Chapter Text
C O L T S E A V E R S
It starts with a call from Dan.
Really, it starts more than ten years ago, when Colt was up-and-coming and Dan was second assistant to a second assistant, and they got into an argument about rigging that quickly got physical, which got them barred from set for an afternoon, which turned into competitive shot-drinking, but that's not the point. Colt won. He's pretty sure, anyway. The memory is a little blurry. He hasn't been able to drink Frangelico since, but it was worth it, because he's got Dan.
The point is- these days, whenever Dan rings him, Colt answers.
"Hey man," Colt says, flicking busily through paperwork on his desk, as if Dan can see that Colt's been watching Instagram reels for the last hour.
"Yo, Seavers," Dan says. There's noise in the background, like he's on set. "How's them Georgia peaches?"
"Out of season," Colt laments. Jody's promised they'll go to one of the farms where they can pick the peaches, and Colt gets a little lost imagining her in a bare-shouldered sundress, biting a juicy Georgia peach. Dappled sunlight. Maybe she's wearing that gardening hat.
"-Seavers?" Dan says, like he's said it a few times. "Hello, earth to Colt."
"What's up?" Colt says, because Dan's a lot of things, but he's not much of a daytime caller. They're both too busy. Or - Dan's too busy. Their conversations usually centre around daily back-and-forth memes over WhatsApp and the occasional pic from Dan of an impressive rigging setup, or pics from Colt whenever he sees a really nice piece of rope, because Dan's a freak like that. Dedicated to his craft, Dan would say.
"You're not gunna like it," Dan says.
"Hit me," Colt says, clicking his pen.
"You remember John Duan?" Dan starts, and Colt snorts.
"Do I remember John Duan?" Colt says, leaning back on the chair. "John Duan, who got me that gig on Miami Vice? John Duan, first take, no resets? John Duan, we don't need a second unit, that John Duan? J.D. Duan Incorporated- the myth, the legend. That John Duan?"
"Remind me to smack you into more stuff," Dan says. "And shut up, I'm tryna tell you something here."
"He's not dead," Colt says, swinging his chair onto its back legs, looking over at his Miami Vice jacket hung up on the back of the office door. "He's like, fifty. Maybe fifty-five. Barely silver fox territory."
Dan is quiet for a moment too long.
"Dan!" Colt says, tossing his pen. Jean-Claude looks up at him from the doorway.
"He's not dead," Dan says, in a suspicious sort of tone. "Well, I mean. We don't think he's dead."
"Who's we?" Colt says, picking up the pen and scribbling on the resume in front of him.
"John's daughter," Dan says, and then he sighs. "Sort of. Step-daughter, I think. Estranged, or whatever they call it."
"He's missing?" Colt says. When he looks down, he's written J.D. DUAN over and over again on Charlie Dennis's resume. He starts outlining his Duans in little clouds. Charlie Dennis sucked anyway. And wore way too much cologne for a job interview.
"Yeah," Dan says. "Look, we were up for a gig outside LA with Northline, and she hit me up, but she doesn't know many people in Atlanta. Could you have a look around?"
"'Course," Colt says, before he thinks about it. Hmmmm. On second thought, maybe this is one of those Ask Jody Before Agreeing to Things That May Involve Dead Bodies things. Colt still maintains that he's a good judge of character. Besides, this is Dan. And John Duan is not dead.
"What am I looking for?" Colt says.
"I'll text you what she told me," Dan says.
"Cool," Colt says. There's a brief silence, except the staticky sound of yelling in the background of Dan's call, and the scratch of Colt's pen as he repeatedly underlines NOT DEAD.
"How goes hiring?" Dan says. Tentative, like he knows he's opening the Pandora's box of Colt Complaints.
Colt sighs, but he's pleased. Dan is such a good friend. Between the cross-country move and Dan being in hot demand, it's been too long since they got together.
Colt's going to chew his ear off.
~***~
Like he told Dan, effusively, Colt really thought hiring a few juniors would be easier. This is Atlanta. Second only to LA in film production clout, and in recent years, neck-to-neck.
"They can't all be bad," Jody says, and Colt can tell she's smiling, even through the phone.
"They're bad, Jode," Colt says. Whines, admittedly. "I'll be out of business in a month if I gotta take any of them."
"No one's going to be as good as you," Jody tells him. "And maybe it's good to get someone you can train. You know- show them the ropes. The Colt Seavers way of doing things."
She's going straight for his ego. Colt can tell. It's working though. He can feel the back of his neck heating up, and damn it's so good to hear her talk about him like that. Like- she's proud of him, or something. Like it's not a stupid idea to be going out on his own like this.
"You like that, huh?" Colt says, grinning. "The- the Colt Seavers way of doing things?"
"Oh baby, I love it," Jody says, matching his tone. God, he loves her so much. "Love the way you roll around on the ground. Good for the stress levels, you know? Knowing I can always just hit you with my car."
"One time was enough," Colt returns, stretching out over the back of his desk chair.
"I barely brushed you!" Jody says.
"It was more of a clip, you barely clipped me," Colt concedes. "I don't think that fender will ever be the same..."
"The damage your big arse does to my bumper is not really my fault," Jody tells him primly.
"Are you calling me fat?" Colt murmurs, shifting the phone under his ear. He's waiting on his final interview-ee to turn up, and maybe hoping they don't. It's three, and Jody's meant to finish at four.
"There was a bit of bounce there. Some padding," Jody says sweetly. "Though I'll admit I'm not complaining at all."
"Oh, well, that's okay then," Colt says, swinging his chair onto its back legs and reaching for his coffee cup. "As long as you like my fat ass."
Jean-Claude perks up in the office doorway, like someone's in the waiting room. Colt drops the chair back down with a thunk, because woops, the shop office is a tiny space and his fat ass probably isn't the most professional introduction. The coffee goes everywhere, but Jody's laughing in his ear, so it's worth it.
"I'll be a minute!" Colt calls out, fumbling to soak up the spill.
"Have fun," Jody tells him. "Try not to be too mean to them."
"What?" Colt says, offended. "I'm never mean!"
Jody laughs and hangs up on him.
Colt sighs and flips through his soggy pile of rejected resumes. He's pretty much given up on finding another stunt driver. Turns out it's hard to find someone who's crazy enough to put themselves at risk, smart enough to do what they're told, and has the actual technical driving skills required. For now, he can't afford anyone he already knows is good.
Dan's advice was to try some fresh blood, but Colt's on his third day of interviews and he's getting tired of the eager, sloppy thrill-seekers. It definitely isn't because they remind Colt of himself when he started out.
"Just one more," Colt mutters. Then it'll be over, and he can give up. Pick up the weird martial-arts guy Dan keeps trying to foist on him, and just do all the car stunts himself.
Jean-Claude sits on high alert in the doorway, eyes and ears trained on their final contestant.
The guy sitting across the waiting room on the ugly plastic folding chair stares right back at the dog. Younger-looking than Colt was hoping for, but maybe that's a good thing. Some punk kid he can train up, that won't need a whole lot of reliable hours.
"Uh, hi," Colt says.
Neither Jean-Claude nor the kid blinks.
"So, he doesn't like you," Colt offers. Jean-Claude is a true professional. He'll work with anyone, but the tight line of the dog's back tells Colt that something's a bit off about the kid.
"That's okay," the kid says, quiet and intent. "We don't gotta like each other."
Colt huffs, and the kid finally blinks up at him. It sounded like it was meant to be a joke, but something about the kid's smoothed-out expression makes Colt re-assess. The kid stands up. And then just continues to stand there, shoulders tight and hands in his jacket pockets. He's about the same height as Colt, but leaner, clean-shaven and well-dressed. Big blue eyes and neat blond hair. Cute, Jody would probably say. Also, weird.
"Right," Colt says. "Well, uh, I'm Colt."
There's a beat, where Colt kind of leaves it open, because people usually respond with their name, or put their hand out to shake, but the kid just nods, and gives him a little half-smile.
"Okay, well, cool," Colt says, glad he's got a clipboard, even if he's lost the kid's resume. Having something to wave around feels more official. "You're here for the stunt job, right?"
"Yeah," the kid says.
Colt nods. Jean-Claude continues to stare at the kid, and the kid goes back to staring at Jean-Claude, which, hey - hello? Who is the boss here?
"C'mon," Colt says, not entirely sure if it's to the kid or the dog. "Lets see what you've got."
~***~
Dan's main advice was make them drive their own cars. At least for the first part of the interview, where Colt needs to work out if they're even safe to hold a conventional driver's licence or be around other people.
It's excellent advice. Colt already had to report two of his interviewees for reckless endangerment, and one for property damage. He's endeared himself to his new neighbours with that one, their kitschy bumble-bee letterbox bearing the brunt of a failed reverse. They'd barely made it out of the driveway. Fucking Charlie Dennis.
"Nice ride," Colt says, because the Chevy is immaculate, even if it's nothing special.
The kid nods, and pulls out honest-to-God driving gloves. Colt grips his clipboard and puts his seatbelt on, in the hopes it helps his restraint.
"Let's just go for a spin around the block," Colt says, the interview spiel a lot easier to manage now they're not facing each other. Not that the kid's looking at him. Too busy turning the car on and checking the mirrors and staring blankly over the dash at the cracked concrete driveway. "We'll can do some other stuff on the back lot in a bit."
The kid nods, and drives them down the empty industrial backroad at a smooth twenty miles an hour. They pass the battered bumble-bee postbox of the shipping company on the next lot, and Colt mentally ticks off an immediate win. The only sound is the engine, which could be good or bad. Radio can be a distraction, but Colt also considers the choice of station to be an important part of judging a man's character. The kid doesn't seem to be a Spotify guy, that's for sure. There's no phone charger. Not even an AUX cord.
The kid indicates without asking a direction, and they start to turn onto one of the larger roads. He doesn't appear at all nervous, which reminds Colt that he's kind of nervous, which in turn makes him annoyed.
Colt shouldn't be the nervous one here. He's the boss.
Once they're clear of the turn, Colt flicks the radio on, spins the volume high, and flicks his wrist vaguely to the right. "Turn down there."
A jingle for a local sandwich store blasts through the speakers. There's a car next to them, close behind, and the turn is too close to make the merge safely without cutting them off. The kid doesn't turn immediately, speeding up just enough to merge into the lane once they're clear of the intersection, and takes them up to the turning lane at the next light.
Good, Colt almost says, like he's a paternal driving instructor. He blames the clipboard. Still, a functioning brain cell is always nice to see. Less nice is how low Colt's standards have fallen.
The kid also doesn't touch the volume dial, even as the jingle ends and the next advertisement starts, loud enough that even Colt's industrial deafness can tell it's not comfortable. It sounds like one of the local mainstream rock variety stations, so nothing much to go on.
Colt leans back, watching the blocks go by. Phil Collins starts up about his easy lover, and Colt inches the volume down enough that he can actually enjoy it. They pull up at a stop sign, smooth as silk, and Colt catches the kid give him a little side glance. Quick as a flash, and then he's looking back at the road, impassive.
Colt smiles. Good. Some sign of life, after all.
"Alright," Colt says, pointing at the next stop sign. "Next one, no brake. Foot off the gas."
The road is flat with no traffic. If the kid's actually good, can feel the car and judge the distance, it's baby stuff.
Colt can feel his smile tug up into a grin when the kid rolls them up easily. They hover at the stop sign for a few moments, low revs, and Colt looks back over his shoulder at the empty road. They're one of the pass-throughs, stop signs over and over for the length of the road, right up to where the road terminates right-hand-only onto an arterial.
"Let's go," Colt says, flicking the pen attached to his clipboard. "Take us to the end, fast as you can."
The kid checks his mirrors and picks up speed. There's only really two ways to do it. Fast, or safe.
“Talk me through everything you’re seeing,” Colt says loudly, flicking through his papers as if he's actually taking notes. "Hazards, people, whatever."
He doesn't wait for the kid to talk, tapping his pen loudly on the clipboard and turning the radio volume up again.
One stop sign, neat as a pin. The kid looks right and left, and then glances at Colt for that same vanishing hair of a second. Colt raises his eyebrows expectantly.
"Truck," the kid says, stilted. "Hedge." They clear the intersection, jumping through quickly, and the kid brings them up to the next stop.
"Driveway," the kid continues. "Driveway. Stroller."
They flash through the next intersection, and the the kid brings them up to the next stop with a repeat of the same controlled pause.
"Guy. Kid. Car, car. Cop," the kid says, and seems unphased. "Cat."
Colt nods. He only caught the impression of a tail, disappearing under one of the parked cars they fly by.
"Tell me their directions," Colt says, winding the window down. They're not going fast enough for the wind to be particularly loud, but combined with the rest of the noise, Colt's mostly just pretending to listen. Kid's too quiet, but that can be trained.
"Left dog. Right bench. Right kid," the kid continues in a monotonous chant. "Left tree. Centre manhole."
"Who's behind us?" Colt asks loudly.
"Cop," the kid says, immediate, and shoots them through the intersection.
Colt snorts and flips his visor down, and sure enough, that's a cop car in his lipstick mirror. They must be under the speed limit, because they don't get immediate flashing lights. Still, the kid jets them through intersection after intersection with no change to his pacing, stopping at each sign neatly, and Colt watches the cop car follow them.
The arterial at the end is busy, and they end up lingering in the right hand turning lane for a long moment. Colt is sure they're going to be pulled over, but the kid takes them down the main drag in no hurry, merging smoothly into the traffic and the patrol car seems to give up after about a mile, turning into a shopping centre.
"Alright," Colt says. "Take us back to the lot."
~***~
Colt has a course set up, intentionally rough. Also maybe because new cones are fucking expensive. So what if they're a bit battered and lopsided?
"Park over there," Colt tells him, opening the passenger door before the car is fully stopped. "We're switching vehicles."
The kid brakes hard enough Colt doesn't end up under the tyres, and isn't that promising. Jody's pep talk and the kid's performance has him feeling a lot more optimistic about this whole thing. After all, he's finally the boss, and gets to decide who's on his team. John Duan decided Colt would pass muster, a slightly-frightening number of years ago. Now it's Colt's turn, and he's pulling straight from the J.D. Duan Incorporated playbook.
The sloppy jalopy is the true test of any man's skill behind the wheel.
Jody kindly gifted Fall Guy Stunts LLC the vehicle, mostly for tax incentives, and Colt signed off on it purely to make sure Jody never drove it on a public road again. It's an '86 Nissan Pulsar NX, all original bright blue interior, with a series of interesting and questionable modifications performed by various owners over its 265,000 mile lifespan. The spotlights were Colt's personal favourites, because they were so oversized the car had an extra bug-eyed look, while Jody was partial to the flurescent orange house-paint that had been used to create speed stripes at some point in the late 90s. Front disc brakes, rear drum brakes, questionable power steering, no airbags.
Colt's lucky the thing has seatbelts.
Jean-Claude falls in step as soon as Colt picks up the fluffy dice keyring, because even Jean-Claude likes fun. Or, possibly, has a death wish.
The kid appears to the left of the doorway, coming up on the side without Jean-Claude. Smart. Colt flicks him the keys, and he catches them against his chest.
"Now for the real work," Colt tells him.
The kid looks between the fluffy dice, Jean-Claude, and Colt. He doesn't say anything, but Colt is pleased anyway. Kid's got a sense of humour, he can tell. Colt just needs to loosen him up a bit.
Colt walks them over to the lineup of cars. There's Colt's GMC Sierra, the company E-250 van, a Chevy Caprice that doesn't start, and last, but not least, the NX.
"You like?" Colt says, slapping the roof of the NX. The window stays up this time and everything.
"Vintage," the kid offers, as if his car isn't ten years older. His poker face is good.
Colt throws himself into the passenger seat and Jean-Claude gets comfortable in the back. It's a front-wheel-drive and lighter than the Caprice, so less tail-happy, but a beast on a tight course in the right hands.
The sloppy jalopy also punishes bad driving.
"You wanna walk the course first?" Colt calls out. The kid's walking around the car. Maybe checking the tyres.
"I'll drive it," the kid says, dropping himself into the driver's seat.
The interior is a lot smaller than the kid's Chevy Malibu, and Colt watches as he pulls his seatbelt on and avoids touching Colt's arm where it's draped over the centre console. Jean-Claude curls his teeth from his perch behind the shoulder of the driver's seat, and the kid goes a little more rigid. Doesn't turn his head.
"Let's ride," Colt says, clicking his pen.
~***~
Jody calls when they're in a sharp reverse loop of the course. Colt's trying really hard to stay serious and not laugh, because the kid is intense. Fuck, he's good though. Anything Colt throws at him, even in this old shit-heap.
"Hey babe!" Colt shouts into the phone over the sound of the tyres squealing. They're not even on Colt's course anymore, swinging in reverse around a barrel. He just told the kid to impress him, and it's like he's invented his own course.
On the first loop, the kid had understeered into one of the final cones.
Colt didn't say anything, watching the kid's face. Blank. Maybe he gripped the wheel a little harder. The kid had silently corrected on the next loop, clean and neat. Reversing back through didn't seem to phase him, even when he leaned back and Jean-Claude was right there in his face. The brakes are variable enough that that even Colt struggles to hit the same mark repeatedly in the NX, but the kid only seems to improve the longer he drives, and even his baseline is miles from the shitty rev-heads Colt's been interviewing.
"How's it going?" Jody says into his ear. "Are you still at the lot?"
"Yeah," Colt says, dropping the clipboard into the footwell so he can grab the passenger assist.
The kid glances over at him, but Colt doesn't tell him to pull up, so he doesn't. There's a half-tank of gas in the NX and the kid seems determined to use it. He stops the gut-churning reverse threading though, which is nice, and just starts gunning around the outside of the course, treating it like a race track.
"You're still driving?" Jody says, louder.
"Yeah," Colt says, and goes to say something else, but she's already hung up on him.
Have fun! :) appears on the cracked screen with a ding. It's already 4.25pm. Shit. They were supposed to be going grocery shopping.
Jody didn't sound annoyed, but Colt - he loves going grocery shopping with Jody. It's like a date, but better, because they get to go home as soon as they've made their decision on what they want to eat. Also, Jody always makes unsubtle vegetable-related innuendos in the produce section and Colt just - he loves her so much. Colt's still tapping at his phone screen, but he doesn't even have to say anything because the kid's already taken them back to the lineup, reverse-parking them into the NX's spot, spacing textbook. Colt fishes around for the clipboard.
The kid steps out and opens the side door for Jean-Claude, who just looks at the kid suspiciously.
"Sois bon," Colt tells him. "Dehors."
Back inside, and Colt walks through to the office. The kid follows, and he's quiet. It's hard to tell if he's feeling cocky, and Colt tries to be cool as well.
"So, uh," Colt says, sitting behind the desk and flicking through some paperwork so he seems officical. The coffee-stained resumes have partially dried in a stuck-together-pile, but Colt pretends that it's all intentional. "You got any questions?"
The kid stands just inside the door, hands in his pockets, and shakes his head.
"Sit down," Colt tells him. "You're killing me here. One question. It's an assessable part of the interview."
There's a long second where they just stare at each other.
Intense eyeballing aside, the kid looks wrecked, Colt realises. Maybe it's just the unflattering office lighting, but the his eyebags look more like bruises and he's got those red-gluey kind of eyes like he hasn't slept. He doesn't seem drunk or high, though. Just pale and tired. Maybe he was more nervous about the job interview than he's letting on. Couldn't sleep?
"Come on," Colt cajoles. "You got no questions at all about the job. Like, what sorts of stunts we do?"
The we is ambitious. Forward-thinking.
"It's just driving?" the kid says, and there's nothing in his tone or face, but Colt gets the feeling he's going to be disappointed by Colt's answer.
"Nah, well, I guess you could," Colt equivocates, because god damn the kid was good, and he's been scraping the barrel for weeks now. "But ideally I need someone who can do a bit of everything, you know?"
The kid nods.
"You've never done any body stunts?" Colt asks, when it's apparent there's no more questions forthcoming. "Or like, martial arts? Jujitsu or something?"
The kid shakes his head, and shrugs at the same time. Colt takes that to mean sort of or nothing formal. The kid would be a good body double - he's young, fit, and has the height they're usually trying to fake in their main talent. Colt looks him over. A bit lanky, but that's nothing costumes couldn't bulk out.
When Colt looks up at his face, the kid's watching him. They make eye contact for while. It's a bit uncanny, but Colt refuses to be the one to look away first. Somewhere outside, a car drives by, the thump of heavy R&B appearing and disappearing like an ambulance siren, and the kid's gaze finally slides off to the left. Ha!
Colt leans forward with a sigh and shuffles his papers again, like he's disappointed.
"So, look, uh," Colt says. "I can give you a trial."
The kid nods. It's hard to tell, but he seems pleased. Or at least- not annoyed. Colt's testing the waters, really, and hoping the kid can't tell how desperate Colt actually is to hire him, because at this point, the kid is miles and away the best he's seen. The precision. If Colt can get him up to speed on the basics of some fight scenes, some drops- shit. It feels like his luck is finally turning around.
"How long?" the kid says.
"What?" Colt says.
"How long, for the trial?" the kid says.
"Oh, uh," Colt says, and there's a reason he's not an actor. "Three months?" He coughs, and tries to make it sound like it's not a question. Like he's a real boss. Running a real, official, registered business. "Three months."
The kid nods, looking over and away at Colt's Miami Vice jacket, slung over the empty filing cabinet. Colt can almost see the cogs turning. He's weird as hell, but Colt kind of likes him. Colt will have to wait for Jean-Claude's full report before he lets the guy anywhere near an unguarded set of shop keys, but there's potential here.
"You can think it over," Colt tells him, but the kid shakes his head.
"That's fine," the kid says. "I'm in."
"Right, well- okay," Colt says. He tries to stop himself looking too pleased. "Cool, cool. Uh- can you come in this Wednesday, say ten AM? We can see how you go on rigging."
The kids nods. Colt stands up and comes around the desk, feeling like he should be doing a hand-shake or something, but the kid moves out of the way instead, so Colt's left awkwardly holding the office door open.
"See you Wednesday," Colt says.
The kid nods, and leaves quickly. As soon as the front door clicks closed, Jean-Claude wanders back in from the break room.
"You didn't happen to catch his name, did you?" Colt asks the dog.
Jean-Claude gives him the closest approximation to an eye-roll Colt has ever seen from a dog.
"Oscar-worthy," Colt tells him. "Truly, you're a star. Useless, but a star. Maybe we'll rename you Tom."
Jean-Claude's lip curls.
~***~
"You can't underpay him," Jody says, palpating the truss tomatoes.
"What do you mean?" Colt says, wiggling the trolley and making their boba tea slosh around in the cupholders. He always ends up with a squeaky wheel. "Sure I can - I got underpaid all the time. It's a rite of passage."
Jody rolls her eyes.
"That's why you're not going to underpay him," Jody tells him, two ripe tomatoes held aloft in the palm of her hand in a way that makes Colt's mouth dry. "Breaking the cycle, yeah? Also, I'm not going to be seen on the red carpet with any man who's involved in workplace exploitation."
"You're going on the red carpet?" Colt says, way too loud for the produce section. He leans in, trying for a stage whisper. "You're- Jody-! That's so exciting!"
Jody smiles, that secret little smile that says she's just as excited as he is, but pretending to be cool about it.
"Just The Glass Line premiere," Jody says, all demure, dropping the tomatoes into the trolley and turning her attention to the carrots. It was an indie, and Colt's reasonably certain Jody didn't sleep the entire final week of post. He spent most of it trying to get her to eat something nutritious between the energy drinks and giving her head massages while she worked. And shoulder massages. And foot massages. And sometimes, maybe, when no one else was around, kneeling on the floor in front of her editing chair being very good and quiet. A difficult game.
"Still," Colt plays along, a little breathless watching Jody's sharp eyes compare two thick, slightly bent carrots. "Real deal. Big shot stuff. Visionary director Jody Moreno."
"It'll just be for a weekend," Jody says. "If you're not working, you know. I have that pink dress. You could wear that pastel suit."
"We could match?" Colt says. Too sappy, because Jody rolls her eyes, but she's got a little flush on her cheeks, so maybe it's okay.
They get a little distracted by the eggplants, even though eggplants are actually gross.
"Must be out of season," Jody says.
"Tiny," Colt agrees.
"Terrible colour," Jody decides. "Look at this one. A growth?"
"They should get that checked," Colt says.
Jody nods firmly, pressing her fingertips over the lumpy eggplant like she's a doctor. Colt has visions of that Blink-182 album cover, this time featuring Jody, which huh, that's - something. It also reminds him of 80s pornstars, which reminds him of John Duan. Not because John Duan was a porn star, but he did start out doing safety set ups for some of the wilder Gonzo stuff, apparently. Colt had always been too nervous to ask.
"Hey, uh," Colt starts, because if he doesn't get it out now, it'll fester and he'll act weird and Jody will twist it out of him. Usually not in a fun way. "You know, that thing about the bodies."
Jody looks at him, zeroed in sharply, and Colt - he's struck dumb. He always knew Jody had what it takes to be a director, because Jody can do that - thing. Like, the Director Thing. Where she snaps her attention onto someone, and they start to sweat, no words needed. And then she says jump, and Colt hopes to god he can jump high enough, because he's gunna die trying.
"That thing about the bodies," Jody repeats.
"Nobody is dead yet," Colt says. "I mean - no one's gunna die."
The old lady perusing the potatoes next to them looks askance, and squeaks her trolley over to the onions instead.
"It's John Duan," Colt says. "You remember John Duan?"
"John Duan, first take, John Duan. Light me up again, Tony Scott, that John Duan?" Jody says, in her Colt voice. "J.D. Duan Incorporated, Associated, Limited Liability, High Mobility. That John Duan?"
Colt can feel the back of his neck heat up.
"I don't sound like that," Colt says.
"The bodies," Jody reminds him. She picks up a zuchinni, and it's impressive. Long and thick and shiny. Her very firm grip makes him swallow.
"He's missing," Colt says. "That's all. There's no actual bodies. I just - I'm gunna have a look around. For Dan."
"For Dan," Jody repeats, and that seems to make her relax a bit, because she puts the impressive zuchinni down and turns off her Director-Jody-Moreno vision. Colt picks up his boba tea and slurps on the remaining balls so he has something to do with his hands, even though he's already drank all the liquid and now they're way too glutaneous and kind of gross.
"As long as you call me straight away if anything is weird," Jody tells him.
Colt nods, helpless, even though he knows, just quietly, that if anything is really terrible there's no way he's going to get Jody involved. Which won't happen anyway, because this is John Duan.
There's a stand of corn cobs, silky yellow hair spilling out of the husks.
"Pig-tails?" Jody says.
"Plaits," Cody says, because it's obvious. Jody gives him a challenging look, and Colt grins, because Jody has no chance. Colt's French braid is legendary.
Somewhere deep in his pocket, Colt's phone plink-dings.