peg22 | Wardrobe Malfunction - an RPS Crack Missing Scene to "Survival" (Reply)

So Sue requested a "transcripted missing scene" from Survival. So here it tis.
It's crack.
It's RPS.
It's present and past tense.
It mentions John Quade, who played the nasty Vic Humphries in all his icky glory. RIP.

Wardrobe Malfunction – a missing “scene” from Survival

I. Present Tense

D: Yeah?

P: Yeah? That’s how you answer the phone now, yeah?

D: Paulie? Sorry, I was . . .

P: Don’t explain, Davey. Really. Way too early for that.

D: Funny.

P: So, I’ve got a question for you.

D: Yes, I will marry you.

P: Never gets old . . .

D: Yes, I will blow you.

P: Now that one I can get behind.

D: From behind? Okay, a little kinky . . .

P: Davey, focus.

D: You called me, buddy.

P: Right. So guess who I had dinner with last night.

D: Some old fart you want to finance your next explosion of Isness, Iz Man?

P: How did you guess? No, asshole, although speaking of old farts and finances, you could pay me back for Vegas.

D: Oh, I paid you back for Vegas. . .

P: Jesus, you’re predictable.

D: Thank you. And don’t call me Jesus.

P: I love you.

D: Ditto.

P: Seriously, we do better when we just stay on the phone.

D: You want to have phone sex, Paulie?

P: No, Davey, I want to ask you a question.

D: I thought you asked me a question.

P: Okay, okay. Here’s my question. I had dinner last night with Robert and . . .

D: The kid? You had dinner with Wilson?

P: Robert Epstein, not the kid.

D: Whew, I thought I was going to have to call Hugh.

P: Anyway . . .

D: Yes, you had dinner with some old fart . . . and . . .

P: Did you know John Quade died?

D: What does that have to do with . . . yeah, I know – he died last year.

P: Last year? Why didn’t you tell me?

D: You’re the one in L.A., Paulie. He died in the summer.

P: I was in Rome with you in the summer.

D: Not all summer. I do remember a few weeks where the chain was pulled and your balls had to hightail it back to L.A.

P: It’s called work, Davey. Work. I had to go back to L.A. for work.

D: Work, right. So what does dinner have to do with John Quade?

P: Robert just told me about it. I was thinking about using him on NCIS.

D: You’re doing NCIS? Seriously? Harmon forgive and forget or what?

P: Directing, Davey. I’m going to direct an hour.

D: So Harmon doesn’t know yet?

P: I’m sure he does, he’s a producer.

D: I’m sure he doesn’t, Paulie. Last thing I remember is him talking about your head on a stick. And not in a good way.

P: That was twenty years ago, Davey. We’re all old men, now. Professionals.

D: Anybody tell Harmon that? Need me to fly over to protect you?

P: I think I can handle it. Too bad about John, though.

D: Yeah, he was a good guy.

P: He’s a great bad guy.

D: Good on our show. Clint loved him, too.

P: Yeah . . . really . . .

D: You don’t remember, do you Paulie?

P: Remember what?

D: That John was on our show.

P: Of course I do, Davey.

D: Okay, then, when?

P: When what?

D: When was John on our show? What did he do?

P: Bad guy?

D: Good guess, asshole.

P: Now wait a minute, I remember. The one you directed. Early on.

D: Hey, that’s a miracle. Yes, the one I directed.

P: With the car in the canyon.

D: Yeah, bitch of a shoot.

P: Only because you obsessed about that damn car for weeks.

D: Hey, I wanted to get it right.

P: Should’ve thrown the other car over. That would be getting it right. Fucking car.

D: No chance. That car was our paycheck, buddy. And it was my first gig – I might have been a little obsessed – you blame me?

P: Too bad you didn’t obsess about your wardrobe that much.

D: Wardrobe, what are you talking . . . oh, the silver jacket.

P: Yeah, that fucking silver jacket. Which if I remember, you used again later just to fuck with me. Oh and that fucking pink turtleneck. Didn’t think they’d ever get the lights right – the reflection was killing everyone.

D: It was salmon. Not pink.

P: It was pink. And right when all those rumors were floating around – gay cops, remember? And you decide to look like an aluminum foil nipple. No wonder they all thought we were doing it. Jesus, why didn’t you just fuck me on camera?

D: They thought we were doing it because we were doing it. And I did fuck you on camera. Well, in the camera truck. Does that count?

P: We did not . . .oh, I forgot. That was the warehouse? John Quade was there?

D: Well, hopefully not during the fucking, but yeah. That warehouse. That truck.

P: Damn, Davey. You remember everything.

D: Almost everything. I can’t remember how we managed not to get caught.

P: Didn’t get caught because of the birds.

D: Birds?
P: Yeah birds . . . you don’t remember the birds? We’d just finished most of the warehouse scenes – remember? And Charlie was bitching because you made him run over that truck like thirty times . . . when you’d actually got it in one?

D: You are turning me on now, Paulie. I had no idea you remembered so much about our little skit. Warms my balls, it does.

P: Some things are worth remembering . . .

II. Past Tense . . . a million years ago

“Cut. Fuck. We are never getting this shot today. Let’s call it.” David swung down off the crane and handed a clipboard to the 1^st AD. He consulted with Joe and Patrick and leaned down to close his bag.

“We done?” Paul walked over and put a hand on David’s back.

“The birds are fucking with the boom. They’re fucking with everything. We’re done.”

“Your jacket is probably attracting the birds. You’ve heard of Hitchcock, right, Davey?”

“Funny, Paul.”

They walked together through the rows of cars. The crew, already into the fourteenth hour of the sixth day of a long week, dispersed fast. The sounds of car engines starting and grips tearing down lights were muffled suddenly when someone pulled down the garage door and they stood inside the empty warehouse. Alone.

“Quiet in here.” Paul looked around, grabbed David and pulled him close. “That shirt looks like shit.” He slipped his hand under the shirt, rubbing David’s chest. “Whose idea?”

David pulled Paul closer. “Mine, asshole. Hutch is undercover as a slick New Yaw-ker.” He moved back against a car, pulling Paul up against his chest.

“No one in New York wears this shit. Or tawks like that.”

“Who aks ya, huh?”

They scuffled. Pushing and rubbing until Paul was against the car and David had his hands pinned behind him. “I’m your boss this week, Paulie. You have to do everything I say.”

“What, I can’t hear you over the sound of that fucking jacket.” Paul lifted a knee into David’s crotch. “Why don’t you take it off?”

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up?” David leaned in and bit Paul on the neck.

Paul struggled to get his hands free. “Jesus, Davey. We gonna do this here?”

David looked around, still holding Paul’s hands and pulled him behind the camera truck. Paul finally got a hand free and forced David’s head down, kissing him hard on the lips. David let go of Paul’s other arm and reached down, squeezed the hard bulge in Paul’s jeans. Paul shifted, moaning, struggling to push David’s jacket off his shoulders, struggling to breathe, struggling not to come too fast too hard. Too soon.

David opened the door to the camera truck and shoved Paul down in the cab. He stood and pulled the jacket and turtleneck over his head and tossed it over the camera crane. He leaned in and unzipped Paul’s jeans, tugging them down over Paul’s hips. Paul pulled himself across the seat, his head resting against the other door. David dropped to his knees on the seat, lowering his head, teasing Paul, breathing hard against Paul’s bare stomach. Paul kneaded David’s shoulders, his hand sliding up David’s neck, twisting in his hair, murmuring, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” until David took him in his mouth and all sound stopped. Just waves and heat and his heart beating so fast he didn’t care if it exploded out of his chest as long as David never stopped doing what he was . . . He pulled David’s hair with both hands, and arched up, lifted his hips off the seat as he came. David, who had slipped his hand down his own pants, came soon after, stumbling back against a Cadillac, his pants around his knees, wiping his mouth, wheezing. He pulled his pants up and then slid down the side of the car, resting his head on the door handle. Breathing.

Paul lifted his head, but the effort made him dizzy, so he just lay on the seat and tried to breathe. David rolled over and pulled himself up by the door handle. He reached up and grabbed the jacket and pulled, and heard a rip.

“Oh fuck.” David slid his hand up the jacket to where it was snagged on the screws holding the camera in place. “Mother fucker.” He lifted the jacket slowly off the screws and then held it up, surveying the two inch snag in the back.

“What happened?” Paul shoved himself to his elbows. “What ripped?”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” David slipped the turtleneck over his head and then held the jacket up to the dim light. “Fuck.”

Paul rolled out of the cab. “Guess you’ll have to go back to your leather.”

“I think they can sew it.” David watched Paul zip his jeans, rearrange. “Keep that up and I’ll rip this jacket myself – goddamn, Paulie.”

Paul patted David on the cheek. “You’ve got work to do, schweetheart.” He reached down and grabbed David’s sunglasses, which had fallen out of the jacket. Slipped them on his face. “You’ve got dailies and then a production meeting with Aaron and Leonard.”

David grabbed Paul’s hand and pulled him close. “What if I cancel? Plenty of backseats . . .”

“You can’t. You’re the director.” Paul tucked his shirt in his jeans and ran a hand through his hair. “And you’d better schedule a shower.”

They walked over to the door and Paul swung it open, and they stepped out into the sunshine. And the birds. Which had surrounded the catering truck, squawking and diving.

Paul stepped back and closed the door. “Not safe yet. Those birds get a glimpse of that jacket and your eyes are gone.”

David tried to get past Paul.

“No, Mr. Solberg, I’m serious. Looks like we’re stuck in here for a while. At least until sundown.”

“Sundown?”

“At least.” Paul walked down the first row of cars. “So, what’s your fancy? Cadillac? Camaro?”

David understood and smiled. “No Camaro – no room.”

Paul chuckled. “Right – your legs. How about a Lincoln? Big enough for your ass?”

David walked over to the baby blue Lincoln Continental and peered in the window. “It’s your ass I’m worried about, Paulie. You’ve got a lot of scenes tomorrow – hate for you to be tired – looking all fucked up.”

Paul pushed David up against the Lincoln, laid his head on David’s shoulder. “Can we just forget about tomorrow? Just stay here. Forever?”

“Forever? Is this a proposal, Paulie?”

“Proposal? Only you would take my inability to face my life as some kind of happily ever after proposal.”

“I didn’t say happily ever after, Paulie – but now you’ve mentioned it . . .”

“I didn’t.”

“But I did. And I will. As long as it takes.”

“Okay, Davey. You keep asking and maybe someday we’ll get it.”

“Yeah, maybe someday, Paulie. Now get your ass in this car. I’m still your boss for two more days . . .”

fin