James has just reached his hotel suite door. The production day has been tough, and the last 11 hours in costume have been long. He’s hungry. He’s tired. He’s sweaty. Nothing in the world right now sounds better than a hot shower… followed close second by a long sleep.
Card key in the lock, he steps inside as fast as he can, in case another hotel patron catches sight of him and tries to strike up conversation. It’s too late in the day.
He shuts the door and kicks off his shoes, too tired to pair them by the closet. A trail of belongings follows as James leaves his card key, script and wallet on the coffee table and his suit jacket on the back of the couch. He’s just starting to unbutton his shirt when his phone rings.
It better not be someone off the set. James swears audibly, thinking that the person on the other end of that line better be praying they’re not calling about needing him back to reshoot a scene or go over a script change. The least irritating person who could be at the other end of that receiver right now, he thinks, would be his wife back at home, and he’s not really in the mood to speak to her either. He backtracks to his jacket, retrieving the ringing, vibrating monster.
Caller ID reads Fassbender. James fears the worst, because his friends know to never call him after a day this long unless he’s needed somewhere urgently. He takes a breath, puts on a cheery voice and answers.
"Hey, Michael. What’s happening?"
His hand is on his hip, visibly frustrated. At first, he hears nothing but breathing at the other end of the line, and for a split second wonders if Fassbender’s called him from his pocket, or if he’s in some sort of trouble.