All In the Making

Chapters

Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Epilogue

Chapter 3

It didn’t take long for me to decide to get some food before taking the trip to the Apple family home. It was already past noon, I had a hangover, and I hadn’t eaten anything yet. My tum was protesting with some pretty enthusiastic growls. And there was no way I was making any sense to anypony if I was trying to offer thanks through the haze of embarrassment and hunger. Of course, that would mean mingling in with Ponyville’s populace… something I was actively trying to avoid: at least until the memory of my antics weren’t so fresh in everypony’s minds.

But I’ve noticed that being rather desperately hungry makes you forget important details sometimes, so instead of sneaking off into the sky from one of the town hall balconies like I would have if my head were screwed on straight… Nope, I just walk on out, and only realize what I’ve done several steps into town. I feel my heart try to jump into my throat, and it’s only by sheer force of will that I don’t freeze in my tracks; or worse, jump straight into the sky. That’d be sure to attract more attention than the looks I’m probably getting right about now.

The thing is, as my chest slowly stops trying to plop itself out in front of me in a gross mess, I’m not sure anypony has actually noticed me at all. I roll my eyes at myself for sounding like such a stuck up, attention starved, and washed out Canterlot play star, but I can’t think of any other way to describe it. I turn my head tentatively from side to side, watching as houses fade into shops and those shops drift to restaurants. Thankfully I don’t catch anypony trying to jerkily appear as though they weren’t staring at my plot, or me in general. They all either don’t notice or are too occupied with chores or running their businesses to look up and stare.

I didn’t think it was possible for emotions to shift so fast when not under the stress of a flight performance, but my accidental stroll through Ponyville is proving that little bit pretty wrong. My initial panic and pent up embarrassment slowly fades; and by the time I reach a place selling something too enticing to pass up, worry at being recognized or hooted at is the last thing on mind. But like anypony else on the team always tells me, I have a bad habit of settling one issue only to latch onto something else. So… when I take a seat at one of the outside tables, despite my smile from not wilting from shame, my head is already running wild with what could happen when I meet this Big Macintosh stallion.

The waiter comes over and takes my order without comment (come to think of it, ponies might not recognize a Wonderbolt with her mane down…), and I’m left with what in Equestria’s borders I’m going to say to him. What does somepony say in a situation like this? I’m fairly sure most nights like mine end in a passionate if not completely conscious lovemaking. I shiver. How lucky I am actually hits me with its reality without the stronger effects of a hangover to muddle the impact. I take a breath and try to focus. After all, I can’t just wander there with no plan. I need at least an idea of what I’m going to say. I blink, as a simple thought strikes me. I don’t even know where the Apple farm is.

My waiter chooses that moment to very conveniently show up with my food (which does smell amazing), so I brush my mane out of my left eye and ask, “Sir?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replies, turning back. “Is there something wrong, anything I can ask the kitchen?”

“No, no,” I say with a small chuckle, “I’m not from Ponyville, but I need to see… that is, where is the Apple family farm?”

“Sweet Apple Acres?” he replies with a raised brow. I only shrug. I don’t even know where the place is, much less the name. “It’s just west of town. Head that way and it’ll be the only road that keeps going and still has a fence.”

“Thanks,” I say, nodding before digging into the plate (I don’t know what it is, the menu was one of those that just used random words that aren’t real). I let myself savor the glorious flavor of dried tomatoes before settling back into my conundrum. The contemplative chewing of said tomatoes with a filling tum made it breezes easier. I sit there, going over my options and staring off into space.

If I’m lucky, it’ll be quick and my conscious will clear and both of us can forget by the time we wake up tomorrow morning. But I’ve been around when Rainbow Dash talks about her friend Applejack and her family… and my chances of finding one without the others are probably pretty slim. That’ll likely mean I need to talk to the other Apples. Which, isn’t a bad thing, just…

I’d prefer not to dwell on this longer than I need. I think my best bet is gonna be to just walk over, phrase it all as doing my dues as a lady, and be done. “Quick, simple, easy. Not complicated,” I find myself muttering as the last tomato disappears down my gullet. They really were delicious. And if I’m getting stuck here a week, I think I’ll come back. I leave my bits and a generous tip for the waiter leaving me be with my thoughts and start the walk toward the Apple farm.

It’s getting late by this point. Not quite dusk, but that strange time of evening where if you’re not paying attention to it, the sun vanishes behind the horizon before you realize it. I get a good sigh for once, thinking of the princess doing it on purpose. Ponies are headed inside as I walk the streets, but the night life hasn’t started stirring yet. I’m sure I’ll see them on my way back, though only for a bit, since I’ll definitely be flying. The growing lateness of the hour almost makes me turn back, just as I reach the edge of town and the road that’s fenced on only one side. I even swivel my head back toward the shrinking buildings as their light from the windows grows brighter every minute. But this far outside town and the smell of ripening apples already dominating every other scent, I grit my teeth and keep on.

And I’m glad I do. After only a block or so more of road, I round a pretty bend and bear witness to the Apple family farmhouse… and the rest of Equestria it feels like. The house itself is two stories just like most of the homes and shops in Ponyville, but I can’t shake the feeling that the farmhouse is still… bigger. But as outright impressed as I am with a farm dwelling (oh Celestia, could I sound more elitist?), I can’t keep my eyes focused on it or anything else. As a pegasus, I’m used to the wide, endless expanse of the open sky and the beauty of the freedom that oozes from it all. I’ve always thought that experience to be something unique to the sky. A thing that only the shifting shapes of untended clouds can bring out.

But as I stand here (I shiver and blink to get my bearings and force my hooves to start working again), I’m finding that notion slowly slipping into my own mental myths. The farm is massive. There are rolling hills and flat plains full of crops beyond just apple trees, though the apple orchards do take up a dominating amount. They are all arranged in neat, clean rows with plenty of room for the plants to grow and a pony to work. And as if the whole place didn’t need an accent to its scale, the Canterlot mountains make up the horizon and don’t feel imposingly large. I don’t even bother trying to keep my mouth slightly agape as I continue wandering down the road to the farmhouse yard’s entrance.

It’s a good thing too that the place is just so damn inspiring and very Earth pony (by Luna’s… plot… ugh). I realize only once I’m actually at the gate that I’m well, at the gate. My distraction with just trying to take it all in did a fine job squashing my apprehension. I nod in approval and crane my neck, hoping somepony will be in the yard to let me inside. I mean sure, I could just flutter over the gate, but… manners.

I’m so focused on catching a glimpse of somepony and keeping my own nerves down, I fail rather spectacularly to notice the approach of a pony behind me until she gives a hard grunt followed by something heavy hitting the dirt road. I nearly jump out of my skin and squawk in what feels like the most ungraceful way possible. My wings even poof out. Fantastic start this is.

“Hey ya’ll,” the pony says, and I recognize her as Applejack, if only from having seen her around some of Canterlot’s bigger events with her friends. “Fleetfoot right?” she asks, and my pleasant surprise that she can recognize me even without the signature Wonderbolt ‘look’ makes settling back a touch easier. I nod in reply to her question. “Good seein’ ya,” she carries on, flicking the gate latch open casually and re-adjusting her hat. “Heard ‘bout the delay an’ all. If ya’ll run into problems with lodgin’, don’ think twice ‘bout comin’ down. We’ve got plenty of space an’... heh, Dash’d kill me if I didn’t at least offer.”

“We’ll be fine. Spi - the Captain’s already running around the hoops to keep things on track,” I say, a little pleasantly bewildered with her. It’s not often somepony we don’t work with often recognizes us and still treats us… normal, I guess.

Applejack nods, returning to a cart and saddlebaskets overflowing with apples and hitching herself back to them both. I try to stand out of her way awkwardly before nearly smacking myself in the face and opening the gate for her. “Thank ya kindly,” she says, and I take several deep, long breaths when she passes me. I need to get my head on straight. This is simple. Everypony makes mistakes. Everypony. There’s nothing weird about thanking somepony for bein’ there to keep your face out of the dirt when you trip. Nothing at all.

I still knock myself in the back of the head for good measure before lightly trotting to keep up with Applejack. I don’t say anything, mostly because I can’t. I realize I hadn’t planned what to say, but Applejack doesn’t object to me walking with her. So we just carry on in a bit of silence toward her barn.

“Ya sure yer alright, Miss Fleetfoot?” AJ asks me after we enter the barn. She slips out of the hitch and lets it thunk to the ground again, somehow keeping the ridiculous pile of apples from shifting into a cascading disaster.

“I was a little shaken up this morning,” I reply. There’s no point trying to play dumb about what she means. That much I did think about over lunch. It was her brother after all. “But it’s gotten better as the day’s gone on.” I sidle out of her way as she busies about, sorting the apples.

“Don’chu worry,” she says, winking at me. “Rainbow Dash gets through these trial-whatsits, ya’ll’s little act will go right out tha window.” Applejack chuckles to herself.

“She doesn’t strike me as the drinking type,” I say, eminently aware most ponies would say the same thing about me. “Even if she does seem to enjoy a good party.”

“Ain’t got tha right kinda alcohol at the parties ya’ve seen ‘er at,” AJ says, wiping her brow of sweat before rummaging in crate and pulling out wheel oil. I scratch my back leg and shift my feathers. I’m feeling increasingly pretentious just standing around, watching her work. “Dash likes hard cider,” she goes on. “Like I said, ya’ll just wait.”

I swallow hard. This next bit is always the hardest aside from the thanks itself. Always. “Applejack?” I hesitate, hoping she’s fine with me using her name… plainly. “Look, I don’t wanna get in your way or overstay my welcome -”

“Now, lookee here Miss Fleetfoot,”AJ cuts me off, sliding out from under the cart and righting herself to look at me level.

“Just Fleetfoot is fine,” I half-mutter. It looks like I did something. I don’t know what, but I did it. Good job, Fleet. Your planning is really taking you far on this one. I resist the desire to roll my eyes, even if it is just at myself.

“Fleetfoot,” Applejack says again, “I’m mighty impressed with ya comin’ down here on yer own. Ain’t a lot of ponies got that kinda decency anymore. Least not the ones ya’ll deal with. I’m guessin’ ya’ll’re wantin’ to see Mac?”

“Ye… yeah,” I say, taken aback and not sure what to make of my rapidly collapsing understanding of what’s going on or whether I should be worried.

“Alrighty then,” Applejack says with a genuine, almost teaching smile. “Then yer welcome as long as ya need ta be. Here, why don’tch ya’ll head inside an’ meet Granny while I grab Mac.”

“I - I guess?” I answer, still not quite sure how I was roped into meeting the whole family (despite knowing it would probably happen somehow), but glad I seem to have not stepped on any hooves.

“Good thing,” AJ says, leading me to the right door. “Now don’t mortify Granny too much with that manecut of yours, and I’ll be back in a jiff with Big Mac.”

I make to protest my current and personally undersireable manestyle, but I’m already inside the Apple house, and Applejack already closed the door and is taking a jaunty trot out to the orchards.
______________________________________________________________________________

I don’t know what I was expecting myself to think. Hay, I didn’t even know what I should expect at all. I’ve never been in a farmhouse, and while I know better than to think it’d be something like a Cloudsdale apartment (I suppress a half formed racial some-such before it grows enough to make me sick with myself again), the only thing I really could anticipate would be age. And I’m not wrong, just…

It’s comfortable. The walls are a soft yellow cream and there are serene pictures of ponies and vast countrysides beyond Equestria dotting the yellow. Normally I’d call the amount of… stuff on the floors and antique shelves cluttered, but making that comparison only invites thoughts of Soarin’s quarters into my head. This home is definitely not like that. It’s just full… in a pleasant way. My hooves carry me forward ever so slightly and a gentle smile from the atmosphere starts settling on my face. I just can’t fully enjoy it. My brief moment of serenity is broken when I bump a hoof on some kind of old-looking farm tool that also half reminds me of dungeons. I grit my teeth and slowly back away from it, silently praying for it to not fall over.

Clutter or not, now I feel like I’m tip-toeing through a minefield. Only the minefield is a house of priceless family heirlooms.

“Ah don’ reckon ya need be bein’ ‘fraid ah them old sheers,” a creaky mare’s voice says from some room to my right. I take extra cautious steps forward to peer into the next room. Sure enough, an elderly (geewillikers, that feels like putting it mildly) mare is sitting in the next room on a rocker that sounds as ancient as she looks. “They’ve lasted this long ‘aven’t they?”

“Sure?” I say, glancing back at the giant scissor things. I take a look around my general area and fully round the corner. I’m pretty sure I looked ridiculous poking my head around like that. And it’s flopped my mane every which way… ugh. I take to readjusting it back over my one side while strolling to the center of the room. It’s graciously free of fragile valuables. “Not to sound rude ma’am,” I say as I sit and keep her within view of my uncovered eye, “but which Apple are you?”

“Why, I’m Granny Smith, oldest Apple still in the business!” she tells me with a proud swing of her front hoof that sets the rocker to creaking. “But just Granny is fine too. It’s what all Ponyville calls me.”

“Good to meet you, Miss Smith,” I reply with an outstretched hoof. A pony didn’t get much more matriarchal than a whole town referring to her as grandmother. Due respect was almost required even if my own social grace failed me. Like for why I’m here in the first place…, I glummly remind myself.

“Oooh,” Granny Smith chuckles, taking my hoof anyway. “No need ta be so formal ‘round here, sweetie. Long as yer in an Apple house, ya’ll might as well be a good Apple friend.”

“Oh…” I half-laugh, half-stutter. Sure I’d heard of country hospitality, but threw it off as a myth like most pegasi. Seeing it so boldly on display caught me off guard… and honestly, I didn’t really feel like I deserved that kind of trust. Not after the embarrassment I had probably but Applejack’s brother through, now that I thought about it. Luna’s plot I’d been selfish. Just had to be all about me and my fancy Wonderbolt problems… It took some real effort to not sigh openly, and I convinced myself my hangover was still doing too much thinking for me. Yeah…

“What’s yer name, hm?” Granny asks. “Not many pegasi come ‘round tha farm ‘cept for AJ’s friends.”

“Oh, sorry for being so rude,” I answer back with all the speed public signings teach you. “I’m Fleetfoot, Wonderbolt, Lieutenant Junior Grade.”

“Fleetfoot says ya?” Granny replies slowly, her eyes squinting at me in what has got to be intense thought. “And Wonderbolt too? Ya’ll wouldn’ be the same pony mah grandson was talkin’ ‘bout had a rough time with the ol’ fashion Ponyville liquor, would ya?”

I swear to Celestia I’m not paralyzed. Not at all. The shakes running all through my body make that an unfortunate impossibility. I’m racing through so many ways to reply, but I can’t decide which sounds less pretentious, irresponsible, or both. Slutty Cloudsdale military girl and can’t hold her liquor! Wow. Really makin’ some great public relations headway, Fleet, is the only coherent thing I can put together. Spitfire was really too nice. Management is going to go up my plothole with probations and NJP when we get settled.

But even in my shattered headspace and self-loathing, I have the good sense to say something. It’s just not… I hardly sound like a half-way decent pony to go with my less than stellar actions. “Yeah, sure,” I basically grunt with a hoof wave and more cynicism than I intended.

“Ah see ‘ere now,” Granny says with a smile that is too befitting of her age for me to not be concerned. “One, there ain’t no shame in new drink winnin’. It’s a losin’ battle from the start, ain’t Ah right?”

“I… guess?” I reply hesitantly. “But… see, I’m a Wonderbolt,” I say, a train of thought finally not jumping the tracks half-way down the line, “and that means a higher standard for myself than what a normal pony can have. Maybe passing out wouldn’t have been so bad if… well, it’s no secret what happened…” I end up growling more to myself than Granny Smith at the end and glaring into a corner.

“That there’s mighty respectable,” Granny says, gesturing with a hoof that I look back to her, which I do. “An’ I’d be darn willin’ ta bet the farm guessin’ that there’d be why ya’ll’s a Wonderbolt. Standard’s ‘r sound thangs, dearie, but ain’t do a pony a lick o’ good if a pony can’t admit when they stray from ‘em.”

I take in a deep breath and sigh. I can’t find anything to retort with that isn’t a petty excuse on my part or just some bloated, memorized mantra from the Airborne Division. I’m beginning to get some idea why the whole town calls her Granny.

“An’ I wouldn’ worry mah mane o’er whatever it was ya did,” she continues on with a more maternal nod. “We got a policy here in Ponyville that whatever happens in tha bar, stays in tha bar. An’ good thing too. I’ll go as Celestia’s witness me an’ the fillies got up ta worse in one night than ya’ll could in a week. Hoo-eee! We were crazy young mares!”

“And I’ll go as Celestia’s witness that that’s pretty hard to believe,” I snark back, amused and with my hidden eyebrow raised.

“Believe it, youngin’,” Granny answers firmly. “And never you worry ‘bout somepony not holdin’ ta our town’s rules. Applejack did a ol’ fine job this mornin’ remindin’ anypony who might try ta gossip it’d be right shameful.”

“Wha… wait, why would she do that?” I ask, unable to hold back my confused, bewildered head shake. Because that’s exactly what I’d been thinking. Unspoken town law never stopped tabloids from finding out the worst (or making up the worst, poor Soarin’) about celebrities. And as much as thinking of myself as one made my grit my teeth to avoid cringing, it was more or less true. Granny’s assurances had been sweet, and I really did appreciate it… but I knew better.

Yet here was somepony I didn’t even know going out of her way to be sure I wasn’t socially ruined for months on end. I’d expect something kinda like that from a friend, maybe, but not a complete stranger. But Applejack’s an Element Bearer, you looney, I remind myself, only to remember that being a Bearer never precluded Dash from giving into a mean streak. It just didn’t make sense to me, really.

“Ain’t nopony deserve ta be ‘fraid of bein’ mocked jus’ walkin’ ta market,” Granny shakes me out of my blundered thoughts with the resolution in her voice. “They’re already tryin’ to get through it themselves, an’ payin’ dues if they’re truly sorry. An’ since yer here, I’ll guess ya’s tryin’ ta make up fer yer mistake?”

“I am,” I say.

“No Apple worth ‘er salt would let tha’ kinda thing happen,” Granny says.

“It’s just… It’s a very…” I struggle to find the right words, but it’s like I’m drunk all over again, and I settle for readjusting my mane. It was chivalrous was what it was. And I knew it. Just what like Big Macintosh had done. I really did think that kind of old-fashioned thinking was sorta gone from modern Equestria, no matter how much I wished otherwise. Yet I was practically staring at the exact opposite.

“ ‘Eya, Miss Fleetfoot!” Applejack’s voice rings through the house along with an abruptly shut door. I whip my head around at the sound of my name. “Finally found mah goof of a brother! Why dontcha come say hi?” I really should have known. Really should have. With how nervous I’d been meeting the other Apples, I should have known my legs would feel like jelly at facing a stallion who’d seen my… I shiver… my ‘dancing’.

But I’m a Wonderbolt, and we face our problems with head held… mostly high. With that and Granny’s talk bolstering me against a level of shame that seemed insurmountable this morning, I hoof-tip around the antiques to finally meet… well, the hero I honestly don’t deserve. And hey, I am well past that stage as a teenage filly when I hoped for a knight in shining armor who would treat me like… like a lady instead of just another mare. But just before my eyes register what Big Macintosh looks like, a little well of filly-like hope warms my chest.

Macintosh is… normal. A touch taller and more toned than the average stallion, but it’s nothing I’ve not seen before. I assume farm work and military rigour work the same sorts of muscles, just based on how much Macintosh reminds me of Soarin’s physical condition. His mane and coat are even more mussed and slicked with sweat and dirt than Applejack’s, and the orange locks are only a little shorter than I’d like to keep my own mane. But his eyes… they’re the same deep green as his sister’s, and complex. “Oh, uh… hello,” I say with a little wave and a sound I think was supposed to be a light chuckle. Not that I don’t sound like a shy schoolfilly anyway. I cough into my hoof.

“Ma’am,” Big Macintosh replies, and I can’t help but be conscious of how fast my eyes become saucers and my head lifts up to look at him. There is not a pony in all of Equestria, I’m certain, who could claim to have that same kind of smooth baritone.

“I… uh, oh futz it,” I scramble for words, distracted even more when Applejack covers her mouth with a hoof and does nothing short of quickly evacuate the hall. “Thank you,” I breathe out, long and hard. “Yeah, thank you. Just my lucky day you were out, heh?” I gulp and cough again. My heart feels like it’s about to explode out of my chest, but I can already feel it slowing down now that it’s all basically over with. Somehow, I’ve gotten through this mess without making it worse (legendary status for me, yay…). All that’s left is to find a polite exit -

“No worries. Gentlecolt thing to do, eeyup,” Big Macintosh says, completely unfazed by what I’m sure looks like a mare nearing a mental breakdown. “May I ask your name, Ma’am?”

“Flee-whu-huh,” I try saying something intelligent. Something remotely close to ‘Fleetfoot’ but the shakes decide that’s a great time to come blabbering out my mouth. This isn’t happening. What I’m hearing has to be my head tricking me. I’m acting like a school-filly getting attention from a colt for the first time for Celestia’s sake! “A moment,” I blurt before getting more in. “I need a moment.”

“Eeyup,” he replies, and I all but bolt out the door and collapse against the nearest fence post.

“Breathe, Fleet, breathe,” I whisper to myself, getting my hooves to steady. “Breathe, oh… oh ho ho… wow…” I inhale as much air as I can and exhale it all out in one, long motion. I lean my head back against the post, close my eyes, and stretch my wings. Slowly but surely, I can feel my composure coming back and rationale with it.

Nopony has any right to be so… careful and assured. It’s the stuff out of my damn classical novels! I mean, figures right? Most likely the only pony across all Equestria who I’d ever be attracted to had to… “Ohhhh, Fleet,” I stop my own thoughts whispering to myself again. “Remember the last time. Please for your own sake, remember last time…” But my thoughts tumble on, and I actually just throw my hooves up and stare at the farmhouse. “No,” I say, stamping my hoof and not bothering to keep my voice lower. “No. I’m sure he’s nice. I know it after what he did, but I am not going down disappointment lane again. Go in and finish your business and go back to your hotel.”

I stand up and put my resolve into a stomp that I keep to a firm step once I come back inside. Big Macintosh is still where he was when I left, except he’s sitting and Applejack is back with a grin fit for a circus clown. “Fleetfoot,” I say, pointing at myself. “That’s me. So… thank you again.”

“Fleetfoot,” he says with a pensive glance skyward. “Sounds nice. Fleetfoot?”

“Yes?” I answer, trying to hold onto enough determination to keep things brisk. I’m doing a good job so far.

“It’s late,” Big Macintosh says, nodding to himself before looking back at me. I steel myself against the well of calm that they are. “Want to stay for dinner?” If control were physical, mine just had a hoofball sent through it and now it’s a beautiful mess all over the ground. I can feel my jaw hanging half open, because that sure as hay hadn’t happened last time… I’m done for.

Why am I like this?

Chapter 4

Somehow, by some power Celestia herself surely gave me in that moment, I politely manage to decline Macintosh’s offer. He nods in a soft sort of understanding that’s echoed by the rest of his family. I think he offers some kind of thank you to me for being lady enough to thank him personally, but I can’t be sure. Because I only start thinking clearly again after a wave of guilt hits me on the road back to Ponyville. You should have stayed, the guilt tells me. I roll my eyes. Yeah, no shit self. I can’t even muster the energy to fly back like I’d originally planned.

As I enter back into Ponyville proper, I actively resist the desire to drown my confusion over the whole deal in a tavern. That’s what had sent me from a slow burn to a glorious blaze of utter failure in the first place. No, I just need a smoke or two in my room. I can go to bed, sleep off all the roiling gut wrenching going on in my chest, and just focus on not making a fool of myself the rest of the time we’re here. Hopefully.

The loft owner isn’t around when I come back, but I’m grateful. I’m not really in a state to be talking to anypony right now. Knowing my luck… I briefly cut off my own thoughts to enter my room and do a check on my remaining cigs. I step out onto the balcony and just let my arse plop on the unpolished wood. The cigarette lights nice and hot, and the sweet familiarity of a puff and the hit of nicotine gives me a little push. I close my eyes and breathe out heavily, and maybe it’s not serenity I get, but I’m at least in less of an emotional hole. That’s what it seems like. Until I start thinking again. I scowl, cig jutting out the side of my mouth. Yeah. Knowing my luck, I’d just end up a teary mess if anypony tried to coax anything out of me right now.

“Come on, Fleetfoot,” I grumble to myself, tapping the roll on the balcony. “You know what you want. And there it was. Staring you right in your dumb face. Did you take it? No…” My scowl proceeds to become a straight glare. I scream through my teeth and stamp the unfinished cigarette on the balcony wood. “Nope! No you didn’t!” I continue to yell to the unhearing night. I whip around. I need bed. I need rest. I… Spitfire is standing in the doorway to the balcony with a very uncomfortable look on her face.

Great, exactly what I didn’t need. She opens the door and makes to come out, but I speak up first. “I’m coming back in,” I say curtly, brushing past her and trying to put my military bearing back in place. I mean sure, we’d known each other since both of us were nubs on the team, but she still was my captain. And I was already on her watch list as it was.

“Um… Did PR not go so well?” Spitfire asks me apprehensively. I collapse my back onto the bed and spread eagle. I really am tired now that I’m lying down… sheesh.

“It was fine,” I say. I gulp. This is not good. I’m tired, confused, and honestly… I’m mad at myself. The recipe for a bawling breakdown couldn’t be more perfect. Yay. With any luck, I can get Spitfire to bounce fast, and I can keep my dignity and adulthood intact and fall asleep without crying.

“You look a far sprint from fine,” Spitfire says, and I hear her sit on my right side. I keep staring at the ceiling. “You need somepony to talk to about it? I’m your friend right now, Fleet.”

“I -” I start to say, to reiterate how ‘fine’ I am, but when I rock my head over to look at Spits, she’s just sitting there smiling gently. She’s exercising what little patience she’s got (which isn’t a whole lot, really), and… it gets me. To Tartarus with it. I’ve never put a whole lot of stock in it, but maybe just talking about it will make it easier to get over. At the very least, I’ll probably sleep better. “Big Macintosh is a gentleman of a stallion,” I say. Just throw it out there. Flat and plain. I don’t even know what emotion I’d even have put into the statement if I had the energy.

But Spitfire catches on (which in no way surprises me, not after… last time), and says completely unhelpfully, “Oh… ah… hm.” This is why I don’t put much stock in talking about these things. “Well, what’s the problem then? You look like a… you look pretty bad, Fleet.”

I feel Spits lean on the bed with her forelegs. “I walked away, that’s what’s wrong,” I say, disappointment making it’s way into my words. “He invited me to stay for dinner and everything. And I just up and walked away from it. Could I have been more… stupid!” I hiss at myself at the last. It all came spilling out once I got going.

“No, no!” Spitfire tells me, and I eye her in confusion. What about this whole situation could be good? What exactly? “This is good. You’re learning right? After what happened with your last coltfriend. You’re not just running headlong into things.”

“You make it sound like I was rationalizing,” I say. “If I were that good, I’d not still be thinking about him.”

“Now I didn’t say that,” Spitfire chuckles. And something in me flares up at how flippantly she seems to treating this whole thing. “You did the smart thing, but now you’ve just gotta get through… well what we all have to go through from time to time.”

“Which is?” I ask, riding out every last sarcastic lilt.

“The doubt,” she says like it’s nothing. I’m feeling the heat building up in my chest. Maybe it’s better than crying, but yelling at Spits is very rarely desirable. “Just try to avoid him, and it’ll go away nice and easy.”

“It’s not doubt!” I sit up and yell, making Spitfire jump a little and take her legs off my bed. “It’s guilt! I shouldn’t have said no…” I trail off and take a deep breath. Yelling at Spits is a bad idea, I reiterate to myself.

“Still,” she answers, brows furrowed and her voice harder after my outburst. “Just keep away from him, and you’ll be over it soon. I know. I’ve been through it.”

Shut it, Mom, I seeth, and I feel my wings tensing angrily. I’ll… I’ll. Hmph. Nopony thinks I’ve got common sense about this stuff. And futzes galore! I don’t. But I’ll take two dragons with one kick. Prove my gut right and Spits’ wrong all at the same time. Hmph. “I’m going to bed,” I tell Spitfire, flopping back onto the bed and rolling over, my back to her. For better or worse, she’s helped me make up my mind. I’m finding Macintosh in the morning.

It takes a few minutes of me silently listening to her breathing, but Spits eventually leaves, and I mercifully pass out in a neutral mix of anxiety, jitters, and frustration. I’m such a romantic basket case…
______________________________________________________________________________

I wake to the only partially noisy clunks and plonks of a growing town’s morning. I roll over and groan with a wince when light hits my eyes from a slit in the balcony drapes. But I am also distinctly aware it’s not inducing a string of pain in my head. No more hangover. Thank Luna’s… Just thank Luna. I don’t sit up quite yet, but my stomach doesn’t wait for stumbly hoofsteps to remind me how I’ve been ignoring it.

I crawl out of the bed and struggle a little to get the sheet to stay instead of cling to me. Without even thinking about it (I’d be a right mess without morning military routine…), I start preening on my way to my single flight bag. With any luck, there’ll be some granola still left. That’ll at least get me through the beginning of the morning. There is indeed some of the tasty crunchies in my bag (two even!), and I start munching.

But with my basic necessities satisfied, my brain fully wakes up. Each thoughtful crunch brings more and more of my determination from last night back, and graciously what I think is finally some common sense. “Barging out there into town first thing in the morning is just silly,” I murmur to myself. “Don’t want to be too obvious…” I shift some of the second granola (wow, that first one went fast) into my cheek to think.

Who was I kidding? Not even myself this time. Obvious was standing in front of an attractive stallion sputtering half-words or straight spacing out. I had done a fantastic job in that department. “Desperate, yeah. No self-respecting stallion likes a desperate… er…” I trail out of my own mumbles and resume crunching. Me? Not desperate? I don’t even think the media could tell a bolder lie.

“Buck it all Fleetfoot!” I stamp my hoof down and trot to the washroom. “You… eurghhhh…” My confidence in just going to hell with trying to rationalize staying doesn’t exactly dry up, but my current face is neither cute nor pretty, or any admirable adjective really. “Staying for a shower it is then,” I tell my reflection with a shiver and the first of today’s coughs.

The steamy hot water comes in nice and quick, and I just stand there soaking for a while. “Hoo… hhhk… you have all day,” the hot water helps me tell myself. But the longer I stand there, doing nothing, the farther and farther my extra nice mind decides to take me on how finding Macintosh could go. And of course, it doesn’t take long for the unfortunate scenarios to start coming more frequently… until I just bang my head on the shower wall and focus on bathing.

I exit the shower even more steel willed to go through with this… whatever this is. I take a comb and brush to my mane which to the surprise of nopony, actually does a better job of straightening out my mane than just the comb. I do what I can with my hoof to straighten my eyelashes, then… I have a thought. And I hesitate. It’s not something I’ve done… in a very long time. My mane is just hanging over my right eye like it was yesterday. And I could easily leave it that way… but. “Careful, Fleet…” I whisper scratchily to myself.

I walk back to my small flight bag and pull it out. My mouth does some strange acrobatics, but I take it back to the vanity, re-brush my hair to lay evenly on both sides, do a quick swipe of the comb to flush my bangs off to one side behind an ear… and in goes the only barrette I own, a little flat red thing. I stare in the mirror a good while. And somewhere deep in the back of my head… “Careful Fleetfoot,” I tell the dangerously cute pony in the mirror. “Don’t set yourself up too much…” I take one last long look at myself before turning to head out of my room.
______________________________________________________________________________

I must have been in the shower a lot longer than I thought… that or I just never expected such a small town like Ponyville to be this busy in the morning. It doesn’t bother me. Not in the slightest. I can’t claim to be a city filly by any stretch of the imagination (anypony from the Los Pegasus suburbs knows better than to imply as much), but whenever I stay in a city, I expect activity day and night. Twenty-four hours without rest. I guess I just supposed a smaller town would take a bit longer opening up all the shop doors.

Not Ponyville. The coffee shops are already spilling out that icky, bitter smell, the bakeries graciously wash it away with the warm scent of bread, and all the ponies already walk and talk like a whole day has already happened.

It’s nice though, because in their hustle, nopony is pays me any attention. I’m just somepony else from out of town. I mean, granted, I look nothing like what most ponies associate with ‘Fleetfoot’, but still… it’s nice they have things on their minds more important than spotting celebrities. Boy do city ponies know how to pick you out of a crowd… sheesh.

I keep walking, my own one-track mind giving me a similar pace to the ponies around me, and it isn’t long before I realize why this atmosphere feels so distinctly alien. I turn a corner, and there I am, right in the middle of Mane Street. I check my initial thought on Ponyville actually being a busy place. I had no idea my little temporary loft was this close to the center of town, and I doubt the clamoring of vendors and salesponies reaches much farther than a street or so out. “Celestia forbid Macintosh is in this mess,” I grunt to myself. “Geeewillikers!” I yelp and cough when an attempt to make my way into the mass of milling ponies is literally cut off by a cart wheel. “Cloudsdale sky lines are better than this,” I continue my barely audible complaining, searching for a chance to jump in. I briefly consider just jumping to the clouds like a half-smart pegasus would, only to remind myself that if missing somepony on the ground would be easy, it’d be almost guaranteed from the air. That and well… experience says the ground-bound types don’t exactly like it when you buzz their ears with your hoofsies… heh.

Nope. I just wait, and take a chance to butt in… Only to immediately wonder what my escape strategy is. At least in the city, there was some general direction everypony wanted to travel. Here… futz it. This is just straight chaos. I dart out into an opening between two stalls (one with flowers and the other… a basket with strange glowy balls and ‘love fireworks’ scrawled on a card in front). Thank you, universe, I roll my eyes. Didn’t need reminding I’m walking on thin ice.

“Oh, waddya know? Ain’t that a suprise! Miss Fleetfoot!” a recently familiar voice calls my name, and my base reaction to reel and snarl at them to shut it dies when I whip around. Applejack is waving me over not two stalls from the flower stand, a silly smile on her face and standing right next to Macintosh who is manning their own display with a strange, kind stoicism. My heart skips a beat. I decide I hate ‘love fireworks’.

I skip around behind stalls to make it to them only to erupt into my first hacking fit of the day, which decides to be hateful and stick around long enough to be awkward. I avoid lip smacking when it’s over and giggle like a school filly at both Macintosh and Applejack’s worried looks. “It’s okay. I’m fine,” I scratch unconvincingly.

“If ya say so,” Applejack replies. Not an ounce of belief in those words. Macintosh only arches a brow my way before being distracted by a customer. “But watcha doin’ out ‘round Ponyville business?” Applejack keeps on. “Woulda thought all ya’ll Wonderbolts’d want to sleep in now ya got the chance.”

“Well… could… could we keep bandying about my occupation to a minimum?” I sidestep the conversation briefly. I go to flick my mane with a swish of my head, but remember half-way through I have it different. “It’s nice not being accosted by ponies wanting your hoof print all the time.”

“Sure thang, sugarcube,” Applejack says and winks. Aaaaaand then looks at me expectantly. It take me a minute, but when it hits I blink in silent terror. I really had no expectation of meeting Macintosh around anypony particularly close to him, and even then, I really had no plan of what to say in the first place. My heartbeat is picking up and I can feel my stare starting to go blank. Raw determination can’t keep me going like this much longer. Gotta find something. Anything.

I cough. It’s silly and predictable and I might as well have told Applejack the real reason I’m here; but that one cough got me just enough focus. Wonderbolt training for the clutch! “I felt bad for not staying after I was invited me to dinner,” I say, which is no lie. “I dunno.”

“Uh-huh,” Applejack says slowly, and her eyes slowly scan me up and down. Well, I blew it. She did see right through me. I’m done for. Good try Fleetfoot, but you went in on what is probably one of the dumbest - ! “Well!” Applejack interrupts my self-berating, her tone completely back to its energetic self. “Ain’t me was askin’ ya ta stay,” she says, wrapping a foreleg around my neck and gesturing toward Macintosh with the other. “Why don’ ya hang ‘round the stall with Mac for a bit? I’m sure he’d enjoy some company!”

“I - ah… uh - ah…” I try to protest (why you moron?!) with interspersed half-coughs, but Applejack doesn’t seem to hear me. She leads my stuttering and breathless pegasus arse around the stall, Macintosh steps to the side, and just seconds after I thought I’d done myself in, I’m standing right next to him. My decidedly shorter shoulder is only just separated from Macintosh’s larger, farm work toned one and the little school filly inside me is squealing in delight. “Hi,” I say, looking at him.

He turns to me with a friendly grin and simply says, “Eeuyp.” We both go back to watching the crazy, milling Mane Street, and a small giggle escapes me. But the giddy smile on my very, very nervous lips keeps me from caring too much. And in some side bit of my brain, I realize Applejack is no longer anywhere to be seen. But forget trying to not make this whole situation awkward in front of his sister, now I am faced with not coming off as a complete sap to Macintosh.

“Sorry about… hee… bouncing last night,” I venture. I mean, it worked well enough with Applejack right? That and my kinda one-track mind isn’t changing course any time soon. “I had a lot going on.”

“That’s alright,” Macintosh replies with a simple nod that’s as much for me as a customer. “Sir?” he asks the prospecting stallion. Said colt gives a perplexed look, and I resolutely smack down with a friendly smile the part of me that says I should be verbally ear boxing him. Never thought that press experience would ever come in handy for anything else...

“Just a pair of whichever for breakfast, Big Mac,” he returns his attention to Macintosh while also sliding the bits. And in a motion I can only describe as muscle memory, apples make their way to the counter and bits to a basket under the stall in one smooth arc.

“You, ah… you’ve done this for a while,” I say lamely.

“Eeyup,” Macintosh answers with the same quip. “Since I was old enough.”

Ooo! That I can latch onto. Phew… “Lucky,” I say ruefully, and I mean it. “I didn’t really consider stunt flying until I got my cutie mark. I think I was already thirteen when that finally happened.”

“Mah little sis, Apple Bloom, got ‘ers late too,” he tells me. “Was a real weight off Granny’s shoulders.”

“Pretty sure my parents were thinking of taking me to a doctor all the way in Canterlot they were so worried,” I say. “They’ve never told me though.”

“Sound like carin’ folk, eeyup,” Mac says, his deep tone hitting me again.

“Mom’s still a bit clingy sometimes,” I giggle. “But yeah, they’re great.” I’m just about to ask him about this mysterious second sister of his when all my thoughts are blown to the wind by an abundantly excited filly’s voice.

“SWEET CELESTIA, Mac!” the voice says, only to gain a body second later in the form of a short, orange pegasus filly propping her forelegs on the stall to ogle me. Ogle. “Since when did Wonderbolts hang out with you?” I sense Macintosh’s coolness level has risen by several degrees.

“Settle down, Scootaloo,” he tells with weary amusement. “It ain’t nice ta stare an’ all.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” I say with a nudge to his side and grin for the filly, Scootaloo. “The fillies and colts’re the only fans I can always count on to be genuine.” I give her scruffy purple mane a ruffle.

“Ya’ll didn’ seem so forgivin’ when AJ was hollerin’,” he nudges me back, and I whirl my head with wide eyes to see him wink at me.

I swallow and try to hold it in, but the sass that has landed me in more trouble than I care to admit pushes through. “Cheeky, but that was different,” I say with a slight, swishy adjustment of my wings.

“If ya say so, eeyup,” Mac concedes in a tone that tells me he doesn’t believe me for a second.

“Mac! Don’t let her leave, okay?” Scootaloo implores him and drops down from the stall. “I gotta find AB and Sweetie!” She vanishes on a scooter without waiting for his reply trailing a pretty fantastic dust cloud.

“Ah ain’t gonna make ya stay,” Macintosh tells me matter-of-factly once the cloud settles.

“It’s fine,” I chuckle but develop into a small coughing bout. It luckily ends quick enough, just not in time for me to not make an impression.

“Ya’ll okay?” Mac asks me with legitimate concern. “Ya’ll need any water?”

“Thanks, no, I’m alright,” I snap curtly and immediately regret it. “Sorry. I’m just used to the team not makin’ a big deal out of it anymore.”

“Some kinda bug gotcha?” he says, and we’re now looking at each other as we talk. His eyes are so green.

“If only,” I let myself grouse a bit. “No, it’s all me. I smoke.”

“Well, ya’ll don’ smell like it,” he replies with what I think is encouragement. I think. “An’ ya don’ seem like ya enjoy it.”

“Heh, now that’s the understatement of the year,” I say with some pure resentment. I can’t count how many times I’ve tried stopping. One week. That was all it took for an old hat like me. And I expect Macintosh to suggest I quit. Everypony does. And my old arguments are just about to the surface when all he does is give a low hum of acknowledgment.

I think I melt. If not for romantic sense telling me doing so would be tantamount to self-destruction, I feel like hugging him tightly for a solid minute or so. Nopony has ever just let me be with the whole thing, and not having to defend myself over it just leaves me with a light, airy feeling I definitely could get used to.

I jolt out of my thoughts with a physical jump, feeling my cheeks going beet red when Mac smiles and chuckles. “Oh. Oh!” I try to recover. “I meant to… ah, to ask. Your little sister, Apple Bloom? I didn’t know you had two.”
______________________________________________________________________________

The last small whine escapes my mouth as I wipe clean of now dry frosting the final apple of the bunch for sale at Macintosh’s stand. “Ya’ll didn’t eat none, did ya?” I hear him ask from the other side. I toss the rag I’d been using to a bucket filled with similarly frosting saturated cloth. “No,” I sigh in response. “I just… how? Why?” I try to rationalize the sweet flood that had burst from Sugar Cube Corner only to end up just as exasperated as I had been.

“Pinkie,” Mac says, and I peer around the bushels to stare at him with a raised brow.

“Is that an explanation or the start of one?” I ask, feigning disinterest. Sweet Celestia, I feel like I’m putting on Spits…

“Eeyup,” Mac chooses to only frustrate me further with a smile before tossing his own rag to the waiting bucket. “Best not ta think ‘bout it.”

“Or?” I continue anyway, following him back into the stall and watching the (much more calm and normal) early afternoon Mane street.

“Yer sanity,” Mac says with a shrug. “Ain’t nopony gonna figure Pinkie Pie soon. Best to leave ‘er be.”

“How do put up with that kind of… I still don’t know what I just saw…” I say.

“Apple family patience,” Mac replies and that only makes me give him a larger single brow.

“And that leaves everypony else where?” I ask.

“Practice,” he says, nodding to a waving pony before exiting the stall and retrieving the cart Applejack had left earlier that morning. I flip around to follow his movements, my thoughts a little fuzzy over what exactly he was doing.

And of course, I open my mouth while still confused, “What’re you doing?” Brilliant. You either sound like an accusatory bitch or scared filly, Fleetfoot. Just fantastic. Can’t just let a good time end nicely can you?

But Macintosh doesn’t seem to mind. He drops the cart by the bushels and starts to load them up. “Packin’,” he says between loads.

“Do you want some help?” I ask, mentally clamboring for how to gracefully make myself a less than embarrassing exit and taking to hovering beside the apple baskets. “I haven’t really done much except laze around…”

“Ya’ll’ve been good company, Miss Fleetfoot,” Macintosh tells me, and I feel my heart stop only to start again like it wants to burst with every beat. I hope the heat isn’t going to my cheeks. And thank Luna’s plot I started hovering, else I’m sure my wings would’ve pompfed.

“So you’ve got it?” I ask even as he puts the last bushel into the cart with a huff.

“Eeyup,” he says, hitching in.

“I… well, thank you for letting me stay around. It… it was nice to get to know you a little,” I jitter out the sappiest goodbye a filly could come up with. I almost face hoof, but Mac is still eyeing me with a… contemplative look in his eye.

“Do ya’ll have plans for lunch, Miss Fleetfoot?” he asks me without any pomp or circumstance. And the lack of either stifles me for a moment. Is he really…? I think, dropping to the ground and struggling to keep my wings at my sides.

“No…” I say, caution keeping down the unbelievable excitement I can feel growing stronger and stronger by the second.

“Ya’ll want some at the farm?” Mac keeps on. And he doesn’t even seem nervous! This is unfair. “Yer good company.”

“Sure!” I all but blurt, trotting up alongside him with a barely concealed shiver of energy. My inner dam of caution is pretty much… no, it is gone. Spitfire is probably going to kill me now, but I don’t even care. Not at the moment. “You’re some pretty good company yourself,” I say on instinct, just letting it take me where it will.

I remember how good this feels.

Author's Note

Ayo all! I've become more invested since picking up writing this story again in the not-so-far-away future it takes place in (along with my other fic, First Seconds). As such, I've started building it up more and taken to commissioning my artist friend, Ambris, to do art for this growing universe. The first of these is Fleetfoot with her mane as described in this chapter. Expect a more detailed blogpost on my endeavors in this new project soon.

Cheers!
Inky

Chapter 5 Author's Note

Fair warning, my editing peeps were unable to get to this before publishing (blame me, I'm behind). However, I didn't want all you guys who've been supporting and enjoying the story to have to wait to read the next chap, especially since I've been keeping a steady weekly update schedule. That said, once editing is done, I'll update it. If you see anything when reading, feel free to PM me the error and I'll get on that.

Chapter 5

Once again, the sweet scent of fresh apples overwhelms my nose before we even make the turn and see Sweet Apple Acres. “Do you ever get used to the smell?” I ask, only to add hastily, “Of apples I mean.” I mentally wipe my forehead. Context Fleetfoot. Context.

“Eenope,” Mac says, taking in a huge breath. “Can’t ‘fford to.”

“To help with picking time and… stuff?” I venture, hoping I don’t sound too much like a dunce. Farming is about as far away from competitive flying as Luna’s moon is from Equestria.

“Eeyup,” he replies with a shrug. “AJ’s better at readin’ it though.” He chuckles, and I feel myself smiling. “Don’ tell ‘er I said so. No need to give ‘er a reason ta call me ‘er workhorse.”

“Do I hear a little family competition?” I tease with a flick of my wing, forcing down the spike of nerves telling me I’m being too forward.

“Ain’t much of a competition,” Mac says, his chuckle becoming a hearty laugh that makes my spine tingle. “AJ’s hooves away tha best apple farmer the family’s had in generations.”

“She’s so modest about it…” I muse, turning my eyes back to the road.

“Eeyup,” Macintosh says. The lull in our conversation is broken only by the incessant clatter of the cart behind Mac, and it goes on almost long enough that I go to interject to keep it from being awkward. Except, Mac beats me to it. My head is rushing with half-formed blurs of thoughts, because if I’m recalling right, this is the first time he’s initiated the conversation. “If ya don’ mind mah sayin’ Mi -” he coughs, but picks back up, “Fleetfoot, ya’ll’s pretty modest yerself. Ya ain’t mentioned flyin’ once today.”

“I - I… well…” I stutter then trail off, making a supreme effort to keep my wings glued to my sides. But my rapidly rising heart rate has to put that energy somewhere, and since pulling on my mane while walking is less than advisable, I shuffle my feathers with a small wiggle. A sigh escapes me. “It’s all anypony ever wants to talk to me about,” I say, trying to keep the mild frustration from coming out like straight resentment. “When I’m with the team, sure. It’s our job. We’d be a mess if we didn’t talk about it…”

“Ya’ll don’ like yer work?” Macintosh asks, and he sounds more curious than anything. I turn to look his way, and he’s eyeing me with something I think is concern.

I can’t help but hold in the giggle, and it does the double good of getting a small smile out of him. “I love it,” I say simply. “But I love other things too, you know?”

“Eeyup,” Mac nods, and I get the feeling he’s not just saying that to agree with me.

“I’m not trying to sound like a whiny Canterlot celebrity… ughhh,” I shudder, “I’d just rather not have to take my head to work when I’m off.”

“So whats’it ya’ll like doin’ when ya ain’ flyin’?” he asks me just as we come to the farm’s gate. I pass on the question for a moment to trot ahead and get said gate for him.

“Reading… er…” I start to rattle off only to cough briefly. It hasn’t been as bad today (probably because I haven’t had any in the last twenty-four hours, who’d have thought…), but that one hack flares up my desire to smoke. I push the need down with a shake of my head and swallow hard. “I like to read,” I repeat, more conscious of my scratchy voice… again. “Classics. Oh, and classical music too.”

“Mm,” Macintosh nods as he unhitches from the cart and makes his way toward the farmhouse, motioning for me to keep up and follow. A quiet giggle escapes under my breath before I trot up to his side and enter the Apple family house for the second time in as many days. “Y’all said ya like the classical music, so ya’ll know The Ice Queen?”

“Oooooo!” I squeal. Yes. Squeal. Like a little schoolfilly. “It’s such a pretty but dark song!”

“The hay you yellin’ over Apple Bloom?!” I hear Applejack shout from further in the house. I cover my mouth and eye Macintosh apologetically. He only shakes his head with a deep chuckle and continues toward his sister’s voice. We pass by the off-shoot of a room where I found Granny Smith yesterday, and continue on past a flight of narrow stairs before the hall opens up into what can only be the single most impressive kitchen I’ve seen in a home. I mean, there’s nothing immediately fancy or expensive that draws my attention… it’s just huge.

Applejack has her back to us, making something on the ample counter space with some ingredients (bread, spiced hay, pickles, cheese… the works as far as sandwiches go). She turns around when we enter, no doubt since Macintosh’s hoofsteps aren’t exactly soft. “Yer late today Mac,” she starts to say before she’s fully facing us. “Somepony hold ya up at -” She and I lock eyes and this is the first time in a very, very long time I can’t be sure what’s going through another pony’s head.

“Hi,” I choose to say with a wave. Applejack’s unreadable expression transforms right in front of me, an all-knowing smirk lighting up her face as her eyes drift to Mac.

“I’ll leave tha sandwich stuff out,” she says, sliding her own plated food down the counter toward another of the kitchen’s three doorways. “An’ Big Mac… Oh horseapples!” she swears before loosing a hearty laugh around her sandwich plate.

“Do I even…?” I trail off asking, watching Applejack disappear somewhere else in the house.

“Ain’t a clue,” Mac answers for me anyway, making his way to the counter and rearranging the many jars and containers before removing four slices of bread. “Ya’ll don’ like sandwiches?” he turns and asks me, and I realize I’ve been kinda staring off into empty space.

“Wha… Oh no! I mean, yes…” I suppress a small series of coughs and grumble under my breath. “Sandwiches are good,” I say, trotting up to his side to share in the many toppings available.

We make our lunch and eat on the spacious porch in mostly silence (Mac introduced me to peanuts on sandwiches, which is surprisingly tasty). And for the first time since meeting Macintosh, I’m not being assaulted by nervous thoughts and fretting over how I’m acting. And for the first time since what feels like forever, I don’t want to smoke. It’s just peaceful. Just the two of us, eating a normal lunch, listening to the normal countryside sounds, feeling a light breeze sweep through the orchards and carry the tint of apple scent.

A part of me wants to just lean over and rest my weight on his side, but nervous thoughts or not, I still have enough reservation to tell me doing as much isn’t the best idea. So I just enjoy the moment for what it is. A quiet, nice time with a gentlecolt.

And even though I know it’s been the better part of an hour, it still feels too short when Macintosh stands up with a strong crack of his neck and stretch. “Gotta tend tha apples,” he says with a smile my way and takes to the yard of equipment to gather up his tools. I take the moment to stretch my wings myself since my head is feeling blank for thought after the morning I went through. And have enough common sense to tell me it’s time to head back. My stretching exercise is about to turn into a launching beat, except I’m stopped by creaking wheels of an old mare’s walker.
______________________________________________________________________________

“Hold yer feathers there, Missy,” Granny Smith’s voice joins the sounds of the walker. I make to turn my head around to see her, but end up just following her slow stride to a different rocking chair on the porch. I stretch my wings a second time and fold them, shuffling the feathers around a few times before trotting over and sitting beside Granny.

“Yes?” I ask, equal parts confused and apprehensive.

“What’re ya doin’ back here?” Granny asks, not aggressive or accusatory… really almost sly. One of my eyebrows arches at the question, and Granny Smith takes it as a cue to carry on. “Didn’ ‘xpect a filly with bits to spare to come trottin’ back to ol’ Sweet Apple Acres.”

“Uh… I… um…” I struggle to answer. Keep it together, Fleetfoot, I growl at myself. I mean, sure, she might have an idea already (I think Applejack finds it outright funny… I think), but needlessly dropping my flank into that conversation is an experience I will not let repeat itself. “It’s nice here, honestly,” I say, swallowing. It’s not untrue. There’s something peaceful yet still driven to carry on about the Apple farm.

“And?” Granny Smith asks, her sly grin going from subtle to stupid levels of obvious. Luna’s starry plot… I’m done for. Officially. Applejack I might, might be able to feint around, but I doubt Granny will be as easily disuaded. Not that there’s not reason to try. But… oh futz…

I swear up and down to the princesses and even Discord my brain cooked up a nice reply, but I think I’m so used to mild panic after my past few days that I don’t notice it shaking my core. Instead of a reply befitting of an intelligent mare, all that comes out of my mouth is, “Geh heh ha… hrmmmm…” I catch it before I make an even larger fool of myself (not sure how that’s possible, but I won’t jinx myself), and just clamp my mouth shut. I look away from Granny, scrunching my nose. As if doing so and giving the porch’s wooden planks a death glare will somehow rescue me from this.

“Ain’t no reason to hide it, Dearie,” Granny Smith says, her tone moved from amused to genuine care. I feel her frail foreleg pat my back and rub up and down… and I shiver as she somehow manages to start draining all the tension I’d been building up. “Frankly speakin’, even if ya’ll weren’t so tellin’, Mac don’ smile like that for just anypony.”

“Wha?” I half-mutter, looking back to the older mare. She’s still smiling at me, but the sly grin is soft and warm now. “I’m… Am I that obvious?” I ask. No getting around it now. This is happening. And even though every part of my brain is screaming that talking about this isn’t the brightest idea, Granny’s steady rubbing along my back wins. I shiver. “Sorry,” I say, trying to regain what little composure I may have had. “I’m a bit pent up.”

“Sounds like the understatement of the year ta me,” Granny replies, patting my shoulders. “An’ ta answer yer earlier question, yer more obvious than ‘n orange in an apple stand.”

“Sorry… again… for coming on too strong, I mean,” I say. “Not sure how Earth ponies treat this sorta thing. I’m not even that good at it by pegasi standards.”

“Oh hoo,” Granny Smith sputters in disapproval. “Ain’t no ‘right’ way to woo a stallion ‘cept bein’ honest.”

“So… wait,” I say, blinking a fair few times trying to sort out why Granny is talking to me about this. I don’t think she’s upset or anything like, but that’s usually the singular reason stuff like this happens. “I’m confused.”

“Why’ve ya taken a shine to mah grandson?” Granny asks, suddenly severe but still not unkind.

“Geewillikers… if I had a simple answer, wouldn’t that make the world easier?” I grouch before sighing. Part of me wants to describe everything about Macintosh I find attractive, but most of all that is just icing when compared… well when compared to the simple fact I tell Granny Smith. “He’s a real gentlecolt,” I say, smiling at the thought. “And! And!” I scramble when Granny’s head cocks to the side, “And I know that sounds silly! I know. And… yeah, it’s kinda silly for me to want it, but… I just want a stallion who treats me…” I gulp.

“Yes?” Granny urges me on despite my growing terror at having dumped out so much of myself so quickly.

“I just wanna be treated… like a lady,” I say, and I feel a single tear leak from my left eye. “The hay…” I mutter, wiping it away. I am not crying. Especially not in front of anypony. Sure, actually saying it felt like the weight of a kingdom came off my chest, but I swallow to force down the feeling. That much is private.

“Don’ hear many mares sayin’ tha’ no more, heh heh,” Granny laughs, leaning back in her rocker, eyes closed. “I ain’t tha type to get a mare’s hopes up, but Fleetfoot… If it’s worth a hoot to ya, I think ya’ll’d make a fine Apple. An’ yer welcome ‘round the farm whenever. Dontchu forget.” And with that, I’m fairly sure she straight up conks out. And I’m just left on the porch, staring off into the farm yard with too many thoughts zipping through my head to make any sense of them.

I idly make a few small beats of my wings, carrying myself to the porch roof to at least have the warmth of the sun to think in. It’s just… nothing is making much sense. Futz it. I lay down on the roof, wings splayed absorbing the sunlight, and I’m lights out before I know it.
______________________________________________________________________________

I scare myself awake. No lie. I feel myself coming to, and before I have time to really register I’m lying on half sticky roof tiles, I scramble up with a little yelp and heavy breathing. At first, I’m in a panic. I don’t remember where I am, why I’m passed out on somepony’s roof, or… My head makes its way back onto my shoulders as I take in the full extent of the Apple farm yard. And it’s also dusk.

I blink and rub my eyes, raising a perplexed eyebrow. Dusk? Really? “That was one flop of a nap, Fleetfoot,” I mutter a bit in disbelief to myself. I brush off the tile grit sticking to my chest and belly, searching the yard. I find both Mac and Applejack, busying around with stowing, cleaning, and spot repairing their equipment. I watch them for a good while in a blank sort of peace, able to admire how smooth and coordinated they are. I chuckle. That’s basically what I do for a living.

But my mind starts to wander, and with it, the calm I had been feeling. Granny Smith’s talk with me is ringing in my ears, and yeah… I’m glad she didn’t rip my head off (proverbially, of course. Hay… If I were a bit more of a dreamer, uh, huh Fleetfoot, this is totally not dream chasing territory. Sheesh. Either way, dare I say I think Granny Smith approves. I just can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. Something that’s missing that keeps it all from being perfect.

“Not that it’ll matter in a day or two you nitwit,” I sigh under my breath, only to knock my hoof against the side of my skull a good few times. No. I will not think like Spitfire. Not on this one. I shiver and shake my head. Pity parties never help anypony either. I can’t think here. I need a smoke. I need to be alone. And I definitely need to be away from all this for a bit. I stand and stretch lightly before fluttering down to the porch proper. I do need to at least excuse myself before I go.

I knock on the farm house door, and when nopony answers, I crack it open to be met with an assault of delicious, savory dinner scents. I wander inside and make my way toward the kitchen and source of the amazing smells; and without surprise, I find Granny Smith there working her oven and stovetop with multiple pots and pans. I open my mouth to offer my greeting, but my mouth is dry from sleeping outside, and it doesn’t mix well with my coughing problem. I practically wheeze for a good couple seconds before recovering with some ungraceful lip smacking and a, “Blegh,” for good measure. “Sorry,” I say instinctually.

“What for, Dearie?” Granny asks with a clever laugh. “Sleeping all afternoon?”

“And almost dying in your kitchen,” I laugh with her.

“Ya’ll could fix both ‘em problems lendin’ a hoof with yer supper,” Granny says, never once taking her eyes off her cooking.

“My… What? Oh!” I reply, trying to cover my momentary confusion. I’m fairly sure my eyebrows weren’t helping my case, even though Granny wasn’t looking my way. “I… I hadn’t planned on staying. I was just coming by to say thank you for letting me stay for a while…” Wow… Just, wow, Fleetfoot. Had that come out any more awkward, I think Discord himself would have paid me some attention.

“Horseapples,” Granny replied staunchly. “Ain’t very neighborly to let ya go back ta whatever ya’ll can scrounge together.”

“I appreciate it, I really do,” I say, meaning all of it, “but I don’t wanna intrude or make things awkward or - ”

“Fleetfoot,” Granny Smith says, stopping in her cooking efforts to turn to face me. “We ain’t one of ‘em high tootin’ families from Canterlot or nothin’. Ya’ll’s a nice filly and takin’ a likin’ ta mah grandson. If ya might end up an Apple some day, ol’ Granny Smith’s gonna get ahead o’ tha game. This is what family means t’ an Apple.”

“I…” I try to speak, but something gets caught in my throat. Neither of us say anything, the only noise coming from the pleasantly simmering food and boiling water. It dawns on me then. Everything just falls into place so neatly I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Well, actually I can seeing as I’m something of an anxious ball of… whatever. “I… thank you,” I manage to say, then lean over to give the old mare a warm hug.

She returns my embrace with a quiet understanding, and whispers gently. “Ya’ll sort yerself out?” she asks, breaking away.

“Yeah, mostly,” I scratch out and swallow.

“Well ‘en c’mere an’ help an old mare,” Granny motions with enthusiasm fit for a foal. “An’ don’t be cryin’. I already salted everything.” I let myself giggle, and it feels good to be able to do so genuinely. Not out of nerves. Not from awkwardness. And sure, I am no cook. I do too much traveling with the team to practice or get into a rhythm with it. But I do at least know how.

I step up to the counter confidently and eye Granny for directions. She takes my cue without a blink, and points to a set of bell peppers. “Ya’ll c’n start by choppin’ them there suckers an’ gettin’ ‘em in the pan.” I nod and set to work, and before long, I’m enjoying the one thing about cooking I’ve always thought was the best. It feels like flying. And no, not like the normal day-to-day flying every pegasus does just to get to work or school. It feels like the stuff ponies like the ‘Bolts do. Sure it’s all about precision and focus, but if somepony has the ‘touch’ like Soarin’ says, a pony can turn her brain off to the world and embrace the action itself.

I pause in my pepper demolition, realizing what a strange and esoteric comparison it is, but I shrug and keep on. I think it’s a good one. Granny and I keep working, and Mac’s little sister, Applebloom, is the first to join us back in the house. We exchange hellos, and while enthused and curious (I think… reading foals is much different than adults), she is far less star struck than her friend… Scootaloo I think her name was.

Applejack follows her inside not soon after, and I wave. Applejack smirks, then actually winks at me. She strikes up her little sister in conversation (initially about homework, but soon to talk about Applebloom’s friends) and leaves me to stir the contents of a skillet with a distinct uncertainty festering in the back of my head. She has to know, but I’m beginning to get a vibe that she’s watching for personal amusement. And not me either. I grew up with four sisters. Four. And each and every one of us did more than our fair share of needling the others about our relationships. Macintosh has probably been getting his own piece of the proverbial pie, come to think of it.

Finally, my… I gulp. I gulp twice. And force that near slip very far down. I cannot get too far ahead of myself. I refuse to take too much of the responsibility with what happened last time, but even I know part of my problem was making assumptions just like I almost did. Either way, Macintosh finally makes it inside. He smells of sweat and outdoor work, and I roll my eyes. Most mares would be losing their marbles (not that I’m really one to talk, sheesh) at that scent, except I’ve smelled like that for days on end. And so has every Wonderbolt before and with me.

He makes no comment about it, but I am unsurprised to hear water flowing after he makes his way upstairs. “Time to get the table set,” Granny says. “AJ, dear, grab a chair from someplace for Fleetfoot.”

“Sure thang,” Applejack replies before meandering off.

“And ya’ll, let’s get this darn good cookin’ in some bowls,” she tells me. I nod, fishing the kitchen drawers for serving spoons while she sets out said dishes. We plate up rolls, rice, beans, and the main dish, which I have no idea what I would call. All I know is that it looks and smells amazing. And I get a feeling it doesn’t have a name and that Granny just threw it together on the spot.

Applebloom clears away her homework (which looks a lot more like vengeful drawings of the schoolyard prick than homework) and Granny and I slide the food into place. Applejack returns with my chair, sitting me on Applebloom’s side of the table, but closer to Mac. Granny takes away the apple sappling table centerpiece, and everypony takes a seat to wait for Macintosh.

He doesn’t take very long, and I will admit his cleaned smell does give me rosy cheeks. Not too rosy though. Thank Celestia for it, but Spitfire has told me I don’t blush, even drunk. When Mac takes his seat, all the Apples reach around the table, grasping hooves, and I hastily bring mine up to do the same. Geewillikers, Mac’s grip is strong! My initial confusion at the strange ritual evaporates at Granny Smith’s words. “Celestia be praised,” she says, “for giving light that the food before us might grow, and Luna too, for giving us darkness in which to rest.”

Everypony’s hooves fall and Applejack cheerfully says, “Dig in!” The next moments are a flurry as each of us plate up and pass food, Applejack making the circuit fastest and chomping down first. The table is silent for a good while as everypony savours the cooking. It’s the kind of thing I always dreamed home cooking was supposed to taste like, and my mouth waters even while chewing. It’s amazing. Conversation does pick up, with talk over Applebloom’s school day being the first major highlight. Granny asks Applejack about her friends (whom I assume includes Rainbow Dash and the ‘gang’ the blue zipporwhill is always talking about), but the point of talk does eventually circle around to me and the Wonderbolts.

I knew it would happen, and I thought I was going to dread every minute of it. I have to do too much talking about my stunts for press as is. But there’s something different about recounting some of my most exciting times on the team now. None of them except Applejack has ever seen one of our shows, and there’s nopony to judge my giddy excitement in describing our maneuvers. Before long, we are all bouncing topics back and forth, and I almost forget I’m a guest. And not more than once do I think that, yeah, I could do this.
______________________________________________________________________________

Dinner ends with some delicious apple pie (as if I should have expected anything else, heh), and I would have helped clean up the veritable mess the dining room and kitchen were in, except Applejack insisted I not. In Apple house rules, those who made the food already did their part. Granny Smith retreated to her rocker and some reading. That left me with… nothing really. Sitting and watching the other three Apples clean would definitely be more awkward than even being told to skidaddle (Applejack’s word, not mine). So, without much else to do, I step onto the porch, taking in the sweet, apple tinted valley air.

I intend to pause, let myself think. I want to figure out what I’m gonna do from here on out, because Celestia’s plot knows I’m going down this road faster than any filly my age has any right. But I end up doing a whole lot of blank staring into the half darkness. There’s a semi chilly breeze clipping through the valley (too spastic to glide on), so in addition to sitting outside doing nothing, I ball up as best I can without lying on the porch wood.

I can’t be sure how much time passes, but somepony else eventually joins me on the porch. I flick my head over, and my heart jumps a bit at seeing Macintosh. Not nearly as much as it has before, thank goodness, but still… Two quilts are draped over his back, and he’s carrying a small case that looks about as old and delicate as whatever’s likely to be inside something so obviously antique.

“Cold?” he asks me, shrugging off the quilts.

“Kinda,” I reply. “Not as easy to ignore when you aren’t concentrating on flying.” Macintosh only nods, grabbing one of the dense blankets and fanning it out with a mighty shake. He let it fall to the deck right next to me, and it didn’t take me consulting my frozen plot to scooch onto it’s much warmer, softer surface.

“Ya’ll like watchin’ stars in the evenin’?” he asks, placing down the little case on a table and unclasping its lid.

“I did when I was younger,” I say. “It’s not that they’re boring anymore… just, when you fly all through the night so much closer to them, a bit of the fascination fades.”

“Wouldn’t know, eenope,” Mac softly chuckles, and he draws out what I can only describe as an aristocrat’s pipe from the case. Suddenly, it’s no longer strange he doesn’t fuss over my smoking (even if he probably would if he knew why I did).

“You?” I ask as he settles next to me on the quilt, packing the pipe and lighting it with a single, strong draw.

“Only strong memory of mah pop I got,” he tells me.

“I - I didn’t mean…” I struggle to back out of the minefield I may have just jumped into.

“Don’ worry,” Mac soothes with a warm smile around the pipe. “I’s all Ah remember.”

“I usually just read on my balcony, if I have one,” I say, mentally wiping sweat from my brow.

“Good choice,” Mac tells me. It feels like so much was said at dinner, I’m content to just enjoy the quiet as Macintosh works away at the pipe, adding its distinctly musky aroma to the apple air. But as the quiet night sounds drag on, my head starts to fill with daring idea after daring idea. Sure, I can toss most of them without hesitation, but one just keeps poking me in the back. But I’ve been on the anxious train too many times recently for nerves to keep me back, and after wrestling over it… Futz it, I’ll be being honest, I fuss at myself.

I stand briefly, grabbing the second quilt Macintosh brought with him. I give it a good shake to fan it out to its fullest, and drape it over his back and shoulders. Before it settles though, I zip under and rest my head on Macintosh’s shoulder. I tense slightly, expecting some form of recoil from him, but instead, to my complete shock… Macintosh shifts his weight around so my head rests more on his chest than shoulder, and gently wraps his hoof over my back.

Every bit of tension melts away. I forbid myself from thinking. I just sigh and say, “I don’t deserve you…” before resting my eyes…

Chapter 6

Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.

Chapter 1

We fly against a stiff headwind as we began the second of our scheduled descents, this time toward Ponyville. It was a decent current too, since we weren’t flying fast enough to really feel the effects of drag. I’m internally grateful we’re landing for the next two days. Sure I’m more conditioned physically and mentally than most pegasi, and yeah, I’m a bit more of a dare-devil than most pegasi; but I don’t like trying to fly through an oncoming storm any more than an Earth pony likes trying to plow a garden with her nose. Sure, I can do it. We all can. Do any of us want to… Well Surprise might, but she’d only be jesting.

I flick a tucked foreleg as much as I can without destabilizing myself, trying to settle a tuft of loose fur back in place.

“Right folks,” Soarin’ turns his head back to eye the rest of us, the sun glinting off his goggles, “Ponyville’s promised a warm welcome while we’re here. The captain and I are headin’ to the press release like usual. Fleetfoot, don’t try to skimp out. You drew the short straw this round, so you’ll be heading down with us.”

“I didn’t forget, Sir,” I reply, adding under my breath, “so don’t remind me.”

“The rest of you, get settled in our hotel rooms and try not to drink the town dry before we join back up,” Soarin’ barrels on, inciting a collection of cheers and hollers from everypony except me.

I just roll my eyes; I’m glad that they’re hidden by goggles and that they’ll be hidden later by my personal shades. I hate press duty. How the Lt. and Cap put up with doing it all the time I’ll never understand, but I’ve drawn the short straw (the Cap actually carries a set of cut up straws around with her for deciding these things) enough times in a row recently that I’m beginning to get an idea.

I’ve picked up smoking again after having told myself I’d never do it again after quitting for the third time, and the Cap gave me a reaming to remember when she found out, but I just get so wound up after having to endure all their… insensitivity, I can’t sleep or enjoy anything else until I’ve had a cigarette. Which is better than needing booze, I guess. Whatever.

I bank away from the rest of my squadmates, following my superiors and pushing my wingbeats a bit harder until I’m level with them. We’ll get this show over quick (a girl can dream), meet back up with everypony else, I’ll smoke, and we’ll all enjoy a few drinks before getting a good night’s rest. Below Ponyville’s low lying clouds (thick, blankety, pre-storm stuff), our stage waits for us, and the ponies around it are already clamoring and shouting even though we’ve just begun a landing dive. It’s foal’s play, keeping pace with the Lt. and Cap, curling up at the last moment, grinding our hooves against the wood of the stage to a perfect halt. I’ve done it hundreds of times before. Practice really does make perfect if the stamping applause and cheers are anything to judge by.

I smile and wave, glad for a second time I have my goggles on. It’s probably how tired I am that’s making me this cratchety toward the fans, but my head is already building an ache. At least Ponyville is a small town, and I don’t have to start switching hooves to wave with how long the cheering lasts. “If you would all have a seat please,” an elderly mare quiets the crowd from its side while stage-hooves rush up with chairs for us. I nearly plop down with about as much grace as a dragon, but decorum training did its thing. We all sit neatly in almost perfect unison and lift our goggles, ready to answer the same questions we always get. Maybe there’ll be a new one. The smaller towns sometimes throw some weird stuff our way.

I blink a few times, adjusting to the brightness that my goggles shield me from, and watch as hooves begin to tentatively creep up. “Yeah, yeah, get ‘em up, get ‘em up,” the Cap spouts. “Can’t answer if you don’t ask. Yeah, you.” She points to one of the younger mares about the middle of the crowd and so begins our process.

“I...ahem,” she coughs off the nervousness, and I giggle quietly. “Everypony knows this is just a transfer tour, but is there any possibility of maybe seeing some unofficial practices?”

“Probably not,” Cap says. “I’m not stopping my ponies from doing their own thing, but we’ll only be here for two days. You won’t see me up there. I’ll be sleeping in.” Everypony chuckles. I’m pretty certain that after three straight days of flying, we’ll all be sleeping in.

“Next up, yeah, go ahead,” the Lt. nods in a general direction and receives the boldest of the reporters in response.

“There’s talk of you retiring from service completely, Soarin’,” he says. Oh geewillikers, this again. “Any solid word you can give us on the matter?”

“Don’t know where you’re diggin’ up your information, mate,” the Lt. lightly shakes his head. “But even if I was heading out, I couldn’t tell ya. Security and stuff.”

“Would you like to retire, sir?!” somepony shouts.

“Wouldn’t everypony?” he answers with a casual shrug. I have to give it to him. Lieutenant Soarin’ makes this whole process look painless, easy, even damn near enjoyable. I’m pretty sure he’s good as he is only because he enjoys pulling their strings. He has enough talent doing it for it to be funny for him. And yeah, of course he’s bowing out. He has an absolutely killer job set up as a post-crash therapy coordinator in Cloudsdale. And Cap has it in her head she’ll somehow get me promoted to take his place (which is why I think I’ve been getting the short straw more and more).

“Oh, damn, sorry,” I say a little more loudly than I think. I let my head get away from me, and now everypony is looking at me… aaaaaand I’ve just sworn. Wonderbolts didn’t do that. We are upstanding examples of Equstrian finesse, ability, and strength. I’m beginning to think I might end up smoking two tonight. “It’s been a long few days… Somepony, anypony. Hit me.” Wow, I sound a lot more dead on my hooves than I feel.

“Miss Fleetfoot, you were recently approached, as I understand it, to be a stunt director for an upcoming film,” a unicorn mare at the foot of the stage asks me. “Any thoughts on taking the position?”

“Eh… maybe?” I shrug. “There’d be a lot of paperwork I don’t wanna have to deal with. We aren’t normally allowed to do outside jobs, so it’s not really in my hooves right now.” By which of course I mean the princess has already flatly refused after discovering a Changeling among the film crew. It’d been a mess, but at least it’d been fun. Fun in a being-guarded-twenty-four-seven-as-a-potential-Changeling-target way, but fun. The press doesn’t need to know that though. Nah.

There’s nodding and scribbling for my answer and so the cycle continues for a good hour. We get all the usual questions, the usual requests for signatures, and the usual offers for free food. Thankfully, the mayor turns away the ponies wanting the signatures, and the Cap politely declines the offers for various services. It isn’t until the crowd begins to disperse that Princess Twilight shows, working her way through the bustlers with an awkwardness I remember having after joining the team.

“How are the three of you, and the team too?” she asks.

I smile. Princess of Friendship always feels like an understatement to me. She’s so much more genuine, and that always lifts my spirits despite the fact that I barely know her.

“Ground crew’s on schedule, nopony sprained a wing… we’re doing pretty good,” the Cap replies. “What’s Dash lookin’ like? Out three days, you miss a few things.”
My ears perk up. Rainbow Dash has finally finished the screening process to join up the the Bolts and is currently on the trial circuit. I watched her absolutely destroy the competition right before we left.

“Did she give you any of her lap times?” I ask before the princess answers. “She looks like a demon out of Tartarus on the track, but nopony gave us numbers.” I dance in place in a bout of eagerness and hold back an amused giggle at the princess’ surprised look.

“Heh heh,” she chuckles after regaining her composure. “Rainbow Dash didn’t spare me any details. She’s like that you know? Here, I figured you might want these.” She unclasps a single saddle bag (my eyes immediately lock onto the dangerous way her straps are situated around her wings and have to stop myself from rushing over to redo them) and levitates a single folded parchment sheet to the Cap. The Lt. and I crane our heads around her as she unfolds the paper to reveal a list of hastily scrawled numbers. The hoofwriting hurts my brain with how bad it is, but I know the arrangement, and I choke and back away to cough.

Whiiiich of course turns into a small coughing fit as my lungs tell me I’m complete nutcase. They’ll get over it.

“Are you alright?” Princess Twilight asks, reaching out a hoof in concern.

“Yeah, yeah,” I lie, running a hoof through my silver mane. “I just… wow.”

“I won’t put crazy bits down yet,” the Lt. says, and I stare at him with an incredulously raised eyebrow. “Sure, those are insane derby times, but a show isn’t just speed. We’ll see, we’ll see.”

“May I keep this, Princess?” the Cap asks, and I see the excited fire in her eyes. I know that fire. It’s the same fire she had when I first came onboard. Hell, it’s the same fire she always has when somepony new gets put in her hooves. She gets to make somepony into a Wonderbolt, and that process is as enjoyable for Captain Spitfire as it is probably the worst three months of said pony’s life. I know, and I got her approval early. Rainbow Dash will be in for something else if she makes it through the trial circuit.

“Sure!” Princess Twilight says. “I think Rainbow would want you to have them too. So… ahm, enjoy your stay and if there’s anything you need, well, the castle’s hardly difficult to miss.”

“And if you’re off saving one of your friends from a chocolate monster?” the Lt. jokes with a friendly wink for which I nudge him in the shoulder.

“Ugh… please don’t bring that up. I’m never going to hear the end of it,” the princess sighs good naturedly. “Try the mayor if I’m occupied. She’s much busier than me, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind at the very least pointing you in the right direction.”

“Thank you, Princess Twilight,” the Cap replies. “Have a good evening.”

“Oh! You too!” she says again before shaking the Cap’s hoof and trotting off toward her castle.

“Alright you two sorry excuses for pegasi,” the Cap quietly laughs as she pulls her goggles off completely and ruffles her mane, “duty secured.”

“True that,” I agree, going a step further than Spitfire and crawling out of my flight suit and slinging it over my back. We really don’t verbally agree where we start walking. We just set off. Soarin’ told the team this is going to be their one night to get wasted before we start the painful process of setting up in a new fort. We’ve all been to Ponyville before, and all of us know the Haymaker is the best bar for an occasion like this. So, it’s not a question of where we’re going but of who’ll already be acting like an idiot by the time we make it there.

“Twenty-bits says Surprise blacks out first,” Spitfire says, seeming to read my mind.

“Sixty says I don’t even get buzzed but still drink more than the both of you combined,” Soarin’ teases.

“Oh, what a great way to rub it in a light-weight’s face,” I jeer with all the sarcasm I can muster. “But you’re on. Whaddya say, Spits?”

“I’ll raise the stakes,” Spitfire replies with a clever smile. “I’ll hoof over a hundred if you survive more chariot bombs than Filly.”

“It’s by Celestia’s grace-” Soarin’ retaliates when I add in...

“And a metric buckload of vomming your brains out,”

“-that I’m not dead after what I downed in Filly,” he carries on with a definite note of irritation in his voice. “We’ll kindly avoid discussing my least glamorous moment on the team.”

“As if,” I needle him to Spitfire’s laughter.

“I don’t need this in my life,” Soarin’ grumbles under his breath.

“Hey, guys, I’m gonna hop on over to my room for a bit to put the uniform up, and I’ll meet you at the Haymaker after,” I say when we got closer to where most of us are staying. I mean sure, yeah, I need to put the uniform up and get my shades out of it, but I also need to smoke. Preferably away from Spitfire. She won’t hold the decorum of it over my head like she does when we’re working, but I’d rather not have her giving me looks when I’m trying to enjoy time with the team.

“Sounds good to me,” Soarin’ says. “I’ll probably be the last in. I wanna shower.”

“Showing up late won’t get you out of a bet,” Spitfire teases, and we all part ways. My booking is actually closer to a small breakfast place (I’m a chronic early riser), and if I’m not mistaken, is actually owned by the same stallion. The hotel’s really just a small three family house he rents to passers-through, not an actual hotel. But hey, he lets me smoke on the balcony, which is more than I can say of most of the inns around Ponyville. And yeah, it’s a shallow reason, but the family places are usually more discreet.

“Evening, Miss,” he says to me when I enter the aging wood door and ring the bell hanging in the frame. “Fleetfoot, am I right?” He asks with that special kind of aged warmth I wish was more common.

“The only one I know,” I reply.

“You booked for two nights looks like. Am I right?” he asks as he flips through a crinkling notebook.

“Yep,” I say.

“Okay then, here we are,” he says, sliding the notebook across the oak counter separating us. “Just sign here so I know you’ve checked in,” he continues, pointing to the line before offering me the quill. “You’ll sign again and pay when you’re ready to leave. And you can get my wife’s fine cooking across the street for breakfast.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I reply, streaking out my signature like a pro… which I guess I am.

“Heading to the Haymaker tonight I presume, Miss Fleetfoot?” he asks as he takes back his register and quill.

“Yeah… the Bolts are pretty predictable, huh?” I say sheepishly.

“Ol’ Tap has a reputation,” the old stallion chuckles. “I’d go if I were visiting. But, and take it for what you will, I’d personally recommend the Lodge. Barkeep by the name o’ Cold Crisp. His cutie mark’s actually in barkeepin’ and he’ll set you up nice.”

“Ya know, I may bounce and give it a shot,” I say, curiosity piqued. If there’s one thing I’ve learned after more tours and circuits than I can count, it’s to trust the locals. Especially when it comes to the good bars. “And thanks. You have a good night, Mr…”

“Chip. Wood Chip, Miss Fleetfoot,” the stallion says. “Enjoy yourself.”

I nod and trot up the narrow staircase to my room, tossing the uniform on the bed and rummaging in its inner pockets for my pack and shades. I take a deep breath, sliding on the glasses as I throw open the sliding door to the balcony. The deep purple lenses turn the already warm and red sunset a beautiful array of colors. The humidity is just right, and I let another deep breath go before striking my match on the balcony rail and catching the Horseshoe Strike already between my teeth.

My next big breath is a fiery one, and the wispy smoke I exhale is like blowing away a fat slug of the tension in my muscles. And now I can just enjoy the rest of the smoke. I hear around the big cities we tour around that Ponyville’s starting to grow. Sure. Let ‘em think it. I still see a small town. Even the small burgs have a nightlife, and even through my shades, I can tell Ponyville’s version of ‘nightlife’ involves… I start giggling then and have to be careful not to drop my smoke. Who am I kidding? Ponyville’s still small and quaint no matter what the papers say just because the Princess of Friendship lives here.

I think about all the times I’ve thought about where I’ll settle down once I decide to get out. My small laugh dies away, and I go back to the half burnt down cigarette. I try and fail at blowing smoke rings. Maybe you can only do that with traditional pipes? I dunno. I take another puff and jump back to my original train of thought. Maybe I’ll settle in Ponyville or somewhere like it. Somewhere the cloud real estate is at least decent. I’m jumping around a map in my head, trying to remember the smaller places I’ve been, when somepony knocks at the door. One of my eyebrows decides to come up before I even think the situation’s strange.

I take one last puff, stamp the butt out on the porch, and walk back into the room. I don’t close the balcony sliding door. It’s a nice evening out. “Hello?” I ask as I crack open the door. I’m not going to be surprised if it’s a fan. They have an uncanny ability to find us even when we give the press a run for their money. But it’s Soarin’ giving me that goofy, friendly-concern grin through the crack in the door.

“Bad time?” he asks me, and I know he’ll leave if I say yes. The Lt’s. a chill colt that way. How he managed to make it as far up the ladder as he did without having a screaming mouth and a half like Spitfire, I’ll never know. Hay, I didn’t even make it to the third spot without learning to knock some ponies around a little. It takes a lot to get me angry, but a pony can press my buttons. I’m fairly certain Soarin’ has no buttons.

“Nah, come on in,” I tell him, opening the door and walking back to the balcony. “You okay?”

“I’m the one who dropped by to ask that question,” he tells me, patting my back and leaning his forelegs on the rail. I pull out a second ‘rette and light up. He doesn’t say anything even though I know he takes the Cap’s side on my… ugh, I hate calling it an ‘addiction’. Like I said, Soarin’s a chill colt. I snicker. I’m barely two years older than him but I still think of him like a kid.

Really? Soarin’ is a better stallion than a lot I’ve met. “Sorry,” I apologize for my little titter. “It’s just you.”

“That makes me feel loads better,” he says, and I can feel the eyeroll he gives me.

“Seriously, I’m fine,” I say, blowing out a particularly good take.

“Uh-huh,” he replies, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me a single bit. Come to think of it, I probably wouldn’t believe me either. But then, I am me, so it’s kinda hard to know. “That your second or third?” he asks, and there’s no denying he’ll be able to see my eyebrows slant, shades or no shades. And here I was, just thinking of how nice it is he doesn’t bring it up. “I knew you were going off to smoke, but isn’t more than one unusual for you?” He’s not looking at me, just staring off into the sunset. There’s not a colt in existence that would be so dense to not know when they’re being glared at, but Soarin’ is flat ignoring me. I resist the spite in me that says to blow a puff straight in his face.

Instead, I just prop myself on the railing and say tersely, “It doesn’t matter. Or it shouldn’t… I dunno.”

“You don’t sound fine,” he says. He really is concerned. I can hear it in his voice. But I can’t deny that I really want him to just lay off. “Look, you don’t have to take the position if you don’t want to,” he says, and he gets off the rail, judging by the way it creaks.

I turn to face him and pull my shades off. “Tell that to the Cap,” I grunt. “Come on, Soarin’, be realistic. Who else is gonna take your spot? Misty? Rapid? Surprise sure as Tartarus isn’t ready.” I cough, growl after it’s over, and angrily stamp out the unfinished smoke.

“You’re good, Fleet,” he tells me, taking a seat on the porch, and I follow suit. “You’re older than me, and I’ll be honest, you’re a way better flier. But - and let me finish - ”

I close my mouth that I’d opened to protest and reluctantly let him go on. I don’t really want to be talking about this right now. I want to be going out and be drinking and having a good time. Why can’t he leave this for a few days and wait until we get to the new fort?

“... Fleet…” he goes on after making sure I won’t interrupt him right off. “You’ve got a point that the others aren’t necessarily ready to take on the wingpony’s job, but if you don’t want to do it, the team’s gonna go to shambles anyway.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t have to regardless,” I sigh and shake my head to try to get my mane out of the streaked style it gets in during long flights. I wish I could wear it short like I did when I was in the regular Guard. The Bolts are performers though and our manes are a big marketing thing. That’s what I’m told anyway. “We joined the Guard, Soarin’,” I say, and I sound a lot more down and out about the whole thing than I feel. Guess that whole thing about not bottling up does make it worse when it comes out. At least I wasn’t yelling. “The team has to come first. I know that. You know that. Sure, I’d rather not have to take the wingpony position, but I have to.”

“You know Spits won’t make you if your heart really isn’t in it,” Soarin’ says. “She’ll find a work-around.”

“The team has to come first,” I repeat. It’s cheesy sounding, and I know it, but that doesn’t make it any less true for me. Surprise calls me old-fashioned, but even though she only does it to tease, I can’t think of anything else better to describe myself. “A disgruntled me as wingpony is going to be far better than a half-arsed patchwork team dynamic any day.”

“Hey, it’s your call,” Soarin’ relents and stands. “Since it’s my job you’ll be taking, you know you can always ask if ya need help.” He winks before slipping out. “See ya ‘round, Fleet.”

I nod as the door snaps shut quietly behind him. I won’t be seeing any of them tonight I think. I’m not necessarily in a bad mood per se, but it’s not one I want to be in around the team that’s for sure. And it’s also the kind of mood a good book or leisure flight won’t shake. I need private cider. I’ll thank Mr. Chip on the way out for the recommendation. Hopefully the Lodge is as good as he says. I stand up, shut the balcony door, slip on my shades, and start a glide to the smaller, less popular local bar.
______________________________________________________________________________

I scrape my hooves against the dirt of the Ponyville road just enough to feel my hooves tingle, before fluttering my wings to a halt. I had asked Mr. Chip on my out where to find the Lodge, and it was a good thing too. Unlike the Haymaker, which I always took beef with for its pretty tasteless and blatant advertising (despite the good atmosphere inside), the Lodge is the type of place nopony knows about unless they already know about it. Which makes no sense whatsoever, but I can’t find any other way to word how nestled and tucked away it is.

I trot lightly to the entrance, and I can only just hear the thrum of music. The clink of glasses and bassier clang of tankards is making more noise. Well, I figure if those are moving, the booze hast to be decent at the very least. I step inside the admittedly small entrance and subconsciously try to force my mane down. It’s a little habit from a good few years trying to keep my head down when I want a little privacy. I mean, if ponies are looking for a Wonderbolt, a pony with a mane so long it doesn’t look like she can see what’s right in front of her isn’t even in the running for a glance. But that leaves me with not being able to see what’s right in front of me.

I pull my mane back and keep from shaking my head. No mane band means shaking only makes it worse. And now that I can see, I pretty much immediately like the place. The paint is peeling in all the right places, there’s dust on the hard-to-reach nooks, and the bar stool creaks as I slide onto it. I think the musicians are locals, but I could be wrong. Either way, they’re playing soft, mood music. This is the bar of a normal town with normal nights. Which strikes me as odd at first, but I suppose if Princess Sparkle doesn’t drink, not much changes in a place like this.

I eagerly place both hooves on the bar counter and let out a content sigh. I decide I’ll have a few, get a little dizzy, and enjoy the music before going back to bed. “Surprised to see a lady mare like yourself in here, Miss Fleetfoot,” the barkeep, Cold Crisp says to me with a knowing smile. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest that I’m recognized so easily, and it must show. Mr. Crisp just slightly waggles a hoof and closes his eyes. “Keep yer head on, Miss Fleetfoot. You want some time and quiet, you’ve come to right place. Not a soul is gonna bother you in here, Celestia be my witness.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” I say. That comes out brilliantly. Way to come off like a complete snob, Fleet. Good one.

But Mr. Crisp doesn’t seem to mind. Or get that impression at all. “Everypony needs their time alone to think. Bottle or no bottle,” he says, again with that knowing smile. “And speaking of bottles, what’re you lookin’ for?”

“Start me with a greyhound,” I say without even thinking. Mr. Crisp has one of the infectious smiles it seems like. I’m grinning when I order. If I’m forced to choose, I enjoy a good mojito over other drinks, but I always get a greyhound first no matter where I am. It’s what the team used to get me destroyed when I got accepted in. Silly ritual maybe, but it’s still a good drink regardless.

“You got it,” Mr. Crisp tells me. He moves off, and it’s obvious he has a bartending cutie mark. He’s handling my bottle without even looking and checking up on another customer with idle chat at the same time. I get a small pang as I watch my drink materialize along with several others. “Aaaaaand, there we are,” he says, sliding glasses and tankards across the bar. They stop in front of us all perfectly, and the pang hits me a bit harder. I’m not really jealous. That’s not the right word. I know what real jealousy feels like. I shake away those thoughts and let the music form a nice, cushioning blanket around my world as I take my first sip. It’s delicious of course.

But I can’t ignore the pang. I’ve wondered it before, and never resolved it enough to not think about it again. My mind is boggled all the time by what it must be like to have a cutie mark that just… works. Does its thing all by itself. I tell myself it’s silly to think of cutie marks like living things, but mine does a lot of the time. I’m the fastest pony on the team (until Rainbow Dash crashes in anyway… but that’s neither here nor there), and being insanely fast is my talent. But I feel like I always have to call on my cutie mark when I need that edge.

And I’m not alone. There are days I’ve heard other ponies talk about it the same way, but I’ve always wondered what it must be like to not need to… do whatever it is I do. I ponder the whole affair a bit longer, and I’m only distracted from it by my empty glass. Somewhere in the back of my head, the smart part of me is waving and shouting and generally making a fool of herself trying to tell me to slow the buck down. But I don’t really pay much attention. The music and… feel of this bar is too nice for me to care. I slide my empty greyhound to the counter, and Mr. Crisp is there before I can think of waving for him.

“Another or something different, Miss Fleetfoot?” he asks me.

“A…” I take a minute to forcibly swallow. My throat feels swollen… Probably downed the greyhound faster than I meant to. “A mojito, regular… classic,” I say.

He nods and shuffles off. The band ends their song, and everypony applauds. And what I took for a very relaxed band proceeds to wreck my impression just as Mr. Crisp returns with my mojito. Their drummer clacks his sticks and the room explodes. Well, not quite. I don’t think their equipment can quite reach levels like that, but they sure do try. There are amused chuckles and approving nods all around. I wasn’t expecting it, but I nod too. The music isn’t half bad, and I get the feeling this is more than a local band. It’s a budding local band.

The whole atmosphere of the bar changes as the young musicians continue to shred like they’re about to die, but I still like it. A lot apparently, because I don’t remember the time passing, drinking that much, or the song changing. It just happens really. I look down, spill something alcoholic all over myself, feel the ice, look up too fast, and my inner smart Fleetfoot sighs before I feel myself going to the floor. I know I hit hard, but how I have no idea. I can’t feel anything. My eyes are opening and closing really slowly and memories of that night after joining the team come back.

Except a giggly Spitfire isn’t the last thing I see or feel. A rugged but sculpted stallion comes into view over me, and I try to panic but, I don’t think my brain could care less about what I want. The worst doesn’t happen though. I’m hauled off the floor like a long-loved ragdoll and gently set on a broad, sinewy back. And before I completely black out, I hear the deepest baritone in my life. “I’m taking her back to her room, Crisp. Her drinks on my tab.”

Chapter 2

When I wake up, I can’t even pretend the throbbing in my head isn’t the first thing I notice. I register it before I even open up my eyes, and it is a very good motivator for keeping them shut. I feel every pump of blood, and no amount of steady, controlled breathing helps. I need water. But that involves getting up and crawling my way to the sink; I’m not sure it’d be worth the effort. I groan and let my tongue loll out the side of my mouth. I feel like complete garbage, and anything about last night isn’t coming ‘round without some thinking. Which hurts at the present moment.

I try to roll over and moan some more (I have a fleeting thought I’ll be doing that a lot over the course of the day), but I realize I’ve tangled myself in the sheets and don’t even really struggle with them before I just get myself more twisted in the mass of fabric. It’s without my conscious decision that my eyes peek out into the world, but I am very sure I’m the one to decide to clamp them shut almost immediately and wince. By Celestia, I’m not even facing the side the window’s on.

But something in my pain-cracked head insists I need to get up, and I try opening my eyes again. I’m more guarded about it; but even so, the sudden assault of colors and shapes get an audible cry out of me. I force myself to keep my eyes opening though. Sure I’ll be glad I didn’t just decide to go back to bed later, but my only reward in the moment is an even bigger weight in my head… and I can also feel myself beading sweat in the sheets. “Ughhhhh…” my mouth opens and now I’m aware of how dry it is in there.

My need for water quickly overwhelms anything else, and I struggle out of the sheets with a bad case of the shakies. I don’t even go for the sink. It’s straight to the shower, only cold water, and I take several long gulps straight from the faucet before letting the icy water slowly bleed the morning pains away.

Of course, it’s not all bliss. Sure my mess of body chemistry isn’t destroying me anymore, but that just means I start remembering what I can about last night. Just like every other time before it, with or without the team, my first instinct is to abstain from alcohol altogether. I don’t always end up a messy pile of half-mare the next morning, but… oh, what the hell… I’m pretty sure I’ll end up drinking again when we get to Baltimare. I sigh audibly and reach for a comb on the vanity, just to do something with my hooves. I give up trying to remember how much I had to drink, especially since knowing isn’t likely to make the aftereffects go away anytime soon.

I start combing my mane down from the windswept look the team keeps up for shows, my still kinda muddled thoughts latching onto the only thing about last night I can’t even get into the hoofball stadium. Who brought me back to my room? Hey… how’d whoever it was know where I was staying? I mean, sure the rest of the team knew as a matter of policy, but the likelihood even one of them would’ve been sober enough to give out the right info borders on absurd. I mean… eh… maybe Soarin’ would have been? I dunno. He holds his liquor better than all of us combined, but I’ve still seen him go stupid.

I get my mane and tail combed back to the straight locks they’re supposed to be and groan that the cold water is starting to lose its healing effect. I move to turn the water off and begin the long, slow day of recovery when somepony quite literally pounds on my door. I squeak and bruise my hoof on the faucet nob before screaming in my absolutely beautiful dehydrated smoker’s voice, “I’m bathing!”

“Sorry… damn,” I hear Soarin’s voice from in the hallway. I try to hurriedly dry myself off and throw a towel around my shoulder-draped mane, but it’s easier said than done. My shakies are still pretty bad, especially after stepping out of an ice cold dousing. Gah. I’m still wet enough to be… I groan… poofy when I answer the door, but at least I’m not still drenched.

“Oh… hi,” I manage to scratch out with a small cough. He looks just as bad as I feel. Wow. I actually wonder how he’s functional enough to walk over here when I’m doing all I can to not crawl back in bed and conk out. Fun. This is what I have to look forward to today.

“You okay?” he asks, and I step aside so he can walk in. “Heard you had a rough night from the geezer downstairs.” Why doesn’t he sound like a dragon’s butt? He looks it.

I shake my head of the thoughts (and immediately regret it… supremely) and say, “You don’t look… ughhh… you don’t look so hot either.”

“Thank you,” comes his sarcastic reply. “At least I didn’t pass out.”

“You get that from the guy downstairs too?” I bite back as I ring my mane of remaining water. “Sorry… bad morning.”

“Uh… no, actually,” Soarin’ says, and when I look over to him, he’s scratching the back of his neck nervously. That’s never a good sign. Everypony on the team knows it. And even though my head is taking a little longer to put thoughts together, it doesn’t take me much more time to realize I really don’t want to hear what he’s about to say next but can’t stop him. “That’s… um… well that’s old hat out in town, Fleet,” he says.

“And what’s… ugh, Celestia’s mane… ‘new hat’?” I ask, my apprehension making me more irritable than even a bad hangover would.

“Fleet, are you sure you’re okay?” Soarin’ asks me. But this time he’s more the sincere and caring brother figure every member on the team gets to know when they’re goin’ through tough times. It’s an odd switch for him, and I get a jolt of worry through my bones. “And not physically. I mean, I know it sounds stupid, but you aren’t losin’ it are you? The whole team is there if you need -”

I don’t know what it is, but something snaps inside me. I… know I’ll figure out what it was later, but the only thing registering in me is a well of anger, frustration, and a whole mess of other things I’d been avoiding since the talks about the wingpony job started. I wheel on Soarin’ and the towel comes off my uncomfortably long and stringy mane. “What did I do, Soarin’!?” I scream at him. Straight scream. He flinches and I just barrel on with the little steam I have after the shower. “Stop dancing around it, and bucking tell me what Spitfire is gonna ream me for!”

I’m taking heaving breaths as I continue to try to stare him into oblivion. He sighs, but not in the exasperated way. It’s more like he was muttering to himself. “Sit down, Fleet. Please,” he tells me. He’s soft, calm, and quiet which only makes me angrier.

“Soarin’...” I growl.

“Don’t make me turn it into an order when we’re not on duty,” he says and takes a seat right on the floor himself. “Now come on, I wanna talk.”

Exhaustion hits me then along with a lack of words, and I plop onto the floor opposite my lieutenant. “Spitfire didn’t put you up to this, did she?” It’s the only thing coherent enough in my pulsing head to make it out my mouth.

“She wouldn’t be that nice,” Soarin’ chuckled, and I nod with a dutiful eyeroll of agreement. “She’s still not, come to think of it.” I make to ask what he means, but he cuts me off with a raised hoof. “You first. Is the wingpony job really eating you up that bad? ‘Cause if…”

“It scares me a little, and I don’t know what we’ll do without you around,” I say before he finishes. I take a big breath. “But it’s not like I think I’ll be a complete failure.”

“Hoo, ‘kay…” Soarin’ says, scratching the back of his head again. “Quick and short. If it’s not that, then what is it? ‘Cause you don’t strike me as the type to poledance and all but offer to fuck some random stallion, even if you were wasted.”

I blink several times, and I have to remember my jaw isn’t supposed to hang open like that. Even my sluggish brain doesn’t want to admit the possibility that what Soarin’ is saying is true. “Did… did I really?” I pretty much squeak. Probably pretty pathetically.

“Oooooh yeah,” Soarin’ says, and I can taste his unease in the air. And what he says next makes me want to bury my head in a dark corner for a very, very long time. “The… um… the coffee shop this morning was… ah… Well, for your sake, details were not lacking among the stallions this morning.”

“Ohhhhhhh.... Luna kill me now…” I whine, pulling my ears down against my head and doing everything possible to not look Soarin’ in the eyes. I’d actually prefer to put all of me in that dark corner and stay there forever. “How am I supposed to step outside?” I say in almost a whisper.

“Can’t help ya there, Fleet,” Soarin’ shrugs, and I manage to look at him for a glare, but I still can’t let go of my ears. “But I know you, and you’re not the type to just off and do something like that. So… as a friend, not your superior officer, what digs?”

He smiles a little fondly at me, and something inside tells me he’d be ready to wait minutes if it took me that long to get the words out. Sure I know what my problem is, but a Wonderbolt has their life together. Even if it’s not what they think it’s supposed to be (I mean, who does). I force my selfish feelings down and swallow. The pounding in my head is still there, but I’m getting my normal headspace back along with rational thought. Maybe all it took was to sit down. “Damn, Soarin’, I don’t think it was anything,” I say. I let go of my ears, but rub them a bit. No amount of holding them down is gonna keep anypony from seeing how embarrassed I’m going to be stepping outside. “I was just being stupid. The idea of taking your spot is stressful and… stuff.”

Soarin’ eyes me like I’ve seen Spitfire scrutinize her kids, like he doesn’t quite believe me. “You… you never intended to take my spot, did ya?” he asks, his look becoming more understanding.

“No, not really,” I reply. That much is at least the truth. Funny enough. “The fact I got as far as I am surprised me.”

“Yeah, I guess I can see where you’re breakin’ down,” he says, running a tired hoof through his mane.

“Am not,” I reply with a little defiance. “One night of drunken stupidity does not equal me cracking at the seams.”

“Well, however you wanna put it, I was aiming to take the wingpony position when I was in your spot,” he says, standing. “I was a bit more than ready. Look, Fleet, you’ll do great. And for the love of Luna’s moon, don’t drink alone anymore. We’re all gonna have to be in the room when Spitfire tears you a new one…”

“Surprise should thank me,” I groan with a roll of my eyes. “She won’t be the one getting the cat calls for once.”

“Spits expects us all at one of the town hall conference rooms in an hour by the way,” Soarin’ tells me as he opens the door.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there,” I say, waving him a goodbye. Well, this is turning out just dandy. I crawl myself to my hooves, grab my trusty lighter and pack, and step onto the balcony with my still damp mane. Everything will work itself out in the end... at least that’s what I tell myself. My ears start burning again when I think about what I apparently did, but the feeling is quickly overwhelmed by the heavy anticipation from what’s coming on Spitfire’s end. Sure, showing myself in Ponyville again will probably never happen, but I have a bad feeling Spitfire is never going to let me live this down.

Well, I think as I exhale my first puff of smoke, here’s to a good wingpony career…
______________________________________________________________________________

I swear I’m not racist or anything like that, but thank Celestia Ponyville is a predominantly Earth pony town. They don’t watch the sky like ground-bound pegasi and can’t feel wind patterns enough to know where a pegasus is gonna dart next. Add that sheer stroke of luck to some of my own cloud wrangling skill from before I joined up with the Guard, and I made it to the town hall without trailing a gaggle of doofy colts. I slipped inside the main entrance and made every effort to merely click the door shut. Luna forbid the stallion I… dammit… I enticed, ugh, works in the mayor’s office.

Thankfully, it’s the middle of the day by now and everypony is either out to lunch or slaving away with a daisy sandwich hanging between their teeth. I’ve done it before, and it’s not nearly as uncomfortable or irritating as I thought. Hay, I’m hungry. I should’ve probably left my little hotel loft early to grab some sorta brunch pastry, ‘cause now that I’m out and about… well, my gut is unkindly reminding me that bar food doesn’t stick with anypony.

I try to focus on just getting through this brief without letting my thoughts drift off to a hoof-made lunch and a nice glass of water; but I’m forced to gingerly tap the bridge of my muzzle to get anywhere on that train. My hangover doesn’t protest too much, for which I let a relieved sigh. And just when I’m starting to slow my walk to a halt trying to figure where the team is holding the brief, Soarin’ steps out from one of the conference rooms.

I pick up my pace to a light trot and pass him with silent, brisk nod. Not much to say after the talk we had. Most of the senior team members are already inside, and they give me the same curt tilt of the noggin’. No doubt not a single pony in the room doesn’t have the goods on my nightly activities (I roll my eyes, more at even my own inability to call myself a slut than anything), but that’s one thing I know I’ll miss when I finally leave the ‘Bolts like Soarin’. No matter what the team knows about you, so long as you show up when you’re supposed to and perform to the standard… they’ll stand by you. Sure there’s the annoyance at having to deal with the potential media fallout, but at the end of the day, I can always count on being judged by my flying and nothing else. I’ve done the thinking, and I can never come up with any other place that’s like that.

But that’s just with my peers. The junior kids and our brand new pick-ups… they give my first smile of the day. A good majority of them refuse eye contact with me, probably out of some silly misplaced fear of what Spitfire will do to them if they do. The pick-ups just look glad that the royal screw-up isn’t them like they were told it would be. I remember bein’ in those hooves. Ah, they’ll learn. Just like I did.

I take my seat next to Surprise and stretch my wings. She doesn’t say anything (which, oh ha ha, suprises me), but even she had something in mind, she wouldn’t have gotten a chance to get far. The door shuts not seconds after I sit, and I wince as my hangover smacks me with it’s unfortunate relevance. Soarin’ and Spits follow the banging doors to the head of our little assembly, and I cock my head to the side in a touch of confusion. Spit isn’t wearing her uniform, and even when she doesn’t require us to wear ours, the Captain always pulls it out for any official announcement no matter how short. And forget the rest of the team, she’s going to scream my brains out the back of my head. Even civilians know that’s best done in full regalia (though when she’s not yelling at somepony, Spitfire is too attractive in hers for her own damn good…)

“Alright you lot,” she starts off, and the weariness in her voice is palpable. My ears perk, now concerned more for the status of team than myself. Which, I berate myself, shouldn’t have been a switch I needed to make. “Some shit news, not gonna lie. Our support team got delayed almost a week from some miscommunication between me and the weather managers for our route. They’re bogged down under a hefty thunderstorm that’s too far into its cycle for the weather teams to pack it up for us.”

While everypony else groans and mutters complaints, a little seed of panic blossoms in my chest. And the only reason it hadn’t before… I thought that embarrassment or no, I’d be gone from Ponyville. And Soarin’! I glare at him even though he’s not looking at me. He had to have known already, so why didn’t he tell me? “Could I get some actual questions, not ones about whether or not we’re getting docked leave?!” Soarin’ booms in that shouting voice he doesn’t use enough, if I’m being honest. “Thank you, and I’m working on it,” he says in his normal tone when everypony quiets.

“The new HQ isn’t gonna be a dick about putting our families up before we get there, are they?” Rapidfire asks.

“I’ll get on that,” Spitfire says without a pause. I could not do her job. “So far, only word has been from the support team.”

“We’re not flying ahead anyway?” Surprise echoes my own hopes.

“The new HQ was already gonna be bogged down in paperwork when we all showed up,” Soarin’ says. “No reason to make them go through it all twice.”

“Ponyville’s a nice place anyway, so no reason not to enjoy it,” Spitfire says, and I hurriedly look away from eyes I know are burning a clean hole to my soul. “I’m just doing my due diligence and letting my team know what’s going on. Hunker down fillies, get comfortable.”

“Dismissed,” Soarin’ waves everypony off. I expect Spitfire to order me to stay behind, so I keep my butt planted. But she doesn’t and my confusion, dread, and panic at being stuck in Ponyville a whole week mix into a jumbled mess that renders me just shy of catatonic. I say just shy, because I don’t have long enough to sink into a haze before everypony else has filtered out and it’s only me and Spitfire in the room. I only briefly wonder why Soarin’ bounced so soon before realizing Spitfire probably has him running as ragged as she’ll be.

“You need to talk to me about something, Fleet?” Spitfire asks me, sidling through the rows of chairs with the epitome of a flat expression on her face.

“I figured it’d be the other way around to be honest,” I shrug. “And yeah, I probably deserve it,” I add with a long breath.

“Fleetfoot, normally, I wouldn’t even be talking to you,” Spitfire says, the edge in her voice hardening beyond description. I brace myself for what I know comes next. “And deep in my captain’s gut, I’m a hoof more than certain I should be screaming my lungs out. But right now, I’ve got a logistic and bureaucratic nightmare to deal with and I need all my energy for that.”

“Sooo, you’re not going to make me wish my ears were on the other side of Equestria?” I ask, even though she’s already made the answer abundantly clear. It’s just, Spitfire never let’s us skate by. Ever. Not even on the small stuff. And all my effort to avoid being seen just on the flight over here is just icing on the cake telling me my futz-up wasn’t tinny. I… there’s no way I’m getting out it all scot free.

“Bigger trees to buck, as the Earth ponies say,” Spitfire grunts. “Nopony’s short on details, Fleet. You may not be getting my fury, because yes, I am furious with you; but you’re not getting any shielding either.” Ah. Yes. There it is. “You can field this one on your own.” Part of me thinks Spits never had any intention of getting on my case at all. She knows my relationship with the public is the laughing stock of the team, and even a few brief thoughts toward how I’m gonna manage this is enough to convince me I’d rather have my mane yelled into our signature whoosh.

“Can you at least point me in the right direction?” I ask, a bit desperately. Those few thoughts are annoyingly piling into a mountain. Too quickly for my liking really.

“Heh,” Spitfire guffs, taking her hoof off the door to the conference room to stare back at me. “The stallion who saved you from a literal fuck fest… Name’s Big Macintosh. Brother of one of Rainbow’s friends.” And with that she’s gone, leaving me alone in the room and cringing with mental images of what could have been. I’ve never been interested in what the more raucous parties in Canterlot and Cloudsdale turn into, which would explain why I’m… Ugh.

“Nopony cares that you’re still a virgin, Fleet,” I mutter to myself. I climb off the seat and meander around the room, trying to get my thoughts in order. With my skill (well, really lack thereof) with media, my best bet on that front is easily gonna just be to wait it out. Hiding. In my room. Alone. No! You are not feeling sorry for yourself for your own stupidity! I mentally scream at myself, squinting my eyes shut against my own pity party. Still, getting a good classic and waiting it out is probably my best option.

But I was still left with what Spitfire had told me. As much as I just wanted begin my brain melting week of isolation in the hopes it would end sooner if I started sooner, my old-fashioned self… I sighed. I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t find this Big Macintosh and thank him for being a half-decent pony when none of us were able to. It was a dumb and silly notion better left to the classic I’d pick up on my way back to my room, but I couldn’t help it. The idea had roots now, and I had to at least try.

And yeah, it was wishful thinking, but maybe if word got around about it, ponies wouldn’t be so eager to rip my reputation to shreds.

Epilogue

Four months later…

Morning, Mac,

I actually hope you’re reading this in the morning, otherwise my attempt at being conversational failed spectacularly. Either way, how are things? I guess being the middle of spring is keeping you busy. If this letter gets to you before she leaves for Baltimare, give our newest Wonderbolt my personal congratulations though! And if you’d remind her that no amount of teasing me about us will make her life easier, that’d be swell. I am going to be her boss after all.

Anyway, I hope nothing on the farm has gone catastrophically wrong. Two weeks on as Spitfire’s wingpony, and I’ve already dealt with more medical issues than I thought possible. Oh, and requisitions management… they can go to the moon. I’m not complaining too much am I? The job’s honestly not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Once Rainbow joins up, we’ll be off for the Northern Reserve tour, so I don’t think we’ll be able to see each other until it’s over… Wish it were otherwise, but hey, if it’s a fun tour, then I’ll know the places we can visit if we ever go as part of a vacation.

I’ve actually started keeping a journal to remind of stuff like that by the way. There are so many places I want you to see!

Well, write soon please!

Love, always,
Fleetfoot

Nine months later…

Darlin’

Hope AJ got this letter to ya. I figured it’d be faster’n tha post, with how frantic everypony’s been. Just got her letter yesterday. How is she? I figure the team’s doin’ right by ‘er but just wanted to be sure everypony’s okay. Gotta be a shock ‘n all for everypony. Nopony’s been givin’ ya’ll trouble over it have they?

Either way, I’m sure everypony will work through it, get adjusted. It’s how these things go. Listen, even though AJ’s gone ‘n all, I’m comin’ up ta see ya. Figure ya’ll could use somepony who ain’t yer teammates ta talk to. Everypony’ll get through, but that don’t make it easy now.

But there’s also somethin’ I wanna ask ya. An’ it ain’t the kinda thing that can be done in a letter. I gotta do it myself. So if AJ gets this to ya, ya’ll should see me in a day or so. It’s been a little longer than normal since we saw each other, so I’m lookin’ forward to it.

Stay strong, Darlin’

Love, forever,
Mac

Author's Note

https://www.fimfiction.net/blog/588539/fillies-get-metal-story-preview-announcement
The blog post announcing the next Dreamverse story, as promised