>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's gone.
>You watch him gallop off. He doesn't turn his head.
>You expected as much; but, what you realize is suddenly bothering you, is that you expected as much.
>As if this meeting portended anything more than what is was.
>As if, by expecting as much, there existed the possibility that something more was to come of...
>This.
>As if, by some chance, accompanying his crafted meal (why did you agree!) would be a bevy of chocolate liquors.
>As if he would blush and glance away, tentatively searching his lips with his tongue, when the presence of these presents was broached.
>As if, as his suddenly hungry eyes gorged upon yours, he would shut the door with his left hind leg.
>As if he would take one such liquor in his mouth and coat the delicate confection with a butterfly kiss.
>As if, before his wicker basket lined with a tartan rug and loaded with plates and wine for two fell to the carpeted floor, his muzzle would be cocked against yours.
>As if for a timeless moment, you would share the decadent sweet, tongues dueling and searching and wrestling.
>As if your knees would give and you would fall beneath his embrace, clutching his waist.
>As if he would chortle between pecks at your lips, cheeks, ears, chin, neck.
>As if he would slowly move his woodpecker kisses down your collarbone, nestle them momentarily below your ribcage, before migrating below that supple threshold.
>As if his hot breath would coax away the modesty cloth.
>As if the warm tip of his tongue would tickle with its rough texture your most tender of excess.
>As if you would yelp his name (P'sqeuak, p-phask, pip, puuhh, puhhhhooo-o-o) between machine gun bursts of pleasure.
>As if your thighs would quake, squeezing against his slender neck as your jealous torso writhed in anticipation.
>As if his wandering hooves would massage the nape of your back, your rump, your outer thigh, your every button.
>As if his hungry, brown eyes would gaze into yours as your back arched, as your throat clenched, and your thighs tensed against his skull.
>As if he, his whetted tongue pocking lasciviously from his mouth, would glide his muzzle across your apoplectic form.
>As if you wouldn't kiss, and wrestle and duel for the favor of a certain other sweetness.
>As if.