Broots, of all people, ended up bullying the rest of the QS-9300 team into organizing a modest Secret Santa gift exchange between the five of them. Parker immediately shut down the notion of a full-blown party.

"Aw, come on," said Broots. "Why not? It doesn't have to be a big party, just something to mark the holiday. I already bought my gifts."

"Because it would be depressing, that's why. Because we would all rather be pretty much anywhere else. Is that not reason enough?" Parker paused. "Wait, gifts, plural? You already bought gifts for all of us? Even Brigitte?"

"Yeah?" Broots was abruptly defensive. "Better than getting gifts for everyone but Brigitte, can you imagine what she'd do to me?"

Despite herself, Parker had to admit she was a little curious what he could have bought for Jarod and Brigitte in particular. What do you get the person who has every capacity to ruin your life? To find out, though, she'd have to buy Christmas gifts for them, too, and it wasn't worth the grief. In the end, like a child asking his dad for a puppy when his mom has already said "no", Broots got his wish by going behind Parker's back to ask Sydney. Parker couldn't imagine it was too hard of a sell — it was only Sydney's second Christmas without his tradition of visiting his brother's bedside, so he might jump on any distraction within reach. Mercifully, Sydney also negotiated it down to a gift exchange.

"What's Secret Santa?" asked Jarod after Broots's announcement. He, Parker, Broots and Sydney were clearing up after the latest in-house sim, which had involved Jarod analyzing the complement of jurors on a current court case.

Broots's face fell.

"You've never heard of Secret Santa?"

Jarod gave him a wry look. "I've been busy. There's something about being chased all over the country that makes it hard to settle into any holiday traditions." Broots had the grace to look chastised. "So, what's Secret Santa?"

Broots explained the rules as Jarod nodded along. It was probably the longest, most civil conversation the two of them had ever had.

"So you can't tell the person you gave them a gift?"

"No, you can tell them once you give it to them. But not before. It's a surprise."

"Not much of a secret, is it? They should call it Surprise Santa."

"Well." Broots faltered. "Maybe so. But they don't."

They passed the hat around. Parker picked last, fishing a scrap of paper out of the hat which read simply "BROOTS" in black sharpie.

The gift exchange proper took place on an arbitrary Tuesday before Christmas, at the end of a long, frustrating day. Their client had been a prospective candidate for the presidency of Portugal, and they'd spent the day attempting to give campaign advice to an ear that was not prepared to receive it. There was a brief, half-hearted proposal to wait until Brigitte arrived, but her detractors stampeded the idea into the floor. Sydney had sent out for some grocery store eggnog, and Debbie had decorated a dozen star-shaped cookies to send along to her father's workplace.

Jarod choked on his first-ever glass of eggnog.

"It's very rich," he commented, then grinned. "I like it."

Broots got the ball rolling by sheepishly handing Jarod a lumpy package wrapped in candy cane-decorated paper. Jarod unwrapped the contents like he was unveiling the shroud of Turin, unfurling the gift to reveal a dark blue pull-over and — Jarod had to move fast to prevent the accompanying item from tumbling off his knees — the collected works of P. G. Wodehouse.

"This is great, thank you!" he said. The accompanying smile was Parker's favourite of all his assorted smiles, though she would never admit it aloud: broad, close-lipped, and made him look like he'd overheard a stranger on the subway tell a corny joke.

A rosy flush spread across Broots's neck.

"It's not much. I had to be a bit creative, since I'd already bought gifts for all of you. They were very annoyed at the mall when I tried to return Brigitte's gift."

"It's wonderful, really," Jarod said and, to Broots's visible horror, got up from his seat and folded his Secret Santa in an enthusiastic hug. Parker snorted into her nog. As he mercifully relinquished Broots, Jarod continued. "I need more clothes that are mine, this is my first sweater. And the books — I haven't had a lot of time to read fiction since I escaped here. I do read, all the time, but it's usually non-fiction. Background reading, you know. That's the upside of staying in one place, I have a lot more free time."

Broots stared at his co-worker. It was clear he hadn't been prepared for the gift to be as well-received as it had been.

"You don't have any sweaters."

He didn't phrase it as a question.

"No, I have — there are sweaters at the house," Jarod assured him. "But they're Centre sweaters, with Centre logos stitched on them. I'd rather wear clothes that are mine."

"That's fair," said Broots weakly. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, you're welcome. Enjoy the books, let me know what you think."

"I will!"

If Broots wasn't careful, he might accidentally end up with a new friend.

Jarod ducked away to go try on his new sweater. When he returned, Parker cursed Broots. The gift fit Jarod beautifully. Some Neanderthal corner of her brain made an oblique comment about how it would look discarded across the foot of her bed, before she swatted the thought away. Though, she had to admit, the Neanderthal corner wasn't wrong.

Parker's gift to Broots almost caught him in the eye as she tossed it his way. He caught the envelope between the palms of his hands and tore it open.

"Wow, Miss Parker, thank you!" he said, staring with eager eyes at the pair of Broadway tickets tucked into the card.

"They're for you and Debbie," said Parker quickly, hoping to head off any misguided ideas; she didn't want him thinking she intended the second ticket for herself. Luckily, Broots's mind seemed not to have gone in that direction.

"Yeah, this is — oh man, she's gonna love this. She adores the Disney movie. I heard The Circle of Life on repeat for months after it came out."

"Bring me back a papier-mâché cat head."

"I'm not sure they let you—"

"Joke, Broots. That was a joke."

"Right."

Meanwhile, Sydney was carefully removing the wrapping paper from a broad, flat package. Jarod sat beside him, looking for all the world like an errant son waiting on tenterhooks while his father unfolded his report card. As the paper came away, it revealed the edges of a simple wooden picture frame. From where she sat, Parker could only see the back of the canvas.

"Oh, Jarod," Sydney sighed.

Jarod hadn't looked at the unseen painting once. He was too preoccupied with watching the expression on his pseudo-father's face.

"I made something like it once," he said quietly. "Do you remember?"

"Of course I do." Sydney's voice cracked on the last word. Parker felt suddenly that she and Broots were unwelcome witnesses to a private moment. Sydney and Jarod, however, didn't seem to mind. They were in their own bubble.

"You didn't like the last one," said Jarod. "Is this one any better?"

"I loved the first one, and I love this one. Thank you."

Sydney set the painting down and propped it up against the table, such that it was now visible to the rest of the team. It was an oil painting depicting Jarod and Sydney, both around twenty-five years younger than their current selves, standing side-by-side. The younger, oil paint version of Sydney was holding his charge's hand and smiling. The older, real-life version of Sydney threw his arms around Jarod's neck and pulled him into a hug. Jarod stiffened and his eyes blew wide and helpless. After a long second, he returned the embrace and buried his face in Sydney's shoulder.

Broots transparently pantomimed flipping through the books he'd given Jarod, in an effort to appear as though he was not paying attention to the long overdue paternal affection playing out mere feet away from him. Parker didn't bother.

"I thought about getting you a weekend at a spa, Jarod," said Broots, once the pair had broken apart. He chuckled nervously. "But I thought that might be weird. Useful, though. If it were me, and someone had told me that to avoid… well, to avoid what you go through, I would need to stay as calm as I could… I dunno. I think it would just make me panic more."

If Broots had been within kicking distance of Parker, he'd be nursing some bruises already. What was he doing, bringing this up now?

"What do you mean?" said Jarod, his good mood deflating slowly in front of their very eyes.

Broots finally seemed to notice that his comment had been ill-timed. His eyes went wide.

"Uh, I mean. The… the theory Cox had. About stress. I'm sorry, that was a bad joke. It wasn't even really a joke at all."

Jarod had gone still.

"I would have loved to try a spa weekend," he said carefully. He was smiling, but it was like trying to push a balloon underwater — the smile didn't seem to want to stay where he placed it. "To put your mind at ease, it wouldn't have worked. So, I'm glad you got me the sweater and the books instead."

"It wouldn't work?" Sydney echoed. "You don't know that. I know you're skeptical, but Cox's theory might be valid."

Jarod shook his head. "It isn't. After the latest shot, I had him draw some blood to check. The problem is not that I'm accumulating quicksilver faster. The problem is that a full counteragent shot no longer gets it all out of my system. Immediately after the shot, I was at around twenty percent saturation."

It was too late to salvage any remaining Christmas cheer.

"What does that mean?" asked Parker.

"I don't know," said Jarod.

But he was lying. Parker wasn't sure when she gained an internal Jarod-geared lie detector, but it was blaring like a siren at the look on his face. Jarod may not know the exact reason for his anomalous blood test results, but he had a pretty good idea.

"If I'd known this would be a funeral, I wouldn't have shown up," said Brigitte. She stood on the stairs leading down to the sim lab, looking around at the assembly of dour faces with incredulity. "Jeez. What a cheery bunch."

"Oh, Brigitte, merry Christmas!" said Broots, scrambling to his feet. A small cloud of cookie crumbs tumbled off his lap. "Would you like some nog? You came just in time to finish out the gift exchange."

"No thanks on the nog, I'm lactose intolerant. I'm also Jewish. No time to stay and chat, but here's your gift, Miss Parker."

She leaned across and handed a white gift bag to Parker, who plunged her hands into the coloured tissue paper and emerged with…

"Lingerie? Classy, Brigitte."

It was not the sort of lingerie that could pass for sleepwear. This was lingerie with a Purpose, complete with a lace bustier, garters, and a thong, all in matching pale blue.

"Thought you might make good use out of that," said Brigitte with a lascivious grin. "Enjoy!"

Parker rooted around in the gift bag until she found what she was after: a gift receipt.

Broots spoke up. "You're going to return them?" Parker looked up in time to catch him averting his eyes in a panic.

"Blue's not my colour."

"It brings out your eyes, though," Jarod pointed out, with the ghost of a smile haunting his lips. That made her pause. But then, what did his opinion matter? They'd had sex once, and it had been great — phenomenal, even — but it wasn't happening again. Down that road lay madness. Literally.

Meanwhile, Sydney handed Brigitte the final gift of the Secret Santa exchange. She put her things down on the stairs to unwrap it. She frowned.

"What on Earth is it? Mud? Mud for babies?"

"It's a kit for recording your baby's first hand and footprint," Sydney explained. "See? It comes with a frame, so you can hang it. Michelle gave me the idea."

Brigitte was silent for a moment, staring at the mud for babies. Absent-mindedly, her hand drifted to cradle her stomach. Her mouth twitched at the corner.

"Hm. Very nice, Sydney. Thank you," she said. She turned to the group. "You're dismissed for the holidays. I'll see you all at the New Year's party?"

With that, she left.

Broots tried to convince the rest of them to go out for dinner afterwards, but he got no takers. Even Jarod was busy. Parker dragged it out of him that he'd been invited to a tree-lighting ceremony being held by his neighbours. Parker, who had lived in the neighbourhood for years, had received no such invitation.

"You should come, too," said Jarod, as they all filtered out of the sim lab.

"I have plans."

She didn't.

They passed by a garbage bin on the way out, and Parker's eye snagged on something sticking out of the assorted wrappers and used tissues: a pale grey box with a face of a generic infant on the front. The box was still wrapped in plastic.


For whatever reason, the Centre did not tend to make a fuss over Christmas. The real Centre holiday, at least in terms of the grandeur of its office parties, was New Year's.

The main floor had been dolled up for the occasion. The decor was very clock- and disco ball-forward, every surface marking the seconds remaining in the year 1998. Arches fashioned from bunches of balloons hung over each door and stairway, and tables and chairs had been brought in from elsewhere in the complex so that anyone who needed to sit down after one too many glasses of champagne could do so. There were a few corners where the ceiling was still under construction post-bombing, but nothing that couldn't be cunningly hidden behind banners and streamers and many, many repetitions of the numbers one-nine-nine-nine.

New Year's also marked the triumphant return of Mr. Parker to full-time stewardship of Centre headquarters. Miss Parker arrived on her father's arm wearing bluebell silk, while Brigitte was on his other arm. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Brigitte was on Mr. Parker's arm, while his daughter hovered in step a few feet from his elbow. The cast had not yet been removed.

"Happy New Year, Daddy," Miss Parker whispered in his ear. She kissed him on the cheek.

"What? Oh, yes. Happy New Year, Angel."

One of the lasting effects of the sky falling on Mr. Parker, as he continued to describe it, was that he was often confused, especially with a lot of stimuli around. Miss Parker privately thought that a party was just about the worst way to reintroduce him to Centre staff, but he had insisted.

The vast majority of faces present were no more familiar than the faces in the line at the local DMV. There was the odd face that she could be reasonably confident in saying, yes, that guy there, he definitely works for the Centre. In… accounting, or something. Other than those few flashes of familiarity, it was a sea of perfect strangers.

A warm hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Jarod dressed in an immaculately tailored suit.

"You look beautiful this evening," he murmured.

"Thank you," she said with a gracious nod. "Not so bad yourself. Did my late brother's credit card pay for the suit, or has it been frozen by now?"

Jarod looked down at himself.

"No, this was in my closet my first night at the house. It's a little… hm. It fits perfectly. I would rather it hadn't."

She opened her mouth to make a comment about superfluous whining, but then the meaning of his words hit her. To get him a perfectly tailored suit without his knowledge, there was a good chance they'd taken his measurements while he was unconscious. When he was sleeping, or perhaps during his surgery. In any case, it was indisputably creepy.

"Yeah, we really need to get you some worse-fitting clothes," she said lightly.

The music was too loud and the crowds too crowded. Mr. Parker retired less than an hour into the festivities, citing a migraine. Before he disappeared into a back room, far from the heart of the party, Miss Parker saw a glint of overwhelmed tears shining at the corners of his eyes. She'd been right: it was too early and too much.

"Where do you think Angelo is?" said Jarod. Parker jerked her head up, but his tone had been conversational.

She grunted, not willing to commit to an out-and-out lie. No, she still hadn't told Jarod about Angelo's predicament. It had been bad enough, letting the cat out of the bag about the Triumvirate's threat to remove the gland and let him die. She refused to layer on yet another implicit threat — even if they don't kill you, they could let you fester in QSM indefinitely. He didn't need another reason to lie down and take it.

"In the vents, watching us, maybe," he wondered aloud. "I wish he'd come out and say hi."

Parker stayed mute. She knew where Angelo was, knew also that for once he was entertaining company. Sydney was taking advantage of the distraction on the main floor to get in a little more time with the neglected savant, running every test in his repertoire.

Around ten minutes before midnight, Broots stumbled by holding two glasses of punch.

"There's alcohol in this!" he hollered. He didn't need to holler to be heard over the music, but he did it anyway.

Parker gave him a sarcastic thumbs-up. She nodded at one of the two glasses.

"Who's that one for?"

"Me!" said Broots happily. "The other one's for… ah, hang on. Where'd she go? Did you see — did you see a woman with a long braid? Smells like camphor?"

Parker pointed in a random direction and Broots stumbled off. At her shoulder, Jarod coughed.

"I think she went the other way…?"

"Eh, it'll let him get some exercise." She juggled the champagne glass in her cupped hand, thought about sipping from it, didn't. Too sweet, too acidic. "So, you're still picking up all your firsts on the outside — is this your first New Year's Eve party?"

Jarod nodded shyly. "Yes. I read up a little the other day. We have to make… resolutions?"

"People do, yeah. Mostly they tend to be things like exercising more, or learning to play a musical instrument."

"What happens if you break them?"

"Nothing whatsoever. Did you think of any?"

Jarod's expression shifted into something more serious. "I'm going to keep fighting. And I'm going to try to enjoy what I can along the way." He stewed in that promise for a moment before turning to his companion. "How about you?"

"Damn. I was going to say I planned to read more books this year, but that's way better. Fighting and hedonism. Can I borrow that?"

Jarod smiled, seeming a little mystified at her flippancy. "By all means."

Brigitte spun by on the arm of one of the sweepers, laughing too loud at a joke that hadn't been funny. So she hadn't left with Mr. Parker after all. Huh.

"Miss Parker!" she crowed. "Ready to ring in the final year of the millennium?"

It wasn't a real question, so Parker didn't answer it. Just then, several televisions sparked to life, showing Times Square with the ball poised to drop. An overeager few began counting down from sixty, while the majority didn't join in until about fifteen seconds remaining.

"… five, four, three, two, one…!" chanted the party-goers, and followed up the countdown with a dutiful cheer and a dissonant concert of noise horns. "Happy New Year!"

Brigitte pulled Jarod's startled face down to hers and laid an enormous, enthusiastic kiss on his unprepared mouth.

"Happy New Year, Jarod!" she cheered, and tapped him affectionately on the cheek, twice. A tickle of irritation made Parker's mouth twitch. Warily, Jarod watched Brigitte disappear into the honking crowd as a hearty rendition of Auld Lang Syne went up. When she was gone, he downed his champagne in one swallow. The glass came away red from the lipstick left on his mouth.

As the final chorus of Auld Lang Syne trailed off uncertainly, Parker's eyes were still on Jarod's too-red mouth. She seized a handful of napkins from a nearby platter and handed him one. At his oblivious look, she mimed dabbing at her mouth.

"Oh. Thank you."

As the singing trailed off, so did the merry-making. Someone set off fireworks down by the shore, tempting a few knots of brave party-goers onto the lawn, though not before the laborious process of donning boots and coats and mittens and hats. Most decided with admirable resoluteness that it was far too cold and, no, I'd much rather stay inside. In fact, I need to be going home soon, work in the morning, you know.

This was how Jarod and Miss Parker ended up in the northeast elevator together, heading back to their cars in the parking garage. Ostensibly. Before they fell two storeys, an obstinate bleat of malfunctioning electronics sounded and the elevator shuddered to a halt between floors.

Neither of them reacted immediately. The elevators were notoriously glitchy, having been through their fair share of coup attempts and firefights.

Parker took it as a sign and made a decision. Was it a good decision? Almost certainly not, but she'd been running full tilt at it for a while now. There was a security camera in the corner of the elevator, so she backed into its blind spot, raised her cane, and used the handle to disconnect the wires linking the camera to the security grid.

Jarod watched her, unruffled.

"Problem, Miss Parker?"

"Problem? Yeah. You're my problem. Christ," she said, under her breath. She raised her voice loud enough for Jarod to hear. "You know… it's past midnight."

Jarod raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I gathered that from the whole countdown and the—"

"Don't get cute. My point is, we can start working on our New Year's resolutions. What did you say, again? Fighting and debauchery?"

"That's closer to your paraphrased version, but yes." He eyed her up and down. "Which one is this?"

A fair question, she supposed. They were, indeed, trapped in an elevator, and only one of them was armed, albeit only with a melee weapon.

She smiled, her feverish, late-night version of a come-hither look. "Which one would you like?"

Jarod didn't answer, only watched her carefully as she stepped closer. There was still a smudge of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. God, what she would do to get it off. Lick, suck, bite. Both A and B. All of the above.

"That night at the hotel in Baltimore," she said, hating that the words came out at a slightly frenzied pitch. To distract him, she loosened his tie and slipped the top button of his dress shirt free of its button-hole, rolling it between her fingers. "That was fun as hell. You said so, too."

"I did say that," said Jarod. He watched her fingers work with careful interest. "You were worried about what the Centre would… say. Do. What changed?"

Her hands slunk around to the nape of his neck and she breathed him in. Bad champagne and Centre-brand laundry detergent and the smoky smell of fireworks, but underneath all that was Jarod.

"On their end? Nothing. This is a terrible idea. On my end… I got over myself. I want to enjoy what I can, too. Don't you?"

Why had she waited for this, deprived herself intentionally of this, when she didn't have to?

Jarod looked around. "Here?"

"That's the part where we fight back. Just a little, but it counts."

She hoisted herself onto the handrail and tugged him closer, using his tie as a leash. He jerked his head back to look at her, his eyes roving over her face, examining her intent. Whatever he saw there seemed to gift him some resolve. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and pressed a kiss to the skin just below the lobe. She winced. For a moment, she feared he would try to take it slow and gentle, when she'd been squirming for it for an hour or more and couldn't bear to draw it out. Then he seized both her thighs, fingers curled around the outside to the soft underside, and jerked her towards him. Her shoulder blades slid an inch down the wall and she was forced to cling to him to avoid falling off the handrail. She laughed aloud.

"That's the idea," she said, somewhat nonsensically. Her fingers scrambled at his belt and button and zipper until there were no damned obstacles in their way. Jarod helped to peel off her pantyhose and, job done, stuffed them in his back pocket.

"We're going to get caught," he murmured in her ear, not so much warning as encouragement. His hand was busy between her thighs, coaxing her onwards with an uncanny familiarity, the same dexterous familiarity she might herself use later that same night, thinking about this over and over again.

"We — ah!" She shivered and rocked against him. He'd withdrawn his hand, satisfied at her readiness, and replaced it to delectable effect. "Yes, perfect. We can't, we can't get caught."

He wasn't slow and gentle. She wondered — did he know she needed this, this urgency, this insistent percussion, or did he simply need the same thing she did? Her legs, wrapped around him possessively, bounced in synchrony with his movement. One shoe loosened little by little until it tumbled to the floor.

"Like — oh, keep… don't stop, there — like Cinderella. Cinderella at midnight," she said, too breathless to laugh. At his bemused look, she shook her head and pulled him closer. "Never mind."

Her hand joined the balled pantyhose in his back pocket, urging him onwards.

Release was creeping up on her when the sound of a ringing phone filled the space and a voice came over the elevator intercom. They both froze.

"Is there anyone in this elevator? The status for this elevator reads as having encountered an error. This error has now been addressed. Do you need assistance? If you need assistance, please push the help button now."

Nothing moved in the elevator for a good five seconds, the two of them still entwined, still stretching Parker at her core. Had they been caught? No, they couldn't have been — the voice had not even known whether there was anyone inside the elevator. Her attack on the security camera had worked. From the sheer relief of the realization, she leaned her head against Jarod's shoulder and burst out laughing. He followed soon after, shaking with helpless giggles. The vibration of it rolled through her deliciously.

When Jarod got his breath back, he withdrew; she followed his movement with her hips, groaning in reluctance. A gentleman of immodest circumstance, he placed his hands around her waist and helped her down off the railing. While she fished her shoe off the floor and slipped it back on her foot, he tucked himself away in his boxers. His hands rose to re-button his shirt. Parker's hands stopped him.

"Oh, we're not done," she murmured, her roving eyes taking in his wonderfully dishevelled state.

"They're going to wonder—"

"Not here." She ran through a mental blueprint of the Centre. Where could they go without being disturbed? "Sub-level twelve. It's been defunct ever since we moved the infirmary to SL-20. Security is decommissioned until they find a new use for it."

He stared at her for a long moment, likewise taking in her bare legs, mussed hair and bunched dress hem. Then, he punched the button marked SL-12.

When the doors opened on sub-level twelve, the unit was dark and deserted. It was also filled with beds. For their modest needs, it was perfect.

When the last of the party-goers upstairs found their way back to their cars, they failed to note two cars still unclaimed: a dark sedan and a green station wagon.