Oh, yes, that crisis was already in full swing by the time Miles departed from Earth, only accelerated madly by his time on the Moira. That sense of displacement was so jarring, so massive, that he couldn't seem to figure out how to keep himself together for months, months, until he finally buckled under the weight of it. Miles stares at his older self for a long, uncomfortable moment, and then he sets his cup down on the table. He goes slightly slack, elbows resting on his knees, and he rakes both hands back through his hair, like that'll massage his brain back into gear. He lets out a long, slow breath before he looks back up at the other Miles, something strange and distant in his gray eyes.

"So be someone else." He drops the words like dice, bones scattered on a table. Playing the little Admiral had always been a gamble, right from the start. "You're right. Lord Vorkosigan and Admiral Naismith can't exist here. It isn't the right context. Find the Miles that exists in this context. Be him, whoever he is. It's the only way to keep yourself sane."

And boy, doesn't he know it.