Miles's brows draw down in kneejerk indignation at that remark, and he honestly can't tell if it's better or worse coming from himself. Both, feels like. God, if he keeps trying to puzzle that out he really will drive himself insane, but despite his...er, prior experience with this sort of thing, he hasn't managed to reconcile this with any kind of reality. Schroedinger's insanity, or something.

He opens his mouth to object with something like God, you sound like Galeni, but then the other Miles asks him a clear question he can actually answer, and his mouth snaps shut for a moment's thought. Maybe he did hit his head, that'd explain the headache.

"Twenty-six, I think. I was twenty-five, but it's been at least a year, so..." It doesn't occur to him yet that this isn't going to make much sense to the other Miles, and maybe he ought to back up and start explaining, but he looks back at his other self in equal inquiry, taking in the extra lines on his face. Definitely older, and -- Miles's eyes drop to the other man's neck, thin white scars visible above his collar. His face pales. "How old are you?"