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Disclaimer: The characters Miss Parker, Sydney, Jarod, Broots etc. and the fictional Centre, are all property of MTM, TNT and NBC Productions and used without permission. I'm not making any money out of this and no infringement is intended.
Okay, I know I wrote another story and some of you are wondering when I am going to finish the other ones that I have started. . .I am working on it but something else has first priority and its almost done but I hit a wall and 0needed to do something this is want transpired. . . . .

End of the fourth season beginning of fifth . . .if I should continue let me know . . .I'll see . . .

Despite, Herself
part 1
by Trish

Dying. She didn't remember dying.

Were the distant angry voices drifting in her head, telling her that the end was near.


Was there anything that she could do about it?

She didn't remember dying, she dimly recalled, solemn whispers telling her she did, that death had taken her, but someone had pressed his mouth to hers and filled her lungs with his breath, life, and in doing so rekindled hers.

The distant, disembodied voices were a vague notion, yet she finally grasped the idea that there were people around her, telling her she had died, she didn't remember dying, she only remembered the pain before passing into darkness. The pain, not something to forget. She remembered something slamming her to the ground, the terror of having no breath to gasp, no breath to cry out for help. Heat searing her, sucking the life out of her. Sometime later- when under clean sheets, she remembered dark eyes. Eyes with anguish so profound that when she closed her eyes she also saw the light of hope in them. Therefore she let the light of his eyes will her to live. To fight.

At some point, she remembered his name, but when the pain was smothering her, she would close her eyes and forget.

A sound woke her as suddenly as a slap. Parker lay on her back, still as death, her eyes wide, listening. It wasn't so much that the sound had been loud, but that it had been something disturbingly familiar. Something dangerous.

Her whole body throbbed with pain, but she was more awake than she had been in what seemed like weeks. She didn't know how long she had been asleep, or perhaps unconscious. She was awake enough to remember that it would be a grave mistake to try to sit up, because just about the only part of her not injured was her right arm.

Turning her eyes to the right, she saw a semi-closed door, and from beyond the doorway came fragments of angry, threatening voices.

"I need her to tell me where he is?"

Wanting to know what was going on, Parker tried to push herself up onto her left elbow. A mistake, she'd forgotten. Her arm didn't work the way she expected it too. Like a bolt of lightning, pain blasted up the marrow of her bone and exploded through her shoulder.

Gasping against the racking agony of the attempted movement, she dropped back before she managed to lift her shoulder an inch off the bed. Her panting twisted the daggers piercing her sides. She had to will herself to slow her breathing in order to get the stabbing pain under control. As the worst of the torment in her arm and ribs eased, she finally let out a soft moan.

With calculated calm, she gazed down the length of her left arm. Casted.

As soon as she saw it, she remembered. The drugs were making her fuzzy.

She cautiously reached up with her right arm and wiped her fingers across the bloom of sweat on her brow, sweat sown by the flash of pain. Her right shoulder socket hurt, but it worked well enough. She touched her puffy eyes, understanding then why it had hurt to look at the door. Gingerly, she let her fingers explore swollen flesh. Her imagination colored it a ghastly black-and-blue. When her fingers brushed cuts on her cheek, hot embers seemed to sear raw, exposed nerves.

She needed no mirror to know she was a terrible sight.

Voices. The men's voices were heated and insistent as they all began talking at once.

"It's only because she was the last one to see both of them. We can't allow. . .We won't. . . ."

Parker listened, half expecting her father to exploded in anger. Her father had little tolerance. Cox was not doubt there too; Cox had neither patience or tolerance.

Light splashed across the wall as the door was thrown back. Her father appeared, his tall form towering over her, throwing a slash of shadow across her middle.

Angel, you're awake. Wonderful, we've been so worried, your brother and I."

"Daddy, how," her throat was dry and sounded harsh to her ear," How did I get here? What happened?"

"Surely you remember. Jarod tried to kill you."

"Jarod. . . .kill me. . .why would. . . .how?"

"You were going to bring him back."

She thought about those eyes. Dark eyes that had looked into hers with caring, concern and something else. What she was being told now, it was the lie.

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