Bitterness doesn't faze him. It's honest, which is all he can ask for-- more than he's got a right to demand, maybe, but here they are. What he knows is-- that kind of thing will fester, will sour you if you let it. Anger, he can handle; raw grief would be harder, but he can take that, too.

"Dunno," he answers, gruffly, shaking his head a little. There's no easy answers. This is one of those things, he thinks, where there never was. Death has always been like that. Loss-- impossible, inevitable.

"Whatever you need." And if he doesn't know he'll have to muddle through til he hits on it.