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Disclaimer: Miss Parker, Broots, Jarod, and all things Pretender-related belong to Mitchell/Van Sickle Productions and NBC. By writing this story, I am rather blatantly infringing on their copyright. However, I don't really care.
Disclaimer 2: Some of the dialogue in this story is taken directly from the Pretender episode, "Crash." That dialogue belongs to the writers of the episode, not to me.
Spoilers: This story contains some small spoilers for "Crash." Just a few notes before we get to the good stuff: I have no idea where this story came from. I was re-watching "Crash" the other day (the Centre bits only, not the boring Jarod bits), when I turned around and there it was. It is, of all strange and bizarre things, a Miss Parker/Broots story! "What!" you cry, choking on your laughter. "Are you insane?" Very possibly, but give this story a chance anyway. "When Monkeys Fly" is set in the middle of that episode. Think of it as a missing scene. For those of you who don't remember, "Crash" is the episode where Jarod sent Miss Parker, Sydney, and Broots to a high school reunion -- Mr. Lyle's high school reunion, as it turns out.
This story takes place after the big reunion scene, but before the next morning when they're all standing in their sleepware around Broots' computer. In other words, it's set during the night when MP and Broots were forced to share a hotel room. And in my fictional little world, the hotel room only has the one bed.
When Monkeys Fly
Aimee
BROOTS: There's a nametag in my book. Who's Ricky Sanders?
SYDNEY: [Reading his own nametag] Professor Tom Greer.
MISS PARKER: Oh god.
BROOTS: What, who'd you get? [Reads] Mrs. Ricky Sanders. . .
SYD: Always thought you'd make a nice couple.
MP: Yeah. When monkeys fly.
--from the episode "Crash."
Miss Parker stood by the hotel room's minibar and drained her drink, the most recent in a long series; if she had to endure this hayseed hell Jarod had sent her to, the least she could do was pickle herself in alcohol until she was too numb to care. She longed for the comforts and familiarity of her own house, back in civilization. The Centre might, perhaps, be a cage, but at least it was a prettily gilded one, and her fellow prisoners were interesting people, awake, alert, and alive (the first two were a necessity at the Centre if one wanted to remain the third; inattention and complacency swiftly brought their own, frequently lethal, punishments), unlike these sheep-like Nebraskan zombies. _Well,_ she thought, glancing at Broots where he sat across the room, typing busily away at his laptop, _*most* of us are unlike that, anyway._ She snorted and poured herself another drink.
'Like your life is so great.'
She heard his voice clearly, as if he had spoken in her ear. "What?" she said sharply.
Broots looked up, surprised. "Sorry?"
"Nothing. I thought you said something. Never mind."
"Uh...okay." He turned back to his computer, shooting her the occasional concerned glance.
Right. That was just a memory of an earlier conversation, not actual words spoken aloud. She put her glass down with a click; if she was starting to hear voices, then she was drunker than she thought -- especially if she were being haunted by *Broots*, of all people. Broots, king of the nerds, who actually seemed to *like* life here in the middle of nowhere where nothing ever happened and nothing ever would, who got along with the natives and envied their insignificant little lives. Who said she should look at this like a vacation from the Centre, like that was a *good* thing, some kind of major selling point sure to clinch the deal. Who sang the praises of Sunday sermons and Little League games. . .
Just for the hell of it, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself in such a life. She failed utterly. No, there was no way she could possibly be happy like that (the words "are you happy now?" floated in the back of her brain, flickered feebly, and then were gone), no way she could stand to live here, settling firmly into mediocrity and stagnating there, no challenge, no excitement, no constant testing of her abilities, her mind, her limits. . .
. . . no danger, no uncertainty, no fear, no more vicious Centre politics, no more emotional blackmail from her father or Jarod, no more elevators with bullet holes, no more lies, no more secrets. Not having to kill to survive, but instead being allowed to live on her own terms. . .
Her eyes snapped open, and she fumbled for her pack of cigarettes. After several long, calming, nicotine-filled breaths, she felt better, more like her old self -- but, God, she just wanted this day to be over.
She glanced over at her temporary roommate. "I'm going to bed," she said.
* * * *
She opened her eyes to find Jarod standing over her. He didn't say anything, simply stood there, gaze steady and dark with compassion, and regarded her intently. She raised an eyebrow, inviting him to speak, but he still remained oddly silent. It was, frankly, creepy. She reached for a cigarette. "What are you looking at?" she growled as she flicked her lighter's flame to life.
Again he failed to speak, choosing to smile at her instead. She blew a stream of smoke in his general direction. "Fine, Jarod, have it your way; play your silly games. I don't care."
But as she stood there, she slowly began to understand that he was not, in fact, in the room with her. A wall rose, invisible, between them, separating them, keeping them apart. Made of ice, perhaps -- strong, solid, impenetrable, and cold, so very cold. *She* was cold.
She had built this wall, she realized, constructed it slowly and painfully over the years, poured her grief, tears, and pain into it until they froze and bothered her no more. It was necessary, this wall, an integral part of her self; it held her up, held her together. But, sometimes, she couldn't stop herself from wondering what was on the other side . . .
Jarod lifted his arm and extended his hand toward her, not knowing or not caring that she was trapped safely behind her wall of ice -- and somehow, shockingly and inexplicably, he reached through that chilly barrier as if it were not there. He held his hand out to her, inviting her to take it.
She stared at it. It would be so easy, she thought, to reach out and take that hand and all it was offering, to warm her frozen fingers by wrapping them in his human heat. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her trembling hand crept forward, reaching out toward his. She was so cold, cold to the very core of her being, and starved for a simple human touch. But she didn't have to be; she could break this wall, shatter it past repair. All she had to do was . . . reach out . . . and . . . touch . . . .
"No!" She jerked her arm away before she could make contact, then turned and ran.
* * * *
Miss Parker woke suddenly, heart pounding. She sat there for a moment, shaking, then reached out and fumbled around in the nightstand next to the bed, trying to find her pack of cigarettes by touch. They would be much easier to locate if she turned on the lights, but she left them off -- not out of any courtesy for the man who slept next to her in the bed, but because she found the dark comforting. It was familiar, soothing -- safe. Alone here in the dark, it was all right if her mask slipped a little; no one could see.
God, that dream! She almost wished she didn't understand what it meant, so she wouldn't have to think about it, but her subconscious was about as subtle as a ton of bricks. So she was lonely, so what? She absolutely could not get too close to Jarod; he was much too dangerous. He was too . . . important? . . . too *something*. He could hurt her, if she let him.
And, besides, he asked so much of her. Asked her to remove her mask, to take down her wall, to change who she was. She felt open, vulnerable, when she was around him; he did damage to her sense of self just by being near her. She couldn't risk it. He was too much of a threat.
But why did she have to be so alone?
In the dark beside her, Broots rolled over, closer to her, and threw an unconscious arm around her waist. He mumbled something sleepy and incoherent, then submerged again into dreams. She looked down at his pajama-clad arm, and wondered why she hadn't pushed him immediately and violently away.
But, really, Broots wasn't so bad. She knew somewhere in the depths of her soul that he didn't deserve her usual contemptuous treatment of him. So what if he was a computer geek and a coward? He was . . .kind. So what if he was not the best-looking man she knew (certainly not nearly as handsome as, say, Jarod)? Here in the dark it didn't matter. She let her hand glide up his arm to his shoulder, caressing it slightly. Two thoughts ran through her head. _Broots could never threaten me._
_Maybe I don't have to be alone, after all._
She had his pajamas off, her hands on his body, and her mouth strategically poised before he woke up. He raised his head a little and peered down at her, arousal and confusion evident in his eyes. He opened his mouth, and she slid her hands up his chest and tweaked a nipple, just for fun. "Oooh," he moaned, instead of whatever he had been going to say. She smiled.
The second time he tried to speak, she let him get the words out. "Is this a dream?" he whispered.
"Yes," she said, and plunged her mouth down on his erection.
She watched his face as she sucked (watched him as best she could from this angle, anyway), enjoying the rapid play of emotions across his face. He was red-faced and panting, extremely responsive to her touch. It had probably been quite a while for him, she thought. She ran her tongue along the underside of his cock, and made a mental note when he gasped, face contorting and hips jerking. She teased him then, beginning to repeat the gesture, but stopping at the last minute. She did this again, and again, then pulled back and swiped her tongue hard along the very tip.
"Oh god!" he cried, then reached blindly down towards her head, trying to push her where he wanted her to go.
"Ah-ah-ah!" she said, tsk-ing like a schoolmarm, then grabbed his hands and pushed them up above his head, rubbing her naked body against his in the process. He closed his eyes and shivered. "Please," he begged faintly.
She grinned. This was even more fun than verbally torturing Broots at the Centre every day.
She brushed the tips of her breasts against his face, sighing in satisfaction when he took the hint and took her nipple into his mouth. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation for a moment as he licked and sucked and swirled and . . . oh, yeah . . . god, he was unexpectedly good at this.
She sat back before she could lose control of the situation, reluctantly disengaging her breast from his talented mouth. She straddled him firmly and straightened up, releasing his wrists. She cupped her own breasts then, kneading gently, feeling the weight and texture of them in her palms; she brushed her fingertips upwards, circling the aureoles, skimming over the taut peaks of the nipples, slipping through the moisture there, a thin film of sweat and saliva. Broots was groaning, helpless sounds of need, and his eyes darkened as he watched.
She left her breasts and slithered her hands downwards, over her abdomen and stomach, and inbetween her legs. Broots' moans of pleasure intensified as she slid a finger inside herself and gathered the moisture there. She withdrew her finger slightly, then plunged it forward again, and again, and again, her groans joining Broots' by the time she finally took her hand away completely. Then she sank slowly downwards, impaling herself on his cock.
There was a moment of stillness as they both adjusted to a new set of sensations; then Miss Parker began to move. Slowly, at first, erratically -- then she found her rhythm. She rose and descended, up and down, riding him hard. Yes, this was what she wanted, she thought as she brought a hand between them and began to rub her clitoris, bracing herself with her other hand, this mindless physical connection, this place of glorious animal sensation, burning bright and hard and hot beneath her skin. She closed her eyes. God, yes, drive away her dreams with this sweet electric heat, banish loneliness with sexual exertion, just fuck all rational thought right out of her . . . !
She increased the tempo of her pistoning hips, riding faster, thrusting harder, until she was moving frantically, violently, almost savagely. She gave herself over to the moment, lost herself in it: there was nothing, nothing but the feel of his hard cock moving inside her; of her clit rubbing along his rigid length; of his hands wrapped around her, grabbing her hips; of his mouth once again sucking the tips of her breasts. She felt a white-hot surge of pleasure roil in her belly, and a rumbling deep in her chest; she stiffened, head thrown back, muscles contracting, and a growl erupted from her throat as the tidal wave broke and orgasm came crashing over her.
She fell asleep with a smile on her face, leaving Broots to stare up at the ceiling and wonder what the hell had just happened.
* * * *
She woke before he did the next morning, and managed to get his pajamas back on him without rousing him. He slept the sleep of the dead -- or the well and truly satiated. "I still got it," she muttered as she disappeared into the bathroom and started her day.
* * * *
Broots didn't say anything to her that day, but she felt his eyes on her, following her wherever she went. He was, she realized, unsure if the events of last night had actually occurred, or if he had dreamed the whole thing. She gave him no help in figuring it out.
"Up here, Broots," she snapped. He tore his eyes away from her cleavage, blushed, stammered, and finally managed to continue with what he had been saying.
She grinned to herself. Let him wonder.
THE END
Disclaimer 2: Some of the dialogue in this story is taken directly from the Pretender episode, "Crash." That dialogue belongs to the writers of the episode, not to me.
Spoilers: This story contains some small spoilers for "Crash." Just a few notes before we get to the good stuff: I have no idea where this story came from. I was re-watching "Crash" the other day (the Centre bits only, not the boring Jarod bits), when I turned around and there it was. It is, of all strange and bizarre things, a Miss Parker/Broots story! "What!" you cry, choking on your laughter. "Are you insane?" Very possibly, but give this story a chance anyway. "When Monkeys Fly" is set in the middle of that episode. Think of it as a missing scene. For those of you who don't remember, "Crash" is the episode where Jarod sent Miss Parker, Sydney, and Broots to a high school reunion -- Mr. Lyle's high school reunion, as it turns out.
This story takes place after the big reunion scene, but before the next morning when they're all standing in their sleepware around Broots' computer. In other words, it's set during the night when MP and Broots were forced to share a hotel room. And in my fictional little world, the hotel room only has the one bed.
Aimee
BROOTS: There's a nametag in my book. Who's Ricky Sanders?
SYDNEY: [Reading his own nametag] Professor Tom Greer.
MISS PARKER: Oh god.
BROOTS: What, who'd you get? [Reads] Mrs. Ricky Sanders. . .
SYD: Always thought you'd make a nice couple.
MP: Yeah. When monkeys fly.
--from the episode "Crash."
Miss Parker stood by the hotel room's minibar and drained her drink, the most recent in a long series; if she had to endure this hayseed hell Jarod had sent her to, the least she could do was pickle herself in alcohol until she was too numb to care. She longed for the comforts and familiarity of her own house, back in civilization. The Centre might, perhaps, be a cage, but at least it was a prettily gilded one, and her fellow prisoners were interesting people, awake, alert, and alive (the first two were a necessity at the Centre if one wanted to remain the third; inattention and complacency swiftly brought their own, frequently lethal, punishments), unlike these sheep-like Nebraskan zombies. _Well,_ she thought, glancing at Broots where he sat across the room, typing busily away at his laptop, _*most* of us are unlike that, anyway._ She snorted and poured herself another drink.
'Like your life is so great.'
She heard his voice clearly, as if he had spoken in her ear. "What?" she said sharply.
Broots looked up, surprised. "Sorry?"
"Nothing. I thought you said something. Never mind."
"Uh...okay." He turned back to his computer, shooting her the occasional concerned glance.
Right. That was just a memory of an earlier conversation, not actual words spoken aloud. She put her glass down with a click; if she was starting to hear voices, then she was drunker than she thought -- especially if she were being haunted by *Broots*, of all people. Broots, king of the nerds, who actually seemed to *like* life here in the middle of nowhere where nothing ever happened and nothing ever would, who got along with the natives and envied their insignificant little lives. Who said she should look at this like a vacation from the Centre, like that was a *good* thing, some kind of major selling point sure to clinch the deal. Who sang the praises of Sunday sermons and Little League games. . .
Just for the hell of it, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself in such a life. She failed utterly. No, there was no way she could possibly be happy like that (the words "are you happy now?" floated in the back of her brain, flickered feebly, and then were gone), no way she could stand to live here, settling firmly into mediocrity and stagnating there, no challenge, no excitement, no constant testing of her abilities, her mind, her limits. . .
. . . no danger, no uncertainty, no fear, no more vicious Centre politics, no more emotional blackmail from her father or Jarod, no more elevators with bullet holes, no more lies, no more secrets. Not having to kill to survive, but instead being allowed to live on her own terms. . .
Her eyes snapped open, and she fumbled for her pack of cigarettes. After several long, calming, nicotine-filled breaths, she felt better, more like her old self -- but, God, she just wanted this day to be over.
She glanced over at her temporary roommate. "I'm going to bed," she said.
She opened her eyes to find Jarod standing over her. He didn't say anything, simply stood there, gaze steady and dark with compassion, and regarded her intently. She raised an eyebrow, inviting him to speak, but he still remained oddly silent. It was, frankly, creepy. She reached for a cigarette. "What are you looking at?" she growled as she flicked her lighter's flame to life.
Again he failed to speak, choosing to smile at her instead. She blew a stream of smoke in his general direction. "Fine, Jarod, have it your way; play your silly games. I don't care."
But as she stood there, she slowly began to understand that he was not, in fact, in the room with her. A wall rose, invisible, between them, separating them, keeping them apart. Made of ice, perhaps -- strong, solid, impenetrable, and cold, so very cold. *She* was cold.
She had built this wall, she realized, constructed it slowly and painfully over the years, poured her grief, tears, and pain into it until they froze and bothered her no more. It was necessary, this wall, an integral part of her self; it held her up, held her together. But, sometimes, she couldn't stop herself from wondering what was on the other side . . .
Jarod lifted his arm and extended his hand toward her, not knowing or not caring that she was trapped safely behind her wall of ice -- and somehow, shockingly and inexplicably, he reached through that chilly barrier as if it were not there. He held his hand out to her, inviting her to take it.
She stared at it. It would be so easy, she thought, to reach out and take that hand and all it was offering, to warm her frozen fingers by wrapping them in his human heat. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her trembling hand crept forward, reaching out toward his. She was so cold, cold to the very core of her being, and starved for a simple human touch. But she didn't have to be; she could break this wall, shatter it past repair. All she had to do was . . . reach out . . . and . . . touch . . . .
"No!" She jerked her arm away before she could make contact, then turned and ran.
Miss Parker woke suddenly, heart pounding. She sat there for a moment, shaking, then reached out and fumbled around in the nightstand next to the bed, trying to find her pack of cigarettes by touch. They would be much easier to locate if she turned on the lights, but she left them off -- not out of any courtesy for the man who slept next to her in the bed, but because she found the dark comforting. It was familiar, soothing -- safe. Alone here in the dark, it was all right if her mask slipped a little; no one could see.
God, that dream! She almost wished she didn't understand what it meant, so she wouldn't have to think about it, but her subconscious was about as subtle as a ton of bricks. So she was lonely, so what? She absolutely could not get too close to Jarod; he was much too dangerous. He was too . . . important? . . . too *something*. He could hurt her, if she let him.
And, besides, he asked so much of her. Asked her to remove her mask, to take down her wall, to change who she was. She felt open, vulnerable, when she was around him; he did damage to her sense of self just by being near her. She couldn't risk it. He was too much of a threat.
But why did she have to be so alone?
In the dark beside her, Broots rolled over, closer to her, and threw an unconscious arm around her waist. He mumbled something sleepy and incoherent, then submerged again into dreams. She looked down at his pajama-clad arm, and wondered why she hadn't pushed him immediately and violently away.
But, really, Broots wasn't so bad. She knew somewhere in the depths of her soul that he didn't deserve her usual contemptuous treatment of him. So what if he was a computer geek and a coward? He was . . .kind. So what if he was not the best-looking man she knew (certainly not nearly as handsome as, say, Jarod)? Here in the dark it didn't matter. She let her hand glide up his arm to his shoulder, caressing it slightly. Two thoughts ran through her head. _Broots could never threaten me._
_Maybe I don't have to be alone, after all._
She had his pajamas off, her hands on his body, and her mouth strategically poised before he woke up. He raised his head a little and peered down at her, arousal and confusion evident in his eyes. He opened his mouth, and she slid her hands up his chest and tweaked a nipple, just for fun. "Oooh," he moaned, instead of whatever he had been going to say. She smiled.
The second time he tried to speak, she let him get the words out. "Is this a dream?" he whispered.
"Yes," she said, and plunged her mouth down on his erection.
She watched his face as she sucked (watched him as best she could from this angle, anyway), enjoying the rapid play of emotions across his face. He was red-faced and panting, extremely responsive to her touch. It had probably been quite a while for him, she thought. She ran her tongue along the underside of his cock, and made a mental note when he gasped, face contorting and hips jerking. She teased him then, beginning to repeat the gesture, but stopping at the last minute. She did this again, and again, then pulled back and swiped her tongue hard along the very tip.
"Oh god!" he cried, then reached blindly down towards her head, trying to push her where he wanted her to go.
"Ah-ah-ah!" she said, tsk-ing like a schoolmarm, then grabbed his hands and pushed them up above his head, rubbing her naked body against his in the process. He closed his eyes and shivered. "Please," he begged faintly.
She grinned. This was even more fun than verbally torturing Broots at the Centre every day.
She brushed the tips of her breasts against his face, sighing in satisfaction when he took the hint and took her nipple into his mouth. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation for a moment as he licked and sucked and swirled and . . . oh, yeah . . . god, he was unexpectedly good at this.
She sat back before she could lose control of the situation, reluctantly disengaging her breast from his talented mouth. She straddled him firmly and straightened up, releasing his wrists. She cupped her own breasts then, kneading gently, feeling the weight and texture of them in her palms; she brushed her fingertips upwards, circling the aureoles, skimming over the taut peaks of the nipples, slipping through the moisture there, a thin film of sweat and saliva. Broots was groaning, helpless sounds of need, and his eyes darkened as he watched.
She left her breasts and slithered her hands downwards, over her abdomen and stomach, and inbetween her legs. Broots' moans of pleasure intensified as she slid a finger inside herself and gathered the moisture there. She withdrew her finger slightly, then plunged it forward again, and again, and again, her groans joining Broots' by the time she finally took her hand away completely. Then she sank slowly downwards, impaling herself on his cock.
There was a moment of stillness as they both adjusted to a new set of sensations; then Miss Parker began to move. Slowly, at first, erratically -- then she found her rhythm. She rose and descended, up and down, riding him hard. Yes, this was what she wanted, she thought as she brought a hand between them and began to rub her clitoris, bracing herself with her other hand, this mindless physical connection, this place of glorious animal sensation, burning bright and hard and hot beneath her skin. She closed her eyes. God, yes, drive away her dreams with this sweet electric heat, banish loneliness with sexual exertion, just fuck all rational thought right out of her . . . !
She increased the tempo of her pistoning hips, riding faster, thrusting harder, until she was moving frantically, violently, almost savagely. She gave herself over to the moment, lost herself in it: there was nothing, nothing but the feel of his hard cock moving inside her; of her clit rubbing along his rigid length; of his hands wrapped around her, grabbing her hips; of his mouth once again sucking the tips of her breasts. She felt a white-hot surge of pleasure roil in her belly, and a rumbling deep in her chest; she stiffened, head thrown back, muscles contracting, and a growl erupted from her throat as the tidal wave broke and orgasm came crashing over her.
She fell asleep with a smile on her face, leaving Broots to stare up at the ceiling and wonder what the hell had just happened.
She woke before he did the next morning, and managed to get his pajamas back on him without rousing him. He slept the sleep of the dead -- or the well and truly satiated. "I still got it," she muttered as she disappeared into the bathroom and started her day.
Broots didn't say anything to her that day, but she felt his eyes on her, following her wherever she went. He was, she realized, unsure if the events of last night had actually occurred, or if he had dreamed the whole thing. She gave him no help in figuring it out.
"Up here, Broots," she snapped. He tore his eyes away from her cleavage, blushed, stammered, and finally managed to continue with what he had been saying.
She grinned to herself. Let him wonder.
THE END
