'Lost On You' (James Version)

[Alternate Text: A header image of a slightly foggy road that is flanked by dark, towering trees that are made all the darker from the clouded over sky. The title 'Lost On You' is in a simple white font in between one of the road markers that divide the lanes. Overall, it's mysteriously glum.]

This writing is set during Chapter 1 of TFS: Book One. It's what might have come before the Returning Visitor's encounter with the mysterious figure in the cul de sac. It provides insight into how J was feeling that night.

A few things to please note: 1. the A. Corvin in this has a negative past history/frenemy dynamic with the MC, so that's why they behave this way. I know some of you might not play with this triggered, but I wanted a bit of drama. 😌 2. Trent's disposition will differ across the writings just like it does in the main TFS series if you play with Jane versus James. 3. For this writing, J. Corvin harbors a childhood crush on the MC, which is a possibility based on your decisions and what information you uncover during the series. I'm mentioning it now, so no one is like: 'it's canon!' and rejoices or freaks out. Maybe, maybe not. You can trigger the flower memory hinted at in this writing in Book Two depending on your choices. 👀

All of that's to say: there are factors that helped me shape J's POV.

A stuttering knocking pattern barely draws James's attention away from the grisly images he's intently studying. It happens again—a series of half-hearted knocks as if the person doesn't want to strike the door too hard. He gradually blinks away the phantom carving lines from his vision before stiffly rising from his desk chair to unlock the door. The shadows cast in the room seem to waver, twisting into those brutal lines.

It was a slow death.

When he opens the door a crack, Trent nearly peeks inside before backing up with a nervous smile. "Yes?" James offers a polite prompt. "Do you need something…? Is something wrong?"

"Oh! Nope, no sir, just Alina's on line 2 for you—uh, not that we were really chatting for long," he quickly clarifies following James's jaw locking. He holds out a hot cup of black coffee as a sudden peace offering. "Only a lil' bit. Because I'm on reception desk duty, which you know is, uh… No trouble tonight—or most nights, honestly."

"Still, the lines must be kept open at all times"—Trent deflates after his calm reminder, glancing down at the linoleum flooring—"but thank you."

His simple gratitude rekindles the relatively green deputy's smile before the two part ways.

James doesn't swap out his favored ceramic coffee cup for this new one, leaving it in its designated spot among the files and papers instead. It cheerily smiles back at him before he collects the phone's handset to take the call. "Alina?"

"Have you seen our dearest returning visitor yet?"

Sarcasm laces through his sister's question in a way that would make James lightly pinch the bridge of his nose if not for his glasses being in place. He tiredly peers up at the ceiling tiles, noticing a blotch among them that is mildly rust tinged in this lighting. There was so much red—too much exposed of a man he couldn't bring himself to look at some days. "…Don't."

"I'm going to take that as a 'hell no', Jay," she breezily continues. "Good for you."

Only his sigh filters through the receiver as he rests his eyes, closing them for a moment since the door is locked and his sister's listening.

"When will that change?" she presses. "And I hope you aren't going to be the one who changes it? It'll be too desp"—Alina begrudgingly alters her word choice—"too eager after all of the time that's passed."

"[Name] only just arrived back today, and I'm not eager." In his mind's eye, the single date circled in red on his blank calendar appears before its border starts to steadily run and drip, bleeding. James blindly reaches for his fresh cup of coffee, taking a near scalding sip of its contents. He clears his throat. "Why are you calling me this late? Also, the reception desk?"

"I wanted to talk to Trent about our campaign, then I wanted to see if you're still awake, so I did both. Two birds, one crust of bread."

That isn't the saying; however, Alina wouldn't want to think about killing birds with a stone.

"Nice dodge, by the way."

James smiles wryly at nothing before slipping off his glasses to rub at his left eye. "I'll need to hand off [Grandfather_Name]'s personal items," he explains. The inclusion of the walkie talkie in your cardboard box is only going to spark a debate between them that he doesn't have time for. Alina is being protective while leaning into clashing with you. It's familiar. "No, I won't be the one seeing [him/her/them] first, okay?"

"You swear?"

"Alina," he intones her name. "It has been years."

"Exactly: it's been years, and I am sorry about his passing, but that isn't a free pass from me."

"Try to be polite, please?" James requests. "But, yes, I'm not going to crowd [Name] at all."

"Once you're kind to yourself then maybe I'll be polite," she cheekily replies, except there was an undercurrent of seriousness at the very start. "I've got to go feed Huck—he's eyeing my dice as if they're berries. Love ya. Go to sleep."

"Love you, bye."

Once the phone line goes dead so only that low, incessant drone consistently emits from its speaker, James instantly opens his eyes. It is only him inside of his office, no distractions or breaks from what's been laid out across his overflowing desk. It's a macabre spread. He's usually better at compartmentalization, but as soon as he saw your last name printed on the file folder, his boxes and walls started to erode.

It isn't entirely about [Grandfather_Name]…

He's concentrating on you as well.

Should he feel more sickening guilt over that?

James stares at the images and his notes for a moment, resolving to work more before taking a late night patrol to clear his thoughts—to tire himself out—to welcome dreamless exhaustion.

. . .

. .

.

With each step he takes, he's deviating from one of the listed patrol routes, not that many deputies like to take them on foot these days.

It's far different as the Detective.

Presenting a lawful, clean-cut presence is something Chief Bowers tasked him with that he took to heart if it helps put citizens at ease. It shouldn't be a stern deterrent, but a steady reassurance to them. His opinion differs from hers about the 'why' of this routine, though who exactly is he reassuring by striding around this late at night in a neighborhood where everyone should be asleep…? It isn't like showing up at tomorrow's memorium, a public event with so many eyes.

Too many eyes.

As he patrols, his mind drifts away from the gruesome and the unknown to get lost in old memories of you. It's a bittersweet refuge. He would like to blame it on the circumstances—the death, your return, his guilt about another loss in your family, his hopes and fears—but he has often thought of you. James always has.

The past has silky tendrils that sink in.

He remembers past childhood games of hide and seek where you'd always find him.

The farm's unique setting gave rise to extreme games of hide and seek that used its many buildings and equipment as hiding spots. Years later, it's still easy for him to identify former places to hide, including ones he would gravitate towards to lurk. There was someone who was far less pleased with your ability to excel at this game and typically locate her brother first.

"Cheater!"

"Alina," James tiredly intones while brushing stray hay from his clothes. You were correct to search the hayloft's shadowy corners for him. "It really isn't like that."

"Then you're just letting [Name] win, so you'll always have someone to play with…"

James's hand freezes up whereas the disbelief shading his expression is allowed to bloom before it's lightened by keen empathy instead of annoyance. He shoots you a quick look that requests your patience without him saying a word. Alina's mild dismay following your repeated victories has turned into a poorly concealed pout that James wants to remedy. Fortunately, you nod your acceptance.

"Okay, why don't we team up for the next round?" James offers, which instantly earns a smile from Alina that flashes her slight dimples. "We'll hide together."

Alina's glee turned smug because it took you forever to find the siblings hiding between full clothes lines, crouched behind a dark sheet that didn't move in the weak breeze. It was unlike James's typical hiding spots—open, variable, and bright. Still, you had won again.

. . .

He remembers giving you flowers. Wild forget-me-nots grow all around the Corvin farm, providing pops of color to the land. Their name took on a sharply bittersweet, yet fitting meaning when it comes to you—your time apart from him and the absence from each other's lives.

"They're beautiful."

Your sudden compliment startles James who was admiring you over the pretty flowers he has been tending to for weeks to ensure they'll flourish. You're fast enough to react, stabilizing the small pot by taking his hands in yours. Now, both of you are holding onto it. Only a tiny cluster of blue separates you from him on the narrow porch step. “Sorry," he reflexively apologizes.

"It's okay. It happens."

Your reassurance comes more quickly than your earlier compliment and it should coincide with you letting James go, but it doesn't. His fingers are pressed between yours and cool terracotta until he takes your hand properly and sets the gift aside. Without the pot, he has no idea what exactly he's doing with his best friend at night in front of his house as a familiar nervousness starts up. James pulling you in for a close hug kicks it into overdrive while also soothing him.

This crush is complicated!

It's turning the familiar unfamiliar, but he knows how to hold you in his arms.

"I should've just hugged you like always," he mutters into your shoulder. "I'm not great with words… But"—James pulls back to meet your eyes, the warm porch light masks the start of his blush—"these are for you, the flowers, because you're… unforgettable."

. . .

He remembers how nervous he was to give you a place within his home.

You appear ready to reach out to him, possibly even grab on to his elbow, when James shoots you another half-hearted glance that fails to hide his nervousness. It's a grand surprise, so you're meant to wait and he's supposed to be acting more excited. He just hopes you'll understand.

"You're sure you're feeling okay?" you ask.

"Yes, thank you."

Your quizzical reaction doesn't register to James who follows behind you after you enter his bedroom first. His attention is trained on a large dresser before he gestures for you to come over and then carefully opens its topmost drawer. It smells faintly of wood oil, interior glistening faintly and free from dust but also of any obvious surprises. He cleaned it all out.

"What?" you ask after staring into the farthest recesses. "Did it get out?"

"'It'?" James clarifies. "I wouldn't keep a pet in here. It's yours, if you want it to be…"

James believes time helped you better understand what he was trying to give you back then: a place in his home. The farm is remote, and he had a list of prepared reasons why it would be useful because you tended to play outside or leave stuff behind. It meant something more to him though, almost sentimental, that you'd be coming back to spend time with him.

. . .

He also remembers how he screamed for you when your grandfather abruptly took you away in a cloud of dust and screech of spinning tires. It was forceful–ferocious yet desperate–that it left James shaken and afraid for you. Something was wrong; he could tell that much. He didn't know how bad it was until his frequent phone calls went to a disconnected (burned down) phone line and you never returned to school. Naturally, James was willing to wait for you to come back.

Except you didn't.

Terror-filled days stretched into anxious weeks that lengthened into many agonizing months and then silent years.

James never forgot about you, his letters and his concern endured.

. . .

A warm glow disrupts the shadows hanging over the cul de sac enough to draw—to yank—James back into the present. He stops his reminiscing to study the Bed and Breakfast as he continues his regimented pace until he spots someone standing out on the porch. It's you.

He knows it's you.

The light cast from the porch works to his advantage, keeping him wreathed in shadow while you appear to bask in the string lights and staked lanterns. His eyes widen in surprise, whereas his feet don't falter beneath his trained gait, a pace to project strength. He's staring. The town's detective isn't conducting a vigilant scan of the area; no, James Corvin is staring openly at his former childhood friend.

He can't yet make out all of the details—the differences among the similarities—but it's you.

When you offer a friendly wave, James's mildly transfixed state is broken. He decides to take a tighter circle around the circular drive to insert distance between you both for now. A swear to Alina wasn't made, but he won't overcrowd or impose on you during your first night back. It's—it wouldn't be fair to you. He isn't ready for it.

Besides, who waves at a dark stranger when it's this late at night…? Apparently, you do.

James's thoughts no longer have the safe and familiar underpinnings of the past where you're concerned. He saw you in the present, just a few seconds ago while he quickly strides away. This isn't a set memory to turn over and over in his head. It helps that he drifts closer to the darkest shadows that conceal what most would call a retreat if they could see the expression on his face.

His soft smile for you—the you he fondly remembers—was tempered by everything else, only lasting for an instant in what was a reflex.

Still, there is a vestige of aged hope in the long glance James casts back at the distant B&B that's closer to a beacon in the night to him.