"Suit yourself," Dad said to Valkyrie with a shrug, and shuffled the bears in His grip around so He could hold one out to her--a grey one nearly exactly the same shade as His eyes (which, given the shade of His eyes didn't stop shifting in the light, was a rather wonderful effect). It was the smallest of those He had, easily fit into a pocket or a bag. "Don't suppose you'd mind mindin' this one for me, then? I'll be up for it later."

Then He smiled gently, and though His next words, coming from many others, would have sounded dismissive--like an adult trying to get rid of the immature child--from Dad, they sounded ... understanding. Comforting. Encouraging. More as if He was speaking to another adult, someone grieving and worried, and just in need of a nudge. "Reckon Sol'd rather not wake up alone. Or at least he'd appreciate knowin' there was someone he trusted nearby, waitin' on him. Just in case, y'know?"

He waited patiently until Valkyrie accepted the bear and moved off toward the hospital doors before turning to Barney with a huffing laugh, flipping up the brim of His hat. "Picture in your wallet, lad," He said with amusement, and pointed toward the car. "And the one taped to your dash. And it ain't much of a gift if I get money for it, is it? Save your euros. Or if you're really insistant, give it to the next poor homeless bugger you see. I ain't gonna need it."