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“See ya,” Chris had waved, on the last day on the set. “Wouldn’t want to be ya.”
“Did you pick Pratt as a stage name because you are one?” Bob wondered aloud. You know, theoretically and all.
“Stop trying to sound like you’re Hiddleston, you can’t pull off the British accent all that well,” Chris said, leaning against the side of Bob’s trailer. It was the last one in what had been dubbed the Avenger’s Parking Garage, although they were still hauling Chadwick’s off to the loading bays. Those trailers were almost like home, some days.
Ten years of being on set, and Bob’s trailer was so familiar that sometimes he walked into the walls back in Malibu because he was used to a different layout. That’s what happened when you had kids and didn’t sleep well, and tried to get up in the middle of the night to take a pee without opening your eyes. Susan found that particular description both hilarious and informative.
“Bah, I was Sherlock fucking Holmes,” Bob said, “and will be again. My accent is point on.” It would be nice. He’d missed Jude, quite a lot, really.
“Ben did that role so much better,” Pratt pointed out.
“Says the guy who had to take Jurassic Park lessons from the Grandmaster,” Bob snarked, the side of his mouth twitching.
“Hey, Jeff got a huge ass statue on display in some park in England somewhere for that role,” Chris said. “I couldn’t ask for a better role model.”
“I’m a role model,” Bob protested.
“You’ve got a lot of roles,” Chris agreed. “And you’re pretty enough, even now, to be a model, but--”
“Even now? Come again?”
“Face it, Bobby,” Chris said. “You’re getting old. You’re Dad Tony now, not Iron Man. That kid, Holland, he’s the one putting butts in the seats these days. Spider-man, Spider-man, does whatever the hell he thinks he can. That kid makes me crazy -- how can he spoil a movie he’s not even in, for the guy who’s freakin’ staring in it?”
That had been hilarious to hear about, the way Chris’s voice went up incredulously when he got the director on the line to verify what Tom Holland had been nerding on about.
“And that’s the way it should be,” Bob said. “New talent comes up. I mean, come on, we had Robert Redford on the screen with us, and he was bigger by far than I’ll ever be. We have our moments, and then we’re gone. Tom’s a good kid. The best. He deserves this.”
“Yeah, well, no one will be you, will they?” Chris asked.
“Who would want to be?”
“I can think of a few people who’d like it. Who’d want the fortitude to turn their lives around the way you did,” Chris said.
“Are you angling to be my new set wife, because that sounded like you’re buttering me up,” Bob said.
“Funny, I’d think you were the wife.” Chris winked. “What with the diva stripper heels and all that.”
“Only sometimes,” Bob said. “I’m flexible. Sometimes the wife, sometimes the husband, sometimes just the side chick.”
“Guess I missed the chance to be your side chick,” Chris said. They still weren’t really sure what was going to happen next, after this wrap. No one ever knew, but half the characters were dead (sort of, maybe, possibly) and there was a great hush hush over the script like always. If they’d be working together again or not.
But there were always other projects. A word here, or there, and they might see each other again for more than just the few run-ins at red carpet things. Hell, he’d be working with Tom on another project entirely in just a few weeks.
“I’ll see you soon, Star Lord,” Bob teased. He added a roguish wink to that. “You did well with the Magnificent Seven piece, and I always wanted to do a cowboy movie.” He’d heard rumors about a remake of Stagecoach. That could be exciting.
“Not if I see you first,” Chris said, giving him the double finger guns.
Bob laughed, shook his head. He had one more bag of personals to get out of his trailer, and they were scheduled to haul it away in another two hours. He looked back, and Chris was still there, watching him intently. “You… uh, wanna come in and say goodbye properly?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”