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  belongs to me and shouldn't be used or distributed without my express permission.

Rating is R for violence and language.  Extreme angst and mush alert.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

Author's Note:  "The Schwarzchild Affair" follows my first story "Safe In This Dark."  Some elements of this fanfiction may not be consistent with second and third season events or situations, particularly Daddy Parker's role in all this.  But remember that I'm writing in first season mode and unless and/or until I get some new eps, that's how it stays.  (
 
 

THE SCHWARZCHILD AFFAIR

Part One:  If I Should Die Before I Wake…
 
 

I scream, and you are by my side in a heartbeat.

Choking, gasping for breath, I struggle against the darkness, against the shadows that are pulling me down, cutting off my air, engulfing my soul.

"Shhh, Parker," your voice whispers.  "It's okay.  Open your eyes.  You're safe."

Safe?

The sheer laughability of the word startles me out of the clutches of the dream, saves me somehow…   I relax, only to struggle again as I learn who it is that saved me, who it is that still holds me in his arms.

You.

I push you away but your arms hold me tight.

I don't want this.

I don't want this!

I struggle and spit names at you as fast as I can remember or make them up.  "Goddammit, Ratboy," I hiss.  "Take your hands off me."

You stiffen at the name, and a small dark part of me smiles at the pain I've managed to inflict.  The wound helps me recover.  Helps me to believe I am still whole.  Still strong.

You release me, slowly, and once free I make a grab for the phone.  You are faster, as usual, and toss it out of my reach.

Son of a ---!

My gun is on the vanity table.  At least four strides away, I calculate.  I'd never make it.  Do you know it's there?   I decide not to risk it just yet.

You brush my hair off my forehead, out of my face, and I shift, knocking your hand away.

"I'm fine," I announce calmly, belaying my shaking hands, the cold sweat still coating my skin.  "I'm just peachy."

"It sounded really bad," you say, quietly.  "What was it about?"

You.  What else?  It's always about you.

"I don't remember," I lie, reaching for the cigarettes on my nightstand.  "All memory flew out of my head as soon as I opened my eyes and saw you looming over me.  As horrors go, you're pretty much at the top of my list."

You ignore the insult, going the usual good-old-boy route.  "You really shouldn't smoke," you tell me, disapproval strong in your eyes.

I spare you a wry glance as I fire up the cancer stick.  "Yeah, these things'll kill me."  The irony is not lost on either of us.  "Get out now and maybe I won't kill _you._  Trust me, Genius, now's not a good time for a social call."

My first inhalation burns up at least a quarter of the stick, and I silently bless the unknown Virginian farmer who planted the leaves.

"It's beyond me how anyone could find any pleasure in something so…"

I blow the smoke into your face, and watch with malicious delight as you cough and choke.  "Nine out of ten lab rats prefer menthol?"

I breathe in another lung-full, waiting for the nicotine to kick in and calm my nerves.  It almost works.  Except I make the mistake of actually looking at you, dressed in black, looking exactly like the avenging angel you have dubbed yourself to be. I must be insane, I think, to sit here and actually enjoy the scenery.

You look at me strangely, and I realize I've been staring.  I look away.

Damn it.

You're beautiful, you know.  You would have to be. Lucifer was the most beautiful of angels, the smartest, the most persuasive.  It would have been too easy otherwise.  And like Lucifer you know exactly what things to whisper, what to offer.  You know the one thing I would trade my soul for.

Too late, Pezhead.

You _are_ beautiful, though.  I wonder just how much it will hurt when I finally blow your head away.

Belatedly, it hits me how wrong this is, the fact that you are in my bedroom, the fact that I am not screaming bloody murder.

"What are you doing here, Jarod?"  I demand.  "_How_ did you get in here?"

You smile, mysteriously, that smug superior smile I hate so much and my equilibrium is restored.  Fractionally.  I can handle hating you.  It's everything else that I have trouble with.

"Why are you surprised?" you return.  "I've been in here before."  A beat.  "You know that."

I know you have.  You've  come in broad daylight, while I'm off to parts unknown, chasing after you.  You come in here and leave little gifts for me to find.  Strange, cryptic gifts, gifts I lie awake at nights over, wondering what to make of. Gifts calculated to confuse and distract. You _are_ a genius, after all, and you revel in these warped little games that turn my life inside out.

"Not when I was home," I shrug carelessly, pretending that the thought of you running loose inside my house didn't bother me.   "Not when I'm here."

You don't answer, you just continue to look at me, that smile firmly in place.

Suddenly, I feel nauseous, the walls closing in once more.  "You bastard, you've been watching me?"   You couldn't have.  Not even you…

I don't even feel the cigarette falling as my hands close on the nearest available object.

"Get out!" I shout, hurling whatever it is towards your head.  "Get out of my house!"

The pillow doesn't make much of an impact as it hits you.  Next comes the book, the lamp, the ashtray.  You manage to dodge the first two but the last connects with your forehead with a satisfying crack.

"Ow!"

I don't stop to relish the achievement, looking frantically around for additional ammo. I decide to try for the gun while you are dazed and disoriented.

I scamper across the bed, leaving the mattress with a leap, but you are on me in two strides, knocking me down and pinning me to the floor.

The panic flashes back to life the instant we stop rolling.

"Get off!"  I scream, and cringe internally.  Can you hear the panic in my voice?  The helplessness, the rage, the fear? Oh God.   "Get off me!"

"Dammit Parker, what's the matter with you?"

"Get off me!"

You release me and I come up punching.

"Will you calm down?" you demand as you block my blows.  "You're acting like I'm going to hurt you."

Again, it is the absurdity of the statement that registers.  I freeze, stunned by what you just said.

*You're acting like I'm going to hurt you.*

I laugh, what else can I do?

You watch with a worried frown as I collapse back onto the carpet, trying to catch my breath in between near-hysterical chuckles.

"God, you're amusing," I manage to gasp out.  A certified genius… totally clueless.

I finally manage to catch my breath and stand up.  I brush of the legs of my silk pajamas, absently grateful that I didn't decide to wear a teddy tonight or this scene may have been a lot more embarrassing.  Then I am reminded of what triggered the scene in the first place and my stomach churns at the implications.

Oh God.  You've been watching me.  What have you seen, what do you know?

What do you know?

I look around for my cigarette.  It lies crushed and dead on the floor.  Great.

"Where are you going?" you ask, following me out of the room.

"I need a drink." I make my way downstairs to the bar.  There's an ice pick in there somewhere.  Maybe I'll get a chance to use it.  "Feel free not to join me."

The bar fridge reveals a chilled bottle of vodka and a bucket of ice.  Memo to self:  Give the housekeeper a bonus.  A big one.

I twist the top off the bottle and pour a healthy measure of the liquid into a glass.

"You know, you really shouldn't --."

I empty the glass in one swallow, effectively cutting you off. The liquid burns down my throat, warming my insides, dispelling the last vestiges of the dream. "Don't knock it till you try it," I retort. "We've been through a lot together, Mister Absolut and I."

You cock your head curiously. "Is he good company?"

"The best."

You touch your forehead gingerly and I wince.  Great, I'm feeling sympathy for a Pezhead  pervert.  It does look pretty bad, though.  I throw a mean ashtray.

I wrap a cloth around some ice and hand it to you.  You accept it quietly,  no thank you, but no accompanying caustic remark either.  Fair enough.

The second swallow of vodka stops my shaking.  That's better.

"So," I ask, courage bolstered by the alcohol.  "Why are you here?  Aside from feeding your voyeuristic urges, that is.  And by the way, give me some advance notice next time and I'll arrange something _really_ worth watching."

You hold the cold cloth to your forehead and ignore the attempt at levity. "I thought we should talk."

"The only words I want to hear from you are 'you win,' 'I give up,' and 'take me in.'" I respond.  "Otherwise, call a 900 number."

Picking up the glass and bottle, I move to the sofa. _After_ palming the ice pick and hiding it in my sleeve.

It's a night for absurdity.  I give you ice for your forehead while planning to stick a metal rod into your flesh, preferably in a delicate portion of your anatomy.

The things I get myself into…

You follow and sit beside me, just beyond my reach.

Now, _there's_ an analogy for our entire relationship if there ever was one.

_What_ relationship?

You look tired.  Good.  Why should I be the only one losing sleep?

"You haven't been taking my calls," you say softly. "Not since that night."

"What night?" I return blandly, though I know exactly what night you mean.    Please, I think.  Not that.  Let me keep that.

You don't push it, you know better than that. Sometimes I find it amusing, these little unspoken rules we've somehow agreed upon.  These little invisible lines we've never discussed and never cross. When did they begin, these temporary truces, these little pockets of peace?  When did we decide we needed them? When did we start fooling ourselves that we could do it forever?

We never should have started this, Jarod.  We never should have dared.

"Sydney's worried."

Sydney.  Sydney's a safe subject.

"Syd worries about everything," I point out coolly.  "That's because he doesn't have a life."

"Oh, and you do?"

Ouch.  Nice shot, Ratboy.

"I have a life," I pronounce, -- it's my turn to be superior.  "I just can't get to it right now."  After I catch you.  After I bring you back. I get my life back then.  "Which is more than any of you can claim."

"I'd have one if your father and the Centre didn't steal mine."

Big deal.  So would I.

"I'd have a father, a mother, a brother and a sister.  I'd have a family."

You win.  All I ever had was my Mom…

"Poor baby," I jeer, angry at the echoes of self-pity. "Maybe you should sue."

My third glass.  I really should take this slower, but there's nothing else to distract me.  I reach for the TV remote but you halt my hand.  I try to pull it away but you hold on.

"Let go," I grit out.

You don't.  Instead, you look at me, intently, seriously, somberly. "Why won't you talk to me?" you ask again.

I don't want to be having this conversation, with its subtexts and shadows.  Not now, not ever.  There's only one way this can end.  I know this.  I just don't want to think about it tonight.

We never should have started this, you and I.

"Because I don't want to." I congratulate myself on my tone. Petulant, spoiled, just the right amount of hostility.

"Why?  What's changed?"

Strange, but that's exactly what my father asked.  "Why, Angel?  What changed?"

It took me an hour to explain.  Lies, of course.  He would never understand, never accept the truth.

I finally succeed in pulling my hand away. "Nothing's changed, Jarod," I answer coldly.  "You're still loose."

You look confused.  Lost. "Then why won't you take my calls?"

Because I don't want to.  Because I can't get you out my head as it is.

"What is it, Jarod?" I ask, wryly.  "You annoyed because I don't want to play your games anymore?" I shrug. "Don't worry, you've still got Sydney and Broots and the entire employee roster of the Centre.  They'll play with you."

You shake your head.  "It's not as much fun," you tell me, seriously, "baiting just Syd and Broots."

Of course not.  You don't hate _them._

"Aw, you miss me," I mock.  "Isn't that sweet."

"Why?"  Only you can ask that question with the persistence of a three year old. "What happened?"

I shrug.  "You were born, Jarod.  That's what happened."

You recoil at that, a hurt look in your eyes. You should work on that, I think.  Never let anything show.  The eyes will trip you up every time.

Why have I stopped taking your calls? Because.   Because I wasn't getting closer, you were.  Because I wasn't getting into your head, you were getting into mine.  Because I wasn't breaking you…

No more, I decided the last time, that night.  No more distractions, no more tricks.  No more getting into my head and scrambling things around.  No more mixing up truths and lies and up and down and black and white.  No more. No more midnight calls, no more dark revelations, no more whispered secrets calculated to destroy my mind and my life.

No more making me want things.  No more making me cry.

No more.

Instead,  I concentrate on the chase.  On the little red notebooks, your notes, trying to find a pattern, trying to figure out your next pretend. I'm not as good at it as you are, of course, but sooner or later I know I'll  get lucky and pick the right one. I scour the newspapers, poring over news articles and sob stories that might catch your eye.  Tragedies and injustice, paying special attention to those involving orphaned children and unsolved mysteries.    You can't resist those, and one day they'll lead me to you.  I even go so far as to look at the little cryptic gifts you leave behind before giving them to Broots to analyze.  Sometimes, I even listen in on your conversations with  Sydney.

But I don't talk to you.  Once, you made me, and I put the call on the speaker phone for everyone else to hear.  I don't want to talk to you, Jarod.  I don't want to be alone with you.

I've downgraded myself to hunter, tracker, nothing more.  It's all about the trail now, all about the chase. Everything else just gets in the way.

"I decided I don't need to understand you to catch you," I explain, trying to sound as dispassionate as I can.  "All I need is one clear shot.  Talking to you would be as much a waste of time, as, say, talking to my Thanksgiving turkey."

"You never know," you offer.  "I might slip up."

"You will," I assure you. "And when you do I'll be there to drag your carcass back to the Centre."

This doesn't faze you, supremely confident that I'll never do it, that I don't have the smarts, the heart.   On my bad days, I swear I could kill you for that alone.

You shake your head at me again, exasperation and worry mixing in your eyes.  God, I wish you wouldn't do that.  Look at me like I'm one of your poor orphaned ducklings in need of a hug.

"What about your Mom?" you ask quietly.

This one is a struggle.  This is the carrot you dangle in front of me, constantly, watching distantly as I trip all over myself chasing it.

I take another drink.  "What about her?" I return, as casually as I can.

"If you don't talk to me," you say, "how will you ever know what really happened?"

I shrug again.  "I can find that out without you.  In fact, once I take you in I'll have even more time to dig into it."  Or trade you in for information.  They'll do anything to get you back.  They'll even give me this.

"I can help you," you say.  "I can --."

"Bring her back?" I finish coldly.  "You can't.  You can't fix it.  _Any_ of it."

You can't fix me.

It is a dangerous game we're playing, full of traps and pitfalls.  The only way to survive it is to concentrate on the end.  That's all that matters.

"And when you find the truth," you ask softly.  "What will you do?"

I don't know.   "Whatever I have to."

"She wouldn't want that," you tell me.

I laugh.  "How would you know?"

"I know."

I exhale, exasperated.  "Here it comes," I say grandly, mockingly. "The self-righteous lecture.  The me-good, you-bad morality kick." I wave my glass in your direction.   "You should talk.  Tell me, Boy  Scout, do you actually believe all that bullshit you've been spouting?  Do you actually buy this deluded avenging angel act of yours?"

I've managed to surprise you. You're looking at me all confused and bewildered again.

"Running around all over the planet doing good deeds," I continue. "Well, your version of them anyway.   Just what do you think you're accomplishing?"

"I'm helping people." You say this confidently, like it would be obvious to anyone with half a brain.

I laugh, harshly.  "Don't delude yourself, Ratboy.  Behind that boy-next-door façade beats a heart as dark and as vindictive as the rest of us."

Your eyes turn cold.  "Do continue," you invite.

"Thanks, I will," I return breezily.   I take another drink, trying to concentrate.  "See, you tell yourself you do these good deeds for those people. Actually you're doing them for yourself.  It's not so much as helping as getting back at the bad guys."

"Go on."

"You're not doing it out of the goodness of your heart or because it's your nature to be good."

"I'm not?"

I nod.   "You're doing because you can't hurt, can't hit back at the people who hurt you.  You're doing it because it's the only thing you _can_ do.  It's not about justice, it's about vengeance.  You think that way lies peace."

"You disapprove?" you ask, mocking me back.

"Hardly," I return.  "I'm all for peace, Ratboy, or whatever twisted version I can have of it."

"Then where's yours?"

I look at you directly, consciously, for the first time tonight.  "Mine lies," I say, as clearly as I can.  "in bringing you back to the Centre."

I see sadness in your eyes, real, contagious.  I look away.

"Why do you hate me so much?" you ask next, your voice barely audible.  "We used to be friends."

I force myself to laugh. "We were never friends, Jarod," I contradict.  "Never.  We were just in the same experiment together."

"Then why are you on that side?  You know what they do.  How can you condone it?"

The phone rings, cutting the tension,  saving me from having to answer.

I look at it wryly.  "If that's you I'm going back to bed."

You raise an eyebrow, again in criticism.  "You're drunk," you tell me, disdain evident in your voice.

I look at the vodka bottle.  It's half-empty.  Actually, more than half empty.  "You might be right."  I pick up the phone and  you make no attempt to stop me.  "What?" I ask into the mouthpiece.

"Miss Parker?"

"Whatever it is, Syd, can wait till daylight."

"Miss Parker --."

"Tomorrow, Syd." I hang up.    "You still here?" I ask as you shift in your seat.  I half-expected you to disappear the minute I took my eyes off you.  Like Batman.

You _have_ discovered Batman by now, haven't you?

"You didn't tell him I was here."

I blink.  "Oh, did you want to talk to him?  Sorry.  You can call him back, he's probably still at the Centre.  In fact, why don't you stay on the line long enough for them to trace you back here?  That'd be fun, huh?"

You take the bottle away from me, _after_ I manage to refill my glass again.

"You've had enough," you tell me quietly.

"Hey," I say,  "don't knock it…  Wait, I already said that, didn't I?"

"For Heaven's sake, Parker," you mutter angrily.  "What's wrong with you?"

God, you have a million of them, don't you, Jarod?  Priceless one-liners that cut straight to the heart.

What the hell is fucking wrong with you, Parker?

I feel a touch on my cheek, fingers lightly brushing my skin.  I recoil, automatically.  "Don't touch me."

You smile again, softly, smugly.  "I've touched you before."

I flare at that. "Get over yourself," I snarl. I whip out the icepick and point it at your throat.  "Try it, Genius.  Just give me an excuse."

You laugh, bastard that you are.  _This_ you find amusing?  "You really are on edge tonight, aren't you?" you ask.

You're right.  I couldn't anyway.  Not here, not tonight.  I'd never get the blood off my suede sofa.

Blood never washes off.

I drop the ice pick and grab my head,

You reach for me, and this time I let you. "Head hurt?"  you murmur in my ear, soft and sympathetic.

I stifle a groan.  "This is really not a good time for me, Jarod." I say, almost pleading.  "What say you leave and we'll make an appointment for another day?"

"Answer the question, Parker," you command quietly. "Answer the question and I'll leave."

What question?  Everything has become bleary, fuzzy.  I try to focus on your promise.  One question and you'll leave.  Yes, leave.  Its imperative I get you out of here.  At this point I'd do anything to get you out of here.

Before anything else happens.  Before I give anything else away.

"What question?"

"What's wrong?" you repeat.  "What happened? Why do you hate me?"

"Those are _three_ questions," I point out, loftily.

"Pick one," you invite, smiling slightly.

I shake my head and groan at the accompanying pain.  "Can't. Too hard."

"You can do it," you whisper.  "Choose one."

"You choose," I shoot back.

Silence. Then, you ask, quietly, softly: "Why do you hate me?"

I look at you in astonishment.  Are you serious?   "God, Jarod, don't you know?"

You shake your head.

It's a night for absurdity.  I find this extremely amusing and I begin laughing again, uncontrollably.

"Boy Wonder doesn't know something?  That's rich."

You look at me, forehead wrinkled in perplexity.  "What's so funny?"

"You are."

"I don't understand."

This only makes me laugh harder.

"_You_ don't understand?" I hoot.  "You're a Pretender, aren't you?  Pretend you're me, why dontcha?"

The words were supposed to be mocking.  They were supposed to be a joke.  But the moment they leave my mouth they explode inside both of us.  You look at me, startled, and a fear, bigger than anything I've ever faced before rises inside me, burning off the alcohol, leaving me sick and cold with dread.

Oh, God.  Oh God what have I done?

You smile, slowly, and something inside me shrivels and dies.  I know that look.  I know that smile.    You've locked on to me.

You're actually going to do it.

Oh God.

"Thanks," you say, giving my words back to me.  "I will."

I fight the blackness rushing through me, the pressure crushing my heart.

I will not be sick.  I will not throw up.  Not here.  Not now.  I won't.

I won't I won't I won't.

I will not beg.

I will not break.

I will not cry.

Oh God.

You stand up and head for the door.

"Jarod," I call after you, my voice clear through the lump closing off my throat.

You look back, waiting for me to speak.

I won't beg.

"I _will_ catch you," I swear emotionlessly. "I _will_ bring you in."

You shake your head.  "I wouldn't let you," you answer, as assured as I am struggling to make my voice be.

The lump in my throat grows even bigger.  "Then I'll kill you."

You nod at that, calm and accepting.  "That's the more realistic goal," you agree, quietly.  "Goodbye, Miss Parker."

I nod back.  "Goodbye, Jarod."

After you are gone I manage to make it to the downstairs bathroom before I am thoroughly, violently sick. In my ears two words repeat themselves over and over, a relentless refrain.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.

I turn on the cold water full force and wash my face, trying to pull myself together.   I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  Pathetic, washed out Miss Parker, -- if they could see me now…

My shaking legs finally give in and I sink to the icy floor.  I hug my knees and hide my face and struggle to breathe.

Oh God, what have I done?

I'm dead. It's over.  If you don't know now, you soon will.  You'll know _everything._  Every truth, every lie. Every fucking thought that ever went through my head.

You're a Pretender.  You can be anyone you want to be.  And I just gave you the fucking key.  I just fucking gave you _permission._

Oh God.

Who would have thought it would be this easy? That the instruments of my destruction would be nothing more than a nightmare, half a bottle of vodka and my runaway mouth?  Who would have thought that all it would take is three little words?

*Pretend you're me.*

I always was too clever for my own good.

Oh God…
 
 

Continued in part 2
 

Copyright Jessi Albano 1999
4/20/99 3:56 AM

Please let me know what you think !!  SeuneAeryk@hotmail.com