FAB1 is the sort of car where hot towels can be provided upon request.
John's rubbing the last of the makeup from underneath his eyes and trying to figure out whether or not he wants to be the one to break the silence. Penny's left the seat in between them empty in the back of the long, low sedan, and her legs are crossed at the knee. She's patient, looking out the window. They're navigating their way back through London and its typical gridlock, back towards the airport. They're following Virgil and Gordon in the beast of a Cadillac being driven by the protection detail Kayo had assigned to Virgil.
Penelope's playing Virgil's game, waiting for him to feel awkward and speak. She seems to play it a bit better than Virgil does, though. Either that or John's just tired.
Well, he's definitely tired. He's too tired to want anything but just to get this over with. So he cedes ground first. "Listen, Penelope-"
"If you hadn't had a heart attack I would be forced to grab you by the collar and shake you, John Tracy." This is in an acid tone, and she glances across the backseat, daring him to say what he's obviously thinking in answer.
John's never been very good at not stating the obvious. "Well, I haven't had a damn heart attack."
"I know that, and thus you should appreciate that it's taking considerable restraint not to rattle your head clean off your shoulders," she snaps, and her voice is just the tiniest bit ugly in her anger. She seems to hear herself and takes a deep breath. Her hands go to her purse, and she retrieves her compact, flicking it open and fiddling with it, turning it over and over in nervous hands. "All that work, John," she bursts, sudden and exasperated. "The data breach was bad enough, but having to keep quiet the fact that you had an illegal AI aboard your station while it happened? It could have been disastrous. It's far more difficult to convince the world of a guilty man's innocence than it is to convince them of an innocent man's guilt. You are emphatically not the latter."
That's been made abundantly clear. John's been closeted with lawyers and specialists and consultants for the past week, trying to convince anyone at all just how important EOS is, that she was worth the investment of time and money into the legal fight for complex AI.
The only answer he's been given in response is that he should be grateful that the GDF are willing to look the other way in regards to his involvement with creating the AI. Probably he should be facing sanctions. Worst had been being told that it would serve utterly no purpose and help no one if he claimed responsibility for her. They'd still have no reason not to delete her, and would only gain incentive to punish him.
So John's not sure he's sorry. In fact, if he's sorry for anything, it's that he didn't blow the lid off the whole damn thing when he had the chance. He's still sick and he hasn't stopped being tired. "It's not my lie, Penelope, and I'm getting sick of telling it. They gave me malaria."
Lady Penelope flares at this and snaps her compact closed. She shifts to sit and glare across the backseat at John. "They did not, and even if they had, you should be thankful we had it to use against them."
"No. Why the hell would I be thankful for that? Why should I be?" John blazes right back, a rare spark of anger, though admittedly he's been losing hold of his temper more often than he ever used to, these days. "I'm going to lose the only thing I've ever done that's ever actually mattered. And people keep telling me to be grateful that I haven't lost more? How would you feel? What will the GDF care, anyway, about something I didn't even actually say on some stupid talk show?"
Penelope's answering sigh is exaggerated, and almost contemptuous in her exasperation. "The GDF aren't incompetent, they're just large and muddled up with bureaucracy. You think there aren't intelligence agents following your every move? They have the means to bury you if you gave them enough reason. John, what on earth possessed you to-"
"M'lady?" There's a rusty "ahem" from the driver's seat and both Penelope and John look up, catch a pair of bright blue eyes looking back and forth between them. Parker address Penelope first, even as the traffic begins to move again and he smoothly changes lanes. "Go gently, m'lady," he chides, rebuking her ever so slightly, before his eyes meet John's. "Were you quite all right, Master John?" he queries, bushy eyebrows quirking upward with mild concern. And then, still with that improbable gentleness from a man of his history, "D'you remember anything else you said?"
There's an awful silence, during which John realizes he's not answering.
That's the thing no one was supposed to ask. Because John's not actually sure.
So he doesn't know how to answer, only knows that he can't tell them what was actually true-that he'd been nearly shattered to pieces beneath the veneer of composure, and it all had to do with that name, the name he'd last heard from the man who had tried to kill him.
But he still doesn't have the words and the silence stretches further and Penelope's entire attitude softens. She slides across the bench seat and puts a hand lightly on his arm. "John?" she asks, with her voice quieted and with the edge taken off it. "Were you all right?"
No, but he'd managed. It doesn't matter, because he'd managed and he hadn't blown the stupid secret, he'd told the damn lie that isn't his. And when he'd snapped back into himself, he'd been burning with black, spiteful anger, and he'd been tempted to stare right into the camera and tell the truth, instead of the lie that belongs to the people who are going to kill his partner. His friend.
"John?" Her hand shifts to take his and the other joins it, sandwiches his fingers between her palms, squeezes reassuringly.
It works. Unexpectedly, in the midst of his state of minor crisis, that small point of human contact is an anchor. Then, haltingly, he stumbles over what he's not quite sure is the truth, "I didn't mean to. Maybe. Maybe I did, I don't know. It-I just, it-it seemed like the only thing that made any sense. I didn't know I'd said it until I heard myself say it, but I'm not sorry. I'm not. I didn't have a damn heart attack, I had malaria and I was so sick I nearly died. I'm tired of being told that my family's reputation is the only thing I have that's worth protecting. It's not true."
"Oh, John." Penelope's hands tighten around his. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be so hard on you, it's only-"
"How would you feel if they were going to kill Parker?" It's rude enough that he interrupts her, but as soon as he says it, John remembers that Parker's in the car and that he hadn't meant to say it. That keeps happening. It needs to stop happening. "Sorry. Oh, Christ, Parker. No, sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't-I didn't mean that-"
"Quite all right," Parker answers, and changes lanes again. "Think nothing of it, Master John."
It's the sort of magnanimous kindness that makes John feel cold and wretched inside for having said something so awful. And it continues, as Parker turns off down a side street with a glance at Penelope. She nods and he accelerates slightly. "If you'll pardon the suggestion, Master John, I think there's a discussion needs having in regards to what went on in Zurich. And I think it would be best had over a cup of tea, somewhere quiet and private."
