In Transit by MMB
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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
In Transit - by MMB
Chapter Three: Return
The California sun sat warm and still high in the sky, but Sydney was finding the warmth oppressive. He was tired; it had been an extremely long day, and he just wanted to get home and sleep. Lyle's information, which had resulted in the entire primary Pretender search team being rousted from bed and ordered onto a transcontinental flight in the wee hours of the morning, had proven utterly bogus. Not only was there NO lair left behind to search after all, but several hours of interviews of neighbors and assorted business owners had turned up no indication that Jarod had ever even been near the neighborhood to which they'd been sent.
So here they were, back at the airport at mid-afternoon, climbing back onto the corporate jet to fly home empty-handed. Again.
A part of him, hidden so deeply inside that few could ever know or even suspect, was secretly rejoicing that Jarod had apparently eluded them yet again. Another part of him, the part that was an essential facet of his public face, was disappointed that the physical and emotional separation between himself and his surrogate son was going to continue for a while still. Yet another part, the Centre scientist in him, was privately frustrated at the continued interruption in the case study that had become his life's work - the side projects the Centre had been feeding him while waiting for Jarod's return were interesting, but not nearly as absorbing. A final, small and totally independent part of him was sitting back, suspicious of the circumstances that had brought them here in the first place and wondering just what was going on in Delaware that getting the entire team out of the way had been necessary. Nothing good ever came of such situations.
Those four, totally exclusive parts of himself came into conflict every time one of these sweep jobs came up empty. Their individual concerns made for an ambiguous, almost schizophrenic, set of feelings that Sydney had to work through time and time again; only he never truly seemed to be able to reach a satisfactory internal sense of balance. The wish to have Jarod's company again and being able to continue to challenge and probe the Pretender's great genius with impunity battled constantly against the quiet glee at the discomfort Jarod's continued freedom caused the Centre power elite. And through it all, like a consistent thread, ran his deep sense of guilt at having been at least partially responsible that Jarod had been held prisoner all those years.
And somehow, this time Sydney had a sneaky hunch that he wasn't alone in the feeling ambivalent department. Miss Parker had been singularly lacking in frustrated fireworks as the information she was going on was systematically proven false despite being the first clues of Jarod's whereabouts in weeks. Even now, standing on the tarmac in front of the boarding stairs, her tone as she gave her verbal report over the phone to Delaware was resigned, tired. She was taking this defeat less than personally, where before - in the days when Mr. Parker was still alive - every dead end in the search without exception had been treated like a virtual slap in the face.
Finally, whoever it was that she had been talking to on the phone was done with her, and she closed the cell phone with remarkable calmness before sliding it into her jacket pocket. With a nod to Sam, who had stood aside deferentially and diplomatically out of ear-shot waiting for her to finish her call, she turned and climbed the few stairs into the jet and looked around.
Broots, a slender set of black earphones draped over his balding head, already had his laptop open and had hooked into the Centre mainframe by satellite link and was completely engrossed with whatever was spilling across his screen. Behind her, Sam had pulled the hatch closed and sealed it, had informed the pilot of their readiness to depart, and was now getting himself once more settled into his customary seat against the forward bulkhead. Sydney was in his customary aisle seat too, his face as stony and expressionless as it usually was at the start of these return trips.
Miss Parker stepped past the psychiatrist to her usual window seat, murmuring her apology as she nearly trod on his toe in the process, and sat down heavily. Her hands moved to fasten the seat belt without conscious direction, and she leaned toward the window and put her chin in her hand. She was tired, and she felt used. Raines had been altogether too calm at her reported miss on Jarod, and she seriously suspected that not only had the information given them been deliberately misleading, but that Raines had KNOWN about the deception and approved it. In this game of survival she was playing with her unsavory twin, she was getting the sense of playing against loaded dice. It wasn't a good feeling.
She really didn't want to do this at all anymore. As it had with Jarod long ago, the game of "you run, I chase" had finally grown old and tiresome for her too. Besides, her time with Jarod on Carthis had brought so many of her feelings to the surface that she was now constantly careening between secretly cheering Jarod on in his continuing success at thumbing his nose at the Centre on the one extreme and secretly wishing that she had the guts to just end it all on the other.
She was now certain that the Centre would never let her go to make another life for herself, now thoroughly convinced that all the promises ever made to that effect had been nothing but lies and manipulations. The sad fact was that she was as much a prisoner as Jarod ever had been, only she'd never managed to truly escape and, from the indications, never would. This corporate jet, her fine clothes, latest model new car - they were nothing but bars on the gilded cage they had her trapped in, with the illusion of freedom being the cruel lock on the door of that cage. Jarod, for all his sleazy hotels and half-empty warehouse lairs and constantly moving from one end of the country to the other, WAS free.
The engine noise built as the little jet surged into the blue California skies. She looked out the window and down at the rapidly shrinking houses and cars and people on the LA streets below her, knowing them to be the far more lucky ones. She leaned back against the headrest of her seat, finding the little blast of cool air from the air conditioning that was unavoidable in that position uncomfortable - and so completely fitting to the situation. A rebellious tear of utter hopelessness and frustration brewed in an eye and escaped to her cheek before she could squelch it back.
Unexpectedly she felt the gentle pressure of fingers wrapping themselves warmly around hers, and she glanced with wide grey eyes over into the warm chestnut gaze of her travel companion. Sydney's expression was no longer stony, but open and understanding. For a moment she bristled at the audacity of the man to presume to attempt to comfort her and considered jerking her hand away as if burned; but the moment passed quickly, and the emotions that caused it evaporated.
Instead, she gave him a sad smile and patted his hand with her other hand. "I'm OK, Syd," she reassured him none too convincingly, and wiped the errant tear from her face.
His fingers tightened just perceptibly around hers, and he matched her sad smile for sad smile. "I know," was all he replied, and then let go of her hand.
"Syd?" she asked quietly, leaning toward him so that her words were for him alone.
He leaned toward her in response, and once again their foreheads almost touched. "What?"
She shook her head and straightened again. "Nothing," she lied. "Forget it."
He wasn't buying it. "When you're ready," he informed her in quiet tones, still leaning in her direction. Wide grey eyes met chestnut again and were held there by the honest concern in the warm brown depths. "When you're ready," he repeated, then straightened as well and opened the psychiatric journal he had brought along specifically to distract himself from his own ambivalent musings. It had become a practice to bring one on every trip, for he never had the time to read them otherwise...
Miss Parker stared straight ahead for a moment, then shivered under that cruel air-conditioned breeze. In a depressed and philosophical mood, she couldn't help but draw parallels between that vicious blast of air conditioning and the Centre power elite. The only way to escape the discomfort of having to deal with either was to seek haven - to move closer to someone she could trust. It was a choice that held both risk and relief - and as tired as she was, it was a choice she knew the time had come to make. In fact, it was no choice at all.
She looked at Broots and then at Sam. They were members of her team, both of them, and more than once each had demonstrated that their relationship held an element of friendship for her, at least from their perspective. What was more, both of them had learned, over time, that the "Ice Queen" wasn't all the ice and nails she made herself out to be - so she really had very little to hide from them. She thought about Sydney's gentle teasing from that morning, and with a small gulp of reservation, decided to leave worries about her reputation behind when surrounded by her tiny band of colleagues. Friends and colleagues, she amended her thoughts mentally. Oddly, the change in wording was, in itself, almost comforting.
She leaned to the left again. "Sydney? Would you mind very much if... I borrowed... your shoulder again?" she asked hesitantly.
Sydney looked up from his journal and gazed at her in mild surprise over the rims of his glasses. "Why should I mind?" he asked softly, then glanced around at the other people in the cabin. He felt her right hand wrapping itself around his right elbow again as her head settled against his shoulder, as it had that morning. "Parker, are you sure you're OK?" he asked, leaning close to her dark head on his arm.
"I am now," she answered quietly, nestling herself down comfortably against him and feeling him shift in his seat to make himself more comfortable with her added weight on his arm and accommodate her as much as possible.
Sydney looked up and exchanged knowing glances with Sam. The sweeper unbuckled his belt and once more fetched down the soft blue blanket from the overhead compartment and spread it over Miss Parker.
She opened her eyes and smiled up at him as she felt the soft warmth land on her legs and shoulders. "Thanks, Sam," she murmured, then closed her eyes again.
Sam ducked his head in awkward embarrassment, then headed back to his seat. Broots glanced up from his computer screen, distracted by the movement in the cabin; took in the scene, smiled over at Sydney and went back to his work without a word.
Sydney smiled inwardly again as he looked down at the dark head nestled into his right side. The trip hadn't been a total wash after all. This letting down of defenses in front of others was a new step for her - and a big one.
Then with his free left hand, he pushed his glasses back up on his nose and pulled out the journal again and resumed reading.
Chapter Three: Return
The California sun sat warm and still high in the sky, but Sydney was finding the warmth oppressive. He was tired; it had been an extremely long day, and he just wanted to get home and sleep. Lyle's information, which had resulted in the entire primary Pretender search team being rousted from bed and ordered onto a transcontinental flight in the wee hours of the morning, had proven utterly bogus. Not only was there NO lair left behind to search after all, but several hours of interviews of neighbors and assorted business owners had turned up no indication that Jarod had ever even been near the neighborhood to which they'd been sent.
So here they were, back at the airport at mid-afternoon, climbing back onto the corporate jet to fly home empty-handed. Again.
A part of him, hidden so deeply inside that few could ever know or even suspect, was secretly rejoicing that Jarod had apparently eluded them yet again. Another part of him, the part that was an essential facet of his public face, was disappointed that the physical and emotional separation between himself and his surrogate son was going to continue for a while still. Yet another part, the Centre scientist in him, was privately frustrated at the continued interruption in the case study that had become his life's work - the side projects the Centre had been feeding him while waiting for Jarod's return were interesting, but not nearly as absorbing. A final, small and totally independent part of him was sitting back, suspicious of the circumstances that had brought them here in the first place and wondering just what was going on in Delaware that getting the entire team out of the way had been necessary. Nothing good ever came of such situations.
Those four, totally exclusive parts of himself came into conflict every time one of these sweep jobs came up empty. Their individual concerns made for an ambiguous, almost schizophrenic, set of feelings that Sydney had to work through time and time again; only he never truly seemed to be able to reach a satisfactory internal sense of balance. The wish to have Jarod's company again and being able to continue to challenge and probe the Pretender's great genius with impunity battled constantly against the quiet glee at the discomfort Jarod's continued freedom caused the Centre power elite. And through it all, like a consistent thread, ran his deep sense of guilt at having been at least partially responsible that Jarod had been held prisoner all those years.
And somehow, this time Sydney had a sneaky hunch that he wasn't alone in the feeling ambivalent department. Miss Parker had been singularly lacking in frustrated fireworks as the information she was going on was systematically proven false despite being the first clues of Jarod's whereabouts in weeks. Even now, standing on the tarmac in front of the boarding stairs, her tone as she gave her verbal report over the phone to Delaware was resigned, tired. She was taking this defeat less than personally, where before - in the days when Mr. Parker was still alive - every dead end in the search without exception had been treated like a virtual slap in the face.
Finally, whoever it was that she had been talking to on the phone was done with her, and she closed the cell phone with remarkable calmness before sliding it into her jacket pocket. With a nod to Sam, who had stood aside deferentially and diplomatically out of ear-shot waiting for her to finish her call, she turned and climbed the few stairs into the jet and looked around.
Broots, a slender set of black earphones draped over his balding head, already had his laptop open and had hooked into the Centre mainframe by satellite link and was completely engrossed with whatever was spilling across his screen. Behind her, Sam had pulled the hatch closed and sealed it, had informed the pilot of their readiness to depart, and was now getting himself once more settled into his customary seat against the forward bulkhead. Sydney was in his customary aisle seat too, his face as stony and expressionless as it usually was at the start of these return trips.
Miss Parker stepped past the psychiatrist to her usual window seat, murmuring her apology as she nearly trod on his toe in the process, and sat down heavily. Her hands moved to fasten the seat belt without conscious direction, and she leaned toward the window and put her chin in her hand. She was tired, and she felt used. Raines had been altogether too calm at her reported miss on Jarod, and she seriously suspected that not only had the information given them been deliberately misleading, but that Raines had KNOWN about the deception and approved it. In this game of survival she was playing with her unsavory twin, she was getting the sense of playing against loaded dice. It wasn't a good feeling.
She really didn't want to do this at all anymore. As it had with Jarod long ago, the game of "you run, I chase" had finally grown old and tiresome for her too. Besides, her time with Jarod on Carthis had brought so many of her feelings to the surface that she was now constantly careening between secretly cheering Jarod on in his continuing success at thumbing his nose at the Centre on the one extreme and secretly wishing that she had the guts to just end it all on the other.
She was now certain that the Centre would never let her go to make another life for herself, now thoroughly convinced that all the promises ever made to that effect had been nothing but lies and manipulations. The sad fact was that she was as much a prisoner as Jarod ever had been, only she'd never managed to truly escape and, from the indications, never would. This corporate jet, her fine clothes, latest model new car - they were nothing but bars on the gilded cage they had her trapped in, with the illusion of freedom being the cruel lock on the door of that cage. Jarod, for all his sleazy hotels and half-empty warehouse lairs and constantly moving from one end of the country to the other, WAS free.
The engine noise built as the little jet surged into the blue California skies. She looked out the window and down at the rapidly shrinking houses and cars and people on the LA streets below her, knowing them to be the far more lucky ones. She leaned back against the headrest of her seat, finding the little blast of cool air from the air conditioning that was unavoidable in that position uncomfortable - and so completely fitting to the situation. A rebellious tear of utter hopelessness and frustration brewed in an eye and escaped to her cheek before she could squelch it back.
Unexpectedly she felt the gentle pressure of fingers wrapping themselves warmly around hers, and she glanced with wide grey eyes over into the warm chestnut gaze of her travel companion. Sydney's expression was no longer stony, but open and understanding. For a moment she bristled at the audacity of the man to presume to attempt to comfort her and considered jerking her hand away as if burned; but the moment passed quickly, and the emotions that caused it evaporated.
Instead, she gave him a sad smile and patted his hand with her other hand. "I'm OK, Syd," she reassured him none too convincingly, and wiped the errant tear from her face.
His fingers tightened just perceptibly around hers, and he matched her sad smile for sad smile. "I know," was all he replied, and then let go of her hand.
"Syd?" she asked quietly, leaning toward him so that her words were for him alone.
He leaned toward her in response, and once again their foreheads almost touched. "What?"
She shook her head and straightened again. "Nothing," she lied. "Forget it."
He wasn't buying it. "When you're ready," he informed her in quiet tones, still leaning in her direction. Wide grey eyes met chestnut again and were held there by the honest concern in the warm brown depths. "When you're ready," he repeated, then straightened as well and opened the psychiatric journal he had brought along specifically to distract himself from his own ambivalent musings. It had become a practice to bring one on every trip, for he never had the time to read them otherwise...
Miss Parker stared straight ahead for a moment, then shivered under that cruel air-conditioned breeze. In a depressed and philosophical mood, she couldn't help but draw parallels between that vicious blast of air conditioning and the Centre power elite. The only way to escape the discomfort of having to deal with either was to seek haven - to move closer to someone she could trust. It was a choice that held both risk and relief - and as tired as she was, it was a choice she knew the time had come to make. In fact, it was no choice at all.
She looked at Broots and then at Sam. They were members of her team, both of them, and more than once each had demonstrated that their relationship held an element of friendship for her, at least from their perspective. What was more, both of them had learned, over time, that the "Ice Queen" wasn't all the ice and nails she made herself out to be - so she really had very little to hide from them. She thought about Sydney's gentle teasing from that morning, and with a small gulp of reservation, decided to leave worries about her reputation behind when surrounded by her tiny band of colleagues. Friends and colleagues, she amended her thoughts mentally. Oddly, the change in wording was, in itself, almost comforting.
She leaned to the left again. "Sydney? Would you mind very much if... I borrowed... your shoulder again?" she asked hesitantly.
Sydney looked up from his journal and gazed at her in mild surprise over the rims of his glasses. "Why should I mind?" he asked softly, then glanced around at the other people in the cabin. He felt her right hand wrapping itself around his right elbow again as her head settled against his shoulder, as it had that morning. "Parker, are you sure you're OK?" he asked, leaning close to her dark head on his arm.
"I am now," she answered quietly, nestling herself down comfortably against him and feeling him shift in his seat to make himself more comfortable with her added weight on his arm and accommodate her as much as possible.
Sydney looked up and exchanged knowing glances with Sam. The sweeper unbuckled his belt and once more fetched down the soft blue blanket from the overhead compartment and spread it over Miss Parker.
She opened her eyes and smiled up at him as she felt the soft warmth land on her legs and shoulders. "Thanks, Sam," she murmured, then closed her eyes again.
Sam ducked his head in awkward embarrassment, then headed back to his seat. Broots glanced up from his computer screen, distracted by the movement in the cabin; took in the scene, smiled over at Sydney and went back to his work without a word.
Sydney smiled inwardly again as he looked down at the dark head nestled into his right side. The trip hadn't been a total wash after all. This letting down of defenses in front of others was a new step for her - and a big one.
Then with his free left hand, he pushed his glasses back up on his nose and pulled out the journal again and resumed reading.
