If there's one thing they're both on the same page about, it's the understanding that an English accent would be completely at odds with their face. Because even though there's something so strange, so uncanny valley (is he using that term right? who the fuck knows, he's not a science guy) about looking at a face that's his-but-not, and hearing his voice speak in that laconic drawl... it's also right, in some way. Whoever the Marshal is, long lost brother, or product of an alternate reality, he wears their similarities, and their differences, in a way that just fits together.
For him, anyway. Jeff would look like an asshole in a costume if he put that hat on.
"I'll take your word for it. You've got an honest face." Ha, doppelganger humor.
Jeff follows him into the shop, hesitating only for a moment as Raylan holds the door open with his boot, like he's half-expecting another weird encounter with hallucinations and invisible fingers tap-tapping. But he quickly shakes off his lingering dread and relieves the other man of the door, suburban sensibility telling him: Fuck your fear, it's rude to leave the guy holding the door for you!
"Got it in one. Santa Monica, born and raised." The beach is practically in his blood. Jeff takes a look around the store, a superficial look at their surroundings, before his gaze settles on Raylan again. "And you're from... I was going to say Texas, when I first saw you." But 'Texas' brings twangs to mind, and Raylan's accent is smoother than that, he thinks. "But I'm thinking... West Virginia?"
Which he honestly lands on for its proximity to Virginia prime, where he's been stuck for the past 15 years. There'd be some weird poetry in that, right?
When he tries to picture his parents at some baby black market, Jeff laughs, short and a little strained, betraying the frayed edges that he's desperate to shove back into some deep dark part of him, to be patched up and masked with a cheery smile.
"I guess... Alternate realities it is." Look, after having a demon in your head, you can believe a lot of strange things. "So what's it like for you? The Gift. I'm guessing you're not a bard..."
Obviously some twin from an alternate reality would still be Gifted. That's as much a part of him-- of them?-- as the face looking right back at him.
no subject
For him, anyway. Jeff would look like an asshole in a costume if he put that hat on.
"I'll take your word for it. You've got an honest face." Ha, doppelganger humor.
Jeff follows him into the shop, hesitating only for a moment as Raylan holds the door open with his boot, like he's half-expecting another weird encounter with hallucinations and invisible fingers tap-tapping. But he quickly shakes off his lingering dread and relieves the other man of the door, suburban sensibility telling him: Fuck your fear, it's rude to leave the guy holding the door for you!
"Got it in one. Santa Monica, born and raised." The beach is practically in his blood. Jeff takes a look around the store, a superficial look at their surroundings, before his gaze settles on Raylan again. "And you're from... I was going to say Texas, when I first saw you." But 'Texas' brings twangs to mind, and Raylan's accent is smoother than that, he thinks. "But I'm thinking... West Virginia?"
Which he honestly lands on for its proximity to Virginia prime, where he's been stuck for the past 15 years. There'd be some weird poetry in that, right?
When he tries to picture his parents at some baby black market, Jeff laughs, short and a little strained, betraying the frayed edges that he's desperate to shove back into some deep dark part of him, to be patched up and masked with a cheery smile.
"I guess... Alternate realities it is." Look, after having a demon in your head, you can believe a lot of strange things. "So what's it like for you? The Gift. I'm guessing you're not a bard..."
Obviously some twin from an alternate reality would still be Gifted. That's as much a part of him-- of them?-- as the face looking right back at him.