It's the following day. The weather is nice, and you're spending the early afternoon sitting outside with Rose in her back garden. The perfume of her carefully-grown calla lilies and zinnias provides a nice additional fragrance to her special rosebud tea.
Rose, or Roseluck, as was her full name, had been one of the first ponies you'd come across after moving to Ponyville. You'd spent most of your money in getting here with your belongings, and you had been pretty low on funds as a result. You met her as she was selling flowers, and you offered to help her out. After briefly freaking out over seeing a human for the first time, she graciously granted permission. As she got to know you a little better over the day’s work, she took pity on your situation and invited you to stay with her until you could get back on your feet. Despite protesting against imposing, you still took her up on her generous offer, and the two of you have been good friends ever since, even after you managed to get a place of your own. Although not as close, you also struck up a good friendship with her fellow florist friends, Lily and Daisy.
Rose is a cream-colored mare with a casually messy dark red mane and tail streaked with pink, light-green eyes, and a cutie mark of her namesake on her flank. Although she can get easily excited, and is even prone to swooning at times, she's less faint of heart than her two friends, as you'd told Twilight. She's also very kind, an excellent listener, and the pony you owe your current circumstances to. If not for your friendship with her, your role as an affection therapist might not have come to be, but more importantly, you'd probably still have been on the streets, barely able to get by.
Rose takes a sip of tea and smiles up at you.
“I think it’s wonderful that you’ve gotten a job you really enjoy, and that makes other ponies happy,” she says.
“It is,” you agree, “but it was only possible because of you, Rosie.”
Rose blushes.
“Oh, stop,” she mumbles, bashfully.
“No, I mean it,” you say. “You took me in when I was bit-less and wandering. You fed me, housed me, provided for me until I could get a place of my own. Even after I left, you’ve remained one of my best friends, and it’s partly because of that that the entire idea of affection therapy could even get off the ground. I owe a lot to you and your friendship, Rose.”
Though still blushing, Rose smiles warmly at you. Then, she puts her forelegs around you in a close hug, which you gladly reciprocate as she nuzzles your cheek. You’re glad you can enjoy this kind of thing in private. Although you’re not ashamed of showing that the two of you are friends, you can’t help but feel that there are always those out there who would twist and misconstrue every little thing, every tiny aspect and make a big deal about it. You hate that kind of thing, especially if it would embarrass Rose, when she didn’t deserve it.
“Hey,” says Rose, still snuggled against you, “do you think I could get a little ear scritching?”
You smile at her.
“Of course,” you say. “Anything for you, my friend. I won't even charge you for it,” you add, jokingly.
Rose giggles. Soon, that gives way to a sigh of contentment as you begin scratching behind her ear. She rests her chin on your shoulder, closing her eyes sleepily, while bees and butterflies hover among her lovingly-grown flowers.
***
Some time later, you're wending your way home from Rose’s. She had rather cheekily convinced you to add a free belly rub after the ear scratching, and you'd been quite happy to oblige. As you'd said, anything for your best friend. When you had bid each other goodbye, she was therefore looking very cheerful, and that warmed your already melt-prone heart to the core.
*CLANG!*
You jump. That sounded extremely close by. In fact, judging by where you're now standing, it sounded like it came from the direction of your house. Heading more quickly in that direction, you soon find the source of the commotion: a gray-coated, blonde-maned mare in the most bewildering of predicaments.
She’s somehow managed to cram herself halfway through your mailbox, so that her head, neck, and forelegs are poking out of one end, while her hindquarters, much too large to fit through, stick out the other end. Her back legs kick heartily as she tries to extricate herself, but neither pulling backwards nor forwards makes her budge an inch. You feel as though you might have seen her before.
As you approach, she looks up and sees you, first looking startled, then slightly scared. Either she knows the mailbox belongs to you, and so she thinks you're going to yell at her, or else she might think you're going to make fun of her, neither of which is true. Her eyes are golden-yellow, and looking off in different directions. That might have been the source of her crash, but you’d rather not say something like that. It sounded rude.
Then, all of a sudden, you realize that you do recognize her. She’s a mail mare working here in Ponyville. You’ve seen her either flying about with a mailbag, strolling about with her little unicorn daughter, or hanging out with that eccentric Earth pony scientist, the one everypony simply calls ‘Doc’. You recall that she’s rather clumsy, and has a bad tendency of causing small accidents, but you also know that she’s a very sweet mare, always greeting everypony with a smile, even you. The only thing is, her name escapes you. You’ve heard at least four different ones associated with her: Derpy Hooves, Ditzy Doo, Bright Eyes, and even Muffins. You decide to just let her choose which one she wants to be called.
“I-I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to crash into your mailbox, sir! It was an accident!”
Tears are brewing at the corners of her eyes. It goes right to your heart to see her in so much distress. You put on a gentle, sincere smile as you approach her front half. Seeing you smile seems to ease her fears a bit, though she still looks rather pitiable.
“It’s all right,” you say. “I’m not angry with you.”
The mare blinks, surprised.
“Really?” she asks. “You’re not going to yell at me?”
“No, of course not,” you say. “You say it was an accident, and I believe you.”
The mare’s surprise melts away into teary-eyed relief and gratitude. She wipes her muzzle with her hoof.
“I’ve seen you around a lot,” you say, “but I don’t think we’ve ever properly met.”
“We haven’t?” asks the mare. “I hadn’t realized. Well, I’m Derpy Hooves.”
Ahh, so that was the name she preferred.
“It’s nice to meet you, Derpy,” you say. “Do you need any help?”
Derpy nods sadly.
“I really do,” she mumbles. “I’m stuck.”
She gives a wriggle, but still doesn’t budge, though the mailbox does creak rather ominously.
“I’ll help pull you out, then,” you say. “Probably back out the way you came.”
“Yeah, I think that’d be easier,” says Derpy. “My rump won’t fit through if I go forwards.”
You walk around to the back, then, where her hind legs are just kinda swinging idly, her tail drooping. She has a cutie mark of several bubbles on her flank. Much as you don’t want to stare at another pony’s rump, you can’t help but note that hers is rather...sizeable, leaving little doubt as to why she can't fit. To be fair, however, you doubted even a skinnier pony, like Twilight’s friend Fluttershy, would be able to fit through a mailbox this size.
You take hold of Derpy’s hind hooves in your hands, count to 3 in your head, and give a heave. At first, she doesn’t budge, but as you give another tug, she begins to slowly slide backwards, inch by inch. You can see, too, that her stomach is rather tightly crammed in as well.
“Nearly there,” you reassure her, though you’re already short on breath. “Just a little more.”
You give another almighty tug, and she suddenly comes popping out, sending you tumbling backwards onto the ground. She almost comes crashing down on top of you, but instinct seems to kick in for her, and her wings stop her in midair, her rump inches from landing on your torso. She turns around and offers you a hoof up, which you gratefully accept, and she helps you back onto your feet.
“Thanks,” she says. “You have no idea how often that happens to me.”
“No problem,” you say. “It must be tough for you.”
“Oh, it's not so bad,” says Derpy, waving an airy hoof. “I'm pretty used to it by now. I can deal with it.”
You don't fully buy that. She sounds casually cheery, but her tone and smile have a bit of a forced quality to them. She seems to notice your faint disbelief, as she adds,
“I mean, sure, I wish it didn't happen so often. It'd save a lot of time and stress on ponies who don't deserve me crashing in and messing things up. And some ponies can get a little...unkind in how they respond,” she adds, in a more subdued tone, twiddling her hooves, before saying, hurriedly, “b-but who can blame them, really? What's a name or a few words thrown my way, anyway?”
Now you can definitely sense her resolve wavering, especially in her voice. A faint, tremulous gleam is in her eyes, and you think you even see her bite her lip. Your heart, already having gone out to her for getting wedged in your mailbox, is hit with another pang of sympathy for her.
“Ah, but listen to me, prattling on and taking up your time,” she says, in a louder and even more exaggeratedly bright tone. “I should be off, get out of your hair and all that.”
And she turns around, about to take off. A sudden thrill goes through you. Here was somepony clearly suffering and trying to hide it! You can't just let her leave in that state! You have to help her!
“Wait!” you say, more hurriedly than you'd intended.
She pauses and stares at you in surprise. You clear your throat and say, more composedly, yet compassionately,
“I mean, please, don't leave on my account. You're not taking up my time at all. On the contrary, that's what I'm here for: to hear ponies out and help them feel better.”
She stares at you, her interest peaked.
“You mean, like a psychiatrist?” she asks.
“Something like that,” you say, drawing out your contract. “I'm a licensed affection therapist, appointed by Princess Twilight herself.”
Derpy looks awed, and her off-kilter eyes rove over the paper in your hand, her brow furrowed as she read. She looks from it to you, then back again, her lips pursed in thought. It seems like she's struggling to decide about something, and you have an inkling for what it might be. At last, after checking to see if anypony is watching, she looks at you with an almost pleading look on her face, and asks,
“Can you help me, then? I'm sorry, but I really need someone to talk to, someone who’ll listen to what I need to say.”
Ok, that's a good sign. She's willing to accept your services.
“Of course,” you say, gently. “Please, come inside. I'll get you some tea, or hot cocoa, if you'd like.”
“Cocoa would be nice,” she says, with a little smile.
Smiling back, you put a hand on her shoulder and lead her to your front door, bringing her inside with you.
***
You make sure Derpy’s comfortable on your sofa, then go to make some hot cocoa. As you bustle around the kitchen, getting the essentials, you remember that Derpy has a rather well-known fondness for muffins, and it just so happened that Pinkie Pie had gifted you with a basket of them just the other day. She didn't really say why she was gifting it to you, beyond saying you ‘looked like you could use some muffins’. She'd punctuated this with a hug before bouncing off, leaving you pleased, but nonetheless bewildered. Still, now her random gift seemed expertly timed.
You return to your guest with two cups of hot cocoa, a bowl of miniature marshmallows, and a plate of blueberry and chocolate chip muffins on a tray. Derpy looks up, spies the muffins, and her expression lights up at once.
“You like muffins, right?” you ask, setting the tray down on the coffee table.
“I love muffins!” Derpy says, eagerly.
“Well, then, I guess it's lucky Pinkie Pie ran into me with a basket full of them,” you say, grinning. “I can't eat them all by myself, so please, help yourself.”
“Don't mind if I do,” says Derpy, licking her lips.
Now fully attentive to her own comfort, Derpy alternates between munching down on muffins to taking sips of her cocoa, into which she's put quite a few marshmallows. You feel your spirits lift at seeing her more at ease, and you take more moderate portions of each while she fills up. Perhaps this fondness for muffins is the cause of her rather curvy figure. Now that you think of it, a lot of ponies in Ponyville seem to have a little bit of plumpness to them. It’s just that some have a bit more of it than others, or else it’s more noticeable on some, like with Starlight. That doesn’t matter to you, though; on the contrary, you find it rather cute, an endearing attribute to already endearing ponies.
At last, Derpy seems to have eaten her fill. She wipes the crumbs and cocoa residue from her muzzle and sits back, patting her belly with both hooves.
“Thanks,” she says. “That really hit the spot.”
“You’re welcome,” you say. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
You settle yourself more comfortably, facing her, clear your throat, and say,
“Now, I don’t want to dampen the mood, but whenever you feel like it, I’d like to know what it is you need to say. No need to feel rushed. Take your time.”
Derpy’s smile slowly fades. You hate having to bring up why she was really here, when she was happy again, but you both knew it had to be gotten over sooner or later. With a soft grunt, she heaves herself into a more upright position, looks down at her hind hooves contemplatively for a second or two, then says, in a rather subdued voice,
“I feel like nopony really likes me, and that they secretly hate me.”
You open your mouth wordlessly, then shut it again, at a loss. You hadn't been expecting that.
“Why would you ever think that?” you ask, quietly.
Derpy hesitates for a second or two. Her eyes look wet again.
“Because...because I’m always messing things up,” she says, her voice tremulous. “I know my eyesight’s not the best. It’s been like this since I was a filly. And I know it messes with my flight coordination and all that, but I still want to be as helpful and useful as I can. I don’t want to only be remembered as the clumsy pegasus with the wonky eyes...but no matter how hard I try, I just keep that legacy going. Like I told you, I’m always getting myself in awkward situations: getting my head or my butt stuck in mailboxes, windows, fences; bumping into signs, knocking things over, misplacing ponies’ mail, wrecking the town hall, screwing up the invitations to Cranky and Matilda’s wedding…!”
She takes several deep breaths. Just like Starlight, her tone had become more vehement and frenzied as she went on, and you don’t dare stop her until she’s done. She goes on, her voice now very choked,
“I...I try not to let it get to me. I keep telling myself (and the ponies I make mad) that I’ll do better next time...but it feels like I just keep making the same mistakes over and over again...I already get ridiculed for my klutziness and my eyes by a lot of ponies, and I do have friends, but...but I’m scared that one day, it’ll be one time too many for them, too, and that...that I’ll be all alone...not knowing what went wrong…”
She clearly can’t go on. She closes her eyes, the tears dribbling down her cheeks as she quietly sobs. You feel as though your heart’s about to break. You knew the poor girl had bouts of bad luck, but you had no idea she felt so strongly about it, or that she kept all this bottled up inside with a cheery smile on her face. You lay a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Oh, Derpy,” you say, quietly and with sympathy. “I’m so sorry you feel that way.”
Derpy sniffles, leaning her head to rest her wet cheek on your hand.
“It’s...it’s not your fault,” she says, with a slight hiccup. “It’s nopony’s but mine. I’m the only one to blame, and I know it too well.”
“Now, Derpy, I can’t let you talk like this,” you say. “‘Hate’ is such a strong word, after all, and I highly doubt anypony hates you.”
She reaches up to grip your hand with her hoof.
“That’s very sweet of you, but-” she begins, but you cut her off, making her look up at you in surprise.
“But nothing,” you say, firmly. “I might not know you as well as your closest friends, but I can tell you’re really a kind and caring pony who only wants to be helpful to those she cares about. You prove that just by delivering everypony’s mail everyday; that’s your way of being helpful. Sometimes you’re not always going to be successful. Sometimes you’re going to feel like your bad luck outweighs your good.”
Derpy nods sadly.
“However, that’s only because you’re focusing on nothing but the bad. If you do that, you’ll never focus on the good. Now, come on: tell me something good about you, something positive between you and your friends.”
Derpy blinks at you, something like admiration in those eyes of hers, then looks thoughtful. Granted, you’re a little surprised that a speech like that could come from your lips as well; they sound more like the words of a seasoned professional, rather than someone who’s just started his profession.
“Well,” she says, slowly, “my friend Doc once said I’m ‘an absolute delight to be around’, and he’s always so patient and kind with me. And Mr. and Mrs. Cake always have a fresh batch of my favorite muffins ready whenever I come to call. And Dinky, my little girl.” Here, she smiles fondly. “She really knows how to brighten my gloomiest days. She says...she says I’m the ‘best mama she’s ever known’.”
Her eyes grow wet again, though this time from happiness. You give her an encouraging smile.
“See?” you say. “You’re plenty loved, Derpy, and by the ponies who matter most to you. As long as you know that they care about you, those ponies who know the true you, it shouldn’t matter what other ponies think, so don’t you ever believe that nopony likes you. In fact, I’d say you’re somepony other ponies are missing out on being friends with.”
Derpy’s eyes are completely flooding over by this point, her lips trembling. However, she’s still smiling. With a happy little sob, she throws her hooves around you, hugging you tightly and weeping quite openly against your shirt. Surprised at the suddenness, you nonetheless feel completely warm and toasty from the gesture, and put your arms about her to reciprocate.
“Thank you…” she chokes out, barely in a whisper. “Thank you…”
“You’re welcome,” you say, softly. “Do you feel open for the therapy portion now? Of course, if this is good enough for you-”
“It is,” she says, looking up. “I mean, I don’t want to offend your methods-”
“Derpy, you’re doing nothing of the sort,” you say, kindly, and she smiles.
“Then, can we just hug for a little longer? It’s just what I need right now.”
“As long as you like. It’s your session, after all.”
Derpy therefore snuggles against you, nuzzling under your chin. She even shifts herself so that she’s sitting comfortably in your lap, her belly pressed against your front. She’s kind of heavy, but most adult ponies generally are, and you’re not exactly the strongest of humans physically.
You strengthen your hug just a little bit, enough not to make her uncomfortable, and just sit there, holding the teary-eyed, tender-hearted pegasus in your arms, gently stroking her mane and back, while keeping clear of her wings. You half-wish you had a lullaby to sing to her, though you don't quite consider yourself the greatest of singers. Nevertheless, she sighs softly, in a way that tells you that the worries and woes she had carried with her into your house (and mailbox) are a thing of the past now, as she nestles deeper against you, like a child being comforted from a nightmare by a loving parent.
***
The sun is sinking low over the horizon by the time Derpy finally stirs. She looks up at you with the sweet smile of someone who's had a good nap, and you gently release your hold on her. She stretches, extending her wings out as she does, and looking much happier than when she first came in, even after you’d given her cocoa and muffins.
“How do you feel?” you ask.
“Great,” says Derpy. “So much better, all thanks to you.”
“I’m happy to help,” you say, smiling. “If you ever have another hard day and need to pop in again for another hug, or to just talk, my door will always be open.”
“I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” says Derpy. “And, uh, I’ll try to miss the mailbox next time,” she adds, sheepishly, making you chuckle.
She pauses for a moment, then looks you full in the face. You’re a little surprised to see her eyes align correctly.
“In all honesty, though,” she says, “thank you so much for hearing me out and being there to hug. I’m glad there’s someone like you who’ll listen to a pony’s problems.”
She leans forward and gives you a peck on the cheek, just like Starlight had. And here you thought you couldn’t feel any warmer just now.
“You’re welcome, Derpy,” you say, bashfully blushing a little.
She gives you one last nuzzle on the other cheek, scoots herself off your lap, and heads for the door. As she opens it, she turns, smiles at you, waves goodbye with her wing, and closes the door behind her.
Still smiling yourself, you get up and start clearing away the dishes, before heading to the kitchen to start dinner. Another successful therapy session had been accomplished, and you hadn’t even had to roll out the full arsenal of therapy techniques. That was nothing to be disappointed about, however. That just went to show that sometimes, one simple gesture or display of affection was enough for some ponies, as long as it meant that much to them.
You've just finished dinner some time later, when there comes a loud *CLANG* from outside, making you jump. Wondering if Derpy had crashed again, you rush out of the house, in time to see her flying away into the darkness. Bewildered, you check your mailbox, and see that a small burlap bag has been stuffed inside. You prod it with your finger, and by the jangling sound that comes from it, you can guess that it's full of bits.
“Oh, of course, her therapy bill,” you say, clapping a hand to your forehead. “I hadn’t even bothered to ask. Didn’t seem that important, anyway.”
Taking a last look at the spot where Derpy had vanished, you pull the bag out, pocket it, and head back inside, shutting the door behind you.