Chapter Text
“Cut!”
Mick’s head shot to attention. It had been a gruelling four hours, the director insisting on getting as much work done as they possibly could before the talent arrived. It had been boring dialogue sequence after boring dialogue sequence, minor character after minor character. Without dynamic shots to worry about, his job as the on-site lighting technician was effectively damage control. If the fresnels shifted slightly too much, the director would snap him out of his half-nap to cross the set and fix them.
He checked his watch. Twelve in the afternoon.
“Thank christ.”
He was on his feet before the stage manager could announce that their lunch break had started. It was going to be an eventful afternoon and he was going to relish in every moment of peace he was afforded. He grabbed his jacket and darted for the door.
Mick never bothered with the caterers; it was a habit he’d adopted after coming to terms with the fact that he was so far behind in the queue to be served food that his break would be half over by the time he could leave the building.
He had a fridge in his camper, anyway.
“Hey, Micky, have you seen Dell anywhere? He was meant to give the set pieces a once-over before the other actors get here.” The voice was accompanied by a hand that grabbed his shoulder from behind, halting his escape.
“Sorry, mate.” Mick hastily turned to the stage manager, Pauling, eager to end the conversation as quickly as possible. “I haven’t seen him since I clocked out yesterday. Have you checked the workshop?”
“No, because he shouldn’t be in the workshop. He’s being paid to oversee the filming today, just the same as you.” She held a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. “Look, I’m really sorry Micky, but could you check the clinic on your way to lunch? If something happens during filming we’re going to be held liable if Mr. Conagher doesn’t give his seal of approval.” She didn’t look any happier about the situation than Mick was, which was saying something.
He was always apprehensive about the clinic. The medic seemed friendly enough, if a little sporadic, but the sterile air of hospitals gave him the creeps.
Mick heaved a dramatic sigh. “Alright, mate, but don’t expect me to clock out until I’ve got a plate in my hands.”
Miss Pauling gave him an acknowledging clap on the shoulder before running to her next task, her head disappearing back into the sea of cast and crew. Mick had never seen her take her lunch break, as far as he could remember.
He turned on his heel toward the on-site clinic.
…
Mick rapped his knuckles against the medic’s trailer. No answer. Perfectly content to leave it at that, he began plotting the path of least resistance to his kitchen.
“Wait! Don’t go!” Muffled through the aluminum door of the portable clinic, it sounded like the doctor was physically straining against something. “I just need a minute and I’ll be right with you!”
If he hadn’t been taken aback by the absurdity of it, Mundy would’ve rolled his eyes at the acknowledgement.
“You, uh, alright in there, mate?” No response. “Need a hand?”
“God, no!” The yelling startled him, and seemed much closer to the door than it had been previously. “Whatever you do, do not open the door! The situation will be handled in due time! Assuming you aren’t bleeding to death out there, I’m sure you can survive waiting a few seconds!” He sounded out of breath, the entire trailer rattling every few seconds.
“Are you fighting someone in there? Do I need to call security?”
The chaos abruptly stopped. The door slammed open, barely missing Mick’s nose, and he was suddenly face to face with a large, bloodied man.
“Jesus christ, man, I was kidding!” Peering around the medic’s shoulder, Mick saw that his office was a disaster, papers littering the floor. His attention was brought back to the doctor when he adjusted his glasses and straightened his posture. He did not move out of the doorway to let him in.
“Apologies for the wait, very unprofessional of me. Indeed.” Glasses back in place, he eyed Mick over. “You, ah, don’t seem to be in all that much trouble, Mr. Mundy. Can I help you?” He was still slightly out of breath, his chest heaving between each sentence.
The medic’s desk cooed.
If he noticed it, he didn’t acknowledge it. His gaze stuck to Mundy like his job security depended on it.
Without a word, Mick lifted his pointer finger to his own temple, mirroring the still-bleeding spot on the medic’s forehead.
“You’ve got something there, mate.”
The medic wiped the heel of his palm against his forehead and noticed the trickle of blood running down his face.
“Scheisse.”
The gig was up, whatever it was. The doctor sighed through his nose and turned back into his trailer to find a cloth.
“Can I come in for a sec? Won’t tell nobody about whatever you’ve got going in there, promise.” He put his hand over his heart for emphasis. “I just needed to ask you a question about something totally unrelated.”
“Fine. Mind the papers, I’ll put the kettle back on.” The startled yelp of someone trying not to slip echoed through the office. “While you’re here, could you pick up some of those documents for me? My hands are full.” The sink creaked on and the doctor occupied himself with cleaning his own wound.
The desk cooed again.
Mick crossed the threshold. He hadn’t planned on staying for tea, but his own curiosity was getting the better of him. He had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t be making it back to his camper in time for lunch, anyway.
He worked at shuffling the papers together as he spoke. “Have you seen much of Dell today? Pauling said he was meant to be here, supervising the set quality control. Or something.”
The sink squeaked once more as the medic shut it off, applying something to the cut on his face. He winced before registering that a question had been aimed at him. “Huh? No, I haven’t seen him today.” He dug through a cabinet for a bandage. “I thought he had the day off.”
“Really? Pauling and the director seem to think otherwise.” He dropped another pile of papers on the desk with a thunk and it warbled disapprovingly. “Seems strange, don’t it? Dell’s the last guy who’d play hooky on a day like this.”
“It’s certainly odd.” The medic put a kettle on the stove and clicked it on. “Perhaps he was nervous about meeting a celebrity. A real one, not the B-lists this company tends to sign on.” Hands freed, he turned around to lean against the stove and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes swept over the room for the first time since he cleaned his wound. A smile stretched across his face. It was unsettling. “Danke, Mr. Mundy. I can see why the producer likes to keep you on call.”
“No problem, but your table had a few choice words about it.” Mick’s gaze turned back to the desk.
“My… verdammt.” The doctor’s expression fell back down to one of exasperation. “Well, I suppose the metaphorical cat is out of the bag now, hm? Naughty bird.” He began striding toward the table.
“Listen, mate,” Mick chuckled and got out of his way, “all I did was accuse your desk of talking. Don’t know what I said to warrant names.” At his new angle, he had a perfect view of the brass nameplate adorning the medic’s wall.
Dr. Ludwig. Right. He’d been in too deep to ask.
“No need to patronise me, Mr. Mundy.” Dr. Ludwig cracked open the drawer and a dove indignantly leaped out, completely ignoring his outstretched finger. “Archimedes injured himself while I was preparing for work this morning. I didn’t trust his brothers not to hurt him further and didn’t have time to quarantine him, so, well, you know.” It waddled over to Mundy and cocked its head to the side. The doctor giggled. “He’s proven that he could have defended himself if I’d just left him at home, but it's too late now. He probably won’t look at me for the rest of the day. Just don’t leave that door open.”
“Ain’t that… a little unsanitary?” Mick crouched down and stretched his own finger to the bird, who cautiously tapped over.
“For shame, Mr. Mundy!” Ludwig’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “I’ll have you know that doves are very clean creatures. Much cleaner than any human I’ve ever met.”
Mick noticed a streak of blood, presumably Ludwig’s, splattered across the dove’s chest feathers. Best not to mention it. “So, that means we’re back to square one, then. Dell’s MIA, I haven’t had lunch, and I’ve got to be back on set in fifteen minutes. Peachy.” He used his knuckle to scratch Archimedes’ cheek.
“Well, it wasn’t a complete loss. You’re off the hook for finding him now, at least.” Ludwig took a sip of his tea before looking at his mug. “I would have offered you some, but it’s an almost-ten minute walk to the set. You should hurry along if you want to eat before lunch ends.”
Mick stood, stretching his back, and Archemedes responded with a disapproving coo. “Alright Doctor, well, it was nice seeing you.” He dusted his hand on his trousers. “If I’m lucky there’ll still be a sandwich or two left on the catering table by the time I get back.” He looked back at Archimedes. “I’ll make sure the door’s latched real tight.”
“Auf Wiedersehen!” Ludwig kept a close eye on his dove as Mick carefully shut the door. He’d heard rumours of some less-than-ethical things the medic had gotten up to since joining their company, but other than thinking that bringing a bird to work was a good idea he seemed level-headed enough.
He started his brisk journey back to the studio, knowing he would barely make it on time.
…
There were no sandwiches left, which was about what he’d expected.
The energy in the studio had skyrocketed since Mick left for lunch. It was the first day of filming with the lead actors, and the crew was buzzing with excitement. Ludwig had been right; they didn’t usually work with A-listers and his co-workers were starstruck. He’d never seen any of the actor’s films before and hadn’t felt the need to; something he was starting to regret after seeing the reactions of his peers.
Mick had never really understood the idolization of celebrities. They were still a flesh-and-blood human under all the media attention, after all, and treating them with more respect than anyone else would just feed into their ego.
This particular movie star had been known for a series of romance films in the fifties, branching out to action movies later on. His cool, firm demeanour had served him well in both genres, meaning he garnered a huge fanbase of men and women alike. They were in the middle of filming the third movie in a series of ridiculously popular spy films and the advent of colour television meant that there were more eyes than ever to watch.
His name was totally lost on Mick. He’d read it a hundred times in the NDAs and promotional posters but it never stuck. He knew it was French, at least. He scanned the catering table one more time, picking up a stray apple to keep himself lucid during the rest of the day’s filming.
He was, once again, shaken out of his thoughts by Pauling.
“Mick! Did you get any word on where the hell Dell is? Beaumont’s a few minutes away and we still haven’t gotten the check done.” She looked a lot more frazzled than she had last time.
“Uh, sorry, mate. I checked in with the medic and he thought he’d had the day off, or something. Best I got.” He sheepishly took a bite of his apple as Pauling’s expression drooped. “Can’t you get one of the other set-builder types to do it?”
“I mean, yes,” Miss Pauling said as she pushed her glasses up, “but I’ll have to do a whole lot of paperwork because of it. Add it to the pile, I guess.” Her expression froze. “What do you mean Dell took the day off? Nobody signed off on that.”
“Couldn’t tell you. Just parroting what Ludwig said.” He looked at the commotion gathering near the doorway and back at Pauling. “You might want to get on it, though. I think the bigshot’s here.”
“Shit!” Pauling ran off to find the only other carpenter on the clock.
Mundy thought back to what she had said a few moments ago, watching his coworkers unsubtly look out the window. “Beaumont, huh. Don’t see a lot of Beaumonts around here.” He’d definitely heard it before. There had been passive discussions about an actor with that surname. Of course there were, considering where he worked. Try as he might, the first name still wasn’t coming.
“Excuse me, sir, have you seen a… Miss Pauling around here? I was told to report to her.” A hand tapped his shoulder, accompanying the voice.
Mick nearly jumped out of his skin. He whipped around, meeting the gaze of the exact man in question. The actor’s surprised expression only lasted a moment.
“My apologies. Were you in the middle of something? You didn’t look busy.”
“Don’t worry about it, my bad.” Mick tossed the core of his apple into the garbage, a small sense of shame creeping through him. “What was that again?”
“Miss Pauling. Your stage manager.” With the surprise gone, the annoyance hiding underneath was visible. “I’m already running behind. I need to speak with her before I can change into my costume. This is important.”
He didn’t appreciate the tone, but he knew better than to bring it up. “Was just here, mate. You’ll probably find her hovering around the set construction department. She’s got glasses and a purple dress. Can’t miss her.”
Without so much as an acknowledging grunt, Mr. Beaumont turned to leave.
“Wait, before you go, the hell’d you manage to sneak up on me like that? There’s an army of people waiting for you at the door.”
The group of excited crew members were still waiting for him to make his grand entrance. They hadn’t noticed that he was already in the building.
“What, did you think I was going to just waltz through the front door? It would take much too long to address every one of them before getting started.” A smirk threatened to show itself. “You have a fire exit, right behind you. You should probably know that by now.”
Mick turned around, seeing a door he’d never bothered to pay attention to before. When he turned back, the actor was gone, probably to find Pauling.
He still didn’t know his first name.
“Wanker.”
He had lights to set up.
…
Star-studded or not, the actual filming was just as boring as anything else. After Mick had gotten everything in place, his job was to wait for something to go wrong. He pulled up his folding chair and mentally prepared for a few hours of watching people say the same thing over and over.
Pauling had gotten the carpenter to sign off on the sets. Being the man who usually worked directly under Dell, he had the most seniority in the department of anyone in the building. Without anything better to do, Mick observed as he went about his tasks.
The carpenter spent a long time fussing over the largest set piece in the room, a platform that the lead actor was meant to stand on as he delivered a monologue to his love interest. He’d triple checked every support beam, which was a little out of the ordinary. When Dell did his quality assurance, he had confidence in his work. Fifteen minutes before filming was not the time to find out if set pieces were safe, after all. The check was more of a formality than anything.
Mick kept his eye on the carpenter as he gave everything else a once-over and signed the forms provided to him by Pauling. They caught each other’s eyes for a moment, and Mundy shot him an awkward thumbs-up. Too far away to say anything, the set builder found his own chair and sat down. They had that part of the job description in common.
A stage hand brought a set of folding chairs into the room, placing them just offstage. Each one had the name of a different important person printed across the back. They were slightly too far away to read, to Mick’s annoyance. He’d figure it out soon enough. It wasn’t like people weren’t chatting about the guy left and right. People tended to only use his last name in conversation, probably considering it disrespectful to use his first.
They didn’t have that same pause when they talked about him, of course. He wasn’t sure if half his coworkers knew his last name, let alone bothered to use it out of respect.
He was pulled out of his thoughts when the actors arrived on set. They had changed, Mr. Beaumont donning a ridiculous-looking ski mask that obscured his face and neck. The ever-present cigarette in his mouth continued burning and Mick was shocked that anyone, let alone the producers, were alright with him smoking in-costume.
Mundy had to leave the building before he could even think of lighting up. The privilege that came with being the face of the industry bothered him.
Beaumont’s head turned, probably noticing that he was being stared at. Their gaze met for a moment before Mick pretended to cough and looked away. He had no business bitterly ruminating when, technically, his job was to pay attention to his setup. He had more important things to focus on.
Most of the actors had gone to their chairs, not being required for the shot. Beaumont and his co-star climbed up the platform with the aid of the stagehands. The ambient lighting dimmed, obscuring the words on the page of the book he was reading. He sighed to himself and put it back in his vest pocket, crossing his arms to watch.
His eyes flitted back to the support beams of the platform the actors were standing on. He had a gut feeling that he should pay close attention to them, after watching the carpenter spend so long fretting. It wasn’t his business, but it also wasn’t any less interesting to him than what was happening on top of them.
Wait.
He squinted his eyes. The stage lights weren’t exactly focused on them, but enough light had bounced off the set above to barely make out something on the support beam. He thought it was writing, at first. He’d seen Dell take a big carpenter’s pencil from behind his ear and scrawl on the less visually important parts of the set before. But words don’t move.
A crack was spreading across the beam. It was load-bearing.
The larger the crack grew, the faster it spread. If the beam came down, the platform would become much less stable.
He had to say something, even if it meant ruining the shot.
“Wait!” Nobody had heard Mick talk with his chest before, let alone yell. The other stage hands and crew members’ heads whipped to face him with incredulous expressions. They probably thought he was going insane.
The actors on the platform stopped mid-sentence, confusedly looking left and right to see where the noise had come from. They wouldn’t be able to see much of what was happening off-set with those lights in their eyes.
The next few seconds felt like minutes. The support beam buckled and snapped, just as Mick had worried. Without the support, the beams around it began sagging.
Before he knew it, he was out of his chair and running. Nobody else had noticed the crack and they wouldn’t have enough time to process what was happening to do anything. It was going to be a fifteen-foot drop. Not high enough to kill anyone, but absolutely the right height to snap bone if they landed wrong.
The platform keeled over. He wouldn’t be able to help both, so he sprinted toward whichever figure was nearest. They wouldn’t be free-falling the whole way, so he would only need to help them land.
As it fell, the rest of the crew finally registered what was going on. None of them would make it in time.
Mick leaped forward, hands outstretched, as what felt like two hundred pounds of force slammed into his arms. The platform, now horizontal, crashed to the floor soon after. He didn’t notice, busy trying not to fall over himself. He felt something pop in his wrist, but the adrenaline was making it hard to care. He helped the body to stand. They were definitely too heavy to be a woman.
The woman.
Mick’s head turned to where she would have fallen. He saw a scene mirroring his own, except it was the carpenter from earlier who caught her. She didn’t seem hurt, to his relief, and he respected the set builder’s reaction time.
He turned to Mr. Beaumont, who looked a combination of shocked, horrified, and happy to be in one piece.
“So, is now a bad time to ask what your name is?”