How to explain
How would one describe a hangover? Rusted, worn down, irregular gears creaking at each turn, breaking a tooth every now and then. The brain whining like a dying motor under a heavy load, lowering the stress, then suddenly increasing from slight to dramatic. The pumping of hot, thick, pasty goo flowing in the veins in place of the blood in his brain. Neural sparks in line, in a painful domino effect, systematically taken down like some kind of cellular genocide.
If that was the case, then the list of reasons not to drink ever just had another addition, for a certain young teen.
“So... how long was I out again?” the disoriented teen asked. He rubbed the sides of his head with his right hand, mostly in the areas of where the bandage wraps covered and held a glass of water in the other.
Across the room, a taller teen, her back turned to the smaller teen, glanced back as she was searching through a set of cabinets. She bit her lower lip, perpetuating her through thoughts.
“I would say… at least fourteen-ish hours, I think,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders as her eyes awkwardly rolled back to her search cabinets. “You were... really out of it for a while.”
The boy blinked, staring back at her, much to other teen’s uneasiness. He opened his mouth once again, then closed it, stared at the table in front of him, back to the other teen, then at something else in the room, a toaster in this case.
“Right,” the boy said. His vision remained fixed on the red metal toaster while he shifted from side to side in his seat. “So… this is where you live?”
The athlete turned her eyes, but not her head, to his direction, then back into the cabinets. She shifted her shoulders, brushing off the building tension, then replied.
“Yeah, I’ve been living here for the last few weeks or so. Finally got the last box unpacked just yester-” she trailed off at the mention of the day before. She paused for a moment, her hand hovering over some salt container, grasped in her free hand, then continued her search in the cabinet.
The boy glanced back at her for a moment, then to another object in the room, that object being the stove that was right next to the girl. He inched his vision towards her, attempting to speak with her in his direct vicinity, then turned his attention back to the stove.
“That’s nice,” he said. The boy swung his dangling legs around in his chair. While he was rather short for his age. The chair itself was a rather tall one, giving him at least a foot and a half of free space between his feet and the floor. While it was a bit of a mockery of his height to some degree, the table made him feel even smaller than he really was, or perhaps this just placed him at the proper level that he currently felt. In other words, he felt like a small hatching that found its way into a much larger creature's den.
Or at least, that’s what it ‘felt’ like upon waking up... among other things.
The green-haired teen glanced at the right palm next to his head. His hand; his palm, fingers, his grabbers, squeezers…
Spike shook his head, wiping the words from his mind. However, no matter how much he tried to brush it off, the memory was burned in his brain. Those round, soft, firm…
He instantly slapped himself, attempting to whack the memory out... on the side of his bandaged head. In place of the ‘softness’ came feelings of instantaneous regret Although the hit wasn’t too hard, the buzzing in his head made it proportional the magnitude of two hammers lightly bashing his head. Painful wasn't really the word to use in his opinion, it was leaning more to a large bloating in the side of his head. As if the bloody paste had gotten thicker.
The teen groaned, closing his eyes, leaning far back into the seat as the bloating circulated to the entirety of the right side of his head.
‘Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea-’ he thought as he inhaled a large sum of air into his lungs. He held in the air, waiting for the pain to pass, then exhaled. Once his lungs had pushed out the air from his body, he felt a sudden rush of soothing coolness cascading on his forehead, neutralizing the bloating.
Upon contact, he let out a long sigh of relief as the icy goodness rushed to the rest of his head, then opened his eyes to the white-haired teen next to him holding an icepack to his head. He took notice at her free hand held in front of him, eyeing two swallowable tablets, then back to Gilda.
“They’re painkillers for your head and….everything else,” she said awkwardly, avoiding eye contact. “It’s to, you know, help with the pain.” The boy glanced at the tablets in her hand and back to her.
“Ummm… thanks,” Spike replied. He took the pills from her palm into his mouth. A glass of water in hand, he gulped reasonable amounts of mouthfuls, washing the pills down his throat. After releasing a pleasured sigh from the water cooling down his insides, he took the ice pack from her hand and sat upright.
Gilda retracted her hand as his hand caressed the pack and took her place across the table. She faced another direction other than directly from Spike, still avoiding eye contact. Her selected object, the toaster that Spike was eyeing earlier.
The two sat quietly across from each other in the room, changing glances towards different objects in the room. One would occasionally glance at the other when they were facing somewhere else. Spike would stare at a cup on a nearby counter, while Gilda changed her sight to him, twitching her mouth as she did so. A moment later, the green-haired teen leaned his head towards the girl, while she immediately craned her head away towards a stove. Spike opened his mouth to speak, a low creak of sound escaping his mouth. As small as it may have been, it was loud enough for the girl across the table to hear. She glanced back to the boy, which caused him to awkwardly turn away.
A brief moment of silence passed, a few seconds, then onto a few minutes of the rather comforting atmosphere. The two, as much as they wanted to end the silence, continued to stare around the kitchen, randomly selecting items in the room. Unfortunately, the room was quickly running out of items to pretend to have their full attention on.
After cycling back to a salt shaker for the third time, Gilda raised her hand, coughed in it, gaining the boy’s attention and said, “So…” She pondered. Trying to comprise a conversion that would break through the thick atmosphere. “How’s your head?”
The boy glanced at the girl, looking at her in the eyes for a moment before switching back to a plate in a drawer in a nearby sink. He cracked his jaw, “Well, it’s okay I guess.” He rubbed the side the of his head, brushing his fingers across the fibers of the bands. “Ummm… what exactly happened, anyway?” Gilda tensed up before Spike continued. “The last thing I remember was the burger place... and uhhhh...”
“Garble,” Gilda filled in. She set both hands on the table, caressing both in her fingers. “He kind of... punched you, in your left eye.”
The boy turns his head back to the girl, a questioning brow raised, “What, really?”
He raised his hand from his glass to his eye, feeling the tender, thin skin of his eyelid and its sore flesh. He retracted the hand, nerves sending a painful signal at the moment of contact, clutching the glass once more.
He let out a brief hiss as the memory made its way back in circulation, “Oh, right-right I remember now.” He shifted in his seat again, relieving pressure in a certain ‘extremity’ of his lower body. “He dunked a drink of some kind on me. Then you, uhh… slugged him in the gut and he was tossed out.”
“Right.” Gilda nervously glanced at her hands, up to Spike, then back down. “Someone stepped in to help before he lunged at you.”
“Huu?” Spike asked. He squinted his eyes, gears turning in his head to connect the broken paths in his scrambled, dazed mind, recounting more of his memories.
A moment later, and an internal ‘ding’ sounded within his head.
“Ohhhhhhh,” he said sitting upright in his chair. “S-s-snowflake came in just as we stepped away. Garble was about to go on a rampage, but Snow grabbed him and threw him out.”
The athlete shifted in her seat and glanced at him.
“Right, he did come at the right time for ya.” She bit her bottom lips for a few seconds, then continued. “Then we sat, ate our food and talked for a bit.”
“Okay, now I remember that part… well, the eating part,” Spike said. He brought up his hand, scratching the top of his head that was free from the bondage, still tender. “What did we talk about?”
“Ehhh... just some stuff, nothing really too important to discuss ever again!” she replied quickly. Though the topic that they had was rather humorous at the time, having his full attention just to mention it again and pick on him... it didn’t seem like something she should bring up at the moment.
“Just stuff.”
“Oh, alright,” Spike glanced down to his glass. He circulated through more of his thoughts, patching them together trying to make sense of the blurry ones and come up with something more comprehensive.
His thoughts were then brought to the rising question as to the bandage that was wrapped around his head, he traced the fibers of the cloth around back and forth. Building more onto what exactly he did to get those bandages.
“I’m sorry,” Gilda said, breaking Spike in mid-thought.
The teen turns his head to her, a rather large confused expression plastered to his face.
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, the athlete bowing her head as she gestured to the bandages. “It’s my fault you got your head smashed.”
The green haired teen blinked, “Ehh?”
Gilda shifted in her chair again, one leg over the other, then inhaled and exhaled deeply. She lifted her chin, facing him with her guilt-ridden eyes.
“After we ate,” she began. “We went to an old juggling trail and did some K’s to burn some calories.” Spike nodded. “The heat was getting to you, and you kind of passed out due to heat exhaustion... and physical exhaustion, but it was mostly the heat that got to you.”
The green haired teen stared at her for a moment, not a hateful glare, but a cautious one before speaking.
“Okay, what happened after that?” he asked.
“Well…” Gilda said. She twiddled her fingers, glancing away, then looking back at Spike. “I was trying to wake you up, but you were really out. I mean down for the count, complete washed out. I swear, if we squeezed your clothes dry, the sweat could fill that cup right there probably more than halfway,” she gestured to the glass in his hands.
They stared at his glass for a moment in front of him, taking its large size into consideration.
“Right,” he said glancing back to Gilda. “So, I fell on a rock or something?”
“Errrrrr… Not exactly,” she creaked in her throat. The teen switched the orientation of her legs, as well her grip. “Well, you see, you did pass out flat on your face, but that wasn’t the thing that caused your head trauma. You see, when I was trying to ‘wake you up’,” she mentally quoted. As much as she wanted to explain the details to him, the total breakdown would have to wait for another day, or at least one where she can properly tell the whole sitting on him, slapping his rag doll face, and feeling his arms muscles without making things weirder than it already was. Well, actually if it came down to it the feeling his forearm part would probably be kept in the dark, forever! “Your head kind of, maybe, probably, likely, definitely bashed against a rock, pushing you further into unconsciousness.”
Spike blinked, gathering his thoughts. He grabbed the glass and swallowed the rest of the icy water, the cool liquid leaking into his throat, leaving behind a pleasant sensation. He set the empty glass on the table with a gentle thunk.
He looked up to the nervous athlete, then back to the glass, “Well... ow, I guess.”
“‘Ow’?” Gilda asked, gaining the boy’s attention. “Didn’t you just hear what I just said?”
Spike gave a bland blink, “You smashed my skull with a rock.”
“Okay, that’s a little bit far from the truth,” Gilda said. “Though partially true,” she sent her guilty stare to the side, then back to the boy. “I basically had the back of your head smashed against a rock, I thought I heard a crack! Thank goodness the rock was just a piece of petrified wood on the ground, which was still pretty solid. Then when I was carrying your sweaty body to my car, I dr...” She paused mid-sentence.
Spike raised a brow, “You...?” Though his voice hadn’t raised at all, being as calm and most content the green-haired teen could have been in the morning, the situational atmosphere made it so that the guilt was flowing through the athlete, forcing its way into the pit of her stomach. A deep, shallow, sinking feeling that grew the more that she talked about it. She already began, there was no use denying it any longer.
“To the car I-I,” Gilda bit her lower lips, it had to be said. “Dropped you, face first on the pavement of the parking lot.” She glanced down to her hands, it was finally said and done. She may have told him the truth, but that didn’t change anything about the deep sinking pit of guilt that dwelled in her.
She wouldn’t blame Spike if he pressed charges against her, given what she did to him, accidental or not. She still hurt him nevertheless, more than Garble ever did at the burger joint. Although there was no telling what he was going to do if that Snowflake guy didn’t step in to help...
Still, she was the one that caused most of his injuries, and whatever anger he had against her was rightfully justified. She was prepared for whatever punishment he had for her.
Gilda inhaled and exhaled, stretching her back and staring back at the boy’s eyes, “I know that you are mad at me right now, I understand. You’re probably already thinking about pressing-”
“I’m not going to be pressing charges,” Spike cut her off mid-sentence. Gilda jolted her eyes from her hands to Spike.
“What?” the athlete choked out, a bewildered expression plastered on her face almost unbelieving. “W-wait, wait.” she raised both hands, pushing the air in front of her. “You heard what I just said, right?”
Spike inhaled, calm and collected as he raised his hand, raising each finger as he listed, “Ummm… I passed out from heat exhaustion, then you were trying to wake me up. In doing so, you slammed my skull on a rock on the ground, furthering my injuries. And finally, when you were carrying my body to your car, you dropped my head onto the pavement.” The boy looked off to the side as he scratched the back of his head, mostly digging his nails against the cloth before continuing, “Yeah, that’s about it.”
Gilda remained silent, mouth agape in pure disbelief. She scanned the boy’s face for some kind of relevant explanation or any possible signs of brain damage. Friend or not, he had to have some residing anger, or at least a grudge, for that matter. She held out her index finger in front of Spike’s face.
“Bare with me for a moment and follow my finger,” she said as her finger-waved side to side.
“Ummm... okay?” Spike replied, following said finger without protest. Her hand moved smoothly to the left and paused,
both of his eyes followed. The hand itself shifted to the left and paused, his eyes followed. Her hand started to move left and right ever so slowly, Spike followed without fail. The hand sped up some more, but the boy’s eyes kept it within visual range. Deciding to kick it up a notch, the teen paused her hand at random; switching direction, continuing in the same direction, moving her hand closer to the boy’s face, causing him to go cross-eyed for a moment, then back. As if in perfect sync, his eyes never failed for a moment to keep up.
Gilda retracted her hand, continuing to stare at the boy, just as her growing concern for his well being and mental state never faltered, “I’ll be right back.” With that, she quickly got out of her seat and marched out of the room, but halfway out of the walkway, she arched her head back around and pointed her index finger at the boy, “Don’t go anywhere!” she said, then disappeared from view.
Somewhat confused, and somewhat concerned for her, Spike stared at the empty walkway, “Okay!” he called out. Again he stared around the room, looking at the different items he was glancing at earlier, the ones that he had already gotten a full view and was well-versed about. He breathed in deeply and relaxed his body, wishing that those painkillers would kick in sometime soon, especially for the ‘tender’ parts of his body.
He shifted in his seat, leaning said tender parts to a less disturbing, tight fit in the shorts that barely covered his legs from the knees down. His attention was moving to the water droplets drizzling down his arm; he eyed the ice pack in his grasp and down to his groin. Without another thought, he spread his legs just far enough, not causing any more unwanted tension, and brought down the cold pack between them. Tapping the middle of his tender area, he pressed the pack slowly against his jewels, a few heavy breaths pushing past his lips upon contact in his thin shorts. The sudden chills that ran up his spine soon passed as the tender feeling faded, closing his eyes as he arched back against his seat, a wave of relief rushing over his lower body. He pressed the bag closer to him, caressing the small bulge with the plastic bag numbing the area, to his relief.
“Ehhh, I’ve had worse,” the boy muttered, apathetic. Massaging the ice pack around, he allowed the ice to numb more areas easing more of the pain away, plus making it much easier for him to sit comfortably. It didn’t help at all that he was wearing such tight-fitting underwear, to begin with, whatever caused such pain had left its mark, more or less.
‘Wait a minute…’ the boy pondered.
Tight-fitting underwear? He could have sworn that he had slipped on a pair of boxers that morning, the ones with the little purple dragons printed on them... Not that anyone else would know what pair he has on.
The young teen looked down at his shorts with a somewhat concerned expression painted on his face. He thought that the boxers were probably just giving him a wedgy, which would logically explain the tightness. All the same, he moved the ice pack aside, and with the other hand, he reluctantly grasped the elastic of the shorts and slowly stretched it forwards. To his half-hearted surprised, the print on the cloth were the all-too-familiar purple dragons. They were just tucked tightly underneath him.
He let out a brief ‘hmm’ in response. Raising his butt a little, he leaned forward on the side of the chair and tugged on the top straps of the boxers, loosening the tight grip on his groin. With the newly found freedom, he let out a sigh of relief and released both straps. After the satisfying ‘smack’ of the elastic against his skin, the ice pack was set back into place.
“That's much better,” the teen grinned. Now with the loosened underwear and the numbing coolness of the ice pack, sitting was made much easier. Knowing what happened last time wasn’t as forgiving as this one. Speaking of which, that did bring up the thought of why he was so sore down there.
He shrugged his shoulders, pressing the ice pack on a different side of his groin. He could ask Gilda when she got back from whatever it was she was doing. In the meantime, he sat there and relaxed as the ice pack sat firmly against his shorts...
“... Wait a minute.”
(Inside Gilda’s room)
“Crap! Crap! Crap! The dweeb has brain damage!” Gilda stammered as she goes through the drawers of her nightstand. Her hand fumbled around the drawers, tossing forgotten pencils, pen, and paper some of which fell on the floor. “Dammit, it’s not in here!”
She turned around her room, scanning everywhere for what it was that she was looking for. Her eyes passed the desk, stacks of unfinished homework, a pencil cup, a random assortment of workout equipment on the side of her room, the bottom drawer of her dresser laid on her floor.
Wait, her bottom drawer of her dresser was laid out on the floor.
The athlete turned her head back to the wooden box filled with her underwear. Her eyes widened, lunging towards the open box, taking it in hand and moving it to the side. On her knees, she looked in the opening, checked its contents for any changes and sighed.
They were all still there.
“I must not have put it back in yesterday,” Gilda said aloud to herself. She picked up the wooden drawer and set it back on its rollers, pushing it closed.
It was a guilty hobby of hers, one that she would never share with anyone else no matter how close they were to her. Especially since how some of them were quiet on the questionable side of their preferences, the white-haired teen even, quite often, questioned the age rating, writer, and illustrator of these books, but she still kept them anyways. These ‘books’ were something that she picked up not even a year ago, but their grip on her was well inbound.
Standing back up, the white-haired teen clapped both her hands together “Now then, back to business,” she said, returning to the task at hand. Turning around, she scanned the room again, eying everything that she had. An assortment of laundry, one Gilda didn’t know if it was to be sent to the wash or if it just came from it, laid randomly across the room. More stacks of unfinished homework, extra workout equipment on the opposite side of her room, with the addition of another stack of partially-finished homework. A few weeks in and the school district was already merciless distributing its workload.
It had to be somewhere in the span of junk in her room, probably buried under it all. The white-haired teen made a mental note that her next priority, after taking care of the ordeal sitting in her kitchen and the most definitely worried family to follow, would be to figure out how to organize her room and her studies. And maybe find a tutor that wasn’t scared out the wazoo just making eye contact with her.
“Junk…” the teen breathed, she lowered her arms to her waist and set them on the elastic of her shorts. The word echoed a bit in her head as if struggling to remind her of something. She slurred the word around for a bit, and then it clicked.
The teen turned back to the dresser, eyeing the top drawer in particular. Without a second thought, she grabbed the handle in one quick motion, the contents of said drawer sliding back to the rear before rushing forward once it came to a sudden halt.
Inside contained the following; more pencils, pens, markers, sports tape, regular tape, a vast assortment of plastic pieces along with the metal of older workout equipment (what was left of it, anyway), and crumpled pieces of paper scattered in the box.
With her free hand, she dug deeper into the drawer, tossing around its contents side to side as she eyed everything inside of it. At least she could say that she wouldn’t have to worry about running out of pencils and pens for a while.
Her hand brushed past what seemed to be a smooth cylinder. She couldn’t see it all too well due to the variety of random assortment of junk. Reeling back to that spot, she focused on taking off the layers and tossed them to the side. Under the cluster revealed a long silver cylinder with a larger round bevel at its end.
She took the silver cylinder in hand “Got it!” The white haired teen caressed the object in her hand as she traced along the sides with her thumb, sliding to a black rubber button near the bevel. Pressing the button down, she heard a loud ‘click’ followed by light shining out of the top of the bevel.
The teen smiled, “Perfect, the batteries in this thing still have energy!” She flicked the flashlight off, closing the drawer before she turned and walked out of the room. She wasted no time marching her way back to the kitchen where her green-haired, possibly very-disoriented/brain-damaged friend was waiting.
This wasn’t what she wanted to happen when she first brought a boy home with her. Well, on the bright side her family wasn’t there to witness this matrimony of at first glance of abuse. If her mom or dad saw the smaller teen at his current state more than one question well rise from both parties. Most likely to side what she did to him followed by not one, but two hell of a lecture.
“Family…..” the teen muttered as she came to a sudden halt a meter or so from the walkway of the kitchen. Just earlier she was thinking how worried the green haired teen's family would be due to his absence of the day and night prior. Sure maybe explaining the absent part would have been easier to wiggle though why the twerp wasn’t home. A Little bit more challenging with the part that he stayed with her throughout the night. Certain details could be avoided in the explanation, especially as to what happened not an hour ago goes without saying. However, physical attributes are much….different from leaving out verbal detail within a conversation.
The injuries that are clearly visible on the body would definitely be a conversation starter, not to mention the way he walks as of this morning. That on its own has its set of question that has no way of a good explanation for a mother nor a pleasant outcome.
“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii……..”
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Wooo its back :3 i had to re-read to rember the plot but still awsome :D keep it up and hope ya good times with your life
I think spike just want Glida
i have a weird feeling that Spike understands what happened, and that Gilda had not done it on purpose, and therefore accepts what happened, as an unfortunate accident. kind of going "shit happens" in his mind, knowing she didn't mean to do it.
on the other hand, a little brain trauma would make the story that much more interesting..
silly auther, girls don't go on the internet. those are guys pretending to girls
Good writing, made me mad because of Spike's reaction but this whole situation is a bit over the top. Maybe Gilda is a psycho
Excellent chapter can't wait for more
We need more.
I think he should be at least a little frustrated with how it happened but otherwise forgiving! Wonderful story so far, just wish we could see more more often.
I get the feeling Gilda has some self-confidence issues when it come to keeping friends/boyfriends.
Anyway, can't wait for the next update(whenever it is)!
great chapter, I did see a missing period though, but still great.
What does the term 'Feathered' mean?
Please continue. It's too damn good
The Mane 6 have weird scenarios of Spike?
Dead story?
8658887
just haven't been working on it for a while. I wouldn't call it dead yet though
You really have a nice writting skills...
If wasn't for you, I never sing up for this forum! You bring back my taste for MLP fics n.n
Spanish note:
Y para que lo sepas, también llegaste a un público latino. Tu manera de redactar es tan limpia que el traductor que proporciona Google casi no tuvo errores al mantener el contexto en cada capítulo. Realmente me divertí leyendo este fic en particular... Spilda nunca había sido un ship que consideraría, de no ser por ti.
Thanks for the fic, and keep going. Have good luck and a nice day n.n
.... Since I’m impatient I’m just going to come up with my own ending as to how the story ends: Gilda and Pinkie Pie double-team Spike, become his girlfriends, and his pretty little(dense-as-fuck) head lives happily ever after.
Really want to see more of this, really hoping it isn't dead. I like the idea of this pairing and the way you've done it.
This story is dead, isn’t it? A fitting way to let your stories die off: with even more clockblocks and blue-balls.
I’m done.
9250334
sorry that I've been inactive. I've been prioritising other things.
9252418
{....]
Update????
9252418
Hey, you care enough to still be answering comments. That's all I really need to hold out hope that the story isn't dead.
8660301
TF2 Heavy: "DED"
R.I.P this story.
i’m still holding on to this story!!
Gilda and Spike are going to fall for each other
We need more
Just hope, some day may be the day...