A/N: Hey there! I'm trying something new here… Since I've finished another fic, and I get the shakes if I don't have at least three fics in progress, but this one's different from the others! You know why? It's RPS! With our darlings Leigh and Cary!
1: Mr. Elwes, This Is Your Wakeup Call...
She asks him if he wants to meet them.
Cary pins the phone to his ear with his shoulder and shuts down his laptop. He smiles weakly at Annie's question, since she so obviously hasn't read his reply to her latest Email.
Cary Elwes starred in his first real movie when he was twenty-two. And he knows that he should remember every second of that procedure, that every shot and every flash of the camera at the premiere should be etched into his mind forever and ever.
And it used to be like that. Cary isn't a monster, he has a very clear image of being twenty-five, young and pretty and naïve and keeping a journal over every day of every moviemaking he was a part of, even if it was just a ten-minute part in a "Seinfeld"-episode or an extra who's only real task was to dance in the background of a disco.
He does remember the high he got when he got a line just right, the annoyingly sentimental sting in his eyes when he stepped out onto the red carpet. And he does remember that he thought it would always be that way.
But that's a hard standard to follow. Because over the years, more people have discovered him, more movies have been made and more cameras have flashed on the red carpet. And at this point, Cary's twenty years older and all these cameras and all these moviemakings have sort of floated together in his mind, like ink on wet paper, he's gotten a wife and she's gotten pregnant. Life changes, and dreams change with it.
And ultimately, every movie's the same. Every director gets the same voice in the megaphone, every actress he has to kiss gets the same lips.
That's not really his… Belief, though. It's more like mildew that spreads under the foundation of a house. You don't really notice it, doesn't notice the ugly and destructive until the floor caves under your feet and you're waist-deep in wetness and filth. And then, it's too late.
Unless someone comes along with a giant tube of pesticides and sprays the damn thing.
And that's a pretty good way to sum up Cary's day this far. He's been sprayed. By his agent. And two twenty year old film students he doesn't even know.
Cary checked his Emails after lunch. As always. It's a part of the whole mildew-thing. And he noticed a mail from Annie, his agent, which he opened, despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to order Chinese food, eat with Lisa in front of the TV and find a bad movie to fall asleep to with his hand on her growing belly and not to anything that's remotely related to work.
The words on the screen were, so Annie-ish that Cary would've know it was from her even if he hadn't noticed the remitter:
Cary, you have to see this! There are these two guys, they just graduated from movie academy, and they have a script and stuff, and they made this short film from their soon-to-be-movie to reel those fat Hollywood-guys in! (You're not a part of that category, though, so no worries :)) And I swear to God, if they're as hot as they are talented, I'll snatch them up!
And an enclosed file. Cary had opened it, still smiling slightly at the actual Email, and waited for his computer to register the fact that it was supposed to open the damn file.
And it was the file that sprayed him.
Or, not sprayed. He's still not completely cured, there's still some small part of him that thinks that this movie is just like all the others.
But at least someone has jumped down into that mildew, grabbed a handful of it and thrown it away. And it isn't gone, it's far from gone, but someone's in there, someone's trying to cure him.
Because after watching the short film, Cary could do nothing but sitting back in his office chair, his hand frozen in the middle of the attempt to rake it through his hair, and gape.
Gape for a few seconds, and then press the 'reply'-button on the Email, only let the blinking line be still for a moment before he typed one single word on the screen.
And then he had to pick up his phone and call Annie.
"Annie Manson's agency."
Cary had been forced to smile. Her voice had been so professional, so sharp on the edges. Like a lid that tried to hide the giggly little thirty year old teenage girl who lied beneath.
"Hey, it's me," Cary had said, and completed that raking with his hand through his hair that had been cut off before. "How are you?"
"Cary?" Annie had said, and Cary heard her office chair rattle when she straightened up from the position she'd had before, with her feet on her desk and her eyelids slipping down. "Have you seen the Email I've sent you?"
"Yeah," Cary had said. "It's great, really."
"I know!" Annie had blurted out, and Cary had heard the flapping of her broken shoes walk around on the floor in her office. "Seriously, if you agree to make this movie, I just might have to follow you to the movie set and check them out."
Cary had grinned weakly.
"They want me?"
"Yeah, they have a part that sounds perfect for you," Annie had said, and her steps had stopped to be replaced with the rustling of papers. "You're supposed to play a cheating doctor! Wouldn't it be nice to finally play a part you can relate to, Cary?"
Cary had chuckled and stood up from his chair. It had rattled in the exact same way as Annie's.
"Change is good, I guess," he'd said and picked up a paper clip from his desk. "Can you tell me something about these guys?"
"Well," Annie had said, and the teenage girl had apparently gotten hard to cover up. "They're aussies. Young, too, I think it was the delicate age of twenty-seven. The director's called… Wan, James Wan, it was James Wan. And the screenwriter… He was in the one in the short film, in fact, I think his name was… Wha… Nell. Leigh Whannell."
Cary had stopped in front of the computer and looked at the young man on the screen. Leigh Whannell, sobbing, in handcuffs, a cigarette dangling loose from his fingertips. Young, indeed. Didn't even look twenty-seven, more like… Hell, twenty? But he could definitely act. And as far as the short film went, he could definitely write, too. And he was pretty as a little puppy.
"He must be a real girl-magnet," Cary had said with laughter playing in his voice.
"Doesn't he?" Annie had said, almost moaned, and Cary could see through an inner eye how she bit the tip of her pen as she looked at her own computer screen. "You'll be playing against him, too."
Cary had smirked. The 'low battery'-sign had popped up on his screen.
"What makes you so sure I'll do it, Annie?" He'd asked softly, coaxingly.
Annie had laughed. He hated when she made decisions for him, and she hated when he pretended that she didn't know exactly what was on his mind after twenty years.
"Fine, fine," she'd said dejectedly, and in his head, she threw one hand into the air. "Ivan Simon Cary Elwes, would you at least like to meet these pretty little newbies over lunch to talk about the movie and see if you'd like to be a part of it as a cheating doctor with a ridiculously big amount of money?"
That's what she had said. And now, Cary's caught up with himself, and he closes his laptop down to save the batteries. And considers.
Or, not really considering. He knows what he's going to answer.
If someone's woken you up from the cynicism that unavoidably fills you up if you work in Hollywood for too long, fills you up or drowns you like icy water, it can't be escaped.
If someone wakes you up like that, you have to do whatever you can to make them successful, so they can keep working. Keep waking other people up like this.
"Yeah," Cary now says. "Of course I want to meet them."
Cary wants to meet them… Well, if I'd seen Leigh in handcuffs, I'd like to meet him, too! In fact, I do! GIVE HIM TO ME NOW! And review! :)