"You're still here?" Simon asks after crossing the street and approaching Fulbright where his car is parallel parked. It takes up the space of two of Aura's compact coupe, a drab gray completely at odds with what Simon would expect Fulbright to own.
"I was waiting for you. I needed to make sure you got this back," Fulbright says, extending his hand to Simon with something pinched between his fingers. Simon curses himself for not recognizing it immediately, and having neglected to ask for it to begin with: Athena's elastic ribbon.
Simon grumbles a thanks, stretching it over his wrist. In return, Fulbright smiles broadly, as if Simon's gratitude is a cure to the ails that have befallen him. "Well, I know it's important to you, Sir!"
A warmth crawls across Simon's skin, and his tongue sits heavy, useless. Of course it's important, but he's running low on energy, especially the proper kind to articulate just how important.
Fulbright takes this silence as a sign he's, once again, flubbed up. "I didn't say it was a bad thing, Sir. It's good to have a healthy coping mechanism!"
"No, I... it's not anything of the sort, I swear... it's... it's only..."
The rest of what follows is hardly words, just syllables filling the void.
A void quickly plugged by the inane question of Fulbright's, "Which of these cars is yours?" Simon assumes he's only asking as a way to end a clearly uncomfortable topic, but there is an unmistakable interest. He would say it's put-on, the way Aura alters her tone when around Starbuck and his little high-school chums, humoring them. And yet, the subject change eases him—or, more, perhaps, that Fulbright is astute enough to note a subject change was in order.
"Oh, no. I..." Simon glances about the street, at the line of cars parked along the sidewalk's edge. "My sister drove me here this morning. But I was about to call a cab to take me... er, home." Not home, exactly, but it's an easier explanation than saying 'The GYAXA Space Center.'
"You don't drive?"
"No. That is, I finally obtained my license a couple months ago, but I haven't a car yet. I... I plan on purchasing one once I've a couple months salary saved up."
"Well, I don't think paying for a cab is going to help you do that. Let me give you a ride home, okay?" Fulbright's smile flattens out, a line of regret. "Let me do something useful for you, after today."
"Fulbright, listen, I know you're discouraged, but—"
"Please, Prosecutor Blackquill, just this one thing. And then I'll never bother you again."
The finality of this statement is disheartening. Does he mean, he will not initiate this bothering, or that given his error in procedure today, it is likely he may not have the chance to bother any prosecutor? Simon can't imagine that he is the first officer to make such a mistake, but what does he know about the repercussions awaiting Fulbright—especially if it hinges on whether or not he is cooperative with Agents Cage and Parcells.
Either option does not sit well with Simon. And there is, of course, the e-mail in Fulbright's inbox that Simon must elaborate on if it is to be of any use. He had meant to send Fulbright a short, instructive e-mail himself from his phone, during the cab ride. But...
"I... I see. In that case... I haven't any choice, have I?"
"Great! Hey, but let me make a quick phone call, okay? Just a minute, tops. Go on," he says, motioning to the car. "The door's unlocked!"
Fulbright slips his phone out from his cardigan pocket and retreats several feet down the sidewalk, while Simon rounds to the passenger side, climbing into the car.
Its taupe interior is faded and worn with age, but otherwise tidy. The logo on the steering wheel informs Simon this is an Oldsmobile—an outdated model, much like Fulbright's fashion sense. But unlike Fulbright, it's lacking in character, scarcely individualized in any way. He finds only an orange tree air freshener dangling from the parking brake, which strikes Simon as odd until he sees that the rearview mirror is already sporting a decoration of sorts.
Leaning closer for a better look, Simon takes hold of the ornament between his thumb and forefinger. It's a double-sided frame, each panel approximately two by three inches. The perfect size for wallet photos.
The first panel Simon examines shows a man he does not recognize, around the same age as he or Fulbright. He is dressed in a military uniform and handsome in the most classic sense of the word. This photograph is a reproduction, having obviously been restored and colored, turning his hair a saturated blond that matches Fulbright's.
Simon flips to the other panel. Now, it's Fulbright, clearly younger than he is now but old enough to be an officer, judging by his blues and the peaked cap covering a much more well-groomed head of hair. On Fulbright's right is an older woman who shares his beaming smile, her arms circling him. To his left stands a gentleman about the same age as her, resting a paw of a hand on Fulbright's shoulder. His eyes are shielded by a pair of deep amber aviators but his mouth is crinkled in a manner that boasts pride.
It must be when Fulbright was sworn in, and these are relatives of his. They appear far too old to be his parents. An aunt and uncle, perhaps? Or even, grandparents.
A certain realization washes over him.
Does this offer an explanation to Fulbright's outburst? When he was prattling on about disappointment? About they?
Simon had assumed they implied the police department, and Fulbright's superiors, but...
But the driver's side opens with a shunk! and Simon flinches, locks eyes with Fulbright as the detective seats himself.
There's a pause. One where Simon lets his fingers fall from the photo ornament, as if Fulbright hasn't caught him red-handed. "I was just... I was looking at..." he begins, indicating the trinket with a flick of his eyes. It is still spinning.
"Those are my grandparents, Sir. Now, 'scuse me..." Fulbright stretches over and pops the glove compartment, pulling out a glasses case. Before it's even opened, Simon knows what is contained within.
They're not the same pair as what Fulbright's grandfather was wearing—these are more of a yellowish tint than the ones in the photograph. But they are, in all other ways, strikingly similar, and Fulbright looks equally striking, though, also, daft as a brush and half as useful.
Fulbright starts the ignition, then presses a couple buttons on his phone before handing it to Simon. "Here, just say your address into this."
The moment of truth.
"GYAXA Space Center." Simon tells the application, and sets the phone into the ash-tray popped out to be used as a stand.
"Y-You live there?"
"No, I... My sister works there, though at times it's as if she does reside there. I mean to meet up with her, for dinner. She and... and a friend... er, my mentor, but still, a friend... they're cooking dinner for me and... yes."
"Gotcha. That's really nice of them. Actually, it's funny, my gram was going to do the same thing for me, tonight, but that's why I called her. I told her—well, lied to her, I guess—and said we're so busy with the case that I'll have to get dinner out somewhere tonight. I don't really..." Fulbright hesitates as he concentrates on easing the car into a three-point turn, and onto the street. "You know, I just wanna think things over before I tell her about it."
"I... about that, Fulbright. The case. I meant to clarify a few things with you. That is another reason I accepted your offer for a ride. I think—"
"Sir, can it wait? Please? Until we've reached GYAXA?"
And for all the pressure Simon's found himself swamped under, and the unspeakably horrid nerves that proverbially clip his wings, he finds it very simple to tell Fulbright, as the side of his thumb traces the band along his wrist...
"Yes. It can."
So, they don't talk about the case, or much about anything at all. They haven't the opportunity.
At the first red light, Fulbright swipes through his phone to bring up a music application. "Sir, do you like eighties music?" Before Simon answers, Fulbright taps the screen, and the embellished synthesizer beats of 80's pop duo Holland Dotes fills the car.
"Hardly." Or, he is burned out on them, having had them played ad nauseum in his household growing up. If he has to hear it proclaimed that girls just want to have fun (oh, but they just want to!) again, it'll be too soon and surely from Aura's speakers.
"Why? Is it because—" Fulbright pauses for a moment, and then finishes his question singing along with the opening lyrics of the tune. "'What I want, you got; it might be hard to handle'?"
He decides this is his payback for manhandling the wuk, being subjected to this off-pitch butchering Fulbright is trying to pass off as singing. At least Fulbright's mood has taken an upswing, although if it's from the song itself or the cringing reaction he's eliciting, Simon can't tell.
But somehow, nor does he particularly care, even as Fulbright goes on about "how I ca-an't explain!" with a cracking falsetto.
"Fulbright, have you ever considered it's simply that..." Simon cuts the song off by pressing the skip-forward button, breezing through a couple more tracks until he finds the one he's searching for: another well-known hit, and also the sentence that serves as his response to Fulbright.
"I can't go for that."