Here’s a Colt pov because I alluded to this but left it out and fuck it he also needs a panic attack—
Jody is having a shit Thursday.
But that's not surprising— everything about this shoot makes her want to pull her hair out. The schedule has changed three times. The director had to be replaced halfway through the third week of filming. And if she has to deal with Tom Ryder's stage directions on camera angles one more time, she might actually push him out the next window.
That said, the only thing getting her through it all was Colt. She giggles a little at the thought of him. He makes her feel like a schoolgirl, like falling in love for the first time all over again. Kind and funny and, Lord, the muscles certainly didn't detract. Everything about Colt Seavers made her stress and anxiety melt away. It probably also helped that they were getting a snog in every chance they had. A little serotonin pick-me-up. But truly, that was the last thread keeping her from blacking out and starting to defenestrate popular Hollywood actors.
(And Colt would totally help her get away with it— but she really couldn't drag a man like him into prison. He was too sweet for the Bonnie and Clyde act— Still hot, though.)
Speaking of snogging, Colt should have been here by now with coffee and, hopefully, his tongue in her mouth. But nada. That was concerning. Unless someone had kidnapped and drugged him, Colt would never, ever miss an opportunity to come make out with Jody. It was, as he'd stated several times, currently his favorite thing to do. Aside from doing other fun things with Jody and tossing himself off buildings.
She gives it a minute; and her concern has turned into worry. So she goes looking for him. He isn't over by the prop table or the craft services tent. Just a few technicians who have no idea where he is. She asks if they're doing a filming block that somehow didn't make it onto her schedule or planner and, thinking of this film, that probably shouldn't be a surprise.
But everyone looks at her funny when she asks. So she assumes no. She finally finds Dan and asks if he's seen Colt, only to get a shrug. “Yeah, like an hour ago. I think he was all types of shaken up. I thought it might've been that last stunt, and you know how Colt gets about being around people when he's not feeling well, so I sent him to his car. You know, get his head straight." And maybe take the hint and go home, is left unsaid.
Shaken up is not a phrase anyone has ever associated with Colt Seavers before. And it makes Jody's hands start to shake a little at even the thought. She doesn't have time to question it further before she's heading toward the parking lot, looking for Colt's car. She finds it. And she finds Colt. And it's somehow both worse and better than she could've imagined. Because instead of bleeding out from some hidden internal injury, he's curled up in the fetal position across the back seat. His hands are buried in his hair, clutching so tightly it looks like he's trying to rip it out by the roots. He's sobbing, these heartbreaking, stifled little hitches that shake through his frame like he's slowly dying. Like he can't properly breathe. Like his body is trying to fall apart. Jody doesn't know what to do.
She's known Colt long enough to know that he is steady. Unmovable. Strong physically and emotionally. But he's also human. And whatever this is has reminded her of that fact in the worst possible way. This has broken him clean in two. She crawls into the back seat with him, and he doesn't even try to push her away. That's more worrying than the crying.
It's uncomfortable. Her arms are pressed against the seats. Her knees dig into old crumbs scattered across the carpet. She doesn't care. She's holding his face in her hands. It's red, like he's been sobbing since he curled up. Tears and snot still stream down his face in steady rivers. He looks like someone died. Oh, fuck. What if someone died?
Her fingers comb through his hair, stroking and smoothing, like she can somehow push the agony from his eyes. And there is agony there. Fear, too. Something animal. Something that feels like it had been asleep for a very long time and has suddenly woken up scared and clawing and screaming.
"Jo..." His voice cracks. "I—I think I'm going crazy."
"No, no, no. It's okay. You're okay. You're not going crazy." Her thumbs brush beneath his eyes. "What's wrong? I'll fix it. We'll fix it. Whatever it is."
"No. You don't—you don't understand." He sucks in a ragged breath. "I saw him. He was there. He held my hand." "Who was there?" she asks. "Who was there, sweetheart? It's okay. It's okay. We'll find him."
"No, Jo, you don't understand." His voice breaks completely. "He's dead." A sob tears out of him. “My big brother is dead."
His voices shaking violently.
"And he touched my hand—"
There are many jobs you can get in San Francisco. The ones you need to get when you don't want people asking too many questions usually have to do with some type of manual labor. Six finds one of those jobs and applies to be a set hand: a grunt to carry the big supplies around and help the techs out. Easy physical labor for someone like him. Still, getting a stunt guy coffee and a sandwich is a little not in the job description, but whatever. He's not here to rock the boat.
He finds the guy over by the craft table, Miami Vice plastered across the back of his jacket just like the tech said it would be. Before the man can even turn around, Six is already sliding the sandwich into one hand and the coffee into the other. There's a call of "Gentry!" from somewhere behind him.
He's turning before he even thinks about it, catching a glimpse of blond hair and a broken nose before the guy looks at him, then turns away completely. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming!" And he's off again. Nary a thought spared for the Miami Vice jacket who made him fetch coffee and sandwiches.
But the thing is, Colt saw his brother get older.
Their visits toward the end were brief and stretched out over years, but Colt remembers his brother. It's like an imprint, a flash burned into the back of his brain.People don't think he's smart, but Colt's memory is a trap for the things he holds onto.
And sometimes when in a particularly dark mood, he masticates over the idea of his dead brother. What he would look like now. The wrinkles on his face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The soft timber of his voice.
And the minute the name Gentry is spoken, it's like something in his brain snaps. Like something he's been holding onto for so long, pressing deep, deep down inside himself, suddenly breaks loose. He feels like he's going fucking crazy. Because Colt didn't cry when his brother died.
But now he's sobbing in the arms of his girlfriend of eight months like a baby, like his brother just died in that prison riot all over again. Like his brother is standing over the bathtub, with the gun still smoking in his hands, blood splashed across his fingers and brains splashed across Colt's face.
He feels like he's going crazy because, hand to God, on the Bible, he would swear that man was Court.
He should probably call Ryland.
