John laughs in the sudden haunting, omnipresent silence. There's literally nothing stopping Kilgrave from turning them all on him as he'd threatened: John walked in here knowing that, but seeing a little demonstration like this is still eye-opening. So he laughs, because if he stopped to use his pickled brain for half a second instead, he'd have to confront the very real mess he's so enthusiastically throwing himself into. This is all going to backfire horribly, that much is painfully obvious now (though it's not like it hadn't been before.) If not tonight, then sometime in the future.
Ah, well. That's the fun of being John Constantine. "Don't be shy, luv. I know you just like the sound of my voice." His beautiful voice, which literally no one has appreciated since the day he came (literally) screeching onto the British punk scene in his entirely misspent youth. Makes him almost yearn for America, while he's here in London: across the pond, he can always count on being able to charm a pair of pants or two off with his accent alone. Surrounded by fellow brits, such as the one in his current illustrious company, that's not so likely to happen. Kilgrave will simply have to settle with being grateful that John stomped out the very hardest edges of his native scouser accent over the years and years of travel (since repeating himself two or three times while abroad before being understood got very old, very fast.)
"Oi, I had a head start while you were napping," he fires back, scandalized and defending his alcoholic honor, but he still finds it in himself to appreciate just how damned fast Kilgrave sussed out his motives, even if he does sound a touch skeptical for a man with a mind-controlling voice. John drums his fingers against the sides of his pilfered bottle and settles for fessing up: trying to put up a front now would just be embarrassing, probably. "Clever, you are," he hums out, halfway wondering what everybody here is going to make of their very strange conversation in the morning. "What do you say, then? Want to see how those pipes of your stack up in the grand, messy scheme of things? Might be I'll reconsider letting you get your mits on that shiny trinket of ours if you do."
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Ah, well. That's the fun of being John Constantine. "Don't be shy, luv. I know you just like the sound of my voice." His beautiful voice, which literally no one has appreciated since the day he came (literally) screeching onto the British punk scene in his entirely misspent youth. Makes him almost yearn for America, while he's here in London: across the pond, he can always count on being able to charm a pair of pants or two off with his accent alone. Surrounded by fellow brits, such as the one in his current illustrious company, that's not so likely to happen. Kilgrave will simply have to settle with being grateful that John stomped out the very hardest edges of his native scouser accent over the years and years of travel (since repeating himself two or three times while abroad before being understood got very old, very fast.)
"Oi, I had a head start while you were napping," he fires back, scandalized and defending his alcoholic honor, but he still finds it in himself to appreciate just how damned fast Kilgrave sussed out his motives, even if he does sound a touch skeptical for a man with a mind-controlling voice. John drums his fingers against the sides of his pilfered bottle and settles for fessing up: trying to put up a front now would just be embarrassing, probably. "Clever, you are," he hums out, halfway wondering what everybody here is going to make of their very strange conversation in the morning. "What do you say, then? Want to see how those pipes of your stack up in the grand, messy scheme of things? Might be I'll reconsider letting you get your mits on that shiny trinket of ours if you do."
Not likely, but hey, John never says never.