"This is an age where friends take care of friends, damnit. And I need to do a better job." He wanted to protest. They had looked, just not in the right places, but regardless, he hadn't found her, and that was killing him. He hadn't been there for them when they were branded, he hadn't been there when Ange was being hurt, protecting her like he'd wanted to—and that was it. He wanted to protect them. He didn't have to, but he wanted to.
She wasn't making him angry, his guilt was. Her own anger filled tone spitting Fred's name at him had his body tightening. "I fucking know his bloody name," he spoke, finishing the sentence in a yell. He shouldn't have yelled. He had a sleeping seven year old, but fucking hell. "I fucking know Fred wouldn't be afraid. I fucking well know that. He would be there for you. He'd be fighting back against this fucking tyrant, and branded and roaring and begging for more. He wouldn't have taken it up the bloody arse like I have, and bent over further and asked for more." Fred would have been a man about it.
And George was scared. He was scared of losing it all for no promise of a better future.
George turned from her, hot shame burning his face as he started to cry. He was of no goddamn use to them, not to Al. He was barely hanging on, sobriety too painfully clear, highlighting all his faults.