Friends. He's not sure he knows the meaning of the word. He'd had a wife who loved him and he stood by as she went up in flames. He'd had Mary who was never his to begin with and she went up in flames, too. To the Resistance, Preston was likely little more than a tool to achieve their ends.
No. He had no friends. But it was a word that he was expected to be happy about, as far as he could tell, so he flashed a smile that looked almost too painful to put on.
"I'm-" happy for you, was the right expression, but John didn't feel it. So he pressed his lips into a thin line, averted his gaze momentarily and tried again.
"That's good to hear." Surrounded by books and the distinct lack of grey and black suits with guns, Preston could see the appeal even if he wouldn't fit in here nearly as much as Errol did.