InsaneJournal

Narrative: Callum Alexander
Who: Callum Alexander
What: A narrative
Where: His apartment -> bar -> motel -> back home
When: After this.
Warnings/Rating: Some mentions of sex, nothing explicit.

Callum looked at the journal for a long while before he threw the damned phone across the room, watching as it hit the back of the couch before falling harmlessly against the cushions. He wished he knew how to make some sort of connection to his siblings, but it seemed nearly impossible. They were all close, it seemed, and twelve years of being absent had shoved a gap in there that he wasn't entirely sure how to bridge. Yeah, he had sent money back home, but money wasn't personal, just what he felt obligated to do because he had left so young. It didn't forge even the slightest bit of a connection, and it made him wonder what the hell the hotel was thinking dragging him here.

Yeah, he'd just be property of the CIA back home, but at least then he'd have something going on that he could get behind. Here, it was just the GCPD, and fuck if he knew what he was doing there. He saw shit come across the others desks but he wasn't involved in it. Too much of a rookie, and he knew better than to start poking his nose where it didn't belong. You didn't just come in and walk around like you owned the place, and he was grateful enough for the job that he didn't want to make waves.

So he put his head down and he did what he was told, even though he was screaming his dissatisfaction with it all inside. What else could you do? He wasn't a leader, never had been, did better at following instructions and doing what he was told. Even his contracts out in Europe came from others. They'd contact him, tell him what they needed, and he'd do it, no questions asked. Cal kinda missed that shit, he really did.

Once his shift was done, there wasn't much to do in a city that was only partially familiar to him. Family had their own shit going on, and yeah, he didn't feel like trying to fit into that. So he went to the bar and he had a drink. And another. And three more after that, and it wasn't until he could barely see straight that he even thought about going home, and when he did, it was with his arm wrapped around the waist of some hot little brunette. Cal didn't take her back to his place, he was too smart for that shit even when he was drunk, and the motel down the street was good enough for a piece of ass he wasn't going to see again.

It was hot and sweaty, the air barely working, cold beer afterwards to chase away that dirty feeling it had all given him. She didn't say goodbye when she left, just pulled her panties back on and grabbed her heels. There were no expectations, and that's just the way he liked it. Relationships? That shit was complicated. With family, with sex, and he didn't have any inclination for complications in his life.

Stumbling back to his apartment when the sun was just starting to inch over the horizon, Cal grabbed his phone from where he had left it on the couch and flipped it on. He checked for his siblings, tried to bring himself to respond, and in the end, he just turned it back off and stretched out on the couch, legs crossed at the ankles, staring at the ceiling.

Fuck him. And fuck this city.