"Yeah," Miles says quietly, shutting his eyes. "Clark was there. Got there too late to do anything about it, though."
God, he hates talking about this. He'd almost forgotten how much the memory still stings, the sheer indignity of it, and somehow it's harder telling his own self about it. Like some final admittance of -- of what, defeat? He hadn't really cheated death, after all, not like his older self had with his cryorevival. He imagines the other Miles must've felt his throat go just as tight, recounting the ugliest details of what's happened to him. Miles figures he owes his older self the same courtesy.
"I was already bleeding out. It doesn't happen as fast as you'd think with a stomach wound." Wound. That's a cute way to put it. Miles puts down his cup, almost dropping it onto the table. "Thought he'd showed up to save me, all heroic horseshit. Kept insisting it was already too late to save me, the prick. He could fly and toss around an aircar like it was nothing, and he couldn't even..."
He trails off, trying to swallow the thickness down his throat, but he can't so he just shuts his eyes again instead. Wrong move. Light gleaming on glass flickers at the edge of his dark vision. "He stayed with me. I remember that -- all of it." Every aching, agonizing detail. Clark's last words to him -- his own last words. God. He draws in a shallower breath.
"I think -- I think if I'd asked him to, he'd have put me out of my mercy right there. But I couldn't -- I wouldn't. I'd take every agonizing fucking moment I could get. I didn't -- I didn't want to die." He presses his hands to his face, remembering the sheer, overwhelming panic of his own impending death, breaking down into tears when its inescapability finally overcame him. His next words are muffled by his hands. "I was terrified."
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God, he hates talking about this. He'd almost forgotten how much the memory still stings, the sheer indignity of it, and somehow it's harder telling his own self about it. Like some final admittance of -- of what, defeat? He hadn't really cheated death, after all, not like his older self had with his cryorevival. He imagines the other Miles must've felt his throat go just as tight, recounting the ugliest details of what's happened to him. Miles figures he owes his older self the same courtesy.
"I was already bleeding out. It doesn't happen as fast as you'd think with a stomach wound." Wound. That's a cute way to put it. Miles puts down his cup, almost dropping it onto the table. "Thought he'd showed up to save me, all heroic horseshit. Kept insisting it was already too late to save me, the prick. He could fly and toss around an aircar like it was nothing, and he couldn't even..."
He trails off, trying to swallow the thickness down his throat, but he can't so he just shuts his eyes again instead. Wrong move. Light gleaming on glass flickers at the edge of his dark vision. "He stayed with me. I remember that -- all of it." Every aching, agonizing detail. Clark's last words to him -- his own last words. God. He draws in a shallower breath.
"I think -- I think if I'd asked him to, he'd have put me out of my mercy right there. But I couldn't -- I wouldn't. I'd take every agonizing fucking moment I could get. I didn't -- I didn't want to die." He presses his hands to his face, remembering the sheer, overwhelming panic of his own impending death, breaking down into tears when its inescapability finally overcame him. His next words are muffled by his hands. "I was terrified."
Not exactly the way he'd hoped he'd face death.