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Story Notes:
Long story short: someone asked me to post "the first words you ever wrote about The Pretender or any fandom, show, movie, etc." (I've never written any other fandom).

I had to search around in the Mirarchives (Mirage. Archives. Mirarchives.) for a while to find this thing (and a ton of other scary things).


 

 

 

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He doesn't wear a Stetson. He doesn't believe in spurs or crops. He doesn't fancy himself a cowboy or broncobuster. He doesn't boast about breaking the animals.
 
The Palominos and Appaloosas, the rare Dzungarian, the even rarer half-Arabarain—full-blooded Spitfire from Cumberland Island are all simply what they are: wild; he doesn't take that from them.
 
There is solace in wild things.
 
He marvels when they arrive, contentious and self-possessed, at his ranch. They come to him abused sometimes, distrustful and afraid, but never quite beaten into submission. Brutalized creatures present considerable challenges; they seem to fear everything except death; they are more dangerous because they are afraid, wounded.
 
And he is all that stands between them and slaughter.
 
He observes, allows himself to be observed. He approaches with respect and patience, meets aggression with understanding.
 
The horses do not break; they compromise.
 
Bemused clients shake their heads and laugh uneasily at the notion that their much bemoaned and sometimes murderous investments choose to be tractable, but when business is concluded, they thank him profusely. He is highly recommended for his dedication, for succeeding where others have failed.
 
 
As dedicated as he is, however, wild horses do not prevent him from returning to Blue Cove, Delaware.
 
He tells himself it will be the last time, just as he has each time before.
 
The door opens as he lifts his arm to knock.
 
"Jarod," the greeting is neither cordial nor hostile and for an instant, the universe seems to slow to a stop. And then just as abruptly begins spinning again, spinning faster, spinning out of control.
 
He is ushered into a tidy room. A drink is pushed hastily into his hand.
Rémy Martin neat.
 
"You have some catching up to do." This is said with an impatient gesture at the glass Jarod holds and is followed by a salacious wink. "Bottoms up."
 
"Thank you, but no," asserts Jarod, thrusting the tumbler aside.
 
"Always a spoilsport. I have mineral water and gunpowder tea. Pick your poison."
 
The wicked quirk of lips doesn't escape Jarod.
 
"You know why I am here."
 
"Know," the word is repeated mockingly, whispered upon Jarod's lips, into his mouth. The kiss is startlingly gentle, more so than the greedy fingers tugging down his zipper, the eager palm at the back of his head.
 
Jarod reciprocates with eyes open.
 
"I know? Tell me what I know, Jarod," the voice taunts. "Tell me what you want from me. Do you want me to fuck you? Is that why you're here? Are you hard for me, Lover? Let's find out, shall we?"
 
The probing hands are cold and rough.
 
Jarod feels something inside him begin to splinter, break. He, in turn, wants to break something.
 
His unintelligible hiss precedes the surprised gasp. Jarod captures the hand at his crotch and with alarming rapidity subdues his archrival with a painful wrist lock. He presses the face he most loathes against a wall and presses a punishing hand over lips that lie too easily and much too frequently.
 
In response to the grunt of pain, Jarod snarls, "You can stop this, Lyle."
 
Lyle does not. Cannot. Will not.
 
His gums ache against the pressure of Jarod's hand. His lips burst, his tongue is bruised. He tastes his own blood; it does not slake his thirst; it is not his own blood he craves.
 
"Finish," Lyle tries futilely to communicate his desires.
 
Jarod is fluent in both the muted dialect of the intransigent and the desperate patois of the muzzled.

He knows what Lyle is asking.
 
Brutalized creatures are dangerous; they present considerable challenges. Jarod doesn't equate challenges with impossibilities. And failure isn't an option.

Jarod has made a promise to the half-brother he shares with Lyle.
 
He will not fail.
 
His movements are quick and precise. He doesn't grimace when Lyle sucks in a sharp breath of surprised pain. He doesn't clarify when Lyle directs incoherent inquiries at the syringe, its contents.
 
He scolds the final futile attempts to fight the drug. He comforts the whimpers that accompany defeat.
 
He knows this is not the coup de
grâce Lyle anticipated; this will not end Lyle's torment. This is no victory.
 
There will be more nights like this one, urgent telephone calls from Lyle or Ethan (or both), close calls involving young women from Bangkok, Nha Trang, and Busan.
 
Jarod rises when headlights illuminate Lyle's bedroom.
At the door, he greets the young woman with a warm smile. He accepts the Korean takeaway and is generous with the tip.
 
He doesn't tell her that she might have been dismembered, consumed. He doesn't tell her that he might have saved her life.
He doesn't boast about these things.
 
He doesn't fancy himself a hero.
 
He's simply keeping a promise.

 





Chapter End Notes:

I realize that Parker essentially swore to Jarod that she would keep tabs on Lyle ("count on it!"). A companion piece exists in Mirarchives that explains why Jarod (and not Parker) is keeping tabs on Lyle. That piece (written immediately following this fic) takes place before this one, involves murderus interruptus, and a righteously miffed Lyle (which doesn't bode well for big sis- there are, unsurprisingly, all sorts of broken things in that fic).






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