John met Bobby's eyes with a brief glance of his own grey ones, looking back down at the tiled kitchen floor so as to not let the brief flicker of pain be too revealing. That sense of exposure grew worse, heavy, like a canker, but he waded through it. "Prison," he said curtly, and took a swig of beer, liking the way it settled in his gut. "Well, technically court, then being pumped full of cure, then prison, then a presidential pardon, then undergrad and then here," he added, forcing a smile to his lips that didn't reach his eyes.

The stupid blue eyed idiot gave a crap. Or seemed to, at least, in a way that wasn't in a judgemental 'How did anyone ever let you escape?' Yeah. That was not going to be easy.