Soft Stitches

by Rocket Lawn Chair

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad, Spike, Rarity
Length: 1008

Spike is all alone. He feels, maybe that's how it should be.

Maybe dragons should be tough.
Maybe they shouldn't care for anybody else.
Maybe they were never meant to hold a needle...

Entry for the June 30th minific write-off: It Could Have Gone Better

This story was revised with helpful feedback from many amazing people, whom you can find at this story's original post.

Published 2018-07-19 01:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2018-07-19 01:50:01 UTC

Soft Stitches

The needle was slim, barely noticeable between Spike’s pudgey claws. Over and over he dipped it into the silver fabric.

He tugged his thumb from beneath the sheet. The needle came with it, jerking the fabric from his grasp. Once again the needle had gotten stuck in his thumb. It had come dethreaded, too.

Grumbling, he reached for the threader.

“Oh Spiiike, darling.”

He heard his name called in a light, singsong tone from his bedroom door, then turned his back to it. The needle quivered in his claw.

“Spike?” came the voice again, sweet and concerned. “Are you going to mope in your room all day? I have a gift for you, if you come out.”

Spike ignored the voice from the door, focusing on his needle. The tip was skewed, deflected by his thick thumbscales. To his side was a little sewing table and a small pile of useless needles, all with damaged, cockeyed tips. He added his needle to the growing pile, expression unchanged. Gingerly he held the delicate silver fabric in his upturned claws, taking great care not to tear it, thus requiring him to start again from scratch. Its silver sheen made him think of what polished snow might look like.

It had been several moments since last he heard the voice. Now it came with a knock. “There’s a bowl of warm rubies out here that’s growing cold, dear. I’ll just open the door a smidge and slide it through to you.”

Spike heard the door click behind him. He took a deep breath, letting his shakes subside and forcing his head not to turn. He heard ceramic scuff the floor and gemstones brightly tinkling. The door didn’t click closed afterward.

“What did you bring me?” he said after some silence.

“Are you going to come out?”

Spike shook his head.

“Do you want to stay in here and talk?”

After some hesitation, he nodded.

Uneven hoofsteps approached him from behind. There were no pony-sized chairs in his room for Rarity to use, so she sat on the floor beside Spike.

He didn’t know what expression she wore. His claws moved beneath the sheet, generating fluid ridges and valleys in the soft fabric—at least he assumed it was soft. It looked like things he’d been told were soft.

“What are you working on, dear?”

Spike shrugged. “S’nuthin’”

Rarity extended her foreleg, which also looked soft. Spike cringed when he saw the bandage wrapped around her hoof.

“May I have a look?” she said.

Protectively, Spike withdrew his fabric. It wasn’t ready yet.

“Is it for me?” The surprise on her words hung too thick to sound genuine. “It’s a handkerchief, isn’t it? To replace my old one? Oh, Spike, that’s so thoughtful of you.”

Spike sighed, adjusting the silver ridges with his knuckles. “Twilight told you, didn’t she. You don’t have to act surprised.”

Rarity faltered. “I—”

In his mind, Spike tried to picture the expression shifting on her face. Upset? Ashamed? She knew he didn’t like being treated like a child. Her words weren’t the same as needles or fabric, but it was becoming harder for them to reach below his scales. Gradually, he was certain he would be numb to them, too.

After another drawn silence, he heard Rarity heave her own weighty sigh.

“The picnic at the hot springs was such a sweet idea, Spike. All that effort you put into setting it up was extremely generous and thoughtful.”

Spike scoffed. A warm puff of smoke came from his nostrils, and he nearly raised his claws to cover, but remembered what they held. His heart vaulted over a few beats when he realized what he’d nearly done.

At the time, he’d preened for discovering such a beautiful spot on his own, perfect for a private picnic with Rarity. The water was so blue! He thought the bubbles had felt wonderful, too, and the water soothingly warm like a spa. Rarity would love it.

“I don’t want you to blame yourself for what happened,” she said. “You didn’t know the water was unsafe for me.” Trying to sound helpful, she added: “If you hadn’t been there to help me, I would have had a dreadful time getting back to Ponyville.”

“If I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have set hoof in the water in the first place,” Spike said dully.

Peripherally he saw Rarity shift closer. He saw her bandaged hoof reach out to rest upon his back. Through his thickening adolescent scales he could barely feel the pressure. But, no matter the degree, her touch always felt good.

At last he looked up at her face. Her eyes were damp. Her expression spoke of kindness, warmth, understanding. Spike’s guess had been way off.

“Here. The present I got you.” She held out what seemed to be a spool of red thread.

“What’s this?” By now, his voice had softened, and he too was holding back tears.

“Fibers drawn from phoenix feathers. I spun and treated them myself, so you won’t have any nasty reactions to it.But more importantly, it’s fireproof.”

She grinned, chuckling lightly. “I’d like to be able to offer you my handkerchief when you need it, and that silver works so well with striking crimson accents.”

Spike pinched the spool between his thumb and foreclaw. His face lit up.

“It’s...warm.”

Rarity smiled, squeezing Spike’s arm tenderly. She winced a little.

“Take your time, darling. I’m excited to see what the finished piece will look like.” She stood to leave, somewhat awkwardly. “I know it will be splendid.”

She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

In the stillness that followed, Spike set aside his fabric so his tears wouldn’t harm it. They rolled down his cheeks in hot streams, landing on his knees with a soft hiss of vapor. They felt delicious, like rubies melting on his tongue, sliding down his throat. He cried for a long time.

When he was ready, he picked up a fresh needle and continued stitching.

***