for encouraging me from the start. I'd also like to thank Lou for listening to me ramble and for being willing to read it, and Cassy for coming up with a title and nagging me about this. Y'all were being wonderful.
I've been working on this on and off for almost a year, and finally, finally got it finished. Yay. There should be a party or something.
Anyway, if you enjoy reading it, I wouldn't say no if you wrote me a review. ;)
Omissis
“something that has been left out, has not been told."
The flight from Delaware to Tokyo lasted for hours, and Parker's spine felt like it had been permanently deformed by the seats of the airplane.
But she was finally here.
For the last couple of years, she had prepared for this. Studying Japanese whilst still in high school, she had been determined to become the best at the language. She would never have settled for anything less.
Parker, here for college, was determine to become the best at everything.
Maybe then her father would look at her with something else than just that sad smile. Maybe he'd see her, then.
There's nothing to worry about, angel. Just come back home and start working for the Centre.
It was all that simple, really.
There was a gun in her pocket and a stack of files in her suitcase. Certainly not the usual luggage of a college student.
Somehow, though, customs didn't seem to notice, and no one asked why she had a a gun. Coincidence, really.
Daddy had told her to familiarize herself with her future and keep her head up. And that was what she was going to do.
The streets of Tokyo weren't anything like she had imagined them to be. People were talking all around her, at great speed, swallowing parts of words, tinting them with countryside accents.
Everything seemed to only consist of faces, of people who stared at her, but stopped, as soon as she met their eyes.
For a while, her head spun.
Her apartment was small, the furniture Spartan. At least she lived on her own, and no one would pry on her innermost secrets. No one would ask her why she still cried herself to sleep some nights.
Textbooks were lined up neatly on the desk, each of them labeled carefully in Japanese. There wasn't any fiction. Parker didn't have time for dreams.
She kept the gun in a drawer in the hall. Cleaned it with weapon oil that gave her headaches every Sunday. She didn't want to carry it. Not just yet. She was barely 20 – she shouldn't need to carry a gun.
At university, Parker stayed away from the other students. She disliked them, their questions, their conviviality.
She had got glimpses into their lives once or twice. She didn't envy them because they had someone to fill out the empty spaces.
She knew that the boys were starring after her when she walked past. Long legs made longer by skirts that would have had the nuns at her boarding school faint.
She could have had any and all of these boys, and she knew it, too.
Instead, she chose to stay far away.
Months passed.
Parker came to understand the country. It started to become her home as much as Blue Cove was.
She would walk through Tokyo at night.
She could loose herself in a single street for hours, drowning in words, sight and smells. She almost forgot about the Centre then.
It faded away until it became just a distant dream.
She started smoking late. Started it here.
Stood at the airport, planes starting and landing behind her, and lit the first cigarette of her live.
And didn't care one single bit what it might do to her.
When she met someone, she did not think that she had.
The other woman had dropped her books, and Parker, in an unexpected show of altruism, helped her pick them up.
The woman, dressed to show off what she got, introduced herself as Brigitte No last name.
Parker wasn't one to throw stones; she hadn't told anyone her first name since she was eight.
Brigitte smiled smugly, and suggested they'd go for a coffee.
Parker, against her usual habits, agreed.
She was still waiting for her father to call, (had been waiting, in fact, since she had woken up in the morning – even though she would never admit that) and her eyes were starting to drop.
Parker had never needed much sleep, but the last days had been particularly draining. The work she had to do for college was getting more instead of lass as the days passed. And Brigitte insisted on dragging her into, as it seemed, every night club in Tokyo.
Parker was almost glad that she had found a friend here.
Still. Daddy just wouldn't call. Maybe he had forgotten It wouldn't have been the first time, either.
She drowned her sorrows in alcohol, and wondered if she would maybe end up just like her mother.
The drink burned down her throat, and she almost didn't notice Brigitte making her way through the crowd.
“Problems?” Brigitte asked.
Parker wasn't in any sort of mood for Brigitte's girl talk. She wasn't sure if she was in any sort of mood for Brigitte, either.
“Yeah,” she said. “One way to put it.”
“Tell me?” Brigitte asked.
Parker laughed, briefly, almost more bitterly than she wanted to admit.
“My father,” she said, “didn't even bother to call me.”
She took another swallow, and looked at Brigitte “It's my birthday, and apparently he just forgot everything about it. He didn't even find the time to write me a fucking card.”
She laughed again, and it could have cut glass.
Brigitte, without a word, kissed her then.
Parker licked her lips when it was over, and didn't mind that she could tell Brigitte was lying when she said she was sorry.
Of course Parker had kissed girls before. Back in school, awkward, sloppy kisses when they had all wondered just what it would be like to kiss a boy.
It wasn't anything like this.
But Parker didn't care much.
This certainly wasn't love.
Parker wasn't quite sure if it was anything at all.
Brigitte tasted of mint, and laughed too loudly when Parker's lip found a place on her neck.
They didn't talk about it later. They didn't need to.
It had happened, and for the most part, that was that.
They walked through the streets together, some time later.
The lights of the shop windows tinted Brigitte's body in all colours, making her look like she had just stepped outside off a fairytale.
They were talking about nothing during these walks. They skirted from topic to topic, afraid to settle on anything.
Brigitte carried a knife with her. Parker had seen it, lying atop of the pile of clothes the Brigitte had thrown into the corner of the room in the love hotel.
Parker didn't ask why she had it with her. But she never told Brigitte about the gun sleeping in her drawer at home, either.
They had a few dates. One day, Brigitte asked about her family, and Parker just didn't know what to say.
No matter how much she tried to ignore it, it still hurt talking about the day her mother had died.
Brigitte let it rest, and never asked again.
They didn't talk about things. Had they talked about things, Parker might have known what would happen.
But they were young, and there were other thing to worry about.
She never saw where Brigitte lived, and never asked.
They both knew better than to bring strangers into their homes, even if these strangers were lovers.
Parker distrusted people because life had taught her otherwise.
Parker thought it would never end. Always go on like this, until she would have to go back home, back to the Centre. For a while, she considered not to.
But of course, family was family, and she would never let her father down like this.
There were arguments. Parker and Brigitte were just too different.
It never came to blows. Parker would just leave, and Brigitte, probably, would sulk about it for days.
But neither of them wanted to give up – whatever it was they had.
This time, it had been different. They had said things neither had really meant -or at least, Parker thought so.
Parker had stormed off into the night, and never saw the slight smile on Brigitte's lips as she watched Parker leave.
Parker was far too stubborn to call Brigitte the next morning to talk about it. She might have had, eventually, had things gone differently.
As it was, she went to university, immaculately dressed, and didn't wonder why she didn't run into Brigitte somewhere on campus. It was big, after all.
When she cam back come, carrying the scent of spring with her, Parker knew – just knew – that something was wrong.
Brigitte's jacket was draped over a chair by the door, but the apartment was too quiet for the other woman to be there.
The door had been unlocked – Parker had locked it when she left in the morning, she always did – and Brigitte didn't have a key.
Out of instinct, she reached to where she kept the gun her father had given her. Watch out for yourself, angel, he had told her.
And watch out, she did.
She wouldn't have been a Parker if she hadn't.
When she opened the door that led further into the flat, in some part of her soul, she was praying that she was wrong.
She wasn't.
Brigitte looked up from the file she was reading, and smiled.
Parker, instead of getting mad, became silent. There was an eerie smile on her lips. For a moment, Brigitte looked frightened.
The gun felt warm in Parker's hands, and she didn't seem to care much that she was about to kill another human being – one, that for the briefest time, she had shared her bed and life with. There would be enough time for breaking down later.
And Brigitte knew it.
She watched Parker, trying to second guess her.
In the end, Parker, for some reason or other, couldn't do it.
“Get out,” she whispered, her knuckles white around the gun.
Brigitte looked at her, and implacable expression on her face. “Bye angel,” she whispered, her voice as sweet as sugar.
Then Brigitte not quite, but almost ran out off the apartment.
Had she stayed – and Parker was sure of that, even years later – Parker would have shot her.
The next day, she asked Tommy if he still wanted to go out with her. Of course he said yes.
When Tommy told her that his father was a member of the Yakuza, Parker didn't as much as blink twice.
A/N:
First off: This fic is slash, so don't say I didn't warn you.
Much thanks to Sezzie for being to blame for this, and for encouraging me from the start. I'd also like to thank Lou for listening to me ramble and for being willing to read it, and Cassy for coming up with a title and nagging me about this. Y'all were being wonderful.
I've been working on this on and off for almost a year, and finally, finally got it finished. Yay. There should be a party or something.
Anyway, if you enjoy reading it, I wouldn't say no if you wrote me a review. ;)
“something that has been left out, has not been told."
The flight from Delaware to Tokyo lasted for hours, and Parker's spine felt like it had been permanently deformed by the seats of the airplane.
But she was finally here.
For the last couple of years, she had prepared for this. Studying Japanese whilst still in high school, she had been determined to become the best at the language. She would never have settled for anything less.
Parker, here for college, was determine to become the best at everything.
Maybe then her father would look at her with something else than just that sad smile. Maybe he'd see her, then.
There's nothing to worry about, angel. Just come back home and start working for the Centre.
It was all that simple, really.
There was a gun in her pocket and a stack of files in her suitcase. Certainly not the usual luggage of a college student.
Somehow, though, customs didn't seem to notice, and no one asked why she had a a gun. Coincidence, really.
Daddy had told her to familiarize herself with her future and keep her head up. And that was what she was going to do.
The streets of Tokyo weren't anything like she had imagined them to be. People were talking all around her, at great speed, swallowing parts of words, tinting them with countryside accents.
Everything seemed to only consist of faces, of people who stared at her, but stopped, as soon as she met their eyes.
For a while, her head spun.
Her apartment was small, the furniture Spartan. At least she lived on her own, and no one would pry on her innermost secrets. No one would ask her why she still cried herself to sleep some nights.
Textbooks were lined up neatly on the desk, each of them labeled carefully in Japanese. There wasn't any fiction. Parker didn't have time for dreams.
She kept the gun in a drawer in the hall. Cleaned it with weapon oil that gave her headaches every Sunday. She didn't want to carry it. Not just yet. She was barely 20 – she shouldn't need to carry a gun.
At university, Parker stayed away from the other students. She disliked them, their questions, their conviviality.
She had got glimpses into their lives once or twice. She didn't envy them because they had someone to fill out the empty spaces.
She knew that the boys were starring after her when she walked past. Long legs made longer by skirts that would have had the nuns at her boarding school faint.
She could have had any and all of these boys, and she knew it, too.
Instead, she chose to stay far away.
Months passed.
Parker came to understand the country. It started to become her home as much as Blue Cove was.
She would walk through Tokyo at night.
She could loose herself in a single street for hours, drowning in words, sight and smells. She almost forgot about the Centre then.
It faded away until it became just a distant dream.
She started smoking late. Started it here.
Stood at the airport, planes starting and landing behind her, and lit the first cigarette of her live.
And didn't care one single bit what it might do to her.
When she met someone, she did not think that she had.
The other woman had dropped her books, and Parker, in an unexpected show of altruism, helped her pick them up.
The woman, dressed to show off what she got, introduced herself as Brigitte No last name.
Parker wasn't one to throw stones; she hadn't told anyone her first name since she was eight.
Brigitte smiled smugly, and suggested they'd go for a coffee.
Parker, against her usual habits, agreed.
She was still waiting for her father to call, (had been waiting, in fact, since she had woken up in the morning – even though she would never admit that) and her eyes were starting to drop.
Parker had never needed much sleep, but the last days had been particularly draining. The work she had to do for college was getting more instead of lass as the days passed. And Brigitte insisted on dragging her into, as it seemed, every night club in Tokyo.
Parker was almost glad that she had found a friend here.
Still. Daddy just wouldn't call. Maybe he had forgotten It wouldn't have been the first time, either.
She drowned her sorrows in alcohol, and wondered if she would maybe end up just like her mother.
The drink burned down her throat, and she almost didn't notice Brigitte making her way through the crowd.
“Problems?” Brigitte asked.
Parker wasn't in any sort of mood for Brigitte's girl talk. She wasn't sure if she was in any sort of mood for Brigitte, either.
“Yeah,” she said. “One way to put it.”
“Tell me?” Brigitte asked.
Parker laughed, briefly, almost more bitterly than she wanted to admit.
“My father,” she said, “didn't even bother to call me.”
She took another swallow, and looked at Brigitte “It's my birthday, and apparently he just forgot everything about it. He didn't even find the time to write me a fucking card.”
She laughed again, and it could have cut glass.
Brigitte, without a word, kissed her then.
Parker licked her lips when it was over, and didn't mind that she could tell Brigitte was lying when she said she was sorry.
Of course Parker had kissed girls before. Back in school, awkward, sloppy kisses when they had all wondered just what it would be like to kiss a boy.
It wasn't anything like this.
But Parker didn't care much.
This certainly wasn't love.
Parker wasn't quite sure if it was anything at all.
Brigitte tasted of mint, and laughed too loudly when Parker's lip found a place on her neck.
They didn't talk about it later. They didn't need to.
It had happened, and for the most part, that was that.
They walked through the streets together, some time later.
The lights of the shop windows tinted Brigitte's body in all colours, making her look like she had just stepped outside off a fairytale.
They were talking about nothing during these walks. They skirted from topic to topic, afraid to settle on anything.
Brigitte carried a knife with her. Parker had seen it, lying atop of the pile of clothes the Brigitte had thrown into the corner of the room in the love hotel.
Parker didn't ask why she had it with her. But she never told Brigitte about the gun sleeping in her drawer at home, either.
They had a few dates. One day, Brigitte asked about her family, and Parker just didn't know what to say.
No matter how much she tried to ignore it, it still hurt talking about the day her mother had died.
Brigitte let it rest, and never asked again.
They didn't talk about things. Had they talked about things, Parker might have known what would happen.
But they were young, and there were other thing to worry about.
She never saw where Brigitte lived, and never asked.
They both knew better than to bring strangers into their homes, even if these strangers were lovers.
Parker distrusted people because life had taught her otherwise.
Parker thought it would never end. Always go on like this, until she would have to go back home, back to the Centre. For a while, she considered not to.
But of course, family was family, and she would never let her father down like this.
There were arguments. Parker and Brigitte were just too different.
It never came to blows. Parker would just leave, and Brigitte, probably, would sulk about it for days.
But neither of them wanted to give up – whatever it was they had.
This time, it had been different. They had said things neither had really meant -or at least, Parker thought so.
Parker had stormed off into the night, and never saw the slight smile on Brigitte's lips as she watched Parker leave.
Parker was far too stubborn to call Brigitte the next morning to talk about it. She might have had, eventually, had things gone differently.
As it was, she went to university, immaculately dressed, and didn't wonder why she didn't run into Brigitte somewhere on campus. It was big, after all.
When she cam back come, carrying the scent of spring with her, Parker knew – just knew – that something was wrong.
Brigitte's jacket was draped over a chair by the door, but the apartment was too quiet for the other woman to be there.
The door had been unlocked – Parker had locked it when she left in the morning, she always did – and Brigitte didn't have a key.
Out of instinct, she reached to where she kept the gun her father had given her. Watch out for yourself, angel, he had told her.
And watch out, she did.
She wouldn't have been a Parker if she hadn't.
When she opened the door that led further into the flat, in some part of her soul, she was praying that she was wrong.
She wasn't.
Brigitte looked up from the file she was reading, and smiled.
Parker, instead of getting mad, became silent. There was an eerie smile on her lips. For a moment, Brigitte looked frightened.
The gun felt warm in Parker's hands, and she didn't seem to care much that she was about to kill another human being – one, that for the briefest time, she had shared her bed and life with. There would be enough time for breaking down later.
And Brigitte knew it.
She watched Parker, trying to second guess her.
In the end, Parker, for some reason or other, couldn't do it.
“Get out,” she whispered, her knuckles white around the gun.
Brigitte looked at her, and implacable expression on her face. “Bye angel,” she whispered, her voice as sweet as sugar.
Then Brigitte not quite, but almost ran out off the apartment.
Had she stayed – and Parker was sure of that, even years later – Parker would have shot her.
The next day, she asked Tommy if he still wanted to go out with her. Of course he said yes.
When Tommy told her that his father was a member of the Yakuza, Parker didn't as much as blink twice.
