Cold Hands, Warm Hearts

Ray and Fraser and the Mounties were encamped in tents somewhere in the Arctic Circle waiting for something big to happen.

Callum, Paul and the gang were encamped in the Best Western waiting for the snow to let up and, you know, for it to stop being dark.

It wasn’t as if there was much to do cooped up in the hotel. Outside the hotel it was okay, Callum building a snowman while Leslie attempted to ambush Camilla with snowballs the size of Dean’s fist. Yes, that meant they were big damn snowballs. Camilla had passed Callum and he could have sworn the snow around her started to steam when Paul cried, “You can’t kill him, he’s a national treasure.”

Paul had been working his fingers to the bone working out the logistics of this and everything, so now he was kicking back a little, or as far as a control freak with delusions of singing ability can.

Paul had been working his fingers to the bone, but still hadn’t managed to find a place with more rooms than they had film crew and mounties.

Paul had been working his fingers to the bone, but still hadn’t managed to tell Callum that he’d be rooming with Dean.

Callum thinks this is damn fucking suspicious and thinks the pervert mountie twins are up to something.

But so far, all they’ve been up to is teaching the extras to tie their mountie-boots and running around with a camera and gushing about how this wonderful experience was going to come to an end. Yesterday, Dean had managed to get drunk and turn the whole sloshed luvvie thing up a few notches. Callum avoided the bar, normally, it was safer that way; but fucking Camilla had woken him up at 2am to wangle the drunken Dean. He’d asked the barman how many the big lump had had and was surprised to find it wasn’t much at all.

Or to put it another way, not really enough to get Callum even vaguely jazzed. But then, he was mister recovering boozehound, while Dean seemed to rival Paul in the apparent clean living stakes.

Callum was still pissed about having to haul a weepy pseudo-mountie up two flights of stairs and then lie in bed and wait for the idiot to cry himself out.

The no-smoking except in the bar policy wasn’t helping, either. It wasn’t as if Callum could pull on his robe and head past the front doors for a smoke in a freaking blizzard. One, the cigarette would never stay lit, and two, Callum would freeze to death because he didn’t have any pyjamas. Because nobody told him he was going to be sharing a room. Nobody told him that all his clothes would get soaked when Paul’s bath overflowed above Callum’s closet. Because nobody told him that dean would conveniently put all those clothes into the wash.

Let’s say Callum had his suspicions. Since he had nothing outside his robe to wear when outside of his costume, he thinks his suspicions are justified.

It might be that certain people are getting fed up with his frigid virgin bedroom routine, or the way nobody has seen more of Callum than his shoulders outside of Costume.

Dean comes into the room, Callum’s all tucked up in bed with a novel Hugh sent him. It’s weird. So’s Hugh.

Dean might come close in the weird stakes though.

In the back of Callum’s mind there’s the faintest idea that it might be best to stop Hugh from meeting Paul and Dean. Ever. Or at least not in the vicinity of either Callum or Bruce. Noel, now Noel they’re welcome to. Paul can be a hell of a lot bitchier than Hugh and has even less patience when he thinks he’s right about something.

Think of the devil and you’ll see his horns. How the hell did Paul get his own key-card to their room? And does Callum want to know. Paul’s ways start with autographs, middle with blackmail, and end with blowjobs.

“Callum, I’m really sorry about flooding your old room,” Paul begins, and that’s nice enough, it would gain the approval of all the Grandmothers of Canada, who would suggest him to their grand-daughters as the epitome of a nice boy.

Paul doesn’t leer when he asks whether Callum’s warm enough under those blankets. He’s got this thing that is beyond a leer, it’s what happens when you come out of the other side of the leer, it’s Zen leering. It’s more than fucking disturbing and if somebody did that to Callum in a bar, not that Callum hangs around in bars, he’d file them under axe-murderer. And since Callum’s only real reason to hang around in bars at all are gigs, then he’d point him out to Hugh between sets. And Hugh would point him out to the roadies and the roadies would dance him outside.

“Aw, bless, he is cold. He won’t tell us, because he doesn’t want to worry us,” either Dean really didn’t take things seriously when Callum threatened to let him find out exactly how he got his nickname, or somebody’s been spiking the orange juice again.

Somebody tall, dark and handsome; who knows it and makes it work for him every step of the way. Callum can’t do that, doesn’t want to, maybe he did once, but he doesn’t now.

Sometimes Callum thinks that he could pull away all of Paul’s masks, one after the other, and eventually he’d just get down to smooth plastic.

That’s even more disturbing than Hugh’s taste in novels. And Hugh is quite happy writing jolly songs about necrophilia and suicide.

Paul smiles, “Callum, put down that book and let us warm you up.” And that’s not a smile, it’s a vicious shit eating grin; that’s the last thing to go through Callum’s mind before Dean grabs the bedcovers and pulls them off all in one.

Callum’s sitting there, his robe pooled around his shoulders, holding a paperback novel and wearing buck all.

Callum must be in shock because he just sits there, still holding his slice-dice-and-all-things-nice book, as they strip off their own clothes with ruthless efficiency. It’s times like this that you could almost believe that they were real mounties, omitting the bit where Callum is going to get fucked to within an inch of his life of course, and you can see why people write the fan-mail to Fraser not Paul.

Callum turns his head to look at the door, not sure whether he’s looking for escape or just making sure that Leslie and Gordon won’t walk in on them.

Distraction is the enemy here. But, then, distraction is the name of the game.

Dean’s making nice with Callum’s feet, sucking them and being distracting as hell.

Callum doesn’t want this. Callum never wants this. Dean’s big hands are massaging at the balls of his feet and it feels so damn good that Callum doesn’t notice Paul pluck the book out of his hands and only notices Paul pulling his robe down behind him way too late.

Callum’s arms are trapped. Paul’s going on about how he never has to worry about being cold again, and leans in and kisses Callum. He’s got his hands tangled in Callum’s hair and he can’t move his head an inch, only open his mouth for Paul’s invading tongue.

There’s a hand on Callum’s cock, not Paul’s, can’t be Paul’s, and suddenly Callum can’t breathe.

Callum thinks about buddy breathing before his world narrows down to his burning lungs and his cock.

He isn’t meant to like this. There’s a burning hot hand on his cock and everything else is so cold, except Paul’s lips over his.

Things start getting dark only to explode when Paul pulls back off Callum.

It takes Callum more than a moment to notice Dean wiping his hand off on the sheet.

Paul turns his head to Dean, “do you think he’s warm enough yet?” He doesn’t talk to Callum, never to Callum, Callum could call him a total fucking douche-bag right now and he’d ignore it. They’d both ignore it.

“I don’t know. His feet are warm, and undoubtedly his face and chest are warm, but I’m a little worried about the circulation in his flanks.”

Callum still isn’t sure how it happens, sure they’re two big guys, but he still isn’t sure how he ends up across Dean’s lap. His arms are still pinned back with his gown and Callum thinks Paul has taken the cord out of his gown and is now tying pretty bows around his arms. Proper preparation prevents poor performance.

Dean’s got big hands and strong muscles, and he still manages to surprise Callum with how hard he can hit. Spank. Whatever. It stings like hell.

“Ah, that’s warming up nicely,” Callum wants to strangle Paul, he really does, but he can’t get up.

“Yes, but I’m just trying to get the colouring a little more even. And he’s still wiggling. It seems that somebody hasn’t learnt his lesson about hanging around in cold places.”

Callum’s only here because of the fucking gig, he could say it, but there’s no point. There’s nobody in this room that would listen. Callum isn’t the kind to listen to the sound of his own voice.

Callum’s trying not to wiggle only his dick keeps trying to wake up. Doesn’t seem to be listening to Callum at all.

Callum doesn’t like being hauled across one of his co-star’s lap and whaled on while his other co-star watches. What’s next? They’re going to bring Draco in to watch? Draco would be more interested in the ring-dings in Dean’s nightstand, and Callum really hopes that Dean doesn’t have any plans involving those. Sugar’s kind of scratchy.

Callum starts fading everything out, so it’s a bit of a surprise when he’s dumped on Dean’s bed, goes from warm thighs to cold slippery comforter.

Paul’s fingers are colder and slipperier than the comforter and are beginning to circle around. Callum wants to scream, “You want me warm, you perverts, quit with the cold stuff,” but he barely chokes out “you” before Paul twists his fingers and shows him the Northern Lights.

Paul’s fingers leave only for a second before Callum feels him press inward. Fuck, Dean must be helping him, there’s no way anyone can get ready that fast, fuck. Paul pushes in with a firm motion that suggests that he fucks his co-stars a lot more often than Callum thinks he does. Or maybe Callum’s the only one who gets the special planning treatment.

It’s all strangely familiar as he’s pulled something close to upright, in Paul’s lap, with his legs straddling Paul’s thighs. It makes Callum think of dust and rope burn. He’s given up telling his dick that it doesn’t like this sort of thing, and instead it’s telling him that he can expect the most awesome hand-job ever.

Proves how much his dick knows.

Instead, Paul seems to be rearranging things so that Callum’s on his knees instead of on Paul’s, and Dean’s taking his weight the best he can, and Callum’s shoulders just hurt. Callum doesn’t need his glasses to see Dean’s cock is almost poking in his face.

He could bite it, but he doesn’t think he can face “CANADIAN ACTOR’S COCK EATING SHAME” all over that National Enquirer. That and then he’d be meeting people even pervier that Paul every time he headed out to the showers.

And, okay, it’s a nice cock.

And Callum needs something to do with his mouth or he’ll be screaming like a girl in a minute. Plus, he’s really feeling the nicotine withdrawal.

Paul grunts out that the storm will let up soon but it’s going to be colder than brass monkeys for the next couple of days of filming.

Callum groans and gets Dean thrusting. Callum’s not sure if he can survive another couple of days sharing body heat like this.

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