He hadn't meant to sound accusatory or aggressive, and the realisation feels like ... Well, like the exhaustion after a bad coughing fit courtesy of tuberculosis. He slumps where he sits, and scrubs a hand over his face.

If only Albert knew just how much he regrets.

"Sorry," he says, barely even a whisper, and puts his cup down on the coffee table.

What else is there to say?

A lot, truthfully. But all of them just sound like excuses. Dutch saved him. The gang was the closest thing he ever had to a family. It didn't use to be like the Blackwater massacre. They helped a several people. None of them chose it but they didn't know any other way to live.

It all just sounds empty and he can't bring himself to speak any of it out loud.