Dimitri can't deny Darcy for so many reasons. Because she's his friend. Because she just did the same for him. Because, even if he doesn't know what he said, this is his fault. Because debt and duty compel him. Because it's in his nature. But most of all, even if none of that was true --

-- he has to comfort her, because he has to be the kind of person who would.

Dimitri would rather die than twist the knife. But he finds his grip on the handle, and so he has to move carefully. It's alright would be a bald-faced lie; so would any other platitude. It's not alright. Nothing's alright. It may never be alright again.

While he still knows he can be honest, he squeezes Darcy's shoulder and says, "I'm here. I'll be here as long as you need me to be." It's the only promise he knows he can keep.

Slowly -- still giving Darcy time to shake him off, if she wants -- Dimitri scoops her up; folds her against his shoulder, and buries his face in hers, one hand threading into her hair. He's shaking again, his own tears welling up, but his grip is immovable and solid as steel. True to his word, he's going nowhere unless and until Darcy wants him to. And nothing's getting through him, either.