Pretender/Highlander x-over

Written for the Crossover Lyric Wheel, and hence is un-beta'd.

Spoilers for the fourth season Pretender episode "Inner Sense".  This takes place after "Judgment Day" and "One Minute Till Midnight".

HL characters: M

Pretender characters: Miss Parker, Jarod, Mr. Parker, Broots, Sydney

Thanks to RJ for the lyrics by Tracy Chapman.  They're used without permission.

Disclaimer:  None of the characters used here are mine.  Highlander belongs to Panzer/Davis and Pretender to NBC (last I knew).  No harm is meant, no money is made.

Fiction Between Us
by Verin Haley

Some things, Methos reflected, never change -- human nature, politics, religious fanaticism, and the fact that he always ended up running.  Always.  For two thousand years, Methos had solved his problems by running until there was nowhere left to run, something that rarely happened.  This time was no different.

And like every other time, it hurt like hell.

No, best not to think of the past.  That was safest, Methos knew.  If he allowed himself to remember, it was likely he'd do nothing but remember --  five thousand years of living, dying, and surviving replaying in an overwhelming tide of memories, swallowing the present and leaving no trace of who he was now.  For sanity's sake, he drank of the river Lethe and lived each life anew.  He had done it so long it was no longer reflex -- it was what he was.  Smoke, with ever changing form.  Chameleon.

Ryan Green, now.  He didn't think MacLeod's student would mind the use of his name.  A native of Utah, the great Salt Lake City itself.  A devoted Lutheran, surrounded by Mormons.  He was far from where anyone would know him, gone on the first flight out of Paris once his new identity had come through.  The final destination was Blue Cove, Delaware.  He'd never heard of the town, but it was almost as far away from Washington as he could get while still remaining in the continental United States.  It was plenty far enough away that his friends couldn't easily find him, if and when they decided to return to the states.

Easily being the key word.

If any of his friends needed him -- or cared enough to look -- he could be found.  Ryan Green was not a permanent persona, at least not if he could help it.  Ryan merely bough him time for everything with the Watchers and MacLeod to cool off, for the events ended not so long ago to fade, for time to work its healing magic, fade the memories, and blunt the emotions.  Until then, he had decided placing a little space between himself and Duncan MacLeod was the wisest thing to do.  After what he'd done to Galati, Methos didn't think it was very safe to be anywhere near the Noble Warrior, not until time had eased the pain of what MacLeod perceived as betrayal.

That nightmare was one of the things he most wanted not to remember.  He was haunted by his own words: "I betrayed my own kind."  It had been centuries -- millennia -- since he'd felt any sort of loyalty towards his own kind, but the look MacLeod had given him when they met after Jakob's death made Methos feel like the lowest traitor.  He had done it to save Duncan's life, but in that instant, as their eyes met, he'd realized that none of his intentions mattered, not to Duncan.  Intentions were nothing; only actions had weight.  He was scum.  Traitor.

Yes, leaving town was a good idea.  Yet, if MacLeod came to find him -- he smiled bitterly at that -- there would be nothing said between them, and nothing to say.  It was the way things were between them.  After a confrontation, there was no resolution.  They had never discussed anything rationally after the fact, never learned the other's reasons for acting or saying what he had.  It was their way.  Nothing said aloud, but the words behind the silence would say it all.  Traitor.  Scum.  Methos would help Duncan anyway -- that was loyalty.  Not to a country, not to a race, pure loyalty to the man who made him live again, to the man who brought truth back into his life.  Yet even if Duncan's eyes screamed traitor, Methos knew that was not Duncan's truth.  It was Methos's own words reflected in the silence behind Duncan's eyes.  Traitor.  Scum.

Enough.

Drink of the Lethe.

Forget.

Ryan  Green slipped the hiking backpack, dark green on the aluminum frame, off the luggage carousel and shrugged it on.  He ignored the jabbering crowd around him -- parents with children, married couples, grandparents, relatives, friends all joined by bonds of love and camaraderie.  He was too alone to be one of them, the silence in the fury, but even in his isolation he was not alone.  That was the beauty of crowds.

He maneuvered through the noisy mass, exiting one of the many glass doors of the airport into the sprawling city.  He chose a direction and began walking to clear his head.  He needed a plan.  Work and living arrangements had to be found, at least temporarily; Ryan Green's bank account was limited.  He considered his options carefully.  Any profession that required long years of schooling was out of the question.  He didn't have any recent experience or the dedication to go back to school immediately.  Adam Pierson's profession -- ancient civilizations and languages -- was out; it was too obvious to the Watchers.  Even if he wasn't making himself impossible to find, there were limits.  Adam Pierson didn't have an educational base in anything else, so to the Watchers, that was the only profession he could go into.  Therefore, Methos chose anything but that to confound their expectations.

Besides, he'd had ten years of schooling and research; he was ready for a change.  What else was there?  He could take a job at some store and work his way up to manager.  Management had some appeal, but the time spent as a drudge did not.  He had spent too much of his life in menial labor to willingly go back to it.

His thoughts were interrupted as a woman and her two children moved past him, jostling him.  Children, he thought, and made the immediate association: teaching.  It was perfect: unexpected, fairly simple -- anyone with a college degree could work as a substitute teacher -- and it placed him around a great many witnesses during the day.  Witnesses, he snorted.  Hostages would be closer.  If everything went badly -- which was possible, given the way his life had been recently -- the children would make a very good insurance policy.  Unless the people after him were unscrupulous enough to actually hurt or kill the hostage.  Though that seemed entirely too possible, the harsh, judgmental emotions of the Tribunal and the near war between Watchers and Immortals were not far enough behind him that he felt safe without taking at least rudimentary precautions.  If the right people came after him, the children would be useless, but they were better than nothing.  Hopefully, the presence of other, younger, people would serve as a restraining factor.

A harmless teacher was a good role for him now.  Something soothing, healing.  He had a soft spot for children -- though he was never obvious about it -- since he could never have children of his own.  It was something he had resigned himself to long ago, and an equally long time had passed since he'd been bitter about it, but he still took joy in the children of others.  Children were immortality, in their own way.

He stopped at a pay phone long enough to make the calls necessary to set up this new identity.  A young, idealistic teacher straight from college.  Nothing that required him to be cynical; nothing that required him to be wise.  Nothing that required him to be Methos.  Right now, that seemed to be a very good solution.  Methos was skilled at assuming new identities -- he had done it for over five thousand years, as long as he could remember.  For this newest personality, it was no different.  Methos had a teaching position within the week.  The third grade of the Blue Cove Public School needed a long term substitute, maybe a permanent replacement.  It suited Methos fine.

***

Miss Parker hesitated a long moment outside her father's office, and took the time to smooth the slight irritability from her face, assuming her usual mask of sugar-tipped steel.  Her immaculate reddish brown skirt and jacket work clothes were slightly warm, even in the air conditioned Centre.  She could feel the pressure of her gun where it was holstered in the small of her back; the added constraint making her waist feel almost uncomfortably hot and sweaty.  None of her discomfort showed on her face, perfectly composed and framed by equally immaculate brown hair down to her shoulder blades.  She knocked on the door sharply, a brisk but unhurried cadence, and opened the door without waiting for an answer.

She couldn't help but think this had something to do with Jarod.  The Pretender was still free, but the fact remained that no one from the Centre could find any trace of him -- no trail, no little clues from him, no taunts, nothing.  She suspected -- knew -- that he was taking the time to settle their mutual half-brother, Ethan, somewhere the Centre would never find him.  Whether Jarod would return to the game later remained to be seen . . .

She remembered the last time she'd seen Jarod and Ethan, when the three of them had stumbled from the tunnel's inferno after jumping from the subway train only moments before it exploded, half burnt, choking, and blinded by the smoke.  Jarod had asked her to come with them.  For a moment, she had been tempted . . . then her priorities reasserted themselves and she "invited" him back to the Centre instead.  Since she had no gun to back up the "invitation", he had merely smiled maddeningly, reminded her to listen to her "inner sense", and vanished, taking Ethan with him.

Miss Parker was torn.  A part of her was glad the fugitives -- her family -- had escaped, but another part, the part loyal to the Centre and her father, was deeply disappointed.

Her father, the Chairman of the private research facility known as the Centre, looked up as she entered.

"Ah, Pumpkin," he greeted.  As always, he seemed overjoyed to see her.

"What did you need, Daddy?" she asked sweetly.

"It's been a month with no sign of Jarod," Mr. Parker started without preamble.  "Quite frankly, we can't wait for him to surface any longer.  The Pretender project needs to move forward, with or without Jarod."

Miss Parker studied her father's face, the perfect face for a loving, doting grandfather, not the face for a ruthless killer.  "How exactly are we going to move forward without our Pretender?" she demanded.

"Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart.  Jarod isn't the only Pretender.  Regrettably, he is the most talented, and certainly the only one we've trained, but there are others with the potential."  His kindly condescension rankled, though Miss Parker surpressed the emotion immediately.

"I assume you have another subject in mind then?" she asked.  Her voice low and quite, not revealing her irritation.  She never raised her voice, even when furious, unless she absolutely needed to grab the attention of someone far away.  That low, dangerous tone seemed to have a much better effect than ranting did.

"Of course.  We've had an eye on him for a year or so.  We were hoping to recapture Jarod, but since that's unlikely now, we're switching our focus.  It's insurance, you might say, in case Jarod never resurfaces.  He doesn't have Jarod's potential, but he's better than nothing, which is what we have now.  I want you to bring the boy in.  You'll have whatever Centre resources you need at your disposal and the full cooperation of our people."

Mr. Parker pulled a file out of his left hand desk drawer and handed it to Miss Parker.  Miss Parker opened it gently and flipped quickly though the papers.

"I see he lives here in Blue Cove," she commented.

"It made him very easy to track.  He came to our attention almost as soon as he moved here," Mr. Parker expanded.

"It says here his teacher left suddenly," she commented, looking towards the elderly man for an explanation.

"We arranged to have the teacher . . . removed . . . but before we could get one of our people in place, the job was given to another man.  Another . . . disappearance . . . so soon after the first would be far too suspicious, but we don't anticipate the new one will cause you trouble, so it's not a problem.  He's young enough to be easily intimidated and too inexperienced to be a threat."

Miss Parker nodded and closed the folder decisively.  She attempted to quell the small protest of her conscience; Jarod, her half-nemesis, and Ethan, her half-brother, were both victims of the Centre.  She would help bring in another?  Her mother's dream had been to free her daughter, Jarod, and Ethan from the Centre's control.  She could almost hear Catherine Parker's voice crying against this new action.  She ruthlessly surpressed both conscience and her mother's voice, fearing the latter to be a sign of the terrifying "inner sense" that plagued Ethan and their mother -- and herself, recently.  She had seen the half-maddening effect the "voices" had on Ethan, and feared what it would do to her if she listened to it.  The inner sense was from her mother, but hereditary madness was still madness.

With a chill, obligatory smile for her father, she turned and left the office, closing the door firmly behind her.  She strode down the hall, the few scattered workers parting before her, leery, as always, of getting in her way.  She needed to find Broots and Sydney and inform them their assignment had changed.  She wasn't all that happy about it -- Jarod had been her focus for years now -- but at least the new assignment was straight forward: remove the child.  The most difficult would be leaving no witnesses or a trail back to the Centre.

She found Broots in front of his computer, unsurprisingly, with Sydney watching over his shoulder.  Broots looked up as soon as she entered his office, anxiety immediately creasing his thirty-something, nervous face.  She ignored the reaction; it was typical of him.  She was too hard on him, she knew that, but he never resented her -- possibly because he was also infatuated with her.  Perhaps she should go more easy on him, if possible; he was, in the treacherous Centre, one of the few people who's loyalty was to her alone.

"Miss Parker," Broots stated, sounding as if he was surprised to see her, although he shouldn't be.

"We've been reassigned," she growled eloquently, slapping the folder on the desk.

"To what?" Sydney asked, mild curiosity in his moderate voice.  She glanced at him, noting that the signs of age had become more noticeable recently in his careworn face, a bit more white in his graying hair.  She wondered at times whether Sydney's loyalty was to her first, or to Jarod -- he was the closest thing to a father Jarod had known at the Centre -- but his loyalty was not to the Centre, and that was good enough for Miss Parker.

"Since Jarod hasn't been kind enough to show up, we're going after another Pretender."

"Another Pretender?" Broots questioned.

"Not yet, but he will be."

"A child," Sydney surmised.

"Yes.  He goes to the public school right here in Blue Cove."

"What do you plan to do?" Sydney asked.

"Broots and I are going to the school tomorrow.  We want to inspect it before we send our child there," Miss Parker informed them sweetly, laying a hand on Broots' arm "lovingly".

"What?" Broots asked, startled.  Miss Parker was careful not to smile at his typical trepidation.  Poor Broots; she should go easier on him.  She wouldn't -- she couldn't afford to -- but she should.

Early the next day, Miss Parker escorted Broots to the public school.  She smiled thinly at him.  This was not the first time they had passed as a couple; at least this time they didn't have to buy sex toys.  Besides, he made such a perfect henpecked husband, though without the wedding rings, they couldn't pass for married.  She stopped in the office long enough to get directions to the third grade room, and the teacher's name, Ryan Green.  The secretary was unhappy about the proposed interruption to Mr. Green's class, but few people successfully stood in Miss Parker's way when she wanted something.  The secretary was not one of them.  Miss Parker gestured curtly for Broots to follow her as she left the office.  He could only admire her.  She had such a forceful personality -- things got done around her.

Miss Parker stepped briskly down the hallway, trailed by Broots.  She stopped at the door number the secretary had given her, 228, and knocked sharply.  Contrary to her usual habit, she waited for the door to be opened for her.  The knob turned and the door obligingly swung open.  She studied the man who stood there, aware she was being studied in turn.  He was taller than her, and lean.  He wore a white dress shirt, the top button open, the sleeves rolled up -- a concession to the heat -- and his shirttails hanging casually out of his black jeans.  His hair color matched his jeans, and was cut roughly an inch long in a utilitarian style.  He looked young, but the hazel eyes that met hers were surprisingly perceptive.

"Can I help you?" he asked at last.

"Mr. Green?" she asked in return.  At his cautious nod, she continued, "I'm hear to speak to you about enrolling my child in this school."

He smiled slightly.  "Aren't you supposed to talk to the office about enrollment, Ms. . . . ?"

"Miss Parker," she supplied, reaching for his hand.  He held out his and she shook it once firmly, enough to be polite.  "And the office will not be teaching my little girl," she explained.

"I see," Ryan commented.  "And your friend?"

"My brother," she lied smoothly.  Broots shot her an uncertain look.  Why wasn't she following their script?  He knew better than to do anything but go along with her -- he was not one of the people who stood against Miss Parker.

Miss Parker was well aware of Broots' confusion, but had no pat explanation for him.  Not that she would have given him one anyway.  It simply felt wrong to tell this man she was married, or in love.  Whether a warning from her inner sense, or a reaction to his too alert gaze, she went with the alternate story.  It was more believable.

"Very well, Miss Parker.  I will answer any questions you have -- after class," Ryan said firmly.  "School is over at 3:30; come back then.  Now if you'll excuse me, I have a class to teach."  He turned and shut the door.  Miss Parker stared at it for a long moment, amazed she had been thwarted, then knocked again.  There was no answer, so she opened the door herself.  Ryan turned back immediately.  He frowned.  Before she had a chance to make further demands, he was at the door.

"Good bye, Miss Parker," he said with finality, and shut the door again, nearly catching her fingers between the door and the frame.  She heard the quite snick as the door was locked.  She tried the knob in frustration, rattling it in a way she hoped annoyed the man inside.  Then, rather than lose control, Miss Parker turned and stormed down the hallway, followed -- at a good distance -- by Broots.

Inside the classroom, Methos smiled.  She reminded him just a bit of his fifty-eighth wife, Marabelle.  She always wanted her own way, too.  Stupid, to fall for another woman so soon after Alexa, but he couldn't deny the attraction was there.  The slight, suspicious certainty that she hadn't told the entire truth -- if at all -- only made her more intriguing.  Methos knew curiosity was a dangerous thing -- he had warned MacLeod about just that when he'd tried to help an Immortal friend recover his memory -- but he couldn't deny that the curiosity was there, and unlikely to dissipate.  Methos's smile turned distinctly anticipatory.  Danger could be fun.

Miss Parker was waiting for him when he left the school -- a good half an hour after he'd told her to be there.  She was scowling, one foot tapping impatiently.  He smothered his grin and walked toward her.  She bared her teeth angrily in what could, on someone else, have passed for a smile.

"So glad you could join me."  Methos heard the implied reprimand behind the angry sarcasm.  How she made it sound polite at the same time amazed him.

"My pleasure," he returned.  "Where's your brother?"

"He had other business to attend to," she explained dismissively.

"Let's be on our way, then," Ryan suggested.  She looked at him sharply, unused to being so out of control.

"Where are we going?" she demanded.

"You'll see," he answered flippantly, knowing it would irritate her.  It did.  "Are you coming?" he asked as he detoured around her and headed for his car.  Without bothering to answer, she followed.

His final destination was, astonishingly enough, his apartment.  She glared at him, torn between outrage and admiration for his audacity.  Taking her to his apartment indeed!  Ryan smirked, and held the door open for her.  She studied her surroundings as she entered.  It was sparse, but tastefully decorated: a few statues scattered throughout the place, two paintings on the walls, a small collection of books.  The furniture was as bare: a single couch, three chairs placed at various points around the rooms she could see, and a table barely visible in the kitchen.  There was no tv in sight, but a stereo and modest cd collection was set aside on one of the shelves.  Ryan dropped his coat on one of the hooks and moved casually into the kitchen, apparently oblivious to her now that she was here.  She kept her suit coat on, stubbornly refusing to make herself comfortable.

Before the silence could become too uncomfortable for her, he spoke.  "If you'd like, you can come in here and question me while I start dinner."

"Dinner?  It's only four-fifteen," she pointed out, moving into the kitchen and sitting down in one of the worn chairs.

"It will take awhile to cook," he explained, "and I generally eat early.  It should be ready by five-thirty or five fourty-five."  She nodded absently, and watched him work, admiring him.  He moved gracefully, with effortless efficiency.

"Can I help?" she asked at last, without her usual antagonism.  It was uncomfortable to watch him work, and felt even more wrong to question him.  The entire scene seemed so domestic, so normal, that it was painful.  She could never have such normalcy.  She had though she might have a chance, once, but Thomas had been killed before they could leave together, far from the Centre and mistrust.  He had been brutally murdered by the Centre, by her father's young wife.  How ironic that Brigitte would have been killed by the very people she had worked to benefit, if she hadn't died only moments after the birth of Miss Parker's half-sister.  Miss Parker sneered.  No, normal wasn't something she could ever hope for.  The price was too high.

"Can I help?" she repeated, startling Ryan out of his own thoughts.  He smiled, a bit sheepishly.

"Sure.  Chop those onions," he requested.  She rose, searched through the drawers for a knife, and began hacking angrily at the onions.  He watched her antics with amusement, then commented, "You don't cook much, do you?"  She glanced up, startled.  "Here, let me show you."  He removed the knife from her hands before she could protest and sliced the onion cleanly down the center, then cut off an even circle from one of the halves.  He ran the blade though the onion rhythmically, dividing it in a hatch pattern.  There was something soothing and meditative about the way he moved.  He finished the slice, then handed the knife back to her.  She repeated his example, making an effort not to let her previous reckless anger show.

To her surprise, the very action -- mindless though it was -- leeched the almost incessant anger from her.  Ryan turned back to his preparations, and Miss Parker realized how wonderful it was to work there next to her.  It reminded her of the brief time she and Thomas had spent together, when there had been no Centre, no assignments, just joy in each others company and their plans for the future.  Thomas would have been restoring houses and she . . . she would have been doing something else.  Not her father's work, but maybe her mothers.  With Ryan, for this moment, she had that dream back.  She felt that rare peace Thomas had inspired in her, and she wondered who Ryan was that he could inspire this same reaction.

Too quickly the dinner preparations were completed and the meal set in the oven to cook.  It took less time to clean the kitchen cursorily, and then Ryan led her back into the living room.  Miss Parker felt a sudden reluctance to continue this charade.  She wished she had met him under other circumstances, that they were here now for no other reason than to be together, that she could stay here forever with him, safe.  She had felt this way with Thomas, when she told her father she planned to leave the Centre, and again when she had stood there with Jarod, half-burnt, but with freedom at her finger tips.  She could have left then.  In retrospect, she wondered why she hadn't.  With Jarod to hide her, she could have been safe forever.  She could have had normal.

"What do you want to know?" Ryan asked, lounging back on the sofa.  "Wait, hold that though," he instructed, rising again and disappearing into the kitchen.  A minute later, he returned with two glasses of wine.  He handed one to her, then sprawled back on the couch.  "Now what do you want to know?" he asked, amusement in his voice.  It was contagious; she couldn't help but feel less morose.  Miss Parker smiled wonderingly.

"I don't care anymore," she replied, amazed.

"All this trouble, and you don't care," Ryan repeated, not seeming troubled by it.  She wondered if he ever lost that amused calm.

"I'm enjoying the company too much to care," she added, leaning towards him.  Her smile turned distinctly welcoming.  He wasn't Thomas, she knew that, but he made her feel the same.  He made her feel alive.  For once, she would do something for herself.

"Is that the case?" he smirked, setting the glass down beside the couch and rising.  He crossed the distance between them and took her hand, raising it gently to his lips.  It was a move of ironic gallantry.  He tugged gently and she stood gracefully.  He pulled her closer, touching her lips in a chaste kiss.  It started as a chaste kiss.  He retreated from her lips eventually and led her in the direction of the bedroom.  Neither spoke, but then, they didn't need words.

***

Jarod opened his secured e-mail, shocked to find an urgent message from Sydney.  He opened it immediately and scanned the contents.  His expression turned grim.  Sydney stated, quite bluntly, that since the Centre couldn't locate him, they would switch targets.  A child, instead of a man.  Unwritten was Sydney's suggestion: give them another target and they'll forget the boy.  There was no question he wouldn't go.  He could not, in good conscience, allow the child to be sacrificed in his place.  This past month away from the Centre, healing, had been among the best he could remember.  Here, hidden away with his father, sister, and Ethan, he felt at home; after living his whole life with no true home, it was not something he could renounce without regret.  Although he knew it wouldn't vanish when he left, he would feel the loss nonetheless.

"What is it, Jarod," his father asked, coming up behind him.

"Nothing good," Jarod replied, resigned.  "They're going after a child."  No need to say who 'they' were; his father knew as well as he did.

"And you'll go to stop them."  There was no question in his voice; he knew Jarod's dedication.

"I would love to stay," Jarod started.

"But you can't.  I understand.  I wish I could go with you," the elder man stated wistfully.

"You have to stay, Ethan needs you," Jarod insisted.  "I've handled being on my own until now, I think I can handle this."

"I know you can."  There was pride in his father's voice.  Jarod smiled up at him, content to bask in the love and joy of having a family.  For so long, he'd been alone.  He felt the pain of the loss, though he tried to hide it.

"I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Good luck."  Jarod nodded, and left to pack.  A genius, able to become whatever he chose; the only decision was what to be.  From Sydney's sketchy details, he knew the child when to the school in Blue Cove.  Perhaps a substitute teacher?  With no details about the child's personal life, that was the surest way to find him.  That was the best option, he decided, setting his plan in motion.  Jarod frowned when he pulled up the school's files.  The boy's teacher had vanished mysteriously, and his replacement was a long term substitute not likely to fall for the "you've won a free trip!" line he'd used the last time his Pretend led him to be a teacher.  He thought quickly, scanning the jobs.  The children couldn't be in the classroom all the time; they went to different teachers for certain classes, or he could always be a monitor outside at recess.  It was less ideal than being in the classroom, but since Sidney had sent him the boy's identity, he didn't need to figure it out himself.  He could be flexible; all he needed to do was change a few details and the plan would still work.  Then he'd let Miss Parker and the Centre know he was back in the game -- but not yet.  Not until he knew who all the players were, and had a better understanding of the situation.

***

"What's with you, Miss Parker?" Broots demanded.  "You've been acting weird all week, since we visited the school.  If we don't start showing progress on this new Pretender assignment . . ."

"Relax, Broots," Miss Parker commanded.

"It's your teacher, isn't it?" Sydney guessed perceptively.  She shot him a look.

"He's not my teacher, Sydney," she corrected.

"But you have been spending an inordinate amount of time with him," Sydney pointed out.  "Have you forgotten what happened to Thomas?"

She glared at him.  "No," she growled, "I haven't, and I will not let what happened to Thomas happen to Ryan.  I will not allow the Centre to kill all I care for."

Sydney and Broots stared at her, caught unawares by this uncharacteristic display of sentiment.

"Miss Parker . . ." Sydney started slowly.

"No, Sydney, I don't want to hear it.  Ryan is my business."

"The Centre will make him their business," Sydney corrected firmly.  "How are you going to protect him?"

She met his gaze levelly, but had no answer.  Silently, she turned and walked away.

Miss Parker ended up outside the school, though it was still a good hour until it ended and she could talk to Ryan.  Sitting there with no distractions gave her time to think, to consider what she planned to do.  It was foolish, irrational, and completely unlike her.  She could think of twenty good reasons not to do it, yet all of them seemed to have no weight faced with the thought of losing Ryan.  Even if she had only known him a week, she would rather kill than lose him.  Maybe she would rather die.  She couldn't face the pain of losing another person she loved.

Her cell phone rang, startling her.  She brought it out and opened it.

"Miss Parker," the cheerful voice on the other end spoke.  He sounded, as always, as if he knew something she didn't.

"Jarod," she identified, a dangerous tone to her voice.  "How kind of you to join us again."

"My pleasure," Jarod returned ironically.  Miss Parker was silent for a moment.

"How is Ethan?" she asked, barely audible.

"Better," Jarod answered.  Both were uncomfortable with this new conversation, so different from their accustomed baiting.  "He's becoming more comfortable with his inner sense.  He's slowly getting over Raines' influence."

"Good," she said, and meant it.

"Are you?" Jarod questioned, concerned.

"Am I what?" she snapped, watching the street to ensure no one came close enough to overhear the conversation.

"Comfortable with your inner sense."

"That's none of your business," she glowered.

"Now, Miss Parker," he teased, a smirk in his voice.  He sounded so much like Ryan in that instant that she couldn't bear it.

"Enough, Jarod.  I refuse to discuss this madness!"

"It that what you think it is?" he asked softly.  "It's your mother's legacy, her gift to you."

"I said I don't want to talk about it," she insisted.

"Let's talk about something else, then.  How about that new beau of yours?"

"Jarod!" she protested, outraged, but near laughing as well.

"What does your inner sense say about him?" Jarod teased.  There was a sudden, absolute silence on Miss Parker's end of the line.  "Miss Parker?" he queried, concerned.

"I don't know, Jarod," she confessed.  He was perhaps the only person who could understand her turmoil.  "A part of me thinks I should trust him, and a part says he's more dangerous than I know.  I don't know what to think."

"I didn't find anything in the check I ran on him," Jarod said seriously.  "I'll keep an eye open."

"Thank you," she said, wondering at how strange it felt to be working openly with Jarod.  Before he had always trailed clues in front of her, leading her to what he thought she should know.  After working together to save Ethan, it seemed that everything had changed between them.

"I'll see you around, Miss Parker."

"I'm sure you will," she commented, and hung up.  Methos found her still sitting there, staring at nothing.

"Hi there," he greeted her softly, taking a seat next to her.  "Waiting for me?"  She nodded distractedly.

"Is something wrong?" he pried, worried.

"Not anything we can talk about here," she answered, looking at him.

"We'd better go elsewhere then," he decided, drawing her to her feet.  They returned to his apartment; she had never brought him to her house.  He sat her own the couch and returned with a glass of white wine for her and a beer for himself.

"What's the problem?" he asked, leaning toward her.  She stared him in the eye, wanting to convince him of her sincerity.

"Ryan, you are a wonderful man.  As short a time as we have been together, I think I love you."  Methos accepted this revelation quietly.  "As much as I love you and want you with me, I'm afraid my job is putting your life in danger, and I don't want to do that to you."

Methos closed his eyes, thinking how often had he said those very words to a mortal lover who insisted on having the right to choose danger or safety.  How ironic they were now spoken to him.

"What do you do?" he inquired.

"I work for a private research facility called the Centre," Miss Parker admitted.  She had kept Thomas in the dark, and that had gotten him killed.  She would not make that mistake with Ryan.

"What kind of research?" Methos pressed.

"Many types.  The one I'm involved in is the creation of Pretenders, geniuses trained from childhood to become whatever they want."

Methos thought quickly.  Children.  "That's why you were at the school, isn't it?" he questioned shrewdly.  "You don't have a child, you were looking at one of my children for this program of yours."

She grinned humorlessly.  "Bingo."  He nodded, and she was surprised to see no anger or revulsion on his face, only acceptance.  It made her love him more.

"Perhaps I'm being overly suspicious, but if these people you work with are ruthless enough to take children away from their homes, they're ruthless enough to kill anyone who tries to prevent that," Methos continued.  Miss Parker nodded.

"They killed the last man I loved because he convinced me to leave the Centre."  Methos nodded, accepting that.

"I am not him," Methos comforted her softly.

"No, but you're so like him it's scary," she whispered.  "Both of you forced me to be more than what the Centre created."  Just like Jarod, she added mentally.

"Tell me more about the Centre," Methos urged, changing the painful subject.

"We have world-wide connections.  My father is the head of the Centre; I'm following in his footsteps, the dutiful daughter."  Miss Parker laughed shortly in self-deprecation.  "We're answerable to the Triumvirate, but that's it.  The authorities are almost entirely powerless to do anything against us provided we keep a low profile."

"I don't like the sound of that," Methos admitted.  If the Centre got ahold of an Immortal . . .

"I used to," Miss Parker admitted.  "Now . . ."  She shrugged.  "They've destroyed every good thing in my life.  My father had my mother killed after she gave birth to my half-brother Ethan.  He would have killed his next wife, Brigitte, if childbirth hadn't taken care of it for him.  All he wants is children, like me, to moldinto the next generation of Centre personnel, taking over for him -- continuing his Grand Plan.  He wants us loyal to the Centre -- to *him* -- to the exclusion of all else.  He sent Brigitte to kill Thomas because I would have left with him.  He killed anyone who might have told me the truth about Mirage or my mother."

"Mirage?" Methos pressed, fascinated and slightly angry about what she'd been put through.  It sickened him to realize that at one point in his life, he would have admired her father's cunning and skill.

"Mirage is their pet project.  Jarod's -- or rather, his father's -- Pretender genes combined with my mother's 'inner sense.'"

"Inner sense?" Methos repeated.

"I don't want to talk about it," Miss Parker said with finality.  Methos didn't press her.

"Who's Jarod?"  Methos asked, changing topics.

"One of our Pretenders.  He escaped, and has eluded us almost entirely since.  He's the original do-gooder.  He tried to help people as a type of payback for the Centre using his work for harm.  He's so damn noble it makes me ill, because I know I'll never be like that."  Methos took her hand compassionately.  He understood better than she what Jarod was going through.  As much as he chided MacLeod for his boyscout instincts, there had been a time after the Horsemen where he had tried to redeem the harm he had caused through good deeds.  That was before he had come to the conclusion that he was just as guilty no matter how many saintly acts he performed.

"Where is Ethan now?"  Methos inquired, changing tracks again.

"With Jarod.  Where I wished I was.  I had a chance, Ryan.  I could have left with them.  Out of some sick sense of loyalty, I came back and I've been wishing since I'd left with them."

"Why don't you?" Methos asked.

"What?" she demanded sharply, pulling away.

"Just leave.  Why don't you?"

"They'd find me," she stated flatly.  "I don't have Jarod's talent for vanishing."

For an instant, Methos wanted to offer to hide her, to help her move on.  He opened his mouth to exchange confession for confession, and her phone rang.

She pulled it out, and began talking to whoever was on the other end of the line -- someone named Sydney.  Methos shut his mouth and leaned back on the couch, remonstrating himself.  He'd been stupid; he knew better than to confess to strangers,
especially dangerous strangers like Miss Parker, about Immortality.  No matter how well he knew them, or thought he trusted them, it was unwise.  He'd known Christine Salzer for years, and trusted her in an attempt to prevent her from going to a reporter about Immortals.  How well had that succeeded?  Trusting anyone with Immortality was as stupid and dangerous as trusting an Immortal with his name.  He'd learned both lessons long ago, and yet he still broke both rules.  Admitting to MacLeod his name was Methos; wanting to tell Miss Parker about Immortality.  He didn't even know her damned first name.  Offering to take her away, to hide her, was more than he could offer.  It would raise more questions than he wanted to answer.  Then she put the phone down, and the time for confession was past.

"Who was it?" he inquired, back to being Ryan Green.

"Sydney.  He was informing me that with Jarod back on the scene, we've been reassigned off the child.  Lyle is taking over," she spat.

"Who's Lyle?" Methos wondered.

"My darling twin brother.  A psychopathic, murdering cannibal," she growled.  Methos started at the description.  That could so easily be Caspian.  "He's been placed in charge of the Centre assassins since Mr. Raines tried to betray my father and was shot for his trouble."

Methos winced.  Assassins, never a good bunch.  "And now he's assigned to collect this kid.  Wonderful."

"Listen, Ryan, I have to go back to the Centre.  Don't do anything," she ordered emphatically.  "I'll take care of this situation."

Methos nodded, because Ryan Green would.  He had no intention of allowing her to "take care of this" alone.  He had been dealing with "situations" for far, far longer than she had been alive.  Miss Parker took him at face value and left with a quick kiss good-bye.  Almost immediately after she left, someone else knocked on his door.  Wary now that he knew Miss Parker's profession, Methos approached the door and peered through the peep hole.  An unfamiliar man stood there.  He eyed the stranger carefully.  From what Methos could see, the man had an average build, deep brown hair and dark, kind eyes.  The man raised his hand to knock again, but Methos opened the door -- with the chain intact -- before he had the opportunity.

"Can I help you?" he asked through the crack.

"Mr. Green?  I'm Jarod Stevens . . ."  That was as far as he got.  Methos, recognizing the name Jarod and unwilling to believe in coincidence after what Miss Parker revealed, shut the door in Jarod's face.  A moment later he opened it again, minus the chain.  His smile was welcoming.

"Jarod, hi.  Come on in.  Miss Parker's told me a lot about you."

Jarod's jaw sank.  "She what?" he asked, stunned, confirming Methos's suspicions about his identity.

"Come in, Jarod," Methos insisted.  "Public is no place to discuss this."

"Discuss what?" Jarod asked, confused.

"How to get Miss Parker away from the Centre," Methos said patiently.  Jarod shut up and entered the apartment.  Methos closed the door again behind him and gestured for him to take a seat.

"Do you want something to drink?  Beer?  Water?  Wine?"

"Water's fine," Jarod answered, dazed.  Methos smiled wolfishly and went to get the drink.  He pressed the glass into Jarod's hand and took a seat across from him.

"As I see it, we have two things that need to be done: get Miss Parker into hiding and make Zac too visible to be a target."  The last wasn't strictly necessary, as Methos saw it, but the kid was his responsibility right now and damned if he'd let a child go into the Centre's hands without at least making an effort to prevent it.

"What about you?" Jarod asked, ignoring the water.

"I'll come with you if it's possible, but I'm not a priority.  I'm not a target to the Centre."

"You will be if they find out you know about them, or if they connect you with Miss Parker and I," Jarod insisted sharply.

"In that case, I'll disappear.  It wouldn't be the first time," Methos stated with a bitter smile.  Jarod stared at him in shock.  This was the last thing he'd expected to hear when he came here.

"Not the first time . . . ?" he queried, leaning forward.

"Come on, Jarod, you know what it's like to be a different person every time you turn around.  To re-write the story of your life so that there is so much fiction in the space between yourself and others that you nearly forget who you are and which memories are real!  You know what it's like to be ready to do or say anything to protect yourself from having that fiction be revealed.  You know what it's like to be screaming inside 'I am the monster, if only you knew!' and yet stay silent, leaving the pity and the blame for those, like you, who do not speak."

Jarod studied the far wall broodily, remembering the moment he had learned that the Centre was using his "scenarios" not to prevent deaths, but to cause them, perverting his work from what he had intended.  He remembered as well the many identities he had taken on in the past, and would in the future.

"Are you a Pretender then?" he asked finally.

"In a sense," Methos admitted softly.  "But I am not a genius, and that's why I want you.  I want you to catch what I forget, and I want you to protect Miss Parker if -- when -- I can't.  I love her very much, Jarod," he insisted.  "I love her strength and the beauty she hides behind her ruthlessness.  I don't want the Centre to break her."

"Neither do I," Jarod agreed.  The two men's eyes met in silent agreement.

"I'll convince Miss Parker to leave with you, even if I can't," Methos spoke, breaking the quiet.

"How can you be certain she'll go?"

"I can't.  She did want to leave with you.  She stays now because she doesn't think she can vanish.  If she won't leave because of me, I'll ensure there's no reason for her to stay," Methos resolved grimly.  Jarod reached over to touch his arm compassionately.

"Can you do that?"

"To keep her safe, I can do anything.  Putting her together after something like that would be in your hands," Methos stated solemnly.  Jarod nodded slightly, promising without words to do as the other man obliquely asked.

"So what's your plan for Zac?" Jarod asked.

"I have no idea," Methos admitted honestly.  "Unless I know how much power the Centre can effectively assert, I don't know how visible is visible enough that the child won't be a target.  The problem is, I'm simply not familiar enough with the Centre."

Jarod nodded, understanding the problem.  "I'm not certain it can be done, short of making him a celebrity, which is infeasable.  I had thought to make them focus on me instead of the boy, but if I take Miss Parker away, they're free to do as they want with him."

"What if we made him less enticing to the Centre?" Methos asked.  "Negated the qualities, at least as far as they could see, that would make him a Pretender?"

"That could work," Jarod said thoughtfully, tapping one hand absent-mindedly against his leg.  "If we gave the kid some new tests -- which you'll make certain he fails -- while simultaneously keeping their focus on me, they'll declare him unsuitable.  When I disappear, he'll probably be considered a hopeless case."

"That sounds like our best option," Methos agreed.  He stood and moved into the kitchen, grabbing a tablet of paper and a pen.  "Here's my cell phone number if you need to call me," he stated, scribbling the number down.  He tore the paper off and handed it to Jarod.

"Thanks.  I'll give you mine, if you need it."  Methos nodded, and copied it down as Jarod recited it.

"I'll be seeing you," Jarod promised, then set the glass of water down, stood, and left, closing the door behind him.  Methos sat down on the vacated couch, thinking.  This was fast becoming one of those situations where the only way out was running.  Get Miss Parker out of there, leave the kid behind, and vanish.  He doubted they could do anything for the boy, not against an agency as powerful as the Centre, and short of taking Zac with them, there was nothing else they could do.  Jarod's plan to discredit the boy's Pretender potential was dubious at best; neither truly believed it could work.  When the Centre decided to take Zac, he would vanish.  That was the reality.  Jarod refused to face that, but Methos had no such naive illusions.  There was nothing he could do, short of keeping a continual eye on Zac.  That was impossible.  It was.  He sighed, knowing what MacLeod would say.  Damn that man for resurrecting his conscience.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, and stood violently.  This was stupid, it was pointless, and it wouldn't help matters.  It was a waste of his time.  He grabbed his coat, making sure his sword was secured in it's harness.  A dagger went into a sheath at the small of his back, and a handgun into his coat pocket.  He'd go check on the boy, and make sure the Centre hadn't made its move yet.  Stupid or not, it was what MacLeod would want.  He stopped by the school long enough to find Zac's address, then navigated the streets to the clean kept suburbs as dusk fell.  It was almost completely dark by the time he arrived.  The windows of the neighboring houses were well lit, but there was no one on the street itself -- or so he thought initially.  He parked the car two blocks away so as not to advertise his presence.  He slipped silently through the darkness, keeping to the shadows.  His black trench coat made him nearly invisible; only his hands and face floated, ghostlike, in the deep dusk.  He was nearly on top of Zac's house before he noticed the other, swiftly moving figures.  They moved too covertly to be innocent passerby's; there was too much purpose in the deadly movements.  He noticed a moment later that they were moving away from the house -- carrying a child-size bundle.

Methos cursed.  He could let them take the child.  It would be so easy to simply step back and do nothing, as he had so many times before.  In his mind, he could see Jarod's face when he found out, and it shifted to become MacLeod's.  Traitor.  Scum.  Methos dew the gun and moved forward.  He was on the men before they could react.  He shot one of the men carrying the child, the gunfire sounding alarmingly loud in the quiet night.  He fired several times at the remaining men, scattering them, but only hitting one.  He grabbed the child, sensing the men were going for their guns, and took off running.  The first shots went off, near soundless from the silencers, and he could feel the sudden pain of a bullet grazing his side.  He forced himself to run, holding the boy -- now limp and silent from terror -- in front of him to shield him from the shots.  He sprinted the two blocks to the car and opened the front door to shove the child in.  The strangely passive child.  The breathless child, he realized numbly.  Looking at the child for the first time, Methos saw the dark blood on Zac's chest, and understood the implications.  He must have been hit immediately, one of the first shots fired.  A shot meant for Methos, to prevent their precious Pretender candidate from being stolen.

Methos closed his eyes in despair.  He had failed.  He arranged the boy's limbs gently, then turned to meet the approaching men.  His demeanor was calm, viscous.  He aimed the gun quickly and began to picked off two of the men as they ran forward.  Then his clip was empty and he dropped the gun, simultaneously pulling his dagger.  With a blinding move, he flung the dagger into the right eye of one of the four remaining men.  He dropped satisfyingly as well, but Methos was already moving, sword unsheathed, before he hit the ground.  A moment later he was among the men, ignoring the bullets that grazed him, the brutal hits.  His sword moved in a deadly, merciless blur, cutting down the men brutally.  The vivid reality of battle flowed through him, and for those minutes, he was Death again -- gloriously powerful, unstoppable, and unlimited.  There was no conscience, no regret, no mercy.  Only his sword and the blood of his enemies drenching the ground at his feet, anointing him with ancient, primitive war paint -- the undeniable sign of his supremacy, his victory.  Then, as the last man fell, he was himself again -- weary, fallible, sick with hate at what he was.

The doors to the neighborhood houses had stayed closed during the fight -- the fearful, middle class families wanted nothing to do with such violence and death -- but now that there was only silence, their curiosity would rise and they would emerge.  He would not be here when they did.  Methos pulled Zac out of his car reverently, laying the child out on the sidewalk.  He smoothed the boy's hair, closed his eyes, and arranged his arms at his side.  He kissed Zac's cooling forehead, and murmured inaudibly, "I'm sorry.  I was too late.  Find your peace, child.  I hope your next world treats you better than this."  Then he rose, got back into his car, and drove away.  He had failed Zac, but he would not fail Miss Parker.

He took out his cell phone and called Jarod.

"Jarod," he said before the man could speak.

"Ryan," Jarod returned, surprised.

"Zac's dead.  The Centre got to him."  There was silence on the other end of the line.  "Listen, I need you to get Miss Parker out of town.  Is there somewhere you can meet her?"

"Yeah, the D&R warehouse down by the docks.  Call her and have her meet me there."

"Will do.  I'll try to make it there too, but if I don't, get her out of there.  Don't wait for me; I can take care of myself."

"She won't want to leave without you."

"Then knock her out and drag her someplace safe!" Methos demanded angrily.  "Just get her away."

"All right," Jarod agreed, and hung up.  Methos dialed Miss Parker's number next.

"Hello," she snarled into the phone.

"You need to get out of town," Methos stated, not bothering to identify himself.  She would know who he was.  "The kid's dead.  Jarod's going to meet you at the D&R warehouse by the docks.  Go now."

"What about you?" she demanded.

"I'll try to make it there.  If not, go without me and Jarod will find some way for me to catch up later."

"I don't want to leave you," she admitted softly.

"I don't want to be left," Methos retorted sharply.  "I'll be there if I can.  Get going," he ordered, then hung up.  He had to stop by his apartment long enough to get off the blood and pack what he needed.  It wouldn't be much.  Then he'd meet Miss Parker and Jarod and get the hell out of Blue Cove.

Miss Parker stared at the phone in her hands, then pocketed it.  She hurried through the house.  There was much she wanted to keep: a few of her mother's things that Jarod had made sure had been returned to her, all the money in the house, a few clothes, and a photo album.  Her entire life in one bag.  She snorted, then stared around the house one last time -- a house with many memories, good and bad.  The house where Thomas had saved her -- the house where he had died.  She refused to regret this moving on; she regretted too much in her life already.  She left the house, locking the door behind her.  She didn't expect to return, but leaving it open made her feel unfinished, and she wanted nothing unfinished about this life.  She wanted to put this life behind her, move on to something new with Jarod and Ryan.  This place was best left to memories and nightmares.

She arrived at the warehouse before Jarod and Ryan, which was surprising.  She didn't know where Jarod was right now, but it must be farther away than she'd thought.  Ryan lived fairly close to here, so whatever he'd had to do must have delayed him longer than he'd planned.

She scanned the interior of the empty warehouse idly, waiting for one or the other to show up.  The man who came out of the shadows was not who she expected.

"Leaving so soon, Parker?" Mr. Lyle asked, smug superiority lacing the question.  He knew he had her, she could see it in his eyes and in the slight, familiar smirk that played on his face whenever he out-maneuvered her.  Miss Parker smiled icily, no humor in the expression.  This confrontation had been building since they'd met.  It was inevitable.

"Of course," Miss Parker said icily.  "I'd hate to have Jarod get away again because you won't let me go after him."

"Bring him in, Parker, or leave with him?" he sneered.

"Don't be ridiculous, Lyle," Miss Parker snarled back, controlling her reaction.  How the hell did he find out?  Did he listen in on her calls somehow?  Simply out think her?  Did it matter?  He was convinced he knew her plan -- and he was right, damn him!

"I don't think it's so ridiculous," he stated.  "I think you've been losing your dedication for a long time now, focusing on things you shouldn't.  And now, I think you plan to leave with Jarod, and I say you aren't going.  Anywhere."

Lyle drew a gun and pointed it at her.  "No one knows we're here.  You just . . . vanish.  Like you planned to do with Jarod.  Good bye, sis."

One shot rang out.  Miss Parker flinched, but didn't feel an impact.  Lyle's hand when to his chest, where the bullet had pierced his lung.  Ryan stepped out of the shadow, his face colder than Miss Parker had ever seen it.  He looked -- merciless, like a killer.  He ignored her, moving to stand over the fallen Lyle.  Lyle stared at his in amazement.  He opened his mouth to speak, but only blood came out.  Ryan raised the gun again, and the second shot went straight between his eyes.  It looked like an execution.  Miss Parker's breath caught.  This was not her Ryan.  She didn't know this man at all.  And it terrified her.

"You killed him," Miss Parker said incredulously.  "What are you?!"

Methos licked his lips slightly, and resisted the urge to spit at the taste of blood.  The truth, dangerous as it was, or a lie?  But he knew his decision was made.

"I was sent by the Centre to find out how much you knew about Mirage," he admitted, already mourning what he'd lost.  "If you knew too much, I was supposed to kill you.  I -- care for you, Miss Parker."  I love you.  "I won't kill you.  Go!  Vanish, find Jarod and your half-brother.  Leave this life."

She stared at him, then betrayal turned to angry hate.  The lips that had once claimed to love him, that had handed him the secrets of her soul, opened venomously.  "I should never have trusted you," she spat.  He ducked his head, unable to meet her eyes, unable to bear the pain there.  Traitor.  Scum.  She spoke the truth.

"No," he said softly.  When he looked up again, she was gone.  He left the warehouse, trying to reassure himself he hadn't made a mistake.  Leaving was the best thing to do.  It was the only safe thing to do.  She knew too much about him; he *couldn't* let her learn more. Sometimes a lie is the best thing, Methos though, trying to convince himself.  With a weary sigh, he turned and boarded the first plane out of Blue Cove.

Finis
 

I only used a few lines from the song, but the entire piece was an inspiration.  It seems to me that Immortals, Pretenders like Jarod (who change identity), and people like Miss Parker (who are surrounded by deceit and the need to be deceitful) all have a need to tell lies ("write fiction") to those they meet and those they love.  They write "the fiction in the space between" themselves and others.  These are the lies that separate them from anyone they could trust.
 

Telling Stories
(words and music by Tracy Chapman 1999)

There is fiction in the space between
The lines on your page of memories
Write it down but it doesn't mean
You're not just telling stories

There is fiction in the space between
You and reality
You will do and say anything
To make your everyday life
Seem less mundane
There is fiction in the space between
You and me

There's a science fiction in the space between
You and me
A fabrication of a grand scheme
Where I am the scary monster
I eat the city and as I leave the scene
In my spaceship I am laughing
In your remembrance of your bad dream
There's no one but you standing

Leave the pity and the blame
For the ones who do not speak
You write the words to get respect and compassion
And for posterity
You write the words and make believe
There is truth in the space between

There is fiction in the space between
You and everybody
Give us all what we need
Give us one more sad sordid story
But in the fiction of the space between
Sometimes a lie is the best thing
Sometimes a lie is the best thing

lines in bold italics are the lines used -- or misused -- in the story.

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