"It's whiskey," Danny supplied helpfully. "They've got a nice helping of it behind the bar, third row down." He glanced down at his glass, idly running his finger along the rim of it. "Yeah, I was surprised she forgave me, too. Admittedly, I tried to play up the angle of not wanting this dude to kill me, which is true, I really don't want to die after everything I survived, but I think she saw through me. And yet, she still forgave me."
He leaned his head back, so he was looking up at the ceiling. "Where I'm from, most people genuinely aren't worth the energy it takes to make them happy. Mom was, well, let's just say the word neglectful is a pale shadow of what she was, and dad was a corrupt cop that only really took notice of me when I started getting in trouble." With a smirk, he added, "Before you say it, yes, I was doing it for attention. I was an idiot back then." He spoke about it like it was a long time ago, when really it wasn't. To him, it had been very little time since his last arrest for shoplifting. "Funny thing was, dad was never concerned about me. Just about what my behavior would do to his "image". He didn't want the boys at the station knowing his son was a crook, and that was pretty much all he cared about. His image. He didn't care that he planted evidence to get the easy conviction, he didn't care that he beat people into hospitals, just so long as he looked like the big damn hero he was fine." He grinned, and to Harry it probably looked a little twisted. "But in the end, he couldn't even spend two hours talking with a dying man to save his son. Some hero."
He sat forward, planting his index finger on the table as if putting an exclamation point on something. "My point, my point is that all my life, I've been taught that human beings aren't really good. They don't care about anyone, not really. They might care about how they look to someone, but they don't care about the person themselves. So why should I care about anyone but myself? What reason is there to try and be a good guy when everybody else is sunk in this muck?" Then he let his hand fall flat, palm on the table, while the other kneaded the left leg of his jeans. "So how do I explain this girl not telling her uncle who, she says, could make my life really fucking miserable? There's no room in my philosophy for someone like that. None. So either she's a fluke, or I am so very, very wrong." Eyebrows raised in question, he asked, "Which do you think it is, really? Am I wrong, or is she a fluke?"