A Kiss To Build A Dream On
Author's Note
Obviously I don't own any of the songs or the Fallout: Equestria universe. Thank you to KKat for Fo:E, Louis Armstrong for his music and whoever wrote 'The Fragrance of Dark Coffee'.
Trivia: This is somewhat loosely based on how me and my girlfriend met, and I wrote this before ever reading even the first word Fo:E.
A Kiss To Build A Dream On
Fallout: Equestria - A Kiss To Build A Dream On
A Short Story By Sweet Autumns
The old stallion on stage sang with a deep, gravelly voice. A pianist let her hooves dance across the keys while another pony played a bass next her and one more pony played a trumpet next to him. A griffin also sat behind some old drums. It was an old song; some jazzy thing about building your dreams upon a kiss.
A kiss to build a dream on, eh? There was a pony in the bar who longed for such a thing, an earth pony mare with a lightning yellow mane. She didn't care whether it was a stallion or a mare, anything to pull her out of this lonely pit of whiskey and dull, menial tasks that her boss called 'important work'. Fuck the miserable sack of shit that called itself a pony; the work involved wiping down the bar and tables and taking ponies their drinks. Well, at least the booze was at a discount. If not for that she woulda' given up a long time ago.
The bar was filled with a gentle murmur of chatter and smoke and the smell of alcohol.
Romances were a thing long forgotten in this town, heartbreak, back stabbing and alcoholism were more common. The streets were ruled by gangs, the bar was run by a gang, trade was all gang-controlled. And that lonely pony's life was reigned over by a gang. And she was sick of it. Fitting I suppose, there's always somepony on top, beating down other ponies- the great cycle of oppression. Soon someone else would 'overthrow them for the good of the people' and then they slowly become the very same tyrant that they had put down, having ponies do their dirty work and looking down on everyone from their high place simply because they're stuck up bastards who don't get the concept of sharing or kindness. But in the end: that's the wasteland through and through. You hear about that 'Stable Dweller' on the radio and hope that there's some good in the world- just one little spark. And then you remember that you're still on the same stool, in the same room and still in the same town. Which is when you remember that the Heroine of The Wastes isn't coming; that she has more important things to do than help the little, insignificant ponies in one town just because they don't particularly like it here.
The ponies on stage sway and tap their hooves with the song, the griffin falling into a perfect rhythm which has the whole bar moving, unconsciously, to the beat, tapping hooves or bobbing their heads. The song dives into a solo.
The door opens, a small group of ponies entering, all covered in the dust of the wasteland; they look like adventurers and scavengers and maybe a merc or two. New to town. Looking for a place to sleep tonight, it's already late, the sky is dark outside and the yellow lights and music carry out to the dark streets through the grimy windows of the old building. They all choose a rather large table to sit at together, talking and laughing. Well, time for work. The pony at the bar stands and slowly weaves through the tables and chairs, making her way through all the ponies in the room and towards the group who just entered.
The song draws to a close, the singer looking disappointed. The pianist leads the next song, something without lyrics, but calming and sweet. The singer leaves the stage as a pony with a large bass steps up and prepares himself.
She takes their orders: two whiskeys, a scotch and three beers. As she walks to the bar she hears the group's only mare, a small unicorn with a wild, black, tangled mane, call out 'great flank, sugar!'
...Huh, she wasn't expecting that. She hears the group all laugh, well, at least ponies can still have friends to sit and have a laugh with. Rather, other ponies could; most of her friends were only temporary- ponies she'd borrowed a favour from or ponies she'd worked with. The others had either moved or had said something that the town's 'great leader' hadn't been too fond of and never showed up at the bar the next day.
The ponies on stage are all perfectly in sync, the effect is a calming one, making everypony relax, unwind.
She fetches the drinks from the refrigerators in the back room, the dark space is a contrast to the dimly lit main room with the sweet sounds of jazz flowing through it. Here the sounds are muffled by the walls, the aroma of alcohol has become a stench and the constantly running refrigerators leave tiny crystals of ice on some of the walls. She leaves quickly, careful not to drop or spill any of the drinks which have been loaded onto the tray on her back, so she can return to the warm atmosphere that the smell of booze creates. She returns to the room and starts, once again, to weave her way through the ponies. And as she walks an idea hits her: time to stop waiting for somepony that's never gonna' turn up. That mare wants some fun? Like I just said: time to stop waiting on others.
The pianist adds a little flare into the song, the bassist swaying and the drummer closing her eyes. The quartet of musicians are losing themselves in the flow of the music.
As she reaches the table she shifts the tray from her back and onto the hard, stained mahogany surface and allows the ponies to take their drinks. Before she turns to leave for the bar she leans close to the mare's ear and whispers a sweet something. Only a small comment, nothing special, but just enough. Just enough to turn the poor filly red under her pale coat. And her ears even light up like a lamp- it's quite an adorable little sight.
The band keeps playing, the music never changing it's tempo or rhythm- it's perfect.
The group laughs once again at their friend's fiery face; nopony heard what was said, but anypony who's cheeks burn that red is easily going to elicit at least a giggle from others. Her work done, a mischievous smile on her lips, the simple waitress departs the table for the stool at the bar. Setting her self down on it and dragging the whiskey bottle closer with her hoof. Well, let's just hope that this works.
The song is along one; it sounds as if one song which is being played through repeated has been expertly weaved into its own self, making sure that there are no breaks.
The night wears on without anything really happening. Maybe that unicorn mare wasn't so interested after all? It wouldn't be a surprise now, would it? But, despite the doubt on her mind, the pony at the bar lifts her head from the beer stained surface and peaks over her shoulder to see a certain cute little mare trotting towards the bar. The waitress watches as the unicorn pulls up a stool and sits next to her. Romance isn't quite forgotten in this little burg; not just yet.
The band is still playing.
