October and the Huntsman have (heartofthewolf) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-01-13 19:39:00 |
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Entry tags: | mal |
Who: Callum Westerberg
What: A Narrative
Where: His hotel on Fremont
When: Recent
Warnings/Rating: None
In the grand scheme of things, Callum had never considered himself that important. He had his place in the world, as did everyone, but it never seemed important. He played his role, he ate his dinner, he went to bed, and the routine was repeated daily with little deviation. What impact did he have on things? What would change if he disappeared? If he hadn't existed in the first place?
The glimpse of the what-might-have-been in the hotel that night had answered most of those questions in a way that had settled with Callum heavily, never quite leaving his thoughts. Seeing how things might have been for his brothers, his little sisters, it was a sickening, life-jolting reminder that even though he never thought of his role as important, it was. Those thoughts wandered through his mind as he laid on the beat-down mattress in his room on Fremont, one hand tangled in Max's fur, fingers running up and down the dogs neck, to his back, up again, a rhythm that was familiar and easy to keep up even as his thoughts went this way and that.
But thinking about those things, the things that could have been had he not been there brought him to another line of thought. What could have been had Shailee not been there. She had been gone on assignment for how many months now? At first, he had badgered whomever he could get on the phone for information, but when they refused to tell him anything, even acknowledge that she existed, that she had been his handler, Callum had given up. She had told him she would return, and he trusted her word in a way that he didn't trust many. She'd come back. Eventually.
The night dragged on, a beer emptied, Max fed and watered, and as he sat on the bed, propped up by lumpy pillows, watching the idiot box, Callum came to a realisation that he had felt once before. A shift, a change, almost imperceptible unless he focused on it. The feminine presence was gone, a whisper in the wind as though she had never existed in the first place, and in its place, instead of the emptiness and silence he craved, was a solid, male presence. "Great," Callum muttered to himself, grabbing up an old tennis ball that sat on the bed beside him, throwing it towards the bathroom for Max to chase. "Don't be as crazy as the girl, hear me?" Max came back, tail wagging, dropping the ball at Callum's side, and as he rubbed the fur on top of the dog's head, there was a shift of attention. Even Max seemed to feel it, a soft bark that came as acknowledgement. "Interesting," Callum said, his voice distant. "A dog lover, are we?"