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DISCLAIMER: Miss Parker and all things Pretender related belong to Mitchell/Van Sickle Productions, NBC, and some other folks. By writing this story, I have rather blatantly infringed upon their copyright; however, I don't really care.
SPOILERS: For "Bloodlines."
Epiphany
Aimee
They say that love is a basic human need, right up there with food and shelter. I believe it, though I didn't for a long time. Food seems more important, right? Without it, you die. Compared to that, love isn't half so fundamental; I could survive -- *have* survived -- without love. But surviving and living aren't the same thing, are they. I don't know. I suppose believing that makes me feel better about myself, like less of an idiot for having behaved the way I have. Love is a need, and I did what I thought I had to to get it.
Never mind that it didn't work.
"I have a son," my father said, the words cutting through me like a knife. A clean blow, very clean, swift and sharp -- I didn't feel the pain until later. At that moment, all I felt was numb. And tired, weary to my very soul. I suppose I shouldn't complain. I always said I wanted my father to be honest with me; well, those are perhaps the most nakedly honest words he has ever uttered. It's not his fault they're not what I wanted to hear.
I don't think I realized until that moment how much of my life was built around pleasing him, trying to win his affection, although I'm sure it was blatantly obvious to even the most casual observer. But I've never been the introspective type. The unexamined life is not worth living? Aw, bite me. Sitting on your ass contemplating your navel doesn't get the job done. But I can see their point, now. I always thought I was firmly in control of my own destiny, the captain of my soul, and now I find I'm just a marionette, a puppet dancing to Daddy's tune. I came to work for the Centre -- for him. I entered security -- for him. I fostered this no-nonsense, unemotional, tough-as-nails attitude for so long it's become second nature -- for him. I've been chasing Jarod, doing my damnedest to bring him back instead of thanking God one of us managed to get out of this place -- for him. Was any of it for me? Have I ever done anything simply for the joy of it?
Did he ever really love me, or was it all just so much bull from a master manipulator, a bone to bribe a dog into doing what you want it to?
No, that's not fair. No room for anything but truth, here. He does love me, in his own way. I'm not just a useful tool; I'm his daughter, the living image of his Catherine.
He just doesn't particularly *care* about me. Or, more accurately, he doesn't care about *me*.
He doesn't even know me.
"I have a son." Well, at least I, only child that I am, understand what sibling rivalry is now. I'd only known I had a brother for about five minutes, and I was already jealous of him.
Even this revelation wasn't enough to change a life-long habit; I still went haring off after Jarod, trying to recapture him and bring him home. But my edge was blunted. I wasn't so intently focused anymore; I could see the light at the end of my tunnel-vision. And Davy -- God, poor Davy. I couldn't let the Centre get their hands on that little boy. One generation of fucked-up children is enough. So I waited until I knew the treatment was a success before taking Jarod back. But then Raines's goons crashed the party, and Jarod was escaping with Davy in the Centre's own airplane, and I had a clear shot, and my finger tightened on the trigger . . .
And I didn't fire. I couldn't.
But, like I said, I was never the introspective type; I still didn't figure out what was going on with me. Well, I never claimed to be a genius -- that's Jarod's line. I'm just the genius-catcher. But he didn't give me any time to think. He showed up in the bowels of the Centre itself, right under my very nose! And then Fenigor muddied the waters, telling me that Jarod's father killed my mother. I couldn't let him go after that, could I?
It's only now, gazing onto the face of eternity, staring down the reaper himself, that I realize that yes, I could.
I'm not responsible for my father's actions, though he is partly responsible for mine. A daughter should not have to court her father; nothing I do or say or am can or will change how he feels about me -- only he can do that. Love cannot be bought, only given.
Neither is Jarod responsible for his father's actions. Or I for my mother's death.
I feel rather stupid now. My life flashes before my eyes, and all I see are mistakes and regrets. Why was I so blind? It all seems so simple now, so clear.
I stand here and watch the wall of fire advance down the corridor towards me, majestic and beautiful, awesome in its deadliness. It seems strangely fitting that I am surrounded by those who are most important to me, the key players in the drama of my life, loved ones and enemies both. I lower my gun, useless now, and turn to take Jarod's hand. I feel peaceful, serene -- an odd sensation, I'm not sure I like it.
I see. I see everything now. Why must I die before I understand what it is to live?
THE END
SPOILERS: For "Bloodlines."
Aimee
They say that love is a basic human need, right up there with food and shelter. I believe it, though I didn't for a long time. Food seems more important, right? Without it, you die. Compared to that, love isn't half so fundamental; I could survive -- *have* survived -- without love. But surviving and living aren't the same thing, are they. I don't know. I suppose believing that makes me feel better about myself, like less of an idiot for having behaved the way I have. Love is a need, and I did what I thought I had to to get it.
Never mind that it didn't work.
"I have a son," my father said, the words cutting through me like a knife. A clean blow, very clean, swift and sharp -- I didn't feel the pain until later. At that moment, all I felt was numb. And tired, weary to my very soul. I suppose I shouldn't complain. I always said I wanted my father to be honest with me; well, those are perhaps the most nakedly honest words he has ever uttered. It's not his fault they're not what I wanted to hear.
I don't think I realized until that moment how much of my life was built around pleasing him, trying to win his affection, although I'm sure it was blatantly obvious to even the most casual observer. But I've never been the introspective type. The unexamined life is not worth living? Aw, bite me. Sitting on your ass contemplating your navel doesn't get the job done. But I can see their point, now. I always thought I was firmly in control of my own destiny, the captain of my soul, and now I find I'm just a marionette, a puppet dancing to Daddy's tune. I came to work for the Centre -- for him. I entered security -- for him. I fostered this no-nonsense, unemotional, tough-as-nails attitude for so long it's become second nature -- for him. I've been chasing Jarod, doing my damnedest to bring him back instead of thanking God one of us managed to get out of this place -- for him. Was any of it for me? Have I ever done anything simply for the joy of it?
Did he ever really love me, or was it all just so much bull from a master manipulator, a bone to bribe a dog into doing what you want it to?
No, that's not fair. No room for anything but truth, here. He does love me, in his own way. I'm not just a useful tool; I'm his daughter, the living image of his Catherine.
He just doesn't particularly *care* about me. Or, more accurately, he doesn't care about *me*.
He doesn't even know me.
"I have a son." Well, at least I, only child that I am, understand what sibling rivalry is now. I'd only known I had a brother for about five minutes, and I was already jealous of him.
Even this revelation wasn't enough to change a life-long habit; I still went haring off after Jarod, trying to recapture him and bring him home. But my edge was blunted. I wasn't so intently focused anymore; I could see the light at the end of my tunnel-vision. And Davy -- God, poor Davy. I couldn't let the Centre get their hands on that little boy. One generation of fucked-up children is enough. So I waited until I knew the treatment was a success before taking Jarod back. But then Raines's goons crashed the party, and Jarod was escaping with Davy in the Centre's own airplane, and I had a clear shot, and my finger tightened on the trigger . . .
And I didn't fire. I couldn't.
But, like I said, I was never the introspective type; I still didn't figure out what was going on with me. Well, I never claimed to be a genius -- that's Jarod's line. I'm just the genius-catcher. But he didn't give me any time to think. He showed up in the bowels of the Centre itself, right under my very nose! And then Fenigor muddied the waters, telling me that Jarod's father killed my mother. I couldn't let him go after that, could I?
It's only now, gazing onto the face of eternity, staring down the reaper himself, that I realize that yes, I could.
I'm not responsible for my father's actions, though he is partly responsible for mine. A daughter should not have to court her father; nothing I do or say or am can or will change how he feels about me -- only he can do that. Love cannot be bought, only given.
Neither is Jarod responsible for his father's actions. Or I for my mother's death.
I feel rather stupid now. My life flashes before my eyes, and all I see are mistakes and regrets. Why was I so blind? It all seems so simple now, so clear.
I stand here and watch the wall of fire advance down the corridor towards me, majestic and beautiful, awesome in its deadliness. It seems strangely fitting that I am surrounded by those who are most important to me, the key players in the drama of my life, loved ones and enemies both. I lower my gun, useless now, and turn to take Jarod's hand. I feel peaceful, serene -- an odd sensation, I'm not sure I like it.
I see. I see everything now. Why must I die before I understand what it is to live?
THE END
