To be clear: Paul never liked Summer. He didn't like the way that Tom was around her and, when he met her, he didn't like her. He could see why Tom did, but, shit...there had been plenty of times in Tom's life when Paul had had cause to question his judgement. He pauses, coffee in one hand and stares.
"A fucking nightmare," Tom muttered from behind his hands before letting them drop to his lap, wincing at the swell of music -- Patrick Swayze, for Christsakes -- and Paul, the voice of reason. No shit, it hadn't been good.
"Yup," says Paul, perching on the edge fo the sofa and watching, his coffee so far untouched. "That was what you said, man. About knees." And then he's on screen.
"Yeah, no shit," Tom said, arching a brow and turning away from the screen long enough to look at the real Paul, sitting there on the end of the sofa, and for whatever reason, he felt even more embarrassed than he had before.
"You should seriously punch me in the mouth when I say shit like that. I'm not even kidding."
Rachel should have said something like, half an hour ago. But the movie is getting kind of entertaining. And while she sure as hell is glad it's not a movie of her life, bathrobe guy's has a good soundtrack.
And oh my God. There's dancing.
"You're a good dancer," she murmurs behind him, grinning up at the screen as he and a park full of people burst into spontaneous choreography.
Letting his hands fall slowly away from his face, he tipped his head back to look at her, wincing around an attempt at a smile.
"This didn't happen," he insisted, "Not like this." Sure, there'd been a hell of a lot of spring in his step that morning, but there hadn't been cartoon birds or matching outfits or marching bands or dancing. That's not the sort of thing you'd forget.
"It totally happened," she insists, pointing at the screen where he's currently doing some seriously impressive moves. She hops over the back of the couch and settles in. "Oh my God this is the best thing I've ever seen." She reaches over to give him a friendly punch in the arm. "Look at you go!"
Back in her body and in fine form, thank you very much, dressed to the nines in her tightest black pencil skirt and purple blouse to show of the delicious lack of baby bump - or mountain, as she still maintained - Rizzo was giving the compound a good wander. Which was how she walked into the projection room and found Tom, staring at a movie of which he was apparently the star.
She watched for a few minutes, arms crossed, Tom sprawled on the couch covering his face in mortification and would damn well be commiserating if she looked just as pathetic on the silverscreen. She'd heard Danny's side of the whole summer of lovin' story from Kenickie, and compared to Sandy's it had made her laugh out loud. Still, this was like nothing she'd ever seen. "What's all the fuss about? She ain't perfect either." Is what she said finally.
He'd never actually spoken to Rizzo when she was in her real body. It had been weird enough, knowing that Paul was friends with a Pink Lady, but actually seeing her standing there was so surreal it was almost enough to distract him from what was playing on screen.
Almost.
Pulling his hands away and sitting back up with as much dignity as he could muster, he shrugged and said, "I thought she was." And that, right there, had probably been his whole problem.
She perched on the arm of the couch, slender calves reflexively crossing. "Why?" She asked, curiously. In her opinion, the gal was pretty if a bit odd-looking, but had this irratatingly distant sorta personality that made it at least look like she wasn't nearly as into Tom as he was head over heels for her.
"Honestly? I don't even know," he admitted with an awkward cough of laughter, "It made sense at the time."
It made sense that Summer was the one, this fantasy girl he'd been waiting for all his life. It didn't matter if she'd really been perfect. Not when he could look at her and see something in her that wasn't even really there.
But he could never explain these things, after they were over. He'd never been able to put to words what he was looking for, because that perfect girl? Didn't even exist.
For what little it was worth, Hellstrom had always enjoyed the cinema. Among the few things he'd liked about being stationed in France, he'd liked the fact that the cinema, while still kept under a tight regime, had a little more variety to it than what he'd seen during wartime Germany. (He hadn't really cared, one way or another, which films had been banned and which hadn't. Art was art, and that was that. Of course, bringing the fact up had been out of the question, because that would lead to yet another question: what had he actually cared about?)
He'd paused once the film had started, brow furrowing for a moment as he watched the images dance across the screen. (In color, no less.)
And slowly, slowly, a smile had edged its way onto his lips, equal parts baffled and amused. It was a few more moments before he noticed the man on the couch.
"Is that you?"
His question is almost a statement, the kind that is asked only out of curiosity than any uncertainty.
"At least you're photogenic," Hellstrom remarked, squinting briefly at the screen. (He'd never been good at small talk. Well, that was a lie. He'd never wanted to be good at small talk.)
"It's probably genetic," Miguel offers, leaning on his crossed arms against the back cushion next to Tom's head. He doesn't know the guy's parents but he does know his clone, and that they're both kind of dicks makes sense to him. His clone was kind of a dick too.
"Nope. It's just me," Tom muttered, dropping his hands away from his face and tipping his head back to look at Miguel. "I'm like the black sheep of the family or something."
Black sheep is probably also genetic for Miguel, or whatever you call it when your pops and your granpops are both doing time by the time you're potty-trained.
Not that it's got fuck all to do with what he's saying. Pushing himself up with his hands, he grips the couch and keeps leaning on it, attention pinballing around the room to land on the tv, like gravity dragging it there. "I mean like, that guy who looks like you is a dick, but I've got more reason to believe it about him--the fuck did you do?"
"Nothing, I just... Remember when I showed up here all drunk and pathetic in a bathrobe? It was her. It was all her," he said, waving a hand toward the screen.
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"What the fuck is this?"
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"I love her knees? What the fuck, man?"
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This is NOT good.
He blinks.
"Okay," he says. "That's just weird."
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"You should seriously punch me in the mouth when I say shit like that. I'm not even kidding."
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And oh my God. There's dancing.
"You're a good dancer," she murmurs behind him, grinning up at the screen as he and a park full of people burst into spontaneous choreography.
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Letting his hands fall slowly away from his face, he tipped his head back to look at her, wincing around an attempt at a smile.
"This didn't happen," he insisted, "Not like this." Sure, there'd been a hell of a lot of spring in his step that morning, but there hadn't been cartoon birds or matching outfits or marching bands or dancing. That's not the sort of thing you'd forget.
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"God, Rachel, how long have you even been in here?"
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She watched for a few minutes, arms crossed, Tom sprawled on the couch covering his face in mortification and would damn well be commiserating if she looked just as pathetic on the silverscreen. She'd heard Danny's side of the whole summer of lovin' story from Kenickie, and compared to Sandy's it had made her laugh out loud. Still, this was like nothing she'd ever seen. "What's all the fuss about? She ain't perfect either." Is what she said finally.
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Almost.
Pulling his hands away and sitting back up with as much dignity as he could muster, he shrugged and said, "I thought she was." And that, right there, had probably been his whole problem.
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It made sense that Summer was the one, this fantasy girl he'd been waiting for all his life. It didn't matter if she'd really been perfect. Not when he could look at her and see something in her that wasn't even really there.
But he could never explain these things, after they were over. He'd never been able to put to words what he was looking for, because that perfect girl? Didn't even exist.
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He'd paused once the film had started, brow furrowing for a moment as he watched the images dance across the screen. (In color, no less.)
And slowly, slowly, a smile had edged its way onto his lips, equal parts baffled and amused. It was a few more moments before he noticed the man on the couch.
"Is that you?"
His question is almost a statement, the kind that is asked only out of curiosity than any uncertainty.
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This wasn't exactly his ideal way to meet somebody, but it's not like he expected to be able to sit here in public without people wandering by.
"Funny thing, I don't remember there being cameras around when all this happened."
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"It could be worse."
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Not that it's got fuck all to do with what he's saying. Pushing himself up with his hands, he grips the couch and keeps leaning on it, attention pinballing around the room to land on the tv, like gravity dragging it there. "I mean like, that guy who looks like you is a dick, but I've got more reason to believe it about him--the fuck did you do?"
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"And apparently somebody made a movie about it."
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