That quiet assertion, and the unwavering steadiness, nearly undo him again. Gaeta straightens up with the creakiness of someone three times his age, breath hitching, and tries to steady himself on his cane before settling his other arm around Angel's shoulders. I should probably dry my eyes, he thinks, but there's no real point. More tears will show up as soon as he wipes away the first ones.

Together, slowly, they limp from the graveyard toward Gaeta's apartment on Goldleaf Street. The sobbing may have passed, but he keeps silently leaking tears the whole way.

"...I was supposed to be helping you," he thinks to whisper when they're almost there.