Panting and trying to converse his energy, Miles stared up at you with desperate eyes. He doesn’t want to bleed out— he doesn’t want to see his own blood seeping out of his body, and it’s weird because he never had an issue with blood before he got shot through that one-way mirror.

He grunted, his hands putting pressure on the wound. Of course, not enough since he’s shaky, and panicking. And a bit paler than usual, which probably isn’t a good thing, no, that’s probably really bad.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” He asked meekly through clenched teeth, staring up at you with wide eyes that for some reason don’t look as colorful as they usually do.

Miles was lucky he was awake enough to snap you out of your trance.

He let out an appreciative huff as you slid off your jacket, wrapping it around his torso and tying it over the spot where he got shot. His breaths begin to become short, and his panicking intensifies as he sees your knees dipping into the puddle of blood on the ground.

“You’re bleeding,” he whimpers out, shakily touching your knees.

“You’re bleeding.”* You correct Miles, calmly, although it only freaks him out more. He lets out a panicked squeak, his eyes wide enough to pop out of his head. He lifts his head slightly despite your protests, choking on either blood or spit (it was difficult for him to tell.) as he noticed a shiny bullet on the ground not too far from where the two of you were currently settled.