Monthly Bonus Content #3: 'Another Missed Valentine's' (James Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: An image of a red-tinted harvest moon dipping below a dense treeline. 'Another Missed Valentine's' acts as the title in a oil painting type of font with rounded edges; it kind of looks like liquid mercury was used to write it.]

[TFS Patrons, please be sure to see this post about adding my email address to your contacts so you can enjoy the RO character portraits. I haven't heard back from some of you, and I would like to make certain you have the portraits. 🥰]

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James's head snaps away from the computer screen, re-awakening a crick in his neck with a wicked vengeance as he stares at the door. It's too late for anyone to be storming around the station in such a frantic flurry of motion unless something bad has happened. He knows better than to give any merit to that assumption until he has the facts, but the distinctive, rapid knocking instantly makes him leave his chair.

It's not just a knock.

It's their knocking pattern; a learned sequence of knuckle raps that can also be softened to barely discernible taps that convey a signal.

Sometimes even a message or warning.

He unlocks the door without bothering to decipher the shapes in the frosted glass or ask for identification. The old fluorescent lights in the hallway cause him to wince since his office is dimly lit aside from the glare of the computer screen that he had grown used to. Alina must take pity on him because the door is shut and locked while he is still squinting away the dots.

"Did something happen?" James asks in concern, trying to puzzle out the fervency to his sister's actions that goes beyond her usual excitable nature. "Is—?"

"Do you know what today is?"

"…Tuesday?"

Alina mutters something to herself, fixing the toppled over rolling chair before sifting through the papers on the desk. A precarious stack of books starts to wobble, but she only shoots it an unimpressed glance as she unearths a bent calendar. "Be way more specific," she clarifies.

"Can't you just tell me?"

"Nope."

James knows how Alina gets when her mind is made up about something, so he relents with a muffled sigh, trudging over to the desk. Clearly, it's not something dangerous. He flips through the pages of the calendar that was frozen on a time where a single date mattered the most to him; the line of red still sticks out. He doesn't regularly use it to keep track of deadlines since it was bought for a specific purpose. "It's the 14th, and, uh, I can tell you the moon phase…?"

His sister's expression goes from vaguely offended to incredulous within seconds.

"Jay, doesn't your calendar include holidays?"

He hadn't considered this being a necessary feature until now, but flipping through the rest of the months fails to reveal any text. "I guess not, no." Wracking his brain for the cultural significance of mid-February comes to an abrupt end when he actually takes a second to observe how Alina's hair is carefully braided and how she is wearing that outfit she was going on about with the lace detailing. "Oh…"

She had a date.

A special date because it's Valentine's Day.

"'Oh' is right," Alina agrees, only allowing a hint of exasperation to shade her tone since this was an honest mistake. "I saw [Name] in the living room when I walked Becca to the door. Have the two of you even spoken today?"

"We exchanged good mornings," James awkwardly replies in a faint tone, crossing his arms since guilt over forgetting is irrational. This holiday only means something to couples, which you two aren't, but he would be lying if he said this day didn't leave him jaded in the past due to missed or unrealized opportunities. Did the bittersweetness simply turn bitter over the years? He turns the page on the calendar to obscure the date that could now take on a new meaning, except he messed up. "Just—let's drop it, okay? The day is almost over."

"It's not midnight yet. You've got half an hour."

"It's not my place," James firmly disagrees. "A thrown together Valentine's isn't what [Name] deserves, so we're leaving it at that." He can feel his sister's gaze practically boring into the side of his face when he reaches for his coffee cup rather than continue the conversation. His guilt will only heighten if he ends up ruining her Valentine's Day too. "Tell me about your date."

Alina doesn't have the resolve to give him the silent treatment, not when James now looks quietly sullen from what she shared. Saving the day was supposed to be the plan. Now, she just made him aware of something that will weigh on him for at least a few months or add to everything else he carries around. She puts on a smile for him, stealing his seat with a flourish.

"My date was more of an experience."

James leans on the edge of the desk, listening.

"Let's start at the beginning: the baby goats…"

. . .

. .

.

[A Few Hours Later…]

The amber glow of his watch suddenly feels too bright despite the darkness that shrouds him on all sides. James only hazards a quick glance at its face; there was a three in front of the time readout. It's much too late to be out.

And yet, someone occupies the B&B's front porch.

Instinctively, he knows it's you without daring to draw any closer by entering the curve of the cul-de-sac closest to the bed and breakfast. He lingers off to the side, positioned within a spot that lacks much illumination, but his eyes have adjusted to the moonlight and starlight. The urge to see how you are doing is only curbed by the fact that you seem to be reading a book.

You're probably busy…

…or that's a convenient excuse to not impose.

His lips buckle into a grimace when he turns to leave, work boots scraping against the asphalt, but he is only pivoting, not moving away. How can he even bring this topic up to offer an apology? It's another missed Valentine's. A day that had long since lost its significance where he was concerned because everything linked to it wasn't meant for him. How could it be?

The romance. The passion. The feelings.

But now, he is second-guessing that stance…

James swallows thickly, observing the moon to try and quell his growing upset over thoughts that kept him awake as a teenager. Why can't he grow up where you're concerned…? His eyes seek you out once again. In that moment, he promises to make this lost Valentine's up to you, if you will one day allow him the opportunity to, though he can get a head start on it now by resolving to take the first step forward rather than backwards. He breaks away from the shadows that offer the comfort of obscurity, a safe place to hide from the porch light and blend into the background.

Even as children, you made him want to be more present; your effect hasn't weakened at all.

He should say something in advance, startling you for even a second would cause his resolve to crumble at potentially frightening you after a nightmare. James knows. He had a hunch from the start that became better supported when he saw the subtle strain starting to set into your beautiful features as the sleepless nights piled up. He used to imagine how you would have changed over the years, so to see that strain—that stress—that unfair fatigue after everything this town (his home) has put you through left him feeling more than concern. It added to a well-disguised rage.

An undercurrent of resentment for Fernweh, because why would anyone ever want to stay?

Would you ever want to stay here, if given a choice?

"James?"

He didn't say anything ahead of time, too caught up in his own late night thoughts. His work boots stutter over the pathway leading up to the B&B's wraparound front porch, rubber grips catching on the pavers as his feet shuffle before he marches up it with intent. "I—I'm sorry for interrupting," he reflexively apologizes as soon as he sees you moving to stand at the railing with your book now closed and forgotten off to the side. He has so much he's sorry for. "May I join you?"

"Of course."

A hint of a smile curves his lips at your answer that wasn't a lukewarm ‘yes' or ‘sure'; there wasn't any hesitation. James nods his thanks, efficiently climbing up the steps before slowing down his actions when confronted with you in nightwear; he glances back out at the cul de sac for a moment, considering offering his peacoat. "Aren't you cold, [Name]?"

"Nah, I have a blanket."

He follows the motion of your hand a little too closely as you haphazardly indicate one of Mrs. Dorran's throw blankets; it's likely warm enough, but it isn't lined with a wool shell. "Right…" He trails off, unsure how to continue this when his tumultuous thoughts continue to clash with his minimal words. When James does glance back at you, he recognizes the patient look you're giving him, the one that made it seem okay to talk. It hasn't hardened or faded despite the time apart. "I know it's late, and I'm not very good company at this hour, but could I see you for brunch—brunch with me, just me, not Alina or Becca—tomorrow, if you have time? It'd be more like lunch because of my break, but we can have breakfast then or not, because brunch."

Explaining the definition of 'brunch' to you wasn't his plan; he didn't have one as soon as he took that first step, and it must be painfully obvious, but you're never an afterthought to him.

It's quite the opposite.

"Who said you weren't good company?"

"I did?" James replies with a hint of confusion that only seems to coax the smile on your face to brighten. You're teasing him again; he's learning from past exchanges. "It's a self-diagnosis."

"Then it's not official until someone else weighs-in," you counter. "A third party."

James watches how you purposefully step away from the rail until the backs of your legs meet the nearby porch swing. He would prefer you look before plopping down in the suspended seat since it arcs in response to the newfound weight, although he moves to steady the chains before your book or the blanket can slide onto the porch. His outstretched arms frame the seat. He is too caught up in how you're peering up at him rather than worrying about appearing too intimidating or taking up too much space. The smile on your face puts an end to those fears.

You don't see him like that, or at least he hopes you never will.

James only joins you on the porch swing after the motion of it comes to a complete stop. He is careful to cede more of the space to you, except he does take initiative in arranging the blanket, unwilling to be reluctant when it involves your well-being. He goes still when your hand settles atop his; the gentle touch draws his focus away from the checkered plaid design of the blanket.

"I'd love to go to brunch with you tomorrow."

"Thank you," he earnestly replies. James is thanking you for more than agreeing to sit in the Fernweh Diner with him; this is a chance, possibly the start of something. "So, what're you reading?"

He can take a break from this unnecessary patrol that just happened to pass by the B&B, if it means he can spend time with you.