[ That right there makes all of his being uncomfortable worth it, honestly. If it keeps that smile on her face, then he's all right with doing it. ]
So far as wishes go, I don't think it was half bad. [ He shrugs a little. ] Suppose all that stuff was better left for others, really.
[ But then she's asking the hard questions and he should've expected that. He clears his throat. ]
Not really the best day and all. Historically speaking. My, uh, my mum died having me. My old man---[ Well no one needs to know what his idea of celebrating John's birthday was. Peter's technically already seen that from a memory first hand. ]---my sister was the only one who ever really did anything for me growing up and when she ran away---
Just didn't see the point.
[ Nothing good ever came of the day. Tied very much into his own concept of self-worth. Still, he manages to offer over a smile for her. ]
But I have to say that so far this one here is one of the better ones I've had in a very long time.
You can't tell me, though. Otherwise the wish doesn't come true.
[ It sounds like it should be a joke, but she sincerely believes it. Wishes are very powerful, aren't they?
Oh. Now she understands it. The day they'd first met, with all those horrible rumours; the words written on his home: John Constantine killed his mother. He hadn't wanted to speak of it, then. Who would? It's not something one would want to explain to a stranger.
She's not a stranger now, though. But it still stings as much as it did then, and she's sorry — her expression softening into quiet sympathy. ]
I'm sorry it never felt like a day to celebrate. [ She reaches for his hand, holding it gently in hers and giving it a soft squeeze. ] But I'm glad we could make it a good day for you. Maybe something a little less painful, you know? Everyone deserves that.
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So far as wishes go, I don't think it was half bad. [ He shrugs a little. ] Suppose all that stuff was better left for others, really.
[ But then she's asking the hard questions and he should've expected that. He clears his throat. ]
Not really the best day and all. Historically speaking. My, uh, my mum died having me. My old man---[ Well no one needs to know what his idea of celebrating John's birthday was. Peter's technically already seen that from a memory first hand. ]---my sister was the only one who ever really did anything for me growing up and when she ran away---
Just didn't see the point.
[ Nothing good ever came of the day. Tied very much into his own concept of self-worth. Still, he manages to offer over a smile for her. ]
But I have to say that so far this one here is one of the better ones I've had in a very long time.
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[ It sounds like it should be a joke, but she sincerely believes it. Wishes are very powerful, aren't they?
Oh. Now she understands it. The day they'd first met, with all those horrible rumours; the words written on his home: John Constantine killed his mother. He hadn't wanted to speak of it, then. Who would? It's not something one would want to explain to a stranger.
She's not a stranger now, though. But it still stings as much as it did then, and she's sorry — her expression softening into quiet sympathy. ]
I'm sorry it never felt like a day to celebrate. [ She reaches for his hand, holding it gently in hers and giving it a soft squeeze. ] But I'm glad we could make it a good day for you. Maybe something a little less painful, you know? Everyone deserves that.
[ Yes, even you John Constantine. ]