Something unreadable - almost unpleasant - comes into his expression at that. There's a weird little twist of...what? Jealousy? Hostility? Towards whom - Miles, who's so special that he has dozens of enemies? Or towards those enemies, who would dare to have designs on this man who's his? It's a strange, unsettling thought, vaguely nauseating, for reasons he can't fully comprehend. He stomps it down with all the force it'd take to pack down grave-dirt.

He fiddles a moment with his own fork - and then reaches out, snapping at Miles' half finished tray with the speed of a viper, dragging it towards him and shoveling it into his face before Miles can stop him. He inhales almost half of it before he pauses to speak.

"Well, I'm not going to." There's food in his mouth when he speaks; mortifyingly, a fleck of spacer-ration mashed potato flies from his mouth to land on Miles' uniform sleeve. He hopes Miles doesn't notice, but - of course he will. Oh, well. "Fade away. So your fantastical enemies can get fucked, because I'm first in line, because no matter what other people think - " Another swallow. "I'm good as you are." It tastes like a lie in his mouth, so he fills his mouth with more food to drown it out.

Chew, swallow. After a pause, he asks, warily, "Do you really think killing ruins you?"