by Lar

"Either that, or Christmasland. Do you ever have any fun?"

"I'm about to."

"And they even brought us weapons. Strategy?"

"Just hold my hand."

There's a pause; warm fingers clutch his. David turns his head and stares at James, whose mouth presses into a grim line. David waits and finally James looks back towards the camera.

"Remember the Alamo."

"Cut!" The voice echoes across the lot, louder than the snickers and laughter that come on the tail of James tenth but most amusing attempt to remember his line.

David's bent down, hands on his knees, his shoulders shaking silently. When he looks up, his eyes are watering, his cheeks pink from laughter. James snickers, rubs his hand over his mouth, shakes his head.

"Oh fuck you, I got it right in rehearsal five fucking times." He pushes David's shoulder, knocks him down, stands over him as David lays flat on his back and continues to laugh. "Get up, you asshole."

David flails his arms, then lifts one up for James to pull him to his feet. When he's standing again, when the wardrobe girl has removed the grime from the back of David's coat and makeup has removed the bits of grass from his hair, he clears his throat, coughs, shakes his arms out before he hits his mark again.

"Strategy?" James says, concentrating fiercely on the line. St. Petersburg, St. Petersburg, Saint fucking Petersburg

"Kiss me." David grabs him, licks his cheek, folds him in a bear hug and rubs his knuckles over James' hair, mussing the artfully tousled strands beyond recognition.

"FUCKING CUT!" Long suffering patience has turned to serious frustration, and James would really give a damn if he could. Trouble is he just can't if David will insist on acting the fool.

"God I love this fucking job," he says as he tackles David and knocks him back to the ground, pinning him and lifting his arms over his head, victorious.


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