Ambassador 2.2

>It's him. Demonstrably. In the flesh.

>Speak to him!

"I-I got your, ah, note."

>Something, preferably, that doesn't make you sound disappointed to see him.

>His face is hard to read. It always was, but his thin smile is almost unintelligible.

>"Oh, that?" he turns and gazes toward ponyville; the sun throws glints up off all it's little windows, as if it were a diamond necklace.

>You idiot. Sound, not like an ambassador, but an old friend. That's what you two are, right? Old friends?

"Yes! I really must apologize, ha. You know how it is, I only really saw it this morning."

>...

>You.

>You outrageous, intolerable, wretched-

>"Oh, no I understand. Truly, Spike, I do. It was a little silly of me to leave the note there of all places but, you know, spur of the moment and all."

>He turns his head back to you. Even he, who has grown taller than most, can only just dwarf you sitting down.

>Why on earth are you sitting down! Have you learned nothing! Ever!

>"Oh, no no no! Don't stand on my account. Really. I was just in the area, and felt I ought to drop you a note. It really has been a long time. Silly of me."

>He casts his gaze back toward the glittering necklace.

"I mean I only returned this morning. I ran to the Featherstoneborough in-in thirty minuets. I waited for two hours! I haven't slept for days!"

>You're on your feet, gesturing wildly.

"I mean I would be perfectly happy to supply what I can! Please!"

>Please?

>His ears twitch slightly. He casts you a gaze from the side of his muzzle. It used to melt your heart.

>It still does, in a way.

>"Indeed?"

"Yes! Of course!"

>"I hadn't heard you'd left. And for a month, at that."

>It is so unapologetic an accusation that you want too just grab him by the shoulders, draw him close and...

>Apologize? Beg for forgiveness?

"I... Yes. Secretive, you understand."

>He provides a shrug, and purses his lips.

>"I said so, didn't I?"

"To be fair on, well, your sources of 'gossip', shall we say. To be fair on them, it did take them a good three years to pick up on my little... inclination."

>He grins. Earnestly, this time. The bags beneath his eyes are drowned by the onset of laughter lines. This face; you saw it in the doorway of his flat.

>"That's... that is true. That... Pfft! Ha"

>His grin cracks into a heady, wholesome laugh.

>"Do you remember when; blimey who was it..." He looks to you, and waves his hoof around in little circles, "The fat one?"

>You sit back down, but on the far side of the bench. He slides next to you naturally.

"Was it not, uhmm, you don't mean... Heavy Set?"

>"Yes! Heavy Set! Do you remember when he stopped you on the street for that 'investigation' of his into your 'salacious dealings?'"

>Yes. Yes you do.

>You remember the cocksure grin on his face as he accosted you from across the street. A bored phonographer followed his every move with one of those big fluffy microphones.

>Cabinet meetings are always met with such flurries of press figures, but his grin was particularly vicious; a pony with something to say for something to gain.

>As Twilight, Celestia and the standard collection of ponies in suits with lanyards clipped to their lapels looked on, he asked,

>"You, Ambassador to the Thrones of Griffony and Prance and to the Parliment of Brumby, claim utter transparency with us, the ponies of Equestria, yes?"

"Uh, Well. Yes, I suppos-"

>"And yet you, Ambassador, have hidden something from us! from your princesses! Dare I say, even from your own Mentor."

>Shock. Awe. Fainting. These are all things Set assures his listeners followed this revelation.

"I cannot fathom your meaning, Mr..."

>"My name, Ambassador, Is Heavy Set! I imagine you have heard of my show?"

>Indeed, not.

>"Ambassador, would you like to tell the kind, tax paying ponies of Equestria, why exactly you have been spent a few thousand Equestrian bits--which could have been spent building hospitals, or schools, or new roads and infrastructure--on Prench Whores!"

>Silence. As Set proposed to a neglected wavelength, one could have heard a pin drop.

>One, had they been listening, would have also heard subdued laughter from the balcony of Their Royal Highnesses.

"Mr Set, may I tell you something that is in fact, a fact? Something that I have never once denied answering, truthfully, to any of my peers? Something that is well known by Their Royal Highnesses, up there on the balcony; by many of my peers within the Cabinet; indeed, even, by some elements of that profitable gossip machine, high society?"

>Set swallowed.

"Mr Set, I am Gay. A flaming bender. Of the homosexual strain. In your own brand of sardonic vernacular, Mr Set: I like dicks."

>You folded your claws into a little triangle by your breast.

"Mr Set, Prench whores are an uncommon brand of culture. But of them, one thing is certain: they do not, I am told, have dicks. Should I feel at all inclined to spend a few thousand Equestrian bits on any respectable good or service, I should like to imagine I would, in time, derive an immense sense of pleasure from my purchase.

>You laid your arm across his back and drew aimless circles into the fur around his neck.

"Why, then, Mr Set, would I feel inclined to spend a thousand Equestrian bits on a collection of fine young mares who simply haven't any dicks?"

>And that was that.

>This, and other stories, wile through the crisper hours of the morning.

>Pip, the Alsatian Clam, opens in your salted broth of awkward familiarity.

>There, it seems, is the old friend, giggling softly as you recount, together, the small matter of his anus, which appeared as the header on day for the 'Ponyville Perusal', with only a little help from that silver spoon girl.

>That perennial question; "Does anypony remember what happened that night?", the mark of a certain epoch, rises with every hour: the desperation of its enquirer a mark of the depth trawled through the barrel of a shared history.

>And then, there is silence. Not of the style that punctuated the opening lines of your dialogue; a more comforting, homely silence.

>The kind of silence that fills the bedroom in the early morning. A bedroom that smells of sweat and pleasure, with swollen sheets and Pip's slender legs intermingling with your own own and-

>"Blimey. This was... Why haven't we done this before? I thought we agreed to keep in touch!" he intones in good humor.

"We did, for a time at least. The last letter you ever sent me was an invitation to your wedding. And I was off working--couldn't make it. Remember?"

>It had to be said. Transparency and sincerity. It had to be said.

>His ears twitch.

>"Yes. I remember."

>It had to be said.

"And how is the happy couple?"

>He snorts softly as his shoulders gyrate.

>"At present, neither."

>Oh. There's a shock.

>"No, no no. Don't try to apologize about it, you had no idea. It was a months ago,"--he curls his pencil thin smile down the side of his face, and checks his hooves for dirt--"and perhaps we'll talk about some other time. Over a drink."

"Or several?"

>The grimace cracks into a grin.

>"Hey, hey. Nopony knows what happened that night. And we were only kids. But yes. I would like that. Perhaps when we meet to discuss my little project?"

>That was... sly.

"Perhaps. This afternoon? Tell me what you need, I shall find it--within reason--and then have it dropped to the humanities faculty at the-"

>He chuckles, and idly lays a hand on your thigh. It drifts into your lap.

>"Don't be daft, you need sleep. You said so yourself. Tomorrow. If you're at work, you can just grab it on the way home. If I brought dinner around, when would you feel up to it?"

>You thought this was a project. His hoof is still in your lap. How can he not notice?

"Eight thirty. I leave the castle gates at eight, generally. Eight thirty is when I'd feel up to dinner."

>"Gladly. Your place?"

"It seems so."

>And so it would be. Pip smiles and rises.

>He must away to the university; a co-publisher wishes to meet him for lunch.

>He gallops off.

>Your lower abdomen is tense. It is as if his hoof is still lying there, nonchalant.

>As the sun crawls toward its zenith, the questions hang lazily around your head.

>