Chapter 37
The air reeked of vinegar, dill, but the other faint aromas were lost to the scent of brine. A pickle eating contest was soon to begin and registration was still open. Registration cost a few bits—a pittance, really—and all of the money collected went towards charitable causes. Sniffing, Copperquick looked down at Buttermilk beside him, and realised that he very much wanted to watch her eat pickles.
It was too late to back down; the lewd floodgates had been opened in their relationship and the bell could not be unrung. He’d given her a case of the shudders several times over; being the proper Grittish gentlepony that he was, he had apologised for it, because that is what one did after causing another to go crosseyed and lose control over their ability to reason.
It didn’t hurt that Buttermilk was fantastically cute when she had the shudders.
All that slurping, crunching, lip smacking; the more he thought about it, the more appealing it was. Buttermilk was an enthusiastic eater. She could be delicate, sure, and she had impeccable manners when the situation demanded them. But she was also a competitive, fierce, pint-sized pegasus scrapper with a lot of pent-up aggression.
“Oi, Copper, what’s with the staring at my Beezy?”
With an almost guilty gasp, he jerked his head around and attempted to look as respectful as possible. Butter Fudge was giving him quite a look, one he was unfamiliar with and couldn’t read. Now Buttermilk was also looking up at him, smirking, but also a little embarrassed, no doubt because her mother had just caused a fuss.
“Tell me, Copper… were you just thinking about my sweet girl eating pickles?”
He needed to find some way to deny it or shift attention to something else. “Uh—”
“Aye, that’s funny. What a bloody pervert, having those thoughts about my beloved Beezy wrapping her lips around a pickle.”
“Well,” Copper began, thinking fast on his hooves, “I wasn’t having that thought until you mentioned it. But now that you’ve brought it up…”
For a moment, nothing happened, and Copperquick tensed, fearing that the situation had soured. But then Butter Fudge brayed with boisterous laughter; her whole body shook with it, with her ears bobbing up and down from it. Buttermilk’s face turned pink, then red, then a deep shade of purple associated with eggplants, royalty, sunrises, and sunsets.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the laughter stopped, and narrowing her eyes, Butter Fudge focused a hard, hard stare upon her daughter. “Beezy… I bet that I can eat more pickles than you can.”
Mighty Midge’s ears pricked up straight and his head tilted off to one side as he shot his mate a quizzical look. Copperquick wondered if Mighty Midge shared similar thoughts. Who wouldn’t want to watch a mare eat pickles? All of Mighty Midge’s feathers now stood out and the diminutive stallion appeared to have doubled in size.
Mighty Midge was in a tough spot, Copperquick realised. He was going to get to watch his wife eat pickles, which was delightful. But he would also watch his daughter eat pickles while another stallion ogled her. Copperquick knew it for what it was; a dad dilemma. Being a father himself, he immediately sympathised with Mighty Midge. This was officially awkward.
“Moomy… really—”
“What’s the matter, Beezy? You ain’t got the stones?”
A terrifying, terrific transformation took place and Buttermilk became the scary pint-sized pegasus that Copperquick so feared. “Oh, it’s on, old mare! I was trying to spare you from embarrassment, you addle-headed geriatric granny.”
When Butter Fudge’s eyes narrowed into paper thin slits, Copperquick’s blood ran cold.
“I’ll make you eat those words, feather duster. Go on, sign up.”
Buttermilk made a sweeping gesture with her wing. “Age before beauty. After you, you gobby old gabber.”
“So be it, you tart-tongued cuss. Let’s settle this like mares.”
One had to be careful what one wished for, lest one suddenly get it. What had started with a passing bit of fancy—a daydream—had become a curious situation of social awkwardness. Not only was Copperquick getting a chance to watch Buttermilk eat pickles, but also his future mother-in-law as well.
These were not regular pickles, but the sourest of pickles—a part of the challenge. Copperquick knew by looking at them that about five or six pickles made a pound. These were bumpy-lumpy pickles, fat at one end, a bit narrower at the other, and from the looks of them, would be a real challenge to eat. Just the smell was enough to get one’s eyes a bit watery.
“Quite a pickle we’re in, Copper,” Mighty Midge remarked with casual aplomb while squaring his wings against his sides. “I’m going to guess that the moment you saw or smelled the pickles, you had the same thoughts about my little Beezy that I did about Fudgy.”
“Speaking as one father to another, does it bother you that I’m with Buttermilk?” Copperquick focused upon Mighty Midge and did his best to read the pegasus’ expression, in case his face didn’t match his response.
“Everything is fine now, I have a replacement to protect and fawn over. She left the nest and returned with something wonderful.” Reaching out with one wing, he touched Esmeralda’s cheek, which caused the filly to giggle. “Honestly though, just so long as Beezy is happy. I knew that one day, sooner or later, she’d spread her wings and leave. It’s the way of things.”
Some of the awkwardness abated, but not much.
“So is this normal? Buttermilk and Butter Fudge, I mean. They seem competitive.”
“Oh”—Mighty Midge’s head bobbed up and down—“perfectly normal.”
When nothing else seemed forthcoming, Copperquick decided not to press the issue further. Esmeralda bounced in her carrier, but she wasn’t quite as energetic as she had been earlier. If anything, she seemed to be slowing down. He was going to have to run soon and already, the day felt long.
“Among us pegasus ponies, competition is natural. It’s like breathing to us. Everything is sport. Quite literally everything.” Midge gave himself a little shake, smiled a somewhat sad smile, and gazed into Esmeralda’s eyes. “Fudgy wanted to connect with her daughter in some meaningful way, so I told her to get competitive. They got competitive, alright. Look, I know it sounded terrible a bit ago, but I assure you, they’re good sports about this. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It was our attempt at being multicultural as well as multi-tribal.”
“Want to hold her? Carry her for a while?” Though Copperquick already knew the answer to his query, he asked anyway.
“I’d love to,” Mighty Midge replied with the same perky enthusiasm that Buttermilk had. “I’d like that a lot.”
Buttermilk Oddbody had one magnificent pickle pucker. A bell had rung and now, the contestants had five minutes to eat as many pickles as equinely possible. The only drink allowed? Only the finest, sourest pickle brine. Quite a number of pregnant mares were present and this gave Copperquick all manner of anxiety, wondering if Buttermilk was secretly among their number.
Esmeralda held no interest in watching others eat pickles, but was content to sit in the grass with Mighty Midge. She made no effort to get away, no attempt to run. The little filly sat with her face pointed towards the sun, her eyes mostly closed, and a rather serene smile could be seen upon her face. Copperquick hoped that this was a sign of what she would mature into, a quiet, serene sort, content to let the sun shine down upon her. That would be ideal.
It was curious how one’s imagination could be captured by another. Copperquick only had eyes for Buttermilk; it was as if life had fuzzed over, gone blurry, and she was the only thing he saw with any sort of clarity. She was good to him, loving him when doing so was difficult, challenging, and she stayed with him through the hard times. He owed her the best parts of himself and while he watched her scarfing down pickles, his mind thought of the race to come.
The very best that he had to offer would mean winning the race.
It weighed on his mind that he was no longer a singular individual; rather, he was part of a collective whole with Buttermilk and Esmeralda. This became a poignant moment, one of those defining milestones that existed in life that once crossed, meant maturity. He’d been resistant to change, mired in who and what he once was. What had happened to him? Once, he had crossed the sea searching for a new life and then… he had settled, in a sense.
Sighing, he thought of his plans to be perfectly adequate and average, a well-respected pony. Being exceptional meant that demands were frequently made of you. But if one kept one’s head down and one held one’s self to middling mediocrity, one never had to feel the stresses or pressures of exceptionality. He had aspired for averageness and then had become a pony satisfied in sameness.
All of this was fine, but Buttermilk was exceptional in every conceivable way.
She was putting up quite a fight, that tiny, pint-sized pegasus. She looked like a filly among mares—doubly so with the stout draught earth ponies—but was as equally ferocious. Her mother was easily twice her size and this posed a real pickle of a problem with the pickles in that said pickles were proportionally larger for Buttermilk than they were for her mother, Butter Fudge. This meant that poor Buttermilk had to work twice as hard to accomplish what her mother did with ease.
Butter Fudge made whole pickles vanish in a single chomp, while Buttermilk had to take two or three bites in quick succession. The sourness of the pickles made it difficult to open one’s mouth, which meant the pucker-factor was in play. Buttermilk, being smaller, had a tiny mouth, which meant the pucker-factor hit her harder and she had to strive against shrinkage.
Copperquick admired her fighting spirit and knew that her small, diminutive size put her at odds with the world. Buttermilk had little-pony syndrome and she was a scrapper just looking for her next big fight. This applied to every aspect of her life, from the love of her chosen profession, fighting the good fight, and yes, even in the bedroom. No challenge was too big.
The hummingbird pegasus ponies—very much like the hummingbirds they were compared with—were pint-sized powerhouses. Fierce, mostly fearless, aggressive poofy pygmies of feathers and fluff that were just a bit flighty—and as Copperquick was discovering, made ideal mates. Mood could be adjusted with sugar, which meant variety. A mare with a range of moods, Buttermilk could go from excitable to somber, as the situation demanded.
Emotional, Copperquick’s feelings overwhelmed him. He remembered how things were when he was still a wee colt. Memories of home flitted through his mind like a too-fast slideshow. The sting of tears caused his vision to double, then blur a bit as his first real memories all came back to him in a flood.
“I miss me mum,” he murmured aloud.
Gone was his refined accent, the very thing that afforded him a chance to have a better life. Stepping onto the docks, he had immediately tried to mimic the Equestrians around him. Here, a pony could be anything they wanted and Copperquick was desperate to be something other than he was. His reasons became whatever he could think of at the moment, but over time, something almost like a narrative had formed.
What would his mother, Banoffee Pie say if she saw him now? Almost weepy eyed with remembrance? She might comfort him—there was a chance of that—or she might clobber him upside his head and tell him to shake it off. Life in Liverypool left her hard. The sooty, dirty factory town had a way of wearing the life right out of a pony. Grey skies. Constant rain. Dead grass that barely grew, barely even existed because every available inch was paved over or had a row house constructed upon it, if not a factory.
He had been in such a hurry to leave—to flee the oppressive greyness. The endless factory rows. Such was life in Liverypool; the very first of the row houses were built against the factory walls and then spread outwards like great, grasping fingers. Streets were narrow, hardly ever wider than two wagon’s width, because it was important to pack in as much population as possible.
Esmeralda would know wide open spaces.
Copperquick had run from such oppressive claustrophobia and he felt it now. He felt that hated sense of confinement returning. That feeling of being trapped, with all of his life’s choices all lined up in neat little rows, with all choices little more than illusions. Oi, Copper, of course ye’ll have fine options right here at home, his mother had said not long before he left. Ye get ta choose what side of the street ye live on… odd or even. Says a lot about a pony if they choose odd. A respectable pony choses even, d’ye ken?
“Copper?”
The sound of Mighty Midge’s voice jolted Copperquick from his thoughts.
“Copper, are you okay? You have this thousand-yard stare. Like what they talk about in the newspapers.”
“I miss me mum,” he said again.
Mighty Midge’s ears leveled out over his eyes like tiny, fuzzy sun visors. For a moment, his face was stoic, emotionless, but then his eyes changed in a way that could not be described. He looked around, his gaze going right, left, right once more and then left again. He started to say something, his mouth fell open, but after his jaw opened and closed once, only silence could be heard. Whatever words of reassurance or comfort might have been spoken were left unsaid.
“What am I doing?” Copperquick shook his head. “I need to pull myself together. I have a race to run. Esme is counting on me. I don’t need to lose my nerve right now.”
“That’s right, Copper.” Mighty Midge offered up a nod of approval. “Steady on. I think that’s how Fudgy puts it. Steady on. Eyes forward. Right then.”
Stats
Page generated in 0.021 seconds
Total duration
824 users online
556,636 hits today, 1,872,792 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
I can feel the sourness through text. Oof.
Copper is in a pickle~!
Banoffee Pie Has Pinkie met her at this point?
Mmmm, pickles.
9206700
He's a Pie, Pies all over the place. Blackbird in Eigengrau's a Pie, too. They've got a few different pie-related family names, but all Pies.
Hummingbird pegasi are the best.
9206601
That's.... I can't. I could not do that.
9206700
9207064
SHE is a Pie. Banoffee Pie is Copper's mum.
9207689
... Yes, and by dint of having a Pie for a mother, Copper himself is a Pie.
9207732
Pies are kinda known for being magical in nature...
9171751
I used to do it all the time as a kid! Syrup is great!
9207732
Indeed. As is his daughter, Esme. Makes me wonder if Copper will meet Pinkie sometime in his life, eh?
oh dear I hope this "Your Past" fellow isn't taking part in the race! I'm rooting for Copper something fierce