Taking all the weight and pressure off his bad leg helps. A little. Once he's set the prosthesis aside, Gaeta accepts the water with a mumbled thank-you.

He stays hunched over his knees for a time, essaying small sips from the glass. At first the space comes as a relief; it's familiar, expected, a chance he'd ordinarily take to regather himself and patch up the cracks in his facade. But then it starts to feel more like the empty spot after losing a tooth. (Or a limb.) Aching, uncomfortable. Wrong, after the way Angel stayed so close while ushering him home.

Who the frak is he kidding, thinking he can patch himself up within a few minutes.

He is so, so tired.

And still the words stick in his mouth, unable to be freed without effort. "Could you. Sit up here?"