[ Truly, Edward has no idea how his companion might react. Amongst everything else, there is a particular shame reserved for confessing this to John Irving — a deeper, darker shame than for anyone else here. They might no longer serve upon a ship together, they might as well be considered civilians now, but... he still feels a certain responsibility to be.... what he is supposed to be, for John. His first, a source of stability and leadership. And he's... this, instead. Weak and trembling, and with a young man's blood fresh on his hands.

But what Irving says, immediately, catches him by a certain surprise — 'You've done nothing shameful, so far as I can see, Edward.'

Little lifts his head finally again so that he can see him, staring wet-eyed at the other man as he speaks, finding himself stunned by what's voiced. Or what's begun to be voiced; there's a brief moment in which everything's halted, as Irving goes to the kettle, and something's left unspoken, the shape of which only exists as a spectre, the gossamer-soft suggestion of a thing that flits away as quickly as it had come. 'If if I had—'

He won't ever push this man, press his thumb upon him to speak what he isn't ready or willing to voice, but something in Little's chest stays tight as though locked onto those words. He whispers another gratitude as Irving returns, fixes his own tea quietly — and each act may only be going through the motions of normalcy, but it... helps. The smell of fresh hot tea, the clink of cup upon saucer. The movement of hands; slow and weighted as his own may be as his fingers fumble with ingredients and he places his cup down for a moment to cool a little, they still move. The miserable heavy stagnancy that he's so prone to falling into is a little less easy to become consumed by, with this sort of company.

And then everything in him is freezing at what John says next. Voice so soft that one might think it only the whisper of some ghost (will Edward ever stop seeing them all that way? As ghosts?), but he hears it so clearly. In the quiet stillness, he stares at the other man, watching him as the flames from the nearby fireplace cast flickering shadows upon Irving's face.

It's as though someone's reached into the center of himself, found what aches the most, and squeezed it hard. Little exhales a soft gasp, an involuntary sort of sound, features tightening with an upset that has many layers — he feels seen, and wounded that any man should know it, especially this man. There's an empathy that hurts, and he's staring down at the floor for a long moment, processing.

He hasn't... known much of what happened regarding Irving, out there. When Hickey killed him, and the others. The rest of them learned the truth of it, of course; the... horrific evidence, the autopsy. The pieces had been put into place, but there was no opportunity to ask any of the men who were actually there through it. Only that sabotaging devil survived.

And Little hasn't asked Irving about that time. Wouldn't dare. But now... there it is, a mental image conjured up along with the other man's words. There it is, and what it becomes is....

'I failed every last one of you.'

Oh, it's so— it's so familiar. It's every single thing he's felt and carried, every remorse, every regret. There's such an irony, as well, to the fact that he, too, stood before a man who could have been stopped with a gun — could have potentially saved... countless, could perhaps even have stopped the mutiny — and he was unable to. And now, months and months later, he's done it, done exactly what he failed to do last time, and he feels an entirely different sense of failure for it.

He's truly speechless. (Some part of him remembers, suddenly, George Hodgson in the middle of stunned horror and faced with the knowledge of what dark thing he'd been a part to, coming to him with desperate words. Little had told him much the same — he followed his instincts, his training. It's all we can do. And all of them tried to do what they knew, tried their best, but—) ]

I am..... endlessly sorry, John. That you know what it is to feel the weight of such upon your shoulders. I— [ God, none of this should have happened to Irving. None of it. He reaches to grasp his third's shoulder, palm spreading wide and warm, squeezing tight. ]

You failed no one. You never should have been put into such a position. That your first instinct was not to pull your gun on someone.... it speaks of your heart. Your goodness. You are a good man.

[ He does truly believe that. If it had been easy for John to react with violence, well... then he would not be the John he knows. But he sighs, a full-bodied thing that leaves him feeling so empty, so tired, and his voice drips with ache. ]

But I well-understand your burden. After you... [ were killed ] ....there was a trial. And then the mutiny truly began. I could have.... stopped it, some of it. Less men might have died if I had. But I.. hesitated. I could not pull the trigger when I needed to. I.... froze.

[ He lowers his hand, slowly, brows knit as he looks miserably up to the other. ]

If anything had happened to Miss Marsh due to my freezing again, I.... could never have forgiven myself. And yet, even knowing that, I feel... I have crossed some threshold. That my soul is.... darker. Bleaker. [ He blinks back a sudden wave of fresh tears, a vulnerability he's not used to showing to others, yet in this moment can't possibly consider withholding. Not from this man, and what he's just divulged to him. ]

I do not know what to... hold onto, anymore. What to see myself as.