I'll Be Watching You

by palaikai

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, Sad, Romance
Length: 1154

Tending to her garden early one morning, Fluttershy has no idea that she is under observation.

"Not for the first time this morning, I catch myself looking. Looking? I guess staring is a more appropriate word; knowing myself far too well by this point, I realise it's unlikely to be the last time either and I sigh inwardly, thinking of how yet another day is going to be wasted with my … preoccupation …"

Sorry, I don't normally use a piece from the story as a description, but for once, I drew a blank.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-07-17 21:10:03 UTC

Observer

Not for the first time this morning, I catch myself looking. Looking? I guess staring is a more appropriate word; knowing myself far too well by this point, I realise it's unlikely to be the last time either and I sigh inwardly, thinking of how yet another day is going to be wasted with my … preoccupation. There are a million things needing done, but I can't focus; I can only distract my wandering eye for so long before it returns to the view outside the window, and I can feel the frustration building up inside of me.

You were already out there when I woke up; there aren't many ponies who notice that you care for the flora around your cottage with an equal diligence as the fauna, but I did, and that makes me childishly proud. Sometimes, one could almost imagine you made some bargain years ago: trading away your understanding of sentient creatures for this ability, this empathy, with lesser beings.

I suppose the fact that they are intertwined is the important thing. A garden in bloom is a great attractor for the animals, and the animals … well, their role in keeping all this the verdure healthy is obvious.

A small chuckle escapes my throat when I watch you fumble with the outsize watering-can – a jewel-encrusted monstrosity that was a gift from a mutual friend with a passion for fashion – but you soon adjust with your typical grace, and you bound happily from flower to flower, your wings fluttering involuntarily as a demonstration that all is right with your world. Your scrawny muscles are hard at work, and a wave of shame sluices through me as my eyes fixate on one set of muscles in particular.

Hey, I'm only equine! Normally, that long, silky-soft tail of yours would keep you covered, but the way you're moving your hips as you work has it unsettled from its usual stationary position.

You stop in front of a bouquet of intense violet roses; a gift from me, not that you'd know it. The florist was understanding enough to let me remain anonymous; I chickened-out, not able to bring myself to buy you red, just in case you somehow found out the identity of the sender. It isn't my only act of cowardice. That's why I have to resign myself to watching you like this, and keeping my tongue bitten when you're in the room with me.

My roses are no more important to you than any of the other flowers in your garden, but my heart skips a beat all the same when you inhale their heady odour.

Some ponies think you don't take any pride in what you do, that you try to brush it off as doing no more than what is necessary; I know the truth, though. I can see how happy you are, how proud you are, of the things that you make live in your garden. It's fleeting, lasting only a second, as if you're afraid that it'll go to your head if you feel any sense of satisfaction about your work.

I suppose that's what draws me in, why I can't resist spying on you in this way; I see a side of you that no other pony will, even if it just for a few minutes. I wish … I want to tell you of my feelings; I don't know when they started, when the border from friendship was crossed, but I can't go back now. Equally, it would not be fair to burden you with this kind of knowledge. You're such a fragile thing.

You're standing in front of the tree that houses many different volary; you start to hum to yourself, and your avian friends soon join in. It's in these moments that I believe the real you is finally allowed to the surface, if only temporarily: you're free, dancing and singing with nopony – you think – watching you, judging you. It's a side of you I want to see more often. It's a side of you that I wish I could bring out.

You continue to dance, whirling through your garden with gentle, lighter-than-air movements that are careful – either through long practice or that finely-honed pegasus instinct you pretend not to have – not to trample any of the flowers, but aren't shy about dragging your hooves and tail through the mud. The blissful look on your face tells me that you don't mind this development in the slightest.

It also puts images in my head, of what you would look like after a long night under my ministrations, and I have to push these thoughts aside if I'm going to get through the rest of the day in one piece.

I have no idea how much time has passed since I started watching you. It never seems long enough, but I'm brought crashing back to reality when a figure emerges blinking into the sunlight from your cottage. My stomach aches, and I have to fight off the urge to be sick; it's wrong, poisonously wrong, to be jealous – I've seen firsthoof what it does to the best of friends, the closest of lovers, and even family – but the envy wells up inside me until I feel as though I'm a dam fit to burst.

Seeing the figure throws you off your stride and you collapse into the mud, a sheepish expression crossing your face; the figure falls to the ground, and I can only assume that they're lost in the raptures of a colossal giggle-fit. Certainly, the back-and-forth rocking seems to confirm that; even good-naturedly, I feel my bile rise at the idea of somepony laughing at you for being you.

The laughter abates, and the figure approaches you; their hoof goes out, and you accept it coyly. Even this small gesture is loaded with meaning. I could be imagining it, but I doubt it. I've been watching for a long time now, after all.

I never saw the figure arrive at your cottage this morning, which can only mean that they spent the night with you. My mind helpfully crafts a welter of imagery, and the urge to heave returns. It hurts imagining that somepony else is waking up to that dreamy, contented look of yours.

My vision goes blurry, and I quickly ascertain why: I'm crying. I can't devote the energy I'd like to a proper bawl, so I have to settle for the pathetic, self-centred sobs of the best friend who didn't make a move quite quick enough.

Perhaps I should settle for admiring the beauty all around me; your garden, the animals, even the insects that buzz happily around, you. Yes, even the figure helping you to your feet. My selfish haze doesn't totally blind me to the fact that you're happy, and really, that's all that matters.

Isn't it?