Mr Perfect

by AShadowOfCygnus

Rating: teen
Tags: Main 6, Romance, Horror, Other, Fluttershy, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 10161

But for whom, if not for them?

It’s a rare thing in life to have the certainty of knowing we’ve made the right decision. He was Fluttershy’s.

A horror story.

With very special thanks to the usual suspects: Admiral Biscuit, Luna Farrowe, Thornquill, Itssopanda, and Suni, as herself. Thank you all for your input and occasional efforts to convince me to reconsider the entire thing. :heart:

Published 2020-10-17 01:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2020-10-17 01:20:01 UTC

Mr Perfect

Fluttershy had always been the happiest of ponies; everypony knew it, and it was everypony’s greatest joy.

Other ponies in town might have been cleverer, or flashier, or higher-stepping, but only one among them could lift the heart with her simple nearness. It was no simple good cheer she carried with her, they agreed, but rather a sort of unabashed joy, an abiding love for the world and all the little creatures in it. Every moment was a wonder, and every passing second something to take a certain quiet, wide-eyed delight in.

And so rare was that, and so refreshing, that everypony smiled to see it, and kept a special place for her in their hearts. For who else carried quite that manner of happiness with them wherever they went? Who else had kept hold of that childlike wonder? Even in a land of peace and imperturbable Harmony, the girl in butter-yellow shone like a beacon: of Celestia’s light, of love, of warmth and boundless good feeling.

And the girl herself? Why, Fluttershy could not have been happier. She was a shy thing, a quiet thing, it was true—had been since that first fateful fall from Cloudsdale. But time healed, and so did friends, animal and Equine alike, and in the time she’d spent with them something had welled beautifully inside her; a seed of warm and comfortable rightness. Maybe even belonging. She could go to market, and meet a friend for lunch; or go to the salon, and treat a friend to tea. She could meander the outer courses of the Everfree, and the wildling creatures would approach gently; or else the nooks and paddocks of her home, and the domestic flock would greet her with their accustomed reverence.

It was easy as nothing had ever been, and simple as opening her eyes. Every day she spent with them—her friends, her animals—the seed within her grew and blossomed into an ever-wider smile. She wanted for nothing, knew always where she needed to be and what she wanted to do, and lived as carefree a life as a girl could dream.

And so it was that Fluttershy went about her life with a heart full of smiles, and saw nothing but smiles in return.

And in the way of such things, the days passed for her in a sort of contented summer haze. Days stretched into weeks, weeks into months, months into the turning of seasons. Little rituals began: lunches in town in the middle of the week, lunches in the park at the ends; the occasional week-end in Cloudsdale.

And it came to pass that one day, as was her wont, Fluttershy took a daisy sandwich and flask of tea—and of course a basket of sundries for the animals!—to the park, to enjoy a leisurely few hours on a bench by the lake. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool and the company always pleasurable.

Today, however, was different.

Her bench—hers?—stood on the far side of the lake from Ponyville, and only a few minutes’ gentle glide from her cottage on the edge of the Everfree. It was close to the ducks’ favourite roost, a short swim to the beaver dam at the mouth of the river, and backed by a small stand of chestnut trees where the squirrels and rabbits could frolic unmolested.

But perhaps most importantly of all, it was never, ever occupied. Even those that knew where it was, couched in its little nook off the path, generally couldn’t be bothered with it. A ten-minute glide across the lake, or a half-hour trot around it—too far for a quick lunch break, not quite scenic enough for a well-heeled picnic.

And yet there he was, all sixteen hands of him, stretched languidly across its green-stained wooden length: a stranger and a strange pony, eyes half-lidded in a warm summer doze, gazing serenely out across the lake.

Fluttershy was confused; had she come to the wrong bench, perhaps? taken too long that morning in packing her basket? But no, there she could see the beavers splashing in the lake, hear the squirrels chittering in the trees, feel the midday sun warming her back. Yet there he was, stretched out across the bench, his head swaying with the the ripples in the water.

The gentle smile faltered a little, brows working themselves into a worried line. She had no idea of what to do. She couldn’t ask him to move, just for her sake; nor could she just walk up and make herself at home. The other benches were a good distance away, and she didn’t want to offend any of her woodland friends by sitting elsewhere.

And so, she did the only thing she could think to, then: grabbing the basket in her mouth, she turned tail and trotted back to the cottage as quickly as she could without breaking into a run, and took her lunch at home.

But the next day was also a Lake Day, and so, with the sun at its highest and a nervous little pang in her heart, she stepped out of her cottage, and followed the little stream from her pond down to the shore.

He was still there.

She stiffened, wings half-splayed. A gentle breeze ruffled his dark mane, ears flicking a little as the thick locks brushed against them. He didn’t look round, though her hoofsteps had made no secret of her approach. He just kept staring comfortably out across the lake, mane ruffling in the wind.

She bolted, heart racing, and locked the door of her cottage behind her.

The next day marked the top of the week, and a visit to the Golden Oaks Library for the bi-monthly book club. The meeting went well enough, and afterwards Twilight and Fluttershy retreated to the kitchenette for their customary tea. Twilight seemed to notice her distraction, and Fluttershy awkwardly related the last two days’ misadventure.

Twilight just shrugged, sipping her tea.

‘Well, statistically speaking, it was inevitable that another pony would sit there at some point, Fluttershy. Just . . . ask him, politely, to move on. No harm in that—it’s close to your cottage and all. Or just tell your friends to meet you at a new bench a little further down the shore.’

Fluttershy beamed; her friends were wonderful, after all, and they always knew just what to say. She hugged Twilight, who chuckled, and nuzzled her cheek affectionately. But her brow seemed to furrow a little as she walked Fluttershy to the door, and she paused, just as she was preparing to bid her friend goodnight.

‘Oh, and Fluttershy, if you do end up finding another bench, and he follows you, um . . . let me or one of the girls know, would you please?’

Fluttershy looked at her a little strangely, but nodded. It wasn’t too much to ask, after all—Twilight just wanted to make sure she was safe.

But even as she thought about it, it seemed like the last thing she need worry about. She mulled the thought over on her way home, and well into the night as she saw the animals to their beds. But no matter what angle she took it from, she just couldn’t sense any ill intent from the ruffle-maned stallion who stared out quietly across the lake.

The next day was a spa day, but Rarity was feeling under the weather and sent a note requesting they reschedule. After sending her return post by dove, Fluttershy sat at the kitchen table and pondered what to do with her day. She had offered to help Rainbow Dash practise some new stunts to impress the Wonderbolts sometime that week, but so far she’d heard nothing back. She knew she was always welcome at Golden Oaks, or Sweet Apple Acres, but those were long trips, and today was hotter than the last few had been.

No, what she really wanted to do was go back down to the lake, and do as Twilight had suggested yesterday—see if her suspicions were correct. So she gathered up a basket of tea-cakes and sundries, and trotted down once again to the edge of the lake, where she could just make out a dark mane peeking impishly over the hoof-painted wood.

He did not seem to hear her approach, for he jumped when she gingerly tapped his shoulder, whipping around to face her with a look of deep concern. All the confidence she had built up on her walk down evaporated in an instant with the suddenness of the motion, and she skittered back a step, blanching. His eyes were wide, but when they fell on her he seemed to relax, and smiled, a little bashfully. Wordlessly, he gestured to the bench beside him, and obligingly scooted himself along to give her room to sit.

But the moment was already past. She shook her head, forcefully, and mumbled something about not wanting to disturb him. But by then his gaze had shifted, and the gambolling beavers, the splashing ducks, and the gentle plip-plip of fish surfacing for bugs held his attention once more.

She shuffled a little, unsure, before bolting once again in the direction of her cottage.

‘Honestly, darling, you can’t very well keep going around being afraid of strangers forever! He sounds a perfect gentlecolt, offering you that seat.’

It was a few days later, and Rarity was gesticulating fervently from the pedicure lounge beside Fluttershy’s. All things considered, she seemed to be feeling much better.

‘And just because you don’t happen to know the colt doesn’t mean that he’s all bad. I mean, all stallions are boors on some level, but it’s really just a matter of finding one that’s the least boorish, you know?’

Fluttershy nodded, though Rarity couldn’t see her through the cucumber wedges. She seemed to take it as given that Fluttershy had agreed, though.

‘Still, darling, we must be ever so careful around stallions—you especially. They’re prone to such violent passions, you know, and so often lack control. Just . . . promise me you won’t do anything rash, won’t you?’

And Fluttershy promised that she would not. But even as she stood in the lobby some hours later, waiting for Rarity to pay their spa tab (‘My treat, dear!’), she wondered idly just how rash a pony could be, who seemed content to sit in one spot and just watch the world go by.

She wondered if he cared particularly for sandwiches.

She was tied up in various things the next several days—Applejack brought in Winona with a stomach complaint, Harry had thrown his back out wrestling a visiting Minotaur, and she had lunches in town planned right through the weekend—and so the issue of the stallion slipped easily from her thoughts. But when it came time to close up shop on the last day of the business week, she heard a little twittering and chirping from the sunset-burnt eaves, and a trio of chatty little budgies came down to rest on her head.

They brought news, they said, that the ducks and the squirrels, and the beavers and even the old fox that lived in the riverbank had missed her that week. And, they said, even though the new pony was an inoffensive enough chap—quiet, at any rate—he brought them no food, and didn’t seem inclined to do more than watch them from his perch.

They wondered, they said, whether she might consider coming back.

And on hearing that, she knew there was nothing else for it. Tomorrow, she would go back to the bench, apologise for her absence, and set things back the way they ought to be. No matter what.

The lake was calm, the breeze soft and southerly. Another day in a string of perfect days—sunny, warm, and inoffensive. Why should it be, then, that she should feel cold as Wendigobite as her eye caught the gentle flutter of brown-tuft mane over the back of the bench? Had he given her any reason to be as afraid of him as she had? to send her into a panic by the simple act of being there?

Had anyone, really?

She sighed around the extra-large basket in her teeth, and forced her frozen legs into motion. He was stretched out across the length of the bench, as he had been before—should she tap his shoulder again? But, no—he would jump, and she would bolt.

She edged carefully around the bench instead, her hooffalls slow and steady. It was as much to keep the basket steady as to gradually announce her presence, she knew, but even the act of taking care not to appear awkward made the awkward situation into awkward-awkward awkwardness, and she hated herself for noticing it.

He seemed to recognise her as she toddled out of the brush and onto the path a little ways out—he smiled, and shifted himself so as to take up less space. His eyes roved over the basket as she approached, and though his smile never faltered, it seemed to freeze a little.

She did her best not to notice, mumbling a quiet apology and thanks as she hurried to settle onto the other end of the bench. He didn’t seem to notice her shivering (in spite of the afternoon’s warmth), and if he did, he was polite enough to pretend otherwise.

She took her lunch in peace, then, nibbling furtively on her dainty daisy sandwich and quietly slipping bits and bobs out of her basket to feed the animals when she thought he wasn’t looking. How he managed to miss the parade of relieved and excitable forest creatures was another matter entirely, but again, she thought, perhaps he was only being polite.

He was still sitting there, hooves tucked under him, gazing mildly out across the lake. His gaze never wavered, his little half-smile never faltered, his posture—half-supine, half-leaning into the arm of the bench, eminently cat-like—never changed nor seemed to discomfort him. She took advantage of his distraction, and sneaking the odd furtive look around her sandwich and trying to pick out as many details as she could without being entirely obvious—not for her own benefit, of course, but the girls would want to know.

He had a . . . what was that word Rarity used? swarthy? look to him, something that spoke of sand and earth and distance. ‘A dusky dun’, her friend’s romance novels might have painted him; but, then, he was missing the low-cut shirt and the violently unnecessary rose between his teeth, so perhaps that was out. But then—maybe not? He was well-groomed, his fur sleek and obviously cared for; dappled greys didn’t usually shine that way, no matter the light.

And something about his eyes . . .

He didn’t seem to notice the extra attention, but she elected not to press her luck further. When she finally packed up her basket and made to leave, he was still as he had been when he’d first moved to make room for her, and when she cast a glance over her shoulder as she flew back to the little cottage, he hadn’t moved to reclaim the space she’d occupied.

It was the top of the week again, and Fluttershy was excitably telling Twilight about her little adventure over tea. Twilight was positively beaming.

‘There now, see? Wasn’t so hard as all that, after all. Nicely done, Ms. Shy!’ She gave Fluttershy a sort of awkward, affectionate pat on the shoulder. Fluttershy giggled a little—it was nice to have something they could both take this much joy in.

‘You know, though,’ Twilight said thoughtfully, withdrawing her hoof, ‘Overcoming your fears this way—it’d make for a perfect report to the Princess, now wouldn’t it? Possibly a novel means of conflict resolution? I’ll need to refer to my Whatsong for this, completely underrated psychologist . . .’

She was now halfway across the library, digging through reference volumes. She paused, and almost as an afterthought, called over her shoulder, ‘Oh—don’t worry about it, Fluttershy; I know you don’t really like writing these up. No, no, you don’t have to say anything. I’ll take care of it.’

Fluttershy smiled, a little bashfully, but politely swallowed her gentle protestations; Twilight was already rummaging for her quill and ink. She’d composed a half-dozen increasingly fervent drafts by the time Fluttershy quietly made her exit.

She went back the next day, and he was still there, languid as ever in the warm white sun. He seemed a little more alert to her approach, for this time her turned as she drew in close. She hesitated, but he smiled, genuinely, and moved himself obligingly along to make room.

It brought her up short. What should she take that to mean? That he’d stayed and expected . . . ?

She did a nervous little dance with her hooves for a moment, then beelined for the bench before she could change her mind. So earnest was her desire to make this good to herself, so ardent her conviction, that she barely noticed her wings unfurling to lift her off the ground. She noticed a look of increasing concern cross his face as she arrowed in on the bench, realised her mistake, and changed trajectories at the last possible moment.

She landed, rumpled but upright, on her end of the bench, muzzle crimson, basket swaying gently in her teeth. She set it down hurriedly and went to apologise, only to be brought up short by the crumpled, crinkly look on his face. As she watched, he threw his head back and let loose a series of strange, wheezy rasps.

Laughter, she realised, belatedly. He was laughing. Breathless, then, and caught up in the awkwardness of the moment, she joined in alongside him.

It was spa-day, and Rarity’s hooves waved excitedly from the massage bench.

‘Anyway, dear, if you see him again, you simply must ask him his name—enquiring minds want to know, you know!’ She giggled a little, playfully. ‘Ooh, what do you think, darling? Maybe he’s new in town? Or a relative of one of the farming families, come out to visit for a few weeks? Or—ooh! Oooh, he could be some runaway noble’s son, fleeing the heartbreak and woe of courtly life up the mountain! Oh, wouldn’t that just be so exciting, darling?!’

And Fluttershy smiled a little, and said that it would.

It didn’t take long for the two of them to set up a routine. She would bring her basket for the animals, and he would bring a small brown sack of his own victuals – nothing fancy, she noted; rarely even a sandwich. Some fruit, perhaps, or an onion. They would sit there, for an hour, just sharing the moments as they passed by. She would feed and groom and chat with the animals as they made their daily rounds, and he would watch with undisguised fascination; he would point out particular clouds, or wind-crest ripples in the still surface of the lake, or birds flying in formation overhead—anything, really, that caught his discerning grey eye.

Nary a word passed between them; but, then, nary a word needed to. They had the bench, and the path, the sky above and the lake below, and in those little stolen moments, they were coming to understand exactly what each meant to both.

After a week of intensive care and many a snuck treat, Winona’s leg was healed. Applejack came by early to pick her up.

‘Thanks for takin’ care’a Winona, Fluttershy,’ she said, hefting the sack of compensatory produce into the cottage. ‘Don’t know what I’d do if m’gal ended up bitin’ off more’n she could chew—or you could, fer that matter!’

The sack hit the ground with an incredible thud, and the few heads of cabbage that rolled out the top immediately disappeared into each of a hundred different burrows lining the walls. Applejack was too busy squeezing her faithful collie to notice. She straightened, and leaned in to hug Fluttershy as well.

‘Say, by th’ way,’ she said, as they embraced. ‘Am I t’understand there’s a new wrinkle in the quilt a’yer quiet life? Maybe a stallion?’ Fluttershy blanched, but Applejack only winked by way of response. ‘Ah, say no more—young love bein’ what it is an’ all that.’

They watched Winona gambolling with the woodland creatures for a moment. Applejack seemed to grow pensive. ‘Mm. Wouldn’t a’guessed that’d be what it took t’get you outta that shell. And a stranger, no less. Heh—guess y’all Cloudsdale sorts really are full’a surprises, aintcha?’

She gave Fluttershy her quick, customary pat on the head on her way out, stepping over the hefty bag of produce. ‘You just don’t go bitin’ off more’n you can chew, alright? Attagirl. C’mon, Winona!’

She watched as he bit into the sandwich she’d brought for him, and matched his grin with one of her own. He, in turn, produced a handkerchief wrapped into a little parcel—strawberries, she discovered as she undid the untidy knot, with the stems neatly and carefully cut away. They were small, sweet, tart, not so juicy as to make a mess—perfect.

She looked at him, wide-eyed, chewing slowly, savouring, and he searched her face wordlessly, smiling just a little. She nodded, wordlessly, and worked her way through the small, neat pile.

From his sack, he retrieved another small, untidy parcel, and laid it flat on the seat of the bench between them. The ribbons fell away to reveal a much larger pile of some small, green desert nut she did not recognise—craggy, oblong; little dry pebbles from a distant world. Salted, too, she discovered, as her wingtip popped a couple in her mouth.

Maybe too much so; she coughed, and had to duck to retrieve her water bottle from beneath the bench. As she sloshed back half a pint or more, trying to clear her throat, she heard once more the bark-rasp laughter she’d come to associate with him. She looked up, and saw that one of the more adventurous squirrels had absconded with a not-insubstantial quantity of nuts, and was chittering gratefully at the stallion from his shoulder, mouth stuffed to bursting.

The stallion, in turn, threw back his head and loosed more of his strange, off-key laughter—all the more charming, she was coming to find, for the sheer rawness of it; the unfiltered mirth. She knew he had to know; the oddness of it, the unpractised sound; she knew there had to be part of him that cared, and more of him that didn’t, and more than enough that was willing to share it with her.

And she knew because she had finally figured out his eyes. It was a careful dance, working out how to steal glances at them without being mistaken for . . . well. But they were nothing like those little novelettes Twilight was always writing, where cold embers of pain or rage or regret would set Daring Do’s heart aflame; neither cold and dead nor burning with life. They just were, and thus so was he; mild and happy and eminently self-aware. They laughed, and it was a knowing laughter.

And she didn’t know what falling felt like, but she almost felt she could fall into those.

They stayed there long after the appointed hour, that day, as more and more of Fluttershy’s ever-curious companions came forward to investigate the gentle new creature their friend had adopted.

The weekend—a Cloudsdale weekend—which fact Rainbow Dash had not forgotten.

‘So, uh, we’re not going to see my folks tomorrow? Any particular reason you’re skipping out on me?’

Fluttershy sighed, for perhaps the third or fourth time already in the course of their brief conversation. She already had a previous engagement, and she had tried to make that quite clear.

‘Ya know they’re gonna miss ya, right? You always show up for new-moon.’

Not strictly true, especially considering the number of times Rainbow Dash herself had slept in and skipped out, but Fluttershy kept her peace on that front. Instead, she pointed out that she would be more than happy to reschedule to another day—her date by the lake was for today, and if there was nothing else, she was running late . . .?

‘By the lake . . . ? Wait wait wait, you don’t mean that creepy stallion Twilight was telling me you were having trouble with, do you?’ Dash’s face darkened. ‘Look, if he’s bothering you or something, you just say the word, okay? I get wind of a problem and his ass’ll be in a sling—ten seconds flat.’

Fluttershy thanked her, told her that she didn’t have to worry; she’d be fine, and would look forward to meeting up again soon. Favouring her friend with a brief smile, she picked up her basket and trotted off briskly toward the lake.

She dared roll her eyes only after she was sure Dash wouldn’t see.

Midweek, a few days later. The sky was greyer than it had been, of late; autumn was approaching, and with it the relaxation of the weather schedule for the harvest season. Her eyes were closed, per his gestured request; the muted sounds of the lake, and the soft, cool breeze playing through her fur were the only things she could sense. He was at the far end of the bench, ever-so-quietly rummaging in his satchel, doing his Celestia-darned best not to give anything away.

A faint smile played around her lips; just what could this be all about? He was a playful sort, she was coming to understand, and—even if he didn’t put it in so many words—their private jokes were as much a joy to him as they were to her. So she waited patiently, hoof outstretched, bobbing her head occasionally to the tune of nearby birdsong.

Something cool and flat slipped into her hoof, and the warmth of his hooves soon joined it, wrapping tight—soft—around hers. One hoof stayed pressed against hers, and the other tapped slowly against her ankle—a countdown.

Three.

Two.

One.

And the hooves withdrew. Taking her cue, she opened her eyes, and gazed at the small, shining thing resting in her hoof. Her eyes widened, free hoof shooting up to cover her mouth. It was a small, filigreed-silver comb, the handle curving gently into the twin arcs of a butterfly’s wings.

It was beautiful.

She leapt forward, and threw her hooves around him, gripping the comb tight. He started back a little at the contact, but—softly, after a moment’s hesitation—returned the gesture in kind. They stayed like that for a long moment, embraced. He withdrew first, leaning back to look at her again.

She hadn’t realised, across the thinning gulfs that had separated them, how sweet those warm eyes could be. It wasn’t quite that they had changed—they were, just as they had been—but that same soft look he’d always reserved for the lake seemed now to have extended on to her. And that—it felt like something you’d scrunch your shoulders into, like snuggling into a new, dryer-warm sweater in winter.

It was the same look she saw in some of the ponies in town when she and Rarity went out for one of their gossip-lunches; the same kind she saw in the eyes of couples by the fireside in Sugarcube Corner—shining, hopeful, sweet. But when he looked at her, now, there was another layer to it, something she couldn’t quite put a wingtip to; puppy-dog, perhaps? An extra layer of comfortable earnestness.

Their muzzles were close—closer than they ever had been. His shining eyes were fixed on hers; dropped, fixed again. His breath was quick where the hoof holding the comb still held him. He leaned in, slow, quick, unsure. Once he started, twice—and that was all the prompting she needed to pull him close.

Her lips found his, and the world around them dissolved into bliss.

The weekend, and Sugarcube Corner. Fluttershy had decided to make herself a batch of celebratory lemon squares—it’d been quite a while, after all—and needed to pick herself up some ingredients. The line was long enough to give her time to put on her best dealing-with-Pinkie Pie smile, and that was—surely—for the best.

Pinkie was, of course, her usual effusive self, and asked a dozen probing questions before Fluttershy had even managed to get out a good morning.

‘So I hear there’s a new stallion in town, Flutters! Eh, eh, say no more, say no more? So what’s he like? Is there any kind of chemistry between the two of you, eh, eh? Any kind of rrrromance?’ She put on a sultry (and rather poor) imitation of a Prench accent with this last. ‘See, I always figured you more to swing the other way, y’know—always thought you and Rainbow Dash had more of a thing. The Cloudsdale outcasts, making a stand together against the world, right? Well, that’s how I’d have done it. Anyway, how far along are you two? Have you been on a date? Have you kissed?’

Fluttershy’s head snapped up from where she had been silently browsing the confectioners’ sugar, and Pinkie crowed. ‘Ooooh~! I just knew it! Ha, that’s quite a number Cherry owes, heehee!’

Looking over her shoulder to ensure that none of the patrons in line were paying attention (no more so than usual), Fluttershy hurriedly picked out the required ingredients and hefted them onto the counter. She tapped a hoof impatiently as Pinkie painstakingly counted out the tab, stopping here and there to give her little winks and wordless coos, and threw her bits on the counter the second her bags were filled.

It wasn’t until she reached the cottage that she realised she had forgotten the lemons completely.

He pushed up under her chin, his untidy mane tickling here and there against her throat. There was comfort in the gesture, as much as the seeking thereof. She held him close, and together they looked out over the lake. The look had changed, she’d come to realise, even if the eyes themselves had not; he hadn’t come looking any more than she had, and yet they’d both found what they’d needed—language without words; the understanding of touch, and smiles, and thoughts shared in gesture and reference points.

She could have learned, she thought mildly, as the sun wound on towards the horizon. He’d made overtures; some complex series of gestures he’d learned or read or made up, much as the larger animals she tended might with their fingers and claws. It flowed, almost musically, and the art of it alone might be worth it in time; but as it stood, she understood, and so it seemed did he. Whole conversations they’d had, just by tracing the arc of a hawk in flight, or any other of a hundred objects they could softly study; could know just by looking that the other had seen the same.

So they sat there, rocking gently with the breeze, and talked with just their eyes. They watched the ducks in their autumnal V’s, heading south; they watched the beavers, shoring up the last of their construction before the winter freeze; they watched the rabbits and the squirrels and the voles and the foxes as they frolicked up and down the path around them.

It felt so natural there, to be so in tune with the nature of things. By Celestia or the celestial die, they had found each other; by Celestia or the celestial die, they had come to the same silent accord—a pact, a bond.

It felt right. It felt right to sit there, together; felt right to watch the sky above colour itself in the livery of the Western house, to hear the birds settling in the trees around them, nestling among their fledglings and families of their own.

It felt right when she leaned back. It felt right when she took his hoof in hers, felt right as she dropped a quick kiss on his muzzle, stood. It felt right as she took him by the hoof, and led him back to the cottage.

And it felt right as she pushed the door shut behind them.

‘So when do we meet him?’

Twilight, Applejack and Rainbow Dash were clustered around the library’s panelled-oak centre-table, a perfect spectrum of inquiry. Twilight was grinning, AJ (badly) stifling a smirk, and Rainbow Dash fully a-glower, forehooves crossed.

Fluttershy blanched slightly. She had just come in for their weekly tea, after all, and seeing the majority of her friends arrayed there like a panel of dog-show judges put her on something of the back-hoof.

‘Pinkie spilled the beans,’ Applejack admitted, grin finally cracking. Rainbow grunted.

That tallied. Fluttershy hung her head, murmured something that might have been a curse, then sat at the last remaining cushion in front of the table. She huddled on the pillow, looking from one of the girls to the others, waiting.

Twilight spoke first, still beaming. ‘I have to say, I’m a little surprised, ‘Shy! A month ago, you were so worried about this colt you had to come to us for advice on how to get him out of your spot, and now you two are on speaking terms, much less romantic? It’s a lot for you to have accomplished in such a short time! You should feel really good about this.’

Applejack nodded, sagely, mock-serious. ‘Oh yes, oh yes. Very droll. Very good friendship lesson.’ She gave Fluttershy an appraising look, sniggering. ‘Ah assume you’ll be droppin’ the ‘shy’ part come the marriage?’

‘Jackie . . .’ Twilight murmured, eyes flicking to the skylight. ‘Could you maybe rein it in? You’ve been sitting here practising the same joke for two hours.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, gals! Ah happen to think is a fine development for our young Miss Flutters. Ah’m just absolutely tickled she managed to get in on that action before you or Rarity, Twi.’

Twilight went from purple to scarlet faster than an aubergine in dragonflame. ‘I d—You—b—’

Rainbow Dash cut across her, muttering something indistinguishable across the wide table. Applejack cackled. ‘Don’t go bein’ such a sourpuss, you! Just ‘cos you missed out on—’

‘It’s not that!’

‘It’s totally that.’

‘Is not! I just . . . don’t like it, is all! Y’know, he just happens to show up in town, just happens to pick that bench? Don’t you find that a bit weird?’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ Twilight commented, still red but obviously quite happy for the change in subject. ‘Why, do you know how many of the great classics started with a coincidence like this? Starswirl and Clover? Moonglow and Hawthorne? Celestia and—’

Rainbow Dash gave her a withering glare. ‘You would think storybook romances were a good representation of how literally anything works.’

‘A-anyway,’ Twilight flailed. ‘That’s part of the reason we want to meet him, Flutters. It’ll do all our hearts good to know you’re—well, you know.’

‘Making a good choice?’ Applejack supplied.

‘Making the right choice,’ Rainbow grumbled.

Fluttershy hung her head, but nodded. It was the responsible thing to do, she was sure.

A time and date were swiftly agreed, and a note was sent via an all-too-willing Spike to inform Rarity of the plans. Fluttershy had quietly noted her absence, but the girls had been quick to excuse her; apparently she’d had plans to entertain a suitor that day.

They arrived an hour before noon, silhouetted against the late-morning sun. The cottage was neatly groomed as ever; the table set for six (Pinkie had been mysteriously unable to attend); the cutlery polished and Harry opened the door from the outside, bowing as she’d taught him, and the girls piled in one after the other, eyes alight and ears on a swivel.

‘Oh, darling, I was ever so pleased to hear about this from Pinkie, however . . . uncouth . . . she was about it,’ Rarity cooed, patting Fluttershy’s cheek with a carefully-manicured hoof before looking around. ‘But where-oh-where is the stallion of the hour? Surely the guest of honour isn’t late to his own party!’

Fluttershy beamed. She was truly excited—she knew they’d love him just as much as she had, once they could all sit down and really get to know one another. She whispered to Rarity that he was only just upstairs, waiting on the guests; she’d just go and fetch him. She gave Rarity a quick hug and darted for the stairs.

In her enthusiasm, she didn’t catch the rising of a single, heavily-pencilled eyebrow, nor the series of murmurs that followed her up to the cottage’s little loft.

He was right where she’d left him, fiddling with the little cotton scarf he’d brought with him. He’d balked at the bowtie she’d offered, seemed far more at home in the scarf he’d occasionally wear out on the lake—thin, soft, somewhere between cotton and silk, and rendered in a striking, unfamiliar pattern. Ah well; whatever made him comfortable.

She sidled up next to him, so their reflections were side-by-side in the mirror. He grinned, pushed his shoulder against her a little; she returned the gesture, mussing his hair a little with a free hoof. He followed her from the room and down the stairs.

She tried to gauge the girls’ reaction as they descended; was it her imagination, or did they look . . . no, that would be silly! They hadn’t even had the chance to talk to him yet. She waved a fancy little Canterlot wave, as she’d sometimes seen the princesses do at the Gala (they smiled), and bid them seat themselves while she and her beau got the plates out (they did).

They had spared no expense with the meal—a positive bouquet of autumnal fruit and veg, served in every style her little little hearth could manage. Pumpkin pies and corn cakes; a savoury squash stew; fruits of the vine piled high around healthy servings of home-baked hay fries; even a heavily-spiced curry dish that had been his contribution to proceedings.

He was the last to seat himself, having taken one last poke through the kitchen for anything that might have been missed, as the girls tucked in with relish, oohing and aahing at each new dish that was passed around. As soon as he was settled, Twilight turned, beaming.

‘Well, hello there! My name’s Twilight Sparkle, and I’m a friend of Fluttershy’s. It’s really nice to finally meet you, after everything we’ve heard about you.’ She smiled broadly. ‘Care to tell us a little about yourself? Your name, where you’re from?’

He’d been staring at her intently as she spoke—taking great care to follow along with every word, it seemed—but when she posed the question, he smiled widely, and shook his head.

Twilight’s smile faltered. ‘O-oh, well then. Do you mind if I ask what brought you to town, or . . . ?’

She trailed off, and he simply continued to smile his polite, guileless smile at her before tapping his muzzle with a hoof. Twilight’s head cocked in a way that reminded Fluttershy uncomfortably of Winona, but she too just fixed her smile back in place and rounded on Fluttershy instead. ‘So, um, your friend . . . ?’

Fluttershy blanched, before recounting a little of their meeting at the bench. There wasn’t much to tell, really. Um, they’d sat down, had lunch—but, no, that had come later. It was fumbling and unexpected, and she could feel the girls eyes boring into her from four places around the table as she told it. He, for his part, seemed to be quite enjoying the pie.

‘Stallion of few words, ain’t he?’ AJ mused, sipping at a glass of juice. ‘You ain’t never talked to him ‘bout where he’s from? What brought him here?’

Fluttershy stammered. Had they ever talked about such things? It didn’t seem like much had ever needed to be said when they could sit there and enjoy the moment instead. Applejack seemed to take her nonanswer as confirmation, casting a glance at Twilight before focussing on her plate again.

They directed their questions exclusively to her, thereafter. Did she have any idea of his occupation? If he had family in Ponyville? What had they done together, on those long lunches? Had they been anywhere else?

Only the stallion seemed at ease, munching away, seemingly thinking all was well. His eyes wandered, in their usual interested way, tracing the paths of a couple of chipmunks along the baseboard. Something about them must have caught his eye, for he laughed his rasping laugh again, and for some reason the girls on either side of Fluttershy jumped.

‘I’m—Forgive me, sir,’ said Rarity, reining in her obvious affront. ‘But would you mind sharing what you found so amusing?’

The stallion’s eyes widened a little as she spoke, then smiled, broadly. He pointed down to the spot where the two chipmunks had been gambolling in the corner, but they seemed to take notice of the attention and darted away as the girls turned. Eyebrows raised, eyes locked expectantly with the stallion’s. He seemed slightly abashed, but waved it off good-naturedly, shaking his head.

Lunch proceeded in silence for a few minutes thereafter, punctuated only by the crunch of an apple, or a particularly unsubtle slurp of stew.

Rarity’s eyes, though, hadn’t left the stallion since the laugh—particularly his neckline. ‘What a fascinating scarf,’ she murmured, almost to herself. She pursed her lips. ‘Sir? S—sir.’ She waved, and he turned to her. ‘Wherever did you come by that scarf, if I may?’ She pointed to it with a fork, for emphasis.

He nodded, several times in quick succession, slurping down the rest of his stew before moving to answer, making several complex pantomimes involving the sun, the table, and a quickly-produced bit coin. Rarity nodded along, politely, but the look in her eyes betrayed no hint of understanding—nor, it seemed to Fluttershy . . . well . . .

Care?

But perhaps she was just being silly. She had picked up the patterns easily enough, seen enough to understand; she had learned to see the wheels turning in his eyes, the way his smile scrunched up his whole muzzle that way when one of life’s little joys crossed his path. Her friends were smarter and better and more understanding than she’d ever been—surely they could see it too?

There was no further conversation until the meal ended, and the stallion left the table to begin washing up. Twilight rose to follow him, smiling awkwardly at the group as she went. Rainbow Dash wasted no time in picking up the slack.

‘Yeah, uh, Fluttershy—you sure this guy’s right in the head? The way he smiled at Twilight’s question and just . . . kinda said “Nah”? Creep-yyyy.’

Rarity clucked, but Applejack glared. ‘Rainbow Dash, you leave off that poor gal. She’s got enough to be contendin’ with tryin’ to get this whole cockamamie cavalcade through lunch.’

Fluttershy smiled thankfully at Applejack, but then she continued. ‘Sides, it don’t seem like we got anythin’ to worry about. ‘Course the boy’s simple; she’s just taken him in for a spell to be kind. He’ll wander off back to his family eventually.’

The smile dropped like a rock, but the bickering was too fervent and too high-spirited for either of them to notice. The stallion came and went several times in the interim, casting looks of confusion between Fluttershy and her friends, one eyebrow quirked. Rarity watched his comings and goings, forehooves crossed, and her mien had yet to change.

Twilight exited the kitchen, looking defeated, and resumed her seat. Fluttershy quietly pushed past her and found her way into the kitchen. Her beau was humming tunelessly over the sink, soapy water splashing against dish after dish.

She approached him from behind, her footfalls a little heavier than they might otherwise have been. She hugged him, slowly, from behind, and he let the dish drop, softly. He turned, nuzzled her, wordlessly. She nodded, and—reluctant as he seemed to break the embrace—he gave her a quick kiss, and trotted upstairs to collect his things. He understood.

She heard the quiet click of the front door, heard the still-louder silence that followed him through the main room.

He’d be back. Maybe that evening, maybe later. Maybe the bench, if it wasn’t too cold; or even here. He’d knock, and she’d—

There was a soft rapping on the doorframe. ‘Fluttershy? Could we . . . talk to you?’

Twilight’s voice. Her friends were waiting; she wasn’t being a studious host.

She walked back through the doors, eyes flitting anywhere but at the four girls settled around the table—Twilight, only just regaining her seat.

They fixed her with quiet stares as she, too, sat. A little hunched, now that she thought about it. She tried to straighten her posture, but it seemed easier just to slump. There were things they had to say, and she was sure there were things she did too.

Rarity, opposite her, spoke first. ‘Fluttershy, we have . . . reservations.’

‘Yes,’ Twilight agreed, from her left. ‘He’s . . . well . . .’

‘A hind-bred weirdo,’ Rainbow spat, and Fluttershy jerked as though struck.

‘Dash,’ AJ admonished, from her right. There was no real force behind it.

Rarity cleared her throat. ‘We’re concerned, darling, that he’s not really the best fit for you.’

‘He might be unwell, even . . . well, dangerous,’ Twilight agreed, nodding. ‘Seeing as he wouldn’t answer even the most basic questions, was flat-out evasive—he wouldn’t even talk to me in the kitchen when I asked.’

‘He wouldn’t talk to you when you point-blank asked him, gumdrop-brain.’ A snarl.

‘. . . my point.’ A sigh. ‘He’s just . . . not what we expected for you, Fluttershy.’

‘An’ like I said before, Flutters, it’s real nice that yer takin’ him in an’ all, but it ain’t really, uh, safe? Given ya known him less’n a month? I didn’t realise that before, Dash brought it up while y’all were in the kitchen.’

‘Really, Fluttershy, it’s just that we want what’s best for you. You shouldn’t have to deal with something like this alone, and you shouldn’t be putting yourself in positions where you’re clearly unsafe.’
‘Really, darling, we don’t want to see you get hurt.’

‘Do you really want to, like, die? Dude like that, off the street, who knows what issues he’s packing.’

‘Or if he spirited you away, in the dead of night?

Their voices overlapped, one pounding, all-concerned wall; questions rhetorical, hypotheticals grimly detailed, responses unsought, judgments rendered. Several times she opened her mouth to speak, and just as often the wall brought her up short.

‘You don’t have the experience with these things that we do, Fluttershy.’

‘You, uh, really don’t know what you’re doing. Obviously.’

Her head hung lower and lower as they continued, talking over each other, expounding. There was nothing she could say.

‘Who would take care of the animals?’

‘Who would sing at the Gala?’

‘Who would look after ‘Bloom, Scoots, ‘n’ Sweetie Belle when we’re all dealin’ with other things?’

‘And that’s not even getting into the Elements . . .’

It went on, and on, and on, and the tide washing over her grew heavier, and heavier, and heavier.

‘We really don’t think you should see each other.’

‘We do know best, darling.’

‘Just imagine how disappointed my folks would be—heck, maybe yours, too, if they were still in the picture.’

She broke, then, and wept. And as if some switch had been triggered, they crowded around her, hugging and shushing and drying her eyes for her, telling her how strong she’d been, how wrong it had been of someone to take advantage of it.

‘There, there, lovey. It’ll be alright. You’ll manage.’

‘We’ll be there every step of the way. You still don’t have to do this alone.’

‘There y’are. Attagirl. Get it all out.’

It continued in much the same vein, as the shadows lengthened and the day drew to a close. They shushed, and they cared, and they petted, and they calmed. And they told, and they lectured, and they teased, and they corrected.

And when, at long last, they left her, she felt none of the former excitement she’d had, none of the happiness, none of the joy.

She felt empty.

It only got worse from there. Every time she saw one of her friends, they grilled her on the state of her life, and the stallion’s place within it. Every time she went into town, someone new would have heard the news, and, frowning, would ask after her health and wellbeing.

Gone were the cheerful smiles she had once put on everyone’s faces, and so too did the smile disappear from hers. No longer was she the happiest of ponies, as everyone had come to rely on—to expect. An unease settled over the town. She’d always been shy, it was true, always been quiet; but now it seemed more than that—withdrawn, even, as though she were trying to shut them out.

And all those tired hearts, all those careworn, work-sore bones? They knew what was to blame.

A steady cavalcade of questions replaced the cheerful greetings she’d received in the market, the grocer, the library, the spa. They pervaded, they crowded, they stampeded, they flocked.

‘Fluttershy, we hardly see you anymore. Is everything alright?’

She felt her heart soar for a moment as their lips touched, the moment backlit by a pastel-orange sunset.

‘Hey Flutters, is that creepy quiet guy still hangin’ around you? You just watch yourself—none of us wants to see you get hurt.’

They were spending the afternoon together on the couch, watching the shifting patterns of colour play on the walls, the ceiling, the floor, as the cut-glass windchime caught the sun.

‘Fluttershy, darling, you don’t ever talk about him anymore. Is . . . has he done anything to you?’

His hooves were so tender—so tender—as he wove them through her mane, the birds guiding his gentle, silent motions as he wove it into a single, long plait.

‘Fluttershy, d’y’all really have that much in common?’

She looked on from the kitchen as he laughed his beautiful atonal laugh, watching the squirrels cavort in his lap.

‘Yo, Flutters, does he, uh, like, love you?’

Her eyes fell slightly as he beamed at her across the dinner table.

‘Fluttershy, don’t you want to see us anymore?’

Her hoofsteps faltered, putting her a few paces behind him as they entered the market.

‘Fluttershy, are you really happy like this?’

She heard the whispers as she made her way to the spa, a hat and shawl failing to hide her downcast gaze—or her trembling lip.

‘Fluttershy?’

She worried.

‘Fluttershy?’

She floundered.

‘Fluttershy?’

She lay there, rigid, one hoof running stiffly through his mane as he nuzzled his way up under her chin. His hooves found their familiar place of comfort wrapped around her barrel, and he sighed a little sigh of contentment, and promptly fell asleep.

And so it went: the days passed for her in a sort of wintry white-noise haze. Days stretched into weeks, weeks into months, months to the turn of the season. Little rituals were abandoned; trips to the market forestalled, appointments with friends called off or forgotten; on weekends she would draw the blinds and hide in her bed rather than risk going out, being seen.

The lake froze over; the ducks had gone, the beavers long since burrowed down. The squirrels and the chipmunks, the voles and the foxes, tucked away in their comfortable dens to wait out the all-pervading cold.

Still they came; still they asked. No amount of reassurance was enough; no amount of balancing could keep her on the wire. When she wouldn’t answer, they sent the constable, or the ambulance, and them she had to answer. They asked and begged and pleaded and wheedled, and she was only one mare, in the end.

It was relentless. The callers knocked, the letters piled up, the invitations went unanswered, and she could hear each voice in the howling winter wind, see each disappointed face reflected in the mirror, the window, the stained-glass chime that banged against it.

But she kept it to herself, and she didn’t let him see, because what would it matter if she did? She couldn’t say anything, and neither could he. There was nothing for it, except for what fleeting joy they could take in each other. And even as she didn’t let him see it, he didn’t seem to notice—he was always elsewhere, plying his trade, bringing home little knick-knacks and trade goods from the towns around, the tribes, and seemed to know just enough to stay away from the town, and come home to her.

They would laugh, but her laughter sounded hollow.

They would dance, but her hooves always felt numb.

They would comfort each other, sitting there together on the long low couch, but she would never let him see her cry.

And for his part, the smile in his eyes never seemed to mock her, though she thought that maybe it should.

And one night—a long night, the last of many—a little over six months from their first meeting, she found herself sitting in the cottage’s little kitchen, long after he’d retired to the bed they now shared, rocking gently in the chair by the fire.

The thoughts rolled around in her head, loose and jangling eggshell. She couldn’t face her friends anymore; not with what they’d say. But she couldn’t not see her friends, because then they’d think he was keeping her from them. She couldn’t go to town, because then the whispers would start, and then the whispers would become questions, and the questions would become answers, and they’d make them for themselves and everything would still be wrong.

But she couldn’t not go into the town, either—there were things she and the animals couldn’t go without, and even if she could, all that would accomplish would be to convince them he was holding her at home. Nor could they run—he’d have abducted her! Nor could she hide him, or even turn him out—if he turned up, they’d hound him, and he wouldn’t understand; if he didn’t, they’d never let her rest until he did.

Wherever they went, they’d be chased; wherever they hid, they’d be found. She rocked, steadily, backward and forward, side to side, in the creaky old chair by the fire. No right answer, no way out. Nothing else for it.

She hugged herself tight, biting her foreleg to stop from crying out.

Nothing else for it.

Her eyes rolled around the room, seeking shadows, finding only the blunt and empty kitchen.

Nothing else for it.

Her gaze fell on the cast-iron frying pan drying in the rack beside the sink.

Nothing else for it.

The bedroom door creaked open, and he stirred—ever so slightly—under the sheets. She stood there, trembling, silhouetted, an eternity of long shadows and shimmering candlelight. Shimmering more so than usual—wetly, perhaps. She jerked as he shuffled again, rolling over, shut the door behind her. Her hoofsteps were slow, measured, terribly uneven.

Something heavy flopped onto the foot of the bed, and her beside it, a moment later. She lay there for long moments, stretched over his legs, shaking. Then she rose, turned, straddled him as he stirred a final time. One hoof gripped a long, heavy handle.

He looked at her, a little quizzically—hopeful? The soft smile reached from his muzzle all the way to the little lines around his eyes, and her breathing slowed a little as her steady gaze met his. She bent down, and gently—ever so gently—brushed his temple with her lips.

Then, in one swift motion, she brought the frying pan up over her head, and swung it down with all the force her trembling frame could muster. His head rebounded off the backboard with a hollow thunk, and blood blossomed from the gash above his eye, but he was still moving and oh Celestia she hadn’t planned for this and oh goddesses the uncomprehending look in his wide, puppy-dog eyes and she couldn’t stop, there was no turning back now, no other way forward and her body responded in the only way it could think to.

She hit him.

She hit him, and hit him and hit him and hit him and hit him and hit him and hit him and hit him. He thrashed, dazedly, drunkenly, under the sheets, rebounding with every hollow, metallic blow. His eyes rolled, his mouth opened in a silent wail of confusion, and she knew that if ever he should have screamed, it was now; that if ever a word could have escaped him, it would have been now.

And still the frying pan came down, again and again and again and again.

Then her hooves gave out, and the viscous pan slipped from her grasp to clang across the floor, and she laid her head across his sunken, still-warm chest, and sobbed. And she lay there, weak as a newborn foal, and she sobbed.

Pre-dawn pink was peeking around the curtains before she stirred again. Face streaked, legs jelly, she eased the door open, and told the curious, expectant birds to get Twilight, and the constable.

She told them exactly what had happened, and they heaped their praises upon her. After all, she was told, she had shown such bravery—defended herself, her person, her dignity from the unseemly brute.

There was an inquest, naturally, and—naturally—things came to a head in court. She pled guilty, and the magistrate told her he’d hear no such thing from the victim of the crime. After all, she was told, nothing but a concerted campaign of harassment and denigration could drive such a kind and unassuming mare to such violence, and no-one in the room would be convinced otherwise--especially not of Fluttershy.

And when she returned home from the county court, it was to find that the body had been cremated, on the orders of the constabulary. For after all, she was told, an animal so vicious had done nothing to deserve a proper burial.

‘Soon enough,’ she was told, ‘You won’t even have to remember his name.’

And in the months that followed, things returned to a kind of quiet normalcy. Ponyville settled comfortably back into its armchairs and its chaise lounges, and sighed an untroubled sigh of abject contentment. The monster was slain, and the girl was safe.

And she was. To all outward appearances, Fluttershy was as she had always been—as she always should have been—the sweetly-smiling mare, heart on her sleeve and her look of wonder back squarely in her eyes. No more was she wasted on a wastrel; no longer would her gentle gaze meet the gleam of avarice. Every day she seemed more real—more her. Gone the brashness and the uncharacteristic laughter; returned the softness and the quiet, semi-abashed smile.

And in their cloven oaks and stiff carousels, her friends nodded sagely to each other: Fluttershy was safe in their wings again, and all was right in Ponyville. They visited her, and nurtured her, and reminded her what an amazing thing she had done.

And at every turn, with every alternate breath, they renewed their promise that, no matter what, they would always—always—be there to keep her safe. The world was a dangerous place, after all, and there was no telling when another bad, bad pony would come along and try to take her from them again.

And the days wore on, and the seasons passed, and memories grew dim in the warm summer haze. Fluttershy was once again known to be the happiest pony in Ponyville: her smile was the widest, her words the gentlest; and she kept a warm smile and a kind word for everypony she met.

Never mind that she sometimes excused herself from crowded rooms, or could be heard crying softly from behind closed doors; never mind that she sometimes locked herself in her cottage all day and refused to come out, no matter how they knocked and knocked—after all, had that, too, not always been the way of things? She was a fragile little thing, and so easily broken. And though it had taken a tragedy to make them realise it, they knew now that was why she needed them—her friends, her neighbours, all of Ponyville—to watch over her.

As long as Fluttershy lived, they vowed, she would never have to be anything but that which she had always been to them—the happiest, sweetest, and gentlest of ponies.

Author's Note

An elegy for the weak-willed, an indictment of the narrow-minded, and a commentary on the pervasive beliefs of fandoms more than anything else.

Happy Halloween.