Oh, Little Spitfire

by secret89

Rating: everyone
Tags: Spitfire, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Soarin, Drama, Original Character, Fleetfoot
Length: 10029

Hearth's Warming is a joyous time in Equestria, when friends and family come together to celebrate. One pegasus forgot along the way.

Hearth's Warming. A very special time in Equestria when ponies celebrate and friends and family spend time with one another. Even the hard working Wonderbolts take time to let loose and relax.

All, except for one.

Published 2017-12-26 21:50:06 UTC
Last updated 2017-12-26 21:50:06 UTC

Once Upon a Hearth's Warming Night

Oh, Little Spitfire

Snow gently fell over Cloudsdale. It was midday, but the snowy cloud system cast a gray and featureless overcast over the city. It was the first major snow fall of winter, and the weather factory had gone all out to ensure that Cloudsdale started the season off with a bang. Earlier flurries gave way to the current steady snowfall, the heavy wet snow quickly piling up upon the city's clouds. Dark clouds began to build at the distant weather factory, signaling the approaching blizzard in the hours to come. But for now, young colts and fillies, and the occasional young couple bounded about through the drifts, pelting each other with snow balls or sledding off snow ramps into the air. School was out of course; after all, it was Hearth's Warming Eve.

Spitfire sat at her desk in her office at Wonderbolts HQ. While not an overly large office, it did carry a empty, almost vacant sense about it. Several awards hung on the walls, accompanied by a single framed photograph of three pegasi. A single, small wooden chair stood timidly in front of the executive desk. The desk in turn sat in front of a large bay window. The rest of the office was bare floorboards, walls and dust. It was very clear what, or rather who, was the sole focus in the Captain's office.

Spitfire poured over documents, trackers, stats and calendars. A spent mug of coffee rested by her right hoof, while a nearly spent candle burned at her left. A multitude of wax from former candles lay in clumps along the stick. Normally, light from outside was sufficient to illuminate her work, but the early snow system had darkened the skies early. I guess it doesn't matter that much, Spitfire thought, as she continued to diligently shift from paper to paper, continuing to make notes. I would have brought it out after hours anyway.

There was a knock at the door.

Spitfire's ear twitched slightly, but her eyes continued to flit from page to page.

“Oh you can't be serious!” She suddenly exclaimed. She looked between the letter in her hooves and the calendar on her desk “They choose now of all times to start repairs on our training facility, on the EXACT week of our largest training event of the year!” Spitfire yelled, slamming her hoof onto the calendar.

The knock came again, slightly louder this time.

Spitfire got up from her desk and began to pace. “I've had that event planned for months! Resources locked in, events and personnel assigned!” She listed off angrily, still pacing around her desk. “Everything was synchronized perfectly!”

Knocks, almost banging, thudded on the door for the third time.

“Now I'll need to move it to another week,” she said stopping in front of her desk. She flipped her calendar around roughly to face her. The scowl on her face deepened. She slammed the calendar again “And that's going to wreck ANOTHER air show!”

Loud banging resounded rapidly on the door behind Spitfire. All pretenses of polite knocks abandoned.

“I just got this job and they've set me up to FAIL!” Spitfire bellowed.

Hammering blows erupted at Spitfire's door, threatening to tear it from its hinges.

“WHAT?!” Spitfire screamed, spinning around to face the door.

And oddly deafening silence seemed to hang in the air. The door slowly opened.

Fleetfoot popped her head into the room. “Hey, Spits?” She asked casually, smirking. “What's up?”

Spitfire calmed slightly. She shot Fleetfoot a brief, knowing glare.

Fleetfoot laughed, carelessly trotting into Spitfire's office.

“Sorry about not answering,” Spitfire mumbled, returning to her chair. She smoothed out her uniform and began to re-order the documents on her desk.

“Ah no sweat,” Fleetfoot replied, casually waving her hoof. She seated herself lazily in the wooden chair and promptly kicked back, resting her rear hooves on Spitfire's desk.

A stack of papers splayed out onto the desk. Spitfire raised a brow, shooting Fleetfoot another glare. She returned to her documents, continuing to look over them. “Is there something you need Fleetfoot?” She asked quickly.

“I was just checking up on you, that's all,” Fleetfoot said. “I know being the top bolt around here can be frustrating.”

“I am completely up to the task,” Spitfire replied tersely. She continued to shuffle documents, making notes as she did so.

“Hey, I believe you one-hundred percent Spits!” Fleetfoot said happily.

Spitfire ignored her, continuing to work.

Silence filled the room.

“Ya know,” Fleetfoot said, standing up, “this room could use a bit more,” she said, looking around. She began to walk around the room. “At least so it doesn't look like the cadet barracks.”

“I don't have time for decorations.”

“Oh, I didn't mean that, I know you're not the knick-knack frou frou-y kinda mare,” Fleetfoot said, walking toward one of the few portraits in the room. “I meant the kind of stuff that living beings have ya know?” She shot a shit eating grin at Spitfire. “Just so we know there's a living, breathing pony in here.”

Spitfire sighed, resting her head in her forehooves. “Fleetfoot, I've got a lot of work to do, and I imagine you do too...”

Fleetfoot feigned as if she had been shot at the comment of work, dramatically flailing about and sticking her tongue out. She snickered as Spitfire gaze hardened at her.

“...so if you don't have anything productive to say,” Spitfire said, the edge in her voice sharpening. She turned back to her papers. “Get out of my office.”

Fleetfoot raised a brow at Spitfire for a moment, then bust out laughing. “Good one Spitfire, ya had me going for a minute there!”

Spitfire gritted her teeth.

“Hey, this is us!”

Spitfire looked up.

Fleetfoot was looking at the picture of the three pegasi cadets. Soarin' stood in the middle, smiling broadly, his wing draped over Spitfire at his right. Spitfire smiled proudly, leaning in close to Soarin'. Fleetfoot hovered overhead the two, one eye shut and her tongue sticking out in a goofy face.

“This was graduation day, wasn't it?” Fleetfoot said quietly.

Spitfire relaxed. Despite the distance from the picture, Spitfire could perfectly make out the picture and the bright smiles in them. Warm memories of the day came to mind. They had finally completed their training, been sworn in as officers and inducted into the Wonderbolts. Spitfire allowed herself a small smile as she continued to look at the photo. She remembered Soarin' beside her, his large protective wing over her.

“That was a good day.”

“Yes,” Spitfire whispered, “it was.”

“Seems like such a long time ago though,” Fleetfoot said, cantering back toward Spitfire’s desk. “Especially recently,” she stopped in front of the desk, eying Spitfire pointedly.

Spitfire frowned. “Fleetfoot, I've got-”

“Yes you've got work to do!” Fleetfoot exclaimed. “You've always got work to do!”

Spitfire clenched her jaw. “Comes with the job, Fleetfoot. You might know something about it if you did yours,” Spitfire said icily.

Silence.

“Spitfire, I'm going to let that one go because we're friends,” Fleetfoot said, just a hint of hurt and edge in her voice, “and I know you're under a lot of stress.”

Spitfire felt a twinge of regret, but said nothing.

“Com-on Spits,” Fleetfoot said lightly. “Let's call it a day early for once and get outta here.”

Spitfire looked up at Fleetfoot. Her eyes begged to look back down at her desk. She started to shake her head. “Fleetfoot, I-”

Fleetfoot smiled. “I've already arranged it. Just you me and Soarin'. It's been a while since the three of us have hit the bar.”

“No, I-”

“And then you need come over tomorrow for dinner. Don't worry about bringing anything, I know you suck at cooking.” Fleetfoot winked. “I've already invited Soarin' and a bunch of the 'Bolts.”

Spitfire's wings began to fidget. “Fleetfoot. I can't do it. I have too much to do-”

Fleetfoot ignored her. “It'll be great! We'll all be able to hang out again and chill out like we used to.” She grinned.

Spitfire stared daggers at Fleetfoot. There's too much to do. I have to work twice as much just to get caught up from the change on the calendar, coordinate for all the resources and personnel switch over and that's a big if in of it itself! Sure it's six months out, but I can't let up! She thought. She could feel panic beginning to set in, her wings fidgeting more. The sea of papers in front of her seemed greater than ever. I'm not going to let everything fail. I just got here, I can't fail! I WON'T fail!

Her eyes caught the shadow forming at her side from the candle. Behind her, the pale light from earlier was nearly gone, the sky rapidly darkening.

She grimaced. And Fleetfoot's wasted my day blathering on!

“So we'll see you at the bar? 1900?”

Spitfire looked Fleetfoot in the eye calmly. Her wings still at her side.

“No. You won't.”

“Why not?!”

Spitfire tried to keep her voice even. “Fleetfoot, I appreciate the offer, but there is simply too much-”

“For the love of Celestia Spitfire!” Fleetfoot cut her off. She pointed a hoof across the desk. “All you do is work! I got that you want to impress everyone in the new job, but it's Hearth's Warming Eve for crying out loud! Why the hell are we even here?!”

“I DON'T GIVE A DAMN!” Spitfire exploded, jumping out of her seat and slapping Fleetfoot's hoof away. “AND DON'T LECTURE ME ABOUT WORK! MAYBE IF YOU DID A LITTLE MORE OF IT AROUND HERE I WOULD'NT HAVE TO PICK UP THE SLACK TO KEEP THINGS RUNNING!”

Fleetfoot mouth hung agape.

Spitfire thrust herself back into her seat, resuming her work. “I have to get back to work,” Spitfire said quietly.

“Yeah, I guess you do,” Fleetfoot said, her voice quivering slightly. She made her way to the door, silently sniffling.

The door creaked open.

“Happy Hearth's Warming, Captain Spitfire.”

Spitfire didn't look up.

The door slammed shut.

Spitfire wasn't sure how much time had passed when another knock came to her door.

“I told you before, I am NOT-”

“Spitfire?”

Spitfire raised her eyes from her desk.

Soarin' stood in the doorway, wrapped in his service coat and cap.

She looked behind her to the window.

It was now pitch black outside, save for the street lamps outside. The light snow from earlier had morphed into a near blizzard, howling wind blowing snow fiercely about.

I didn't realize it was already so late.

“Guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you're still here.”

Spitfire looked back to Soarin'. The stallion casually walked into her office.

Spitfire quickly looked herself over, smoothing out her uniform and fidgeting with her mane.

“Uh, yes well, there is a lot to be done,” Spitfire said, straightening out a few papers.

“The storm's getting worse, Spitfire,” Soarin' said firmly. “You really should leave.”

Spitfire shook her head, taking a drink from her fourth cup of coffee. Or was it the fifth? She always lost track working into the later hours. “Not yet, I still need finish up for next quarter's training regimen, review our budget and draft up a proposal for new equipment.”

Soarin' stared at her for a moment, sighing. Spitfire didn't notice.

He approached her desk, glancing over a few documents. “I heard the yells from earlier,” he said wryly. Spitfire looked away.

“Is that what you've been working on?”

“Yesssss,” Spitfire drew out her reply testily, partially embarrassed that Soarin' had heard her earlier outburst and in part frustrated with the topic. She reached forward to grab the documents from Soarin', but the stallion whisked them away from her.

“Hey, give me those!”

The stallion ignored her, pouring over the document in detail. “Spitfire...,” he started softly, before looking up at her bewildered, “this is all well over six months out. We can easily shuffle this around. The same as the other stuff you were talking about. We can all tackle this together,” he said tossing the documents on her desk. “There's no reason for you to be doing all this by yourself, right now. Especially not tonight.”

“It is my responsibility!” Spitfire snapped, a little more forcefully than she meant. She grabbed the documents that Soarin' had so flippantly tossed on her desk, rearranging them. “The sooner I take care of this, the sooner I can move on to the rest!”

“The rest of what?”

“The rest of the work!” Spitfire exclaimed. “The stuff that keeps this place in shape and on point!”

Soarin' gave her a sour look. “What, until its all done and this place is immaculate?”

Yes, Spitfire thought absently.

“Listen to me Spitfire,” Soarin' said, sitting down into the chair and leaning toward her. “No one is that perfect, not even you.”

Spitfire scowled, standing up. “You don't think I can do this?”

“No,” Soarin' shook his head slowly. “Not that. You're the hardest working pony I know. And the most determined. Too determined even. I'm worried about what you'll do to yourself with all this,” he gestured to the papers on her desk, “on your plate. What you're currently doing to yourself.”

“Well don't,” Spitfire snapped again. She felt another twinge of regret, like before with Fleetfoot, but ignored it. “I can take care of myself.”

Soarin' sighed again, rising to his hooves.

“Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No actually,” Soarin' replied. “I talked to Fleetfoot earlier.”

“Listen, I already told her, I'm not coming. Maybe some other time.”

Soarin' stepped closer to Spitfire.

Spitfire's wings started fidgeting again. Her heart thudded against her chest.

“We miss you Spits,” Soarin' whispered. The stallion took a breath, searching for words. “I miss you.”

Spitfire caught her breath in her chest. She began to crumple under his eyes, a gentle blush settling on her muzzle. “I... I...”

It reminded her of that day, so long ago when they had graduated. His gentle smile and warm presence.

“Let's go out,” Soarin' said, smiling broadly. “I know you wanted to take a break with the new job and all. But I think we can make it work.”

Spitfire could feel herself melting. But the pull was still there, the goals she had set for herself and the organization she had to bear. “Soarin', I-I can't-”

“There's a great restaurant in Canterlot we can go to. Even tour the castle gardens afterward.”

She had to pull through. There wasn't time for this.

Abruptly Spitfire sidestepped Soarin', returning to her desk. “Soarin' we can't,” She said resolutely, shielding her eyes away from Soarin' in the safety of her work. “I made a promise to myself and this organization. I won't fail.”

Soarin' rounded onto Spitfire's desk, trying to look her in the eye. “For crying out loud Spits, this has been going on forever! I'm not asking for you to give everything up!” Soarin' exclaimed. “I just don't want you ruin your life with all this! Hell, I want to be a part of it!”

There was a strange mixture of emotions welling in Spitfire. Anger. Sorrow. Frustration.

“I'm sorry Soarin',” she said firmly, still looking into her papers. “I can't. Later we can. But not now.”

Soarin' slowly backed away from Spitfire's desk. Had Spitfire looked up, she might have seen the defeat in his eyes. A part that was extinguished.

“Please, I don't want to fight. And I still have work to do.”

Soarin' sighed. “Yes, you do.” He began to walk toward the door. “Be safe flying home.”

Spitfire had already resumed working at her desk.

The door creaked open. Soarin' paused, looking over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Spitfire.”

A chill ran down Spitfire's spine.

Spitfire looked up. “See you tomo-,” she began to say, but the door was closed. She hadn't even heard it shut.

Soarin' was already gone.

It was nearing 11 PM by the time Spitfire stepped outside her office. She had finished most of the work, but some still remained. It's a good enough stopping point for now, she thought, pulling her coat around her barrel. I can come in tomorrow and-

“And then you need to come over tomorrow for dinner.”

Spitfire sighed. Sorry Fleetfoot. Maybe next year.

“Burning the midnight oil miss?”

Spitfire looked up.

Just down the hall was an elderly pegasus. He was quite large, garbed in brown coveralls with a matching cap. He pushed along a mop and wheeled bucket. Despite the odd appearance, what stood out most to Spitfire was the long, stark white beard and ancient looking half-moon spectacles on his nose.

“Uh, yeah you could say that.”

The custodian leaned on his mop. “Mighty lonely to be working on a night like tonight,” he said softly. His discerning gaze settled on Spitfire.

Spitfire shivered slightly, unsettled. Why did she feel like she was being scolded?

Despite her initial reaction, Spitfire rolled her eyes. “Yes, you're not the first one to mention it,” Spitfire said, trotting brusquely past the janitor.

“Oh? Sounds like you've got a few ponies who care about you.”

Spitfire stopped in the doorway, looking over her shoulder at the pegasus.

He still fixed her with that passive, reproachful gaze.

I've never seen him before, Spitfire thought. Must be new to the night shift.

“Lock up before you leave, and leave the key under the mat. I'll need it for tomorrow.”

The elderly pegasus raised a brow, but said nothing.

Spitfire shivered again, still feeling the janitor's gaze, then abruptly marched through the door without a word.

“Happy Hearth's Warming, little Spitfire,” the elderly pegasus said softly.

Spitfire stepped out onto the veranda that made the front entrance of Wonderbolt HQ. The wind whipped viciously through the air, carrying frigid air that pierced her coat. She pulled her coat tighter. Should have brought a scarf, she thought absently.

The city before her was empty. Gone was the typical hustle and bustle of thousands of pegasi. Pitch black and dots of street lamps filled the space now, punctuated by the whipping wind and driving snow. Banks had already developed, piled high.

Normally, Spitfire was used to such a display. She worked late all the time, and this was no different. Just another day, she thought.

And yet, something still bothered her about tonight. The odd janitor she had never seen before. Her very presence, here and now. The way the winds whipped at her, tendrils that threatened her. The blackness of the night that crawled around her, whispering.

Why are you here, night of all nights?

Spitfire nearly jumped, her pegasi instincts spooked. She whirled about, but nopegasi was in sight.

Spitfire took a deep breath. Just the wind, she thought.

Nevertheless, she did not wait. Spitfire alighted into the air, pushing herself into the snowy blackness.

The haunting, forbidden aura of the night followed her the whole way home.

The door to Spitfire's home burst open. Immediately the snow covered pegasus stomped in roughly, slamming the door behind her.

She rested for a moment against the door, panting. It had not been a normal flight home.

“Come on Spitfire, get it together,” she said through chattering teeth. “You're acting like a filly afraid of the dark.”

Slowly, she peeled away the damp layers of clothing. Once free, she made her way to the kitchen, retrieving a bit of left overs from the fridge.

She quietly munched on a sandwich, staring about absently.

Her bare apartment lay before her, nearly as spartan as her office.

Spitfire chuckled. “I'll bet mom would flip if she saw this place.”

Decorations for the holiday were a tradition in Spitfire's family. Her mother had always made a point of hanging garland and lights, along with all the other wintry knick knacks scattered about their home. The large tree was always the centerpiece, cut down by Spitfire's father and decorated on Hearth's Warming Eve. She had always enjoyed such traditions as a filly.

But that was then.

Just another day, Spitfire reminded herself. Her chewing slowed, mind wandering. And yet, she couldn't help but feel a bit guilty.

She sighed, turning back toward the fridge. “Doing this one for you Mom,” Spitfire said aloud.

It was far too late to hang any decoration, not that Spitfire had any to hang. But, there was one, simple thing she could do.

After all, it had been her responsibility when she was a filly.

She rummaged through the fridge. In true, bachelor fashion, Spitfire had accumulated a not insignificant amount of food with questionable expiration dates. Jeez, when was the last time I cleaned this thing out? she thought, wrinkling her nose at the various odors.

A second later, she managed to find what she was looking for. A carton of milk.

Spitfire took a quick whiff.

She shrugged. “Eh, good enough.”

After pouring a glass she retrieved an opened tray of cookies. She popped one into her mouth.

A bit stale, Spitfire thought between bites.

But who was she kidding? It wasn't like anyone was actually going to eat them.

She placed the milk and cookies on the coffee table in front of her fireplace.

“There,” Spitfire stated flatly. “I've decorated for Hearth's Warming.”

She glanced toward the clock on the mantle. Ten till midnight.

Her father's voice echoed in her head. Something about Santa and little fillies being in bed.

Spitfire rolled her eyes, trotting toward the stairs. “Okay Dad, you get one too,” she said jokingly.

Once in her room, Spitfire settled into bed. Tomorrow would be another day. Another day of work. She wasn't looking forward to it. But she had done it many times before. She would do so again.

Guilty thoughts of Fleetfoot and Soarin' came to mind, but she chased them away. They'll be there... they'll always be there... she thought, before finally drifting off to sleep.

Spitfire awoke with a start. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, her ears strained to hear. Had she heard something?

A loud thud came from downstairs.

Spitfire yelped fearfully. She abruptly jumped out of bed, snarling to cover her fright.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” she whispered to herself.

The clock at her bed stand read 2 AM. Wind still howled outside as the blizzard continued.

“Who the hell breaks in at this hour with a friggin blizzard going on!?”

It was at times like this she wished she had invested in a personal weapon. Instead she had to settle for a leg from a broken end table that may or may not have been the victim of one of Spitfire's semi-frequent 'venting' sessions.

Spitfire took a deep breath, weapon firmly tucked under her wing. Pulling her robe closer to herself, she crept down the stairs.

She stopped short of the landing in her living room.

Her invader stood with his back to her. He was a pegasi of large proportions, but that was the least of Spitfire's concerns. He was garbed in a red suit, trimmed with white at the edge of his coat and pants. A matching hat with dangling tuft rested on his head. Black boots were on each of his hooves and a large black belt circled his barrel.

And to top it all off, this character was currently setting up a tree in her home.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Spitfire said aloud.

The pony turned to face Spitfire. “Hello, little Spitfire. A Happy Hearth's Warming to you,” he said calmly.

Spitfire gasped, nearly dropping her weapon. The elderly stallion had a full, stark white beard. Behind his half moon spectacles were a pair ice blue eyes. His mouth curled in small smile, nearly hidden by his large beard. The visage was one of a kindly old stallion, but there was more. Spitfire felt a calming sensation from this elderly pegasus. It was like when her grandfather came to visit when she was a filly.

Spitfire shook her head, trying to focus. She gripped her weapon in her hooves, raising it toward the intruder. “What are you doing in my house?!” She demanded.

The elderly stallion looked around. “Well, just putting up the tree. It seems you forgot to this year, little Spitfire,” he said, as if chastising a child. His wing flicked out, tapping the tree behind him.

Immediately tree lights and baubles of all shapes and sizes appeared on the tree. The fireplace too, was miraculously lit.

Spitfire nearly jumped out of her skin.

“It doesn't do to forgo family traditions.”

This time Spitfire dropped the table leg, clattering down to the floor. “Who are you and what do you want?!” Spitfire demanded again, trying in vain to feel like she was in control of the situation.

The elderly pegasus fixed Spitfire with a soft smile. She swore his eyes twinkled. “I think you very well know who I am,” he said quietly.

Spitfire plopped awkwardly onto the steps. No way. Just, no way, she thought. I stopped believing in... him... a long time ago...

She looked up at the elderly pegasus, afraid to speak. “Santa?” She couldn't believe the word she had just spoken.

Santa nodded with a smile, then erupted into a booming, jovial laughter.

The laughter filled Spitfire with a giddy feeling. She couldn't help but smile. She had to smile.

“Come now, little Spitfire,” Santa beckoned, taking a seat.

Despite Santa's offer, Spitfire was still suspicious. Was it a trick? Was it a part of some thief's elaborate trap? Was she dreaming?

Santa sensed her trepidation. His face turned from joy to concern. “Don't be afraid, little Spitfire.”

There was such care and friendliness in his voice.

Spitfire's mind was made up.

That didn't make it any less insane. Spitfire, a fully grown mare. Santa, real and in her home. But here she was, everything before her a reality.

Spitfire walked forward slowly, wide eyed. She felt like a filly. Like a filly, well, like a filly about to see Santa. She felt the kind of terrible excitement that only little fillies and colts felt. How she had forgotten that!

Santa reached forward, taking the glass of milk in one hoof and a cookie in another.

Spitfire never took her eye off him, slowly settling onto the couch crosswise from her guest.

Santa bit into the cookie, followed by a quick sip. He coughed, his whole body shaking. “Really now, Spitfire? Stale milk and cookies?” The stallion said in feigned scolding. “I know you know better than that. It was always your job, after all.” He winked.

“Oh!” Spitfire suddenly remembered. “Well, I hadn't really planned for it and...” Her mind suddenly clicked. She spun in her seat facing Santa. “How do you know it was my job?”

“Santa always knows, little Spitfire.”

More echoes of her father's voice. You need to be a good little filly, if Santa's going to bring you any presents!

Spitfire glanced around the room. No presents lay under the tree, nor was there any sack full of wrapped gifts. Though he I guess he could just magic it out of the air, she thought.

An awkward silence settled in the room. There was only the howling wind and the crackling fire.

“So, uh,” Spitfire began, “thanks for the tree. I don't see any gifts though. Guess I'm on the naughty list?” She asked coyly.

“You are right, that there are no physical gifts,” Santa said softly. A calculating gaze settled on his face, regarding Spitfire sagely.

Spitfire tried to hide her apprehension, but it was a failed attempt. She felt guilty without even knowing why. “Just why are you here?” She asked, going on the offense.

Santa seemed to think for a moment. “Why did you not decorate for Hearth's Warming?”

Spitfire felt a touch annoyed. But she would play ball. “I didn't have time.”

“Hrmm. You were always so very excited as a filly when it came time to decorate.”

“I'm an adult mare, I have responsibilities that take up a lot of my time.” She smirked. “But I'm sure you already knew that.”

Santa chuckled. “As quick witted as ever!” He settled again, thinking. “No decorations. By no means an offense. And certainly not enough to garner a spot on the naughty list.”

Spitfire rolled her eyes. “What a relief.”

“And what of your friends?”

“What of them?” Spitfire fired back.

“Most make it a point to spend their time with those they care about around Hearth's Warming.”

“I told you before, I have a lot of responsibilities to the Wonderbolts,” Spitfire said, beginning to get agitated. “And my friends understand that.”

Santa shook his head slowly. “Oh, little Spitfire. Responsibilities yes, but they have consumed you.”

“It's always been my dream to be Captain of the Wonderbolts!” Spitfire shouted. She immediately cringed, awash with guilt. I just yelled at Santa!

Santa smiled softly. He leaned in toward Spitfire. “How could I forget? You sent me a letter every year begging to be a Wonderbolt.”

Spitfire smiled.

“But,” Santa continued, raising a hoof, “we must be careful not to turn our dreams into obsession.”

“My friends support me,” Spitfire said. She was a bit confused. Just where is he going with this?

“As good friends should,” Santa replied. “But perhaps they see something that you don't? They seek to save you, little Spitfire. From a life of misery and loneliness,” Santa said sincerely. “And you push them away.”

Spitfire scoffed. “That's absurd. Soarin' and Fleetfoot are my best friends; they aren't so thin skinned,” she replied. “They've always been there for me, they always will.”

Santa sighed, slowly shaking his head.

A shiver ran down Spitfire's spine. Why did she feel scared?

Santa stood up. He extended one wing, then gave it a flourish in front of Spitfire.

Fine powdery snow flew into the air. It twinkled and shined, as if it were tiny diamond specks. Spitfire had never seen such a display. Not even the weather factory could create something so beautiful.

The snow dust began to slowly settle. Then it stopped. Suspended in air, roughly forming a rectangular screen. The edges still twinkled and sparkled, while the interior began to solidify, forming a window of smoky ice.

“What is it?”

Santa simply turned to Spitfire, raising a hoof to his lips. He pointed back to the ice.

Spitfire turned to watch.

The haze upon the ice began to shift and twist. Slowly, forms began to take shape. A room. Ponies, pegasi to be specific. As the haze retreated further, greater detail formed. The sight was familiar to Spitfire. Very familiar.

The magic ice window cease. Frozen on its surface was the image of Spitfire's office, as if she were peering through an office window attached to the wall. She was in the image, unmoving at her desk. Fleetfoot was frozen mid-stride.

Spitfire shot a questioning gaze to Santa.

Santa simply nodded to the image solemnly.

Suddenly, the image came to life.

“What do you need Fleetfoot?” Spitfire's muffled voice said.

“Just seeing how you're doing,” Fleetfoot replied lazily.

“Do you have that report?”

Fleetfoot sighed dramatically. “Yes, taskmaster! Your humble servant has completed her glorious duty of filling out her report!” She snickered.

Spitfire didn't bother looking up from her desk. “Leave it in my box. Please take a look at our calendar for next month and give me some training recommendations. I'll need it before the end of the day.”

“That's in fifteen minutes!” Fleetfoot said, flabbergasted.

“Guess you better get working then.”

Fleetfoot sighed. “Okay, fine.” She then abruptly recovered some of her perky attitude. “Hey, Spitfire. Spitfire!”

Spitfire looked up. “What?”

“Hey, me and Soarin' were thinking about going to a movie later on. Come with us,” Fleetfoot beckoned with her hoof. “It is Friday after all. No work tomorrow.”

Spitfire sighed. “Maybe not for you Fleets. I'll be here tomorrow.”

Fleetfoot's face twisted in confusion. “What? Why?”

Spitfire rubbed her eyes. “If I'm going to be Captain of the Wonderbolts, I'm going to have to. It's just the nature of the beast.”

“Well, what about ton-”

“Working late.”

Fleetfoot sighed, then smiled again. “Okay, okay, you win this round Spitfire. I know how much this jobs means to you.”

“Thanks,” Spitfire mumbled. Her eyes returned to her desk.

Fleetfoot retreated to the door. “But you owe me and Soairn'!” She yelled playfully.

Spitfire didn't respond.

Fleetfoot shook her head, departing. “Don't go overboard Spitfire,” she whispered.

The image faded, then re-formed. A different day. This time Soarin' replaced Fleetfoot.

“How's the job coming Spitfire?” Soarin' asked. He leaned casually against her desk.

Spitfire fussed with her mane to no avail. “It's better now that I've got a rhythm down. There's still a lot to do though,” Spitfire said. She grimaced at her desk.

“The work never goes away Spitfire. No reason to wear yourself out over it.”

Spitfire frowned. “We'll see, maybe after a few weeks I can scale back a bit.”

Soarin' looked confused. “What do you mean 'scale back'?”

Spitfire's wings fidgeted awkwardly. “Uh, well, I've been staying late to keep on top of things,” she admitted.

Soarin' hopped off the desk, siding up alongside Spitfire. Concern marked his face. “Spitfire, you don't need to do that kind of stuff. Maybe every once in a while if it's absolutely necessary, but you've got the rest of us here to help. I don't want you to burn yourself out.”

Spitfire smirked, leaning back in her chair. “Hey, I can handle it. And its not like I didn't know what I was getting into.”

Soarin' doubled down. “Spitfire, I'm serious. I won't just standby and watch you get hurt. And...,” he trailed off, looking away for a moment. “I care about you. A lot.”

“Soarin', we can't-”

Soarin' abruptly stepped away. “I know! I know,” he repeated. “We're on a break; you want to do this job right. I respect that. Just...” Soarin' paused to think. “Just don't let it get out of hand okay?”

Spitfire smiled. “Hey, com'on! This is me you're talking about.”

Soarin' smiled weakly, walking to the door. “And that's what worries me,” he whispered.

The image faded.

“What was the point of that?” Spitfire balked. “So I do my job and I make sure my subordinates do theirs. They voiced their concerns and I listened. Sometimes I have to make priorities. It's not all fun and games ya know.”

“Sometimes?” Santa questioned, brow raised. “Watch again, little Spitfire.”

Spitfire sighed. She felt like she was being interrogated.

The screen formed again as it did before, displaying another day. Only this time, the images sped up, moving until Fleetfoot spoke. Spitfire would be in her office, Fleetfoot would arrive, some sort of discussion would occur, and Fleetfoot would leave. But with each passing day, something occurred to Spitfire.

Fleetfoot became more and more persistent with her requests. Soarin' the same, always a gentle-stallion. And they were always the same, each spoken earnestly and hopeful:

“Hey Spits, let's go grab lunch!”

“Fleetfoot wants to go to the bar after work. You game?”

“Let's have a girls night out!”

“Hey Spitfire, I know you wanted some time to get the job down, but I really want to take you out to dinner. Friday night at 7?”

“My birthday is Saturday, I hope you can be there.”

“There's the gala coming up. You wouldn't leave a guy hanging would ya?”

“Hey, we should take some time off, go on a camping trip!”

“Lets go take a walk. Just you and me.”

The list went on. Random days over the course of several months.

And Spitfire rejected them. Every. Single. One.

Her indifferent voice rang in her ears. Cold excuses of unending work and responsibilities. Words that punched her in the gut. Other, fewer outbursts of anger at her friends. Words that cut her heart. A tear rolled down Spitfire's cheek. Who was the monster that had her voice and face? How had she let this happen? She screwed her eyes shut.

Spitfire couldn't move. It had all come crashing into her. Scene after scene. Day after day. Guilt ravaged her.

“I-I didn't...” Spitfire's words quivered. Her eyes began to fog. “I n-never meant...”

But what was there to say? She had done everything. She felt horrible. No, I am horrible, she thought.

There was a change in Soarin' and Fleetfoot. With each passing encounter, with every failed offer, their resignation deepened. A small sigh, depressed look or downcast eyes. All hidden from Spitfire, a hood of paperwork or anger pulled over her head. As the months had dragged on, Soarin' and Fleetfoot had become more and more apathetic, indifferent to her refusals. It scared her. No, it terrified her.

Do they care about you anymore?

The screen before her reformed again. Fleetfoot walked in. The conversation from earlier in the day followed.

“I DON'T GIVE A DAMN!”

Spitfire shook as she watched herself explode at Fleetfoot. She hiccuped as another tear escaped.

Fleetfoot made her way to the door, the monster behind the desk engrossed once again in its work.

Fleetfoot paused at the door.

Spitfire expected to see sadness, anger, frustration, any number of emotions.

Fleetfoot simply looked indifferent. A resigned, cold indifference.

Spitfire caught her labored breath in her chest. She began to panic. “Fleets,” Spitfire reached out fraily toward the image. “I-”

“Happy Hearth's Warming, Captain Spitfire.”

Fleetfoot's words cut like ice. Spitfire retracted her shaky hoof, wincing.

But the image didn't fade. Instead it followed Fleetfoot.

The sky blue mare leaned against the door, heaving a deep breath. The faintest sign of tears glistened at the corner of her eyes.

Hope welled within Spitfire.

Abruptly Fleetfoot cleared her eyes, huffing roughly. “I guess there's no putting it off anymore,” she said firmly.

Fleetfoot marched back to her office, pulling a form from a drawer. Taking a quill in her mouth, she made several short marks. A moment later she raised the paper, enough for Spitfire to see over her shoulder.

Bold, black letters headed the document.

'Transfer Request.'

“Fleetfoot... no...” Spitfire whimpered, wrenching her eyes shut, fresh tears trailing down her face.. Abruptly she turned to Santa. “Tell me that didn't happen! Tell me that isn't real!” Spitfire begged. “Tell me this all just a nightmare!”

Santa simply sighed, nodding once more toward the ice screen.

“Spitfire?” Soarin's voice echoed.

Please, Spitfire thought. Please, no.

The projection played out exactly as Spitfire had remembered. The conversation. His offer. Her rejection. Every agonizing detail. Up until the end.

“Be safe flying home,” Soarin' said.

Ice realm Spitfire ignored him.

You idiot! Why did you do that? How could you do that?! Spitfire thought.

Soarin' looked at her from across the room with the same indifference as Fleetfoot. But there was more.

Spitfire sat, very still and wide eyed, afraid to blink.

Pity. Pity, and a light from Soarin's eyes that was no more. A light she had grown so used to, so accustomed to. A light for her. A light that had filled her heart.

Now, it was breaking before her eyes.

Soarin' began to leave.

Spitfire leaped from her seat. “Soarin' wait!” She gasped.

“Goodbye, Spitfire.”

The chill ran through Spitfire again. She never believed she would hear those words. Not like that. Not from Soarin'.

The hurt was almost too much. Spitfire crumpled to her haunches in front of the screen. Tears were now a steady flow from her eyes.

The screen continued on. Unlike Fleetfoot, Soarin' strode immediately to his office. There were no tears, only a bleak sadness that struck Spitfire like a slap. It was wrong. So wrong. It didn't belong on Soarin'.

Soarin' promptly pulled out a box. Briskly he threw in some of his belongings, until he came to a small, framed picture. It was the same as the one from Spitfire's office. The three of them, smiling together on graduation.

Soarin' paused at the photo. With a resigned sigh he set it face down.

Spitfire could feel her body weaken. This can't be happening! Please make this stop!

Turning to leave, Soarin' casually grabbed a document with his wing. The same, damning header stared at her. The transfer request was already filled out, Soarin's signature at the bottom.

Soarin' left and the image began to fade.

“Soarin'!” Spitfire pleaded, jumping forward and slamming her hooves into the screen. “Wait! Please!”

The image faded to black. The screen began to shimmer, solid giving way to tiny ice crystals once more.

Spitfire landed on her haunches, sparkling crystals settling around her.

Reality began to sink in.

She was alone. Truly alone. And it was all her fault.

“Santa,” Spitfire whispered, her voice just a quiver. Her eyes were wide with tears falling freely. “Is this enough to be on the naughty list?” Her voice cracked, twisting her face into a pained grimace before she could finish. Sobs consumed her and she buried her face into her hooves.

“Oh, little Spitfire,” Santa said sadly, seating himself next to her. “I'm so sorry I had to show you that.”

“Why did you do this!” Spitfire demanded, her voice wavering between sobs.

“Because you would never understand the gift I have for if you had not seen it.”

Gift? The sheer notion of something so trivial and insulting nearly sent her into a fury. But she could only manage a token anger. The hurt was still too fresh. “A gift! How can you talk about something like that, after what you've shown me!” She said, wavering. “You've done nothing but show me what a monster I am! Just in time for me to lose my friends!” Spitfire stared tearful daggers at Santa, even as the elder stallion looked sympathetically. “There... there is nothing you have... nothing you can give now that will matter!”

Spitfire turned away, bowing her head. For a time there was only her silent whimpers as she continued to weep.

A large, warm wing settled over her.

She wanted to be angry. She wanted to throw it off. To scream. But she was so drained. Comfort beat out her frustration.

“A lesson.”

Spitfire sniffled, looking up at Santa.

“That is my gift to you, little Spitfire.”

Her anger simmered. Santa's comforting gaze settled over her. She couldn't help but hope. She had to hope. And yet...

“Many believe that I am only a figment of filly's and colt's imaginations,” Santa started. “That I can only bring joy to young ones. And while it is true that I seek to bring happiness to children, I do not forget them as they grow older, even if they forget me,” Santa said, looking all the more intently at Spitfire. “In fact, I find that those older ponies, so filled with the worries and stresses of adult life, need my help all the more.”

“There is nothing you can do now,” Spitfire said bitterly. “I've lost my friends forever.”

“No!”

Santa's outburst startled Spitfire.

“It is never, ever too late, young one.”

“But what can I do? I can't take back all I've done!”

“No, you cannot.”

Spitfire slumped. She felt as if the world around her were collapsing in around her. Maybe it should, she thought.

“But you can fix the future,” Santa said.

His voice pulled her up. Hope again. It seemed to mix with Santa's words.

“Give of yourself, little Spitfire. That is the lesson you must learn and my gift to you.”

Give of herself? That was it? Something so basic, so simple? Would that really work?

The replay of her outburst to Fleetfoot and Soarin' rang in her mind. Words of doubt ushered in with it. They'll never forgive you. You don't deserve it. Not after all you've done. You only deserve to be alone.

She tried to chase the thoughts away. But they lingered.

“That's it? Give of myself?” Spitfire said. She desperately looked to Santa. “And what if my friends don't want me? What if... what if they don't forgive me?”

She strained to keep her eyes open. How tired she suddenly felt!

“I never said it would be easy,” Santa said. “But I believe in you. You are just as determined as you were as a filly,” Santa said, smiling. “Use it. Are your friends important to you?”

Spitfire's mind immediately went to graduation day. Soarin' at her side, Fleetfoot above her. Smiles all around. “Yes...” Spitfire whispered, trying to fight off her fatigue. “They're everything...”

“If they are truly your friends, they will forgive you.” Santa's voice seemed to echo in and out as Spitfire tried to remain awake. “I have a feeling they will,” Santa added with a wink.

Spitfire tried to speak. But words seemed so hard. She was so very tired.

She was only partially aware of her body moving, Santa's large wing guiding her as she laid down onto the couch.

“Sleep now,” Santa said softly, placing a grandfatherly kiss on her forehead.

Santa's final words carried her to sleep.

“Happy Hearth's Warming, little Spitfire.”

Spitfire awoke with a start.

Morning light streamed in from the window, gently warming her face. She pushed herself up, sitting upright.

Slowly she looked around. She was in her home, but it all felt very confusing, foreign. Why was she downstairs?

The glittering tree jumped out at her. She stared at it for several long moments. I didn't put that up, she thought slowly. Her mind was unnaturally hazy.

A dreadful, draining feeling started to creep in the pit of her stomach. It picked at the edge of her mind.

What had happened?

A colorful twinkle caught her eye. Light glinted off a colorfully wrapped gift resting on the coffee. It seemed so out of place against the drab backdrop of her apartment.

Spitfire retrieved the package. A small tag was affixed to it.

To: Spitfire

From: Santa

Spitfire nearly dropped the gift.

“It... it was real.”

She looked around the room again. To where Santa stood. To where his magic had appeared. The conversation they had...

The dread in her stomach lurched.

Spitfire took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She could feel her eye wetting again.

She returned to the gift.

Slowly she tore the paper, revealing a simple, but polished wooden box. She lifted the lid.

A picture frame rested inside. Fleetfoot, Soarin' and Spitfire on Wonderbolt Graduation Day grinned back at her. The frame glittered faintly, the same as Santa's magic. The trio in the picture moved in a repeating loop, as lifelike as the day it was taken.

Spitfire shakily retrieved the picture.

They were so... happy.

Spitfire clutched the picture to her bosom, and cried.

Spitfire stood outside Fleetfoot's home. The flight over her mind had tumbled over and over again through guilt, panic, fear and hope. All while she tried to rehearse what to say. She already felt emotionally drained, but her mind was made up.

She would be direct. As soon as Fleetfoot answered the door she would apologize. She would explain everything. She couldn't give Fleetfoot a chance to speak, or she wouldn't make it. She would be direct. She was Spitfire after all.

Of course, she had come to that conclusion twenty minutes ago.

Just as soon as I knock the door.

Her forehoof remained firmly on the ground.

Com'on Spitfire, you can do this! You have to do this!

She took several more seconds to rehearse in her mind, then abruptly rapped her hoof quickly on the door.

Hoofsteps sounded, approaching the door.

Spitfire's heart thudded in her chest.

The door knob twisted and the door swung inward.

Fleetfoot stood before her. She wore a deliberately gaudy and ugly Hearth's Warming sweater.

“Spitfire?”

Spitfire froze. So did her brain. For some reason her mouth wasn't working.

Fleetfoot's face began to shift. The initial surprise started to sour.

“Um, hey Fleetfoot. How are ya doing?” she said casually, though it felt like anything but.

“What do you want.”

It stung. Spitfire knew she deserved it and more. It gave way to a sudden panic. Panic that raced through her. Her heart thudded in her chest. She was losing her! Spitfire was going to lose her best friend!

“I'm sorry!” Spitfire blurted out.

Fleetfoot was momentarily stunned. All she could do was gape at Spitfire.

Spitfire took several breaths. Her eyes went to her feet. Why was it so hard to look Fleetfoot in the eye? She had never backed down from anything!

When had she ever apologized to them? Had she ever? All those months... Spitfire thought.

(The guilt) It hurt.

“I'm sorry.” She repeated. “Please. Don't leave the Wonderbolts.”

Silence.

“That's it?”

Spitfire winced.

“A couple 'I'm sorry's'?”

Spitfire's breath hitched in her chest. I lost. I lost my friend.

“I was so happy for you when you made Captain; with you leading us we were really going to take the 'Bolts to the stratosphere. I wanted to be a part of it; for it to be fun. Like we dreamed about when we were in the academy!” Fleetfoot said happily. “But you had to make it your obsession,” She seethed.

Tears formed at the corner of Spitfire's eyes. Everything was true. It hurt. More than anything she had ever felt before.

“I tried for months to pull you out! But it was work this and work that! You even said I wasn't pulling my weight! Like I didn't care! Like I was getting in the way of the master plan. Like I didn't mean anything to you!”

Spitfire nodded weakly, accepting everything Fleetfoot had said. There was nothing she could say.

Fleetfoot sighed heavily. “I guess it's a good thing I'm the forgiving type.”

Spitfire slumped against the door frame. Fleetfoot's words didn't register. She hiccuped. What did it matter?

“Spitfire? Did you hear me?”

Spitfire looked up. Her vision was blurry, but she could make out Fleetfoot smirking. Her smirk.

“Hey. It's okay.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in.

“W-what?” Spitfire mumbled. The weight inside her was lifting. Fleetfoot's smile pulled at it. Spitfire anchored herself to it. She had to.

The smile suddenly vanished and for the briefest moments Spitfire thought she would forever be lost. But worry and concern saved her. “Holy shit, Spitfire,” Fleetfoot said. “Com'on, you're scaring me.”

Spitfire hiccuped again, chuckling as she managed a small, tearful grin.

Fleetfoot offered her a friendly wing, guiding Spitfire into her home.

Several minutes later Spitfire had composed herself.

Fleetfoot joined her, bringing out a two steaming mugs with her.

“Sorry,” she said, placing one mug with her wing in Spitfire's hooves, “I'd bring out some of the heavier stuff, but we ran out of liquor last night.”

Spitfire nodded. A reminder of what she had missed. But she chased the thought away.

Fleetfoot seated herself next to Spitfire. “You gonna be okay?”

“I'm more than okay Fleetfoot. You have no idea how scared I was.”

“Must've been,” Fleetfoot said, sipping at her coffee. She set the mug down, thinking for a moment. “I mean, damn.” An incredulous look overcame her. “I've never seen you cry before.”

“You're my best friend Fleetfoot,” Spitfire said firmly. “I almost lost you. It took a lot for me to realize what had happened. What I had done.”

“Hmmm,” Fleetfoot nodded. “How did you know I was thinking about leaving the Wonderbolts?”

Spitfire opened her mouth, then shut it. “You'd never beli-” Spitfire stopped mid sentence. “Wait. Did you say thinking about?”

“Well, at first no. After yesterday I was deadest on leaving. But at the party last night, with all the 'Bolt's here, it just didn't seem right. I couldn't walk out on my teammate and Captain, ever if she was being a complete ass.”

Both chuckled.

Fleetfoot grinned. “Soarin' and I even planned a whole operation with the rest of the 'Bolts to kidnap you and hold you hostage until you came to your senses.”

A knowing look crept onto Fleetfoot's face.

“Spitfire, did you-”

Soarin'. Spitfire swallowed. “Fleetfoot, I gotta go.”

“Yes. Go! Now!” Fleetfoot jumped from her seat, pushing Spitfire. “You got this!”

Here again, Spitfire thought.

She stood at Soarin's door. The journey had been far less stressful than before. She was still riding the high from her reconciliation with Fleetfoot. But even so, doubts had crept into her mind.

No. Not this time. No fumbling. No water works. I'lll make this right.

She knocked on the door.

She heard footsteps.

Her heart thudded again. But not in panic. In excitement. Confidence.

The door opened. Soarin' stood before her.

His presence wrecked everything. Damnit.

A full head taller than her, he stared down at her with emerald eyes. She was under a microscope.

“Spitfire?”

His voice sent her for another tumble. Butterflies bounced around her insides like a wrecking ball. They had been so close, once upon a time. But now that she was in front of him, really before him again, she recognized the distance.

All she could do was stare as her breath left her. Soarin' was here. Her friend who had been more than a friend. She could feel her face flush as memories before what she had become returned to her.

She didn't even know she was crying until the tears dripped from her cheeks.

“Spitfire? Spitfire what's wrong?”

Concern and worry. For her. Ever after everything she had done. She felt her knees grow weak.

Her chin trembled. “S-Soarin'. I'm... I'm s-sorry. I'm sorry for everything! I ruined everything! I ruined the Wonderbolts! You, me and Fleetfoot. I ruined our friendship! I ruined you and me!”

She wanted to rush toward him. To close the distance. But was it forbidden territory? Did she have a right to it anymore?

“Whoa, whoa, Spits slow down...”

Hearing her nickname from him only made it harder. But she couldn't stop now. “I was a complete ass and a royal bitch. And you put up with me for so long, you kept trying and trying, and I kept pushing you away.” She slumped, bowing her head. “I'm so sorry,” She whispered.

Soarin' didn't say anything.

She felt a feather, then a wing touch.

Spitfire gasped, gaping at Soarin' through tear filled eyes.

Quick as lightning the distance was closed.

He smiled at her. That soft, goofy smile. With it came the light in his eyes. The light for her as he looked down at her.

She could feel herself wilting. She couldn't breath.

“I knew you'd come around Spitfire,” Soarin' said with a grin. “You make really hard sometimes ya know?”

“I know. I know, “ Spitfire nodded, hiccuping. “I'm gonna fix it, I promise...”

“Hey, hey, hey. It's okay. And,” Soarin' paused for a moment, swallowing, “I love you. I always did.”

Spitifre gasped. She was falling.

“Whoa, whoa! I gotcha!”

Soarin' was over her from above as he supported her.

“Yes. You do,” Spitfire said softly.

Maybe it was corny to say. But right then, it was the truth.

Soarin' grinned, leaning in. “Jeez Spits. When did you turn into such a damsel?”

Any other time Spitfire would have chased Soarin' down and clocked him for saying something like that.

Now, it was music to her ears.

Spitfire giggled. Something she didn't think possible. But she did, fresh tears pouring forth.

Soarin' leaned closer.

Before she knew what was happening the two were locked in a deep kiss. She weakly reached around his neck, while Soarin' held her in his hooves.

“Yes!”

The two broke apart.

Across the street Fleetfoot burst forth from a bush, racing toward the duo. She landed in front of them, a stupidly large smile on her face. “Ugh, finally! Do you two have any idea how long I've waited for this?!”

Spitfire hiccuped into a laugh, reaching out toward her friend.

Fleetfoot rushed her, pulling her into a hug.

“I'm so sorry, to both of you,” Spitfire said, releasing Fleetfoot. She rubbed her eyes, trying to clear them.

“Hey, no more of that,” Fleetfoot said sharply, nudging Spitfire I the ribs.

“She's right ya know,” Soarin' said, “I don't want to hear you moping anymore. We,” Soarin' gestured to the trio, “we are okay.”

Fleetfoot nodded, still wearing a large smile.

Spitfire didn't care that she might start crying again. Those words meant more to her than anything.

“I'm going to fix things guys. I promise. Adjust the calendar, make more fun events for the 'Bolts-”

“Actually leave work before sun-down,” Fleetfoot cut in.

“Enjoy life, ” Soarin' added.

“Or explore the unknown realm outside her office?”

“Maybe, Celestia willing, she'll even go on a date with a certain blue pegasus?!”

“Alright, alright.” Spitfire rolled her eyes, even as she laughed. “But, most importantly, I'm going to be there for you. Both of you.”

Fleetfoot smirked. “Don't worry, between Soarin' and I, I think we can hold you to that.”

“We've got a lot to make up for,” Soarin' said.

“Well would you look at that! I think friendship like that deserves a picture, don't you think?”

Spitfire looked toward the voice.

A large pegasus with a stark white beard and mustache smiled at the group from the sidewalk. Half moon spectacles rested on his nose. A large, wooden and ornate camera was in his hooves.

Spitfire stared. The large pegasus smiled back at her. A large, proud, approving smile.

She beamed back at the stallion, only managing to mouth a silent thank you as happy tears trailed down her cheeks.

There was only a small hidden, wink from the stallion.

“Come now little ones, gather together now,” the stallion boomed jovially.

“Little ones?” Fleetfoot said.

Spitfire chuckled.

“Closer now!” The stallion gestured from behind his cameral. “You're all friends aren't you?”

“Yes!” Spitfire cheered like a filly.

Soarin' laughed, resting his chin on Spitfire's shoulder and wrapping a hoof around her. Fleetfoot leaned in, resting shoulder to shoulder with Spitfire.

“Perfect. On three now! One, two, THREE!”

Blinding light flashed from the over sized bulb, punctuated by a 'whooshing' sound.

It took a moment for Spitfire to regain her sight.

The stallion was gone, only sparkling snow dust settling in his place.

“He's gone?” Soarin' said.

“Who was he?” Fleetfoot echoed.

Snow began to fall as the wind began to pick. With it came a pictured carried through the wind, coming to rest in Spitfire's open hoof.

Herself, with Soarin' wrapped around her and Fleetfoot leaning in at her side smiled happily back. The moment captured in time moved in a lifelike loop, their friendship forever present.

Spitfire smiled, looking up at the sky.

“Santa.”

Author's Note

Partially inspired by 'Believe' by Josh Groban

Hello all. I started this story on Christmas Eve 2016, but only made it so far. Rather than finish it at some later date and post it out of season in 2017, I opted to wait until this year. Unfortunately, it took me a bit longer than expected to finish, and I missed my deadline of posting before Christmas Eve this year. But, technically we're still in the Christmas season (at least until Epiphany), so I think the day after Christmas isn't too bad.

What really got me with this story was the song 'Believe' from the Polar Express, the movie we happened to watch last year on Christmas Eve. It really hit me in the feels for how an adult who had become bogged down by adult responsibilities and stresses (something I've become familiar with) might need a little extra care from Santa.

Cue my favorite Wonderbolt mare Spitfire, along with Soarin' and Fleetfoot. I can't stress how much I like this trio, (as well as the SoarinFire ship), and while I've only been able to dedicate so much to them in Legacy of the Pegasi, I really wanted to explore them more as characters.

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please let me know what you thought.

Happy Hearth's Warming and Merry Christmas!

-secret89