Author's Notes:

This one was harder to write. To use the 'building a telescope' allegory, the basic structure is in place: the ring, the tube, the lenses. I'm slowly transitioning from the "I wonder what I'm going to write" to "I wonder how I'm going to write this."

The 'this' is starting to form in my mind. I have an idea of what I want to say, how I want this to end. I'm still fiddling on voice, particularly if I want to switch perspectives or not.

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



The morning's conversation interrupted the muted symphony of breakfast cooking. The hum of the fan, the scrape of pan on cooktop, the sigh of eggs turning into omeletes.

She rinsed off the cutting board and knife. "--long do you have in town?"

With small taps on the tilted pan, Callan nudged the omelet to fold onto itself. "It's open-ended. I'm first wave. Customer calls my company with a vague request, they send me to see what the guy really wants. Right now, we're still just talking business models and all."

Her lips pursing slightly at his answer did not escape him. He paused a bit. "I'm not sure how to better answer you. It's going to be at least a week more. Is that what you wanted?"

"I'm not sure what I wanted, or what I want. At Harry's Joint, I just wanted to find someone, come home with him, then find a note in the morning or something."

He placed her plate at the breakfast bar, then tended to his own. His face he kept neutral, his thoughts, his own.

The flatware bouquet in Sian's hand clicked each time she added a piece to the arrangement. The drawer shut, muffling the complaints of those unchosen. "I didn't want this. I just didn't want to spend the night alone again. But I didn't want this."

His plate sat beside hers at the table, and he poured two coffees. "I could leave. I don't think it good for either of us, but I could. But before I --"

"Shut up! That's not it." She collapsed onto the stool across the breakfast bar from him. "I don't want you to leave. That's not it."

He nodded, cutting a small corner off his semicircle and putting it into his mouth.

She sipped the coffee. "Even this tastes better around you. The same coffee I've had every morning."

"Um-hmm." He sipped his, breathed in its Aroma. He studied her.

"That's what I didn't want. Things to look up, be better. Then, back to the ordinary, a week later."

He set down his cup, steepled his fingers. "So you think it better to never have loved..."

"Oh, I love it. You know that. I love it. But it's going to suck when I've loved and lost you."

"It doesn't have to be over, Sian. Don't bury it before it even breathes."

"Don't sugar-coat this, please. Look at you. Look at me. Your hotel, this sty. Is there really a place for me in your life? What would your friends say?"

"When you are as old as I am, you realize that friends are damned few. Most who are close to you simply want to use you, either as shield or as sword."

"Which am I?"

Callan blinked. "I think neither. You don't seem the sort to want to use me as either."

"No, am I to be your sword, or your shield?"

The fork froze mid-arc. Callan tilted his head to contemplate, then regarded her levelly again. "Right now, neither. Your potential is too undeveloped for either. In the future, definitely sword, the singular one I'll sleep with when storms are overhead and wolves about."

"Uh." Some coffee spilled from Sian's mug.

"Not what you were expecting I'd say?"

"You're not what I expected at all." She blushed. "To start with ..."

He smiled back. "Go on, dear."

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I can't remember getting there with a guy for years."

He grinned darker, but his eyes danced merry. "Getting 'there,' little one?"

She looked away, and said so softly he had to Listen to make her words out over the hum of the fan. "I don't think I can get there with anyone else anymore. I'm not sure --"

The doorbell interrupted whatever else she had to say.