The muscles in his jaw might as well have been cased in iron. He couldn't pry them apart for an answer. Peter let his tongue dart out to wet suddenly dry lips, and looked away.
Indy was sitting with Logan. They were too far away to listen in, but the conversation seemed civil. Had Logan started to wonder what Harrison Ford's doppelganger was doing walking around in full on three dimensions? Or was he more concerned with DeForest Kelley, lounging three pews ahead of them and one blue shirt away from being in the spitting image of Doctor Leonard McCoy in his Star Trek heyday? It was tempting to reach out and pat their hands, their faces; pinch yourself and make doubly sure they weren't the most vivid hallucinations you'd ever had.
Anything beyond second glances simply swallowed you. Conversations blurred your impressions. The more time you spent with them, the more real they became. Knocking down their own pedestals when the script isn't there to save them - when you sit down to lunch with the Scarecrow, when a young Batman becomes the most frustrating friend you'd ever had, and a hapless Superman is murdered outside your room. You saw the lines around their eyes, caught their flubs and ticks and every twitch of their face in more detail than you ever wanted. They weren't entertaining any more, because now you actually cared.
Not that his own feelings ever counted for much. Just enough to sell a four dollar issue at a comic stand.
"Yes," he answered finally. His eyes stayed resolutely on the fountain statue, the only place in the room where he wouldn't catch someone's eye. Least of all Greta's. "If we're all made up, then everything...it's all just for kicks. And it doesn't matter what happens to us because we never mattered in the first place. It's just entertainment. We're performing for this invisible audience, and when it's all over they don't give it a second thought."
His mouth formed a hard line at the thought. Gore always had been a crowd-pleaser.
no subject
Indy was sitting with Logan. They were too far away to listen in, but the conversation seemed civil. Had Logan started to wonder what Harrison Ford's doppelganger was doing walking around in full on three dimensions? Or was he more concerned with DeForest Kelley, lounging three pews ahead of them and one blue shirt away from being in the spitting image of Doctor Leonard McCoy in his Star Trek heyday? It was tempting to reach out and pat their hands, their faces; pinch yourself and make doubly sure they weren't the most vivid hallucinations you'd ever had.
Anything beyond second glances simply swallowed you. Conversations blurred your impressions. The more time you spent with them, the more real they became. Knocking down their own pedestals when the script isn't there to save them - when you sit down to lunch with the Scarecrow, when a young Batman becomes the most frustrating friend you'd ever had, and a hapless Superman is murdered outside your room. You saw the lines around their eyes, caught their flubs and ticks and every twitch of their face in more detail than you ever wanted. They weren't entertaining any more, because now you actually cared.
Not that his own feelings ever counted for much. Just enough to sell a four dollar issue at a comic stand.
"Yes," he answered finally. His eyes stayed resolutely on the fountain statue, the only place in the room where he wouldn't catch someone's eye. Least of all Greta's. "If we're all made up, then everything...it's all just for kicks. And it doesn't matter what happens to us because we never mattered in the first place. It's just entertainment. We're performing for this invisible audience, and when it's all over they don't give it a second thought."
His mouth formed a hard line at the thought. Gore always had been a crowd-pleaser.
"How is that not supposed to bother you?"