Peter lifts away in outrage at Hawkeye, but as soon as he does there's a sharp "Peter!" issuing from Mulcahy's folded form. He stops. Hovers. Begrudgingly, glaring at Hawk the whole time, he returns; the two arms that make up the ring separate briefly to wrap around Mulcahy's neck, and he hangs there as though a necklace.

Mulcahy will thank the Village for only thing, and that is for making him learn how to hide within himself in an instant. That heart has to go. He knows how to kill it, at least for a while. Strangle it good. Bury it deep. Lock it in the cupboard and throw away the key; it will come back, but at least for now, he'll live, and Hawkeye can be allowed to deal with someone marginally less pathetic.

A thorough organ harvest in a real hospital can take surgeons several hours to complete. A M*A*S*H is far more efficient; he has seen them take pieces in under a half hour, sometimes minutes for things like vein grafts. Mulcahy, reaching into his own chest from within, is faster than all of them.

He straightens his back. Folds his hands in front of him. He turns halfway, still unable to look at Hawkeye but leaving his face visible.

"Of course you're not," he says, finally, quietly. His intonation isn't flat, but... "I'm sorry. I know you're not. But this is why I wished never to tell you. It isn't fair to you. It isn't. And--I'm sorry for that shameful display. But there is no way to tell you without entangling you in something that had your face and yet which you never did, and is not your responsibility."

He doesn't love him. Good. If Hawk hates him by the end of this, even better. It will be a long and healthy hate.

"But if you want me to explain everything you didn't see, I can't leave it out, either, for the way it's haunted me."