So we've learned that tumblr is really great for those incredibly random, random ideas. At least for me. Whether they be for films I haven't seen, tigers, or actors that have never been in anything together, but should. These random rpf projects that I do seem to operate and form and develop right off of tumblr. Let's talk about one of them.
MERCY STREET: FEVER RAYThe set is small. She follows a line of empty tables into the back, passing a row of lights still on from earlier in the day. Her hands are heavy and keep pressing into her hips. She's nervous and you should stop, she tells herself. These things happen and go the way they want to go. This is shouldn't be anything new.
"You came alone," he says, and she turns, whipping around to find him standing behind her, just in front of the offices from the other side. He still wears the face of his character, the blood kicked across his mouth, the bruising along his chin; for a moment, she wonders what's really and what's fake and how long it's been since she's asked anyone that question. Sometimes she's surprised. She is not supposed to show it.
"I came alone," she says back. She steps back too. Her boots click and then skid. She looks down and the leather is wet, walking straight into some kind of puddle. She looks back up at Liam, then down, kneeling and drawing her fingers into the puddle. The liquid is sticky, but it's not blood and whether she's relieved or not, she doesn't not show it. Liam's laugh is soft and somehow, she knows she's been caught.
"This is less about you and me," he says again. His hands press against his face and his voice is muffled. "I wouldn't be doing this if there wasn't - if there couldn't be some kind of meaning, some sense of purpose. Why would anybody do this? There's no thrill, there's no sense of ease. We're not doing this for a paycheck, we're doing this for - bloody hell, we're doing this so that things like -"
"You're drunk," she says finally, quietly. She moves to stand by his chair. She catches the whiskey on the table behind them. The hotel room is dark and heavy. He's looking at her like he isn't seeing her, but she ignores that. "You're drunk," she says. "We don't need to talk. Just let me put you to bed. We have a long day tomorrow."
He laughs and the sound is heavy. She lets her fingers curl around his arm, but he catches her by the wrist. His fingers turn over her skin and when he looks up at her, she cannot remember the last time someone looked at her like this - was it Ryan? She blinks and sighs. It was Ryan.
"Don't end up like me," he warns.
"Stop."
She doesn't blink and he pulls himself, stumbling to stand. When he leans over her, her breath catches. There are no lights. There's no crew watching. There's no reason to rationalize this happening.
"Don't do it," he says.
They open the envelope over breakfast. Outside the window, she sees Paris written into the background. It's a sunny day and when she catches a family with their cameras, her gaze softens.
"Don't look at them," Liam says. She looks back at him, over the other side of the table. His gaze is hidden behind his sunglasses. He's leafing through the paper. "It's a torturous business, looking at the things you want but cannot have. Don't do that to yourself."
Rachel's eyes narrow. "Do you enjoy this?"
He barely blinks. She's growing uncomfortable.
"I didn't think they'd send me something, someone," he corrects himself, "so young. I'll admit, I was expecting someone else. You're not usually my type either."
There's no feeling behind his words. Everything is stiffed, practiced, and she catches them curiously, wondering if he's trying to taunt her or test her. She closes her hands over her lap and then rubs them against her knees. When she picks them up, she reaches for her water glass.
"I'm not the new kid," she says. She looks back to the family. Maybe to spite him, maybe not. Tomorrow, they fly out to Berlin to start shooting the next third of their film. There is a dress in her bag and spare plane tickets just in case. He doesn't need to know, she thinks. "Stop treating me like one," she says.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not," he insists. "I'm being thoughtful, or whatever it is that they're calling it these days -- partner cooperation. Smart team dependency. I haven't got the faintest idea. Something awful and ridiculously stupid," he mutters.
She shrugs. "I'm not," he says again.
Rachel watches their waitress chat in the reflection of the glass, over the family and their cameras. If she squints, she can see the tower looming, waiting for all the tourists. Apparently, it's going to be a beautiful day.
"I'm a terrible liar," she says to him too. She turns and pauses. Slowly, she watches herself straighten her gaze. Her eyes are heavy. Her mouth is sharp. She holds it as he watches her. The corners of his mouth twitch. "Terrible, so terrible -- if it's any consolation, or any reassurance rather, I can give you references," she says dryly.
"Oh?"
Her eyes close. Then they open. Across the table, Liam finally tosses her the envelope. She doesn't pick it up yet.
"See," she says. Slowly, she grins. "How was that?"
They say there is a lot of them, all different disciplines, the obvious being the obvious and unapologetically so. Someone tells her that it makes sense and later, Liam will even tell her some ridiculously obvious story about loyalty to country and choice, to family or lack of it. He'll say it sadly, easily, and somehow, parts of it will be true and they will be the parts that she has no connection to, the ones that are easier to believe.
She will never offer why she does it. And he won't ask.