Two days passed.
Two frustrating, pointless, Fool Bright-less days.
The first day—that is, the afternoon and evening following his capture at the lake—saw Simon receiving medical treatment for his many scrapes and bruises, and more importantly, a concussion test. The one he'd sustained had been mild, its pain magnified by his other injuries, and he was informed that he should be fully recovered from it in a few months.
Most certainly, he confirmed with a mirthless laugh, by the time he was to be executed, correct?
His bitter humor was not well-received. After getting bandaged and cleaned up, he'd also had his cheek swabbed, which led to the immediate decision to, for once in his bloody life, tame his sarcastic tendencies. They couldn't have questioned Sofia already, couldn't have gotten any explanation out of her in this time, but it set him on edge; the idea that he had defiled her had been planted.
He was too tired to be combative with them, and knew from his own short-lived career that his cooperation could benefit him, at least that he might find out about how either Sofia or Fool Bright (or, even, both) were faring. Where he normally would have refused over and over again to answer them with anything other than quips and threats, Simon wondered aloud if he could give a deposition. As neither he nor Fool Bright would be able to take part in a trial, he could give sworn testimony.
The officers agreed, and Simon said a silent vow of thanks, that he was being placed in what had become his element. Perjury, for the greater good of a child's life, was nothing new to him. If he was believed to be capable of murder seven years ago, without a reputation preceding him, this would be a walk in the park.
And so, he told them under oath, it happened thusly:
Fulbright had stopped at the motel for the evening, too exhausted and too overwhelmed by the heavy rain to continue. Once he'd dozed off, Simon slipped out, ready to take off into the night. But he'd grown aware of the insidious acts that were commonplace at the motel and devised a solution, both for Sofia and for his own unquenchable lust for blood.
He would temporarily cooperate with Fulbright, say all the right words to convince Sofia to leave with him. Oh, and by the by, Fulbright's recording would verify all this, if they wanted to give that a listen.
(Simon had hoped this would entice the officers into admitting, even in an oblique way, Fool Bright's condition. But they said nothing, only, "Yes? And...?')
After that, Simon had escaped, though not without a struggle. Sofia had been, he told them, quite enamored with him, and aided him. However, her silly teenage infatuation was in no way reciprocated. Simon had no designs on engaging in any sort of physical or sexual interaction with her—it was her life he was after. Her wish to stop at the lake, the campgrounds, was something he'd eagerly complied to, knowing he would not find a better location to dispose of her body once he slit her open and drained her of her life.
She would no longer suffer, would no longer find herself in a living Hell. Simon would have saved her, in the only way she could be saved, now.
He would have sated his thirst if not for his weakened, injured state, and if not for Sofia managing to find Ranger Parker's office before Simon had successfully lured her to a more secluded area.
By the time he'd finished spinning his tale and was transported to a holding cell in the city of Flagstaff, the next morning had dawned. Despite his best efforts—continuing to speak about his intentions to kill Sofia, of the pride he took in escaping from Fool Bright—he could not unearth any new information about them from the officers.
But, Simon supposed, if Fool Bright were grievously injured, he'd be facing some sort of interrogation about that, by now. If anything, he thought as he was shoved into his dark cell, the burden he was on these officers told him that Fool Bright must have been rescued, had spoken with those heading this investigation. And obviously, his recount of the previous day would be taken with far more credence, to the point Simon's testimony might be thrown out altogether.
Such a possibility supplied Simon with enough calm to sink onto his cot, to lay down and, in relative terms, relax.
But not to sleep.
Sleep had never been easy, but now it was impossible, and the second day dragged on because of it. Time was marked only by the meals brought to Simon, that he let lay untouched beside his cot.
He had no appetite, and even if he did, he didn't think he could force himself to perform the actions of picking the plate up, of eating. It was too difficult, his thoughts crowded with the knowledge of having missed the funeral and the deep, twisting ache of missing Fool Bright.
Amid all of this was a different sort of pain, born out of not knowing Sofia's fate. All he could ask for was that she was faring better; at the very least, that she had been given answers, that she had been finally able to awaken this morning without "Why?" being the first thing to enter her young mind.
Simon, on the other hand, was determined to starve himself to death, if the alternative was leaving here without Fool Bright. The remaining year of his life, once so brief, now felt interminably long, and how would he accomplish anything towards pursuing the truth behind UR-1, without Fool Bright? If he could somehow waste away here, he'd only be fulfilling his purpose sooner than intended, which should be applauded. Plus, he'd have aided another helpless child in the process.
This was not to be, as the iron door scraped open, and with it came the solid footsteps of an approaching guard. It must be lunch time, and the beginning of day three.
A new, old noise, a thap!, and then the almost inaudible skitter of his lunch plate being placed on the floor broke him from his reflection. He shifted his body, turning to find a female guard, just as sour and disgruntled as her male counterparts, holding a sandwich out to him as if he were some mutt.
"Eat. And get dressed," she told him, shaking the sandwich at him once again.
He blinked wordlessly at the second part of her instruction, then followed the sound of her lightly kicking what she'd dropped down beside her.
A duffel bag.
Fool Bright's duffel bag.
Simon had torn the sandwich from the guard, not even examined its contents before scarfing it down in a few bites, and in doing so, was filled with great distress at the realization he'd consumed poultry—chicken cold cuts—for the first time in many years. He'd spat out what he could, his disgust temporary as such a display had spurred the guard to leave more ably than any of his threats would have.
Now he stood alone in the cell, buttoning a gabardine vest over the crisp black dress shirt he'd found nights before. It wasn't a quick process, not with his upper body still so sore, but knowing Fool Bright must be nearby made it bearable. The tie and belt were missing, and whether this was precautionary on the guards' part or a command issued by Fool Bright, Simon wasn't sure, but nor did he care. It was just nice to wear something fresh, clean. New.
He reached to the bandage at his brow, the new one that'd been applied when he'd been checked over, and ripped it off. His fringe would hide it for the most part, and if it didn't... well, if Fool Bright were to carefully apply a new one, Simon wouldn't protest. Too much.
After several minutes during which he wondered if this was all a grand trick, he was escorted in cuffs by two different guards, from his cell to the mid-sized foyer.
Efficiently and none-too-gently, the handcuffs were removed, so as to be replaced with (he never thought he'd be so thrilled to see them again) hisiron manacles.
His focus on them was so intent, as the guards worked and locked them, that he didn't look up until they parted...
And the door to the outside was closed, that Simon did not know the weather, but suddenly he was awash with the same warmth and comfort that came only from basking in the sun's rays...
"Good afternoon, Sir!"
"Fool Bright..." As often as Simon had called his detective that, it felt so much better than any of those hundreds of times before. Perhaps it was the smile lifting his mouth as he did.
Simon couldn't take his eyes off of Fool Bright as they departed the prison.
But it was not from the relief of having him back. Nor from the way Fool Bright's midnight blue dress shirt was untucked and unbuttoned with the sleeves folded up to just below his elbows, showing his arms—the strong arms that Simon wanted to hold him. It was all due to the tee layered beneath.
A familiar, vibrant sky blue, screen-printed with an equally familiar antlered mascot.
This was all, somehow, the least interesting attribute of Fool Bright's appearance, as his left arm was supported in a simplistic sling. His right shoulder, meanwhile, carried the duffel bag.
The backpack had also been returned. Even with Simon's chains, it was easy to carry in his arms, and its weight felt the same as it had previously—nothing inside of it had been important enough to retain as evidence. Thankfully, since he still had approximately forty pages of Sailor Scoutsawaiting him.
Simon walked with Fool Bright across the small, sequestered lot and to its furthest corner. There was no exit or entrance; the lot was bordered entirely by a chain-link fence that was more than twice Simon's height and topped with barbed wire. The only way out of the lot that wasn't through the building proper were the narrow alleyways on either side of the building, that must have led to the front.
Strangely, what awaited them was not Fool Bright's cruiser, but a wooden picnic table and large oak tree on the lot's edge. Simon guessed this might be where the employees spent their lunch hours, or smoke breaks, since a trash can and cigarette outpost stood alongside the picnic table.
Fool Bright set the duffel bag on one of the table's benches, then lowered onto the other one, leaving room for Simon to join him. Simon didn't, only tossed his backpack aside of Fool Bright's bag, and stared down at him.
He fought the urge to reach at Fool Bright's dress shirt, to straighten and smooth it where it'd plainly been thrown on by someone without full operation of both arms. Perhaps while he was at it, he could button the shirt up, to conceal Matches and his giant, smiling snout.
Fool Bright's aviators dangled from the collar of his tee, and he retrieved them, slid them on smoothly. He sat there, head tilted back and looking up at the sky, as Simon watched, waited, for him to... be Fool Bright. To begin chatting about some inane topic or another, like the weather or the friendship he'd obviously struck up with Ranger Parker, in order to obtain his new tee shirt.
Finally, Simon couldn't bear it. He sat beside Fool Bright, closer than he would have if there wasn't a smattering of cars and vans in the lot, obstructing them from the view of anyone in prison.
"You can't possibly be driving back," Simon said, giving up hope that Fool Bright would strike up conversation.
Fool Bright's smile was delayed, and when he spoke, it sounded... not without conscious effort. "Oh, no, of course not, Sir! Not with the painkillers I'm on. Haha, 'no operating motor vehicles or heavy machinery'! My cruiser needs a check-up anyway; she's had a rough couple days. But never fear, our ride will be here soon!"
Oh, hell. If someone else was to transport them back to Los Angeles, they'd never get the chance to have a private discussion about recent events. Simon had to know, and he had to know now.
"Then, tell me, please: What's to become of Sofia?"
Fool Bright glanced at Simon, indicating he'd heard him. But he didn't answer. That, in and of itself, spoke volumes. At last, Fool Bright pushed up his aviators, a signal to Simon that what would follow was of grave importance.
"Sir, I... I can't give you a definitive answer. I don't—"
"Don't say you don't know, Fool Bright! That is not acceptable!"
"Simon..." Fool Bright looked tired, more so than any pain-killers would influence; Simon guessed he hadn't gotten much sleep either the past couple days, though for different reasons. "Do you want me to tell you that it's all gonna be okay for her? That because we stepped in and er, savedher, that everything's all better now? It doesn't work that way!"
"No, of course not, but I... well, you've spoken at length with them about our involvement, yes? They seemed rather satisfied with what I told them, so I am to assume our testimony coincided. So you must have some knowledge, more than I certainly do, of what fate has in store for Sofia, as well as her villain of an uncle."
Fool Bright drew in a deep breath, and oh, did Simon know Fool Bright could ramble on quite incessantly, but never like this.
First and foremost, Arturo was in custody, was facing a litany of charges: capital murder, aggravated assault of an officer, solicitation of a minor, to name a few. And the clients he'd serviced over what had been close to three years of torture for Sofia were being traced down as they spoke.
"But I'm not?" Simon asked. "There's no way testing could have been completed, to determine whether she and I, er... interacted sexually, but I would think I would still be under suspicion. I gave them my word that I hadn't engaged with her, but that does not necessarily mean..."
"Right, and yeah, she obviously showed signs of abuse, had traces on her. And she named about a dozen different men, or at least their aliases, who had been with her... but she was also incredibly adamant about you not having anything to do with her, sexually."
"Adamant? In what sense?"
"Well, the first thing you said to her when she tried to advance on you was that you were... uninterested in any kind of women, of any age. And that you announced it was—er, not a sting, you know, I hate saying that because it was so poorly thought out, but... your intentions. To get her out."
What in the bleeding hell? "But they can't prove..." Bother, he hated talking about this. "I...well, there's no way to confirm any of that!"
"Oh, not to worry, it's more or less what I told them, too!"
"You what?!"
Fool Bright laughed quietly. Simon did not see what was remotely funny.
"Sir?"
"Yes?"
"Can you... calm down a bit? I meant, that we planned it out before you requested to see her—what you'd say, recording what we could, and all that. And, why would I have let you be part of it, if I'd had even the slightest suspicion you might harm her in any way? Especially since it was your idea to go and save her. I think that went a long way into them realizing that, really, you didn't do anything wrong—even if you tried every way possible to make it look like you had."
Blast it all! This is what Fool Bright wanted, for Simon to be seen as the noble warrior he himself knew he was. This was even, occasionally (although he would not admit to it), what Simon wanted. But what he wanted did not matter, not if he were to uphold his honor. He must fight it.
"It... it was your idea! I was only—!"
Fool Bright yammered on over him, and Simon was unsurprised that even such potent pain-killers were little match for his spirit where justice was concerned.
"... and hey, if you think about it, you saved my life. And Sofia's, too, in many ways—not that they care as much about hers. And I told them, how you've progressed in leaps and bounds in your rehabilitation, and that's why I trusted you to take her to safety, and since I ordered you to take the cruiser, you didn't really 'escape'. I don't even think you're going to face much punishment once we get back; you might even be commended!"
Commended. Simon could feel his head spinning, and it wasn't from lack of sleep or sustenance.
"No, why would you allow them to think any of this?! The devil take you, Fool Bright! I am not a... a..."
"A good person," Fool Bright said, not asked, as if it reading from gospel.
"You know I am not!" Who was more dim-witted; Fool Bright, for so openly endorsing him, or he, himself, for giving Fool Bright reason to? "Sofia is still... she is in no better circumstances, as you said. So, no, I did nothing. I only... it was all an elaborate scheme! I... wanted nothing more than to escape with her and spill more blood!"
"Simon." It was the second time Fool Bright had addressed Simon by his name in the past several minutes, and it instantly killed any resolve to keep arguing. "Just stop, alright? You're a champion of justice, and that's not something someone can learn through any amount of rehabilitation. It's just something they are, innately. Like you are, and like you always have been."
Simon knew to what Fool Bright was referring: his constant insistence of Simon's innocence in UR-1. Even though he never stated it outright, it was through comments like this, more and more frequent as their relationship had flourished.
And Simon responded in his usual way: changing the subject entirely.
"So where is Sofia now? Perhaps you should cease wasting time speaking on all this other rubbish, and tell me what I asked you about in the first place."
"Well..." Fool Bright started, not hesitant, more just preparing himself. "So that officer her uncle killed—his family, of course, was notified. They came out to Flagstaff, from New Mexico, to... verify. It's never easy, Sir. I wasn't even the one who told them. Why, I only heard about it, and it's not... oh, it's awful, they're always so hopeful, even if they say they aren't! And you have to crush it, no matter how gentle you are about it. And especially when it's a fellow officer, I—"
"Yes, yes, I understand, Fool Bright. You are upset; this is no great revelation, your propensity to feel such strong emotions. Get on with it."
"I am, Sir! Now... see, it turns out Lieutenant Gallardo... he left behind a wife and two kids. A son and daughter. The son just went off to college and the daughter is Sofia's age, just turned fourteen."
"Oh?"
Fool Bright went on, just as emotive as he'd been, and Simon found himself utterly enraptured; this was even more gripping than his unfinished volume of Sailor Scouts.
Sofia would have to stay in the U.S. for some time, for the trials of all her rapists, as well as that of her uncle. And the widow Gallardo wouldn't hear of Sofia staying anywhere but with her and her daughter. In Sofia, she saw the same lost little girl that Fool Bright and Simon had, but unlike Fool Bright and Simon, had the means to tend to the wounds beneath the surface, and give her a mother's love and nurturing. She refused to let the fire within Sofia be snuffed out, for her husband's death to be a random act of violence, to end up nothing but a conduit to yet another teenager falling between the cracks.
"She knows it's not Sofia's fault, none of it," Fool Bright said. "She doesn't blame her for any of it; actually, she's a pediatrician, herself. So she's unfortunately seen this before, you know, not to this extent, and certainly not this up close and personal, but..."
"Right, I... oh, Fool Bright..." Simon wished the niggling sensation in his chest would settle, that he didn't have to pose the question, "Why is this in no way satisfying?"
"We did as much as we were able to, Sir. Justice isn't something that suddenly happens because you decide to do the right thing. Or simply because you're a good person. There's lot of other factors. That's why it's so important to me—because it affects, and is affected by, everyone involved."
"While I agree, that does not answer my question."
"No, I know it doesn't. There isn't an answer to it, I'm afraid. But, I think it's... you know, sometimes having the answers isn't what matters most. I only meant that... we—you and me and Mrs. Gallardo and Ranger Parker—gave Sofia something more important."
Simon wasn't sure he could tell Fool Bright and Matches the Moose apart from one another, with how wide his detective's grin was.
"Bah, next you will say it's 'moment like these that make you proud to be an officer', or some other such bunkum."
"Oh, but you're right, Sir! It is this kind of stuff—not what led up to it, of course, but just... being able to help, in some way, that does make me proud to be a cop. And I know it's why you're looking forward to prosecuting again, isn't it? Because I... God, you know, when you came to me, told me how Sofia needed us—Simon, I've never... I've never seen you quite like that, and... I never felt so..."
"Fool Bright, your words are the equivalent of an entire bag of licorice. Saccharine to the point of... of..." Simon parted his mouth, faked as though he might vomit.
Taking it all with a laugh, Fool Bright responded with, "Then you'd better get used to it, Sir, because when you do get to officially prosecute again, it'll be a lot like this! With a detective at your side, praising your sense of justice and—"
"'A detective'?"
Fool Bright must have heard the worry prevalent in Simon's question, because he answered forthwith.
"Well, me, of course! Who did you think I meant?"
Simon avoided looking at Fool Bright and his inquisitive stare, quickly turning his attention to the warped wood of the picnic table.
"I... I don't know. I thought you might be implying you would request to move on to another inmate who needed rehabilitation, or to... I don't know, Fool Bright, I just..."
"Sir, after all we've been through—this, and looking into UR-one, and working to get your badge back, and... you know, everything else—I don't know what I'd do without you." Hurriedly, Fool Bright added, "At work, or anywhere else."
He knew what Fool Bright meant, a sort of romantic sentiment, but the truth of his inevitable fate was too much to bother ignoring. One day, it would come to pass, and Simon had to admit, "I don't know what you'll do without me either, Fool Bright."
There it was again, Fool Bright's hand warm and firm on Simon's leg, and the air around them filled with nothing but the breeze rustling the oak leaves above. The soft rhythm of Fool Bright's thumb at the side of knee, and Simon found himself sinking closer, the yen to kiss him overwhelming. Especially so now that he'd been illuminated to the possibility of suddenly and unforgivingly not being able to again.
The space between them had not closed enough for him to fulfill this desire, but it was still far closer than they should be, professionally speaking. He could see Fool Bright's shifting gaze, monitoring their surroundings.
"Sir, you need to..." Fool Bright moved his hand to Simon's arm as a means to push him back straight, but Simon braced his shoulders, resisting. He knew they were alone and could not predict when they would be again, especially if Fool Bright had to take a short medical leave—or worse, was dealt consequences of some type.
Dipping his head a little lower, Simon's mouth was tilted towards Fool Bright's neck, lips brushing his shirt collar as he spoke, low but clear.
"I know you're always nattering on about how I should, more than anything, hold justice in the highest esteem, but... oh, Fool Bright, I would hate even justice if it took you from me." Somewhere during his pathetic admission, Fool Bright's good arm had come to circle him securely.
"It's okay, Sir. It didn't!" He rubbed small, soothing patterns around Simon's back. "I know how badly you want to follow through on all your threats to me; I wouldn't disappoint you by just up and dying in the line of duty."
"Silence. I forbid you to make such fallacious declarations." Simon paused to lift his head, and his voice quieted even more. "...You could never disappoint me."
He wished that weren't the truest part of his statement, but it'd been revealed to him just how fragile this partnership between them was. Of course, he'd known it for quite some time, how very real a concept loss was. But for him, all he'd ever entertained was the prospect of Fool Bright coping with losing him, as an assignment, as part of—as he'd described to Sofia—their alliance, whatever that was.
Not the other way around, that he might lose his Fool Bright.
Simon straightened up, knowing for once that he was the more foolish between the two of them, with this display, even with it being no longer than half a minute.
But, Simon also supposed, he'd succumbed to allowing himself to be yoked together with foolishness when they had kissed for the first time. At no point in the past seven years had there been any turning back, and neither could there be with Fool Bright.
When Simon asked if they'd be here much longer, Fool Bright promised it'd be no more than another half-hour, and dug Sailor Scouts out from the backpack.
Though anxious to finish, Simon had also something else he hoped to speak with Fool Bright about. But Fool Bright seemed rather engrossed with his phone, sending off text messages, assumably to fellow LAPD members, who, by this point, had learned of their escapades with Sofia at the motel. So, as much as he tried to find an opening wherein to begin a new conversation, about the questions Fool Bright had unintentionally raised over the past few days, he quickly realized it to be an impossibility, and went back to his manga.
Just as Simon found himself on the final page of Sailor Scouts, the buzz of Fool Bright's phone distracted him. Fool Bright stood, and began to pace about the grass behind the picnic table as he spoke with whoever was on the other end.
"Oh, that's great, good to hear it! Yeah, we're in the rear lot. Just drive around, you can't miss us! See you in a bit, in justice we—! What? No, I will not! I—"
They must have hung up, because Fool Bright blinked, stared at his phone.
"Who was that?" Simon asked.
"Our ride. They're just having their vehicle and person checked over, have to fill out some paperwork. In a couple of minutes, we'll be on the road again! You're done, Sir?" Fool Bright reached for the manga.
"Yes." Simon nodded, his heart still pounding from such a cliffhanger of an ending, and Fool Bright stored it away into the backpack. "And who is our ride, another officer? Is the LAPD sending one of your comrades out here to collect us?"
"No, er... Ranger Parker, actually, even offered to drive us back, but that would still mean the LAPD footing the bill, paying for all the gas and his time." Fool Bright did not seem very hesitant or embarrassed, only matter-of-fact as he continued, "And they're not very happy with me."
"How so? Surely they understand the nature of the situation with Sofia, that it was grave enough to require immediate action You were doing your job, Fool Bright."
"No, um... because they found out about me having that backpack for you, in the backseat. With the licorice, and your comics, and... it wasn't approved. I kind of snuck it along, and that's a serious offense. Plus, even if it was approved, it should have been locked in the trunk, with my bag."
Simon blinked up at Fool Bright. He'd hardly expected that for an answer. "You must be jesting. That has them upset?"
"Yup!" Fool Bright said. "I told them, what sort of road trip doesn't have snacks! It would have been completely unjust of me, especially at such a difficult time for you, with your stepmother's death. I was only... I just wanted..."
Simon knew how to finish it. Fool Bright, sentimental clod that he was, had just wanted to make Simon happy. "You knew it was wrong, Fool Bright, and yet you—"
"Wrong? No, it wasn't wrong! It was... against the rules, but I don't think... here, lift your arms, Sir."
Simon did so, wondering for what purpose. Though only able to use his right hand, Fool Bright slipped the key from his khakis pocket, poked it into the manacle around Simon's left wrist, unlocking it. The manacle dangled heavily until Fool Bright grabbed it, lifted it onto the picnic table, and carefully placed his own left wrist into it. He then passed the key to Simon. "You can do the honors."
"What are you—?!"
"Oh, come on." Fool Bright grinned in a way Simon wasn't used to. Was it the medication or was it... was he being suggestive? "You haven't thought once about putting me in these?"
Simon took the key and clumsily locked Fool Bright into the shackle. There was no way to stop the heat spreading up his neck. "That is neither here nor there."
"Anyway, no, I don't think of it as wrong, and if they're going to punish me for it, that's fine. You enjoyed yourself, and that was worth it. But this—" he took the key back from Simon, and pocketed it. "—is because I have to keep you from harming the civilian we'll be riding with. We'll be in the backseat, together! Just like you wanted, Sir, haha!"
"Silence!" Simon glowered at Fool Bright. Why, of all the sapskulled fools in the world, was he stuck on the one who could simultaneously arouse and annoy him. "So we're riding with a civilian? That's... unheard of."
"Oh yeah, but... like I said, the PD isn't too thrilled with everything. I mean, you know they think it's a waste of time that I'm trying to rehabilitate you, and others, to begin with. So, they're willing to send an officer here, but only as a last resort. They asked if I knew anyone—who could pass a background check, of course!—in the area, who'd give us a ride back to L.A."
Astounding, and yet not, the lengths the LAPD would go to pinch pennies, especially in these dark days. This reminded Simon of his short time as prosecutor, when he'd visited the police department and been forced to take the stairs up and down every floor because they'd been promoting some sort of "Get Fit" week—when in actuality, the elevators had broken down, and conveniently this week had been put into place without any real notice.
"And there is? You know someone?" Fool Bright may—Simon had no real knowledge of his social circle or extended family, a topic Fool Bright kept rather close to the vest.
"No." Fool Bright was looking beyond Simon, at one of the alleys connecting their lot to the front. "But you do."
There was just enough time for Simon to ask Fool Bright what he could possibly mean when a large, copper-red Subaru came lumbering down the side alley, and screeched to a halt several yards from the picnic table, in no particular parking space.
Simon knew. He knew and yet he did not believe it until the driver's side door opened, and his heart dropped. He was thankful he was already seated, as he fell under an intense gaze and acerbic smile not unlike his own.
Fool Bright greeted her with his trademark salute. "Glad you could make it, Ms. Blackquill!"
"I'm not." Aura strode over to where Simon was still sitting frozen with disbelief. Jerking her head towards the Subaru, she addressed them both, but her impatient glare locked on Simon. "Get in, losers."
