This is set after fourth season's "Junk," and is rated PG-13 for language.

I didn't create and don't own these characters or the premise of the show. This story is for entertainment purposes only, no infringement is intended, and absolutely no money is being made from this. Please do not reproduce in print without my permission. Please do not archive. Archive links are welcome to this page.

Thanks to Kelly and Karen for reading, for commenting, and for being good friends with evidently infinite patience.

Feedback is better than almost anything, legal or illegal, and you can send it to kirbyfest@yahoo.com.

***

At 2:00 in the morning, even the Centre was quiet.

The constant blur of activity and people and equipment that kept the buildings humming during the day was hushed now, for the most part. There was the occasional noise-- an office door closing, or the soft chime of the elevator. The cleaning people had passed through just after midnight, but Parker had sent them from her office with a wave of her hand and an icy glare that made it clear they were not welcome.

She'd waited until the last possible interruption-- Broots-- had left before she pulled out the scotch.

Logically, Parker knew that if she wanted to drink, she should go home. It was safer. It was also more comfortable. But a woman did what a woman had to do, and right now she needed a fucking drink.

So she had one. A big one, burning down her throat in gulps until the glass she'd filled too full was more than half-empty. The heat spread through her quickly, quickly, but not quickly enough. The memories of Sydney writhing in pain, of Jarod's young form shuddering with the aftermath of yet another Centre-imposed slice of anguish-- these were things that the scotch couldn't obliterate. There probably wasn't enough liquor in the world to make these memories disappear.

Parker intended to try, though, and another long swallow demonstrated her resolve.

The Centre had developed a drug specifically to addict people, and had tested it on their prize Pretender-- and one of their best scientists. The Centre had done this to them, then stood back and let Sydney and Jarod go through withdrawal. Just when she thought she couldn't learn anything else about this place...

Addicts.

Parker had always thought that addictions were for the weak and stupid. Addicts were the kind of people who weren't focused. They were dumb enough to think that a powder or a pill or a plant could make problems disappear, or make them smarter. Ridiculous. Weak. Out of control.

In college, when everyone had smoked pot, Parker had tried it. All it did for her was give her coughing fits; odd, given how accustomed to smoke her lungs had already been. Furious two-pack-a-day smoking had been an integral part of her college success strategy.

Cocaine-- well, that had reared its powdery white head through Daniel, a bad junior year relationship. He was pre-med and insanely energetic, which had made sense after Parker had bumped open the bathroom door unannounced one day and found him hunched over the counter. He'd been inhaling white lines from the smooth surface with an expression of ecstasy on his face like nothing Parker had ever seen, not even during their enthusiastic bedroom sessions.

He'd smiled up at her, eyes too bright. "Try some."

She had, and would always remember how the white powder made her feel: unnaturally sharp, in an off-center blue-white sort of way; immensely powerful and free-- and running underneath, the knowledge that she was no longer the one driving the bus.

It had scared the shit out of her.

Parker never used it again. She never used Daniel again, either. The price was too high.

Addicts were weak. But Sydney was one of the strongest people she knew. Jarod-- for all his predictable vulnerabilities-- was another of the strongest people she knew. They had both survived things no human being should have to survive, and held their heads up and kept on going.

Parker took another swallow, then another, and held the glass away from her mouth, regarding the amber liquid inside it. The desk lamp shone through the liquor, as if it were lit from inside. The scotch looked so pretty, so harmless. It was harmless.

Harmless.

The phone rang, startling Parker so badly that the glass slipped out of her hand, landing with a sharp crack on the desk, most of the scotch sloshing over the rim.

Nothing was broken, miraculously, and she reached for the phone with one hand while using the other to mop the scotch up with a wad of tissues. God damn it, why was someone calling her at nearly three o'clock in the morning?

"I couldn't sleep." It was Jarod, his voice echoing over the line.

"Why is that my problem?" She didn't have quite enough tissues to get all the fluid, but at least she'd sopped up the liquor that had ended up on a pile of expense reports.

"What are you still doing at work, Miss Parker?"

"None of your business." He really needed to have other things to worry about in his life. "What do you want, Jarod?"

"Many things." Wherever he was, it was quiet; no trucks or cars as she so often heard when he called from a rest stop or roadside phone.

Tossing the wet tissues in the garbage, Miss Parker pushed her hair out of her face and stared at the now-empty glass. "Really. What the hell do you want?" When he didn't respond immediately, she pushed back from her desk in frustration. "Jarod, do you realize how often we do this? You call me and don't even say hello. All our phone calls end with one of us hanging up. We..." She paused, re-framing what she wanted to say. "You never give me any kind of straight information. It's just this weird dysfunctional way to deal with each other."

"Do we have any choice?"

"Maybe not," she said with a sigh. The sour scotch aftertaste still coated her mouth, making her feel stale. "But it would be nice..."

"To have a normal conversation?" Jarod laughed, the sound hollow across the line. "Have we ever had a normal conversation?"

"We could certainly try," Parker snapped. What would they even be able to talk about, though, that wasn't tainted by the Centre? Could she tell him about her day? About the geraniums she was going to plant in a new terra cotta planter she'd bought for the front porch, vaguely hoping they wouldn't die on her like all plants seemed to? Could he tell her about anything he was doing without worrying she'd put two and two together and wind up on his doorstep in the morning?

The answer to that question was, of course, a howling "no."

Jarod's mind had probably followed a similar trail, and she heard him sigh.

"Why couldn't you sleep?" she asked him abruptly. "Same old reasons, or new ones?"

"Why are you still at work?" he asked, and she could practically see him-- hunched over a table or a desk, one faint light over whatever project he had finally gotten out of bed to work on. The image was so clear that Parker wanted to ask him to describe where he was, just to see if she was right. "Old reasons or new?"

"Did Sydney tell you what they did to him?" She changed the topic abruptly. Parker knew that Jarod and Sydney talked, despite the good doctor's denials, and suspected the conversations were brief, but frequent.

"With what? There are so many things to choose from, Miss Parker." He sounded exhausted.

"You know what I mean. Addicting him to the drugs. Or did you already know?"

The other end of the line was silent, though she could hear Jarod breathing softly. "No," he finally answered. "He told me. I didn't know."

"So all these years..."

"I thought that he let them turn me into an addict."

She closed her eyes, fighting back the tired tears that sprang to her eyes at the sound of his voice-- empty, lost, painfully reminiscent of that gangly adolescent boy she'd seen on the videotape. "Jarod..."

"I thought he didn't give a damn," Jarod continued, and Parker realized he was very nearly talking to himself. She heard him take a deep, unsteady breath.

"He gives a damn, Jarod. You have to know that by now."

"Do I?" His words were clipped, suddenly. "How would I know that?

Parker let out a frustrated sigh. "Jesus, does he have to say it? Don't you get it?"

Jarod didn't reply, and she could almost see the walls he was rapidly putting up to keep her away. Fine. He could ask her personal questions, but she wasn't allowed to get personal with him? Fuck that. She was tired and a little loose from the scotch-- just a very little bit-- and if she wanted to tell him to get his head out of his ass and realize how Sydney felt about him, she would.

Parker was debating whether to hang up on Jarod or yell at him when her office intercom buzzed. "Hang on," she ordered Jarod, putting him on hold and switching to the intercom. "Yes?

"Miss Parker?" It was Bob, one of the nighttime desk people, and he sounded absolutely terrified.

"What?"

"Um... There's a... Umm..."

Parker cradled the phone receiver against her shoulder. "Get to the point, Bobby. I'm aging fast. What the hell do you want?"

"There's a car here for you. Down in front." Bobby let out a great relieved sigh, as if imparting this information was the most horrible, difficult thing he'd done in his life, and hung up before she could respond.

Parker switched back to the other line, absently. "That's odd," she commented, not really thinking about who was on the other end of the line. "I didn't order a car."

"I did," Jarod said, and she could hear a yawn in the back of his voice. The night was finally catching up with him.

"Gee, thanks," Parker tried to sound irritated. "Very helpful. So my car's stuck here, and I'm off making like it's prom night?"

"They'll be at the house for you in the morning, too." Something rustled on his end of the conversation. "Good night, Miss Parker. Sweet dreams." He hung up, leaving her staring blankly at the nearly empty scotch glass, trying to make some sense of yet another incomprehensible conversation with her object of pursuit.

He knew she was at work, he knew she shouldn't be driving...

No. She wasn't going there. Not tonight, not any night in the foreseeable future. Number three with a bullet of things she just didn't want to think about: how the hell Jarod knew so damn much about her.

The scotch in bottom of the glass was gone in one gulp. Ignoring the puddle of spilled liquor that still marred her desk, Parker grabbed her purse and headed out through the echoing halls of the Centre, walking just a little more slowly than usual. Marble floors could be tricky when you had a bit of alcohol in you.

Jarod had ordered her a practical limo; no fancy stretchmobiles with jacuzzis for him. Mr. Economy. The driver was dark-eyed and polite as he ushered her into the back seat, and when Parker started to tell him where she was going he just shook his head. "I have the address, Miss," he responded simply.

As they pulled out of the Centre driveway Parker wondered briefly if she should be getting into a Jarod-rented limo, but the gentle movement of the car and the soft, overstuffed cushions soon had her curled in a corner of the back seat. Her eyes half shut with exhaustion and alcohol, the steady hum of the car was like a lullaby.

Of course Sydney gave a damn about Jarod, she thought, half-asleep. How could Jarod think otherwise?

You didn't have to hear the words to know someone cared about you.

End

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