Warning: RPS - (Real People Slash) Although I have used the names of Paul Gross and Callum Keith Rennie and some of the actual places they may have been, this is in no way intended to be a true account of their relationship or the events they have taken part in.

This story was written without their consent, approval, cooperation or knowledge. It is strictly a work of fantasy and no harm is intended. This is NC-17

Paul roughly pushed Callum up against the closed dressing room door and kissed his mouth hard. Callum twisted his head and murmured, "Christ, I've missed the fuck out of you."

Paul chuckled, his breath hot and smoky against Callum's neck. "I've missed fucking you."

Slipping his fingers into the waistband of Paul's jeans, Callum laughed. "You romantic son-of-a-bitch." He unhooked the top brass button as he sank to his knees. "I know we don't have much time."

"We never have enough time," Paul said, helping Callum with the remaining four buttons.

God, it had been so damn long since he'd felt this good. Callum had always known how to get to him. The way he smiled at him, the wink, the casual brush of a hand against his waist, all calculated to make him forget he'd promised himself a hundred times before, that the next time they met, it would be strictly professional.

Paul'd known he was lying to himself when he'd hired Callum this time. He'd known he was lying each and every time he'd made sure Callum's name was on the roster, as far back as '97.

Paul's assistant had handed him a stack of headshots to look through during a production meeting. He'd rather have rocked the boat as little as possible during the transition from CBS, so replacing David hadn't been an option he'd wanted to explore. David's agent wouldn't budge, however. If there was a pay cut, David was out.

If Paul'd had more time and less pressure then, he might have been able to bring David to heel. Flipping through the headshots that afternoon, a cigarette burning in the ashtray at his elbow, he'd been struck by lightening.

"This one," he'd said. "Where's the bio-sheet on this one?"

With a perverseness that had run through him since childhood, Paul arranged a meeting with Rennie at his favorite bar. Political correctness be damned. Rennie's status as a recovering alcoholic wouldn't have him walking on eggshells. If the guy wasn't in a place in his life where he could watch someone else enjoy a couple of beers without freaking, then maybe the due South set wasn't the place for him.

Fuck him if he couldn't take a joke.

Just the same, aware he held all the cards and aware he was calling all the shots, Paul still had a case of pre-audition jitters. Fifteen minutes early and on his second beer, he savored the weird anticipation that had been toying with his nerves since he'd looked at Rennie's headshot.

He hadn't brought his assistant or a script or even a lawyer's business card. They'd decide this tonight, just the two of them. There'd be no reasonable discussion, no thinking it through, or talking it to death. They'd click or they wouldn't. The raw hunk of intuition just under his heart told him so. The same raw hunk that had brought him to LA and back, that had led him to believe he was ready to run this fucking show, was telling him the decision would be made tonight.

The waitress, who obviously recognized him, but was far too polite to make a big deal about it, set another beer in front of him.

"Did you need anything else?" she asked.

"No, this is good, thanks."

She tossed him a you-can-have-anything-you-want smile before she turned away. Another time he might have taken her up on it, but not tonight.

This wasn't California where a meaningless encounter was actually a meaningless encounter. This was Toronto and this was home. Martha's permission notwithstanding, a guy didn't piss in his own backyard. A guy didn't want to find out later that he'd porked his wife's hairdresser's sister or his cameraman's daughter. Good PR was too important. He was Canada's golden boy right now and he wanted to hold on to that goodwill for as long as he could.

Besides, a pretty, young brunette wasn't what he was in the mood for. He had a taste for something a little rougher, a little older, a little... A blond head bobbed toward him through the crowd.

***

Show time, Callum thought.

It hadn't been hard to find Paul Gross, even in a crowded bar. People around him were so busy not making a big deal about the actor being there, it was like a fucking neon arrow pointing straight to him.

Right. Or maybe it was his dick trying to point straight to the man.

Either way, Callum had known exactly where Gross was located from the minute he'd walked in. He'd been a bit surprised actually. Having been privy to these little meetings many times in the last few years, he'd rather expected Gross to make a grand, fashionably late entrance with an entourage in tow. Anything to make it clear exactly who was in charge.

As he stepped through the milling Friday night patrons, he realized that Gross didn't need any of those stupid tricks. The man sat there, dressed down in jeans, beer in hand and just fucking shone.

Coming into this deal, he'd known the guy was good looking. A man would have had to have spent the last two years under a damned rock (or drowning in a bottle, his conscience whispered) not to have seen "The Mountie's" face on television and magazines.

Although they shared the same face, Gross and the Mountie most definitely did not look alike. Gross looked bigger, tougher and sexier. He was the kind of man who'd been the kind of kid Callum had hated in school -- self-assured, athletic, way too smart and way too handsome. The kind of kid who knew he was better than the average Joe, but was too well-mannered and ever so careful not to let it show.

He was the kind of guy Callum fell for every time.

If he had one brain cell left, one molecule of self-preservation still hanging around in his skull after the Dillon disaster, he'd turn around right now and walk away. There was plenty of work for him here. Plenty of work that didn't include the need to examine his motives and his good sense and his need to seek out destructive relationships when the dust finally settled.

All that head shrinker crap firmly tucked back for a future therapy session, he moved into Gross' line of vision.

"Hello," he said, sticking out his hand. "I'm Callum Rennie."

 ***

This was worse than Paul'd imagined. Much worse than the headshot or the half-hour of clips Anna had given him to watch yesterday, had led him to believe.

There, in the rough and slim flesh, was a serious problem: spiky bleached hair, flirty smile, an attractive fan of lines around bright blue eyes... Christ, this wasn't good.

"Paul Gross," he said, placing his hand in Rennie's without standing. The cool, firm hand felt damned good against his. He released it quickly. "Please, sit down."

With a natural, cocky grace that Paul knew would translate beautifully on screen and in bed, Rennie swung into the booth. The waitress was there instantly.

"Another draft?" she asked.

"Yeah, that would be fine." He turned to Rennie. "How about you?"

Rennie smiled at him. The man apparently knew a test question when he heard one. "Uh, Perrier, please."

After the waitress left, Rennie blurted out, "I'll only sign for a year."

"I'm sorry?"

"If we decide to do this thing, I can only do a one year contract."

"If we decide to do this thing," he repeated. Yeah, Rennie, no, Callum, felt it, too. The pull, the chemistry, the fucking karma sexual chi between them.

"That sounded stupid, huh?" Callum said with a self-deprecating grin that Paul recognized as being utterly artificial.

"No, it sounded honest," he said. "If we decide to 'do this thing', why only a year?"

"Look," Callum leaned forward, spreading his hands out in front of him, "I'm not sure I'm cut out for a series. I want to try though, and I promise I will give a hundred percent. I can commit for a year, you know, and guarantee that I won't let you down. Beyond a year," he shook his head, "I'm just not sure."

"What you're asking is for me to gamble everything--the series, people's livelihoods, on someone who can't commit? You must think pretty highly of yourself."

Callum's gaze sharpened. "I'm clean. I'm sober. I can do this." His voice dropped to a husky whisper. "You won't be disappointed."

Paul sat back, sprawling casually across the booth bench. "If we'd talked about this a bit before you gave your ultimatum," he quirked his lips to take the sting from his words, "you'd know that I only planned to go one more year with the show. I want a chance to tie up loose ends."

"And to show them all you can do it."

"And to show them all I can do it," he agreed.

"Then you understand where I'm coming from," Callum said. "Needing to show them," he waved his hand over his head, indicating a world full of thems, "that you're in control. That you can do it."

Years ago, when he and Martha had been naive kids, Paul had convinced himself that the two of them were kindred spirits, destined to be together for all time. He'd believed that she understood him, that all he had to do was say what was in his heart and head as best he could and she'd be able to fill in the blanks.

It had taken a marriage, a couple of kids and a lot disappointments for him to realize he'd been full of shit. No one could expect another person to just get it.

"Flip me for it, Paul," Callum said, digging into the front pocket of his jeans to toss a quarter on the tabletop. "Heads, I'm in. Tails, I'm out."

Paul had finally come to accept that the kindred spirit concept was bullshit. It was good manure for growing a story, yeah, but bullshit all the same.

"Or," Callum went on, using the tip of his forefinger to push the quarter across the table toward Paul, "tails, I'm in. Heads, I'm out."

Maybe Paul had looked at it completely wrong. Maybe the kindred spirit thing was right, but his partner was wrong. This stranger, this beautiful blond stranger already understood him in a way Martha never would.

The coin flip suggestion was pure genius. Yes, he wanted to hire Callum. No, he wasn't sure if it was smart. Callum had offered him a perfectly ridiculous, perfectly wonderful plan. They would let Lady Luck and The Fates decide.

Paul picked the coin up and gave Callum a half salute. "Tails, you're in. Heads, you're not."

They watched in silence as the silver disc arced end over end, then dropped into Paul's right hand. He slapped it onto the back of his left wrist.

Glancing at the quarter, Paul made his decision. "Let's go the best two out of three."

With a snort of laughter, Callum asked, "Best two out of three?"

Paul shrugged. "Two out of three. Three out of five. Five out of seven. Whatever it ends up taking."

Three out of five had been enough.

***

Time and trouble couldn't rub the shine off Callum's recollections of their first time.

More than one potential lover had drunkenly boasted to Callum that they could "rock his world." Until Paul had pushed him down on the king-sized bed in that dank hotel room, he'd had no real concept of what that meant.

Forty minutes after the coin toss, thirty minutes after leaving the pub, twenty minutes after trailing Paul's black Lexus through the darkened streets of Toronto to the edge of town, Callum found himself being tossed end over end into the silver arc of orgasm.

That night had burned the bad taste of every nameless fuck he'd picked up in the last twenty years from his mouth. That night had blown the sour scent of every dead-end relationship he'd started in the last twenty years from his brain. That night had been like a flashflood, washing away a dozen half-dreamed plans for the future.

Going to the States to work seemed ridiculous now. Co-starring in due South suddenly seemed like a much better choice.

Co-starring in Paul's own personal sex-a-thon made a whole lot more sense to him as he came for the third time that night.

"The guy is a self-centered prick," Hugh Dillon panted into Callum's hair after he'd fucked him. "I mean, Jesus, Cal, what the fuck do you see in him?"

"Other than him being successful and hot?"

"He's Mr. Goddamned Canada, right? Mr. Fucking Perfect with his mainstream career and his mainstream good looks and his mainstream wife and kids and, oh yeah, his secret faggot boyfriend." Hugh flopped onto his back. "A real prince. The guy's a fucking self-centered prick."

"What? You jealous?" Callum asked, tying off his used condom and throwing in into the bedside trashcan. Hugh had a tendency to get too carried away with the drama of sex to be bothered with playing it safe.

"Jealous?" Hugh lit a cigarette and flicked the ashes off the edge of the bed. "Of that self-centered prick?" He passed the cigarette to Callum.

"Like you've got room to talk?" He took a couple of drags off the smoke and handed it back to Hugh.

"Hey, I'm an artist," Hugh said indignantly. "I'm supposed to be a self-centered prick."

"But Paul's not an artist?"

"Fuck that prick," Hugh said, stubbing the cigarette out on the side of the nightstand. "Of course, I'm sure you will, as soon as Mr. I'm-So-Wonderful can squeeze you into his schedule."

"You want to fight about Paul or you want to fuck?"

"I never want to even think about that bastard."

"Then shut the fuck up," Callum said, moving over Hugh.

Hugh's jealousy was getting tiresome. It was more a professional thing than a personal thing, he understood that and although it shouldn't, that stung a bit. For all of Hugh's bitching about Paul's mainstream career, Callum suspected that Hugh wouldn't mind a few of those accolades for himself.

He knew somewhere in his head, that Hugh, insecure motherfucker he might be, was right. Paul was a self-centered prick. He also knew, somewhere in his heart, that Paul cared for him as well as he could and as much as he was capable of.

The two of them had chemistry, a connection that was obvious to anyone from a desk clerk to a television audience to Hugh-fucking-Dillon.

"Congratulations," Callum said, lifting his hips slightly so that Paul could slide his jeans down. "Your first movie and you manage to produce the biggest money maker in Canadian history."

Paul kissed Callum's sweetly acrid lips, lapping at the slick suction their mouths made. It had been months since they'd been able to arrange private time together and he'd been starving with want, starving for Callum.

He ground his erection against the hair-dusted tautness of Callum's abdomen. How the hell had he been able to last three months without this? Callum felt so good, so damned alive beneath him.

"You could have been a part of it," Paul said, rolling a condom over Callum's hard on. As much as he wanted to be skin to skin with Callum, they were far from exclusive and Paul owed Martha that much considerations and protection. "Hell, I wanted you to be part of it."

"I know," Callum gasped as Paul, with a tender carefulness, lowered himself onto Callum's erection. "So goddamned good," he moaned when Paul, finally and completely seated, began to slowly rock back and forth.

Threading his fingers through Callum's, Paul pinned their hands to the mattress over Callum's head. "Why then?" he said, leaning down to lick Callum's throat.

"Huh?"

"Why did you turn me down?"

"I never turn you down, Paul," he laughed, trying to buck up harder into Paul.

"The movie," Paul said, giving his hips an almost vicious twist that temporarily took Callum's breath and brain away.

The sharp slice of pleasure faded from Callum's head when he realized that Paul had stopped moving and was staring down at him. His body urged him to thrust, to let him push up and down in the slick sheath engulfing him.

"Why?" Paul asked again.

"I told you before. I was committed to that Slapshot II piece of shit project in Vancouver."

"And you couldn't get out of it." Paul sounded as though he wanted to be convinced.

"No. You know I couldn't. I tried," Callum lied, loving the renewed friction as Paul lifted his hips and slammed down. "Fuck yes," he moaned, trying to let the harsh rhythm Paul set drive away the memories of Hugh talking him out of Paul's movie.

He'd never be that idiotic again, Callum swore to himself as the familiar bite of approaching orgasm clamped down on him. Never again would he be dense enough to let Hugh manipulate him away from an opportunity to work with Paul. Or to be with Paul.

"I won't tell you no again," Callum promised, then sucked hard on Paul's tongue as they both came.

"You're fucking crazy, you know that?" Callum laughed breathlessly as they ducked into the darkened alley.

"You're the one who kept talking about it," Paul laughed back. "'That was so fucking hot, Paul,'" he mimicked Callum with an eerie precision. "'You looked so hot, Paul.'" He shook his head in amusement. "How was I supposed to resist that?"

"You weren't," Callum admitted, glancing about to make sure they were alone. "We're going to get caught."

"So what?"

"Now I know you had too much to drink at the party."

"Maybe," Paul shrugged, then pulled Callum into his arms. "Or maybe I just don't give a shit anymore. Maybe I'm sick and tired of hiding how I feel." He bit at Callum's neck. "Of hiding what I want."

Attempting to lighten Paul's suddenly morose mood, Callum slipped his hand between them and firmly caressed his jean-covered erection. "Or maybe, you just need to get laid."

"Yeah, maybe," Paul sighed, his good humor restored.

"Hurry," Callum urged, "before we really do get caught."

"Like that would bother you," Paul said, then pressed a beer-soaked kiss on the other man's mouth.

For himself, Callum couldn't give a shit less. For Paul's sake, though, he cared. They'd talked this thing to death over the last couple of years. Paul wanted him, yeah. Paul cared about him, yeah, but the price he'd have to pay to go public was too damn high.

Canada might claim to be a free-thinking, open-minded country, but there would be doors that Paul would find shut, however discreetly, should their relationship be flaunted. After all, how could Mr. Canadian Television, Mr. Golden Boy, ever be viewed the same if it came out he was an adultering faggot with a bleached blond boyfriend?

Maybe Toronto, Ontario wasn't as blatantly homophobic as say, Jackson, Mississippi, but there was still a good old boy network firmly in place. Paul's position in that very network had presented both of them with more than one brilliant opportunity.

Paul hired friends and former coworkers when he could and the favor was reciprocated. Sure, they all happened to be an astonishingly talented pack of bastards, but there were plenty of talented bastards out there.

At an awards show, he'd once heard Paul introduced as, "Writer, producer, director, actor... Our own, Paul Gross." If everyone knew about the two of them, how long would it be before who Paul slept with overshadowed his gifts?

Callum knew it wouldn't hurt his own career. In the fucked up way of the world, the scandal would probably enhance his persona while tearing Paul's to pieces.

It wouldn't be the gay thing that would drive everyone nuts, either. It would be the lie thing. Not a whole lot of time would go by before the shock of Paul's sexuality would pass and people would start to wonder just how long Paul had been screwing boys. Then they'd start to wonder if the wife and kids had been a lie, a cover up, and a way to make fools of them all.

It would become a matter of trust. Had the face that Paul had been showing them, the loving husband, the good-looking leading man, been a false one? It wouldn't be much of a stretch for friends and fans to wonder what else was false. Was he ever a devoted father? Was he really all that talented? How much of his writing and directing and producing and acting was superb and how much of it was just smoke and mirrors like his heterosexuality had been?

He couldn't do that to Paul. As much as he'd like to smash and grab, he couldn't do it. He could admit that nobility had less to do with his restraint than knowing that treading down that path would eventually lead him to losing Paul. He'd rather take what he had, the snatched bit of time here and there than end up with nothing at all

Deciding that tomorrow, when everyone headed home, was soon enough for sorrow, Callum shifted his hips forward, letting his erection brush against Paul's. "Now," he demanded.

Paul pushed and turned him so Callum's back was against the building in a perfect imitation of a scene shot a few afternoons ago. For a moment, Paul let the torment, the temptation that Buddy French had felt for an old lover wash across his face.

"Yeah, just like that," Callum said, allowing the other man's body to hold him in place on the cold brick. "So fucking hot." Unlike the stupid waitress who'd wasted her opportunity with Buddy, Callum tenderly kissed Paul. "You're so goddamned beautiful."

Head cocked, with a smile so boyishly sweet that Callum feared it might break his heart, Paul asked, "Do you really think so?"

"You fucking know I do," he said, pushing away enough to unbutton his own jeans. "Let me show you." He started to slip his jeans down. "Fuck me."

"I thought you were worried about getting caught," Paul said, already unzipping his own pants.

Callum laughed and pushed his jeans down his thighs. "I'm more worried about not getting laid before you go home."

"Christ," Paul hissed, rolling on a condom. "Okay, turn around and brace your hands on the wall."

His natural grace suddenly deserted him and Callum nearly tripped in his haste to comply. Lubed and ready, knowing that anyone from the wrap party might stumble across them, Callum said, "Now, Paul. Just fucking do me now."

Holding his breath, Callum waited, his weight resting on his braced arms and the balls of his feet.

A moment passed, then two and when he thought he might scream, the thick, blunt tip of Paul's cock pierced him.

"Love you," Paul murmured, hot and wet, against the nape of his neck. "Love you."

Callum thought that's what Paul said, what he chose to believe he heard. He couldn't be sure between the urgent pounding of his own heart and the urgent pounding of Paul's cock.

Still, Callum knew that whenever he looked back on this silly outing that had turned so suddenly serious then so suddenly sweet, he'd remember "love you, love you," and hold tight to it.

He wisely kept his own "love you" hidden in his heart. Paul was drunk, he was sober. There was no excuse for him to forget that what they shared was stolen and impossible.

Blinking against the unexpected burn of tears, Callum thrust back into a burst of pleasure.

Late the next morning, as what was left of the cast and crew milled in the hotel lobby waiting for the airport shuttle, Callum covertly watched Paul across the way. Jesus, even pushing toward fifty, Paul looked like anyone's version of goddamn Prince Charming. He wanted to laugh. Just his dumb luck to be completely enthralled with a guy he could only have in bits and pieces.

As Callum started to turn away, Paul caught his glance.

That's when he saw the truth in Paul's storybook blue eyes. Paul wanted this, wanted them as much as he did. He dreamed of it as much as Callum did. And just like Callum, Paul hated and accepted the futility of it all.

Before he realized, he'd crossed the lobby, Callum stood in front of Paul. He wanted nothing more than to drag Paul down to the floor and lick at his fairytale pink lips. Instead, he tipped a grin at him and extended his hand.

"You're off now?" Paul asked, firmly gripping Callum's hand.

"Yeah," Callum indicated a production assistant waiting at the glass exit doors, "Mike is giving me a ride. My flight leaves pretty soon."

"Right, " Paul said and reluctantly released Callum's hand. "You're going to Vancouver."

"Yeah," he answered, as though they hadn't discussed his job and their plans a dozen times over the past few days. This little performance was for their coworkers. They both understood. "I'm shooting another Battlestar Galactica."

"I'll be in Vancouver later this week myself."

"Give me a call if you're free. Maybe we can catch dinner one night." Giving his best James Dean who-gives-a-fuck-one-way-or-another shrug, Callum tucked the tips of his fingers into his jeans pocket. His right hand still tingled from touching Paul. Just like the first time in that bar and every time in between. "You've got my cell number."

"I've got your number," Paul said.

A few days was all they had to wait this time. Somehow, that made it easier to forget that it could be months next time.

Callum nodded, spun on his heel and walked away.

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