Tim 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!