The Big Easy (Karl/OFC)
Title:The Big Easy
Pairing: Karl/OFC
Rating: R, for language mostly. Karl, what a dirty mouth you have!
Length: ~800 words
Summary: Who doesn’t appreciate a woman who can handle a gun?
Notes: Written for one of those Daily Doctor pictures over at jim_and_bones - the still from Red of cranky-face Karl with a gun. Haha. So. As if I have any idea how weapons are handled on a movie set. Also, I guess this could be considered a Prop Mistress Fic, cousin/stepchild/something of the Wardrobe Mistress Series. *facepalm*
The Big Easy
It’s a real gun, right. All the weight and shiny-metal-death-ness of a real gun. When the cameras are rolling, it’s real, and that’s the point. The point is also apparently to keep a straight face, because he is a straight-and-narrow company man, but how he’s supposed to do that when Bruce is doing his bland bad-ass routine and Helen (fucking) Mirren is holding a really really big gun - yep, nothing phallic about that - how he is supposed to keep a straight, stern, pissed-off face is a little beyond him at the moment. So he thinks about the gun.
And the cold.
Because goddamnmotherfuckingpieceofshit but it is COLD in Montreal. Look for a movie shooting in a desert next time, okay? But the cold is useful right now, and so he uses it. Cold Karl = Mad Karl. Mad Karl absolutely keeps a stern, pissed-off stance as he fires the fake-real gun and he even remembers that he isn’t new to this and only utter movie-gun newbies flinch when they’re firing. Which isn’t as easy to remember as you’d think, because not only is it cold, it’s the middle of the night. Night shoots are a bitch. Channel, method, blah blah blah.
He’s finally done for the night and his first stop is to turn in the gun - safety, safety - and he must still look pissed off about the cold or the five extra takes because the girl - woman - in charge of all the guns just gives him a look and doesn’t say anything as she begins dismantling and cleaning the gun - a process he had to prove himself capable of before she would even let him touch the thing. And then he’s only thinking about sleep as he walks away, bundled up like Nanook of the fucking North. (language, language)
New Orleans is delightfully different - warm - daylight, regular schedule and all that, drinking Bruce under the table (Americans, total lightweights), flirting - but only flirting - with Dame Helen because hello. (all the fun stuff that will become part of the official record in interviews and Comic Con)
Everyone, everything, loosens up a bit in the different climate. Which is not say this shoot hasn’t been a riot from the start, but New Orleans is New Orleans - an invitation to be a little more reckless.
(When he thinks about this later, he will blame it on New Orleans.)
It’s a typical end-of-day bar scene - nobody’s drinking especially hard, but there’s plenty of ribbing and laughter. Helen and ML are at the bar with the gun woman and it’s only when he’s looking at her reflection in the mirrored wall that it occurs to him that she looks like what a real operator is supposed to look like. There’s nothing particularly striking about her - average height, average body, average face - she almost blends into the background. Her eyes, though, they’re steely, like the toys she plays with all day. It’s a leap and it’s a big one, but something in him jumps from noticing her eyes and her backbone to a pretty sure idea of what her professional qualifications actually are - that his curiosity wants satisfied - and then right on further to just wanting her.
He ponders it for all of thirty seconds, during which time he thinks of her fingers - strong and feminine - and quick, competent caresses over metal and, well, fuck.
He buys the girls a round (girls? ladies, he means, but they laugh and it’s all yes, of course we’re girls), and he isn’t surprised that she - Andie, she has a name, she is not just the gun woman - Andie is drinking a very fine Scotch, on the rocks.
And this is the part where he’s thinking ridiculous double entendre about guns, big guns, and he sees it all echoed in her eyes - soft amusement and cool assessment. She actually gives him a long up-and-down once-over and then smiles in approval.
He’s not surprised by anything anymore, really, he tells himself. But that is a total fucking lie. Knock him over dead, he’d say, except she’s already done it. As easy and as hot as a match to gunpowder, but ever so much slower than a bullet. She’s a controlled burn and she just keeps going and they just keep going and it’s total carnage. Bruises they both carry for days. A bill for damage to his hotel room he pays with a self-satisfied smirk.
And if he’s thinking of anything in particular any time he holds a gun after that, well, that’s his business.
Pairing: Karl/OFC
Rating: R, for language mostly. Karl, what a dirty mouth you have!
Length: ~800 words
Summary: Who doesn’t appreciate a woman who can handle a gun?
Notes: Written for one of those Daily Doctor pictures over at jim_and_bones - the still from Red of cranky-face Karl with a gun. Haha. So. As if I have any idea how weapons are handled on a movie set. Also, I guess this could be considered a Prop Mistress Fic, cousin/stepchild/something of the Wardrobe Mistress Series. *facepalm*
The Big Easy
It’s a real gun, right. All the weight and shiny-metal-death-ness of a real gun. When the cameras are rolling, it’s real, and that’s the point. The point is also apparently to keep a straight face, because he is a straight-and-narrow company man, but how he’s supposed to do that when Bruce is doing his bland bad-ass routine and Helen (fucking) Mirren is holding a really really big gun - yep, nothing phallic about that - how he is supposed to keep a straight, stern, pissed-off face is a little beyond him at the moment. So he thinks about the gun.
And the cold.
Because goddamnmotherfuckingpieceofshit but it is COLD in Montreal. Look for a movie shooting in a desert next time, okay? But the cold is useful right now, and so he uses it. Cold Karl = Mad Karl. Mad Karl absolutely keeps a stern, pissed-off stance as he fires the fake-real gun and he even remembers that he isn’t new to this and only utter movie-gun newbies flinch when they’re firing. Which isn’t as easy to remember as you’d think, because not only is it cold, it’s the middle of the night. Night shoots are a bitch. Channel, method, blah blah blah.
He’s finally done for the night and his first stop is to turn in the gun - safety, safety - and he must still look pissed off about the cold or the five extra takes because the girl - woman - in charge of all the guns just gives him a look and doesn’t say anything as she begins dismantling and cleaning the gun - a process he had to prove himself capable of before she would even let him touch the thing. And then he’s only thinking about sleep as he walks away, bundled up like Nanook of the fucking North. (language, language)
New Orleans is delightfully different - warm - daylight, regular schedule and all that, drinking Bruce under the table (Americans, total lightweights), flirting - but only flirting - with Dame Helen because hello. (all the fun stuff that will become part of the official record in interviews and Comic Con)
Everyone, everything, loosens up a bit in the different climate. Which is not say this shoot hasn’t been a riot from the start, but New Orleans is New Orleans - an invitation to be a little more reckless.
(When he thinks about this later, he will blame it on New Orleans.)
It’s a typical end-of-day bar scene - nobody’s drinking especially hard, but there’s plenty of ribbing and laughter. Helen and ML are at the bar with the gun woman and it’s only when he’s looking at her reflection in the mirrored wall that it occurs to him that she looks like what a real operator is supposed to look like. There’s nothing particularly striking about her - average height, average body, average face - she almost blends into the background. Her eyes, though, they’re steely, like the toys she plays with all day. It’s a leap and it’s a big one, but something in him jumps from noticing her eyes and her backbone to a pretty sure idea of what her professional qualifications actually are - that his curiosity wants satisfied - and then right on further to just wanting her.
He ponders it for all of thirty seconds, during which time he thinks of her fingers - strong and feminine - and quick, competent caresses over metal and, well, fuck.
He buys the girls a round (girls? ladies, he means, but they laugh and it’s all yes, of course we’re girls), and he isn’t surprised that she - Andie, she has a name, she is not just the gun woman - Andie is drinking a very fine Scotch, on the rocks.
And this is the part where he’s thinking ridiculous double entendre about guns, big guns, and he sees it all echoed in her eyes - soft amusement and cool assessment. She actually gives him a long up-and-down once-over and then smiles in approval.
He’s not surprised by anything anymore, really, he tells himself. But that is a total fucking lie. Knock him over dead, he’d say, except she’s already done it. As easy and as hot as a match to gunpowder, but ever so much slower than a bullet. She’s a controlled burn and she just keeps going and they just keep going and it’s total carnage. Bruises they both carry for days. A bill for damage to his hotel room he pays with a self-satisfied smirk.
And if he’s thinking of anything in particular any time he holds a gun after that, well, that’s his business.