"How's that for appearances?" says Miles into Illyan's ear, baring clenched teeth in a vicious grin. "Not so fun from the other side, eh?"

He offers no resistance, not that he could muster any if he tried, as Illyan puts him back to bed with impeccable care and gentleness.

As soon as he's caught his breath at least halfway, he shakes his head quellingly to the doctor. "It's all right. It's... I was just..." What was he? Even if he had the words to express his emotional state just now, he fears the explanation would be the opposite of calming. "Ah, hell, never mind."

The crashing tidal force of his rage ebbs, baring a black shore of awful shame, hot as volcanic sand. His eyes prickle with tears. It hurts him in his soul, to think that Illyan could suspect him of such vile thievery; it calls into question whether he was ever trusted at all, whether his service to the Imperium has ever been needed... no. Surely the things he has done have mattered. Surely Dagoola mattered. But God, that Illyan could call him a peculator. And Illyan must think it possible, to be resorting to such measures to find out.