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Geoffrey had gotten a little distracted by the fact that a movie projector was apparently not only there and talking to him, but auditioning for his play. Oliver's play. Whoever's play. The thing was theoretically sentient, that was the point. He stood to examine the thing with wide eyes, waving his hand through the beam of light, his mouth hanging open as he studied it. By God, it was real! As real as the Sorting Hat and the talking rabbit and...

It occured to Geoffrey, sometimes, that he had found himself in an incredibly strange place indeed. Still, a talking rabbit was one thing, but this was even weirder than usual.

It took him a while to realize that not only was the thing talking, but that he was apparently talking to Ellen. In a very particular way. Geoffrey straightened up and raised a brow. "This is Ellen Fanshaw." He waved a hand at Ellen. "My wife. I'm Geoffrey Tennant."

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Killjoy sighed lightly as he flickered in and out thanks to Tennant's hand. "Of course, you are," he replied drolly. "Your name was on the poster, Mr. Tennant."

He quickly turned his attention back to Ellen. "Ellen Fanshaw," he said, as though savoring the name. "Not Ellen Tennant, I notice. The name hardly suits anyway. But are you sure, Mr. Tennant, that this beauty is your wife? Surely she is far too young for it to be at all healthy."

Killjoy hardly meant it. Certainly, she wasn't difficult to look at, but he had little enough time for romance. Especially with another man's wife. Childish though it may have been, he had to admit, if only to himself, that he was going to be flirting with her throughout the production for the sole purpose of exasperating Tennant. And who could say? Perhaps she would yet turn out to be one of those rare few who were actually worth his time and consideration. But he doubted it.

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Oh, but Ellen did like flattery. Probably too much. She was a typical actress in that regard - any applause made her lose her common sense. Common sense should say that anything a freaking talking projector said should be taken with a grain of salt. But all Ellen heard was someone calling her young and beautiful and, so she thought, talented. That's all that really mattered.

"Oh, I kept my name," she blushed girlishly, revealing a hint of the sparkle that could capture audiences and hold them enraptured. "My fans, you know."

She nudged Geoff. "You see? Helena." Why he couldn't see sense when Killjoy obviously could was beyond her.

Turning back to Killjoy, Ellen smiled that smile. "Alienest? And what would a, as you say, humble alienest be doing auditioning for a show?" She, of course, hadn't the first idea what an 'alienest' was, but flirting rarely required comprehension. It was all about eye contact and making the other person think you cared. It was acting, really, only the audience was quite smaller. And Ellen was very good at it.

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Geoffrey was, indeed, getting a little exasperated, but it was more with Ellen than it was with Killjoy. It wasn't that he didn't notice the flirting, but he was sadly used to other men flirting with his wife. He'd had the cursed luck to marry a very beautiful woman -- to him, the most beautiful woman in the world -- and he'd resigned himself to the fact that men would thusly throw themselves at her feet. And to the fact that she was somewhat of an attention whore and therefore ate it up with a spoon.

Really, he didn't mind it very much. Even if she went ahead and slept with another man, well... perhaps it was simply that no affair of hers could possibly hurt him the way the one that had driven him to insanity had. He was fairly jaded on that front, and no other man meant as much to him as Oliver Wells had. And he wasn't that concerned about her sleeping with Killjoy, anyway, what with the whole non-corporeal thing.

The part-mongering, on the other hand, was deeply annoying.

"Yes, she is very beautiful," he agreed with a slightly tight smile. "Extraordinarily so. Once upon a time, she made a marvelous Helena." He shot Ellen a rather pointed grin. "And while I sadly missed her Titania, I have no doubt she'll give me an equally good performance this time around."

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Killjoy waved his hand dismissively. "I never cared for Titania. Or any of the fairies, really." Then he placed on hand on his chin in thought and added, "Though, admittedly, it does take some talent for an otherwise intelligent actor-" pause, nod at Ellen "-actress to play such a senseless ninny. The Fool is always the most difficult role."

He smiled then, eyes once again fully on Ellen's. "But to answer your question, my dear. Psychiatry is my one true passion, to be totally honest. I am fascinated, perhaps even a touch obsessed, with the workings of the human mind. But theater! The stage; the lights; the knowledge that all eyes are upon me and me alone!" He heaved an ecstatic sigh that was, as Killjoy always was, overly dramatic. "I suppose you could call acting my one vice. Other men have their drugs, their rituals, their thrills; I have my stage!"

"I did have a stage, you know," he reminisced, completely lost in the moment. "Then came the riot that destroyed my institute, but the stage survived. Assaulted by fire and time and the endless malefactors, and the chairs are broken, but my theater remained otherwise intact. And now, I am here, and even that is gone." He sighed again, but this time it was more sincere. It was honest, unguarded, and regretful; an extremely rare combination. Then he looked up, and the moment was gone.

"But why A Midsummer Night's Dream?" he asked, just shy of scathingly. "Twelfth Night was a vastly superior work, though as it is comedy as well, that doesn't say very much. Couldn't you have chosen something more sophisticated?" Like that mangled bit of dialouge the hyper Asain girl was spouting earlier? Not that Killjoy didn't like comedy; he just had a very low opinion of it.

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Dr. Killjoy spoke quite at length and not at all about her, so Ellen mainly lost interest. He reminded her of Henry in some ways, which was not entirely unpleasant, though she was sure the comparison would not help the man-projection with Geoffrey.

In fact, though, it wasn't until she heard that censor in Killjoy's voice that she started paying attention again. "It wasn't his fault," she replied, straightening up and frowning slightly. "Sorry, but it wasn't. Someone changed the posters." Her eyes narrowed a bit more. "And there's nothing wrong with the comedies. Some of them are quite beautiful, and the sense of timing is exacting work. Any idiot can make an audience cry. It takes someone special to make them laugh." That's right. She was only half-insulted for Geoffrey, but her true ire was reserved for besmirching the playwright. Ellen had her priorities straight.

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The longer Killjoy went on, the more Geoffrey disliked him. The dramatics, the flirting, the little stories, the criticism; it was all starting to remind him of Henry Breedlove, his Macbeth, a man he quite truly despised. He would probably have been delighted to know Ellen was thinking the same thing, or possibly horrified -- she'd liked Henry much more than he had. Of course, that was easy. Geoffrey had been practically homocidal towards him with a passion that had previously only been reserved for Hack Director Extraordinaire Darren Nichols.

And the criticism was really extremely irritating, especially over something that wasn't his fault at all. He opened his mouth to retort, only to wind up staring in surprise at Ellen as she did it for him. By God, since when did she stick up for him? He smiled, grateful but a little startled, and turned back to Killjoy. "She's right. It was originally supposed to be Twelfth Night. But if you don't like it," he hastened to add, arching a brow, "You're not obligated to join the cast."

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As though Killjoy would give up the opportunity to perform. No matter the circumstances. He missed it far too much. He was desperate, not that he would admit it. He bowed, and in his most conciliatory tone, said, "You are both quite right, of course. My most humble apologies. It is true I much prefer the tragedies, but even comedies have their genius. I do hope you'll both forgive me. I speak out of turn, but only because this so-called magic school has me quite on edge."

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Geoffrey's surprise was completely lost on Ellen. Killjoy was appropriately apologetic and respectful; therefore, Ellen quite forgot she'd been irritated with him. After all, the flattery far outweighed the criticism. "Aren't we all?" she smiled brilliantly at him.

Speaking of... Fishing out another cigarette, Ellen lit it up, blowing out the smoke with a sigh. Much better. Then, realizing she was being rude, she glanced up. "Oh, er, sorry. Would you like one?"

Of course, a projection of light couldn't exactly smoke, a fact which hit Ellen a few seconds after the fact. Wincing she waved her hand in dismissal. "Sorry! Sorry, I didn't think... Sorry." Giving Killjoy an apologetic smile, she wafted some smoke in his direction. "Must be really annoying, not being able to smoke or drink or anything."

Tactful as always.

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Geoffrey was not so quick to forgive, and he had firmly decided that he was not fond of Killjoy. But he could be a professional! His personal dislike of the man... picture... thing, whatever, had no bearing on his direction nor on his casting. Really.

And if he was rather pleased that Ellen was being an accidental bitch to Killjoy, well, that was just because Ellen was funny when she was being obliviously nasty. "I would imagine so," he agreed dryly. "A shame, that. And as a company we're used to going for drinks after rehearsals, too. I'm sorry you'll have to miss out on that."

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Tennant didn't sound quite as regretful as his words would have implied. Hardly surprising; Killjoy wasn't exactly trying to be liked. It was a challenge, and Tennant had not only risen to it, but called his bluff. He knew when he was beaten.

"Oh, it's quite all right." He was technically speaking to both of them, but his smile was still directed mostly at Ellen. "I never did smoke, though I do miss the odd cognac." Then, because he really didn't like the idea of socializing with Tennant and they were no longer discussing the play, gave a grandiose bow and said, "Well, I imagine you two...er, three have your work cut out for you. If there's nothing further, I shall take my leave."

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