Hawkeye hugs him again, and Mulcahy chokes out another thick sob, setting down his plate somewhere nearby to clutch at his thin (too thin, he’d know) frame with both of his hands. A memory springs to mind: Hawkeye sobbing into his shoulder, begging and apologizing for not being able to strangle his own feelings in the bed of his heart.

It’s funny, isn’t it. Before this, he had become a dull wound. A bundle of old regrets to set on the shelf, some silent and static reminder. But he’s here, and alive, and just like that everything’s bright and red again.

His answer is the same now as it was before. “It wasn’t your fault.”