Happy [RGRE, Bittersweet, Oneshot]

>You hear the knob on the front door turn and have just enough time to stop what you’re doing before it opens completely – thank goodness for that wobbly lock.
>A light blue mare steps through and sets her suitcase on the ground, her weary eyes brightening when she spots you standing in the kitchen.
>”Hey,” she says.
>Her voice sounds rough, scratchy.
“You’re a little early,” you respond, returning her pleasant look with one of your own as you cut yourself between her and the oven. “They let you off easy today, huh?”
>She turns to hang up her hat, but she can’t hide the fall of her expression in the coat rack.
>”Yeah,”she replies.
>She slowly removes her drizzle-speckled coat and hangs it, freeing her crumpled wings with a sigh.
>Several sky-colored feathers wiggle free from her raised appendages and hover gently onto the ground, creating an unusually sizeable pile for her efforts.
>Her eyes widen.
>”Oh—damn, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Dammit, you probably just… I’m sorry…”
>She stoops down to pick them up but pauses when you wave a hand at her.
“No no, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it later.”
>”No, you don’t have to do that. It’s my mess, it’s fine.”
>She already has two of them scooped into her hooves, and she’s moving to gather the rest.
>You smile at her.
“Dash, really. It’s fine, you don’t have to.“
>”Yes I do.”
>You chuckle softly.
“You really—“
>”It’s MY mess, Anon,” she cuts in suddenly, her volume jumping, “I need to clean up my own messes. You don’t have to-to…”
>Her face twists up and she stops, head sinking.
>After a moment of silence you put the small, empty box still clutched in your palm onto the kitchen table and cross the tiled floor to where she is.
>The two of you don’t talk about your part time job much – not after your first real discussion about it, at least.
>There wasn’t any more talk to be had in your opinion.
>Despite what she might prefer, the rent kept going up.
>It was only natural for you to chip in and help carry some of the loan.
>Even so, she fought you fiercely all the way, and in the end you only managed to haggle out a few hours at your local grocery store – significantly less then what she had to do every day.
>She still thinks about it, a lot.
>”You do too much…” she mutters as you kneel in front of her.
>You don’t answer, electing instead to help your wife collect the rest of her lost plumage into a small bundle.
>It takes no time at all, and once you’re done you collect her pile and add it to your own.
>Dash lets out a shaky sigh and runs a hoof through her vibrant mane, unwittingly freeing another wispy feather that had been caught in it.
>She curses in aggravation and scowls at it as it tumbles to the ground but doesn’t move to pick up, angry and drained.
>You reach out and gingerly pluck it, too, up off the ground.
>The small thing squeezed between your fingers was a much brighter shade at one point, almost neon.
>It had dulled considerably since then, and the fine stem that ran along the center had become worn in various ways – flaky and brittle from the stress.
>It snaps when you place it into the pile with the others.
“Long day?” you ask.
>She sighs again and rotates her withers, visibly trying to loosen up.
>”Yeah,” she replies.
“Are you okay?”
>Her impenetrable magenta eyes find yours and linger in them for a moment before turning away, fearful.
>Fearful that you might sink into them too deeply and notice how much she hates her new job.
>”Yeah,” she says after a moment, her tone artificially lightening as she laughs. “Just… haha… you know, the usual. Usual stuff…”
>She rises from the ground and dusts off her legs, filling her chest with a deep breath.
>You stand as well, crossing back through the kitchen to deposit her sheddings onto the counter in the corner.
“Dinner’ll be ready in a minute or two, I’ll meet you at the table?”
>You turn back and she nods.
“You want a cider?”
>She steps into the living room and slides one of the chairs out, taking her usual spot.
>After a moment of staring off into space, she turns to find you looking at her.
>”… Hm? What?”
>You smile and tilt your head at her, gesturing to the fridge.
”Do you want a cider?”
>”Oh…” she replies, distant.
>The cogs turn as she silently and surely lines up the bits in her head.
>After several moments of waiting you chuckle and shake your head, turning to crack open the icebox.
”I’ll get you a cider, sweetie.”
>Her lips turn up a bit when you place her drink onto the withered coaster in front of her.
>”Thanks Anon,” she whispers.
>You momentarily stay your return trip to the kitchen to peck her gently on the head and light the slender candle propped up on the table, brightening as much of the room as you needed for your meal.
>She cracks open the drink and takes her first grateful sip as you pull down two plates from the cupboard.
>You also hastily, if innocently as possible, discard the small colorful box you’d foolishly left out on the counter a moment ago.
>Some jar-scooping, bag-ruffling and toaster-popping later, you take the two plates, now full, and cross back into the living room to join your partner.
”Sorry if this is weird,” you say as you place her plate down. “I wanted it to be hot ‘cause… you know, ‘dinner’ an’ all.”
>She blinks, examining the toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich that now sat before her, along with the salty kettle-hay chips and baby carrots that came with it.
>”Is that… is that zap apple jam?”
“Yeah, that okay? Do you want something else?”
>”No no—I mean, this is…” she begins, putting her cider down to lift the sandwich into her hooves.
>Her eyes soften.
>”It’s my favorite…”
“Really?” you say matter-o-factly, flashing her a smile as you tap your lower lip with a finger, “interesting...”
>She snickers and shakes her head at you.
>”Thanks babe.”
“Mhm.”
>Feeling hungry yourself, you quickly take the seat of honor beside your wife and begin to eat.
>Feeling no unnecessary compunctions in the face of her specially-assembled meal, Dash eagerly digs in as well.
>The opening of your dinner is mostly chewing, but the two of you settle into some pleasant conversation when the portions start to dwindle.
>You talk about various things.
>About that song she couldn’t get out of her head, about that hole in your neighbor’s floor, or about old friends who’d called to see how the two of you were doing out ‘in the wilds’ of Manehattan.
>You talk about work, too.
>Just a little bit.
>She doesn’t tell you everything, and you don’t push.
>Dash has always been that sort.
>She bottles up, probably more than she should, but at the end of the day you know that she’ll tell you everything when she was ready – which she wasn’t.
>And that’s fine.
>The two of you have plenty of other things to talk about, and you do.
>When the two of you finish of your food, you return to the kitchen to divide another sandwich between you to share.
>With a little husband-tier temptation magic, you even manage to successfully peer-pressure her into a second cider – on the condition that the two of you share it.
>Your seconds wrap up in a flash, and eventually the two of you are sitting in silence beside each other, listening to the faint chirps of crickets and the occasional murmuring of sound through your dusky living room window.
>Though you’re quite content with the atmosphere you’ve created, eventually you notice the curl that’s started in Dash’s brow.
>Her eyes are pensive as she stares into the crumbs on her plate.
>Her foreleg remains outstretched and wrapped around her cider, but she isn’t drinking it anymore.
>”Hey… Anon?” she says after a while, keeping her eyes trained downward.
“Yes?” you reply.
>”Do you ever feel like… Uhm...”
>She hums and shuts her eyes.
>Both of her forelegs shift from the table and grind against each other in her lap as she tries to sort out the words.
>”Are you…ya’ know? Ahh… this is…”
“What?” you ask softly. “Am I… what?
>Her lips thin, her harshly thoughtful eyes straining into the tablecloth.
>”Nothing,” she mutters. “It’s nothing. Nevermind.”
“… nevermind?” you repeat, craning your neck to try and get her to look at you.
>”Nevermind,” she confirms.
>The discomfort you notice bubbling up on her face is a sure sign not to pry.
>So you don’t.
“Alright,” you say acquiescently, rising from your chair.
>She reaches out to collect her plate once she notices what you’re doing, but you’re too fast.
>You snatch it up along with your own and move with them back toward the kitchen.
“Dessert?” you ask quickly.
>She sags a little in her chair from having been bested so thoroughly in the race to the dishes.
>”Mmm… I’m okay.”
“You sure?” you say as you set your plates into the sink. “Not even a little bit of dessert?”
>You eye her keenly from across the room, focusing your mind-control powers.
”… not even a liiiiitle, teeny-tiny bit? Just a tiny little bit?”
>The light blue mare crinkles her snout in defiance, holding out for as long as she can before coughing out a chuckle.
>”You’re… getting a little too good at that, ya’ know?”
>You whip the faucet lever for hot water and drizzle some soap into the sink, donning a satisfied look.
>”Do we even ‘have’ dessert for you to tempt me with?” she jokes.
“Ohhh, I’m sure we have something around here…”
>While you busy yourself cleaning up the rest of dishes, Dash sits quietly at the table with her drink.
>She still isn’t getting much use out of it, though.
>Even though her plate is gone, she’s settled back into staring into the spot where it once was, lost in whatever thoughts she’d been having since you got home.
>You leave her to them, tidying the sparse few dishes quickly and drying your hands.
>The actions you take now are a touch subtler, a touch softer.
>You even quiet your footsteps on the linoleum as you pop open the right rear cupboard and fish out the tiny box you’d stashed there.
>The oven is popped open with much care and precision, and you kneel in front of it slowly so as not to catch her eye.
>You strike the match.
>She doesn’t turn; perfect.
>You work like lightning and hastily snuff out the burning stick, not over fond of your odds if she both heard AND smelled it for too long.
>You were probably being overly cautious.
>After all, you manage to get right up next to her without her noticing what’s in your hands.
>After a week of scheming, the momentary look of confusion that crosses the pegasus’ face as you set the large round tray in front of her is satisfying, to say the least.
>You grin at her warmly and snake a hand into her mane, stroking her head.
“Surprise.”
>Dumbfounded but dawning, Rainbow Dash peers between you and the double-layered, personalized blue cake.
>You don’t feel the need to tell her who it’s for; there’s a name on it.
>The soft light from the dozen-or-so colorful candles twinkle in her wide, beautiful eyes as she watches them burn.
>She fails to speak more than once, but you give her all the time she needs.
>”I-I… I didn’t… I completely…”
“Yeah… yeah I thought as much,” you reply. “I guess that’s what husbands are for…?”
>”Did you… did you ‘make’ this? For me?” she whispers. “I didn’t know you could…”
“I figured it out.”
>You comb your fingers down her mane and rest your hand between her wings, rubbing her gently on the back.
>The kiss you press against the base of her right ear lingers for just a moment, just long enough.
”I love you, sweetheart,” you whisper against the line of her hair. “Happy Birthday.”
>She blinks, speechless as she stares ahead.
>You smile, assuming she’s still taking things in.
>The hand you had on her back shifts left and is joined by your other on the right, each one gently molding her tensed withers.
“So… what do you think? Big piece, or a REALLY big piece?”
>Her joints hike under your massaging hands, and she trembles.
>Again she elects not to answer.
>Growing a little concerned, you tilt your head to try and get a look at her face.
>Her forehooves shoot up to cover it, blocking your view.
“Dash… ? What’s—?”
>Her body jerks, a hard sob forcing its way through her covered mouth.
>Your face instantly falls.
“Hey…” you whisper, moving to her side.
>A second sob breaks through, this one louder.
>Her body curls, and you can physically see how hard she’s trying to hold it back.
>But she can’t.
>Her third choked cry shatters her last defense and is followed swiftly by several more.
>This time it’s you who can’t manage to speak.
>A little blindsided by the event, you lean your leg and hip into her side, returning your hand to her mane to stroke her head, to remind her where she was and who was with her.
>She reacts in an instant, flashing you a look at her troubled swollen eyes before she buries them into your navel.
>”A-Anon,” she whines, muffled in your shirt. “Anon.”
“It’s okay,” you whisper back.
>She sobs again and wraps her forelegs rightly around your waist, squeezing as hard as she can.
>”Anon…”
“Shhhh.”
>She shakes and rubs her face into your hip, breathing hard as she tries to regain her composer in vain.
>Not overeager for her to rush through this, the hands you rest on the back of her neck and head pressure her to stay where she is.
>Not hard, but enough for her to understand.
>She stays with you for a while longer, crying more when she needs to.
>The strength of her embrace never lets up.
>She holds onto you for dear life the entire time, which is fine; there’s no place you’d rather be in this situation.
>Eventually her soft whines are replaced entirely by low, harsh breaths and deep-reaching sighs.
>Her weathered wings have stopped trembling and once again rest at her sides, only occasionally twitching through messy sniffles.
>You glide your hand, smoothing her work-tested mane back into its normal, clean part around her ear and down the side of her neck.
“… Are you okay?”
>Packaged with your words are a pledge, a silent promise should she answer ‘no’.
>Her eyes, bloodshot but mellow, slowly emerge from your shirt, the dark swirling pink of them melting into you.
>”Yes,” she murmurs, and this time is sounds like the truth. “I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
 >The faintest turn of a smile appears at the edge of her mouth before she hides it back in your shirt along with the rest of her face.
>”Mhmm…”
>A cautious smile worms its way onto your face as well.
“… Are you… still hungry?”
>She’s quiet, the feeling of her breath cooling your moist shirt standing in for her reply for a long while.
“It’s okay. I can put it in the fridge. Save it for tomorr—“
>”No,” she answers suddenly, pulling her head away from your hip. “No, it’s okay. I’m okay.”
>Now aware and vulnerable, she hesitantly draws her forelegs back and wipes her fetlocks across the corners of her eyes.
“You don’t have to force yourself. I won’t feel bad…”
>She shakes her head, reaffirming her reply.
>”I want some.”
>You smile at her and reach up to brush some moisture from her cheek with your thumb, earning you an appreciative look.
“Okay.”
>You cradle her face in your hand, enjoying the warmth in your palm until a thought occurs to you.
>Dreading, you turn toward the cake.
“Baby, the candles,” you say, “melting – uhh, the wax.”
>”W-What?” she replies, sniffling as she turns. “Oh. Ohhh! Oh crap! U-Uhh—”
>Her eyes widen and she takes a deep breath.
“Don’t forget to make a—“
>You cringe slightly as she blows, extinguishing both the candles on the cake and the one lighting the table in one tremendous try.
“Wish…” you finish sheepishly.
>Dash’s brow furrows then softens as she lets out a chuckle, sticking a hoof to her head in embarrassment.
>”Aw – heck… sorry babe,” she replies. “I’m just no good.”
“Not true,” you rebut as you carefully pluck the oozing candles from your dessert and set them onto the table.
>She chuckles again and sniffles hard in a final attempt to manage herself.
>”Guess it doesn’t matter…”
>Knowing what comes next, you turn and move toward the kitchen.
>You hear the rattle of a chair and the sound of hoofsteps following close behind you as you depart.
>The pegasus shadowing you presses into your side as she rises onto her back legs to claim the long knife from the dish drainer – you take a single large plate and fork.
>She practically sticks to you on the return trip as well, and eagerly carves the two of you a mare-sized slab of cake.
>She takes the cake, you grab her half-empty cider, and before long the two of you are nestled close on the couch listening to the radio.
>Dash, plastered into your side and half-laying on you as you slouch, enjoys what’s left of her drink as the two of you eat.
>The radio crackles, and the Weather Mare talks about something.
>The radio hums, and the Showmare sings about something.
>The sounds blend together in the back of your mind as you scoop pieces of sugary frosted treat and gingerly slip them into her mouth, then your own, savoring the rare taste of freshly-made cake.
>Dash frequently gazes at you affectionately through lidded eyes, her shared warmth swimming through your body and warding away the cool evening temperature.
>Before long the two of you finish up and lie fully onto the couch, leaving your dish on the coffee table nearby.
>Cleanup could wait until tomorrow.
>Right now your entire world was the rise and fall of your partner’s chest, the soft strum as she lived and breathed atop you.
>You ridge your fingers around the shell of her ear like she likes, and she nuzzles her cheek against your chest in appreciation.
“You got some letters, you know. From the girls back home.”
>”Mmmm….”
“I hid them behind our dresser. Do you want me to go get’em?”
>”Mm-mm…”
>Her right wing sags as you massage the pit, gliding your fingers along the once taught and tense sinew.
>Deep, dreamy magenta eyes are trained on your face, unwavering, blinking only when they need to.
>You give her a warm look, dipping your head to peck her on the lips.
“You know… I just realized…”
>”Mmm?”
>”What with you working so hard lately, being so sweet – and being the birthday girl, no less…”
>”Mhmm…?”
>You hope your mellow expression and the low light doesn’t hamper the passionate and unmistakable look you flash her.
>Judging by the stir you feel in her wing cuff, you assume she gets the message behind your bedroom eyes.
“… I think your chances are pretty good tonight…”
>She blinks at you, and her lips curl upwards.
>After a moment she closes her eyes and rests her temple on your chest.
>”Yeah…?” she replies.
“Yeah.”
>She chuckles and then hums thoughtfully.
“Curtains are closed.”
>”Mmhmm.”
“Lights are off…”
>”Mmmm…”
>You lower your hand to her left wing, mirroring your actions on the right.
>She sighs, and her eyelids flicker.
>Before long the quick swell of her chest becomes slow and steady, her rubbery limbs sinking completely at your sides.
>She mumbles something.
>Something about love, and you hear your name.
>She goes quiet after that, unmoving, unthinking.
>You follow her, little by little.
>Your mind wanes, your muscles slack.
>Your eyes close, and then open.
>Close and then open.
>Close…