Can We Talk...?
On the set, Bryan throws his hands up in the air and shouts, “CUT!!! Fucking CUT!!!” He scrubs his hands over his face, then he glares at the offending parties. “Dammit, Michael! What is wrong with you today!? We’ve been filming since the crack of dawn and I’ve yet to get a usable shot out of you!”
As Michael squirms and hangs his head in shame, Bryan turns his ire upon James. “And you!” he points an accusing finger. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve been trying out a spot on The Walking Dead...as an EXTRA!!” He rakes his scornful, wrath-filled gaze over them both. “Oscars, Golden Globes, BAFTAs, BIFAs, fucking SHAKESPEARE for fuck’s sake and I can’t get a decent performance out of either of you!!” By now, a vein is throbbing in Bryan’s forehead, and he rubs wearily at his temples.
“Bry–” James begins, but is cut off.
“Get the fuck out of my sight! Both of you! Come back when you can remember how to ACT!” He turns his back on them to address everyone, “Go! All of you! Get out!! Comeback tomorrow and we’ll try to salvage something out of this disaster!” As everyone shuffles off the set, shooting glares at James and Michael for the added extra day of filming, Bryan turns back to them, growling out, “Whatever is going on with you two, use the time off to get it fixed. Understood?”
Michael doesn’t speak, just nods, but James still tries to placate Bryan. It doesn’t work. “James, you look like hell, and don’t give me some bullshit story about a sleepless night—you look on the verge of a nervous breakdown. A stiff breeze could blow you over.” Bryan's gaze softens a bit and he squeezes James’s shoulder, adding quietly, “You’re a good man, and I’m sorry as hell that your personal life is shit right now, but I have a movie to film and I need you to be a professional.”
James looks away, shamefaced, and nods.
Then Bryan turns to Michael, “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but your concentration is completely shot—if I can’t get you to focus, I can’t the performance out of you that I need.” He looks at them both, “Now, while I’m getting my ass reamed by the studio for being behind a day of filming, go do whatever it is you need to do to get your heads straight. Get drunk, get laid, go to confession—all of the above...I don’t care, as long as it does the job and you’re back here in the morning, ready to work.”
On the ride back to their hotel, James doesn’t say a word, just stares blankly out of the window at the passing scenery. Michael can feel James withdrawing into himself, so he’s ready—and right on James’s heels—when James suddenly tries to slip in his suite and lock Michael out.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Michael growls, forcing his way inside while James attempts to shoulder him back out into the hall. “You made a promise and I’m not letting you sneak off again!”
James glares at him, cheeks red with anger. “I said that I would talk to you tonight. This ain’t tonight, so bugger off! You’re no’ me fuckin’ Mam, Fassy!”
Michael snorts derisively (noting the way James’s accent gets stronger when he’s mad), “Yeah, right! And the moment you’re alone, you’ll be out the door and gone for the night. Then tomorrow you’ll be all big eyes and apologies—and more false promises. That’s if you haven’t killed yourself from exhaustion.” Michael’s gaze sharpens and he asks, “Is that what you’re trying to do, James? Kill yourself? Run about playing super-hero, hoping that you’ll finally meet up with someone who’ll do to you what you can’t do yourself?”
“God, no!” James yells, horrified.
Michael is weak with relief at James’s instant and vehement response. “Thank God!” He’d been worried—no, terrified—that James would look up at him, those beautiful eyes full shame and self-hatred, and say that he wanted to die. It was going to be okay now, Michael knew. Whatever was driving James to do what he was doing, they could work through it.
He thinks that James can see some that in his face, because the other man’s whole body posture changes. James lets out a deep sigh, so deep it like it’s coming from his very soul, and some great tension that’s been squeezing the life out of him is suddenly gone. He sways on his feet a bit and flops down on the sofa, leaning forward and rests his elbows on his knees. James looks up at Michael and smiles, just a little—but the smile is James, not the stranger that he’s been the last couple of months.
“Order us some room service, laddie," James tells him. "Oh, and loads of booze. This story is gonna take a while.”