The Savages We Are

Reaction: Twilight

Everything had been going so well, too.

I knew Spike was straight.  I'd known for a while, actually.  His obsession with Moondancer was frankly adorable.  And then when he came to Ponyville, he forgot all about her and started pining after Rarity instead.  I never mentioned it in Canterlot because I didn't think it was necessary.  Drawing attention to the fact that Spike was different and making a big fuss about it couldn't be good for him.  So in the end, I never mentioned the elephant in the room because I hoped I didn't need to.  And once we moved to Ponyville, I hoped I wouldn't have to.  We lived in library, for Pony's sake.  Spike was already a lot more well-versed and aware than others his age (I had made sure of it), and I would have been surprised if he hadn't gone after some of the relevant material on his own (certain subjects will grab the curiosity of even the lazy, after all.)  I trusted him to handle things maturely.

My judgment turned out to be misplaced.  I still need to learn not to confuse education with maturity.

My sleep is fitful and restless.  I cycle through arguments in my head, creating them, testing them against each other, and ultimately throwing out all of them.  How do I get him to understand?  How can I get him to see how important this is?

Because this is important.  I'm beginning to understand where he's coming from.  To him, this is a personal matter.  And maybe it was.  But it stopped being personal the moment he kissed Rarity.

That kiss was like an explosion.  After a bomb explodes, you can't put its pieces back together, no matter how hard you try.  It's an impossible task, and eventually you have to accept that things are going to be different from here on out.

The words strike me as ironic as I think them up.  He's not the one trying to restore things.  I'm the one undertaking that impossible task.

I am the damage control, and it's an under-appreciated job.

I do finally manage to fall asleep.  If I have any dreams, I don't remember them.  Waking up, I'm not sure if I want to.  What could they possibly have done but cause me more frustration.

I love Spike.  That much is undeniable.  It makes my treatment of him a balancing act of what he wants versus what's for his own good.  The problem is that it's easy to know what he wants.  All I have to do is ask him.  I can't know for certainty what's for his own good.  But neither can he.

I asked Spike to sleep on the matter with the aims that in the morning we'd both be feeling a bit more amicable.  It didn't work.  If anything, I feel even worse now.  I no longer have the energy to put up any sort of an offense.

Spike, on the other hand, has been filled with a new energy.

“What does it matter to you?” he asks during breakfast, coming completely out of nowhere and bringing the events of last night crashing back up onto the fleeting and fake peace of the present.  I feel suddenly weak from his accusation.  The question bounces around, screaming of incoherence.

Why does it matter to me?

Why wouldn't it matter to me?  He doesn't wait for an answer.

“Either you care about me, in which case you should be on my side, or you don't care, in which case it shouldn't make a difference what I do.  The only reason you'd be like this would be if you hated me.  I thought you'd get it, Twi.  I thought that if anypony would understand, it would be you.  And then it turns out you hate me like all the rest of them.  You just didn't know it yet.”

I panic, trying to work through his web of logic so that I can tear it apart.  It's not true.  It can't be true.  I'm desperate because the conclusion he's drawing is one I'm horrified to even contemplate.

“I don't hate you, Spike,” I blurt.  He must know.  If there's one thing he needs to know at the end of this, it's that I love him.  “You know I don't.  I'm not like that.  My parents are straight.  My brother is straight.  I know what it's like for you, so don't accuse me of not sympathizing.  But that doesn't mean you know what it's like for me.”

“Oh,” he snorts haughtily.  “I don't know what it's like to be you, is that what you're saying?  I'm sorry.  I didn't realize that being normal was so hard.”

His anger is contagious.  I can't help it.  “This isn't just about you.  I'm just as involved in this as you are.  We're connected, Spike.  We always were.  And what affects you affects me too, and that's why we have to listen to each other.  That's not why I'm mad.  I would never be mad at you for being honest.  But that doesn't mean that you can go traipsing around in some backwater town that's all muddy roads and low-class rubes and kiss mares.  There's such a thing as subtlety.”

He's giving me this look, like I'm a foal.  “This is all easy for you to say, isn't it?  You don't need to be subtle; you don't have to worry about what other ponies think.  No one's asking you to lay low.  Playing by their rules isn't a problem for you, is it?”

I don't answer him.  He repeats the question, louder.

“It's not hard for you at all, is it?

I give up.  “Okay?” I sigh, conceding.  “You want to know the truth?  The truth is that I love you and I want to keep you safe.”

This doesn't satisfy him.  Personally, I don't think it would satisfy me either.  It's hardly an explanation.

“Then why you don't have a problem with Shining Armor?” he asks.  “Why am I trapped while he can do whatever he wants?”

“It's not the same,” is what I want to say, but even if it's true, I get the feeling that it isn't going to accomplish anything.  I can't dance around vague generalities.  If I want to be heartfelt, I need to be detailed too.

“If somepony hurt you, I don't know what I would do.  Shining can take care of himself, but you... I just don't want to see you get hurt, Spike.  I want to keep you safe, because you're my number one assistant, and you're more important to me than anyone else in the world.

“You think I'm weak,” he concludes.  “You think that this makes me weak."

“Yes,” I answer, a bit too quickly.  “No,” I quickly correct myself, “not because of this.  You're young, Spike.  It's my responsibility to look after you.  Please.  Let me protect you.”

“It's your responsibility,” he repeats.

“I'm still a student, Spike,” I try desperately to explain.  “I'm still enrolled at the academy.  Just because I'm studying independently now doesn't mean I'm not being graded.  And so I have a responsibility to do the best I can to impress the princess and the school board, to prove I'm learning.  And if I don't this all ends.

“Our life in Ponyville is conditional, Spike.  The school doesn't just hand out grants to anypony that asks, so it's my job to prove that this is worth their investment.  We're dangling from their grasp, and if they decide not to renew the grant, we'll have to pack up and return to Canterlot.”

I watch his eyes fill with horror that quickly turns into disbelief.  “The princess wouldn't do that,” he tells me.  “She'd stand up for you.  She cares.”

“She cares about my education, first and foremost.  She's my teacher; it's her job.  And while I can always trust her to have my best interests at heart, the problem is some of the other higher-ups at the school.  The ponies in charge know what they like, what's good and what's bad, and that's tragic.  It really is.  But if we have to put on a dog and pony show to gain their approval, then so be it.  But I do care about you.  Don't ever say that I don't.  I want them to think well of you.  I want them to think well of us.  I don't want them to say, “Oh, look at the poor mare that can't even raise a child right.  Must be because of her parents, don't you think?  I told you that ponies like them shouldn't be allowed to breed.'  I want to keep us here.  I want both of us to be able to see Pinkie Pie and Rarity and everypony else, because for the first time I've made friends that I want to keep, no matter what.”

“I understand,” he murmurs, and I try my best to pretend to be humble.  Inside, though, I'm elated that I've finally gotten through.

“Really?” I asked, intrepidly.

“Yeah.”  Then his expression sours.  “You want to impress them and show them what a perfect little dragon you can make.”

“Exactly!” I enthusiastically reply, realizing a moment too late that it was the wrong answer.  “No!  Wait,” I try to call out, but he's almost stopped paying attention to me.  I can tell that he's done.

“I hope you enjoy your date with Cheerilee.  That way at least one of us gets what we want.”

I didn't know what to say as he walked away.  He stopped at the door and turned, and I was wondering if he was going to apologize.

“Should I stay out late tonight?” he asked me.  “You know, give you some space?  Let me know.”

I sigh.  I don't know if he's being sarcastic or not, but Pinkie Pie already gave me enough teasing about the subject that this is opening up a conversation I'm not willing to have with anypony, least of all Spike.

I take too long to answer, and he gives up waiting for a reply.  “Forget it,” he says.  “I don't think I want to stick around if this is what's waiting for me.  I think I'll find somepony who appreciates me.  Don't wait for me.  I'll see you later.  Probably.”

I want to say something to make him stop.  Anything that will get him to turn around and let us discuss this like proper living beings.  But that opportunity is lost.  There isn't anything I can say anymore, not with the hole I've spent the last night digging.

So I say nothing, and I let him go.  I wish I had another option.

His parting words, and the anger in them, weigh on me heavily.  But I begin to realize that, especially now, there's little I can do about them.  I decide to let him blow off his steam.  When he comes back, we can try to talk again.  And maybe, I begin to think, maybe he's not the only one that could use some time with his thoughts.  Maybe I need to rethink my approach.  But all my worries about Spike are going to have to be pushed to the back of my mind, however, since I have something slightly more pressing to worry about.

Today is my date with Cheerilee.

Back in Canterlot, I was entirely convinced that I didn't need anypony.  I was far too busy, too engrossed in my own work, and any possible benefits that such a relationship might confer (and even I didn't deny that there were benefits) were unnecessary.  No, it was much easier to handle things entirely on my own.

Of course, I had always thought that I didn't need friends, either, and while I still don't know if I really need them, I have to admit that I would much rather have them than be without them.  I had begun to second-guess the value of my self-imposed isolation.  Maybe, I had told myself, just maybe I'd be willing to try something new.

My worry was that I wouldn't find anypony in Ponyville.  If I wanted a relationship, a real connection, I assumed it would have to be with somepony that shared my interests.  And let me be blunt.  A university student in a small farm town?  I did not like my chances.

Of course, then along came Cheerilee.

Cheerilee was the first pony outside my circle of friends to enter the library.  Apparently, she came to the library fairly regularly, and when she saw my unfamiliar face, she was more than excited to introduce herself.  The conversation turned to my first impressions of the town (which I sugar-coated a little bit), and she wanted to take every effort to make sure I was comfortable.

It took me far too long to notice what was wrong with the picture.  “You come here a lot?” I asked her, and she nodded, smiling.

“And now I'll have company,” she chirped optimistically.  “And hopefully someone familiar with the cataloging system,” she added.

“What about the previous librarian?”  It occurred to me then that I hadn't yet met whomever had run the library before me, nor had I seen any indication of their existence.

As Cheerilee explained to me then, the library didn't have any employees, since it didn't really see enough use to warrant them.  Before my arrival, the checkouts and returns were done on an honor system.  To me this seemed horribly insecure, and I told her so.  She laughed it off, and I couldn't escape the feeling that she was somehow judging me.  Ignorant city girl.  You can't keep thinking like you're still in Canterlot.  This is Ponyville.  Never been a safer place in Equestria.  But maybe my ignorance played to my advantage.  It's harder to make a more memorable impression.

When she left, I hadn't been thinking much about her, but I suppose now that she had been thinking quite a bit about me.  I hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary.  But then again, I didn't really have an eye for anything like this.

Pinkie did.

“So, what are you gonna do now?” chirped Pinkie as soon as Cheerilee was gone.  I didn't get it, and I told her so.

“Please,” said Rainbow, adding her own two cents.  “Cheerilee totally has the hots for you.”

I hadn't expected such forwardness from her, and I found myself blushing furiously.  If Rainbow had been unkind enough to point it out, I would have gone to my grave swearing it was simply because she had embarrassed me in front of Pinkie, not because her words held an ounce of truth.

I had ignored them at the time.  Their claims seemed patently ridiculous.  But I spent more and more time with Cheerille, first as a conversational partner, and then as a friend.  Talking led to us founding a book club in the library, which led to me helping her grade papers.  It was a life completely separate from my other friends, which Pinkie Pie assured me wasn't strange or disrespectful.

And then we both stalled.  We both had an inkling, I think, but neither of us acted on it.  It was safer that way.  More certain.  But while we were fine to live a life of caution, three other fillies weren't.

Enter Hearts and Hooves day.

Cheerilee was, to put it gently, less than enthused when she learned what had happened that day.  Which, naturally, is why I try to remind her about it at every opportunity.

But even she couldn't deny that the events had finally brought what we'd both been hiding into the light: romance.  Even though the idea of her and Big Macintosh was laughably ludicrous (it wouldn't have worked, for any number of reasons) the idea of romance with anyone was now on the table.

The day goes by faster than I would have expected.  I keep get distracted by the growing worry in me that Spike hasn't come home yet.  I barely get into my studies and I haven't had any time to prepare for the date when the knock on the door reminds me of where I am.  For a moment I hope that Spike came back.  But Spike wouldn't knock, not even if he was in a good mood.  I go with my second guess instead.

Cheerilee has arrived earlier than expected.  Naturally, this poses a problem.  I'm already behind schedule.  Out of the checklist of things to do to prepare for the date, all I've done is woken up and eaten breakfast.

I rub the sleep out of my eyes and let the knocking continue.  I wasn't asleep, was I?  I don't fall asleep while reading.  That is not a thing that happens.  But considering how little I got last night, I don't rule it out as a possibility.

I want to keep her waiting, but I can't let her see me like this: mane frazzled, heart racing, still jittery from the encounter with Spike.  I rush to my room and grab the list of the table.  It's okay, I tell myself.  There's a reason I listed them in order of priority.  I scratch off the last dozen or so items off the list; anything less than a two and a half on the attached urgency scale was basically optional anyway, just for my own perfectionist tendencies.

The situation is so far from perfect that they wouldn't make much of a difference anyway.

The knocking continues, and I don't know what to do.  This never happened in any of the dozen times I ran through the scenario in my head.  Not answering the door would be rude.  Answering the door unprepared for our date would also be rude.  There's no right answer.  “Just a minute!” I call as I rush into the bathroom, trying to see if I can't fix myself up as much as possible.

“Twiilght?” I recognize the sound of her voice.  It's definitely Cheerilee, and I don't know what to do about it.  That's okay, I tell myself.  I can still fix this.  I can shower quickly and then run out the back to buy flowers and put up the nice tablecloth...

A floor below me, the door swings open.  It's not locked.  Of course it's not locked.  It's a public library.  And now I can't get out without being spotted.

“Twilight?  Are you in?  I know I'm early.  I can wait.”

I can wait, she said.  She is willing to bend her schedule for me.  I can't think of a more selfless act.  Was I really going to just sneak out the back and leave Cheerilee wondering where I went?

“I'll be right down,” I tell her, and I shut the door behind me.  I have no idea what I'm supposed to do.  I step into the shower, trying to adjust to the change in the routine.  I realize I'm going to have to talk to Cheerilee eventually, so I dry off and bite the bullet.

My nerves are worse than shot as I descend the stairs into the public area of the library.  “I'm sorry,” I tell her.  “Sorry for making you wait, sorry for looking like a mess.”

“You look fine,” she reassures me.

“But I didn't do everything I could for you.  I’m not presentable!” I wail, the truth finally breaking its way out of me.  And then, desperate to prove my strength to Cheerilee, I choose perhaps the most counterproductive course of action possible.

I sob.

Cheerilee watches me patiently.  She waits for me to calm down, and then she steps up beside me, gently stroking me with one of her forelegs.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not dating your presentability,” she tells me.

Her voice is like a beacon, a tether in the midst of what is quickly becoming an overwhelming amalgamation of tasks and duties.  I see her smiling, and it calms me.  I'm lifted, almost, out of my own skin and I can see myself from the outside.  I feel foolish for getting so worked up over it.  It doesn't matter.  Of course it doesn't matter.  I just need to think clearly and logically and not get caught up in myself and my stupid perceptions.

Cheerilee senses my train of thought, somehow.  Her empathy is astounding, and I know I've made the right choice.  “You don't need to be perfect for me,” she tells me.  “What would be the point of dating a perfect pony?”

We stay there for a while, and despite Cheerilee's reassurances, I still feel guilty. I should be more composed than this.  It's not fair for her to have to put up with my foalish behavior.  I don't deserve her.

And then it occurs to me that she could leave at any time and she hasn't.

“We can talk about it, if you like,” Cheerilee offers, and while I decline, the suggestion makes me melt.

“Let's just enjoy tonight,” I offer instead.  “There's a production, an opera on tour, that Rarity won't stop gushing about.”

“Dinner and a show?”

Late lunch and a show, technically, considering how early it is.  And since we've got time and I've found the courage to throw my checklist out the window, maybe there will be time to just talk.  Talk about her class, about my research, about my problem.  But I don't say any of that.

“Sounds perfect,” I tell her.

“Well that was...” Cheerilee struggles to come up with a word that is both accurate and euphemistic enough for her tastes.  We emerge from the amphitheater, and I'm not looking forward to this conversation.  I was forced to watch my date grow increasingly livid as the performance went on.  Clearly I had neglected to share some important details about the show before we left.

“Provocative?” I offer, wanting her to move on.  For some reason, her trying to find ways to sugar-coat her words doesn't sit well with me.  I've always held that ponies should say what they mean. Anything less than that, any deliberately obscured speaking for any reason, is never productive.  It's a simple social science that I've tried to explain to my friends any number of times, but I've never quite been able to sway them over to my way of thinking.  Celestia knows why.  “Open communication” seems like such a logical concept that I don't understand why it's considered polite for ponies to restrict their vocabulary.

“Modern,” she finally settles on.  “You said opera and I assumed it was a classic.  I love classics.  Did you know we're talking about Marelowe's Faustus in class?”

I'm familiar enough with the play.  A stallion sells his soul to the forces of disharmony in exchange for knowledge.  I've never seen the play as any more than a work of art, or maybe a historical document of the religious views at the time.  It's use as something to be learned from, on the other hand, I'm skeptical about.  “Aren't they a bit young for that?” I ask.

“The kids are a bit too young to really understand all of it,” she agrees with me.  “But they can still appreciate what they do understand, can't they?  The moral is straightforward enough, and something colts and fillies should understand.”

“That knowledge is the tool of demons?” I crack a grin. This was probably not an appropriate time to make a joke.

“That reconciliation is always an option.”  She is clearly not in the mood for making up crack themes of ancient literature.  “But this opera took those same problems and ran the other way with them.  The characters were blatantly hedonistic, and it was basically telling us not to feel remorse for our mistakes.  What kind of a way is that to live?”

“I think the characters were realistic,” I offer my own perception of the show.  “Flawed, maybe.  But that doesn't mean we should agree with everything they do.”

“And how many of the ponies that went are going to realize that?” she counters.  “I clearly didn't.  And there were foals there.  This was far too mature for them.”

“It's just a single play, Cheerilee.  Is it really worth getting up in arms about?  I'm sure any colts or fillies there just enjoyed the music and spaced out for the rest of it.”

“That's not the point.  I'm worried about what we're teaching our children.  Education doesn't just happen in the classroom, you know.  Foals are picking up so much from what they see and hear.  And things like the recent wedding of Princess Cadance just reinforces the idea that this kind of behavior is okay.  And to think of how much press coverage that received, you just know somepony's pushing an agenda.  Trying to push families apart by encourage those sorts of...” she pauses, as if she is trying to come up with the right word.  “Sexcapades.”

And this is when I decide that my best course of action is to stop responding and stop encouraging her.  We continue on in silence, and she does seem to calm down a little.

The date went less than stellar, clearly, but I'm okay with that.  The night is young, and it can be salvaged.  I just don't know how.

I've never seen her this invested in anything before, and it's starting to worry me.  I'm beginning to wonder if there's something sinister, something that neither of us can control, lurking beneath some metaphorical surface, waiting for the perfect opportunity to drag us down with it.  We make it all the way back to the library when Cheerilee starts up again.

“I wouldn't have a problem with them if it weren't for the fact that they have so many Celestia-damned children.  How long do you think it will be before Cadance is pregnant?  Or is she already pregnant, do you think?  I bet your brother put a bun in her over before they were even married.”

I stop over the doorstep and stare her down.  I was willing to ignore the tirade up until she brought Cadance's wedding into it.  Cadance was a mare that had never been anything short of angelic to me, like a big sister.  And now that she technically is my sister, I find myself rushing to her defense.

“Shining Armor is my brother!” I remind her.  “They're family.”

She snorts.  “That doesn't mean you have to defend them,” she says almost dejectedly, as if I just betrayed her.  Maybe I did.  “You can still be his sister and know that what he's doing is crazy.  If you really want to do right by him, you should intervene, tell him when he's wrong.  Somepony like him isn't really fit to be Captain of the Royal Guard.  He's not a true stallion, not really.  Whatever affirmative action Celestia's implemented, it's weakening her own guard.  Isn't that important to you?  Isn't your country important to you at all?”

I'm indignant, and I know that I shouldn't have to suffer this.  I can feel the illusion breaking in front of me.  I have to sit down.  Fortunately, there's a couch in the back room, and I don't hesitate to get to it.

“Are you saying that Shining cheated into his position?” I ask, beginning to feel her fire spread into me.  “That he's not fit to protect Equestria?  Don't forget, he saved Canterlot from the changelings.  Not me.  Him and Cadance.  Together.”

She rolls her eyes and neighs softly, as if she was expecting this response from me.  “Don't get me started on that whole 'power of love' thing again,” she groans.  “It's ridiculous is what is it.  It doesn't change the fact that he's just not a real stallion.”  She catches my glare, and I see her leaning away from me to escape it.  “But maybe he's still as strong as one,” she adds.  “Maybe.”  She deflates.  “Look.  I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to get you all on edge.  I know you already had one fight today, and the last thing I want to do is force you to have another one.  I just had no idea this was all so important to you.”

“You had no idea my brother was important to me,” I summarize.

“When you put it that way...” she mumbles and trails off.  “The point is,” she resumes.  “We can have our quarrels.  It's fine.  But please, let's not let that get in the way of, you know... us.”  She holds out a hoof as if she's offering me to shake it.  “What do you say?” she asks.  “Agree to disagree?”

I touch her hoof with mine but I don't shake.  “Not a chance,” I tell her.  “But that's something for later.”

There's a tension in the room that wasn't there before.  I've forced the conversation to a stop, and there aren't any branches for it to move forward.  The silence is nauseating.

“Let me make it up to you,” she tells me.

Amazingly, I'm naïve enough to ask what she means.  She giggles and gives me a sly look like she's got some sort of secret.  I'm about to ask her what she's doing when she dives in for the kiss.

I'm not going to lie.  If there's one thing in this whole experience that I will be completely incapable of ever lying about, it's that kiss.

Sweet Celestia that kiss felt good.

The fight is gone.  I can't remember what we were getting so upset about.  And my more normal rational self would have been very concerned by that.  But I'm branching out.  Trying new things.  And apparently some of those things include throwing out concerns in exchange of immediate gain.

Recklessness, it turns out, is a lot more satisfying than I ever gave it credit for.  But it's a mixed blessing, I discover, when we roll off the couch and I bang my shins on the floor.

She panics and scrambles off of me, letting me gather my wits while she makes sure I'm not hurt.  I find the gesture strangely endearing, and it prompts me to say something that a year ago was strictly spoken in the books I've read.

And this is one topic I’ve read a lot of books about.

“Maybe we should take this upstairs.”

Spike is the furthest thing from my mind right now.  Right now there are two adorable round eyes looking back at me, attached to an amazingly beautiful face, and I'm really not equipped to think about anything else.  I begin to feel a little hot under the metaphorical collar I'm not wearing, and my vision narrows.

“Are you sure about this?” she asks me, out of concern for my wellbeing.  She needn't bother.  For the first time I'm positive.

The rational skeptic part of me, that part that doesn't like to be positive, is uncertain and is trying to raise as many red flags as she can.  Forget her.

“Absolutely.”

I can't help but giggle as Cheerilee takes me by the hoof and leads me up the stairs.

I have always held sex to be an academic pursuit.  Something that can be broken down into its key components, studied, and understood.  After all, it's just biology, right?

Leave it to a teacher to show me just how completely and utterly wrong I am.

It's more like theater, actually.  Complete with stage fright.  I fall backwards onto my bed, trying my best to remember my lines, but all I can think about is Cheerilee's grinning mischievous face.  I falter.

“It's okay,” she tells me.  “I'll lead.”

She kisses me, sloppily.  It's not as good as the first one; it doesn't feel like much other than wet and runny.  I've built up my tolerance, but she quickly moves on, nibbling on my ear.  And that's where I lose it.  I didn't even know the ear bit was a thing, let alone that it would be so invigorating.  I twitch, reflexively, bringing my muzzle straight up into her chin.  I murmur a rushed and hushed apology, but she silences me with a hoof on my mouth.

She starts working her way down.  I can't handle the anticipation.  The torture as I feel her work agonizingly slowly down my neck and my chest is infuriating in all the right ways.  I try to silence myself, but I let a whine escape.  A loud, feminine wine, bordering on a whinny.  She has to stop her descent now because she's laughing too hard.  I give her a nod of encouragement, letting her know to just get it over with already.

She works for a couple more seconds, but then she pauses right before the good part.  It's a slightly irritating test of my patience, to the point that I start to wonder what she's doing.  Glancing down, I discover that she's looking at the picture I keep on my bedside table.  I'm just a little filly, standing beside my brother.  We're both beaming at the cameramare, and my parents are standing behind us, grinning at each other.  A perfect family moment, I think, and a reminder of the ponies that I should never let myself forget.

“Is this your mother?” Cheerilee asks, pointing to the mare with my same hair style in a lighter coat color.  “I can see the resemblance.”

I nod, eager for her to table her curiosity for the moment.

“And who's this gentleman beside her?”

I thought that the answer was obvious, but Cheerilee clearly isn't jumping to any conclusions.  “That would be my father,” I answer dully.

I'm not expecting a positive reaction from her, given her previous outburst, so I'm surprised to see her smile.  “I think it's nice that your mother was so close with your donor,” she tells me.

I am fully aware that what I'm about to say is probably going to ruin any chance I may have of progressing this evening any further, and the part of me that's rational about my wants and needs is telling me to just shut up and enjoy the ride.  But I can't.  Be it from respect for my father, or Cheerilee's obliviousness being the final straw to my tolerance, I can't stop myself from correcting her.

“Actually,” I say, “He raised me.  They both did.  As a family.”

I watch as the smile slowly melts off her face like a wet canvas in the rain.  She realizes her mistake when it's far too late to do anything about it.  She backpedals, pushing off of me so that she doesn't have to look me in the eyes.  “Oh,” she says, and for a short while, that's it.  “Oh,” she says again as she's probably replaying the events of the evening with this new knowledge.  “I wouldn't have guessed.”

“Why?” I ask.  If it sounds like I'm leveling an accusation, it's because I am.  I don't mean to press her.  I want to watch her climb out of the hole she's dug with some eloquent explanation for her behavior, but I know that's a long shot.  She's cracking.

“You just don't seem like...” she begins to stammer, and then she rewinds and begins again.  “You're not typical for...”

I don't know if she's going to be able to finish this sentence, but I don't give her a chance.  “Typical for what?” I ask.  “For a child of breeders?  Why?  Because I had a good childhood?  Because I have two parents who love me and want me to be my best?  Or because I'm not from a broken home like you must imagine we all are.”

I can tell she's trying to think up a suitable response, some way for her to prove that she's not how I'm now seeing her.  I'm disappointed that she has to think.  I remember reading that lies require more brain activity than the truth.

“Forget it,” she says to one of us, and she tries to lean in and finally kiss what I've been waiting for her to kiss for the past ten minutes.  I let her, once.  To my surprise it feels just as plain, sloppy and unfulfilling as the second time she kissed me on the lips.  There's no burning sense of passion at the contact.  The magic is gone.  The arousal is gone and I can't fathom how it got there in the first place.  I push her somewhat rudely off of me and to the side.  She lands on the bed next to me but her momentum keeps her rolling over the edge.

Even once she picks herself back up again, I don't miss what we had.

“I'll see myself out now,” she mumbles.

“That would be fantastic.”

I sit alone in the library, not reading, not really thinking either, just being.  I wonder what I just gave up, and what I’m hoping to gain.  I wonder if it’s worth it.  I don’t move until Spike returns, and when he finally stirs me from my reverie by slamming the door shut behind him, the first thing I notice is how dark it is.  The sun is completely past the horizon, leaving the two of us to whatever business still remains.

My first instinct is to ask him where he’s been (whether it’s fueled by anger or worry or relief, I can’t tell.  Maybe it’s just a desperate need to be in control of the situation again.  Celestia knows I can use any leg up I can find there).  But whatever I’m about to say or whyever I’m about to say it, I stop when I see his face.

He’s been crying.  I can tell he’s done his best to hide it, but some things bleed through more easily than others, like his eyes.  And held captive by his irritated, inflamed eyes, I now wonder if I contributed to this.  Of course I did.  I simmer in shame as I think about how angry he must be at me.  So of course I’m caught completely by surprise when he sees me and his entire body collapses into immense relief.  And, I realize, so does mine.

He leaps into my forehooves, and all of my tension seeps out of me as we embrace.

“I'm sorry,” he tells me.  He's squeezing me so tightly I can't breath, but I don't care.  I wouldn't have it any other way right now.  I need to know that he's really there.

“No, Spike.  Forgive me.  I know this isn't easy for you.”  I hold him at arm's length so that I can look him in the eyes.  “But I trust you.  You deserve that much, at least.”

“Thanks,” he says, his mouth forming what might just be the beginnings of a smile.  “But I don't deserve that.  I messed up.”

“I know,” I say, offering him all my reassurances, “but we can handle this.  Together.”

He fidgets, drawing away from me.  Was it something I said?  “No,” he mutters, suddenly ashamed.  “I mean, I really messed up.  And you should probably hear it from me first.”

I'm worried now, but I try my best to keep my voice calm and level.  “What happened?  Where were you?”

He shies away from the questions as if they sting.  “I ruined everything,” he insists.  “They all hate me now.”

I don't grasp immediately what he's trying to say.  I assume he's still ashamed of his behavior last night.  I'm worried I may have instilled that in him.  “I don't think that's true,” I do my best to comfort him, but it does nothing.

“No, they do. Rarity hates me.  Pinkie Pie hates me.”

Wait.  Pinkie Pie.  Why would Pinkie Pie hold anything against Spike?  Avant shipper that she is, she'd probably be egging him on.  “Spike?  What happened?  Why are you home so late?”

So he tells me.  And one thing's clear:  He's right.  He really messed up.