"...."
Send me a "...." And I will use a random number generator to see which of the following my muse will say to yours or I will write a short Drabble based on whatever I get.
Michael let out a choked laugh, eyes nearly shutting completely in pain at the effort it took and at the strain it placed on his ribs and lungs. He could taste copper in the back of his throat, and his throat worked as he tried to force the urge to cough back. But the cough ripped itself out of his throat anyway, leaving it feeling like sandpaper had gone up and not just air, and Michael spat out a globule of blood, wrinkling his nose at the sight.
Everything ached. His arms, his legs, his head, his chest - fuck, he felt like an eighty year old suffering from a severe case of arthritis and organ failure. It fucking sucked.
Dying was a shitty experience, Michael realized with distaste.
But - Michael opened his eyes, and lifted his hand to pat at Ray’s shoulder, grinning weakly.
"Hey, Ray…" He murmured, and clenched his jaw again. “Dying in your arms, huh?” It was pretty fucking cliche, wasn’t it? He wasn’t going out in a fucking blaze of glory like he’d hoped he would, taking down the fuckers who had, ultimately, taken him down, but …
He was going out near Ray, at the very least. And maybe it wasn’t what he’d hoped, but … It was definitely something that Michael wanted.
With a sigh of relief, Michael closed his eyes.
"No better way to go out."