[ He's touched a nerve--as he imagines that he would, given how he might react to such a declaration, and it's obvious that he's gone a little too far; the safety off, that gun presses up against the inside of his thigh and he looks down at it, once, and then back up at his doppelganger, and his shoulders lift and fall with a breath that could be construed as a sigh of defeat, though he doesn't know that he actually means it. If this stranger really is some mimicry of him, then he doesn't want to risk angering him; even though he imagines that it would be truly hard for one of himself to actually severely harm another of himself without feeling sorry about it.

What the hell are these thoughts, anyway? It's almost funny, if he could find it in him to laugh.

Instead, he reaches with one hand, drags and stretches the seatbelt until it clicks into place and then he's holding up both hands, wryly placating, to show that they're empty and that he hasn't smuggled out something from between the seats, as much as he wishes that he could. He obeys in silence, drags the car into drive and then nods his head towards the windshield because they're moving and because even someone pretending to be him can't be that good of a driver to be able to maneuver a car without looking at the damn road. ]

I'm not impersonating you. Seems like that's the question I wanted to ask you. [ Calmly, almost matter-of-fact.] You know who I am, as plain as I know who you are.

[ Even though it doesn't make sense, at all.] Do you remember coming here? --Hey, watch the curb.