The poor girl must've been there for an hour or more at least; she was soaked through to the skin, the inadequate hat and poncho doing nothing to keep the torrent of rain that was battering the station at bay. She had two heavy saddlebags with her, which was probably the reason why she hadn't immediately moved on to seek other shelter. Celestia knows where she could go, though; there were no nearby hotels, very few ponies lived around here, and the way that the angry grey clouds swirled menacingly in the blue-black sky, it was clear that one epic storm was about to touch down.
“Miss your train, sweetie?” I asked, approaching her cautiously. She looked the jittery type, though I guessed at least some of that shaking and shivering was down to the frigid wind blowing fitfully. The waterlogged filly was trying to huddle into one of the stanchions, but the gale changed direction capriciously.
“Y-yes,” she stammered in response. She started backing away slowly as I got closer.
Yup. The jittery type. Still, who could blame her? Strange, lumbering pony, middle of a storm, an ill-lit train station. It had the makings of a bad horror story.
“Easy, girl,” I say coolly, outstretching my forelegs to show that I'm unarmed. “If where you're headed is close, I could take you in my taxi. I'll even waive the fare,” I add with a disarming smile. I hope it is, at least. “The next train won't be until morning because of the storm.”
She has to spit out a mouthful of water before she can answer. “P-Ponyville.”
“Ah.”
Ponyville is the train's last stop. At top speed, I could probably be there just in time to get the train back.
“I don't mind waiting.”
“Sure,” I say doubtfully. “I don't think they'll mind hefting a ponycicle into the luggage compartment.”
“Um,” she murmurs. “Is there somewhere nearby I can shelter?”
I shake my head. “Look,” I begin hesitatingly, realising how this might sound, “I have an extra room. It's a little cramped, but it's just until morning.”
“I couldn't possibly impose on you like that,” she replies, her soggy mane glued to her head.
“Don't mean to be blunt, miss, but you can either accept my offer of hospitality or freeze out here.”
A long moment passes before she gathers up her saddlebags and proceeds in my direction. She holds out a hoof. “Fluttershy.”
I do likewise. “Spring Step.”
I have a small place at the edge of town; it isn't much, but it's home. Plus, it's quiet. Since my job entails dealing with other ponies on a regular basis – especially as taxi driver seems to equate to psychotherapist in some minds – I adore having a place where I can be at peace. I feel like this Fluttershy is a kindred spirit. She hasn't said a single word during the twenty minute journey. I'm not even sure if she's breathing, it's so darned quiet.
Even I can't stand this.
“So, uh, what brought you to Hollow Shades?”
“Oh, um, I was, uh, following the parasprite swarm. I'm, er, I mean, I have something of an interest in unusual animals, and they're quite an interesting species.”
“A nature girl, huh? Should've figured from the cutie mark, I guess. What makes 'em so interesting?”
“Well, they'll eat almost anything. Bit like Pinkie Pie in that regard.” Now that she was warming to her subject, she seemed markedly less nervous. “And, uh, their method of reproduction is particularly noteworthy.”
Finally, something juicy. “Do tell.”
“Um, instead of the, you know, usual thing, they … well, once they've eaten a certain amount, they seem to cough up an identical duplicate.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Oh, sorry,” she says meekly. I get the feeling she apologises a lot. “I didn't mean to bother you.” I glance back to see her looking out the window, biting her lip nervously. She probably thinks I'm gonna chuck her out into the rain.
“You weren't,” I reply, trying to stifle a laugh. “I meant ...” She looks like the kind of girl whose eyes would bug out of her skull if you mentioned the S word. “Never mind. I just think that those parasprite-things are missing out on something, and let's leave it at that.”
I can feel Fluttershy's eyes on the back of my head, but she doesn't say anything. Probably too embarrassed.
*
“Well, this is it,” I say grandly, making a grand sweep with one of my forelegs.
“It's lovely, thank you,” Fluttershy replies earnestly, probably wanting to hit the literal hay as soon as possible.
“I'm gonna make a pot of soup. You're more than welcome to join me.”
“I don't want to be more of a burden than I am already,” she says, the mane falling over her eyes.
“I always make way too much. Do you always fret this much?”
She nods shyly. I suppose you have to take docility as a given when you're dealing with someone named Fluttershy. Wonder what her parents were like to have burdened their daughter with that moniker?
“I'll be down as soon I dry up a bit.”
*
I love making soup; it's one of life's simple pleasures, and I'll make it at least three or four times a week. Some seasoning, some vegetables, a hunk of cornbread for dipping … I ask you, what could be better?
Somepony to share it with, I guess.
I'll say this for her, though, she certainly isn't shy when it comes to eating; the soup, and the accompanying chunk of bread, are practically gone before I even sit down.
“Excuse me,” she says, putting a hoof to her mouth to stifle the eructations caused by her greediness. “I, uh, haven't eaten in a while.” A pink almost as bright as her hair tints her cheeks.
I smile benevolently. “Just as long as you're feeling warm again.”
“Yes, thank you. I wish I could repay you for your kindness.” Her eyes subtly swivel in the direction of her saddlebags, left in the hallway to dry.
I wave my hoof dismissively. “I wouldn't dream of taking the money of a beautiful lady.”
Again, the luminescent blush.
“And I don't want for anything. Helping another pony out is reward enough.”
*
“What are you …?”
I can feel her heart hammering against my chest, smell the sweet scent of her breath, her flowing mane tickles my coat whenever I brush against it. “There's nothing I want,” I say coldly, “but there are certain things I need.”
That frightened look in your beautiful blue eyes being one of those things.
“I'm guessing that you don't open up,” I say, forcing her hind legs apart with my knees, “very easily for anyone.”
Her eyes are wet with tears. “Please, don't,” she begs. “I'm … waiting.”
“For what?” I spit, covering that delicate face in my saliva. “Marriage? Your special somepony? It's all a myth, kid. Life is about taking what you want when you want it.”
She shuts her eyes, going stiff as a board. The only sound in the quiet room is her gentle sobbing. She squeals when I enter her; it's as dry and as rough as sandpaper at first, but her body starts producing moisture purely as a matter of instinct. To prevent damage.
But the damage is done, anyway; what is a brief encounter for me is a lifetime of misery for her, and the real pleasure is in knowing that nothing will ever affect Fluttershy as profoundly as this again. A small part of me – beyond the droplets of my seed – will be with her until the day she dies.
I've touched a part of her that no friend, no lover, ever could. She ought to be grateful, really.
I leave her crying into the night.
