Archive of Our Own

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Intro/Outro: Only If for a Night | Florence + the Machine

The facade of the Rosebud Motel is nothing special: basic cream with some half-hearted stonework and plain white doors. The sign is the only thing that steals Ruth’s attention. It’s a nice bright red, and it doesn’t conjure up images of the Bates Motel.

She’d been concerned about that, given that she bought it sight unseen.

Buying a motel wasn’t exactly an impulse buy, but it wasn’t not an impulse buy either. Ruth had been looking for a change from her corporate 9-to-5 in New York City – not that she’d anticipated that change would come in the form of a roadside motel in a small Canadian town, sold for less than half of what the property was worth.

“Ms. Clancy.” Ray Butani meets her halfway between their two vehicles. “You found it ok?”

“Ok enough,” she replies, holding her tongue about the complicated directions she’d been given and promptly ignored. Google Maps had done just fine finding the place, thankfully.

“Great! I have your keys, and the final bits of paperwork to sign.” Ray unlocks the lobby and motions her inside. “I also brought some listings, if you’re looking to purchase a home?” he adds, eyebrows raised hopefully.

Ruth admires his sales strategy, but wonders if he’s really taking into account that she just bought a business. A business that needs a lot of improvements. “Not right now,” she answers. “But you’ll be the first to know when I’m in the market.” She has a sneaking suspicion he’s the only realtor in Schitt’s Creek.

“Of course,” he recovers with a smile, “please, take a seat.”

It’s quiet in Schitt’s Creek. Much quieter than Ruth expected, actually. She can hear crickets outside her room when she steps onto the walk, and the stars are stark against the black sky.

For the first time since she’s driven into town, she feels like maybe she did make the right choice.

It’s equally as quiet in the lobby, but much brighter with all the lights on. Ruth could have sworn she turned them off earlier, after Mr. Butani left.

Maybe she’ll need to have the wiring inspected again.

Turning from the door, Ruth startles at the woman sitting behind the desk. She’s dark-haired with an intense look on her face when she glances up from the computer screen.

“Hi,” Ruth says, recovering quickly. “Can I help you?”

“That’s my line,” the desk girl replies, the corner of her mouth twitching up, softening the intensity of her face. There’s a tag on her flannel shirt that says her name is Stevie. “Are you looking for a room?”

“I have a room,” Ruth answers, wondering if there’s anyone that would come if she called 9-1-1. Stevie doesn’t look dangerous, but this is either an elaborate prank or an elaborate way to rob her. Neither option is great. “I own the motel. Signed the papers this afternoon.”

“Are you sure?” Stevie asks bluntly, skepticism clear before she seems to freeze, eyebrows drawn together again. “Ray would have mentioned it if he found a buyer.”

“I can show you the paperwork, if you want,” Ruth offers, even though she really doesn’t want to offer anything that has her legal name on it to this stranger. “For what it’s worth, he didn’t tell me anything about you either.”

That seems to make Stevie relax. “It’s not like I should be surprised, really. I told him I didn’t really care who bought it or how it was sold,” Stevie states with a shrug. “But I wouldn’t mind knowing who you are, though, now that you’re here,” she finishes, leaning an elbow on the desk and fixing her eyes on Ruth.

Ruth ignores the sudden butterflies.

“Ruth Clancy,” Ruth replies. “Mr. Butani didn’t tell me it came with a staff either, so I’m getting the impression he might not be good with details?”

“Not really a staff, just me. My aunt owned the property,” Stevie explains. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No! No –” Ruth rushes out, then stops quickly to compose herself and continues in a much more moderate tone, “having some help would be nice, but I probably can’t pay that much.”

Stevie actually smiles and Ruth feels silly at the way she notices how it softens Stevie’s whole face, and feels even sillier by the way it conjures butterflies again.

It’s a really nice smile.

It’s also definitely inappropriate to notice that.

“Are you going to fire me if I say no?” Stevie asks, obviously not serious, and obviously not actually asking. “I really wasn’t getting paid that much before, so it’s not like there’s going to be a difference.”

“Ok, great.” Ruth’s relieved and she’s not really sure why. A few minutes ago she was concerned about being robbed and now she’s relieved that that same stranger is staying. “Well, since you’re awake and I’m awake, we can sort through some of this paperwork.” She waves at the boxes stacked just beside the stairs. It hadn’t been her original intention when she walked in, but it’s a good excuse to stay.

“I’m going to make some coffee too, do you want any?”

Stevie makes a noise that could either be a yes or a no or an indefinite maybe, so Ruth starts enough for two cups in the coffeemaker sitting on the sideboard, just in case. She sets two ceramic mugs beside it, then gathers up the first box from the stack and heads back towards the desk.

There’s a cloud of dust when she sets the box back down.

“These are probably older than both of us,” Stevie comments dryly, eyeballing the stacks of paper inside. “Aunt Maureen wasn’t big on systems either, so they could be important, or they could be her handwritten grocery lists. She kept everything.”

“I guess we won’t know until we start,” Ruth replies, renewed resolve in her expression. She could just throw it all away – the odds of anything being important seems small – but she can’t bring herself to assume that without investigating properly.

It’s also an excuse to stay in the lobby with Stevie.

They make their way through two boxes before they find anything more than handwritten notes. It’s an invoice –a very old invoice– but considering the rest of the box was a very haphazard ledger of expenses written on the backs of napkins and scraps of note paper, Ruth considers it something. She probably still won’t keep it, but at least it means there’s the possibility that important documents are buried amongst the inconsequentials.

“You’re really sure you want to go through all of them?” Stevie asks, setting another page on top of the recycling pile they started.

“I’m sure.” Ruth responds, filling both mugs now that the coffee is done percolating, and carries them and a handful of sugar packets back over to Stevie. “I couldn’t live with myself if I accidentally threw out an important piece of Rosebud history.”

Stevie snorts. “What, like a ghost story you can use for marketing?” she asks, eyebrow raised. Ruth doesn’t take it personally; they don’t really know each other. “Guarantee there aren’t any of those.”

“No, not like a ghost story. Just, you know, history.” There hadn’t been a lot of information in the paperwork Ray had. “It would be nice to know more about the place.”

“Don’t be disappointed when it’s not exciting,” Stevie warns, fidgeting with a sugar packet. “Schitt’s Creek is pretty boring, actually, aside from the sign.”

Ruth had seen the sign on her way in. It was… something.

“I’ll temper my expectations accordingly,” she assures, taking a sip from her mug. For motel lobby coffee, it’s not bad.

When they finally call it a night, after two more boxes of paperwork, Stevie’s coffee is still sitting untouched on the desk. The stack of sugar packets lies unopened beside it, although they’re a little more crumpled from the fidgeting Stevie had done.

“If you need me for anything, I’m in room two,” Ruth tells her, gathering the discarded pages for recycling. “It looked the cleanest –” Stevie makes a noise under her breath, “– not that I’m disparaging your cleaning skills,” Ruth adds in a rush, unsure if Stevie actually does the cleaning or not.

“It’s cool, I would have chosen that one too,” Stevie replies, obviously amused at Ruth’s attempt to rescue herself from an awkward situation. “I think I’ll be able to handle it if there’s a rush. So, go, get some sleep.”

It’s not until Ruth is back in her room that she remembers the guest log.

Nobody has stayed at the Rosebud in two months.

“You know, you could call someone to do that,” Stevie comments from the doorway, causing Ruth to steadfastly ignore the way her stomach swoops at the sound of Stevie’s voice. It’s been six weeks, a handful of guests, and a lot of Stevie Budd watching her demolish decor with a sledgehammer.

Also a lot of Ruth reminding herself it’s not appropriate to ask an employee on a date and trying to figure out ways to get over the crush she’s been forming.

“I watched a YouTube video, it’s fine.” Ruth sets the sledgehammer aside and turns more fully towards Stevie and the door. The cabinets are half off the wall, mostly in one piece. She’ll have a professional install the new ones, since that seems like more work than the demolition was, and less fun.

“The closest ER is in Elmdale,” Stevie points out, still leaning in the doorway. “You know, I really could give you a list. Ronnie would probably give you a good price to do the work.”

That’s something that Ruth has learned since she’s been at the Rosebud: Stevie knows everybody and everything about the town. What to order and what not to order at the Café Tropical, what to say to Roland Schitt to get him to approve construction permits, and who to avoid at The Wobbly Elm. But she never actually seems to be in town. Or, at least Ruth has never run into her.

Nobody has asked Ruth about Stevie either. They’ve asked about the motel, but not usually anything else. A few people have acted like the Rosebud hasn’t been up and running for months, but Ruth attributes that to the general quirks she’s already seen in the inhabitants of Schitt’s Creek.

They probably just haven’t been paying attention.

“Ronnie would probably give me a better price if you called,” Ruth returns, pushing her goggles up into her hair, and Stevie does the thing where she looks contemplative, but Ruth is never actually sure if she is contemplating anything.

It’s happened a few times –more recently, lately– where there’s just silence for a few minutes and Stevie looking like she’s not actually there. Vacant is probably the best way to describe it, but it isn’t quite that, and Ruth is used to it now, considering it a Stevie-ism. Like twirling strands of hair, or picking at her cuticles. It’s just something that Stevie does.

Maybe that’s weird on Ruth’s part.

“You don’t pay me enough to negotiate construction costs,” Stevie teases eventually, coming back to herself as the blankness recedes from her features, replaced with that quietly amused smirk Ruth gets so distracted by. “But I’ll write down her number. Deal?”

Ruth hates that she has professional boundaries. And she hates how attractive Stevie is without seeming to know it.

“Deal, I guess.” Ruth agrees, pulling her goggles back down and refocusing on the task at hand. “But you’ll give me that number over dinner.”

So maybe her boundaries are getting a little flexible.

It could be a business dinner; nothing unusual about that.

“Uhm, okay.” Stevie looks unsure about her answer, but Ruth can’t tell why. “But nowhere too fancy.”

“We can go to the Café.”

It’s not a business dinner, no matter what Ruth tries to tell herself.

They set a date and time… and Stevie doesn’t show up.

Ruth doesn’t see her for a week after.

“Hi.”

Ruth startles at the sound of Stevie’s voice.

She should be angry. Stevie ghosted her and didn’t show up for work for a week. But she’s not angry, not even a little. She knows why, and maybe she should be concerned about that too, but she’s only relieved that Stevie is ok.

“Hi,” Ruth replies after a long pause, setting the tools down that she had been organizing in the small shed behind the Rosebud. There’s barely two feet between them; they’re close enough for Ruth to notice the way Stevie’s biting her bottom lip.

“Sorry about…” Stevie starts saying, and it looks like it’s difficult to get the words out, “dinner. I tried to show up, but I couldn’t.” She doesn’t explain why she disappeared and Ruth wants to ask, but it already seems hard enough for Stevie. “I wanted to,” Stevie continues, pushing hair behind one of her ears, locking eyes with Ruth, then looking away again. “I really wanted to.”

On impulse Ruth reaches for Stevie’s hand and Stevie doesn’t flinch away — thank god — but she still isn’t looking at her either. Ruth is struck by how cold Stevie is.

“It’s really okay. Things happen,” Ruth says softly. “I’m happy you’re back.” The Rosebud had been lonely without Stevie. “And we can always have a do-over, if you want. Order in instead?” Ruth already had the thought earlier in the week that maybe Stevie isn’t out and a public dinner was too much scrutiny for her.

Stevie’s not the most forthcoming with life details.

“I –,” Stevie starts, stops, then starts again “– okay.” She looks up at Ruth and squeezes Ruth’s hand. “Tonight?”

“I’m not busy.”

They share a dinner tucked away in the back office.

Ruth doesn’t notice until she’s gathering the take-out containers that Stevie must have been too nervous to actually eat anything. So she decides to place everything in the small fridge, so Stevie can warm something up if she gets hungry later.

It’s three days later when she notices the containers are still there, untouched.

Stevie must have forgotten about them, too.

They have many more back office dinner dates, lunch dates, and staff meetings, that are really just excuses for some time alone together.

Ruth’s mother calls her often, asking about how things are going, about the guests that have stayed, and the progress Ruth is making, and the employee that Ruth seems to talk about a lot.

She hasn’t told her mother it’s more than that with Stevie.

It’s been four months, but Stevie is around just as often as she isn’t. Ruth doesn’t like it, obviously. She’s concerned with the way Stevie is sometimes disoriented, or worse, doesn’t remember she was missing at all, when she does return.

None of that is anything she wants to try and explain to her mother, to be perfectly honest.

She gets the feeling that there’s something Stevie isn’t telling her, but she doesn’t want to push. Stevie works at her own speed. Ruth loves that about her. It means that Ruth is equally as able to work things out at her own speed too.

It doesn’t change the fact that there is something wrong, and it doesn’t help that that wrong thing isn’t getting better.

But Ruth doesn’t expect to find a clue written on a note next to the computer at the front desk. It’s an accident. She’s not usually at the front desk, because that’s Stevie’s realm, but she needed a pen.

The note reads: ‘Your name is Stevie Budd, the year is 2021, you live in Schitt’s Creek, and Ruth Clancy owns the Rosebud.’ in Stevie’s neat scrawl, with another more hidden note on the back that reads: ‘you love her.’

It shouldn’t make Ruth cry either, but she’s fighting back tears when Stevie walks through the door.

“Oh,” Stevie exhales softly, eyes cutting to the small yellow Post-It in Ruth’s hand, “that’s where I left that.” And Ruth can’t tell if she’s ashamed or if she’s angry, or what she might be feeling, since her face is unreadable.

“What is this?” Ruth asks finally, waving the note before she forcibly attaches it to the desk again. “What aren’t you telling me?” She really wanted to let Stevie work things out in her own time, but she can’t ignore something that’s staring her in the face.

“You won’t believe me if I tell you,” Stevie replies, voice still soft, eyes still stubbornly anywhere but Ruth’s face.

It makes Ruth come around the desk and grab both of Stevie’s hands in her own. “Try me,” Ruth whispers, “Just… just try me… please.”

Ruth doesn’t know what she expects to hear, but it’s not Stevie saying, “I don’t think I’m here.” She sounds so lost, and a little afraid.

“What?” Ruth squeezes Stevie’s hands more tightly, until she’s not squeezing them at all anymore. She should be; her hands haven’t moved. But when she risks a look down, she gasps. Stevie’s hands are still there, but they aren’t tangible. Ruth can’t touch them. “Stevie?” she asks, trying not to panic.

“I don’t think I’m here anymore,” Stevie repeats. “I think I’m stuck. I think…” She hiccups a little, her voice wavers, and her eyes for the first time come up to meet Ruth’s. “I think I’m gone.”

The words echo in Ruth’s ears. She was expecting an admission of memory loss of some kind, not… whatever this is.

“I don’t know what you’re saying, how can you be? You’re right in front of me.” Ruth drops her hands helplessly to her sides, pining for the ability to pull Stevie close to her and pained by the loss that she can’t. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Except when Ruth puts all the pieces together, it might, maybe? The little things she tried to pass off as normal and explain away, suddenly they look different in a new light.

Stevie shrugs helplessly, her bottom lip pulled in between her teeth. “I don’t know,” she says, sounding lost again. “But I disappear and then I’m back, and sometimes I relive things that have already happened…” She shrugs again. “I know they’ve already happened… and I keep forgetting things.” She waves at the desk, at the Post-It with her name and the year, and the note that she loves Ruth written on the back.

“I don’t want you to be gone,” Ruth says selfishly. “You’re right here. I can see you, and I can hear you, and I –” Ruth stops because she was going to say she could feel her, but she can’t, not anymore. “I love you.”

Stevie raises her hands to cup Ruth’s face. Ruth can barely feel it; it’s like a whisper, a suggestion of an action, but it reinforces to Ruth that Stevie is there.

“I’m gone,” Stevie tells her, “but I’m not gone,” and she exhales a sound that could be a laugh, if only it was less shaky, “if that makes sense.” They’re both dancing around the word that neither wants to say.

Ruth won’t say it. She doesn’t want to say it ever. They’re both quiet for a minute. Ruth doesn’t know what to say, which feels strange, because she always knows what to say. Stevie seems like she’s letting Ruth process.

“Did you know when we met?” Ruth asks finally, raising her own hands to hover over Stevie’s. She’s too afraid to touch. She’s still a little panicked.

Stevie shakes her head. “I didn’t figure it out until I started disappearing more often,” she admits, caressing Ruth’s brow. It barely feels like anything. “I think you might be the thing keeping me here at all.”

“I want you to stay,” Ruth whispers. “At least until the Rosebud is done.” She wants to say forever, but even she knows they probably won’t get that. “I want you to see the Rosebud finished.” Stevie brushes her fingers across Ruth’s brow again and leans forward.

The kiss is soft and barely felt, but Ruth meets it anyway, and she puts all the things she can’t say into it.

“I’m sorry,” Stevie says against Ruth’s lips. “I’ll try to stay as long as I can,” she promises. “I love you.” She kisses Ruth again, and for a moment, a fleeting, precious moment, she feels like she’s always felt. Ruth holds onto that, and she doesn’t think about all the things they’ve lost and maybe never had to begin with.

Stevie is there when the last project is finished at The Rosebud Motel. She lost pieces of herself slowly, in fractions, and Ruth watched it happen, helpless to keep her in one piece. But she made it to the day and kept her promise.

They sit out back by a fire and toast to the future, even though they both know that future doesn’t apply to both of them, and when Ruth wakes the next morning she knows Stevie is gone. Not just for a few hours, not for a few days, but finally gone.

She takes a deep, sad, breath.

When she finds her phone on the side table, there’s a note stuck to it that reads: ‘My name is Stevie Budd, the year is 2021, Ruth Clancy owns the Rosebud Motel and I love her.’ and when Ruth flips the note over –with shaking hands –it says ‘until we’re together again.’

Ruth watched Stevie leave her in slow motion, in bits and pieces, but she never had to watch Stevie forget her love for her. Even if Stevie might have written herself a thousand notes to remember, it was always there. Ruth never doubted it.

“Until we’re together again,” Ruth whispers to the walls, pulling the flannel from the chair by the bed and wrapping herself in it. “I love you.”