The Fluttersby Lack of TactChaptersDestiny DeliversConniving Cookies and Lying LeadersFor a Broken Man in Broken MirrorsDestiny DeliversTim was a good man, in fact he would go as far as say he was the best man in all the land. He knew he was not only a good man, but a happy man as well. Or tried to be. Tim did understand he was the only human to exist here; Tim didn't have to deal with the inanities of humanity, the struggles of what is and what isn't the social norm. Tim was fine with that. Originally, anyway. Here, in Equestria, Tim could be who he wanted to be. He didn't rightly know what it was he wanted to be, but he would eventually. Hopefully. His last home didn't have an answer for him either, but Tim had long accepted the question to simply be unanswerable. Had Tim been two seconds late, he wouldn't be here for this place to answer either. Sure, the initial shock of having woken up in a strange world had perturbed him weeks on end for a time; sure, he still had nightmares about the accident, but Tim was fine. But Tim was not fine! Tim sighed as he looked himself in the mirror, his dishevelled ginger-schnapp hair streaked down his forehead, between his brow. No, Tim was not fine, indeed. Oh, how Tim's life had very much felt like a drama movie to him. He sighed again as he waded his hands and fingers through his mop. Two solid blues stared back at him through the mirror as he swept his hair back. "Look at you, old man. Can't even keep up with the mares no more." He chuckled a wry chuckle, the corner of his lips tugged slightly; his mutton-chopped cheeks felt a pathetic attempt to rise. Tim was a good man, but why did everyone use that? He thought back to the night before, before his age had truly hit him. When Tim was young, he was taught to be courteous–to show chivalry. He'd woo'd several lasses in his prime with that, but- His eyes hardened in the mirror, "can't teach an old dog new tricks. Tch." He snorted as he repeated the words spoken to him the night prior. Roseluck, the name itched like poison ivy scraping the back of his mind. He'd never fallen so hard–so fast. And fallen he did, down several pegs, after he was already on his knee. The flower-mare, who once captured a more naive-to-their-culture man's heart had quite possibly broken it, and him alongside the damned thing. He watched as his mouth snarled, as his mind dug and dug into fresh wounds. Something snapped, and Tim wasn't sure if it was the audible crack in the mirror before him or his ever-weakening grip on his sanity. He watched as he pulled his bloodied fist from the broken finery, shards of reflective glass coated in red jutted from his knuckles. Tim sighed one last time as he went to turn on the red-splattered, glass-strewn sink. "Chivalry's dead," he muttered under his breath as he slowly picked out the stuck pieces of mirror. "That bitch killed it." She took it, stomped on it and spat in its face. He remembered vividly, walking in upon her with the rest of her–her herd. The word shot through his head like a bullet and it. Kept. Ricocheting. His grimaced. The image of her head bobbing up and down that sonuvabitch's member–her eyes on Tim the entire time. She had done all of that simply because he wanted to be exclusive. She had left him–for a herd. His uninjured fist clenched and unclenched several times, his left hand throbbed from the dull pain. Tim was a good man. That was years ago, many years ago, when he first got here. That Tim was so young, so starry-eyed when he landed here. That Tim was a good man. He wasn't that Tim any longer. His jaw tightened and loosened, his eyes shut hard just for them to open to the same reality. And he cried as he stared at himself in his shattered reflection. . . . . . Tim wasn't a recluse; a homebody. He had a social want–nay, a need to socialize. This has been fact ever since he got here. However, today, as the sun loomed over his little home—its light painted his prone form through his blindless window—he could only turn over as he ruminated on his inner, caustic turmoils. Tim was a verbal person. Tim could make a social call, but he wouldn't even know who to go to. Everyone in Ponyville, his permanent home-away-from-home, had likely heard the story. Roseluck was, after all, nothing if not a gossip. Outside of her and those who he'd once called friends—fucking Thunderlane, Tim had no one to talk to. His only other friend–outside of the two who'd all but killed him inside, wasn't even in town. Derpy, or Ditzy as he preferred to call her, the mail-mare extraordinare, herself, would be perfect for the case. Sadly, by sheer bad luck, alone, she'd several packages that needed delivering by week's end and was likely too busy to just shirk her work for a conversation. While the thoughts of his bubblier friend made him smirk a little, he knew he was alone on the matter. At least, for the time being. Sunday was drawing near, he knew he'd see her shortly. He exhaled softly. "Goddammit, Tim... Ditzy wouldn't want you feeling bad for yourself," he rubbed at his eyes, almost as if he'd forgotten the coarse bandages over his hand. Yes, thinking of a certain bubbly mare certainly placed him in a somewhat better mood. Two gorgeous, golden eyes focused on him mentally as they practically shouted for him to just stand up. He couldn't do anything but listen. He groaned as he turned back over onto his side; he grunted as he leaned to sit forward. The mental image of his friend's eyes softened before they faded all but entirely from his mind. "Damn, ya old fart. Can't move without pullin' on a muscle, can ya," Tim mumbled. He stretched his back, varying popping noises were made. Pop. Pop! Crick! It was the crick noise that startled him. "Gah, fuck! My back!" Having just tried to pop his lower back a little too hard, he exhaled a shaken breath. "Yeah, 36 years old sucks," he murmured under a ragged intake of air before sitting up entirely. He remembered when he first got here, to Ponyville. To Equestria. A mere 17 years old. He remembered having at one point experienced life for the first time. He remembered his first filly-friend–his first excursion into xenophilia. A young Miss Cheerilee, just getting out of high school herself. Tim remembered her leaving him, after being together for almost five years—because of some stupid farmer. True love, she'd said. He thought back on her when they last spoke; she's single—likely neurotic, and has like, nineteen kids to take care of. Not literally her own, but still. Tim was still bitter at her, even after she pleaded to get back with him. Where did the time go? A few years after her, some mutual friends—no offense, Ditzy, he thought idly—introduced him to Roseluck. From then on it was smooth sailing... until he tried to pop the question on their sixth anniversary. His good hand tightened in thought, his mind darkened. For all of a moment. Even through several doors, Tim heard the loud clip-clop of a hoof as it rapped on the front door to his home. A brow raised in question, anticipation filled his eyes as wonders of who it could be filled his mind. It's only been a day, maybe Roseluck had come to apologize? Not like he'd accept it, "that fucking whore," he whispered to himself. Maybe Ditzy returned early–for once? Who else would have knocked on his door? Tim mentally scrolled through images and names of ponies he hardly remembered, but none clicked with him. Tim knew the only surefire way to find out was to leave his room. But did Tim trust himself enough if it wasn't someone he was pleasantly acquainted with? A surge of pure fuck it shot through his veins, he stood up from his messy, sheet-splayed bed and–opting to ignore replacing it, made his way out of his room. He walked through his it's-missing-something living room, making doubly sure not to look at several photo frames hanging above the mantle. Tim's good hand followed the length of his almost-unused grey loveseat as he approached the main entryway. Three more raps, although more reserved the second time around, sounded as he neared the wooden barrier. Trepidation grew in his stomach as he went to turn the brass handle, to open the door to an unknown destiny. Two light blue eyes that almost matched Tim's own met his; it seemed destiny was a little shy. The mare herself didn't look like she fared any better. Almost as if she didn't expect him to actually answer. "A-ah," words or something of the sort tried to leave her almost butter-like muzzle, her lips parted just barely as she stared up at the resident human. "M-my name's Fillie S-Scout Leader Flutter-Fluttershy, an-and..." Tim nodded slowly after her greeting, tried to gauge her reasoning for being at his doorstep. He couldn't think of a single one, "ma'am?" He prodded, trying his damnedest not to startle the mare. While he may be in a piss-poor mood, the stuttering girl looked frightened of him already. For some reason, he couldn't find it in himself to intimidate her anymore than he already—however inadvertently—had. For some other reason, Tim didn't expect destiny to have the name Fluttershy, or for it–apparently her to be so scared of him. "I'm wonder-wondering if you-you'd like to b-buy some Fi-Fillie Scout cookies? He also didn't expect destiny to offer out cookies. Author's Note Judge lest ye wish to be judged. Nah, figured I'm gonna try and worm my way back into writing. Fell into a weird slump, dunno. Anyway, yeah, been reading a bit of cheesy-ass romance lately, figured I'd try my hand at writing my—no offense—least favourite horse in a lead role. I dunno. Wrote it on my phone, I'll glance over it later or something. Peace! Conniving Cookies and Lying LeadersHis mouth opened, Tim was well aware of that; he knew words were supposed to spill forth, but for some quite likely asinine reason, he could not will himself to speak. He felt a weird, passing wave in his gut. His blue eyes stayed on the pink maned, buttery mare in front of him for what felt like minutes. Her eyes never once faltered from his, despite the evident heat that seemingly boomed across her cheeks as the stare maintained. A cough startled Tim from his stupor and she opened her mouth instead, "S-sir? It's for–it's for a good cause," something glinted in her wide pools of blue, her head lowered; mane drooped over half of her face, "if-if you don't mind, I-I mean..." he only stared. Tim opted for silence, only a moment of it. He shook his head and felt foolish as he stared at her for so long. Why did he think so much on the subject of destiny before this whole conversation? No matter, "sure," he gave a single vertical shake of his head and stepped aside, "would... you like to come in?" He started slowly, not wanting the Filly Scout leader to be frightened off with his tone. "You'll have to sit on the sofa, if you don't mind. My piggy-bank is full, so it'll just be a moment." He backed up into his home, allowing her small form to nervously cross the threshold into the bland sanctuary. He left the door opened as she stepped by him, her wings brushed his forearm. The mare's eyes—Fluttershy's, he mentally logged—lingered on him, and he didn't quite understand as to why. Nor did he care. but Tim didn't notice her look change as he made his way by her, away from the small living room. When he vanished from sight, Fluttershy then did release a breath she didn't even know she'd held. She glanced meekly around the enclosed space, her head tilted at photos neatly hung over the mantle before her. Photos of the resident human—she'd knew she had seen him around before, but saving the world does wonders for ruining introductions—and some other mare. The Scout Leader gasped, tearing her eyes away from the scratched out faces as she heard the footfalls of the human as he returned. The rest of her form did the fastest about-face she'd ever done. Stood before his room door, Tim chuckled madly, yet so softly to himself as the mare's eyes followed the up and down motion of the tossed piggy-bank in hand. The weighty-ceramic-Spongebob barely jingle-jangled–proof alone it was filled with coins-a-plenty. He threw the blasted yellow thing with such a force into the ground, it was a surprise it didn't explode not too unlike a fragmentation grenade. Fluttershy, Filly Scout Leader though she may have been, screamed upon the square-pants wearing creature seemingly obliterated before her very eyes. Her scream died down by the time she saw the golden bits that were inside. Fluttershy felt silly for having screamed in the first place. But why didn't he just uncork the... 'Piggy'-bank? She had almost asked, too. By the time her look was upon the man again, Tim was already before her with a handful of bits, a forced mirthful grin plastered on his face. "How many boxes would I be able to buy with this?" With his sudden appearance and his sudden question, it was totally logical for Fluttershy to scream again. It was totally logical for her to have passed out, too. The buttery mare buckled on her knees in front of him, and Tim stared blankly. Only for a couple seconds, but a couple seconds too late. He reached to grab her before she fell onto the shattered remains of his little Spongebank. Her surprisingly-extra weight dragged him onto his knees as he kept her propped away from the makeshift-shrapnel. His firm caps stung suddenly as several pieces of ceramic dug their way into his legs. "Fucking... Spongebob," He growled out as he did his best to lift her and himself without further self-harm. The mare, now in his arms–how he'd imagined carrying Roseluck down the aisle, was actually light as a feather! He bit at the inside of his cheek at the thought as he placed her down on his grey loveseat. "Fucking moron, you're getting old. Your back probably gave on ya," he concluded as he plopped himself next to Fluttershy's unconscious form. The couch shifted under her slightly, but she didn't stir. Tim sighed. His eyes lowered to his knees, the cloth pants he wore, ruined–stained with more of his spilled blood. Small yellow, ceramic shards jutted from his legs. He slowly repeated the process of picking what felt like glass from his body. While it hadn't stung nearly as bad as the mirror incident, it had still wounded his pride. Memories resurfaced, his prone-to-anger reactions are what had caused this in the first place. The damned bank was laughing at him! What else would he do but destroy it? No, it wasn't the piggy bank laughing, it was her image taped to the bottom of it that filled his mind with gutteral, nasally laughter. He had to destroy the damned thing. Her image wouldn't leave otherwise. Tim inhaled and exhaled, he wasn't going to get angry again. He didn't even mean to blow up originally! Looked to be like Tim wasn't getting his destiny-cookies afterall. He glanced towards his poorly bandaged hand. He should get it checked soon, no need for the risk of infection. His knees as well, maybe. More bad news. That'd just make things worse. As he thought back to what could have been a sweet treat from potentially a sweet mare, he looked over the–albeit now slightly snoring Fluttershy. She'd wake up soon, no doubt. He didn't question her health, she seemed skittish beyond all belief however. The only thing that rubbed him the wrong way about her was the simple fact of cookies alone. Firstly, where were they? Second, if she was a Filly Scout Leader, where were the Filly Scouts? Tim blinked. He hadn't noticed that before. He looked at the brown linen-esque material beneath her pink tuft. He reached forward and parted her mane some—he took careful note of the texture, how soft it was—revealing a... Belt? A sash? He didn't know, but it could be a solid alibi. Woven into the material was FSL, alongside multiple varying badges, so he assumed all that's true. But why would any Scout Leader have abandoned their kids? Especially if on active duty, no less? Did she leave them somewhere, like a stall? More questions than answers, he supposed. As he glanced back to Fluttershy's face, he nearly blanched. Two reasons, really. One, she was staring right at him, unmoved. Two, his hand was still in her mane. While certainly a turn of events, things could've been worse if he was honest with himself. Two light blues continued to match the darker pair, but no words left her mouth. Tim opted to speak first: "So, how about those Filly Scout cookies?" It was at the mention of the words 'filly' and 'scout' that Fluttershy's eyes widened almost as large as saucers–not literally, as that would be off-putting. Without nary a word, her wings spread with an almost noiseless 'pomf' and she streaked out of his still open door. In her spot was a singular, orange box of Filly Scout cookies. The unsaid words she did part with brought a surprised smile out of Tim. Free of charge and a thank you? Nothing put a smile on his face more than free cookies. Appreciation is always fine, too. Better yet, Doe-si-does! Author's Note The road to recovery is long, filled with turmoil. There will be pain. There will be suffering. Heartbreak. But it's the road we walk that changes us for better. Or for worse. For a Broken Man in Broken Mirrors"Goddammit!" Tim'd smacked his hardwood brush's head against the bathroom sink's lips several times; the material splintering at the neck. His eyes clenched tightly shut, as thought after thought ravaged his brain as he'd finished packing his work clothes into a smiley-faced sack. The woven bag, a gift from Cheerilee to have eased their awkward exchanges coming into the bakery, remained open atop his lidded toilet seat, almost readied for Tim to go. His khaki-tan apron jutted from the side of the gap, thrown haphazardly in a fit of rage. Tim opened his eyes, half-lid in hopes to see something different, someone else. Only to see his reflection's glare back. I really messed up this morning, Tim had idly supposed to himself with a sigh. Another fit of rage and at least a few items left in disrepair: checked and checked twice. Just another day for Tim. Another day and age, he'd have complimented Miss Fluttershy the moment he'd caught her gaze. Maybe on her hair or her eyes--a gentleness as if she was wont for it glistened behind them. He would have done something suave, but he hadn't seen the pink-maned pegasus since the whole cookie ordeal. Few hours ago, come to think. No surprise, I still hadn't even left for the bakery yet. He'd quickly shook his head to sober his thoughts, bringing them back to reality. His hand raised and the damaged brush found itself in his hair. However, she didn't meet that Tim... she'd met the broken one in the mirror. The one a certain scarlet-haired whore had molded together with shit and string. If he had more friends, he would venture out a little and go hang out with them. Take another day off of work, maybe. Get his mind off of things a little more. However, his only other friend that wasn't in the same social-group as his ex, was of course still out of town. So, that was a nay-no on calling out for mental recovery reasons. So for Tim, that had left him only a couple of options to work with, and neither was too pleasing for his mind's ears. Either he goes to work as he was or go to work drunk as shit. He'd simply filed that issue in the back of his brain for later. ~~He hated how he's become, but there was nothing he could do.~~ Tim honestly wasn't too bothered by the matter at the moment; he'd known he was still an outsider, really. Only a handful of ponies could say they actually knew him, just the local baker-human--off Sundays and Mondays, and was usually at Trot-Shelf on said days with Ditzy and... anyway, Miss Fluttershy, well, she was a Filly Scout Leader. He'd figured she was simply busy and had other customers to try and sell cookies to. If only she knew how much love he had for Do-si-does--she'd never need another customer, that's for sure. He'd need to actually pay for more next time, one box was good, but one box was one box. Cute mares are one thing, living the past is another, but cookies are a different topic entirely. Seriously, one box? He paused momentarily, the brush lowered to his ear. There it is again, the feeling that something was off with the whole situation entirely. No, from their initial meeting, Miss Fluttershy had seemed like the genuine article. He tsk'd as he raised the brush back to his scalp as if it were to have belayed those poisonous ideas from fully baking. Though even with the notion, his mind had still traveled elsewhere. He turned his head over to the side some, his hands guided the firm brush through his hair as he tidied up his own mussed-mane. The strands that curled back into place go unnoticed as Tim's eyes remained locked on themselves within his damaged reflection; through the other side of the looking glass. Though his stare was thousands of yards away as he pulled his curled hair back, though, this afternoon wasn't so bad, his thoughts had finally concluded. He did have a peanut-flutter distraction, after all. He placed the comb on the sink's flat. Finally done with his... still mussed hair, he grabbed the loose bit of the apron and placed it the rest of the way in. With it closed, both hands held on the lip of the bag, he nodded. He was as ready as he was ever going to get. A couple of extra days off of work never hurt anyone. . . . . . Tim had nearly stumbled into someone on the way through the bakery door. The remainder of his trip to Sugarcube Corner was almost all but uneventful. No, just another mundane walk, all but that moment, really. None of the usual passersby struck any greetings, not that he also didn't bother to remember their names when they came in the shop; that's the cycle around here, the run of things from his point of view. Thankfully, his route didn't take him by or even through her lane. No chance of him having accidentally disrupted the peace. He was pretty sure they'd all still be together, since herds, well, herd. In actuality, he was definitely glad there weren't any surprise confrontations--and that was a would-be-so if he'd have run into one or two problem-causing factors. Luckily enough, the pony he'd nearly stumbled into was his blue-eye'd senior, so no complaints from him in that regard. Until he'd glanced to her face. Her literally saucer-wide eyes--which truly were offputting in retrospect--gave him an incidental scare and he took a step backward, startled. It wasn't a glare, but with Pinkie, who knew. He certainly didn't: "Pinkie, damn, I didn't even see you!" He spoke with a gasp, though her expression didn't change. Her pupils were trained on his very being, as if judgment forthcoming was being promised to him. Tim could almost feel it. For some reason, that did deter him a little from wanting to step fully into the sweet shop. Tim took another step back when she inhaled sharply. "WELL," Pinkie started off at an octave aptly overzealous in its volume--her giggle at the end eased him none, "I see YOU, mister!" As she finished, she'd straightened her posture and her left foreleg lifted in a snap. Her hoof indicated toward her still very-obtuse gaze and then to him. A signal he's afraid he was well aware of. Pinkie would be stuck to his back like glue, and her eye on him for some reason today. Maybe because he called out and wasn't really sick? Maybe because he did show late today. The only way he'd figure it out would be to just don the apron and send himself back in to work. He'd gone up to step past Pinkie, but her body was purchased where she'd stood. Tim opened his mouth to ask a question, but a quick "hushushsh! Almost done," from her perturbed him more into silence. His pink compatriot remained as firm as a statue, and he blinked. Twice, in brief surprise. In that scant amount of time, her eyes had either shrunk to a more normal size or he'd blinked and they were always normal. Finally, back to her doe-eyed self, she smiled widely up at the taller man. "'Kay, ready for work ol' chap?" Her brows floated above her head and he'd long since chosen to ignore physics/logic/reason around her. He glanced back to the street and confirmed it was being utilized just enough for maybe a decent six-hour escapade. Ponies were mulling down and around the fountain before the Corner; talking about their days and enjoying the very essence of it all. He gave a small grin, somewhat glad to be back to reality. He turned back to Pinkie's awaiting ears, his lips still slightly tugged in the corners, "Yeah, uh hey, think we can add Doe-si-does to our roster?" Pinkie let out her own surprised gasp, "and steal from the Filly Scouts, are you cookie-cookoo?!" He throws his hands up in pseudo-defense, though he wouldn't let her know it did ease his mind to know the Filly Scouts were a real thing. "Hey, it was just a suggestion. Sorry you took so much offense." He lowered a hand and gave the mare a gentle pat. She purred as she almost melted under his touch, something he'd promptly stopped doing. She shook her head with a wide smile. "Apology accepted, now boot your scoot and put it in boogie! We have a list of orders today, mister!" He stood too and threw a faux two-fingered salute before he was finally allowed entry into the Corner. His pink co-worker stepped inside and lollygagged her way back behind the counter she'd likely teleported from in the first place. Tim gave a wry smile. It almost sort of felt good to actually be back to work already. "Nice to see you back Tim!" Until it didn't. Thunderlane decided to show face. Author's Note I'll put this through the wringer eventually. Maybe.
Destiny DeliversTim was a good man, in fact he would go as far as say he was the best man in all the land. He knew he was not only a good man, but a happy man as well. Or tried to be. Tim did understand he was the only human to exist here; Tim didn't have to deal with the inanities of humanity, the struggles of what is and what isn't the social norm. Tim was fine with that. Originally, anyway. Here, in Equestria, Tim could be who he wanted to be. He didn't rightly know what it was he wanted to be, but he would eventually. Hopefully. His last home didn't have an answer for him either, but Tim had long accepted the question to simply be unanswerable. Had Tim been two seconds late, he wouldn't be here for this place to answer either. Sure, the initial shock of having woken up in a strange world had perturbed him weeks on end for a time; sure, he still had nightmares about the accident, but Tim was fine. But Tim was not fine! Tim sighed as he looked himself in the mirror, his dishevelled ginger-schnapp hair streaked down his forehead, between his brow. No, Tim was not fine, indeed. Oh, how Tim's life had very much felt like a drama movie to him. He sighed again as he waded his hands and fingers through his mop. Two solid blues stared back at him through the mirror as he swept his hair back. "Look at you, old man. Can't even keep up with the mares no more." He chuckled a wry chuckle, the corner of his lips tugged slightly; his mutton-chopped cheeks felt a pathetic attempt to rise. Tim was a good man, but why did everyone use that? He thought back to the night before, before his age had truly hit him. When Tim was young, he was taught to be courteous–to show chivalry. He'd woo'd several lasses in his prime with that, but- His eyes hardened in the mirror, "can't teach an old dog new tricks. Tch." He snorted as he repeated the words spoken to him the night prior. Roseluck, the name itched like poison ivy scraping the back of his mind. He'd never fallen so hard–so fast. And fallen he did, down several pegs, after he was already on his knee. The flower-mare, who once captured a more naive-to-their-culture man's heart had quite possibly broken it, and him alongside the damned thing. He watched as his mouth snarled, as his mind dug and dug into fresh wounds. Something snapped, and Tim wasn't sure if it was the audible crack in the mirror before him or his ever-weakening grip on his sanity. He watched as he pulled his bloodied fist from the broken finery, shards of reflective glass coated in red jutted from his knuckles. Tim sighed one last time as he went to turn on the red-splattered, glass-strewn sink. "Chivalry's dead," he muttered under his breath as he slowly picked out the stuck pieces of mirror. "That bitch killed it." She took it, stomped on it and spat in its face. He remembered vividly, walking in upon her with the rest of her–her herd. The word shot through his head like a bullet and it. Kept. Ricocheting. His grimaced. The image of her head bobbing up and down that sonuvabitch's member–her eyes on Tim the entire time. She had done all of that simply because he wanted to be exclusive. She had left him–for a herd. His uninjured fist clenched and unclenched several times, his left hand throbbed from the dull pain. Tim was a good man. That was years ago, many years ago, when he first got here. That Tim was so young, so starry-eyed when he landed here. That Tim was a good man. He wasn't that Tim any longer. His jaw tightened and loosened, his eyes shut hard just for them to open to the same reality. And he cried as he stared at himself in his shattered reflection. . . . . . Tim wasn't a recluse; a homebody. He had a social want–nay, a need to socialize. This has been fact ever since he got here. However, today, as the sun loomed over his little home—its light painted his prone form through his blindless window—he could only turn over as he ruminated on his inner, caustic turmoils. Tim was a verbal person. Tim could make a social call, but he wouldn't even know who to go to. Everyone in Ponyville, his permanent home-away-from-home, had likely heard the story. Roseluck was, after all, nothing if not a gossip. Outside of her and those who he'd once called friends—fucking Thunderlane, Tim had no one to talk to. His only other friend–outside of the two who'd all but killed him inside, wasn't even in town. Derpy, or Ditzy as he preferred to call her, the mail-mare extraordinare, herself, would be perfect for the case. Sadly, by sheer bad luck, alone, she'd several packages that needed delivering by week's end and was likely too busy to just shirk her work for a conversation. While the thoughts of his bubblier friend made him smirk a little, he knew he was alone on the matter. At least, for the time being. Sunday was drawing near, he knew he'd see her shortly. He exhaled softly. "Goddammit, Tim... Ditzy wouldn't want you feeling bad for yourself," he rubbed at his eyes, almost as if he'd forgotten the coarse bandages over his hand. Yes, thinking of a certain bubbly mare certainly placed him in a somewhat better mood. Two gorgeous, golden eyes focused on him mentally as they practically shouted for him to just stand up. He couldn't do anything but listen. He groaned as he turned back over onto his side; he grunted as he leaned to sit forward. The mental image of his friend's eyes softened before they faded all but entirely from his mind. "Damn, ya old fart. Can't move without pullin' on a muscle, can ya," Tim mumbled. He stretched his back, varying popping noises were made. Pop. Pop! Crick! It was the crick noise that startled him. "Gah, fuck! My back!" Having just tried to pop his lower back a little too hard, he exhaled a shaken breath. "Yeah, 36 years old sucks," he murmured under a ragged intake of air before sitting up entirely. He remembered when he first got here, to Ponyville. To Equestria. A mere 17 years old. He remembered having at one point experienced life for the first time. He remembered his first filly-friend–his first excursion into xenophilia. A young Miss Cheerilee, just getting out of high school herself. Tim remembered her leaving him, after being together for almost five years—because of some stupid farmer. True love, she'd said. He thought back on her when they last spoke; she's single—likely neurotic, and has like, nineteen kids to take care of. Not literally her own, but still. Tim was still bitter at her, even after she pleaded to get back with him. Where did the time go? A few years after her, some mutual friends—no offense, Ditzy, he thought idly—introduced him to Roseluck. From then on it was smooth sailing... until he tried to pop the question on their sixth anniversary. His good hand tightened in thought, his mind darkened. For all of a moment. Even through several doors, Tim heard the loud clip-clop of a hoof as it rapped on the front door to his home. A brow raised in question, anticipation filled his eyes as wonders of who it could be filled his mind. It's only been a day, maybe Roseluck had come to apologize? Not like he'd accept it, "that fucking whore," he whispered to himself. Maybe Ditzy returned early–for once? Who else would have knocked on his door? Tim mentally scrolled through images and names of ponies he hardly remembered, but none clicked with him. Tim knew the only surefire way to find out was to leave his room. But did Tim trust himself enough if it wasn't someone he was pleasantly acquainted with? A surge of pure fuck it shot through his veins, he stood up from his messy, sheet-splayed bed and–opting to ignore replacing it, made his way out of his room. He walked through his it's-missing-something living room, making doubly sure not to look at several photo frames hanging above the mantle. Tim's good hand followed the length of his almost-unused grey loveseat as he approached the main entryway. Three more raps, although more reserved the second time around, sounded as he neared the wooden barrier. Trepidation grew in his stomach as he went to turn the brass handle, to open the door to an unknown destiny. Two light blue eyes that almost matched Tim's own met his; it seemed destiny was a little shy. The mare herself didn't look like she fared any better. Almost as if she didn't expect him to actually answer. "A-ah," words or something of the sort tried to leave her almost butter-like muzzle, her lips parted just barely as she stared up at the resident human. "M-my name's Fillie S-Scout Leader Flutter-Fluttershy, an-and..." Tim nodded slowly after her greeting, tried to gauge her reasoning for being at his doorstep. He couldn't think of a single one, "ma'am?" He prodded, trying his damnedest not to startle the mare. While he may be in a piss-poor mood, the stuttering girl looked frightened of him already. For some reason, he couldn't find it in himself to intimidate her anymore than he already—however inadvertently—had. For some other reason, Tim didn't expect destiny to have the name Fluttershy, or for it–apparently her to be so scared of him. "I'm wonder-wondering if you-you'd like to b-buy some Fi-Fillie Scout cookies? He also didn't expect destiny to offer out cookies. Author's Note Judge lest ye wish to be judged. Nah, figured I'm gonna try and worm my way back into writing. Fell into a weird slump, dunno. Anyway, yeah, been reading a bit of cheesy-ass romance lately, figured I'd try my hand at writing my—no offense—least favourite horse in a lead role. I dunno. Wrote it on my phone, I'll glance over it later or something. Peace!
Conniving Cookies and Lying LeadersHis mouth opened, Tim was well aware of that; he knew words were supposed to spill forth, but for some quite likely asinine reason, he could not will himself to speak. He felt a weird, passing wave in his gut. His blue eyes stayed on the pink maned, buttery mare in front of him for what felt like minutes. Her eyes never once faltered from his, despite the evident heat that seemingly boomed across her cheeks as the stare maintained. A cough startled Tim from his stupor and she opened her mouth instead, "S-sir? It's for–it's for a good cause," something glinted in her wide pools of blue, her head lowered; mane drooped over half of her face, "if-if you don't mind, I-I mean..." he only stared. Tim opted for silence, only a moment of it. He shook his head and felt foolish as he stared at her for so long. Why did he think so much on the subject of destiny before this whole conversation? No matter, "sure," he gave a single vertical shake of his head and stepped aside, "would... you like to come in?" He started slowly, not wanting the Filly Scout leader to be frightened off with his tone. "You'll have to sit on the sofa, if you don't mind. My piggy-bank is full, so it'll just be a moment." He backed up into his home, allowing her small form to nervously cross the threshold into the bland sanctuary. He left the door opened as she stepped by him, her wings brushed his forearm. The mare's eyes—Fluttershy's, he mentally logged—lingered on him, and he didn't quite understand as to why. Nor did he care. but Tim didn't notice her look change as he made his way by her, away from the small living room. When he vanished from sight, Fluttershy then did release a breath she didn't even know she'd held. She glanced meekly around the enclosed space, her head tilted at photos neatly hung over the mantle before her. Photos of the resident human—she'd knew she had seen him around before, but saving the world does wonders for ruining introductions—and some other mare. The Scout Leader gasped, tearing her eyes away from the scratched out faces as she heard the footfalls of the human as he returned. The rest of her form did the fastest about-face she'd ever done. Stood before his room door, Tim chuckled madly, yet so softly to himself as the mare's eyes followed the up and down motion of the tossed piggy-bank in hand. The weighty-ceramic-Spongebob barely jingle-jangled–proof alone it was filled with coins-a-plenty. He threw the blasted yellow thing with such a force into the ground, it was a surprise it didn't explode not too unlike a fragmentation grenade. Fluttershy, Filly Scout Leader though she may have been, screamed upon the square-pants wearing creature seemingly obliterated before her very eyes. Her scream died down by the time she saw the golden bits that were inside. Fluttershy felt silly for having screamed in the first place. But why didn't he just uncork the... 'Piggy'-bank? She had almost asked, too. By the time her look was upon the man again, Tim was already before her with a handful of bits, a forced mirthful grin plastered on his face. "How many boxes would I be able to buy with this?" With his sudden appearance and his sudden question, it was totally logical for Fluttershy to scream again. It was totally logical for her to have passed out, too. The buttery mare buckled on her knees in front of him, and Tim stared blankly. Only for a couple seconds, but a couple seconds too late. He reached to grab her before she fell onto the shattered remains of his little Spongebank. Her surprisingly-extra weight dragged him onto his knees as he kept her propped away from the makeshift-shrapnel. His firm caps stung suddenly as several pieces of ceramic dug their way into his legs. "Fucking... Spongebob," He growled out as he did his best to lift her and himself without further self-harm. The mare, now in his arms–how he'd imagined carrying Roseluck down the aisle, was actually light as a feather! He bit at the inside of his cheek at the thought as he placed her down on his grey loveseat. "Fucking moron, you're getting old. Your back probably gave on ya," he concluded as he plopped himself next to Fluttershy's unconscious form. The couch shifted under her slightly, but she didn't stir. Tim sighed. His eyes lowered to his knees, the cloth pants he wore, ruined–stained with more of his spilled blood. Small yellow, ceramic shards jutted from his legs. He slowly repeated the process of picking what felt like glass from his body. While it hadn't stung nearly as bad as the mirror incident, it had still wounded his pride. Memories resurfaced, his prone-to-anger reactions are what had caused this in the first place. The damned bank was laughing at him! What else would he do but destroy it? No, it wasn't the piggy bank laughing, it was her image taped to the bottom of it that filled his mind with gutteral, nasally laughter. He had to destroy the damned thing. Her image wouldn't leave otherwise. Tim inhaled and exhaled, he wasn't going to get angry again. He didn't even mean to blow up originally! Looked to be like Tim wasn't getting his destiny-cookies afterall. He glanced towards his poorly bandaged hand. He should get it checked soon, no need for the risk of infection. His knees as well, maybe. More bad news. That'd just make things worse. As he thought back to what could have been a sweet treat from potentially a sweet mare, he looked over the–albeit now slightly snoring Fluttershy. She'd wake up soon, no doubt. He didn't question her health, she seemed skittish beyond all belief however. The only thing that rubbed him the wrong way about her was the simple fact of cookies alone. Firstly, where were they? Second, if she was a Filly Scout Leader, where were the Filly Scouts? Tim blinked. He hadn't noticed that before. He looked at the brown linen-esque material beneath her pink tuft. He reached forward and parted her mane some—he took careful note of the texture, how soft it was—revealing a... Belt? A sash? He didn't know, but it could be a solid alibi. Woven into the material was FSL, alongside multiple varying badges, so he assumed all that's true. But why would any Scout Leader have abandoned their kids? Especially if on active duty, no less? Did she leave them somewhere, like a stall? More questions than answers, he supposed. As he glanced back to Fluttershy's face, he nearly blanched. Two reasons, really. One, she was staring right at him, unmoved. Two, his hand was still in her mane. While certainly a turn of events, things could've been worse if he was honest with himself. Two light blues continued to match the darker pair, but no words left her mouth. Tim opted to speak first: "So, how about those Filly Scout cookies?" It was at the mention of the words 'filly' and 'scout' that Fluttershy's eyes widened almost as large as saucers–not literally, as that would be off-putting. Without nary a word, her wings spread with an almost noiseless 'pomf' and she streaked out of his still open door. In her spot was a singular, orange box of Filly Scout cookies. The unsaid words she did part with brought a surprised smile out of Tim. Free of charge and a thank you? Nothing put a smile on his face more than free cookies. Appreciation is always fine, too. Better yet, Doe-si-does! Author's Note The road to recovery is long, filled with turmoil. There will be pain. There will be suffering. Heartbreak. But it's the road we walk that changes us for better. Or for worse.
For a Broken Man in Broken Mirrors"Goddammit!" Tim'd smacked his hardwood brush's head against the bathroom sink's lips several times; the material splintering at the neck. His eyes clenched tightly shut, as thought after thought ravaged his brain as he'd finished packing his work clothes into a smiley-faced sack. The woven bag, a gift from Cheerilee to have eased their awkward exchanges coming into the bakery, remained open atop his lidded toilet seat, almost readied for Tim to go. His khaki-tan apron jutted from the side of the gap, thrown haphazardly in a fit of rage. Tim opened his eyes, half-lid in hopes to see something different, someone else. Only to see his reflection's glare back. I really messed up this morning, Tim had idly supposed to himself with a sigh. Another fit of rage and at least a few items left in disrepair: checked and checked twice. Just another day for Tim. Another day and age, he'd have complimented Miss Fluttershy the moment he'd caught her gaze. Maybe on her hair or her eyes--a gentleness as if she was wont for it glistened behind them. He would have done something suave, but he hadn't seen the pink-maned pegasus since the whole cookie ordeal. Few hours ago, come to think. No surprise, I still hadn't even left for the bakery yet. He'd quickly shook his head to sober his thoughts, bringing them back to reality. His hand raised and the damaged brush found itself in his hair. However, she didn't meet that Tim... she'd met the broken one in the mirror. The one a certain scarlet-haired whore had molded together with shit and string. If he had more friends, he would venture out a little and go hang out with them. Take another day off of work, maybe. Get his mind off of things a little more. However, his only other friend that wasn't in the same social-group as his ex, was of course still out of town. So, that was a nay-no on calling out for mental recovery reasons. So for Tim, that had left him only a couple of options to work with, and neither was too pleasing for his mind's ears. Either he goes to work as he was or go to work drunk as shit. He'd simply filed that issue in the back of his brain for later. ~~He hated how he's become, but there was nothing he could do.~~ Tim honestly wasn't too bothered by the matter at the moment; he'd known he was still an outsider, really. Only a handful of ponies could say they actually knew him, just the local baker-human--off Sundays and Mondays, and was usually at Trot-Shelf on said days with Ditzy and... anyway, Miss Fluttershy, well, she was a Filly Scout Leader. He'd figured she was simply busy and had other customers to try and sell cookies to. If only she knew how much love he had for Do-si-does--she'd never need another customer, that's for sure. He'd need to actually pay for more next time, one box was good, but one box was one box. Cute mares are one thing, living the past is another, but cookies are a different topic entirely. Seriously, one box? He paused momentarily, the brush lowered to his ear. There it is again, the feeling that something was off with the whole situation entirely. No, from their initial meeting, Miss Fluttershy had seemed like the genuine article. He tsk'd as he raised the brush back to his scalp as if it were to have belayed those poisonous ideas from fully baking. Though even with the notion, his mind had still traveled elsewhere. He turned his head over to the side some, his hands guided the firm brush through his hair as he tidied up his own mussed-mane. The strands that curled back into place go unnoticed as Tim's eyes remained locked on themselves within his damaged reflection; through the other side of the looking glass. Though his stare was thousands of yards away as he pulled his curled hair back, though, this afternoon wasn't so bad, his thoughts had finally concluded. He did have a peanut-flutter distraction, after all. He placed the comb on the sink's flat. Finally done with his... still mussed hair, he grabbed the loose bit of the apron and placed it the rest of the way in. With it closed, both hands held on the lip of the bag, he nodded. He was as ready as he was ever going to get. A couple of extra days off of work never hurt anyone. . . . . . Tim had nearly stumbled into someone on the way through the bakery door. The remainder of his trip to Sugarcube Corner was almost all but uneventful. No, just another mundane walk, all but that moment, really. None of the usual passersby struck any greetings, not that he also didn't bother to remember their names when they came in the shop; that's the cycle around here, the run of things from his point of view. Thankfully, his route didn't take him by or even through her lane. No chance of him having accidentally disrupted the peace. He was pretty sure they'd all still be together, since herds, well, herd. In actuality, he was definitely glad there weren't any surprise confrontations--and that was a would-be-so if he'd have run into one or two problem-causing factors. Luckily enough, the pony he'd nearly stumbled into was his blue-eye'd senior, so no complaints from him in that regard. Until he'd glanced to her face. Her literally saucer-wide eyes--which truly were offputting in retrospect--gave him an incidental scare and he took a step backward, startled. It wasn't a glare, but with Pinkie, who knew. He certainly didn't: "Pinkie, damn, I didn't even see you!" He spoke with a gasp, though her expression didn't change. Her pupils were trained on his very being, as if judgment forthcoming was being promised to him. Tim could almost feel it. For some reason, that did deter him a little from wanting to step fully into the sweet shop. Tim took another step back when she inhaled sharply. "WELL," Pinkie started off at an octave aptly overzealous in its volume--her giggle at the end eased him none, "I see YOU, mister!" As she finished, she'd straightened her posture and her left foreleg lifted in a snap. Her hoof indicated toward her still very-obtuse gaze and then to him. A signal he's afraid he was well aware of. Pinkie would be stuck to his back like glue, and her eye on him for some reason today. Maybe because he called out and wasn't really sick? Maybe because he did show late today. The only way he'd figure it out would be to just don the apron and send himself back in to work. He'd gone up to step past Pinkie, but her body was purchased where she'd stood. Tim opened his mouth to ask a question, but a quick "hushushsh! Almost done," from her perturbed him more into silence. His pink compatriot remained as firm as a statue, and he blinked. Twice, in brief surprise. In that scant amount of time, her eyes had either shrunk to a more normal size or he'd blinked and they were always normal. Finally, back to her doe-eyed self, she smiled widely up at the taller man. "'Kay, ready for work ol' chap?" Her brows floated above her head and he'd long since chosen to ignore physics/logic/reason around her. He glanced back to the street and confirmed it was being utilized just enough for maybe a decent six-hour escapade. Ponies were mulling down and around the fountain before the Corner; talking about their days and enjoying the very essence of it all. He gave a small grin, somewhat glad to be back to reality. He turned back to Pinkie's awaiting ears, his lips still slightly tugged in the corners, "Yeah, uh hey, think we can add Doe-si-does to our roster?" Pinkie let out her own surprised gasp, "and steal from the Filly Scouts, are you cookie-cookoo?!" He throws his hands up in pseudo-defense, though he wouldn't let her know it did ease his mind to know the Filly Scouts were a real thing. "Hey, it was just a suggestion. Sorry you took so much offense." He lowered a hand and gave the mare a gentle pat. She purred as she almost melted under his touch, something he'd promptly stopped doing. She shook her head with a wide smile. "Apology accepted, now boot your scoot and put it in boogie! We have a list of orders today, mister!" He stood too and threw a faux two-fingered salute before he was finally allowed entry into the Corner. His pink co-worker stepped inside and lollygagged her way back behind the counter she'd likely teleported from in the first place. Tim gave a wry smile. It almost sort of felt good to actually be back to work already. "Nice to see you back Tim!" Until it didn't. Thunderlane decided to show face. Author's Note I'll put this through the wringer eventually. Maybe.
