A/N: Muffy is surprisingly difficult to write. In the game she's kind of ditzy, but that would get annoying really quickly in a story, and I have to strike a balance between being sociable and uncomfortable from being new AND a pinch of wistfulness for the liberties I'm taking with her past. If you have any tips or think I still have work to do with her characterization, then please do share!

Lullabies

In the stillness of midnight Muffy trudges up to her bedroom. As she passes the dirty jar on the dresser she drops a handful of crumpled bills into it—more than she expected—and slumps into bed. She doesn't bother to undo her dress. A poof of dust tickles her nose as she sinks into what could be considered a mattress; it was so thin that the springs poked at her ribcage.

Her hands reek of alcohol from the spilled drinks she had wiped up. After the third drink Griffin had "bumped" over she had caught onto the ruse. The embarrassment would have been unbearable if he hadn't covered for her. Most bosses wouldn't be so understanding. Muffy had worked at more places than she had fingers, but the first day of trial by fire never gets easier. Learning the ropes, the customers, the rules spoken only after they had been crossed; it's as bad, if not worse, than cramming the night before a test. When she closes her eyes she can still see the miffed glares of her first customers and Gustafa's partly amused, partly sympathetic smile. The temptation to pull the covers over her head and pretend that tonight never happened is stronger than she cares to admit. She settles for blowing a limp lock of hair from her face.

She rolls onto her side and looks out the window. The curtains are drawn but the view offers no solace tonight. Neither the moon nor its accompanying bow can be spotted from behind the gray clouds that obscure the sky. Muffy grabs the pillow above her head, hugging it tight to her chest. Her nose twitches from the dust. She hums the ingredients for drinks as her eyelids start to droop. She had put the recipes to the music in the bar as a mnemonic. For all the good it did. Humming the recipes now is a poor substitute for a lullaby, but it is enough to slow her racing mind to the speed of molasses.

At some point it occurs to her that she's not the only one making music tonight. She does not know when it began, but she had been unconsciously intertwining her lullaby with another tune until it no longer sounded like the blues. From the room below music percolates through the wood floor up to her bedroom. Thrumming, resonating, nostalgic.

Guitar.

On almost every song Muffy had listened to after moving away from her parents', she could hear guitar playing in the background, but never had it been alone and raw like this. Where the orchestral music she was raised with had been intense and invigorating, demanding your attention, this melody is steady and understated, its rhythm only pulling you in if you stop long enough to listen.

And she is listening. The tension drains from her body like sap from a tree and her muscles relax. Her breaths draw out slower and slower. As the music drifts her to sleep, Muffy can almost hear Mama singing to her, an audience of only one.