So Whatavery

AHHH I'M ALIVE AGAIN!!!

Yup, you already know what time it is. Some of y'all might have already heard me bringing this story up, but now that I have the first cover art, I decided to start posting the chapters. This story in particular is going to be shorter than Ordained Defiance, but I wanted to do something similar - that being make a ship with an unappreciated character. I suppose that's sort of my thing now. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this first chapter!

Read the rest of the story here!

And this lovely cover art was made by the amazing Blue Coffee Dog!

Although the spring air still had a touch of coolness to it, the winds were far calmer than they had been just one day prior. It was a reminder that winter hadn’t been so long ago. The Mississippi was no longer a frothing torrent as it had been. The river’s murky water still flowed, but at a far slower pace now. Trudging along the pier, Kehoe eyed the water wearily.

He had seen the river overflowing many a time in his tenure as a captain, so the stormy weather of the past few days wasn’t new to him. Regardless, he still hated having had to wait on land for the raging waters to turn calm. Damages had been dealt by the river’s onslaught during the storm, yet it seemed the St. Paul port had remained mostly unscathed.

More fortunate still, it seemed the Crust Bucket hadn't been tossed about too badly. The big paddle wheeler was right where he and his crew had left it. But of course, the storm meant they were behind schedule, and who knew what state the barges they were meant to transport were in.

The large puddles on the pier were a telltale sign of just how badly the river’s waters had overflowed, though Kehoe had seen worse in his time. On the river, stormy weather and torrential downpour could do far more damage than most people even realized. He had known many a sailor who would call the sea a cruel mistress, and they would often times underestimate the Mississippi.

But Kehoe knew a raging river could be just as deadly and unforgiving as the wildest ocean. He had seen the river swallow up whole sections of land and uproot trees; he had seen it rip boats from their tethers and flip them over; he had seen men fall overboard and be claimed by the dark water, never to be seen again.

But the river was still his livelihood and more importantly his home. More or less. Barges needed towing and Kehoe just wanted to get back to work as soon as he could.

Though he wasn't all too pleased to see that none of his crew had turned up just yet, he didn’t waste time waiting for them. He boarded the large white vessel on the port side near the letters spelling out its name. The large, black letters were rather faded, and the hull overall could do with a new paint job. All in its time. For now, he set about inspecting the boat himself.

Even if he was getting a head start without his crew, Kehoe wasn't going to sail away – no matter how late they turned up. A big diesel boat like this required a full crew to man it.

Moving around on the deck, Kehoe was pleased to find that nothing serious seemed to have happened. The most remarkable thing he found was a rope that had come undone and as a result had its end dipping into the river. The large metallic knees by the bow were fine, as expected. The metallic, triangular structures being used to shove and push barges were among the most vital parts of a towboat. Without them, the Crust Bucket wouldn't be very useful at all.

Kehoe did his rounds, albeit rather casually. He'd make his crew do it properly later. Making his way past the knees where the stairs to the upper deck were, Kehoe climbed the steps, grunting with each one. It was no secret that Kehoe was getting up there in the years.

He'd been sailing on the river for nearly half his life – for over twenty years, he had called the Mississippi his home. The manual labor hadn’t allowed him to age as gracefully as a man leading a less physically demanding life.

In the years he'd spent on the river, he'd started out as a deckhand, doing small menial tasks as part of a bigger crew. He had never strayed far from St. Louis in recent years, but he had been up and down the river, even as far north as Lake Michigan.

He hadn't spent much time on the lake itself, especially not in the past couple of years. No, these days, he didn’t go much further, though the Crust Bucket had carried him to many corners of the network of rivers all around. From the Ohio River to the Missouri River, Kehoe had been to many river ports and done countless jobs over the years.

Occasionally, he'd settled down somewhere, but for the most part, he had probably spent more of his life on a boat, rather than on land. Though he did own a small house, the Crust Bucket was where he spent most of his days and nights. In fact, Kehoe could say quite confidently that he had developed a bad case of sea legs. He didn’t like being on land. The river’s calming motions helped him sleep at night and although the river wasn't ideal for fishing in most places, it still provided for him.

St. Paul was the furthest from St. Louis that Kehoe had been in a while, which certainly wasn't a bad thing. Even if most of the Crust Bucket’s towing jobs these days weren't too far from St. Louis, going further away meant more opportunities.

When Kehoe's crew finally did show up, it was at a time that he considered rather late to set off. It was a small crew proportionate to how large the Crust Bucket was, but everyone knew their place and as such, they were an efficient little team. Kehoe captained the boat that he had owned for about a decade, and he was usually the one in charge. Even if he let someone else make decisions, he still had the final say.

Steve, Dale, Carly, and Mac were perhaps not the finest crew on the river, but Kehoe knew they were all dependable and perfectly capable.

“Mornin’, cap’n,” Steve said brightly as he stepped onto the deck below. Kehoe watched from up top near the pilothouse, giving a nod before he slipped his old hat onto his head.

Being the first-mate, Steve Langley was most often the one Kehoe put in charge of delegating smaller tasks and the one who reported back to him. The orange tabby wasn't the oldest crewmember, but he had been one of the longest serving on the Crust Bucket. He had barely made it onto the deck before he also set about assessing any damages, though Kehoe knew there were none to be found.

The oldest crew member was Mackenzie Taylor, although even he was a few decades younger than Kehoe. Mac, as they usually called him, put his previous work experience as an engineer to good use. In addition to the more standard fare of work on the boat, Mac's main expertise was used to keep the mechanical inner workings of the Crust Bucket in perfect working order. Though Kehoe had many years’ experience, Mac's knowledge on machinery was still invaluable.

Dale was a curious case. The young tuxedo cat was perhaps ever so slightly overqualified for a job as deckhands, but much like Mac, he put his other qualifications to use in addition to working on deck. With a background in mathematics and economics, Dale was their bookkeeper, and Kehoe had him be in charge of the money side of things.

There were few people he would trust to manage his money, but Dale had proven himself quite good at both managing money and securing jobs for them. He was the only person on the boat besides Kehoe who had a say in which tow jobs they took on.

And finally… Carlyle O'Connell – or Carly, as they called him. He was the latest hire, having joined the crew not even half a year ago, and was also the youngest and least experienced. Steve had more or less taken him under his wing and taught him the ropes, and even now they tended to spend most of their time together. They were like two brothers that way, Kehoe supposed.

“Well, better late than never,” he grumbled from above as he watched them boarding the large paddle wheeler. “Get ready to set off, you lazy dogs.”

“Great to see you too, cap’n!” Dale greeted him back in a sarcastically cheerful manner. “Top o’ the morning to you!”

Kehoe just snorted as he moved into the pilothouse to make sure everything was as it ought to be. A few of his belongings there had seemingly been tossed around, just as the Crust Bucket had during the storm and ensuing the flood, but besides that, nothing seemed too out of the ordinary.

The pilothouse itself was rather sparse on interior, and Kehoe liked to keep the clutter out of there. The small structure had windows all around, offering a clear view of the port- and starboard side of the vessel, as well as the bow and the stern. He circled the small space and made sure everything was as it should be. The last thing he needed was damage that needed repairs.

Up by the bow windows that looked out past the large smokestacks was the pilot wheel. An immensely wide fixture made of dark wood, it was so large that a third of it had to be situated below the floor. The wheel had a diameter that was comparable to Kehoe's height.

He made sure to check that nothing had fallen into the hole or somehow lodged itself in the space between. Grunting, Kehoe got on his knees, joints creaking as he peered down to check. The floorboards were very flush with the pilot wheel, leaving just enough room for the big contraption to turn, but without such a big gap that it was unsightly. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like anything had gotten stuck in the empty space.

The Crust Bucket’s pilothouse was considerably more elegant than some of the older vessels Kehoe had sailed in his time. Not that appearances mattered all that much to him.

“What you see is what you're gettin’,” was how Kehoe usually liked to describe himself. He liked to think he was very straightforward that way. Just the kind of man who got the job done with no bells and whistles. Besides, there was really no need to overcomplicate the work they did here. Not that he could think of a way to do that…

Once the engine roared to life and dark puffs erupted from the smokestacks, they were ready to depart. They had a ways to go before they got back on track. The storm had set them back massively, but Kehoe was also well aware that the same was the case for everything and everyone else who worked on or around the Mississippi.

And once they were all set, Kehoe spun the massive wheel, and they were off. With the steady rumbling of the engine and the familiar splashing of the stern wheel, the Crust Bucket left the St. Paul riverport, setting out for the first time in days.

Hand on the wheel, Kehoe stood on the starboard side of the pilothouse, watching as the boat steadily rolled along the river. Even after decades of working this job, he still enjoyed sailing; the feeling of controlling a machine this big and powerful with the turn of a wooden wheel; the gentle motions of the water; the noises the Crust Bucket made.

Even the light creaking the floorboards in the pilothouse made when he shifted his weight from foot to foot was strangely calming. By now the harsh, burnt smell of the sternwheeler’s smoke was familiar, almost comforting.

Many things had changed in the past decade for the country, but very little of it had actually affected Kehoe and the crew. The political climate hardly seemed to impact the river, just as the Mississippi couldn’t truly be tamed. New laws and jurisdictions came and went, and still Kehoe simply did what he'd been doing for half his life. Although a great many people’s lives had been changed by the nationwide prohibition, Kehoe hardly paid it any mind.

That wasn't entirely true, actually.

The main thing it had brought Kehoe was more business. Not anywhere near legal, nor was it particularly profitable, but Kehoe had been getting away with it since the earliest days of prohibition. As it turned out, by making something illegal, it only made people want it all the more. Funny how that worked…

Of course, Kehoe was no different. But no one but the Crust Bucket crew knew of the personal stash of liquor they had stored in the cargo hold – the one that never traded hands. He and the crew enjoyed it sparingly, but they often times did sail moonshine up and down the river as a side hustle. None of the men questioned it or had any objections to it and Kehoe liked the arrangement enough.

He had never been one to follow rules anyway. It was part of the reason he worked on the river till this day.

In a way, smuggling had added a sense of excitement to his job, even if it came with an equal amount of risk. Kehoe wasn't the kind of man to get overly giddy over the prospect of silently and covertly breaking the law, but he couldn’t help but at times feel rebellious just doing it. At the same time, he tried to treat their illegal dealings like any other business, however. And of course, they weren't foolish enough to sail around with large caches of alcohol sitting on the deck for all to see. These dealings usually took place in the dead of night, and Kehoe knew places where it could be safely hidden from the boys in blue.

A knock on the pilothouse door made Kehoe turn his head. Dale stood in the doorway, a pleasant sort of smile on his face. “Hiya, cap’n. Just wanted to let you take a look at the deals we still have left. I was phoning ahead before boarding, and everyone but the McIntyre Company and some of the corn farmers are still in.”

As the tuxedo cat handed Kehoe a list of their clients, he grunted and read the list. The ones that had pulled out had been crossed out with reasons listed beside them in Dale's barely legible writing. Not that Kehoe's penmanship was much better.

Silently, he read the list over twice, before handing it back to Dale with a scoff. “I suppose we’ve got to make up for that. I expect you to keep an eye out for any other jobs next time we dock. Damned storm.”

Kehoe nor the crew were picky about what jobs they took on. They could hardly afford to turn their nose up at any work they could get, especially now. Barges needed towing to and fro, and it hardly mattered what they held. They had towed more than a few rather suspect barges in their time, but at the end of the day, business was business. As long as it didn’t mark them as accomplices in any wrongdoing, legally speaking.

Their first stop wasn't far from St. Paul. In fact, Kehoe was confident they'd make it there within the hour. It was one of their unofficial ones, given the lack of piers and docks along this particularly lonely stretch of river. But nevertheless, Kehoe's eyes scanned the riverbanks on the port side of the ship. Even though it seemed mostly deserted, one could never be too careful.

Luckily, the Crust Bucket’s crew hadn’t had a close call in quite some time. They were always careful, although doing business in broad daylight wasn’t very covert.

Even with a large vessel like the Crust Bucket, they could still get quite close to the shore, given the very shallow hull. Unlike the massive ships that sailed the seas, a vessel like this had a rather flat build and so stood less of a chance of properly running aground. Not to say that it was entirely impossible, however. It had taken Kehoe years to get used to it.

He had both seen – and been responsible for – towboats running aground, especially when he was still learning to steer one. It was many years ago, and during those years, the fear of running aground had often been in the back of his mind. These days, however, he could manipulate the Crust Bucket with a turn of the wheel as easily as he could any part of his own body. The boat at times felt like an extension of himself that way.

Some moonshiners had more unique methods for selling their liquor; one group in particular would trade directions for money, leading to where they had hidden stashes of alcohol, like the pirates of old.

This particular case, however, wasn’t quite as elaborate. Kehoe had brought the ship as close to shore as he could. The one meeting them was the son of a farmer, who was the brains behind their small operation.

The young man helped load crates up onto the deck before Steve and Carly brought it inside and out of sight. Though his view of the lower deck was limited, Kehoe observed from the pilothouse as Dale managed the transaction. He trusted that Dale wouldn't let the farmer boy upsell them.

Finally, they set off once more with more illegal stock on board. Kehoe knew that homemade liquor like this was far from the finest stuff out there, but in today’s illegal liquor market he also knew most people were willing to lower their standards for the sake of acquiring alcohol altogether. He supposed that was a fact he should be thankful for, otherwise he might not get any business.

The Crust Bucket continued on its way, picking up one more delivery of illegal liquor for the hidden cache, before they eventually arrived in Red Wing. It was a town Kehoe had visited many times. He knew its river port well by now and as they approached it, he could already hear and see trains shunting goods towards and away from the port. One hand on the wheel, Kehoe safely brought them in towards the port, bringing them close enough to properly dock.

He stepped out of the pilothouse, the smell of the smoke from not only the Crust Bucket, but also the nearby trains hitting his nostrils almost immediately, mixing in with the fresh riverside air. Despite the recent storm, it was shaping up to be quite a beautiful spring day. The sky was clearer than it had been in a while, a bright, vibrant blue canvas stretching as far as the eye could see, only speckled with small banks of clouds rolling past here and there. The sun was shining brightly down upon the world, its light reflected off the ripples on the water, glittering like sequins.

Drawing a deep breath, Kehoe descended the steps facing the bow and the knees till he made it onto the lower deck. Stepping off the boat, he walked with his hands in his pockets along the pier, followed by Steve and Mac. Up ahead they could see a large barge being loaded up with what seemed to be many sacks of grain. Most likely it still came from quite far away via the trains.

Kehoe asked around and was indeed directed towards the first barge he had initially come across. It was large, even wider than the Crust Bucket itself, but it shouldn’t be an issue. The boat could tow it as far as they needed to go, and in fact, they usually took on several barges at the same time. Hopefully, the river remained as calm as it had been on their way there.

Taking payment up front, Kehoe sent his crew back to the Crust Bucket and had them prepare to tow the barges, since they agreed to take on two of them. It wouldn't be everything; Kehoe knew from Dale's paper that they'd be picking up yet more shipments along the way; more things to transport down the Mississippi.

“That’s one,” Mac noted dryly, the apricot-furred cat’s almost shaggy fur swaying in the breeze. He stretched his arms and looked towards Kehoe. In a rather tired drawl, he added, “Let’s hope we make quota on our way down this time, Crusty Bugger.”

Adjusting his hat, Kehoe drew in another deep breath, letting it out as a long sigh before he made his way back to the boat alongside Steve and Mac. Though Kehoe said nothing of it, Mac's concerns weren't unfounded. The storm had set them back by landlocking them. Transporting barges up and down the river was very much a job where time was quite literally money. Even just the relatively brief period of time in which the storm turned the river into a raging, frothing death trap had cost them days’ worth of time and money.

They wasted little time hanging around Red Wing and left as soon as they were back on the Crust Bucket. Kehoe knew he was rushing them more than normal, but he felt it was warranted, given how behind schedule they were. Only a fool would have risked sailing in the weather they had had recently, but being essentially stranded was frustrating. Kehoe had people who depended on him – namely the crew – and living wasn’t free, or even cheap.

To Kehoe's frustration, however, Dale continued asking around for more barges that needed transporting. By the time he got back to the Crust Bucket, Kehoe had been ready to chew him out for taking too long, but luckily, for him, the tuxedo cat brought good news with him.

But as luck would have it, when the Crust Bucket left Red Wing, they were towing three barges in front. One was the one loaded with grain, one was loaded with coal, another with timber, all of which were safely tied down to the large, floating platforms.

With the engine loudly rumbling again, Kehoe steered them away from the port and further downriver. From the pilothouse, he watched the barges up ahead as they pushed them along. Even three barges weren’t much of anything for the Crust Bucket to push along, certainly nowhere near full capacity. There had certainly been days when their haul was extensive enough to prove a challenge for the old boat.

Watching Carly leaning on the port-side railing, Kehoe found himself remembering his own time being that young. How old was he again? Early twenties or something? He seemed quite young; Kehoe had worked on the docks of piers by the sea when he was that age. Somehow, although he had worked different jobs in his life, water seemed to be a constant Kehoe had been unable to escape, for better and worse. Over the course of the last couple of decades of his life, he had seen the river and the ports along its banks changing. Towns had grown larger; businesses had capitalized on the river, and the waters had paid the price.

These days, it was highly unlikely to catch any fish in most parts of the Mississippi, but decades ago, it had been quite different. The sea, however… The sea as he remembered it had been far more giving as far as fish went.

Though the river was the lifeblood of many people – those who relied on it for resources and transport – it didn’t seem mutually beneficial. Kehoe remembered the days when people would fall sick from drinking the water from the river. Having seen the methods for purifying and sanitizing the river’s water had been a change he only remembered too well; many people had lost their lives to low quality drinking water.

Whatever the reason, however, he had survived. Kehoe liked to think he was just too full of spite to be killed by something like water. But in a changing world, water, both that of the ocean and of the Mississippi had mostly remained a constant for him. Save for a very brief period in his life…

Kehoe scoffed under his own breath. He didn’t want to think about those days. His life had never had any goals. In many ways, he'd simply let the water take him wherever he needed to go, life simply guiding him along, despite no aims, or greater aspirations.

It was times like this when he thought of a man like Dale, who seemed like he should be working a higher profile job. He seemed like a man who would be more at home in a big company in the city. He had the credentials, the brains, and the talent for so much more, and yet here he was, working as a simple deckhand. Granted, Kehoe had never been one with that kind of potential, perhaps this was somehow what Dale wanted. He couldn’t pretend to understand. Despite how closely they worked together, he didn’t know much about his crew. No, the Crusty Bugger mostly just sailed them around; he'd never gotten personal enough with them to truly understand them as people. But wasn't that how a typical boss’ relationship with his employees should be?

The entire rest of the day was spent sailing the river, only to be broken up by the occasional stop to drop off or take on a new barge, as well as the less savory business along the river’s banks. Kehoe was admittedly being a bit less forgiving than usual. Their stops in Wabasha and Buffalo later that day had seen them exchanging a few barges, bringing along new ones that carried things such as produce and minerals. Dale had jotted down a list of said minerals, but Kehoe hadn't the faintest idea what they actually were or what they were used for. He didn’t care to find out either; all that mattered was getting them where they needed to go.

Although it felt like they were covering a lot of ground, they still had a long way to go before they got back to St. Louis. By the time they arrived in Winona, it was getting dark. The sky had turned a pinkish orange, and the river’s surface looked almost black already, given that the sun had set past the point of its rays hitting the water.

Once the Crust Bucket was safely docked, Kehoe made his way down to the upper deck. It was here on the upper floor where not only the cabins, but also the gallery with its small dining hall was located. The gallery was closest to the pilothouse, but Kehoe moved towards the stern end of the deck. Leaning out over the railing, he cast his gaze out towards the horizon past the large wheel of the boat. He could hear the sound of other river boats with their melodic paddling as they sailed nearby, and as he pulled out his pipe, he could hear people shouting to each other from the docks.

The river here seemed healthier than other parts of it. Kehoe knew long stretches where the people’s impact on the river was far more apparent, but here he could see nighttime insects in the air, and on the other side of the river, fireflies were coming out, bobbing lazily in the air as they glowed. It was a peaceful little scene. As the sky darkened, Kehoe even saw a few bats swooping down to drink from the river, though their dark silhouettes were easier to spot against the darkening sky when they flew overhead.

Kehoe made his way inside soon after he finished smoking. The wide corridor inside had deep brown wooden floorboards and the walls were white, much like the exterior of the Crust Bucket. On Kehoe's left, closer to the pilothouse, was a door leading to the washroom, while the right side was where the gallery with its kitchen and dining area could be found. The bulbs hanging from the ceiling had no lampshades or the like, simply shining their warm, yellowish light down into the room.

The gallery didn’t have much real estate. There was a small, simple kitchen on the starboard side of the room furthest from the door. It had a stove, a small oven and cupboards holding cutlery, plates, and cups. They'd even acquired a refrigerator recently. As it turned out, some of the plates and cups had been broken after the ship had been jostled around by the turmoil of the raging river. Luckily, there were plenty of completely intact ones for them to use. Kehoe was pleased to see someone had already placed the shards into a wooden box.

The other side of the joint kitchen and dining room wasn't much to speak of with its simple interior and sparse décor, but the crew had been allowed to decorate a bit, however they saw fit. The dining table wasn't particularly large, but they had chairs to seat six people. Windows on either side of the gallery offered them a port and starboard view around them and the wall opposite the kitchen towards the bow held a few small pictures and a calendar. Some of the pictures were of the crew’s families, others simply postcards or pictures of ports they had visited along the river.

Sitting down with a grunt on the chair at the end of the table, Kehoe removed his hat, running a hand through his bluish gray fur, before he rubbed his face. He didn’t need to ask Dale to know they were still behind. But that was something to worry about in the morning. In that moment, he felt more tired than he had in years.

The rest of the crew soon joined him, with all but Carly taking a seat by the table. As was usually the case, the young black cat was the one doing the cooking. Before they hired him, it had been a job that rotated between the rest of them. Although Kehoe could cook well enough, he couldn’t say he exactly enjoyed it, nor did he cook with any finesse. To him, as long as it was edible and didn’t make him want to spit it out, it was good enough.

Carly, however, was surprisingly good at cooking, even if he pretended not to be. Kehoe had a sneaking suspicion he might have a background in culinary arts, but the boy had never confirmed it. Granted, he also didn’t care enough to ask. The scent of the boy’s cooking was enough to confirm it in Kehoe's mind and that night was no different as the smells of cooked meat and grits filled the gallery.

Kehoe didn’t pay much attention to the others’ conversations, but he liked just having the crew around for a bit of background noise. coincidentally, they all did share some Irish heritage, which made itself especially apparent in the way Steve and Mac sometimes spoke – when either of them got particularly loud and rowdy, that Irish accent came creeping in.

Kehoe himself had a tenuous tie to his Irish ancestry at best. Though he'd grown up in a small Irish community in St. Louis, it wasn't something he thought of as a large part of his identity. It was just one of those things that helped form the bigger picture that was his life.

As was often the case, dinner was a quiet time, at least for Kehoe. He let the others have their talks while they ate, only ever participating if he was asked, though most often all he had to contribute was telling them how little he cared. It seemed to amuse them, for better and for worse, even if he couldn’t give less of a damn about what they were actually talking about.

Though Kehoe didn’t fancy himself much of a food critic, he did appreciate Carly's cooking. Meals had certainly improved a great deal since they hired him. It wasn't award-winning food, but it was better than anything Kehoe found himself capable of producing.

Kehoe did find himself slightly more engaged when dinner came to an end, and they all started playing cards. They didn’t have much to wage, so usually they didn’t exchange money, but rather insults.

Of course, it was done with the understanding that it was all in good fun. No one ever got rowdy or into any actual shouting matches; every insult Kehoe lobbed at them and each one he got in return was met with laughter around the table. On rare occasions, however, Kehoe might put a bottle of particularly good liquor up for grabs. But not tonight.

At the end of the night, Kehoe retreated to his cabin. It was the biggest and arguably the best one – just one of the privileges being captain afforded him. By no means was it luxurious. He wasn't a man for those kinds of things, but it was spacious enough for what little he owned. His cabin held his bed, pressed up against the wall near the window where makeshift curtains afforded him a bit of privacy. A shelf above his bed held old books, many of which had fallen onto his mattress.

Generally, his cabin hadn't seen too much damage, though he did need to pick the pieces of broken glass from lantern off the floor and dispose of the shards. A small desk stood opposite his bed and beside it a small chest that held various belongings of his. A box that had slid out from under his bed served as a replacement for a dresser. It was where he kept his clean clothes, folded up as neatly as he could manage.

Removing his boots and leaving his jacket and hat on his desk chair, Kehoe sat down upon his steel-frame bed, the frame creaking ever so slightly as he did. He grunted softly and stretched. His back was a bit crooked – he'd developed quite a hunched posture over the past decade. In his nearly sixty years of living, Kehoe had spent most of that time working some kind of manual labor, most of it on a ship or around the docks. That sort of lifestyle would have started showing itself sooner than later.

Although he was by no means frail, Kehoe was glad the position as captain brought him less of the harder work these days. It was ironic, really. He had only become a captain because he acquired his own boat. It was less about ascending up the ranks and more about the fact that he could sail and had the means to hire people to work for him. At least that was what it felt like to him.

By the time he climbed into bed and turned the lights off, Kehoe could hear footsteps moving past his door. He wasn't exactly surprised, knowing his crew sometimes liked to sneak off the boat at night. They were demonstrably less sneaky than they thought, but Kehoe didn’t mind – as long as they were back by the time they set off and still willing and able to pull their own weight.

The last thing Kehoe thought of as he drifted off was how thin they would have to stretch themselves to meet quota for the week.

Sleep was easily induced by the very gentle rocking of the large boat. It was subtle, so much so that it was easy to miss it, but Kehoe knew the feeling by now, and it was one that he had a harder time falling asleep without. It was but one of many things he'd disliked about being land-locked for days.

§

Morning saw the crew prepping the Crust Bucket earlier than the previous day. They all shrugged off the grogginess easily enough, and they even took on two new barges before setting off. Kehoe had a good feeling in his gut by the time they left Winona.

It was another bright day and the storm that had rocked the river and made its banks overflow, hardly seemed like it had actually happened. It almost felt like a dream, even as the effects of it were evident as they sailed. Here, the banks engulfed plant life that most definitely didn’t normally grow in water. About half an hour after leaving, Kehoe also did spot an uprooted tree, its branches dipping into the river as small birds perched on the ones that hadn't been submerged.

Later in the day, another boat was coming towards them closer to the opposite riverbank. One hand still on the immensely large wheel, Kehoe let the large, horn sound as they approached. The other tow boat slowed down quite noticeably, and Kehoe likewise made the Crust Bucket slow till it almost just drifted in the water. He could see the name ‘The Lilypad’ written on the side of the ship in large, bold letters. He recognized the name and, looking out the windows, he saw Steve and Carly moving to the very edge of the deck down below.

Kehoe knew this was a tricky and somewhat dangerous maneuver, especially when they were towing barges, but he had been sailing for so many years that the fears that once made him sweat were but a distant memory. He calmly and confidently brought the Crust Bucket in as close to the other boat as he could. From above, he watched the swift transaction. Out here, away from the busier stretches of river, they needn’t be quite as careful. As the two boats passed each other, bottles and cash were exchanged, along with small talk.

Once the illicit business was done with, the two boats separated and sped up once again, both sounding their horns to each other. Although it might seem risky or even reckless to do business in this manner, Kehoe and the Crust Bucket’s crew had yet to get caught. And Kehoe very much intended on keeping it that way until the day he either retired or departed the world of the living.

Along the river, Kehoe’s crew made a few more little sales. It wasn’t much compared to what they made sailing barges, but it brought Kehoe more peace of mind, knowing they were at least making more money. Along the way to the next port, they did manage to get a few more bottles sold. They had picked up quite a nice amount of moonshine, so they had plenty they could sell in a more casual manner. Indeed, they ended up spending too much time doing this.

When they arrived in Dubuque, they ended up leaving the majority of their barges there. That only left them with two that needed to be towed to further south to Davenport. Leaving Dubuque with no additional barges didn’t bode well, however, but Kehoe knew not to dwell on it too much. With any luck, Davenport could provide them with more work. Once the transactions were handled, they set off yet again.

The alcohol trade wasn’t glamorous, safe, or particularly easy to navigate. But it was a small, exploitable niche that Kehoe had discovered years ago. Even before prohibition, homemade liquor was something that could be peddled along the river, and Kehoe sure as hell wasn’t going to stop because some puffed up lawmakers far away said so. With the money being off the books, it also helped to keep the crew and the Crust Bucket going. And these days, they needed every penny they could scrape in.

The stretch between Dubuque and Davenport was a lengthy one, comparable to the stretch they had just sailed between La Crosse and Dubuque. Along the way, they picked up more bottles, though Kehoe also felt every single dollar they handed over in exchange for the liquor. Not that they were about to hit zero anytime soon – Kehoe had saved up plenty to keep them supplied with cash for a while. But when accounting for the money they had made since leaving St. Paul, it still hurt him to let that money go.

But he knew there was a chance he’d make it all back once they made it further down the river, closer to home. Just as it was written on the sign on the Crust Bucket’s stern, although he sailed up and down the river for a living, St. Louis was his home.

When they eventually did make it to Davenport, Kehoe was starting to get a sinking feeling at the sight of how few barges they could potentially tow. The only barges Kehoe saw were ones that were either being unloaded or sailed out of port by someone else. This didn’t bode well.

“Looks like we may have to sail back up the river,” Kehoe grunted in annoyance as he and Dale stepped off the Crust Bucket. “No damn barges here.”

“Just give me half an hour to ask around, I’m sure I’ll find something,” the tuxedo cat insisted, stretching each of his legs.

But perhaps despite his better judgment, Kehoe allowed Dale to try asking for work. He didn’t stick around himself, though on the way back to the Crust Bucket, Kehoe did look around the Davenport docks himself, though there really didn’t seem to be much for them to do.

A large excursion boat had pulled into the port. Kehoe had seen them at a distance, large, luxurious, obnoxiously lavish things. He hardly paid them any mind, although he did think they were odd. People wanted to sail in boats so big that they had foregone having a wheel of their own. Even now, Kehoe could see the smaller towboat pushing it along.

What a strange concept for a vessel, though he supposed it was comparable to a large barge carrying people. Still, he was perfectly happy with the Crust Bucket, he felt far more at home on that than he knew he would on a big riverboat like that. But perhaps whenever he inevitably retired, he'd take a trip on one of those…

But that was something for the future, not anything he cared to even think about now. Passing the large vessel, he watched people getting off and on, mainly people who seemed to have more money than they knew what to do with. They were all dressed so formally, as if they were going to important meetings or events, which Kehoe realized they probably were. They hardly paid much attention to anyone around them, and Kehoe likewise didn’t give them a second glance.

Returning to the Crust Bucket, he decided to procure himself a single bottle of liquor from the lower deck’s storage. Drinking in broad daylight was risky indeed, but as he brought it up to the pilothouse, he knew no one was around to catch him in the act.

Kehoe shot the harsh liquor back, hardly even noticing the burn. He crudely wiped his mouth with his sleeve after finishing what had been left in the bottle. It wasn’t good liquor, Kehoe knew as much, but he didn’t care. For one, he didn’t feel inclined to go ashore just to buy more expensive alcohol. And for another, in today’s climate, he could hardly afford to be fussy about what liquor he drank. Not like those people he could see getting on and off the excursion boat.

He snorted to himself. He'd eat his old hat if all those rich folks didn’t attend those underground drinking establishments like the ones Kehoe had done small-time business with. It was no secret that those places were quite lucrative.

“Cap’n! Good news!” Kehoe gave a jump and nearly dropped the empty bottle. He saw Dale coming around the pilothouse and moving to stand in the doorway near Kehoe. “Got some good news for ya’.”

“Bloody hell, Dale! You scared the living daylight out’a me! What is it?” he snapped in annoyance as he composed himself. He put the bottle on the floor near the corner under the windows.

“I got us a job – a good one,” Dale said, seemingly completely ignoring the greeting he got. “Just gotta tow that thing right there to Burlington.”

When Kehoe followed Dale's gesturing, he saw that he was referring to the large excursion boat that had pulled into port earlier. He furrowed his brow.

“That one? The hell do they need towing for? They came with another boat,” he grumbled as he looked at it with great dislike. Grimacing, Kehoe scoffed. “You realize we can’t tow barges with that big, damned eyesore in front, don’t you?”

“Well, we ain't towing anything anyway. No one else needed a towboat, and besides, they said they’d pay us well since it was on such short notice,” the tuxedo cat added calmly, giving a shrug. He gave a small smirk when Kehoe raised an eyebrow. “Their other towboat had business elsewhere. And don’t worry, cap’n, I got it in writing.”

“Let me see it then,” he growled at Dale, before being handed the paper they used to keep track of their jobs. Seeing the jobs they'd completed being ticked off was satisfying in its own right. But he didn’t exactly take the time to appreciate it.

The listing Dale had made read ‘River Queen’, which Kehoe guessed was the name of the big, gawdy boat. However, he could hardly argue with the commission pricing listed. It was over half of what they'd already made off barges since leaving St. Paul.

It was… not bad. It wasn’t great, but it was good enough for now. With any luck, they'd be able to find work when they arrived at their destination.

“Fine, guess we’re pushing that ugly thing to Burlington then,” Kehoe scoffed when he finally relented. He handed the paper back to Dale. Although getting paid for the transport job was nice, Kehoe knew jobs that saw the barges being taken further downriver would pay substantially better. This was hardly worth their time. “But ask next time before you sign us up for anything like that.”

And so it was with some reluctance that Kehoe steered the Crust Bucket into position behind the River Queen. The names contrasted so violently that Kehoe found it oddly ironic, but he supposed both names fit their vessels quite well. The Crust Bucket wasn’t poorly maintained by any means, but it wasn’t anywhere near as pristine as the River Queen.

Kehoe watched from above as Steve and Dale got the River Queen properly tethered and secure. For an apparent pencil pusher, Dale always did work quite well. He pulled double duty, in a way, and he knew how to pull his own weight. He was an admittedly valuable asset and Kehoe couldn’t complain.

Before they set off, however, the crew ended up doing some shopping. He let Steve and Carly take care of that, while he took to walking around near the boat. Dale had settled on the upper deck, apparently going over some paperwork as he and Mac smoked some cigarettes in silence. The dock wasn’t quite as busy as St. Paul had been, but he saw things being brought in by other towboats. Kehoe supposed the upside was that no barges were being picked up and sailed away at least.

As he paced beside the Crust Bucket, Kehoe's eyes settled on the River Queen nearby, just as a passing breeze ruffled his long, bluish gray cheek fur. Up on the top deck, standing by the railing, he spotted a woman.

It was hard to properly gauge from a distance, but she seemed fairly young. She was clad in a red dress with white accents, an apron around her waist. A waitress, perhaps. Of course, big boats like that would have a wait staff.

She had dark bluish gray fur, like Kehoe, but even at a distance what really stood out was her bright blonde hair. Its color initially reminded Kehoe of hay, though it might be even brighter than that. She had her hair up in a bun, and just like Kehoe she was looking around rather aimlessly. Their eyes met for the briefest moment when she caught Kehoe watching her, at which point he politely averted his gaze. He didn’t want to get accused of ogling a young woman like her.

When the River Queen sounded its horn, Kehoe knew it was time to leave. He grunted under his breath about having to tow a bunch of rich snobs around like a personal driver as he climbed the steps up to the pilothouse. Regardless of his personal feelings, however, he was going to get the job done.

He always did.

And so, the River Queen left Davenport with the Crust Bucket towing it. It wasn’t so different from towing barges, though it was Kehoe's first time towing a big boat like this. Still, it seemed so silly to him that they'd make big boats like that without the means to sail by themselves, but he supposed if they didn’t, he wouldn’t be here towing them for money.

Thankfully, the River Queen wasn’t so tall that it completely obstructed Kehoe's view. It was just like what Kehoe imagined towing a very tall barge would be like.

His interactions with the River Queen’s staff were mercifully very minimal, essentially nonexistent. He liked that; all they did was signal for him when to either slow or pull into passing ports with their horn.

From the pilothouse, Kehoe happened to spot the woman he'd seen earlier. He saw her a few times throughout the day, in fact. She appeared by the railing of the upper deck of the River Queen, casting glances backwards. The blonde-haired, blue cat didn’t seem to look at him specifically, but just the Crust Bucket in general.

Although he couldn’t care less what she thought of his boat, Kehoe still had to wonder what she was thinking about when she looked back towards them. Though he wasn’t very self-conscious about his vessel’s appearance, Kehoe did realize just how much it stood out compared to the fine paint work and ornate craftmanship of the River Queen.

The woman’s appearances were brief, yet numerous throughout the day. Kehoe stopped paying much attention to her eventually. What did he care? She did happen to be the person he spotted the most. Other passengers would occasionally cast glances back towards them, but she was the only one he recognized on sight, owing to that pale blonde hair of hers. He couldn’t recall ever meeting anyone with hair like that.

Given the distance to Burlington, Kehoe ended up sailing the ship well into the night, though when he was signaled to, he did bring the vessels to a halt. The idea of stopping in the middle of nowhere like this was a bit strange to him, but he supposed the rich passengers got some novelty out of being able to see the stretches of uninhabited riverside land. Even though the landscapes and sights around the river were indeed very beautiful, they had somewhat lost their luster for Kehoe.

Yawning, he lit a lantern, descended the steps from the pilothouse, and moved along the darkened upper deck. As he moved towards the door leading to his cabin, Kehoe caught what he thought might be one last glance of the young woman, before he retreated for the night. Her blonde hair had practically glowed in the dark, though perhaps he was imagining it. As Kehoe stepped into his cabin, he could already hear noise from the River Queen’s deck, no doubt from its passengers.

Finally, after weeks of buildup, finally I can start posting this very special story. Of all the characters in Lackadaisy, I really wanted to create some Abelard content, because I love him.

So what better way to do so than to write a little fanfiction featuring him, his family and my OC? A slow-burn story set in the small town of Defiance, Missouri...

The rest of the story will be available on AO3, alongside more art.

For the first chapter, I present you with an image of Abelard alongside... Well, you'll just have to read to find out...

This lovely piece here was drawn by the amazing @mergestucs1!

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With the sweeping, green hills, the freshly sprouting leaves on the trees and the mostly clear, blue sky, Defiance was beautiful in spring. The air was getting warmer, but the breeze still had a sharpness to it whenever it graced Abelard’s face. It was a Thursday morning like any other as he made his way into town on foot, the apricot-furred cat enjoying the spring weather. His shoes dug into the dirt road that led the way through the small town that was Defiance. Granted, it really wasn't much of a town (it was closer to a village, if anything) given how small it was, and how much distance there was between the homes here.

The lean reverend took long, fast strides, walking with purpose. His morning strolls generally took him all over Defiance. He started at home and took the scenic route out to Defiance General, going through the small community and finally ending by the church.

He'd left the store just minutes prior, having stopped by the outskirts of town to see the shop owner. It was usually his first stop these days. Most days Mr. Weaver was up and working early, despite his age. Abelard always did make sure to purchase something when he visited, often in the form of cigarettes or other small items, usually something edible. Sometimes he brought home bigger items such as potatoes and the like.

And he would, of course, gladly take on Mr. Weaver in a round of chess when time allowed it. Reverend Arbogast usually wasn't one to turn down an opportunity to spend time with the locals. It was part of his daily routine, making sure to visit with members of their little community. Though he didn’t personally visit each and every inhabitant of the small town, he made sure to at least greet them whenever possible, whether by the church or around town.

The man running Defiance General was one of the few that he regularly visited personally. As reverend, Abelard saw it as part of his job to maintain a good relationship with said community; it was what the reverend before him had done. And it was what he’d taught him; it was any reverend’s job to spread the word of the Lord and maintain good relations to those who believed, and even those who didn’t. After all, it was how a man of faith might help others see the light.

And as village minister he didn’t just do services in the church on Sundays. Of course, that was part of the job; he took care to preach to his fellow man, woman, and child. Though it had been a while since the last time, he had also done confessions, and he’d heard quite a number of things. But as was his sworn duty, he’d never disclosed this to anyone; it was for him, the Lord, and the sinner to know.

He’d been doing this job for decades at this point, and everyone in Defiance, and the nearby townships, which were part of his congregation, knew him. He'd established a good trust and good relations with the community, but it had taken time.

The township of Defiance primarily consisted of a small collection of farm buildings and barns around a main road that stretched through the small town. Defiance General was the primary place to do shopping for those who didn’t wish to travel further away by car, where they had more options. St. Louis was about forty miles away and Abelard himself hadn't made the trip there in quite some time. He was content in this small town where he'd grown up.

The town itself had a few things of note, despite its small size. For one, there was a local mechanic, though it wasn’t really a proper business, just a farmer who knew how to manage cars and other machinery. It wasn't so unusual to see him taking a look at someone’s vehicle, just as he was today. The farmhouse he lived in with his family was one of the larger ones on the side of the road that he walked on. The barn door was open, and the tuxedo cat could be seen fiddling with the engine of one of his neighbors’ cars.

As he passed, he was spotted by the mechanic, who wore messy overalls over his clothes. He waved to Abelard as he passed. “Good morning, Father Arbogast. How do you do?”

“I’m quite well, thank you,” the lean cat called back in a proper tone. Abelard waved back as well, and offered him the slightest of smiles. He was dressed decidedly more formally than the mechanic, wearing all black from top to toe; the only article of clothing he wore that wasn't black was his white button-up shirt under his jacket. “I hope you are as well.”

Though not a man who smiled much, nor a man to whom smiling came naturally, Abelard still did his best to be personable with the locals. At least for the most part. That wasn't to say he was all-smiles around them all the time, far from it. Father Arbogast, as he was most often called, had quite a reputation for being a man not to cross. It wasn't often, but he’d had to tell local children off more than a few times, using the colorful language he had become rather infamous for. And for the most part, it worked. He’d even had to tell off their parents on occasion.

Children as well as their parents knew to respect him and that was how he liked things to work. He was never one to shy away from doing such things if someone were to do or say something morally apprehensive.

Abelard didn’t linger around too much as he continued down the road.

The houses around the main road were generally large, quaint farmhouses, many of them quite old with a fair bit of distance between each one. Defiance had never had a large population. Abelard knew they currently didn’t even amount to a hundred. The entire community could fit inside the church during services, even despite how small the building was. In the open area of Defiance, they had a few small businesses, such as a post office, an inn, and a carpenter who also did metalwork on occasion. There was also a single bookshop and of course, further away there was a train station with its depot.

The businesses were mainly being run out of people’s homes, further adding to the feeling of a small, tight-knit community amongst the locals.

The area all around was wide and open with small groves and a forested area nearby fencing in the majority of Defiance. The rolling hills and fields all around offered space for farmland, like the cornfields near Abelard's home.

The cornfields had gone from being harvested for food to also being harvested for more unsavory reasons in recent years. He'd been there for it all, as the changing political landscape of America had ushered in changes to his life. Not just his life either; Abelard also knew the unspoken truth that farmers both in Defiance, and all over the country, were doing the very same thing.

He had spent most of his life in Defiance, as had many of its inhabitants. He'd traveled to visit nearby towns and cities, but home was always here. For better and for worse. But the small town of Defiance needed him. The Lord’s work was never finished until the day of reckoning and he intended on continuing to spread the word of the Lord until his last breath.

He knew that there was no such thing as a one-man army when it came to his job. He wasn't entirely alone; he spread the Lord’s word, he preached to warn of sins and temptations in the hopes that his congregation would help spread the same message. It was the point of preaching at all to begin with, to spread the word of the Lord, to help enlighten and to save as many souls as he could.

Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil… That part of the Lord’s Prayer had taken on a new significance to he just a few short years ago. The nation-wide prohibition on alcohol had changed so much for so many people, again for better and for worse.

For Abelard? To him the very idea of stripping away a source of temptation in such a way was an affront. It had never been something that sat right with him; he knew so many who saw it as removing the very option of giving in to sin from their lives, but he privately saw it as a disruption to the natural order of things.

If anything, it seemed to have inadvertently added a whole new caliber of trappings into the lives of many. Abelard knew as much, being an initially reluctant participant in the illicit alcohol business.

But alas, here he was; illegal liquor had paid for much of the maintenance around the church and the town. He knew that the cursed liquid would go on to add temptation back into the realm of the living – of the souls who would eventually need saving; he knew that the very allure of the illicit only made sin all the sweeter to the ones who chose to give in to it.

But in the end, he also knew that the genuinely good people would make the right choices, even with temptation in their lives. God would forgive sins, and he too would do his part to make sure people would not be led into the many pitfalls in life. That said, he knew these complexities to be a necessary evil to separate the righteous from the wicked.

But Abelard kept these views to himself and a very select few close to him.

Passing more homes on his way, he spotted more people who were getting their days started; a woman looking after the small garden around their front-porch where her small children were playing; a young couple leaving their driveway together in a car. Once more he offered waves on his way, even if the children seemed rather frightened of him. He didn’t mind, of course. There was a fine line between fear and respect, and he hoped they would learn to walk that line well.

If nothing else, he hoped the younger generations would be given the chance to grow up with all of life’s complexities; the good, the bad, and the tempting, all ever present. Their parents (and he to some extent) would need to arm them to face the many trappings of life, and never stray from the righteous path. Whether they'd succeed or not was ultimately in their own hands.

All he could do was hope for the best… And hope that they may never get involved in unsavory business like his family.

Being in the liquor business had proven to have more downsides than upsides to Abelard. He resisted the urge to spit on the ground, to curse the names of those he'd had to deal with, as he continued on his way. Lackadaisy, Marigold, they were both the same to him; bands of immoral, cutthroat criminals that needed him and his kin for liquor and nothing else.

Though he had no qualms with partaking in the making and smuggling of the liquor (for the most part), dealing with others in the business had been less than pleasant. All the trouble that had come with it… It had cost him an organ player as well. Little Defiance had been the scene of some gruesome acts of violence, which he still found unsettling to think about.

And that was despite all he'd seen and heard in his fifty-two years on this Earth.

Leaving the main residential area, Abelard passed the single inn that the town had. It was a small, family-owned place, a decently popular location that he had visited many times. It was a two-story farmhouse where the family lived on the upper floor and the inn itself was located down below. The inn was one of the popular places for members of his congregation to end up after service on Sundays.

After passing the road that would take him towards the Arbogast Funeral Home, Abelard made his way past a tree line and out to another open area. The wide, open space was fenced in by trees from all sides, and the nearest farmhouses could look right up to the white church with its single tower and tall spire that pointed straight to the Heavens. It was a relatively new church; he recalled in his youth that his parents had remembered the time when it was still newly constructed. Since it had been finished, it had been the church his family would visit for services every Sunday morning, and eventually the one that he himself would be the reverend of.

It wasn’t large and grand, but it was beautiful. All-white exterior, the church had two small steps leading up to the two tall doors out front with one short, wide transom above it. Further above the window as part of the tower was a clock, a relatively new installation. On either side of the large doors was a window, each larger than the one above the door, with a grid-like frame holding many small panes of glass. The dark roof was angled upwards, the front merging into the small tower.

There was always something to be done around the church, always something new to worry about, surprisingly so for such a small town. The illicit, ill-gained money helped keep the church in pristine order, and while they were currently out of a steady organ player, Abelard had other things to worry about. Their groundskeeper was looking to retire. He was old, and he had been looking after the grounds since before Abelard became the village minister. Just looking for a new groundskeeper would be a mild challenge in the small community. Just something new for him to figure out in the near future. Hopefully, the current groundskeeper would stick around long enough to find a replacement, so they wouldn’t leave the grounds unattended.

As a brisk morning breeze ruffled his facial fur, Abelard arrived by the entrance to the church grounds. The church was right by a crossroad; corn fields to one side, open stretch of grassland with graves on the other. The cemetery had expanded since the church’s founding, of course. Being framed in by the farmland, there was only so much space that could be used for graves; further away more grave sites had since been established.

No one was around at this time of day and as Abelard made it up the small steps to the large doors, he removed his hat and stepped into the Lord’s House.

It wasn't a very spacious interior, being a small church, but the space available had been optimally used. Stepping onto the wooden floor, Abelard walked up the aisle by himself. On each side of him were pews that could house the entirety of Defiance’s population during services, and there was even room for more people from neighboring townships. And in part owing to the small size of the church, he had mastered utilizing the building’s acoustics to let his voice carry from the altar to the very back of the church, for all to hear.

Behind the last pew on the right side of the church, a small spiral staircase led up to a small landing above the entrance. This was where the organ was located, overlooking the small church’s interior. Abelard admittedly didn’t spend much time up there, nor did anyone else these days. The landing was close to the ceiling, which was painted blue like the sky outside, but even a man as tall as him could comfortably stand up there without bumping his head on the ceiling.

He made a mental note to attempt to send for a potential organ player in the nearby townships. He might even have to send for someone living further away, such as over in St. Louis…

The wooden pews that stood in rows on either side of the aisle were painted white, like the walls surrounding them. There were two windows up ahead flanking the altar, right across from each of the windows on either side of the door. Perfectly symmetrical. Along with the four windows on each of the church’s longer sides, plenty of light always poured in through these in the daytime hours. And, once it was dark, the multiple bronze candelabras on the walls, and the large ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling in front of the altar, would help keep the building illuminated.

Abelard stopped before the altar, right below the chandelier and closed his eyes for a moment, just enjoying the peace and quiet that the church offered him at times like this. The tall, lean cat had a white podium off to his left, where he would stand to preach and speak during services, facing the congregation.

Leaving the altar, he slowly made his way back outside again, casting a glance out at the woods in the distance that served as the natural fence for this part of Defiance. Leaves were sprouting from the branches and the grass all around was starting to look as green as could be, it was a beautiful sight indeed.

The dirt road leading to the left from his vantage point led up towards where a small part of the cemetery was located. Further away, down the road that ran along the side of the church was the Arbogast Funeral Home. It hadn't always been a funeral home, as it was these days; it had also been Abelard's childhood home where he’d grown up. He’d inherited the place from his parents, and now it was also where he conducted his other ventures, including more unholy business.

Glancing up the path towards the cemetery, he put his hat back on. The nearby funeral home would prepare the dead for burial, the church would hold a funeral service, and the dead would be buried in the nearby cemetery. It truly was an efficient, albeit morbid, little system.

His own parents were buried there as well, as were other past inhabitants of Defiance and the nearby area. Growing up so close to, not only the church, but also the cemetery had made Abelard’s skin crawl as a young boy, but these days the thought didn’t bother him at all.

The area outside and around the church was beautifully maintained, the grass kept short, the nearby trees kept healthy, and the paths kept clear and clean. The morning sun’s rays casting a brilliant light over the trees’ fresh leaves, and the blades of grass, only added to the place’s natural beauty.

It was going to be a tall order to find someone new who cared about looking after the grounds this much. But he had no doubt in his mind that he’d find the right person for the job, as was his responsibility. Odds were someone in town would be willing to do it – it would be easier and more efficient to not have to call in someone from out of town. Abelard knew he shouldn’t keep putting it off.

After enjoying a bit of time to himself, he let out a content sigh. But he knew he ought to go about his business once more.

Turning back towards the church, however, Abelard spotted a single figure lingering by the white brick wall to the left of the church doors. He squinted slightly. He didn’t recognize the stranger at a glance, in part due to them facing away from him, apparently glancing out over the cornfields nearby.

The stranger turned their head as he got closer, and already he didn’t get the best first impression of them, noticing the way they were leaning on the church wall. They were practically lounging, like the church was their private property.

“Ah, hello… Reverend Arbogast, is it?” The stranger sounded uncertain as he spoke in a surprisingly soft voice.

The Turkish Angora stood just a couple inches shorter than Abelard, his fur a grayish off-white color all over. He wore a dark gray sweater with a thick, folded collar and a pair of blue denim pants. The right knee of his pants was torn open, his white fur showing through.

“Yes, how can I help you?” Abelard asked, his blue eyes taking in the stranger before him. Abelard's tone was polite, but slightly stiff.

He didn’t recognize him, and yet there was something familiar about him at the same time. Abelard guessed he was likely from out of town – he made it a point to know everyone in Defiance, after all.

Getting a closer look at him, Abelard took note of his bangs, which reached down to his eyebrows and the tips of his ears had white tufts on them. Very unusual.

The stranger left the wall and approached Abelard, his very fluffy tail fur swaying in the wind. Eyes met, sky blue and minty green, and Abelard noticed the younger cat had a face with soft, rounded, almost slightly… feminine features. The stranger held out his small, white-furred hand. “Well… I was just looking around a bit. I haven't seen this place in a long time…”

“You’ve been here before?” Abelard asked in surprise as they shook hands briefly. He squinted slightly at the white cat. Again, he got the sense that they’d met before…

“Oh, I lived here a decade ago, before I– Well, I moved out a long time ago.” The stranger’s verbal stumbling didn’t go unnoticed by Abelard, but he was more so intrigued, though perhaps a touch suspicious as well…

He still fixed the stranger with some amount of dislike, which, based on the look on the younger man’s face, didn’t go unnoticed. “Hm, I don’t recognize you… I know everyone in Defiance. What’s your name, young man?”

“My name’s Cainan – Cainan… Wirth.” Once more He couldn’t help but feel as though something was wrong.

The stranger seemed hesitant to give his name, which only made him all the more suspicious of him. However, his name did stir something in Abelard – that sense of familiarity.

“Wirth? With an ‘i’?” Mr. Wirth nodded at this, though he didn’t meet Abelard's eyes when he did. “I see… Well, I might have known your parents in that case. Harold and Gabriela Wirth, correct?”

He could see Mr. Wirth's face tightening at this, but the younger cat nodded. “Yup, them’s the ones. I was planning on visiting them after I’m done here, actually.”

At this he raised an eyebrow as their eyes finally met again. He wasn't sure what the Turkish Angora’s situation was, but this was… curious. For a number of reasons. The least of which being: “Well, they moved away a few years ago. If I’m not mistaken, they have not called Defiance home for quite a while.”

Mr. Wirth blinked up at him with those pale green eyes. “… Oh.”

Was that disappointment he heard in his voice? Or was it relief? Abelard genuinely couldn’t tell. He frowned down at the white cat. “You didn’t know…?”

The younger cat didn’t answer right away. Abelard could tell he was thinking hard about what to say. What was he up to exactly? He hadn't immediately struck him as a troublemaker, though the way he hung around outside a church did seem suspicious. He cast a glance over the white cat’s shoulder towards the area beside the white building, which seemed to be quite untouched. When he glanced back at him, the younger cat seemed ready to speak.

“Well, to tell you the truth, Reverend, no, I didn’t realize they'd moved. Do you know where to?” Again, Abelard found it curious how he spoke with the tone of someone just asking for the time; not with the tone of someone urgently wanting or needing to know the whereabouts of their parents.

“Hm, well, I don’t recall, I’m afraid,” he told him calmly, though he watched the other cat closely, his gaze fixated upon his face to wait for a reaction. Abelard had his suspicions, but he wanted to see just how he might react to this information. To his surprise, the younger cat barely seemed to react at all – he just nodded slowly.

“Ah, that’s alright. Guess I’ll try to ask around town,” was the response Abelard got, a surprisingly casual one. Now he was certain something wasn't right here.

“Were you hoping to run into them here?” The longer he spent in Mr. Wirth's company, the more he could start to see some family resemblance.

While he couldn’t say he'd been close to the Wirths, he still partially remembered what they looked like. He could see aspects of both Mr. Wirth's parents as he remembered them, when he gazed upon the younger cat before him.

“I suppose, yeah,” Mr. Wirth replied, his tone carrying that same casual carelessness as he spoke. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, clearly thinking about… Honestly Abelard wasn't sure what was going through the young stranger’s mind. “I suppose I really just did come looking for you.”

“I guessed as much,” Abelard admitted, nodding slightly as he crossed his arms. The way Mr. Wirth had greeted him had indeed made it seem like he’d been waiting for him. Whatever this young cat could possibly want from him, he didn’t know, but he was willing to hear him out. “So once more I ask you, how can I help you, child?”

The other cat’s left ear gave a small flick, possibly out of annoyance, though his facial expression didn’t show any signs of it. He didn’t think calling him a child was unfair; he was young, clearly, though Abelard didn’t know quite how young. Perhaps he was older than his youthful face made him seem.

“Well, I decided to return to town and, well, I’d like to do some work while I’m here. I’d like to… stick around for a li’l while.” This was certainly a surprise to be sure. It wasn't at all what he had expected of the young stranger.

He frowned slightly and sighed. “Hm… And why didn’t you simply head into town and ask around? And why weren't you just honest from the beginning, young man?”

“I’m sorry… Well, I just figured this way was easier – I heard you were the village minister, so I figured–…” Mr. Wirth suddenly seemed to change his mind mid-sentence. The younger cat shook his head and made to leave. “Actually, maybe this was a dumb idea. Sorry to waste your time, I should just drive–”

“Now, hold it just a minute…!” Abelard put a hand on his shoulder to stop the younger cat in his tracks, gripping him firmly with his slender fingers. He turned to look up at him, apparently surprised, his white eyebrows raised. “Slow down and explain yourself. I can’t figure out where to put you if I don’t know where you came from.”

“So, you will help me…?” the Turkish Angora asked hopefully, his ears perking up immediately. Abelard let go of his shoulder and stared at him in disbelief. Had he been hoping for this kind of reaction…?

“I asked you to explain yourself. We shall see if we can find a solution to your predicament once I know everything… And I do mean everything.” Abelard had a feeling he just might be a troublemaker, but of a different sort than the kind he had encountered before. He gestured towards the church with some apprehension. “We can step inside and talk, if you'd please.”

Mr. Wirth turned towards the church with an equal amount of apprehension of his own. He bit his lower lip and seemed to consider this for quite a little while. He hovered awkwardly around where he stood, though he didn’t step towards the building. “Uh… maybe we could talk out here? Or we could go for a walk? It was a long drive here; I’d like to just stretch my legs a little.”

Abelard thought it curious that he'd mentioned a long car ride, seeing as there wasn't a car around to be seen nearby. He looked at the younger cat, eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“Oh, I drove into town, but I walked here,” the white cat hastily added, apparently not ignorant to the doubt written all over Abelard's face. He offered a would-be innocent smile, but given the hasty way he had offered up a rather flimsy explanation, it didn’t make Abelard trust him any more. “And besides… I haven't really been in Defiance for years. You could show me around… Please…?”

Crossing his arms again, Abelard scowled at the shorter cat, who continued looking at him with that would-be innocent smile of his, but he saw right through it. Whatever he was playing at, he wasn't going to let the white cat win. He knew for sure he didn’t want to participate in his little games. But if he wanted to stick around and work in the town he grew up in… Abelard supposed it wasn’t the worst thing to want, even if he was being deceptive about it. Still, something wasn't right about this young stranger…

“Very well, we can walk together,” Abelard finally agreed, though he still scowled at the younger cat. He, on the other hand, seemed perfectly pleased with this compromise. It indeed seemed like this was the outcome the younger man had desired…

As the two of them left the church grounds and walked up to where the two roads outside the building crossed, Abelard couldn’t help but feel like this was all an elaborate rouse.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the stranger was trying to manipulate him in some way. His intentions sounded innocent enough on paper, but the way he went about everything didn’t sit right with Abelard. “Now, young Mr. Wirth–”

“Ugh, no… Just call me Cainan… uhm… please. Reverend.”

“Well, Mr. Wirth… If you wish for me to assist you with your plight, I must ask you a few things. And I ask that you return the favor by answering my questions honestly.” Abelard turned his blue-eyed gaze upon the other cat and fixated him with a scrutinizing look. “Do I have your word?”

“Of course, I’ll be… honest.” The hesitation made Abelard scoff and offer the Turkish Angora a side-eye as the two walked down the dirt road together. “No, sorry, I mean it. I’ll be honest – I swear.”

Abelard still scowled, but he ultimately nodded, breaking eye contact to look ahead. The two walked along the road that ran parallel to the church’s front door. They moved in silence for a few seconds as he gathered his thoughts. He still wasn't at all sure what to make of Mr. Wirth. He didn’t appear very trustworthy; the way he spoke, his closed off body language, the way he slouched and the way he shrugged so often. Abelard very much felt that the answers he got from the white cat would prove whether he was to be trusted or not.

“So, tell me: when did you move away? And how come your parents didn’t contact you to let you know that they'd moved themselves?” Abelard decided to go for two big questions back-to-back. When he looked over at the cat on his left, he did indeed seem taken aback by the questions, but he simply hoped he'd honor his promise and tell him the truth.

“Ah… Well, those are very good questions…” he replied hesitantly, looking away at the cornfield they walked past. It was obvious that he was stalling to answer, and he was already starting to feel rather annoyed with him for it. Though the scowl on his face didn’t go away, Abelard calmed himself the best he could and just waited. “Well, to answer the first one, I left town when I was… I think, fourteen. Thirteen? Around that time at least.”

“Really now? And how come you decided to leave Defiance then?” Abelard wondered aloud, and he couldn’t help but privately wonder if he had run away.

It seemed unusual to travel away alone at such an early age. But all the same it seemed so unlikely; from what Abelard remembered of the Wirth family, they were a respectable sort, a good family with good values. They were people of faith and everyone in town seemed to like and admire them.

At least if his memory served him correctly…

“Oh, I needed a change of scenery.” Once more, Mr. Wirth appeared so casual. He stuck his hands into his pants pockets, looking completely unbothered. The younger man still slouched a bit, whereas Abelard took proper strides, though he did tend to hunch a bit. “Small towns like this are nice, but I wanted to see more of what the world had to offer.”

Abelard had to admit, the other cat’s answer had surprised him. Assuming it was the truth, he couldn’t help but find it almost admirable to want to experience things like that at such a young age. Perhaps that was how his parents had raised him?

Of course, being out in the world meant temptation. How old was he now? Abelard wasn't sure, but if he left about ten years ago, perhaps… Ten years was a long time… Who knew, maybe he was older than he seemed at a glance. “And where did the road take you then?”

“Oh, here… there… all over the place.” He offered up another casual shrug, Abelard feeling a twinge of annoyance shooting through him at the sight. “I started going from town to town. I traveled down south for a bit, then over east to St. Louis for a while. Never really out of state, though.”

“And now you’ve returned home…” Mr. Wirth glanced over at him in a manner that told him all he needed to know. In fact, the look told him far more than the young cat likely meant for it to; he didn’t like the idea of referring to Defiance as ‘home.’ Although he said nothing, it was written all over his face – the young man was practically grimacing. “And what did you do while you were away exactly? I take it you must have done some kind of work to get by, have you not?”

Mr. Wirth nodded as they approached the tree line that bordered the fields near the church. Past the trees there would be yet more farmland with more houses here and there, more of what Defiance had to offer. “I did a couple different things. Factory work, courier work, personal driver, everything in-between, really.”

It was of course a very vague list, but Abelard supposed if he truly was that versatile and had gotten a lot of experiences in his time away from Defiance, Mr. Wirth might just fit in after all. It shouldn’t be too hard to find something for this young straggler to do at least; Abelard was sure he (or at least the locals) might be able to find a niche for the Turkish Angora to occupy. But of course, that was all up to the community and how well he got himself reintegrated with them.

Defiance was a small, small town, but there should be room enough for one more – it might even help that he grew up there. Abelard wasn't sure if anyone would remember the white cat, but perhaps if they did, that might ease the transition.

As the two of them reached and passed the tree line, they also reached a more densely populated area. This was of course relatively speaking as the buildings scattered here still had a considerable amount of distance between them.

Mr. Wirth glanced around with considerably more interest than he’d shown up until that point, his green eyes taking everything in. “Ah yeah, I do remember this place… a little. It hasn't changed that much from what I remember…”

“Suppose there’s not too much of a point in showing you around then. Hm, let’s see… If you left some ten years ago, I suppose you may not have seen that we have a bookstore now, have you?” Abelard asked as they approached the nearest building. He didn’t remember exactly when the bookstore had been opened, but he was fairly sure it must have been after he left home.

“Oh, I don’t think so, no. I might have to stop by later,” the younger cat said. Abelard thought it might be the first time he said something genuine. At the very least it seemed more genuine than anything else he had said up to that point.

Out here, there was more open grassland, less of it dedicated to farmland, more of it just simple grassy, green hills that rolled along the beautiful landscape. While there was distance between the homes here, they were closer in proximity than some of the farms around the church. Mr. Wirth looked around curiously as the two of them continued along the dirt road. “Ah, I recognize some of the buildings.”

“So, where are you staying exactly? I take it you’re not staying in your parents’ old home. Are you renting a room at the inn?” Abelard inquired as they neared the very same inn on their stroll. Although it was one of the larger buildings in town, they only had two rooms they rented out, since Defiance didn’t see many visitors, usually. It had a seating area inside for guests to sit and dine as well.

“Oh, no, I’m not. I’ve already got a bed with my name on it,” Mr. Wirth replied vaguely. As the two of them passed the inn and approached other houses, a few people took notice of the strange duo.

Abelard would nod in greeting to them, but he could tell people were curious. “And where might that be? If you’re planning to work here, I think we ought to make sure you don’t have to commute back and forth…”

“Ah. Well, I’m staying on over in Cottleville, it’s not too far.” Abelard watched him closely, trying to see if he was being honest. He had a difficult time with this young, white cat; he was easy to read at times, yet other times, such as now, he hadn't the faintest idea what the young man was thinking. His face was neutral, blank like a fresh new canvas, not showing a single discerning emotion.

“I see. I suppose that isn't too bad as far as distance is concerned,” Abelard reluctantly agreed as they continued on their way. He fell silent for a bit, the older cat needing a moment to think things through. They passed by the post office on their way.

It was another business that had initially had its start in someone’s home, albeit a house considerably smaller than most of the others. It was a single-story house where the very front had been converted into the post office where letters were sent and received daily.

Abelard privately thought that if anyone had kept in touch with the Wirths, the young Wirth may be able to get their new address and send for them… if that was even something he wanted at all. He had gotten the distinct feeling that perhaps there was some unpleasant history between him and his parents.

“So, say if you were to stay here, what work would you be willing to do?” he finally asked after a brief silence. He fixated the white cat with a scrutinizing stare once more. He supposed this too might reveal a bit more about his current situation, as well as his character.

“Oh, anything and everything,” the young cat said almost lazily. “I did do food service for a while, but I don’t know if the inn would need to hire any help. I don’t know what else there would be around here. But I suppose I’ll just have to find out.”

Anything and everything was a very wide spectrum, and Abelard wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. It could mean one of two things to him; either Mr. Wirth truly was incredibly versatile and not at all fussy; or he was desperate. He supposed that regardless, it shouldn’t be too hard to find something for him to do.

“I really ain’t too fuzzy about it. Maybe I’ll just stick around for a few days and see what happens.” Mr. Wirth cast an inquisitive glance back over his shoulder towards the post office. It was one of the first buildings one would encounter when entering Defiance from the direction they were going. “Hm…”

“What is it?” Abelard looked towards the building as well, then looked back at Mr. Wirth. He raised an eyebrow curiously.

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Just considering my options,” the younger cat replied with a shrug. Mr. Wirth pulled his hands out of his pockets and cracked his knuckles rather loudly, before resuming his slouching posture. “So, hm… anything else you want to know about me?”

Abelard could tell he was hesitant and most likely he was only asking to be polite; it was clear that he was being secretive on purpose. Whatever it was, the younger cat did indeed seem to hide something, though perhaps he just simply didn’t enjoy sharing. Abelard supposed he couldn’t blame him there.

“So, if you’re staying somewhere over in Cottleville, are you a permanent resident there? Or what is your living situation? I’m trying my best to understand here…” He had a feeling he knew the answer, but he needed to be sure. That was assuming Mr. Wirth chose to answer truthfully, of course.

“I’m… more or less homeless at the moment,” he admitted, looking up at him. Their eyes locked again, and Mr. Wirth just gave a small smile when he saw the look on Abelard's face. “It’s alright, I’m managing just fine for now.”

Abelard watched the younger cat for a moment as they continued on their way. He wasn't so sure; being a young man without a job and a home didn’t seem like ‘managing’ to him. He supposed if he had money saved up that was one thing, but he also didn’t know for sure. His eyes drifted down to the torn knee of Mr. Wirth’s denim pants. That seemed like something he could and would have fixed if he’d had the funds for it.

Although he didn’t want to give Mr. Wirth too much just yet (in case he was the type to take an arm when offered a hand) Abelard couldn’t help but feel as though he ought to do something for him. As untrustworthy as he’d been acting up until this point, the young vagabond thought that perhaps he was making light of his own situation to make it seem less severe. Perhaps a coping mechanism of some kind.

Nevertheless, the two of them continued along the road. They didn’t speak too much outside of Abelard explaining which buildings were from after Mr. Wirth had left town, which seemed to be a good number of them. Even with Defiance’s small population, there ought to be quite a few unfamiliar faces amongst them now, at least for Mr. Wirth who had been gone for so long.

The two had made it all the way to the road sign that would first greet those arriving in Defiance, at which point they turned back. They’d ended up further from the residential area and closer to Defiance General.

The post office was the first building of significance they reached on their way back. A decently sized building with just one floor, a quite scenic one given the open field behind it. Abelard knew a local artist had once painted a beautiful piece featuring the post office and its backdrop. It was, in fact, iconic to the residents.

Glancing through the main window as they passed, Abelard offered a wave to the local postman, Mr. Lang, who was working inside. The gray tabby offered a wave back, though he cast a curious glance at Mr. Wirth, who seemed to be glancing the complete opposite way. He almost seemed to willfully try to ignore the post office’s existence.

“Would you like to go inside? Perhaps we can ask if there’s work to be done in the post office.” Mr. Wirth turned towards Abelard again and looked apprehensive at best.

“Oh, uh… Yeah, we can head inside,” the younger cat replied, speaking with a similarly apprehensive tone, his eyes not meeting Abelard's.

Abelard raised an eyebrow curiously. For someone who said they’d take on anything and everything, this was a curious reaction, when the very prospect of a potential job was brought up.

What are we going to do with you, he privately wondered as he stepped up to the post office’s door, looking sideways at the younger cat. Abelard knew next to nothing about him at this point, maybe Mr. Wirth truly was doing better than he appeared to be.

Thank you for asking I really appreciate the interest! I want to have a good backlog of pages finished before I start posting them publicly. I’m still getting comfortable with my process and my schedule for finishing pages is a bit sporadic since unfortunately I can’t afford to work on this full time, buuut if anyone wants to help me with that and get to see comic pages as soon as I finish them I’ve already been posting them on my Patreon :-)

With a soft chime from the bell above the door, Jill stepped into the small café. She had passed it a few times, though she didn't come to this part of town often. It was a quaint-looking place from the outside, especially with the sunlight coming through the windows facing the street. The floor had a monochromatic checkered pattern, and a few tables were placed near the door, though the café didn't have a lot of patrons.

"Hello, Miss!" the brown cat behind the counter greeted her. The brown cat looked quite young, certainly younger than Jill, at least at a glance. "What can I get you?"

She decided to take a seat on one of the round stools by the bar, smiling back at the waitress. "Oh, just some tea would do, please."

Taking a look around, it really was a nice establishment. It was on the smaller side, and it was nearly empty. The tables near the front door had a few occupants, but the booths further away were empty. Music played from the tinny speaker of a radio on a small shelf.

Jill had hardly even had a chance to sample her tea when the door swung open and someone entered while humming loudly. Lowering her cup, she turned her head to look, noticing that everyone else in the café was looking as well. The humming came from a gray tabby, who was strutting inside, holding a crate.

His mere presence seemed to liven up the quiet café considerably, though Jill was almost impressed by the way he carried himself. He seemed so confident, like he really enjoyed the attention..

The tabby looked slightly younger than her, a wide smile on his face - clearly, he was having a good day. He wore a pair of bright blue pants and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up. As he passed her, Jill's eyes met his, which were also blue. He flashed her a toothy grin that made her heart skip a beat for a moment. She gave him a small smile in response before turning away, feeling suddenly flustered.

She raised her cup again, almost as if to hide behind it as she took a too large sip that ended up burning her tongue slightly. Still hiding part of her face behind said cup, she watched the tabby make his way behind the counter, striking up casual conversation with the waitress. Jill averted her gaze, not wanting to look like she was eavesdropping.

They appeared friendly, but not overly so. Still, even as she tried to look away, her eyes were drawn to the gray cat. He appeared quite cheerful as he was asked how the pickup went. "Oh,

'twas ducky, Ms. Pepper! I'll head on down with this and I will be right back!"

"Yeah, into the pantry." Though Jill didn't pay as much attention to the waitress, her tone was a bit strange. She didn't think much of it, however, as the tabby disappeared into the pantry in question.

Once he was out of sight, Jill heard a mild racket coming from the small storage room next to where the waitress was. The brown cat had taken to reading a magazine behind the bar and occasionally stopped to take care of the other patrons before they left. Surprisingly, the noise from the pantry died down rather quickly and for a moment, the café was dead silent again, save for the radio.

The tabby was inside the pantry for a surprisingly long time, and Jill found herself wondering if the pantry had a door that would lead out back. It seemed like an odd thing to have, however.

Eventually, the gray cat returned, looking just as upbeat as before. He sat on the chair at the far end of the bar and asked Ms. Pepper for a drink. Once more, Jill looked over at him and their eyes met almost immediately. His grin was as wide as it was bright. She averted her gaze, feeling flustered, though she did steal a few glances at him.

"Howdy do, miss!" When Jill turned again, the tabby had skipped a few stools and now sat closer to her. "I don't believe I've seen you here before."

"Oh, I don't usually come to this part of town.." The more she looked into his eyes, the more she noticed just how bright blue they were. On a less friendly face, they might even appear somewhat unnerving, but his smile was inviting. "My name's Jill."

The stranger raised his hand as if to tip a hat he wasn't wearing before awkwardly saluting and offering her his hand. "Rocky Rickaby, Miss Jill. How're you enjoying the Little Daisy?"

"It's nice..." she replied somewhat vaguely, smiling slightly as she shook his hand. His presence was almost infectious; it was hard not to smile back. "It's rather quiet, but I like it. Better than it being too busy!"

Rocky chuckled at that. "Oh, Ms. Jill, I can't remember the last time we were busy. But it's a pleasure to have you! I hope you didn't come looking for company, though..."

"Well, somewhat. I didn't come looking for it, but.." She paused as the waitress excused herself to the pantry, then turned back to Rocky. Jill glanced around, noticing that the café was entirely suddenly empty, save for the two of them. "If the company's always this good, I might come back."

The gray tabby's bright-blue eyes lit up immediately. "Splendid to hear! Hopefully you'll get to try some of Ms. Pepper's- Oh, she left. Well, fear not - I will entertain you!"

Jill let out a soft laugh before taking another sip of her tea, finishing it. She smiled at him and in a eager tone, she said, "Oh, you'd be my savior from this boredom - that'd be just dandy!"

"If you'd like, I could play my violin for you sometime," he replied as he looked at her with an almost restrained interest. His smile faltered slightly.

She hadn't initially taken the tabby for a musician, but it was a pleasant surprise. "Oh, you play the violin? That's grand, I'd really like that, Mr. Rickaby! When should I come back?"

A surprisingly sheepish smile made itself home upon Rocky's face. "I can bring it around for you tomorrow?"

Jill smiled warmly at him and nodded. "Tomorrow would be lovely!"