Miles tracks his clone's gaze to his own food, starting to grow cold on the plate. Ought he to push it toward Mark, or would the offer itself serve offense? He realizes he's been tapping the edge of the table in a useless jitter tic and drops it on the plate, as if in surrender. If Mark tries to take it, Miles won't stop him. He's curious to see what his clone will do.
"You're not on Jackson's Whole anymore," Miles points out, though perhaps uselessly, considering what this discussion seems to circle back around to. With that look. Given the way this conversation has gone, it's not hard to figure out what his clone is alluding to. He sits back in his chair, his fingertips drumming on the arm in absence of the fork.
"Good," he says bluntly, studying his clone's expression while trying to keep his own unreadable, but maybe not altogether successfully. For the clone to want some life of his own, to have some goals of his own -- that's what Miles wants for him, isn't it? If his clone doesn't want to be his brother -- a stinging thought, however quickly Miles tries to brush it off -- then at the very least, isn't it enough for him to want to be his own person? Because some faded shadow, some thoughtless entity can't have hopes and dreams. To have goals, you've got to be a person.
It makes sense in Miles's head, anyway.
"You're wrong on one point. I don't want you to fade away. In fact, I'd rather very much you didn't. I think we've been over this part already, but if I wanted you dead, I could've accomplished that half a dozen different ways by now. Besides -- " Another half-hysterical laugh escapes him. He can't help himself; he hasn't had enough caffeine. Or too much caffeine and too little sleep. Whatever. He'll work it out later. "Even if you did, ah -- fade away -- that wouldn't leave me with no one to challenge me. It'd just make the line a little bit shorter."
A THOUSAND YEARS LATER
"You're not on Jackson's Whole anymore," Miles points out, though perhaps uselessly, considering what this discussion seems to circle back around to. With that look. Given the way this conversation has gone, it's not hard to figure out what his clone is alluding to. He sits back in his chair, his fingertips drumming on the arm in absence of the fork.
"Good," he says bluntly, studying his clone's expression while trying to keep his own unreadable, but maybe not altogether successfully. For the clone to want some life of his own, to have some goals of his own -- that's what Miles wants for him, isn't it? If his clone doesn't want to be his brother -- a stinging thought, however quickly Miles tries to brush it off -- then at the very least, isn't it enough for him to want to be his own person? Because some faded shadow, some thoughtless entity can't have hopes and dreams. To have goals, you've got to be a person.
It makes sense in Miles's head, anyway.
"You're wrong on one point. I don't want you to fade away. In fact, I'd rather very much you didn't. I think we've been over this part already, but if I wanted you dead, I could've accomplished that half a dozen different ways by now. Besides -- " Another half-hysterical laugh escapes him. He can't help himself; he hasn't had enough caffeine. Or too much caffeine and too little sleep. Whatever. He'll work it out later. "Even if you did, ah -- fade away -- that wouldn't leave me with no one to challenge me. It'd just make the line a little bit shorter."