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Author's Chapter Notes:

Notes? They were left in my pocket and subsquently eaten by washing machine.


 

 

 



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Jarod squinted against the glare of oncoming headlights and, anxiously, peered into the side mirror, observed the vehicle until its tail lights faded in the distance.

They weren't being tailed, and if what Sydney had managed to convey to him were true, the Centre had called off the hunt. And why wouldn't they?

Raines had J.R. Miller; he had a Pretender's heart, and it didn't take a genius to guess the wheezing waste of skin's intentions.

Miss Parker hadn't commented on the Centre's newest acquisition, or Raine's latest sinister plan; Jarod assumed she was considering his proposition.

The memory, the pain, of his previous proposition was somehow- - after nearly seven years- - still fresh. An old wound that continued to suppurate.

He wasn't certain where her loyalties would lie when the dice finally landed on the table, was no more certain now than he had been in Glasgow.

After all, the woman was known (far and wide) for being intractable, even imperious; needless to say, he had anticipated flippancy,a scowl of petulance, perhaps a snort of disapproval or a decidedly serrated edged retort (or two) tossed in for good measure.

Jarod had exercised extreme caution, remained mindful of the pistol in his ankle holster, and prepared himself for overt hostility (or perhaps even a bullet in the foot); however, he had soon come to the realization that his fears had been unwarranted (and Defcon 1 had been overkill).

She hadn't even lamented the ruin of her Chanel trouser suit (still damp with rain and stained with Sydney's blood) or the Manolo Blahniks (which were currently caked in thick, dried mud).

Nor (to Jarod's astonishment) had there been objections when he'd unceremoniously taken the wheel, no grand, operatic gestures to exert her dominance, no threats made at gun point. She'd simply climbed into the rear of the vehicle. Wordlessly.

Jarod peeked into the rear-view, was presented with the back of her head; she was still crouched on the floor of the Rover, clasping Sydney's wrinkled hand.

Incalculable. Still. And it appeared that she was studiously ignoring Jarod- the notion caused him much perturbation, deeper rumination. Jarod obviously had every reason to feel uneasy; however, a word from her, a single word could have allayed his fears.

Instead, there was only the engine's monotonous drone, the hum of the windshield wipers, hard rain pelting down upon the roof, the swoosh of water under the tires.

The odd turn of events had indeed left Jarod rather unstrung. He fumbled for the radio, and refocused on the road that stretched out into the dark, stormy night as Glenn Frey proclaimed: it's those restless hearts that never mend.

He wasn't going to bore her with intolerably prosaic small talk; instead, Jarod tapped a thumb against the steering wheel- at least until the lyrics began to reprove him.

There's so many things you should have told her

Yes. Perhaps there were.

Goodbye for starters.

He hadn't done that. During that final telephone conversation, he'd heard the pain in her voice, recalled the way her face had crumpled in the cemetery on the first anniversary of Thomas' death, the tears standing in her eyes in Glasgow when he'd taken her hand, pleaded with her to take a hard look at her life.

He'd been asking for much, much more than an alliance against the Centre; after their intimacy in Carthis, he had no doubt that she'd realized- - precisely- - what he'd been asking of her.

She had responded with a tremulous, liquid: "this isn't the different ending..." Her tears, however, had belied, had been rather incongruous to her words.

He had- - directly- - caused her pain, he opined; the connection they shared, the unexplored, unnamed vastness in the spaces between- - where they, or rather, where she feared to ventured- - had been the source of her tears. The feelings existed, there was a connection; she, however, hadn't been comfortable exposing the feelings, confessing them, taking them and turning them outward, being bare and open to scrutiny.

A moment of weakness? Jarod nearly scoffed. Aloud.

He had concluded that his presence was doing more harm than good. He had hurt her with the truth in the past, had done that for her, to help her; however, hurting her out of selfishness, hurting her because he wore his heart on his sleeve and had revealed entirely too much of himself (and far too soon) was, he believed, a misstep, one which he could not abide. Or ever forgive. He had failed her tremendously and decided that he'd rather walk away- - even if hurt him to do so- - than remain in her life and cause her additional pain.

And just as he had that morning in the cemetery, he had vanished from her sight.

For nearly seven years.

He believed there would be questions, recriminations, and had prepared his explanation in advance; in fact, he had been preparing the explanation for six years, and was rather disheartened- - perhaps even disillusioned- - that she hadn't even asked where he'd been. Or why.

She hadn't said anything to him, in fact, aside from asking him whether or not he intended to help her move Sydney- they had done that, had stabilized the psychiatrist's wounds. In silence, in a tedious peace, a reticent- - and rather tenuous- - truce, neither needing the other to make commands or requests, each careful- - as punctilious as ever, in fact- - to avoid physical contact with the other.

Jarod had then gathered supplies from the truck he'd borrowed- - and had since totaled- - and transported them to the vehicle she'd traded. Parker, meanwhile, dispensed antibiotics and a mild sedative, all while soothing Sydney sweetly, dutifully, like a daughter would comfort her father; Sydney, of course, had succumbed to the sedative.

And then came the silence.

The familiar tense hush, the strange excitement. Nothing had changed.

Jarod's biggest fear was that perhaps nothing ever would change, that their fatalistic tap dance, the tedious orbiting- - and occasional colliding- - of each other's universe would simply continue. Eternally. If that was indeed what had been pre-ordained for them by some higher power, some cruel entity, he would take this opportunity to lay the past- - as well as the Centre- - to rest, put it all behind him, and get on with the business of living. Of a different ending. With someone else.

He was still considering the future after bypassing the highway and traversing several labyrinthine and deeply fissured dirt roads; he deftly slung the vehicle off the muddy path, sped through a ditch (that too closely resembled a small river) and drove straight into a broad expanse of brush and brambles. He pulled the vehicle to a stop under a small, and partially fallen tree where it could not be seen.

Inside the ancient, unpretentious lodge where meetings had once been called to order by a now defunct sect of Masons, Jarod observed as Parker remained steadfast at Sydney's side, clung to him in a manner that transported Jarod to their childhood, to the little girl.

He'd been quite certain that Parker would want to shower off the filth immediately upon arrival at the renovated lodge, and had retrieved some clean towels and a change of clothes in anticipation (the pyjama bottoms and tee shirt weren't what she'd consider soigné and were most likely ill-fitting- - considering she was much smaller than Jarod- - but the attire was clean and dry). Apparently, however, she was still tossing curve balls.

"He's going to be alright." Jarod assured her genially as he pushed off the wall he'd been leaning against; Parker observed dispassionately as he entered the room and pulled a rickety chair to the opposite side of the bed. There, in the sharp rectangle of light that spilled in from the hallway, their eyes met for the second time in nearly five hours; the second time in six years.

"We've set the bone, stabilized him." He had intended to expound on those words; instead he fell silent, observed her stoic countenance, her pursed lips, and then he fixed her with an expression of disbelief and slowly shook his head. "You're angry with me."

It all made sense now. Somehow. He was appalled by his limited clairvoyance; after all, he was usually perfectly attuned to the woman, he believed, not altogether in a flash of arrogance.

She hadn't been simply ignoring him. No. The woman had elevated the silent treatment to a high art, a science- although Jarod believed it was a silly term to apply considering that silence was anything but a "treatment"; silence had never cured anything. And never would. And he had no intention of allowing the status quo to prevail.

Parker's gaze dropped to Sydney's hands, and then, without ceremony, without so much as a sigh, she rose, launched a full retreat.

And very nearly made it to the washroom.

"You can't just walk away."

She blinked, started in disbelief at his poor choice of words, at the hilarity, his audacity. He had walked away. For six years! But she couldn't?

She observed the familiar, inquisitive tilt of head, the concern that creased his brow.

"Aren't you going to answer me?" He asked and then gestured impatiently, palms out, and with a exasperated roll of eyes, added: "I know, I know, you don't want to talk- not to me. I get it. Okay?" He asked, his brows raised, "But please: humor me. Just this one time?"

She heaved a sigh of exasperation, fashioned a smile- or rather, attempted to; the smile fell flat, was bitter, frothy and begrudging, indignant.

"You've never seen me angry." Came the pithy, cool answer.

"Oh, I believe I have." Jarod countered gently, a smirk tugging at his mouth, his brows raised high. "Enough times to recognize it. You're angry."

"Or perhaps I simply don't know what to say; what does one say to a dead man anyway?"

He fixed her with a sympathetic, wan long-suffering smile. "I run, you chase- those were your words, Parker; it was the decision you made. It was a decision I couldn't live with; we both deserved something more."

"I deserved to believe you were dead?" She asked, and then pivoted, attempted again to retreat.

"Wait." He called after her, solicitous, beseeching, on the verge of groveling, "Listen to me-"

"No!" She snarled as she sidled up to him. "You listen to me:" She thrust an angry, trembling finger at him, and then moved in close as if to share a secret, "the next time you disappear, fake your death", she cooed sweetly, "you damn well had better be dead", she hissed out through clenched jaw- all venom and serrated edge, "or I swear to God, Jarod-"

He wasn't certain how it was even possible, but Parker moved in closer, her lips not quite an inch from his ear, and then whispered: "I will kill you myself."

She then met his gaze, gestured slightly with her head as if to ask: are we clear? Jarod vigorously nodded his affirmation, and then- - literally- - gulped.

He was still nodding when he caught sight of her hand coming at him, the manicured fingers curling into a compact fist that collided with his lower lip and jaw with surprising force.
And then she was on him, all over him, falling with him; he wasn't certain if the thud was his spine against hardwood or if perhaps this was the sound of surrender, of two souls colliding- a whole other brand of falling.

The kiss was all passion, collision of teeth, gnashing and snarling and he was wide-eyed, shocked by her assault and still trying to process how this had happened and what, precisely, was happening but then, quite suddenly, his body was responding to hers and he was giving back as good- - and arguably even better- - than he was receiving.

He needed this, needed her- repercussions be damned.

She felt his fingers cupping her jaw, and then entwining the dark tresses, wrenching her head, her mouth closer.

His other hand dropped to her hips, sank in, grasped, pulled her against the evidence of his need, the erection that strained his faded denims.

Jarod let himself go, all the while severely castigating himself for not being stronger, for rushing her. Again. He'd already made this mistake with her- although, to my credit, not to this extent.

Perhaps it was his surrender that had prompted Parker's resistance.

She pulled away abruptly, wiped his blood and their collective saliva from her mouth with the back of her hand and fashioned a brutal glare, and leveled it directly at him. She then pivoted, left him- - shattered to pieces- - on the floor.



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