This is set early in the fourth season, is rated PG-13 for language only, and was inspired by the song "Blackbird," written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Yeah, yeah, it's cheesy songfic.

Thanks to Kelly, as always, for a most insightful beta.

I didn't create and don't own these characters or the premise of the show. This story is for entertainment purposes only, no infringement is intended, and absolutely no money is being made from this. Please do not reproduce in print without my permission. Do not archive. Archives are welcome to link to this page.

I'm using the Lennon/McCartney lyrics without permission, too, but please don't sue me.

Comments always, always appreciated and welcomed with enthusiasm at kirbyfest@yahoo.com. Remember, feedback is good for your karma.

***

...Into the light of the dark black night...

The hospital corridor was alive with the controlled chaos that characterized most big-city teaching hospitals. Jarod easily dodged people and equipment as he headed towards room 402, stopping along the way to greet familiar faces. Everyone from the unit clerk to the candystriper delivering flowers wanted to talk to him, and even though he had somewhere to be, he took time for each of them.

Hospitals were like a big obstacle course, Jarod thought as he finally made it to the door of 402, pausing at the sounds from inside. Eric was coughing. The teenager was drowning in a pool of fluid that his own body was producing, and there wasn't a damn thing anyone could do about it. Even Jarod.

Jarod heard the boy gasp, then finally catch a decent breath. He waited several more moments before going in, letting Eric pull himself together. He forced a smile as he entered.

"Hey, Jarod!" The boy's voice was weaker than it had been the day before. Clinically, academically, Jarod knew how quickly cystic fibrosis patients could go downhill. Realistically, it was brutal to witness. At least now Eric was getting the care he deserved-- the HMO that had illegally cancelled his father's coverage had been exposed. Ironic, really, since that wasn't what Jarod had come to this hospital to do. This particular Pretend had ended up fixing two different situations.

They talked for a few minutes about baseball, about the cute new nurse on the evening shift-- anything about Eric or his illness. He needed to feel normal once in a while, without the constant focus on medications and fluids and coughing. Jarod knew what it felt like to have everyone focus on a single aspect of your life.

Too soon, Jarod had to cut the conversation short. "I'd better get to my meeting. I'll stop by afterwards."

"Great." Eric motioned towards the bureau. "Hand me my walkman before you leave?"

"Sure." Jarod gave Eric the headphones and tape player and watched as he fiddled with the buttons. "What are you listening to?"

"The White Album." Seeing Jarod's look of complete incomprehension, Eric started to laugh-- but the laugh turned into terrible, wrenching coughs. Jarod immediately helped Eric into position and rhythmically pounded his back, hating to do it but knowing there was no choice. Any fluid or mucous that this brought up was that much less that stayed in Eric's lungs and choked him; that much less this frail body had to fight against.

If it was possible, Eric was even more pale when he sat up. "Damn. That was a bad one." Jarod handed him a glass of water and watched while Eric took a drink. "So. You've never heard of the Beatles?"

"As in bugs?"

Eric didn't laugh this time. The cost was too high. He smiled, though, and the tension inside Jarod eased just a bit at the sight. "Man, you have lived in a cave, haven't you?"

Jarod just shrugged. There was no way to explain, really.

Eric brushed by Jarod's discomfort. "You need to hit a music store. If you haven't heard the Beatles, you haven't lived."

"Apparently I haven't." Jarod glanced at his watch again. As much as he hated to leave, he had to get to a meeting with the hospital directors. "I'll be back later, Eric."

"Another HMO meeting?" Jarod nodded, and Eric's eyes narrowed. "Don't let them cut anyone else off, Jarod."

"I won't." Jarod's reply had the solemn ring of a promise, and Eric was satisfied.

***

Eric's mother, Jeanne, was leaning on the wall outside Eric's room when Jarod came back from the meeting. Her head was thrown back, eyes shut. For a moment she looked as young and as frail as her son, and Jarod fought a rush of fear.

"Jeanne?"

Her eyes opened and the illusion of frailty disappeared, tucked away behind eyes that were level and resolute. "Jarod!" Seeing the concern on his face, she shook her head. "He's all right. He's asleep. I just came out here to rest."

"Let me buy you a cup of coffee."

"That sounds good." They headed for the cafeteria, chatting about inconsequential things as they bought coffee and sweet rolls and settled around a table.

At a break in the conversation, Jarod cocked his head and noticed, again, the dark circles under Jeanne's eyes. "Everyone's always asking you how Eric is doing," he said, his voice quiet. "How are you doing?"

"It's only a matter of when, you know." Jeanne played with her coffee cup, not meeting Jarod's eyes. "That's what's so hard, Jarod. When my mother died of cancer, right up until the end I always felt like there was a chance of remission. With Eric..." She shook her head as if pushing away reality. "With Eric, there's only one possible ending. I've always known that. Every day has been a gift." She was quiet for a moment, and Jarod let her gather her thoughts. "Where's your family, Jarod? Are your parents still alive?" Jeanne spoke as brightly as she could, obviously trying to change the subject to something more positive, and not realizing how miserably she'd fail.

"I was separated from my family when I was very young." He'd said it enough times that it should be easy now, but every time he had to say those words it burned his throat. "I'm looking for them." He smiled. "I found my father, finally."

Jeanne put one hand over his and squeezed, smiling. "Good for you. Family-- well, it's important. But you know that." She took a quick sip of her coffee. "Any kids?"

Jarod shook his head. "No."

"You're good with them," Jeanne said seriously. "Not just Eric. I've seen you with other kids on the floor. You're just way too nice for a bureaucrat." They
both laughed.

"I'd like to have children," Jarod said, the admission coming from someplace inside that he rarely acknowledged. "I've just been busy... looking for my family,
and everything."

"Being the white knight for us, too," Jeanne added, the gratitude in her voice putting a lump in Jarod's throat. "I don't know what we would have done without you."

"Well, now you don't have to worry about that." Jarod shrugged. "Half the battle is knowing what paperwork to fill out."

"Or where to find the paperwork someone's illegally hidden," Jeanne said fiercely. She took a deep breath, visibly pushing back the anger at what the HMO had tried to do to her son, and to her. She was quiet for several moments, and Jarod watched her as he finished his coffee. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were bright with tears. "Don't put things off, Jarod. Life's too short."

He nodded. "I know," he said, thinking of Eric.

Jeanne grabbed at his hand. "No. I mean it. Don't wait until everything's perfect or pretty or..." She struggled to find the right word. "Neat." It was obvious that what she what she was trying to tell Jarod was important to her. "Don't put your life off. There's always some excuse you can use to postpone the important stuff. You put off having kids, or telling someone you love them, or whatever. Don't let yourself do that, Jarod. You do that, one day you wake up and you're out of time."

Jarod half-smiled at her, not entirely understanding what she was telling him, but filing it carefully away where he could take it out and think about it. Later.

***

...Take these sunken eyes and learn to see...

The store manager noticed him, mostly because he looked out of place. Lost. This time of day, the crowd tended to be younger. This guy was holding up a Marilyn Manson CD and staring at it like it was about to sprout wings. Men his age generally didn't go for Marilyn (well, not this Marilyn); their version of heavy metal tended towards Metallica or Aerosmith.

She approached him with a smile. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, please." He grinned at her, and she realized with a start how striking he was in a well-groomed, sharp-jawed sort of way (she liked them younger and furrier, usually). "I'm actually here to buy a white album. By a group called Beatles, I think." He waved the Manson disc at her. "I just got distracted."

She assessed the man, holding back a laugh. He was right around 40-- an age where he should have pretty coherent memories of the Beatles, all by himself, but he sounded like he'd never heard of the them in his life. "You didn't grow up listening to them?" Maybe he'd been in one of those families where rock was evil and long hair had meant moral decline.

"I don't know much about popular music," he admitted. "I spent more time as a child analyzing classical music. But I do like the blues. And jazz."

The manager bent her head, hiding a smile. He sounded so earnest, like he hadn't listened to a radio in his entire life. "Really. Well, many people consider the Beatles to be as important to rock music as, say, Mozart was to classical music." She led him to the right spot in the rack, shuffled through a pile of disks, and pulled one out. "Here it is." Touching his elbow lightly, she guided him over to a listening post and slipped the disk into the player while he put on the headphones. "I'll forward the player to my favorite song, but listen to a few tracks."

The woman left the dark-haired man at the listening station and went about her duties. Running a record store wasn't easy; it was practically a full-time job just making sure that the teenaged boys didn't steal every Britney Spears picture from the store. Some time later, she happened to glance over and saw that the man was still wearing the headphones, unmoving, a rapt expression on his face. If she hadn't known better, she'd have sworn she saw tear tracks on his face-- but that was impossible. Big tall men in leather didn't come into her shop and cry over Beatles music, however attractive an idea that was.

Later, while ringing up a sale, she glanced up and the man was gone.

"Len, did you see the tall guy with the dark hair at the middle listening post?" she asked her assistant, a 20 year-old college student with a remarkable work ethic that she thanked God for every night.

Len nodded. "Bought just about every Beatles album we had in stock-- three or four copies of the White Album, too." He punched an authorization code into the credit card machine. "Said something about how he knew how the blackbird felt."

***

...Blackbird singing in the dead of night...

Hardly a week went by without a package, or a letter, or some other small reminder that Jarod was out there. There had been a brief hiatus after Jarod had escaped from the Centre again, but then it had started up just as before The small, white-wrapped box on Sydney's desk looked like Jarod's packages usually did-- no return address, postmarked from a city that he probably hadn't been in for more time than it took to find a post office.

Sydney set his cup of coffee down carefully and lowered himself into his desk chair, eyes on the package. He could never be sure exactly what Jarod would send, or why, but packages from his Pretender were always welcome. They were insights into what he was learning, what he was doing; insights into the man Jarod was becoming-- had become.

Sydney wished he could know him through something besides letters and packages, but he'd take what he could. Better this than seeing Jarod locked up again.

Unwrapping the package carefully to keep the paper intact (the Centre still optimistically put all packaging and envelopes from Jarod through their laboratories, which after all this time made little sense), Sydney regarded the double-CD box with a blank stare.

"The White Album," said Broots, slipping into Sydney's office, holding a similar box.

"The Beatles?" Sydney was talking more to himself than to Broots, turning the box over and over in his hand.

"This was a monumental album for them." Broots' eyes were lit up and Sydney had to hold back a smile. There were a few things that really got Broots going-- his daughter, solving a particularly complicated computer problem. And the Beatles, apparently. "It's not their most even effort, but it really pushed their talents. Nearly every song is a classic, for different reasons." He flushed. "I have it on vinyl already."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Miss Parker stood in the door of Sydney's office, holding the small white CD box in one hand. She waved the box at them. "Look, the gang's all here, and we're all getting the same present."

"Are you a Beatles fan, Miss Parker?" Broots asked eagerly.

She half-smiled, her usual cynicism right on the surface. "Of course. Think of '60s music and my name pops right up."

Broots ducked his head, embarrassed. Sydney stepped in. "There must be a reason for this gift."

"Does it ever strike you that sometimes Wonderboy just wants to send us things?" Miss Parker tossed the box on Sydney's desk and turned, as if to leave. Broots' voice stopped her.

"You should take the record home, Miss Parker." His gaze met hers firmly, despite her glare. "It's a good album."

"Whatever." She grabbed the box back from the desk and stalked out. Broots and Sydney smiled at each other, Broots flushed with triumph.

***

Six months went by without a sighting of Jarod, or finding one of his red books, or getting a single phone call leading them on another wild goose chase. The strain showed on all of them, and perhaps most of all on Sydney. He'd stopped jumping whenever his telephone rang, because inevitably it was anyone but Jarod. No packages, no e-mails. Nothing. Just new lines in his face, less energy in his step, and new images in his nightmares.

Sydney was closeted in his office, trying to focus on some research results that he didn't give a damn about, when Miss Parker opened his door a crack and poked her head through. "May I come in?" she asked, her voice unusually tentative. Everyone, even Miss Parker, was treating him like a fragile piece of glass lately. He must look even worse than he thought.

"Yes." Sydney pushed the papers back from him, waiting as Parker came in and took a seat. She looked tired, he thought abstractedly; the whirl of "where the hell is Jarod" task force meetings consuming the Centre were wearing on her-- especially when the answer was inevitably that no one had the slightest idea where Jarod was.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Where is he, Sydney?" she asked, and he heard a note in her voice that reminded him of the little girl who had once slipped her hand into his, desperately seeking an adult's comfort.

"I wish I knew."

Parker finally believed that he didn't know, which was a welcome relief from her badgering. "It sounds crazy, but I'm worried."

"Worried?"

"You're worried too, Sydney."

He eased back in his chair. "Yes, but my objective in life wasn't to catch Jarod and bring him back to the Centre. My concern is more understandable."

"I didn't want him dead," she said sharply, voicing what they'd both wondered a thousand times. "I just wanted him back here."

"And what do you think they'll do with him if you do return him? You weren't here when they brought him back after you were shot, but you've certainly seen the tapes."

Parker turned her head away from him, ignoring the implication just as she always did. "At least when he was popping up every few weeks, sending us things and calling us... well, we knew he was alive."

Sydney nodded in agreement. "And now..."

"Nothing. This silence-- could he be hurt? Dead?" It was hard for Miss Parker to say that word, and Sydney heard the pain in her voice. She'd lost almost everyone she'd ever cared for, and losing Jarod-- even the distant spectre of Jarod that she was responsible for chasing-- just added another loss to her tally.

"Anything is possible." Probable, the voice in his head said quietly. He tried to disregard it. Jarod dead was unimaginable.

Children weren't supposed to die before their parents.

***

It was another two months before Jarod surfaced. Sydney was at home, sitting on his patio and trying to relax by reading a non-medical magazine-- failing miserably-- when the cell phone rang. "This is Sydney," he answered, his voice flat.

"How have you been, Sydney?"

"Jarod!" The relief that shot through him was actually physically painful, and he had to stop and catch his breath before he could speak again. "Where have you been?"

"Here and there." The Pretender's voice was relaxed.

"I've been worried about you," Sydney confessed, trying to sound calm when everything in him was in chaos.

"I realized I couldn't just drop off the face of the earth without saying goodbye."

"Goodbye?"

"I'm done with the game, Sydney."

"Done?" Sidney was aware that he sounded like a complete idiot, repeating back what Jarod was saying, but for once in his life he had no idea where Jarod was coming from, or what he was getting at.

"I've found my father. Now we just have to find my mother. And Emily." Sydney heard Jarod take a sip of something, the ice cubes rattling faintly in the background. "I won't stop using the information I've got to try to find them, but I have to build a life for myself. Break all ties to the Centre."

"So. You're giving up?"

"No. I'm going to <live,> Sydney, instead of moving around like a traveling salesman and dropping breadcrumbs for you and Miss Parker. I can't keep playing the game-- it's just an excuse to put off settling into a life that's mine. It's time for me to fly."

Sydney realized, suddenly, what Jarod was saying. No more running, no more cat-and-mouse. "Have you met someone?"

Jarod laughed, and it was possibly the happiest sound that Sydney had ever heard him make. "No. But maybe I will, someday."

Sydney was silent, knowing the conversation had to end soon-- and knowing this might be the last time he talked to Jarod. "Good luck, Jarod."

"Track eleven, disc one, Sydney."

Sydney murmured agreement, though he had no idea what Jarod was referring
to.

"And Sydney?"

"Yes, Jarod?"

"Thank you for all the things you were able to do for me."

There was a gentle click as Jarod ended the connection.

***

Sydney held onto the conversation with Jarod for several days, not telling anyone. He kept it close, replaying it in his head, hearing the humor and the contentment in Jarod's voice that had been missing for... well, for always.

When he finally did speak about the call, the news electrified the Centre, confirming for everyone that Jarod was still alive and reinvigorating the search effort. Sydney, as usual, kept much of the substance of the conversation to himself; he could see in Miss Parker's eyes that she knew this and eventually would pin him in a corner and find out exactly what was said. But he knew that some of the conversation would never be repeated, not to anyone. It was his to hold and keep.

***

...You were only waiting for this moment to arise...

It was rare for Miss Parker to be home in the middle of the afternoon, and rarer still for her to be sitting on the couch and not doing a damn thing. She wasn't good with relaxation-- it just wasn't her style. But here she was, brooding. In her pajamas, drinking hot chocolate. She was reverting to grade school.

She'd finally cornered Sydney on the telephone call from Jarod. Syd didn't know where Jarod was-- she believed that. But Parker didn't know what to make of the conversation they'd had.

"He can't be giving up."

"He didn't think of it as giving up, Miss Parker." Sydney's eyes had been gentle,
though she thought he might not completely understand, either. "He wants to get on with his life."

Those words echoed in her head as she took another sip of the chocolate. Get on with life? Give up the games he played with the Centre? How could he stop living in the middle of an overwhelming obsession?

When her phone rang, Parker jumped, only just stopping her drink from drenching the sofa. "What?" she barked into the receiver, wondering what moron had the balls to bother her when she was supposedly home with a migraine.

"How's the head, Miss Parker?" It was Jarod, damn him, sounding impossibly upbeat. She ignored the skip in her heartbeat.

"Oh, God. Wonder Boy resurfaces."

"That's me. I didn't want you to think I'd just call Sydney."

She tucked her feet up under her, as if settling in for a long conversation-- which it wouldn't be. Jarod never let the conversations go on long enough to be traced through his elaborate routings. "Sydney said you're breaking off ties, Jarod. Giving up on the Centre. I don't believe him."

"You're right. I'm not giving up."

"Sounds like it to me, Jarod."

She could almost see him shrug. "Isn't there a time when you have to get on with your life, Miss Parker?"

"Are you..." Parker paused, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "Don't you dare tell me I should stop trying to find out who killed my mother."

"No." He sighed deeply, and there was a long pause before he answered. "You have to make your own decisions, like I've made mine. But I'm not going to let my past stop me from having a future, Miss Parker. I can only use it as an excuse for so long."

He'd met someone, she thought; the idea felt wrong, tasted wrong, like bitter coffee in her mouth. Or he'd finally lost what's left of his marbles-- that was always a possibility. "I don't understand you, Jarod. All you've wanted since you got out was to find your family and destroy the Centre. Why stop now?"

"I'm not stopping. I'm just changing how I do things. The Centre might still have some answers for me, but their price is too high. I'll find the rest of my family on my own."

"If you can."

"I can," he said with a calm certainty that was aggravating.

She wanted a cigarette. She wanted a drink. She wanted anything but to continue this conversation. "So why are you calling me, Jarod? To say goodbye?"

He laughed, low and warm. "Of course not. This isn't the end for us, Miss Parker."

"You just said you weren't dealing with the Centre any more."

"I'm not. Eventually you'll leave, too, Miss Parker. And then…" He laughed again, and the sound made her breath catch.

She looked around the dimly lit living room, wondering why the room felt so small all of a sudden. "Where will you go?"

"Anywhere I want. Good luck, Miss Parker. And remember, we can both learn to fly-- even with broken wings."

The connection ended with a decisive click, and she was left with the phone in her hand and a thousand unanswered questions.

***

...You were only waiting for this moment to be free...

Sydney's eyes flew open in the middle of the night-- no nightmare, no dream to blame. Just Jarod's voice, echoing in his head as clearly as if he'd been standing next to the bed.

"Track eleven, disc one, Sydney."

Sydney swung his legs off the bed and headed towards his stereo, not bothering to turn lights on until he got there. Switching on the nearest lamp, he scrabbled through his compact discs-- mostly classical, with a bit of jazz thrown in. The stark white box was easy to find.

The White Album. Sydney hadn't understood what Jarod meant when he called, but as he put the first disc into the player and skipped forward to the eleventh song with shaking hands, he knew.

It was a simple song, with just a guitar and a bit of percussion, one voice and some harmony on the chorus, a bit of birdsong in the middle-- but it wasn't the intricacies of the musical structure that had undoubtedly struck Jarod. It was the words.

Sydney listened to the song twice before he realized there were tears coursing down his cheeks.

***

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.

Blackbird fly Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird fly Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

***

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