Chapter Text
Mickey flashes his credentials to one of the guards in the security booth, hoping this time he’ll be waved through without a fuss. As if on cue, the man leans in, squints and studies his face against the one printed on his ID, taking what feels like a full minute before letting Mickey through. He then escorts him all the way to the front of the house.
“Mister… Milkovich,” the guard ruminates aloud, moving to the next stage of the charade in which he chats Mickey up about the origins of his surname for another solid minute. Like they didn’t have some variation of this exact conversation every single day.
All Mickey can do is smile and nod with forced enthusiasm, ’cause the alternative, actually engaging with the fucking dude to let him know how insufferably annoying this little routine is, would make him late for work.
By the time he gets through, sets the heavy shit he’s carrying down in the production trailer, and heads to the crafts services table for a donut, his nerves are shot to shit. It was already shaping up to be a long-ass day, sure to give way to an even longer night now that they were filming footage for the second half of the season. The show isn’t anything glamorous. Your basic “bros and hoes” picked-to-live-in-a-house setup: warm weather, unlimited booze, clear-cut circumstances under which a group of objectively beautiful, attention-seeking party monsters could engage in idiotic, albeit entertaining, hijinks. Over the last few weeks, the relatively tame day shoots were being replaced by rowdier, increasingly later nights given the way the cast had begun playing fast and loose with their sleep schedules.
As the production manager, Mickey did a bit of everything; mostly behind-the-camera work, because he much preferred the mundanity of supervising support staff, helping break down sets and assist with setting up gear, over dealing with any of the onscreen “talent.” They were a horny and disrespectful group this time around, worse than usual, and always in need of some sort of handholding. Demanding and spoiled next-generation Hollywood brats, who, although lacking the talent of their famous parents, still inherited all the privilege, looks, money, and access that came with the territory.
Mickey takes an angry bite of his pastry after completing a bunch of physical tasks around the set. Alone. He could’ve sworn a new associate PM was due to start that day, but whoever this new dipshit was that HR hired, he’d so far been a no-show. He glares at the jacuzzi, a tangle of spray-tanned limbs and hair extensions flapping about without a care in the world, paying no mind to the camera angles, space lighting, action cues, or anything else the director had bothered setting up for the fucking scene. Before he can get too ornery about it, though, a shock of red hair blurs past his peripheral vision. It belongs to some guy he doesn’t recognize, and after a moment’s pause, he realizes it’s likely the absentee lackey in question.
“You’re late,” Mickey grits out around a mouthful of French cruller.
The redhead flashes him an apologetic smile in return. “I know, I’m sorry. Must’ve overslept,” he says, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Can’t imagine why, ’cause I set two alarms and everything. Won’t happen again.”
Mickey rubs both hands together, flicking donut crumbs from his fingers. “See that it doesn’t,” he shoots back, already making his way over to the trailer. He throws its door open heedlessly, emerging moments later carrying a clipboard.
“Fill this out,” Mickey orders the newcomer, handing over a pen and nodding to the documents attached.
“Paperwork?” he responds, a touch of incredulity in his voice, triggering a frown from Mickey.
“NDA, contract, employee handbook. Read that shit over, man. It’s standard procedure.”
“Oh, I know all that. Sorry. I just meant, ya know, since I was late… like, maybe I oughta help out first?”
Mickey glances around. He’d already carried in boxes of equipment, helped set up the boom mic and assisted with the sound and lighting checks earlier. All that was left was miking up the assholes currently splish-splashing in the hot tub, and it’s a responsibility Mickey’d be more than happy to delegate to someone else.
“Alright, Red,” he concedes, setting the clipboard aside with a clatter on the crafts services table. “Go talk to the sound engineer,” he points to a man standing in front of a mixing board. “Ask him for the waterproof mics and the tape. You’ll need…” he squints, counting up the exact number of degenerates currently woofing it up in the tub, “…five. Six, if Princess Hangover ever makes it the fuck outta bed today.”
Mickey turns on his heel to take care of some more last-minute production setup work, when the redhead takes a small step to block his path.
“I’m Ian, by the way.”
“Alright, Ian-by-the-way. I’m Mickey-much-too-busy. Come find me once you’ve filled out your forms, after we’ve wrapped for the night.”
Mickey makes a beeline for the trailer, then watches from the window as Ian approaches the cast after procuring the mics. The group erupts in catcalls and wolf whistles, which comes as no surprise considering the blood-alcohol levels sloshing through the jacuzzi. It also doesn’t hurt that the redhead’s built like an underwear model, so that when they inevitably soak the front of his t-shirt during their bullshit carousing, it clings to him like a second skin, showing off the hard planes of his body in full detail. For his part, Ian seems unsurprised and maybe even a little flattered by the attention.
Mickey tries looking away, tries setting his thoughts on something else, something work-related, but it feels impossible to draw his eyes off Ian, or the shitshow that’s currently unfolding in front of him. He sighs heavily, realizing he needs to intervene before things get any more out of hand, and stomps over to them across the lawn.
“Havin’ fun?” he grouses at one himbo in particular, a dude named Chad whose dad was a famous bodybuilder in the Seventies and as of late, was making a bid for Congress.
“Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doin,’ old man?” Chad fires back before taking a swig of rosé straight from the bottle.
“Yeah, not with him,” Mickey points to Ian. “He’s staff. He’s here to help out, so quit breaking the fourth fucking wall.”
“We’re not even filming yet, Mickey,” another dumbass slurs, this one Nissa, the daughter of a pinup model mom and a dad that’d once helmed some shitty Eighties hair band.
They were always filming. Jesus fucking Christ. Mickey rolls his eyes and turns to face Ian, who by now, is wringing out his t-shirt and in so doing, showing off a patch of ginger stomach hair.
“You… come with me,” he takes Ian aside by the patio so that they’re out of earshot, both from the degenerates in the hot tub, and the camera crew.
“Listen, it’s easy to develop relationships with the people we’re filming, but manipulation is not a part of the job.”
“I wasn’t trying to manipulate—” Ian starts, but Mickey cuts him clear off with a wave of his hand.
“Doesn’t matter what you were tryin’ or not tryin’ to do. We can’t manufacture drama and we sure as shit can’t be a part of it. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Ian’s eyes remain downcast as he chews his lip in frustration, but he nods anyway and continues twisting the hem of his shirt until Mickey issues an exasperated sigh.
“Enough. I’ll finish miking those fucktards myself. Go see if ‘Wardrobe’ can hook you up with something dry to wear.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian says for the second time that day, but by the time he looks up, Mickey’s already halfway across the lawn.
_______
The evening proceeds just like so many others. They keep to a fairly tight filming schedule without too many additional delays, or at least none that set them back significantly. Brielle, the hungover castmate eventually resurfaces, insisting at the top of her lungs that she needs a very specific brand of tampons lest her on-screen presence be severely compromised. Between that and the shortage of fresh limes for the mojitaritas himbo Chad and his dude-bro sidekick, Kagan, plan on making later, it presents a perfect excuse for someone to make a last-minute run for supplies. Normally Mickey would send an intern or a PA, but he’d been craving a break from the frenzy of the house and its constant flow of hysterical energy.
As Mickey starts the engine of his car and pulls away from the curb, the same nagging thought that’d been eating away at him for months manages to worm its way to the surface again: how the fuck did he get here? It wasn’t that long ago that a still-idealistic Mickey entertained ideas of a career in the film industry, doing something badass with his life, behind the scenes. He wanted to learn everything he could about the craft and started from the bottom rung, the hope being that he’d one day get to work with really progressive filmmakers and parlay that experience into directing. By now, he’d expected to at least be on his way. At least have something solid on his resumé he could be proud of.
And, well. Things hadn’t gone exactly as planned. He’d gotten the hell out of Chicago, more specifically away from his shitty neighborhood and lowlife criminal family by scoring a prestigious paid internship with an indie film studio. Never much of a student and constantly in trouble for some penny-ante shit, Mickey didn’t have too many things he excelled at. However, he did love movies and even began dabbling in shooting and editing his own amateur art films. They were nothing fancy. Just moody vignettes shot in black and white using a crummy dimestore camcorder he’d stolen and a barely functional old MacBook. But oddly enough, the low quality only added to the gritty quality of his work.
In a completely fluky moment one day, while Mickey and his brothers had set about trashing a bougie new coffeehouse that’d opened up in a bid to gentrify the South Side, he’d come across a flier for the internship on a community bulletin board. Pocketing the thing discreetly, Mickey felt an instant rush of adrenaline at the thought of scoring an actual, real-life job in the entertainment industry—despite the constant discouragement and prevailing sentiment from his fuckhead dad that he’d never amount to anything. He applied, got the gig and worked two crappy minimum-wage jobs just to make ends meet, but it was all worth it when he finally got to hop a bus to L.A. and watch his sketchy past disappear once and for all in the rearview.
Cut to a few years later, and Mickey isn’t exactly doing too badly for himself, landing a fairly steady stream of production work in the reality TV circuit, but it’s a far cry from those original aspirations. He knows he’s skilled and well-respected, but at his own perceived shortcomings, Mickey can’t help but grow increasingly disenchanted with the turns his life had been taking.
With a heavy sigh, he parks behind the nearest supermarket, pops in to make the necessary purchases and heads back to the set as quickly as he can. By the time he returns from the run, the crew is on their dinner break. There are a few picnic tables set up on the lawn toward the rear of the house, with chairs and a secondary craft services station stocked with the evening’s meal options. From the looks of it: roasted chicken, steamed vegetables, and a vegan pasta salad of some kind. Standard L.A. fare, but to Mickey, just heaping platters of nutritionally balanced dogshit.
On his approach, Mickey can see that Ian is seated at the head of the largest table; holding court apparently, because whatever tale he’s spinning or anecdote he’s recounting has the junior members of the crew, in this case a couple of PAs and some camera trainees, totally enraptured. Mickey also can’t help but notice that Ian’s wearing an Italian soccer jersey that, for fuck’s sake, somehow manages to be even tighter than the original t-shirt he’d been sporting earlier.
“So, wait, you were in the army?” he hears someone ask, to which Ian tips his head thoughtfully.
“Yeah, sorta,” he responds in a non-committal way. “Never made it past ‘basic,’ though.”
“But, was that before or after you became an EMT?”
“Before,” he acknowledges with a backward wave of his hand, “way before.”
Ian and Mickey lock eyes for the briefest moment before the brunet sets down the plastic shopping bag he’d been carrying. It looks like Ian wants to say something, possibly to ask Mickey to join them, but he deliberately averts his gaze to preempt any such invitation. He knows this whole “social butterfly” shit shouldn’t bug him. After all, Ian’s more than within his rights to engage with his coworkers, and in fact, it’s a much more appropriate way to conduct himself than the events of earlier. But despite knowing better, Mickey can’t help the stab of unease he feels at seeing Ian so casually acclimating to his new element.
Without a word, he just loads up on a few steamy slices of bland white meat, and carries his plate to the production trailer to eat in relative silence. It’s not long before the director calls it a wrap for the night, and aside from a few minor meltdowns and one scraped knee sustained via a drunken tumble on the stone pavers surrounding the pool, it proves to be a fairly lowkey workday, for which Mickey is grateful.
Of course, that gratitude only lasts so long when he steps out of the trailer for a smoke only to find Ian waiting outside the door, holding a clipboard.
“Hey, Mickey.”
Mickey sparks up a cigarette, takes a long, drawn-out pull, and blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth before responding.
“Hey, yourself.”
Ian tries handing Mickey the clipboard, but he makes no move to take it and instead, tilts his head toward the trailer.
“Leave it on my desk, man. I’ll deal with that shit tomorrow.”
The redhead nods and does as he’s told, re-emerging from the trailer a second or two later to stand before Mickey again, seemingly bracing himself for another awkward conversation with his new boss.
“So, um, call time tomorrow... same as today?”
“Same time every day,” Mickey responds dryly, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. “Set a third alarm if you anticipate an issue making it in.”
Ian chuckles nervously, unsure if he’s being raked over the coals again or if this is just Mickey’s piss-poor attempt at lighthearted banter. He shakes his head.
“Nope. It won’t be,” he exhales. “Alright, well... today was great. I really felt at home here. It’s a great team. A bunch of bright, really generous folks. So, thanks.”
Mickey eyes him askance. “For what, exactly?”
“Oh, um, for giving me a shot. Before this, I was doing post-production for a cable sports news network. It’s nice to get out from behind the render farm, ya know?”
Mickey doesn’t say anything for a while, instead puffing deliberately on his smoke before finally clearing his throat to break the silence.
“I wasn’t the one who hired you, so you don’t have to thank me.” He gestures at the redhead’s attire, cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. “Organized sports not your thing? Could’ve fooled me with this getup.”
Ian glances down at the soccer jersey as if surprised to find himself wearing it, then smiles uncertainly. “I should probably change.”
“Yeah. You probably should,” Mickey agrees, before snuffing the last of his cigarette butt out against the stairs leading to the trailer.
Ian fetches his now dry t-shirt from a nearby clothesline and makes quick work of redressing, while balling up the jersey in his hands.
“What should I do with this?” he asks Mickey, who snorts lightly and reaches a hand forward to accept the discarded item.
Ian nods his thanks and Mickey watches as he heads for the entry gates at the front of the house.
Ready to call it a night himself, Mickey yawns. He goes back inside to straighten a few things up before locking the trailer down for the night. He tosses the jersey aside onto a console, moves Ian’s paperwork to his inbox and powers down his laptop.
Up until that moment, Mickey had prided himself on being a consummate professional. Granted, not the most personable, warm, or affable supervisor ever, but certainly one who’d made it a point to maintain high ethical standards with the cast—and crew especially. Which is why what he does next, in a completely unthinking lapse of judgment, goes down as his absolute most humiliating work-related experience to date.
On his way out, Mickey glances at the jersey again, debating whether to take it back to the wardrobe department for a washing, or wait until the next day. He scoops it up in his hand, mind wandering as—for some fucked-up reason—he holds it up to his nose, closes his eyes and sniffs deeply. It smells faintly of detergent and sweat mixed with deodorant, the really potent kind that’s scented with piney woods and musk.
Of course, it’s at that exact instant that Ian decides to come bursting back through the trailer door, claiming to have forgotten to add an important detail to his Release of Liability form or some shit.
“What the f—" Mickey starts to say, tearing the fabric away from his face in what he hopes is enough time to cover up his weird indiscretion.
Apparently just as startled, Ian turns his body away from the door and casts his eyes down at his sneakers.
“Shit, man. I’m sorry. I just—”
Mickey scoffs, tossing the shirt away as if it had suddenly sprung an outgrowth of stinging nettles.
“Didn’t I already tell you I wouldn’t be dealing with all that bullshit until tomorrow?” he fires back, trying to hide his fluster.
It doesn’t work too well, because Ian just inhales sharply and bites his bottom lip to keep from smiling.
“Yeah. I guess... I’ll just deal with it whenever, then. No big deal.”
Mickey waits for the door to close completely again, before sinking down into a chair, burying his face in his hands, and groaning long and loud.
“Oh, what the actual fuck?” he vocalizes to absolutely no one. Yeah, clearly this shit was gonna be a problem.