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Dusty Traveler2,747 words
In Another Place, At Another Time2,750 words

In Another Place, At Another Time

In Another Place, At Another Time

The years slipped away. Sun turning to rain, turning to snow, back to rain and back to sun. The endless cycle of time and the seasons passing you by. Life is good in Ponyville, the food is plentiful, ponies are friendly and you finally found a proper set of cutlery in a curio shop. The clothing issue had been solved through a custom order at Carousel Boutique, although it had taken three afternoons to get the idea of a T-Shirt into Rarity's head.

The sands of time had eroded the memory of that night. Only the odd time did the memory breach into the conscious part of your mind. And when it did appear, even concentrating all your energy on remembering brought back only the vaguest of details. Something about a bath, a dinner, a shadow in the doorway. Her being gone the next day. All the memories turned to dust in the deep of your mind.

On the walk home after a day out shopping, you passed by the old alleyway. Running over your checklist on the walk set your mind in gear. At that moment, stirred by the proximity to their origin, the winds of thought carried the memories of that night to the front of your mind. This time they appeared stronger and clearer than they had in years. Looking to the right, the dumpster was still there, a little rustier and with a few more dents, but still sitting in place. Looking up you see only a few clouds against the sky. Knowing you still have a few minutes, you set your bags down against the same wall as you had all those years ago and walked towards the dumpster. Throwing open the lid you're met with nothing but the stench of rotting garbage. No big green eyes staring back at you, no condescending tone, no "gourmet dinner". You let the lid slam down again.

The rest of the walk home had passed quickly with the memories of that night filling your head like burning coals in a freezing stove. Each new memory falling like a domino into another one. The storm, the bindle, the dinner. Each image flooding back in vivid detail, the clearest they've been in years. The warm memories blind you to the ever darkening sky and the cool wind that has started to blow. Approaching your house the last recovered memory comes forth for its moment in the spotlight, the note. Your mind raced. The one physical proof you had that that night had actually happened. Mind still racing, your legs match the furious pace of your thoughts, desperate to get home and find that piece of paper.

Throwing open the front door and dropping your bags on the floor, finding the note is the only thing on your mind. Rouge apples roll across the floor and the milk bottle tips on its side as you begin your search. Tearing up cushions on the couch. Looking under dressers and digging through messy drawers filled with old letters, receipts and tax forms. Lifting up chairs and squinting under shelves. Filled with horror digging through the stack of old papers by the stove. You breathe a deep sigh of relief when you don't find it there. While by the stove, you light a small fire to combat the draft blowing through the living room. Through the photo albums and the books stacked in your bedroom. You turn the house inside out, but that little slip of paper still eludes you. The fire in your mind calms from the inferno it had once been. The cold water of truth used to extinguish it seeps down to your heart. Another deep sigh escapes you and you turn your attention to the two flattened grocery bags on the doormat. You collect the stray apple back into the bag and right the bottle of milk. Hoping it hadn't spoiled during your search, it is the first grocery to get put away.

Out the kitchen window you can seen the rain has started. You turn and open the fridge. The shelves inside are bare, filled sparsely with cheeses and juice, greens and vegetables. A half dozen eggs and some butter fill the dairy drawer. In a world sans meat, there just isn't that much that needs to be stored in a cold place. You place the milk in the empty spot in the door. Closing the door you admire the front of the fridge, covered top to bottom with library slips and newspaper clippings and reminders to yourself. Under a faded yellow return slip from the library, you spot the corner of a lined sheet. Staring at it your heart starts to race. You reach for it, but stop yourself, choosing instead to savor the moment of uncertainty. What if it isn't the note, just some buried and forgotten letter. No, no one else has that type of paper here, it has to be it. You carefully grab the corner and pull up, revealing the familiar cursive. You rip it off the fridge, bringing down several other papers with it.

You hold the note in front of you and for the first time in years read the yellowed page. Every word bring the realization that you had never really forgotten them. Carrying the note to the couch you read it again and again, each time resting your eyes on the sketch at the bottom. The dusty traveler on a country road. Time has taken its toll on the paper, turning it a pale yellow. But the confident smile remains untouched through the ages. You sink into the couch still tracing each line of the sketch with your eyes. Many a night you had sat in this exact spot with a drink in hand wondering if that night had been real. And now in your hands was the answer. Those night sitting here calling yourself crazy had finally been answered. You wonder where she might be tonight, on the streets, in a dumpster somewhere. Or maybe she found a place and settled down, tired of being the dusty traveler. Taking a break from your thoughts, you notice the striking similarities tonight has to that night. The day out shopping, the rainstorm, the fire burning in the stove. You sink deeper into the couch, closing your eyes and remembering each glorious detail of that night. The warmth of the memories drag you into an early slumber.

Thunder wakes you in the middle of the night. You'd dreamt of her. The night you'd spent together. You jokingly ask yourself if dreaming about sleeping is something to be proud of. A flash illuminates the room, thunder hot on its heels. You lie on the couch swimming in the residual feelings left from the dream. Not every night had been spent alone since she had graced your abode. Several others had taken her place since then. But none of those nights were quite the same. They had all been acquaintances in a different sense. Some pony who's company you enjoyed, and they reciprocated that feeling back towards you. Different from taking in a pony from the street. A pony who had never had that feeling before. The others had beds and homes and families to go away to, Hobo Pony didn't, she didn't have anything, that's what had made that night so special. In one night, by being yourself, you had given her more than she had ever been given before. You had made a life better. You clutch a pillow tight, imagining it was her you let the occasional roll of thunder carry you back to sleep.

An unknown noise wakes you again. The pillow has fallen out of your arms and onto the cold floor. There's a knock at the door. This is impossible, too perfect, it must be a dream. The room is dark, the fire in the stove nothing more than a pile of ashes. Still assuming you're dreaming, you stumble up off the couch towards the door. In the entryway you hit the light switch. You flinch as the bright electric light hits your darkness tempered eyes. The pitter-patter of the rain on the window continues. Another knock at the door. You tentatively reach for the doorknob. The same anticipation that had rocked your body reaching for the note returns. The cold air and nerves cause your whole arm to shake. It takes all your concentration to steady your hand and grab the door. You open it, closing your eyes against the wet, cold wind. You look down, the green eyes look back.

Your eyes lock for what feels like hours. Finally coming to your senses you step aside wordlessly and let her in. She seems to understand your silence and softly sets down her soaking bindle in the corner. Her coat is grey and matted from the rain, not the soft white you knew it capable of. Her hair has fared better, but still a few grey hairs slip out from under her ratty, creased hat. Without saying a word she goes for the stairs, remembering the layout of your house. On the stairs she looks as you for approval. With your eyes you motion to her that she's free to go farther. Standing in the lighted hallway, you hear the water start to run. Still working under the assumption that this is all a dream, you follow the sound up the stairs pausing at the closed bathroom door to listen to the splashing of the water. Shaking your head you continue up the stairs to your bedroom. Maybe you can go back to dreaming about sleeping rather than something as stupid and impossible as this. You crawl into bed and wait for sleep to come listening to the sounds of the rain and the noises from downstairs.

But sleep doesn't come, you listen as the sounds from the bathroom turns from running water and splashing to telltale sound of water draining. Then thumping on the stairs and the creak of your bedroom door. In the dark you squint to see her coming into your room. Again without a word you make room for her next to you. She hops into bed next to you and wiggles in close against your back. She reaches over you, her soft coat rubbing on your back and arms. Her coat is still warm and a little damp from the bath. She smells like shampoo. You can feel her chest rise and fall against your back. Each breath brings her soft fur in contact with your back. She wraps her leg around you holding you even tighter than before. The full bed feels good, it feels warm and safe.

Giving in at last, you roll over and return her embrace. Lifting up the duvet, the cold air feels good against your skin. You hug her tight. Face to face you give a weary smile that she returns. You close your eyes marveling at just how much can be conveyed through body language. Just before you fall asleep for good you hear her whisper, "I missed you." You hope your smile is a good enough reply.

Daylight breaks through the gap in your curtains. The harsh light burns your eyes. Even with your eyes closed you can sense that you're alone in the bed. A crash from the kitchen answers your question before you're able to ask it. Getting out of bed you grab your bath robe. sneaking down the stairs you see the bindle lying at the door half covered by her hat. Sneaking lower, you crane your neck trying to see into the kitchen. Peeking in you see digging through the drawers. She come out with the handle of a cast-iron frying pan between her teeth. She tries to walk towards the out of sight table but the heavy pan causes her to veer into the fridge.

Taking the noise as an opportunity, you come down the stairs as normal. You can see her struggling to pick up the pan. You announce yourself to her by casually reaching down and grabbing the pan. Her eyes follow the pan up to your face. A huge smile breaks on her face as she says, "You're up!" moving to the stove, "I hope you don't mind but I decided to take you up on that offer of breakfast." Chuckling you assure her that it's not a problem. But looking at the table you see that she might not exactly be accustomed to cooking. Burnt toast, still runny eggs and spilled juice seem to be on the menu for breakfast.

You offer your help with making breakfast. She turns to you with a mischievous grin and replies, "No help needed, requested or required!" Both of you share a hearty laugh. Her laughing seems like enough of an invitation to help. You get up and remake the toast, crack more eggs and pour some new juice. By the time the meal is ready, she's sitting patiently at the table waiting. You serve her first, but she waits for you. When you sit down she digs in ferociously. By the fury with which she devoured the food in front of her, you can tell she probably hasn't eaten much over the last few days. But, despite the concern you quietly eat your meals.

After the meal you clear the table. At the sink, you take the non-confrontational position as your chance to finally ask the question that's been sitting on your mind all night. Why did she come back?

Her answer is a simple one. "I got tired. Tired of travelling, Tired of the dust. Tired of not knowing where the next meal will be. Tired with life." Your back to the sink, you listen intently. "It was that night here that planted the seed in my head. As long as I can remember I've been on the road. I grew up on the streets, it was my destiny." she says gesturing to her cutie mark. "A life on the road can sour you on things. People all seem so angry and upset. Until you came along I'd forgotten just how far people are willing to go to do good." To you this seems almost rehearsed, too well thought out and free of pauses to be coming out on the spot. "I've been thinking about it for a while now. Every time a passerby thumbed their nose up at me or said something under their breath. I thought of you." Hobo Pony comes over to meet you at the sink. "I'm ready to turn it in. A new beginning, a fresh start." Quietly she finishes, "And I'd like to spend it with you." Her head to the floor hiding her blush.

You'd been ready for this. Taking off the pink dishwashing gloves and apron you go down on one knee. Face to face, you grab her again, her coat as soft as any other pony's. She wraps her legs behind your neck. A tear in her eye she says, "I'll take that as a yes." You nod. She turns from the kitchen and goes to the entry way. You wait for her to reappear. She does, but with her bindle and hat. Heading towards the living room you follow her curious as to where the dusty travelers seemingly last trip is going.

You see her by the stove, the door swung open. Prodding at the heap of ashes she reveals a small golden core of hotness in the inside. In one swift, move she tosses the hat and bindle into the fire. You rush to pull them out put she holds you back. "So I can never go back." she explains. You go to the couch, the ancient note still on the end table. Bringing it to the fire you show it to her. Recognizing it, she smiles and looks back at the burning flames. Taking in the drawing for one last time you crumple it up. Bending down you take careful aim to throw it into the hottest part of the fire. You watch as the fire consumes the yellowed paper. Entranced by the dancing flames, you don't even notice as Hobo Pony gives you a peck on the cheek and whispers "Thank you."

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A.N. Probably should have mentioned that this is all based off of Tess' Hobo Pony Tumblr. Defiantly worth checking out. http://askahobopony.tumblr.com/

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Comments ( 11 )

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KillerofStars

KillerofStars #1 · May 28th, 2012 · · ·

Huh thought this was a one shot but glad that you proved me wrong and that there seems like more is coming.
Anyways Great story once again.

....First

Focomaru

Focomaru #2 · May 28th, 2012 · · ·

I was about to go to sleep when i notice this, this was great thanks and keep the good work.

shira

shira #3 · May 28th, 2012 · · ·

4.bp.blogspot.com/-yVy9kNKQ3r0/Tn4hyAGCHNI/AAAAAAAAAKw/1AlSB5jxumA/s1600/manly+tears+discord3.png

I have never wanted a happy ending so badly before. Thank you so much!

Evil Paladin

Evil Paladin #4 · May 28th, 2012 · · ·

Man... I just watched the last episode of House and felt a bitter sweet saddness from it, now I read what seems to be an epilogue to one of my favorite one shots.
ALL THESE FEELS!!

Kinda wished we could know what was in her bindle.

*Edit*: 3 posts into that tumbler and I am LOLing
I really liked the fic, but the part of me that is persistantly in the gutter wants to know if there will be future hobo on human action.

shira

shira #5 · May 28th, 2012 · · ·

658035

While I've never particularly cared for clop, the author is able to elicit crazy powerful emotions in such a small amount of text. I'd love to see more interaction between Dusty and the Human if nothing more because god damn it makes me sad/happy

Evil Paladin

Evil Paladin #6 · May 28th, 2012 · · ·

658112
Admitedly I like clop for the post coital feel or the hilarity that comes up during it (ex: someone walks in on the act an freaks out which freaks out the other two). The porno part of it is just a minor plus.

I would like to second your motion Shira for more Dusty.
Seeing Dusty acclimate to a stable living condition and maybe dealing with those who recognize her as a hobo would be great material to cover.
Dusty and the Human go camping maybe? To see Dusty's old skills (or lack of them) shine.

*scrolls up and sees author's comment* Yay! Sequel in the pipes!

shira

shira #7 · May 28th, 2012 · · ·

658158

I think this *IS* the sequel. If there are additional plans for one, they haven't spoken on them yet.

Even just a simple slice of life with Dusty. Heck all of the awkwardness of introducing his 'marefriend' to everyone in town. Trying to get her used to living in a stable environment. There's lots that could be done still, but it wouldn't be necessary per se. I wouldn't exactly complain if the author decided to explore Dusty more. She's quickly becoming my fav OC pony despite how little there is on her.

Storm