InsaneJournal

RP: Costume Drama
Who Jon Snow, NPCs - The Gorgon Sisters
When: 4 April 2013
Where: Makeup trailer, the backlot, Red Gum Studios, Anaheim.
Rating: Light language
Status: Complete



Her presence was felt as tiny warning pricks up the back of his neck ages before stunted male peripheral vision picked up on the slow inch of a pointed nose. Once again, her wide nostrils went sniffing round places they had no business exploring, dark vixen-vintage hair informing identity of the intruder.

Pincurl.

Without moving except to raise his eyes, Jon met a bright green gaze reflected back at him through the ceiling-to-counter mirror which ran the length of the makeup trailer. Pincurl, the first of the three cleverly coined Gorgon Sisters, was indeed perched over his right shoulder and eying him intently like a parrot prepping to squawk.

Instinctually, Jon punched the lock button of his mobile, darkening the touchscreen before dropping it into his lap.

'Amy.'

‘Pardon?’ he asked, truly not curious but honor bound to respond politely.

Through the mirror Pincurl’s eyes locked on target, Jon watching with unbridled disinterest as her expression grew tremendously wide, filling every possible corner of her sharply tapered face. He could just see the gossip bridging her pallet, so eager to scamper up her throat and be born into the world that it bypassed lips entirely and jumped out prematurely through whatever orifice was currently available.

Flared nostrils, prickling ears, wide, energetic eyes.

Like being tracked by a manic puppy standing over its empty bowl.

Jon quietly quirked an eyebrow. Apparently a terrible reaction for it only prompted further discussion. 'The girl you’re seeing. Is it Amy- uhh... you know, that really chatty girl with the awful bob from Craft Services.’

If only he could have swatted away the natting like a know-nothing midge but Jon’s proper upbringing stated a gentleman never hit girls. Even the truly annoying ones.

What a stupid rule.

Pincurl continued, ‘I swear I can hear her teeth chattering even when she's not talking,' and as if on cue all three Gorgons shivered as a single terrifying unit.

Jon’s eyes wandered the mirror.

In the seat to his left sat the aptly named Powderpuff, the middle child, and by far the most normal of the three artist. Though Robb had been quite adamant that a woman who wore layer-cake makeup concealed more than blemishes and spots and they’d agreed to be gentle around her on the off chance she arrived on set some dreary future morning and pulled a Milton.

For now though she remained approachable, her softer, rounder nose bent over an arsenal of colour wheels lined along the counter. She was struggling to decide between two shades of blush Jon assumed only differed in branding. A designer’s focus and truly a first-world problem.

Behind them, perched atop a metal storage bin was the final installment.

Her face - the one with the upturned nose so befitting snobbish proclivities - was hidden behind the newest copy of Star Magazine. Kim Kardashian’s baby-molded figure took up the majority of the title page alongside bright pink and white backwards text Jon could just make out in the reflection. Pregnant and Terrified! because that was news in Hollywood, apparently. A stack of other rags sat to her left, the week’s barrage of gossip and mayhem awaiting her opinionated reception.

The entire ridiculous picture was framed in hundreds of 120W bulbs. Stheno, Euryale, Medusa and poor Jon Snow.

'Oh.. Uh, no,’ he said at last, expression returning to neutral guard.

'Really?’ Pincurl straightened her spine to stand behind Jon’s chair, tugging lightly at the ends of his curls. Her bad “I’m thinking” habit of pulling dark locks out to their full length before letting go and watching them bounce back into tight little springs. Fussing, Jon thought, and an excuse to touch.

‘I just thought she has such a big mouth and with all those huge bite marks-'

'It's not her,' Jon stamped that fire out right quick, feeling his mobile vibrate timely against muscled thighs.

Sorry, Robb, not just now. They’re nosing.

Ever since St. Patricks when the welt-covered Britons had rolled into the studio still slow and tender from drunken escapades the three makeup artists had begun sniffing round like a hound pack on the scent. Of a fox or a bitch in heat Jon could not distinguish but they were persistent; poking, prodding, nosing and sniffing. Tasked with discovering how Jon Snow and Robb McLellan chose to spend their evenings the Gorgons attempted daily to suss out the source of lasting love-nips for as long as it took the bruises to fade.

Never once had they come near the truth, though. Robb’s Pictish brogue and charismatic stylings, and Jon’s quiet, approachable English broodings were too good to even hypothetically remove them from the genepool. Every unattached woman on set had attempted through the weeks to chat up one bloke or the other. Or both. Some girls were greedy.

The goal had been to break past their surface politeness. To take home the prize and if only for a single night have a little British in them.

The couple more careful in sobriety and where they chose to leave evidence of their partnership - Robb’s controlling nature coming into play even as he pushed the envelope of what Jon deemed safe and private, upping the ante by finding more visible and interesting places to rut against his boyfriend - the girls had begun to chalk St. Patrick’s Day up to a British coup. Just a single night of madness, the memory fading with healing flesh.

After today’s fiasco, though, everyone knew that Jon Snow was very much off the market.

Wardrobe malfunctions were a daily event in the entertainment industry. Whether it was a busted seam or a spilt coffee, these things were anticipated. Ideally everyone was prepared and trained to handle any situation when it arose, no fuss required beyond seamstresses and designers clucking none too quietly about careless actors and stuntmen.

However, on some occasions, the slip ups could not be corrected with a simple quick stitch.

So when Jon threw a punch and ripped the armpit of his button down people had not been prepared to witness the motley of scabs and contusions splattered across his chest and back as the damaged shirt was replaced with a fresh replica.

Concern broke out immediately.

There was their stunt and fight director, covered waist to shoulders in varying shades of purple, red, green and yellow. With the number of times Jon had fallen off horses, thrown himself over bar tops and through sugar-glazed windows injuries were bound to happen. And yet to no recollection had there been an incident report. It would be just like Jon to sustain a wound and keep it under wraps, just as he kept nearly everything else to himself. Broken bones and pulled muscles, however, were not acceptable secrets to have on a film set when such injury could derail an already tight schedule.

And then the frantic AD blew the lid off Pandora’s box with a hearty laugh and a clap to Jon’s shoulder as he realised the truth of the matter.

‘Those aren’t bruises, everyone. They’re hickeys!’

Amidst a chorus of whistles and slagging, Jon had said nothing. Simply put on his new shirt, replaced the hat atop his head and reset to one, internally cursing Robb McLellan and silently planning his revenge.

The damage was done, however, and now fueled with undeniable proof the Gorgons were back with their pesky prods and venomously curious questions. Top among them, who exactly had their reserved fight director allowed to carve kink and claim along the his body in such a violent fashion.

And what did she have that they did not?

In the mirror, Jon watched as the girls all rolled their eyes at his unhelpful responses. Six large white orbs like slimy, wet fish eggs rimmed in entirely too much kohl and shockingly bright eyeshadow.

'Paige from wardrobe?' suggested Gorgon, the only sister without a proper name to herself.

Robb and Jon had tried several. Plastic in reference to her Fashion Sindy attire. Pinchie for the way her nose scrunched at the slightest discontent. Even Pussygalore because the temptation to slip in a Bond reference had tickled Jon something terrible. None of them fit though for truth of the matter remained of the three, she was the worst and defining her down to a narrower label did not quite cover it.

Gorgon. Gorgos. Dreadful. It suited her just fine.

'No.'

'Beth in PR?'

'No,' Jon echoed, caught between a laugh and a sigh. He tried to lean forward and grab his coffee from the counter but Pincurl was quicker and he found himself tugged backwards against the makeup chair by his roots as she fit too petite hands into an impossibly thick tangle of curls.

Her’s were nothing like Robb’s fingers. Tiny and cold, just skin over bone and Jon could feel scarily long acrylic nails scraping harshly along his scalp as she began retraining his hair. No matter how much product went into the mass, it never lasted more than a few hours, constantly in need of re-moulding.

'You're not a man of many words, are you, Jon Snow?'

No would have been the comedic response but Jon found it too cliched and decided instead to throw the girls for a loop. Keep them on their toes; that’s what Robb would do.

'I say plenty.’

'Yeah, well, not to us you don't.’

Gorgon finally lowered her magazine, never missing a prime opportunity to contribute to discord. 'Maybe if you shut up he’d have a moment to say more than yes or no.'

Oh, Gorgon.... Favourite. Harpie. Ever.

Nattering away in mock indignation, Pincurl refused to give up the ghost. As tightly wound as the knots in her hair, she persisted as if the only way to live was vicariously through another’s exploits. 'Won't you give us anything, Jon? If not a name then... What department does she work in? What does she look like? How did you meet her? Is it serious? What color eyes? Does she even work here? How-'

'Blue.'

Three sets of green eyes and varying shapes of noses turned to burn a hole in the back of Jon’s head. During the ceremonial silence which followed, he took the opportunity to extricate himself from steely fingers and finally retrieved his coffee cup from the counter. Glorious caffeine. There was a God!

Jon was partially through a careful sip before one of the sisters found her voice.

'Blue?'

'Yes. Blue eyes,’ he confirmed neturally into his cuppa.

Unblinking, all three sisters pried for more with an elongated, Siren-esque, 'And...?' which brought Jon snorting painfully around a swallow of hot coffee.

'Blue isn't enough?'

'Blue is the colour of your chest!’ Pincurl punctuated her retort with a flirtatious slap to Jon’s shoulder before hauling him against the chair back by his hair, resuming her stylings. ‘I’m going to get her name out of you one of these days, Jon Snow.'

Her name.

Jon snorted again and cracked a rare, smitten smile as he shook his head, several stubborn curls falling lose from their assigned positions.

‘Unlikely. But you're welcome to keep trying.'