The glass was still half full. That’s what Fancy Pants thought.
Held in the glow of his magic, he inspected the taper of the martini glass that floated inches from his face. Some ponies preferred to leave the olive for last - as though waiting were a sign of refined breeding - but it was a guilty pleasure of his to devour it as a chaser to the first sip of dry gin and vermouth as it danced over his taste buds. Tonight however, the still-burdened toothpick bounced around with remnants of clear liquor as he swished the glass about in the aura of his magic. He considered the countenance of the object as if it were a work of art, while at the same time wondering what had held him back from his usual indulgence.
The glass was half full. From a young age he had been taught to see it that way, and the lesson was one he had taken to heart. Holding on to the psychology of such principles had carried him through many trying instances in his life that might have otherwise led to personal or financial ruin, had he allowed himself to sink into despair.
But not everypony thought that way.
Sighing heavily, he floated the glass to the side and continued to stroll the luxurious halls of a villa that nearly compared to his own chateau on the high outskirts of Canterlot. So spacious were the corridors that were it not for the cozy layer of sangria carpeting beneath his hooves, he might have heard the clack of keratin echoing from the walls with every step he took. As it were, nothing came to his ears but the chirping of late-night crickets, the ticking of a grandfather clock, and the receding clamor of a completed soiree downstairs that was still discharging stragglers into the street.
He paused to appreciate the decor - on the walls hung mirrors in gilded frames and frescos of spring meadows, set over the occasional end-table sporting a crystal vase of fresh flowers. He offered each garish accessory an appreciative smile; it occurred to him that any who watched such a display would likely assume his chest swelled with mere pride for the affectations themselves. But that wasn’t it.
His taste for finery was no secret - rarely if ever did he fall under the discerning gaze of paparazzi pegasi without his finely groomed mane or the sharp creases of his black-tie formality. But the baubles that now watched him from the other side of his monocle were just that – mere things. To surround himself with their ilk meant as much to him as a gardener’s love for petunias or a painter’s love for pigment ground into one’s coat. It was a hobby. A source of happiness. Not a monument to excess.
He knew it was also a joy of hers - this was her home after all. And it was precisely because he knew her so well that he was happy to see these items she had put on display.
“But where have you gotten off to my dear...” Fancy Pants mused aloud.
When Fleur De Lis, the hostess herself, had abruptly vanished from the modest get-together, Fancy Pants took over without a hitch - it was an unwritten rule between the two close friends to always cover for one another in the face of a potential social faux-pas. The lateness of the hour had made it a simple matter for Fancy to claim that Fleur had taken to her chambers early with a headache, but he didn’t really know exactly why she’d departed - only that she had done so on the heels of a grating conversation with some upper-crust Manehattanites who insisted the glass was half-empty, and felt the need to berate those with such an ‘ignorant, rose-colored outlook on life’.
As soon as it had been polite to excuse himself, Fancy Pants searched the gardens, the sitting room, the baths, and any other locale designed to soothe a weary in pony mind or body. Having had no luck with any of them, he was on his way to his friend’s private wing.
The door to her apartments was hewn of solid, intricately-carved oak that matched all the others in the corridor, but something was amiss, and Fancy noticed it right away by the glow of moonlight that cascaded through the skylights.
The door was open a crack.
Out of politeness he wrapped on the door it firmly enough to be heard, while at the same time staying it with his magic so that the impact wouldn’t simply knock it fully ajar.
“Fleur? I say my dear, are you well?” He asked the air.
There was no response, but a curious mixture of scents wafted from the boudoir. Congealing at his nostrils, the new odors obliged him to raise his head and sniff deeply, testing the air two or three times to ensure the odor of alcohol lingering about his moustache was not confusing the signals to his brain. He squinted, pondering, as ancient memories brought sharp recognition to the scent.
“Here now, what’s this...?” He sniffed again. “...talcum? Or...cornstarch? With a hint of...cucumber?”
His curiosity piqued, Fancy touched the door gently with his manicured hoof and pushed it out of the way. Normally it would simply not do for him to let himself into a mare’s private chambers, but he had known Fleur since they were both foals, and thus had certain special allowances - especially when seeing to her welfare, which was now in question.
“My dear, forgive me,” He spoke as he crossed the threshold, “Perhaps you are merely asleep, but I insist that I at least be certain of your well-being.”
Shafts of mottled moonlight spilled in from between the leaves of tall trees outside Fleur’s ample balcony windows. The scene they cast their pale glow upon consisted of the trappings of a normal bedroom of a high-class supermodel - elegance and poise in every sweeping, graceful line of cosmopolitan decor and nouveau furnishing. Fancy approached the posted bed, its purple velvet canopy still tied back by golden tassels, but found it to be not only empty, but undisturbed.
Fancy Pants trotted past the desk and levitated a hair brush from the vanity, turning it over in his grasp like a detective looking for clues in a kidnapping case. Other than the errant strand of soft-pink hair there was nothing, and the realization that he could not find her even in her own bedroom sat heavily on his brow. He sat both the brush and the martini glass down, lit his horn to a useful brightness level, and began to sift through the room.
“Fleur?” He repeated, going as far as to lift the flat rug she was clearly not hiding under, “Fleur, I must say this is a trifle vexing. If you’re here--”
His words ceased as his eye fell upon a low-hanging tapestry on one wall that was hanging, lopsided, from its moorings. He might have ignored such a minute detail under other circumstances, but in this bastion of cleanliness, such an arrangement was nearly shocking.
“Hello...” He mused, approaching the tapestry. “...what have we here...?”
Adjusting his monocle, Fancy Pants closed his other eye and focused on a small shaft of light that spilled over the misaligned edge of the wall-hanging. It wasn’t pale enough to be moonlight, and the direction suggested it could not be coming from outside. In his nostrils, the scents grew stronger. In his ears there was a very faint suggestion of music - and a cooing noise that sounded very much like that of a pony.
Deciding once again to dismiss decorum, he captured the entire tapestry in his magic and set it carefully aside. Behind it stood a small door. It was slightly ajar and opened inward – perfectly placed so that a casual observer would never notice it so long as it remained obscured behind the tapestry.
He repeated the rapping gesture with his hoof. “Fleur? Are you in there dear?”
“...mm-mm.”
Fancy Pants raised the brow over his unclad eye in response to the rather childish negative. “Fleur, certainly I know your voice by now. You are in there.”
“...mm-mm.”
Fancy furrowed his brow, but took a breath and let the clouds of annoyance filter out of his mind like steam. If something was amiss, it would do no good to compound her problems with his ire. He tried again-
“Fleur my dear, you realize if you cannot provide me with at least one word, I shall have no recourse but to assume you’ve been kidnapped by changelings and are currently tied to a chair, gagged, until such time as a ransom consisting of the crown jewels can be paid. And thus I shall simply have to burst through this door to your rescue, in proper cavalier form.”
He perked his ears, hoping for a giggle, but there was nothing but the continued tones of a very simple melody, as if from a child’s enchanted music box. Fancy frowned, his expression sobering, and made up his mind.
“Fleur De Lis, I’m sorry, but unless you specifically tell me not to I’m coming in.”
To a cadence of frantic rustling noises, Fancy Pants pushed the door wide and stepped immediately through it.
He froze, and his monocle nearly fell out of his eye. Therein was an antechamber he’d never even known existed in his dear friend’s villa, and it became immediately clear to him by the lack of windows and the positioning in the framework of the house that this room was not meant for prying pony eyes.
A muted glow from a magically enhanced, forever lit collection of sparkling glass orbs in the ceiling bathed the room in a mild, gentle incandescence. A pitched ceiling design that made the room look like an attic loft tapered down from high rafters into thick, solid walls. Each wall was covered from top to bottom in, of all things, wallpaper patterned in bright primary colors and basic shapes intended to stimulate the minds of newborn foals. But the wallpaper itself was only visible in part - the entire perimeter of the room was marked by dressers and armoires of all sorts, posters depicting famous foal entertainers, and a changing table that was at least, by Fancy’s estimation, three or four times the size of any he had ever before seen. Fresh linens, a covered wastebasket, and enough supplies to simultaneously care for quadruplets were stored throughout, while the increased strength of the scents that had assailed him from the hallway provided assurance that this room was their source.
But it was the center of the room that drew his eye the most.
Directly under the soothing light was an immaculately-designed crib. Braced by four posts carved in a sweeping spiral of white and gold, the structure was low to the ground, yet featured securely barred walls and thick, luxurious velvet bunting to protect and contain a rambunctious little one. The sheer size of the thing promised ample room to romp and play amidst silken pillows, lacy sheets, down quilts, and posh stuffed animals of all types. Further, the crib bore runners on a spring-loaded pedal that could be unlocked to allow the entire contraption to rock in the manner of a recliner.
Above the classy, expensive crib was a mobile of dangling clouds, moons, and stars. It turned slowly on its own axis, all the while emitting a series of soft lullabies that were so soothing, a guard detachment would have a hard time maintaining lockstep in its presence.
Fascinated by the entire room, Fancy Pants approached the crib and reached out to run his hoof along its solid railing. As he admired it, a pair of eyes popped up just overtop the bunting from the other side. The eyes were accompanied by an elegant horn and a stylish pink mane that to him were unmistakable.
“My dear...” he began in the most reassuring tone he could muster. “...I had no idea you were expecting. May I ask who the father is?”
The eyes merely stared back at him, their delicate brows peaking at the center in a helpless gesture.
“Fleur, it’s me,” Fancy Pants assured, “Why did you not...speak of this? Surely this is a time to celebrate, and yet--” he gestured around the room with a dapper foreleg, “This room is the type of chamber even a lifelong servant might never find out about. Why set up a nursery here?”
Again, there was nothing from the eyes beyond a slight quivering of the top of Fleur’s head. Fancy’s expression clouded over with concern.
“Fleur...” He tried again, hesitantly, “...if you have been...taken advantage of, somehow. If some stallion...did something to you, I want you to know that there’s no shame in any of--”
“No.”
Fancy Pants scrunched his muzzle, “No?”
The top of Fleur’s head shook from side to side. Her voice was about as mousey as he had ever heard it. “It’s...not like that.”
“Then you know who the father--”
“I’m not pregnant,” Fleur insisted.
“Then...” Fancy pants made a show of glancing around the room, “...why all this?”
The eyes merely looked down, the muzzle still refusing to clear the edge of the bunting enough to make out any of Fleur’s expression. Confusion addled Fancy’s mind, but the one evident truth he could latch onto was that a pony he cared deeply for was clearly in some sort of distress. Capturing his monocle in his magic, Fancy levitated it off his face and tucked it away in his jacket pocket. With that scant bit of formality removed, he tried again to find some answers.
“Fleur, please,” He fixed her with an honest, careful smile, “It’s hardly gentlemanly to let myself in here, I know, but the damage is done. Whatever is amiss, whatever vexes you so…if there’s any pony you can trust, it’s me. You know that, yes?”
The top of Fleur’s head dipped in a nod.
“I want to assist you,” He continued, “But I cannot accomplish that if you won’t take the first step.” He tilted his head a bit, “...can you share you troubles with me?”
The eyes hesitated a long time. Finally, Fleur’s head nodded.
“Alright,” Fancy Pants gently declared, “I’m going to walk around this crib. You don’t have to do anything. Just stay right there.”
He came around the side of the crib. There, huddled on the floor, was Fleur De Lis. Her flowing mane and tail were as much the perfect accents to her alabaster coat as Fancy Pants had ever seen them, but her accessories gave him pause.
On her hooves she wore knitted, cerulean booties, and wrapped securely around her hind legs and midsection was a frilly white diaper, accented in her mane colors, with a pink teddy bear pattern on it. Apart from clearly being far beyond a usable size for the young, it was the spitting image of the latest in infant foal fashion that any celebrity parent would likely clamor for.
For a moment there was silence. Mortification brought fire to Fleur’s cheeks, and she was soon mashed against the carpet, lying with her hooves covering her head, her lithe form trembling.
“I...I didn’t mean for you to see this, I...I’m sorry...”
Fancy Pants took a breath. It was the last thing he expected, but as he lowered his rump to the soft carpeting to sit beside her, he reached out to gently stroke her mane while shaking his head.
“On the contrary dear. I believe you did mean for me to see this,” He explained. “If you really didn’t want me to be here, you would have ensured both of those doors were shut tight - and you knew that I would come looking for you after leaving a party in such a way.” He smiled, “You knew I would be concerned.”
Fleur swallowed hard, her eyes darting around; unable to meet any of the allegations face-to-face. When Fancy fell silent she knew she had to respond, but her words came out in a clumsy bluster, her rump shifting on the carpet to the tune of telltale crinkle noises.
“I-I didn’t…I was just sick…! I wasn’t feeling well so I left the party, and I just forgot to close the door, and I must have knocked the tapestry crooked, i-it was an accident!”
Fancy remained patiently quiet during the haphazard explanation, waiting for his turn to speak. His voice was even, soft, and calm. “Fleur, forgive me, but…do you remember what happened at the Summer Sun get-together at my place last year?”
Fleur nodded, “We all had a wonderful time.”
Fancy shook his head. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
Fleur hesitated, and her ears drooped. “You…felt lightheaded from heat exhaustion. I took over for you.”
“But…?”
“But you weren’t really sick. You just…needed to get away from the stress for a while.”
“And how did you know that, my dear?” Fancy prompted, “You did know it, even before you found me relaxing in my room.”
“…you left the door open. You…never leave the door open.”
Fancy nodded carefully. “Neither do you, my dear.”
Despite the soothing sensation of Fancy’s stroking hoof, Fleur hugged her shoulder with the opposite foreleg and looked away. She wasn’t ready to concede. “…a-anypony could have walked in. So it was clearly an accident…”
“You gave your servants, other than the kitchen staff, the night off,” Fancy responded. “Did you tell anypony other than them and myself that?”
“…no.”
His point was made, but Fancy found himself faltering anyway, uncertain how far she would follow his gentle lead. But he knew he had to try. “My dear, correct me if I’m wrong, but there was no reason to tell me about the recess for staff that had nothing to do with the party itself. Unless—”
“Unless,” Fleur held a bold hoof in Fancy’s face to silence him and took over the thought. “…unless I knew the party was going to be rough, had some idea I would need to…get away, and that I…knew you would come after me.”
“You could have simply told me,” Fancy said softly, increasing the soothing stroke down Fleur’s back. “Of all ponies, you know that I—”
“H-how can I tell anypony about this!?” Fleur blurted. “Th-this isn’t…what grown ponies do! I can’t just go up to somepony and tell them a-about—” She gestured wildly, “About all this!”
Fancy smiled. “You told me. By leaving that door open…you told me.”
Fleur gritted her teeth, fixing her stony gaze on a hard patch of floor. She held the expression for a few seconds, but her lip began to quiver, and her words squeaked out of her like puberty. “Th-they were just so mean to me,” She whimpered, “...a-and I get so lonely, I...”
“You wanted somepony to know,” Fancy helped her through the thought. “But you do surprise me dear, in more ways than just all of this. You’re always so strong in the face of braggarts and condescension. Why, I daresay I’ve seen you stand up to the worst of them to get where you wanted to be in life.”
Fleur nearly went cross-eyed staring at the carpet inches from her face. Her eyerims swelled with redness, and at length they moistened. “...d-don’t you e-ever wonder...h-how I can be like that...a-all the time...”
Fancy Pants continued his soothing stroke down Fleur’s shoulders and back. He glanced around the room silently, taking in all the sights, scents, and sounds with more dedication than his initial shock had allowed. He had seen a side of herself she had kept hidden, even from him, but Fancy knew that Fleur was a busy socialite and a consummate professional. She had worked for everything she gained in life. Just like he had done.
A realization hit him, and he felt a need to make it known.
“...I understand, dear.” Fancy said simply.
Fleur blinked in astonishment. “Y-you what...?”
“Those ponies were mean to you tonight,” Fancy elaborated, “and though you put on a lovely act, you came here to escape. More and more straws are piled upon us every day – periodically it’s inevitable that they’ll break our backs. But you hide it, you get through it...and then you come here. For safety and security.” He paused, “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“...you’re not wrong...”
“Then,” He let out another small chuckle, his eyes still closed, “...can it be so incomprehensible that I might know of other ponies around you, who experience trials like yours...who cope in a similar way? The difference this time is that I know you well enough that perhaps…perhaps I can help.”
Fleur couldn’t believe her ears. She babbled out a series of incomprehensible noises consisting of sputtering coos mixed with harsh sniffles. She made to stand, but Fancy placed a staying hoof firmly on her padded backside. She jumped at the rather forward touch, but softened when she realized what he was actually doing.
Fancy opened his eyes, and his words were like magic-
“My darling little Fleur. My flower,” He had to wipe away a tear himself, “I’m just as glad as you are to share in this with you. Now, daddy can tell you’re in need of a changing. It seems in your distress, you’ve had a bit of an accident...but I rather think it’s because you just feel safe enough in your padding to do so. And I want you to know that it’s okay.”
Fleur stared blankly up at Fancy until his visage was no longer clear under a mask of her own tears. The smile that lit her lips brightened the room like mid-afternoon.
“...d-daddy...”
“You’ve had to do this by yourself the entire time, haven’t you.”
The statement was not a question. Fleur nodded, her ears pinned down sharply.
Fancy Pants clucked his tongue and shook his head. He rose to his hooves and trotted over to the oversized, well-padded changing table. He nearly tapped it with his hoof to encourage her to jump up on her own, but as he turned to watch her, still drooping there on the floor, he felt a sudden overwhelming need to see to every last aspect of her care – right down to sparing her adorable booties the roughness of trotting in them. He concentrated, summoning up the power inside his stocky unicorn frame until a swell of magical power built up in his extremities and rolled into his head, gathering at the point of spiraling keratin that jutted out from his brow. It was a feat of levitation that was best left to actual magicians, but his sheer determination was enough to ensorcell Fleur’s entire body in the glow of his magic and slowly lift her entirely off the floor.
Fancy Pants gritted his teeth and Fleur nearly swayed right into the crib once, but by the time her body touched the changing mattress, she was on her back with her legs bent up before her, prone as a newborn foal. She stared up at him, and in her eyes he could still see trepidation to match the smear of crimson on her cheeks.
Fancy Pants paused, and very gently laid his hoof on Fleur’s shoulder, peering down at her with all the softness of Cloudsdale in his eyes.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed or afraid,” He reassured. “I understand, my dear, and for now,” He smiled, “Daddy is going to take care of you, little flower. Daddy will make all the stress and hurt go away.”
Fancy was used to a calculating grin or a cunning smirk, but Fleur’s latest smile was possibly the sweetest, most honest and joyful blooming of her muzzle that he had ever seen. It was as if she was a pony he was meeting for the very first time. A pony who needed him.
Before Fancy could take the waistband of the diaper in his magical grip, Fleur let out a gurgle and pointed with one hoof. He followed the direction of her foreleg, and his gaze fell upon a white wicker rack adorned with several pegs. From each peg hung a clean, dangling pacifier. All of them had guards and rings constructed from translucent plastic in bright colors, and were set with silicone nipples. All were far beyond the size an actual foal could hope to handle.
Fancy Pants smiled somewhat sheepishly at the hanging binkies. “F.A. Oats in the uptown market district,” He commented aloud. He knew he didn’t need to say more. The business was famous all over Equestria as a locus for celebrity foal shopping. Only a small circle of ponies knew about the back room and what it contained - though he hadn’t had much reason to shop there himself before, the information had made it to him from through the tangles of his complex social web. Most of what he was seeing in the tiny room couldn’t have come from anywhere else. He flicked an ear when he picked up a small sigh from Fleur - the fact that he knew about that place at all was enough to solidify in her mind that he did, indeed, understand.
“Well then, let’s see--” He smiled, perusing the binkies, “Yellow like a field of sunflowers on a summer afternoon? Red, like a harvest sunset?” He rubbed his chin, “No, no...green perhaps, like the patient stillness of an emerald bay? Ah--” Brightening, he chose one binky in particular and levitated it over for Fleur to see.
“This is what my little flower wants, yes? Pink, like carnations blooming in a fantasy garden. Just like your precious mane.”
Fleur cooed, and in a moment she was happily suckling from the nipple of the toy. Fancy Pants could practically see the last bits of tension melt away from her form, her neck and back relaxing against a changing table that was as large as a twin-sized bed.
“It’s all right,” He said again, tending to his work now, “You’re safe here with daddy, little flower. Be still and daddy will take care of you.”
Fleur muttered something that sounded vaguely like ‘daddy’, but a series of contented suckling noises muffled the word. It was as if each draw from the faux-nipple was taking away a cruel phrase or harsh memory, one at a time.
Fancy took to the task, employing the foal powder with an excellence that seemed to surprise his friend. He could only chuckle as he responded to the unasked question, “My dear...I have thirteen younger cousins, and much to the contrary of popular belief, some of us ‘Canterlot elite’ actually were taught the value of honest work...and honest caring for others. My parents wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
Filling the air with the infantile scents of cornstarch and cucumber, Fancy secured his friend in a fresh, thick, identical diaper, and then stood by silently, allowing her a moment to wiggle around and test the mollifying crinkle. He couldn’t help himself, and finally he emitted an ungentlemanly giggle at the scene before him; a happy foal, secure in her padding and her binky - her cares so far away.
Deciding he couldn’t manage the spell required to levitate Fleur’s entire body again after such a long and exhaustive day, Fancy pants turned back towards the center of the room and sat next to a lavish toy chest. He caught the lid, opened it, and then patted the oval, rainbow rug beneath him that denoted a play area. He turned his attention back to Fleur, who was watching him curiously as he levitated a number of wooden blocks with letters on them, scattering them out over the rug.
“Come on then, little flower,” He patted the rug again, “Can you spell your name for me?”
Fleur leapt off the table with a spring in her hooves and a wag in her tail. She came to a scooting stop, bunching up a section of the rug, sitting with her eyes wide and her attention entirely on the blocks. Finally she brought her horn to life, and one by one the ensorcelled blocks rearranged themselves into a clumsy, haphazard tower-
F-L-U-E-R-D-E-L-S-I
Fancy examined the tower. He opened his mouth quizzically, but shut it again when he noticed the pure, innocent elation emanating from the ‘proud’ eyes of his diapered, bemusedly suckling friend. Instead, he raised a brow and made the necessary spelling corrections.
“My dear...” He grinned, “I do believe you did that on purpose.”
Fleur held a hoof up to her muzzle and giggled.
Fancy Pants wasted no time. He fired up his horn and let loose with a spark of levitation that caught two large pillows from a storage cabinet and sent them hurtling towards the play area. With a thwump, one landed in front of each pony, and Fancy Pants quickly lifted his again, floating it ‘menacingly’ before him.
“En garde, knave!” Fancy laughed.
Catching on instantly, Fleur lifted her pillow and sent it hurtling towards her opponent, who riposted with his own. The two pillows clashed, jockeying for position until each found a clear avenue and flew on, soundly thrashing each combatant right in the face at the same time.
Fancy put a hoof over his heart and swooned dramatically, “Oh! But you have struck me down most righteously! I regret that daddy has but one life to give to his precious flower!” Holding the back of another hoof up to his forehead, Fancy Pants went down on his back, flopping against the carpet with his limbs sprawled about and his eyes closed.
Fleur was giggling up a storm. Fancy didn’t move a muscle, and at length his ears caught the sound of Fleur’s hooves as she trotted about him in a slow circle. He waited until he felt a binky gently nosing his cheek - his eyes snapped open, and he enveloped Fleur in his forelegs, drawing her atop him and furiously assaulting her with stray feathers cast aside by the dueling pillows.
“I shall have my tickle revenge, my Lady!” Fancy declared. Fleur sputtered, and finally spit the binky out to throw back her head and erupt in a chorus of musical giggles. Not one to be so easily defeated, she responded with her own assault, until the floor was an absolute mess of fine goose feathers.
On it went. Father and child emptied every block, ball, wagon and doll from the ample toy chest until the room was a cluttered mess. The cries of pure, unadulterated, and unrefined joy from Fleur caused Fancy to use up every binky on the rack. The last one he slipped past her lips while cradling her, curled up; her flanks heaving from exertion.
“Midnight blue with silver glitter,” Fancy said softly, stroking Fleur’s mane. “Like a starry night sky. And you, my flower, are no less nocturnal than anypony else.”
Fleur muttered her discontent and weakly pushed on Fancy’s chest, but shut her eyes tightly and stifled a deep yawn that threatened to steal her binky away again.
“Flower,” Fancy repeated, staying the pacifier with his magic, “Every little filly in Equestria was in bed hours ago. Daddy has already let you stay up long enough. You’ll be cranky in the morning if you don’t get your sleep.”
Fleur muttered again, but nodded her consent, mostly because she was having trouble battling through a fit of additional yawning. His magical energy long spent, Fancy Pants simply lay on the floor and indicated his back.
“Up then, my dear. Daddy will tuck you in.”
Fleur slumped onto the offered back. Fancy rose and trotted wearily over to the crib, thankful that Fleur had set it low enough to climb into on her own – he leaned forward and allowed gravity to carry the warm, tuckered out bundle on his back into a gentle slide onto the menagerie of soft quilts. When Fleur was peacefully surrounded by the crib’s railing, Fancy levitated in fresh pillows and arranged the quilts atop her form until only Fleur’s head was visible above a cocoon of warm sheets. Bereft of worry, her droopy lashes were already fluttering while the movements of the starry binky in her grasp went on auto-pilot.
Fancy Pants lit his horn one more time and worked the magical orbs of light above the crib, lowering their level until he could just barely see. As a final touch, he imbued each globe with a sparkle from his horn until they all glittered like a twinkling, starry sky.
Fancy Pants pressed the release for the crib’s swing function and began to gently rock it with his hoof, as rummaged through his mind for an appropriate cap to the evening. Rusty on nearly every tune, he finally settled on the melody of Brahms’ Lullaby, to which he set his own hasty, well-meaning lyrics:
Baby foal, baby foal,
Don’t you know it’s time for sleeping?
Baby foal, baby foal,
Go to bed; sleeping right now.
That’s my foal, baby foal,
Off to sleeping in this place-
That’s my foal, baby foal,
Gone to sleeping in this place.
“Well dear--”
But Fleur De Lis was fast asleep.
Fancy sat for a time and simply watched her, levitating the binky out of the way when the depth of her rest finally robbed her of the ability to hold it. She was snoring lightly, her mane pooled about her like a meadow of petunias in bloom.
Undignified. Adorable. And absolutely perfect.
Fancy Pants noticed a tiny twitch in Fleur’s ear. He bent close to it and spoke in a whisper-
“Thank you for sharing this with me tonight, Fleur. I promise that you’ll never again be alone in it. If ever you need a parent, you have but only to call.” He smoothed her mane out of her eyes, “Daddy will take all the trouble away, so you can be the pony you want to be.”
Finally, he leaned in and placed a single, light kiss right next to her horn. “You’re safe, little flower. Daddy loves you.”
Fleur’s lip turned up in a subconscious smile, as though she was hearing him only in a dream. Humming the tune he had manufactured words for a moment ago, Fancy Pants backed from the room. Under the glow of the aging moon, he replaced the tapestry, concealing his friend safely in her happy place. He closed the door to Fleur’s chambers, set a notice out not to be disturbed by the maid in the morning, and trotted off down the hall.
Fancy Pants helped himself to the olive in his empty glass as he continued to whistle an old tune that somehow felt so new.
