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Pacing.

Today is different.

Different?

Ha!

A fucking precedence.

Genius or no, Jarod was a man at the core, human and far from infallible, and that, he supposed, was why he derived a certain amount of pleasure, a sick and terrible pleasure, from watching Parker squirm, seeing her confounded- - hell, downright bothered- - to this degree.

Power.

Control.

It's such a slippery slope. He could imagine just how slippery, how quickly one's morals and good intentions could be seized by madness here in this place where moral atrophy ran rampant, and humanity has deteriorated.

Men had lost themselves in macabre fascination inside these walls, traded their sanities and souls and even their families for money and power. If a building ever could truly be evil, could harbor evil, surely it was this building. 

Nothing terrified him more than losing control of himself, of becoming the monster, and in his current position, the only consequences that would befall him were those of conscience. His conscience- and that was more severe than any punishment the Centre or the authorities could mete out to him. I'll be careful- he vowed to himself. Careful.

Parker pivoted suddenly, in mid-pace, and in a single fluid movement, tugged the Glock from its holster and leveled it directly at his chest.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you?" She hissed- -in as measured a tone as she could affect- - through clenched teeth.

To which Jarod grinned roguishly and shrugged. "I can't think of a single one." His answer was whispered softly and accompanied by an amiable smile- a smile that Parker mistook for a simper. A smug simper. And she wanted to blow it right of off his fucking face.

"If you've made up your mind to kill me, I doubt I could talk you out of it anyway." He gave her a moment to process his words and then continued, nonchalantly, and advanced. "If you are not going to kill me, however, I suggest you put that," here, his head dipped toward the gun, "away."

She started at his initial advance and took a single step as if to-- what? Retreat?

Oh, no.

Hell-fucking-no.

Parker checked herself, shifted her weight, squared her shoulders. Rooted herself to the spot. She "stood her ground" as certain trigger-happy Americans might boast.

Jarod observed Miss all-bark-and-no-bite, her rigid stance, feet 12 inches apart, her jaw clenched- - and jutted defiantly- - in a ferocious scowl, as if she were a threatened, angry animal, backed into the corner.

A cat. A wild cat. And how much easier it would be if she were, Jarod opined: all he'd have to do is bridge the distance, reach over and grasp her by the scruff of her neck, and quickly, lest she shred his arm, open a vein.

And then, she'd be paralyzed and at his mercy, dangling haplessly from his palm, dancing from the strings he pulled.

"Why should I?" She snarled.

Back to this, Jarod thought.

Game reset.

Square one.

Back to black, as Miss Winehouse sang.

He was angry. Mostly disappointed. And hurt. The regression was infuriating. And it shouldn't have been. After so many years, he felt he should have expected this from her.

They'd played this game before, after all, had argued back and forth and around in circles in cold clipped tones, prodigally slung stones and cold glares at each other and snarled their snide ripostes via telephone for more than a decade.

The pair had worked together, sometimes at a great distance- - sometimes unaware that the other had taken up the sword and joined in the cause- - and sometimes side by side in an effort to find answers, and each time only the ending had ever been the same.

The ending was always the same.

Why did I think this time would be any different?

Why, indeed, when in a world as convoluted as theirs one step forward (his step forward) had always equated to two steps back (her two steps back) and therefore, regardless of choices made, words exchanged, roles shifted, or how they metamorphosed, evolved, or how her mask might have slipped and regardless of how he tried- - and God, he had tried and tried- - to reach her there would always, always, always be that one step, that empty space- - a buffer- - between them.

The space was necessary to maintain status quo, perspective, to maintain her precarious position; she was perpetually equidistant to both Jarod and the Centre, was no more loyal to one than the other, and tangled in perpetual tug of war. This is the dance. The dance we do. A reticent, fatalistic waltz. And she circumvented him at every turn.

His fury was tempered by only one fact: she had told him no lies; there hadn't even been tacit acquiescence. She hadn't so much as implied a willingness to leave the Centre. She hadn't even agreed to meet him again. In fact, she hadn't said anything. Not to him anyway.

She'd simply exited the ladies room, and rambled off apologies to her date (she couldn't even remember the man's name now), and drove to the hotel. That too was a blank blip on the hard drive of her memory. She didn't remember navigating traffic or ascending the steps or even using the key card on the room's door.

Meeting Jarod in a hotel. It all seemed rather sleazy. Wrong. Verboten.

Nevertheless, she'd entered the room and observed as he emerged from the darkness wearing jeans and a black tee (instead of the janitor get-up). He'd suggested she sit and she'd refused with a curt shake of head, and even then the wheels were spinning in that head of hers and he hadn't even noticed.

Because he had not wanted to notice.

He could only imagine the internal dialog and knew without a doubt that it wasn't her voice and certainly wasn't Catherine's voice that had poisoned her mind, poisoned her against him.

She'd gotten caught up, the voice reprimanded, carried away. It was caprice or perhaps even something as ordinary as plain ol' stupidity. Or, Jarod mused, her heart had contrived, had betrayed her common sense, and she'd forgotten herself, forgotten him, forgotten where her loyalties lay- or with whom they were supposed to lay and now he should forget as well.

Just forget what happened, Jarod.

Forget what happened when we were children. Forget what happened on that Island. Forget what happened in the lodge when I punched you, and I kissed you. Just forget, Jarod. Forget.

He didn't want to hear it. And he didn't want to hear the excuses, demands. He'd heard them all before. He knew the lines, all the cues.

What am I suppose to do?

What, indeed.

And why did she always direct such questions to him when they both knew that she intended to reject his answers anyway.

Oh, but that was her cue and her next line of course was: What do you want from me, Jarod?

What, Jarod?

What more?

How much more?

And she'd have a point there- even he'd have to admit it. Hadn't she worked with him to save Sydney's leg? And hadn't she risked her life and Broots' to help him rescue J.R.? She'd worked with him just as she had in Carthis, and she'd ignited his hope just as she had in Carthis- hope that she might make the overtures, follow through, finally finish her mother's work. It certainly wasn't her fault that he wanted more of her than she could ever give him.

He couldn't blame her.

He didn't blame her.

He blamed himself. He should have known better than to hope. Should have known better. He was angry with himself for allowing himself to believe in her, and angry too for allowing himself to hope.

Lesson learned.

And now it was her turn.

He regarded her with faint amusement and absolutely no animosity when she spoke: "Cat got your tongue, boygenius?" And then Jarod came to a halt in front of her. Much, much too close to her.

She'd made this mistake before.

And remembered too late the error and the consequences of aforesaid error.

She took a single step back to correct the mistake that, in the face of any other adversary, would have been fatal.

Too late.

She felt his hand grip hers, and then, suddenly, the room blurred as she was thrust forward and then spun and then- ah, a variation on a theme of Jarod's astonishing stealth (as he'd demonstrated once before in her home).

She fought him.

Of course she fought. Jarod knew she would, and might have been disappointed otherwise. The woman was contentious; she had an intrinsic proclivity to fight, to resist change (the latter, her obstinance- - the interminable inertia- - was the catalyst that had prompted Jarod to play the ace and take the house).

There was an audible snap of fingers (her fingers) and a protracted gasp of surprise and dread when the gun made the swift transfer between hands.

Parker was still processing the aforesaid when her back collided with his chest. To add insult to injury (although to Jarod's credit, only her pride had been injured), the barrel of the gun (her gun, for fuck's sake) was pressed to her temple. Her gun. Her temple. Fuck.

"Why no, Miss Parker, the cat does not have my tongue." He answered. "Your interest and concern, however, in that particular piece of my anatomy- - although unwarranted- - is quite appreciated and has been duly noted for future reference."

It was then, only then that she realized that her desk was directly in front of her. One sudden push forward and he- oh, my God! And every single emasculating moniker she'd ever hurled at him returned to her: Boygenius. Boywonder. Franken-boy. Monkey-boy. Ratboy. Boy. Boy. Boy.

Parker wondered if perhaps Jarod had orchestrated this, simmed it. Did he intend to exact revenge? Like this? Surely Jarod- no. He wouldn't?

He wouldn't.

It was a bit of comic twist, and a completely unplanned one and Jarod could have reassured her- oh, but then watching the woman squirm, or better still: feeling her shudder against him was its own reward. He had a feeling that he'd just been referred to as "boy-anything" for the last time.

She tensed when she felt his breath spill across her shoulder, and snapped her eyes closed when his lips grazed her earlobe. This. Is. NOT. Happening. It's not happening.

But it was.

You can't allow this to continue.

She couldn't. She lifted her pump from the floor and-

Froze.

Her foot froze in midair when Jarod roughly grasped her hip, and squelched her efforts to attack him and defend herself, and then, as if to confirm her thoughts (why, Grandma, what large testicles you have!), he held her body tightly against him in a most salacious manner. The boy has lost his fucking mind.

"Don't. Even. Think. About. It." He whispered the words through clenched teeth and she almost didn't hear, almost couldn't hear- couldn't hear over the voices in her head screaming at her to do something for fuck's sake, to do anything, to make him stop.

The pressure of his fingertips on her hips bordered painful.

And bordered something else too.

Something she refused to allow herself to even imagine- and to think what might have been lurking just under the surface since her childhood, that the two of them had been on the razor's edge of- no. No!

Her frenzied thoughts shifted to Carthis. She didn't want to think about the vagaries of the heart, the mistakes that, thus far, she had made. And the ones she had not made.

She didn't want to consider that there might be something so monumental between them (the reason he had been at side during every difficult moment in her life) that it had been too enormous of a thing to even glimpse. The big picture that one must take several steps back to see clearly. Parker hadn't seen it at all.

Until now.

"I suggest you be very careful if you want to live." He advised through clenched jaw. "If Jaha believes for one second that you are beyond my control, things are going to take a rather ugly turn." He cautioned, and then added, rather thickly, rather angrily: "For you." With that said, and no doubt comprehended by Parker, Jarod released her.

He then pivoted and a gave her a brief moment to compose herself, to smooth down the skirt that, for some reason, suddenly felt entirely too short.

It was clear that she was shaken, shaken to the core, every muscle in her body trembled. And worse still, she'd apparently lost the use of her voice (darn those tongue-robbing cats--- the cute little motherfuckers could be awfully cunning) and possibly even her legs as well, which felt liquid and unreliable and had just enough strength to bend at the knee and allow her to unsteadily, leadenly, relapse into her chair.

Ever the gentleman, Jarod fetched her a glass of water and pushed it into her hand and then sank into the chair opposite hers.

"You are never" he advised authoritatively, "to point weapons at a superior. Are we understood?"

"Superior?" She repeated absently. "How?" She breathed.

Jarod smiled gently. Poor Miss Parker. The woman had been reduced to one-word replies and questions, and even that required a great deal of effort.

"Ah," Jarod nodded, "Well, you see: it's not about who knows what, Miss Parker. It's about who thinks they know what, and about what I want them to believe."

"Centre," She said dryly, "motto." Her father had once said those words to her, almost verbatim. "I suppose you want the Triumvirate," She managed weakly, and then reddened and bristled beneath his rapt gaze when she expended her oxygen too soon and was forced to drag in yet another tremulous breath, "to believe that you- what?" She asked. "What am I missing?"

"Missing." Jarod repeated with a hearty chuckle. "Miss Parker," He laughed- laughed at her, the bastard, "you are not missing anything." He explained and then smugly clarified: "You know exactly what I want you to know."

"Nothing." She murmured.

"Very good." He nodded. Bastard. How dare he patronize me!

"Good?" She hissed. "How is that good?"

"Come, now, Miss Parker," Jarod admonished gently, "Nothing was enough for you back when it was all your father ever gave you. Nothing was more than enough, in fact. I've watched you cling to nothing, to absolutely nothing, for years. By now, you should be accustomed to it, accustomed to nothing." He fell silent for several moments, and then added, wistfully: "I suppose we should both be."

"How long are you intending to masquerade-"

"I'm not masquerading." Jarod corrected her brusquely, and then rose and glanced at his watch. "Oh, but would you look at the time! Let's not keep the honorable gentleman waiting."

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