Miles' gaze flicks between his younger self's broken leg and the stick resting in the snow. No points for figuring that one out. He stoops to grab it for him, offering the rudimentary crutch for his alternate to take.

Yes. Drinks all around. And then instant regret, probably. Miles can tell just by looking at himself that he's not going to enjoy this round of storytelling either ... "I know a place," he says. "Come on. If two of us muties show up at once, I guarantee we'll have the place to ourselves." Or just terrorize the locals into reporting to Piotr, but fuck everything right now.