#i wonder how long he watched rose go talk to every single crow she saw before he intervened

[raggedy-spaceman]

Matthew the Raven and Rose Walker being a great comedy duo.

[thestraggletag]

The Game, a Rumbelle Chess AU

Summary: Inspired by The Queen’s Gambit. When Arran Gold first lost a chess game against Belle French, he thought that nothing would feel better than wining against her. But the more he lost, the less he minded, and more eager he was for their next game.

AN: Look, it’s a bad summary but a good fic, I promise. Also both games described in the fic are real games that can be played. Here, for example, is their last game.

Rating: Explicit.

He couldn’t recall exactly when the tradition had begun. Long ago, when he had only owned about half the town and had yet to adopt his more refined image. A tenant, a once-wealthy businessman who had once had “old money” and had wasted it away in reckless business ventures, had challenged him to a game of chess in lieu of the rent. He had likely thought that Mr Gold, a lowborn Scotsman with a thick brogue and brusque manners, was unlikely to even know the rules of chess. He had trounced the fool in less than twenty minutes, and only because he had toyed with him first.

Chess, after all, was something he knew well. His aunties had taught him as a child, but it hadn’t been till university that he had gotten to love the game, after finding out there was a veritable underground circuit of contests and tournaments that could pay his way through law school. He had developed an irreverent yet aggressive style, completely unpolished but completely brutal. In spite of his quickly-gained reputation he had never lacked opponents. There were always posh idiots who were sure their sophisticated gameplay could beat his street smarts. They were never correct. He had developed a nickname, over the years, given to him in honour of his savage style of play and his ruthless approach to the game: Beast. He considered quite a compliment.

He had thought about going pro, entering formal tournaments and acquiring a ranking, but the life of a chess player, and even that of a grandmaster, wasn’t particularly profitable compared to practicing law or going into business and he aimed to accumulate wealth and power as much of it and as fast as possible. He had kept up with his secret hobby, though, sometimes catching televised tournaments or reading about them later, enjoying the process of dissecting a game, sometimes thinking of how he would have won against a particular opponent. But it had never occurred to him to play against anyone in Storybrooke till the challenge came. It had attracted lots of attention at the time and people had turned up at the library that Sunday to watch them play.

Though he won, other people sought to challenge him, to the point where he had decided to establish an event of sorts. A chess day, once a year, in which anyone could challenge him. If they won he would forgive their rent for an entire year. There was no penalty for losing, at least none outright, but the shame of defeat meant most people challenged him only once. Besides it kept everyone from complaining during rent day for the rest of the year. And, he had to admit, he enjoyed it. Enjoyed playing cat and mouse with people, exerting power over them, watching as people’s confidence shrunk down and melted away.

He always looked forward to chess day, though that year perhaps less so. Storybrooke had acquired a new librarian around eight months before and, in spite of all of his efforts, she did not think ill of him. Belle French was, apparently, immune to the gossip of the town about him and his own brusque manner and dark humour. She even seemed to enjoy the later, which made him uneasy and… nervous. A strange, unsettling form of nervous.

It didn’t help that she was insultingly kind, surprisingly sarcastic and delightfully witty. The sort of person that could spar with words and make it look effortless. And smart enough to know that though he pretended to hate it, he loved it. She was also, regrettably, gorgeous. Smaller than him, with reddish brown hair and electric-blue eyes. An accent that wrapped around his name like a lover and an actual sense of fashion, which was almost unheard of in Storybrooke and the only thing most people seemed to hold against her, the town matrons disapproving of her short skirts and high heels. There was also a disarming quirkiness about her, a sense that she was somewhat otherworldly, like she belonged half to the mortal plain and half to the realm of stories and fantasies. He had seen her more than once walk around town lost in a book, dreamy-eyed and clearly miles away from the little town. He was always fascinated by how dreamlike she looked, how otherworldly.

Though he had tried to make her hate him for the first few months of their acquaintance, he had grown used to failing, and admitted to himself that it felt nice to have someone who would smile genuinely at the sight of him, who would treat him with kindness, who would be eager for his company and did not consider talking to him to be a chore. So he wasn’t looking forward to Miss French being exposed to angry tenants who called him names when he beat them, and wasn't really looking forward to her seeing him dash people’s hopes ruthlessly.  

It couldn’t be helped, though. And perhaps it was for the best, to have her see what everyone else saw. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. So he washed and shaved carefully that day and had a hearty breakfast- chess day tended to take up all of his morning and most of the afternoon, and he did not like having to take a break to eat, knowing that his stamina added to the image of him as some larger-than-life monster. He dressed with care, picking his favourite purple striped shirt and matching paisley tie. He added his sleeve garters and square cufflinks, though he was not expecting those to be visible at any point during the day. It still felt nice, empowering, to be impeccably dressed. 

By the time he reached the library there was already a crowd there, as well as the customary barren table, awaiting his chess set. He always played with the same set, an ebony and boxwood one from House of Staunton. It had the classical Staunton look and the hand carved pieces had a nice heft to them. He had bought it years ago, one of his first purchases after beginning to make serious money, costing him well over a thousand pounds back in the day. Not by any means among the more costly of chess sets, but the price spoke of its fine quality. 

He set the board down and opened the box with his pieces, arranging the whites on the side of the board furthest from him and setting the blacks on his side, careful to properly align the knights and position the pawns at the centre of their squares. He took out his clock next, which he had cleaned and serviced the day before, and sat down on his customary, throne-like bergère, the one that usually was the focal point of the Ancient History’s reading nook. In contrast the chair opposite him was one of the plain, serviceable ones that populated the study room at the library. He hoped, for his own amusement, that whoever had set up the place had picked the wobbly one.

It wasn’t long after he settled that a crowd formed around him, but it took almost half an hour for the first challenger to present themselves. It was, surprisingly enough, Dr Whale. The good doctor was one of the few people in town that made a nice, tidy six-figure income, mostly from his private practice. Whale, whoever, did like to live above his means, and it seemed it had finally caught up with him. Though he did not rent a house from him, he did rent his private office from him. It was large and well-located, and likely to detract quite a bit from his overall profit. 

The doctor looked cocky, in spite of Mr Gold’s infamous reputation around town as a chess player. And he didn’t even have to speculate as to why. Victor Whale was the prototypical Ivy-league alumnus, likely played chess for Dartmouth, his undergraduate alma mater, or Brown, where he had acquired his MD. He may perhaps once been ranked, if his smug grin was any indication. He took pains to hide his own savage smile, not willing to give his prey any hint of the carnage to come.

He drew it out, both for the audience and for the sheer pleasure of watching all of the doctor’s confidence and arrogance melt away, leaving an increasingly obfuscated and delightfully sweaty mess behind. And once he knew that he had pushed him as far as he could go he had gone in for the jugular, watching in delight as his opponent toppled his king. The crow murmured, unhappy. When he dragged a game out sometimes people got the idea that he might be struggling, that his challenger might actually have a chance. He enjoyed dashing that hope every single time.

As he rearranged the pieces back to their starting positions he caught a glimpse of a tweed flare skirt swishing about a familiar set of tight-clad legs. Miss French, as always, was impeccably dressed, the black sheer floral blouse a bit daring, perhaps, but carefully hidden by the demure cardigan she had over it. Her hair was in a French braid, the end tied together with a lovely silk ribbon in the same muted plum colour as her cardigan. He wondered at her clothes, which he recognised as high quality, likely expensive as hell. It cemented his idea that she came from money, and likely worked out of a genuine passion for books rather than necessity. Just as he studied her earrings-lovely gold studs in the shape of blooming roses, she turned her head, catching his eyes. He saw interest and curiosity, but no fear or disgust. Perhaps Whale was too unlikeable a victim to elicit sympathy from her.

Frederick Knight was next, playing not for a reprieve from his own rent- his teacher’s salary might not be impressive, but his wife pulled some major money working from home for a law firm in Boston- but for the pet shelter he volunteered out. Briefly he wondered how it all worked, how he could volunteer at the shelter run by his wife’s ex-husband, who had cheated on her with one of Knight’s own colleagues, causing the divorce that would eventually leave her free and available for them to meet and fall in love. Gold thought it was all rather unseemly.

The lad was smart, he would give him that. All that strategizing for baseball clearly carried on to chess, to a certain extent. Mr Knight clearly saw at least a few moves ahead, even if he did not have the skill to plan and anticipate more than that. In the end, because he was a decent enough bloke, Gold put him out of his misery quickly. It felt bad to drag it out unnecessarily. The man was gracious about defeat as well, something that was rare, offering his hand for a quick, firm shake, before leaving the board, no doubt to sink into the welcoming arms of Ms Midas. Though married, she had chosen to keep her last name, after the hassle it had been to change it back after the divorce. And yet there was no doubt that she loved her new husband more than she tolerated her ex, which even the strictest traditionalist in Storybrooke had to acknowledge. 

More people challenged him, as was the norm. Out of all of them only Mr Prentice put much of a fight. Gold could tell he was a man of some talent, and an old hand at the game, but too by-the-book to beat him. He implemented moves and strategies well, but did not have a creative bone in his body. A pity, really. He was the only one after Mr Knight to be mature in defeat, sadly. By the time four o’clock rolled around three people had upended the board after they had lost and at least one had made a move as if to punch him in the face. 

He reset the board with little expectation of playing again. It was late, the crowd was thinning, and people’s enthusiasm had died down considerably. He excused himself to go to the restroom, enjoying the brief walk after hours of sitting down. When he went back to the board, however, he froze up. Sitting on the challenger’s chair was the librarian herself, carefully unbinding her hair as she half-listened to something Miss Lucas was telling her.

He hadn’t foreseen this, the notion that the librarian might wish to challenge him. He had become resigned to having her smiles dimmed when they were directed at him, but nothing more. Certainly not this. 

“Miss French, I didn’t know you played.”

His voice was, by some miracle, even. The librarian smiled, shaking her hair out and wrapping the now unused ribbon around her fingers.

“I used to, some time ago. Still do, sometimes. In my head.”

She said that last part quietly, only for his ears.

“Well, what are the stakes going to be? Rent forgiven from the library for a year?”

“Oh, not, that would be too much. And I’m not sure that would be good for the library. That much money would surely go to what the mayor considers more… lucrative pursuits. But I thought, perhaps, that you could lower the rent of the library by a certain percentage, enough to cover for my apartment. I could use the extra money to refurbish the children’s section, and replace some stock. I could do without another brawl about who gets the last copy of The Polar Express come Christmastime.”

He smiled in spite of the cold spreading across his chest, constricting his lungs. He would be quick, he decided, better to have it over as soon as possible, so that afterwards perhaps Miss Lucas could coax Miss French into a consolatory drink or a slice of apple pie, her favourite. It wouldn’t be too bad, he convinced himself, and it would endear her to the other townspeople, that she braved the beast in pursuit of better reading experiences for their children.

He started her watch, a bit surprised when she moved right away, dragging a pretty white pawn to e4. He counted with his opposing pawn, and in his next move he captured his first piece, another pawn she had likely moved unsuspectingly into the line of his attacking one. She took out her knight then, and later a bishop, but he played more conservatively, using mainly his pawns, waiting for the moment where he could unfurl some of his more devastating attacks. He was startled by her castling her king. It gave him a firm idea that she was no amateur, and he adjusted to this new insight accordingly. He advanced his pawns further, seeing little overall sense and reason to her movements. She had her queen out, as well as a bishop, but had taken her knight back in and her pawns were scattered about, presenting little challenge.

And then she moved her bishop, lightning fast, and suddenly he was in check and the game did not look as it had a second before. He studied the board more carefully, instincts telling him there was danger in there. What once had looked devoid of logic now seemed elegant and strangely coordinated.

Like a dance, he thought. And somehow familiar.

He moved his king, and noticed people suddenly paying attention. She took her bishop away, looking amused, and he pressed on with his queen’s pawn, losing his first piece one move later. Feeling his hackles rising he took one of his bishops out, losing another pawn a second later after she took one of her knights out again. He disposed of it in the next move, thinking he had finally seen her make a mistake, but her rook advanced, threatening his king and bishop. He moved the former, thinking he was sure to lose the other piece, but surprisingly she moved her queen instead. Far from putting him at ease it was that move that made him aware that he was in front of a person that could likely beat him. And, almost against his will, the thought rose the competitive beast in him. 

He went savage, increasing the aggressiveness of his moves to an obscene degree. A chance look at Miss French, however, let him know that she found it amusing. She leaned over the board with interest, head tilted to a side and the fingers of her non-dominant hand tangled in her hair ribbon. Her eyes, barely visible from beneath her thick lashes from the way her face was tilted towards the board, sparkled, letting him know she was enjoying herself. Thoroughly.

He, on the other hand, felt strangely angry. Defensive. Exhilarated. He watched her as she made her bishops dance across the board, forcing him into another check and into a few defensive moves with his rooks, before her queen made her presence known once again, sliding across the board with both elegance and devastation. He took off his jacket, feeling too hot, and looked at the board again.

It was all so familiar. The style of play, he had seen it before. Like a dance, spontaneous yet choreographed, forcing him to respond in a certain way, backing him into a corner. He took one of her bishops and then a rook, when it came sliding into his side of the board, but it only made him feel more anxious, more like a creature trapped. Soon he was without his rooks and both his queen and his one remaining knight were in peril. But as he focused on them he missed the slow advance of a white pawn along the side of the board, flanked by the white queen and the remaining white rook. He sent his own queen out, trying to regain some semblance of control, but there wasn’t much the piece could do. In the end it was the queen, aided by the unassuming pawn, that forced his king into a checkmate. 

“I believe the game is over, Mr Gold.”

The librarian’s accent softened the blow of those words. She looked up at him, happiness and excitement written across her face, as if she had gone through some marvelous experience. But it wasn’t the smile of a winner, but rather the smile of a conspirator.

“I believe the game was over ten moves ago, Miss French.”

He could admit that now, even as people cheered around him, rubbing salt on the newly-opened wound. He watched as Miss Lucas briefly enveloped the librarian in a side-hug before turning her attention to other people celebrating. Miss French, however, didn’t seem to want to join. She simply stared at the board and then at him as if this was their own private thing, their shared, secret joy.

It felt too intimate, and it made him even more angry, that she seemed to think that he had somehow enjoyed getting his arse thoroughly kicked by her. Brusquely he stood up, putting his jacket and coat on quickly before a well-placed snarl opened a way out from the mass of people gathered around the chessboard. He would go home and lick his wounds and figure out a way to repair the damage to his reputation after he reached the bottom of his half-drunk bottle of Balvenie Tun 1509. 

It wasn’t until he was well and truly hungover that he realised, with a shock, that he had left his chess set behind. He left a message in Dove’s phone to have him call him back on Monday, so that he could instruct him to retrieve it for him. No need to go into the library for a few days. Or weeks. Might as well not step foot in it for the rest of the year, really. And no need to ever again think about the game, ever.

But after a couple of Tylenol and a lot of water, he found himself rethinking that last decision. There was something nagging at him about that game, and it would not let go of him. He knew he had seen that style of play before, but he could not recall where. He pulled up his collection of saved games, recreated from tournaments and world cups, and began analysing each of them, trying to find the same dreamlike, flowing style of play, like dancing. It wasn’t in the latest World Cup, or the one before, or in any of the recent tournaments. Not in the London Classic, or the Sinquefield Cup, or the Tata Steel. Not in any of the major American or European tournaments, so he branched out, looking at the Asian championships, the ACF Grand Prix and-

Something about the ACF gave him pause, so he went back through the tournaments he had saved, year after year. It wasn’t until he hit the 2006 Grand Prix that he saw it, a match where the blacks moved like in a ballet. He saw the name of the player, I. Avon, and did not recognise it at first. Then he searched for the recorded video of the match and realised why: I. Avon was Isabelle Avon, and she was usually known in internet circles by her nickname, Beauty. And the 2006 ACF Grand Prix had been her last major tournament. She had disappeared shortly after, and had caused a bit of a stir, specially amongst Australian chess enthusiasts, who thought she had the makings of a Grandmaster and even a top five world player. 

And yet, somehow, she had ended up as a librarian in a small town in the middle of nowhere, Maine, living under a different name, for some fucking reason.

He wouldn’t let it go once he knew, trying to piece the puzzle together. He had never seen pictures of Beauty, there were no headshots to be had, likely because she had been an up-and-coming player at the time and a minor for most of her active years. He had seen videos of her playing, but her hair tended to obscure her face in most of them. She had not won her nickname on account of her looks- though how painfully fitting it was, considering how attractive she was- but because of her playing. People praised her for her beautiful moves, how she built this gorgeous ballet of a strategy that was as effective as it was enchanting.

She had been described, in the few articles that talked about her personality, as quirky. Odd. A calm player, given to the occasional smile and never able to lift her eyes off the board, a dreamy look on her face. Quite unsettling, some people had said. 

She had dropped off the face of the chess world at age twenty, in 2006, and no one had heard from her again. Some people claimed to have played against her in an online tournament, but there was never a way to know for sure. He was sure now that at least some of these people were likely right. He delved more into whatever he could find about Isabelle Avon, but there wasn’t much. Though she had been at the time considered a chess prodigy she had been sheltered from press scrutiny likely by her parents, and had not given many interviews nor posed for many photographs. The few that circulated on the internet were of her as a very young teen, likely fifteen, when she had made her debut. He recognised her electric-blue eyes immediately, but the librarian’s fine bone structure was hidden behind layers of baby fat still not ready to peel off and her hair was a few shades lighter than it was now. Her mother was always with her in the pictures, as good-looking as elegant as her daughter had grown up to be, but her father was only in one of the pictures, a rather portly man that was rendered striking rather than dumpy by his height, which was considerable.

He found nothing to explain her retirement from chess, at least nothing official. He did find, however, a funeral notice in The Australian for a Colette Avon, neé French, dated December 2006. He felt sure that he had stumbled across the reason for Beauty’s fall from the chess circuit, and the origin of her new name. Why she had felt the need to create a completely new identity was, however, still unexplained.

And it bothered him, he found out soon enough. The more games of hers he saw the more he could appreciate her artistry, her craftsmanship. He could not conceive anyone having such talent, such passion for the game, and quitting, even over a personal tragedy like the loss of a beloved parent. He remembered how she had looked when she had played him, alive and excited, her pleasure obvious, and it cemented the idea that there was something he was missing. And he didn’t much care for it.

That’s how he found himself in the library weeks after his defeat, confronting the librarian. She was wearing a pretty burgundy shirtdress, prim and proper if not a wee bit short, and her hair tumbled down her back in a mess of curls, which was to be expected, since the library hours had ended twenty minutes ago. She wasn’t surprised to see him, nor did she appear hostile or otherwise on edge. Quite the contrary.

“Mr Gold, I’ve been expecting you.” She smiled up at him, and it felt a bit different from her previous smiles. Those had been lovely but this one felt more… personal. Intimate, somehow. Like they shared a secret. He supposed, in a way, they did. “You left your lovely chess set here. I’ve been holding onto it for you, keeping it safe. It’s in my office, do you want me to go get it for you?”

“Why did you change your name?”

He didn’t mean to blurt it out. He meant to build up to it. But there was something about her that utterly unsettled him, made him anxious in a way that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. Her smile turned somewhat cautious and sad, and he hated himself for provoking that reaction out of her.

“That’s a rather personal question.” 

“You owe me.” He tried to stop himself, but he found he somehow couldn’t. “You played against me under false pretences. You owe me at least an explanation as to why.”

Miss French raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed at his emotional outburst or the questionable logic of his assessment. A moment later, however, she tilted her head to a side, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes, as if considering something.

“It’s a rather big secret. Would you play me for it?”

That sounded very much like a deal, and it made him feel more comfortable with the situation, more in control. Deals were his specialty, after all.

“And what would you wish for if you win, Miss French?”

She smiled, the picture of innocence.

“A secret for a secret sounds fair. Let’s say… your name.”

Nobody knew his first name. He appeared in all legal documents as “A. Gold”, which caused all manner of speculation around town. His name would be a high price, indeed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t tell others, just as I trust you would not tell others what I told you if I lost. I just want it for myself.”

Her words sent a frisson of something down his spine, leaving him tingling and on edge.

“That sounds acceptable. Do fetch my set, if you please, and I’ll get the board.”

They had the board set and ready in no time, flipping a coin to decide who would be whites. Miss French, having won, started the game, and from the beginning he read her moves differently from before, knowing they were those of a chess prodigy. He moved aggressively, trying to create too much chaos to allow her to build her beautiful moves, but soon began to second-guess himself, struggling between being too bold and playing it safe. He lasted longer, forcing her to pause and consider her next move once or twice, which she had not done during their first game. He took in those few seconds of uncertain contemplation with eager interest, watching as she bit her lip and furrowed her brow, the apple of her cheeks red with an enticing blush.

In the end, however, her rooks trapped his king too soon, forcing him to topple the piece. She smiled at him, offering her hand for him to shake. He did so, marveling at how delicate it was. And cold. The whole building was cold, he realised. Apparently the mayor demanded the heat be turned off the library the moment it closed, to save on the heating bill. 

“We can do this again sometime, if you still wish to know, Mr Gold.”

He nodded, leaning on his cane in order to rise from the chair, making no move to gather his chess pieces.

“I’ll take you up on that, Miss French. And the name’s Arran.”

.

He returned a week later, with a tin of oolong tea to keep the cold of the library at bay. Though the librarian seemed to have been expecting him, with the board and chess set already laid out at the customary table, she did not seem to be in the mood to play right away, inviting him instead to her office so she could prepare and pour them both a cup of tea in the adjoining kitchenette. Though she did not seem to want to speak of whatever had happened to her in 2006 she did not seem reluctant to talk about her chess career in general. She told him about learning the game at six from her mother, and playing in the park against adults as a ten-year-old, shortly before entering her first tournament, for children. She would soon outgrow those, reluctantly.

“Children are more creative players, I find, and I missed that in professional adult tournaments. It’s what I like about your playing.”

He told her in turn about his own chess experience, so vastly different from hers. It was a part of his life he had not shared with anyone before, and it felt nice to do so, especially with someone who could understand chess like he did, could see the beauty and the sense of it.

By the time their tea was finished over an hour had passed, and it was getting almost too late for a game. This one lasted a bit longer, and felt more… playful. Though he lost, he enjoyed himself more than he should have. He could make more sense of her playing style now, and it made him respond in kind, to soften his moves a tad, make them less savage and more complimentary to hers. It was the first time in years he altered his playing style, but it gave him more of a fighting chance and it seemed to amuse and thrill her to no end. In the end when he lost she asked about his aunts,  and he told her about how in love they were, even though the times were different and they could not express that love in the open like people could now. As he talked he realised how much he missed them and how nice it felt to share a bit of their memory with someone else.

Though he left the library defeated, it was difficult to conjure any negative feelings about the evening.

At some point, he realised he had stopped playing to win. Well, not necessarily. He still played with the intention of seeing her king toppled and extracting the secret of her retirement from her, but it was about more than that now. Perhaps it was their now customary tea break right before the game, which lasted up to an hour and now included cookies and several cups per person. It was a strangely-relaxing ritual and led them to talking about things that he would usually not discuss with anyone else, things that felt too personal. She shared in kind, with the exception of talking about her father, which he understood tacitly was a no-go subject. To be fair so was his, and she took pains to never ask him anything about him. 

Playing her, he had to admit, had become exhilarating. Once the sour taste of defeat had been taken out of the equation- it didn’t feel like losing anymore, or at least not the way losing usually felt to him, cloying and humiliating- all that was left was the thrill of the game, the excitement of thinking on one’s feet and seeing long strategies come to fruition on the board. He caught her chewing on her bottom lip more and more as he learned to thwart her moves and bring a sort of organised chaos to the board that she found difficult to navigate around.

He got so used to losing, and so comfortable in it, in the notion that losing only meant he got to return to the library, have tea and spend a few pleasant hours with someone who was interesting and treated him with kindness, that he did not consider the fact that he might win at some point. And when it happened, one evening he saw it, checkmate in two moves with his remaining knight and one of his rooks, plain to see. He had been working at leaving her king adrift, too exposed and with her queen distracted enough to not be able to stop the attack. She saw it too, he realised, and there was a bittersweet smile when she toppled her king. The sound the small piece made was deafening in the sudden silence of the library and he stared at the board for the longest time, as if he had been struck dumb by his win. In reality he was trying to process how disappointed he suddenly felt, how utterly unhappy he was about having won. It made no sense.

“As you perhaps know my mother died in 2006.”

“Miss French, please, you don’t have to-”

“Belle, please. I’d like to believe we’ve transcended such formalities. Especially considering what I’m about to do.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch between them. Though she seemed determined to tell her tale, whatever it may entail, she did not seem to know where to start, or even where to look. He thought about getting up and downright refusing to listen to her, anything to take away the sudden air of vulnerability about her, but stopped himself. She was a grown woman who would not appreciate him trying to decide things for her.

“You must know my mother died in 2006. It was very sudden, a stroke, and was very hard to accept. We were very close, especially because my chess career kept me from socialising much with my peers. I was sad for a long time after her passing, kept recreating some of our favourite matches on the chessboard she had given me for my twelfth birthday. I didn’t want to eat, or go out much, and I guess… My dad grew worried. We had always struggled to communicate, never had much in common. He didn’t get chess or me, so he didn’t know how to reach me, or talk to me, or even understand what I was going through.”

She paused, picking up a white pawn and staring intently at it. He itched to reach out to her, though he was not very good at comforting people.

“He thought I needed professional help. And he was right, I did need to speak to someone. But he thought it best to-” Another pause, where Belle looked like she was trying to find the words to explain, or excuse, what came next. “He had me hospitalised.” He did not need to ask what kind of hospital she was referring to. “It was a nice place, on spacious, green grass and under the supervision of an order of nuns. I’ve read that other places can be more… unpleasant, and less safe. Still, I don’t remember much of it. I was drugged most of the time, they were pretty liberal when it came to medication, and I hated it. Took me a while to figure out how to behave in a way that was considered normal, how to grieve within the bounds of acceptable behaviour.”

He was surprised by the white-hot rage that took over him. He tightened his grip around the handle of his cane, eager to hurt someone with it. Belle’s father seemed like a prime candidate, or any of the doctors involved in her care, who could not see that what they had in front of them was a woman trying to grieve in her own way. He ached to do harm, to hurt, in a way that unsettled him, that spoke about primitive instincts he had spent years mastering, or at least trying to. He tried to calm himself, focusing instead intently on her, watching her walk the pawn across the board and exchange it for the white queen after it reached the other side.

“Once I was out I changed my name and applied for university in the US. My chess career and my mother’s care of my finances gave me financial freedom, so I went to school, then did my masters at Columbia, and took on as librarian here when the position opened. And I never participated in a tournament again. At first it was because being active in professional chess circles left me exposed, made it so my father would likely know where I was, but later on I discovered I just did not have the temperament for big tournaments anymore. Crowds of strange people looking at me make me nervous, and playing chess in public makes me feel… unsafe, I suppose.”

Her fingers closed over the white queen, as if testing the strength of the piece.

“I still love it, though. Used to play at Bryant Park when I was a college student, though never in tournaments. And I still play online, sometimes for money, because it’s safe. But it’s been nice, playing face to face against someone again. I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”

She put the white queen back with the rest of the pieces inside its box, closing the lid securely before offering the set to him. Instead of taking it he stood up, taking a few steps backward to make sure she knew he had no intention of taking his chess set home. 

“I thank you for your candor. I will keep what you have told me in confidence, of course. Same time this Saturday?”

She looked up at him, confused for a second before a wide smile spread across her face.

“It’s a date.”

.

Though he had made the journey to the library dozens of times in the past couple of months it felt different that day. Instead of the customary tea he brought he clutched a tote bag with an unopened bottle of Highland Park 18 and two crystal tumblers. It was a particularly cold afternoon, which he told himself called for something more bracing than a strong cup of tea.

Belle did not seem against the whisky, though she did warn him that she had no affinity for it and would not know good scotch from bad.

“You’re calling it scotch, so that’s a good start.”

She seemed more intrigued about the tumblers, running the pad of her thumb across the designs on the glass.

“Thistles.”

“I’m nothing if not a walking stereotype.”

She laughed, telling him to pour while she set the board. By the time they sat down to play it was dark out, and Belle had turned off the zooming fluorescent tubes, leaving instead the soft, warm light fixtures in the reading room on. It was a cosy, relaxed setting, and yet the air felt strangely electrified, like something was going to happen, something big. His nerves felt raw, exposed, but the feeling wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

“So, what should we play for tonight?”

He startled, the tumbler halfway to his lips. She was right, there were no preconceived stakes anymore. Before he had wanted to know something about her, something valuable, so they established an arrangement whereby whoever won could ask a question of the other. That arrangement no longer applied. A sudden flare of panic travelled down his spine. What if he couldn’t think of anything? What if they both discovered that, without stakes, there was no sense in playing again at all? What if-

“I have an idea. It’s… a bit unorthodox. Always wanted to try it, but never got the chance to.”

The librarian looked intently at her glass of whisky, running a finger across the edge, but there was a sort of mischievous air about her. Playful.

Flirtatious, almost.

“Do tell.”

“Well, I’ve read about strip chess. Obviously I never actually played strip chess before because for most of my years playing chess in front of people I was a minor. But I always thought it sounded… fun.”

She chanced a look at him from beneath her eyelashes, biting her lower lip the tiniest bit. He must have looked rather stupid to her, sitting ranmrod straight and wide-eyed, with the look of a rabbit that has just spotted a wolf nearby. A man a few years shy of fifty looking stupidly terrified of a woman more than ten years his junior.

“What would be the rules?”

“A piece of clothing for every captured piece. Something small for pawns is allowed, but bigger pieces merit more important sacrifices. Things in pairs are to be removed in pairs. Jewellery and such are considered pieces of clothing. We play until either someone wins, or someone is completely naked.”

He took a gulp of scotch, hiding a grimace as the liquid burned a path down his throat. He took a quick stock of the librarian, taking in her few pieces of jewellery- earrings, a ring, and a simple necklace-, and her clothing. A skirt, no belt, a shirt tucked into it, a cardigan, stockings and a pair of booties. He imagined all of it on the floor at his feet and his blood simmered.

“That sounds… acceptable. You got the coin?”

He was glad he sounded unbothered by the new arrangement they had just entered into, nonchalant. He lost the coin toss, so it was Belle who opened, moving the queen’s pawn two places. He moved more conservatively, a pawn to c6, and a couple of moves later she took her first pawn, leaving the piece to be taken by another pawn of his.

“My earrings for your cufflinks?”

It was a fair exchange, so they paused to relieve themselves of their pieces of jewellery. Belle’s next move gave him a chance to capture another pawn and he discovered that he had to physically restrain himself from making the move, reminding himself that he was supposed to be playing for win. It added something extra to the game, the tension between what the best move was according to whatever strategy he was struggling to make, and what could get him more pieces. It made the game tense, as they both considered their moves and braced themselves for the possible occurrence of another piece taken. 

When it finally happened, a white pawn taking the place of a black one, he surrendered both his shoes, but not before using one of his knights to take the place of the newly-moved white pawn. Belle bent down to unlace her booties, removing them and placing them to the side with care, letting him know that she did have a thing for shoes, as he had always suspected. 

Nothing else happened for the longest time, the game unfolding without much action. They both moved their bishops and castled their king, pretending for a while that there wasn’t a likelihood that one of them would end up naked before the night was out. He kept the scotch nearby, refilling the drinks every now and then to give himself something to do other than think about all the exposed white pieces. Finally, when he thought he was going to crawl out of his skin if he didn’t do it, he took a white pawn with his knight. 

“Wondered when you were going to do that.”

He watched her as she shimmied out of her cardigan, letting him see more of the blouse she was wearing. It was slightly sheer, letting him know she was wearing a black bra. He wondered if he would get to see it.

“It’s a pity about your knight, though.”

She moved one of her own knights to take his, making it the first major piece to be taken. She held it in her hand for a while, studying it.

“I’ll accept your jacket and tie, if you have no objections.”

He reached automatically towards his neck, tugging on the silken knot around his throat. He must have drunk more than he realised, because his fingers felt clumsy, uncoordinated. After a few ineffectual tugs and some choice expletives muttered under his breath Belle rose from her chair, gently pushing his hands away and untying the tie herself. She tugged on it until it was off and tossed it on the back of his chair. She then wordlessly prompted him to remove his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair as well. 

“That’s a lovely colour on you.”

She ghosted her fingers across the silk of his shirt. It was one of his favourites, a deep navy blue silk jacquard with a contrasting pattern of leaves. He had worn it because he had noticed she tended to favour blue, which had felt stupid at the time. Now it felt inspired. Emboldened by the touch and the compliment he dragged his bishop across the board, knocking her knight off its place.

“I’ll take your necklace and stockings, if you please.”

His voice was rough, with little of the cultured diction he usually employed, but between the alcohol and the simmering sexual tension there was little he could do to change that. She took her necklace off without much protest, making sure to fasten it close before she looked at him right in the eye, smiling innocently and extending a leg till her silk-stockinged foot found his knee. 

“Help me?”

It was embarrassing how fast he dragged a hand across her leg, pausing only to notice the quality of the material, and reached beneath her skirt, till his fingers came across the scratchy lace of the top of the stocking. With slow, steady precision he peeled the stocking off her leg, letting the tips of his fingers slide across the soft underside of her thigh and calf, trying to memorise how soft and warm her skin felt, so he could replay it over and over again each night. He repeated the process with the other stocking, delighting in the goosebumps the dim light of the room revealed in Belle’s skin. After it was done he folded the stockings neatly and presented them to her.

She moved her bishop next in a direct challenge to his castled king, meaning he had no other choice but to take it. He did it with shaky hands, trying not to look as eager as he felt.

“Shirt or skirt, I suppose. May I choose?”

Her voice was soft, playful, undeniably coquettish. He nodded, following her movements as she stood up, unzipped her skirt and let it fall open around her legs. Her shirt was long enough to cover anything but the barest hint of her underwear, something black and lacy and the slightest bit sheer that had him reaching for his glass. A second later she sat down, dragging her queen to take his bishop.

“Quid pro quo?”

With all the grace he could muster he stood up, refusing to show even a hint of apprehension or shyness as he undid his belt and pushed his trousers down, carefully stepping out of them before sitting down and reaching for the scotch bottle, filling up their glasses again. He took a long, fortifying sip and moved his knight to take her remaining one.

“That lovely blouse is gonna have to go, dearie.”

Belle smiled, looking bold and strangely pleased, and made sure to look at him square in the eye as she plucked every little button free of its hole. It was an invitation to watch, and he accepted it greedily, leaning forward and holding tightly onto his cane to keep himself from doing something stupid like try and touch every new bit of soft, pale skin that was slowly revealed to him. When she reached the last button she shimmied out of the shirt and carelessly tossed it at him. He caught it one handed and tried to not notice how the fabric retained the warmth from her body and the scent of her skin. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, we’re about to get even.”

She moved her queen to take his knight and leaned back on her seat, one hand cradling her tumbler of scotch and an expectant look on her face. He reached up and unfastened the buttons of his shirt with practiced nonchalance, trying to keep the shaking in his hands from being too obvious. When that was done he paused for a second, trying to gather up his courage, before shrugging out of the shirt. With a gallant little gesture he handed it to her.

The next few rounds were intense, but no pieces taken. Arran was having a hard time concentrating on the board and not on the way Belle’s fingers caressed the silk of his shirt, tracing the pattern of leaves absentmindedly. It was a safer bet than focusing on her balconette bra, a delicate, impractical little thing made almost entirely out of leavers lace, with dark flowers woven into the pattern to keep him from seeing the rose pink of her nipples. He wondered if she had worn the set with their game in mind, if she had selected it just so he could see it.

At some point he took his queen out, and she did the same with one of her rooks, both of them seemingly in agreement that the status quo was not to be borne. It wasn’t until her rook put pressure on his king, forcing him to set his queen in the middle, that he began to feel cornered. When her bishop got too close he had no other option but to take out her rook. Though from a strategic point of view that was a desperate last-ditch effort, he could not help but feel strangely ecstatic over it.

“Oh, dear.”

Belle moved her hands towards her back, seeming to struggle with the fastenings of her bra. 

“I think one of the hooks is snagged on the lace. Will you help me?”

He narrowly avoided biting his tongue. He managed a croaked, barely-intelligible “aye” before she stood up and turned around. He tried not to look down, but it was almost impossible, taking into account the panties she was wearing were made almost entirely of sheer black lace- leavers as well, clearly she was wearing a matching set-. With hands that felt clumsier than usual he felt around the clasp of the bra, delicately pulling the offending hook from the lace before unclasping the bra altogether. Slowly he lowered the straps from her shoulders, noticing the red indents they left behind on her skin. Then she was turning around, bra safely in her hands and her glorious breasts bared. He hoped that she wasn’t expecting him not to look, because it felt impossible to avert his eyes. As he had imagined- and he had not realised how often until then- her nipples were the perfect shade of dusty pink, framed perfectly by pale skin a shade lighter than the rest of her. 

“I know I’ve lost on the board, but right now I feel like a winner. Like the luckiest bastard on Earth.”

His accent was shot to hell, thick and incomprehensible, as if he had never left the dodgy part of Glasgow. But it did not seem to be a problem for Belle, who kissed his cheek, tugged on his hair a bit, called him a “sweet boy”, and thanked him for the compliment.

“Let’s finish this, Arran.”

Her Australian lilt turned his name, which he always thought rather charmless and rough, into a soft caress. He sat down, something considerably uncomfortable to do all of a sudden, taking into account his painful state of arousal, and struggled to focus in the game. He was done for, he knew it, but he owed it to her to try. To lose with as much dignity as possible. Or so he thought, till her queen took his in one simple move.

“I’m afraid your underwear must go.”

The silk boxers were doing a pisspoor job of hiding his raging erection in any case, but it still felt uncomfortable to peel them off and be naked in front of another human being for the first time in years. Well, nude, technically, since he still had his navy socks on.

“Let’s finish this, then.”

He took his rook out, forcing her queen to retreat and then getting his other rook to cover for his king. For the next few moves they danced around each other on the board, with Belle trying to close her trap and Arran fighting tooth and nail to remain standing. His moves weren’t elegant at all, more like the savage swipes of a cornered beast, but they were effective. He managed to snag a rook, which gave him the pleasure of sitting down and staring intently as Belle shimmied out of her useless little panties. She flashed her watch at him to remind her she was not completely naked as per the rules of the game and continued to press him. She had only her queen and a few pawns, but the board was laid out in her favour all the same. Still he gave her a run for her money, and it took her twelve more moves to checkmate his king. Feeling irrationally expectant he toppled the piece, watching it roll around the board for a few seconds before coming to a stop.

“That was exciting. Though I’m afraid we forgot to agree on what the winner got. Quite an oversight on our part.”

He watched her as she reclined on her chair and stared at the board, a rosy tinge on her skin that he realised travelled past her neck and to the tops of her breasts. She looked at ease, comfortable in her own skin, and surprisingly he noticed that he did not much care about his own nudity either. In the low, almost romantic light of the library his skin acquired a golden colour that he thought rather becoming. He was tanned for a man who spent most of his time indoors, a direct consequence of his propensity to laze about in the sun whenever possible in the privacy of his backyard or his cabin. And in such a light his wrinkles were less obvious, his scars less visible. He felt anxious, yes, tense, but it was not an unpleasant sort of tension.

“What is it you want, Miss French?”

He affected the persona of the devious dealmaker, noticing the spark of heat in the librarian’s eyes when he called her by her last name. She made a show of thinking about it, though he had the distinct feeling she had thought about something ages ago.

“How about a kiss?”

He took her left hand, kissing the back of it.

“Like this?”

When she shook her head he reached further, kidding the underside of her elbow.

“Higher, Arran.”

He tugged her closer, trying to disregard the rapid beating of his heart, and softly kissed her shoulder. Her skin was soft and smelt faintly of something citrusy, something that somehow managed to tug both at his heart and his groin. 

“Higher, please.”

She took his head in her hands, tilting it upwards till their lips met. It was a soft, tentative press of the lips at first, unhurried and unassuming, but it grew firmer and more insistent. When he pressed her she opened her mouth to him readily, letting him curl his tongue around hers with a moan of approval. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders at some point, fingers sinking into his hair to pull him closer till he was flush against her, skin against skin. His hands roamed her back, tracing the ridges of her spine, pleased at the way it made her shiver.

Reluctantly he let go of her lips, pressing his mouth against her sharp jawline, down her long neck until he was tracing her collarbone with his tongue and dipping down further into the swell of her breasts. He felt her fingers dig into his scalp, pressing him closer, tugging on his hair to guide him towards a puckered nipple. He accepted the unspoken invitation gladly, closing his lips around her flesh and sucking with embarrassing enthusiasm. His hands roamed the rest of her, one caressing her back while the other pressed against a soft, round thigh, aching to move just a few inches and cup her sex. 

When she stepped backwards, out of his arms and the reach of his mouth, he felt a flare of panic that she was having second thoughts, or he had done something wrong. It was on the tip of his tongue to apologise- for fucking whatever, he didn’t care- when she tugged on his arm, urging him a little ways across the room to a reading nook next to the folklore session. There was a faded divan in there, usually full of pillows and throw blankets meant for readers to take to their seats if they were uncomfortable or chilly. It was old and likely uncomfortable, the type of couch that looked like it had lost most, if not all, of its padding and most of its support capabilities a long time ago. At the moment, however, it looked to Arran like the most luxurious of beds. He let her push him onto it, glad when the springs beneath him groaned but held steady. A second later she was on top of him and all thoughts of structural stability fled from his mind as he kissed him thoroughly, asserting a dominance he was more than happy to submit to.

He had to struggle to concentrate between the kissing and the groping to understand her when she asked about protection, muttering that she was clean and on the pill but she had condoms just in case, from the sex-ed talks Miss Blanchard gave every now and then. Briefly he contemplated the notion of using one of those condoms, thinking of Miss Blanchard’s absolutely scandalised look if she ever found out, but the idea of being bare inside Belle was too good to pass. He told her he was clean in as clear a voice as he could muster that he was clean too- he recalled his last annual check-up, which he drove to Boston for, since he would rather die than let Dr Whale anywhere near any part of him- before she was straddling him, grabbing his stiff, aching cock with one hand and guiding it to her entrance. He could barely register the sudden wet heat on the tip of him before his entire member was engulfed in it. He sunk his blunt nails on Belle’s back, trying to call forth every last shred of self-control he possessed not to come then and there. Thankfully Belle didn’t move, looking overwhelmed and in need of a moment to adjust.

“You’re big.”

“Fuck, sweetheart, you can’t tell me something like that if you want me to last.”

It was taking everything he had not to come like a fucking schoolboy. Later, much later, he might me in the right frame of mind to replay her involuntary compliment. Over and over. He tried to recall the names of all the subs of the Celtics, in fucking alphabetical order, till he somehow felt more in control. Slowly, lovingly, he captured her lips with his own for a long, lazy kiss, feeling as her own tension melted away, leaving only a simmering sort of excitement. Tentatively she began to rock, trying to find a comfortable angle and motion in the restrictive confined of the divan. He tried to help her as much as possible, holding onto her hips and trying to thrust up as much as he could, given his precarious perch on the furniture and his lame ankle. Slowly but steadily they found something that worked, a rhythm that had him hitting a sport deep inside her that he could tell was, blessedly, the right one, given how Belle sunk her nails on his shoulders and tried to muffle her cries against the side of his neck. He tried to talk, to tell her how gorgeous she was, how wet and warm and perfect she felt around him but it all came out as unintelligible grunts and low, feral moans.

When he felt himself near the edge he gritted his teeth and gathered all of his remaining willpower, dragging his right hand down her stomach to the small nest of curls that framed her dripping cunt, delving inside till he found a spot that made her gasp when he touched it. 

“Come for me, sweet girl.” He didn’t know whether she could understand him over the thick mess of his accent, but he hoped at least the cadence would convene his meaning. She keened in response before he felt her flutter around his cock, the rest of her tensing with the force of her release. When he muffled her scream against the side of his neck he let go, his own orgasm almost uncomfortable at first, too much at once. He clutched her close, hoping against hope he would not send them both toppling to the floor, feeling like he was walking a fine line between pleasure and pain. Pleasure won out in the end, sizzling on his veins before slowly fading into a pleasant simmer. Tiredly he wrapped his arms around a barely-awake Belle, feeling the cooling sweat on her back and grunting in protest. He looked around, spotting a throw on the floor in his reach. He grabbed it quickly, managing to wrap it snug around both of them. Later, much later, when he could remember his name or how to walk, he would insist on them finding some better place to sleep, for her sake. At the moment, however, that seemed beyond him, a faraway concern to be dealt with at a later time. He was loath to give up his queen too soon into the game, in any case.

[hillbillyhippiemusicreview]

Post #46—Them Dirty Roses: Locked Down & Unplugged LIVE

“Cause I found the wind that blows, It’s blowin’ me back home 🎶”

Nashville-based southern rockers Them Dirty Roses recently let the wind blow them back to the Bama clay they were raised on for two consecutive nights of sold out shows at Sidetracks Music Hall in Huntsville, AL. General manager/talent buyer Shane Bickel was eager to re-open and provide both musicians and fans alike a safe, socially-distanced outlet for music, so Hillbilly Hippie Music Review made the trek there via Indiana and L.A. (that’s lower Alabama) to enjoy a couple nights of tunes post-lockdown.

Deemed “Locked Down & Unplugged LIVE,” the set of acoustic shows was the perfect, albeit different, way to kick off the return of live music—especially since HHMR’s last show before the nation-wide pandemic lockdown was in March with TDR at Sidetracks. Total full circle kind of moment, and one we wish we could have frozen in time. But, I’ve got to be frank—despite being a total glutton for acoustic music, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, being that everything had changed so quickly. Would people hesitate to interact? Would we dance and sing or sit there like statues? Would the energy in the room be relaxed or tightly-wound? At first, there was a bit of an unsure current in the air, but before long, everyone was loosened up and moving to the groove in their seats and all the ladies made their way to the stage to end each night with “Shake It,” a TDR ritual.

Before we dive into the specifics of the weekend, here’s a little background for readers unfamiliar with TDR: Brothers James Ford (vocals and guitar) and Frank Ford (drums) formed Them Dirty Roses with their friends Andrew Davis (guitar) and Ben Crain (bass) in Gadsden, AL circa 2012 prior to moving to Tennessee to travel the country playing their brand of rock and roll and finding success both stateside and across Europe. Their sound is a bit southern rock heavy laden with outlaw vibes, and a bit party band mixed with a penchant for slower, sentimental jams—in other words, it’s eclectic and every bit as unique as the four men who form the band. However you describe it, a TDR show is always a good time—and it only takes one to get hooked on the electric energy these guys bring to the stage. On June 5th and 6th in a little venue off by the railroad tracks in Rocket City, the vibe was killer and the feeling was out of this world. Not only were the fans ready to rock, but the band was ecstatic and thankful to be back in action.

HHMR contributor Linda Owen’s first-ever TDR show was March 13–the night the country shut down due to the pandemic. She has the unique perspective of experiencing the “typical” wide-open TDR show and the stripped, intimate version back to back. Here’s what she had to say:

“Three months without live music—I know I slowly watched myself go from the happiest most optimistic person I knew, to a complete mess. It may have seemed like I was okay, but I assure you I was not.

I’ve always known how much music has impacted my life. It has always brought me the greatest memories and blessed me with many friendships and there were so many times in my life where the only thing I had to hold on to was a song. Three months without my music family was torture. With that being said I'll never forget my first shows post-COVID-19. Ironically, the first post -COVID-19 show was at the same venue with the same band I saw pre-COVID-19, and it was perfect.

Let me set the scene. Sidetracks Music Hall is the kind of local music hall we all want in our hometowns: you feel at home as soon as you walk in, you are treated like family, and it has by far the friendliest staff and patrons of any place I've been to date. The venue possesses a large open floor plan with the bar area in the back, so there is not a bad spot to see the show. For this show in particular, tables are spread about what is normally the "pit" area. To be honest, I was a little nervous that this social distancing acoustic show wouldn’t quite fill that void that COVID-19 has left me feeling...I was so wrong. After getting settled in with a drink, my sidekick Lyssa and I did some mingling getting to talk to new-to-me friends that I'd made three months previously at the last show I had attended. The excitement in the room was palatable—and it only got better from there.

TDR hit the stage and you could feel the spirits of every single person in the room glowing around you. All the doubts that an acoustic show wasn't going to feel right with social distancing rules melted away! We danced and sang along like those tables weren't in the way the first night. "Whiskey in My Cup" "Grew Up In The Country" and "Molly" had us all on our feet grooving. We were treated to covers by The Black Crowes, Jason Isbell, and The Allman Brothers, in addition to fan favorites and new songs from their upcoming album expected to release in September—and we are stoked for it.

My heart and soul were happier those two nights than they'd been for the past three months. I sang my way back to Indiana..caught myself sing at work on Monday too!”

The magic wasn’t solely felt by the HHMR team—the air was saturated with it and everyone in the room had a taste that left them yearning for more. Below are a few comments from TDR fans:

“The first show post lock-down came with more enjoyment than just the music. We were super excited for the chance to get back out and hear live music! Them Dirty Roses were the last band we got to see prior to the lock-down. Now, it turns out that Them Dirty Roses would be the first post lock-down. The music was great! What we didn't anticipate was the joy it also brought by seeing so many friends with smiling faces! It was amazing to be seen again and to hear two nights of wonderful tunes!”

—Bud Gambrell

“Went to the Friday show and it was a group of guys that were ready for a show. They were the last band we saw before the Coronavirus shut things down in Huntsville. Looking forward to seeing them again.”

—Kevin Boyd

“The first show post quarantine was like something wonderful that I had been deprived of for a long time. I think sometimes we don't see how many things that surround us in life we take for granted. I see at least two live music shows a month. During the summer, I probably go to 2-3 shows a week. Honestly, it seemed like such a wonderful release and something that people needed. Everybody has something that feeds their spirit—mine is music. Being deprived of other people and the things we love are just some of the things that add to that depression that comes with the whole quarantine/covid situation. So, being around friends and music felt really great and normal. It seemed like life may be getting back to normal finally. I smiled all night!”

—Jerolyn Davis

“Needless to say, Them Dirty Roses put on one hell of a show two nights in a row, which was just what I needed after the almost three month drought of no live music! The fact that they were the last live show for me before everything shut down is kinda ironic and cool at the same time. I'm also very thankful to Sidetracks for putting on the shows, they rock!”

—Robin Huff

Guitarist Andrew Davis was on the same wavelength as many in attendance. When asked his thoughts on performing again post-pandemic, he said: “In March, the future of the entire industry was uncertain. We all knew that April was going to be postponed, but we couldn't even imagine postponing or cancelling the entire festival season. Then, weeks later, exactly that happened. With all of the uncertainty surrounding the future of our industry, it was very reassuring to get back out and play again. It definitely answered a lot of lingering questions about whether or not people would rush back to live venues.”

After last weekend, it seems life will slowly, but surely, get back on track and all will be right in our world again. Until that day comes, be sure to support live music and independent venues—such as Sidetracks who has hosted many fabulous performers like Anderson East, The Steel Woods, Black Stone Cherry, Adam Hood, Kingfish, Ritch Henderson, Muscadine Bloodline, Whitey Morgan and the 78s, and many, many more in addition to TDR—in whatever manner you can so that we have them to return to when COVID-19 restrictions are lifted nation-wide. And don’t forget to keep your eyes peeled for that new Them Dirty Roses record to release this fall—it’s without a doubt some of their best work. In the meantime, keep up with the band and their tour schedule at www.themdirtyroses.com and @themdirtyroses on both Facebook and Instagram.

As always, stay safe, spread love, and be kind to one another. See y’all down the road!

✌🏻💙🎶—Lyssa

*This is an independent review. The Hillbilly Hippie Music Review was not compensated for this review.

*The opinions expressed are solely that of the author(s).

*Fan quotes have been edited for conciseness and clarity.

*These images are not ours, not do we claim them in any way. They are copyrighted by Todd Dean with Butterdean Photography, Linda Owens, & Lyssa Culbertson.

[summerspn]

Batwoman

2019 series > Ep 1-3

*sigh*

Okay here goes...I’m going to break it down for you:

The trailers & ads:

I was skeptical about watching this show as all the trailers for it were terrible.

As a woman I can honestly say each and every trailer made me cringe & go ‘stop!’. They were SO bad.

But, that’s not the actors’ fault. They’re given lines they have to deliver on & Ruby Rose seemed to deliver on those decently enough I suppose.

In the trailers, my biggest issue was the terrible dialogue & poor makeup/wardrobe.

The campy style Batwoman costume & the sloppy bat tattoos...ugh! Why would anyone think that would be appealing?!

Now, onto the show...

There is one & ONLY one reason I watched this show...my mom! I figured I had to give it a shot. But it was not because my mom like it. She in fact, hated it!

My mom, who loves everything from medical & criminal dramas, to shows about witchcraft & medieval times. She somehow even loves campy movies like Dark Shadows. She’s a huge fan of Wonder Woman (comics, tv show & recent movie). She loved the Captain Marvel movie. She is a comic fan and loved Batman & Batwoman growing up.

Yet, she hates this show!

After seeing videos & online posts ALL saying it’s because non fans hate the show because they’re bigots, that’s not true.

The show is awful - so I suppose the trailers were accurate.

My mother could care less what people do for their own pleasure- and like she taught us, “as long as no one’s being hurt & it’s consensual, who cares?”

So right now, just to paint you a picture, neither her nor I care about the lesbian storyline in Batwoman. I don’t care if she’s gay straight, bi, attracted to pumpkins etc. Have at it.

The reason I chose to watch this show is because my mother loves fun well written entertainment & sometimes just silly fluff to get her mind off reality. And as my best friend we have that in common. Our viewing tastes are very similar. So when my mom says something was terrible, it piques my interest (much more than those awful trailers).

The actors:

Most of the actors aren’t bad. Since Dougray Scott is in this I take it as a comparison amongst the others. If you don’t know who he is ...he was in Ever After, Desperate Housewives, Fear the Walking Dead, Hemlock Grove and a thousand other projects. He’s a good actor. However, in Batwoman he has a few mistakes with his accent & delivery of a few lines (much fewer mistakes than the rest of the cast).

But all the actors have mis-steps with their lines & delivery of the lines. Whose job is it to stop them & try again until it’s good? The director

Some actors aren’t as strong as others but after watching the show, I think the strongest actors are: Dougray Scott, Nicole Kang, & Rachel Skarsten. They seem to work with what they’ve got. Trying their best. But the dialogue!

There was a line about Kate Kane having mixed feelings for her sister & didn’t want her hurt because “Duh, feelings”. .... 🙄...she’s a medical student?? The writers gave the actor THAT to work with? Okay...um, they couldn’t have done a second draft and tweaked it? You didn’t find it needed a little more work? Like wrote this instead “it’s only natural to be conflicted...” which makes her sound intelligent. Instead, “Duh, feelings”?!

Unfortunately we come down to Ruby Rose. She’s not a good actress. She seemed to be more talented in the trailers than the actual show but that was because she showed something I like to call emotion.

What happened? Every single line RR delivers has zero affect. Even when she’s literally smiling there is no emotion in her eyes....what only makes her look psychotic. And she moves her eyebrows up & down sooooo much. It’s distracting.

However, she (like the other actors) does seem to be trying. With that said, if you can’t be pulled into the character or the actors’ take on them then it suspends disbelief.

I have nothing against Ruby Rose but knowing she was a model gives context. They work with their eyebrows a lot & any acting they do is for about 20 seconds of a commercial. It’s clear that RR is tackling the tv show like she would a modeling job. Only now she has a s****y wardrobe.

However, she can’t act. She is monotonous & sounds robotic.

I do think though that’s made worse by the director probably not pushing to do enough takes. Sometimes directors instruct actors to act a certain way which makes them sound worse.

Ie) Hayden Christensen acted beautifully in an old tv show where he played a victim of molestation. In Star Wars a Phantom Menace he was apparently told to act more annoyed then angry so voila he came across as a brat...

So I do wonder what influence the director had here.

The wardrobe/makeup:

Papa Kane, Leaders of the Crows, my man Dougray...yes he still looks good in his suits but he’s always shown wearing the same suit. Wardrobe actually helps tell a story especially in a show like this. But it’s like the budget is too small or the director forgot about anyone other than Kate & Beth.

Morning scenes, have him with a little extra stubble, some make up to look like he has dark circles under his eyes. Ruffle his hair. Have him sitting in a hideous vintage t-shirt while they have breakfast. Kate could see how awful he looks and ask “did you get any sleep?” Then they could talk about how worried he is for the city, Kate, or even thinking about Beth! Kate could see the shirt & go “didn’t I get you that?” And he says “yeah for my birthday” and she says “that was ten years ago”.Boom! Shows he loves his daughter & a tiny bonding moment. ...but this never happened.

Luke Fox. Somehow they took an attractive actor and made him look about 20 years older just by wearing glasses that belong to Angela from Who’s the Boss!

Give Luke some 2019 glasses that sit properly on his nose! And the same for the rest of his clothes. They don’t fit right. The show is trying to nerd him up but you can make people awkward, nerdy , or quirky without downplaying their looks. Have Fox wear jeans with his vests, or a fun t-shirt with a suit jacket etc.

Kate Kane. She has the worst wardrobe in the show! Though Batwoman’s suit looks tacky & campy...

Give Kate nicer clothes! They do not need to be expensive but they do need to give her a personality.

1) Plaid...why? Lesbians wearing plaid is a stereotype so WHY would this show advertising itself as modern & breaking the barriers have their main character wearing something so cliche? Makes zero sense. However, since plaid (aka tartan) is making a comeback in fashion they could have used it (if they really had to) in another piece of clothing. A scarf, gloves, shoes? (I actually have a pair of red plaid boots which are durable and adorable). Throwing on a plaid shirt is just lazy.

2) Her hair. Okay so if they’re going for the short-during-military-training look I get it but Ruby Rose has the same hairstyle in everything. I wish she’d just either grow it out or chop it all off. They could have had a scene where she’s fiddling with it in the mirror like she’s self conscious about the new do...showing human insecurities.

3) The leather jacket. Sigh... okay this is my personal opinion but I think the black leather jacket in shows is used too much. It immediately signals strength & a tough exterior right? Well literally everyone knows this. It’s not subtle. I mean I love how it was used on Supernatural where the coat had a history but it was tied into a backstory and eventually was used less and less. But the leather coat was used more in early seasons (which was as far as 15 yrs ago). Other shows always have the ‘bad boy’ wear the jacket. It’s so boring. I’d rather if Kate strolled you wearing a fun typographic shirt or a basic t-shirt and have an expensive belt because she has a thing for belts (subtly nodding to one Batwoman has to use).

There were many choices other than a basic plaid top and black leather jacket. Wardrobe decisions that could give the character/actor subtle layers or tools to work with. But that too was done lazily.

Set design:

Dark & gloomy? ✅

Isolated & abandoned feeling? ✅

Appropriate to the corresponding event... 🙈 not so much.

Ie) the bridge where the family’s car fell off. Whether it’s done with cgi or finding the right location, the bridge in question was generic. Now if the bridge was higher up and/or there were super super wild & crazy rapids maybe, just maybe we’d believe Batman thought Beth was a goner. But it was actual fairly tame so it made Batman look like he just saw the car hanging and go “hey my shift ended an hour ago” and walk off.

And,

The “secret” entrance to the bat cave is in Wayne enterprises? Wouldn’t that be hard to get to? I can picture Bruce hanging around in the garage waiting to go in...he starts over to the door, someone comes, he stops...ya know because everyone knows him...

It’s just weird. There were so many other options.

Special effects:

Some have been pretty bad so far. This is a CW trait. I don’t know if they separate the budget for the directors or not. Is it all one lump number or are they told ‘this is for the production & this is for the special effects?’. I wonder because other CW shows seem to have tiny budgets allocated to the effects. In any case, a show about super villains & heroes needs bigger budgets so it looks more believeable.

The writing:

The writing is just bad. Writing lines like “duh sisters” for a character who is supposed to be educated & intelligent seems ridiculous.

Question - if Bruce Wayne has family why didn’t he stay with them when his parents died? Or they with him? Is this a plot hole from the comics or just this show?

Unrealistic. Yes it’s a superhero story but we care less if the person has all their skills & abilities immediately.

My bff and I love superhero shows but we both had the same problems here as with Supergirl. She just had her powers & didn’t really struggle with them. I watched 2 episodes & was bored already.

Batwoman was so boring but I wanted to see if it got better. It hasn’t.

This show needed to spend episode 1 where she’s discovering how bad Gotham was without Batman & where he went. Is he doing a really long pub crawl? Saving people in another country/city? Dead? Kate shows zero concern for her missing cousin & for some reason, hates him.

Kate immediately knowing how to use the bat equipment with zero practices...how at the beginning she’s swimming in ice water for no reason and doesn’t get hypothermia?? That’s all very unbelievable.

Kate is written as Mary Sue. She knows all & has the most skills in the world! Why??? Okay so she was in the military so yeah give her a backstory of taking taekwondo classes or something but for her to know how to do Luke Fox’s job better than he does? Or where the cameras are at Wayne Enterprises...more than the security team?? And to know what the computer password is, okay... basically she has to be great at everything & the other characters have to be written dumb in order for Kate to be appealing. Why?

Bashing Batman...in a show based in the bat-universe. Terrible move. Kate doing this repeatedly makes us think she’s a villain. Not a hero.

Bashing everyone with male genitalia...makes Kate look like a pr*ck. You can hate certain men you’ve known but to constantly reference women as being superior to men...

1) negates equal rights. You can’t be equals if you act/think/say you’re superior.

2) any boys watching this show is going to feel like something is wrong with them.

3) it’s sexist.

Just like many of us women grew up hearing repeatedly that men were better at this & that...

4) male bashing IS spreading hate. STOP.

That is actually why (more than anything) I didn’t want to watch in the first place because of how the trailers made it sound like they were bashing a whole gender.

Too much too soon. Revealing Alice is Beth in the first episode? Why? Drag it out an episode or 2. Each episode is both boring and yet they try to cram everything into a single episode it’s bizarre.

Ridiculous scenarios. Like Batman would leave a child to drown. And why didn’t Beth/Alice just go home or contact the police...or anyone...when she got out of the water all those years ago? Why does Kate keep letting her sister go when the woman is a multi-murderer?!

Yes, Kate is still hung up on her ex but it was years ago & she was the one dumped. And Sophie is married so Kate is coming off like a stalker 👀

All of it makes Kate look unsympathetic & unlikeable. The show isn’t funny except when we hear bad dialogue. It’s trying to be overly dramatic like a soap opera but it still doesn’t work. I think that’s due to the writing & the directing.

Now don’t get me wrong, even with RR’s lack of acting skills there are ways of making it work...that weren’t done.

Keanu’s Reeves isn’t the most skillful actor but he tries. He’s good at certain things & sticks to it. He knows where his skills are. Yes he’s improved but he’ll never be able to pull off an intense dramatic role. So he sticks to what he’s good at. He’s also a good person & tries to talk openly & intelligently about things so he has people’s respect IRL.

Ruby Rose has been touchy & volatile about people criticizing Batwoman. That made me lose what little respect I had for her.

Awhile back I had tried watching this design show (yes I like those too) Love it Or List It Vancouver. The show was fine but the designer Jillian was being critiqued left right & Center on social media after the pilot episode for sounding like a child. She used phrases such as; “totally”,”for sure” , and used the word ‘like’ a thousand times... she really did sound like a valley girl. However, about 5 episodes later that was gone. She was speaking more eloquently and more grown up - which in turn made people like her more. She & the show worked to help improve her speech patterns so it wouldn’t be distracting. And the show has been around for years now.

My point? RR could have taken the criticism & worked with it. I get she’s probably upset as she worked hard but we all go through it. We all have a project of some kind at work that falls flat. We take the criticism & try to improve. RR could take acting lessons or at the very least, practice in the mirror.

Most of the other issues I’ve mentioned are a result of the awful writing, poor direction & likely some interference from the network.

What this show should never have done was act superior. That’s being a douche. Anytime I see or hear someone being arrogant like that I just roll my eyes and walk away (or in this case, turn the channel).

If anyone working for the CW and/or Batwoman reads this I hope you’ll take some pointers.

I like myself too much though to subject myself to anymore episodes though. I’m done. ✌️

[agentsandbutterflies]

Tilwixy and Somewhere in Stockholm

Knowing how it all ended, this song kills me. I had so much trouble deciding ona take for the ficlet because so much of it fits with all of them as they driftthrough the world a bit lost. In the end, it had to be Tilde because hemma i Stockholm…

Also, a ficlet is about 2000 words, right?

Her dad bent down and lifted her up. She grabbed his jacket, hard, as shelooked out over the balcony. The height was dizzying, but down there on theground was a sea of small figures that screamed and cheered. She hid her faceagainst her dad’s neck. Her mum spoke softly to her, coaxing her to look outagain and to wave.

Tilde promptly refused. She wasn’t two years old yet.

-x-

Her grandfather held her hand. Someone had put out a stool for her to standon. She got up all by herself. There was a sea of people on the ground belowwho cheered and screamed and waved with Swedish flags. She waved back at themwith her entire arm. They cheered even more.

Her grandfather smiled at her. She was four years old and her grandfatherwas her hero.

-x-

She held her mum’s hand as they walked two steps behind her grandfather anddad as they accepted cards and gifts from the people gathered on the innercourtyard. Everyone called her name and wanted her to smile. There were cameraseverywhere. Shy, she waved back, hiding a little behind her mum.

It was Sweden’s national holiday. She was six years old and had justrealised that she’d be queen some day.

-x-

She stood on the seat of the carriage as it was dragged through the streetsof Stockholm by four horses. All along the way were people cheering and wavingand throwing flowers. She waved to all of them. Her mum tried to get her to sitdown so she wouldn’t fall out, but her dad said not to worry.

It was the Crown prince’s 40th birthday. She was eight years oldand she knew the job of Crown princess was an important one.

-x-

There were black-and-white paper copies of the front of Se&Hör taped toevery mirror in the entire school. On it was a picture of her – a still from aTV-clip – with terrible spots and a headline pointing out that puberty cameearly for the adorable little princess. Everyone stared and pointed. Theywhispered.

It took three weeks before there stopped being new copies plastered allover the school. She was twelve and wanted to disappear.

-x-

She stood tall next to her parents. She had been dragged to the balcony,but once there, she smiled and raised her hand. She only waved with her handthese days, having learned by looking at her parents and grandparents. Shewondered why on Earth people had waited the entire day on the courtyard just towave at them. Didn’t people have a life? Did she?

Tilde breathed out a sigh of relief when she was allowed back in. She wasfourteen and knew this would be the death of her.

-x-

She rose from her seat and walked up to the podium. Her legs were shaking,but not as much as her hands. She looked out over the people gathered in thechurch. A silent sea of black. She looked at her parents. They were bothsolemn. Her dad was dire-eyed, but her mum cried. The arch bishop squeezed herarm a little and made sure the microphone was adjusted. She cleared her throatand looked down on the paper she had brought.

For the first time, she addressed the Swedish people live. She was sixteenand first in line in the Swedish succession according to the new constitution.

-x-

Story after story came out about how she was engaged, heartbroken,pregnant. She didn’t read any of them, it was gossip and ridiculous. Herfriends sometimes held dramatic readings from the magazines when they hadparties or sleepovers. Or just time to kill on the bus. Tilde laughed alongwith them, seemingly amused by it and telling them to keep going. For all thepictures the press had on her with her male classmates, they didn’t have asingle one of her with Christina.

Christina’s fingers brushed against her and she blushed. She was seventeenand scared to death she was a lesbian.

-x-

Her steps echoed in the Hall of State. It was completely silent and alleyes were on here in her royal blue dress, her Seraphim order sash, and herpearls. In the audience sat the official Sweden, the government, theopposition, representatives for all main religions, representatives from allminorities. There were representatives from the Danish, Norwegian, and Finnishgovernments. They all watched her, their eyes like knives. Tilde’s hands shook,but when she spoke, her voice held steady.

Today, she officially took on the duty of the heir to the throne. She waseighteen and couldn’t hide her eating disorder anymore.

-x-

She waved from the balcony, smiling, and let the screams and cheers washover her like a tsunami. It surprised her that she had missed this. A yearaway, a year without any official duties, a year of recovery. She was ready totake this on now.

Her parents stood by her side, smiling and waving as well. She turnedtwenty today and the media called her healthy again.

-x-

The world was dying. Polar ice melting, volcanoes erupting, tsunamis,tornadoes, earth quakes, floods, extreme weather. There wasn’t much she couldtalk about in public, but this was a passion she was allowed to have. Peoplewondered if she thought she could save the world and questioned her motives,but she powered on. There were whispers of her hiding from herresponsibilities, of her using this new found interest in the environment to goon expensive trips. They could talk all they wanted, saving the world was morethan photo ops with koalas. It was using the voice and position that was herbirth right to highlight these issues.

It wasn’t that she was running away from Stockholm. She was twenty-two andhad decided what to do with her title.

-x-

“Aren’t you the princess who went missing?”

She didn’t go missing. She was kidnapped. The prime minister went missing. Awise person doesn’t argue with her rescuer, though. She felt betrayed, lonely,and stupid. She would have said anything to get out of this dungeon. And shedid. Some people would probably say he took advantage of her – and they mightbe right – but really, she took advantage of him as well. She had sex with astranger she knew couldn’t tell the press.

It was probably a good thing that neither of them knew where it would lead.She was twenty-four and didn’t know where to put her trust anymore.

-x-

The house was quiet and dark. Eggsy lead her back to bed after having foundher in the kitchen at 2 a.m.. She called him her knight and wondered what thepress would call him. It was a long time since they had written that she wasengaged, heartbroken or pregnant. At the moment, the press only talked about herPTSD, her sabbatical, her running away from her duties. She didn’t want to talkabout it, she was raised to always smile and say it was fine, so she did.

When she closed her eyes she heard the echoes of a thousand screams andcheers. She was twenty-five and was falling apart.

-x-

It was a running joke that Roxy was the perfect combination of the two ofthem. She had Tilde’s upbringing (sort of) and Eggsy’s skillset (in a way). Theupper class lady turned spy. Tilde fought so hard not falling in love with herand utterly failed. She cried when she came out to Eggsy as bisexual. Shecouldn’t stop blushing when she told Roxy. She had no idea what to say whenthey suggested a threeway, but one time, became two times, became three times,became dinners, became movie nights, became vacations…

Tilde had no idea what to make of it, but it felt right. She was twenty-sixand finally starting to be honest with herself.

-x-

They kissed on the balcony as the crowd cheered the newlyweds. The Crownprincess had got her knight! Eggsy looked overwhelmed by the wave of lovecoming at them. She smiled, she waved and nudged him to do the same. Part ofher felt sorry for him, that he couldn’t live in this moment the way she could.

Tilde kissed him again. She was twenty-seven and couldn’t remember a timewhen this hadn’t been normal for her.

-x-

It was unclear when exactly Roxy had become a part of their relationship.Before the wedding they had called her their girlfriend. After the wedding Roxystarted to call herself Maîtresse-en-titreor just the royal mistress. She still politely declined every invitation tomeet Tilde’s parents and turned down every low-key official event Tilde andEggsy asked her to come to, but Roxy’s first stop after finishing a mission wasalways Stockholm as sure as it was Eggsy’s.

Tilde didn’t understand how she could be so lucky to have both of them inher life. She was twenty-eight and knew that this love affair would be made intomovies once they were dead.

-x-

The press wrote speculative article after speculative article about who thewoman in the well-tailored suit that came and went seemingly as she pleased atthe palace. Tilde read none of it, but Eggsy and Roxy read it all, finding itboth amusing and terrifying. Tilde much rather read up on history, royalmistresses, and Swedish law.

She had a plan, but she couldn’t implement it just yet. She was thirty andwondered just how huge a scandal it would be to make Roxy a duchess.

-x-

Eggsy held her hands. She rested her forehead against his. Her entire bodytrembled as they stood just out of sight from the crowd on the courtyard. Themurmur of a thousand voices buzzed in the air. She let go even though shedidn’t want to, but she had to do this alone. She had to face this crowd alonewith a man, without her husband, by her side. He would join her later, but shehad to do this alone, because like every public appearance her entire life thiswas symbolical.

The crowed exploded with cheers and scream when they saw her and she raisedher hand to wave, smiling. She was thirty-two and the Queen of Sweden.

-x-

It was the 21st century, there weren’t many things her titlestill granted her, but she remained the only person who could grant people apeerage. For the last 150 years, the only people receiving a title of Swedishnobility had been the women (and Eggsy) marrying into the royal family and themale children (and Tilde) born into the same. Today that changed. Today a pressrelease stated that Roxanne Morton would herby be addressed as Her Highness,Duchess of Västergötland – the title she’d given up when becoming Queen.

With Eggsy still using his title as Duke of Västergötland, Tilde knewexactly what signals this sent. She was thirty-three and didn’t care what theywrote about her anymore.

-x-

Slowly she walked up to the window. Behind her walked Eggsy and Roxy – theDuke and Duchess of Västergötland – and in her arms she carried a 13 month oldgirl. Their daughter, the Crown princess of Sweden. Tilde whispered to her,soft words to let her know she was safe, that mummy was there, that she wasloved. They were met the people in the courtyard cheered and waved their flags.The Crown princess of Sweden blinked at them and Tilde gave her a kiss as shewaved. On either side of them, Eggsy and Roxy waved as well.

Tears streamed down Tilde’s face. She was thirty-five and finally home.

Hemma i Stockholm.

[thisshipiscanon]

Entry no.1          Snowy Qrow

► Winter is Coming - Radical Face

Entry no.2          Snowy Oz

► Fellow in the North - Cold Weather Company

Entry no.3          Falling...

► Avalanche! Oh Avalanche! - Gregory and the Hawk

Entry no.4          Is Love Alive?

► Winter Song - Sara Bareilles, Ingrid Michaelson

Qrow wrote thousands of letters to Ozpin in his free time.

Oz died before he could send a single one of them.

(also at http://archiveofourown.org/works/13101117)

Ozpin, you are a wonderful human being, and I’ll stay by your side, for as long as time lets us.

A chill swept over Qrow as he read the unsent letters to Ozpin. The letters were either too lovey, or explicit to send to his friend. His only friend really. Qrow didn’t want to lose him. In the end, he did anyways.

I wish I could express my love to you, in actions, rather than words. Yet, I know I’ll never send these letters. I wish I could.

Love didn’t come easy to Qrow. Only when he was writing these letters, could he express his feelings. Ozpin must have been the only person he loved. His sister hates him, their parents abandoned them, and his teammates never talked to him unless they needed to.

I wish many things. But I wish most of all to be with you.

Oz could never love him. He would have heard rumors about Ozpin loving him from Oobleck or someone. Maybe Oz didn’t want to tell anyone? Who knows? He’s dead now.

I love you, now and forever,

Qrow

His signing off point. When was this? A week or two before he died? A month? Qrow felt tears pricking his eyes. He took a swig from his flask.

Hey, Oz, wanna be my boyfriend?

XXOO, Qrow

This one he wrote when he was drunk. Well, more drunk than usual. Yes, Ozpin was a teacher at Beacon at the time, even though he was only 4 years older than him. Thank the maidens he didn’t send it. That would be an incredibly awkward talk to have with Oz. Now that he wasn’t a student, it would be more accepted to date him.

Qrow needed to write. Vent his feelings on paper. Well, he really needed to vent to someone. That’s when he felt a chill again.

He should probably turn the heat up a bit. Qrow walked outside his room and went to turn the heat up. That’s when he saw Glynda.

Qrow felt the chill again. “Hey Gladdy, is it cold in here? Or is that just me?”

“Qrow, you’re drunk.” Glynda scowled.

“Well, yes I am… But I was being serious.” Qrow sighed.

“Well, it’s actually quite warm. Now, I’ve got to go on my way.” Glynda turned and started to walk away.

Qrow grabbed Glynda’s arm and she spun around surprised. “Qrow. I have to go.”

Qrow bit his lip, and debated whether to tell her about the letters. “Glynda, you know Ozpin.”

“Yes, of course I know him! Qrow, I should be going-”

Qrow cut her off, “I wrote him a letter every day, since the second year I came here to when he died. I never sent these letters.”

Glynda paused, “And?”

“And these were love letters.” He took his hand off her arm.

Glynda mouth stood agape, before she finally came to her senses and laughed. “Tell me where these letters are.”

Qrow lead her to his room. He opened his file cabinet, and she saw thousands of letters, some dating a good few years. She picked one up and began to read:

“Dearest Ozpin, I’ll let you know that I’ve loved you for a while and I’d love to … Qrow, how explicit do these get?”

Qrow blushed. “Well, at some times, very. When I’m drunk,”

“You’re always drunk.”

“When I’m extraordinarily drunk, I tend to write a bit more explicitly, like I’d include-”

“Qrow, no details, please. I get the gist. You, Qrow Branwen are hopelessly in love. And I think you know that already.” Glynda smiled sadly. She knew Oz would never come back.

“Thank you Glynda for listening. You should probably get to whatever you were doing.” Qrow looked away, and sat down in his swivel chair.

“Well, I was lying, I didn’t think it was this important.” Glynda chuckled. “Anyways it’d be best to say goodbye now.”

“Goodbye Glynda.” She shut the door.

There was silence after that. Uncomfortable, thick, heavy silence. Qrow paused and began to speak. “I love you Ozpin. Now and forever.” Qrow chuckled. “Why am I saying this? You’re dead.”

“In between Qrow. I’m in between life and death.” A voice that was so familiar, it chilled Qrow to the bone.

“What?” Qrow spun around quickly, “Ozpin?”

Qrow had dissolved into tears at the sight of his friend, almost, could have been lover. “I’ve missed you Qrow.”

“I’ve missed you too.” Qrow ran to hug Oz, but he fell through. “Ozpin, please tell me you’ll come back.”

“I wish I could. Qrow-” Ozpin looked away, “I know, this is a horrible time to say this, but, I love you too... Maidens, I needed to get that off my chest.”

“Why come back now Oz?”

“I needed to tell you that I’ll be watching over Ruby.” Ozpin smiled sadly.

“Alright. Thank you Ozpin… For watching over Ruby.”

“And thank you for protecting Ruby. Qrow, just remember to be careful.”

“I will.”

.+*+.+*+.+*+.

“GUYS!!!” Ruby screeched, running into her dorm. “Ozpin! He’s- He’s here!”

Yang jumped to her feet, bored of the game her, Weiss, and Blake were playing. “Where is he Ruby?”

“Right behind me!” Everyone looked behind Ruby, but they saw no Ozpin.

“Guys, come on! You… You can’t see him?” Ruby looked shaken.

“Ruby, they can’t see you. I’m… your guardian angel.” Ozpin smiled.

“Wait! So, you’re dead? But I can see you. Because you’re my guardian angel. And I’m just talking to myself, aren’t I?”

Yang placed her hand on Ruby’s shoulder, “Ruby. We need to tell the teachers that were close to Oz. Oobleck, maybe Port. I guess Glynda and Ironwood… Oh and Qrow!”

Yang proceeded to wiggle her eyebrows at Ruby. They both knew of Qrow’s letters. “Ozpin, who would you like to see first? Well… you see them, they don’t.”

“Qrow.”

“Qrow?” Ozpin nodded.

“We’ll stay here Ruby.” Blake and Weiss agreed. “You guys are closest with Qrow anyways.”

“Alright. We’ll see you later.” Yang smiled and waved.

The three walked past many doors, finally arriving at Qrow’s. “Qrow! Open the door!” Ruby screeched.

“No need to yell Ruby!” Qrow said, opening the door.

Qrow stood in shock. “Oz?”

“You can see him? Ozpin, why can he see you?”

“I have a close bond with him. The only reason you can see me Ruby, is because I’m your guardian angel.” Qrow face flushed as Ozpin was talking.

“So what now?” Qrow asked.

“We go and tell the other teachers. Other than that? We wait. We’ll fight Salem. I’ll protect Ruby as well as I can.”

“Alright. I’ll… see you on the other side then?”

“Indubitably.”

.+*+.+*+.+*+.

Ruby fought Salem. Many died, and yet many got together. Nature works in mysterious ways, always needing to reproduce.

Yang came into Ruby’s room, “There’s a letter for you from New Beacon.”

“If it’s from Qrow I’ll read it later.” She chuckled, “He makes sure to send me a note every day.”

“It’s not.”

“Can you read it sis? I’m just a bit busy, working on plans for a new class for New Beacon, remember?”

Yang nodded, and read, “On… On Saturday, December twenty-third... Qrow Branwen was murdered by Tyrian. Tyrian had not been notified that the war was over, and you know him,” Yang added, wiping away the blobs running down her face, “he never backs down from a fight.”

Yang kept going, Ruby looking horrified, “His ashes are buried here, until the remaining members of his family (Ruby Rose and Yang Xiao Long) can send for him.”

“Ruby?”

“Yang.” The elder dropped the letter and ran towards her sister, engulfing her into a hug.

“I’m so sorry Ruby, I thought you wouldn’t have to go through this for a long time.”

“I know.” Ruby said, muffled by Yang’s shirt.

.+*+.+*+.+*+.

Ozpin was gone at that point, his duty to Ruby done. Salem was dead. He marched up to the gates of the afterlife, meeting Qrow on the other side. Ozpin kissed the shorter man’s forehead in greeting. Qrow looked back at life and made sure to send one last call out to Ruby, making sure she knew he was fine.

That morning, a crow woke Ruby up. She smiled.

[chocolatequeennk]

Death Cannot Stop True Love

It's a familiar scene. Cybermen and Daleks, and a lever that won't stay locked. But this time, Rose holds on just a little bit longer. This time, she does something no one expects. This time, he'll discover that she made her choice a long time ago, and she's never going to leave him. 

Doomsday fixit, Bad Wolf!Rose

This is for the “Rose regenerates” prompt on @doctorroseprompts. It was betaed by @lastbluetardis--thank you!.

AO3 | FF.NET | TSP

Online and locked.

The suction of the Void, which had dwindled to not much more than a strong gust of wind, returned to full strength immediately. Daleks and Cybermen soared through the air into the open breach, but the Doctor ignored them all. Every atom of his existence was focused the woman clinging to the lever on the other side of the room.

Rose’s fear pulsed over their bond. “We’ll get pulled in,” she’d said, not fifteen minutes earlier as he’d explained his plan to return the Daleks and Cybermen to the Void.

Watching as the suction slowly lifted Rose’s body until she was parallel with the floor, the Doctor wished he’d sent her Pete’s World with her mother, despite her refusal when he’d asked. She would’ve been angry with him, but at least she’d be alive and not trapped in the Void.

Rose’s fingers slipped on the grip, and she grunted and readjusted her hold as the Doctor watched, his fear turning to panic.

Hold on, love—please! he begged.

A moment later, serene calm brushed against his mind. I’m never gonna leave you. Before he could point out how impossible that promise was, she set her jaw and shifted so her fingers were locked together, with the lever in-between her clasped hands.

For a few seconds—ten, maybe fifteen—the Doctor thought the better grip would be enough. Rose would be able to hold on until the breach closed, and then he would take her into his arms and not let go of her until his heart rate returned to normal… possibly sometime next month.

Then he saw her fingers slip, a fraction of an inch. Time swirled around her, and he couldn’t tell who would have the victory—Rose, clinging to the lever, or the Void, pulling her inexorably closer.

It happened in a heartbeat: one, slow-motion heartbeat. A slip, a scream, and she was falling.

“Rose!” the Doctor shouted, her name echoing in the room as she fell towards the gaping maw of the open Void.

She held his gaze as she fell, her arms outstretched for him to grab her and pull her back. I love you.

For once, all words failed the Doctor. The most he could manage was to project his love to her over their bond in the last few seconds of her life.

The air shifted and the wind died down. The intense white light coming through the open breach faded, and just beyond Rose, the Doctor saw the walls between the worlds knit themselves back together. His hearts jumped into his throat. Please, he begged the universe and Time. Please let her stay with me.

Rose twisted in mid-air as she struggled to pull free of the weakening force of the Void. Her legs pushed through the air like she was treading water, and she’d almost managed to get her feet on the ground when her back slammed into the wall.

The Doctor winced when he heard the thud of her body hitting the solid wall, but exhilaration still coursed through him as his feet touched the ground. He could heal any injuries she’d sustained. She was still with him—that made it all worthwhile.

“We made it!” he crowed as he ran to where she lay crumpled against the wall.

He registered her stillness a second before he reached her, but he ruthlessly squashed the dread that threatened to overtake him for the hundredth time that day. The bond was still there, though her end was quiet, as if she were asleep.

“Rose?” he called when he touched her shoulder. Her body flopped lifelessly into his arms when he pulled her towards him, and he furiously blinked back the tears that threatened. “No, please love,” he begged. Her neck was bent at an unnatural angle, and even though he knew what must have happened, he pressed two fingers to neck, frantically looking for a sign of life.

A scream clawed its way from his throat when he found no pulse. The Doctor gathered his bondmate into his arms and cradled her body to him as he rocked back and forth, yelling wordlessly at the vindictive universe that had given him hope, only to yank it away so cruelly.

The last remnant of life was the telepathic bond linking their minds, unbreakable except by death. The Doctor threw himself into the warm feeling of her mind around his, even though there was no conscious response, no answering flicker of love to greet him. This was where he belonged, and this was where he would stay, until even this final bit of Rose was taken from him.

A warning buzzed along his time senses, but he ignored it. Time had taken her from him when he’d begged that she be allowed to stay; Time could damn well leave him alone to grieve.

The TARDIS hummed in his mind next. You must put her down, Thief.

The Doctor’s answering snarl caught in his throat when he felt the pulse of energy moving under his hands. He looked down at her body, hardly daring to believe what he sensed was happening, but the gold light rippling beneath her skin was unmistakeable.

Dozens of questions went through his mind as he set Rose down and scrambled back a few steps—dozens of questions, and one fact that became gloriously clear to him as the golden energy of time streamed from her hands.

He hadn’t lost Rose. He might never lose Rose.

He watched glossy chestnut curls replace her dyed blonde hair and a dusting of freckles appear over the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks. Then she blinked, and he fell in love all over again when her blue eyes looked at him.

Rose stared at the Doctor, who was looking at her the way he did a star being born. She pushed herself to her feet, trying to pin down why she felt so… different. The answer came when a reddish brown curl fell into her face.

“Doctor?” Her voice was husky, and she cleared her throat, wondering if she was getting sick. “What happened?”

He brushed the strand of hair back over her ear. The familiar gesture soothed her anxiety, as did the absolute joy she could feel from him over their bond.

“You regenerated, love. Well…” He winced. “You hit the wall and died, and then you regenerated.”

Echoes of memories returned to Rose, and she nodded slowly. “Bad Wolf changed me somehow, didn’t it?”

“That’s the only possible answer,” he agreed. “And we can talk about this more at home, but right now, I estimate we have about five minutes before UNIT arrive, and I’d like to be far away from here before then.” He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Ready to go home?”

Rose took his hand, and he bounced lightly on his toes and grinned down at her. “Rose Tyler… run!” he whispered gleefully, and they took off down the stairs until they reached the storage room the TARDIS was tucked away in. They heard boots in the next corridor over as they turned the key in the lock, and both giggled madly as they burst into the console room and quickly set the ship in motion, taking her to the Time Vortex.

“I’m gonna go clean up and change,” Rose told the Doctor. “It’s been a long day.”

He bent down and brushed a kiss over her lips, then smiled at her. “I’ll be right behind you,” he promised.

As Rose walked to their room, the weight of the day started to settle on her shoulders. Her mum was gone—but she forcibly shoved that thought aside until she had time to properly grieve the loss.

Cybermen and bloody Daleks, she thought bitterly as she entered the room. She unzipped her cardi and tossed it straight into the bin, knowing the memories of today would make it impossible to wear it again.

She felt surprisingly clean, then she realised that she’d gotten new skin—new everything—since she’d felt the layer of dust and sweat coating her skin earlier.

Rose shrugged off the weird thought and changed into a soft cotton vest and sleep shorts. Her energy was fading, and if she didn’t need to spend time in the shower, she wasn’t going to question the blessing.

Out of habit, she walked into the en-suite to wash her face before going to bed. The first look in the mirror hit her like a slap in the face.

There was not a single feature she recognised. Her height was the same, and her figure hadn’t changed enough to really alter the way her clothes fit, but beyond that… Her fingers trembled as they touched the unfamiliar reflection in the mirror.

Who is this person?

Another face appeared behind hers, one she knew this time, and she met the Doctor’s gaze in the mirror. “I… I don’t…” She shook her head.

He didn’t move from where he stood by the doorway, his hands twitching at his sides. “I think we should talk a bit.”

Rose flinched; that was never a good way to start a conversation. Comprehension and then an apology came through over the bond, but she couldn’t relax, even with that small reassurance.

“Relax, love,” he told her quietly. “I just think you probably have some questions and concerns we should talk about, rather than pretending they don’t exist.”

He stepped back and motioned to the open door, and Rose blew out a breath and shuffled into the bedroom. The Doctor quickly stripped out of his suit, then sat down on the bed with his back against the headboard and patted the empty spot next to him. Rose bit her lip, then went around to her side of the bed and sat down.

The Doctor scooted closer and reached immediately for her hand. “Where do  you want to start, Rose?” He rubbed his thumb over his knuckle.

Rose wriggled a little on the bed. This was her Doctor—the same man she’d been in love with for nearly three years, the man she’d been married to for six months. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend nothing had changed.

Except his hand felt different in hers. It still felt right, but her new hands with their long, slender fingers slotted into his differently.

What if that wasn’t the only thing that was different? And what if she felt different to him, too? What if he wasn’t attracted to her anymore, or what if he didn’t like the way her new touch felt?

She opened her mouth, then closed it again almost immediately. How could she ask her bond mate if he still wanted her?

“I didn’t realise how hard this would be for you,” the Doctor said quietly.

“I just don’t… am I still me? Are we still us? Do you still…” She sighed and pulled her hand from his, wrapping her arms over her chest.

The Doctor shifted so he could look Rose in the eye. Her uncertainty was painfully familiar—he’d had all the same questions after his regeneration, only without the fear that his change would interfere with their bond.

He ached to pull her into his arms and just hold her. It had been a long, difficult day, and for a few terrible minutes, he’d thought he’d lost her. If he could just hold her, he could reassure her that he would always want her, and reassure himself that she was really there.

But Rose needed words, so he swallowed back the lump in his throat and opened his mouth.

“You’re still the same Rose Tyler you were when you woke up this morning.” He reached hesitantly for her hand and smiled when she let him take it. “Yes, your fingers feel different in mine, and your almost-ginger hair is certainly a change from what you’re used to—either your natural colour or your preferred shade.”

He took a breath. “But in my mind, Rose… you still feel the same there. Your body has changed, but who you are hasn’t. And I didn’t fall in love with you or marry you for your body. I asked you to be my bondmate because I love who you are.”

Over the bond, he could feel Rose considering his words, weighing them against her own insecurities. The tip of her tongue poked out when she was deep in thought, and the Doctor knew instantly that this was a quirk that would drive him to distraction.

Mischief sparkled in Rose’s eyes when she picked up on that thought, as he’d intended. She shifted closer to him and pulled a strand of hair into her line of vision. “Almost-ginger, huh?” she drawled.

“Yes. Your first regeneration, and you’ve gotten closer to red hair than I have in nine attempts.”

“Well, if I knew how I’d done it, I’d give you pointers,” she teased.

The Doctor pouted, inwardly relieved that she seemed to be doing better, at least for the moment. He twined one of her curls around his finger, then pulled it loose and watched the curl bounce.

Rose giggled, and the Doctor was shocked when the sound brought tears to his eyes. He realised why almost immediately; he’d ignored his own hurt to take care of her, and hearing her laughter was the permission he needed to break down.

He shifted back to his original position against the headboard and pulled a surprised but non-protesting Rose into his arms. Rose… oh, love, he called to her as he pressed his forehead to hers. Her breath was slow and even compared to his harsh panting as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Rose ran a soothing hand through his hair. What’s wrong, love?

He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths, controlling the sobs that threatened to break loose. “I… You were… I thought I’d lost you,” he managed finally, his voice raspy. “First, I thought you were going to be trapped in the Void, and then…” He clenched his eyes shut. “I sat there, holding your dead body and waiting for the bond to break.”

“Oh, Doctor.”

Rose cuddled closer to him, and he broke when he buried his face in her hair. A moment later, he felt her hand stroking the sensitive spot above his temple as she murmured soothing reassurances in his ear.

“We’re here. We’re both home, together,” she promised. “And you won’t ever have to do that again, Doctor. Because I told you, didn’t I? I’m never going to leave you.”

His tears ended on a sudden gasp. She had told him that, and he’d dismissed it as impossible. But now…

The Doctor pulled back and looked at his bondmate with his time senses wide open. The beauty of what he saw brought fresh tears to his eyes, and he leaned down to capture her lips with his.

Rose Tyler, he said reverently as they shifted so they were lying on their sides. How long are you going to stay with me?

Using their bond, he let her see what Time had just shown him. A moment later, he felt her lips curve into a smile, then shift so she could scrape her teeth over his lower lip.

Arousal swirled between them, but the Doctor wanted an answer before they gave in to the heady pleasure of it. He pulled out of the kiss and opened his eyes, feeling a slight jolt when he saw her new face again.

Blue eyes smiled at him, before Rose moved closer and slid a leg over his hips. Forever, Doctor, she promised as she kissed him again. I’m going to stay with you forever.

[sometimesiwritetoo]

Tales of Carbuncle Farm - Chapter 6

Chapters: 6/?

Pairing: Noctis/Prompto/Luna

Rating: T for immature humor

Warnings: None

Summary: Luna, Noctis, and Prompto may not have thought whole “let’s run away” plan all the way through. But either way they had a farm, some seeds, and no where else to go so they might as well try to make Stardew Valley their new home.

Check it out over on AO3!

In midsummer Noctis laid down the sandfish down into the box near the broken fish tank. He’d patiently worked at the fishing bundle as Luna requested, asking Prompto for money when he spotted one for sale, and managed to fulfill every request. He expected a junimo to pop up from the hole, somehow carrying a furnace or a precarious stack of seeds as a gift. A junimo did pop out dragging a stack of dish o’ the sea piled on top of one another, but after he collected the stack several popped out of the woodworks right under his feet. Turning the dangerous floor into a carpet of grass like creatures. Noctis panicked, almost dropping the stack in shock.

Just as quickly as they appeared they disappeared, leaving Noctis confused. After a moment he decided that it was a strange, thirty second long hallucination. He carried the plates out of the center happy that he’d managed to find dinner.

In Insomnia, Regis went to bed as he always did. Sitting heavily down and struggling just a tad in getting the sheets up over his chest. He’d hadn’t slept as fitfully since Ignis and Gladio returned without his son, but that night he fell into a deep sleep quite suddenly. As he lay resting a trail of apples slowly crossed under his door into the room. They trailed up the bed and into the sheets where they gathered around the ailing king. A group gathered around his knees and began repairing the bone. Another group patched his frail lungs. Several purified the bile that slowly ate away at his blood, and others soothed his aching back.

When they were done they trailed back outside, leaving the room exactly as they found it. Several hours later, as the sun began to rise, the king woke up feeling very strange. He didn’t feel the mind numbing soreness he typically felt when he typically woke. When he stood up he didn’t need to reach for his cane. His knees did not buckle under his own weight. Pain did not shoot down his spine. He checked to confirm that the wall was still up. That his city was safe. Walking quickly to confirm with his glaive that his city was safe.

Noctis was completely unaware of what transpired that night. He laid on the end of the bed furthest from the wall and slept heavily. In the morning he was the last one up and came out as both Luna and Prompto were harvesting tomatoes.

“Guess what?” Luna said. She bounced up when she saw him, “We have enough for the expansion!”

“Really?” Noctis was almost excited enough to bounce as well. He’d been eating meatball subs once a week since they’d arrived months ago. It was about time they got a kitchen even if it was only to microwave meals.

“We’re going to go up and order it at nine. And then we’re getting beers!”

“Finally, I’d been waiting for a drink since we started.” He teased. He stepped in to help harvest the melon.

Robin was absolutely thrilled to see them again. And she was even more thrilled to note down their preferred expansion and Prompto’s appliance list. It was quite long and Noctis didn’t know exactly what most of them were. He wondered if the expansion took so long because it was actually expensive or because Prompto needed a walk in fridge. But he didn’t say anything, because he’d long accepted that Prompto was the only person equipped to actually manage the whole operation.

“Perfect. I’ll get on it straight away.” Robin said. She snapped the book closed with finality. Prompto passed over the cash and gave her instructions on where their hoard of supplies were on the farm. They then headed down the mountain to the saloon for one of the last few meals they’d need to eat there.

Gus poured them all a beer before starting on making their pizzas. He had a selection of craft brews available, but they stuck with a generic, big name brand. The end of summer was approaching and they did have to save for that period of fall when they had nothing to produce.

They talked through lunch occasionally about the expansion, but also about other things. Willy had invited him to a big fishing trip during the winter, and Luna was slowly learning how to identify mushrooms to forage. Pleasant conversation. Conversation that made Noctis realize how much he enjoyed living in Stardew Valley. He didn’t think he’d enjoy living in a small village in the middle of nowhere.

They split up after lunch, Luna went to forage for berries and mushrooms up the mountain while he and Prompto headed back to the farmhouse. On their way back Prompto went into Pierre’s for a few giant bags of malt, oats, hops, and yeast. Pierre had a worker deliver it to the farm in an hour and from there Prompto started working on something with one of the large kegs he’d built. Noctis didn’t know what it was exactly. It seemed to involve a bunch of the stuff they bought and boiling a bunch of water. Noctis tried to keep himself entertained by watching the weather forecast for the week. In the rain big catfish came to the surface, and he wanted to catch a couple to fry up in their new kitchen.

“What were you doing?” He asked when Prompto came in later that night.

“Making beer.” Prompto said. “I kinda want to see how it’ll go.”

“So we can have beer every night?” He asked hopefully.

“No, so we can make money. I’m taking Luna’s advice and expanding our “brand”.” He flopped down on the bed next to Noctis and turned the tv to livin’ off the land.

“So you sell it,” Noctis rested his head on Prompto’s shoulder. “First here and then further and further. Then in eight months half of the glaive is spending fifteen luciennes on Carbuncle farm beer.”

“Maybe.” Prompto laughed, “It would be funny if the Kingsglaive got drunk on our beer and started a bar fight again.”

“Finally, we can be the reason Gladio walks around with a black eye for two days.”

“Yeah, get him so numbed up he doesn’t even notice the pain.”

“He doesn’t notice pain normally either. He told me himself. He only feels hunger. It’s why he almost ate Crowe’s hair that night.”

“Who ate who’s hair?” Luna asked. She toed off her shoes at the door.

“Gladio ate Crowe’s hair.” He answered.

“I can see why all the women love him.” Luna said sarcastically. “I put some spice berries in preserves jars. We’re not selling them they’re mine and I will eat them all.”

She flopped into bed and they all quickly fell asleep to the sound of the TV. Noctis, like always, looked forward to waking up late and going out fishing. But he quickly ran into a hurdle when he was woken up before the sun even rose to an incessant hammering sound. He heard a creak and a tear as a wooden plank two feet from him fell to the ground outside.

“Wow. She was eager to get started.” Noctis complained. He rolled out of bed to head outside only to trip on a pot that was on the floor. “What the hell?”

“It’s that damn pot again!” Luna complained she grabbed it without helping him up and threw it back in their closet. “I swear we are haunted.”

Noctis pushed himself up and followed Prompto outside to see Robin happily hammering away at the west side of their home.

“Oh don’t mind me!” She said. “I’ll be done in a few days.”

“I forgot exactly what an expansion would entail.” Luna sighed. “Come on, let’s grab our watering cans. We should follow her example.”

Noctis focused on watering the vegetables while Luna checked on her preserves and Prompto checked on his beer. Luna quickly canned one of the jars that was full of a berry mix then set them aside to label later. Prompto didn’t seem happy with whatever he saw with the keg and left it alone.

They headed out to buy seeds at nine. Prompto bought some radishes and significantly more wheat than before. They then they grabbed food and headed back to plant the seeds. Noctis separated from them to chop down some trees and make room as their farm expanded, but his axe was not nearly sharp enough to make it through the giant stumps nor was his pickaxe strong enough to smash through the boulders. Some rows ended up getting planted in a separate area that he cleared.

Robin did not let up or take a break from her work. She carried on well into the evening when Noctis would’ve gladly been in bed. He appreciated her work ethic but did not enjoy waiting for the hammering to stop so he could sleep. When she was done there was a large hole in the wall and a foundation for the expansion had been laid. Which meant that when they went to bed there was a nice, cooling breeze.

“We should ask her to leave it like this.” He said. “It’s kinda nice.”

“Say that in the morning.” Prompto said, before he ducked under the covers.

Noctis didn’t understand what Prompto meant by that until he woke up in the morning with thumb sized mosquito bites littering his arms. They were annoying and he had to immediately resist scratching at them. Luna was not so wise. By the time they made it outside her arms were very, very red from her furious itching. Prompto caught up with her and slathered aloe vera all over her before she could make it worse.

Prompto retrieved the syrups from the tappers he installed and set about building two separate bee hives. Those went to a far corner of the farm, a safe distance from their house.

“Do we really need those?” He asked.

Prompto shrugged. “If we’re going to have a kitchen it’d be nice to have some honey. It’s only a small one.”

“If those bees attack I’m blaming you.”

“Bees don’t attack Noct.”

“They did when I was five!”

Prompto laughed as if his childhood trauma of being chased through a garden by a single bee was funny. “They wanna eat you. I bet royal skin tastes delicious.”

“Shut up Prompto!”

Prompto got up close and poked at his cheek. “They want your skin Noct. They’ll surround you and gnaw at your flesh.”

“Shut up!”

Noctis ran to the other side of the farm and Prompto followed yelling about the bees coming for him. He attempted to get away from it by climbing a pine tree, but it was low and Prompto grabbed at his waist to pull him down.

“You’re going to hurt yourselves!” Luna yelled.

“The bees will hurt us Lu!” Prompto yelled.

“Get him off of me!” He yelled.

They got into a small scuffle before where Prompto pulled Noctis from the tree, making him fall flat on his ass. They went about finishing the rest of their chores then piled inside to watch the fortune teller predict misfortune for an unlucky viewer Robin left soon after the sun fell and by then it looked as if things were halfway built. Noctis could see several cabinets built out and outlets for the appliances were installed. He fell asleep with Luna laying on his shoulder, cutting off circulation to his arm.

When he woke up his arm had pins traveling up and down his arm that were fairly annoying. Both Prompto and Luna were gone and he rolled out of bed to get to work only to face plant when he tripped over the pot again.

“What the hell?” He yelled. Luna was close enough to hear him and she came in as he fumbled the pot back into the closet.

“Was that the pot again?” She asked.

“Yeah.” He shoved the door closed. It was starting to get on his nerves, tripping over that pot over and over again.

“We’re haunted I’m sure of it.” Luna announced. She reached into the closet and pulled out the bag she’d packed when she left. Noctis had thought it was emptied, but Luna instead pulled out some sage and lit it with an old, half empty lighter. “If this doesn’t protect us then we’re in trouble.”

Noctis ran out of the house and let her do whatever witchcraft she felt like needed to be done. Prompto was outside checking on his beer, looking content at whatever reading he got from the sample. He then got to the slow process of filling the individual glass bottles by using a small spout at the end. The filling went slowly and every once in a while it overflowed and spilled to the ground. But when Noctis checked back at noon Prompto had rows and rows of 750ml beer bottles.

“Oooohhh.” Noctis held one up. The color was a light amber through the clear bottle. “These look good.”

“I hope they are. I’m gonna do what Luna did and give it to Gus to sell locally for people to try. The next round I’ll sell through the bin.”

“Don’t give it all away.”

“We can keep twenty.”

“Fifty.”

“No.”

Noctis frowned and crossed his arms. He didn’t spend weekends in debate lessons to not get fifty, large sized bottles of beer from his brewmaster boyfriend.

“I promise I won’t wander away.”

“That’s not a promise you can keep.” Prompto firmly rebutted.

Noctis hunkered down, he had to make Ignis proud and win this. “It is a promise I can keep. I’ll lock the door and hide the keys.”

“I’ll let you keep twenty-five beers.”

Victory. A minor one, but still a victory. “Thank you, I love you.”

Prompto gathered the bottles up into his bag while Luna made him up some questionnaire cards and a few labels. Prompto then headed to town like a beer santa claus, ready to give all the adults their summer presents.

“You know Lu, if Prompto can make beer from the wheat then we can totally make wine from the fruit.”

“Noctis no. We’re out in the middle of nowhere. You don’t need to be getting lost in a forest.”

“Why do you two just assume that I’ll always wander off when I’m drunk?”

“Because Ignis found you in the dumpster of the Cactuar Sandwich Spot.” She deadpanned. “You don’t even like them.”

“There were extenuating circumstances!”

“No there weren’t!”

“Yes there was!” Luna rolled her eyes and walked away from him. “I just can’t remember them! Who do you believe, Ignis or me?”

He eventually had to flee to the great fishing frontier when Luna pulled out the melons to start on some melon jam. It was time for work and therefore time for him to do what he did best. He arrived at the pier just as Willy locked his shop up to prepare for a night of fishing.

“Got kicked out?” He joked as Noctis put some tackle on his line.

“You could say that.”

“Hehe. Been there. Datin’ ain’t easy. It’s why I’m married to the sea.”

“It’s not so bad. I needed to come out and catch dinner anyway.”

“Ya got that kitchen you wanted?”

“It’s in development.”

“Hmmm.” Willy unlocked the front door of his shop and headed back inside. Noctis waited comfortably outside for him to return. He pulled up a broken CD and some algae while he waited which he put to the side to throw away.

Willy came back after a few minutes and handed him a worn notecard. “Mah papi loved to cook. That was my favorite recipe. Make it and tell me what you think.”

The recipe card was faded, but Noctis could still make out the words that made up the simple recipe. Some butter, clams, milk, and flour. Noctis thought it actually might be a little good.

“Thanks!”

He quit fishing to look for clams on the beach. They typically littered the shore near the main peer and the peer next to it. Noctis didn’t leave until he had a bagful of them and several rainbow shells. Before whatever valuable shells he found would end up being sold so he decided that he’d keep the few he found as he headed back home.

The house looked almost completely finished when he arrived, but there were still tools strewn about and partially cut wood on the ground. The appliances inside were still disconnected from the power supply and Robin had left for the day. He set the clams in a box for storage then headed inside.

After another night sleeping with no draft draft he woke up late to a complete lack of hammering noises. He sat up to see Luna fiddling around with the stove while Prompto unboxed some cast iron pans.

Noctis wasn’t expecting for there to be so much space. Their home was easily doubled, maybe even tripled, from the small cabin it once. The east most wall became a doorway the opened up out into the kitchen area with enough space between the door and the kitchen to be called a modest living room. The kitchen itself was spacious. The stove was a thick slab of stone over several burners and the fridge was a walk in that could fit all three of them. The wall opposite the oven had a counter made of two inches of wood. Noctis didn’t know what they’d do with so much space, but he was sure they’d all find a use for it.

He wanted to try everything out but there was too much work to do. Preserves had to be packaged and sold and Prompto had gotten the majority of the beer survey’s back. They were overwhelmingly positive so Prompto brought out two other kegs and got to work making another two batches of the amber brew he made and one of a white beer.

“You picked this up quick Prom.” Noctis commented as he tried to avoid doing chores. “I guess that’s to be expected? Since your parents were farmers.”

“Well that and they made beer.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but it was more of a basement project,” Prompto set a giant bucket of water over a makeshift fire he’d made.

“They had you help brewing basement beer as a kid?”

“Yep.” Prompto said casually. Lucis’ drinking laws were so strict that the maids had to fill his wine glass with grape juice at functions until he was twenty. A dignitary bought him wine for his nineteenth birthday and his father had immediately yanked it from his hands once they were alone. Noctis couldn’t imagine being allowed in the same room with unsealed alcohol as a kid. Granted he likely would’ve immediately drank himself sick.

“Did you ever partake?”

“Once in a while.”

“Why didn’t you invite me over?”

“Because my parents said that if I did then they’d disown me!”

“No they wouldn’t’ve!”

”Yeah, well, I didn’t want them to get pissed.” He said. “Remember, I had to live with ‘em.”

Noctis did not try and argue with that. Prompto’s parents were an interesting duo. He knew they had few rules, but those rules were stricted. Decent grades, no trouble with the law, nothing too shocking. He also knew that they had been refugees from a small village far north in Niflheim’s territory. They were different, but Prompto never complained about them.

After the work was done they all split up for the day. Luna wandered off to forage for some green onions and Prompto hit up the mines for more ore. Noctis decided to stay back and attempt to get a head start on dinner.

He sold a few foraged red mushrooms for a small pack of eggs and some oil. He figured that would make a decent meal with a melon that had yet to make it to the preserves jar. He took that back home and pulled out a small, thick pan from one of the cabinets.

Noctis had seen plenty of people crack an egg into a pan, but he’d honestly never done it himself. He attempted to crack it on the pan like he saw Ignis do many times and smashed one out of six of the eggs on the side. The yolk oozed out all over the new stove.

He cleaned it up best he could and tried again. The second attempt he cracked it and opened it up with both hands. It mostly ended up in the pan and he turned the burner on when he realized that the egg was in a cold. Soon the egg was stuck to the bottom of a ripping hot pan and no amount of scraping could get it up.

That pan went into the sink. He found another and he remembered to oil the bottom and kept it over the heat. The egg landed in the center causing hot oil to splatter and stain his clothes. It then quickly went from raw to charcoal black. Eggs four and five were down the drain before Noctis realized that he had the heat on too high.

The sixth egg was the only one edible. It’s yolk cracked on impact, but after some maneuvering he had a plate of partially scrambled eggs on his plate. He celebrated his victory by taking a big bite only to realize that he’d forgotten to season it.

He ended up sitting alone in an empty saloon as Gus cooked on his lunch. Watching Gus work on cooking, the easy way he handled so many complex things at once, made him feel more depressed about his complete inability to fry a fuckiing egg.

“What’s got you down kid?”

“Nothing important.” He sullenly sighed.

Gus slid a sandwich in front of him. Another daily special. Noctis almost actually did throw it away, but he was hungry and there was work that needed done.

“Don’t say that. If it’s important to you than it’s important.”

Noctis sighed again. “I tried to cook today and all I did was make a burnt mess.”

“Really now? What’d you try to make?”

“A fried egg.”

Gus tutted. “You kids today. No one taught ya how to cook an egg?”

“Nope. Someone was always around to do it for me.” He felt pathetic just saying that. How did he end up so unable to take care of himself? Well, he knew the answer to that, but it was even more depressing than the question.

“Well why don’t ya come ‘round and I’ll show ya?”

Noctis looked up. Gus looked serious. “Really?”

“Yeah sure. Eggs are the most important ingredient in cooking.”

Noctis shuffled around to the bar’s front kitchen. It was a modest size, there was a station with from vegetables already chopped up and some dough was portioned out in a tray. A small set of burners were in front and the pan used to warm up the meatballs sat in the sink. Gus pulled out a carton of eggs and set a clean pan on the stove.

“Now, cookin’ an egg is like makin’ love to a woman. You gotta be gentle.”

“Ok… I’ve, uh, never done that before?”

“Ah, don’t be shy. You three alone up on that farm, I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“No I do not. Please use another metaphor.”

Gus laughed at that. Then he walked Noctis through frying a single egg and making a simple omelette. The impromptu lesson lasted half an hour and he got to eat some of the eggs and take the daily special home. When he arrived Prompto was smelting some steel outside. Through the window he could see that Luna  was in the kitchen, but he couldn’t see exactly what she was doing.

“I didn’t know there was steel down there.” He commented as Prompto pulled out a big steel bar.

“Oh yeah, I found loads of other stuff down there too.” Prompto nodded towards a pile of things. There was some quartz, a frozen tear, and a big hunk of topaz. “I hit the jackpot today.”

“Wow, this is great. We need to plan another trip together and get more stuff.”

“We should.”

“Hey, what’s Luna doing?”

Prompto’s face dropped. “She’s cooking.” Prompto’s voice was suddenly strained.

“What’s she making?”

“Roasted chicken…”

“Cool, it’s been forever since I’ve had that.” Noctis helped Prompto smelt the last bar and organize their little smelting station.

They puttered around a bit before dinner. Prompto checked his beer and the preserves Luna had going. Noctis checked the few tappers they had and found one full of pine tar that he kept to store. Neither of them really needed to do any of that, but it was a good way to spend time until Luna popped her head out the window and called them both in for dinner.

Noctis ran in first, then stopped at the door. The chicken that was on the table was not nearly what he expected. When Ignis made chicken it was always brown with the legs trussed up with mashed potatoes and some sort of vegetable that he never ate. This chicken that Luna made was none of those. It was pale near the top while the tips of the legs were somehow black.

“Looks interesting Lu.” Noctis tried to say convincingly. He didn’t sound convincing to his own ears but Luna seemed content to pull out a big knife and get to work carving. He and Prompto sat down as Luna clumsily hacked away. She separated the legs revealing a red inside that set off warning bells in Noctis’ head. But he didn’t know enough about cooking chicken to really say anything.

“Uh, Lu.” Prompto said. “How long did you cook this for?”

“An hour.” She said.

“Then why is it pink inside?”

“Oh, well I cooked it low so that it was rare. Since you said you liked rare steak. I’ve never had rare chicken before so I wanted to try it.”

That sounded wrong. But Noctis didn’t get a chance to say something before Prompto reached over and bravely took the plate of half cooked chicken while Luna still wielded her knife.

“Hey, what are you doing?” She demanded.

“You can’t eat raw chicken Lu.” Prompto said. He unceremoniously dumped the entire thing in the trash then placed the plate in the sink. “We’d all get really sick.”

“What? Since when.”

“Since salmonella. Let’s just go to the saloon and we can all attempt something tomorrow.” He said diplomatically.

Eating at the saloon wasn’t too bad again. It was a Friday and most of the town was inside dancing to the music and having a good time. They all bought some beer and tried to ignore the fact that this was likely the seventh pot roast dinner they’d had in a month. When they were done they were all able to play pool with Sebastian, Abigail, and Sam. And Luna seemed to have calmed down enough to actually enjoy it. They’d figure everything out tomorrow.