//------------------------------// // Op. 2, Movt 1: Acceso // Story: Private Gig // by NavyPony //------------------------------// Private Gig by NavyPony Op. 2, Movt 1 Acceso The morning came late for many ponies, and neither least nor greatest amongst them was Octavia van Clef. She awoke slowly, her eyes sliding open of their own accord as she rose to her hooves. Yawning, the mare took in her surroundings. The second floor of the Ponyville Library was illuminated by the rising sun, with thick rays of light dripping through the eastern window and saturating Twilight Sparkle’s bedroom. It somehow seemed smaller and more cluttered in the daylight and Octavia was reminded of the fact that she’d arrived unexpected. All the little things that she hadn’t noticed the night before – the minute details of Twilight’s life – were on complete display. It was uniquely intimate and, if Octavia were going to be honest with herself, a little bit voyeuristic. It was a private peek into her client’s mind, after all. Not that it stopped her. The bookshelves were crammed with volumes of every variety and without conceivable categorization – novels, biographies, textbooks, and political writings were all interspersed without reason, and it spoke of a scholastic but disorderly nature. The three clocks on the wall and the little alarm clock on the bed stand all displayed the exact same time, showing that Twilight was a meticulous perfectionist and probably downright obsessive. Her collection of quills looked well-used, and the trash bin was filled with empty ink bottles, scroll cases, and used teabags; it suggested long nights writing and studying, and the stacks of parchment in Twilight’s hornwriting backed it up. Although there were several photographs placed prominently about, Twilight appeared in only one of them. Coupled with the fact that her mirror and grooming supplies occupied only a tiny corner of the room, the purple mare was probably quite humble. Her bed had been left unmade. It suggested that Twilight was more concerned with action than appearance and that she tended towards organization only when it was functional. It also meant that Twilight was already awake. Octavia mouthed a silent curse when she realized she was alone in the room. Waking up after her clients may not have been a matter of bad business when she was paid in advance, but it was certainly poor form. Conventional attitudes of upper Canterlot held that sleeping past sunrise was disrespectful to Princess Celestia but Octavia was more concerned with what she’d termed next-day-weirdness. Whether it was regret, embarrassment, detachment, or whatever else, Octavia’s experience suggested that any morning in which she slept later than her clients turned out to be… awkward. ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ On this occasion, that awkwardness presented itself as a dark, opaque haze which separated the two mares – literally. “Good morning?” Octavia called from the top of the stairs, straining her eyes to see through the acrid-smelling smoke filling the library’s first floor. “Twilight? Twilight, are you about?” The distant quality of Twilight’s voice suggested that she further away than the library’s main chamber. “Oh, Octavia? Good– eheheh. Good morning!” she called cheerily. “I’m in the, ugh, ahem, the kitchen! Come down!” “K-kitchen?” Octavia started moving towards Twilight’s location, using her ears more than her eyes as the smoke became denser and denser. “Ehem. Twilight, I think there’s something wrong, perhaps-” “No, ugh, everything’s, ach. Everything’s fine! I’m just, ehech, ehech, I’m making breakfast!” The catch in Octavia’s throat had less to do with the fumes than she would’ve liked to admit. “Ah. Making breakfast?” she echoed, arriving in the kitchen doorway only to find it even worse than expected. The harsh smoke bit at her nose and made her eyes water, but she maintained picture-perfect composure. She even managed a slight smile, depending on one’s definition of the word. “That’s… very thoughtful of you. What are you…” Octavia hesitated before using the word, “cooking?” “They’re, ach, they’re supposed to be potato pancakes. I think.” The failing chef turned away from the stovetop to explain, “One of Golden Harvest’s, uhuh, ahem, sorry. One of my friends gave it to me. She got it from one of her cousins who’s apparently a chef, and she, ahech, she gave it to me. It’s supposed to be a really good recipe, but I’m starting to think that-” Octavia never learned what it was Twilight was starting to think, as her attention was suddenly consumed by a flash of yellow-orange just over the other mare’s withers. “Twilight, I think your pancakes are on fire.” ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ “So that’s a daffodil omelet with apple hash browns for unicorn,” the cream-colored stallion recited, “and the fruit platter and a croissant for the earth pony. Will that be all?” “That’s fine,” Twilight declared. “And could we please get some refills on the orange juice? And… Octavia?” “More coffee for me, thank you.” “Very well. A server shall be out shortly while I relay your orders. If you have any concerns, do not hesitate to ask.” Their waiter departed, visiting one of the other tables in front of the café before finally going inside. It left the two mares alone to make small talk. Well, alone was not perfectly accurate; there were other customers at other tables, after all, but none of them paid more than passing interest in either Octavia or Twilight. More interesting, perhaps, was the fact that they seemed equally unconcerned with the plumes of black smoke still issuing from the library’s windows. Her smile faltered an edge when she thought about it. Her musings were quickly interrupted. “So, Octavia. I’m, uhh, really sorry about that… thing with breakfast. In retrospect, I suppose I should’ve just suggested this in the first place.” Her smile snapped right back into place. “It was… something of an experience, I’ll admit, but no lasting harm was done.” The only ill effect she’d suffered was that her coat smelled of burnt potatoes and her cello’s case had kept it from suffering a similar fate. “Your books, however…” “Hmm?” Twilight paused for the briefest of moments. “Oh, you mean because of the smoke. They’ll be fine – all the shelves are enchanted to protect the books from smoke and humidity and the like. It’s really kind of a necessary precaution.” “Is that so? Does this sort of thing happen often?” As if to answer Octavia’s question, one of the café’s waitresses approached, the filly levitating both a pitcher of juice and a carafe of coffee. “Good morning, Twilight, madam.” She nodded to each of them in kind as she placed the orange juice on the table between them. “I saw the smoke this morning, Twilight – what kind of spell was it this time?” “Um.” The unicorn’s lavender cheeks took on a magenta hue at the question. “Actually…” She began filling Octavia’s cup of coffee. “Must have been Spike then, huh? Well, it’s nice to see that it was only smoke this time, not like last week. Say, ma’am, would you like any cream or sugar for your coffee? Ma’am?” “Hmm?” Not until she turned to face the waitress did Octavia realize she’d been staring at Twilight. Even worse, her mouth was agape. She quickly rectified the situation and turned away. “Oh, no, thank you. Black is fine.” “Okay then. If you change your mind, let me know,” she called over her shoulder, ambling back inside. “Have a nice morning Twilight! And you too, Miss!” ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ “Look at that. Look at that! Do you see that?” “Look at what?” Bonbon swiveled her torso until she could see the direction her marefriend was pointing. She immediately wished she hadn’t. “Lyra, please. Are you still going on about them? It’s just Twilight Sparkle and that musician that played for her birthday party last night. They’re having breakfast together, just like us. There’s nothing to look at.” “Yes there is,” the teal unicorn hissed. “Don’t you see what’s going on here – what Octy’s doing? It’s completely inappropriate. Scandalous, even.” “Completely inap-” The ivory mare shot another quick glance to the opposite end of the patio. “No. They’re just talking over breakfast. There’s nothing even remotely weird going on.” Bonbon turned back towards her own table with a heavy sigh and a well-practiced scowl. “Come to think of it, they’re probably the most normal table here.” “I’m telling you Bons, it’s totally outrageous.” She clopped a hoof on their table, nearly upending the little saucer of syrup by Bonbon’s plate. “This kind of thing shouldn’t be going on in Ponyville. Not in my Ponyville.” “Your Ponyville?” “Fine. Our Ponyville. Whatever the case, depravity of this order doesn’t belong anywhere.” “That bad, huh?” Bonbon deadpanned. “Alright then, get it out of your system. What’s going on that’s so scandalous?” “Refills,” Lyra uttered with absolute seriousness. “That waitress has refilled their drinks three times since they sat down, whereas we got here before them and I’ve only gotten one refill on my coffee.” “And you still haven’t finished that cup,” Bonbon retorted, pointing at the tepid mug in front of her marefriend. “Perhaps she’s not coming around because she can see that you haven’t finished it yet.” “No, she’s not coming around because of discrimination,” asserted Lyra, becoming more passionate with every word. “That waitress is giving them preferential treatment because she knows that they’re both from Canterlot, and she assumes that they’re going to tip better because of it. Do you know how the average annual income of a Canterlot musician compares to the average income of musicians in the rest of Equestria?” “Forty-three percent?” ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ The cream-colored stallion stood at the edge of the table, his gaze sliding from Twilight to Octavia. The former was sipping a mug of coffee and the latter picking daintily at the last of her fruit tray, but both were more engrossed in their conversation than what remained of their meals – something to do with Canterlot politics that he could only pretend to understand. Horte Cuisine looked back and forth between them once more. He reviewed the bill. Two glasses orange juice. Two cups coffee, complimentary. Daffodil omelet. Fruit platter. Side of apple browns. Croissant. Total: seventeen and a half bits. It hadn’t changed since the last two times he’d checked it. He gave another glance to the mares in front of him, this time starting with Octavia and moving to Twilight. It would’ve made sense to just pass the bill to Twilight; she was, if not a regular, a resident of Ponyville. But the musician… well, even if it was only for a moment, she’d shot him a glare that screamed out that she wanted the check. Maybe. There was also the possibility that she was just born with a very demanding sort of expression on her face. He scanned the receipt once more. Two glasses orange juice. Two cups coffee, complimentary. Daffodil omelet. Fruit platter. Side of apple browns. Croissant. Total: seventeen and a half bits. It was still the same. He looked back and forth between them. Again. Twilight, Octavia. Octavia, Twilight. Screw it. Deciding who paid for the meal was not his job. He slid the bill onto the table face-down, in the dead-center of the table. “Let me just leave this with you,” he pronounced quietly, making sure the check was no closer to one customer than the other. Both of the mares noticed the bill, turned to face the waiter, looked back at the bill, and then at each other. They then turned back to Horte, both attempting to speak simultaneously. “Uhh…” “That’s somewhat…” The waiter stuck his nose into the air and with a slight cough, turned tail. “Take your time, ladies. I’ll be back in a little bit.” He retreated to the kitchen before either could form a complete sentence. So the two of them were left alone with the bill. They both reached for it simultaneously, their discussion forgotten. “Well, how about I…” “I don’t normally offer to do this, but, perhaps it would be proper if I…” Both of their hooves stopped halfway to the middle of the table, the check unreached. They smiled rather exuberantly at each other, spending a long moment with both of their hooves suspended in midair. Twilight went first, albeit ineloquently. “Um.” “Actually, I-” “Perhaps…” “Well.” “Maybe I should-” “Perchance you would allow me?” “Octavia…” Twilight put her hoof down on the bill. The musician did the same, mimicking the pony across from her. “Twilight?” The unicorn grinned sheepishly and in a tone with which Octavia was all too familiar she murmured, "Please, let me?” Octavia swore inaudibly. Worse, she hesitated, and while Twilight (presumably) never noticed the fact, it bothered Octavia. She’d normally have acquiesced, and smiled as she so did. She’d normally have anticipated, if not suggested, that Twilight assumed the bill. Moreover, it would have normally been stipulated in her contract that any additional expenses were incurred at the cost of her client. And unless her agent had royally bucked this gig up, things were no different now than they normally were. But somehow… it was different. “Why don’t you let me?” She pulled the slip of paper closer to her side of the table. Twilight blinked twice before responding. “Well… that wouldn’t really seem right. I mean, if I hadn’t screwed up breakfast…” She blushed at the consideration. “Well, if I could cook right, we wouldn’t be here at all. So I should pay, right?” She dragged the bill back towards her side. “Besides, I’m the one who suggested this place.” “But if I weren’t here,” Octavia gave another tug on the bill, “you wouldn’t even have gone out to eat this morning, no?” She inclined her head in the most suggestive way she knew. “So maybe I should-“ Twilight pulled the check towards her before she could muster an argument. “But I…” Octavia raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “But?” The unicorn attempted to come up with an answer, her face dancing through a series of expressions as she did so. “Ahh? Um. Eh, uhh… but it’s my birthday?” The musician responded with as much grace as she’d ever claimed. “It’s not the first birthday at which I’ve performed.” “Oh.” Twilight’s countenance faded into the very slightest smile possible, and somehow, impossibly, Octavia was bothered by that fact. “Well… please?” She sighed and conceded, “Why don’t we split it?”