It doesn't particularly surprise Bill that the pretty girl-boy with the scary eyes is first up to the desk. He watches upside down as the kid scrawls his name on the sign-in sheet, filling out the incidental information with a kind of practiced impatience.
ELIJAH JORDAN WOOD is scrawled in the name blank, and Bill feels his brows arch toward his hairline in amused disbelief. Age: 23.
Bill resists the urge to snort aloud.
The kid glances up at the clock on the wall beside the moth habitat and conscientiously writes the exact time in the appropriate little blank.
The other nitwits in the room have shuffled into a somewhat orderly (the best Bill can really hope for, he supposes) line behind him, waiting for their turn to sign-in. Bill ignores them when the kid lays the pen down and half turns away from the desk.
"One second, mate," Bill says, and the kid turns back toward Bill with a frown, thick brows drawn into a frown that seems to be two parts grumpy one part puzzled over his really incredibly creepy eyes. "I'll need to see your I.D."
Elijah quickly stifles his first reaction, an irritable sort of double-take somewhere between Don't you know who I am? and What are you, the fucking bouncer?. Given the circumstances, it's not exactly an unreasonable request. They've probably got to verify all sorts of things so as not to end up sued by some midwestern princess' parents or something. Fair enough. He lays his folder flat on the counter and reaches for his wallet, fishing out his driver's license.
Looking up he sees Disgruntled Scotsman watching him fumble the card out, and his green eyes are tittering with something else behind that expression of bored irritation -- amusement. The scruffy bastard's fucking with him. He's getting grief from a fucking secretary with a netful of bugs behind his desk. It's way too early for this shit. Elijah draws his hand back at the last second, holding his ID up in front of the man's face instead.
Bill crosses the line from amused to aggravated without much of a chance to resist.
He's fairly sure the ease with which he shifts between the two is Nic's bloody fault.
He raises one hand and deliberately plucks the kid's ID from his hand, barely quirking a brow at his expression, which seems to be just on the verge of objecting.
I dare you, Bill thinks, looking right into the kid's eyes. I fucking dare you.
The kid doesn't. His eyes flicker away from Bills. His lips go tight and his eyes narrow slightly (making them slightly more like the size of a normal humans eyes), but he doesn't say anything and doesn't look back up to meet Bill's eyes. He does tap his fingers impatiently on the countertop.
Bill toys with the idea of clipping the corner of the license off. It's illegal to drive in the state of California with a license that has been altered or damaged in any way. It's pretty likely that the kid doesn't know that, and won't until the next time he was pulled over.
Petty, Boyd, he thinks, which is true of course. He contents himself with making a photocopy of the bloody thing for the kid's file -- the kid will have a file at DBY, Bill doesn't doubt it for a second; Johnny is going to take one look at him and drag him into the back -- so he doesn't have to do it later.
Just for the sake of form, he double checks the kids last name (what do you know, it is Wood, ha!) and his DOB. And then, just in case, for any of the signs that it's a fake I.D. No such luck.
Kid is actually twenty-three.
Ah well, been wrong before, Bill thinks, and hands the little plastic rectangle back to him. He slides a background check permission form onto the counter at the same time. Might as well get a jump on things.
"Sign this, mate," he says, and feels amusement sliding back at the suspicious expression on the kids face.
Elijah's fingers slip against each other in a little fumble when his license is yanked out of his hand. He looks up and scowls in reaction, opens his mouth to start the Hey! -- and the look on the face staring back at him is enough to squeeze the word back down his startled throat.
His Juicy Fruit follows it in a thick lump.
Elijah feels his eyes go wide at the sudden shift from Disgruntled to Possibly Fucking Homocidal, and the first thought that stutters through his mind is Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing working here?
The guy's still staring at him, waiting, and Elijah drops his eyes and sets his jaw, irritated as much as he is unnerved. No sense making a big deal out of it, or anything. Wouldn't be professional, you know. Just a secretary anyway.
Every seedy Dateline special he's ever seen comes back to his memory as the guy takes his ID over to the copier, and he's suddenly not so sure this was a good idea. If they have this cranky bastard working reception, what sort of people are running this joint anyway? He's not prone to nerves, not until this year, but he has to physically stop his fingertips from tapping on the counter as he waits. He tries to remember if Scotland has a mafia.
The man returns, still eyeing his license like a fucking truant officer, and hands it back before slapping a piece of paper down onto the counter. Elijah can see the word "release" amongst the print at the top.
"Sign this, mate," and Elijah is just rattled enough to set his mouth and ask, "What is it?"
"Organ Donor form," Bill says wryly, and watches the kid's mouth pop open, a perfectly round O (oh yeah, Johnny's going to hire him, Bill thinks, well over the line into amused now); he gets ahold of himself quickly and glares at Bill with his spooky eyes (in spite of himself, Bill tilts his head slightly and then shifts the angle of his stance, just to get a really good look at them), clearly aware that he's being fucked with. "Permission to complete a background check," Bill says, "just to be sure you're not a junkie or a mass murderer."
There is some shifting and murmuring further back in the line -- the ones that have done this before are most likely fully aware that such a form isn't normally signed until after a contract has been offered -- and Bill throws a narrow look past Elijah Wood, 23, which succeeds in shutting them up fairly effectively.
Well that's a new one, Elijah thinks. Not exactly standard SAG procedure. He's ready to just shrug and add it to his growing list of Bizarre Shit That Happens at Porn Auditions, but then he hears a shuffle behind him and a very poorly concealed hiss of "The fuck?"
He turns his head, catches several scowling faces, then glances back to check Disgruntled's expression. The whispering dies at once, but not entirely, and Elijah feels his heart trip once and then settle. Not standard procedure here, either. His confidence returns in a pleasant rush. Disgruntled clearly isn't as much of an asshole as he appears.
Or at least, he's a asshole with some taste.
Elijah leans on the counter and gives the guy his good smile, the one the Abercrombie photographer calls "Daughter Tested, Mother Approved". His signs the form like an autograph and slides it back, unable to keep the smirk from curling at the corner of his mouth.
Bill takes the paper and slides it into a ready manilla folder with the photocopy of the kid's license. He'll label it when he's absolutely sure (although he's sure enough).
"Don't count your chickens, dollface," Bill says, thinking fleetingly of Walsh. The kid's eyes narrow again, and it's Bill's turn to smirk. "Have a seat, Mr. Wood."
Even as the kid is walking away from the counter, his back a straight, tense line, Bill sees Johnny sidling open the swinging door and slithering gracefully into the office area separated from reception. Bill smiles slightly -- Johnny's been peeking, apparently.
Johnny grins and holds out one hand, and Bill passes him the folder, amused at the fact that Johnny is skulking just behind the swinging door where those people still signing in at the counter can't see him.
It's not a huge crowd, about average, a couple of regular hopefuls are back yet again although Louella's not here, which is a bit worrying - Louella is a hundred if she's a day, a scrawny gin-sipping chainsmoking old broad that shows up to every single open call day in her flapper dress and beaded cap, with her album tucked under her arm. She wanders around and drinks the free coffee, tells everyone who'll listen about her days dancing burlesque on the seamier vaudeville circuit. Johnny adores Louella. He makes a mental note to find out if she's all right, he has her address and phone number buried somewhere in the second or third stratum of his corkboard collage.
Anyway. Busines at hand.
Bill hands over a folder and Johnny flicks it open, squints for a moment at the fuzzy photocopied ID picture, at the already signed release form. "Pretty sure, huh?" He grins at Bill, who rolls his eyes.
"Pretty, anyway," Bill says dryly. "Prettiest of the lot, although he's got some attitude."
"Attitude is good," Johnny says, and leans out, glances around the room for a face that matches the smudgy thumbprint he's looking at. "Attitude will get you places."
And attitude is what Johnny needs right now, spunk in the non-bodily-fluids way, he needs young, he needs fresh, he needs interesting.
He snaps the folder shut, steps out into the lobby, and finds all of the above in one pair of eyes.
Elijah is picking at the torn cuticle on his left thumb when Skin Graft Bustier Girl gives a squeaky little gasp and straightens beside him. Posture is improving rapidly around the room, and Elijah looks up to see the cause of it sauntering through the swinging door and into the little lobby.
He's dressed like a mid-90s grunge singer, complete with waves of black hair and impossibly ripped jeans, surveying the ranks with the air of someone strolling through an art gallery as opposed to canvassing new employees. Nevertheless, one look at the man sends Elijah's thisisit alarm into DefCon 4, and his shoulders have moved up and back before he even actually realizes that the man is holding a folder in his hand, and that he is looking directly at Elijah.
Those eyes, that fucking china doll innocent "who me?" look... it'll drive everybody out of their fucking minds. Johnny grins as he flips the folder shut and crosses the lobby, holding out his hand, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea, man.
(It's not particularly englightened, you know, it's not Zen to get off on power, but when you've got it, man, sometimes it's a hell of a rush.)
He's already picturing something faux-sleazy, naughty schoolboy, rep ties and uniforms and if he could talk Bean into topping that'd be fucking brilliant - not that he even remotely expects a yes, poor guy, but it's the vision that counts, you know?
"Hey Elijah," he says. "I'm Johnny Depp. C'mon." He jerks his head toward the door. "Wanna talk to you."
Elijah blinks at him, mouth open, hand half-extended in introduction. Something just happened -- clearly a few important steps were just skipped and his nicotine-deprived mind hasn't caught it just yet. The only thing that comes to mind is, that's it?
But the rest of the room caught it, for sure. The whispers return in a rush, this time hissing with unconcealed disgust. Several of the glitter-tits squad are already rolling their eyes and digging for their keys. A glance over to the desk and Disgruntled is typing away indifferently, but his scowl is curled up into a what might be considered a knowing little smirk. At that, the man's words finally connect with Elijah's brain.
C'mon. Wanna talk to you.
Well that's that then.
Elijah sticks his hands in his pockets, gives Bustier Girl a little wink, and turns his best smile to Mr. Johnny Depp.
Ooh, yeah, the kid's got nerve, too, he's got a little flash, cocky charm, that's great, that's brilliant, he's going to be so great. Johnny can just imagine the way those eyes are gonna light up on screen, guys are gonna love him, girls are gonna love him.
"Great," he says out loud, makes a fanning c'mere motion with the folder and turns back to Bill's desk. "So, interview, it's all pretty casual, you nervous? Nah. You're gonna be fine." Elijah follows him, nodding, grinning, hands in his back pockets and swinging his ass as he walks, fucking great, man.
Johnny fans the folder at the desk, makes Bill's papers dance. "You meet Bill? Bill's great, all bark, I promise." He grins at Bill, and Bill shoots him a death-ray glare back.
Elijah feels a giggle bubbling up at the expression on Disgruntled's face -- Bill, his name is Bill, and that is just perfect, he looks like a Bill -- but he manages to suppress it, mostly because he sounds like a fucking moron when he giggles but also because he's fairly sure it would be a stupendously bad idea. He settles for a grin he thinks Johnny won't see.
"Yeah, I met Bill."
Johnny nods and keeps moving, breezy and oblivious, and Elijah reaches over to pick up the resume folder that he'd left on the counter. Bill watches him, sour and silent, and a sudden surge of giddy adrenaline proves more than Elijah can resist. He waggles the fingers of his other hand at Bill briefly before turning to follow Johnny through the door.
"And setting up your paycheck," Bill says. "I'll have fun doing that as well, dollface."
The little smirk slides off the kid's lips, and Bill smiles cooly before adding. "Have a nice interview. I hear Johnny is quite good with the 'hands on' portion. Hope you aren't shy."
It doesn't seem possible that Elijah Wood's eyes could even get any bigger, but somehow they do. He's still looking back over his shoulder at Bill when he steps through the door, and Bill leans across the desk to waggle his fingers at the little bastard before the disappears into the office.
He leans back, amused, and turns his head sharply enough to crack his neck before he spins in his roller chair to dig in the file cabinet for the rest of the new hire paperwork he'll be needing when Johnny's done with the little punk.
ELIJAH JORDAN WOOD is scrawled in the name blank, and Bill feels his brows arch toward his hairline in amused disbelief. Age: 23.
Bill resists the urge to snort aloud.
The kid glances up at the clock on the wall beside the moth habitat and conscientiously writes the exact time in the appropriate little blank.
The other nitwits in the room have shuffled into a somewhat orderly (the best Bill can really hope for, he supposes) line behind him, waiting for their turn to sign-in. Bill ignores them when the kid lays the pen down and half turns away from the desk.
"One second, mate," Bill says, and the kid turns back toward Bill with a frown, thick brows drawn into a frown that seems to be two parts grumpy one part puzzled over his really incredibly creepy eyes. "I'll need to see your I.D."
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Looking up he sees Disgruntled Scotsman watching him fumble the card out, and his green eyes are tittering with something else behind that expression of bored irritation -- amusement. The scruffy bastard's fucking with him. He's getting grief from a fucking secretary with a netful of bugs behind his desk. It's way too early for this shit. Elijah draws his hand back at the last second, holding his ID up in front of the man's face instead.
"I'm 23, I assure you, mate," he says.
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He's fairly sure the ease with which he shifts between the two is Nic's bloody fault.
He raises one hand and deliberately plucks the kid's ID from his hand, barely quirking a brow at his expression, which seems to be just on the verge of objecting.
I dare you, Bill thinks, looking right into the kid's eyes. I fucking dare you.
The kid doesn't. His eyes flicker away from Bills. His lips go tight and his eyes narrow slightly (making them slightly more like the size of a normal humans eyes), but he doesn't say anything and doesn't look back up to meet Bill's eyes. He does tap his fingers impatiently on the countertop.
Bill toys with the idea of clipping the corner of the license off. It's illegal to drive in the state of California with a license that has been altered or damaged in any way. It's pretty likely that the kid doesn't know that, and won't until the next time he was pulled over.
Petty, Boyd, he thinks, which is true of course. He contents himself with making a photocopy of the bloody thing for the kid's file -- the kid will have a file at DBY, Bill doesn't doubt it for a second; Johnny is going to take one look at him and drag him into the back -- so he doesn't have to do it later.
Just for the sake of form, he double checks the kids last name (what do you know, it is Wood, ha!) and his DOB. And then, just in case, for any of the signs that it's a fake I.D. No such luck.
Kid is actually twenty-three.
Ah well, been wrong before, Bill thinks, and hands the little plastic rectangle back to him. He slides a background check permission form onto the counter at the same time. Might as well get a jump on things.
"Sign this, mate," he says, and feels amusement sliding back at the suspicious expression on the kids face.
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His Juicy Fruit follows it in a thick lump.
Elijah feels his eyes go wide at the sudden shift from Disgruntled to Possibly Fucking Homocidal, and the first thought that stutters through his mind is Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing working here?
The guy's still staring at him, waiting, and Elijah drops his eyes and sets his jaw, irritated as much as he is unnerved. No sense making a big deal out of it, or anything. Wouldn't be professional, you know. Just a secretary anyway.
Every seedy Dateline special he's ever seen comes back to his memory as the guy takes his ID over to the copier, and he's suddenly not so sure this was a good idea. If they have this cranky bastard working reception, what sort of people are running this joint anyway? He's not prone to nerves, not until this year, but he has to physically stop his fingertips from tapping on the counter as he waits. He tries to remember if Scotland has a mafia.
The man returns, still eyeing his license like a fucking truant officer, and hands it back before slapping a piece of paper down onto the counter. Elijah can see the word "release" amongst the print at the top.
"Sign this, mate," and Elijah is just rattled enough to set his mouth and ask, "What is it?"
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There is some shifting and murmuring further back in the line -- the ones that have done this before are most likely fully aware that such a form isn't normally signed until after a contract has been offered -- and Bill throws a narrow look past Elijah Wood, 23, which succeeds in shutting them up fairly effectively.
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He turns his head, catches several scowling faces, then glances back to check Disgruntled's expression. The whispering dies at once, but not entirely, and Elijah feels his heart trip once and then settle. Not standard procedure here, either. His confidence returns in a pleasant rush. Disgruntled clearly isn't as much of an asshole as he appears.
Or at least, he's a asshole with some taste.
Elijah leans on the counter and gives the guy his good smile, the one the Abercrombie photographer calls "Daughter Tested, Mother Approved". His signs the form like an autograph and slides it back, unable to keep the smirk from curling at the corner of his mouth.
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"Don't count your chickens, dollface," Bill says, thinking fleetingly of Walsh. The kid's eyes narrow again, and it's Bill's turn to smirk. "Have a seat, Mr. Wood."
Even as the kid is walking away from the counter, his back a straight, tense line, Bill sees Johnny sidling open the swinging door and slithering gracefully into the office area separated from reception. Bill smiles slightly -- Johnny's been peeking, apparently.
Johnny grins and holds out one hand, and Bill passes him the folder, amused at the fact that Johnny is skulking just behind the swinging door where those people still signing in at the counter can't see him.
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Anyway. Busines at hand.
Bill hands over a folder and Johnny flicks it open, squints for a moment at the fuzzy photocopied ID picture, at the already signed release form. "Pretty sure, huh?" He grins at Bill, who rolls his eyes.
"Pretty, anyway," Bill says dryly. "Prettiest of the lot, although he's got some attitude."
"Attitude is good," Johnny says, and leans out, glances around the room for a face that matches the smudgy thumbprint he's looking at. "Attitude will get you places."
And attitude is what Johnny needs right now, spunk in the non-bodily-fluids way, he needs young, he needs fresh, he needs interesting.
He snaps the folder shut, steps out into the lobby, and finds all of the above in one pair of eyes.
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He's dressed like a mid-90s grunge singer, complete with waves of black hair and impossibly ripped jeans, surveying the ranks with the air of someone strolling through an art gallery as opposed to canvassing new employees. Nevertheless, one look at the man sends Elijah's thisisit alarm into DefCon 4, and his shoulders have moved up and back before he even actually realizes that the man is holding a folder in his hand, and that he is looking directly at Elijah.
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(It's not particularly englightened, you know, it's not Zen to get off on power, but when you've got it, man, sometimes it's a hell of a rush.)
He's already picturing something faux-sleazy, naughty schoolboy, rep ties and uniforms and if he could talk Bean into topping that'd be fucking brilliant - not that he even remotely expects a yes, poor guy, but it's the vision that counts, you know?
"Hey Elijah," he says. "I'm Johnny Depp. C'mon." He jerks his head toward the door. "Wanna talk to you."
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But the rest of the room caught it, for sure. The whispers return in a rush, this time hissing with unconcealed disgust. Several of the glitter-tits squad are already rolling their eyes and digging for their keys. A glance over to the desk and Disgruntled is typing away indifferently, but his scowl is curled up into a what might be considered a knowing little smirk. At that, the man's words finally connect with Elijah's brain.
C'mon. Wanna talk to you.
Well that's that then.
Elijah sticks his hands in his pockets, gives Bustier Girl a little wink, and turns his best smile to Mr. Johnny Depp.
"Lead the way," he says.
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"Great," he says out loud, makes a fanning c'mere motion with the folder and turns back to Bill's desk. "So, interview, it's all pretty casual, you nervous? Nah. You're gonna be fine." Elijah follows him, nodding, grinning, hands in his back pockets and swinging his ass as he walks, fucking great, man.
Johnny fans the folder at the desk, makes Bill's papers dance. "You meet Bill? Bill's great, all bark, I promise." He grins at Bill, and Bill shoots him a death-ray glare back.
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"Yeah, I met Bill."
Johnny nods and keeps moving, breezy and oblivious, and Elijah reaches over to pick up the resume folder that he'd left on the counter. Bill watches him, sour and silent, and a sudden surge of giddy adrenaline proves more than Elijah can resist. He waggles the fingers of his other hand at Bill briefly before turning to follow Johnny through the door.
"Have fun answering the phones, mate."
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The little smirk slides off the kid's lips, and Bill smiles cooly before adding. "Have a nice interview. I hear Johnny is quite good with the 'hands on' portion. Hope you aren't shy."
It doesn't seem possible that Elijah Wood's eyes could even get any bigger, but somehow they do. He's still looking back over his shoulder at Bill when he steps through the door, and Bill leans across the desk to waggle his fingers at the little bastard before the disappears into the office.
He leans back, amused, and turns his head sharply enough to crack his neck before he spins in his roller chair to dig in the file cabinet for the rest of the new hire paperwork he'll be needing when Johnny's done with the little punk.
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