hackthis_archive | RPF – Brad Pitt/George Clooney -- When I'm Sixty Four

slodwick made K and I iconses! Here's to you, sweetie, since I know your birthday is just around the corner, too. And here's to getting older, because really, it's not that bad at all. Rinse. Wash. Repeat.

RPF/RPS
Brad Pitt, George Clooney & mentions of, like, other people.

When I'm Sixty-Four

At some point during the night George Clooney's fax machine develops an eating disorder and decides to empty its contents all over the floor of his bedroom. George doesn't know about this until the next morning, because Max fell asleep on his bed, again, and trying to move a catatonic 150 lb. pig is for fools and people with better backs.

George still has hallucinations of spinal fluid dripping out of his nose during Syriana filming, so he sleeps in the guest room and dreams about men in uniform and Matt Damon dressing up like James Bond. George can't remember ever seeing Matt in a tuxedo, so his frame of reference is a little weird, especially the part where Matt arrests Jake Gyllenhaal and makes him wear a cowboy hat.

George isn't going to think too hard about that one, because his agent has been talking about Brokeback Mountain for months, and clearly, there's just some subconscious homosexuality popping up the way it does every now and then.

Generally, George blames Brad for things like this, but Brad's decided to have a mid-life crisis, so George will let it go this time. At least he's trying to let it go, but the hair dying is just begging for attention. When Jen calls Brad Billy Idol in the press, George is practically required to say something.

The first time he brought it up was during Maddox Jolie's birthday party. Brad had been trying to arrange balloons and candy and all sorts of parental things that made George's skin itch in weird places. "We can't all age gracefully like you, princess," Brad said.

"Yeah, but blonde? That's just tacky, Bradley."

"This from the man who was afraid to shave his head for Syriana because he wasn't sure it would grow back?"

George had taken his ribbing in stride, because it was true. "At least I didn't steal Billy Idol's look."

"Ha. Ha. Ha," Brad's laugh was dry and throaty. "That was so funny I forgot to laugh."

"Aw, did I hit a nerve?"

"I'm dying it brown for the Jesse James role."

"You don't have to dye it at all," George pointed out. "You're Brad fucking Pitt; do you have any idea what that means? Your mid-life is still better than 98% of the population's entire existence! You could do crack on stage and people would still want you!"

Brad rolled his eyes and shoved a package of balloons at George to blow up. "Your belief warms the cockles of my heart."

"Did I mention the part about you being an idiot?"

"Which is why you love me," Brad had said with a grin, and George had agreed, grudgingly, and then Zahara had started crying and Brad had gotten distracted.

That happened a lot these days.

Of course, thinking of Brad always tends to make George think he's gay, because they're just that close, but George doesn't think he's gay for Jake Gyllenhaal, too. Then again, George never tends to make up his mind about these things until he's got his cock down someone's throat.

George is very laid back about sex -- but not about his fax machine, because there are papers everywhere, and most of them are too dark to make out at all.

He doesn't hear Max waddle up behind him, but then there's that grunt, and he's nudged in the calf and has to crouch down and scratch behind Max's ears. The getting down on the floor isn't nearly as easy as it used to be, and he can feel things creaking that used to work seamlessly

"Sleep well, princess?" he asks, taking Max's snuffling as an affirmative answer.

Max doesn't tend to be a picky pig; he's actually more decisive than most humans George knows. Max wants what he wants, and he squeals and grunts until George gives it to him. He's a lot like a child that way, which makes George his father, but George tries not to let that get out.

The faxes are illegible, and George has no idea what the hell he's supposed to be looking at until he flips over a piece of paper with his own photo. He has vague recollections of this photo shoot, but after the first five or ten, all photo shoots start to blur together. He cant' even remember what magazine this was for -- he looks good though. That's always a good way to start the morning.

On the bottom is a note in Brad's unmistakable scrawl:

JEN IS GQ'S MAN OF THE YEAR?

WHY DID THEY CHOOSE HER WHEN YOU ONLY PUNCHED A PRODUCER?

THE WORLD IS WEIRD. AND BEING AWAKE AT 4AM SUCKS.

George has no idea what the message means, it's almost in code, but Brad's been surviving on no sleep and a lot of "family time," so who knows what his mental state is like these days.

George picks up the scattered papers and tosses them into the trashcan, and he's just getting to his knees when the phone rings. If he were someone else, he would probably answer it, but that's what caller ID is for.

By the time he's on his feet, the answering machine has picked up, and George just raises a sleep-mussed eyebrow when Ari's voice starts in:

G-Money, baby, I don't know what the fuck is up with your friend, Bradley, but damn, he got punked. Jen Aniston as GQ's Man of the Year? I mean shit, he might as well just cut off his balls and turn them in now. It defeats the point of having a beard when she's recognized as the man in the relationship by the national press. Just saying. Call me when you stop banging those nasty English chicks, and don’t forget to let Lloyd know if you want to re-subscribe to The New Yorker because I'm not your fucking ass-wiper. Make me a rich man today, okay? No more punching out the press.

The message ends, and George just shakes his head as he leaves the bedroom and heads for the kitchen with Max trotting and grunting behind him.

Ari's a great agent, but damn, he has no tact at all. George also makes a mental note to himself to tell Lloyd about his subscription, because he doesn't even handle his own mail anymore. Too many naked photos and weird stalker shit.

When George was still just George, he got his mail delivered every day by the postman. Actually, that's not really true. Back when George was still in high school, the mail was delivered by the postman, Patrick. This was obviously so long ago that people still knew their mailmen by name, and it was okay that George's mom knew the mailman's name was Patrick, and everyone didn't think that obviously meant they'd been doing things.

George will, now, never again, think of his mother and the mailman, because that way lies a heart attack.

The phone starts ringing again when George is between the first floor bathroom and the kitchen. Ari didn't sound manic on the answering machine, so George knows it can't possibly be him. "I gave at the office," he says, trying not to trip over Max.

"If my ex-wife is the Man of the Year, does that make me the Woman of the Year?" Brad sounds pretty chipper for a guy who's just been castrated all over the newsstands.

"No," George says, grabbing the remote off the kitchen counter and turning on the TV. The TV automatically defaults to CNN from wherever George left it the night before, because 200 cable channels are just too much trouble. The technological gizmo is something that Matt created, because he really is just as nerdy as Will Hunting. "I think that makes you Homewrecker of the Year."

"I though that was Angie."

George snickers. "Someone sounds jaded this morning, what's wrong, kids keep you up all night?"

"Did you know babies have to be fed every four hours? And the teething thing? What the hell is up with that?"

Max grunts and headbuts George's knee. When Max was little, George had to feed him all the time, at least every few hours. George thanks God that that's over. "Pigs aren't babies," George says not-very-apologetically. "I can't help you, man. Max went through teething a long time ago."

Brad sighs loudly, and George looks down at Max and shakes his head. "Max, don't ever have a mid-life crisis."

Max's answer is to step on George's bare foot. George has decided that this is Max's way of smacking him in the head. Maybe he should buy Brad a pig, then Brad will have a child of his own and stop trying to appropriate other people's offspring.

There's a click and deep inhalation. "You're talking to the pig again?" Brad said he'd quit smoking. Apparently, not.

"At least 'the pig' -– as you so succinctly put it -- isn't doing a Lindsey Lohan with his hair." There's nothing but bad news on CNN. The president didn't manage to drown himself in the bath, which means the country is still ruled by effete assholes.

Inhalation. Snicker. "That's just wrong. And also, that girl has issues."

"You told me she stalked you at some awards show."

"She didn't stalk, she drooled. It was scary; I had to pretend I didn't know who she was."

"And people say you can't act."

"Those are all just filthy rumours."

"Then I guess the guys and I should stop spreading them, huh?"

"Yeah, you could do that."

George cradles the phone between his shoulder and ear when Max headbuts him for the second time in five minutes. He gets it, someone's hungry. "So," he begins, while opening the refrigerator door, "Is there anything in particular you wanted this morning, or did you just miss my melodious voice first thing in the morning?"

Brad snorts. "If I wanted that I would've just run off with you instead."

"Hey, I told you I was easy."

"Yeah, but you don't let me hold the remote control."

"My house, my rules."

Brad's answer is drowned out by several shrill yells on the other end, and George just shakes his head as he grabs several carrots and Max's feed bag. At the familiar rustling noise, Max grunts and tries to wedge himself between George and the open door. "George, I'll have to call you back. Mad decided he wanted to stick his head through the banister rails."

"You go handle that, Super Dad," George says, ringing off. Looking down at Max, he shakes his head. "Max, don't have kids. Ever."

Max just snorts.

*

George is doing what he can to age gracefully, but his body isn't necessarily trying to help him out. Gaining and losing the 30 lbs was hard enough -- he has a newfound respect for Renee now after enduring that trial -- but with his back issues, and the hair freak out, even George is starting to realise that he's not 30 anymore. Forget about 20. He was poor at 20 anyway.

The fact remains that George knows he's getting older, but he likes his grey hair, and he likes that he knows more than he used to. He doesn't want to get married, and he doesn't want kids. He has his friends, and his business, and Max. He loves his job, and he's finally getting to make the movies he wants to. And on top of all of that, he's finally figured out what he looks good in: tan suits are bad, black suits are good, and jeans are fine as long as it's not something his mother will see in the paper.

His mother has always been very particular about presentation, so George just chalks his meticulous nature up to genetics.

This is why he's in the bathroom, investigating the crown of his head to make sure he's not going bald. His father still has his hair, and his aunt Rosemary always had fabulous hair, so there's no reason for George to think he's going bald. Still, the average human loses 250 strands of hair a day, and if those aren't growing back, George needs to know, now.

When his cell phone rings, George doesn't even need to look at the display to who it is, because Matt's off in Miami playing happy families, and Richard is actually working, unlike everyone else.

"Did the fire department ask for your autograph after they cut Mad free?" he asks by way of greeting. "Or did they just want to stare at Angie?"

Brad laughs. "You know, it's amazing the things you can do with margarine."

"I don't need the details of your sex life, Bradley. Any sort of food porn or food abuse is just going to find its way to the tabloids, and then the FDA are going to launch an inquiry and you'll end up in jail."

"Hey, at least I'll be getting some on a regular basis," Brad shoots back.

"We can't all be seduced by our co-stars," George points out, "and bringing home a stripper is just a bad long-term investment. It's fine for a month or so, but after a while, you start spending all your money on STD tests, and I don’t think there's a buy-two-get-one-free special happening at Cedars."

"Shut up. Mr I Can't Commit to anyone or anything. Who are you back with this time? Lisa? Krista? Do you move Krista in just so you can throw her out? You can tell me the truth. At least you don't see me picking at you every time you go back to Mariella. Or Lisa. Or whomever it is this week."

"Lisa does my laundry. I'm not back together with her -- she has all my socks."

"I would have something smart to say about that –- but it's probably true, which is even worse."

George rolls his eyes when he catches his expression of mock offense in the mirror, there is truly no better acting class than talking on the phone to ones friends. "I'm sorry, was that supposed to be an insult? Because you know, that was really lame. I'm just saying."

"I'm tired, fuck off."

George squints at his reflection. His sideburns look brighter than normal. "You're repeating yourself, you're dying your hair all the time, and you've traded in GQ's Man of the Year for a younger model. Yeah, you are definitely having a mid-life crisis. Should I tell Angie that you'll be trading her in for a Ferrari any day now?"

"No, I think we should leave that out of any conversations you two have, okay? Did I mention that she thinks I'm spoiling the kids? I'm not the one flying them all over the world and buying them small tracts of land! What's that all about?"

"I am not your marriage counselor. Do not come crying to me about your domestic problems."

"Yeah, but—" There are faint car horns in the background.

"No butts, Pitt, unless they're firm and naked -- and stop buying the kids 4X4s, too."

"They're just toys!"

"You wouldn't be this defensive if you didn't think I was right."

"Shut up."

"Your playground insults are very typically mid-life crisis, you know." George smiles at his reflection. Apart from his silvering sideburns, his hair looks good today.

"I'm old, George. I'm 41; I'm supposed to be crotchety."

"You're old at 41? So, what does that make me?"

"At 44? Ancient. You might want to start picking out your casket."

"That's just fucked up, you know that, right?" From the side George looks pretty trim too; the wonders of wearing dark colors never cease to amaze him.

He can eat steak and still be fit. It's great to be him 99% of the time. The bad 1% tends to be in the form of break-ups and the press.

Brad's voice is slightly tiny. "Get used to it, Old Man. Wait until the AARP come calling."

"Please, you're only three years behind me."

"Yeah, well, you'll need someone to push your wheelchair and hand you your Ben-Gay."

"And wash my dentures, don't forget that." George gives himself one last look in the mirror before turning out the light and leaving. He grabs his keys and his Blackberry from his dresser, and shuts the bedroom door behind him, he's sleeping in his own bed tonight.

Brad chuckles. "I'm not changing your diapers."

"With all the practice you're getting right now? Sorry, I think you're going to be the designated Depend changer."

"That's just nasty -– plus, that's why we have Matt."

"Speaking of younger men, what do you know about Jake Gyllenhaal?" George takes the steps downstairs two at a time. He may be old, but he's still fit.

"He's too young for you."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you."

"I'm just trying to keep you out of jail in your old age. They don’t treat the elderly that well in the pen. I watched Oz -- I know these things."

"So, what am I supposed to do for company?"

"You've got me. And Max."

Max is sprawled out on the floor of the living room in front of the fireplace. He looks as happy as any pig could possibly be. As far as George is concerned he's a far better investment than a kid. At least Max doesn't need clothes or want to go to college.

He grunts as George prods him lightly with his shoe before leaving.

George sighs as he opens the door. "I'm doomed aren't I?" he says by way of greeting to Brad, who is just pulling up in a very bright, very shiny, black Mercedes.

Brad just smirks as he closes the flip-top of mobile phone. "Yeah, pretty much."

---end—

Photos provided by

literaryll and

antheia. Thanks to both.

Man of the year snark inspired by

unholyglee

Happy Early Birthday to

slodwick.

Title provided by The Beatles.

Current Mood: amused
Current Music: Yves Montand 'Rue St. Vincent'

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

liseuse.livejournal.com

Heh! I think I love George, and Max.
But more George. And his worries and his snarkyness.

Maybe he should by Brad a pig - Maybe he should buy Brad a pig?</small?

From:

Educated Black Person, Esq., A.A., B.A., MBA, Ph.D., RN, NAACP, AAA

RPF – Brad Pitt/George Clooney -- When I'm Sixty Four

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