[ it's not the reaction he expects, not by a long shot. there are no snide comments to navigate, no bombs to sidestep. the ice cools his throbbing cheek, and embry has known a lot of finery in his privileged life, but the handkerchief somehow feels too nice to stain with his blood. his expression grows wary as he lifts the cloth to wipe his nose, the fabric fragrant with a woodsy spice, and he doesn't know why the abrupt realization that this is what hawk smells like stuns him.
the questions hurled his way blur together. he's too stuck on the apology, and having the rest of the day off despite being behind schedule, and the bizarre niceness of this whole interaction. but he's never known anything to just be for the sake of kindness in hollywood — he knows there are strings attached to this, that he'll be called to cash in on this favor sooner or later. hawk's name might not be on the production credits, but embry knows that he's the one that runs this set. he runs this entire goddamn lot. ]
I think security got him. [ embry doesn't know, but he's said enough. he can hear vivienne moore in his head: your whole business model is being desirable. this is just part of the job. ] Didn't see his face when I hit him.
[ he's a professional. he might be a goddamn mess, but he knows how to act, and after a moment or two he rises from the couch, calmer than before, because he needs hawk to keep liking him, or at least to keep tolerating him. and nobody likes an actor that they have to worry about and coddle. he approaches the desk, lowering the ice pack. ]
My face is gonna be worse tomorrow. [ the bruise will darken and bloom with time, his cheek reddened and beginning to mottle. the smell of hawk's cigarette mingles with his cologne, a pleasantly burning forest that gives his office a feeling removed from the rest of the harried lot. it's quiet here, with deep wood paneling the walls and expensive rugs spanning the floors. ] We should keep rolling today.
[ even though his nerves are shot to hell and he knows he can't do it without help. he's been clean, really, nothing hard lately, and that streak's about to break the second he gets back to his ransacked trailer. his crumples the handkerchief in one hand, clutching it like a security blanket, running his fingertip along the raised threading of those three letters. hawkins fuller. that part is obvious, and if he were having a better day, or if he knew hawk better, he'd joke about him having his underwear embroidered, too. ]
no subject
the questions hurled his way blur together. he's too stuck on the apology, and having the rest of the day off despite being behind schedule, and the bizarre niceness of this whole interaction. but he's never known anything to just be for the sake of kindness in hollywood — he knows there are strings attached to this, that he'll be called to cash in on this favor sooner or later. hawk's name might not be on the production credits, but embry knows that he's the one that runs this set. he runs this entire goddamn lot. ]
I think security got him. [ embry doesn't know, but he's said enough. he can hear vivienne moore in his head: your whole business model is being desirable. this is just part of the job. ] Didn't see his face when I hit him.
[ he's a professional. he might be a goddamn mess, but he knows how to act, and after a moment or two he rises from the couch, calmer than before, because he needs hawk to keep liking him, or at least to keep tolerating him. and nobody likes an actor that they have to worry about and coddle. he approaches the desk, lowering the ice pack. ]
My face is gonna be worse tomorrow. [ the bruise will darken and bloom with time, his cheek reddened and beginning to mottle. the smell of hawk's cigarette mingles with his cologne, a pleasantly burning forest that gives his office a feeling removed from the rest of the harried lot. it's quiet here, with deep wood paneling the walls and expensive rugs spanning the floors. ] We should keep rolling today.
[ even though his nerves are shot to hell and he knows he can't do it without help. he's been clean, really, nothing hard lately, and that streak's about to break the second he gets back to his ransacked trailer. his crumples the handkerchief in one hand, clutching it like a security blanket, running his fingertip along the raised threading of those three letters. hawkins fuller. that part is obvious, and if he were having a better day, or if he knew hawk better, he'd joke about him having his underwear embroidered, too. ]
What's the z for?