//------------------------------// // Age 7 // Story: Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Part 2: Talk To Me // by brokenimage321 //------------------------------// Aunt Applejack and Uncle Soft Shoe danced to the slow, jazzy record playing the corner. Applejack held Uncle Softie in a tight embrace, her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. They took a step forward, then a step back, then turned, gliding smooth as applesauce. Soft Shoe led his wife into a twirl—which made her grin even wider—then dipped her, so low it almost looked like he would drop her. But he followed after her instead, kissing her deeply, passionately, on the lips, and she, wrapping her arms around him, returned it. Whiskey stared, eyes wide, watching them through the little side-window next to the path. She felt dirty, somehow—it was bad enough that she had lied to Mama, but she felt like this was something private, something important, something that only the two of them should see. But, even then, she couldn’t look away. Seeing them like this stirred something in her own heart. Something deep. Something unhappy. Whiskey didn’t know that she had the word for it—but she sure felt it, burning deep down inside her. Whiskey turned away—the two of them weren’t even trying to dance anymore—and walked around to the front. Her gut churned uneasily; she barely knew Uncle Soft Shoe, and he wasn’t home much anyways. But she’d heard about him a whole bunch, both from her Mama and from Aunt Applejack: Auntie was good friends with a famous musician, and she’d needed help running her show. Applejack didn’t know much about music, but she knew a lot about how to run things, and the job paid a lot of money—so, leaving the farm in the care of Uncle Mac and Aunt Cheerilee, she went on tour. With the money she was sending home, the Apples were finally able to fix up the farm—but, more important, she met Uncle Soft Shoe, one of the dancers. They got along real well, and got married while still on the road. Auntie was gonna stay with him, but then she got pregnant with Johnny, and had to move back home. Uncle Soft Shoe still toured a lot, and was away for months at a time—but, when he was home, they were always kissing and hugging and playing with their kids--both of ‘em. Little Johnny was only three years old, and he already had a younger sister, Ginger Gold, and—Mama had made her promise not to tell anyone—another little brother or sister on the way. Whiskey finally reached the front porch of the old, creaky farmhouse. She climbed the steps slowly, carefully, then hesitated in front of the door for a long, long time. Finally, she reached up, paused, and knocked on the door twice. She closed her eyes and strained her ears. She heard the music stop—she heard the hoofsteps walk down the hall—across the carpet—onto the hardwood—then on the linoleum—then the turn of the doorknob— “Whiskey!” Auntie Applejack said, warmly. “What‘re you doing here?” She opened her eyes and looked up. Auntie Applejack stood in the doorway, bareheaded, her hat left where it had fallen in the living room. And behind her—Whiskey swallowed—stood Uncle Soft Shoe. Uncle Softie was tall and slim, but very strong. He had a purple coat and a light blue mane, and always a smile on his face. He really was handsome, Whiskey had to admit—and, as she stared at him, he smiled a little wider. “Whiskey?” he repeated. “You’re, uh… Pinkie Pie’s kid, aren’t you?” Whiskey stared at him then looked down and nodding.  She said nothing more. Soft Shoe nodded back. “Good to finally meet you! Jackie’s told me a lot about you three.” He crouched down a little to catch her eye. “So,” he said, “What d’ya need?” Whiskey jerked her head up. She glanced briefly between Soft Shoe and Applejack, then swallowed. “I wanna know if—” Suddenly, her gaze jerked back to Soft Shoe, and her eyes went wide. The second half of her question trailed off into an incoherent mumble.         Soft Shoe returned her stare for a moment, then slowly straightened up. Applejack frowned the slightest bit. “C’mon, sugarcube,” she said gently. “Go ahead and tell us—what can we do for ya?”         Whiskey tore her gaze away from Soft Shoe again, but turned and stared at Applejack. Applejack met her trembling gaze—then watched it harden. She set her jaw and stood up a little straighter.         “I want you to teach me to dance,” she said to the two of them.         Uncle Softie practically squealed. Whiskey shot him a startled look, and Applejack sighed. “Are you serious?” he asked excitedly. He put an arm around his wife. “Jackie, I think she’s serious!” Applejack rolled her eyes. “Jinge and Johnny’re too young yet,” she whispered to Whiskey. “He’s been driving me crazy talking about how he’s gonna teach ‘em…” Whiskey nodded faintly, her eyes wide. Soft Shoe turned and practically skipped back to the living room. “We’ll get you started with some basic ballroom steps, and, if you want, maybe we move onto some modern—” “Softie,” Applejack called after him. “Slow down a bit, Honeycrisp. Don’t wanna scare the poor filly off.” She looked back at Whiskey and nodded over her shoulder, deeper into the house, then turned and walked down the hall, Whiskey following close behind. “We’re gonna do something nice and simple today, and that’ll be it.” Whiskey stepped into the living room and stared. She’d been here a couple times before, but never when Soft Shoe was home—and it almost looked like a whole different house. The furniture had been pushed aside and stacked carefully in a corner, leaving a wide-open space in the middle of the floor. Space for dancing. She swallowed, listening with half an ear as Uncle Softie spoke. “Jackie,” he almost whined, “You know I can do it—” “I know, Honeycrisp,” she said with a smile. “And I know how bad you’ve been hankerin’ for it. But we’ve only got the weekend, and not everypony can pick up your dancin’ overnight.” Uncle Soft Shoe sighed. “I know,” he said quietly. He thought for a moment, then turned to Whiskey. “We can teach you a little,” he said, “But you really need a proper instructor—” Whiskey shook her head firmly. “Nuh-uh,” she said. Soft Shoe raised an eyebrow. “Why not?” he asked. She hesitated, then seemed to deflate. “...Mama doesn’t know I’m here,” she said. Both of them stared back at her. She wanted to stop talking but it all started spilling out: “I just wanna dance so bad, but Mama doesn’t have much money, and she thinks I’m at Aunt Fluttershy’s gettin’ some flyin’ practice, and I don’t want anybody knowin’ I wanna dance, ‘cause everyone thinks I’m tough, and—” “Woah, woah, woah,” Soft Shoe said, stepping forward and putting a hoof on her shoulder. Instantly, Whiskey fell silent. “Slow down, kiddo,” he said. “You’re gonna be okay.” Whiskey shivered. From where he touched her, a strange, electric sensation spread across her body, leaving a weird, almost-pleasant, almost-painful tingle where it had gone. Soft Shoe had not noticed her reaction. “There’s nothing wrong with dancing,” he said. “Everypony does it sometimes. Nothing to be ashamed of.” Whiskey nodded numbly. She didn’t want him to take his hoof off her shoulder ever again. Soft Shoe chuckled. “Heck,” he added. “I just hope my kids will be half as willing as—” “Daddy!” a small voice cried, high above them. “Lookit me!” All three of them looked up. Whiskey’s eyes widened, Soft Shoe paled, and Applejack gasped. “Jonathan Beauregard Appleseed, you get down here this instant!” she barked. Balanced on top of the antique radio, at the very pinnacle of the stack of furniture in the corner, stood a tiny, bright-red earth colt, absolutely beaming. “I mean it, Johnny,” Applejack growled, walking towards him. “Get down from there now, or I’ll—” Johnny grinned wider, then crouched down a little, sticking his tongue through his teeth.     “Jonathan—” Soft Shoe cut in warningly. With a joyous squeal, Johnny leapt from the top of the stack, bounced off the sofa with an expensive-sounding sproing, then turned and ran, shrieking with laughter, from the room. Applejack growled and sprinted after him. Both of them flinched when the front door slammed. Soft Shoe sighed, then sat back on his haunches. “He’ll be okay,” he said, mostly to himself. He turned to Whiskey. “I think Jackie’s right,” he said to her. “Let’s start you with something simple. Do you know any dances already?” Whiskey turned to stare at him—and Softie was astonished to see fire in her eyes and a snarl on her lips. But, as soon as they made eye contact, all the anger drained from her face, leaving her wide-eyed and quiet. He waited for her to respond, but she did not speak—simply stared. After a moment, Soft Shoe swallowed. Was she… trembling…? At that moment, the front door opened, and both of them looked up. Applejack walked in, both irritated and triumphant, a pouty Jonathan held by the scruff of his neck in her teeth. She marched straight to the back of the house, rounding a corner as she did. They heard a door slam, and she walked back into the living room, head held high. “Sorry about that,” she said. She glanced back and forth between the two of them. “Y’all made a decision on where you wanna start?” Soft Shoe gave her a pained look. “We started, but…” Applejack rolled her eyes, then turned to Whiskey. “So,” she said, “what are ya thinkin’?” Whiskey did not move. She simply stared at Soft Shoe. “Whiskey?” Applejack repeated. Suddenly, she seemed to jerk awake. She looked up at Applejack apologetically. “Sorry, Auntie,” she said. “It’s just…” And then she trailed off again. Applejack cocked her head a little. “You feelin’ alright, sugarcube?” she asked. “You’re actin’ mighty funny…” Whiskey looked at her for another moment—then, silently, nodded. “Let’s try this,” Soft Shoe said. He stood upon his hind legs, pulled his wife up to stand next to him, then gave her a quick peck on the cheek. He took one of her hooves in his, and slid the other down to her waist, while she rested her free hoof on his arm. “Let’s show you a few and see how you feel. This one’s a waltz—” Whiskey suddenly gagged. Both of them looked at her, and saw her making a face of utter disgust. “Ah, so… so that’s off the table, then?” said Soft Shoe uncertainly. “It’s her real name, Honeycrisp,” Applejack whispered to him. “She don’t like it much.” Soft Shoe nodded. “Gotcha. So, no waltz then.” He thought for a moment, then shifted his forehooves, Applejack repositioning hers almost automatically. “This one’s called the samba,” he said to Whiskey. He turned to Applejack, then began to count aloud: “One, two, three and four…” He began counting over again, and he and Applejack shuffled forward and back, then to the side. “One, two, three and four…” They did it again, this time, adding a little more spice: Applejack began to sway her hips as she moved, and Soft Shoe pressed himself a little closer to her. “One, two, three and four…” And suddenly, they stopped. “See?” Softie asked. “Nice and simple.” Whiskey just stared. Soft Shoe looked back at Applejack. “What do you wanna show her next?” he said. “Rumba? Cha cha? Country swing?” Applejack smiled knowingly. “I thought we were gonna save that one for after the kids went to bed,” she whispered. Soft Shoe blushed deeply, and Applejack laughed. She turned to Whiskey. “We’ll just try a few more,” she said, “and you tell us when you see something you like—” “Samba,” Whiskey said immediately. “I want to dance the samba.” Applejack nodded, then released Soft Shoe. “I’ll get the music,” she said, walking to the record player in the corner. Soft Shoe stepped close, squatted down, and took Whiskey by the forehooves. “Now,” he said, “you’re a little short to get your hoof up on my shoulder, but we’ll manage, I think. So, I’m gonna count for us, okay? It’s one, two, three, and four—” he demonstrated the quick, shuffling step. “—and you follow, just like me, alright?” Whiskey nodded faintly. “Alright, let’s try it—one, two three—” Soft Shoe suddenly stopped, then looked up at her. “Whiskey,” he said patiently, “You need to move your hooves, too.” Whiskey remained frozen for just a moment longer—then jerked her head up and looked, nervously, into Soft Shoe’s face. “O-okay,” she said quietly. Applejack sighed. “Sugarcube,” she said, “If you ain’t feelin well, then we—” Whiskey shook her head sharply. “No,” she said “I-it’s okay.” She took a deep breath, fear in her eyes, but determination in her grip. “I wanna do it,” she said to Softie. Soft Shoe nodded. “Alright,” he said, “let’s try again. Now: one, two, three and four…” * * *   The sun was almost setting by the time that Whiskey re-emerged from the farmhouse. She walked with a slight limp; she’d been using muscles she’d never used before—not like that, at least—and she was really going to feel it tomorrow. “You gonna be okay, Whiskey?” Applejack called after her. “I could walk ya home—or you could stay for dinner—” “No,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m fine—and Mama’s waitin’ for me.” “You sure?” Applejack said again. “It’s no trouble—” “I’m sure,” she repeated, firmly, then turned and walked confidently away. As soon as she heard the door shut, though, she stopped. She glanced back over her shoulder at the house one more time. She thought she could see, through the little side-window, Soft Shoe kissing Applejack again, then picking up one of his children—Johnny or Ginger, she couldn’t tell—and kissing them on both cheeks. She felt a lump in her throat, then turned and broke into a run. Whiskey realized she wanted to hurt something. She wanted to break down crying. She wanted a hug. She wanted to scream. She didn’t know what she wanted, but whatever it was, she knew she wasn’t getting it. She hated her life. She hated not having a Daddy. She wanted a Daddy for her Mama to love. And she wanted her Daddy, not someone else’s, to teach her how to dance. And she wanted Johnny and Ginger to realize just what they had—even though he wasn’t home all the time. Even though he was away for so long. If she had a Daddy, she would be so good. Never make trouble. Never climb up on the furniture. Never run away and make Mama chase her, never do anything to take her Mama away from him. Even half a Daddy was better than none at all. She ran on into the darkness, weeping, tears streaming down her face, at the cold, painful cruelty of the life that would leave her always on the outside, always looking in at someone else’s happiness through a tiny side window. * * * The next day, she would come back after school with Tango and Foxie. She would dance with Tango, and make Uncle Soft Shoe dance with Foxie. They would dance for an hour or two, and learn the samba all over again, then the rumba, and then—at the insistence of Tango, his eyes twinkling mischievously—the waltz. Neither of her siblings would understand why she had dragged them along. She made a big show of not wanting to be there—of going only because Pumpkin had said that Soft Shoe wanted to teach someone to dance—but neither of them saw the way she watched him move. The way she watched him hold her sister as he walked her through her first, fumbling dance steps. When they left, tired and sore, Whiskey knew they would not be back. Foxie could never keep all the steps straight, even when Soft Shoe was saying them aloud, and, though Tango picked it up just fine, he never actually saw the point. Whiskey hardly spoke all the way home, and, when she did, it was in monosyllables. When they got back to the bakery, Whiskey went up to their room and closed the door; when Mama sent Foxie to go get her for dinner, she found her dead asleep, tears dried on her cheeks. She did not tell them why she had been crying, nor why she had been acting so strange over the past few days, instead opting to eat her spaghetti in silence. What she would never tell anyone was that, somehow, she wished she could have made her brother and sister jealous. That she could show them just what they had been missing. That she could see one or the other of them, like her, completely fall apart at Soft Shoe’s touch. She hoped that, somehow, this would help them—all of them—to, somehow, help their Mama find their Daddy again. This was her secret shame, a hidden failure that she would take to her grave.