“To the south are the wheat fields,” Applejack explains, motioning past yet another orchard, though this one only has apple blossoms. “We try to keep a bit of a buffer between us’n the Everfree. Gives us more of a heads up, if’n you’re catchin’ my drift.” The two continue to the west, a lengthy walk from the northeastern orchards to the farmhouse.

“Still don’t get what’s so bad about that forest,” Doug says in between deep breaths, dragging the nearly full cart. His hands ache from having to grip the posts. It’s hard work, nearly as bad as deadlifting the forty pound baskets, and a part of him dreads having to unload them. Still, he keeps his game face on, trying not to let the exertion get to him, or the fact that he’ll stink to high heaven once they arrive.

“Nasty things live there.” Applejack scowls, her venomous glare enough to set the hairs on the back of Doug’s neck on end. “Untamed chaos magic, plants that’ll eat ya alive sure as any of the monsters, unpredictable weather that don’t stay put. Trust me, you’d rather lose the leg than step one hoof in there.”

“Roger, loud and clear,” Doug grunts out, getting a quizzical glance from Applejack.

Her cheer returns as she motions to the north. “Up there are the fields we rent to Carrot Top. She ain’t the best at plowin’, either, so we help out a bit there, too. You like carrots?”

“I do like carrots,” Doug returns happily, glad to have another item on the menu.

“Then she’ll like you. And that,” Applejack says with pride as the farmhouse comes into view, “is home.”

Doug couldn’t have pictured a more quintessential farmhouse if he tried. It looks like an oversized two-story barn, converted to rooms judging by the windows jutting out from the roof. A second barn, single story this time, extends out from the back, the door taking up nearly the entirety of the outside face. The third story, if it could even be called that, consists of a single room topped by an apple-shaped weathervane. Lavender roofs, cheerful pink walls, and white trim round out the picture. Warm, inviting, and clearly lived-in, it looks exactly like a home should.

“You like it?” Applejack asks as she walks up to the barrel high white fence. She turns to gauge Doug’s reaction, and more than a small smile escapes as he looks on in wonder, his jaw hanging open and a low ‘wow’ escaping his lips. “Ah, come on, it ain’t that impressive.” Her tail flicks out, playfully whipping Doug on his flank.

“Okay, okay, you got me,” Doug returns cheerfully, rubbing his hip.

“Just leave the cart over there,” Applejack motions to a smaller barn out front, almost a shed, “and we’ll find somethin’ for ya inside.”

Doug drops off the cart, following Applejack through the wide double doors. He has to duck to enter; he might have cleared it, but it would have been very close. The first room is some kind of family room with stairs going up and an open doorway to the kitchen. A plain wooden rocker with a bright pink cushion rests next to a well-worn table. Several bookshelves are cut into the walls and filled with photo albums, mementos and dog-eared books. Everything from the circular rug in the center of the room, the wallpaper and mirror, all the way to the open wooden ceiling, is apple themed and decorated.

He stops in the entryway, amazed at all the intricate detail. He runs a finger along one of the carved cross beams, barely in reach. It must have taken an inordinate amount of time and dedication to whittle rows upon rows of apple trees, and apples, and picturesque little scenes depicting life on the farm. That or dreary winter nights without anything else to do. It isn’t until Applejack clears her throat from the doorway to the kitchen that he comes back to reality.

Doug hesitates for a second, still fascinated by the detail, but tears away to follow Applejack. Inside the kitchen, which itself contains more apple themed decorations than he can pay attention to, stands a stout green mare, her white mane tied up in a tight bun. An orange kerchief with red apples is tied in a loose knot around her neck, the mark on her flank a large brown pie. She looks up from the flat topped stove and dutch oven. Orange eyes regard him suspiciously, tracing up and down his body, her muzzle pulling into a tighter and tighter frown.

“Granny, Ah’d like ya to meet Doug,” Applejack says with a wide smile, motioning with a hoof. “Doug, this here’s Granny Smith.”

“Good morning, Ma’am,” greets Doug, offering her a smile, though it fades a little at her hard expression.

Granny Smith steadily watches Doug for a few long seconds. He starts to squirm, nervously glancing between the elderly green mare and Applejack. Granny Smith turns back to her pot, stirring once. She raps the ladle against the side, three sharp staccato notes, before laying the mostly dry utensil on top of a stack of five plates.

“Don’t seem like much,” she remarks coldly, a slight shake of her head before her steady gaze rests on Applejack. To the mare’s credit, Applejack returns the look without flinching.

“Eeyup,” Applejack says confidently.

“Hmm,” Granny Smith continues. She takes a few paces towards Doug, continuing to inspect him. “This ain’t another of your horn-brained ‘ideas’, is it?” It makes him quite nervous, but he somehow knows not to blink or look away from the venerable mare.

“Nnope.”

That stops Granny Smith in her tracks. She turns to Applejack, giving Doug a brief respite. “You tried him out already?”

“Eeyup.” After a pause where Granny Smith stares at Applejack the orange mare continues, “He loaded and hauled the cart. Only two-thirds full, but Ah’m sure he can hoof it.”

That was just two-thirds full?! I’d hate to see it overloaded. Doug smiles confidently when Granny Smith turns back to him, giving her a slight nod.

“Hmm,” the elderly mare continues, her hooves clopping ominously against the wooden floor. She raises a hoof, poking him in the side just under his ribs. “Seems a bit scrawny to me. Trouble huntin’?”

“It’s rare that I get the opportunity these days,” Doug concedes as he looks around the remainder of the room. “Busy at work, and-” He jerks to a halt as he notices the large red stallion standing silently at the kitchen table. Large being an understatement; not quite horse-sized, but he’s easily a head taller than Applejack. Definitely bigger than every pony he saw in Ponyville. Some sort of wooden yoke rests around his neck, which probably makes getting through the doors quite the hassle. Eyes, the same color as Applejack’s, steadily gaze at him. A cross section of a sliced green apple takes up most of his flank, and Doug doesn’t want to speculate on what’s located between the two.

Doug continues, “But it’s more that I don’t eat when I’m not hungry.” He exaggeratedly sniffs at whatever Granny Smith is cooking. He smiles, “I doubt I’ll have any difficulty with that here; your cooking smells even better than the plain apples!”

His smile wilts at Granny Smith’s hard frown. “Plain apples?” she spits out, a harsh glare that bounces between him and Applejack.

“I didn’t mean it like an insult,” Doug says quickly. “Just, um, by themselves. Unvarnished.”

“Darn tootin’,” Granny Smith says as she walks back, lowering the heat on the stove. “Nopony calls an Apple apple plain ‘round these parts.”

“Got it,” Doug says meekly. He sits down on the floor, then shifts to kneeling when the table proves too high to comfortably eat at. It puts him at eye level with Applejack and just under Big Mac. Applejack is smiling at him, like she’s proud he made it through Granny Smith’s brief interrogation, while Big Mac has the best poker face he’s ever seen.

Granny Smith grunts, ladling out five large portions of a creamy tan sauce with large chunks of white dumplings. Then comes a second helping. To Doug’s relief she runs out on the third plate’s third helping, though even the two helping one looks like more calories than he would eat in a day, much less a meal.

“Doug,” Applejack says, trying to break the tension, “this here’s my brother Big McIntosh, or Big Mac.”

“Morning,” Doug says, his voice trembling slightly.

Big Mac grunts out what might be a greeting if he didn’t look so stern.

Granny Smith passes out the plates, first to Big Mac and then Applejack. “Aww, fiddlesticks,” Granny Smith mutters as she gets to the third plate. “Made too many again.”

“S’okay, Granny,” Applejack says softly. “You can just give one to Doug, and we’ll all split the last one.” She glances at Doug. He’s looking between the plate in Granny’s hoof and his stomach, debating not only whether he can safely eat it but if he can eat all of it. “It’s wheat dumplings with applesauce. Ain’t fancy, but it is fillin’.”

“It looks delicious,” Doug says with a smile as Granny Smith pushes one plate to the center of the table and places the other in front of him. It’s like I’m eating before an Iron Man competition.

“We have hay if you’re still hungry,” Granny Smith says with a hint of an expectation that he should be hungry even after the monstrous meal.

Got to make a good appearance, right? And if I’m doing more work like hauling those baskets around, I’ll definitely need the energy. Except there aren’t any utensils, and the ponies are avoiding using their hooves. Their tongues lash out, licking up vast quantities of the sauce and dumplings alike, barely spending the time to swallow much less chew.

“I’m guessing I won’t be winning any hot dog eating contests here,” Doug says chipperly as he stands. Heads barely turn from plates to watch as he washes his hands at the sink. It has Weathercraft stamped on the faucet. So, central plumbing is a thing. And refrigeration. Awesome. I wonder if they do it with physics or magic. Is Weathercraft a pegasus brand? Like they’ve engineered what Rainbow Dash was doing with the cloud? He shivers at the memory, even if the kitchen is comfortable.

By the time he comes back all three of the ponies have finished licking their plates clean and have moved on to divvying up the remaining plate and a good deal of the hay. He chows down, using his hands to pick up the dumplings and gather as much of the sauce as he can. Like everything else he’s eaten here it disappears far faster than he’d want, given the taste, but it feels like his taste buds are starting to acclimate. Much like when he got a twenty five pound box of wasabi peanuts, and the shock and face flushing of the pungent spice disappeared around the second pound.

“So,” Doug says to Applejack as he wipes the remaining bit of sauce on the last dumpling, “I, um, have to ask.” He nervously glances to the other two ponies, both of whom have excused themselves from the table and are cleaning up the kitchen. “Please tell me you have a bathroom, and know what I mean by ‘toilet paper’.”

“Why… oh. Oh.” Applejack’s brow briefly scrunches up before she says, “Course! Follow me.” She walks to one of several doors leading to the back. “Through here.”

“Excellent,” Doug says with a grin. “I was worried that I’d have to…” Doug trails off as Applejack opens the door.

It leads outside. And there’s no outhouse in sight.

“There’s some leaves over there,” Applejack says, somehow holding her voice steady. She motions to the compost heap, full of decaying leaves and dirt. “For, well, you know.”

“Seriously?” Doug asks, briefly resigning himself to the possibility. Just think of it like camping, right? With the distinct possibility that you’re helping with more fertilizer!

Except something doesn't feel right. He turns, looking Applejack square in the eyes. She holds his gaze for several seconds before her neutral expression cracks, a hint of a smile peeking through. He narrows his eyes, squinting with one as he purses his lips tighter, his head turning slightly to the side. Applejack’s body quakes from the effort of holding her mirth in, especially as Doug’s stern expression begins breaking as well. Finally, she can’t hold it in any longer, loud peals of laughter ringing through the farmhouse.

“Almost had ya,” Applejack says, grinning wide. She pushes open the door next to the first. “It’s in here.”

“I’m going to get you for that,” Doug says before proceeding to do exactly that.

His warning gives Applejack just enough time to brace herself as he charges forward. She squawks in surprise, the hoof propping the door open not fast enough to block him before he plows into her. Three legs prove barely sufficient to keep Doug from bowling her over as his arms reach around her. Her foreleg wraps around his body, both grinning as she twists her body and takes them to the floor. Doug ends up on top, legs around her barrel and pressing his chest against her face. She hooks her back legs around his, forelegs again going around his back and hugging him against her.

Doug’s hands travel along the thick mane, digging in and trying to find one of those ticklish spots that must exist somewhere on the mare. When she moans at one spot at the base of her skull he grins, a demanding, “Give up?” as he relentlessly assaults the spot.

“Give up?” Applejack exclaims, holding him in place and enjoying the game immensely. “Ah thought this was you givin’ up, concedin’ defeat, and givin’ the victor her spoils!”

“Hah!” Doug calls, fingers digging into that sweet spot again. “I’d like to-”

With a practiced twist of her body Applejack flips Doug to his back, slipping forward and ending up sitting on top of his chest. Her back legs straddle his hips, one foreleg pressing down on his chest as she rests her weight on the floor. She smirks down at him, tone almost apologetic. “Ah practice against mah brother.” She dips down to nuzzle his nose. “He’s only…” she experimentally shifts his weight around like he’s a rag doll. “Three times your weight.”

“Okay, okay, fine.” Doug playfully knocks her hat down, covering Applejack’s eyes. “I do need to go to the bathroom, though.”

Applejack steps to the side as she adjusts her hat, green eyes sparkling as she watches him get up. Only to see Big Mac staring at her, his stern expression from breakfast unmoved.

Next Chapter: Ch. 9 - Hiltless Estimated time remaining: 15 Hours, 34 Minutes