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Author's Chapter Notes:

I feel that there should be some sort of warning for this. It's mostly unpleasant, most extremely unpleasant, but-- it is Jarod. 








Hybrid Bio-tract 42 was cool and damp beneath a canopy of trees, and—with the exception of an indifferent peahen—seemingly unoccupied. Parker swiftly walked the path, and ascended the stone steps. There, she fondled an unlit Marlboro, and impatiently waited Broots' arrival. 

The cigarette was a prop, pretense, should anyone inquire about her presence. Parker ached for the nicotine, nevertheless, and an accompanying glass of scotch, and anything else that might successfully burn away the sting of Sydney's fierce condemnation. 

Tell me it isn't true.
Oh, Parker, how could you? How could you betray Jarod this way, betray Catherine's wishes-- and mine?

His father? Why should I contact Jarod's father for you?
Why? So you can lure him to a Centre prison as well?

Are you mad?
No, I will not go to a safe house with Major Charles, not while Jarod's life is in danger.

I must go to Jarod, console him. 
Take your hands off of me, Sam.

Parker, god damn you, help me. Let me go to Jarod.

I'll never forgive you for this, Parker.


Parker blinked away tears, and irritably groused, "Where the fuck are you, Broots?"

"Broots was intercepted," a voice, behind Parker, softly answered. 

Parker drew a breath, stopped her pacing, and turned. "What are you doing here," she asked equably.

"Hmm, you know, I was just about to ask you the same question," Jarod said, neutrally. "After all, I made it clear to you when we last spoke that I believed you were leaving, and for weeks I was confident that you, all of you, had left, and were safe with my father, so tell me: What are you doing here?"

"Sydney's with your father. Angry, but safe."

"He didn't go willingly?"

"That's an understatement."

"You had to sedate him," Jarod guessed.
"He figured it out," Parker explained. "That you're back, that I brought you back."

"He scolded you," Jarod said.

"Mm," hummed Parker tartly, "more like reamed my ass."

Jarod grimaced. He'd been on the receiving end of Sydney's admonishments more times than he cared to remember, and, still, vividly recalled each instance.

The Pretender wanted to forgive Sydney, was convinced, sometimes, that he had forgiven him, but his dearest,  most painful memory of Parker was deeply entwined with Sydney's abuse, and time hadn't diminished his pain, or his rage.

Jarod often forced himself to focus only on the smile she'd worn when she'd taken the bunny into her arms, and not the interruption and subsequent punishment.

That smile had been genuine, had lit up her entire face, and had been worth the pain he'd suffered. Jarod believed he would eagerly endure several additional lifetimes' worth of Sydney's wrath to see Parker smile that way again; the real punishment had been watching her face cloud over in terror again, watching her run away from him, seeing her in pain.

Pain is all I ever see when I look at her now.
Pain and-

"What," Parker exclaimed indignantly, shaking Jarod, abruptly, from his thoughts. He became aware, only then, that he was staring at her. "What is it," Parker demanded, irritably. 

Jarod drew a sharp breath, and answered slowly, "Uh, didn't you explain to him that you had no choice?" 

"There wasn't time."

"There would have been time," Jarod argued, "if you'd left with him."

"Sydney didn't say anything to me that I didn't deserve," Parker returned dismissively. "It doesn't matter now anyway."

"I don't believe that, and it's obvious to me that you don't either, and that you're in way over your head. Unfortunately, there isn't a lot that I can do to help you this time, not from inside the Centre."

Parker stiffened, said sharply, "I don't recall asking for help."

"Yes, well," Jarod returned quietly, "that's never exactly stopped me from helping you before, and it won't now either."

"And just how, exactly, do you propose to help me?"

"You aren't going to like the answer," Jarod disclosed with some sympathy, pressing a finger between his neck and the white starched collar. He almost preferred the prison garb he'd been coerced to wear during previous instances of incarceration to the suit and tie. "I'd like to think that one day you'll understand my reasons, and maybe even forgive me. I hope you'll forgive me."

"Forgive you?" Parker repeated with a snort of cynicism. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about helping you," Jarod answered softly, and promptly fell silent. 

"I'm listening," Parker said impatiently.

"Finally," returned Jarod with an agonized expression. "But are you really listening to me? Have you listened to a word I've said?"

Parker backtracked through her mind, recalled all that had been said, and frowned. Oh, shit. "You said Broots was intercepted."

 "Yes," Jarod agreed, brusquely. "Yes, I did, didn't I? You see, someone leaked information regarding a possible coup to usurp Faraijii, and in doing so triggered an official inquiry. Several Centre employees were escorted to the tower and interrogated."

Parker drew a sharp breath, and shook her head. "Broots was intercepted by Faraijii," she deduced, her voice low, her eyes wide with fear, "questioned by Faraijii?"

"Of course," Jarod answered with mock innocence. "After all, who else would have had the authority and audacity to intercept Broots? Hmm? And why do you suddenly seem surprised that Broots was intercepted?" 

Parker lowered her gaze to the stone steps and nodded slowly. "You know," Parker accused Jarod in a faint, brittle voice. "You know that Lyle approached me, and that I-- just now, I assumed Broots had been intercepted by him. You know everything." 

"Except why," Jarod confirmed, sullenly. "Lyle murdered my brother, tried to murder you, my sister, me. More recently, he murdered Bill Jacobs, one of Dad's oldest friends, and someone we all could have trusted. You met him recently," Jarod added, angrily. "He flew Sydney to the safe house."

Parker closed her eyes, briefly, and pushed a hand through her hair.

"But you knew that already," Jarod added. "You know he's a murderer, you know the consequences of trusting him, and still you-"

"I don't trust him," Parker interrupted sharply. "I haven't even spoken to him," she added, hotly, and explained the odd elevator encounter with her twin. "He has connections, resources, and he isn't taking no for an answer."

"Did you hear what you just said?" Jarod asked. "Or are you also not listening to yourself? Isn't taking no for answer? Have you forgotten about Lyle's unorthodox and criminal tastes? Or were you not listening then either? Do you need me to elaborate for you? Do you?"

"Is Broots all right?" Parker hastily asked.

Jarod's sudden laughter was deceptively soft, and entirely incongruous to the pain in his eyes. "I successfully negotiated the terms of Broots' resignation," Jarod answered coolly, and observed much of the tension in Parker's face evaporate. 

"Lyle wasn't quite as lucky. He's on a jet as we speak, en route to an Impfondo prison for fraud and conspiracy to commit treason, among other crimes; there's a distinct possibility that he'll be executed. If he made you any promises-"

"I'll find my baby brother without Bobby," Parker vowed, "and I'm not leaving here until I do."

"You are, at least, partly correct," Jarod said.

"Partly," Parker repeated dully.

"The baby isn't your brother," Jarod explained. "He's Lyle's child, his and Brigitte's. He didn't tell you about that, did he, just like he didn't tell you that he was credited with finding me in Georgia, and given a promotion, your promotion. He capitalized, again, on the Triumvirate's distrust of you, and he had no intention of ever stopping.

The game, survival, never changed for him; the stakes simply became higher. He's been compiling evidence against you for months, waiting for you to make a mistake, and you came dangerously close to doing precisely that, and being caught, in the act, of helping Broots and Debbie escape."

Parker recoiled, murmured dully, "You're the leak."

"Yes," Jarod confirmed.

"You were watching when Lyle joined me in that elevator." Shaking her head, she added sardonically, "When did you learn to read lips?"

"The year I escaped," Jarod answered guilelessly. "Look, for what it's worth, I didn't want any of this to happen. I had few options, even less time, and lives, including Sydney's and Dad's, depend on me."

"Sydney's," Parker repeated thickly, resuming her fretful pacing. "You believe Lyle tortured Bill Jacobs for information."

"It is Lyle, after all," Jarod rejoined, "and he would have been given a lot more than a corner office and an extra twenty thousand dollars a year if he'd returned Dad and Sydney, and proved your disloyalty to the Triumvirate.

I had to act quickly, and I've had to make some painful decisions, not because I wanted to," Jarod added with some unease, "and not because I enjoy hurting you or want to control you, but because there were no alternatives. It's important to me that you understand, and-- remember that."

"Jarod," Parker asserted with a breathy laugh, "I don't care if Bobby is executed."

"Uh, no," Jarod said, "I wasn't apologizing for Lyle."

"Then why?"

"Why," Jarod repeated thinly. "I've asked myself that same question. Why didn't you come to me when I asked to see you? Why didn't you trust me? Why did you lie when you said you weren't your mother? Why did you deliberately jeopardize your life to rescue a child," Jarod asked, tearfully, "just like your mother did?"

Parker stiffened, and testily informed Jarod, "I'm. not. her."

"No?" Jarod asked, and confided gently, "I know all about the secret meetings with Broots and Sam, the sleepless nights, the anxiety. You're behaving exactly like your mother did, plotting to rescue a child, trying to sneak past Centre cameras, trusting the wrong person, living in fear. And-- and that pacing," he added, dropping his gaze to her feet, and watching them slow to a stop. "She did that, too.

Look, maybe you don't remember what she was like then, but this is all eerily familiar to me. Please try to understand that, please just try to understand my reasons," Jarod said, and observed Parker's face twist in confusion.

"History was repeating itself," Jarod continued with some solemnity, "rapidly unfolding to the same conclusion, one that you wouldn't survive, and that I couldn't live with.

I intervened, because I'm in a position to do that now," he said, and, drawing a sharp breath, added sorrowfully, "the way I've always wished I had intervened decades ago.

I often revisit that day, look at it from other angles. I ran the simulation this morning, and confirmed my lifelong suspicions. There was another way."

"What the hell are you talking about, Jarod?" Parker asked with increasing impatience.

"I'm talking about your mother," Jarod answered with his typical reverence for Catherine Parker. "We know what went wrong," Jarod continued, delicately, "and that every child she successfully rescued was later murdered, that nothing chang-"

"Are you suggesting that Mom's death was in vain," Parker said, fiercely, "that she should have done nothing?"

"No, of course not," Jarod answered. "Look, you were always curious about her death. You must have asked yourself millions of times what she could have done differently, what choices she could have made, and lived with, survived?"

"It's too late to save Mom, regardless of the answer, so why are you telling me any of this? Why are you talking about this," Parker continued, hotly, turning again to meet Jarod's gaze. "Why?

"Because," Jarod answered softly, "it isn't your mother that I'm trying to save right now. It's you."

Parker shook her head dismissively, and returned to the footpath.

"You're afraid he's dead," Jarod said, "and you're allowing that fear to control you, to-"

"He's alive," Parker snarled, "and I'm going to find him."

"If your nephew is still alive he's going to need all of the support and love you can give him, but if you leave now that will never happen. Faraijii's men aren't going to just let you leave."

"Then I'll die trying to," Parker rebutted angrily.

Exactly like her mother. Jarod closed his eyes, briefly, and shook his head, and said to Parker in an unusually grave voice, "I'm afraid that I can't allow you to do that."

"You can't?" Parker challenged with a snort of cynicism. "You? Jarod, you insisted that I leave."

"Yes, I did," Jarod agreed, "but you didn't listen to me then, and now it's too late to leave. Your only option is to reach out to Faraijii, and tell him what you know about Lyle."

"Snitch, you mean," Parker said with some distaste.

"Call it what you will," Jarod returned bluntly. "It's only a matter of time before the new info-tech teams decipher what Lyle said to you in that elevator, and report to Faraijii. This is your chance, probably your only chance, to take back some control, gain Faraijii's loyalty, and save yourself."

"You're not seriously equating staying here—being a snitch and the Triumvirate's pet assassin on a goddamn leash—with being in control. Mm, hard pass," Parker purred. "I'm flying to Tokyo. I'll assemble a team and coordinate from there."

"You still aren't listening to me," Jarod said with strained patience.

"No, I'm certainly not," Parker agreed with a brittle laugh, swiveling suddenly to confirm her suspicions that Jarod was slowly advancing.

"I cannot let you leave," Jarod said, quietly, walking several compensatory steps backward, and noting Parker's bewildered expression.

Walking contradiction, much?
He can't let me leave and doesn't seem to be trying to stop me?

The questions raised more questions, and doubts. And suspicion. Fear. Incensed, Parker drew her weapon and declared tersely, "You sure as hell aren't going to stop me.'

"No," Jarod heartily agreed. "You're right, I can't. Not by myself," he added darkly, sliding his gaze from Parker's face to just over her left shoulder. 

Parker observed Jarod's curt nod, and turned to attack the stealthy assailant. She grunted in anticipation, and then frowned, and carefully scrutinized her surroundings.

Piedmont Rhodendron, Inkberry, and Witch-hazel trembled in the light breeze, a dragonfly darted behind a red maple, a peacock screamed in the distance. 

Parker exhaled a breath and a sharp laugh. "Hilarious," she said, pushing the gun into its holster. She fully intended to sling some snark and bark at Jarod, something no doubt emasculating and obscenity-laced, and then do precisely as she said she would and leave. 

Instead, Parker shouted a fuck that was equal measures surprise and distress, and attempted to swat away the insect stinging no, not stinging, it's vaguely itching her neck, the arms closing around her, the hand seizing hers. 

"I'm sorry," Jarod whispered into Parker's hair, addressing her by the name she'd once whispered to him, and tenderly withdrawing a needle from her flesh.

Sorry?
He's sorry and his arms are around me.
He's sorry and he attacked from behind--- like a fucking coward.

Sorry?

Jarod's words and actions were sharply misaligned, compounding Parker's perturbation. Her instincts to escape cared little about logic and intent just then—or his apology not fucking accepted—and were immediately activated.

Parker repeatedly attempted to drop straight out of Jarod's grasp, and onto the ground. Just as I've done thousands of times with hundreds of hand-to-hand combat and martial arts instructors.

She had endured countless hours of sweat, tears, abrasions, fractures, and long soaks in hot baths for this moment, for specifically, Jarod-- to pursue, subdue, and defeat him, and she was confident in that training. 

He isn't invincible, or inescapable.
It's just Jarod for fucks's sake.

Parker found it wholly infuriating that just Jarod for fuck's sake wasn't adhering to any standard over arm vs under arm reverse hold, and was no ordinary assailant. 

Each time Parker dropped her weight to escape his hold, she collided with Jarod's left arm, tightened beneath her right arm. Likewise, she could lift herself no higher than his right bicep, tightened just above her left arm. 

Choose a lane, Fucking Sadist.

Inexplicably, her fingers were entwined with his. Jarod provided Parker no opportunity to dislocate any part of herself, and escape his hold-- and breaking free of his arms was only half the battle. Her gun, she knew, was in his possession; she felt its absence keenly, and believed it would have been far more kind and merciful of Jarod to put its barrel to her head and squeeze its trigger. She found Jarod's cruelty incomprehensible.

And infuriating.

Parker attempted a reverse headbutt that met only emptiness, and then abruptly lunged forward in an attempt to reach down, seize Jarod's ankle, and pull it out from under him. Jarod anticipated each move, and simply adjusted accordingly, blocking each attack, and in no way physically harming her. Parker's attempts to thrust a leg behind Jarod's, and sweep him off balance, proved similarly futile. 

Bastard.

Parker dismissed the burgeoning fear that she might not escape Jarod; after all, it was still early, and there were other arts to consider, ones found in no book and taught by no instructor, to seek, employ. Mm dearest deception. 

Jarod was grateful for the brief respite, an unexpected calm between storms, when Parker stilled in his arms—grateful, and rather stunned by the act of desperation. 

He felt more disgusted with himself than he had moments earlier, addled with guilt and shame, but he wasn't deceived, and he didn't release her.

Predictably, after several moments, Parker resumed her efforts to escape Jarod, lunging at him with her teeth and then violently throwing herself forward, away from him, repeatedly. Those measures more closely resembled the actions of a trapped feral animal than the controlled and calm, not to mention futile, ones of a trained professional. Jarod simply moved with her, neither tightening nor relaxing his arms, and he felt, rather than heard, her single grunt of anguish when she glimpsed the syringe, still intact, lying empty on the dirt path. 

He's sorry and he put that inside of me.
But when?

Parker, suddenly, knew the answer, and she found it altogether bizarre that she felt neither it nor its contents enter her body, only its strangely itchy exit, and even then she hadn't suspected a needle.
Insect, my ass.

She found it equally disconcerting that she hadn't felt Jarod, the man she'd been trained to hate and drag back to the Centre, mere inches behind her. 

Prompted by Jarod to seek out an enemy she had turned her back on one, the very one she'd been assigned to pursue and capture.

Not by myself.

Bastard.
Fucking bastard.
Me.
He needed help from me to do this to me.

And I fucking obliged, didn't I, because don't I fucking always?

She could already hear his arrogant, couldn't have done it without you, reverberating through her mind.

Sorry?
No.
He's only sorry that he isn't sorry at all.

"Jarod," Parker snarled, finally addressing him, finally acknowledging a potential defeat. She punctuated his name with a brutal shin kick, and four swift elbow jabs to the ribs, "Let go of me." 

"I will, I promise," Jarod vowed calmly, evading another of Parker's backward head thrust, and deftly blocking a backward kick to knee, "in approximately four minutes when you lose consciousness." 

"I swear to god," Parker vowed with a grunt of anguish, throwing her weight against him and both feet high off the ground, resulting in a dramatically lengthened slit in her skirt and an exponential increase in fury, "they're gonna be the most painful goddamn four minutes you've ever lived. Guaranfuckingteed," Parker added fiercely.

Jarod could have assured Parker that they already were the most painful moments, emotionally, he'd ever lived, and that doubt clawed at his mind with the same ferocity that she clawed at his flesh.

He had prepared physically, sparring with Sam several hours each day for three weeks, encouraging him to go off-script, fight dirty. For authenticity's sake, Jarod had even tapped into vulnerabilities, forcing Sam to feel as terrified and panicked as he'd felt when he was abducted, and as she feels right now.

There had been no emotional preparation, no dress rehearsals with Parker, no simulations, none of Sydney's comforting assurances, and there was no guarantee that Parker would ever forgive him.

But the point of no return was needle sharp; he couldn't reverse course, travel back, un-inject her with the modified benzodiazepine. 

Jarod welcomed the physical pain, and silently, and with tears on his face, absorbed each strike and jab that landed, believing he deserved them all.

The bruises and lacerations Parker meted out were preferable to her turning herself around, not because she'd be in a better position to fight back and escape him, not because he was concerned about ruptured testicles and a broken nose.

Jarod's primary fear was what he'd see in Parker's eyes, see staring back at him, that he'd suffocate on shame and self-loathing, and release her. 

Rather than abandon the objective and jeopardize Parker's life, Jarod closed his eyes, fled his body, and sought solace, a place to hide. From himself.

He retreated to the precious sanctuary he and little Miss Parker had found in each other's arms, the only genuine refuge that had ever existed for either of them.

They'd lived out similar moments when they were children, hundreds of them, her in his arms, trembling against him, crying. And he'd cried, too. Not entirely unlike this, he consoled himself. Only nothing at all like this.

Parker's blows and jabs inevitably began to fall short, signaling an approaching conclusion to both her and Jarod's torment. Her body sagged against his, regardless of her repeated attempts to straighten, and her slurred obscenities mingled with, and slowly dissolved to, whimpers.

Jarod felt the precise moment that Parker fully succumbed to the tranquilizer, and promptly gathered her in his arms.


 










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