(no subject)

[captfishbiscuit]

 James groans, lifting his head from his desk at the station. A piece of paper is stuck to his face and he snatches it off angrily, crumpling it up without even looking to see if it was important or not. He tosses it aside and scoots away from his desk, standing slowly. He had been working late a lot this past week, (working on plans, sketching up grids, and filling out forms for future package drops) and as usual he had lost track of time. He rolled his neck and rubbed at his head with his hand. Damn flash. It had caught him off guard again. That was twice now in two weeks that he hadn't seen it coming, and this time around no memories had come. So that was it then. He really was dead. For a moment he had almost let himself think there was a possibility left that maybe he wasn't; that maybe he would get more memories in the coming week, but now he was certain. He straightened up his desk, locking away his papers in the top drawer and tucking his key in his pocket. He grabbed his things and headed home, eager to see Juliet and rest for the night. Miles had told him about Ana Lucia, so he knew that she had had a long day as well. He made his way home, walking into the house and shutting the door behind him. The living room was empty, though some medical supplies from earlier in the day were still scattered here and there.

Juliet?

Not getting a response, he dropped his bag by the door and walked to the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. He had completely forgotten that he hadn't had dinner yet.