Author's Note: This is just a drabble. In my wee brain it fits into the same universe as "Where They Stand," though this is quite a bit darker than that story. For those of you who are saying, "But what about Phoenix Rising?," I promise I've not given up on it. I actually have quite a bit more written. It's just a matter of piecing together those scenes in a coherent fashion and finding time. :)

Author's Note 2 added 8/19: Thanks to faithwithers who helped by offering some suggestions for how to clean up verb tense issues. Writing in present tense is a personal challenge to me. It's a double-edged sword in many ways; it's outside of my comfort zone, but I want to push myself to do it so that I may improve. Masochistic? Perhaps.

Disclaimer: Of course Haven doesn't belong to me. I'm merely playing in the sandbox with the characters.

She's always known her story will not have a happy ending. She thought it was because she was too emotionally scarred. An orphan who has struggled to rely on others who've come and gone from her life. A natural investigator who distrusts far more easily than trusting.

But that isn't really her, is it? That is someone else. Someone whose memories she has somehow commandeered, much the way the real Audrey Parker would commandeer a vehicle without giving it a second thought.

No. Her story will not have a happy ending. Whoever she is. Whatever she is.

Even the illusion of control was stripped from her. She's been the marionette to someone's puppeteer.

"Heather is going to be okay. Her mom's with her at the hospital. She's getting checked out."

She swallows, trying to force the lump in her throat to dissipate. From Nathan's concerned expression, she knows she has failed to erase the abject terror she had felt when she heard the seven-year-old girl had been taken. Even knowing it was a non-custodial parent—and not them—cannot entirely quell the anxiety building within her.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Nathan. So patient. So earnest. So…Nathan. Her heart clenches slightly, and she wants to gravitate toward him. If only things were different. If she wasn't what she is—and if he wasn't…

"No." She tries to sound nonchalant, to throw him off her scent. "There's nothing to talk about. Happy ending. Right?"

"Parker—" But he's a detective. He knows better. He knows her better.

"Don't. Don't 'Parker' me. I'm fine, Nathan. I'm fine."

"You're not. You're looking over your shoulder, you're irritable."

"Gee. Thanks for that."

"When's the last time you slept?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her non-answer tells him what he needs to know. "Come on." He clasps her hand without warning; his long fingers tangle with hers. The contact is simultaneously alarming and soothing and everything contradictory that wars within. She wants to pull away. She wants to draw nearer. "I'm taking you to get some rest."

He drives them to his house. She's too mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted to protest. The lack of control tasks her.

She has been to Nathan's house a few times, never for more than a few minutes and never in his bedroom. Funny. She thinks back to a time not so long ago that she imagined the real possibility of being here, doing things far more enjoyable than scanning her surroundings. Now she looks, not out of curiosity, but in search of a threat. Finally, she removes her gun and sets it on his nightstand but not before checking it and rechecking it to see that it's loaded and within easy reach.

He studies her, sees her hesitancy. "You don't need it; I'll keep watch."

She thinks she sees something else there. Guilt? Nathan of all people doesn't need to feel guilty for her demons. She needs to protect him. She needs…

"Sleep," he gently commands drawing back the comforter.

With a slight nod, she allows herself to slip between his covers and finally shut her eyes.