Auld Lang Syne for rhythmsextion
Recipient: rhythmsextion
Title: Auld Lang Syne
Author: Brynwulf
Fandom and Pairing: RPS slash - Paul Gross/Callum Keith Rennie
AN: brooklinegirl was generous enough to allow me to get in under the line with half a story last night (or I assume she did since she wasn't calling for last minute writers for my assignment *g*), and I promised to finish it tonight. With the help of the fabulous and totally rocking moosesal, that happened. She really came through with ideas, suggestions and comments which made this hastily cobbled story something so much better for its recipient. Rhythmsextion, sorry you had to wait, hon. Here's your Paul and Callum.
Christmas time in Toronto was an extravaganza of music and carolers, fake greenery on the streets accompanying fake smiles as Canadians maintained the universal tradition of last minute shopping while still trying to keep up a façade of overt jocularity.
That’s why Callum hated it so much. Why couldn’t he be shooting something in Vancouver right now?
There were very few things in Toronto worth wasting time over and shopping sure as fuck wasn’t even in the top 100. However, logic and time constraints told him it didn’t make sense to go anywhere else for the couple of gifts he still needed to pick up, mostly for Liz and Hugh, when he was filming just thirty miles north of town. At least he was assured of finding what he was looking for, because if Toronto didn’t have it, it probably couldn’t be got.
He’d parked his truck downtown and walked to his destination, deciding to take advantage of the clear, partly sunny December afternoon. Callum turned the corner onto Queen West and spotted the red door. An interesting stream of clientele hurried in and out of the shop and he knew he’d come to the right place when a group of spiky haired young men exited, each sporting tattoos spilling out from cuffs and collars. Bingo.
Stopping at the front window to finish his cigarette before entering, Callum took the opportunity to study the display. A tanned male mannequin, nude except for black leather boots and a dog collar, proclaimed the season with a red velvet Santa hat hanging from a fairly impressive erect penis. A carefully displayed hodgepodge of toys were artfully arranged at his feet.
Callum grinned, ground his cigarette under a booted foot and stepped inside. He’d already spotted what he’d come for.
Despite this knowledge, it was a half-hour before he exited Come As You Are and he was thoroughly sick of people, stores, grumpy clerks, and himself for waiting until two days before Christmas to get Hugh’s gift. He couldn’t even wait to get off the steps before lighting another cigarette; he inhaled gratefully, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He could feel the muscles in his neck relaxing already.
“Son of a bitch!” Came a familiar voice to his right. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Callum jerked his head around, cupping his palm around the burning butt to protect the crowd of people rushing around him to get inside. Oh, fuck.
“Paul.” The smile he shot his friend was genuine, while all the time his brain was churning for a good excuse for standing in front of Toronto's number one sex shop.
“Getting a gag gift for Hugh. Heading up the country to his place for a party tomorrow and since I’m shooting just outside of town…” Fuck, but he hated the way his mouth just wouldn’t stop when he was around the man. He tossed his cigarette and shoved his fingers through blond hair, stiff with product.
Paul Gross, still handsome as ever - or more so - glanced up, squinting in the now setting sun, seemingly oblivious to where he was. When he read the sign, the most evil, sexy smile that God had ever graced on a man spread across his face and Callum could feel the old rush of adrenaline he got whenever he was around Paul.
“Sure it’s just a gag gift,” a dark eyebrow quirked at Callum as Paul placed subtle emphasis on the word 'gag'. Callum felt his face warming. “What’d you get? Come on, I won’t tell.” Paul snickered and reached out to pull the bag open.
Callum fisted the brown paper tightly, scowling when the snicker traveled to that higher octave that always surprised people who'd never heard Paul laugh out loud. Callum yanked it back from his reach and stuffed it in the side pocket of his navy pea coat.
“Fuck off, Paul,” he grumbled, but there was no real anger in his voice as he turned to head down the walk, knowing Paul would follow.
As expected, his friend did catch up, offering Callum a cigarette out of the pack from which he’d just pulled his own.
Once initial inquiries about health, jobs, and family had been answered, they settled into a companionable silence. Neither man was much for chatter as they strolled back toward the water. Callum refused to admit that any awkwardness on his part might be even remotely due to the familiar sexual tension that seemed to engulf everything in Paul's orbit.
Spadina Ave. was less crowded than Queen, so they ducked down an alley and cut over, heading for King West.
“Had dinner yet?” Paul sucked long on his cigarette and Callum couldn’t help but just stare. Memories rose of other times when those perfect cheeks hollowed above too pretty lips, which just happened to be wrapped around his cock.
And Paul wanted to have dinner. Huh.
“I could eat.” Play it cool, Rennie. Then more sternly to his dick, that means you too.
+++
The Indian Motorcycle Café and Lounge was packed tighter than a sardine. Just standing inside the door made Callum’s breath hitch in a claustrophobic clench. Every shopper in the city must have taken a break to listen to the perky jazz band playing off to the side and throw a few back to numb the pain of Christmas shopping.
Callum fidgeted, nervous energy playing through his fingers as they strummed against his thigh, in the way he moved to pull another cigarette out of his shirt, then halted, with the pack midway out of his pocket.
“This sucks.” Paul squinted through the smoky room, scanning for an empty table, then leaned in close. “Next stop?” His breath warmed Callum’s ears, still chilled from the late afternoon wind.
Callum pulled back to look into Paul’s blue eyes. Looking for an ulterior motive or some signal that would tell him what game they’re playing. He hadn’t heard from Paul in over a year.
With his head tilted, he smiled and jerked his head out the door. “I know a place.”
Callum could tell by Paul’s growing smile that he knew exactly where they were headed. The joint - calling it a bar was being really nice - was dim, smoky and smelled…well, very joint-like. Cal’s nostrils flared at the acrid smell of weed wafting from the back pool tables.
“Well, fuck me running,” came from behind the bar and both Callum and Paul grinned.
“Tuck! You sheep-sucker, you!” Paul saddled up to the bar, slid onto a stool and held out his hand, which was immediately engulfed in giant hairy paws, adorned with black tattoos and nail polish. “I can’t believe you’re still running this place.”
“Can’t go nowhere else, dude. My reputation precedes me.”
Callum strode around the bar, shaking his head then reaching out for a bear hug which almost hid him from view.
“I sure didn’t think to see you two in here again. Or at least, hoped I wouldn’t. Not after that last time.” An undignified snort ruined the gruffness of the bartender’s words.
Paul looked sheepish and Callum found a very interesting sign to read posted at the end of the bar. The moment passed and it was all friendly again when Paul ordered a beer and Callum his usual grapefruit juice with a lime.
“Jesus, Cal, can you make that any more sour?” Paul asked, grimacing.
“Don’t knock it till you try it, shithead. Keeps the pucker…” Callum’s mouth slammed shut and he picked up the stained menu Tuck’d laid in front of them.
“So, how’s Hugh these days?” Paul asked as he applied himself to studying his menu as well, although they’d both known it by heart a few years back.
“Hmm.” Callum hummed around the cigarette he’d just lit and shook his head, sending smoke wafting around his face. “Still clean. Keeping busy. The usual.”
When greasy burgers and home-fried chips were ordered, Paul studied Callum through the smoky haze they’d created. “So, what’s in the bag?”
God damn Paul wouldn’t ever let anything drop, would he? Just like a fucking pit-bull. Callum sighed and pulled the wrinkled brown paper bag out of his pocket and unrolled the top. Rolling his eyes heavenward, he held it out and open for Paul to peer down into.
A long, low whistle made Tuck look up from his glass washing and Callum thought he saw something like appreciation light those dark blue eyes.
“Gag gift, huh?” Paul’s voice was low with added teasing - just enough for Callum to narrow his eyes in speculation.
“You know how it is.” Callum stuffed the bag back in his coat and turned his attention to his dinner, which Tuck had just plopped down in front of them.
When their plates were removed and after-dinner cigs lit, Callum turned to face Paul and sort of looked him over, head to well-shod feet.
“You’re looking okay, Paul. I guess the good life isn’t making you soft.” Was everything that came out of his mouth going to have a double meaning tonight?
But, hadn’t it always been so. Never talk about it. Barely admit it. But they both knew it was there. Always had been.
The compliment was brushed aside as unimportant. “It’s really,” Paul paused, “really good to see you again Cal. It’s been too long.”
It was impossible to keep gazing into Paul’s eyes when he was being so earnest. So serious.
Callum stood up abruptly, sending the bar stool skittering on the wooden floor, and raked the fingers of one hand through his hair while stubbing out his cigarette with the other. “Be right back…" he pointed to the men’s room and headed down the dark hall.
“What the fuck, Rennie?” he muttered to himself as he unzipped and straddled the urinal.
He was drying his hands on the last piece of crisp brown paper in the dispenser when the door creaked open and closed. He didn’t look up until he heard the lock click. Paul was leaning back against the door, licking his god damn bottom lip. Asshole.
While Callum stood rooted, mouth slightly open, Paul walked forward and just kept walking, backing Callum up until his shoulder hit the edge of the ancient hand dryer that hadn’t worked in years.
He was going to say something, although he hadn’t figured out what, when the look on Paul’s face made him shut his mouth just in time to inhale sharply through his nose as Paul’s hand cupped him roughly, squeezing the hard on he’d grown in the last 20 seconds.
No, he hadn’t read Paul wrong this time either.
Callum reached up to pull him closer, but his plan was thwarted when Paul dropped to his knees and began working the buttons on his jeans and shoving them down slender hips. Callum didn't have time to rub two brain cells together. He let his hands follow Paul’s head downward until his callused fingers were playing through the strands of dark hair. Stroking became clutching when Paul released his dick and swooped down on him with his mouth, exhibiting all the expertise Callum remembered.
Callum had to shift away from the hand dryer so his back was braced square on the smooth, tiled surface of the bathroom wall. He was quiet, with the exception of the occasional grunt when Paul’s tongue poked at the slit of his dickhead just before sucking him down again until all he could see was Paul’s nose buried in curly blond hair. Fuck, what a sight, somehow made sexier by the fact that the floor was damp in spots, muddy with the grime and crud off a hundred soles. He knew half of Canada would kill to be where he was this second.
Just when he thought his knees would buckle and he was clawing at the slick wall for purchase, Paul reached between his legs, scraping his nail lightly against the tight skin just behind his balls, pressing the flat of his tongue the length of Callum’s cock at the same time.
“Fuck!” he cried through clenched teeth and came hard in Paul’s mouth, with no warning. But no warning was needed -- Paul always swallowed.
Paul gripped Callum’s thighs tightly, supporting him he supposed, until he shoved himself from the wall and moved to pull Paul up. When they stood eye to eye, he reached between them, ready to reciprocate, but Paul stepped back and smiled.
“Merry Christmas, Callum. Have fun with Hugh - and his gift.” Paul’s smile was pure evil and sex and every dirty thing that had ever crossed Callum’s mind about him.
Before he could come up with an appropriate retort, Paul pulled his coat closed (no doubt to cover up what had to be an inspiring boner and the drying mud on his knees), turned and left the bathroom.
“Fucker,” Callum muttered and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with shaky fingers. He laid it to smolder on the side of one of the sinks while he buttoned up his pants, then picked it up and inhaled almost half in one deep drag.
It felt like he stood there forever, replaying the last few minutes over in his mind, ending each showing with his current favorite word for Paul.
“Fucker.”
When he finally emerged and went back to the main room, Tucker was waiting on a couple who’d just sat down, so Callum reached in his pocket to leave a wad of bills on the bar to cover their meal.
“Already taken care of, buddy.” Tucker waved him off and turned back to his customers.
+++
The wind off the water had picked up and a light drizzle made it feel even colder. His truck was still three blocks away, so Callum turned up the heavy wool collar of his coat and hunched in his shoulders for the walk.
Despite the fact that he’d just blown an impressive wad of spunk down Paul's throat, he still felt the tingle of arousal laying low in his belly and wrapping around to quiver up his spine.
Maybe he’d go on out to Hugh’s place tonight. He didn’t have anything better to do.
Title: Auld Lang Syne
Author: Brynwulf
Fandom and Pairing: RPS slash - Paul Gross/Callum Keith Rennie
AN: brooklinegirl was generous enough to allow me to get in under the line with half a story last night (or I assume she did since she wasn't calling for last minute writers for my assignment *g*), and I promised to finish it tonight. With the help of the fabulous and totally rocking moosesal, that happened. She really came through with ideas, suggestions and comments which made this hastily cobbled story something so much better for its recipient. Rhythmsextion, sorry you had to wait, hon. Here's your Paul and Callum.
Christmas time in Toronto was an extravaganza of music and carolers, fake greenery on the streets accompanying fake smiles as Canadians maintained the universal tradition of last minute shopping while still trying to keep up a façade of overt jocularity.
That’s why Callum hated it so much. Why couldn’t he be shooting something in Vancouver right now?
There were very few things in Toronto worth wasting time over and shopping sure as fuck wasn’t even in the top 100. However, logic and time constraints told him it didn’t make sense to go anywhere else for the couple of gifts he still needed to pick up, mostly for Liz and Hugh, when he was filming just thirty miles north of town. At least he was assured of finding what he was looking for, because if Toronto didn’t have it, it probably couldn’t be got.
He’d parked his truck downtown and walked to his destination, deciding to take advantage of the clear, partly sunny December afternoon. Callum turned the corner onto Queen West and spotted the red door. An interesting stream of clientele hurried in and out of the shop and he knew he’d come to the right place when a group of spiky haired young men exited, each sporting tattoos spilling out from cuffs and collars. Bingo.
Stopping at the front window to finish his cigarette before entering, Callum took the opportunity to study the display. A tanned male mannequin, nude except for black leather boots and a dog collar, proclaimed the season with a red velvet Santa hat hanging from a fairly impressive erect penis. A carefully displayed hodgepodge of toys were artfully arranged at his feet.
Callum grinned, ground his cigarette under a booted foot and stepped inside. He’d already spotted what he’d come for.
Despite this knowledge, it was a half-hour before he exited Come As You Are and he was thoroughly sick of people, stores, grumpy clerks, and himself for waiting until two days before Christmas to get Hugh’s gift. He couldn’t even wait to get off the steps before lighting another cigarette; he inhaled gratefully, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He could feel the muscles in his neck relaxing already.
“Son of a bitch!” Came a familiar voice to his right. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Callum jerked his head around, cupping his palm around the burning butt to protect the crowd of people rushing around him to get inside. Oh, fuck.
“Paul.” The smile he shot his friend was genuine, while all the time his brain was churning for a good excuse for standing in front of Toronto's number one sex shop.
“Getting a gag gift for Hugh. Heading up the country to his place for a party tomorrow and since I’m shooting just outside of town…” Fuck, but he hated the way his mouth just wouldn’t stop when he was around the man. He tossed his cigarette and shoved his fingers through blond hair, stiff with product.
Paul Gross, still handsome as ever - or more so - glanced up, squinting in the now setting sun, seemingly oblivious to where he was. When he read the sign, the most evil, sexy smile that God had ever graced on a man spread across his face and Callum could feel the old rush of adrenaline he got whenever he was around Paul.
“Sure it’s just a gag gift,” a dark eyebrow quirked at Callum as Paul placed subtle emphasis on the word 'gag'. Callum felt his face warming. “What’d you get? Come on, I won’t tell.” Paul snickered and reached out to pull the bag open.
Callum fisted the brown paper tightly, scowling when the snicker traveled to that higher octave that always surprised people who'd never heard Paul laugh out loud. Callum yanked it back from his reach and stuffed it in the side pocket of his navy pea coat.
“Fuck off, Paul,” he grumbled, but there was no real anger in his voice as he turned to head down the walk, knowing Paul would follow.
As expected, his friend did catch up, offering Callum a cigarette out of the pack from which he’d just pulled his own.
Once initial inquiries about health, jobs, and family had been answered, they settled into a companionable silence. Neither man was much for chatter as they strolled back toward the water. Callum refused to admit that any awkwardness on his part might be even remotely due to the familiar sexual tension that seemed to engulf everything in Paul's orbit.
Spadina Ave. was less crowded than Queen, so they ducked down an alley and cut over, heading for King West.
“Had dinner yet?” Paul sucked long on his cigarette and Callum couldn’t help but just stare. Memories rose of other times when those perfect cheeks hollowed above too pretty lips, which just happened to be wrapped around his cock.
And Paul wanted to have dinner. Huh.
“I could eat.” Play it cool, Rennie. Then more sternly to his dick, that means you too.
+++
The Indian Motorcycle Café and Lounge was packed tighter than a sardine. Just standing inside the door made Callum’s breath hitch in a claustrophobic clench. Every shopper in the city must have taken a break to listen to the perky jazz band playing off to the side and throw a few back to numb the pain of Christmas shopping.
Callum fidgeted, nervous energy playing through his fingers as they strummed against his thigh, in the way he moved to pull another cigarette out of his shirt, then halted, with the pack midway out of his pocket.
“This sucks.” Paul squinted through the smoky room, scanning for an empty table, then leaned in close. “Next stop?” His breath warmed Callum’s ears, still chilled from the late afternoon wind.
Callum pulled back to look into Paul’s blue eyes. Looking for an ulterior motive or some signal that would tell him what game they’re playing. He hadn’t heard from Paul in over a year.
With his head tilted, he smiled and jerked his head out the door. “I know a place.”
Callum could tell by Paul’s growing smile that he knew exactly where they were headed. The joint - calling it a bar was being really nice - was dim, smoky and smelled…well, very joint-like. Cal’s nostrils flared at the acrid smell of weed wafting from the back pool tables.
“Well, fuck me running,” came from behind the bar and both Callum and Paul grinned.
“Tuck! You sheep-sucker, you!” Paul saddled up to the bar, slid onto a stool and held out his hand, which was immediately engulfed in giant hairy paws, adorned with black tattoos and nail polish. “I can’t believe you’re still running this place.”
“Can’t go nowhere else, dude. My reputation precedes me.”
Callum strode around the bar, shaking his head then reaching out for a bear hug which almost hid him from view.
“I sure didn’t think to see you two in here again. Or at least, hoped I wouldn’t. Not after that last time.” An undignified snort ruined the gruffness of the bartender’s words.
Paul looked sheepish and Callum found a very interesting sign to read posted at the end of the bar. The moment passed and it was all friendly again when Paul ordered a beer and Callum his usual grapefruit juice with a lime.
“Jesus, Cal, can you make that any more sour?” Paul asked, grimacing.
“Don’t knock it till you try it, shithead. Keeps the pucker…” Callum’s mouth slammed shut and he picked up the stained menu Tuck’d laid in front of them.
“So, how’s Hugh these days?” Paul asked as he applied himself to studying his menu as well, although they’d both known it by heart a few years back.
“Hmm.” Callum hummed around the cigarette he’d just lit and shook his head, sending smoke wafting around his face. “Still clean. Keeping busy. The usual.”
When greasy burgers and home-fried chips were ordered, Paul studied Callum through the smoky haze they’d created. “So, what’s in the bag?”
God damn Paul wouldn’t ever let anything drop, would he? Just like a fucking pit-bull. Callum sighed and pulled the wrinkled brown paper bag out of his pocket and unrolled the top. Rolling his eyes heavenward, he held it out and open for Paul to peer down into.
A long, low whistle made Tuck look up from his glass washing and Callum thought he saw something like appreciation light those dark blue eyes.
“Gag gift, huh?” Paul’s voice was low with added teasing - just enough for Callum to narrow his eyes in speculation.
“You know how it is.” Callum stuffed the bag back in his coat and turned his attention to his dinner, which Tuck had just plopped down in front of them.
When their plates were removed and after-dinner cigs lit, Callum turned to face Paul and sort of looked him over, head to well-shod feet.
“You’re looking okay, Paul. I guess the good life isn’t making you soft.” Was everything that came out of his mouth going to have a double meaning tonight?
But, hadn’t it always been so. Never talk about it. Barely admit it. But they both knew it was there. Always had been.
The compliment was brushed aside as unimportant. “It’s really,” Paul paused, “really good to see you again Cal. It’s been too long.”
It was impossible to keep gazing into Paul’s eyes when he was being so earnest. So serious.
Callum stood up abruptly, sending the bar stool skittering on the wooden floor, and raked the fingers of one hand through his hair while stubbing out his cigarette with the other. “Be right back…" he pointed to the men’s room and headed down the dark hall.
“What the fuck, Rennie?” he muttered to himself as he unzipped and straddled the urinal.
He was drying his hands on the last piece of crisp brown paper in the dispenser when the door creaked open and closed. He didn’t look up until he heard the lock click. Paul was leaning back against the door, licking his god damn bottom lip. Asshole.
While Callum stood rooted, mouth slightly open, Paul walked forward and just kept walking, backing Callum up until his shoulder hit the edge of the ancient hand dryer that hadn’t worked in years.
He was going to say something, although he hadn’t figured out what, when the look on Paul’s face made him shut his mouth just in time to inhale sharply through his nose as Paul’s hand cupped him roughly, squeezing the hard on he’d grown in the last 20 seconds.
No, he hadn’t read Paul wrong this time either.
Callum reached up to pull him closer, but his plan was thwarted when Paul dropped to his knees and began working the buttons on his jeans and shoving them down slender hips. Callum didn't have time to rub two brain cells together. He let his hands follow Paul’s head downward until his callused fingers were playing through the strands of dark hair. Stroking became clutching when Paul released his dick and swooped down on him with his mouth, exhibiting all the expertise Callum remembered.
Callum had to shift away from the hand dryer so his back was braced square on the smooth, tiled surface of the bathroom wall. He was quiet, with the exception of the occasional grunt when Paul’s tongue poked at the slit of his dickhead just before sucking him down again until all he could see was Paul’s nose buried in curly blond hair. Fuck, what a sight, somehow made sexier by the fact that the floor was damp in spots, muddy with the grime and crud off a hundred soles. He knew half of Canada would kill to be where he was this second.
Just when he thought his knees would buckle and he was clawing at the slick wall for purchase, Paul reached between his legs, scraping his nail lightly against the tight skin just behind his balls, pressing the flat of his tongue the length of Callum’s cock at the same time.
“Fuck!” he cried through clenched teeth and came hard in Paul’s mouth, with no warning. But no warning was needed -- Paul always swallowed.
Paul gripped Callum’s thighs tightly, supporting him he supposed, until he shoved himself from the wall and moved to pull Paul up. When they stood eye to eye, he reached between them, ready to reciprocate, but Paul stepped back and smiled.
“Merry Christmas, Callum. Have fun with Hugh - and his gift.” Paul’s smile was pure evil and sex and every dirty thing that had ever crossed Callum’s mind about him.
Before he could come up with an appropriate retort, Paul pulled his coat closed (no doubt to cover up what had to be an inspiring boner and the drying mud on his knees), turned and left the bathroom.
“Fucker,” Callum muttered and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with shaky fingers. He laid it to smolder on the side of one of the sinks while he buttoned up his pants, then picked it up and inhaled almost half in one deep drag.
It felt like he stood there forever, replaying the last few minutes over in his mind, ending each showing with his current favorite word for Paul.
“Fucker.”
When he finally emerged and went back to the main room, Tucker was waiting on a couple who’d just sat down, so Callum reached in his pocket to leave a wad of bills on the bar to cover their meal.
“Already taken care of, buddy.” Tucker waved him off and turned back to his customers.
+++
The wind off the water had picked up and a light drizzle made it feel even colder. His truck was still three blocks away, so Callum turned up the heavy wool collar of his coat and hunched in his shoulders for the walk.
Despite the fact that he’d just blown an impressive wad of spunk down Paul's throat, he still felt the tingle of arousal laying low in his belly and wrapping around to quiver up his spine.
Maybe he’d go on out to Hugh’s place tonight. He didn’t have anything better to do.