This story is a brief companion/mood piece to my story "Wake." Please read "Wake" first or this won't entirely make sense. This is the first Pretender story I've written that's not from Miss Parker's point of view, so it's a departure for me.

The title and poetry quoted within is John Montague's lovely poem, "Crossing." I found the poem a while ago and copied it down; after I wrote "Wake" I realized where the poem fit. The story is rated R for the mention of sexual situations and adult language. Don't read this if you're under 17, please.

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. Please do not archive. Archive links to this page are welcome.

Many thanks to Karen, who read this months ago and sent it back, wisely telling me it wasn't quite there; thanks to her, it sat on the back burner until it was truly ready.

Feedback is a wonderful, beautiful thing and sending it earns you enormous brownie points with whatever deity(ies) you do/don't believe in. :) Please send it to me at kirbyfest@yahoo.com.

***

Your lithe and golden body
haunts me, as I haunt you:
Corsairs with different freights
who may only cross by chance
on lucky nights

When she fell asleep in his arms, he wanted to sleep, too. Perhaps with her next to him, the nightmares would stay far away. But he couldn't risk sleeping. Eventually, she would wake up and the desire would be gone from her eyes. He'd see the realization of what had happened, the anger creeping back in-- at herself, at him-- the return to the cold stiff Centre persona that wanted to lock him back up and take away his life. He would see regret.

He didn't know if he could stand to see that.

So he kept himself awake, watching her sleep for as long as he dared. Part of him was amazed that she could sleep so soundly-- the woman who sneered at him, who thought his father had killed her mother, who made love to him so fiercely that, days later, he would still feel the imprint of her hands, her mouth on his body. But there she was with her face buried in his chest, even breaths warm against him, hair scattered every which way like scented silk. She must trust him a little, just a little.

Leaving her was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

So our moorings differ.
But scents of your pleasure
still linger disturbingly
around me: fair winds or
squalls of danger?

He carefully untangled himself from her arms, her legs, and slipped out of bed without waking her. Gathering up what clothes he could find, he slipped on his jeans and shoes, then wasted five precious minutes looking for his shirt before remembering that it was probably still on the floor downstairs.

Before going downstairs, he went back over to the bed. He knew it was a risk. Logically, he should get out as quickly as he could. But he walked quietly to her side, just to look at her once more, barely visible in the shadowy bedroom.

She was still soundly asleep with her face pressed into a pillow, one hand clutching the sheet like a lifeline. As he watched her, her forehead wrinkled as if she was having a bad dream. There were thousands of things that could be haunting her; her list was nearly as long as his. He resisted the urge to smooth his hand over her forehead, ease the lines.

Leave, he had to leave-- the knowledge drummed inside him, and he trusted his instinct. Before he left, he reached down and covered her gently, tucking the blanket around her to keep her warm. One last gentle touch of her cheek-- fighting off the sharp, sweet memory of what she tasted like-- and he was gone.

There is a way of forgetting you,
but I have forgotten it:
prepared wildly to cut free
to lurch, like a young man,
towards ecstasy

Weeks later, his nightmares had taken on a new dimension. The old phantoms were still there, rattling their worn, familiar chains in his head, but now there were new demons to bring him awake, gasping for air.

In his dreams, he was with her again. It was all there in the dreams, just like it had been for that one afternoon when she had been his, and he entirely hers. In his dreams he was inside her and it was everything he'd never let himself imagine, perfect liquid pleasure like nothing he'd known or dared to Pretend. He'd meet her eyes and see his desire reflected there, hear her ragged breathing. The feel of her moving on him, of him moving within her...

He'd wake in a cold sweat, her voice still ringing in his ears as she called out his name.

Nightly your golden body turns
and turns in my shuddering dream.
Why is my heart never still,
yielding again to the cardinal
lure of the beautiful?

He had wanted her to be happy with Thomas, though he hadn't imagined that their simple meeting would lead to Thomas' death. At some level, that death was his fault-- another body to add to his count, another voice to hear when things got quiet.

Parker deserved a chance at a normal life, but he'd been waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop, wondering if the Centre would actually allow Daddy's little girl to ride off into the sunset, leaving them behind. Of course, they hadn't.

While he had a good idea who'd ordered the murder, there was no proof, so he hadn't been able to wipe away her anguish, her rage. She needed resolution to get over her anger, and she hadn't gotten any-- and she wouldn't heal until she either got that resolution, or accepted that she'd never know.

Had he known what would happen when he went to her house? He'd had no choice, no choice at all. We're all lost, Sydney, and I'm more lost than most because I deliberately went to the house of a woman whose full time job was to return me to slavery. But I had to go, because I had to see her.

When she lashed out at him, he was just relieved that she was letting off steam. Any emotional release was better than locking it all away like she always did, deep inside.

...And then he touched her. It was all over after that. Inevitable, at least for him.

The feel of her warm skin on his hand... At that moment he would have done or said anything to have her. Lied, cheated, killed, gone back to the Centre--- anything. He hadn't needed to; she needed motion, and he was there. He didn't flatter himself that it was him, Jarod, that she wanted. He was the beneficiary of being in the wrong place at the incredibly right time.

Age should bring its wisdom
but in your fragrant presence
my truths are one swirling
to a litany-- sweet privateer--
of grateful adulation.

It terrified him, how much he still wanted her. The ache was even worse now that he knew what she felt like, tasted like-- like light and ice cream and music rolled together, turning him inside out. But it wasn't just sex; it would be easier if it were. It would be so much easier.

He wasn't quite sure how to forget her. He could do anything, be anything, be anyone, but he couldn't get her out of his mind. It ate away at him, the wanting. He'd thought that he would need to find his family to feel complete-- but all it had taken was finding her.

Maybe the hardest thing he'd ever do would be to go on without her.

** End **

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