Perpetually Stewed (Anon, Homeless Trixie)

>>29193912

>"Just what IS it you're trying to serve the Great and Powerful Trixie?"
>More like the Flat Broke, Weeks Unwashed and Homeless Trixie.  You'd made her take a pre-bath in a bucket before letting her in your house for a proper shower to avoid stinking up your home, because she smelled like a horse.  An actual horse.  One that had taken a roll in a plate of cheese before fighting an army of skunks and losing.
>You'd heated the water in the buckets, provided soap, shampoo and hot, clean towels.
>She'd still bitched and whined, even after you let her in and showed her to your shower.
>You can actually HEAR the capital letters at the beginning of the words.  You roll your eyes and scowl. Her ribs are visible, and her face is clearly much gaunter than it should be--she's not in a position to refuse ANY food at this point, and surely she knows it.
>"Stew.  Eat it or don't."  The covered cooker sits in a corner, on top of the magical heating-stone.  It stayed at a low simmer, and it had for a couple of months.
>You'd started with a basic bone-broth, way back when, but you'd added handfuls of whatever veggies, beans, meats and grains you bought, traded for or found on hand periodically, and top it off with water and occasionally wine or cider, with pepper, salt, onions, garlic and herbs like rosemary.
>The result is a thick concoction that looks absolutely disgusting, but generally actually tastes pretty good, and it actually seems to be getting better with time.  You occasionally cook some potatoes, or rice or polenta and top it with it, or you just eat it with a hunk of bread.
>You aren't dead yet, at any rate.  It suits you, because you're probably the single laziest cook ever born.
>At this point, it's mostly veggies and grains, so it shouldn't pose any problems to a pony, and there was plenty for seconds or even thirds and fourths if she wanted.  If.
>Trixie looks at it with an expression of utter disgust.  "Trixie would prefer something more acceptable, and less...glutinous.  This looks like vomit."
>"Sorry, that's all I've got."  That isn't true, but you're not going to cook up something special for her--not as long as she's going to be this snotty about it. Besides, lazy, remember?
>You make a point of slamming a spoon into yours, with only slightly less force than it would take to shatter the bowl and take a huge bite of it.  You think it could use some sausage, but it's kind of tasty and filling, even in its mostly-vegetarian state. her face wrinkles in disgust.
>"If you don't want it, give it over.  I'll eat it."
>"NO!" she snaps, her face momentarily panicked before it settles into her customary haughty scowl.  "You gave it to Trixie, and Trixie, who has sampled the finest viands of all the finest eateries of Canterlot and delicacies of lands far beyond the edges of Equestria, will--magnanimously--accept your charity."
>"Whatevs, Third-Person.  Eat," you grunt, dipping a chunk of crunchy corn bread into the stew and munching it.
>A part of you absently observes that she might actually be attractive, if you weren't so annoyed right now.
>Trying to hide her revulsion--and failing miserably--she carefully spoons up a very tiny portion of the stew, and--struggling not to breathe--she moves it toward her mouth.  She sits there, staring at the spoon, visibly trying to force herself to put it into her mouth.
>She pauses.  "The Great and Powerful Trixie does this for YOUR sake, you know," she says. "So that you don't find your self-esteem bruised too bad--"
>Before she can say anything else, one of your work-roughened hands shoots out and grabs the spoon, while the other grabs her muzzle (you pull your strength at the last second to avoid hurting her).  Her eyes widen in shock and indignation.
>Without missing a beat, you shove the spoon into the former showmare's mouth and clamp her muzzle shut, pulling the now empty spoon out as you do. She squeaks in protest and indignation, and tries to pull away, but you hold her as gently as you can.
>Her mouth moves once, twice, and she finally, reluctantly swallows.
>You gently take your hands away.  She stands there, her eyes wide in a look of enraged indignation that very, very slowly gives way to a look of wonder.
>"Sorry," you say.  You're really not, but you think you can afford to try to be diplomatic at this point. Just a little.  "But you need the food, and this is what I've got."
>She looks at you, looks back at the bowl, an expression of rage and indignation warring with surprise and raw bone-deep hunger.  Her stomach doesn't merely growl, it SNARLS, long and loud.
>And finally, hunger wins. *Told you, little horse,* you think smugly. She spoons up another bite, clearly trying to salvage whatever dignity she can, and swallows it.  But dignity rapidly loses to hunger, and by the time she's got a quarter of the bowl down, she's actively wolfing it as fast as she can shovel it into her mouth.
>You wonder if it's a good idea to let her eat this fast, but you're not a nurse and besides, you're not going to get between this starving mare and the first decent meal she's eaten in weeks, no doubt.  You value your hide far, far too much for that.
>But she manages to get most of the bowl down, along with the hunk of cornbread you gave her and the rest of yours.  In a very few minutes she's finished and the bowl is clean.
>"The great and powerful Trixie is--is--umm...more?  Please?"  she says, holding her bowl out to you. "PLEASE?"
>"Sure, but...why don't we give it just a few min...utes..."  your own bowl, still more than half-full, is surrounded by the sparkling glow of her magic and moving across the table towards her at high speed along with the plate of buttered cornbread pones.  You consider fighting her for it, but you decide cowardice is the better part of valor and simply go get a fresh bowl of your perpetual stew for yourself.  "Just pace yourself, okay?"
>She grunts something in reply (it sounds suspiciously like "Uck oo") wolfing her food down as fast as she can, and a third bowl besides.  You wonder where she's putting it at this point.
>"See?  told ya," you say, after the sounds of frantic chewing and swallowing finally die down.  You take the empty bowls over to the sink and begin washing.
>Instead of the expected snarky reply, all you hear are snores.  You turn around to see she's face-down in the corn bread platter, her eyes closed and her mouth open, dead to the world.
>You sigh, and carefully pick up the ex-showmare, but her head simply lolls.  You wonder how long it's been since she had a proper sleep in a warm bed.  You carefully carry her to the couch and cover Trixie up with a spare quilt.
>Relaxed in sleep, she actually looks adorable, her face relaxed and contented for the first time in probably many months.  You find your heart warming just a bit towards her--
>Still sound asleep, her mouth gapes open, and she emits the loudest, longest, most odoriferous belch you've ever seen, heard of, or even imagined coming from the innards of a living organism.  It goes on and on and on, seemingly forever, and the room fills with the scent of half-digested stew, corn bread and butter.
>Yeek.
>Then she mutters something that sounds like, "Fuckin'...sparkle...burn you, burn you all..."
>She giggles in her sleep, still mumbling about fire and burning.
>You sigh and hit the light, and leave her to whatever dreams are crawling through her head.  You'll figure out what to do about her tomorrow.  After you've had some rest.