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Another Day At The Centre - by MMB
Sydney looked up from perusing the file in his hand as he stepped from the elevator. It was another day at the Centre - people were moving around him, busy as ever with their individual tasks. Sweepers kept a wary eye on everyone, even as the ever-present security cameras recorded every activity within the huge complex. The aging psychiatrist sighed, bent his greying leonine head and reopened the folder in his hands, pretending to be absorbed in the details of a new "client" being brought under his care - a young girl suffering from autism who showed signs of being a mathematical savant.
He walked slowly and surely down the corridor toward his Sim Lab, past the computer room where he could see Broots hard at work typing madly at the terminal in front of him. But it was outside of Miss Parker's office that he paused. Within, he could hear the sound of Mr. Parker's very angry, insistent voice growling in low tones, being answered by Miss Parker's higher voice. That Mr. Parker had actually come down from his office in the Tower to visit his daughter was odd enough, but what gave Sydney pause was the undertone of fear in Miss Parker's voice. Mr. Parker was the only person in the Centre capable of intimidating the young woman, and right now, from the sound of things going on behind those glass doors, he was doing precisely that.
Sydney sighed - as much as he had come over the years to care for Miss Parker, he could not protect her from the man she continued to believe, despite ample evidence to the contrary, was her father. He dared not - as much for her sake as for his own - and besides, he knew from past experience that she would not welcome the interference. He was stepping past her door toward the entrance to the Sim Lab when the sound of flesh striking flesh rang out of Miss Parker's office, followed by an even more sinister growl from Mr. Parker. The doors to Miss Parker's office were then thrown open, and Mr. Parker stalked out in such a fury that he noticed nothing or nobody around him - followed by two grim-faced sweepers and a smirking and delighted-looking Mr. Lyle. In the fleeting glimpse he could get through the rapidly closing frosted glass doors, he saw Miss Parker standing in front of her desk with a shattered expression, holding her hand to her face where her father must have slapped her.
Now he was caught in a dilemma. So many times over the years, when she was younger and less capable of defending herself, he had stepped in when Mr. Parker had emotionally abused his daughter, providing the younger Miss Parker with comfort and a shoulder to cry on, both literally and figuratively. So many times over the years, it had been he who had contributed the concentrated attention he felt her neglectful father should have provided her in support of her efforts in music and dance, attending recitals where the talented girl showed off her progress.
Then, abruptly, she had been shipped off the school, and his closeness with her severed - and yet he quietly attended one graduation exercise after another where she continually was honored for her scholastic achievement. If she had noticed his presence, she hadn’t commented; but he knew that if Mr. Parker had known about it, he certainly would have been reprimanded - or worse. Not that this would have stopped him...
In the years since Jarod's escape and their collaboration at hunting down the Pretender as relative equals, however, the dynamics of their interaction had changed dramatically. There was a set of unwritten rules that spelled out just where he stood with her and just how close she would allow him to get. He inevitably, however, found himself in the position of standing by as moral support when their lack of success drew negative attention from that same father who had simply neglected her before.
He also was the one person she could hold responsible for withholding those pieces of her past that Jarod, in his quest for his own truth, uncovered for her. In truth, he was responsible for his reticence - but even Miss Parker had learned eventually that his motives had always been to protect her from the less savory aspects of her family's Centre history.
Nevertheless, the adult Miss Parker had not allowed him to get any closer than arm's distance, never truly allow him to comfort her at all, when her emotions overwhelmed her utterly. The years she'd spent in boarding school seemingly had trained her to be unable to let herself show any vulnerability. Not to him, and not to anyone.
And so, as the doors swung closed even as the first tear began smudging her mascara down onto her cheek, Sydney found himself decidedly at odds with himself - and with those unwritten rules that had guided him so effectively for so long now. No matter what the excuse Mr. Parker had had for striking her, the psychiatrist had felt that blow strike him almost as violently as it had struck her. His first urge to offer his sympathy and comfort was based on a pure paternal instinct that he'd never quite been able to eradicate in himself. By virtue of his having watched her grow up in the Centre ostensibly under his care and nurturing, he had come to love her as if she were his own daughter; and he hurt when she hurt.
What prevented him from moving quickly to her side without the slightest hesitation, however, was the idea that she would push him away - hold him once more at arm's distance and reject his offer of comfort. Jarod had done so numerous times of late; and those rejections from a man he had raised and in truth loved like his own son were like stabs to the heart that never truly healed. He doubted he would tolerate much better any rejections from one he secretly cherished as the daughter he'd never had.
Then a muffled sob reached his ear and made the decision for him. He knocked softly on the frosted glass, not really expecting an answer, then pushed through the doors slowly. Parker had turned away from the doors. "Whoever it is, get the hell outta my office," she hissed, her tears obvious to anyone who knew her well despite the icy tone in her voice .
"Parker," Sydney started gently, not moving any further into the room toward her. Behind him, the doors swung closed quietly.
"Syd," he heard her breathe softly to herself. He could see the stiffness in her back increase ever so slightly, but yet she kept her back turned to him. "Not now, Freud." Her tone was brittle, icy - wounded. Dangerous.
Sydney took a deep breath to steel himself for the probable consequences of his actions, then stepped forward toward her. "Parker," he began again, reaching out his right hand and placed his fingertips very softly on her right shoulder. He felt her stiffen a little more, then relax again, beneath his touch. He flattened his palm against her and tried to will all the warmth and comfort he could into her through his tentative contact. He could feel the inner trembling that she was valiantly, albeit futilely trying to control, and his heart went out to her.
"Sydney, please... I..." Her tone was no longer brittle, it was heart-wrenchingly desolate - but she had neither moved away from him nor toward him. He felt rather than heard her shuddering sigh. "I'll be OK," she said finally in not too convincing a tone of voice, still keeping her back to him. "Don't concern yourself." Her voice nearly broke on the last syllable.
He took a step closer, quietly deposited the file folder on her desk, and so very carefully put his now-empty left hand on her other shoulder. He didn't attempt to turn her into his arms to hold her or otherwise influence her movement in any way, nor did he try to speak to her again. He merely stood close. The important thing was to let her know he was there and that he cared, whether she could accept that caring or not. Something told him that one hand precariously placed on each shoulder from behind was as much of a comforting embrace that she could or would accept from him in that moment.
They stood that way for a long moment, the silence between them rippling palpably with her pain. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he felt her straighten a bit beneath his hands and move to put her right hand on top of his left hand on her shoulder. "Thanks, Syd," she said softly, her voice no longer quite so stricken or desolate.
Encouraged by her apparent acceptance of his offer of comfort, he tightened his grasp of her left shoulder beneath her hand and gave a little tug as if to turn her. "Let me see," he urged gently at her resistance. Slowly, reluctantly, Parker allowed him to turn her to face him, her eyes downcast in shame at exposing her own vulnerability, reminding him painfully of the sad little girl he had comforted so many times in the past. The angry red mark Mr Parker's hand had left on her left cheek was unmistakable, as was the slight cut from where the man's ring had broken the skin on her cheekbone. The tear-tracks that ran down her cheeks to her chin were shot through with mascara, and still quite moist.
For the briefest of moments, Sydney felt a kind of white-hot anger at the Chairman's mistreatment of his devoted daughter that he hadn't felt in many years. Without even thinking, he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his handkerchief and dabbed very gently at the beginning trickle of blood from the cut. He then used a cleaner portion of the soft material to wipe at her cheeks gently and carefully to undo as much of the damage the water-soaked mascara had caused as he could without hurting her further. Parker's grey-blue gaze had raised in surprise the moment he had begun his careful ministrations, and he self-consciously resisted meeting that startled gaze with his own until he had eliminated as many signs of the unhappy incident from her face as he could.
Then, when he could put it off no longer, he raised his chestnut eyes to meet hers with a sad, quixotic smile. "That's the best I can do for you, Parker, you'll have to repair the rest of the damage yourself," he said softly, pressing the mascara-soiled handkerchief into her left hand, releasing his grip on her right elbow and stepping back. He knew he had crossed the line, but try as he might, he couldn't find it within himself to feel guilty about what he'd done.
He could see many conflicting emotions flitting behind those grey-blue orbs - shock, guilt, fear, outrage, humiliation - but the emotion that finally found expression on her face was a hesitant, tenuous gratitude. Slowly, as if she feared his rejection almost as much as he had feared hers, Parker took a step took a step forward to close the distance between them again and brushed his left cheek softly with her lips. She put a hand on his chest and patted him gently a couple of times, then blushed in embarassment at even this tiny display of emotionalism and turned to head to the relative safety of putting her desk between herself and him.
Understanding her discomfort and unwilling to cause her any more of it, Sydney reclaimed his file folder from where he had left it and retraced his steps toward her door. He pulled the glass open, then turned to face her again, a gentle and comforting smile on his face. "I'll be in the Sim Lab," he suggested quietly, with a warm and inviting tone, "If you want to talk later."
Parker seated herself and nodded back at him. "I know," she returned in a much calmer voice. "I'll keep that in mind." Safely protected now by her immense wooden desk, she looked up and at him.
Grey-blue met chestnut, and for a moment, the old relationship - with caring and comfort offered and accepted - fell effortlessly back into place. Parker then bent to open the drawer where she kept her purse and emergency make-up, while Sydney allowed the glass door to swing closed behind him and continued on his way to the Sim Lab and a new client.
It was another day at the Centre.
Sydney looked up from perusing the file in his hand as he stepped from the elevator. It was another day at the Centre - people were moving around him, busy as ever with their individual tasks. Sweepers kept a wary eye on everyone, even as the ever-present security cameras recorded every activity within the huge complex. The aging psychiatrist sighed, bent his greying leonine head and reopened the folder in his hands, pretending to be absorbed in the details of a new "client" being brought under his care - a young girl suffering from autism who showed signs of being a mathematical savant.
He walked slowly and surely down the corridor toward his Sim Lab, past the computer room where he could see Broots hard at work typing madly at the terminal in front of him. But it was outside of Miss Parker's office that he paused. Within, he could hear the sound of Mr. Parker's very angry, insistent voice growling in low tones, being answered by Miss Parker's higher voice. That Mr. Parker had actually come down from his office in the Tower to visit his daughter was odd enough, but what gave Sydney pause was the undertone of fear in Miss Parker's voice. Mr. Parker was the only person in the Centre capable of intimidating the young woman, and right now, from the sound of things going on behind those glass doors, he was doing precisely that.
Sydney sighed - as much as he had come over the years to care for Miss Parker, he could not protect her from the man she continued to believe, despite ample evidence to the contrary, was her father. He dared not - as much for her sake as for his own - and besides, he knew from past experience that she would not welcome the interference. He was stepping past her door toward the entrance to the Sim Lab when the sound of flesh striking flesh rang out of Miss Parker's office, followed by an even more sinister growl from Mr. Parker. The doors to Miss Parker's office were then thrown open, and Mr. Parker stalked out in such a fury that he noticed nothing or nobody around him - followed by two grim-faced sweepers and a smirking and delighted-looking Mr. Lyle. In the fleeting glimpse he could get through the rapidly closing frosted glass doors, he saw Miss Parker standing in front of her desk with a shattered expression, holding her hand to her face where her father must have slapped her.
Now he was caught in a dilemma. So many times over the years, when she was younger and less capable of defending herself, he had stepped in when Mr. Parker had emotionally abused his daughter, providing the younger Miss Parker with comfort and a shoulder to cry on, both literally and figuratively. So many times over the years, it had been he who had contributed the concentrated attention he felt her neglectful father should have provided her in support of her efforts in music and dance, attending recitals where the talented girl showed off her progress.
Then, abruptly, she had been shipped off the school, and his closeness with her severed - and yet he quietly attended one graduation exercise after another where she continually was honored for her scholastic achievement. If she had noticed his presence, she hadn’t commented; but he knew that if Mr. Parker had known about it, he certainly would have been reprimanded - or worse. Not that this would have stopped him...
In the years since Jarod's escape and their collaboration at hunting down the Pretender as relative equals, however, the dynamics of their interaction had changed dramatically. There was a set of unwritten rules that spelled out just where he stood with her and just how close she would allow him to get. He inevitably, however, found himself in the position of standing by as moral support when their lack of success drew negative attention from that same father who had simply neglected her before.
He also was the one person she could hold responsible for withholding those pieces of her past that Jarod, in his quest for his own truth, uncovered for her. In truth, he was responsible for his reticence - but even Miss Parker had learned eventually that his motives had always been to protect her from the less savory aspects of her family's Centre history.
Nevertheless, the adult Miss Parker had not allowed him to get any closer than arm's distance, never truly allow him to comfort her at all, when her emotions overwhelmed her utterly. The years she'd spent in boarding school seemingly had trained her to be unable to let herself show any vulnerability. Not to him, and not to anyone.
And so, as the doors swung closed even as the first tear began smudging her mascara down onto her cheek, Sydney found himself decidedly at odds with himself - and with those unwritten rules that had guided him so effectively for so long now. No matter what the excuse Mr. Parker had had for striking her, the psychiatrist had felt that blow strike him almost as violently as it had struck her. His first urge to offer his sympathy and comfort was based on a pure paternal instinct that he'd never quite been able to eradicate in himself. By virtue of his having watched her grow up in the Centre ostensibly under his care and nurturing, he had come to love her as if she were his own daughter; and he hurt when she hurt.
What prevented him from moving quickly to her side without the slightest hesitation, however, was the idea that she would push him away - hold him once more at arm's distance and reject his offer of comfort. Jarod had done so numerous times of late; and those rejections from a man he had raised and in truth loved like his own son were like stabs to the heart that never truly healed. He doubted he would tolerate much better any rejections from one he secretly cherished as the daughter he'd never had.
Then a muffled sob reached his ear and made the decision for him. He knocked softly on the frosted glass, not really expecting an answer, then pushed through the doors slowly. Parker had turned away from the doors. "Whoever it is, get the hell outta my office," she hissed, her tears obvious to anyone who knew her well despite the icy tone in her voice .
"Parker," Sydney started gently, not moving any further into the room toward her. Behind him, the doors swung closed quietly.
"Syd," he heard her breathe softly to herself. He could see the stiffness in her back increase ever so slightly, but yet she kept her back turned to him. "Not now, Freud." Her tone was brittle, icy - wounded. Dangerous.
Sydney took a deep breath to steel himself for the probable consequences of his actions, then stepped forward toward her. "Parker," he began again, reaching out his right hand and placed his fingertips very softly on her right shoulder. He felt her stiffen a little more, then relax again, beneath his touch. He flattened his palm against her and tried to will all the warmth and comfort he could into her through his tentative contact. He could feel the inner trembling that she was valiantly, albeit futilely trying to control, and his heart went out to her.
"Sydney, please... I..." Her tone was no longer brittle, it was heart-wrenchingly desolate - but she had neither moved away from him nor toward him. He felt rather than heard her shuddering sigh. "I'll be OK," she said finally in not too convincing a tone of voice, still keeping her back to him. "Don't concern yourself." Her voice nearly broke on the last syllable.
He took a step closer, quietly deposited the file folder on her desk, and so very carefully put his now-empty left hand on her other shoulder. He didn't attempt to turn her into his arms to hold her or otherwise influence her movement in any way, nor did he try to speak to her again. He merely stood close. The important thing was to let her know he was there and that he cared, whether she could accept that caring or not. Something told him that one hand precariously placed on each shoulder from behind was as much of a comforting embrace that she could or would accept from him in that moment.
They stood that way for a long moment, the silence between them rippling palpably with her pain. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he felt her straighten a bit beneath his hands and move to put her right hand on top of his left hand on her shoulder. "Thanks, Syd," she said softly, her voice no longer quite so stricken or desolate.
Encouraged by her apparent acceptance of his offer of comfort, he tightened his grasp of her left shoulder beneath her hand and gave a little tug as if to turn her. "Let me see," he urged gently at her resistance. Slowly, reluctantly, Parker allowed him to turn her to face him, her eyes downcast in shame at exposing her own vulnerability, reminding him painfully of the sad little girl he had comforted so many times in the past. The angry red mark Mr Parker's hand had left on her left cheek was unmistakable, as was the slight cut from where the man's ring had broken the skin on her cheekbone. The tear-tracks that ran down her cheeks to her chin were shot through with mascara, and still quite moist.
For the briefest of moments, Sydney felt a kind of white-hot anger at the Chairman's mistreatment of his devoted daughter that he hadn't felt in many years. Without even thinking, he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his handkerchief and dabbed very gently at the beginning trickle of blood from the cut. He then used a cleaner portion of the soft material to wipe at her cheeks gently and carefully to undo as much of the damage the water-soaked mascara had caused as he could without hurting her further. Parker's grey-blue gaze had raised in surprise the moment he had begun his careful ministrations, and he self-consciously resisted meeting that startled gaze with his own until he had eliminated as many signs of the unhappy incident from her face as he could.
Then, when he could put it off no longer, he raised his chestnut eyes to meet hers with a sad, quixotic smile. "That's the best I can do for you, Parker, you'll have to repair the rest of the damage yourself," he said softly, pressing the mascara-soiled handkerchief into her left hand, releasing his grip on her right elbow and stepping back. He knew he had crossed the line, but try as he might, he couldn't find it within himself to feel guilty about what he'd done.
He could see many conflicting emotions flitting behind those grey-blue orbs - shock, guilt, fear, outrage, humiliation - but the emotion that finally found expression on her face was a hesitant, tenuous gratitude. Slowly, as if she feared his rejection almost as much as he had feared hers, Parker took a step took a step forward to close the distance between them again and brushed his left cheek softly with her lips. She put a hand on his chest and patted him gently a couple of times, then blushed in embarassment at even this tiny display of emotionalism and turned to head to the relative safety of putting her desk between herself and him.
Understanding her discomfort and unwilling to cause her any more of it, Sydney reclaimed his file folder from where he had left it and retraced his steps toward her door. He pulled the glass open, then turned to face her again, a gentle and comforting smile on his face. "I'll be in the Sim Lab," he suggested quietly, with a warm and inviting tone, "If you want to talk later."
Parker seated herself and nodded back at him. "I know," she returned in a much calmer voice. "I'll keep that in mind." Safely protected now by her immense wooden desk, she looked up and at him.
Grey-blue met chestnut, and for a moment, the old relationship - with caring and comfort offered and accepted - fell effortlessly back into place. Parker then bent to open the drawer where she kept her purse and emergency make-up, while Sydney allowed the glass door to swing closed behind him and continued on his way to the Sim Lab and a new client.
It was another day at the Centre.
