Chapter Text
Dec 1st
It’s always the cold days, the ones that make your breath fog up in front of you, so you cover your mouth with a warm scarf to keep the heat in. Those are always the days when something happens. That was the way Rosé was walking on that faithful December day, trying to protect her throat from the cold. If she could avoid a sore throat, maybe she’d finally be able to get that solo that she’s been wishing for for the last year. She’d woken with a rasp that morning, never a good sign when heading into heavy rehearsal season. She’d done unspeakable things to make it go away - like drink a raw egg.
As she contemplated how much that made her want to retch, a horrible thought struck her. What had it done to her breath? She was so preoccupied not to become the weird girl with the egg breath, that she completely missed the Americans.
Something was definitely wrong with her today. Normally, she would have spotted them from a mile away and gone above and beyond to avoid them. (Truly, one time, she’d taken a shamefully large detour to avoid a particularly large group visiting the village.)
“Oh, sorry,” one of them giggled as she bumped into Rosé’s arm and was met with a colourful string of curses as warm, sweet tea spilled over her hand and sleeve. It didn’t burn. It was far worse than that - she was going to be sticky now. (She would kill Jan upon her return to the inn, she’d specifically asked for no sugar.)
“That was uncalled for,” another one of the pack intervened, the voice grating on Rosé’s nerves. She didn’t have many to spare - between two sisters, her courseload over at Glasgow University and helping her parents out with the castle-turned-museum-slash-inn, her nerves were all taut and frayed and not at all inclined to be lenient with California accents.
“Who asked yer opinion, eejit,” she muttered, mostly to herself, even though the culprit of the tea spilling seemed to have heard her. She giggled again, probably finding Rosé’s accent and her use of the word eejit so charming and funny. She wished she'd thought of something worse to call her.
“What did you call me?” California vocal fry tried to intervene again, but the culprit cut him off.
“Sorry for that,” she smiled, showing a perfect row of pearly white and a deep dimple in her left cheek. Rosé found she couldn’t care less. “Let me make it up to you… I’ll buy you another coffee,” she offered, making Rosé roll her eyes all the way to Heaven.
“Unlike you lot, I have places to be,” she pushed through the dimpled girls’ group, ignoring their shocked expressions and her protests.
She hurried along the pavement, checking her watch. Great, she’s get to rehearsal late, sticky and with questionable breath.
What a perfect way to start a December.
❄️
“I hate Americans,” was the first thing Rosé announced to her sisters, plopping down onto a chair in the inn’s vast dining hall.
“Everybody, everybody,” Lagoona began, straightening up from arranging cutlery.
“One and all,” Jan continued from where she was stacking the buffet tables with freshly cleaned plates.
“Lads and lasses,” Lagoona’s voice carried through the former ballroom of the castle.
“Breaking news!” Jan’s voice cut in.
“If you’ve been sleeping for the past, say, thirty years,” Lagoona’s eyes landed on Rosé.
“Rosé hates Americans,” Jan announces to the empty hall, then breathes out a theatrically exaggerated sigh. “Whew, glad we got that out of the way,” she runs the back of her palm over her forehead, disappearing through a door hidden behind an enormous, dark green and very empty looking fir tree.
“Now, get up,” Lagoona whips her polishing rag towards Rosé’s thighs. She can’t feel much, they’re pretty much frozen from the outside, but she winces, knowing the feeling from warmer seasons.
“Inconsiderate, the two of yous,” she huffs. “What if something actually bad had happened?” she raises an eyebrow.
“You’re the oldest of us, how did you end up being the brat?” Lagoona asks the Heavens. “And I said, get up,” she whips her sister with the rag again.
“Have you, by any chance met your sister, Janiffer?” Rosé counters. “I can introduce ye, see who the brat actually is,” she mutters. Jan hears, though, and a high pitched noise of protest erupts from the dishwasher room. (The machine they got was so gigantic they thought they’d honour it by giving it a space of its very own. Also, having an adjacent room for it meant less carrying of heavy porcelain plates.)
Rosé rolls her eyes, pulling at the thick wollen hat, stuffed down to her eyebrows. The cold and rather damp material slides off her skull, liberating cascades of luscious auburn hair.
“How can I help you?” Lagoona’s voice turns suddenly nice and serviceable.
“Me? Stop taking bookings from Americans,” Rosé mutters, running her hand through the hair she’s kept hidden away all day long. Between the thick accent and the bright, long, ginger hair, she’s prime gawking material for Americans.
The rag whips across her face so fast that she doesn't even see it coming. There’s just the flitting feeling of textile over her face and a sudden mouthful of hair in her mouth.
“Not ye, ye feckin’ bampot,” Lagoona’s reply is fast and thick with a Scottish accent that she usually tames around guests. Her head points slightly to the main entrance to the ballroom/dining hall and Rosé turns in her seat.
In the doorway is a stunningly pretty woman - all brown doe eyes, honey coloured skin, so rarely seen about the parts, shiny brunette hair braided down one shoulder and a slightly startled expression on her face, looking directly at her. She had been just as beautiful that morning, when she’d all but ruined any semblance of hope for a good - neigh, decent - day for Rosé. Judging by her T-shirt and loose sweatpants, she was staying with them.
Bloody brilliant.
“How can we help you?” Lagoona asks again, drawing those brown eyes upon her.
The guest shakes her head slightly, as if trying to rid herself of an image. “Yeah, sorry,” she starts to explain herself, “I’d come down to see if I could get something to eat, I’m famished, and the nice, blonde girl at the reception told me to come here… Or, at least, I think she did,” she seems uncomfortable, scratching at a spot behind her ear.
“You must’ve misunderstood her,” Rosé shakes her head.
“Haud yer wheesht,” Lagoona interrupts, flicking her wrist, but Rosé sees it coming this time.
“Do that again and you’ll have the honour of chopping wood with Lawzza this whole month,” her green eyes narrow maliciously. “Take my word for it.”
Rosé’s always the one to take on the hardest jobs - chopping firewood for the many fireplaces, cleaning bathrooms, unclogging the plumbing, taking the biggest chunk of any feast preparation. It’s her big sister complex, protecting Goona and Jan.
“Sorry, I’ll try asking her again,” the guest turns in the doorway, looking dejected.
“No, Miss…” Lagoona pauses to think, “Foxx! No, it’s alright, my sister was just joking,” she smiles reassuringly. “She’s funny like that,” she explains and Rosé’s face twists into a scowl. “Rosie would be delighted to whip up something for you…”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Rosé butts in. Lagoona throws her a look. “Stop, she made my day miserable, I won’t be delighted to do anything!”
“Yer miserable attitude made yer day miserable,” Lagoona loses her composure and all control of her accent. “Now, miss Rosie, be a doll to the paying client who asked for food.”
“No, it’s fine, I don’t mean to be a bother,” the paying client tries to extricate herself from the battle of the willpowers going on.
“Will sliders do?” Rosé asks, not quite looking at her. She nods, startled. “If you’ll give me your room number, I’ll have them delivered to you.”
“Fourteen. And I really am sorry for this morning,” she placates.
Rosé shrugs, heading for one of the hidden doors that leads into the kitchen. “Awrite,” she mumbles.
She can vaguely hear Lagoona assuring the ‘paying client’ that the complaining and cursing is part of her particular brand of Scottish charm.
❄️
It is not uncommon to find Rosé outside after a long day or a particularly difficult one, chain smoking until her throat feels raw. (May or may not have something to do with rasp that’s preventing her from getting her solo, but who could tell for sure.) What is uncommon is for guests to find her chain smoking her throat raw underneath the night sky.
She has carefully chosen her place to be as hidden as possible, a dark corner around the back of the castle, where guests didn’t normally wander, but that offered an unobstructed view of the grounds and the sky.
“Hi,” said a small voice, a silhouette appearing into Rosé's field of vision. “I don’t mean to startle you,” the client that Rosé now knows as Miss Foxx says.
“‘S alright, I heard you coming,” she enunciates her words in the way that she learned from her father, before he decided that he much prefered the other side of the Atlantic.
“Oh, OK, then,” her voice is still meek, as if she’s scared she might tread wrongly and set Rosé off again.
The Scot shifts her half frozen arse closer to the edge of the stone bench she occupies. “Have a seat, miss Foxx,” she offers.
“Oh, thanks,” she perches next to Rosé. “Please call me Denali.”
“I much prefer eejit,” Rosé exhales thick smoke into the night. Denali makes a small, dejected sound. “Joke. That was a joke,” the ginger explains and she can feel the woman relaxing next to her.
“How did you find me?” Rosé asks and she tenses up again.
“I wanted to talk to you, make you actually believe that I meant my apology so I asked Miss Lagoona at reception today,” she explains. “She told me this is probably the best moment to talk to you.”
“It is,” Rosé nods. “I believe you mean your apology and the fact that you’ve apologised thrice for bumping me on the street is admirable. Especially with how hostile I get in December,” she shrugs. “I should be the one to offer you an apology. You’re our guest and I should have treated you accordingly,” she offers.
“Manager give you a scolding?” Denali asks, studying Rosé with wide eyes. Surprise is not enough of a word to describe this change in attitude. She’s startled.
“Och, aye,” Rosé smiles. “She’s hardest on me of all people… and she’s particularly awful this time of year.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to create a problem for you,” she turns her eyes upwards and the sight almost steals her breath away.
“Stop apologising, I said I was in the wrong… and that’s a rare enough occurence…” she trails off, following the direction on Denali’s eyes.
The sky is clear - the kind that only happens on crips days when the cold nips at your skin. It’s the kind of clear that means you can see each and every star in the galaxy and the smallest sliver of moon among all of the millions of shiny, flickering lights. It’s almost too much to be able to take in.
“Bonnie, innit?”
Denali nods. “What does that mean?”
“Beautiful.”
“They’ve never before been this bright or this many of them, have they?”
“Aye,” Rosé infirms. “They’re always like this here, America’s lights dull the shine of the stars…”
“Shame,” Denali is still staring, fascinated by the little dots of light.
“Aye.”
Rosé doesn’t say much after that. This is normally her quiet time, the time when she tries to quiet even her own mind. She just sits there, watching Denali watch the sky, so enthralled by it that she doesn’t even notice that Rosé is now staring at her.