DISCLAIMER: The characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
"The Pretender" is a protected trademark of MTM and NBC television, and the characters of that series are used here with no mean intent or desire for remuneration.
This is a fan tribute to exceptional television, and the incomparable character, Miss Parker.

However, this particular piece of fiction, including the accompanying poem,  belongs to me and shouldn't be used or distributed without my express permission.

Rating is R, for M/F  (J/MP) sexual situations, strictly PWP. Angst and mush alert!

"The Color of Light" is by William Goldman and is used without permission.

Author's Note: This is my first Pretender story so be kind. Send comments. Where I come from we're still watching reruns of the first season while waiting for the 2nd so I'm sure a lot of stuff have already happened that I don't know about, but what the heck, that never stopped me before.
 
 

SAFE IN THIS DARK
 

She sat by the window of her bedroom, looking out into the night.  For once there was no cigarette in her hand, no glass of alcohol.  Paltry props, those, frail crutches that collapsed into uselessness just when she really needed strength.

 She was so tired.  When did that become the normal state of her life? Ponderous days, uneasy nights and nothing but nicotine and alcohol to help her through them?  When did the thrill transmute into bitterness, the purpose disintegrate into a misplaced, not to mention warped,sense of duty?  When did she stop being a person and become a machine, a monster?  Strange that scant months ago that was exactly what she had been most proud of, what she had worked so hard for.  She had molded herself into this hard, cold statue that nothing could touch, making sure she would never yield, never bend to anything again.  She wasn't bending, alright.  Instead she was slowlycrumbling, the brittle pieces of herself breaking off and becoming lost in the wind.

The phone rang, further disturbing the already unsettled night.

 She glanced at the clock.  1:07 a.m.  She didn't answer it, knowing instinctively who was calling. There had been a time that she had secretly looked forward to those calls, knowing they were an integral part of the eternal cat-and-mouse game they played with one another. The banter had bordered on fun -- Jarod was extremely witty, and exchanging pointed barbs with him had almost been enjoyable.  No one else could take what she had to give and return it in the equal measure.  Maybe next time she'd answer.  Not tonight.  She couldn't take it tonight.

The phone kept ringing.

She returned her gaze outside, as if ignoring the phone would deny its existence. She wanted to throw it out the window but she was afraid that if she moved she'd break.  She wanted desperately to answer it, to demand that he leave her alone.  But that would be insane, wouldn't it?  She was the one who was hunting him down.  She was the one who was threatening to take his freedom, even his life away if she ever caught him. Insane, ironic and unfair. She couldn?t ask him to leave her alone. He'd asked that of her so many times and she never could. She never would.

The phone stopped ringing for a moment, and then started all over again.  She waited patiently till it stopped, and then she grabbed the receiver and left it off the hook.

Goddamn him, how did he know she was home?

She stood up, and went to her closet to get dressed.  It was another one of the ironic twists of their game was that while she couldn't find him he knew exactly where to find her.

 She grabbed her celphone, which had been turned off, and dialed the Centre's number. She left a message for Sydney that she had a feeling Jarod might be dropping by her house and told him to send a sweeper team.  She made it sound as if she would be waiting but she was out the door even before the call was over.

Maybe she'd go to the gym for a while.  Maybe a motel.  Maybe she'd get lucky, she thought.  Maybe they'd catch him tonight and she wouldn't even be there.

She drove for she didn't know how long.  Hours, maybe.  Or maybe not -- the clock on her dashboard read only 2:39.  She knew she shouldn't drive anymore.  Her reflexes were shot from exhaustion, and she couldn't seem to focus on anything.  She got off the Interstate and followed the signs till she came to the nearest semi-decent hotel.  She gazed at the façade a moment before turning into its driveway.  So what if it was less than she was used to?  She wasn't herself tonight.

Out of habit, she registered under an assumed name.  She hadn't done that in a while, but there had been a time when that was all she did.

Once inside the room she took off her clothes and went into the shower, hoping the hot water would make her feel sleepy.   She had room service send up warm milk, hot tea, scented candles, but nothing seemed to help.

She called again, this time telling them to send up a bottle of vodka.  Sleep was out but at the very least she could drink herself into a stupor.

"Ma'am," suggested the front-desk clerk-cum-operator.  "If you're having trouble relaxing we do have excellent masseurs that are on-call round-the-clock.   It's part of our new service. If you'd care to come down to our spa?  or I could send one up to your room??"

The operator had sounded very young, and at any other time such tentativeness would have irritated her and she'd have bitten the girl's head off.  But she was too exhausted to snap.  Besides, there had been sincere concern in the girl's voice.  Meaningless, of course, but it was something she hadn't heard in a long time. She agreed, desperate for sleep, for a little escape.  One night of weakness, she thought.  She could have that, couldn't she?  Just one?  She had been strong for so long?

She opened the door and greeted the blind masseur coolly.  Just as coolly, he instructed her to get on the bed while he made his preparations.

She removed her robe and got into the bed, lying on her stomach. She wrapped the sheet around her, and then settled down to wait, grabbing a pillow between her arms and resting her head upon it.

The masseur seemed to take forever.  Or maybe it was just because she was still drifting, lost in her mental fog.  Once, she thought she heard a door open but she couldn't be sure. Finally, she heard footsteps and tried to relax in preparation for the massage.

She stiffened slightly as hands touched her shoulders. Strong hands. Gentle hands. Capable, and yet just the slightest bit tentative, cautious.   She clenched her teeth to bite back the groan that would have escaped otherwise.

Dear God, how could he think she wouldn't know those hands, that touch, anywhere?

She closed her eyes and burrowed her face deeper into the pillow, postponing the moment she had to acknowledge his presence, to put a halt to the talented fingers that were creating tension, not easing it.

Surer now,  his hands moved to the center of her back, tracing her spine  They moved lower, and her breath caught.  Seconds later her heart missed a beat and her blood started rushing through her ears.

He moved again, straddling her legs, kneading the small of her back. This time she had to actually bite her lip to keep from groaning aloud.  He leaned forward, and she felt his breath on her skin before he surprised her by dropping a light kiss on her shoulder.

She still said nothing and he grew bolder, moving her hair out of the way to nibble her neck. His mouth moved down her back, alternating  light kisses with teasing love bites. He rubbed his hands down her arms and at her sides.

She wondered how far she would let him go. It would have to be soon, she was rapidly losing whatever was left of her reason. As soon as he spoke, she decided, as her brain became even more dangerously cloudy. As long as she didn't have to acknowledge that it was him, as long as she could pretend it wasn't happening, she was safe.

Somehow, she found her hands being held above her head and the sheet stripped away from her body. She trembled once, but didn't protest.  She could feel his breath on her skin, his mouth, his tongue. She couldn't help shuddering as his other hand roamed freely on her body.

Stubbornly, she refused to look at him. Instead, she turned to the arm, the hand that still held hers captive. The twin to the one that was wreaking havoc with her body.  She ran her tongue lightly across his inner arm and heard him gasp.

He moved away and she breathed a sigh -- half-longing, half-relief. She thought he would leave her then. Blindly, she groped for the sheet and re-wrapped it around herself, needing some sort of shield, no matter how flimsy.

She heard a click and realized that he had closed the lights in the room. A moment later he returned to her, and with gentle hands, slowly turned her body over. In the darkness his hands touched her face, traced the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. Then, somehow, through the darkness, his mouth unerringly found hers.

It was too late, she knew that.  She had let it go too far. There would have to be a reckoning for this night. Her job now was to make sure it was worth it.

With her hands finally loose she was free to explore his body.  Skin, limbs, hair -- the length and breadth of him. Beautiful, she thought. Perfect. Overwhelmingly male.

He teased her  mouth with his tongue and then took it away, kissing her jaw, her neck, moving down her body languorously, slowly peeling away the sheet.  Everywhere he touched he left a trail of fire and by the time he reached her navel she was mindless with need.  She pulled him up, reclaimed his mouth with hers. She was lost then, they both were.

She rubbed the bottom of her foot against his leg in silent invitation.  He accepted.

Much later, she lay on top of him, drowsy, content.  One of his hands was running across her
 back,  making soothing patterns on her skin.  The other was rhythmically brushing her tangled hair
 away from her face.  She was almost asleep when she heard him speak.

"When we were children?" he began.

She stiffened and began to move away. His arms closed around her immediately, halting her movements.

"Shhh," he soothed as she continued to lie stiffly in his arms. "Alright, I won't say anything else.  I promise. I'm sorry. Just stay a while longer."

She should go, she thought. He'd broken the rules. And she'd sworn she'd end it once he spoke.

There had to be rules, hadn't there? Or else everything would just fall apart.

So what? One more rule broken, one more lie -- what did it matter tonight? If the world ended right here and now that could only be a good thing.

She placed her head back on the crook of his shoulder, breathing in his scent, and closed her eyes. Not to hide this time, not to shut away her life. Not denial, this time, not regret.

Only sorrow.

And a strange sort of peace.

+++

He awoke, knowing instinctively that something was wrong.

He didn't move, not wanting to wake the woman he still held in his arms, but he checked his senses, sending them out into the darkness to determine where the danger lurked.

Nothing.

For a moment he was confused, wondering just what it was exactly that had woken him. Then he felt it -- his skin was wet. She was crying. No? she was weeping. No sobs, no sounds, just tears, hot tears that his heightened senses detected and followed as they fell, burning his skin as they ran down and pooled in the indentation in his chest.

His hand moved, tracing her forehead, pulling her tangled hair away from her face.  He wanted to
 ask her what was wrong, wanted to demand that she tell the truth for once.

She was the strongest person he knew. What could make her weep like this?

He wondered why he even cared.  After all, she didn't.

Worse, she was actively trying to destroy him. And she could do it, too. She was the sole driving power behind his need to run. She made him fight for every second of freedom, challenged his mind and tested his fortitude as none of Sydney's simulations ever had. If she wasn't so smart, so relentless , so stubborn,  he would actually have a chance.  And if she wasn't there it'd be? It'd be easier, that's all.

And the way she looked at him -- cold contempt mixed with averse obligation, as if he was less than human, a freak of nature, and it was her duty to spare the rest of the world from his unnatural existence. Lab rat. Frankenboy. Science experiment. He gritted his teeth each time she'd say things like that, hating her cool supercilious expression, wondering how she could look so hateful and so beautiful at the same time.

And this night. More than anything he should hate her for this night. He knew they would never mention it, never even acknowledge that it had happened.

He wondered why she had even let it.

The first time it had seemed like neither of them had had a choice. Anger, adrenaline, and sheer perversity had swept them away. No, not perversity. Passion had risen up from the depths of the anger and knocked them off their feet. It had surprised them both and, for reasons he still didn't understand, they'd decided that just once the world wasn't going to keep them from something they so desperately wanted. Needed.

It was insane. It was suicide. But holding her had felt so wonderful, so right. It had felt like? the first real piece of joy he'd had in a long time.

He read a book once, called 'The Color of Light' by a man named William Goldman. At the time he had been confused by it. First had been the abusive mother, the alcoholic father. Parents should love their children, shouldn't they? Parents should take care of them. Since then, of course, he'd had ample proof that that wasn't always the case.

What had been more confusing was the son who kept returning, again and again, to the house that had made his childhood so miserable. The son who kept trying to please his mother, trying to win her love though he already knew he would never succeed, it would never happen.

He had never understood that.

But with her, he felt like he was standing in the shadow of that knowledge.  And he felt just as helpless as that man, just as compelled.  She was an addiction, a geis that he was helpless against.  An obsession he recognized, but had no idea how, not to mention little desire, to purge from his blood.

Which brought him here.  Again.

The tears continued, and he wrapped his arms around her, trying to give her some measure of comfort, though he knew it was useless. Whatever it was, she would keep it to herself till it ate away at her insides, destroying her, too. She blamed him for her ulcer but really, it was her fault. Nobody ever said she had to be so hard on herself. It was a wonder she could still walk upright considering what she chose to carry herself, that she could still breathe considering the thickness of the shield she wrapped herself in.

Slowly, he began kneading her neck, massaging the base of her skull in a motion calculated to ease her.It took a while, but eventually she snuggled closer and fell asleep.  He lay awake long after, wondering how it was possible that she could hate him so much and yet sleep so trustingly in his arms.

She was so hard, so tough, so cold -- what could make her cry like this? It felt like a gift, this moment of tenderness.

A gift, and also a curse.  Because now he'd carry this, too. This night, these hours, the knowledge that there was something there, something more to her than the unfeeling enforcer, the relentless warrior. Something soft, something warm.

Something closely resembling a heart.

+++

This time she woke first. The other time he was gone by the time she did. She had told herself she didn't mind, but inside she'd been raging mad. How dare he treat her like that, like she was some sort of tramp? She hadn't realized how lucky she had been, to be able to escape this for so long. The sight of him lying in bed, asleep, vulnerable. The urge to just sit there and wait, ask him the one question she promised herself she never would, tell him the one thing she knew she never could. This eternal moment when everything  stopped  and  all she could do was wonder what the hell she was supposed to do now.

Put a gun to his head and end it forever?

Put a gun to hers?

No, that would be too easy.

Last time, she'd been so angry with him for that, for leaving in the middle of the night, making her feel cheap and disposable.  She hadn't realized it had been a kindness. The anger had given her the energy to start the chase again.  She didn't even have that this time.

Quietly, she got dressed  and slipped out of the room without once looking back.

She realized that her celphone battery had gone dead, so she stopped by the front desk. The same girl who'd signed her in was still there, still cheerful and helpful even after her graveyard shift.

"Leaving us so soon, Ma'am?" she asked. "You couldn't have gotten much sleep."

For a moment she bristled, wondering what the girl was implying, then she realized that it wasn't even seven o'clock. "I had enough," she answered, taking out her wallet.

"I'll get your bill then, Ma'am," said the girl. "I hope you enjoyed your stay with us?"

Dangerous question, she thought.  Terrifying answer.

While the girl was away she lifted the receiver of the courtesy phone and dialed. "Syd?" she snapped into it. "Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to call you all night. I tracked Jarod down to this sleazy hotel. I need backup now."

+++

The phone woke him.

For a moment he was disoriented, and then groaned. She was gone. And no doubt a sweeper team was already in transit.

The phone rang again. He picked up. "Hello?" he greeted, hoping against hope that it was her.

"Sir? It's seven-fifteen."

He blinked, confused.

"What? Who is this?"

"It's the morning clerk, Sir," answered the man at the other end. "At the front desk. You requested a wake-up call for seven-fifteen."

Stupidly, he answered. "No, I didn't."

"Sir, I have your request right in front of me." The voice was adamant. "There's even a fifty dollar bill pinned to it."

"My request?" he repeated. "Can you read it back to me, please?"

"Sir, it says 'Seven-fifteen wake-up call. Room 314.'" The man cleared his throat. "Sir, the numbers 'seven-fifteen' are even underlined. Twice."

Jarod almost smiled. "Thank you."

In two minutes flat he was out of the room and on the roof of a nearby building, watching from a hidden vantagepoint.

Four cars came barreling down the street, sirens blaring.

Right on time, he thought, almost fondly.

The vehicles screeched to halt and a dozen men came running out. Jarod watched dispassionately as first Sydney, and then Miss Parker came out of the last car.

He wondered why it never occurred to her to leave Sydney behind. Sydney was her partner, yes, and Sydney had been his mentor. The Centre had probably thought that he'd be easier to cntrol with Sydney there. They were wrong, of course. But what really amused him was that considering Syd's age and physical condition it had apparently never occurred to them that she could run a lot faster if he wasn't with her. Without Syd she'd have a better chance of running him down.

On the other hand, she did keep wearing those heels?

He saw her take out her gun and release the safety with a flick of her thumb.

A cigarette in one hand, a gun in the other.

He smiled.

Miss Parker was back.

Time to go.

+++

"I don't understand it," the man from the front desk wailed. "He was just here! I just talked to the guy."

"Missed him again," mourned Sydney. "Mere minutes this time."

She turned from the window she had been looking out of and looked at him dispassionately. He was getting better, she thought. He actually sounded sincere that time. "Did he say anything about where he was going in such a hurry?" she questioned the clerk coldly. "Did he leave anything behind? A notebook, perhaps? A note?"

"No, Ma'am," the clerk answered. "Though now that you mention it he did mumble something about Paris."

"Paris?" repeated Sydney incredulously.

"Yes, Sir."

"He said he was going to Paris?" demanded Sam.

"No, Sir. He said 'We'll always have Paris.'"

In this dark I lie awake,
And watch you as you sleep --
Rumpled hair and tangled sheet,
Babe, you make me want to weep.
In this dark your every breath and beat,
Washes through me, soft as mist.
Till everything just fades away,
And this dark is all there is.
Babe, you make me want a million things.
I know can't ever be,
So I lie awake and watch you sleep
Safe in this dark with me.

I've always been a soldier
Lived through half a dozen wars,
And I've got more scars than I care to count
Lost more friends than there are stars.
I've cut down every fear I faced
I've shut out every scream --
And still don't have the guts that it would take
To close my eyes and dream.
Babe, you make me long for summer days
I know I'll never live to see --
So I lie awake and watch you sleep
Safe in this dark with me.

Safe in this dark I'll keep you,
Close enough to pretend --
That tomorrow's light-years away,
That this dark will never end.
Close enough to touch you,
If I dared to cross that line --
And fool myself into believing,
I could call more than this dark mine.
Babe, I'd give the rest of my days on Earth
Give up sun and stars and sea --
To lie awake and just watch you sleep
Safe in this dark with me.

Babe, I'd give what's left of this tattered soul
To simply let things be --
To lie awake and just watch you sleep
Safe in this dark with me?
 

The End
Copyright Jessi Albano 1999
4/4/99 2:22:50 AM

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