Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Part 1: What's the Use of Crying?

by brokenimage321

Age 3

The mid-morning sun streamed through the windows as the old, antique radio played another soulful old ballad. Pinkie listened for a while, then smiled, turned up the volume a little, and turned back to the task at hoof.

She stood by her big new mixer, almost as tall as she was, and proudly watched the dough swirl around in the deep, silver bowl. Well—new to her. The Cakes had needed an upgrade, and Pinkie had bought the old one off them. It wasn’t as nice as the newer, fancier models, but it worked, and it was hers. Plus, she’d been using this one for years; it was a little like meeting an old friend. She had only paid the down payment yesterday, but she was already thinking of how to decorate it. Would powder-pink, with some balloons stenciled on the side be too much…?

She smirked. Probably.

As she stared at the mixer, she felt a sudden pang of guilt. Though this mixer was big, in multiple senses of the word, she was going to miss hoof-making her product. It had been hard and slow, of course, but she had loved knowing that each cookie, each doughnut, each loaf of bread that she passed over the counter had been something special. Something unique. And, though this mixer might finally help her keep up with demand… well, she was still going to miss that special feeling.

Maybe she could start one of those Artisan lines that she’d been hearing about: fancy, hoof-crafted breads, with cinnamon and raisins, or rosemary and olive oil… or colored sugar and sprinkles…

She chuckled to herself, then turned back to the mixer.

As the soft music filled the air, and as Pinkie watched the dough go around, and around, and around, slowly, her eyes began to flutter closed. She dozed for a half-second, then jerked awake with a gasp. She yawned, then began to jog in place. Gotta keep the blood pumping. Gotta stay awake.

She had been right—she was making it work. But Twilight had been right, too—it was harder than she’d ever expected. With the little ones being so, well, little, on top of trying to run her own business…

Well, at least she’d finally figured out how she liked her coffee.

Pinkie stopped her jogging, and turned back to watching the dough. She blinked once or twice—long, slow blinks—then, slowly, her head began to droop.

Suddenly, she stood bolt upright, eyes wide. She’d felt it—a little tic, at the base of her tail—a small, insistent tug. And there it was again.

“Twitch-a-twitch,” she said aloud.

She switched the mixer off with a snap, then sprinted up the stairs.

She skidded to a halt in her own kitchen and stared, eyes wide. Three sets of eyes stared back at her.

She saw the kitchen, just as she had left it—child locks on all the cupboards, dirty dishes piled in the sink, half of a loaf of bread under glass—but with one, important exception: one of the wooden chairs from the table now stood by the refrigerator. And, on top of that chair, stood Waltzie; and, on Waltzie’s shoulders, stood Tango; and, on Tango’s shoulders, stood Foxie, one arm outstretched towards the cookie jar balanced on top of the refrigerator.

Pinkie and the kids stared at each other in silence for another moment before Pinkie leapt into action. “Get down from there!” she shrieked, rushing towards them. She grabbed Foxtrot off the top and set her down; almost as soon as she touched the ground, Foxie ran and hid behind her legs. Next was Tango; he came willingly, looking strangely pleased with himself. Finally, she grabbed Waltz, who groaned as Pinkie lifted her. She was only three, but Pinkie was still surprised at just how muscled she was for her age; she was going to be a holy terror on the playground when she got old enough. When Pinkie set her down, Waltzie stormed out of the room—but, a moment later, peered back around the doorframe.

Pinkie pushed the chair back into place, then leaned heavily on it and sighed. Slowly, she knelt, then spread her arms wide. "Come here, you," she said, beckoning.

Foxie was first into her arms; she reached in and hugged her Mama tight. Tango sauntered over next, and even Waltzie slunk back into the room. She pulled the three of them close, and rocked back and forth a little.

"You guys," she whispered, finally, "you can't be doing that sort of thing, you know? If you fell, then you'd get hurt, and I'd be..." She swallowed, trying to keep the tears from coming. "I'd be really sad," she choked out, finally. "Can you promise not to scare me like that again?"

She felt the three of them nod against her, one by one. "Yes, Mama," Foxie volunteered for the three of them.

Even as Foxie said it, Pinkie felt her heart sink; she knew it was a lie. They would be having this same discussion by this time next week. They always did. They were good kids, somewhere deep down--and you couldn't really blame them for their age and all--but, more often than not, they almost seemed proud of running her ragged. Like that time last month where Foxie had distracted her by pretending to be hurt, while Waltzie and Tango had made off with a five-pound bag of sugar; she'd finally just had to lock them in their room and pray there was something left after the sugar rush wore off. Or that time she'd gone to the bathroom and come back to see they'd spilled an almost-full bin of flour, and were making flour angels on the floor, and having flour-fights with hoof-fulls of loose powder. Though part of her wanted to join in--she remembered all too well the joy of a little flour--her mommy-brain would only let her think of all the time and the money they'd just wasted. And, well--their attempt to scale the fridge hadn't been the first time they'd almost killed themselves this month...

Her Pinkie Sense helped out, of course, but it didn't kick in every single time--not to mention, it kept on throwing her new signals that she had to interpret on the fly (if the frog in her right-front hoof itched, did it mean Whiskey was about to try flying from the again? Or was that the one that meant Foxie had accidentally poked someone in the eye with her horn?). It had gotten to the point that any ping of the ol' Pinkie Sense sent her scrambling for the kids, often arriving just in the nick of time.

Pinkie grimaced. Thinking about her kids like that made her sound heartless and uncaring. She loved them, more than she had words for--but that love didn't make the day-to-day any easier. If only they weren't so hard on her all the time... if... if only if he was still around to help out--

She squeezed her eyes shut. No. Don't think about him like that. You know better, Pinkie...

Pinkie opened her eyes again. She looked down at the three little squirming bundles in her arms and forced a smile.

“If I give each of you a cookie, will you promise to be good?” she asked them.

Instantly, the three of them nodded. “Yes, Mama,” they said brightly, in unison.

Pinkie looked from one, to the other, to the other, and smiled. It was hard-- but those three silly little smiles...

Well. They made her remember why she tried so hard in the first place.

Pinkie let them go, then stood, reached up, and pulled down the cookie jar from the top of the refrigerator. She turned back around to see the three of them sitting in a row, smiling back up at her again. At the sight, a smile of her own flitted across her face.

She pulled the lid off the cookie jar, then gave one cookie to each of them. Waltzie took hers and immediately retreated to the corner. Her mane had grown in long, wavy and hot pink, and she tried to hide behind it, though she kept a careful eye on the rest of them. Waltzie, it seemed, had gotten a lot of Pinkie’s impulsiveness, but in all the wrong ways: it didn’t take much to make her mad, and, when she got out of sorts, she tended to stay that way for hours, if not days. She didn’t swing hard enough for her punches to really hurt, not yet, but Pinkie knew it was only a matter of time. She did so love to dance, though—even though she didn’t like to let anyone actually see…

Tango was next in line; he took his cookie with a “Thank you” and a satisfied little smirk. He trotted away, his dark, curly mane—curly, almost, as Pinkie’s used to be—bouncing as he did. He was smart, wicked smart; though he couldn’t read yet, he absolutely loved making Pinkie read the board books that Aunt Twilight still occasionally brought them, and he’d even started picking up the sounds the letters made. And, whenever the three of them got in trouble it was usually his idea. In fact, Pinkie realized with mixed irritation and pride, this had probably been his idea all along: to get her to get down the cookie jar herself.

“You little booger,” she said fondly under her breath.

Last was Foxtrot; she took her cookie in her mouth, then clambered up into her booster seat to eat it at the table. She was an odd one; she was shy, private, and proper, but could be quite the charmer when she wanted. More than once, Pinkie had just fallen apart for those big, green eyes of hers; thankfully, she hadn't realized her full potential yet. Her mane was short and brown, but she kept it back with a plastic hairband Pinkie had found somewhere on the cheap; she’d liked it so much, she'd even stolen the one Pinkie had bought for Waltzie. Of the three, Foxie was the closest to her Mama: she always liked to watch her work, though Pinkie had gotten fast enough with the bread that there wasn’t often much to see, and, whenever she had a quiet moment, Foxie would often as not appear from nowhere to snuggle up against her.

Pinkie let the three of them eat for a minute, then grabbed a cookie for herself and put the jar back on top of the fridge. “Come on, guys,” she said, “Mama’s got to get back to work.” She shooed the three of them out of the kitchen, and watched them scamper back down the hall to their shared bedroom. “And play nice, please!” she called after them.

“Oka-ay!” shouted Tango.

Pinkie took a bite of her cookie, then chewed thoughtfully as she walked back down to the bakery. She’d have to put a baby gate for the kitchen on the list… along with more baking trays, a bigger oven, a fresh tank of helium for all those balloons...

Comments

[Ice Star]

Evan as Foxie said it, Pinkie felt her heart sink; she knew it was a lie.

Minor typo.