'Sweet Memories, Bitter Reality' (James Version) [Public]

[Alternate Text: An off-white background with a single cup of coffee from a top down view so it's the one bit of color on the image. It's made out of vibrant yellow ceramic. 'Sweet Memories, Bitter Reality' is the title in rigid, typewriter type of font.]

'Cause of Death: animal attack'

Two words efficiently sum up the gruesome end of a man James had known for most of his life. The gray, unisex figure attached to the curt report is equally as dispassionate without the usual markings that denote areas of damage or notable wounds. He hovers the tip of his pen over the blank victim diagram no one took the time to fill out, tempted to recreate those spirals.

Those carving marks briefly made the holidays flash across his mind before the grisly reality set in, overriding the usual peppermint pattern.

This report is only a copy, not the original…

It will do no good to recreate the horrible images; he knows they will persist, if not linger, in his mind for a while until they are mentally tucked away. James is usually better at suppression. His eyes drift towards the achingly familiar surname at the top of the page before they reflexively seek out one of the two blots of color on his cluttered desk. A red line dares to stand out among all the black and white letters, papers, and cases.

Only a single date for this month has been marked, while the rest blend into a sea of obscurity without any reminders or notes.

…Your anticipated return date…

James verifies the time on his watch. A few more lagging minutes have accumulated in the readout since the last time he checked, and yet, each and every one adds to the pit in his stomach. Nerves mixing with caffeine-rich, black coffee is a potent combination. He should walk off this antsy energy to calm down since patrolling or going for a quick drive isn't an option when he could miss your arrival. It's so close. Returning the smile of the vibrant yellow coffee cup is beyond him, but he still picks it up with care as he rises from the chair.

"Focus."

A hushed exhale muffles James's self-directed advice, which is further dampened by him unlocking and relocking his office door in a fluid motion. He scans the austere hallway with an equally unreadable expression that becomes more reserved when he peers in the direction of the Chief's large office that is currently closed; no light seeps out from the threshold. Has she even come in today…? She should be offering condolences or at the very least a personalized acknowledgement of how the case was handled; now, it's his difficult task.

The muted atmosphere of the station is rarely broken up by beeps from alerts or the hum of the copy machine. It probably feels like another quiet day to most of the force despite the odd discovery in the woods because the scene was kept minimal, not too many eyes or loose lips that would jar the community. James spares a nod to an officer making a beeline for some of the laid out pastries in the communal kitchen.

The small congregation by the ritzy bakery box might be because a case was officially closed.

Nothing feels celebratory about this outcome.

"—wayyyy too much cinnamon."

"It's perfectly fine, Tabitha."

"My tongue is legitimately burning."

He inspects the watery dredges of his coffee cup to avoid any direct conversation, but James can feel the focus sliding over to him as he commandeers the drink station. This pot isn't fresh, but it's still warm and not a weak roast. Cup refilled and legs stretched, James turns back to see that he has a small audience awaiting him, though the curiosity on their faces only causes him to bite back a low sigh.

Most of them give him a wide berth, but not all.

"Detective, would you like something?"

Tabitha makes the offer sweetly; however, he knows that can't be the real question. "No, thank you."

"You're sure? Closing a case should have worked up an appetite," she persists, ignoring the uncertain look from her friend as she sets down a half-bitten cinnamon roll. "It must've been something; we don't get many like that, you know, real cases like on CSI or—"

"The report is on file; there's nothing more to say."

James's interjection isn't swift or harsh, but the undeniable firmness to it ends this quest for gossip about Fernweh's latest victim. He does not wait for a reply, using the space most people cede to him to his advantage by exiting the communal kitchen. The silence he created within the room doesn't bother him, not when he has heard snatches of rumors and theories from the inexperienced or nosy officers. If they had seen the scene, would they be more respectful, or is the town recluse fair game…?

The faint exchange coming from the station's reception area makes his jaw lock at having to tune out additional conversation, until James realizes it's not his wayward co-workers. He freezes in the threshold. One foot is on the tile and the other is on speckled linoleum, but it's impossible to backtrack away now, and he doesn't think he could will his legs to move. It's only when the ceramic of his cup threatens to slip from his newly slackened grip that James acts, quickly securing a two-handed hold on it.

After all this time, you have finally come back.

The stranger by your side and Trent's lacking work ethic become afterthoughts as he allows himself just a single, fleeting moment to look—to take in just how much his childhood friend has changed and grown. Does he really want to spot all the differences? He has held on for this long, but now, there is a definitive answer to if the person he remembers is still there or at least aspects of them. It's a sort of closure, a finality. The final burial of a friend or the revival of one.

James isn't ready.

He refuses to look at who you have become, curiosity and care overshadowed by his doubts.

"—while visiting. The waterfall that goes to nowhere is pretty, but it's said to be haun—"

"Officer Warren," James stiffly interrupts, concentrating on Trent as quiet descends, though he distinctly feels your focus too. Three cups of coffee on a mostly empty stomach paired with being nervous shouldn't create an ache like this, but he chooses not to look back.

Did you after you left Fernweh…?

He may have a chance of learning that.