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Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc. and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.


No Rest For The Weary
Author: Keeper March



There is nothing so constant as change. How many times have I sat here behind this desk, staring at a half-empty tumbler, just letting myself go? Just willing myself to not care if only briefly. To imagine myself apart from all of this, from the thick cloud that chokes me at night. It can't be done. It can't be changed. And in these moments of quiet, I know that and it, more than the lies and the deceit and the blatant cruelty, it tears me apart. Let the glass fall, Parker. Let it slip from your hands like hope in the inevitability of change has slipped from yours. I look at the glass again and instead of letting gravity pull it down, I hurl it at the wall. In the morning it will all be straightened, like nothing happened. Change doesn't exist here. And that is a constant.

I sprint out to my car. I close the door behind me and lower the top. I know it's cold and I know it's impractical but I don't care. I hit reverse and gun the engine, peel out leaving nothing but that acrid smell of mistreated rubber. I'm doing 90 on this long stretch of lonesome headed god only knows where. If only for tonight, I will be changed.

The phone rings and of course I know who it is.

"Parker's Pool Hall. Eight Ball speaking. How may I help you?"

"What?"

"What? What kind of person answers the phone with "what"? Where were you raised? "

"Parker is that you?"

"Ahh, the constant joy of my life. The only thing that gets me up in the morning." My humor quickly fades. It's replaced with hushed sadness. I wonder if he can hear it over the roar of the wind. "It would have been so much easier if you had just let us all go. If you had well and truly escaped. But you didn't."

With that I flung my phone overhead and knew it didn't just land in the backseat. Somewhere on the highway a very expensive piece of technology was shattering into a million shards. Chew on that, Wonderboy. For these fleeting moments, I don't care.

I just drive. The wind whips at my face, a bittersweet sting from the cold. I listen to sad, stupid songs that I knew in my youth and am pleasantly surprised that I remember most of the words. And I don't have to use my rearview the whole time because there is nothing behind me and probably nothing ahead and for some reason I can deal with that right now.

It's 3 in the morning and even the adrenaline rush I was on has to end sometime. I doubt I'm in Delaware anymore. I pull into a little motel that may be open and then again, it may not have been open since the Nixon Administration. And somehow that's appropriate. I'd never stay in a dump like this if I were thinking sanely, if I was thinking like myself, but I'm not. And lo and behold, it's open. A vacancy light glowing like a beacon to the world-weary. Disappear here. I could do that.

Room 8. It smells like mothballs and water damage. And I look down at myself and chuckle because I'm in a leather miniskirt and heels and I look so out of place here. I sit on the bed and I know I have this smile on my face like I'm a loon, like an escapee from one of Sydney's experiments. No, stop that. There shall be no references to the Centre. For the next seven hours or so, there is nothing but me and these threadbare conditions and the very little that is left of my sanity. And I think that here, I'll be able to sleep.

The door is knocked in. Miss Parker the Centre-trained operative would have anticipated that. Hell, anyone would have probably heard the knocking but my brain, believing it's own delusion chose to ignore the pounding on the door.

I blink in surprise and squint at the street light that's pouring its dagger rays through the open door.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Jarod. Funny how when I want to find him, like the last five years, it's a huge ordeal but the one time I want to escape, guess who's there.

"Shut the damn door," I say even though the words are muffled by the pillow over my face.

I hear the click of it and lift the pillow away. He's standing by the bed, staring at me incredulously.

"I was worried, I…"

I cut him off.

"Just shut up and get into bed." I don't know where that comes from, I really don't, but I figure if I'm going to change things, this will definitely raise the bar. I expect some protest or explanation but he just takes his jacket and shoes off and slides in next to me. I turn into him, wrap an arm around his waist and get comfy. I have no idea what I'm doing or even why I'm doing it but that's never stopped me before.

"Listen," I say and I know it sounds like a plea. "Nothing is going to happen here. I just want to lie in someone's arms like I'm someone else. Like in the morning we'll grab breakfast and get back on the road to see the country and the only worry I'll have is our mileage. For the next couple of hours I want to sleep, really sleep like I haven't in years, hell, decades. And I think you want that too." And I didn't have to see him nod or hear him agree but I knew we were on the same page when he draped his arm over my shoulder. And I slept for what felt like days.

The End

Sequel: No Tuesdays









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