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A couple of humans read this and one of them replied, "you totes left out some deets about the weekend...we need dirty and emotional deets so we know what happened exactly." The other person said basically the same thing but with loads of obscenities that I shouldn't type here: "F*CKIN SKIMPING ON THE F*CKIN D*MN important parts is F*CKN BULLSH*T what the F*CKIN---"
and you all probably get the general idea. They also wanted "darkJarod."
I don't like to fansplain but (BUT here I go doing it anyway) the important part is that Sydney is alive. Yes?
Ah, but alas, it's much too lovely outside to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, therefore, I added several paragraphs and loads of details and some of those are about a certain activity.
The two humans were pleased with the additions (I'm displeased, but I have wine, and I suppose I'll live) (they didn't even notice that darkJarod was absent).
Honestly, I had no idea that a few sentences about a cetain activity could bring such an enormous amount of happiness to a Pretender fan. It sorta makes me want to include the certain activity in everything I scribble and make people happy more often.
The emergency room's modest waiting area had slowly filled to capacity, emptied, and was steadily filling again when Jarod emerged through the double doors that had closed behind him and Sydney upon their arrival at the hospital.
Parker's gaze was turned to a small, fussy child playing with window blinds and voicing frustrations. "But it's Saturday and this is so boring." The child twisted the blind's wand and invited a horizontal line of blinding midday sun into the uncomfortably frigid room.
It's Saturday?
It had been Friday morning when they'd arrived, and still dark. Parker believed it odd that the sun could rise and sink and rise again and she wouldn't notice, as if the hospital, much like the Centre, were an inert void where the concept of time ceased to exist.
Time doesn't exist here, only dread.
And waiting. Waiting to live, waiting to die, waiting for answers; it's exactly like the Centre.
Parker turned her head, looked directly at Jarod, and for a solid eighty seconds didn't see him. At last, her blue eyes filled with something approximating recognition, and she rose.
"I've been trying to call you all day- and night--- and morning," Jarod said with some relief, returning to the double doors, and holding one of them open for Parker. "Lyle said he hasn't seen you, hasn't heard from you at all since you called him from the hospital yesterday."
Parker nodded, said brusquely, "Mm, regarding the latest sociopath to tumble out of the Centre's closet. Lyle agreed with your suggestions and said he'd pass the details along to the Centre's transportation department."
"That's good," Jarod said, glancing at his watch."By now Ray should be checked in at the clinic in Virginia and assigned a psychiatrist. Have you been here all," Jarod began to ask, and, then, joining her in a wide, bright corridor, amended, thickly, "Of course you've been here all night. I wish I'd known. There's a much more comfortable waiting room on the fifth floor," he continued remorsefully. "You could have kept me, Nicholas, and Michele com-"
"I couldn't sleep anyway," Parker interrupted. "All they'll tell me is that he survived surgery and he's stable."
Jarod nodded understanding, all the while handily concealing doubt and struggling to reject burgeoning suspicion. He was categorically astonished to discover that Parker hadn't threatened, bribed, or deceived her way to Sydney's bedside. Even more confounding, Parker had crippled none of the emergency room staff. The police hadn't arrived and escorted her from the premises, evidently. Jarod didn't want to believe she was misrepresenting the truth, however, he found it impossible to believe that Parker had capitulated to the authority of Kathy, the front desk clerk.
Communication issues weren't inconceivable in the health care industry; there was a slim possibility that Nicholas' explicit instructions had been ignored or overlooked, and that advanced directives and power of attorney weren't being honored. Heads were certainly going to roll if Parker had been denied access to any information regarding Sydney's health and location.
Later.
Jarod was quite accustomed to competently managing multiple crises, simultaneously, with ease. These were no ordinary crises, however. He was emotionally and physically depleted, his body yearned for restorative sleep, and, he realized, suddenly that hunger pangs were causing nausea- when, just an hour earlier, he'd felt no hunger.
He wasn't confident that he could address and resolve another dilemma or divide more of his focus with any success. He didn't want to shout at hospital staff, and he certainly didn't want to interrogate Parker until she explained why she'd lied to him.
"His condition is good, for now," Jarod assured Parker. "There are still some concerns about secondary brain injury, swelling, seizures. Sydney has been prescribed anticonvulsants, antibiotics, close monitoring. We'll have to wait and see if there are personality changes or deficits.
"Deficits?" Parker asked.
"Cognitive, speech, sensory, motor, memory."
"I'm not a doctor, Jarod," Parker said with some incredulity, "but I know what a lobotomy entails. Some victims don't even live, and rarely do they live meaningful lives."
"You're not wrong," Jarod agreed, bypassing a bank of elevators and opting for the stairs, hoping Parker wouldn't notice; he was, nevertheless, perplexed that she didn't notice.
"Sydney wasn't lobotomized," he explained, holding open for Parker a heavy door that concealed both the interior stairwell and emergency egress. "The orbitocloast didn't penetrate his frontal lobe. It entered through the superior orbital fissure and slightly penetrated the right temporal lobe. It's not necessarily an ideal trajectory, however, there was no apparent significant damage. Only a single hemisphere was involved. GCS-- uh, sorry," he amended with a sheepish smile, "Glasgow Coma Scale, is an impressive thirteen."
"I," Parker stammered, shaking her head, "don't know what the hell any of that means."
Jarod smiled warmly, remarked, softly, "Because you're exhausted. I'd be happy to drive you home so you can get some rest, and drive you back when Sydney wakes up."
Parker dismissively waved away Jarod's offer, and then pushed her hands through her hair. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed in frustration and struggled to remember the questions she'd assembled hours earlier. "Is Sydney partially blind now?"
"There was some loss of vision that notably improved when the orbitoclast was removed. That's good news. Initially, the neurologist feared that the optic nerve and an artery had been severed or severely damaged, but they're all intact, and the pupil is reactive, suggesting a good prognosis."
"Mm," Parker hummed, stopping abruptly on the stairs, "Ray perfectly replicated what was done to him by Jacob and Raines."
Parker's words brought Jarod's feet to an ungainly halt. "Pardon?" He asked, thickly.
"The only reason Sydney survived," Parker answered, angrily, "the reason arteries weren't damaged and nerves weren't severed is because Ray Alan last-name-unknown slowly tortured Sydney, because," Parker added tartly, "that's exactly what Jacob did to him. Ray was seeking revenge, and, because Raines altered physician contact information, didn't know that Jacob was dead."
"Did Ray tell you he replicated what was done to him?"
Parker stiffened, murmured a sharp, quiet no, and added hostilely, "Miss Bisset texted me copies of everything you accessed, and it's a damn good thing she did, because you sure as hell aren't being forthcoming with details."
"If Miss Bisset texted you everything I accessed," Jarod said, gently, "you already know the details."
"My phone's charger is at home," Parker rejoined, succinctly. "When were you going to tell me about the ECT and the impact that it's going to have on Sydney? Is that the reason he was speaking German and asking for his mother-- or is the botched lobotomy to blame?"
"Uh, apparently I'm going to tell you now, here, on the stairs. The impact isn't expected to be severe, and yes, one theory is damage to the temporal lobe. Another theory is ECT; trauma is another. Dehydration is another. Speaking of dehydration," Jarod added, "when is the last time you have eaten, and had something besides scotch to drink? I've seen people admitted to this hospital today who looked better than you do right now. Let's get you some water, hmm?"
"Let me guess," Parker asked, trembling with fury, vowels and consonants uncoiling rapidly and colliding haphazardly, providing Jarod no opportunity to interject and entirely ignoring his question, "the restraints and immobilizers conveniently concealed the bandages you placed on his burns. Why didn't you tell me about the burns?"
Jarod lifted his gaze to the third floor landing several steps away, and opened his mouth to suggest they sit.
"I don't want to sit," asserted Parker in a voice that was equal measures exhaustion and exasperation."I want the truth about Sydney, and I want to know everything you discovered about Jacob and Raines' sadistic little side gig. Torture, Jarod, my God-- how the hell are we going to explain to Sydney that he was paying for his dead brother's sins?"
"We're going to explain it to Sydney by telling him the truth, regardless of how painful the truth is. Okay," he asked, cautiously, seeking Parker's confirmation.
"Were you going to explain it to me before or after you explained it to Sydney?"
"Look," Jarod said, "I was sorta hoping we could shelve that conversation, perhaps focus on one crisis at a time."
Parker's eyes widened in surprise. "Why?" She asked, slowing to a halt.
"We're both exhausted, and there are hundreds of document files and thousands of image and video files in various formats, and many of those still have to be converted. I've always told you the truth-- even when you didn't want to hear it, and I always will, but I don't know the truth in its entirety right now, and I don't want to omit anything, and give you a legitimate reason to accuse me of withholding information from you."
Jarod reconsidered tone and word selection approximately three seconds after the reply departed his lips. So much for de-escalating. He grimaced before she spoke, before her eyes hardened.
"You should have told me about the burns," She snarled, "and about the-"
"I haven't had an opportunity to tell you anything," rebutted Jarod, softly, pivoting rapidly, and descending the stairs. "You vanished the second we reached the emergency room. I searched this entire hospital for you--- including the emergency waiting room, dozens of times, and called you every half hour. I didn't know if you'd returned to the farmhouse to confront Ray, if the confrontation had gone wrong," he continued angrily. "My God, we've all been worried sick about you."
Michele would later corroborate Jarod's words, accidentally disclose to Parker that a frantic Jarod had sent Broots to her house, to Sydney's house, the farmhouse, the Centre.
Jarod had personally called police stations and other hospitals, despite being urged by Michele, numerous times, not to search for Parker, to rest instead. She knows where we are, Jarod. She'll be here-- in her own time, when she's ready.
Twenty nine hours had elapsed, and was an awfully strong indicator that there was no such thing as ready sometimes, and that Michele didn't know Parker quite the way Jarod knew her- and as well as he knew and understood her he'd still accused her of being involved in Sydney's abduction, threatened her-- and his reasons weren't entirely related to Sydney's disappearance.
The prospect of losing Sydney had certainly shattered the hinges and locks that bridled Jarod's rage. Pain, however, lie at the heart of any anger Jarod felt towards Parker. He knew she was in pain, too, and struggling with her own demons, and that became rather evident when Jarod continued to advance.
Parker lowered her hand to her waist and opened her mouth to order Jarod not to come closer. Her fingers yielded an empty holster and her words, whatever they might have been, died in her throat.
"You left it in the van," Jarod informed Parker sympathetically, and then softly clarified, "In the unlocked van, on the passenger seat, in plain view."
Parker drew a tremulous breath, sank to the steps.
"I don't have it with me if that's what you're worried about," Jarod assured her softly, when she hugged herself, slumped forward, and pressed her forehead to her knees. "I don't even have the water pistol that I've been brandishing for the last fifty hours," he added, slowly sitting five steps above her.
"Truth be known," Jarod intoned, gently, "I'm still worried sick about you. This is the second time you have reached for a gun that wasn't there—and that we both know you would never use—to defend yourself against a threat that isn't real. I don't think I have to tell you that your gun wouldn't be adequate if I were even half the threat your father taught you to believe I am."
Parker closed her eyes, and prayed, just as she'd been taught to do in Catholic school, but Jarod didn't disappear, and he wouldn't stop telling the truth.
Jarod had become less frightened of her gun over the years; in fact, he'd brazenly jerked her inadequate gun from her hand while standing in her home, and with Sydney there to witness her failings.
He'd been correct earlier, too: no, I don't want to hear that my gun would be more effective as a paperweight.
"And you don't need a gun to make me stop," Jarod added, tearfully. "You know that, don't you? You-- you didn't need a gun to stop me ten years ago. Don't you remember?"
Parker had tried to forget.
The weekend they'd shared, ten years earlier, had followed two years of routine, near-constant communication via telephone calls, emails, texts. The pair had shared infuriatingly-brief stolen moments that Parker refused to define as dates and had often discussed overwhelming feelings that she refused to define as love— until the inevitable confession that she knew could never be withdrawn, never be unheard by Jarod, which was precisely the reason she'd been so reluctant to utter such a dangerous word, and always careful not to make promises, and thoroughly insistent upon injecting the term confusion into every conversation with Jarod.
Jarod had believed the confusion would resolve on its own when Parker tendered her resignation or escaped with him.
Of course you're confused. You leave my side and go back to the Centre, where all of the lies began, where you've spent your entire adult life working for people who told you I was a monster.
It was a cogent theory that could only be confirmed by walking away from the Centre, and, Jarod was, after all, a genius, the man with all of the answers—even if, sometimes, those answers were incorrect. Any other woman might have been silenced by his reassurances, and much too intimidated by his intelligence to ever disagree with him.
Parker, however, wasn't any other woman; she couldn't, wouldn't, defer to him. She, loudly, unapologetically, voiced doubts that leaving the country with him was a permanent solution. I don't know if it's the magic bullet you seem to believe it is. I don't know if--this can be fixed.
Jarod had been stunned silent by her words.
This?
Fixed?
But Jarod saw progress where most everyone else would have seen both a red flag and a white flag, hoisted high, and frantically waved. It didn't occur to him to run, surrender, or punish her for being honest, vulnerable.
He'd assured her that nothing was broken, that the exaggeration was another Centre manipulation, and asked for an opportunity to understand, pleaded with her for clarity, for answers. Parker had no answers. Contrarily, she began questioning if perhaps confusion was a sufficient term, implying there was an even more consequential impediment, an insurmountable threat—one she was incapable of naming—to their happiness.
Jarod had valued Parker's openness more than he feared the truth, the potential for pain, more than he feared the challenges ahead. He assured Parker, again, that her confusion, or whatever it is you're feeling, was normal.
He'd erroneously believed that the chains and shackles of the Centre's madness and manipulations were, at long last, loosening their hold, beginning to unravel.
Instead, however, Parker unraveled, and, ten months later, during a weekend in July, their relationship did the same.
It should have been the beginning.
The pair had planned to leave the states the following Monday morning, fly over the Atlantic, begin home-hunting adventures in either The Netherlands or Italy. Parker had craved ceaseless travel. Jarod had broached the topic of RV life. They knew only that they wanted to be together and were both quite eager to compromise.
They'd spent Friday and Saturday negotiating the more insignificant details. Jarod had created dozens of pre-flight checklists that were unrelated to the pre-flight inspection that he'd have to conduct Monday morning. There was the question of how best to ensure that those left behind were safe, a conversation that continued well into Saturday night.
At midnight on Sunday morning while plotting cycling routes by candlelight on mildly creased maps, and leaning heavily towards landing the plane in Conségudes instead of Edam or Panzano, Parker extended two fingers and tenderly pushed perspiration from Jarod's brow.
It was much too warm, even for July, they'd agreed, peeling off damp clothes, and, then, semi-dancing, naked, into the adjoining room, and jogging up the staircase, laughing and kissing, to the shower where they rinsed away what remained of the sweat on their bodies, what they hadn't already removed with their mouths.
Beneath the cold spray, Jarod buried his face in Parker's shoulder, whispered a litany of I-love-yous that were quietly answered, reciprocated.
Parker felt him hard against her, and withdrew fractionally to meet his gaze. She purred a throaty, sensual oops, and intentionally allowed the soap to slip through her fingers.
Jarod had stared dumbfounded- until he felt her breath on his testicles. Oh-kay. He braced himself against the wall, inhaled sharply, lifted his gaze to the ceiling. He'd wanted to freeze time, prolong the ecstasy, but he'd been aroused since Friday—and quite possibly since Carthis, two years prior—and Parker was hardly a novice.
Memories aroused and haunted him in equal measures. In Jarod's mind, in his memories, Parker's laughter reverberated wildly, warring with the present, her ragged breathing, her face buried in her knees.
If the choice were his to make, he would have chosen to hear her laugh once more, to relive hours of chasing each other through the safe house with water pistols and handfuls of ice.
Fate, however, was coercing him to relive, again, the moments after the shower, when they'd whispered their goodnights at the top of the mahogany staircase, and kissed-- and kissed, and then Jarod murmured against her mouth, Oh, no, and loosened the towel Parker wore. He shrugged, indifferently, when it slipped through his fingers. Allow me to- uh, assist you.
Mm, sure, she'd purred, but you should know that I'm deducting points from your overall score for lacking originality.
Meh, trivial foolishness, he'd cooed, kissing her jaw and neck and slowly sinking to his knees on the stair tread below the landing and I won't even need those points.
He'd, wordlessly, urged her to sit, because she'd swayed and clutched the banister when he'd moved his mouth across her belly. She'd sat on the landing, needing no encouragement. Comfy? He'd asked, cupping her bottom in his hands and lifting her thighs to his mouth.
Perfect, don't you think? He'd drawled. You get to watch everything I do to you and I get to see your face while I drive you completely out of your mind.
Jarod had later feared that hyperbole had been much too accurate. She'd been teetering on the edge of something-- an orgasm, he'd assumed, and certainly not literal insanity.
He'd never wanted to stop tasting her, and she had delightfully accommodated him, and encouraged him with moans that were only sometimes quiet when he dragged his lips over her clitoris. Parker had never been a particularly reserved individual; she wasn't ashamed or afraid of being loud or telling anyone what she wanted, and she'd been hyper-responsive to him. When he'd parted her labia with his mouth, and advanced his tongue into her vagina, she'd snarled, Don't you ever fucking stop, and Jarod had been elated that they'd agreed on one thing without lengthy negotiations.
He'd had to withdraw his tongue, however, because she'd inhaled a sharp breath and had apparently forgotten how breathing worked.
Uh, I think you're supposed to exhale at some point, he'd said, reaching between her thighs, and pushing a finger, slowly, into her vagina, and continuing the same rhythmic motion she'd established earlier.
I'm sooo close, she'd gasped, looking up into Jarod's face, watching him watch her, and as attentive a lover as he'd been, Jarod still couldn't be certain, ten years on, at which point, exactly, the pleasure had concluded and panic had commenced.
There'd been no warning.
And words had been entirely unnecessary.
It was as if someone had flipped a switch, as if, Jarod had mused darkly, a spouse had arrived home early from a business trip and slammed the front door.
She'd retreated from him suddenly and completely-- until her back collided with a wall.
She'd attempted to rise, and, instead, swayed, faltered. Fearing she'd fall, Jarod rose to his feet, and had nearly tripped on the stair nose in his haste to reach her. Whoa, wait. Wait, he'd cried, pressing his hands to her face, looking into her eyes, Talk to me. Please.
He possessed the medical training and presence of mind to talk a person through a panic attack- but had never believed that person would be her. She'd refused his help, refused to talk, listen, lift her head from her knees, look at him.
When she was able to stand she ran down the stairs, and Jarod knew exactly where she was going. He ran faster, grasped her shoulders. What are you-- doing? You don't have to run from me.
Then open the door. Give me my keys.
The keys are on the plane, in your suitcase, where you put them. You are no in condition to drive. I'll drive you any-
Let go of me, she'd ordered.
I'll let you go, but please-
Don't, Jarod. Don't try to make me stay.
I'm -w- what? he'd cried, well aware at that juncture that there would be no new life in Santa Croce di Magliano- or anywhere else. M- make you? I'd never make you do anything. You should know that by now. You do know that, don't you?
Jarod believed it was rather evident that she didn't know, not then, and not now.
"I'm sorry," he said, hoarsely, "uh- I'm sorry if I withheld the truth from you, or lied. I had no way of knowing that you didn't see the burns. I lost track of when you left Ray and joined me and Sydney. I suppose I could have shouted at you from the back of the van, while you were clocking speeds well over a hundred miles per hour, and while I was trying to keep Sydney calm, that he'd been covered in leeches," Jarod asked softly, advancing, "subjected to ECT, burned? It just-- seemed like a lot to unload on you."
The door below them opened and Nicholas passed through it, mobile in hand. He started when he glimpsed the pair on the steps, Parker apparently crying, and Jarod, sitting several steps above her, wearing a grave expression. "Hey, hey, I think it's going to be all right. Dad's waking up, and Mom convinced the nurse to let us see him for a few minutes."
Jarod rose, observed as Parker did the same, but much more slowly. She pushed her hands over her face, pushed unkempt locks behind her ears, and intentionally trailed behind the men. She hesitated at the open door that would deliver her, at last, to the fifth floor.
"Oh, thank God," Michele, pacing the corridor, cried, and drew Parker into an embrace. "Jarod told me all about the ordeal you've been through, how you saved his life, how you both saved Sydney's life. They're letting us all see him," Michele explained quietly, releasing Parker, and gazing into her face. "Honey, have you eaten? Slept?"
"Michele," Parker stammered softly, "I-"
"Family only," a short CNA with cropped silver hair interjected sharply, addressing Parker. "Friends are welcome to sit in the waiting room, but only family will allowed-"
"She is family," Michele interrupted fiercely, drawing a protective arm around Parker.
"Oh, I'm-- uh sorry. Is her name on the list?"
Michele smiled, and answered proudly, "She's number one on the list."
"Oh- oh, my God, I'm so sorry," the CNA said in evident surprise, "I'll make sure the others know."
Michele tightened her grasp on Parker's waist, and quietly confided, "Honey, you're trembling."
"I'm just tired," Parker said.
"Nicholas," Michele called softly, "bring my coat, quickly."
"You must have left it in the car," Nicholas said, sympathetically, shrugging out of his coat, and ignoring Parker's, "No, really, I'm fine."
"Did I?," Michele said.
"I don't need a coat," Insisted Parker when Nicholas draped his coat over her shoulders, but the only person listening to her was Jarod- and, oddly, he didn't intervene. As useless as always.
"Why would I leave my coat in the car?"
"Or the restroom, maybe? You could retrace your steps," Nicholas suggested.
"Later," Michelle said. "This child needs water and food."
"I don't need-" Parker began, futilely.
"I'll run to the cafeteria and see what's available," Nicholas said.
"And I'm not a child."
"You like fries, right?" Nicolas asked.
Parker shook her head, "Nicholas, I'm," Parker said to the empty space one occupied by Nicholas, "fine."
"We can't have you collapsing when you visit Sydney," chided Michele, and Parker conceded, grudgingly, drinking water and a vitamin drink that Jarod had concocted and insisted she accept, and even eating soup from the cafeteria.
Somehow, all of hell of the previous days and decades was forgotten, even if only temporarily, when Sydney surveyed six familiar faces and said, "Everyone I love, together, in the same room. My God," he continued, smiling tearfully, "I should have admitted myself to the hospital ages ago."
Sydney didn't know then just how temporary the reprieve would be. He wasn't thinking about his own culpability, and he wasn't thinking at all about Lyle; no one in the room was.
But they should have been.
