[ Sure, he can say that. Don't dwell. Maybe even be right about it. But clearly he hasn't known Robert Fischer for long if he thinks it's that easy.
The suspension of disbelief alone that is being demanded of him is totally exhausting. Elbows resting on knees, fingers knit pensively in the space between them, he spares a glance toward Arthur's exquisite shoes once in a while. Just processing. Processing everything. Maurice has been dead for less than 48 hours and it feels like it's been weeks. Months. It's still there, a nagging pain just under his ribcage, but it's dull. Duller than he might've expected.
He believes that Arthur believes that this is real. It might as well be, right? The consequences of failure, of death, those haven't really changed at all. Fischer had agreed to this exotic mission, seeing it as nothing more than the outlandish conceit of someone's dream—his own, maybe, or maybe even Uncle Peter's, which he'd genuinely prefer not to dwell on too long.
Robert sighs deeply, looks up; really looks at the gardens they're sitting in for the first time. It's a nice place. This ship. This un-fucking-believable ship. ]
"Didn't agree?" [ A soft huff, dry. ] Some sub security.
[ They're his thoughts, aren't they? Or at least supposed to look out for his best interests. Still, it comes out more as a joke than a grievance. ]
no subject
The suspension of disbelief alone that is being demanded of him is totally exhausting. Elbows resting on knees, fingers knit pensively in the space between them, he spares a glance toward Arthur's exquisite shoes once in a while. Just processing. Processing everything. Maurice has been dead for less than 48 hours and it feels like it's been weeks. Months. It's still there, a nagging pain just under his ribcage, but it's dull. Duller than he might've expected.
He believes that Arthur believes that this is real. It might as well be, right? The consequences of failure, of death, those haven't really changed at all. Fischer had agreed to this exotic mission, seeing it as nothing more than the outlandish conceit of someone's dream—his own, maybe, or maybe even Uncle Peter's, which he'd genuinely prefer not to dwell on too long.
Robert sighs deeply, looks up; really looks at the gardens they're sitting in for the first time. It's a nice place. This ship. This un-fucking-believable ship. ]
"Didn't agree?" [ A soft huff, dry. ] Some sub security.
[ They're his thoughts, aren't they? Or at least supposed to look out for his best interests. Still, it comes out more as a joke than a grievance. ]