This is my first "Pretender" story. It's set after the second season finale, and while it's obviously not what happened, this was just my take on it.

The title and the bit of sonnet in the middle are from a sonnet by Michael Drayton; the full text of the sonnet is at the end.

Disclaimer: I didn't invent them, I don't own them, I'm not making any money off of them, and this is for entertainment purposes only. Please do not reproduce in print without my permission. Please do not archive. Archive links are welcome to this page.

Many thanks to Kelly for reading, commenting, and feeding the obsession.

I'd really like feedback, good and bad-- I'd like to hear what you think.

***

There were some things that she remembered quite clearly, as if they had happened a few minutes before. Sharp, distinct, sometimes painful-- but at least they were memories, and they belonged to her.

Still, there were a thousand things she knew were lost forever. And there were a thousand memories she would never have-- not just because her mother was dead (murdered), but because of the childhood she would inevitably have had as the child of her father. Even if her mother had lived, would they have escaped? Would the Centre have tracked them down?

Probably. Almost certainly.

She'd had incredible advantages-- expensive schooling, travel, learning languages that made her a formidable asset to anyone (certainly to the Centre). But it was what she'd lost that drove her.

Every so often, in the midst of the lies and the confusion and the searching, she'd have a thought that was so out of the blue that she would wonder where it came from-- some part of her mother, inside her, that lived on, perhaps.

Jarod didn't even have the memories.

Sydney didn't have his son, or his brother-- all he had was guilt.

She'd push those thoughts back. They got in the way. They clouded the issues (which were already clouded). It wasn't her nature to make friends, or to worry about other people. That wasn't how she had been raised.

How different would she be today if her mother had lived? Would she have some of her mother's seemingly endless tenderness, or would she still be so like her father?

Jarod had that same concern for others that her mother had. Over and over he was willing to die, to risk his freedom for someone he barely knew. When she thought about it-- when she let herself think about it-- the sheer generosity of who he was would take her breath away. After spending his entire life locked up, he did nothing but work to help other people break free.

Every person he came in contact with remembered something positive about him-- again, like her mother.

What did people remember after they met her?

When the old man had told her that the "man in the dark suit" had killed her mother-- and then breathed "Jarod's father"-- her first instinct was to lash out, to hurt Jarod, the child of the man who had killed her mother. She'd been hunting that phantom who for what seemed like an eternity, and suddenly it had a face, of sorts. She'd shot after Jarod, chased him, done whatever she could to stop him.

Would stopping him heal the wound in her heart that had gaped larger at the old man's words?

Even before she heard Sydney's voice, warning them about the bomb (and how did he know?), the pain had been fading. Perhaps it had started fading as soon as she heard the old man's words-- and saw the stricken look on Jarod's face.

She realized that Jarod was right-- with all the lies, with all the deception, the last words of a dying man could mean nothing. Or everything. Or something in between. She'd catch Jarod, because that was her job as a Centre employee and as the dutiful daughter to a man who never used her first name. But she wouldn't kill him... and she wouldn't allow anyone else to kill him.

And then, the fire.

***

It knocked her backward, against the wall, and her gun flew out of her hand into the flames. The walls down here were usually icy cold, but now they seemed to burn right through her clothes, searing her skin. Everything happened so fast, in a cascade of sparks and motion and confusion.

There was shouting, voices incoherent and unrecognizable. One might have been her father-- but then again, maybe not. She heard something snap in her arm-- it flashed through her mind that if she lived through this, she'd hear that sound in her nightmares for the rest of her life, and her nightmares already had rich banks to draw from. Something pulled painfully in her back, something hard and unforgiving struck her head.

There was only darkness.

***

Methinks this time becometh lovers best:
Night was ordained together friends to keep.

The sheet was cool on her skin, and she luxuriated in the feel of the cool cotton, silky soft, on her arms, her legs, her breasts...

Her eyes flew open, facing the dark. She didn't sleep in the nude, normally; she was a satin PJ woman. Occasionally, black lace. Once in a great while, in the dead of winter, she had an old shabby flannel nightgown that she would dig out of the back of her lingerie drawer and put on, feeling like a fashion fraud even as she enjoyed the soft warmth. But here she was, stark naked between the sheets.

She wasn't in her own room. And there was someone next to her in the bed. Someone who smelled faintly like soap, and some indefinable, musky, masculine scent...

"I don't know how we got here, either."

It was Jarod's voice, soft and husky, sending a shiver of recognition up her spine. She instinctively reached for her gun, which in her own bedroom would be on her night stand-- but there was nothing beside the bed, and her hand flailed uselessly.

"Don't bother." She could see the outline of him, faintly, in the dim light from the window. He was on the far side of the bed, on his stomach, leaning on his elbows; his face was turned towards her but she couldn't see anything but a dark outline. "There's nothing in this room. No door that I can find. No lamps, either, and the window is sealed shut. There's just us, and the bed."

"You'll forgive me if I check for myself?" Parker spat from behind clenched teeth.

She felt him smile, somehow. "Of course. But you'll have to find a way to leave me a sheet-- we're both naked, Miss Parker."

She flushed, hating herself for it and for the question she had to ask. "You checked?"

"I'm a gentleman, so I didn't look." The amusement in his voice made her want to hit him, hard, preferably taking out a few teeth in the process. "But I could see that your shoulders were bare, and I drew the obvious conclusions."

"Lovely." With vicious tugs, she yanked the top sheet off the bed and wrapped it around herself, her back to Jarod, resolutely not looking. "Use your pillow if you're feeling modest."

His low laughter accompanied her clumsy trek around the room. Jarod was telling the truth (didn't he usually?). The room was hardly bigger than the bed itself; she couldn't find any lights, or a door, and the window was set so high in the wall that she couldn't see out. It was barred, anyway.

She turned sharply and headed back to her side of the bed-- the back of her mind noting that Jarod was sitting up, and he had put a pillow in his lap.

She sat, keeping the sheet wrapped around her. "What fresh hell is this?" she murmured, only half-aware she was speaking; the rest of her brain was rushing through the questions-- why were they there? Who had put them there? How could they get out? She didn't even know what time it was-- she had no watch; no jewelry at all, actually. Even her mother's ring was gone.

Someone would pay for that.

"Was this your idea?" she hissed at him, knowing the answer-- but having to ask.

"No. If it were my idea, I'd be wearing clothes."

Unwillingly, one side of her mouth curved upward-- then shot back down.

Jarod seemed content to let her sit on the edge of the bed and seethe. She wasn't good at inactivity, and that combined with this strange captivity was pushing all her buttons. Eventually, realizing there wasn't much else she could do, she scooted around-- keeping a good grip on the sheet that covered her-- and sat on the bed, next to Jarod, her back against the wall. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that he hadn't moved; he was sitting, perfectly composed, the pillow still in his lap.

The light through the window seemed to be a little brighter, and she could see his face-- his eyes were shut, and he looked relaxed. His hands were on the pillow, palms upward, and his arms and legs were warm and brown against the ghostly white of the bed linens.

He looked too damn comfortable for someone who was buck naked and locked in a room with the woman who was supposed to be his nemesis. Parker suppressed the urge to kick him. Or scratch him. Since either action would probably bring the sheet tumbling down from around her, she didn't bother.

She settled for sarcasm. "I'm glad to see you're so concerned about our situation." Her voice was biting.

Jarod didn't even open his eyes. "There's not much we can do, is there? I'm tired. I might as well rest."

Parker realized that she was tired, too. Perhaps it was just the power of suggestion, but all she wanted to do was rest her head on...

No. Shoot down that thought, Parker. Grind it into little bits under your heel... if you were wearing shoes, of course.

Jarod opened his eyes and smiled at her as if he knew what she was thinking-- that lazy smile which usually infuriated her beyond reason. "This isn't exactly how I thought I'd get naked with you, Miss Parker."

Her mouth opened, ready to spit out a suitably devastating retort-- but what emerged was laughter, and a second later she was laughing so hard she was doubling over. She probably hadn't laughed this hard since childhood, and Jarod joined her. It felt good to laugh.

Wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of one hand, Parker shook her head. "This isn't funny. Why am I laughing?"

"Because it is funny." Jarod gestured around the room with one arm (the other stayed firmly on the pillow in his lap, she noticed). "We're locked in a room together, naked, sitting on a bed. If you can't laugh in this situation, there aren't many you can laugh in."

"I'm not exactly famous for my sense of humor," she observed with a twist of her mouth.

Jarod shrugged. "Laughter isn't something they encourage at the Centre. I don't think I learned how to laugh until I left." There it was again-- that lost echo in his voice she'd heard every so often; the one that brought up all those odd protective emotions that made her feel concerned and caring and weak.

She dealt with them as she usually did-- she ignored them.

They were quiet for a while; Miss Parker adjusted the sheet around her with a tug every so often.

Jarod broke the silence, his voice low. "What are you thinking about?"

She answered without pretense. "My mother." Miss Parker felt him wince, and for some reason (very unlike her) she didn't want him to be upset. "The stories she used to tell me," she added, trying to spin the conversation away from the inevitable and knowing it wouldn't work. "She could take an ordinary fairy tale and make it something entirely new."

"If my father was the one who killed her..."

"I'll kill him," she said calmly.

Jarod didn't say anything, but he lowered his head, just slightly.

"And before I kill him, I'll ask him where your mother is." She lifted a hand and nearly touched him, but held back at the last moment. "If your father did kill my mother, it's not your fault."

He laughed, humorlessly. "Remarkably enlightened of you, given that you were trying to shoot me not too long ago."

She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "Sometimes I get a little... enthusiastic."

"I've noticed," Jarod said wryly. He reached up and rubbed his arm absently. "You enjoy your work."

"Enjoy? That's not the right word." Miss Parker leaned her head back against the wall, staring at the faintly lit ceiling. "I do what I have to do."

"So do I."

They had lives they never wanted, never chose, because of things that had happened when they were just children. "We never really had a choice, did we?"

Jarod turned his head to look at her. "About what?"

"About how we're living our lives."

"No. We didn't." He half-smiled. "Our choices were made for us, and we're just living with them the best way we can."

Miss Parker felt a rush of anger. "That's not how I want to live my life."

Jarod shrugged slightly. "It's not how I wanted to live my life, either. If I'd known who I was, maybe things would be different. If your mother had lived, she might have given you a different life."

With one hand, she stifled a yawn. "Maybe. Might have been. I hate that."

"So do I," Jarod said, his voice ineffably sad. "But it's all we had."

Unable to stop it this time, she yawned, so hard she felt her jaw crack. "Excuse me," she said absently, some long-forgotten bit of etiquette returning. "I'm just so tired all of a sudden..."

Jarod nodded slowly, and for a split second she thought his eyes were bright with tears-- which was impossible, of course, since there was no reason for him to cry. "Why don't you lie down and get some rest?" He held up one hand. "I promise I won't take advantage of you."

"Don't even try," she said, but her voice was free of menace. She knew he wouldn't; she knew she was safer with him than perhaps with anyone in the world.

Carefully, keeping the sheet around her, she moved to lay on her side, her back to Jarod. Her eyelids were so heavy that she could barely keep them open. She couldn't remember the last time she had been this tired-- it was like a soft, heavy weight was gently pressing down on her.

As she half-dozed, listening to the even breathing of the man next to her, her tired lips formed a question.

"Jarod?"

He stirred. "Yes?"

How do you remember me, Jarod? What, if anything, lingers in your mind about me? I remember the way your eyes shine when you escape me. I remember how your smile looks in the sun, and despite all the rational reasons against it, I wish I made you smile like that. "If you had to describe me to someone, what would you say?"

He was quiet for several long moments, and she heard him expel a long breath.

"I would tell them..." He was silent. "I would tell them how you looked the first time I saw you, through the glass at the Centre. I would tell them that when you saw your mother, your smile was like sunshine."

Without warning, his hand was stroking her hair-- but she didn't start, didn't object. It felt wonderful.

His voice was soothing, and even though she was trying very, very hard to listen, she felt herself drifting away. "They would ask what happened to that smile, and I'd say that it was still there-- but that you hid it away once you grew up, and only allowed yourself to smile like that once in a great while. I would tell them that you didn't have any idea how beautiful you were without makeup. I'd say that you were very good with your gun and all your Centre-taught strategies, but that watching you with Broots' daughter showed me what your real skills were."

His hand was so gentle on her hair. It was so light that it was almost like not being touched... except for the warmth.

Just before she dropped into sleep, she heard his voice, whispering and sad. "I will always remember you. Always."

***

The sheets again, cool on her skin-- but different. She was clothed. The light was much, much brighter.

Miss Parker's eyes opened-- no more moonlit room. She was in the Centre's infirmary, and a quick assessment told her that she was hooked up to half the tubes in the universe, she was wearing some kind of brace around her neck, and her left arm was in a cast.

"Angel. You're awake!" Her father's smiling face appeared, looking down at her. He had a neat gauze bandage over his right eye, and she could see a faint bruise on one cheekbone, but other than that he looked fine.

"Daddy?" Her voice was raw and raspy; it sounded like it had been years since she'd spoken.

He reached out and patted her shoulder. "You're fine. You gave us a bad scare, Angel. You've been unconscious for over a week."

Her mind raced, trying to formulate a thousand questions, but her father had already moved on. "I'll get the nurse to check on you," he said, turning away before she could stop him.

Several minutes of quiet in the white room gave her the chance to test her legs, test her cast-free arm. She was sore, and once or twice movement brought gasps of pain, but her pieces seemed to be in generally the right places.

Unconscious. So her night with Jarod had been...

Sleep returned, and she didn't have the strength to fight it. A rustling noise, footsteps on the tile, eventually woke her.

"Miss Parker?" It was Sydney, one hand holding a bouquet of brightly colored flowers in front of him. "I'm so happy to see you're awake."

"Everyone's just thrilled, and I'm stuck on my back like a goddamn turtle."

Sydney coughed-- covering a laugh, she knew-- and put the flowers on her bedside table. "Here." He put the bed control into her useful hand, and with only a few stops and starts she managed to move the bed so that she was in a semi-sitting position.

"Thank you." Her eyes widened as she saw all of Sydney, not just his face-- he was leaning heavily on a cane; one leg was in a cast, and the hand that had been holding the flowers was heavily bandaged. "Sydney?"

He shook his head dismissively. "I'm fine." He sensed her next question. "So is Broots. He and your father got off with the fewest injuries of all-- except for Mr. Raines."

"Raines." This time, Miss Parker's voice wasn't raspy because of the misuse.

"Alive, unfortunately."

"Damn."

Sydney laughed.

Miss Parker reached up, tentatively, to touch her face. She couldn't feel any stitches.

"You're bruised, but your face wasn't cut. You were one of the first ones out."

She paused. "How? What happened?" Before Sydney spoke, she knew what he was going to say.

"Jarod."

Involuntarily, her hand went to her hair. "Jarod?"

"He got you out, and me, and Broots. We all should have died in that fire."

"Pity Raines didn't," she spat.

Sydney smiled, raising his eyebrows. "Yes. Jarod didn't have to go back for him-- Raines got out almost right away, on his own-- but he probably would have." There it was, that paternal pride that slipped into Sydney's voice when he was talking about his Pretender.

Her head hurt, suddenly. "How is Jarod?"

Sydney was quiet, suddenly looking everywhere but at her.

"Sydney! Don't look away from me!" She was aware her voice was suddenly desperate, ragged-- but there was nothing she could do about it.

"He was injured. Badly."

"He's here?"

Sydney nodded, still not looking at her. "Yes."

"I want to see him."

"Miss Parker..."

She was already struggling to get out of the bed, which was not only painful but embarrassing. "I want to see him. Now."

Sydney laid one hand on her arm. "At least let me get a nurse to help you."

Aware that she didn't really have a choice, she nodded shortly.

In a few minutes, Sydney returned with a stocky male attendant (amazing how quickly the cane-encumbered Sydney could find someone, while she never had seen her father again). The attendant-- who was surprisingly gentle-- helped her into a wheelchair, deftly handling all the tubes and wires running in and out of various parts of her body. Pillows were slipped under her arm, behind her back and under one of her legs; she was almost comfortable.

"Thank you," she said brusquely, and saw a flash of surprise in the man's eyes. How nice that her reputation for warmth had spread all the way down here.

Slowly, awkwardly, the trio left her room and navigated down the narrow hallway. The only sounds were the hiss of the wheelchair and the dull thud of Sydney's cane. The hospital sub-level seemed cold and deserted, but Parker knew there were eyes and ears everywhere; nothing was ever truly deserted or truly private in this place.

Jarod was two rooms down from hers, in what appeared to be larger and more equipment-laden quarters. There was an anteroom filled with machines making ominous noises, and an impassive man was sitting beside the doorway to the inner room. Another Centre goon, certainly armed within an inch of his worthless life. He didn't react as they came in, but continued staring straight ahead.

Parker knew that she should make some kind of cutting remark. Everyone was probably expecting it of her-- but right now, she couldn't think of anything to say. All her attention was focused on what lay behind the inner doorway.

Jarod was in a hospital bed, like the one she'd just left. At least, she assumed it was Jarod; it was nearly impossible to see him given the amount of bandaging on almost every exposed inch of skin. One of his legs was in a cast and hung from neat traction wires, as did one arm. He had at least twice the number of tubes and wires that she had, including one wide grooved tube in his mouth that Miss Parker knew, like a brutal kick to her stomach, must be a ventilator. The room was quiet except for the hisses and hums and beeps of the various machines, slicing through the silence.

Miss Parker looked up at Sydney, perhaps seeking some kind of reassurance, and was shocked at what she saw. His eyes were fixed on Jarod, and Sydney looked thirty years older. The sadness in his eyes was terrible to see.

Turning away painfully, she gazed at Jarod for several long minutes. Looking away from his still, bandaged form was one of the hardest things she'd ever done.

"What are his chances?"

"Not good," said Sydney, his voice a thousand miles past grief. "Not very good at all."

Parker shut her eyes, but that didn't stop the tears from spilling onto her cheeks. She didn't care who saw them. She'd pay later for this moment of weakness, but right now she didn't care.

Sydney's hand rested warmly on her shoulder. He didn't have to say anything.

She didn't open her eyes. "I had a dream-- when I was unconscious. I talked to Jarod." She smiled, crookedly, tears running into her mouth. "Crazy, I know, since he's currently a vegetable."

"Crazy?" Sydney laughed, low and rough. "I wouldn't call it that. Sometimes dreams are more real than we can know."

The gentleness of Jarod's hand, stroking her hair as she fell asleep next to him. Perhaps it had been real. But, damn it, she didn't want that to be their good-bye.

Painfully, she reached out with her good arm and touched Jarod's hand, which was only partially covered by bandages, lying limply on the bed next to him.

And, as best she could, she held on.

***

Dear, why should you command me to my rest,
When now the night doth summon all to sleep?
Methinks this time becometh lovers best:
Night was ordained together friends to keep.
How happy are all other living things,
Which though the day disjoin by several flight,
The quiet Evening yet together brings,
And each returns unto his love at night!
Why shouldst though, Night, abuse me only thus,
That every creature to his kind dost call,
And yet 'tis thou dost only sever us?
Well could I wish it would be ever day
If, when night comes, you bid me go away.

Back to the main Pretender fiction page