"What?" Honestly, this is the most shocked Gaeta has looked since the conversation started. He lowers his hands; goes on, with a quiet vehemence, "Mulcahy, you don't have to apologize, gods. It's not like you were responsible for what happened. You didn't do anything, it -- was done to you. That's not your fault. You're just sharing facts, like you said."

He reaches across the table to clasp one of Mulcahy's hands between both of his own. Tethering, grounding, a gesture he repeated dozens of times while they shared space.

"I've handled a lot of unpleasant facts before now."