Jeff sits at the edge of the stage, long legs dangling over, as he watches the cute guy in the Breeders shirt make his way over. That idle little smile on his face grows into something lopsided with mischief (though unformed and undirected, more like the intent of mischief than any set-in-stone plans of mischief) when the stranger comes right up to him with a glass of water.

Usually people buy him a beer, or some shit with watered-down tequila and a cherry. (The cherry, incidentally, is always his favorite part.) Water's more, like, practical, like this weird window into thoughtfulness, which he doesn't really possess, himself, but is always a total sucker for.

"Thanks." He takes a drink-- like, a proper drink, not a little sip. Throws his head back and downs half the glass. His throat aches a little, though he doesn't really remember how long he's been singing. He just went where the music took him, for however long...

Wherever they are, time doesn't seem to matter much. At least, he doesn't feel any sort of urgency. Moments flow in a lazy kind of way, which suits him just fine.

"It's good. Tastes like top shelf water." He winks, teasingly, then pats a spot of stage beside him before offering a hand for the guy to take. It's low enough that he probably doesn't need a hand, but hey, Jeff's a fucking gentleman. "You know, I half expected you to have an English accent..." He points to his own neck, miming a scarf. "Seems like an England thing."

Look, his logic is sound.

(Because he probably associates 'wearing scarves indoors' with Doctor Who.)