'The Incident' (James Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: A header image of a small, log-fueled fire contained in a pit. It has beautiful golden and orange flames that are perfect for roasting marshmallows. Two skewers are held just above the fire by people out of frame. The title 'The Incident' is in dour, typewriter style font off to the side.]

This J. Corvin POV is set on Halloween night after you recently left Fernweh.

"If Momma finds out, I'll never get to trick-or-treat again, Jay. Ever—never ever, so stay."

Alina's petulant protesting doesn't deter James from unchaining his bike from a rack, although he needlessly focuses more on its three digit combination. The chocolate bar she split with him is leaving a bitter aftertaste now. "Alina," he starts in a placating yet gentle tone his sister must recognize. She's already huffing, crossing her arms in a way that makes the fringe on her jacket shake. Their costumes are always made rather than bought, scavenged from around their house. Tonight, he isn't wearing one. "I'll come—"

"I know you'll come back," she interjects. "But you don't have to leave me in the first place."

He glances up just in time to spot her turn around and storm off in ill-fitting cowboy boots. Thick socks and padding helped her fill them out, unintentionally giving her an old timey swagger. James could easily catch up to her, promise to hit up another candy-giving neighborhood, and possibly apologize for being… him. James is aware he has been sullen, but it's hard to muster up much more than watchfulness over her. He's simply here.

The decorations aren't spooking him unlike how the pop-up ones often startle him, playing on a reflex that you know to look out for. You'd scan around to tell him where a wailing ghost may swoop down from or a hungry zombie would rise. His particular taste in candy bars led to the two of you swapping while walking down sidewalks scattered with autumn leaves. They put too much stuff in them—nougat, nuts, caramel, pretzels. Splitting that one bar with Alina was only to make her smile; he lacks a sweet tooth or much of an appetite tonight. It was fun to venture out to town proper while you were a part of it. Now, the childish laughter, chilling sound effects, and soothing fall air feel all wrong. It doesn't seem like Halloween.

James could—should—go after Alina.

He doesn't.

She might be better off without him.

"I've got her."

Sofia's voice disrupts his thoughts when she stops leaning against the nearby tree after collecting her trident. James finishes with the lock, nodding his thanks. He's about to mount his bike when those cobalt blue, plastic tines encase the front wheel. Sofia observes him.

"Don't stay out there all night," she earnestly requests. "My mom would love to have you and Alina sleep over. There are so many rooms we need to renovate; you could help us come up with ideas… Besides, you can't do that to her."

James eases his fingers off the hand brake following her last sentence, nearly rolling forward until he catches himself. He knows that! He wouldn't disregard Alina all night; this is a break for her. "Thank you—it means a lot—but my parents wouldn't really go for that. Mom expects us back," he carefully replies, able to hide his frown through politeness. "I've got to bring her home. I don't want to worry them."

"Are you going to stay home tonight too?"

James says nothing long enough for Sofia to peer behind him, lowering her trident to pursue Alina. Once he's assured they're together, he pushes off the curb, taking advantage of the empty roads thanks to all the children out. The sidewalks are lined with festive decorations and hauntingly creative displays. James hardly pays them any attention, building up speed as he blitzes down one road then the next until the Halloween music seeping into the night is secondary to his regimented breathing. He needs to see it—to check on it for you—because he has a bad feeling about this eerie night.

His expression hardened earlier when passing by a house someone flung toilet paper on.

It was disrespectful.

Sometimes nearby laughter was laced through with screams or whimpers that sounded too real, probably a prank or a scare. He didn't like them either. James's own unhappiness about today might be coloring—darkening—things, yet he isn't going to take a chance on your family.

. . .

. .

.

Only one other horrible occasion has seen James almost wrecking his bicycle, the one he personally saved up for. The stray scratches leftover from sharp rocks in the ravine you broke your arm in can't be fully buffed out. He doesn't mind them. He'd do it again, able to get there before you started tearing up from the pain. He was upset then, potentially a little mad at Reese too, before hunkering by your side.

Now, it's only blinding anger.

The thud of his bike against burnt grass that still hasn't fully grown back doesn't register or how he painfully catches himself by letting go of the handle bars. There is fire where your house should be. It's contained, small even, but its warm light dances across the newly empty foundation that they cleared out for it to be less of an eyesore on the neighborhood. The concrete pad and leftover layout is something he mentally fills in as the shadows undulate all around it. James quickly scrambles to his feet.

He doesn't remove his helmet or check his smarting palms, marching over to this offense despite not truly feeling the ground underfoot.

It's shameful.

He hates it.

"…couldn't get with him…"

"I could damn well try! It'd be worth it."

"Look at you two failing the Bechdel test."

"Learn that in a 'special' tutoring session, Luci?"

James doesn't care what they're talking about as the scent of something sweet mingles with burning wood, except it's a touch muted. They have one of those easy-start logs instead of an actual fire built on tinder. His observations are coming to a rapid end the more he notices—the bag of marshmallows, the fancy skewers, their costumes, the blanket. Is this a dumb party?!

"Leave."

That's all he says in a voice that won't carry over the crackling fire and their radio, but one of them spots him and 'ooh's' like an idiot. His tone wasn't soft-spoken. It was strained. He balls his fists when a few of them laugh; it's a gathering of four. One would be too many.

"Want a s'more?"

"I doubt he'd say no…"

"I said: leave," James snaps. "You can't be doing that here." He gestures at your ruined home, a stiff motion that none of them bother to follow. "What's wrong with you? It's—it's like a grave. They died here. You can't—" He isn't going to reason with them, grabbing a nearby cup of something and tossing it on the flames, which only makes them roar to life. He rears back in alarm from the sudden heat. "God." A grim reaper simply chuckles at his reaction, while a guy dressed as a werewolf steps up, combative. James feels uncertainty from the masks all around, glaring equally at all of them.

They must know this is wrong.

They're hiding.

"You're a killjoy, just back off," the guy forcefully argues. He grabs a skewer from its resting place as if settling in to enjoy another treat, obviously at ease. "You don't even own this."

"I know the owner; he wouldn't want this."

"Lucian, maybe we should—?"

"No, he's got a point," another person chimes in after setting aside their alcoholic drink. They get up a bit unsteadily, advancing with the wolfman to prove a point. "You can't do shit."

James locks his jaw at the certainty behind those words when he is fully committed to preserving what he has left of you—protecting it. This is one of the few things that remains aside from your tree house. You're likely still getting settled in at your new home and coping with your parents' deaths, so he'll wait on your replies to his letters. "Please go, just leave it all alone," he stiffly requests. "This isn't right."

"Make me, or get lost like your friend did."

That's all it takes for James to lunge in a move that he wonders if it would scare you, but he's furious at their blatant disregard. He sloppily tackles Lucian around the middle, bringing them both down onto the concrete in a heap of limbs. There are two hands pushing back on him and then someone's kicking his side. The grim reaper's skull mask flashes across his vision when he and Lucian roll together to the right, grappling while a messenger of death watches on. That irritates him too. James tries to block the pain out from who's assisting Lucian because their kicks sometimes miss, striking his shoulder instead of his stomach or ribs. When he yanks off that wolf mask, he grabs a fistful of his hair too, ripping it away.

"What the fuck, man?!"

James tosses that onto the fire, settling back on his knees to attempt to stand because he sees the blaze reflected in Lucian's wide eyes.

He doesn't get very far when plastic snaps across his back, sharp and abrupt, from a scythe. It wasn't Death. The tipsy one drops their would-be weapon once James sets his sights on them, intending to pivot when he is abruptly brought down. His skull would have bounced off the foundation if not for his bike helmet before the wolfman is pummeling him.

He's outnumbered.

There's no one to watch his back. You're gone, and that brings a warmth to his cheeks that surpasses the blood gushing from his nose. He can't let them see him cry—he won't! It'll cause problems. He swallows down his pain, physical and emotional, to get through this onslaught, focusing on his breathing pattern until—

"Luci, ease up."

"Nah, teach him a lesson!"

"Got anymore gin?"

Their quick conversation is disjointed at best to James whose thought process has turned extremely narrow, purely emotion that he has tried to bottle up and push aside to get through the days. High school is hell without you. He misses you so much. Your absence reminds him of things he doesn't want to think about because you're a part of his life, his best friend.

Lucian leans back to admire his brutal work. He starts to jokingly whistle, barely able to hold the tune when he's lashed across the face with his dropped skewer. It would've gashed him open, if not for its soft marshmallow end blunting the blow. Molten sugar still burns enough for him to clutch his cheek, wildly cursing as James shoves him aside. He manages to haul himself into a standing position, half-bent over from all of those kicks. James rounds on the group, livid.

"Get the hell out of here! LEAVE! Go away!!"

Each of his demands is punctuated by him slashing the skewer through the air at his right side rather than directing it at them. It could be a lasher, a deterrent. He wouldn't do that. Would he?

They lit a fire where your home burned down to roast stupid marshmallows.

When the drunk one tries to surge forward in retaliation, wannabe Death roughly grabs their shoulder, while the other one helps Lucian peel off the stuck-on treat. It'll leave a burn. It's nothing compared to what your parents tragically suffered. James doesn't feel the remorse he should in this moment, letting his emotions boil over and scald. His body aches all over; it will become worse with time once the bruises fully bloom and the welts of swollen tissue rise up. He knows that, but he's fine at this present moment, willing to stand his ground to protect this place.

"He snapped." "Fuckin' crazy!" "Leave him."

They're backing up and away.

He did it.

They'll leave you alone—your home.

James's satisfactory conclusion is ruined by police sirens growing exponentially louder.

Red and blue clash with the few decorations along your former street, painting it in colors that aren't festive. Someone called the cops on them. His eyes flick between where he stands alone, bloodied, but still only one person, versus this four-person friend group. Lucian is likewise beaten up, his right cheek inflamed and actually sporting a minor cut across its curve that could have been so much worse. His costume is also rumpled from their tussle. This won't end well.

"You're so fucked."

One of them smarmily says what he should be more concerned about through the haze of pain. His parents are going to be disappointed, if not extremely upset. More importantly, his sister's Halloween is going to be ruined by him.

"Put the weapon down, son."

"He threatened us!"

"Separate from each other and remain quiet unless I tell you to do otherwise," the officer warns everyone. "Toss that aside now."

James robotically complies with the officer's request, presenting his hands without being asked to do so. He slips into autopilot even if the situation should induce more of a reaction. His anger isn't spent, just dormant after he gave into it at the wrong time for the right reasons. When someone recognizable to him joins the male officer, he comes back to himself. It's officer Bowers. She nods at him.

What's she doing here…?

She's too decorated, right? Sometimes she'll come around the outskirts on what James had assumed was outreach because they're still a part of Fernweh. Most of the police patrol the actual town. It's also where she grew up according to his dad; he didn't say too much.

"Let's do this one at the time," she decides, gesturing to the yard. "Come on over."

He follows her.

Officer Bowers casts a glance at her co-worker before peering back at James, possibly studying his bleeding face. She doesn't frown or emote much. "Tell me: did you start this?"

"Yes, ma'am. I tackled Lucian first." She stares at him after that immediate, honest answer before turning her palm over, asking for elaboration. "I wanted them to leave the [Surname] home alone, but I got—I got upset. Then they ganged up on me, kicked me and—but, yes, I did start it. The rest was to protect myself from them; Lucian and the drunk one, not the other two. I didn't threaten them—it wasn't a weapon. It wasn't."

. . .

"Your father raised you right."

James blinks at that statement.

"But their story is going to clash. I've seen how this goes," she concludes. "You're going to end up in the back of the cruiser to make it easier."

"I didn't—"

"Do you know who you picked a fight with?"

Lucian Belmond, a well-to-do elite, and Charlene may be that grim reaper. He couldn't tell for sure. Reese wouldn't ever do this. "…Yes."

Although, he would've tackled anyone tonight.

"Then head to the cruiser, but keep your chin up."

He's going to spend the rest of his Halloween night at the station.

. . .

. .

.

"This beats the station, right?"

James barely has a chance to turn from the railing when you set a cup of apple cider down on its wide beam. He smiles faintly in gratitude, though it turns that much softer when you sidle up next to him, inviting him to wrap his arm around you. He holds you close. "It does."

"You're sure?" you wonder. "You seemed to be thinking about something serious. A case?"

He glances back at the dark cul de sac he once paced around to be closer to you after your return, except he then avoided getting too near at first. Patrolling an unlisted route for months went hand in hand with that. When you shift, James's complete attention is effortlessly redirected. "An incident, but it's in the past…"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Your question comes after a considerate pause, tempting him to reveal what happened—the extent of it. James hesitates, knowing you'll let him when it comes to these topics. He turns more to wrap you in a hug. "I want to hold you; that's all," he admits. "That's everything."

You might sense there's more going on.

He wouldn't put it past you—how you knew him back then as children and are learning more about whom he has become. Your grip on him grows tighter, letting him feel you and offering unsaid reassurance. You're here with him.

James closes his eyes to cherish this moment; for the first time in a long while, he's actually enjoying Halloween.