Just Deserts [RGRE, OC]

>The rear door suddenly pops open and you scramble to toss your lit cigarette onto the ground and smother it.
>A familiar grey mare in a dark black clerical robe slides out into the opening and turns to find you there, your foot splayed to the side awkwardly to hide your deed.
>”Oh! Anonymous, I didn’t know you were here,” she says, surprised.
“Uh, yep,” you say, nodding, “just, uh, gettin’ a little fresh air before I head in.”
>She smiles, but you don’t miss the way her snout begins to wiggle.
>You cough and slide your foot back into a less suspicious position at your side, hoping that your little friend came along with it.
“You just getting started with the drive?”
>She peers at you for a moment before reaching back through the door and yanking a black garbage bag through the arch.
>”Mmhm,” she hums in a chipper manner, “that nice young mare from Sweet Apple Acres just came in with the surplus. I was about to set up the tables.”
>The little pony grunts as she heaves the bag of junk up over her head and tosses it into the large black bin on the other side of the back stoop.
>She places a hoof on the lid like she’s about to close it up, but she doesn’t, glancing back at you instead.
>You smile at her, taking in her expectant look artlessly.
>She grins back and shakes her head.
>”Littering isn’t a sin,” she says, “but that other habit of yours is swinging a little close to gluttony – in my professional opinion, of course.”
>You peer at her dumbly for several seconds before chuckling and pulling back your foot to pick your dead butt up off the ground.
“I was gonna’ throw it away…” you mutter as you approach the can.
>”After I was gone, I’m sure.”
“Yeeeeesss, after you were gone,” you whine.
>She looks pleased with herself as you toss the tiny roll into the dumpster.
>”All the kids think they can pull a fast one on old, uncool miss Rosary, but they never factor her IRON NOSE into the equation!” she says, jamming a hoof at her snout.
>”This old gal was BUILT to sniff out the misdeeds of troubled youths!”
“Ohhhh, I’m a ‘troubled youth’ now, am I? And is that BRAGGING I hear?”
>You smirk at her as the two of you close in on the back door.
“Sounds an aaaawful lot like Pride – in my unprofessional opinion.”
>The mare scoffs and slaps a hoof against her breast, jiggling the moon-and-sun pendant hanging around her neck.
>”Unprofessional is right! After all, I’m not lauding my own talents – quite the opposite! I’m merely acknowledging the wisdom and grace that Our Lady Faust demonstrated in creating me to serve her good will so expertly,” she proclaims.
>”Perk of being a part of the clergy, young stallion; I know ALL the loopholes.”
>You snort, a wave of genuine laughter rippling up from your chest.
>She twists her face in an effort to hold back but cracks up with you all the same.
>After she’s had her fill she takes a tall breath and regains most of her composure, turning to you.
>”Well, you coming in?”
>She taps the back door with her leg and a long sliver of old, dry, blue paint slips off the crumbling door.
>She doesn’t even notice.
>”After we were done doling out the food, me and the girls were going to break out miss P’s old playing cards,” she says, the excitement already present in her eyes.
“Oh yeah?” you say, “Found the ones you were missing?”
>The grey mare deflates slightly.
>”Well… no,” she replies, “but that’s okay.”
>She shrugs and beams up at you.
>”Don’t need all the cards to play Go-Fish. Heck, that just makes it more exciting!”
>The two of you laugh again and finally step inside the building, setting out immediately to complete the task you were assigned.
>The Monday Mass goes as well as it always does.
>A scant handful of ponies pass into the church, file quietly into the old, creaky pews, hoof through the dingy pamphlets and listen to Miss Rosary’s ‘Moon’ portion of the two-day weekly sermon.
>At the end of mass, the less well-off ponies – which is to say, most of them – walk through the rear of the building to the back.
>The group lines up, and one by one receives the surplus food donations that the church managed to scrounge together this week.
>They collect what they can, exchange pleasantries with the sisters, and then leave.
>You were a little short again this week, so not all of the ponies could get what they needed.
>They rarely fault any of you for it, though, never raise any trouble or anything.
>’Maybe next time’ they say, and head off to do their business.
>When all non-staff have gone, you and the sisters (but mostly you and Rosary) trot around the building and do your best to spruce things up.
>Clear away cobwebs, sweep and mop, fix serious structural issues with duct tape – that sort of thing.
>Come three o’clock, Rosary and the other sisters kindly usher you to the front door to give you your pay for the week.
>Rosary counts out each every single Bit closely and in front of you.
>The coin is sparse around the church, sure, but that isn’t the reason she does it.
>She does it purely for your sake, to make sure you get everything she thinks you’re owed.
>The little mare in her patchwork black robes hands you the money without a single hint of regret or hesitation in her eyes, every single week like clockwork.
>The measures you’ve started taking to return her the funds in one way or another are getting extravagant, as are the COUNTERMEASURES the crafty minister has begun to employ to nullify your efforts.
>You don’t even try to give everything back; that’s the worst part.
>You need the money badly, just about as much as they do.
>Whether it’s the sparsity of work, your species, your gender, or just your shit personality – you don’t know – but steady employment has been hard to come by.
>The odd jobs you’ve managed to snag all over town are helping make ends meet, but that’s just about all you do.
>There isn’t any wiggle room for maintenance at your place, let alone replacements or, dare you even think the words, recreational spending.
>Your current budget only flies if you categorize your dangerous nicotine addiction as ‘food’.
>Things used to be worse.
>But the sisters were always there for you, looking out for you when you needed it most.
>Hell, you used to LIVE with them before you got started renting your little hole in the wall on 3rd.
>Working with them for so long probably gave you a lot of credibility in the ‘not going to murder you and then drain you of your life fluids’ department with the townsfolk.
>Their kindness and understanding might actually be why you’re still alive right now – with a door to lock and a bed to sleep in, no less.
>For all those reasons and more do you find yourself in the same place every start of the week, helping with whatever they needed you for.
>By the time the next Sunday morning rolls around you’re out of your bed bright and early, preparing to head back in.
>This time you’re smarter about it, though.
>You get your morning death stick sorted ON THE WAY, instead of once you get there, saving you time and protecting you from any waggling hooves.
>You enter the church from the alley door like usual, greet the ladies, set up the space donation food for easy dispersal, and play about in the background while Rosary wraps up her sermon.
>When the usuals finally start lining up to collect their pittance, you’re surprised to see Rosary waving you in from a side door, attempting to usher you closer.
“Uhh, alright… can you ladies, uhh?” you trail off as you roll up your apron and gesture at the waiting ponies.
>The other sisters, most of whom were senior to Rosary by literal decades, wave you off without a second thought.
>”Go on dear,” Prim Patience warbles out through her old mare shakes, “we’ve got everything taken care of.”
>”Exceptin’ who’s gonna wear that cute little apron now that you’re gone,” Miss Cauliflower chuckles out in what is probably the closest thing to racy joke that any of the tame mares could muster; Miss P. gives her the eye for it, too.
>You roll your eyes and leave them with the congregation, quickly crossing the room and slipping through the side door to meet Rosary on the other side.
>”We’ve got a bit of a problem…” she says the moment she sees you, “I’m sorry to do this to you, but I really need a hoof this time.”
>You wave a hand at her apologetic expression, hoping to ease her mind.
“Don’t sweat it, what do you need?”
>She scuffs her hooves on the ground.
>”Well, uh… you know those two young boys from last week? The ones who were going to volunteer for school credit?”
>’Dim, lots of cologne, limp-wristed, big hair’ – your brain checks off in remembrance.
“Yeah, what about ’em?”
>”They just called in sick. Both of’em did, just now. At the same time…” she says, frowning at the ground. “in the same phone call...”
>You return her an unhappy grumble at the news, allowing her to continue.
>”I was gonna have them out front today. You know, selling those donated cookies we got from the mayor?” she says, and you nod.
>”But now we’re a little low on hooves, and I was wondering if maybe you’d step in for them?”
>She flashes you a troubled but hopeful smile, one you return instantly.
“Definitely,” you reply, “let’s get started. Where we going, what’re we doing?”
>A look of relief crosses her face.
>”O-Oh! Uhh, well, it’ll just be out front. We got the cookies and tables all ready, we just gatta’ carry’em out there. Prices and such are taped to the table already.”
>She turns to walk down the hall, beckoning you to follow her.
>”There’s, uh, there’s one more thing…” she adds hesitantly.
>You trot up to match her pace and peer at her inquisitively.
>”We appreciate everything you do for us here, Anonymous,” she says, grinning up at you, “us and the congregation both. But, uh, well, seein’ as this is gonna be something official that our ‘organization’ is taking part in with the mayor, we were gonna have those boys dress the part, if you follow?”
>She motions to her old black robe and realization dawns on you.
“Ohh, you want me to wear…?”
>”Yes, just this once,” she clarifies, “just so that the folks who aren’t usual faces around here get the idea that it’s for the church right off the bat, you know? If you don’t want to it’s okay. I won’t force you or anything,”
>The little mare searches your face for a moment, cautious, even if there wasn’t much need.
>You weren’t exactly the spiritual sort back home, and you’re pretty sure they have an inkling of that fact, but you didn’t mind suiting up.
>If anything you enjoyed the thought.
>Made you feel a little more like ‘part of the gang’.
>You express those thoughts to her on the way to the broom closet.
>”You… you sure? You don’t mind?” she asks.
>You shake your head and the little mare breathes a sigh of relief, even gains a little hop to her step.
>Once you reach your destination she throws open the small door, pushes some mops aside, and yanks a beat-up cardboard box out to inspect.
>Inside it are various bits and bobs of clothing and other such religious garments, most of which you’ve never seen before.
>She brushes most of them aside to get at the bundle of black robes at the very bottom, pulling one out for you to see.
>it’s similar to the ones that she and the other sisters wear, but with a few specific differences.
>They’re longer for a start.
>The ‘gowns’ cover much more of the body overall, both especially around hips and front limbs.
>There are additional pieces clothes-pinned to the main body for ease of packing and keeping them together, and the extra items consist of rarely-seen pony-pants, and something that looks suspiciously like a Nun’s habit.
>”We’ve had these old things boxed up for almost two generations! You know, in case we got any boys on the team.”
>You smile a wary smile and lift one of the hoods up to examine it.
“Yeah, they kinda’… look like they’re from a few generations past…”
>Rosary flashes you a confused look before turning back to the clothing.
>”Whaddaya’ mean?” she says, “These are pretty much identical to the newer ones by my knowledge…”
>She cocks her head, examining the robe portion more closely.
>”Might be a snug fit, though. You are on the big si-si—aye-aye-aye, ooo, okay! Stop talking Rosary....”
>She hastily shakes her head.
>”What… what was I saying? Can’t remember. Ehehehe…”
>You flash her a puzzled look and she lets out a bit more nervous laughter.
>”S-Sorry, sorry. I wasn’t, uh… IMPLYING anything. I know how the fellas are all super keen on their figures these days,” she says, waving a hoof haphazardly.
>You click your tongue and reach out to take the bundle of clothing still in her other hoof, placing it back in the box which you then lift into your arms.
“Watch the door for me, okay?”
>”Oh yeah, of course. Sure,” she says, “nopony’ll come in.”
>You slip into the broom closet and set the box down at your feet.
>”Uhh, thanks again. For everything,” she says as you close the door.
>It takes a minute or two for you to compare sizes in the relative dark of the closet, but eventually you decide on which of the outfits is the biggest, strip away most of your clothes, and attempt to put it on.
>’Snug fit’ was an understatement.
>Compared to humans, ponies could be deceptively large.
>You’ve even seen a few that might match you pound-for-pound and height-for-height if you rounded a little – and a lot of them were mares.
>The ponies these little robes were designed for were of no such stature.
>They fight you every step of the way.
>You thought the pants would be the worst part, and they certainly are bad, but nowhere near as tight as top-most portion of the robe.
>The torso piece hugs your chest for dear life, practically choking the breath from your lungs.
>Pony withers weren’t much like human shoulders either, which also posed a problem.
>Your arms barely fit into the foreleg sleeves.
>Once you finally laced your limbs through, the shoulder portions hiked your upper arms in an awkward manner.
>Frustrated, you eventually try to force the clothes to give way a little.
>Just a little, just so you have some room to move around.
>Eventually, the fabric does give.
>Just… not in the way you were hoping.
“Shhhhhhhhhit, fuck me,” you hiss angrily under your breath, whipping your head around to examine your shoulders.
>”P-Profanity,” a female voice mumbles meekly on the other side of the door.
”Sorry,” you mutter, only half meaning it.
“There may, uh… be a situation. With the clothes.”
>”Oh dear… did they rip?” she replies, and you feel a weight lean in on the door.
>Your heart strums for a moment when you think she might open it, but she doesn’t.
>Not like it matters much; sans the tears, you’re pretty much done.
>Even if you weren’t sure you wanted to be seen like this.
“Kinda…”
>You open the door and slowly step out into the light, allowing her to see you.
>Rosary’s eyes noticeably widen.
>Everything around your hips and chest are going slightly numb.
>The sleek black clothing squeezes you like a vice in every which-way, accentuating areas you’d rather keep UNaccentuated.
>You have an overwhelming desire to cover your groin with your hands.
>The tears in the lining on the shoulders are fairly uniform but extremely visible, each one revealing the skin on the peaks of your shoulders to the open air.
>Practically the only thing not strangling you right now is your black and white Nun habit, which actually fits quite comfortably - especially compared to everything else.
>The minister raises her forehooves and clasps then in front of her mouth.
>”O-Ohhh… oh I… I see…” she whispers.
>Her following silence wears on your confidence a tad.
“Shit,” you curse, twisting around as much as you felt safe to in an effort to examine yourself.
>”Language.”
“How bad is it?”
>Rosary cocks her head at you.
>”Ohh, it’s not… ‘bad’, per se… just a little messy. I’m sure it’ll be fine, it doesn’t need to be perfect…”
>She twists her face into a more optimistic expression.
>”Being vain is a sin, ya’ know? Right? Hahaha…”
>You suffer an unpleasant shiver as a slight breeze passes by you and tickles you in more places you’d like to think about.
“Let’s just… do this, okay?”
>”Yes! Yes I agree. Let’s just do this fast and get it over with! Here, I’ll carry the tables, you meet me out front. Deal?”
>You don’t much like the idea of leaving the maturing mare with any of the heavy lifting, but you also don’t want to test your luck with this getup any more.
“Deal…”
>You walk, or maybe more like ‘waddle’, through the halls back toward the front of the church, separating from Rosary about 2/3rds of the way.
>The breathiness of your clothing becomes infinitely more worrying the second you step outside and onto the dry grass.
>The minster follows close behind you, weighed down with boxes and other supplies that you do your best to relieve her of each time she returns.
>In less than fifteen minutes everything is set up on the grass and ready for you; tables lined with cookies for you to sell, and a chair waiting to support your dangerously taught ass throughout the ordeal.
>”That should be all of it,” the grey pony says as she swipes a fetlock across her brow.
>”I’m gonna head back in to help the girls. You… think you’ll be alright out here?”
>Her ears dip and she drops her gaze.
>”You’re independent – I know. But it’s okay if you’re feeling nervous. I’m sure Miss P’d be happy to come out here with you if you wanted her too. She sits through the whole food drive anyways. I can go and get her, it’ll only take a sec.”
>You smile and shake your head.
“If I haven’t been mugged in the dark outside my apartment,” ‘yet’, your brain helpfully chimes in, “then it isn’t going to happen on the sidewalk in front of a church in broad daylight.”
>She doesn’t look all too happy about your decision, but she starts back toward the church all the same.
>”Well, okay…” she replies, “just be careful. And if ya’ need anything, don’t be afraid to ask. We’ll be right inside, okay?”
>You nod again and wave, coaxing a smile back onto her face.
>The morning passes slowly, and you get few visitors to your little cookie stand.
>You optimistically reason that it’s because of the time.
>When noon begins to approach and more ponies start appearing on the street, you stand up from behind the table to try to communicate a more active mood to possible customers.
>It might be working.
>You are getting a bit more attention now.
>Ponies occasionally linger on the other side of the street and peer at you through the corner of their eyes, debating with themselves on whether or not to approach.
“It’s okay!” you call out to one with a friendly wave, “you don’t have to pledge your soul to Dagon or anything; they’re just baked-goods!”
>The caramel-colored pegasus mare spares a quick glance at her gal pals before moving to cross the street, chuckling.
>Her friends trickle in line behind her, following her lead.
>”That’s a relief,” she replies.
>You put on what you hope is a charming smile and motion at the table near your hip.
“I’ve got cookies, here. Delicious and only MOSTLY sin free, so there’s still a little fun in ’em. All proceeds go directly to the church and, uh… keeping us alive for one more day.”
>You grin wider to que her in to your joke, and she actually laughs again.
>Smooth as silk.
>”Welllll… I guess if it’s for a good cause…” she reasons slowly, turning to fish her wallet out of her hip bag.
>Her friends do the same, and you feel a hint of pride well up in your chest.
>You and the mares iron out their selections and pricing for a moment before you dole them out their purchases.
>It might just be the leftover embarrassment you were still enduring from wearing this getup, but it feels like their eyes unnaturally stick to you through the entire transaction.
>Especially when you aren’t looking directly at them.
>Each time you turn back to one, her eyes dart back up to your face from where they used to be.
>Usually somewhere lower.
>By the time all the boxes of cookies and bits have properly exchanged parties, each of them looks oddly satisfied to be in possession of their new – if you were honest – overpriced sweets.
>You catch the pegasus mare wandering her eyes again, this time a touch more blatantly.
>She smirks.
>”Do you do this often?” she asks, “sell the cookies, I mean.”
>You have to think for a moment to offset the new wave of self-conscious you were now experiencing.
“No… not really…?”
>You pause to think again, desperately trying to keep up the charade that you were actually a functioning member of society who could hold a conversation.
”Uhh, but the church does all kinds of other stuff! To raise money, I mean. And not just for themselves, for charity too. The old girls are pretty active.”
>You chuckle.
“You should see Miss P. when she gets goin’. Nobody believes a pony in a walker can move so fast until they see it with their own eyes.”
>The group titters pleasantly and exchanges looks with each other.
>”Well, that’s very nice. But I was a bit more interested in what ‘you’ specifically were up to,” the caramel mare replies.
“Uhh… me?” you reply dumbly, flashing them a confused look.
>They watch you and wait for your reply, grinning confidently.
>Wait…
>Is this…
>Are you… flirting right now?
>Your brow jumps and the self-conscious boogeyman reemerges.
>You pass a quick look down at your clothes –which were practically a second skin at this point – and have the sudden desire to slip back behind the table where the price tags and tablecloth might better cover you up.
“Uhh, well, I help out around the place when I can…” you mumble, trying to sound unaffected.
>”That’s very kind of you,” she replies, “maybe you could tell me more about it some time?”
>She does it again.
>Her eyes dip and then swim back up.
>Slowly.
“Uhh, well, maybe if I’m around again?” you respond weakly.
>There are more ponies approaching your stand now.
>You weren’t really paying much attention to it before, but now that you were a touch more sensitive to the prospect, you were beginning to notice that most of your customers –prospective or otherwise – were female.
>And they were ogling you.
>You were wearing a skimpy, tight nun outfit, and they were ogling you.
>Some of them did it right in front of their husbands too, if much more subtly.
>At first it was a little overwhelming.
>The wandering eyes took their toll on your confidence more than once, especially in conjunction with all the quick math you had to do to make sure you weren’t stiffing any of them.
>After a while, though, it started to get easier.
>The boxes moved faster, the conversations came and went with ease.
>Even their sneaky eyes became easier to weather.
>You actually managed to slip a smart line in here or there, bouncing some of their confidence back at them.
>It felt great, and time began to pass more quickly.
>But eventually it all ended.
>You were done.
>You knew you were done, because the boxes of sweets were all gone.
>That’s never happened before – properly ‘finishing’ a money-making endeavor that the church was hosting.
>You lift the metal box holding the bits from your sales so that you can wrap up the tablecloth, and it feels heavy.
>Really heavy; you almost can’t lift it with just one hand.
>The ponies keep trickling in, even though it’s quite apparent from your cleanup that you’ve finished doing whatever it is you’re doing.
>The sale is done but they just keep coming.
>Looking to talk to you, maybe.
>But more importantly, looking to spend money on something you literally couldn’t sell them any more of.
>Suffice it to say, you’re in a bit of a daze from the sudden success of the day when Rosary finally trots back out into the yard to check on you.
>Her face scrunches with worry when she sees what you’re doing, and she wastes no time in approaching you.
>”What happened, sweetie?” she asks carefully, “what’s wrong?”
>After being leered at so much over the last few hours, you can’t help but notice that her eyes don’t stray from your face for a single second while she speaks, not once.
“I’m, uh… we’re, done.”
>”W-What?” she replies, uncertain.
>You snap the last of the table legs into position, lean down, pick up the tiny metal box you set down nearby in the grass, and hand it to her.
>She jerks in surprise when she realizes its true fullness, the box sinking close to the ground in her hooves before she lifts it a bit higher.
>”Wa-howie! That’s h-heav-…”
>Her eyes widen with realization.
>”… you… it’s all gone?” she says slowly.
>She motions at the barren, folded up tables, dubious.
>”You’re… done? You sold it all?”
“Yeah,” you reply plainly.
>The look on her face is difficult to describe.
>She eyes the box for several seconds, looking past the exterior to acknowledge its contents, the raw meaning of the money you’d just handed her gradually dawning.
>She looks like she’s going to cry...
>”I can’t believe…” she whispers.
>She turns to you, her expression quickly ramping into a bright, brilliant smile.
>Today our Lady is good!” she cries giddily, “and it’s all thanks to you! Ohh, I don’t know WHAT you did, but I can’t even begin to-to-to – ohhhh goodness!“
>The little grey mare fiddles with the box of money for a moment, trying to figure out what to do with it.
>Eventually she turns and holds the box up for you to take, her grin still splitting her face.
>”Okay! Okay. You just take this – I don’t wanna steal your thunder! – and bring it in to the girls to show ’em! I bet they’ll be so surprised that they’ll, ahahaha! I don’t even know what they’ll do!”
>You shrug and reach down to take the lockbox from her hooves, matching her explosively pleasant mood with your expression as best you can.
>The minister squirms in place, brimming with energy that her little earth pony body can’t seem to expend fast enough.
>Eventually she chirps with laughter and whips around, rushing back toward the church as fast as she can.
>”I can’t wait!” she cries happily, “I’m gonna tell ’em myself! Ooo, I can’t wait! I’m sorry!”
>She leaves you there, too absorbed in her reverie to turn back even if you called out to her, which you didn’t.
>You were still stewing in the aftermath, piecing together your epiphany.
>Your eyes cut across the yard to fall on the building that Rosary eventually vanishes into.
>You scrutinize it, examining every broken banister, gnarled stair, cracked window and patch of sun-chipped paint.
>You look upon the beaten sun-and-moon emblem in the front yard as it sags low toward the ground, the stake propping it up warped and splintering.
>You watch the last few hopefuls exiting the side of the building, empty-hooved after another short food day.
>Finally, you drop your head to look upon the Bit-stuffed box held closely to your chest.
>—and so too at the bit of skin-tight black clothing covering said chest…
>These pitiful days of the church mares looking after you and picking up your slack are over.
>It’s time to give something back.
>Now you could finally be useful for something in your new, miserable life, and you could do it by helping the ponies who mattered most.
>They deserved more.
>Which is good… because you have a feeling that things are going to start getting better around here.
>A LOT better.
>You shift the heavy metal box around in your arms and set out toward the church.
>And you smile.
>You smile a triumphant, hopeful, gleeful… cunning, devious, WICKED smile.
>Praise Faust.