Author's Notes: Written for the 2007 Slings & Arrows Ficathon on LiveJournal. Many thanks to the_star_fish and zabira for a terrific last-minute beta.

The television show was a remarkably stupid idea.

He'd laughed when the producers had first approached him with the script. Then he'd crushed their cellular phones with the old skull salvaged from the Hamlet set, and chased them from the condemned hallways of his theatre. The cellular ring-tones had been the theme from "East Hastings." He felt that that was excuse enough.

The aggressive one--Paul--had called back later that evening.

"Just read the script, Geoff," he'd said, and Geoffrey had bristled. "It's a good part."

"It's a clich," he'd replied calmly. "Fuck you kindly, but no."

"You were born to play-"

Geoffrey hung up.

~o~o~o~

The Theatre Sans Argent lived up to its name in what even Geoffrey had to concede was a spectacular fashion. Reviews were good but the audiences stayed away. Geoffrey wasn't particularly concerned, as he'd long known the only constant in an actor's life was poverty, but when Ellen showed him the home pregnancy test that displayed two pink lines instead of one he swallowed his pride and returned one of Paul's increasingly pathetic calls.

"Okay," he said, "But I'm only doing the fucking pilot."

"Great! This is going to be great, Geoff!"

It was at this point that Geoffrey decided Paul Haggis was a fucking liar.

"Don't call me `Geoff,' please."

~o~o~o~

They were supposed to film in the Rockies. Ellen drove him to the airport and tried, in her own way, to offer support.

"It's a good script," she told him as she parked in what was clearly a loading zone outside Pearson. "Believe me, I've done bad TV and this is not bad TV."

"It's a cop show. I'm playing a Mountie. And there's a snowmobile chase in the third act!"

"Well..." Even Ellen, Queen of the Lizards, seemed to think that this was asking a bit much. "It's a paycheck."

"The siren call of our generation." He sighed. "I'm supposed to meet with the...inspiration, when we start shooting."

"You mean the script is based on a real guy?"

"Apparently." He rubbed at his eye sockets. "The mind boggles. I'll let you know if it's a complete disaster."

"Okay!" she said brightly, and leaned across the seat to kiss him. "It really won't be so terrible. And you can always quit."

Ellen's eyes were shining and she had new glow about her. He swallowed, kissed her, and shook his head.

"It will be fine. But the deaf half-wolf really has to go."

~o~o~o~

Filming began and Geoffrey began to feel slightly better. The dialogue was sometimes a bit stilted and the set was routinely chaotic, but the characters were interesting and the preposterousness of the whole enterprise was charming in a way that would have appealed to Darren Nichols. Midway through their three-week shoot in Banff Geoffrey caught himself actually enjoying the fresh air and exercise, and even the script wasn't as bad as he'd initially thought. He supposed the road to hell began with many small compromises.

The production had taken over a small hotel on the outskirts of town and at night everyone would head to the bar--It seemed that television actors were remarkably similar to theatre ones, if slightly more affluent--but on this occasion Geoffrey eschewed their company in order to call home and check up on Ellen. She was ill and combative and it was wonderful to hear her voice; he lay down and braced the phone between his head and the pillow, and let her words drift over him.

When he woke up there was a shrill dial tone in his ear and someone was knocking at the door.

"Just a fucking minute," he yelled, pulling on a shirt. He checked the clock--not as late as he thought, but late--and yanked the door open.

There was a Mountie on his doorstep. And he looked familiar.

"Christ!"

The man nodded gravely. "Indeed. May we come in?"

"We?" Geoffrey muttered, and saw that the Mountie, who looked a little like Geoffrey had ten years and two breakdowns ago, was trailed by a big dog and a tall, thin, good-looking guy who was scowling fiercely at the floor.

"You're him, right?"

The Mountie nodded. He was wearing a Stetson. Geoffrey thought for a moment that breakdown number three was imminent.

"They said this debacle was based on a real person but I didn't believe-"

"Yeah," the blond guy said, cutting him off. "Somebody signed a waiver without checking with our lawyer." He pushed inside and scanned the room before throwing himself into one of the battered hotel chairs. Geoffrey had left tomorrow's shooting script on the table and the man started thumbing through it, sneering as he flipped to the end.

"Right, sure," he muttered. "Fraser, I thought you said this was accurate! No way did Vecchio get that many guns across the border."

The Mountie stood at attention by the door and the dog seemed to be fairly interested in the finger sandwiches Geoffrey had stolen from the craft services table that afternoon.

"Why are you...?" He tried to remember how that question was supposed to end but the surreal tableau refused to shift. Antony and Romeo and King Henry had never materialized in front of him, at least not recently, and he didn't quite know what to say to the man he'd just spent the last week impersonating.

"I was required to testify at a trial in Clearwater and it really was only a few hours out of our way. Diefenbaker was curious about the mechanics of a film shoot."

The blond guy snorted. "Sure, right. You just wanted to make sure they weren't fucking your life up."

"Ray," Fraser said, rubbing at his eyebrow. Geoffrey filed the gesture away for future use. "I do have my concerns, yes."

"You spoke to Paul?"

Fraser nodded. "He assures me that, while there will be elements of the fantastic, he does want to remain faithful to the events as they unfolded."

Geoffrey was feeling a bit light-headed. "You mean all of this really happened to you?" He waved around the hotel room but Fraser seemed to catch on.

"Ah, yes, well...it seems as though art imitates life rather literally in this case."

"Huh," Geoffrey said, because there wasn't very much else to say. If Benton Fraser didn't realize how ridiculous the whole enterprise was, he didn't have any right to judge. "I think the public will love it. But don't you feel a bit...violated?"

Fraser blushed. Ray let out a cackle and mouthed "violated" at the dog. Wolf. Geoffrey blinked.

"I cannot argue the fact that my life--our life," he amended, looking at Ray, "will make for extremely interesting viewing. I am of course concerned that the RCMP will not be portrayed in a favorable light. And that certain," he paused and coughed, "national perceptions, will be promulgated."

Geoffrey was starting to feel slightly better about some of the more bizarre elements of the script. He'd known Paul had based it on a book, or a newspaper article, or something, but he hadn't ever thought that there was a real-life Benton Fraser wandering around saving little old ladies and carrying on conversations with a canine companion. He wasn't sure where the blond guy--Ray? Really?--fit into all of this, but as he'd learned in the institution it was usually best to stay flexible and let the oddities of life unfold as they wanted. Sanity certainly wasn't dependant on clinging to any stable definition of reality, at least in his experience.

"Well, I guess they got the casting right," Ray muttered, and Geoffrey worried that he'd been talking out loud again. "Frase, we done here? You got a look at the guy."

"Yes," Fraser said, smiling politely. "Mr. Tennant, it was a great pleasure to meet you. I wish you success with the television programme." Geoffrey was surprised to discover that Fraser actually looked like he meant it. "And if you're ever in Inuvik please feel free to look us up."

Ray rolled his eyes dramatically and stood up. "Yeah, sure. Nice meeting you, Geoff. Good luck with the show." He clapped Fraser on the back. "Let's blow this popsicle stand, yeah?"

"Yes. Goodbye," Fraser said, and tipped his hat.

Geoffrey watched the two men retreat down the hall and closed the door carefully. He pressed his forehead against the rough wood grain and sighed.