Chapter Text
James Sunderland allowed himself a heavy sigh as he sat down in the driver’s seat of his car and shut the door. Shoving the key in the ignition, he started the engine and glanced at the clock above the radio.
12:29 PM.
James hummed, brushing a hand through newly damp hair. He stilled for a moment, decidedly pulling down the sun visor and flipping open the mirror. He sculpted his fringe into something more presentable.
James thought it in his best interests to take a trip down to the local gym. Not that this was anything strange or new—he’d been doing this nigh-daily since he’d been granted parole, but it was still during daylight when he went. He’d usually go at night.
He also kept his breakfast lighter this time around. Last time he went, he worked out on a full stomach, and that wasn't a particularly favorable experience (anything was better than passing out on an empty one). This time, though, James didn’t feel like death afterwards, and he supposed he did something right.
The ex-convict studied his reflection with great intent, tilting his head to the side and riding his fingertips along the stubbly skin of his jawline.
He probably should’ve shaved before he met with his officer. Shit…
Well, he showered after his workout, like he always did. At least he… smelled presentable? James hoped she didn’t care too much for appearances, but she seemed nice enough in their first meeting together—save for him scaring the shit out of her. Most introductions tended to be that way with him… though Chris was one of the few who didn’t startle at his appearance.
Then again, it was a curated setting, and they were sitting rather than standing.
Damn it all, he was thinking about Chris again.
James slammed the mirror closed and flicked the sun visor back up, boring holes into the steering wheel. Letting loose a deep and exasperated sigh, he then knocked his skull against the headrest of his car seat. He brought a thumbnail to his teeth and started to chew.
Why was he so stuck on him? Why? For what reason? He knew next to nothing about the guy, and he was desperate for an answer that didn't make his stomach twist into ugly little knots.
"What, you like his laugh, James? Is that it?" He caught his reflection chewing on his nail in the rear view mirror, and he twisted it down with his right hand to meet his blistering gaze. "Yeah, like another dude's laugh is gonna be the thing that does it. Jesus Christ."
There was more than that. There would always be more than just a laugh. It was his eyes, his hair, his smile—he was witty, he was patient… he was kind. Kind enough to allow a man like James the privilege of pleasant human interaction for once. Pressing the heels of his palms to his sockets wouldn't do him any good, because in the dark red expanse of his shut green eyes, he always saw Chris; smiling and laughing, looking at him with deep, warm brown.
…This was really bad.
“I- I’m just lonely,” James cut the tracks to his train of thought with a haggard declaration, and he tore his hands away from his eyes. The heat in his face was starting to sting, and James firmly grabbed the steering wheel as if it would ground him. “I’m lonely. That’s it, that’s all… that this is. It’s just- I need a friend and wires are getting crossed, and that’s it.”
Admitting to himself that he needed a friend was a huge first, but really, the fact that he was ruminating on this at all was really a testament to how much prison did him in. He already stumbled his way through social interactions void of any grace, but thrusting himself into the fray where rigidity was a must in order to get by was both a blessing and a curse.
James Sunderland crawled his way out the damn place as desperate as he was before—anybody who so much as regarded him with a shred of kindness was bound to set him ablaze.
And here he was: flaming. He wanted to die.
James dared to glance at the clock, and it read a very insistent 12:33 PM. That was his cue to stop stewing over these stupid notions and drive his sorry ass down to the corrections office.
The commute wasn't long by any means. Largely uneventful, save for the one asshole who cut him off, causing him to lay on his horn with many an expletive following such. All and all, though, it was routine. He pulled into his designated spot—the spot he always chose when he parked here and made his way to the doors after exiting his vehicle.
James was met with that same, stale office smell when he crossed the threshold inside. It was something aching to be fresh, but it just wasn’t quite there yet. It made him quietly nostalgic. Remembering a time when his life was somewhat normal was dangerous, though, and he opted to replace nostalgia with pragmatism.
“Hey, there,” he greeted the man behind the glass window, tapping away at his keyboard.
“Hi. How can I help you?”
“I’ve got an appointment with Officer Pérez here soon.”
“Pérez, gotcha,” the man turned his eyes to his monitor, and after a few seconds of quiet, spoke up again, “James, right?”
“Yep, James Sunderland.”
“Right. I’ll let her know you’re here. Rest in the lobby if you’d like.” He offered James a cordial grin and gestured to the rows of seats behind him. James gave him a nod and a small smile of his own and maundered towards a lonely blue chair to sit in.
Making himself comfortable, he scanned the ever-vacant chairs aside and in front of him. Sleepy Saturday, so it seemed; he was the only one here today. His eyes found that day’s newspaper on the table next to him, and he decided to take a peek.
First page: politics, second page: crimes, third page: happenings and goings-on… nothing that involved him or intrigued him; nothing spectacular. Same old, same old. He was tempted to yawn, but an advert near the bottom of the third page caught his eye, and he read:
MARCY’S ROADSIDE DINER: HIRING NOW!!!
STARTING SALARY: $14/HR
CALL (207) 930-2724 FOR MORE INFORMATION
Marcy’s… that name rang a bell. Yeah, he’d driven by that place countless times, now. Seemed like it was there for eons.
And he was here to discuss potential employment opportunities among other things…
James, tongue in cheek, sat there in thought. It depended on the kind of work they needed, though. Being a waiter was entirely out of the question (he didn’t know how Mary could stand it), but… dishwasher? Line cook? That was doable. Tolerable, at least.
…What does Chris do for work, anyhow?
James quickly folded the newspaper back up and set it back down as it was on the table. There wasn’t any point in wondering about it. It’s not like he’d get an answer—Chris was secretive. Bordered on cagey. Probably for a good reason, but still... it was the look of apprehension that washed over the father’s features whenever James would ask anything he thought benign. Those warm brown eyes now harsh and wary.
It stung.
James didn’t want to dwell on why it did. If his mini-episode of madness in the car taught him anything, if he ever thought too much about something, nothing good would come of it.
They’re just crossed wires, goddammit.
“James? Sunderland?” He heard a familiar voice wedge its way into his brain and he straightened himself up at the sound of his name being expectantly called.
Officer Pérez, first name Miranda, was standing by the walk-thru metal detector. Bright and warm from what James could glean, she gave him a grin and waved him over. He quickly stood from his seat and gave her the best smile he could muster, reaching out his hand to shake hers. While consummating their handshake, she stared up at the ex-convict in humored awe.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t get over how tall you are, I simply can’t,” she chuckled throughout their exchange, and James’ smile twisted into something bashful.
“Nothing really special about it, just…” James gestured with his now-free hand towards the top of his head. “You have more to worry about up here. Hitting your head on stuff, I mean.”
“Ha! I’ll bet. Alright.” Miranda placed a small, plastic basket on the counter adjacent to the metal detector. “I’ll have you put your keys and wallet in here, yeah?”
James swiftly removed the requested objects from his person and placed them in the basket. After handing the basket off to the man behind the glass, Miranda then walked over to the metal detector and motioned towards it.
“Walk through this now, please,” she said. James did just that. There was nothing amiss, so it seemed. “Alright! Come with me.”
Following just a way’s behind the officer, he cast his gaze around the hallway they passed through, peering into empty rooms labeled “Interview Room” or such other nomenclature. It smelled a bit better back here, more floral. Though, the artifice would always be a through line.
James didn’t mind.
“In here.” Pérez held the door open to her office, smiling as James shuffled his way inside, sitting down in the chair in front of her desk. She gently shut the door and pulled her own chair back, scooting inward once settled herself.
“Alright, let’s see…” She clicked her tongue a few times, repetitiously, as she grabbed ahold of her computer mouse, clicking here and there on a screen James couldn’t see. He busied himself with picking at his hangnails in the meantime.
“So!” James glanced back up at Miranda. “I’ve got your file up, and… looks like you’ve got a psychiatric assessment coming up here in a few days.”
“Who’s the shrink?” James shifted around in his seat, seemingly aloof.
“He’s a Dr. Schumer. He’s worked with several of our clients who report complex trauma and the liking.”
“Is he any good?”
“He’s the best one we’ve got.” Miranda flashed him another beaming smile. “I haven’t spoken to him much myself, but from what I’ve gathered, he takes his job seriously. You’ll be in good hands.”
James stared at Miranda’s keyboard instead.
“I understand if you’re anxious, James,” the officer’s voice turned sweet. Soft. Seems like he wasn’t the only one who acted this reticently. “I can only imagine how disorienting the whole process has been.”
James reflexively shook his head, still looking at her keyboard. “I’m fine.”
A sigh followed. No, you aren’t, he heard her say in his head. “Well, if you have any troubles with Schumer, we can always find somebody else. Just give him a shot, alright?”
The ex-convict finally looked up at Officer Pérez; the pang of guilt that shot through his heart when he saw her face was instant. He swallowed.
“Okay.”
“Wonderful.” She chuckled again, then began typing at length.
“I’m- I’m sorry,” James said through exasperated sighs, shifting yet again in his seat.
“Oh, James, you’re fine. Really.” Miranda waved his apology off. “You’re not kicking and screaming at the suggestion of a psychiatrist.”
James furrowed a brow in confusion. “…have other people really done that?”
Miranda gave him a look that told him all he needed to know. James glanced to the carpet afterwards.
Had he been any worse off—younger, maybe—that could’ve very well have been him, and maybe Officer Pérez wouldn’t have extended to him the kindness and cordiality he knew her for.
There was an incident once. Incidents were trivial to James at this point, but this one was pretty significant. He was still in prison at this point in time. Black hair—no blond box dye—with a beard sporting gray, looking far older than he’d ever dreamt of truly seeing. There was also somebody else. James couldn’t remember what he said, exactly, but he remembered how angry it made him.
He also remembered that he himself was the one who started it.
A past version of James, the prideful, thorny bastard, would’ve said that it was the assailant’s fault. That he was just protecting what little pride he had left.
What would those six ribs he broke with his fists, pounding mercilessly into this man’s flesh say to that? What would this man say to that? Wretched excuse that it was…
One of the worst places to start a fight would be in the mess hall, where everybody ate, and where everybody could see. When you have idiots of all stripes egging you on to kill the other guy, it’s easy to get drunk off it. Yeah, he was big. He was strong. You couldn’t knock him down no matter how hard you tried. Compared to this scrawny, injured and struggling piece of meat, he was the clear victor. But he should’ve known better than to judge this man for his size and stature alone.
He should’ve heeded the scar on his cheek as a warning.
Next thing James knew, he was on the floor, pinned down by guards with blood pouring from his shattered nose. He’d gotten one last swing in, James’ reasoned. He was furious.
He was dragged from the scene, kicking and screaming. He swore he’d kill the man for such a low blow. Just a lucky shot. Fucking coward. I’ll get you for this. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
What a terrible day that was.
What a pathetic man he had become.
“James? Hellooo?” Miranda’s snapping fingers brought him back to the present. He straightened himself out, brushed his hands on his jeans, and cleared his throat.
“Sorry, just…” he tapped a finger to his forehead a few times. “Caught up here is all.”
“I hear you. No worries.” Miranda glanced between James and the monitor. She scrolled the mouse wheel down. “I was wondering if you’d thought about employment and what that might look like for you.”
James immediately recalled the bold, garish print of that diner ad in the paper. He rubbed a hangnail with the pad of his thumb in consideration.
“There’s a local diner that’s hiring,” he said with a sniff. “Might give that a shot.”
“Mm, what’s it called?” Pérez looked interested.
“Marcy’s, I think.”
“Ah, yes. That one.”
“Is that place any good?” James felt the need to clarify.
“I’ve heard good things! Nothing spectacular, though.”
He sighed, unsatisfied with her intangible answer. Guess he’ll be in the dark on this one until he finds where the proverbial light switch is.
Anything but being on the wait staff. That’s what he was shooting for.
“Is your heart set on that, James?” Miranda turned to look at the man in full. He shrugged in turn.
“It’s the best I’ve got right now, so… might as well give them a call.”
“Excellent! Why don’t you give them a ring and let me know whether or not it works out, okay? We’ll figure something out if it’s not a good fit.” Miranda’s keyboard clicked away at her touch, further ushering forth the encroaching dread that was nipping at the nape of James’ neck.
Fuck, this was really happening, wasn’t it? Getting a job, making money… Jesus. He felt like a teenager all over again with all of these returning responsibilities. It’d be good for him in the long run to stay occupied—maybe it’d keep him from the drinking better—but all he could feel in this moment was bitter, icy fear.
He wanted somebody to hold onto. Somebody to touch, to bury his scorching face into the shoulder of. He felt so small in this moment, in Miranda’s presence, just her and him in her quaint little office, sparsely yet decidedly decorated with parts of her heart. Colorful trinkets, picture frames out of view, her name boldly and beautifully printed on a silver nameplate, just in case you forgot.
James envied his officer in this instance. She had a purpose in life. She seemed to love it. Things to look forward to, people to look forward to hugging and kissing after a long day of dealing with crooks like him.
And crooks like him had nothing.
“Can I see that picture?” He pointed to the frame sitting to the right of her nameplate. She parted her lips in mild surprise, but they were quick to smile once more.
“Oh, of course!” She gladly handed the photo off to James, and he held it delicately in his left hand, greeting the toothy smile of a young boy looking much like his mother.
His hair was very dark, cropped short and a little bit shaggy; tawny brown skin and dark brown eyes, almost black, cushioned by the grin he sported. His nose was flat and his lips were full, like Miranda’s, and he wore a white t-shirt with thin blue stripes. The background was a quintessential yearbook gray.
“That’s my son, Marcus.” Miranda’s hands were threaded underneath her chin, barely concealed pride coating her words. “He’s in the 4th grade. Just turned 10 this past November.”
“He looks just like you,” James murmured, now holding the picture frame with both hands.
Miranda scoffed lightheartedly. “Ahh, everybody says that. I think he looks more like Papá, but that’s just me.”
James hummed. Frank always told everybody he looked more like his mother when compared.
“Is he still in the picture? If you… don’t mind me asking.” James flicked his eyes back at Officer Pérez. This was the only photo she had on her desk, and it made him wonder... She then laughed very suddenly, leaving James a bit startled and confused.
“Was the pun on purpose?”
“Ah, uh, no.” James looked away, feeling a familiar heat blister the tips of his ears. “I’m rarely funny on purpose.”
Miranda chuckled some more before answering. “We’re divorced, but we have joint custody. Marcus sees him on the weekends.”
James nodded. “I see.” He handed the photo back to the officer, curiosity now quenched. “Thank you for letting me look.”
“Always happy to!” A frown never graced this woman’s face, so it seemed. James couldn’t help a smile himself, and he clasped his hands in his lap. “Alright… do you have any more questions or concerns?”
James paused for a moment, then shook his head. Miranda nodded in response, then crossed her arms. “Well, I think that settles that, then! Thanks for coming in on time.” She rose from her chair with the ex-convict following suit. “You’re scheduled for a urinalysis our next meeting, so don’t do anything too crazy, alright?” She held the door open for James and gave him a jokingly accusatory look.
He huffed out a laugh. “I promise.”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” Officer Pérez led James back to the lobby and saw him off. “David here’ll give you back your things and you’re all set! Have a good one, James. Stay safe, take care.”
The two exchanged waves as Miranda disappeared into the den of offices, with the eponymous David emerging from his station to slide the basket James had put his keys and wallet in through the opening in the glass window.
“Bye, James,” David called out, and James wordlessly waved in response, heading out the door.
The bite of the winter air was a mere suggestion to James Sunderland as he stood at the front entrance; hands in his jean pockets, watching his breath billow out from his mouth like smoke. Winter was like home to him, and the cold was one of his oldest and closest friends. Mary always got on him for underdressing for the harsh conditions, but he always shrugged it off, said that he’d be fine.
Though, he was pretty damn lucky that he hadn’t gotten frostbite yet.
Hmm. Something was bothering him. James drew his brows together, expression becoming pensive. His head lolled to the ground, and he stared at the snow soaking into his worn leather boots.
While he was looking at that photo of Marcus, there was a question, lurking in the sea of his mind. Desperately, it wanted to nose out of the water, to make itself known to James, but he wouldn’t allow it. He refused to reel it in, refused to look, even.
But now, he no longer had an excuse. It finally reached the surface.
What did Chris' daughter look like?
His lips were drawn thin the further he considered. Did she look like Chris? Or was she like James, looking more like her mom? Did her mom keep in contact? Was she even still alive?
Did she have a dead mother to speak of, too?
He shook his head. “James… enough. That’s enough.” He reprimanded himself and walked back to his car.
They were just crossed wires.