Gaz who detaches from the military and decides to put his unique set of physical skills to use by working as a stunt person. He lands a gig as a stand in for the plucky, dashing lead of a tacky action movie and takes to his new job all too well; same clothes, same daring acts as his last line of works but lower stakes. Plus all the fun, all the glory, but none of the annoyances that come with overt fame. Those close to him keep making jokes suggesting he’s bound to have a secretive rendezvous with some a lister eventually or weasel his way into a starring role.
Little do they know he’s already got his eye on someone, and she’s well and truly away from the limelight. It’s you- the sweet little makeup artist charged with both polishing him to perfection and battering him to realism.
It’s his favourite part of the entire job; the time he gets to spend with you speaking to him and the subtle skin-ship that’s all conveniently apart of your paycheck. He tries to impress you with tales from his past, tries to compare every bit of sfx makeup to a real wound he powered through. You occupy his every thought and he’d be bald face lying to himself if he hadn’t considered bugging your trailer with some combination of mics and hidden cameras.
It’s an idea, a fiery temptation that clouds him everytime you oh so obliviously go about transforming him. You don a new shade of lipstick every day, an entire spectrum to choose from when his imagination is given free rein.
He can’t help but think the hot pink you had on today would look amazing around him.
‘And you’re set,’ you smile, snapping him back to reality. You apply one final dusting of red to his faux cheek wound. A mirror is held up, allowing him to inspect your work and take in his new, temporary form as a victim of an ambush. Every time, without fail, he’s quick to sing your praises and try to slowly grease the wheels on a potentially getting closer to you. ‘Keen for your fight scene today?’ You ask.
‘Talented and beautiful, h’ardly fair on the rest of us babe,’ he tilts his head, a brow raised, ‘I am yeah, some new guy comin’ in to stand in for the villain, apparently ex army as well. But uh,’ he smiles, ‘I’m more excited for what comes after though.’
Before you can even dare to ponder what event has caught his fancy he places a hand on your shoulder, halting your attempts at packing away brushes. ‘Lemme take you out tonight, dinner on me. Anywhere ya’ want.’
You’d grown used to his subtle but frequent passes and evident preoccupation with seeking you out during his every spare moments on set. Perhaps it was mistaken for a tool of the trade, a plastic attempt at charming all he met and symptom of his generally hospitable nature. This however, was bolder and forced you to face him head on. You began to pack away quickly, both makeup and the act of avoiding his advances your chosen forms of artistry.
‘Oh! I uh…’ you stumble, but fail to slow down the haste in your movement. ‘I’m sorry I’ve got to go, needed in costuming…’ you leave only because he allows you to, his hand slipping from your shoulder despite every fibre of his being resisting your departure.
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It isn’t until he was heading toward set later, ready to shoot the first physical combat scene of the film that he’s met with the astonishing reality behind your continued refusals. The crew buzzed about preparing the setting for the first of many gritty, potentially hazardous conflict scenes that could only be pulled off by those well versed in risk.
Even prop knives and blank rounds could be potentially lethal in the wrong hands so they needed not one but two experts. An assumed ability to remain calm and follow instructions in hectic environment made veterans an allegedly prime choice.
He catches sight of you immediately, the figure of his apparent stunt counterpart facing away as you apply something to his brow. It’s what comes next, the manner in which you’re pulled in for a peck for ‘good luck’ as you conclude your duty that sows seeds of anger in him. Seeing you oblige, seeing you stare with soft adoration at the man he’d soon face in malice that would be more real than previously thought that had it grow into something dire.
Kyle went still, the already burgeoning rage inside him doused with a searing gloss of betrayal as the stranger turned.
‘C..Captain Price?’ An old means of address, muttered in shock and delivered with a lack of composure ill suited to the task ahead. Deep brown eyes bounce between you and the man, his former superior and a figure he once hailed. It was a title and connotation he felt no longer fitting with a nauseating realisation.
‘Kyle, Gaz… what a surprise…’ an earnest smile, one that was either blissfully unaware of or revelling in the thoughts teeming behind his gaze.
The image of what had just taken place vanquished any chances of fond reunion or the rekindling of their previous, mutual respect. The director could hardly fathom the irony behind his next instructions, a silent yet sizzling glower attempting to ignite and melt the once solid casing of reverence that surrounded the elder male.
‘So you know each other! Even better,’ the man running the production clapped his hands together, ‘now for this scene, I want you both to really have at it. You,’ he gestured to Kyle, ensuring his line of sight remained firmly stuck on the other party.
‘Yeah… imagine this guy here is the single obstacle to everything you want, allies turned enemies. Capiche?’
