Wing and Horn

FractalFluff, October 12, 2014; 18:49 / FB 26668
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(Contains egregious fluffy stupidity. All abuse is incidental, psychological, self-inflicted, and ridiculous.)

Wing and Horn

"Daddeh? Daddeeeeeeh! Nyeeeeeeeeeeee!"

You freeze and grit your teeth at the noise from the play-pen. You're a patient owner, but that "nyeee!" screech Balsam does from time to time? It's like nails down a blackboard. "Daddy's coming, sweetie," you call, trying to hurry without slopping your coffee everywhere. Ye gods, you've only been gone two minutes and she's already found something new to "nyeee!" about.

You hastily set down your coffee and go to reassure your fussing pony. She's sitting bolt upright, limbs held out rigidly as she wrestles the urge to slap away the infants at her teats. Her eyes are squeezed shut and her nasal whine is climbing the octaves: "nnnnyyyyyyyyyyYYYEEEEEEEEE!"

"Sam!" you say, more shortly than you mean to. The fluffy's eyes snap open and instantly fill with tears. You feel a pang of guilt, although it's mightily attenuated. You're trying not to snap, but the day and a half since Balsam foaled has been a sleepless whirl of stress, panic, frustration and "nyeeeee". You're overloaded.

You swing a leg over the mesh side of the play-pen and crouch down next to the fluffy. More gently, you say: "Sammie-girl, it's okay, Daddy's here. What's up, eh? What's the matter?"

The fluffy looks up at you with pleading eyes. "Daddeh," she sniffles, "Mistah Daddeh Suw? Bawsam twyin be gud mummah, Bawsam wanna wub babbehs an nu gif owwies, wike Daddeh sah, buh... buh... buh... munstah babbehs am nummin Mummah 'gaaain!" The pastel-tinted pseudohorse gives in to a fresh bout of gasping sobs.

You run a hand over your face. This? Again?

You've become very fond of Balsam since you brought her home as a foal. She was purchased with the specific intention of turning her into a brood-mare, but her tractable personality and eagerness to make you happy quickly made her more of a pet than you'd intended. From the get-go, she ate whatever you put in front of her, played happily with whatever dollar-store toys she was given, and never once crapped outside her litterbox (except for that novovirus incident, which you're trying to erase from your brain). When you explained to her what her future career would be, her response was a meekly cheerful "Yes, Mistah Daddeh Suw. Bawsam wub babbehs, make gud babbehs fow nice hoomin Mummahs an Daddehs."

There's just one problem with Balsam: she's got the IQ of a pencil.

"Huuhuuhuu... Bawsam nu am nummies... huuhuuhuuu... scawy munstah babbehs..."

She tries, but her lack of insight complicates things in unexpected ways. Right now, you're wondering if it's worth the hassle for peach-cream-lilac colouration and certified alicorn genes. Despite repeated showings of such cinematic marvels as "Good Mummahs Love ALL Their Foals", "Pointy-Wingie Babies Good Babies, No Num Mummah", and "Alicorn-Friends No Am Monsters", she's having serious issues with her newborns. You've had to move the little family out of the saferoom and into a playpen in the living room so you can keep an eye on them all while you work; she's been freaking non-stop ever since the babies came, and you don't want to leave her alone with them.

"Huuhuhhuuu... why dis happen tu Mummah... huuuu!"

Tenderly, you reach down and pet the two little foals. The colt stops suckling with an inquisitive "peep?" He pushes his little blind head up to meet your fingers, cheeping happily at the contact. You stroke the tiny brow with its nubbin of a horn. Both foals have their sire's striking purple-and-blue colouration; you can only hope they also got his brains. Heaven help them if they got hers. Over her huuhuus, you launch into yet another do-over of Your Babies Aren't Devouring You 101.

"Sweetie? Sweetie, listen to Daddy. The babies aren't trying to eat you. They're having milkies, just like any good babies. They're just drinking milk. That's all."

"Munstah babbehs... onwy num miwkies?"

"They're not monsters, Sam. Okay? They're your babies. Balsam's good, pretty little babies. It makes Daddy sad when you call good babies monsters."

"Bu' dey munstahhhhs!"

You resist the urge to scream at her. "No, Sammie-girl. No monsters," you say firmly. "Just two pretty little babies." Mastering yourself, you place the tiny colt in the palm of your hand and lift it so it's level with her face. She shuts her eyes again and turns away her muzzle. "No, don't look away. Look at your baby. Look. See how tiny the baby is? He's such a tiny little thing. He could never, ever hurt you. He's just a teeny weeny baby, and he needs his Mummah to love him."

You almost puke as you hear yourself mimic that grotesque baby-talk, but needs must.

She opens one eye, then hastily shuts it again. "Buh... buh... babbehs... babbehs got hownie... babbehs got wingie... am munstah..."

"Balsam," you say, your voice low and level, "I am very very tired and very very fed up, and I really need you to pay attention here. You don't even have any alicorn babies. A pointy baby and a wingie baby do not add up to make an alicorn because they are TWO... blessed... babies."

"Huh?" She allows her eye to open just a sliver, regarding you warily. Evidently she still suspects some kind of Daddy-monster collaboration. You hold up the colt again.

"You have ONE pointy baby."

You take the filly in your free hand and hoist her in front of the fluffy's face.

"You have ONE wingie baby."

You hold up both babies, side by side.

"You have NO monster babies. Do. You. Un. Der. Stand."

"...Huh?"

You go through the routine again.

Colt. "Pointy baby."

Filly. "Wingie baby."

Colt. "Pointy baby."

Filly. "Wingie baby."

Colt. "Pointy baby."

Filly. "Wingie baby."

*peep?*

On the third repetition, understanding seems to dawn. Her eyes widen as she looks at her babies properly, perhaps for the first time. "Pointy babbeh... jus pointy?" she says.

"Yes."

"Wingie babbeh jus... wingie?"

"Yes."

"Nu am munstahs? Jus... jus... pointy babbeh... anna nuffew babbeh... dat am wingie?" Her voice trembles, faint with shattered nerves."

"YESSS!" you hiss through clenched teeth.

"Oh. Why Daddeh nu jus' say dat inna fiws' pwace?" She holds out her forelimbs for the foals. "Come tu Mummah, gud babbehs. Gut wotsa miwkies fow pwetties' babbehs!"

You facepalm once more and climb out of the pen to tip some Scotch into your coffee. Balsam is now burbling a mummah-song as if nothing had happened.

You were disappointed at the lack of alis in this litter, but on reflection it's probably a good thing she didn't have any "pointy-wingie" foals this time round. If a pegasus filly and a unicorn colt combine in her tiny fluffy brain to form a Voltron of primal alicorn-related brickshittage, you've obviously got some more work to do.

"Fucking fluffies," you mumble.

-end-