[He’s right. He doesn’t know the sort of person Fitz was before New Amsterdam. Doesn’t know the extent of the choices made, of the paths tread, where and how all that deep-seated guilt manifested beyond what he was told. Yet it hardly changes his mind on the matter. Though the specters of the past might hover and loom just behind Fitz's shoulder, baleful and ill-gotten, what stands in the foreground is more clearly defined, cast into stark relief. The make of a man as defined by words and actions of the present; a willingness to help Markus, again and again. He’s shown him kindness, friendship, a want to be honest with him — and he’s shown him guilt, choked by the stuff, tangled up in every word that leaves his lips.

And isn’t that enough? A want to do better, to be better than one’s past? That speaks for the good of his character, that desperate desire to wring a better person out of the misaligned pieces of himself. To feel no such inclination would be telling. It would almost be damning.

So goes Markus’ thoughts as the tears eke past the corner of his friend’s eyes, and he’s drawn close and draws him close both, allowing what the other needs — a messy cry on his shoulder, what the android hopes can act as some small amount of relief.]

The you of right now is all that matters. The kind of person you want to become.

[The empathy bond blossoms between them, a wave that laps at both of their feet, and Markus feels himself being dragged under the surface. Enveloped by sadness and solace, and fingers press tensely into the man's back after having looped his own arms around him.

And by way of the bond, he offers up his own emotions in turn. Sorrow kept afloat by a trove of empathy, and hopeful confidence alike. Believing, completely, that Fitz can find the redemption he's seeking in himself, lain beneath shale and bedrock.]

It's okay. You can cry. As long as you need to.