Spike's Routine Daydream
Spike’s puny legs were about to buckle onto the newly waxed library floor.
Twilight Sparkle asked him earlier to retrieve an astronomic quantity of textbooks from the first floor and bring them all back to her study for diligent inspection. Spike—being the attentive character he had always been—went to work immediately.
He was offered aid by both Twilight herself as well as her other more soft-spoken assistant, Owlouwicious. Spike refuted both of them. Even after they insisted on carrying a fraction of the encumbrance he remained stubborn as a mule. The baby dragon tried to alleviate their worry with a few confident quips combined with a small, cocksure smile.
He rationalized that customarily picking up all of the books one-by-one wasted too much time; and using his transportation magic was quote: “The easy way out.”
This was the reason why he didn’t spew magic fire at anything unless the trip would take too long—it was his choice, nothing more and nothing less. Although, after carrying it all to the stairs he was having second thoughts about his headstrong decision.
What the prodigy’s assistant was attempting to do, however, was not force labor. Somewhere deep down Spike felt he needed to fulfill Twilight’s bidding. Tis’ was a fact burned down into his very core, branding him as her responsibility for life. He would be no liability, no burden placed upon his foster mother’s shoulders. Twilight was, without a doubt, the most capable pony in Ponyville. So of course, Spike was going to be the greatest assistant that had ever been hatched on Equestria’s divine plains, or break his back trying.
However, There were some periods of time where Twilight would have everything she needed and Spike’s help wasn’t required. When Spike didn’t have anything to commit to during his free time he usually slept. For him, sleep was simple and easy—like turning off a light. Practice made perfect after all.
He dozed off mainly for the sake of work in the morning, but also because of the infinitely expanding ocean of imagination that was his mind. His dreams were always very vivid and nine times out of ten he was lucid during them. And when he was lucid… strange happenings were sure to unfold. Occurrences, or rather specific events he had total control over. And should he ever daydream his focus would instantly shift to that instead of the task at hoof. Like the Pinkie Sense, it was better for everypony not to question his lack of concentration when he was tired. If they ever knew… some very, very unpopular opinions of him would materialize.
The cargo put a palpable amount of strain on the baby dragon’s meager body weight, and the path from the library’s main lobby to the second floor was a hazardous one. It looked almost as if Spike was trying to balance three barrels of apple cider at once. Despite all this, the dragon trudged on one step at a time.
Peewee circled the purple dragon like a vulture that had found a lone manticore carcass—Spike shot a reprimanding glance at the infant phoenix in response. Peewee innocently perched himself upon the tower of anthologies, totally oblivious to the catastrophe he was about to cause below. The extra weight tossed around the dragon’s inadequate stature with ease.
Spike disdained the beads of sweat oozing from his scales. Briskly wiping his face on the novels’ spines, he let out a weary grunt when he saw the slight damage he’d caused.
“Y’know what?” He gritted his teeth and glared at Peewee with annoyance etched in his face. “This’d be way easier if you went and played with Owlowiscious instead of me.”
Peewee must have had a natural instinct for timing. For as soon as Spike had adjusted his form and reached his small leg toward the last of the insane plight of stairs, Peewee launched.
Spike yelped as he leant forward to his demise. He only had time to curse, “Horse apples,” before he collapsed. The spine of the book that had been right in front of his eyes rebounded off of the tread of a stair and successfully T-boned with his forehead.
Somehow, for every single solitary step on the way down, Spike would perpetually hit his skull each and every single time. Every nosedive led into a midair backflip, which in turn led to another face plant, a cycle of pain that rolled on like a tire that was pushed down a steep hill.
Spike flipped over eight times in a row before he abruptly came to a halt halfway down the stairwell.
Spike moaned pitifully, his nose flattened on a wooden step and one of his arms dangling off at the side, he was barely conscious. The dragon couldn’t think at all, the closest feeling he could liken it too was being held deep underwater by somepony. Spike’s brain didn’t hurt or ache; it felt… numb—like a limb that fell asleep. Motor skills abolished, inability to think clearly, a sleepy aura, definitely a concussion.
“Peewee,” the crippled egomaniac sighed. “Why?”
Peewee euphorically preened himself on the step above the paralyzed baby dragon.
It was strange how the infant phoenix so perfectly contradicted Spike’s idea of dreams. His dreams fortified themselves whenever Spike wanted them too, and Peewee accompanied him whenever he didn’t want him too.
Whenever daylight coaxed him away from his slumber, the crestfallen Spike mourned for the vapid illusions. And yet whenever Peewee left the premises he became elated. But while most of these factors pointed to Spike hating Peewee, this couldn’t be further from the truth. The phoenix was unpredictable, an ostentatious myriad of bright, warm colors that brought even more meaning to every waking day.
Mental images were fake and insipid.
So Peewee’s betrayal was merely for his own amusement, and Spike was completely aware of this.
To the latter’s dismay, Owlouwicious quickly joined Peewee. Spike sent a reproachful glare at the big-eyed owl, which friskily placed a talon on his side with his own impish eagerness.
“Et tu, Owlouwicious?”
Spike’s Brutus tapped his sternum just enough to send the poor baby dragon packing.
He rolled on and on while judiciously mumbling obscene curses at himself. Blow after blow Spike scowled dazedly.
“At least the stairwell will end soon,” he thought.
Finally, a nest of books awaited his descent, providing about as much cushioning as a heap of bricks.
Twilight Sparkle had the decency to levitate him away from the imminent danger.
“Spike!” the lavender filly exclaimed. “I told you not to get all of it by yourself! For the love of Celestia, how could you possibly think bringing all of them down at the same time would cause anything but this? I’m a bit disappointed.”
She gave an exasperated sigh before magically attaching a large bag of ice to Spike’s cranium. Twilight stacked the books in a nice, orderly fashion and slid them aside. She suspended her assistant in the air for a moment and willed a couch to position itself in front of her chest.
“Well… I guess there’s no use yelling at you now. I mean you learned your lesson, right?” she said candidly. “Let’s get you back in business, tell me what hurts.”
Spike had entered another realm, the brink of consciousness, somewhere in-between mind and reality. Twilight’s voice was a distant echo, and her body was blurred and barely perceptible.
He was surrounded by a perfect halo of miniature phoenixes chirping giddily at him. Spike shook his head frantically, striving to shoo the avian nuisances away.
Twilight’s assistant lazily drifted his eyes over the mare’s alluring body. Her voluptuous hooves massaging the ice pack on his forehead, her gorgeous violet mane with that endearing pink stripe in it—her eyes that seemed to read him like a book.
“Oh Twilight,” he aired. “You’re truly one of the most astounding mares in Equestria. Your proficiency in magic exceeds the majority of this world’s unicorns! When I was but an egg you released me from my premature prison and took this crying bundle of joy into your care without hesitation. After all we’ve gone through, you must already have some sort of notion as to how I feel about you—my dearest Twilight! But alas, my heart belongs to fair Rarity!”
Throughout his extended speech the delusional juvenile committed to some ridiculous Shakespearean act. He held his pounding chest with one claw whilst the other reached out to the recipient of his rambling. Tears rapidly streamed down his cheeks like a waterfall and cascaded onto the floor with great force.
“You’re like a sister to me,” he reiterated. “You understand, don’t you?” A warm palm delicately pressed itself against Twilight’s cheek.
The steward of the library blinked slowly. “Spike… did you hit your head on the way down those stairs?” she growled. “You’re acting like a handicapped changeling that just discovered its perplexing love for poetry.”
“I’m glad we can still be friends!” The relieved fantasist smiled warmly. Spike deserted the baffled librarian, eyes wide and resolute. “Now my friend, we shall continue our work once more.” He seized a spatula from the kitchen and fashioned a large steel bowl on his head as if it were a knight’s helmet. “I’m off!”
“Where are you going?” Twilight scoffed.
“This shouldn’t come as a surprise to you,” he scolded earnestly. “We do the same thing every day! I’m going to scout the area for the undead while you stay back here and take care of the stronghold.” He squinted his eyes. “Are you okay twilight? You’re acting really weird…”
“What are you raving about?” the addressed pony railed. She opened her mouth to respond to his inept, stupid question but found herself at a loss for words.
“Shhhhhhhhhh…” He put a nail up to her lips. “It’s okay Twilight, I’ll always be right here anyways.” The idiot touched her chest, not really where her heart was but obviously he was unaware of that.
Twilight shirked his sentiment and pointed at the door. “Spike, you’re day-dreaming to the extreme.” She elaborated plainly. “You’re going to be chastised for your outfit and everypony’s going to remember it. If you stop right now I’ll never tell a soul and your dignity might be spared.”
“Yeah right Twilight! Stop kidding around, everypony’s been dead for years now. Don’t you see?” he queried with a self-righteous laugh. “There’s nopony out there!” Spike flung open the door and bolted outside like a bullet and left the door behind him. Grass swept up from the trail he made in the ground.
Twilight rolled her eyes and started the countdown. “Three… two… one.”
She heard sneers, bellows of laughter, jests and insults from all over Ponyville. From fillies, colts, stallions and mares everypony got a good look at him. Somehow she vividly heard each and every one of them, as if in sequence with each other, no single pony yelling over another.
“HA! DOES THAT IDIOT HAVE A BOWL ON HIS HEAD?”
“IS THAT A SPATULA?”
“YOU MISSED HALLOWEEN KIDDO!”
“HE’S A KNUCKLEHEAD-McSPAZATRON!”
“EAT A SACK O’ POOP YA PURPLE PIECE O’ CRAP!”
“I HOPE YOU GET CANCER!”
Spike trudged back into the library, defeated. A frown plastered on his visage. Everything was coming back to the poor baby dragon.
“Hey buddy.” Twilight greeted motherly. “You okay?”
“…No.” he replied with a lame sniffle.
“Want Some Ice Cream?”