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Fic: In Production (1/7)
Master Post | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
***
In Production
There's a whiteboard in the production office, double sided. Most of the time it's turned with the schedule side facing the room, but when the Heads Of Department aren't around it gets flipped over, displaying a complicated chart of interlocking lines and names. Marie, the production secretary, keeps it up-to-date with a lot of help from the ADs and accounts department.
It's a record of all the on-location hookups that have happened since Umbrella Academy started filming. It's extremely accurate too, because Marie doesn't do anything by halves. When the production runner lets her know they had another "dirty stop-out" last night, and the key grip's hire car spent the night parked outside of the A camera assistant's accommodation, Marie adds them to the board, connecting their names in green whiteboard marker. There's a titter of amusement across the bullpen when she caps her pen.
Gerard knows about the chart. Mikey told him, because as his director's assistant it's Mikey's job to know about everything Gerard needs to know about, but doesn't have time to find out. Thank god for Mikey. Gerard doesn't really mind that the chart exists; with twelve hour days minimum, and a shooting schedule that's more suited to a telemovie than a fifty million dollar budget feature film, the crew deserve whatever entertainment they can find. He won’t begrudge them that.
They're good people, all of them. Committed and working their fucking asses off in the middle of nowhere, away from their homes and families - all to bring his vision to the screen. Even with months of pre-production to get used the idea, it still scares the hell out of him. He hopes, not for the first or the last time, that he can pull this off.
One more thing Gerard knows about that whiteboard chart: his name isn't on it. Which is exactly as it should be. He has far too much to take care of to have a social life right now and, while that kind of behavior that might be fine for the A camera assistant, it's not befitting of a director in the middle of a shoot. Not that he has time anyway; Mikey's got his days scheduled down to fifteen minute increments and they are only in their third week of principal photography. He's using one of his "sanity time" increments right now, re-checking his shotlists and scribbling notes all over his shooting script.
He's due on set soon, he knows it, but he doesn't have to watch the clock because Mikey will come and get him. Fuck nepotism, Mikey is damn good at his job. He'll make an amazing producer one day and Gerard can't help but fear that day, because he's not sure how he's going to survive without him.
He sighs and leans back in his chair, thankful for the air conditioning in his trailer which keeps the damp heat of the Australian Gold Coast at bay. He stretches his arms up, working the kinks out of his back. He's brushed over his notes enough. It's all in his head anyway, the whole film, he just has to make it tangible.
The harsh static of a radio outside his door heralds Mikey's arrival before the soft tap of his knuckles. Gerard calls a soft "Yeah" to his brother and Mikey's head pokes through the door, focused as always.
"Ray's ready for you. Lighting's nearly set. We've got about three minutes."
"Sure." Gerard gets himself upright, buzzing and ready to shoot, bouncing on his toes.
They hustle out of the trailer and head for Stage Five, moving at Mikey's natural speed, which is at least thirty per cent faster than most people's. Mikey unclips the Motorola from his belt and announces, "We're travelling," into it.
They pass through a mass of moving bodies as they cross the studios. There's crew everywhere, carrying gear and clipboards and props, some cycling, some walking. It's a cargo pants-wearing army of creatives and grunts. Gerard gets the odd nod, smile and salute, but no one tries to engage him in conversation. They know better. The way to Gerard is through Mikey, and you need to be on the schedule.
The heat makes it feel like they're walking through warm soup, and it isn't any better once they reach set; all the hot lights only add more degrees to the temperature. His Director of Photography, Ray, sees them coming immediately and heads over, corralling them towards a bank of monitors. Ray's hair is buzzed out and staticky from the heat, his face damp with sweat. He's wearing his usual uniform of battered jeans and a t-shirt with the sleeves sliced off, which Gerard is considering adopting for himself more and more as each sweltering day passes.
"Now you have to imagine it with about four points warmer," Ray says, and Gerard knows what he means in principle if not in practice. His breath catches in his throat as he turns his gaze to the bank of three monitors, each showing a different camera angle on the lit set. There it is; Sir Reginald Hargreeves study. Exactly as he saw it in his head.
He witnessed the set come together piece by piece over a matter of days, Frank's design slowly taking form in wood, plaster and paint, but this is the first time he's seen it look frame-perfect . Ray's lighting arrangement picks out the highlights and cast shadows, drawing focus to the ornate woodwork and perfectly shaped wallpaper designs that started as pencil sketches in coffee-fuelled meetings a lifetime ago. Consummately placed backlights pick out the graceful silhouettes of well chosen props, bringing the set to life in light, dark and in between.
"Jesus Ray, it's perfect. I don't know how you do it man, it's like you're seeing inside my head ." Gerard's eyes devour the images before him, one of his hands fluttering up to rifle through his hair the way it always does when he's processing.
"Can we get a stand-in in there?" he asks. Ray signals the Spaceboy stand-in and Gerard gets to see how the lighting interacts with a player. It's seriously spot on.
Ray being Ray, perfect isn't enough. "Worm! Spot down that 4K, I'm still getting spill - and get a cutter on that four-fifty, it's killing my shadows."
The First Assistant Director Joe Trohman steps into the fray. "Ray, you said it was set, we're gonna have talent back from lunch in five."
If Mikey has enough trouble keep Gerard on schedule, Joe's got the bigger problem of trying to keep the whole set running to some vague impression of what's on the daily call sheet. Not that you would ever tell from looking at him; the guy is seriously unflappable, which makes him perfect for the job.
"It's set Joe, it'll be set in like, two minutes." Ray turns swiftly to a tattooed and sweaty gaffer, "Cortez, give Worm a hand will you?"
Matt Cortez drops the mess of cables he was coiling up and hops to, climbing the rigging with the ease of a monkey to where Worm is perched, fiddling with a light that's larger than his torso.
Gerard's still staring at the monitors, seeing the scene play out in flashes on every camera angle. Not for the first time, he feels an intense pride for his crew. He was so lucky to get Ray on this job. They went to film school together years ago, but Ray's star rose much faster than Gerard's. He embraced digital cameras at exactly the right moment, learning how they worked and how to seduce gorgeous images out of them while all the old school DP's were still married to film. When the studios started to switch to digital for budget and efficiency he was ready, with a list of credits as long as his arm and a showreel that could make you weep.
Ray DP'd five films in the space of time it took Gerard to direct and finish Bullets. He took a pay cut to work on Umbrella Academy, not just for Gerard but because he believed in the project. Gerard feels thankful for that every single day.
"Right." Gerard shakes himself out of the scene, mentally bookmarking the images, and turning to Joe. "Let me know when we have cast for a rehearsal." Joe nods and gives a half-salute. Gerard pats Ray on the arm in thanks as he passes, but Ray's distracted, pointing madly at some light, trying to communicate with Cortez. Gerard heads for the stairs to the set piece, thinking he'll take the spare few minutes before walkthrough to settle himself and just admire the set.
"Gerard, hold up." Gerard's feet have barely hit the black and white tiled hallway when Pete's voice erases his plans for a peaceful few minutes of contemplation. He stops, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He knows exactly what his producer is about to say and they really, really don't have time to go into this right now. "You still haven't answered me about Schechter." When Gerard turns to face Pete, Pete's expression is one of complete openness and understanding, which Gerard recognizes immediately as his Producer Face.
"I did get back to you. I said no. You not accepting that as an answer doesn't qualify as me not getting back to you." Gerard tries very hard to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Pete is a good producer, one of the best. Gerard was doubtful when the studio all but forced him onto the project, but he's proved himself time and again on The Umbrella Academy. He has an innate ability to get great crew on board and keep them. He only takes jobs he's passionate about and he's highly skilled at inciting that same passion in other people.
Unfortunately, the flip side is when he gets his mind set on something he's like a dog with a bone. A really fucking stubborn dog .
"Gee." Pete's still using his producer voice. "We needed to start fight rehearsals a week ago. We are way overdue to lock in a stunt coordinator."
"Not him." The tone in Gerard's voice would have any other crew member cringing. Not Pete. He's cringe-proof.
"Gerard, he-"
"He blew me off Pete. Twice. He's had his chances. We need someone who's committed to the project."
"He is, he is. He couldn't help missing those meetings. He had reshoots for the Nolan gig. He was in fucking Alaska."
Gerard sighs heavily, hand catching in his hair as he runs his fingers through it. Pete senses weakness and goes in for the kill. "If that was our job, you would want that, right? You'd want him to put the reshoots first, even if it meant pissing off his potential next gig?"
Gerard stops playing with his hair long enough to look at Pete. "Don't punish the guy for being professional," Pete argues.
"I just, I don't see why it has to be him - what about Singe r's guy?" Gerard's reaching now and he knows it.
"Do you want the carnival to suck? Because it totally will. Singer's guy can do all that martial arts shit fine, but he can't do explosions or wire work to give a damn. Schechter is the best." Pete says it like it's gospel and it probably is. Pete knows his shit. He's been producing under the Clandestine banner for years and Gerard should just stop pretending he's not going to bend to his will.
"Fine. Set up a meeting," Gerard surrenders, and Pete's smile is smug and completely predictable.
"I've got him on a flight tonight. Lunch meeting - tomorrow." Pete glances at Mikey, ever-present but never in the way, to make sure it goes on the schedule.
Gerard doesn't sigh. Of course Pete knew he would say yes, and of course Pete already had a movement order sent. Sometimes he's too efficient for Gerard's sense of propriety.
"Make it a wrap meeting - Mikey is that open?" Gerard asks and Mikey nods, scribbling it into his diary. "I'd rather it not be rushed."
Pete starts to say something else but Gerard barrels in, "This is a meeting Pete - it doesn't mean we're hiring him."
"Of course Gee, of course." Pete smiles his producer smile and Gerard knows instinctively there is a contract with Schechter's name on it drawn up and probably sitting on the production manager's desk, waiting on a signature. But he doesn't have time to push that shit uphill; Joe's signaling him and a crackly voice on a Motorola confirms the cast have returned. He lets it go; gets lost in the rehearsal, burning through coverage, and Schechter is the last thing on his mind.
***
Three scenes and twelve setups later, they're on the wrap shot of the day. It's a close up of Andy Whitfield, who plays Spaceboy, reacting to the reappearance of The Boy twenty years after he vanished. It's a key shot in a key scene and Andy's so close to hitting it Gerard can almost taste it. He's staring at the actor's image on the screen of his portable clamshell monitor, his headphone-covered ears full of Andy's dialogue clear as bell, and slightly echoed where it's coming directly from the set. Andy's nearly got the inflection, the emotion spot on, but just not quite.
Gerard calls cut at the end of the take and Mikey nudges him, flashing his watch surreptitiously. They're forty five minutes past scheduled wrap. Gerard is desperate for another take, but the crew is about to hit golden time.
As if on cue Pete slides in beside him, outwardly calm but Gerard can see his fingers twitching, the tell that he's starting to wig out. It's Pete's balls that will be in the studio's vice when they get the bill for overtime. Joe hovers in the background, inconspicuously waiting to hear the next move.
"I need one more Pete."
"Do you really, really? Because I thought Andy was doing pretty good. Do you need me to quote figures at you again - two hundred crew on double time..."
"Look Pete, if we can't we can't - Bob can probably piece something together from the last three takes, but I think Andy is about to hit it. The next take is gonna fly, I can tell - it'll make the whole scene, bring it up to the next level."
Pete chews his lip, but Gerard knows he's already won. "Okay, one more. Get moving." Pete nods at Joe and Joe announces "Reset - going for another one" into his radio and the call is echoed around set by the other ADs.
Gerard dashes up into the hot lights of the set to talk to Andy. It takes barely three sentences to tell him what he needs to change and then Joe calls for camera set, the sound recordist announces "speed", Ray rolls camera and they're running another take. Gerard watches from the set, one eye on the monitor and one on Andy and fuck him sideways if Andy doesn't hit it, absolutely nail it.
He's got a huge grin on his face when he calls cut and Andy reflects it right back at him. It was fucking magic. The set is abuzz with good feeling when Joe calls out "That's a wrap! Thanks everyone!" the whole crew attuned to their director's good spirits. It's a good day.
Gerard stops to thank Ray again on his way out. Mikey appears beside him as they leave the set, running through his night schedule.
"Frank still needs you to come by Costume." Mikey doesn't even look up from his sidekick.
"Does it have to be tonight?"
"You've put him off three times. He says he's gonna set up camp in your trailer with five racks of outfits if you don't make it tonight."
"I guess we better go then." Gerard shoots Mikey a grin, still sailing on his high from set.
Mikey just gives one of his not-quite-a-smiles and they climb into the electric buggy, zipping over to the costume department. The cart's speed tops out at about fifteen miles per hour, but that doesn't make the way Mikey drives it any less frightening. When Mikey pulls in sideways outside the demountable building that houses the costume department, Gerard rushes to disembark and fights the urge to kiss solid ground.
Before they even get the doors open Gerard can hear Black Flag blaring from inside the demountable. Frank rarely works without a soundtrack and his choices are usually loud, loud or loud. He's not your average production designer in a lot of ways. His background is in rock n' roll; he got his start designing and rigging sets for big stadium gigs, bands like the Stones. He rolled into Hollywood when Mick Jagger started dabbling in producing films and he wanted a familiar face designing his sets.
From there it was easy to stick around, in Frank's own words, "movies pay more, and now I don't have to keep tearing the sets down and re-rigging them at every new venue." Plus, it gave him the opportunity to take on the costume designer mantle. Not that Frank is the only production designer out there who also covers costume, but they're rare. It's a lot for one person to take on . Frank leans heavily on his team, particularly his art director and fiancée, Jamia. Gerard's always been wary of film couples but Frank and Jamia seem to have it down, a dynamic that works and their personal stuff never crops up when they're on the job.
Jamia's up to her elbows in fabric when Gerard and Mikey enter the department. "Well, look who finally made it. Frank! We have a director!" she shouts through the open doorway into the workshop. Frank emerges, his rock n' roll past still evident in every one of the tattoos visible around his Queensland-heat-beating ensemble of cutoffs and a wifebeater. At odds with the fauxhawk and the ink are the four sewing needles slid into the front of his wifebeater like a pincushion, each one trailing a different colored thread.
"So you didn't want me to set up camp in your trailer, then? I was totally gonna do it, too." Frank talks around the butt of a smoked down cigarette trapped between his lips.
Gerard just smiles and shakes his head. "Maybe next time. What have you got?"
"You're not going to like it," Frank warns as he heads into the workshop, Gerard and Mikey close behind.
The workshop is more of an open shed with air conditioning that doesn't quite cut it. There are sketches and blueprints tacked up all over the walls, plus publicity stills, casting head shots and the odd flyer for a local punk gig. Frank heads straight towards three racks of clothes, an array of black fabric with white details.
"For the orchestra extras," Frank announces, throwing an arm out at the racks. "The studio didn't approve me to bring on more hands for us to make it ourselves, they want us to use hire gear. This is the best I could find from all the suppliers and trust me, I had Jamia contact all of them," Frank explains. He points at each rack in turn, "Best stuff, possible stuff, maybe if you're desperate stuff."
Gerard heart sinks but he shuffles through the "best stuff" rack anyway. It's all so ordinary, not at all what he imagined.
"Is it worth me getting Pete onto this? He could fight it out with the studio, maybe squeeze some more out of them?" Even as Gerard asks he knows it's a long shot.
"Honestly?" Frank shakes his head slowly, "I don't think it's worth it. You want to go begging the execs then make it for something that's worth the humiliation - more bucks for the Icarus or for Terminal's lab."
Gerard pulls a very ordinary tuxedo from the rack and stares at it. Frank's right. He should pick his battles. But it doesn't make it easy. He hates having to compromise his vision.
"Can we do anything?" he asks, looking for silver lining.
"Oh shit, yeah Gee, it's not 'what you see is what you get'." Frank steps closer, grabbing the tuxedo from Gerard and waving at it with a freshly lit cigarette, "I'll get my girls on it, we can dress this shit up a bit, bang on some bigger lapels, fuck around with shoulder pads, get some interesting silhouettes going. I mean, it's all black, they're gonna be in the background, probably out of focus half the time and you've got Ray's fucking genius mad lighting to add another hundred thousand to the look of the scene on top of that. It'll sell. Don't worry." He stabs the cigarette into his mouth by way of conclusion, puffing out a cloud of smoke.
Before Gerard even has time to ask, Mikey hands him a cigarette and he lights up too, muttering, "You're right, you're right, of course." Frank just nods enthusiastically, dropping ash all over his shirt and grinning.
Gerard stays another half hour and they work their way methodically through the racks, pulling out the best of the worst and talking about what superficial fixes Frank's team can do to bring the look in line with Gerard's original intentions. By the time he's grasping Frank's shoulder in thanks and heading back to the death-trap of a golf cart with Mikey he's feeling a lot better about the whole thing. Frank really knows his shit.
"Did you want to see Bob before you crash tonight?" Mikey asks as he pulls around a corner. Gerard’s fingers curl into the seat as he hangs on.
"What time is it? Will he still be there?"
"You know he never goes home 'til he's heard from you."
"Yeah, okay. Well if he's not ready to keel over, I'll stop in." Mikey calls ahead, juggling his phone and the steering wheel in a way that makes Gerard dig his fingers into the seat and close his eyes until Mikey's off the call. As usual, Bob is still at the cutting room and, as usual, he would love to see Gerard.
Gerard tries to get to the cutting room every day if he can, even if it's only brief. Not only to see the footage and what Bob's been up to, but just to soak up a bit of the Zen atmosphere the guy gives out. He's like a touchstone.
Bob's cut every one of Gerard's films. He edited Bullets for free on his own gear, collecting the dole to cover his rent and electricity, living on tinned food and his and Gerard's parent’s charity. Gerard never forgot that. He had to fight hard to get Bob on Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge, his first studio film, when Universal was insistent he work with a "seasoned" editor. Gerard compromised on a lot of crew for that film but he did not budge when it came to Bob. In the end he got his way through sheer stubbornness and tenacity.
Bob nearly gave himself a stroke from stress cutting that film, barely sleeping and spending every waking moment at the suite, expecting every day to be fired and replaced by one of Universal's hacks. He might well have been if his Editor's Cut hadn't been so fucking amazing. Gerard barely had to change a frame for the Director's Cut, Bob's edit was that good. After that, the studio stopped grumbling and Bob stopped looking over his shoulder. He put off three other films to keep himself available for Umbrella Academy and Gerard can't imagine anyone else helming his edit.
The rush of air conditioning is a relief as they enter the post production offices. Mikey wanders off to chat with Alicia, the post supervisor, perching on her desk and playing on his sidekick simultaneously. If Gerard were a betting man, he'd lay money on their names appearing on the whiteboard chart at some point. He heads straight for Bob's suite, giving Bob's assistant Spencer a nod on his way past. Gerard's presence in the cutting room is so common it doesn't raise any interest at all.
Bob spins around in his chair as Gerard wanders in and pitches forward to crash face-down onto Bob's very soft, very comfortable couch.
"That good huh?" Bob asks, barely raising an eyebrow.
Gerard slowly turns himself over onto his back. "So what did I fuck up yesterday?" he asks, rolling his head sideways to look at Bob. Bob's perched on his special-expensive-wont-fuck-up-your-back chair, an array of monitors behind him. He scratches his blonde beard thoughtfully, before replying.
"Hmmm... nothing, I think. No, I think you're good." Bob leans back scratching his knee, "You know you owe me cutaways of the newspaper clippings right?" Gerard nods absently. "Then we're fine. No fuck ups."
Gerard fist pumps the air. "On fucking fire," he remarks, with plenty of irony.
"So what's with all the-" Bob waves his hand in the general direction of Gerard's flopped-out self. Because of course Bob knows when something's up, he can read Gerard like subtitles.
Gerard scrubs at his eyes, feeling unreasonably tired all of a sudden. "Pete. He won’t leave me alone about Schechter."
Bob raises an eyebrow at him without moving any other part of his face. "So? Pete's usually right about this stuff, isn't he? What's the problem?"
Gerard sighs. There's no reasonable answer to that question. "Nothing. No problem." He says it resolutely, clawing his hair out of his face and sitting up. "Shall we watch some dailies?"
Bob looks like he wants to say something else, but he sits on it. That's the best thing about Bob, he knows when not to speak. He spins in his chair to face the Avid, calling up a sequence and playing it. They watch yesterday's dailies mostly in silence; Gerard lets Bob know when he likes a take or a line or a moment, and Bob scribbles it down on a log sheet.
When the sequence finishes and the monitor goes black, Gerard feels suddenly tired. He says goodnight to Bob and goes to find Mikey. It's time to crash.
***
Back in his accommodation, splayed out on his bed with the television muttering at him in broad Australian accents, Gerard takes a final glance at the call sheet before he bunks down.
There, at the bottom of the first page under "Production Notes" it says Meetings: G. Way (Director) to meet with B. Schechter (Stunt Coordinator) at wrap.
It shouldn't make him feel so unsettled.
***
Pete's shaken awake from a dream about unicorns by the shrill shriek of his cell phone. Muzzily, he thinks he really needs to change his ringtone as he gropes for it in the dark, shoving it to his ear and muttering a hello. The voice on the other end of the line catapults his body into a sitting position, adrenaline rushing down his limbs.
"Pete, it's Tom Meyer. Look I just need you to know something." The head of Universal is calling Pete at what, four am, because he needs him to know something?
"Yes Tom?" Pete's voice is gravelly from sleep and he hopes it's not too evident. The insanity of the thought doesn't even register because, of course it's his responsibility to be awake at all hours so he can field calls from Los Angeles at any time of day.
"Look I'm sending Stump over. You're off the rails. He's going to help you bring this back in line. This is a friendly visit. He's a good guy, he'll help you out."
"Tom-" Pete starts, not even sure what he's going to say.
"Now Pete, I didn't have to give you this one. I could've given it to Skiba, but I thought it was your time. Don't make me regret my decision."
"No, Tom of course not." Pete struggles for words that his sleep addled-brain doesn't supply.
"Glad to hear it, Pete. It's going to be a friendly visit. Real friendly."
Pete stares at nothing, the phone still pressed to his ear long after the line goes dead. He flops back on the bed, his breaths sounding too loud in the room. Well motherfucking fuck. He didn't expect to get this level of studio interference anywhere near so soon.
Wide awake now, he hits the mail button on his phone and there at the top of his inbox is Patrick Stump's movement order. When he opens it, he stares at the flight details for a solid minute before the information processes.
Patrick Stump is already in the sky. He touches down in less than five hours.
***
By the time Pete gets to the studios his ear is warm from back-to-back phone calls. He spent the first hour after Tom's rude wake-up call laying very still while his brain clicked into overdrive. When the hour struck five he started waking people up; his assistant Ryan first, followed by a call to Mikey, then James Dewees the production manager, and finally Bob.
The word spreads fast through the various departments. There's a studio executive coming. It's a surprise attack. Pete knows it was a deliberate ploy that the movement order wasn't sent until after Australia was asleep. They're trying to catch them with their pants down. Well, he'll show them.
When he rolls into the production office the whole crew is already aware. Marie is double checking Mr Stump's accommodation and, more importantly, seeing if his flights are on schedule. Pete waits, twitching in front of her desk, until she gets off the phone with the travel department.
"His flight's on time," she confirms, all business. "By the time he gets through customs the earliest he could be here would be one pm and that's if he comes straight to the studios from the airport."
"He will." Pete's sure of it. He taps Marie's desk in thanks and rushes down to the post production office, Ryan trailing in his wake.
Bob's already booted up and ready when Pete walks in the door of his cutting room. Ryan herds Spencer and Alicia into the room behind them.
"So." Pete begins, dropping down onto the couch and clasping his hands, "We've got a studio exec coming out."
"I heard that part," Bob says, looking a bit under-slept and boy does Pete know the feeling. "So what's the plan?"
"I need you to pull together all your best stuff - cuts, shit-hot footage, whatever you have. I'll get Gerard over here at lunch to check it over, and Alicia-" Pete switches his intense gaze to the post supervisor who is absorbing everything like a sponge, "I need you to book the theatre, arrange an output. We're gonna throw some images in front of this guy, show him all our best stuff, let him see we haven’t been fucking around. That's the plan."
Alicia nods; Bob asks the obvious question, "How long do I have?"
Pete checks his watch, it's just on 7:30am. "He won’t get to the studios any earlier than one; I'll take him on a tour of the sets, introduce him around, get him over to catering for a feed... I can probably keep him busy ‘til about two?"
Bob nods solemnly. Pete knows it's not much time. He also knows Bob won’t say that, he'll just pull something out of his ass and it will smell like roses.
"Thanks Bob. Spencer. Alicia." Pete gets up and Ryan shadows the move, completely in synch with his producer. Pete hovers in the doorway before he leaves, knowing the minute he's out the door there'll be a flurry of activity. "I know it's early for this sort of shit, but if we can get this guy on side now - have him send back good news to the guys in LA, we'll be golden." It's not much of an inspiring speech, but Pete's barely slept and it's all he's got. Alicia gives him a bright smile and Bob just nods, turning to his avid before he's even finished the movement.
Pete hustles back to the production office, already planning his movements for the next few hours. There's not a lot of time before Patrick Stump gets to the studio, and Pete's going to use every minute to make sure they're as ready as they can be.
***
"Really, Gee?" are the first words out of Mikey’s mouth when Gerard opens the door to him that morning.
"What?" Gerard asks, already reaching through the doorway for the coffee Mikey’s balancing precariously on a cardboard tray. Mikey just looks him up and down, eyeing off Gerard’s white button up shirt, black tie and vest ensemble. It’s a far cry from his usual same-t-shirt-for-three-days approach to dressing for set.
Mikey doesn’t even have to open his mouth; there’s a half dozen snide remarks in the curve of his eyebrow.
"Come on, you’re the one who passed on Pete’s SOS; we’ve got an exec on set today," Gerard argues.
"So you thought you’d wear a school uniform? We can put you next to Kodi and it’ll be like The Boy times two."
"Fuck you. It’s not a school uniform," Gerard retorts, his hand already fluttering up to fiddle with his tie. It's probably a stupid idea, dressing up for set. But when he stood in front of his messy suitcase that morning, running the day forwards in his mind, he couldn't help reaching past the worn t-shirts for the crisp white shirt. Professionalism is important. There'll be an executive on set. It has nothing to do with his wrap meeting with Brian Schechter.
His fingers are curling into the knot of his tie, starting to twist it loose when Mikey grabs him by the wrist, tugging him towards the door.
"No, too late we’ve gotta go. You need to stop by makeup before call and I don’t want you missing breakfast again." The usual rush of Mikey's schedule voice is less than soothing. Gerard's feet catch on the carpet, hesitating.
"Mikey-" The word dies in his mouth before he's even finished saying it.
Mikey's gaze finds him. Barely restrained impatience is written all over his face. "What?"
"Nothing." Gerard shakes his head absently, forcing his feet into motion. There's no point talking about things that don't exist outside his own head.
Thankfully, Mikey lets it drop, muttering "Come on, Number Five," with a smirk that helps Gerard start to feel normal again.
***
The morning's shoot is rolling like clockwork, right up until the point where Sophia Miles gets violently ill with food poisoning and they're stuck without a Vanya. She's swept away by PAs to the safety of her trailer when they are only three setups down on a four setup scene. It takes every piece of Gerard's failing willpower to keep his fingernails out of his mouth while Joe runs him through the back-up plan.
They're shooting Vanya's apartment today and there's only one other scene set there. It's going to require a re-light and calling in Bradley Cooper , who plays Kraken. The only other set that is shoot-ready is Hargreeves Office, which would require a total re-light from scratch and even more cast.
The most sensible decision (which is what Joe will always make) is going to cost them at least an hour. Probably two. Gerard just sighs at Joe and nods his assent to the new schedule. He's going to have to trim a shot or two from his shotlist, or they'll go into overtime and they simply cannot do that on the very first day Patrick Stump is on set.
"Will we be rolling again before the executive gets here?" Pete asks the question that's rattling in Gerard's mind.
"Ray?" Joe turns to the DOP, the other solemn face in the circle. "Can you be shoot ready in an hour and a half?"
Ray looks pained, one hand locked in his curly hair like he wants to pull a handful out. It took him three hours to set the lights this morning and he's going to have to put that entire setup back together whenever Vanya's ready to reshoot what they missed this morning.
"Yeah. Yeah I can do it." He nods, eyes already scanning the set, and Gerard can see the wheels turning. "Get any extra bodies out of the sound stage and out of my way, I'm gonna need all my guys moving at light speed - and I'm gonna have to get started right now." He raises an eyebrow in a are we done? kind of way and Joe nods.
"Thanks Ray." Gerard gives him a nod. Ray takes it as the dismissal it is and springs straight into action, calling for Cortez, Worm, Dirty and every other gaffer and electrician in earshot. Gerard will never stop being impressed with Ray's absolute dedication. "Well, if we're down for an hour I'm gonna go see Bob. See how he's going with that "let's impress the studio exec" reel."
"Sizzle reel," Pete interjects. "Don't get in the habit of calling it anything else or you might say it in front of the wrong person."
"Whatever." Gerard waves it away. "Keep me in my creative bubble over here, Wentz. Don't impose on my right brain." Pete just grins back at Gerard in a mock-pained way and Joe rolls his eyes at the two of them. This is an old joke that gets trotted out far too often.
Gerard leaves them to it, heading for the stage door. Mikey's at his side in an instant, already calling ahead to let Bob know they're coming.
When Gerard walks into Bob's cutting room, Bob doesn't even take his eyes of the screen. His fingers skitter over the keyboard, images flashing up on the large monitor to his right as he works. With one final three-key-combo he slams the space bar and leans back, swiveling his chair to finally face Gerard. His expression changes from concentration to appraising in less than a second.
"Why are you dressed like Number Five?"
"Give it up Bryar, Mikey's been giving me shit all morning. You won’t come up with anything he hasn't already used."
"It was an honest question." Bob waves a hand in the vague direction of Gerard's ensemble, "I mean... seriously ?"
"Hello, executive? On set, remember?"
"Dude. You were wearing a Megadeth T-shirt when they sent the exec on Revenge."
"That wasn't a stealth attack, Bob. This guy is Tom Meyer's spy, we need to be on the offensive or we'll end up with a whole fucking team of studio drones out here trying to call the shots. Can we just..." Gerard gestures toward the monitor hopefully. Bob meets his gaze solidly, not even shifting an eyebrow. No dice.
Gerard drops into a chair beside Bob's, raking a hand through his hair and rubbing at his eyes. "God, fuck today man. Why today? Sophie's ill, Universal are getting in the way, I've got this fucking wrap meeting."
"With Schechter, right?"
"Yeah with Schechter. Brian. Whatever." Gerard's fingers continue to tap out a rhythm on his temple. He needs to pull his head in. Today is not the day to fall apart. He shouldn't be throwing this shit at Bob; the guy's got enough on his plate already, but he can't help it. The edit suite has always been his safe place. Sometimes just talking things out inside these walls helps him dial down to calm.
"You're not going to be a dick to him are you?" There's a note of warning in Bob's voice.
"What?" Gerard tears his gaze from the inside of his hand to look at Bob.
"You were a total douche with him on Revenge. You know he didn't deserve that."
"Hang on, what? How the fuck do you know so much?" Gerard tries not to wince at how squeaky his voice is coming out.
"You probably don't know because you were still shooting, but he spent three days in my cutting room, which I don't even think he put on his timesheet, going through Otter's stuff with me and fixing it up. He saved the gunfight finale man; if he hadn't picked the eyes out of all the stunt footage the way he did we would've needed reshoots."
"I didn't think Otter had fucked it up that bad," Gerard mutters, Bob just shoots him a look - a patented Bryar stare that's equal parts cutting and withering.
Matt "Otter" Pelissier was the stunt coordinator on Revenge. The film was in its final weeks of shooting before it became obvious that Otter had bitten off more than he could chew. The studio replaced him at great cost with Schechter in the last days and that expensive decision probably saved the final reel.
So Brian saved Revenge. And Gerard was a dick to him. Not just because he was replacing Otter and not just because the studio forced Schechter onto him, no allowances, no arguments. It's more than that, but not enough to talk about. Not even to Bob.
"Alright. I was a dick. I'll behave. I'll be nice. Professional. Can we please watch the fucking reel now?"
Bob frowns like he's not ready to drop it, but his work ethic wins out over his annoyance. He spins to face the monitor and hits play, talking Gerard through the reel as it screens. It's not finished, but the framework is awesome. He's pulled the best moments out of the shot scenes and the last minute or so is a montage of every single money shot they've got in the can, with some incredibly stirring music running underneath.
The last shot is of Kodi Smit-McPhee, The Boy, sucking down coffee and looking every bit the sixty year old man trapped in a ten year old's body. He falls to the floor unconscious and the camera pulls back and up, showing Frank's set and Ray's lighting off wonderfully. It's not the shot Gerard would have picked, but there's no way he's changing it now. It's perfect.
If this doesn't show that executive they know what they're doing, the guy is a complete moron. Which, in Gerard’s experience, is entirely possible.
***
Patrick hates flying. Scratch that. Patrick hates flying long haul. Long haul to Patrick means anything over four hours. Eight hours is pushing it. Ten is about all he can take and still be functional. Fourteen is a fucking joke.
By the time he gets through customs at Brisbane International he's been awake for more than twenty four hours. This does not make him a pleasant person. Having to catch a midnight flight never makes him a pleasant person, even if he's not trapped in an airplane seat for more than fourteen hours. Which he was, followed by two hours stuck in Sydney International before his connecting flight to Brisbane. And really, the seats in First Class are exactly the same as the ones in Business; they just give you sheets and pajamas and expect you not to notice.
He's travelling alone since Universal didn't see fit to shell out for Travis, his assistant, to come with him, which meant he was missing every single travel comfort he would usually have to arm himself: sleeping tablets, laptop charger, facial wipes, eye drops. He's tired, he's gritty and all he really wants is a shower but he directs the car that's waiting for him to the studios rather than his Main Beach hotel.
The shower will have to wait. It's time for heads to roll.
***
Pete’s on set when Ryan taps his shoulder, leaning in to whisper since there’s a take rolling, "Stump’s due in ten." Pete nods, waiting for Gerard to call cut and the bell to sound, letting all the crew know it’s safe to speak and move around.
"Tell Mikey, tell Joe, tell Alicia, I’m going to production," he instructs, barely catching Ryan’s nod before he’s out the side stage door and hustling to the production office.
It’s definitely longer than ten minutes by the time Patrick Stump, executive for Universal Pictures strides into the production office, wheeling a suitcase behind him and looking a lot like death warmed up.
Pete’s surprised at how young the guy is; he’s used to executives being at least twenty years older than him and this Stump guy actually looks younger. Except for his attire, which looks at least three decades too old for him. He’s got one of those grandpa looking flat caps on, casting shadow over a forehead that’s shiny with sweat. He’s also wearing argyle, and not in a subversive way. It’s a very conservative vest that’s sitting over a short sleeve shirt and a pair of shapeless grey pants . To Pete, he almost looks like someone’s little brother playing at executive chic and really failing. Not that Pete would dare comment. This is Tom Meyer’s guy. They have to treat him nice .
"Hey Patrick, I’m Pete Wentz, producer – how was your flight?" Pete dives straight in, walking forward with an outstretched hand. He’s taking his ‘treat him like one of the guys he’ll feel like one’ approach.
The approach falls completely flat. Stump regards him with red rimmed eyes, one hand in his pocket and the other one remaining firmly on the handle of his suitcase, ignoring Pete’s offered shake. "Fourteen hours on plane isn’t my idea of a good time," he states flatly. "Do you have an office?"
The entire production office is so completely silent, Pete’s sure everyone hears his sharp intake of breath.
"Sure, of course." Pete tucks his hand away into his pocket swiftly, shaking off the decidedly chilly reception and indicating his office with a nod of his head. "Coffee, tea, water?" he asks, keeping the pep in his voice through sheer force of will.
"No," the executive grunts, with no hint of courtesy. Pete hands him a bottle of water anyway and Stump takes it, settling in an office chair despite Pete directing him toward his very comfy sofa.
"So how are things in LA?" Pete asks, perching on his desk rather than sitting down. For some reason he feels like he needs the higher plain to even things out. It’s unusual for him to feel so subjugated by anyone, but none of his charming bullshit is working on this guy.
Stump swigs absently from the water bottle he supposedly didn’t want, possibly not even realizing what he’s doing. The guy must be sweating bullets in that getup; almost everyone on crew wised up weeks ago and stopped wearing more than one layer of clothing at a time.
"LA is worried." Stump grinds out the words, tossing the spent bottle towards the trash can. "You’re on shoot day fourteen and you’re already over budget. Way over budget."
"It’s normal for a shoot to go a little over budget in the first few weeks. We’re getting great reactions to the dailies-" Pete can’t even get his next carefully prepared bullet point in, Stump talks right over him.
"Three million dollars is not a little over budget, Wentz. Why do you think I’m here?"
Pete does not sit with his mouth hanging open for ten seconds. Really. It was more like five. He starts to speak but Stump just barrels on in again.
"I’m here to get your shit in line. You know how much three million is? That’s your sound mix, that’s three hundred visual effects shots - two thousand release prints. Is this really the best way to be spending the budget, Wentz?"
It takes about three seconds for Pete’s brain to kick into action, then he finally finds the words that the little upstart needs to hear. "You can’t hang that amount on us, Stump. The bulk of that three million was just the goddamn dollar, currency fluctuations – this is beyond my control. We need to pay the agreed wages on the local crew. Contracts are contracts."
"You’re signing off on overtime like candy. That’s within your control."
"Because we’re on an impossible schedule! This is not a Movie of the Week, it’s unreasonable to expect four minutes a day. The only reason we’re coming close is through sheer concentrated effort and a shit-hot crew. What do you prefer – a few hours of overtime every now and then, or we wrap on time every day and go over schedule by four weeks down the end?"
It’s not until Pete’s got the words out that he realizes how loud his voice has gotten. Patrick hasn't moved, staring Pete down with eyes that are bloodshot and glassy and it occurs to Pete that yelling at the overtired studio exec is probably not the best way to get him on side.
Patrick Stump isn't flinching, though. If Pete didn’t know better he’d say the baby executive was smirking at him.
"This is your schedule. This is your budget. Don’t push and think the studio’s not going to push back." Patrick's voice is level, almost soft, but imbued with incredible authority.
Pete reaches for his calm; he's breathing way too fast and he's got to fight down the urge to run his mouth off even more. By comparison, Stump’s looking more relaxed than he has a right to.
"So. Are you going to take me to set?" Stump asks, already getting out of the office chair like it's discussion over. It’s a complete non sequitur and Pete does not scramble visibly to get himself upright and out the door before the executive. The guy can move fast when he wants to, though.
Pete edges in front, leading the way back into the bullpen. He belatedly switches the charm back on, introducing Stump to the various production crew as they make their way through the office.
As Patrick Stump presses palms with crew, polite as you like despite his tired visage, Pete can’t help feeling like he’s just been tested.
He can’t figure out if he passed or failed.
***
Patrick Stump's presence on set isn't disruptive; he doesn't make any fuss or try to interfere with the shoot. That doesn't mean that Gerard doesn't know he's there. He's like a niggling thought at the back of his mind, hovering in his peripheral vision with Pete by his side. He's a lot younger than Gerard was expecting, but it's too soon to assess him any further than that.
Gerard can't think about it, though. Just like he can't think about having to face Brian Schechter. He just has to get through the last setups and try to pull something from Bradley that will make the scene work.
They barely finish on time. Gerard manages to pull out the moments he needs from the last shot with three rolling resets instead of going for extra takes, and Bob will hate him for it but at least they didn't go into overtime.
When Joe calls wrap, Gerard can't avoid it anymore. He's run out of distractions; Mikey's already bundling him into a golf cart and even Mikey's driving isn't enough to keep his mind in check.
Thankfully, Pete's too busy keeping Patrick Stump entertained so he didn't insist on being present at the meeting. Gerard doesn't need this to be a public spectacle.
Brian is already at the catering tent when they draw up. Of course. Brian is a professional, he would've gotten here ten minutes early. Even from ten tables away, Gerard recognizes him, not just the face, hair, tattoos, but his stance, the casual strength he exudes just by being. He's wearing jeans that look wrecked and a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up that hugs in all the right places. There's more ink on his arms now than there was on Revenge, reminding Gerard just how long it's been since he last saw him.
Gerard swallows shallowly, thankful when Mikey drops back, leaving him to cross the floor solo. Each step brings him closer to the stuntman, filling in the details he couldn't see from far away, the short dark hairs of his sideburns, the tiny crinkles at the edges of his eyes. With a sinking heart Gerard has to admit, if only to himself, that Brian is just as attractive today as he was two years ago, maybe more.
"Brian, it's so good to see you again." Gerard sticks his hand out, internally chanting professional, professional.
Brian's smile doesn't reach his eyes, but he presses his palm to Gerard's and nods at him, the movement shaking a loose lock of hair onto his forehead and Gerard really needs to focus on the conversation they are going to have, not whether "boyish" or "striking" would be the best word to describe that .
Gerard pulls out one of the fold-out chairs and hunkers down into it, indicating for Brian to do the same. Brian does, after a moment of cool assessment that make Gerard's hair stand on end. When the sound of chair scrapes and squeaks halts, Gerard launches into a carefully prepared speech .
"I don't think I ever said thanks, properly, for all the work you did on Revenge. I-"
"You didn't." Brian cuts him off sharply. There's no venom in his voice, it's just flat. Fact.
"I'd like to - now." Gerard leans forward, hands clasped together firmly, trying to keep his facial expression neutral.
"Now that you want me on this one." Brian leans back, folding his arms. One of his feet is tapping staccato on the cement and Gerard has to fight the urge to scowl. He's not making this easy. But Gerard made a promise to Bob; even if Brian has this innate ability to get under his skin, he is going to keep it professional.
"Bob told me about the work you did in the cutting room with him, sorting out Otter's shit. I really appreciate that, Brian. I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner." Gerard's eyes fall down to the dirty concrete and he has to drag them back up to forcibly meet Brian's withering gaze. He can feel his palms growing damp as he fumbles for more words, the simmering nervousness he's pushing down threatening to bubble up as anger because fuck if he's going to have to twist someone's arm to work on his film. Not now. Not ever.
Brian's tapping foot starts to rotate in circles instead. "It'd have to be different this time," he says. That, at least, gives Gerard something to work with.
"Of course, yes. You'd be on from the start, you can pick your own crew, you'll get all the rehearsal time you-"
"Not all that." Brian keeps cutting in on Gerard and it's getting to him. It shouldn't, it really shouldn't. People have to cut off Gerard all the time or no one else would ever speak , but when Brian does it, it makes him want to ball his fists and scream. "I'm talking about you and me." Brian unfolds one of his arms to gesture between them and Gerard's heart stops. Just like that.
A million thoughts spool through Gerard's mind like a carousel on speed. Because those words coming out of Brian's mouth is everything and nothing he wants to hear. Before he has a chance to say something stupid or pass out, Brian continues, completely business-like.
"I need to know that you are going to treat me with the same respect you would any other member of your crew, okay? I mean no yelling, no tantrums, no snide remarks. I'm fucking good at my job Gerard; you have no idea how much shit my agent had to hold over me to even get me to come here today . But I'm here now and you know what? It's a good fucking script and you've got a good cast and a great crew. The only question mark in this equation is you."
Gerard can’t find the words for a really long time. He doesn't have the words for that. At least, not words he can speak aloud. Not words he can admit to anyone. He can barely even admit them to himself.
Lies are good, though. Lies he can do.
"I'll treat you the same as any other member of my crew. There is no one on this team that I don't completely respect and that includes you. If you want it, the job is yours." Gerard's not even really sure at what point this conversation became about convincing Brian to work on the film, and not just a meeting he had to get through to satisfy Pete.
Brian is the right person for the job. Pete knows that. Bob knows that. Gerard even knows that. He just wishes that was the reason he wants to hire him. He really does.
Brian rubs his chin thoughtfully, his eyes regarding Gerard with assessment. Gerard's fairly certain this entire conversation was a test, to see if Gerard could hold it together, if he could be civil and not mouth off at Brian the way he couldn't stop doing on set two years ago.
"You'll need to talk money with Pete, obviously, but he wants what I want so you can probably name your rate." Gerard can't help talking to try to fill the silence. He's unreasonably nervous now, and he's not sure if he'll be more relieved if Brian says no or yes.
"Okay. All right, you've got me. If Pete can sort out my agent then you've got me." Brian's not smiling but there's one hiding behind his eyes. He reaches his hand forward and Gerard takes it, feeling a flush of warmth up his arm as they shake on it.
Gerard can't help feeling like this is something so much bigger than it is. So much bigger than it should be.
***
Pete slumps down on his bed trying very hard not to count the number of hours it's been since he was last here. He'll happily count the day’s victories, though.
The look on Patrick Stump's face after they showed him Bob's reel, for one. Sure the guy was tired, his eyes still rimmed in red, but that was a smile Pete saw. A big fucking smile that Patrick wasn't quite fast enough to wipe off his face when Spencer slowly dimmed the theatre lights back up. Pete didn't push it; just offered the guy another coffee and ushered him out of the theatre.
Pete caught Bob's eye before left, giving him and Spencer a nod and a surreptitious thumbs up. They'd done an amazing job.
Number two, he got a call from Mikey not half an hour ago to let him know that Gerard and Brian's meeting went, in Mikey's own word "well". Pete's pretty sure "well" means that he can tell Dewees to give that contract to Brian to sign. It's hard being right all the time.
Lastly, it's not even midnight and he's horizontal, his phone's not ringing and it looks like there might even be something worth watching on the half-assed cable service in his serviced apartment.
He'll count that as another win.
***
Ten minutes down The Spit in a neighboring postcode, Patrick Stump is unknowingly mirroring Pete's slumped out state. Except Patrick's lying on a king size bed, with stupidly expensive sheets, in a hotel room far larger than is necessary for a single person .
There's a giant fruit basket on the counter, five bottles of expensive mineral water standing next to it. Delicate stationery lies on the ornate desk, embossed with the Palazzo Versace logo. Patrick's single suitcase looks small and lonely sitting on luggage rack in the corner. In all his time as an executive he's never felt quite so out of place as he does walking through the expansive lobby of an expensive hotel.
At least if Travis were here he'd have someone to talk to. A familiar face down the hall, instead of just his own thoughts. His contrary brain can't help itself; before he realizes what he's doing he's musing on the cost of this suite, it must be at least six hundred dollars a night. Plus the price of his first class return flight. The car from the air port. His per diem. How much money is the studio spending, to send him out here and tell Pete Wentz to tighten his budget belt?
Patrick rolls onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow, trying to quiet his brain. This isn't helping. Breaking down his travel costs into individual visual effects shots or hours of overtime isn't going to help anyone. He's here on Tom Meyer's decree and Tom's the guy who'll be holding the bag at the end of the day.
This is beyond Patrick's control. He knows that. He's the studio's guy and it's his job to be here, no matter how unnecessary he thinks it might be.
Even still, as he closes his eyes searching for that elusive unconsciousness, he can't help feeling like a bit of hypocrite.
***
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Aw poor Matt, he does always get dropped like a hot potato. I'm so glad you liked the meeting between Gee and Brian. God it was hard to write. They have such a different dynamic to anyone I've written before so it was such a challenge. So glad it worked for you and OOOH *seal claps* look at all your comments!