'Another Missed Valentine's' (Jane Version)

[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.]

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Jane's head snaps away from the computer screen, re-awakening a crick in her neck with a wicked vengeance as she 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. She knows better than to give any merit to that assumption until she has the facts, but the distinctive, rapid knocking instantly makes her leave her 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.

She 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 her to wince since her office is dimly lit aside from the glare of the computer screen that she had grown used to. Alek must take pity on her because the door is shut and locked while she is still squinting away the dots.

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

"Do you know what today is?"

"…Tuesday?"

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

"Can't you just tell me?"

"Nope."

Jane knows how Alek gets when his mind is made up about something, so she relents with a muffled sigh, trudging over to the desk. Clearly, it's not something dangerous. She flips through the pages of the calendar that was frozen on a time where a single date mattered the most to her; the line of red still sticks out. She 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…?"

Her brother's expression goes from vaguely offended to incredulous within seconds.

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

She 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 her brain for the cultural significance of mid-February comes to an abrupt end when she actually takes a second to observe how Alek's hair is carefully braided and how he is wearing that outfit he was going on about with the lace detailing. "Oh…"

He had a date.

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

"'Oh' is right," Alek agrees, only allowing a hint of exasperation to shade his 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," Jane awkwardly replies in a faint tone, crossing her arms since guilt over forgetting is irrational. This holiday only means something to couples, which you two aren't, but she would be lying if she said this day didn't leave her jaded in the past due to missed or unrealized opportunities. Did the bittersweetness simply turn bitter over the years? She turns the page on the calendar to obscure the date that could now take on a new meaning, except she 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," Jane firmly disagrees. "A thrown together Valentine's isn't what [Name] deserves, so we're leaving it at that." She can feel her brother's gaze practically boring into the side of her face when she reaches for her coffee cup rather than continue the conversation. Her guilt will only heighten if she ends up ruining his Valentine's Day too. "Tell me about your date."

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

"My date was more of an experience."

Jane 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 her watch suddenly feels too bright despite the darkness that shrouds her on all sides. Jane 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, she 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. She lingers off to the side, positioned within a spot that lacks much illumination, but her 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.

Her lips buckle into a grimace when she turns to leave, work boots scraping against the asphalt, but she is only pivoting, not moving away. How can she 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 she was concerned because everything linked to it wasn't meant for her. How could it be?

The romance. The passion. The feelings.

But now, she is second-guessing that stance…

Jane swallows thickly, observing the moon to try and quell her growing upset over thoughts that kept her awake as a teenager. Why can't she grow up where you're concerned…? Her eyes seek you out once again. In that moment, she promises to make this lost Valentine's up to you, if you will one day allow her the opportunity to, though she can get a head start on it now by resolving to take the first step forward rather than backwards. She 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 her want to be more present; your effect hasn't weakened at all.

She should say something in advance, startling you for even a second would cause her resolve to crumble at potentially frightening you after a nightmare. Jane knows. She had a hunch from the start that became better supported when she saw the subtle strain starting to set into your beautiful features as the sleepless nights piled up. She 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 (her home) has put you through left her 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?

"Jane?"

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

"Of course."

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

"Nah, I have a blanket."

She 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…" She trails off, unsure how to continue this when her tumultuous thoughts continue to clash with her minimal words. When Jane does glance back at you, she recognizes the patient look you're giving her, 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 Alek 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 her plan; she didn't have one as soon as she took that first step, and it must be painfully obvious, but you're never an afterthought to her.

It's quite the opposite.

"Who said you weren't good company?"

"I did?" Jane replies with a hint of confusion that only seems to coax the smile on your face to brighten. You're teasing her again; she'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."

Jane watches how you purposefully step away from the rail until the backs of your legs meet the nearby porch swing. She would prefer you look before plopping down in the suspended seat since it arcs in response to the newfound weight, although she moves to steady the chains before your book or the blanket can slide onto the porch. Her outstretched arms frame the seat. She is too caught up in how you're peering up at her 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 her like that, or at least she hopes you never will.

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

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

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

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