The Lancer Fanfiction Archive

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BarbA

 

 

Ponyception: A Lancer Crack!Fic
Thanks to Wendy K. for allowing me to take the idea and gallop with it!

http://www.peterbrown.tv/LancerPonies.jpg

 

Scott had lost track of how long they'd been standing there beside the lake. It felt like a long time, however. He nodded towards the sun.  

"Is that rising or setting?"

Johnny turned away from scraping a hole in the dirt with his shoe. He looked up and across the water, squinting.

"I don't know." He sniffed and blew out a breath. "There someplace you gotta be?"

Scott wasn't sure, and that was just it. He wasn't sure about a lot of things anymore, especially the trip to Lancer. He flicked away a particularly fat horsefly from his shoulder. Grandfather was right; they did grow them larger out west. "No, I think I'm good for now."

The white patches on Johnny dipped and swirled into one cohesive color at the top of his head and down the legs: an inky black. Scott stretched out a fetlock, so much different than his own tawny bay sprinkled with golden overtones. For two supposed brothers, they looked nothing alike.

“So why the long face then?”

“Why doesn't that ever get old?” Remembering the same line when they first met in Morro Coyo, stepping down from what euphemistically had been termed ‘transportation', Scott rolled his eyes so hard the world lost focus for a moment.

Johnny waggled his ears, see-sawing them back and forth. “Beats me.”

The ears were expressive, and from what Scott could see a barometer of Johnny's moods. Right now they were stock straight and pushed forward. He craned his neck to see what Johnny was looking at.

“Hey Scott, You think that's him?”

A mammoth-sized mottled grey Clydesdale, at least eighteen hands high, was approaching at a sedate pace. If this wasn't Murdoch Lancer he'd eat his hat. No great loss, the jaunty bowler didn't afford much shade anyway.  

The Clydesdale studied them under a dusty forelock, then tipped his shaggy head towards the lake. “Drink?”

Feeling unreasonably peeved at being left waiting, Scott responded, “No thank you.”

Murdoch looked to Johnny. “You?”

“When I know the horse I'm drinkin' with, yeah.”

Murdoch suddenly smiled, showing great yellow teeth. “You have your mother's temper.” He swung back to Scott. “And you have your mother's eyes.”

Scott snorted, examining his hoof, not making eye contact. He always wondered where his long, curly eyelashes had come from.

“Your mother's family thought it was daft to marry a horse not a year off the boat from Inverness. You were foaled, she died and I left you in their stables. Period.”

Murdoch turned his head to Johnny. “A couple of years later, I met your mother down at Matamoros. We horsed around then she…we got hitched. Two years after that, I awoke in the paddock one morning and found she had trotted off, you along with her.”

Johnny reared back and pawed dangerously close to Murdoch's nose. “That ain't the way I heard it!”

“I won't have a bunch of neigh-sayers on my ranch! Let's get down to brass tacks, boys. I need help from the both of you. There's a young Irish stud kicking up his heels causing problems, his name is Day O'Pardee.”

“Day-O'?” Johnny's hooves came back to earth with two ringing thuds.  

“You know him?”

Johnny became coy, shook out his mane like a black waterfall. “Last I heard, he was down south hauling bananas, but yeah, I've seen him around a few of the circuits.”

Murdoch turned to stare at the lake. “One hundred thousand acres. I've got a grey hair in my mane for every good blade of grass you see.”

Johnny pulled back his lips. “So, it's the grass you're worried about?”

“Yes. No! Stop trying to confuse the issue.”

Scott danced backwards a few steps, wondering if Murdoch was making the whole story up on the hoof. 

The big Clydesdale side-eyed them. “What about it? A third for each of you, but I call the tune.”

Saddled with a new father—and a brother—and the old horse wanted to blow the bugle. There wasn't enough oats in the…

Johnny whistled low in his throat. “Get a load of that filly.”

Scott thought of beautiful Boston Barbara in her boudoir. He nickered softly, the alliteration always amused him. She was one of the longest legged fillies he'd ever known in a halter—and out. He shook his head back to get the hair out of his eyes and took a long look.

“Johnny, she's a pony for God's sake.”

“Boys, this is Teresa, my ward.” The booming emphasis on ‘my ward' brooked no argument and nipped Johnny's “how ya doin' wink” to her in mid-wink.

Oh sure, the old horse had managed to keep her at Lancer all right. Even for a pony she was small, so maybe Teresa didn't finish all her grain at night. Not much upkeep there. But she didn't appear at all useful for hauling hay or herding cattle.

Murdoch was pawing the ground. Expecting an answer. Reluctantly, Scott nodded.

He'd been around a few stables, was old enough to know you whinny some, you lose some. Scott didn't intend on bucking the odds, not yet anyhow. He'd slip on a nosebag for now and have a good look around.

He could tell his brother wasn't used to having his fun reined in, yet he hoped Johnny would do the same.

A bell clanged in the distance. “Dinner!” Murdoch bellowed. “C'mon!”


~o~O~o~


Teresa surveyed the two stalls from her own comfy pen across the paddock. A cavalry horse from back east, all legs and dazzle. A flashy half-wild grulla from the border. They'd never look at her, a silly pony, with anything other than brotherly affection. She'd have to be content with clover and sweet alfalfa—for now. She flipped her brown forelock behind her ear. But there wasn't a lot of time. Murdoch had already sent word to town for Doctor Jenkins to bring his snippers. She'd have to hurry.     



~ end ~
March 2012

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