Chapters The room pulsed steadily every half-second, each beat of the bass drum hammering in her head and reverberating through her bones. The vibrations carried through her chair and so encompassed her that it felt like the room expanded imperceptibly on each impact, shrinking back to its normal size a moment later, as if she were seeing the world through a video camera with its zoom control synched to the music.
Spitfire lounged in a tall seat of red leather tucked into an alcove in the VIP lounge of Canterlot’s best nightclub, whisky and victory on her breath. She wasn’t completely hammered, but very pleasantly buzzing. Raising her glass to her lips, she finished the last few drops and pushed herself to her feet. It was time.
The VIP area was a storey higher than the rest of the club, a side room edged with a balcony looking out over the dance floor. Spitfire gracefully made her way towards the railings, smoothing the creases from the tight lemon-yellow fabric of her cocktail dress as she moved, the music still pounding all around her and the air growing hotter the closer she got. Her demeanour changed as she reached her vantage point, the slow movements of a swan giving way to the silent gaze of a wolf surveying a flock.
Usually she liked nothing better than to rest her elbows on the chrome railings and spend a few minutes gazing down on all the dancing bodies illuminated by the moving coloured lights and lasers while she picked out the prettiest target to invite up to join her for the evening. Tonight there would be no need, because the first glance over the crowd had immediately revealed one of the hottest girls she had ever seen, swaying to the music on the dance floor near the door on the far side.
The hair was the first thing she saw, because there was just so much of it. Ginger in colour, she thought, although it was hard to tell in the club, even when the darkened blue light was punctuated by sweeping flashes of bright colour. But despite the low light, its silhouette needed to be seen to be believed; an impossible nest of fiery curls that had to be three feet wide at the shoulders, and maintained its volume as far down the back as she could see, her view cut off below a certain level by others in the crowd. Against that, the other details seemed small in comparison. Pale skin, a thin frame wrapped in bejewelled purple satin that left her delicate arms and shoulders bare, and a smile on her lips somewhere between shy and enticing.
Those eyes, though. They held her gaze, unafraid, almost daring her to look elsewhere, as if there were anything else worth looking at. Spitfire wasn’t known for poetry, even after a few drinks, and she knew from basic physics that the human eye absorbed light or reflected it, never capable of generating it, but the metaphor in her mind was perfect for the image before her: those eyes had lit up when she walked in the room.
Leaning over the balcony, Spitfire beckoned to her with a finger. The girl’s smile deepened, but after a moment she lowered her eyes and, although it was very difficult to be certain, blushed. Oh, and she’s cute... Confident, too, though; there had been no surprise or gesture of ‘who, me?’.
The girl started to move through the dancing people towards the side of the room and the dark metal steps up to the VIP area. She moved slowly, perhaps just because of having to weave a path through the crowd, but the dancers weren’t packed together that tightly, and the girl didn’t look in Spitfire’s direction again, which led her to suspect nervousness might be to blame. Either way, she was not used to having to wait for things, and the anticipation was electrifying. She even felt some nerves of her own, because while she assumed it was the VIP steps that the girl was heading for, it appeared so casual that Spitfire couldn’t quite be sure.
After what felt like far longer than the minute it probably was, the girl reached the bouncer in the black suit and tie at the bottom of the steps, and Spitfire breathed a little easier. Without anyone saying a word, the bouncer turned his head to look up at Spitfire on the balcony, his eyebrows raising in askance. She nodded. A pretty girl approaches the bouncer, and he knows without asking that she’s there to see me. Perhaps I do this too often.
That thought vanished as the plush rope across the bottom of the stairs was drawn back and the girl was ushered through. Spitfire always felt a thrill at this stage, savouring the thought of a new toy to play with through the events to come. But this time... She told herself she wasn’t giddy with excitement as the girl climbed the stairs. Spitfire didn’t do giddy, she performed in front of crowds of thousands on a daily basis, she barely even felt stagefright anymore after stepping out into a stadium. Giddy was how the fans felt when they met her, not the other way around. It was surely just the alcohol toying with her.
As the girl drew closer, Spitfire was able to make out more details. The hair was definitely ginger, a slightly deeper shade than her own, but it had a few blonde streaks running through it. Even when pulled back with a heavy duty headband, it reached down to hang behind her hips, which swayed as she walked. A bushy curtain of curls still framed each side of her face, and her skin looked to be a pale yellow, like a sun-bleached version of Spitfire’s.
Her dress was a strong purple, and it looked like a cocktail dress crossed with a corset, though so covered in assorted gemstones around the sides and neckline that it was hard to be sure. It definitely had a sweetheart neckline, but with fine translucent mesh above it of the same purple, up to the level of her shoulders. It was perilously short, yet somehow not scandalous, and revealed the long, thin legs of a supermodel. The boots were chunkier than might often be paired with such a dress, but with no less of a heel. This Spitfire could relate to; she was at home in tight fabric, but the athlete in her hated how much harder it was to move around in spindly heels.
The girl was nearly done climbing the stairs, so Spitfire turned and glided over to meet her at the top. Ordinarily she might have stayed in her spot at the centre of the railings and made the girls she chose come to join her there, watching them idly and feeling like a queen on a throne, but for this particular girl she had waited long enough already. She held a predatory smirk as she finally saw the girl up close in all her beauty, and if she had licked her lips it definitely would have been out of lustful hunger and certainly not at all because she felt in the slightest bit nervous.
Neither of them broke eye contact as the girl closed the distance between them, her hands smoothly rising from her sides to rest lightly on Spitfire’s hips, finally stopping when their bodies were pressing gently together. The girl leaned in closer still, her head over Spitfire’s right shoulder and turned inwards, so near that Spitfire’s vision was almost entirely filled with a wall of ginger curls, the scent of which her nostrils seemed to reach out towards. Passion fruit?
“Hi, I’m Adagio,” the girl breathed into Spitfire’s ear, sounding impressively sultry despite having to talk loudly to be heard over the booming music. Adagio then lifted a hand to pull back her hair on the right of her face, offering Spitfire her own ear.
“Spitfire,” she said in return, hoping her voice came out as honey-smooth as she’d commanded it to. She assumed Adagio already knew her name, but introductions could be welcoming, and the tone of her voice would set the tone for the evening. Reminding herself that she was on her home turf and completely in control, she turned away, taking the hand from her hip into her own, and led Adagio deeper into the VIP area. She made sure to walk as if on a catwalk, each foot landing directly in front of the other, knowing the view Adagio was free to enjoy whilst her back was turned.
She caught the eye of a dark-uniformed bartender nearby and lifted her free hand to raise two fingers to him signalling for more drinks. That was a move she’d made in this game many times before, but only now did it occur to her that the girl she was leading might not like Spitfire’s usual choice of poison. If it came to it, though, she would happily have both drinks herself when they arrived and order something different for Adagio.
Spitfire wondered about heading back to the alcove she had left only minutes before and the soft leather seats within. Set into the side wall, the alcove had the advantages of both privacy and very slight insulation from the thundering speakers. But it also tended to be dark, even when compared to the surrounding nightclub, and while that appealed to her for the devious opportunities it offered, somewhere lighter would be better to see the girl she was with.
And Adagio was a girl she wanted to see all of, someone she could stare at for hours on end. But she couldn’t do that on a sofa, either, as they’d be side by side, and the view really ought to be appreciated for a while from the front first.
As she led Adagio into the VIP lounge itself, she noticed the few two-person tables scattered through the room, which would be ideal to sit at facing each other, but to do so would leave them too far apart to talk over the noise. She was glad that the lounge was only sparsely populated tonight, with two or three of the sofas occupied out of a dozen. She didn’t recognise anyone else there, and so guessed they were minor local celebrities like news anchors.
The air was cooler than in the main room, where the body heat of hundreds only served to amplify the humid climate of the hottest May in decades. The ornate lamps sprouting between bits and pieces of the furniture provided brighter mood lighting than on the dance floor, but little of it reached the ceiling, and so the club atmosphere was maintained. The continuous roar of the music streaming in from the main room helped with that too.
While her eyes flicked between the tables and chairs as she walked slowly through the lounge, agonising over where to sit and enjoy her pretty treat, Spitfire scarcely noticed that Adagio’s hand was no longer in her own. She was only snapped out of her thoughts by a dampening of the sound of the music coming from behind her, and turned to see Adagio, not following closely as she had assumed, but instead standing in the lounge entrance way tugging the heavy concealed doors shut.
As the doors met in the middle, the music seemed to diminish in volume. The bass still coursed through air and the floor like a heartbeat, probably the furniture too, but the higher frequencies were mostly blotted out, and Spitfire’s ears breathed a sigh of relief, although she knew they’d still be ringing in the morning.
“Much nicer,” she smiled, as Adagio sauntered over to her and slipped into a chair at the nearest table. Spitfire followed suit, dropping into the chair opposite, a second before she thought to do so gracefully. She felt the tiniest bit frazzled at how effortless Adagio made everything seem, despite being in unfamiliar territory. Closing the doors had never occurred to Spitfire, and she’d hung out in that room on more nights than she could remember. Of course it now seemed such an obvious solution; that was the whole reason the doors were there in the first place, and Adagio had acted without hesitation, as if in her own home. Look at me, I’m stressed – about where to sit, of all things – but she’s freestyle, just adapting to the situation and altering it as necessary.
Forcing herself to relax, Spitfire leaned back in her chair, straightening her legs out in front of her and crossing her ankles. She ran a hand lightly over the top of her hair, casually making sure her gelled quiff was still in place and being careful not to squash it in the process. Adagio leaned towards her, resting both elbows on the tabletop to prop up her chin, a smile playing on her lips. Doing so gave Spitfire a much clearer idea of exactly how low the centre dip in Adagio’s sweetheart neckline was cut, and while it still left plenty to the imagination, she certainly wasn’t complaining. Adagio’s eyes never left her own, tracking their wanderings and becoming more half-lidded.
Spitfire refused to feel guilty for being caught looking, indeed, given the irresistibility of the girl in question, she thought she’d feel more guilty if she hadn’t looked, as though visiting an art gallery and ignoring the paintings. And to be coy or chaste now would betray the brazenness of the last few minutes. But to openly leer would be tasteless, so she stopped herself before that could happen. She still felt a tiny bit like she had something to make up for, though, so she threw Adagio a bone and made the opening line of the conversation.
“So, what do you do, Adagio?”
It wasn’t like she cared about the daytime occupations of any of her conquests; she was never going to see them again, so she hardly thought it relevant. But it was generally considered polite to ask, and had proven to be a good place to start conversation on a first meeting, as it allowed people to be confident talking about things they were familiar with. For all it was nice having the upper hand, after all, bundles of nerves were rarely fun to spend the evening with, the opposite of alluring. She wondered if she’d ever have found any of them interesting enough to sleep with, if not for alcohol.
She meant intoxication on their part, to give them the courage to actually talk to her, but it still didn’t sound so good when phrased like that. And if she were having a slightly bleak moment of honesty, she could admit to herself that despite the ones she chose always being good to look at, she might not have made it through the small talk with a good number of them if she hadn’t been half cut either.
Obviously, Adagio’s confidence was one of the attributes that set her apart from those who had come before her. Ha ha, come before her! She did genuinely wonder what the rest of Adagio’s life entailed that might fuel such self-assurance.
But Adagio wasn’t showing any signs of relaxing into easy conversation about her day job, or even moving a muscle. She was sitting perfectly still, exactly as she had been, holding Spitfire’s gaze so intensely that Adagio seemed to loom forwards without actually moving. When she finally spoke, only her mouth moved, the rest of her body completely stationary, as if frozen, but not due to distress, and her eyes were locked onto Spitfire’s, unblinking and smouldering as she dragged out every word.
“The very lucky ones.”
Spitfire sat, stunned. Much like Adagio, she was now locked into her pose as if made of stone. She wasn’t sure if her mind was blank or if it was running around in circles trying to figure out how to react. Whole stellar lifetimes could have passed while she was stuck on pause and she wouldn’t have known, absolutely oblivious to their surroundings and the passage of time. Adagio’s eyes still stared into her own, magenta irises from which nothing could escape.
Her thoughts returned to her erratically. Her eyes didn’t hurt from lack of blinking, and Adagio wasn’t looking perturbed, so in all likelihood it hadn’t been more than a few heartbeats. If her heart hadn’t frozen in place like the rest of her, that was, which it might have done, for all she’d been aware of it. Now that her brain had rebooted, the first thing was to think about was making a reply. What could someone possibly say in response to that?
Had it come from anyone else, she might have laughed. It was a joke, of sorts, after all – a subversion of a question about career into one about sexual preferences. And it was so drenched in egotism that it exaggerated self-belief to the point of parody, which, again, from anyone else would have been funny. But from Adagio, she believed it. Everyone knew the term ‘getting lucky,’ and as a result its meaning had been much diluted. But Adagio, between how she looked and how she’d acted already, held within her the promise of restoring that term, the potential to move the goalposts for how humanity regarded good fortune.
Far too late Spitfire clamped down on those thoughts, unable to stop her mind from conjuring up images of how their night together might be spent. She hated to force the pictures away, and was tempted to surrender to them entirely, for they were very much appreciated, but she felt the faintest trace of heat rising in her cheeks and knew she had to come up with a response right at that moment to avoid blushing like a schoolgirl.
“Good answer,” she said with a slightly mischievous smile, knowing her cheeks reddened a little, and blinked but still didn’t break eye contact.
“Thanks,” Adagio said, eyes twinkling as she smiled, waving a hand in the air nonchalantly, “it was that or ‘inspire jealousy.’”
As she spoke, she glanced upwards briefly as if casting her mind back, ending their long stare into each others’ eyes so casually that Spitfire wondered for a moment if she had imagined the whole thing. She noticed the light blush on Adagio’s cheeks too and heard the amusement in her voice, a complete change of demeanour. Even the way she sat had shifted subtly; while still roughly the same pose, and losing none of its seductiveness, it now came across as more open. Spitfire felt like she had gone from being the audience for Adagio’s intensity to being behind the scenes with her, and suddenly the whole thing was companionable rather than competitive.
A burst of louder music cut through the room, and Spitfire looked up to see a waiter entering the lounge, closing the door again behind him and heading over to their table, two drinks in hand. She and Adagio both flashed him quick grins of gratitude as he set the two heavy weight glass tumblers on the table between them, before turning their attention to the 20 year-old peat-fired single malt scotch held within. Spitfire kept an eye on Adagio’s expression as the waiter withdrew again, thankfully noting intrigue rather than apprehension or revulsion.
After the door closed, they raised their glasses together and softly clinked the edges. Spitfire brought her drink to her lips and inhaled, savouring the familiar aroma for a second, before sipping and setting her glass down again. She watched Adagio do the same, smiling at her inquisitive face becoming an approving and pleased one as she tasted the drink.
“I’m glad you like it,” Spitfire chuckled. “It loosens the tongue, as well.”
“And the morals,” came the knowing reply, along with a grin both wicked and enticing.
“Mmm,” Spitfire nodded, her agreement sounding like the kind of noise normally brought on by taking a bite of something delicious, after which the innuendos cavorted freely in her head, “who needs them, right?”
A montage of mornings after flashed before her eyes. Some had come with sore heads, most with dry mouths and terrible breath, a few with serious nausea that had written her off for the rest of the day, but none had ever been accompanied by regret. She had occasionally felt loneliness in those moments as well, feeling the gulf between herself and the ever-changing face on the other pillow, but even then, never regret. And after those rare situations she’d remembered that she had all the close company she needed the next time she saw her teammates. She loved that bit of her life just as it was, and banished any stray doubting thoughts.
“There’s a saying I’m rather fond of,” Spitfire continued. “A conscience is what hurts when everything else feels good.”
Adagio leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling even more than before.
“I wouldn’t know,” she whispered just loudly enough for Spitfire to hear. Then Adagio leaned back again, and her grin returned, looking conspiratorial. Oh, the promise of things to come...
“It sounds like a buzzkill we’re better off chasing away,” Spitfire shrugged.
She found Adagio staring into her eyes again, head cocked slightly to one side, and she couldn’t look away. This time Adagio’s motionless expression and posture showed absent contemplation rather than charisma personified. Two or three seconds passed, then she gave a quick smile.
“I’ll drink to that,” she said quietly, raising her glass.
Author's Note
I've been working on this for a while, and I'm very excited to be able to release it at last. The story is all finished, so I'll be releasing a new chapter each Monday until it's all done.
Oh, and I nearly forgot to say - this is Adagio's dress:
One scotch and fifteen minutes later
*
They still sat in the same chairs, only now they both leaned forwards, resting their arms on the table between them, each openly interested in what the other had to say. They both smiled as they listened, and the eye contact was natural – held for a few seconds at a time before brief glances away, never uncomfortable.
Somewhere in another world, a girl looking like Adagio but lacking her intellect might have existed, and Spitfire would have gazed at that pretty face and not heard a word it said. Here, though, the words firmly held her attention, and she only occasionally stole quick peeks at other parts she could see of the girl in front of her, when she thought she wasn’t being watched.
“So what’s it like to be so adored?” Adagio asked, batting her eyelids in a way that mocked the vacuousness of some of the girls to have sat in her position previously, but was no less charming for doing so.
Spitfire snorted. “You want me to tell you being famous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?”
“Oh no, quite the opposite.”
“Ha.” Spitfire pondered the question for a few seconds. “It’s not as bad as people tend to make out. I’ve always been treated differently, so I’m used to that. But the adoration, as you put it...” she trailed off, mulling it over.
Adagio watched patiently as Spitfire tapped a finger against her lips, thinking.
“That mostly just brings pressure to be a good role model,” she concluded, “so in that respect it’s a distraction I could do without.”
“Oh?” Adagio pouted, “You mean it doesn’t spur you onwards, hearing all the fans cheering your name, knowing how much” – her voice dropped to a purr – “they worship you?”
“I hate to break it to you,” Spitfire grinned, “but when I’m competing, I don’t even hear them. It’s just me, in the zone, and it has to be that way or I’d mess it up. To me, being worshipped isn’t nearly as important as winning.” She frowned to herself. “I’m not sure if that’s better or worse,” she admitted, and they both laughed.
“I suppose I can get behind that,” Adagio sighed fondly.
And with that concession made, Spitfire felt she ought add her own.
“But afterwards, on the podium,” she said ruefully, “when you’re already running an adrenaline high coupled with the thrill of winning, then yeah, the screaming applause of thousands is spectacular.”
The smile on Adagio’s face was still as nefarious as it had been throughout their recent exchange on motivations, but there was now something deeper behind it as well; Spitfire guessed it to be the comfort of learning that they had that appreciation of enthusiastic audiences in common, and gladness washed through her at her decision to come clean about it. But after a couple of seconds when no one spoke, an eyebrow raised.
“Go on,” Adagio coaxed, with just a hint of menace.
Spitfire rolled her eyes. Saying this kind of thing out loud was frowned upon. But so are a lot of the things I do, and we drank to banishing consciences, so, out with it!
“...And when you’ve pushed yourself that hard to get there, in the event – and the lifetime leading up to it – then it does feel, in that moment, like you deserve it.”
Across the table, Adagio had a mix of different looks about her, their prominence shifting moment to moment: the beaming smile of a proud parent, the fond reminiscence of happy memories, and smouldering come-to-bed eyes. But shortly afterward she tilted her head to one side in askance, curious and concerned.
“Why ‘always been treated differently?’ ”
“For the same reason you are,” Spitfire smirked.
At that, Adagio’s errant eyebrow wandered upwards again. A second ‘go on’ command did not need airing aloud.
Shrugging, Spitfire said, “I’ve been hot for a lot longer than I’ve been famous.”
Adagio gave a rich, throaty laugh, but certainly didn’t disagree. Then she pouted again, but the edges of her mouth were still upturned, mocking the expression. “You poor thing.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Spitfire brushed it off with a snort of amusement, “I’m certainly not complaining or saying I’d prefer not to be. But I remember the way I’d be stared at on public transport. Or when I’d go out, and have to spend so long trying to get rid of random people who started chatting to me and couldn’t take a hint, that I’d have no time left to have fun with the friends I’d gone out to see in the first place. And people were always smiling at me...”
“Smiling people are the worst ,” Adagio agreed with a despairing shake of her head. They both laughed, but equally both knew that the other was serious.
“So that’s pretty much what it’s like being famous,” Spitfire summarised wryly, “the difference is that you have enough wealth and status to do something about it.”
“I can’t imagine you need to take public transport anywhere these days,” Adagio offered.
“Exactly. And all the places I choose to go have VIP areas like this one.” Spitfire cast her eyes around the room contentedly. The only downside of Adagio having closed the doors was that Spitfire could no longer look over to the bar and signal for more drinks. I might have to get up and order them, like a normal person! She decided to wait a few minutes, happily sat where she was for the time being.
“So the fame is fine,” she finished, “and along with the paperwork it’s a small price to pay for being able to spend my days doing what I love.”
Adagio gazed up and off to one side, lightly furrowing her brow in thought.
“I can’t quite picture you doing paperwork,” she said as she met Spitfire’s eyes again.
For that, Spitfire was silently very grateful, especially if the attempted imagining had overlooked the nerdy reading glasses she had to wear to avoid getting headaches from reading all those forms and letters for hours on end.
“Nor could I,” she grimaced, “before I became captain. Now it takes up far too much of my time. It’s one of the worse bits of the job.”
“One of?” Adagio asked sharply, “What else is on that list?”
Good going, Spitfire, now you’ve done it. Why don’t you tell the nice young lady how lonely it is being in charge of everyone? ‘You poor thing,’ indeed. She wondered if now would be a good time for that trip to the bar.
As she opened her mouth to speak, Spitfire could hardly believe her luck, for at that very moment the lounge door opened a crack and music flooded in, followed by a bartender poking his head around the doorframe and looking in her direction. He held up two fingers, signifying two more drinks, and awaited her response.
“Another drink?” she asked, glancing back to Adagio from the door.
“Thank you,” came the simple assent in return.
Spitfire looked to the bartender again and nodded, smiling. I really love this club. They think of everything. Or they just know me that well because I’m here so often. The barman left and closed the door behind him. Adagio did nothing to fill the sudden near-silence, her last question still hanging in the air. For the first time, Spitfire was reluctant to look in Adagio’s direction, knowing that if she did so, there would be no avoiding the answers she’d have to give.
Too late, Spitfire realised that hesitating had given her position away, and it was now obvious that there was indeed an aspect of her job she disliked and wasn’t eager to discuss. Adagio still said nothing, and a glance in her direction confirmed her to be watching Spitfire patiently, but expecting an answer nonetheless.
“Ok,” she gave in wearily, “there’s no way in which this doesn’t sound like self-indulgent whining, but...”
She left the sentence hanging, because she couldn’t think of anything to finish it with that would imply her whining to be any less self-indulgent. So now I’m self-indulgent and ineloquent. She considered where to start the explanation of her problem; it wasn’t exactly one many had faced or could relate to.
“My teammates are the closest family I’ve ever had,” she began, figuring that family was something most people had in common. “If we’re not competing or training together, we’re hanging out with each other backstage or in the bar down the road.”
She watched Adagio while speaking, and the look received in return said that the sentiment had been understood.
“We do everything together, and we’d do anything for each other. Fleetfoot crashed on my couch for three months after her last breakup; she didn’t have to ask, it was just assumed.” She raided my fridge a lot, too. But when the next breakup rolled around, Fleetfoot would be back, and an overprotective Spitfire would be more than willing to give up her couch again and help her friend get back on her feet.
“Blaze spent at least an hour by my bedside every single day last time I busted my ribs,” she continued, wincing at the memory. Injuries were a common thing in her profession, but that didn’t make them hurt any less. “I’m not even sure she was being nice,” Spitfire chuckled, “I think she just couldn’t handle going a day without seeing me.
“And now,” she paused, looking down at her lap, before drawing a filling breath and making her voice harder, “now she’s a pain in my backside, who keeps missing her target, and it’s my job to make sure she performs in the stadium just as we’ve practised.” Spitfire grew quieter, her brief flare of frustration folding in on itself, “Or I have to find someone to replace her.”
She dropped her gaze again, fiddling with her hands in her lap, and wondered why she’d felt compelled to deliver such an extended monologue, especially as doing so had made her uncomfortable. They’d met barely half an hour ago, it wasn’t like Adagio knew Spitfire well enough to catch her in a lie. So why hadn’t she lied about it, and said there was no problem, or that it was just something minor?
Because , the humbling and shameful truth dredged itself up in her mind, everything you’ve done this evening has been trying to impress her. And if you have to lie about your life, then it can’t be that impressive, can it?
Perhaps that had been her reasoning, subconsciously. It was certainly true that while Adagio had never appeared un impressed, most of her predecessors had been tripping over themselves in excitement or scared stiff, where she had unswervingly kept her cool. And Spitfire herself had certainly found that behaviour impressive, maybe she’d gone overboard trying to compensate?
She looked up again to be greeted with a tender, reassuring look, seeing compassion where she expected none, and when Adagio spoke, she did so with sad gravitas.
“That’s part of leading people: they become assets, tools shaped to deliver you to victory. And you’re responsible for them – for their successes, their failures, and their wellbeing. Even when they’re people who mean the world to you.”
Spitfire blinked, taken aback at Adagio’s insight, but then let out a groan and set her elbows on the table again, her head in her hands.
“The responsibility isn’t so bad,” she said through her fingers, then put her hands flat on the table so her voice wasn’t muffled, “it’s the detachment that’s hard to stand.” She shook her head. “It’s like I can’t open up to them anymore. I can’t just be me. Everything I do, every interaction I have with them, has to be guided by what’s best for the team.”
Adagio reached out across the table and took Spitfire’s hand in her own, fingers curling around it protectively.
“That detachment is the price of command,” she said, gently but firmly. “You’d be a better friend without it, but a worse leader.”
Spitfire felt a squeeze on her hand, offering her support and strength, and Adagio appeared consoling, but her voice held no room for argument.
“There’s no way around that. You have to decide what you love most: the team, or the people in it.”
All Spitfire could do was nod glumly. That was pretty much the conclusion she’d come to herself, too. She still didn’t like it, and she longed to defy it. But whenever she’d tried, the same concern had struck her, and she’d bailed. Any time she’d been about to go easy on her friends, she hadn’t been able to escape the worry that that event was the act – the mistake – that would cost them at a crucial moment, something they couldn’t afford to overlook.
Or worse, she was scared that if she let something go just once, then that particular incident would turn out fine, but, buoyed on by the elation of the bond with her teammates being a little closer than it had been, she’d convince herself that it wouldn’t be so bad for her to continue with a more relaxed grip on the reins, which would lead to a gradual slip in standards, each time hand-waved away, until she was remembered by history as the captain under whom the Wonderbolts lost their edge.
There really was no avoiding the truth of what Adagio had said, and Spitfire slumped in her seat.
“Sometimes I don’t know why I took this job in the first place.”
She realised as she said it that she was complaining to a girl that might as well have emerged from a dream – about a job that definitely had – and she cracked up mid-line at the absurdity. Her laughter didn’t sound as bitter as she expected, it was more genuinely amused – such towering self-indulgence!
“Yes, you do,” Adagio replied immediately. “You took it because it was too important to leave to anyone else. You were the best person to lead, perhaps the only one who could.” She paused for a second, and then finished more softly, “You still are.”
Spitfire didn’t know whether to smile at Adagio’s belief in her or grimace at the reality it presented her with.
Once again, the door to the bar and the rest of the club opened across the room from her, and the familiar waiter filed in bearing their drinks. Much as before, they both smiled their thanks as he set the tumblers down on the table and made his exit again. For Spitfire, self-conscious and more flustered than she was used to being, the fresh drink could not have come soon enough. She reached for her waiting glass eagerly, holding it to her nose and briefly losing herself and her worries in the comforting aroma she knew so well.
“You’re very knowledgeable about this sort of thing,” she observed, after taking a sip and lowering the glass.
“I’m a singer,” Adagio smiled, swirling the contents of her own glass after a sip, “I front a vocal group made up of my two sisters and I. I know what it is to lead those closest to you.”
A singer, huh? It made sense, with that level of charisma. And it explained the hair, which was magnificent, but would be impractical in many lines of work. How long had she been in that position, though, leading her own sisters? At what age had she had to cut herself off from them to do so?
She tried to think back to all the music videos she’d seen in bars and hotel rooms over recent months, usually on mute in the background, but Adagio didn’t look familiar from any of them. It was hard to believe she’d be unsigned or undiscovered, though, like she wouldn’t become a superstar the second she decided to.
“How come I haven’t heard of you?”
Adagio gave her a wan smile, and Spitfire inwardly flinched. She kind of just took success for granted – she’d had to work harder than anyone to get to where she was, but luck hadn’t really come into it, only her own training and determination. Could Adagio really be struggling to make it, a victim of bad circumstance? In fairness, she could have been a terrible singer, for all Spitfire knew, but still... There was a magnetic allure about Adagio that she found difficult to look away from, and surely any decent record label could turn that quality into sales figures.
“We had a setback a few months ago,” Adagio rolled her eyes. “We were on track for our big break and some touring plans fell through at the last minute.” She shook her head, sardonic disbelief on her face, but then perked back up again. “But it’s ok, things are in motion. And anyway,” she grinned, “the world isn’t ready for us quite yet.”
Every Wonderbolt knew what it was like to be temporarily put on hiatus without warning, although in their case it was almost always thanks to injury rather than management, and Spitfire could only commend Adagio’s resilience in the face of such knocks, wishing nothing but the best for her, confident that she would succeed soon enough.
“I’m sure they won’t know what hit them,” Spitfire responded with a grin of her own and raised her glass in salute, then brought it to her lips once more.
“They may never recover from the shock,” Adagio agreed with an amused expression, gently laughing to herself, then waving a hand dismissively, as if the opinion of something as humble as the world wasn’t nearly enough to concern herself with.
“But, coming back to you,” she continued, becoming more serious but still warm, “all you can do is learn to deal with it. The choice is never a happy one, but it’s worth it.” She leaned an elbow on the table and rested her head on it, cocked to one side and propped up with the palm of her hand supporting her cheekbone as she looked at Spitfire encouragingly.
“How does being captain make you feel?” she asked, and something wistful in her tone made Spitfire think of all those training sessions where she’d pushed hard, but the work had paid off in the shows that followed, and of the times they’d headed out into the arena and she’d watched not the thunderous crowds themselves, but her teammates reacting to them.
“Proud,” Spitfire said without much hesitation, her lips curving upwards unthinkingly into a gentle smile. “Valued and recognised for something that, as you say, only I can really do.” After a thoughtful second, she added, “Happy.” However nice it might be to have her friends back just as they used to be, without the barriers she’d had to put up between them and herself, her life as a Wonderbolt would never fail to bring her happiness. And she was immensely proud of the team she led, and also, all egotism aside, of the way she led them.
There was a sense of accomplishment, too; if she had spent her life trying to be on the team, then being made captain was the pinnacle of her career, above which there were no greater heights she could reach for. All that remained to strive towards was for her captainship to be the best on record. And in that respect, she was confident of her own abilities, and she knew she’d train the rest of the team until one way or another they delivered, so she wasn’t worried about how things would turn out.
“Ordinarily, that is,” she said, remembering the other frustrations of the position, her face falling. “Right now…?”
She thought of the mountains of paperwork on her desk, the evening social events to schmooze with the sponsors and the nobility, which of course she had to be on-duty for, even if it wasn’t on paper as part of her job. And she knew those things wouldn’t let up; they couldn’t be delegated to anyone else, and anything she left out would be likely to come back to haunt her further down the line.
“Overworked…”
This was the first night in three weeks she’d been able to escape to go clubbing. It used to be three times each week. It wouldn’t have been so bad, she thought, if she felt like she was getting older and losing her drive for such things, but she still felt like she was in peak condition; she still had all the energy she’d had at 22, she just didn’t have the time to do anything with it anymore.
“…Undersexed.”
Probably shouldn’t have admitted that. Rarely an attractive trait . But it would have been strange raising her guard again around Adagio, given the conversation they had just had, and so she let the honest assessment pass regardless of the wisdom of doing so. She snorted to herself at the admission, but showing she could laugh at it did nothing to detract from its truthfulness, and she felt warmth rising in her cheeks in response. Adagio, for her part, raised her eyebrows, but in a way that suggested conversational interest rather than scandal.
“I might be able to help you with at least one of those things,” Adagio smirked. Her voice resonated with confidence, before changing, along with her posture, to be more business-like, almost lecturing. “Now, overworking is a serious problem…”
Another scotch and half an hour later
*
The other patrons of the lounge had gradually cleared out. The DJs had switched over, from the sound of it, and the mood lighting seemed a tiny bit darker. The chairs at the table were firm and had grown uncomfortable, so the two of them had retired to a plush black leather sofa near one corner of the room.
They sat side by side, a handful of inches apart, with their bodies turned to face each other, Adagio nearest the window and Spitfire beside a convincing artificial potted fern of some kind, with a floor-standing lamp beyond. Each of them lounged with an arm dangling over the back of the sofa. They both had their feet up on a matching leather footstool in front of them, and Spitfire only occasionally allowed her eyes to wander over Adagio’s flawless legs, bare below the short dress.
Spitfire’s pose was casual, where Adagio’s appeared effortless. After a brief lull in the conversation as the previous topic wrapped up, Adagio leaned in closer and spoke in a low voice dripping with honey.
“How many other girls have sat here before me?”
That question usually came from the jealous or the insecure, but Adagio seemed neither, which helped Spitfire fight back against her first instinct of bristling at it. She pushed the feeling back down, reminding herself that she had nothing to be ashamed of or be defensive over, and any judgement was a fault on society’s part, not hers. Adagio was wearing an ‘impress me’ smirk, and looked to find the idea captivating.
“One,” Spitfire whispered, deliberately choosing to be dramatic about it, and so holding up a single index finger in front of her face at the same time, barely an inch from either of their noses. “It’s always the same person,” she carried on before any objections were raised, “they just wear different faces each time.”
At first, she saw no outward reaction from Adagio, but, very slowly, a grin began on her lips and spread across her face. Within a few seconds she had drawn away to their previous distance apart and thrown her head back, laughing.
“That’s delicious!” she cackled out between guffaws, “To them, you’re an idol, but to you–” she shook her head as laughter shook the rest of her “–they’re not even separate entities...”
When phrased in that way, it sounded like something that ought to make Spitfire feel bad. She’d made peace with her choices long ago, but when attention was really focused on those on the receiving end, the imbalance in affections seemed like something that should have brought on guilt.
It didn’t, though. Hadn’t her partner always been eager? Her prey always wanting to be caught? And if both parties got what they were after, did it matter that they were seeking different things from each other? Surely none had thought they’d be the one she’d fall in love with and want to stay with forever; nobody could be that naive, and to even hope for such a thing would fly against the spirit of the one-night arrangement that each meeting had been very much implied to be. Everybody involved had known that, so no-one should have been hurt by it.
And, however confident she was of her own attractiveness, she knew it was her fame that really allowed her to live that way. Some might even have wanted to sleep with her just so they could brag about it to their friends the next day. The dynamic with fans was always going to be hopelessly one-sided; they knew all about her and she knew nothing about them, and they idolised her as a hero from a poster on their bedroom wall, rather than a real person.
A long way from a good basis for a meaningful relationship. It would never be between equals, and anything longer than one night would be doomed from the start. So she was right not to feel guilty about it, and she had done nothing wrong. And, again, we toasted being free from consciences!
“I guess I’m made of concrete or something,” she shrugged.
Adagio looked her up and down before replying, mostly appraisingly, but with the barest hints of hunger, and managed to do so openly and show her desire without coming across as lecherous.
“And here was me thinking it was all toned muscle,” she chided, pulling out her false pout again.
Spitfire congratulated herself on not blushing, but felt her pulse quicken as her imagination conjured up the sensation of Adagio running her hands over that which she had been admiring. Feeling a light shiver across her skin, Spitfire fought her way clear of the vision, only pausing to enjoy it very briefly before breaking free.
“Nope, industrial-grade building materials, that’s me,” she said, laughing the compliment off.
“And yet they throw themselves at you nonetheless.” Adagio gave her a teasing, almost playful look from beneath her lashes, “That’s true adoration.”
This time Spitfire focused on her scepticism enough to keep any uninvited mental images at bay, which left her to smile in response without distractions.
“Is it, though?” she chuckled, “Or is it just a more hardcore form of autograph hunting?”
“Ooooh, yes!” Adagio exclaimed, lighting up instantly with inspiration. Not the innocent kind of exclamation that might come from suggesting ice cream to a child, but a breathy near-whisper, laden with dark suggestions that passed on excitement of a different kind to Spitfire, and also gave her the feeling she’d soon regret it.
“Would you sign me?” Adagio pressed on in the same tone, leaning closer again, “Sign your name on my skin?”
Spitfire backed up in her seat, trying to regain some distance. Could Adagio be just another fan, underneath it all? Something else she’d learned over her time as a celebrity was to watch out for nutters. It wasn’t like the signals Adagio sent out suggested ‘normal’ or ‘harmless,’ but Spitfire hadn’t thought her unstable . So perhaps that wasn’t giving Adagio enough credit, and there was another reason behind her actions. Probably more about being adored.
“Why would you want that?” she asked, trying to keep the distaste from her voice.
But do you really want that ‘similar consideration,’ Spitfire? Or might it be a fun new experience to indulge a different obsession for the night?
“As proof...” Adagio said, more softly than Spitfire had been expecting, who, after a confused moment, realised the implications, and felt a paranoid lurch in her chest. She’s doing this just to tell her friends? But no, no, again that was jumping to conclusions – maybe that wasn’t the only reason she was doing it, and Spitfire supposed that it was only natural that if you happened to hook up with someone famous, you’d be disbelieved by those you told and might want some way to prove it. Wanting proof didn’t necessarily mean that–
“...of ownership.”
Ah.
“Because you have the power to do it,” Adagio carried on before Spitfire could process anything further, speaking with more energy. “The rules are different for you. You can do things most people only get to fantasise about.”
Adagio paused, and from the way her expression shifted, it wasn’t just because she needed air.
“I want to see you celebrating that,” she finished, in a voice that could have been supportive, if it hadn’t been so busy being seductive.
Behaving like that, Spitfire was pretty sure, was likely to earn her a bad name in the press. There were always rumours and gossip stories about her, of course, that was to be expected with a job as high-profile as hers. And while such pieces, from the occasional glimpses she’d ended up seeing of them, were usually tacky, baseless and worded as if the content were scandalous, they were rarely actively hostile.
People wanted to hear about the Wonderbolts, to feel that they’d gained some inside knowledge and got to know their idols as real, flawed humans, and so it was likely she’d end up in magazines and newspapers from time to time. Spitfire saw it mostly as the press just trying to do their jobs selling those magazines, with no personal ill will towards her.
But if she started ‘celebrating’ her celebrity, she could see that changing. She’d become a target, one that it would be seen as acceptable to humiliate with scathing exposés backed up by secret snapshots taken by paparazzi following her movements night and day. If she began acting like she was above people, then those people would want to see her taken down.
“You know, most people these days prefer a photo,” she smiled, reluctant but humouring Adagio.
“Do you sign legal documents with a photo?” came an exasperated reply bordering on outrage. “A signature is a flourish of power,” Adagio pronounced, gesturing with her hands to drive home the importance of her words, before resting one hand high on her chest, fingertips caressing the skin on her neck between her clavicles, while draping the other hand back over the edge of the sofa. “So much authority is channelled into the writing of a single word.”
I’m pretty sure some online insurance things do need a photo to make them legally binding, not to mention when security systems have retinal scans but…
“And it’s not some arcane magic word,” Adagio continued, which brought to mind dusty bookshelves, but the withering way she spoke implied that those distant libraries didn’t hold the answer, “this ritual holds far more showmanship than that – your own name is the key!”
The first thought Spitfire had was that of course a person’s name was the key; that was the thing unique to them, and signatures were used to authenticate who they were. But anyone could write a name; the part really being assessed was their handwriting, and in theory any word could be used to test that.
So why the name? She remembered the play they’d read in school, set several hundred years in the past, in which characters agonised about signing their name to a lie, as if it were the most important thing they had. She thought of how someone’s word had historically been treated with a great deal of trust, and how doubting such a thing had been seen as a grave insult.
A person’s name, back then, had been tied up with honour, and while those attitudes were gradually being left behind, the legal system was often slowest of all to move with the times, so for now a signature did indeed hold a weight more powerfully binding than other words.
“If you sign that one word on a Wonderbolt uniform,” Adagio stated, “it doubles in value.” That thought was held for a moment, giving Spitfire time to process it and appreciate its stark truth, eyes widening momentarily at the revelation. She almost jumped when she felt a touch on her hand, which, in all their drawing towards and away from each other on the sofa, she hadn’t moved from hanging over the back of it. She felt slender fingers wrap around her own, and Adagio stared straight into her eyes, leaning in closer again, perhaps unconsciously.
“If you write it on me?” she asked, in that same breathy voice from before, of dusky temptations. Spitfire was a rabbit in magenta headlights, with only the rush of blood in her ears tying her to the world. “Everyone in the building goes home jealous.”
That... Hoo, wow, yeah... ok, that actually does sound kind of sexy.
Maybe the press wouldn’t take it too badly if she went down that route? She wasn’t exactly known as a good girl, after all. Her reputation as captain was already fearsome, so in some ways her letting loose might just enhance it.
Maybe that was only wishful thinking. Or maybe she should try it, and see how it would be received? If it went down terribly, then, as a one-off wild night, it would probably be forgiven, and at least she’d know for sure.
“Where do you want signing?” Spitfire grinned, taking a permanent marker pen from her bra. Adagio lifted an eyebrow at that, but didn’t comment. She would learn in time, Spitfire thought, when her band went big, how frustrating it was when fans begged for autographs but then insisted she wait while they frantically asked around for a pen.
“Across my chest,” Adagio said with absolute certainty. Of course .
“It’ll ruin your dress,” Spitfire scoffed, but Adagio was already sitting upright and reaching behind her to unbutton it. She smoothly slid the straps down her shoulders, leaving them hanging on her upper arms, pulling the mesh top section down with one hand and holding the corset in place with the other.
Spitfire too sat up, pen in hand, and Adagio swept her hair out of the way behind her shoulders and leaned in, extending the exposed top of her chest forwards expectantly. Spitfire knew from experience how awkward skin was to write on, and so moved as close as she could and began writing her signature slowly and carefully, her head only a few inches above the top of the pen.
“Don’t worry about the dress,” Adagio whispered mischievously in her ear as she wrote, from the sound of it having noticed where Spitfire’s eyes were wandering, “I’m not going to be wearing it for much longer.”
Spitfire felt her cheeks burning, half the rest of her body too, but she also snorted with laughter.
“What are you trying to turn me into?” she shook her head, amused and bemused together. She sighed, but happily. “I dread to think what my family think of my lifestyle as it is.”
After adding the finishing touches to her autograph and mostly managing not to smudge the ink too much, she placed the top back on the pen, and replaced the pen down the front of her dress. Adagio looked down at her own chest admiringly, beaming at the signature, before lifting her eyes to Spitfire’s own.
“Why would I want to make you any different to who you are?” she said warmly, reaching out to brush the backs of her fingertips down Spitfire’s cheek, with the hand not holding her dress in place. “I like who you are.” Adagio then slid the straps back onto her shoulders and reached both hands behind her neck, where they disappeared into her great mass of hair, but were presumably actually doing the dress up again. “I just think maybe you should, too, and should embrace it.”
Had anyone asked Spitfire yesterday, she’d have said she embraced being who she was to the full. Then Adagio had shown up, and suddenly Spitfire’s established standards of self-acceptance, self-celebration even, seemed so relaxed. But none of that really mattered at that moment, not compared to Adagio’s touch on her skin, which still tingled.
Enough passed between them as they looked into each others’ eyes that no words were necessary to prompt them into both rising to their feet from where they’d been perching on the edge of the sofa. Spitfire ran her hands down her sides and hips, smoothing out the lemon-coloured fabric that hugged her body, while Adagio gently tugged the bottom of her own dress straight from anywhere it had ridden up while they had been sitting.
“I’m not going to be wearing it for much longer,” Adagio’s voice echoed in Spitfire’s mind. As one, they turned and headed towards the door, with Spitfire just ahead, the fluttering in her stomach far more pronounced than the usual casual anticipation she’d feel at that point of an evening’s events.
Spitfire opened the heavy door upon reaching it, standing aside to usher Adagio through, with both of them smiling at the put-on impression of courtesy. The music hit Spitfire the instant the door was opened, the thump of the bass slamming into her after sitting for so long without it.
Hot on its heels (ha ha!) came a wall of heat, with the combination of the body heat of hundreds of people dancing and the natural warmth of the May-acting-like-August night proving too much for the air conditioning to cope with. She halted for a moment, almost disorientated by the change, but quickly started walking again after shaking her head to clear it.
By that time, Adagio had drawn several feet ahead of her, and, apparently realising, slowed down and reached out a hand behind her in Spitfire’s direction. Slipping her own hand into the one offered, Spitfire looked towards the back entrance of the building, through which she usually entered and left to avoid most of the public attention. But before she had a chance to say anything over the pounding music, Adagio had already led her past the bar and was almost at the balcony, with the stairs to the dancefloor waiting beyond. Adagio appeared set in her course, so Spitfire said nothing and followed.
She felt the temperature rise further with each metal grille step they descended towards the main floor of the club, and smelled the odour of sweat and booze growing thicker in the air. The bouncer guarding the velvet rope at the bottom looked up at their approach, but dropped his eyes to the floor again after seeing who they were. He drew back the rope for them and smiled in their direction, but did not make eye contact or look up for longer than a moment. Spitfire was too valued a customer, she guessed, to risk an expression being misconstrued when she was leaving with someone. Or, on that occasion, being led out by someone, the context of which could not have been more obvious.
The dancers were packed even more tightly than before, bobbing and swaying to the music, and Adagio led Spitfire through the crowd by the hand, like a snake somehow slithering between the waves of an ocean. Their path through the heaving bodies was slow, taking a few seconds to go each few feet, pressed up against people on either side.
Many spared neither she nor Adagio a first glance, let alone a second. But many others definitely recognised Spitfire, sometimes before noticing the girl she was very clearly leaving with, sometimes after, and she noted how the looks they gave her changed accordingly.
The leers weren’t nearly as prevalent as she expected, especially given the signing thing. Adagio had been right; the most common response was envy, although who it was directed at was split between the two of them. Others were impressed, some amused, some astonished, and some even made ‘aww, that’s so sweet’ faces – she wasn’t sure how she felt about those, she didn’t really do ‘sweet.’ But none appeared angry, or like they wanted to tear her from her pedestal and bring her back down to their level.
Adagio looked like something between the cat that got the cream and the cat that ruled the universe. Spitfire found the whole thing intoxicating, the warmth coursing through her from the inside matching the tropical atmosphere of the room. Between that and her actual intoxication, she gave up trying to fight the feeling, and her own expression ended up mirroring Adagio’s by the time they reached the door.
Author's Note
I've never commissioned artwork for a story before, but Naiad made me appreciate how much the image needed making, and Lucy-tan did a brilliant job of bringing it into being.
Uploading this just before I start packing - see you at Bronycon!
A much younger Spitfire awoke in a much cheaper bed, within a much smaller and less opulent hotel room. The thin polyester curtains did little to stop the morning sun, but the impulse to roll over away from the light brought on a deeper wince, the movement highlighting how her body complained all over.
Every muscle held a dull ache, and not just the expected ones from training. But figuring out why was tough when her temples throbbed with her pulse, like everything inside her skull had been sewn tightly together and was trying to break loose. But she couldn’t just be tired – if the sun was up, she ought to be halfway through her morning exercise regimen. Gritting her teeth, she turned to the alarm clock on the nightstand. In its place she saw only empty bottles. That explains a lot .
On top of everything else, she then felt a sinking in her stomach, prompting her to turn to her other side. Spitfire paused and cocked her head askew, greeted with the sight of a lithe young man, lying with his back to her, clearly naked beneath the sheets. That explains a lot more .
Oh, she’d suffer for that, she internally half-groaned, half-smiled. The price of letting loose and enjoying yourself in such a fashion, which she knew all-too-well from enough Academy boyfriends, was how unpleasant running laps would be the morning after, when even walking would have been sore.
At least she’d be able to relax through training, though, and not be antsy during the show that night. There was only so long she could endure the regular routines, putting her body through the constant cycles of pressure and endurance in training, adrenaline and boundary-pushing abandon during shows, and tension and relaxation in the sports massage at the end of each night’s work without needing a bodily release of her own. Every so often, she had to find some fan at a party and sort herself out, in that respect. Screw it all away and start again the next day with a clearer head.
And with the size of the Manehattan show coming up that night, her drunk self the night before had made a good decision. And – she grinned, glancing at the other occupant of the bed again – had had good taste, too. Only dim snapshots of memory remained of things they’d done together during the night, but its after-effects would be just what she needed.
When did I become so perverted, thinking of it in those terms?
Calling it a need made her sound kind of dependent on it. Perhaps she was, a little bit – she could go without, but it certainly helped – but she still didn’t like the idea. Both of being reliant on something, and on someone else to provide it. And something being required implied it wouldn’t otherwise be wanted, which simply wasn’t the case, and again made her uncomfortable. It being functional certainly didn’t diminish it being fun.
A movement beside her pulled her from her thoughts as her bedfellow rolled over towards her, cracking his eyes open and grimacing blearily at the sunlight. She met his eyes and smiled, making sure it was the kind of gentle smile that said ‘this was fun’ rather than ‘let’s get married.’
“Hey, Spitfire,” he croaked, grinning. “Good morning.”
‘Good’ morning? Sweetheart, for you this is the best morning.
“Hey…” she began, trailing off for a second, “Ga– no, he was last week.”
That was when Spitfire felt her eyes widening, and any cockiness draining away fast. She actually couldn’t remember. She reached out towards what she could recall of the night before, especially the introductions, but nothing stood out.
Nope, I have genuinely forgotten his name. Even Fleetfoot hadn’t managed that before, as far as Spitfire knew.
The mystery man’s eyebrow slowly rose higher and higher, and all Spitfire could do was look sheepish, trying to hold eye contact as she felt her cheeks warming.
“That’s humbling,” he chuckled to himself, looking away. Then he busied himself with rubbing the sleep from his eyes, pausing to turn away entirely to yawn.
“I was drunk!” Spitfire protested through her embarrassment, despite the tightening in her chest. Yeah, that’s definitely it. Not that I plain didn’t care or anything.
Luckily the sheets still covered them both more than decently, preventing an uncomfortable situation from growing even more awkward, with the room already as light as it was. The curtains really were useless.
“I was drunk too,” came the feigned-aghast response, complete with him shaking his head at her, “and I remember that you’re Spitfire.”
“I’m a Wonderbolt,” she scoffed. “Being memorable is my job.”
Not only did his eyebrows shoot up again, they were joined by his mouth dropping a little way open as he stared at her.
“The clue is in the name,” she drawled. “You don’t inspire wonder by being forgettable.”
Up that close, it was easy to spot his nostrils flare, though he didn’t otherwise let slip many signs his fake outrage might be becoming a lot more genuine. “I’m forgettable now?”
Oh, come on! I was kidding! When it came to forgetting names, he’d do well to keep hers in mind, and question what exactly he expected. There was a bit of bite to her, sure, but… But Soarin would have got that. Fleet would have given back as good as she got.
Maybe not kidding, exactly. Half-kidding? ‘Deliberately exaggerating something with an undercurrent of truth?’ She hadn’t exactly had to define it before, her friends just understood it.
“With enough booze,” she rolled her eyes, “anyone’s forgettable.”
That ought to relax him a bit, right? Pointing out that it was nothing personal?
Go on, argue with that: something everyone on the planet knows is true.
He held up a hand. “Again, I remembered you.”
Spitfire closed her eyes for a moment. It was too early for this. Way later than she’d usually be up and dealing with infuriating behaviour from Captain Wind Rider, she reminded herself, but the pain in her skull was still there, and telling her that it was definitely too early. She had to admit, though, that her headache wasn’t so bad, considering the amount she must have had to drink to put up with the guy in question last night.
But then again...
Opening her eyes, she looked at her bedfellow, taking in the wavy hair cascading over his narrow shoulders, and how the slenderness of the rest of him let her see every movement of muscles beneath his skin. She caught a mental flash of him in the tight T-shirt he’d been wearing the night before. Why did the hot ones always have to be lacking in personality areas?
“Maybe you didn’t drink as much as me?” she offered, trying to sound like she wasn’t talking to a child. And maybe succeeding?
“And besides,” she followed up with, “you knew my name long before last night, so that’s not a fair comparison.” Was the unspoken implication there subtle enough, that a fan really shouldn’t need to be that drunk to want to sleep with a celebrity they’ve no doubt bought pin-up calendars of, but that the reverse was not true?
She thought she spotted his ears flushing, hard to hide with skin that pale. “Yeah, there is that,” he rubbed the back of his neck and looked away again. Going from that, she doubted she’d ever know if he’d picked up the subtext.
It would probably lead to a calmer morning if not. A slightly less satisfying one, too.
“So…” he began, then squirmed around rearranging his pillows upright before sitting up against them.
Spitfire, still lying entirely beneath the sheets aside from her head and one leg, surreptitiously kept a careful hold of them to remain that level of covered.
His task completed, he cast his eyes around the room, obviously trying to think of something to say. “...Uh, what does today hold in store for you?”
The problem with choosing people with one-night stands in mind was how they suffered when required to do anything more. Who knew how Spitfire might ever find someone for a relationship, if she couldn’t even get one who could handle both the night before and the morning after? But if this one had struggled just to come up with that attempt at conversation, she ought to try to think of a decent answer, as the next topic would no doubt be even worse. So…
What did the day have in store for Spitfire? Well, it was a show day, which dictated everything else. Training would only be an hour, rather than the usual schedule of all morning. Then, after they’d showered, changed and eaten lunch, they’d hit the road, arriving in Manehattan by early evening. They’d be on stage at nine, and off at eleven. Half past, if the crowd wanted an encore. After-show party, and then bed – probably alone.
At some point someone on the team would probably inadvertently set Wind Rider off, and he’d throw a hissy fit and start screaming about professionalism – because everyone knew the shows were selling fewer tickets each year, and he blamed the rest of the team for it. Especially Spitfire and her closest two friends, who he charmingly referred to as the ‘young upstarts,’ and thought to be reckless glory-seekers not taking the job seriously or treating it with the prestige it deserved. Just thinking about it got Spitfire’s pulse firing up, and her teeth ground together out of the learned habit of holding her tongue all the times he’d shared his views with them. Prestige belongs in a museum, and so will we if you don’t recognise that!
And if Wind Rider had his temper tantrum before they left for Manehattan, then that was what she, Soarin and Fleetfoot would spend the journey discussing, tucked somewhere out of sight and earshot at the back of the bus. And by discussing, she meant the other two would be trying to calm her down or hold her back.
On the off chance that Wind Rider managed to act like an adult right the way to Manehattan, then maybe Spitfire would have a much more pleasant time with her friends on the bus, laughing together at whatever they’d got up to the night before, whether Fleet’s antics at the bar or Soarin’s at the buffet table.
Or dreaming of the day that sometime they might be running the ‘Bolts themselves, doing things the way they wanted to, and possibly making the team an act considered cutting edge and genuinely daring again.
And the guy across from her in the bed – whatever his name was – she couldn’t tell him any of that. If it somehow got back to Wind Rider, of course, he’d see her as the height of unprofessionalism, and for once she might agree with him. Not to mention that, as far as the public were concerned, Wind Rider was something of an infallible hero. A reputation he’d built mostly just by saying it often enough. And threatening to kick anyone who said otherwise off the team.
But it went way deeper than that. Difficult bosses and the confidentiality problems of discussing them were probably something most people could relate to. Life on the road, though?
Normal people got to go home each night, rather than to a different hotel room. They got to see their families, and their friends beyond those they worked with, and even do normal boring things like buy groceries and go out for coffee dates.
And where would I even begin complaining about that without sounding like some pampered celebrity.
Yes, she had some degree of fame. Yes, some people looked up to her. But she also didn’t have any long-term career prospects, since an ageing body wouldn’t take the physical stress of being a Wonderbolt, and there weren’t really any upper echelons to go on to. In fact, her career would be dead the second she suffered an injury that’d take longer than three months to heal; a worrying prospect she tried not to dwell on.
Not to mention that ‘pampered’ was a bit rich when she pushed her body harder in a day than he probably did in a month.
The other ‘Bolts all understood that, of course. Even Wind Rider. But this guy?
He never could.
“Just another normal day of training and a show,” she said. And, from the looks of it, there’d been nothing peculiar about her taking several seconds to think about it before answering.
He didn’t know the journey she’d been on, just in those last few moments. He wouldn’t get it even if he did. So why bother explaining? Much easier just to keep it to herself. Now there’s a depressing thought: I, a Wonderbolt, am becoming introverted.
How she’d have laughed at that party last month if she’d known she’d be having that thought now.
Nothing quite said ‘favourite song’ at a party like leaping onto the podium, bottle in hand, and going wild for it up there. The whole top floor of the hotel was the arena for the private event, ‘Bolts and a couple of dozen fans only, and, in Las Pegasus, the floor lounge came with a dance floor, a DJ, strobing lights, and a podium. But sooner or later, you’d run out of drink and have to come down.
Which made it all the more important to enjoy the occasion to the fullest when one of your best friends leapt up shortly afterwards to join you for the next song, bringing fresh drinks with her. Of course, then the song finished and another began, but you both liked that one so you kept dancing. And then another one, with a racier beat, and you were dancing together. And then came an even more charged one, and soon, between sharing swigs from a bottle, you were kissing her.
Of course you were kissing her, because she was like you in a different body. A different name and face over the same spark. So connecting with her physically, when you were so tied together in so many other ways, was the most natural thing.
And then you’d grabbed her hand when no one was looking and led her off somewhere more private, both stumbling and giggling all the while. You reached a quiet corridor, deserted save for a couple of blurred forms in Wonderbolt Blue sitting spread-eagled and surrounded by bottles against the wall at the other end, then turned, cupped her cheeks, feeling her doing the same to you, and kissed her a lot more.
Those tender lips being on your own was new, but felt familiar, and you quickly began competing to see who could grope the other most cheekily. That rump had exactly the firmness you expected, but then you’d slapped it playfully enough times over the years to make a pretty good guess of how it would feel if you were so inclined.
Then you broke apart to grin at each other, and you took her hand again, looking towards one of the unlocked suites which would likely be empty and contain a bed. But she held fast when you tried to pull her in that direction. Turning back towards her, you looked into her eyes. She looked over your shoulder for a second, then back to you, and shook her head.
But she held your eyes. And you hers. And the love that flowed through that connection… ‘Everything about you is exactly as it should be,’ it said. ‘There isn’t a single thing I’d change. I’m so glad I met you, and, this life we share… I want it to last forever.’
By that point, there were tears in your eyes, and hers too. So you pulled her into a hug, murmuring in her ear about how much you loved her, and she was doing the same, and you both knew that, however true it was, you’d be mortified if you remembered it in the morning.
And after a few moments, a warm, protective arm enveloped your shoulders, and another around hers, and neither of you had to look to know that it was Soarin holding you both close to his chest. And you both closed your eyes, and he bowed his head between yours, and all you knew was love.
Spitfire couldn’t keep the smile from lighting up her face as she stared at nothing in particular while recalling the scene. She certainly had remembered it in the morning, and many other times since. More than the day she made the ‘Bolts or her first show, that hug might just be the last thing she remembered in her final moments.
No one could ever connect with her the way her teammates did. That much was certain. But while she had them, that was ok.
“So, it’s been fun, but I’m afraid you should probably get going,” she said, the lingering memory making it easy to keep her voice sounding gentle.
Just leave quietly, please, and let me enjoy daydreaming of that moment.
The still-nameless man wilted at that, eyes widening and mouth falling open before he caught himself. “Aw, don’t be like that; we could get breakfast together if you’d like.”
And then what? Go for a walk in the park hand in hand, then exchange numbers? With a promise I’ll call you next time I’m in town?
No sooner had Spitfire thought it than the guy had reached out and touched her hand at the edge of the covers, looking into her eyes as he did so, no doubt trying to inspire her to feel some semblance of a bond between them.
But all that really achieved was reminding her of that corridor, standing with Fleet’s hand still in her own, staring into each others’ eyes. Even it flashing before her vision again made her heart leap, in a way that guy opposite her in the bed could only have dreamed of. Comparing that to his own touch on her hand… Yeah, not quite the same.
Spitfire arched an eyebrow. “We were never going to last until breakfast.” Could he really have been that naive? In that case, she’d be hurting his feelings, but there wasn’t much else for it. But no, that couldn’t be right, because even when drunk she never would have gone for him if he’d given any indication he wasn’t interested in it being a one-time thing. She frowned. “You knew that last night as well as I did.”
“That’s not fair,” he backed up, holding his hands out in front of him defensively, “you should at least try to connect with people?”
I should, should I? His by-rote platitude said nothing about why it was important for her to bother, or why that was better than sticking with the people she was already connected with. Those who had a chance of understanding her, where he never could, or even why he couldn’t.
All he could do was try to pull her in a direction she didn’t want to go, and protest and get angry at something that wasn’t her fault. Something that, even if she could give one, she didn’t owe him an explanation for.
In fact, she didn’t owe him a single thing.
“Get out of my room.”
He recoiled with a flinch, then further still as he looked back to her with his lip curling up. “I didn’t realise you were that kind of girl.” Yet somehow, despite the sneer, his eyes still held a glimmer of longing.
Oh, wow, drunk-me certainly misjudged you…
Pinning the bedsheet to her chest with one hand, she shifted her pillows with the other and dragged herself into a sitting position as smoothly as she could, then crossed her arms beneath her breasts and gave him a glare. The kind Fleetfoot, convinced from their first meeting Spitfire would be captain someday, called ‘cadet-melting.’
“Here’s what you should have realised: I am a Wonderbolt. I have a touring lifestyle. I will be in town for one night only, so that’s all I will commit to.” For all her thoughts of him not being able to relate, that bit really should have been obvious to anyone. “You were fine with that last night, so trying to adjust it now, after the fact, is not something I’m happy about. You think I enjoy breaking hearts the next day?”
Each sentence drove the pathetic anonymous man further off the bed, as if her words were literally smashing into him with their weight. Reaching the edge, he half-scrambled, half-fell to his feet, but still couldn’t take the hint to start looking around for his clothes.
“You seem pretty good at it,” he said instead, like a belligerent schoolgirl.
Had he ever been beaten up by a naked woman before? Only the image of Wind Rider’s smug face as he kicked her out of the dream she’d worked her whole life for kept her restrained where she sat and settling for giving him a flat look. Plus, the guy was kind of creepy with his clinginess, so he’d probably have been into that, and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“You make it so easy for me.”
But not in a thoughtful way, of course; not by sparing me this scene in the first place.
“Now,” she growled, “get out of my room. I won’t say it again.”
And that, finally, appeared to have done the trick, as he set about grabbing his clothes and stuffing himself into them. He made no comeback aloud, but his scowls conveyed his feelings, if not wit. Spitfire rolled her eyes, because she’d been angry enough to give him more of an explanation than she’d planned to, and he still didn’t look like he got any of it. He probably could have been gone already if he didn’t waste so much time glaring while getting dressed.
I am letting you dress yourself before you leave as a courtesy; do not test my patience on that front.
Just as he was jamming his feet into his shoes, a gleam appeared in his eye. “If you’re that famous, there are probably reporters lurking outside, right? What would they say if I gave them a scoop on my wild night with a Wonderbolt?”
“Tabloids,” she snorted, making sure he’d finished getting dressed before responding, so there was no conversational excuse for him to stay longer, “you’d fit right in. But I’m barely more than a newbie on the team; hardly front page news. The best you can hope for from those so-called journalists is a high five.”
If the press had got wind of the rift between her and Wind Rider, then it might have been a different matter, but no captain wanted reports of team feuds, and so in that respect his insistence on lying about anything which might damage his reputation worked in her favour.
“Oh, I think I’d get an interview,” he smirked, like he had any idea what he was talking about. But at least he was heading towards the door. Opening it, he took a step through, then paused and looked back at her. “Any words for ‘those so-called journalists?’ ”
None with more than four letters.
“Yeah, tell them they’d better write down your name.”
Adagio gets it. No one outside the Wonderbolts could understand, and yet Adagio does. Was the answer that simple all along? To find someone in another touring outfit? Or was Adagio special even compared to others like that, more on Spitfire’s wavelength than anyone else would be? And could she risk waiting to find out?
Steady on, girl, you’ve only known her for a few hours – that’s hardly a good basis to go reevaluating your life over. Especially when it’s a life you adore!
And it certainly was, Spitfire grinned, taking stock for a moment. She lay on an enormous, luxurious bed, arms crossed behind her head, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen cuddled up against her and leaning on her shoulder. Bedside lamps illuminated the scene. Neither of them were wearing a thing, and the twisted bedsheets were mostly discarded, with only the lightest sheet covering their legs.
“For a minute there,” Spitfire teased, “I thought you might need an inhaler.”
Adagio caught Spitfire’s eyes with a coy glance. “Ah, well,” she said, sounding like a wise old wizard, “that’s because you take my breath away.”
Snorting, Spitfire couldn’t help grinning, too. Such a dignified way of presenting it, and completely at odds with the huge lungfuls of air Adagio had been gulping down a half hour before, when they were both spent. “Or maybe it’s because you don’t do enough cardio?”
Although it probably wasn’t entirely fair comparing a singer to a Wonderbolt in that respect. Cardio was literally part of Spitfire’s job.
“...It is very hot in here.” Adagio didn’t blush at the admission, but her cheeks were still a little flushed anyway from all the exertion.
“And that was with the air conditioning on full,” Spitfire grimaced. And in one of Canterlot’s finest hotels, where the air conditioning units were hardly cheap and powerless, they still hadn’t been enough. Against the skin of her shoulder, she could still feel the roots of Adagio’s hair damp with sweat. The joys of a heatwave. Although the heat inside after midnight had nothing on what she’d had to put up with during a daytime festival show a couple of days before, and that had been with more clothes on. “I did tell you to man up.”
The quiet musing which followed from Adagio was not at all what Spitfire expected, followed a moment later by Adagio asking, “Do you think I should shave my head?”
Spitfire squeaked. It was undignified, unbecoming of an adult, let alone a Wonderbolt, and certainly not their captain. But how else could anyone respond to that?
“Nice and cool on my scalp,” Adagio continued, closing her eyes with a contented sigh. “Would that be manly enough, do you think?”
But at the cost of joy itself! Countless priceless works of art across the world could be burned, and palace after palace ransacked, and it would all cost the world less beauty than Adagio losing her hair would.
All of which must have shown on Spitfire’s face, from the way Adagio waggled her eyebrows while watching her.
Spitfire felt the muscles in her limbs relaxing again with the confirmation that Adagio’s idea wasn’t serious – she’d been 80% sure it wasn’t, but with some subjects it was hard not to panic until completely certain. She hadn’t noticed how she’d tensed up until she was able to breathe again.
“...I’m pretty sure you shaving your head would be considered a war crime?”
And then the blush hit, and Spitfire was sure she must have turned the colour of a beetroot. The attachment the compliment showed was made doubly embarrassing by being to a girl she’d met only hours before, who she really should not have been that affected by. Even if that girl did have spectacularly good hair.
“A genocide against decency?” Adagio’s eyebrow quirked upwards, and a smile shone on her lips. “Now you’re actually making it sound tempting.”
The heat in Spitfire’s cheeks became something more natural as she laughed, shaking her head. I tried to discourage her, and instead led her to something she’d be proud to have as an epitaph. How did I even manage that?
Adagio planted a soft kiss on Spitfire’s collarbone, then looked back up at her. “So I don’t know how much more manly you want me to go. When I grew tired, I powered through it with strength of will alone.” Adagio lay with one arm draped over Spitfire’s waist, and now turned her attention to inspecting the manicured nails on the attached hand. She only glanced up again at Spitfire to add, “Isn’t that exactly what manning up entails?”
“It is!” That, and not moaning about it afterwards or making excuses. But I guess it was me who brought it up. Spitfire’s gaze wandered over the ceiling, content to focus on Adagio with her ears alone. The voice, after all, was just as gorgeous as the body, in its own way. Possibly even more so? Yeah, once you combined what Adagio said with how she said it and how it came out sounding…
“You don’t lead for as long as I have, with no route marked out for you and no one else on your side, without a bit of determination to back you up.” Nails apparently passing inspection, Adagio turned her hand up. “I imagine you can relate?”
Spitfire’s eyes flicked down again, finding Adagio’s looking up at her. “Oh, I get it,” she breathed, returning her attention to the ceiling.
All the changes Spitfire had made to the ‘Bolts since she’d been in charge... A total undoing of the way Wind Rider had run things, reversing a trend stretching back several captains before him. Risking everything they’d established as a reputation and a fanbase, staking everything on her belief that she could make the team into something much better…
‘Surefire,’ they’d called her, back when she’d had only her determination to carry the rest of them along with. That nickname had faded once the results started to come in.
And Soarin and Fleet, they’d been behind her the whole way. They’d believed in her, but they hadn’t quite understood the passion driving her. Not in the way that Adagio, who echoed Spitfire in both attitude and experiences, could. The eye-opening outcome of their talk in the club earlier of how lonely it was at the top was realising that it needn’t be.
She’d never won by being faster or better than others. She’d won by pushing herself harder than them, on the track and on the training ground. So yeah, she could relate.
Thinking of which, Spitfire’s eyes widened. “Sorry,” she cleared her throat, “I drifted off for a moment there.” Daydreaming about how great a girl was instead of actually spending time with her when she was right there!
Keeping herself pressed up against Spitfire’s side, Adagio rolled over onto her front, lifting herself up onto her elbows and cupping her chin. “Don’t apologise,”she said, voice low and effortlessly sensual, “I know you were thinking about me.”
Hoping her answer conveyed her curiosity and her amusement without confirming anything, Spitfire said, “How can you tell?”
Adagio smiled lazily, reaching out with one hand to trail her fingertips down Spitfire’s arm from shoulder to elbow, caressing the muscles through the skin as she went. “You’ve met me, so it’s a safe bet.”
Laughing while also rolling her eyes, Spitfire tried to ignore the little voice in her head saying she’d probably have been thinking about Adagio even if they hadn’t met, but had only made eye contact across the room in the club.
“I have definitely met you.”
Half way between a purr and a whisper, Adagio asked, “And how does that make you feel?”
The voice had the effect it was no doubt intended to, throwing up images of their bodies writhing together – some of which were memories, and others the product of Spitfire’s imagination under the influence of those words. But Adagio’s arrival had brought more than fantastic sex: there’d been the companionship of finding a kindred spirit, the reassurance that Spitfire wasn’t alone in what she was going through. But also the doubt, because Adagio seemed to handle everything so effortlessly, leaving Spitfire trailing behind.
“It’s hard to put into words.”
“So keep it simple.” Adagio’s answer was smooth and came without hesitation. “How would you characterise this whole night, in just one word?”
Out hunting for something pretty, and instead ending up with something beautiful? Who gave as good as she got, if not substantially better? And raised the possibility that Spitfire had been wrong in her beliefs about not finding anyone outside her immediate circle? Not to mention how Adagio specifying a single word to describe it brought to mind their conversation back in the club, with the signing on the skin, and walking out hand in hand through the front entrance for all to see!
“Unexpected. So unexpected.”
Adagio grinned, tossing her hair – as if it wasn’t mussed enough already. “To be expected is to be predictable, and to be predictable is to be boring.”
Fake scandal and horror filled Spitfire’s gasp at the thought of being mundane. And while it was hard to imagine that from Adagio, part of that must have been down to her keenness to avoid it.
“I agree,” Spitfire said. “Of all the surprises, though…” She rolled over onto her side, towards Adagio, shuffling down further into the bed so they were level with each other. “I’ve never had an equal outside the team before. I hadn’t dared to dream it possible.”
“An equal?” Adagio arched a delicately-sculpted eyebrow. “You flatter me.”
Put in those terms, Spitfire hadn’t ever really felt she’d had an equal inside the team before either. Many of the squad could do things she couldn’t, but she was the one leading them for a reason.
“Someone who understands.” Spitfire slipped an arm around Adagio’s waist, pulling their hips together in a comforting closeness. “Who really knows what it’s like. That’s not something I believed I’d find.”
Without saying anything, Adagio raised a hand to Spitfire’s cheek, cupping it and gazing into her eyes. Spitfire felt her heart leap in answer. After a moment, she blushed and had to look away. “I’m not proposing marriage or anything,” she tried to laugh it off. “Just that you’ve opened up possibilities I didn’t realise I had.”
What began as a smirk on Adagio’s lips to accompany her raising eyebrows at the mention of weddings ended as more of an honest smile as Spitfire finished.
None of the others she’d met at nights in the club would have believed their eyes, seeing her here like this. Spitfire could hardly believe it herself. “I’d got so used to being on the prowl,” she shook her head. “I never thought I’d get caught.”
Adagio pursed her lips, leaning back and studying Spitfire with an intrigued look. “I can understand not thinking you’d find the right person, but it sounds more like you were purposefully avoiding it?” Adagio brought a hand to her chin, peering at her, and Spitfire felt goosebumps breaking out on her scalp at being analysed like a puzzle to be solved. “You and I don’t do fear of failure,” Adagio said, before correcting it to, “We don’t let it rule us, anyway. So I can’t believe that would hold you back from something you want.”
There’s a difference between worrying something won’t work out and being so certain of it that it’s not worth the effort of trying, but…
“It’s a weird thing, being an athlete,” Spitfire said. Adagio settled in next to her again, running her fingertips down Spitfire’s side in long, caressing motions. “Even the best athlete in the world will have to retire half way through their life. I won’t be breaking any records at 40.” And that deadline seems so much closer than it did, once upon a time. “So I’m very aware, always, that my time doing what I love is limited.” She felt her pragmatic smile become a grimace. “And I don’t want to waste any of the time I’ve got, or compromise it with divided loyalties.”
A withering noise of disgust accompanied Adagio’s flat, knowing eye roll, which reminded Spitfire she wasn’t the only one in a field with an age limit for success. And at least in her own industry those restrictions came from biology, rather than higher-ups being uninterested in anything other than youth.
Spitfire shrugged where she lay, unable to offer Adagio any consolation beyond sharing the same frustration. “So I figured relationships could wait til after.”
“Ah,” Adagio said, nodding wisely like a wizard again, and undermining it all with the twinkle in her eyes. “So you’re gonna start dating at 45?”
However silly it sounds, it’s better than the alternative. Here’s to hoping I age well. “You gotta give the best years of your life to something. And spending them on my passion feels like the right thing to do. The best investment.” Spitfire frowned. It sounded hollow, put like that. “This is why I get up in the morning; it’s what I want to focus my efforts on.”
Maybe from further away Spitfire would have missed it, but up that close she could see, deep in Adagio’s eyes, something she could only describe as wonder. It was surrounded by the same flirty engagement and more serious understanding as usual, but it definitely lurked there underneath it all. Adagio’s voice was low when she replied. “Most people would call that selfish, but I’d call it driven.”
Yeah, that was it. It had sounded hollow in Spitfire’s head because that was how most people might have thought of it. They didn’t have that fire behind them, so they looked down on prioritising it. Despite so long of doing it her own way, the standard attitudes and prejudices of a society of people who weren’t like her still filtered through. But even knowing that, it was hard to shake their hold on her sometimes.
“I don’t know. Because you’re right, a lot of people would call that selfish. And say that you’re a better person if you dedicate your life to others.”
“Eurgh, good people.” Adagio turned up her nose, and the fingertips on Spitfire’s side paused. “Don’t be like them. You’re better than that.”
Grinning, Spitfire gave a reassuring squeeze with her hand on Adagio’s hip. “It just feels like I wouldn’t really be me if I gave up striving to win with everything I have. That’s who I am.”
Adagio leaned in closer to Spitfire, their bodies pressed warmly together from chest to thigh – warmth that was by no means unwelcome, despite the heat of the night. Adagio pulled her mass of curls out behind her and laid her head on the pillow, with her nose less than an inch from Spitfire’s.
Despite thinking she was used to it by now, Spitfire felt her breath catch all over again at just how beautiful Adagio was up that close. “My life is a reflection of who I am,” she finished, almost mumbling the words with how distracted she was in that moment.
“And you’re selling out your principles if you compromise that,” Adagio said, raising a hand out. The way she’d ran her fingertips down Spitfire’s skin, making only the lightest contact, had felt great when it had been on her side. But on her face, it was all she could do not to close her eyes and bask in it.
“Right,” Spitfire said, breathing out and feeling some of her muscles relaxing at Adagio’s touch, like they’d turn into jelly and she’d sink into the bed. “If I let a relationship hold me back, let it get in the way of how much I devote to my passion, then I think I’d come to resent it.” She focused on Adagio’s eyes, using them like beacons to keep her anchored in the conversation. “And I’d always wonder what I could have been, if I’d given it my all.”
“I know what you mean.” Adagio spoke more softly, halfway between a whisper and her usual resonance. “I’d rather regret doing something than not doing it. At least that way you know.”
Feeling the corners of her lips rising up of their own accord, Spitfire made no reply and let that speak as her agreement. Adagio’s fingers made their way from the upturned side of Spitfire’s face, down her jawline, and came to rest on her neck, idly ghosting over the skin below her larynx. The tingling sensation might have given Spitfire a shudder if she’d been paying attention to it, rather than fixated on Adagio’s eyes.
Then Adagio chuckled, with a rueful widening of her eyes, adding, “Of course, if you stick with that, and choose team relationships over romantic ones, what will happen once you retire from the team?”
The question, which might otherwise have left ice in her chest, instead gave her a warm feeling, since she already knew the answer. “I joined up at the same time as my two closest friends. It would be nice if the captaincy went to one of them when I retired, but realistically we’ll all be equally past our primes by that point, so I think it’s more likely we’d all retire together.” They’d already talked among the themselves about how the three of them would probably be the scourge of an old peoples’ home together someday. “And I’ll miss Misty Fly, High Winds, Surprise and all the other younger ‘Bolts, but as long as I have Soarin and Fleet, everything’ll be fine.”
The same fondness shone from Adagio, even when she said, “If they’re anything like my two sisters, then the last remaining challenge is to be able to stand each other for that long.”
Spitfire snorted. Definitely some truth there.
Adagio continued, “And by 50, you’ll have already been dating for five years, so you might have some company from other sources too.” As she said it, Spitfire felt the hand on her neck drift lower, fingers tracing patterns across the top of her chest. She tried to copy the gesture, with her fingers on the small of Adagio’s back, but her own movements felt clumsy by comparison.
“I might, yeah,” she laughed, drinking in how Adagio almost glowed with amusement. “So I just have to hold out until then.”
“Chasing off those commitment demons.” Adagio slid one leg between Spitfire’s, the skin feeling almost creamy with how smooth it was against her own.
Prompted by that new closeness, Spitfire expanded the area her hands worked with on Adagio’s back, now dragging those fingers the whole way down her spine. The way the arm enveloped Adagio, too, gave the impression of wrapping them tighter together. I could stay here forever...
“More like playing boomerang with them, really,” she said, “with how they always come back after a while.”
After taking what appeared to be a moment to reflect on that, Adagio tilted her head. “And if they win someday, before you’re ready to stop living for yourself?” Her hands danced their way lower, gliding around the contours of Spitfire’s chest.
Sighing happily at the touch, Spitfire said, “I’ll just have to make sure they don’t.”
“Mmm, yes you will,” Adagio agreed, her voice lowering to a mischievous whisper. “You see one coming, you shoot to kill.”
“Only thing for it.” She tensed her muscles and set her jaw, making a show of being determined to fight. “Bang bang, off they pop!”
Those muscles dissolved an instant later when Adagio raised her knee higher, nudging Spitfire’s legs further apart in the nicest of ways and entwining their bodies. It seemed almost too obvious to notice, but that physical closeness brought with it the feeling of a deep bond on a more emotional level.
“For now, though…”
Warmth. The overwhelming sensation was one of warmth. The endless ocean of hair, which before had been stifling, now felt like a cozy blanket around them, bringing to mind driving home in her sheepskin-lined flight jacket on a winter night, and a crackling fire waiting when she got there.
Kisses lingered, like they couldn’t quite believe their lips. Tender, sweet, and enveloping, with mouths that couldn’t bear to be apart, exulting each time they met again.
Movements were languid, drawn out with caresses, and every touch was a delight in discovering the other’s form. Every moment was savoured, and seemed to last forever.
Then their bodies entwined, like they’d be incomplete without every square inch of skin being pressed together. Arms wove around her as if to protect and shelter, tucking her in for hibernation together. Moving over her, like an animal.
Dreams gave way slowly as reality intruded, Spitfire at first shrugging off the disturbances to her sleep, but losing ground as they went on. Her eyes peeled themselves open, taking in the darkness of the room. No sign of morning lit the window yet, over which they'd never bothered to draw the curtains. Why am I awake? With a low groan, something moved on the bed beside her, an elbow pressing into her side. Oh. That's why.
Pushing the elbow back where it belonged brought another restless grunt, followed by the movement of a whole body rolling over, limbs pushing out. In the darkness, Spitfire rolled her eyes. Adagio had been so dignified when awake!
Still, the room was swelteringly hot, so the clamminess of Adagio's skin where it had pushed into Spitfire was understandable. As was the tossing and turning itself, she supposed. Even if she had managed to avoid that herself. Would opening the window help? Ordinarily she knew that would interfere with the air conditioning doing its job, but when the heatwave made the room feel like a jungle, it could probably use the assistance.
Fine. In a minute. Laziness really wasn't something the nation's premier athlete often got to indulge in, but even with her decades of early morning exercises and training sessions, it wasn't as if she liked getting out of bed.
She was just on the verge of unconsciousness again when a knee jammed into her thigh. Not hard enough to hurt, but with more than enough force to jolt her fully awake again.
With a grunt of her own, Spitfire sat up, then glared down at Adagio, whose expression was impossible to make out in the darkness. At least it wasn't like Spitfire would miss the warmth of the covers when out of bed, since they'd been thrown from the bed long before and never sought again, in the natural heat of the night.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she dragged herself up as her feet hit the floor, tickled by the long-haired carpet when she padded over to the window. Drawing closer to it, the glow of the street lamps below shone through sheets of water, and she realised the constant drum of rain on the rooftop had been there since she awoke.
By the time she reached the window, the light from outside was enough for her to spot the small key on the window sill, which she took and used to open the lock. With a push, the window swung outwards, suspended by its top edge, stiff from lack of use but luckily still well-oiled enough not to creak and wake Adagio.
More noise than expected from outside flooded in, though. As well as the cascade of raindrops onto the tarmac below, the wind carried with it a whisper of music, like notes from far away were hanging in the air, echoing off the buildings. Spitfire grinned and rolled her eyes – somewhere nearby, in the heart of downtown Canterlot, someone was playing an electric guitar with their own windows open, at three in the morning. Maybe the noble city of white marble wasn't completely immune to rock & roll.
Lightning flashed, and only a short moment later the high, delicate melody disappeared beneath a rumble of thunder almost overhead, the sound seeming to come from all around her. That brought her attention back to why she’d opened the window in the first place, and she took a moment to appreciate the cooler air that rolled in, welcome against her bare skin after so long feeling like she was living in a rainforest.
After a minute or so of breathing in the night air, she glanced back at the bed, and frowned when she saw Adagio was still shifting around this way and that. If not just trying to get comfortable despite the heat, maybe she was having a nightmare?
Spitfire was still looking in Adagio's direction when the lightning flashed again, thunder shortly behind, and the brief moment of brightness revealed a tormented look on Adagio's face. Definitely a nightmare. There was a wrongness about it, like someone whose features belonged on a statue should be sleeping as still as one too, apart from gentle breaths. What could something so beautiful be dreaming of to look so distressed?
Spitfire found herself moving back towards the bed before she'd even thought about it.
She curled around Adagio on the mattress protectively, slumping half-upright against the headboard to lean sideways over her. Cupping Adagio's cheek was met with a flinch, so Spitfire ran her fingers through Adagio's hair instead, starting at her temples and stroking backwards. It was so thick! But also not without its knots, following their evening of activities.
Within a few moments, Adagio's eyes fluttered open, finding Spitfire's immediately despite the darkness. They held a tension bordering on panic, and her hands flew protectively to her chest and throat.
As softly as she could, Spitfire whispered, “You should be sleeping, my love.”
My love? Distantly she wondered where that had come from, not convinced she'd ever called someone that before.
Adagio said nothing, but her eyes still frantically searched Spitfire's face.
“Think you were having a nightmare,” she explained, continuing to try to soothe Adagio by stroking her hair. It showed no sign of working. Time for a different approach. “Do you want to tell me about it? What you were dreaming about?”
A change washed over Adagio, the urgency of whatever frightened her draining away. The fear itself remained, though, still there despite the way her body sagged in Spitfire’s arms.
“A hole in the sky,” Adagio said, voice surprisingly emotionless given her recent terror. “A great, spinning maw sucking everything in. And nothing can escape – not wind, not light, and certainly not me.” In a whisper, she added, “Or my sisters.”
That is, uh, more apocalyptic than I expected. Certainly a long way from the traditional one about showing up to work naked. A metaphor for failure, perhaps? That if Adagio didn’t ‘make it’ as a singer she’d be swallowed up by a lifetime of nothingness, lost in obscurity? But she’d seemed so confident earlier, and the idea of her not being every bit the breakthrough success she wanted to seemed harder to believe than not.
There wasn't exactly a lot Spitfire could do to allay fears like that. But maybe on a more literal level...
“Come with me,” she said, taking Adagio's hand and slipping off the bed onto her feet again.
Obvious reluctance to leave the bed kept Adagio in place, but Spitfire breathed easier with the thought that it was more likely to be down to being warm and comfortable there than from being afraid to leave, and so tugged on her arm a couple of times insistently.
After a few seconds, Adagio complied, languidly rising, drawing an idle spark of jealousy at how even her first movement since waking could be with a cat's effortless grace. Still hand in hand, Spitfire led her over to the spot by the window she'd occupied minutes before.
“See?” she said, turning to face Adagio from the side and then slipping arms around her waist. “No swirling vortex. The sky’s just fine.”
She brushed Adagio’s cheek with a kiss, then bowed her head and rested it against the side of Adagio’s, eyes closed. Quiet, calming vibes would hopefully counter the adrenaline-charged pulse she could feel Adagio throbbing with.
Naturally, the world had other ideas, and chose to shake that moment with a thunderclap through the downpour.
“Ok, fine is relative,” Spitfire conceded, turning her face back to the window but leaving her head still resting against Adagio’s. “But it’s in one piece, at least.”
That would have to do for now. Adagio said nothing, just gazing out at the city and the downpour. As the minutes stretched, Spitfire noticed Adagio breathing easily, and how the urgency had drained from her pulse.
“It’s peaceful,” Adagio murmured at last. “Drama out there, but shelter here.”
Giving Adagio a squeeze, Spitfire then let go of her waist and stood beside her again. Two naked women standing in the darkness, looking out at the storm. “Yeah.”
She breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of rain in the night. Outside the window, Canterlot slept – aside from one guitarist – and if any others were also awake, sampling the smell and noticing how it mixed with that of the asphalt melted in the daytime heat, then they were just as anonymous and unseen as she.
The world was only shadows and street lights, with the odd taxi meandering past from time to time as if to highlight how empty it was otherwise. Not a time for those who worked nine to five, or married couples with children. No, this was her time, the hours when the world belonged to those like her, who were different.
Her, and Adagio, and no one to say otherwise. Our rules now.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” she said, breaking the renewed quiet, arms turning Adagio away from the window and shepherding her back into the room.
On reaching the foot of the bed, Adagio compliantly clambered up, with Spitfire a moment behind, and soon they were lying face to face again. This time they were beneath the thinnest of the covers despite the lingering heat, in an effort to make Adagio feel more secure, with Spitfire going as far as to lovingly tuck her into bed.
“Dream of a thousand happy things,” Spitfire said quietly, leaning in to plant a delicate kiss on Adagio’s forehead.
With the window still open, the rain became a blanket of background noise lulling them both back towards sleep, and Spitfire watched as Adagio’s eyes dipped closed. She looked serene, seeming to sink into her pillow as she drifted off and the last of her tension seeped away.
For much longer than would have seemed natural under any other circumstances, Spitfire just lay there looking at Adagio. This beautiful creature who not only understood Spitfire’s life, but lived one compatible with it. Who managed to ooze sultriness, wit and wisdom at the same time…
Nightmares would not touch her on Spitfire’s watch.
She would keep Adagio safe, whatever it took. Like that was the job a lifetime of Wonderbolt training had been preparing her for.
Adagio would insist she could take care of herself, of course – who wouldn’t? But– ...no, in Adagio’s case, it was probably true. That way of holding herself, like she could take on whatever the world threw at her, couldn’t have come from nowhere.
Actually, that was one of Adagio’s most attractive qualities, something that drew Spitfire to her in the first place, so why even suggest that it might be built on a lie? That would be taking someone strong and self-reliant and wishing them into a princess to be rescued! Wow, the glare Fleetfoot would give her for that if she found out.
But the anguished look Adagio had worn was haunting. No one could protect themselves during their nightmares, even the strongest of those when awake. Would that make it ok, Fleet? It wouldn’t be insulting someone’s independence if it was something impossible for them to do themselves.
After fifteen years of spending almost every day with someone, ever since the first day at the Academy, their internalised response was finely tuned and came easily.
‘How would you take it?’ Fleet would ask.
There was a bristling as Spitfire’s mind clung to the platitudes from a moment ago. There was a tiny voice suggesting it might even be nice to have someone watching over her. And both of those fed into the main response of mentally backing up in distaste.
She felt her face heating in the darkness, and rolled onto her back, away from Adagio. She might have been playing knight protector just the tiniest bit there! She laughed to herself quietly, forcing it out to override her embarrassment.
Oh, and with someone she’d only met that evening.
Laughter quickly turned to cringing. Swearing to watch over someone’s dreams on the first night? Damn. Coming in hot here, Spits.
That was… that was so unlike her that even Fleetfoot and Soarin’s reactions were hard to imagine. They’d be taken aback, sure, and she’d never live it down, but Soarin might even think it sweet. Fleet would perhaps be impressed, in a morbid kind of way. They all tended to give Fleet props when she was drunk and did something stupid; well, Spitfire was apparently out-of-her-mind horny and making just as much of a fool of herself.
She shook her head as she stared at the ceiling. What had she been thinking?!
You should be sleeping, my love.
Her words from earlier echoed in her head, only now the soft, caring tone made her eyes widen.
She was sure now that she’d never called anyone that before.
And she’d said it to Adagio within a few hours of knowing her.
Blinking, she turned her head to look at Adagio again – slowly, as if her neck was half-frozen and refused to go any faster. When she was finally able to take in the view, she couldn’t look away again.
Such a pretty face. A face she could be very happy waking up beside day after day.
...
Spitfire edged away, eyes still locked on Adagio while backing out of the bed. That not-looking where she was going must have been why she almost stumbled in transferring her weight to her legs. And when she did manage to turn her face away, she moved to the door opposite the window quickly because she was flustered. Not worried, and definitely not scared.
She just needed some space, that was all. A fumble with a key in a lock let her out onto the balcony, where a canopy kept her dry and left cascades of rain on three sides.
Since the storm was one of those without much in the way of wind, she barely needed to cross her arms over her bare chest to stay warm out there, but did so anyway on the off-chance of paparazzi lurking somewhere below. The stone of the balcony was cool beneath her feet, and watching the rain from beneath her shelter soon calmed her, just as it had earlier for Adagio.
Adagio. Everything throwing Spitfire for a loop in a single word.
It couldn’t be as bad as she thought, could it? Maybe she’d just got caught up in the moment. It was easier to think clearly out here in the fresh air, to see things in perspective.
She glanced behind her, to where she knew Adagio was sleeping, but the glass door showed only blackness and her own reflection. She’d got carried away, that was all. Distracted by a pretty face, and she’d lost herself to some shamefully not-her thoughts. And in the morning she and Adagio would go their separate ways, just as usual, and everything would be fine.
She tried to simultaneously ignore and stamp down on the pang she felt at that plan.
But, dammit, that was exactly what she was going to do. She would throw her bedfellow out, just as she always did, and the next time she wanted a fun night she’d go hunting for someone new, and then leave them behind in turn. She would not be tied down to commitments that might mean giving less than everything to her career, her passion.
She was Spitfire, and a pretty girl having a bad dream had made her forget that for a moment.
And that was hardly Adagio’s fault, either. She’d been innocently having a nightmare, and Spitfire had responded with compassion. Not something many people would freak out over.
Although…
The cold of the floor continued to seep up through her legs, as if it were personally bringing the sensation of a grip making its touch felt around her stomach.
Adagio had been the one to drag the doors shut in the nightclub, taking charge of the situation despite being on Spitfire’s familiar ground. And then, once they’d been able to hear each other speak, Adagio had been the one with all the answers.
The grip tightened.
Spitfire had admitted the problems with her job. She’d tried to avoid it, but Adagio had left her no other way out of the conversation. Adagio hadn’t even said anything, just stayed silent until Spitfire came clean, despite not really wanting to.
Shouting might have been Spitfire’s method of preference for team management, but she wasn’t above using the silent, expectant power play when she felt she had to. And she’d just fallen for it big time.
And it had been Adagio to lead them out of the club through the middle of the packed dance floor. She had literally led Spitfire by the hand! And after talking her into autographing Adagio’s chest, too, then displayed for all the crowd to see.
Again Spitfire turned to stare back into the hotel suite, at where she knew Adagio lay, and again she only saw her own reflection. But this time, even in the orange glow of the street lamps, her face was totally drained of colour.
She’d been on the back foot the whole night, with Adagio calling all the shots. And Spitfire had hardly even realised.
And when Adagio suggested stealing a car, for a brief second I...
She grabbed for the balcony railing with both hands as she turned away from the door again, steadying herself on it against the wobble in her knees, barely noticing the cold bite of the rain-soaked metal beneath her fingers.
And how had she responded? What was her answer to being the damsel for the evening, the one led around at another’s beck and call?
“You should be sleeping, my love.”
In that sweet, cloying voice. Like she was sharing her bed with someone she cared about, someone she’d share it with again. Like everything was different now.
This wasn’t how it was meant to go. She was the captain of the Wonderbolts! She was supposed to be the huntress, they the prey! She surveyed them from her balcony and plucked them from obscurity, she had the confidence and the experience and that was just how things went.
What had happened to make her so meek and pliable? She’d finally met someone just like her, and promptly turned into someone else. Adagio had shared those values, and then Spitfire had gone and betrayed them.
Her hands stung with how hard she gripped the railing in front of her, raindrops running over her white knuckles.
She was a Wonderbolt. She lived to win. It was always a competition, and she’d known Adagio would be hers just like all her predecessors. Known it from the second she’d looked over the crowd that night, right down to the gleam in Adagio’s eyes on catching sight of her.
That was who Spitfire was. The contest wasn’t some hobby. It was something she lived, and breathed, and wouldn’t be right without. Maybe there’d been the tiniest little fantasy of seeing Adagio for more than one night, but Spitfire forgetting the competition entirely when with her was the surest sign of incompatibility there could be.
No question about it.
There was a question, though, and that was the most damning thing of all. A question she couldn’t escape, in a voice she couldn’t ignore, however quiet: if she hadn’t even noticed her need to win being pushed aside, then did it really matter?
Adagio might be worth giving it up for. It had, she had to admit, been a very happy evening, up until now. So however much she might scream at the possibility for being the wrong one, she couldn’t help considering it.
But how much would she be giving up? Her drive to win? Potentially her career? Her dream, which she’d given her life to?
...Herself?
She snorted. Could any relationship ever be worth that price? Would someone even still be worth loving if they decided yes to it?
Closing her eyes and bowing her head, Spitfire leaned forwards on the railing, exposing the back of her head to the elements. Rain drummed onto her skin through the close-cropped hair, cool, but not unpleasantly so, and ran in rivulets down her neck.
A shower longer than strictly necessary after a show was her back-to-reality ritual, helping her wash off the crazy emotional turbulence she put herself through when competing and standing on the podium afterwards. And now, thankfully, the water had a similar effect, levelling her out.
As she felt the intensity of it all receding, hard lines were exposed beneath: boundaries she would not cross. What to do remained unclear, but those lines brought increasing certainty of what not to do.
She’d figure something out.
Screwing her eyes shut, Spitfire lifted a hand to cover her yawn. Her temples throbbed with her pulse, a constant hammering that seemed amplified by the motion of the train around her. But if a hangover, a dry mouth and exhaustion were the only price of her night with Adagio, then she’d escaped a lot more lightly than she’d feared.
And the train, for all it didn’t help her headache, gave her exactly the feeling she needed, of being whisked away from Canterlot as fast as she could go. With her eyes closed, she could imagine it carrying her to the far side of the world – one of those Nipponese bullet trains, taking her from its capital right the way to the Equestrian west coast. Would even that be far enough?
In practice, the actual distance didn’t matter. She wasn’t sure how Adagio would react to waking alone, but couldn’t see her following. All that Spitfire needed from the train, at that point, was to feel that she was leaving Adagio behind her. Far behind.
“Really?” Soarin’s incredulity was thankfully the quiet kind. “You just left her a note to wake up to?”
Yawn over, Spitfire’s nice, cool hand found its way to her forehead. From beneath it, she stared across the carriage compartment at him, sprawled at the door end of one long seat with his feet up beside him, just as she was in the one opposite.
From where she reclined against the window, Fleetfoot cut in. “Of course she did. What did you expect?”
Fleet’s legs lay straight along the seat in front of her, feet almost touching Spitfire’s own. The press seemed to think Wonderbolts travelled in tuxedos and evening gowns on tour, never without champagne. The truth was more like a slumber party in its lack of formality, going without any pretense of class when not in the public eye.
Soarin ran a hand through his hair as he frowned, glancing at Fleet before looking back to Spitfire. “Well, you made it sound pretty life-changing…”
Without waiting or asking permission, Spitfire’s traitorous, sleep-deprived brain bombarded her with psychedelic memories of heat and hair and hands, bodies writhing together like nothing else in the world existed. Maybe it hadn’t, in those moments. She didn’t think she’d have noticed either way.
Clearing her throat, Spitfire was briefly grateful for the heat, hiding any clues her body might have made to give away her thoughts. “I’d be glad for just a flash in the pan,” she said, resisting the desire to reach for her water bottle. “I like my life as it is.”
Soarin’s eyebrows became a little less disbelieving, but only a little. “Ok, but –” he broke off and chewed his lip, then continued more tentatively “– if it freaked you out that much, it must have been quite a big deal.”
“Someone’s got a point there,” Fleetfoot grinned, eyes dancing over everything in the compartment except at Spitfire.
A withering look at Fleet only prompted a bigger grin, so Spitfire rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to Soarin. She studied him a moment, noting the sincere concern on his face, before shrugging and sagging back into the headrest of her seat. “I mean, it seems like a whole hurricane of argh at the moment, but it might be just a storm in a teacup when I look back on it by the end of the tour.”
Her eyes wandered over to the window, watching the green fields speed by. Time was all she needed. Time for the shockwaves Adagio left behind to die away, for Spitfire’s world to get back to normal.
No such luck with Soarin on the case, naturally. “And what if it doesn’t?” He gave her a sad smile, but he kept arguing. “What if a dozen other pretty faces go by, and she’s still the one you’re thinking about?”
“It’s done,” Spitfire said, shutting the debate down. “Couldn’t find her again if I tried.”
She turned her hands up apologetically, because she did appreciate Soarin was looking out for her, and added, “One girl in a city the size of Canterlot?” She glanced to Fleet, who shook her head. “Needle in a haystack.” Although with Adagio’s hair, she’s probably closer to the haystack than the needle.
Soarin didn’t really seem to be looking at anything when he answered, “In that case, I don’t even know what I want to be true.”
No one said anything for a couple of minutes after that, leaving Spitfire alone with her thoughts. Mostly with her headache. She could drink and party with the best of them, but staying up half the night wondering if she was losing her mind over a girl, writing a note in the early hours rather than returning to bed, and then sneaking out – that left her worse for wear, when she needed sleep.
She was gazing out of the window when she felt Soarin’s eyes on her again, and meeting them found him watching her with his head tilted on one side. “So what was she,” he asked, “if not the girl that changed your life?”
That was an interesting question, she had to admit. Adagio had felt special. Different. And yet, they’d talked at length about Spitfire’s lifestyle, and how she wanted to keep it that way until she retired, and the conversation had always been in the present tense, and as if her ways would continue unaltered. Adagio had understood, but never tried to change it. And Spitfire hadn’t suggested doing so. Or wanted to, when discussing it.
And if she hadn’t wanted to change her habits when talking about them with the girl in question, to stay with her for more than one night, then had she really been that unique?
“I don’t know. Just the same as all the others, really. A prize to be won for the night.”
Where Soarin reluctantly nodded, Fleet snorted. “Someone who hadn’t realised what living was until they were raised up for a night with Spitfire.” She looked at Soarin while she spoke, of course. “Only to then be set back down knowing they’d never truly live again.”
Spitfire gave Fleetfoot the customary flat look, holding it for two seconds. “Something like that.” Then she looked away, but a moment later her head whipped around to face Fleet again. “Wait, you’re saying I only sleep with dead girls?”
“Goodness, no!” Fleet said, hands flying to her mouth. Spitfire only half paid attention, the other half regretting turning her head so fast. Once Spitfire was all there again, Fleetfoot added, “Dead men, too.”
All Spitfire could do was roll her eyes.
Then Soarin decided he needed to chip in, as well. “Although she did say you raise them to the land of the living while they’re with you, so I guess they’re not dead at the time?”
Spitfire looked at Soarin across the compartment with dull eyes, letting the silence stretch as he waited on her answer. “Thanks, Soarin.”
He waved it away as nothing, after which she tipped her head back against the wall, closing her eyes.
The heat really was insufferable. Her grey wifebeater was already plastered to her stomach, and Soarin’s had looked similarly drenched.
“She might be hard to track down,” came Fleet’s voice, “but you’re not. She could find you easily enough.”
Only once Fleet was done talking did Spitfire open her eyes and look in that direction, her brain grateful for the break from daylight. “You really think she’d want to?” She quirked an eyebrow. “After how I left it?”
“Stranger things have happened when a romantic liason doesn’t go as expected,” Fleet said. Even with the cool window behind her, her forehead was still shiny with sweat. “If she’s as hot as you said, she probably doesn’t get turned down often.”
Stranger things. Like me running away.
But then, what would have been the alternative? She’d never considered it to be running before, when parting ways the next morning. This way had just skipped the final chat.
And if she’d stayed for that, what would have been different? Would she really have given up the pattern of a lifetime and not kicked Adagio out? And, if there’d been a risk of that, then hadn’t she been better to act when she had the courage to do so, rather than waiting until later when it might slip away from her?
If someone escaped a prison, they’d never be called a coward for not finishing their sentence. Sometimes running was the bravest choice available, when the alternative was sitting tight.
“I don’t think she’s one who’d chase,” Spitfire said. Adagio was too cool and collected, she wouldn’t drop everything just to follow a woman she’d met once.
Just thinking about the idea of chasing, though, reinforced the one about her fleeing, and she grimaced.
“Can’t have the catch doing the chasing,” Fleetfoot chuckled, “it just isn’t right.”
Even Soarin nodded to himself at that, though he then snorted and asked, “When was the last time any of us really had to chase, though? It’s not like we have to work hard to pick people up.”
Spitfire exchanged a wry smile with Fleet before she said, “It’s more like looking down on the counter in a jewellery store.”
Fleet turned her nose up, since precious stones really weren’t her thing. “Do we really need the metaphor? Can we not just say it’s like looking down on a room full of attractive people and picking which one to sleep with?”
Soarin looked at Fleet with very familiar disdain, and received two fingers raised in his direction in return. Spitfire didn’t have the energy to argue, when the whole thing would be forgotten in two minutes. “Yeah, them being there to be chosen was the important part, anyway.”
And Adagio had definitely been the finest jewel Spitfire had ever seen in a nightclub. No denying that.
“Look, maybe you’re right, Soarin,” Spitfire sighed. “Maybe I’ll never find someone like her again.” She gave him a smile, and not an unhappy one. “But I get to look myself in the eye each morning. I didn’t sell out. I didn’t give up. And I’m in control of my life, not hormones or fear of missing my chance.”
As she spoke, Soarin watched her with soft eyes. He was nodding by the end of it, lips curving upwards. Sometimes his warmth was far too open amid the general aloof demeanour of Wonderbolts, but Spitfire did occasionally get the feeling it was the secret glue holding the team together.
“Yeah. I get you,” he said, breathy voiced. Then he was climbing to his feet and stretching, arms brushing the compartment ceiling above his head. “This place feels like a furnace,” he said, the statement reinforced by how his skin shone all over with moisture. “Wanna go get some air?”
Gingerly, Spitfire sat forward, but then regretted it. “I’m not ready to be upright and mobile just yet.” She let herself collapse backwards into the seat again, rubbing a hand over her eyes.
“Fleet?” Spitfire heard Soarin ask.
“I’ll sit tight for a while,” came the reply. “Grab me something cold from the buffet car?”
“Will do.” A moment later, Spitfire felt a hand clap her on the shoulder, amiably and with great care for her recovering state. She blearily looked up at Soarin, finding kind eyes, and felt a squeeze on the shoulder where his hand still rested. One of those ‘I’d hug you but you’re sitting down and we both smell like the back end of rhinoceroses’ things.
Then he was off, sliding open the door, slipping out, and shutting it behind him. The air from the corridor beyond that wafted through in the process was no cooler.
A furnace, Soarin had described the place as. Not incorrectly. But the stuffy train compartment had nothing on the hotel suite the night before, when the tangled mass of limbs she’d become with Adagio had turned the air sweltering. That had been a furnace.
Furnaces are for forging things. So what was I making?
A mess? ...A mistake?
No, not a mistake. She certainly didn’t regret anything; on that front everything was normal.
An image sprang to mind of Adagio panting for breath but forcing herself to keep going, unwilling to bow out before Spitfire did. And, earlier that evening, of using her own legs to get somewhere instead of calling a cab.
A man, Spitfire grinned to herself, recalling her advice at the time. I was making a man out of her, forged in this blistering heat.
“What do you do,” she asked Fleet, noticing how soft her voice came out sounding, “when someone leaves an impression?”
Fleet pursed her lips at the question, sitting in silence for a few seconds. Then came a wan smile and a quiet snort. “There’s no magic answer. Sometimes things just take time.” Then she brightened. “Or someone new!”
In Spitfire’s case, one of those was just business as usual. And maybe the other would take care of Soarin’s concern, that new faces alone might not be enough.
“The thing that really helps,” Fleet continued, more mischievously, “is if there’s a loving best friend who wakes you up with a bacon sandwich every morning you’re crashing at her place.”
“Is that so?” Spitfire narrowed her eyes, recalling the struggle of frying things in oil in a cramped little off-campus college apartment without the noise prematurely waking the occupant of the couch in the next room. “I think I only cooked you bacon once or twice.”
“Well yeah, but if you’re taking notes for next time…”
For a whole two seconds, Spitfire managed to keep herself from snickering and descending into laughter, Fleet quickly following.
“And yeah,” Fleet added, sobering a little but hardly dropping her upbeat tone, “there will totally be a next time. And that’s ok – a relationship that ends isn’t necessarily one that’s failed.”
Spitfire grunted in agreement. “Or one you should regret.”
“Exactly.” Fleet reached her arms up and stretched languidly, fingers interlinked above her head. A yawn followed, which Spitfire immediately found herself copying. “You’ll be alright. You’ll feel better when you get to the training ground and can sweat it out of your system.”
“Sweat it out?” She didn’t recall Fleetfoot training any harder after breakups, as a general pattern.
“Sweat it all out, yeah.” Fleet bit her lower lip before resuming. “I mean, it’s you, isn’t it? Nothing can stand between you and the dream, and that’s why you didn’t try extending things with her. So throwing yourself into training, and pushing even harder than usual, will help it feel like a worthy sacrifice. And that you’re moving in the right direction.”
For a good few seconds, Spitfire wasn’t sure what to say, just staring at Fleet, mostly stunned.
“Wow, you… I think you just outshone every therapist in history.”
“Yes,” Fleet said, inspecting her nails and buffing them on her top, even though she’d never been the sort to have any or care about them in the slightest, “it’s almost like these past fifteen years of knowing you haven’t been totally wasted.”
Snapshots from half a lifetime with Fleet ran through her mind, making her break out in a grin. “Not totally, but we tried to be quite often.”
“We did,” Fleet laughed. Then she leaned her head back against the window, held Spitfire’s gaze and said, “So trust me, sweat it out, and you’ll feel better about the whole thing,” before closing her eyes.
Sweat it out . Spitfire mirrored Fleet’s pose, head back and eyes drifting shut. She could see herself on the training ground in the noonday sun and, in her head, the rest of the place was empty. Just her running laps, counting pushups, lifting weights and becoming more.
She saw Adagio’s half-lidded, inviting eyes in her mind, and the exhausting number of stomach crunches they drove her to. Pictured Adagio giving one of her mock pouts as she was ignored – the kind she’d pulled out when Spitfire had denied adoration as a motivator – and inspiring more crunches still.
The sun would be beating down on her, and the air so thick she half-expected to see lightning split the sky, as it had when Canterlot felt the same way last night, when she and Adagio had had a headstart on racing the storm back to the hotel. The way she saw it in her head, each memory of her time with Adagio made the sun hotter and the air more oppressive, so she sweated all the more, like reality itself was helping her purge Adagio from her body.
Up flew flashes of all the moments when being with Adagio had made her feel off-balance, the same ones which had haunted her on the balcony the night before. The way Adagio laughed away her hypnotic composure once they started talking properly, or how she changed in the space of a few minutes from the confidence of leading Spitfire out through the crowd to the vulnerability of worrying about her hair in the rain. It all made Spitfire feel like sands were shifting under her feet, like she had to fight to stay upright.
And, yeah, that exit from the club…!
Every eye that had seen them go had known exactly what they were leaving for; the promised passion they’d be delivering on as soon as they were alone. Not that such a thing was considered bad or forbidden, but still, she couldn’t shake the feeling they’d been caught sticky-fingered near the cookie jar.
‘Sweat it all out’ became a mantra, repeated at the top of every pushup.
“Yeah,” she said out loud, back in the train carriage, still with her eyes closed. “That sounds like just what I need.”
After a few more seconds, she heard Fleet’s voice. “What would you say to her, if you saw her again?”
Is this one of those psychologist exercises? Opening her eyes, Spitfire found Fleet not particularly looking at her, like it was more an idle question in innocent conversation. And I suppose I did just say she was really good at the therapist thing.
“I already wrote her a letter,” Spitfire muttered, but made sure it was loud enough for Fleet to hear.
Raising an eyebrow, Fleet tried again. “Well, you said it’s unlikely, but there’s still a chance she might appear at a show sometime.” She looked at Spitfire more pointedly. “What would you say to her if she did?”
If Adagio turned up at Spitfire’s workplace, uninvited, despite the letter making it clear about wanting a clean break? Her voice became hard. “I meant every word I wrote you. Don’t go forgetting them.”
There had been a few she’d taken to bed over the years who’d tried not to honour the whole idea of a one-night stand and its fixed end point, but if Adagio proved to be one of them then Spitfire would have to call into question all the common ground she’d thought they’d had. Of all the things she’d expected better on…
“And remember what I told you that night,” she continued, unprompted, “that winning matters more to me than being worshipped does. I meant to win.” Hadn’t she been open about that from the start? Hunter and prey, and Adagio had been competing for Spitfire’s role. “This was never going to end any other way.”
Fleet looked kind of impressed. “Anything else?”
If Adagio thought, what, that Spitfire would just look the other way on her popping up out of the blue? Welcome her back with open legs?
“Yeah,” she bit off. “Coming back for more, after how you were last time? Don’t forget your inhaler.”
Wide-eyed and staring, Fleet blinked twice before replying. “Ouch.”
A fresh wave of sweat breaking out sent a shiver through Spitfire as warmth crashed into her cheeks, and she rubbed her neck as she thought back on what she’d said. “Yeah, that was fairly harsh, wasn’t it?”
Rather than appearing to pass judgement, Fleet tilted her head to one side, considering. “Was it called for?”
Spitfire shook her head. “Only if she does turn up uninvited.” And she really couldn’t see that happening. Anyone could get into the VIP area backstage at a show if they were cunning enough, and, if anyone could talk their way past security, it was Adagio. But Spitfire just couldn’t see her stooping to something as demeaning and desperate as pursuing where she’d been told she wasn’t wanted. So, with that in mind… “Until then, I’ll think nothing but good thoughts of her.”
The heat must have been getting to Fleet, because she gave what looked very much to be a sincere, honest smile, one that wasn’t at all devious, debauched, patronising or smug. “You do that,” she said, then returned to her earlier pose, resting, eyes closed and head back.
For a few moments, Spitfire just watched Fleet, feeling the corners of her lips pulling upwards as she thought of a drunken night in a hotel corridor, so long ago. ‘I’m so glad I met you, and, this life we share… I want it to last forever.’
Then she settled back into her seat, trying to get comfortable, and closed her own eyes. The dull ache in her temples reasserted itself, staying with her whichever way she turned.
Accompanying that came glimpses of memories. Adagio laughing during their exchanges in the club, leaning over the table while sharing her wisdom. Listening with interest to Spitfire go on about her family life on the walk back to the hotel. Making the rest of the world population jealous with the things the two of them did between the sheets. Or lit by a flash of lightning while asleep, beautiful face twisted into a grimace at her nightmare.
Spitfire drifted off towards sleep with those thoughts, all wrapped up in the dream of the bullet train to the far side of the world, carrying her away from it all.
Author's Note
One more chapter to go!
Made it. Adagio rapped on the door no harder than would be expected, of course. And when she looked around while waiting for it to be answered, it was with the appearance of boredom, rather than keeping a lookout. But she did allow herself the indulgence of a deeper-than-average breath, drawn slowly enough to be concealed, to try to collect herself. She was almost certain her reception wouldn’t be a terrible one. Almost.
She’d know for sure soon enough. The first few seconds would make it abundantly clear, just as soon as the door opened. Did it always take people this long to answer a knock? She wasn’t off-balance enough to interpret the wait as an indicator either way, but it didn’t help her nerves.
Her fretting, of which she knew there was still no outward sign, was interrupted at last by the sound of a lock turning, and then the door before her cracked open inwards.
Aria’s face appeared around the door, deep purple eyes Adagio had known her whole life. They, far more than the house Adagio stood outside, were the sign she was home. Aria stepped back behind the door, opening it wider in front of her, and Adagio channeled the reassurance of those familiar surroundings into crossing the threshold as a vessel of confidence, rather than something scurrying.
The living room was just as she’d left it the afternoon before, misinformed in its casual impression that nothing worthy of note had transpired during the hours in between, but nonetheless offering a welcome shelter from the outside world. Spinning to face Aria as the door clicked shut took more courage than Adagio would care to admit to herself. If betrayal was coming – not likely, she still thought, but right now even the tiny odds were terrifying – then she wouldn’t stand a fighting chance either way. But she’d face it, and with dignity.
Standing just a few inches from her, only one detail about Aria mattered at that moment: the red gem hanging around her neck. It shone, a beacon of raw power before which Adagio and her own bare neck were miniscule.
So captivated was Adagio that she barely noticed Aria’s hands flying up towards her. A moment later they were around behind her neck, and Adagio’s own gem touched her chest and she felt whole again, like the colour was flooding back into the world.
Adagio took a long, unsteady breath, as Aria tied the black silk ribbon behind her neck. It was ok. It was all ok.
The air inside was refreshingly cool after the scorching walk home in the midday sun, now she could relax enough to notice it. And for the first time since leaving the hotel, it crossed her mind that she was wearing the same dress as the night before, only now a little more creased and sweaty.
“So, how’d the undress rehearsal go?” Aria asked, stepping back.
Perhaps a couple of seconds too slow, Adagio heard herself snort, though it seemed distant. Aria had no doubt spent the last twelve hours thinking of the joke, to look clever and superior. She hadn’t had to leave the key to her power with someone else while on a mission out into the world alone.
Not trusting herself to give a steady answer quite yet from the relief and euphoria seeping through her, Adagio lowered herself to a white leather armchair and sank back into it. The air smelled of something being cooked. Sausages, maybe? Aria stuffed her hands in her pockets, but stayed on her feet. Adagio might have made something of the body language of that: having to look up at Aria from closer to the floor, as though submitting to the other’s dominance. Like snarling, that was one of those behaviours they hadn’t had to study to mimic, already being common to sirens, humans, and many other species.
Another day, Adagio might have acted to counter it. But right now, she didn’t care. She had her gem back, and therefore all the power she needed.
“Better than even I had expected,” she said. ‘It sounds like a buzzkill we’re better off chasing away’ played through her head again, a moment she knew would stay with her. A human she’d actually been able to relate to? Perhaps even to respect? None of them had seen that coming.
After pursing her lips, she continued, “I don’t think she ever doubted I was born human, in this world. The conversation, the non-verbal cues, the knowledge of worldly things, it all passed the test.” The human behaviours were becoming more automatic by the day, in fact, like how that lip-pursing had been an unprompted response.
“There was one unfamiliar term,” she frowned, “a ‘Wonderbolt’ – I’m still not sure exactly what they do, but I figured out enough from context clues to get by.”
“We can look it up later,” Aria dismissed with a casual shrug – an encouraging sign; she was finding human gestures more ingrained, too. “Ok, part one’s good then: we can pass. And part two? None of it’s much use if we can’t actually achieve anything with it.”
Crossing one leg over the other where she sat, Adagio allowed herself a smirk. “Part two’s good. The human expression would be that I had her eating from the palm of my hand. We can emulate them well enough to manipulate them.”
For a couple of seconds, Aria just gave a weighing look, like she could somehow assess that judgement herself from only Adagio’s three sentences. “Good. I’d hate for all our researching – six months solid, day and night – to have been for nothing.”
Such doubt, as ever. Couldn’t just trust that maybe Adagio knew what she was doing. “I was able to try a few different approaches over the evening, and evaluate their success. Intimidation, comradeship, pushing buttons,” – Adagio ticked them off in order on her fingers – “self-depreciation, active listening, hot-blooded eagerness, even vulnerability.” She’d certainly never planned to reveal the details of her nightmare to her target, but the opportunity had been too perfect to pass up.
And it had also felt… freeing, in a way? She wouldn’t burden Aria or Sonata with talk of her dreams, not when they had their own trauma from the event to deal with. But she was glad she’d been able to be truthful with Spitfire about it. To connect with her honestly on that level, for just a moment.
“What did you learn?” Aria asked in a neutral voice, leaning back against the wall.
That not every human was as far from siren sensibilities as the three of them had previously thought? Quite the revolutionary idea. And it led to an even greater one: that being stuck on this miserable planet might not have to mean being stuck with only each other for meaningful company.
It was a stretch, of course. One human, amongst all those they’d encountered or studied. One who she’d most likely never see again, no less. The rest of the humans were probably just as bad as they’d believed.
But if it had happened once, it could happen again. ‘You’ve opened up possibilities I didn’t realise I had,’ Spitfire had said. Hmmmm.
“Blushing is harder to force than you might expect,” Adagio said, leaving her musings on humanity maybe not being entirely inadequate to be voiced another time. What next? “Even expensive whiskey tastes revolting, and its effects take concentration to counter.” That one probably wouldn’t be so useful. “People will tell you all about themselves if you show you’re listening.”
For infiltration, that might be the most vital lesson of them all. She’d hardly had to prompt Spitfire at all on the way back to the hotel, and still received a whole family history. And Adagio hadn’t had to reveal anything of herself in the process.
The walk back, though, reminded her…
“Walking through a city park late at night with no amulet is petrifying.” She didn’t ever want to go through that again, and couldn’t help but shudder. So powerless, so reliant on numbers for safety. Only her quick thinking had cut through that horror and let her pass it off as reluctance to face the rain.
An added bonus to that, supplied by even quicker thinking, was suggesting she could laugh at herself, because Spitfire had opened up more the more companionable Adagio had become. “Physical desire gets you in, but it doesn’t so much bind people to you. Laughter bonds, as do shared frustrations and weaknesses.”
At last Aria lifted her head from her position of listening while staring at the floor. “Just how bonded are we talking?”
Leaning right back in her chair, Adagio gazed up at the ceiling. “Buying drinks,” she said softly, “jeopardising careers,” because Spitfire hadn’t been wrong about reputations in the press, “breaking the law,” she’d considered stealing the car for a minute, Adagio was sure, “sharing a bed,” and being trusted alone in the hotel suite the morning after, “falling in love.”
“In one night?” Aria crossed her arms across her chest, but she also raised an eyebrow. “Not bad.”
“You should see what I could do given a week.”
Before Aria had a chance to respond, Sonata’s voice chirped from the kitchen doorway. “What was her name?”
A glance showed Sonata hovering there in an apron, casting furtive looks back into the kitchen, where, the sizzling sounds suggested, something was being fried. Yes, sausages, Adagio confirmed to herself.
Now she thought about it, she realised she was famished, having foregone breakfast to get home. Time for that soon enough.
“Spitfire.” It wasn’t often a human’s name was worth remembering after Adagio had got whatever she wanted from them. She didn’t think she’d be forgetting Spitfire’s in a hurry, though.
“Ooh, she sounds hot!”
It wasn’t like Adagio picking someone who wasn’t beautiful had ever been a realistic option, but… “She definitely was.” Enough to be stared at on public transport, apparently. What blind monster would have been rude enough not to stare?
Sonata bounced happily on the spot, even clapping her hands a few times in front of her. That she had connected with some human media enough to learn from it was a relief, but slight distaste remained Adagio’s reaction to it being those strange Nipponese cartoons. “And did you like her?”
Seeing humans as people wasn’t in their interest for the immediate future, and Sonata wasn’t one suited to understanding the subtleties of when such things were wise and when not. But Adagio preferred not to outright lie to the other two, because the fallout if the truth emerged wasn’t worth it unless absolutely necessary.
Still though, giving Sonata an honest answer was a risk. “I won’t say I didn’t.” And if both their circumstances had been wildly, unfathomably different, then seeing Spitfire again would have been interesting to pursue.
Sonata gave her a smile with sparkling eyes, rocking on her heels before dashing off into the kitchen again without another word.
With a final irritated glance in that direction, Aria turned back to Adagio. “How did it end, after last night?”
“She left Canterlot. I woke this morning to find a letter.” Engineering exit strategies in one’s sleep? Truly the height of efficiency. Adagio buffed her nails on her dress, though actually the dress probably needed it more.
Aria’s eyes narrowed, calculating. That one was definitely a native siren expression. “You came on too strong, and drove her away?” It was barely a question.
“I pitched it just right,” Adagio scoffed, “and she fell for me.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s what drove her away.”
Interestingly, it was vulnerability that had tipped the balance, Adagio was mostly convinced. It made sense: all the other activities of the evening had been Spitfire in her usual role, fitting with how she saw herself, even if being pulled in new directions. Whereas bringing out a protective instinct had put her in a new role, one she saw as incompatible and retreated from. It did make sense. But still, showing vulnerability had been the overstep that broke it. Adagio would not forget that.
“So,” she concluded, “providing our targets aren’t so successful being single that they’re living their dream, we should be fine.” Spitfire being unique in that respect was improbable, but, from everything they’d previously observed of humans, she was at least rare.
Aria was keeping her eyes on the floor, smirking. “If you say so.”
After giving Aria a glare, Adagio continued. “And it’s better all round this way. She thinks she ended it, so there are no hanging threads.” According to most of their research, the spurner moved on with their life while the spurned dwelled on the past and often sought to rekindle the relationship. In this instance, that meant Spitfire focused elsewhere, leaving Adagio free to move forwards unencumbered by the need to continually check over her shoulder.
And parting ways in the manner they had was no doubt better for Spitfire’s self-esteem, too, which wasn’t an unpleasant thought. Adagio had no wish to hurt someone whose company she’d enjoyed, someone she hoped would go on to succeed with those values they shared. So Spitfire would live her life thinking she’d been in control of their parting, finishing things on her terms, and would never know it was an outcome she’d been pushed into, or how Adagio would have kept pushing until something else made Spitfire snap even if this hadn’t. Winning had been important to Spitfire, and Adagio had no issue with letting her go on believing she’d won.
A deep satisfaction, the kind that only achieving the most successful and complete level of manipulation could bring, coursed through Adagio as she sighed. “I don’t think she ever realised she was in a narrative that wasn’t her own.” Many celebrities wouldn’t, perhaps, being used to every conversation being about themselves.
It probably wasn’t so flattering to learn that you were the could-have-been-anyone experimental subject of a ‘first attempt at seduction’ test for a new body.
A dark, throaty cackle emerged from Aria’s mouth, reminding Adagio that, for all their disagreements, Aria was just as much of a siren as she. Even Sonata would have laughed gleefully at that deft and undetected a twisting of people and events.
“Ok,” Aria said once her mirth had died down, though it still lit her eyes. “That’s it then? We’re good to go?”
Six months of planning, research and training. All coming down to this question. Adagio drew a deep breath, not due to nerves, but to savour the moment. “We are. We move on Canterlot High School in three days.”
At once, the room relaxed. Aria slouched towards the nearest couch and collapsed onto it, as if tension alone had been holding her upright. Adagio remembered her conversation the night before about magic words and their real-world effects, marvelling at the effect on herself, too. For the first time since being home, she noticed the bright colours of the flowers blooming outside the front window, and felt the coolness of the leather against her skin. And while that openness also let in how she and her dress both still smelled of sweat, she could hardly make it out over the thick scent of sausages filling the air.
All the same, if that business was concluded, then it was high time she went upstairs and got changed. Lunch would serve as an impromptu celebration of them being ready to embark on the next step of their plan for capturing Equestrian magic, and Adagio was going to look presentable for it.
She dragged herself to her feet, pausing after standing to stretch her arms above her head. She even let herself yawn openly, since Aria would hardly care. Then she wandered over towards the staircase in the corner of the room, boots silent on the fluffy white carpet. Only when she reached the stairs did she hear Aria’s voice from behind her.
“When did you know?”
One hand already on the ornate bannister, Adagio turned back to Aria. “Hm?”
It was hard to tell if the look on Aria’s face was thoughtful or merely idly curious. Her sprawl across the couch suggested the latter, but her tone the former. “The girl last night. Without magic, you couldn’t have checked your hold on her, so, when did you know? That she was,” Aria rolled her eyes, “you know…”
“Mine for the taking?”
Aria nodded.
Adagio grinned.
“When I walked in the room.”
Author's Note
It's a song.
If Adagio someday imagined how Spitfire must have felt through their night together, and crafted that into a song, it'd sound like this .
As they left the main hall and strutted down the corridor beyond, Spitfire braced herself for the frigid night time air that would await them after the main entrance. Passing through the doors, though, and nodding goodnight to another couple of bouncers outside, the shock never came. It wasn’t as much ‘cool’ outside as it was ‘fractionally less stifling,’ being one of the hottest nights of the year, and even after midnight she felt completely comfortable without a jacket.
Spitfire drew level with Adagio, still holding her hand, and led her off to one side, far enough away from the club entrance to avoid attracting too much attention. She leaned against the side wall of the building, giving her legs a minute to stop wobbling, her whole body almost shaking from the exhilaration of their brazen exit. The marble was refreshingly chilled to the touch, a pleasant contrast to the night air itself.
Although Spitfire felt a pang as Adagio released her hand, being given a bit of space for a couple of minutes to recover wasn’t unappreciated. Adagio stood a few feet away on the wide sidewalk, gazing out across the expanse of the vast square they stood on the edge of, taking in the bright lights and billboards of central Canterlot. Even at this hour, numerous cars were passing through, and while the streets were hardly thick with pedestrians, there was no shortage of moving figures winding their way from one spot of the city’s bustling nightlife to another.
Even with all the electric lights, a minute later Spitfire’s attention was drawn when a white flash lit the dark sky, somewhere over on her left. Glancing up, she saw the sky above them free of clouds, but there was a thickness in the air, and a charge she could almost feel, making it obvious that the storm would be coming their way. Adagio too had looked toward the distant lightning, and now turned to Spitfire.
“We’d better get moving,” Spitfire said, pushing herself away from the wall and into a steady walk over to the edge of the sidewalk beside Adagio, glad her legs had mostly sorted themselves out. Adagio took up step beside her, and Spitfire gave a kind smile, realising how she’d probably sounded like a gruff drill sergeant.
“Shall we flag one down?” Adagio asked as they stood on the kerb, nodding towards the cab they were waiting to pass before setting out across the road. That particular cab had been taken, but from the way Adagio looked in specific directions while asking, Spitfire guessed others had been spotted.
“It might sound silly,” Spitfire shook her head, “but I don’t often carry money on me.” She saw Adagio grimace, who she noticed had no bag of her own, with no conspicuous bulges in her clothes that might be cards, notes or coins.
They reached the other side of the street, with Spitfire leading as they wound their way between a row of parked cars, heading towards the middle of the square, the sharp clopping sounds of their shoes on the asphalt cutting through the quiet murmur of Canterlot by night.
“We could steal a car,” Adagio said from behind her, and Spitfire could practically hear the smirk in her voice.
“We could,” she agreed non-committally, without looking back. “I wouldn’t really know how, but we could try.”
She heard the anticipated snort from Adagio as they stepped back up onto the sidewalk beyond the cars, but hadn’t been expecting the intrigued look she received as the two of them fell in side by side again. Adagio was glancing sideways at Spitfire from where they walked, her head tilted, with a tiny smile on her lips.
“Would you do that?” she asked curiously, but also sounding flattered and tempting. “Steal a car to impress me?”
Spitfire felt her breath catch, but tried forcing herself towards amusement at the idea before her heartbeat could pick up too much from the excitement of it, the fear of what might follow, or the way Adagio might look at her if she did it.
Then Spitfire caught herself, realising that for a fleeting moment, she might have been vaguely considering it. Risking everything she had worked her whole life for, for a girl she had just met. That wasn’t romantic; it was terrifying. Luckily, within a split-second she’d convinced herself that she hadn’t been serious, and the very idea that she might have been made her laugh.
“Bit of a catch 22,” she said dryly. “In order to be brave and stupid enough to try stealing a car, I’d have to be way too drunk to drive it.”
Adagio grinned knowingly, the street lamps reflecting the gleam in her eye. Beyond another wide sidewalk, they continued onto a tarmac path that stretched across the centre of the square, a row of gentle electric lights running down the middle of it, and flat expanses of grass disappearing into the near-darkness on either side.
“Don’t worry, we can walk,” Spitfire said confidently. “It’s not far.”
The trees, benches and flowerbeds scattered about gave Spitfire the impression of a park, although the illuminated windows of high buildings could still be seen in most directions. The sky to their left lit up again, and she caught a glimpse of thick clouds in the distance. The oppressive, still heat of the night seemed to be reaching out to the storm, longing for something to break its tension.
“Neither is the storm,” Adagio replied, looking back at it, and while her voice sounded wry, her face was apprehensive as she scanned their surroundings, probably searching for shelter should they be unexpectedly caught in a downpour. Then she continued with more of her usual bravado, “And I’m all for being drenched in warm water when it’s this hot – and your dress would absolutely go see-through – but...”
Adagio hesitated, clearing her throat, then curled her hands around her middle and spoke more quietly, and while her tone implied she still found it funny, Spitfire had never heard her sound so self-effacing.
“My hair... the rain... you don’t want to see that.”
Clamping her lips together in an effort not to laugh and feeling her face reddening, Spitfire raised a hand to her wavy quiff, thinking of problems she’d never have to deal with.
“My hotel is that building just there,” she said, pointing to the grand white three-storey building straight ahead of them, “man up a bit and we’ll be fine.”
The look she received in return started with outrage and ended with a wicked promise of how much that remark would cost her. The hurt between the two, while obviously not at all sincere, made Spitfire laugh so guiltily that she snaked her arm around Adagio’s waist and pulled her close as a physical apology, pressing their hips together as they walked. After a moment Adagio did the same with her own arm, which Spitfire took to mean she had been forgiven, and they quietly strolled on in that fashion, with neither moving to widen the distance between them again.
“You mentioned your family’s thoughts on your lifestyle,” Adagio said after a quiet but pleasant couple of minutes. “How do you deal with it?”
Spitfire barked a short, bitter laugh, but then swatted the imaginary bile away with her hand, as if it hung in the air in front of her.
“Oh, you know,” she said, a little sardonically but mostly resigned to something she’d accepted a long time before, “evasions, half-truths, sometimes outright lies.” She closed her eyes briefly, exasperated that her own family would sometimes prove the toughest hurdle, but it was fine really. If that was her biggest problem, then things were hardly bad.
“My mom has guessed pretty close to the reality, I think,” she smiled. Good old Mom. She could certainly live with whatever the others thought, as long as she had her mom on her side. “But I offer the same old answers each time, trotted out for every relative.”
Just from having mentioned it, she could hear the phantom questions in her head. The usual suspects that would crop up at each family event. Is there anyone special in your life at the moment? When do you think you’ll settle down somewhere? How much longer are you going to put off having kids?
“The questions aren’t so bad – I mean, they’re probably just something to be expected at family get-togethers – but it’s the things they don’t ask that put me off. Things they’d never think to ask, because they take the answers completely for granted.”
Do you actually want to have children? Does the notion of motherhood appeal to you in the slightest? Just how perfect would somewhere have to be for you to consider ‘settling down’ there, in order for it to live up to the life you’ve spent chasing your dream and experiencing the finest of everything across the planet? Would you rather have a single ‘special someone’ to share your life with, or a whole team of them? Blaze at Spitfire’s hospital bedside sprang to mind again.
“The things they ask show they’re interested in knowing I’m ok, but the stuff they don’t says they’re not all that interested in knowing me. ” She threw up her free hand in frustration, and felt Adagio rub her side in sympathy. “Not enough to go to the effort of trying to see someone else’s worldview, at least, rather than just applying those circumstances to their own.” Not enough to consider that maybe a career could provide just as much satisfaction for some people as all those things Spitfire was apparently lacking did to those asking after her, if it was the career you truly wanted and not just something you settled for.
“Do they matter?” Adagio asked simply. “Does it matter what they think?”
Perhaps that attitude explained some of Adagio’s confidence: it wasn’t so much haughty superiority, but more like independence. She existed separately to whatever anyone else thought of her, and her actions would be unaffected by their opinions.
“Not really,” Spitfire agreed, “although I grew to hate the family gatherings where I’d have to talk to them.” The endless aunts, uncles, and whoever else was obliged to be concerned about her. “And I didn’t like resenting my family for it, or not wanting to spend time with them, so I started using an implied cover story.”
The white walls of Canterlot’s finest hotel loomed larger in the distance, a safe port in a... that mental metaphor didn’t really work when a storm was literally the thing they were seeking shelter from. Adagio gave her a shrewd look for a second, biting her lip.
“Ah, a decoy,” Adagio said a moment later, the satisfaction in her eyes at having found the answer quickly shifting into a smirk. And not undeservedly so; Spitfire knew how silly the situation was. Between her wealth, power, talent and looks, she knew she must have been one of the most desirable figures in the country. And if she had to make up a partner to keep her family happy...?
Nodding, she said, “My second-in-command, Soarin – he and I grew up together, so he sometimes pops over when I’m back home. Joining us for Christmas dinner, that sort of thing.” The very thought made Spitfire smile, and not just at pulling the wool over her family’s eyes, or how easy it was to do so.
Few could miss the warmth about Soarin, and she couldn’t think of a family conversation his being there hadn’t improved. He had a different kind of charisma about him to her own: his was welcoming and inclusive, where hers often made her seem all the more removed. Soarin’s presence could still hold attention, but didn’t demand it, and her family adored him for it, just as they had when he and she were kids.
“As far as company goes, he’s tried and tested. He’s always fun to have around, so I never resent having to invite him,” even if that did mean she never heard the end of it from him or the rest of the team. And while she had the authority to silence their teasing anytime she liked, she chose not to, as it was one of those precious areas in which she could act like just another Wonderbolt, and not be separated from her team by her captain’s badge. “And we’re genuinely very close, so the bond doesn’t really need faking.”
And that was the other reason she couldn’t really hold it against him – that was just who they each were, and who they were together, and why they were so convincing in front of her family in the first place.
Not to mention that he was doing her a massive favour, of course.
Adagio said, “And there are no doubt rumours about the two of you together in the press anyway,” from the sound of it admiring how neatly it tied together.
“Inevitably,” Spitfire rolled her eyes. The tabloids and tacky magazines had to make up something week after week to keep selling copies, and the quicker they came up with one gossip story, the sooner readers would forget how baseless the last had been. But then, in defence of second-rate journalism... “There’s real love there, after all,” she relented, smiling at the thought of the pie-loving idiot who was undoubtedly the best friend she could wish for, “just not in the way my family are thinking they see when they read between the lines.”
And in fairness, it wasn’t like she and Soarin hadn’t slept together a few times. Not that that would ever come out, but it was the sort of thing everyone else would probably insist on seeing as some romantic connection, rather than just something bound to happen when you spent most of your time together and drunkenly partied a lot.
“That’s the advantage of using the ones you love the most,” she said. “But he certainly doesn’t mind either. He loves my mom’s cooking,” the mere mention of which had been all the encouragement he’d needed, “and they all think he’s great.”
The boundaries of the city park were rapidly drawing up in front of them, the light from the street beyond spilling in over the last few feet of grass. The white expanse of the hotel spread out along the opposite side of the street, only a few sidewalks and lanes of tarmac away.
The hotel was one of those equally suitable for royalty or rock stars, where one would be just as likely to see armed guards waiting to escort dignified guests as less dignified ones hurling televisions from upstairs windows. More likely, in fact, since no one had actually thrown a TV out of a hotel window in about forty years.
Not that that had quelled her family’s imagination, of course. The constant deluge of drugs they pictured her being offered, in hotels and elsewhere, which she, as a grown adult, clearly needed warning to stay away from. Never mind that they’d never had grounds to question her judgement, or the drugs tests Wonderbolts had to pass regularly.
“And having him there helps me see the funny side of it all,” she added, thinking back to how they’d laughed about it together after one particularly awkward conversation with her aunt, with Soarin providing reassurances at the time instead of Spitfire blowing a gasket over it.
Reaching the end of the path across the park, they marched straight on towards the hotel’s main entrance. The street they crossed was quieter than that outside the nightclub, despite being on the far side of the same square, with cars only visible in the distance.
Adagio’s hip still nestled snugly against Spitfire’s own as they reached the threshold, and the compartments of the gold-plated revolving door, designed for guests with suitcases, were more than large enough for them to share one. Lightning flashed again somewhere behind them, Spitfire turning to peer back as she heard the first peal of thunder. She couldn’t see the night sky clearly enough to tell how close the storm clouds were, but from how soon the deep rumble had followed the lightning, she guessed they hadn’t missed the storm by much.
Yeah, yeah, it would’ve been fine.
The cool air hit them the moment the door opened out into the main lobby, rolling off the polished white marble lining the floor and the columns that stretched up to the triple-height ceiling far above. She and Adagio shared an unspoken look of relief; in all their anxiousness to escape the torrential downpour likely to follow, Spitfire didn’t think either of them had been focusing so much on the heat. Now they were through it, though, she appreciated how stuffy it had been.
“Nice place,” Adagio grinned, sweeping her eyes over the banners adorning the walls as she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with a delicate finger.
Ordinarily Spitfire might have made a crack about Canterlot and its obsession with white marble, but when it was this hot and the thick stone kept the air inside cool, she didn’t care. At least the band of burgundy encircling the wide room a few feet off the floor broke the monotony a little.
“I like it,” she instead said in response, shrugging with a smile. “It’s become a bit of a home from home for me, with how often the Wonderbolts have shows in Canterlot.” A lot like the club. She used the hand on Adagio’s waist to steer her towards the ornate elevator off to one side, giving a small wave to the night receptionist on the front desk with the other and hoping the signature scrawled across Adagio’s chest in thick black ink went unnoticed. The thought did bring a rebellious thrill, though, from which she slightly quickened her pace.
The elevator doors opened at their approach, though the doorway was so narrow they had to separate, Spitfire feeling the cool air through the sweat-drenched fabric of her dress on her newly-vacated hip. She led Adagio behind her by the hand into the small elevator car, barely bigger than the revolving door compartment they’d shared entering the building, but considerably more intimate.
The doors slid closed without a sound, and the elevator whisked them upward in similar fashion, with only a quiet guitar riff coming through the speakers in the ceiling. Spitfire suddenly found Adagio very close in front of her and taking her other hand, holding both sets of hands out to the sides with elbows bent, level with their chests, with fingers intertwined, their bodies a few inches apart. Spitfire’s breath caught for a moment, feeling her heartbeat hammering through her chest as she recovered.
Try though she might to halt its progress, a blush bloomed on her cheeks as Adagio looked her up and down with a playful expression. “Now, where are you hiding your room key?” Adagio whispered, sounding intrigued, as her eyes roved over Spitfire’s dress.
Dropping her eyes for a second to look over her own outfit, taking in her open shoes and tight yellow dress that would have shown any concealed bulges, Spitfire thought that taped to the inside of her upper thigh would have been about the only place to carry a hotel key card. Since it was safe to assume Adagio had reached the same conclusion, Spitfire’s breathing quickened as she wondered how long she’d have to keep her mouth shut to entice wandering hands into finding out for themselves.
Probably longer than we have here, given that we’re nearly at the top.
Redirecting one pair of their joined hands and extending her index finger, Spitfire pointed to her face.
“This is the key,” she said as the upwards motion slowed and came to a stop. “Private elevator to the penthouse suite. Reception wouldn’t open the doors for anyone else.”
Right on cue, the doors slid apart again, but Spitfire hardly noticed with how Adagio’s eyes smouldered as they held her own. Adagio didn’t so much smirk as a smirk tantalisingly-slowly faded into existence on her face. It made the air-conditioned elevator feel as hot as the night outside. Mouth dry, pulse racing and slamming through Spitfire’s chest like the bass had in the club, it was a small wonder her legs weren’t trembling. She felt like the youngest girl in high school in front of the hottest senior.
But she wasn’t some schoolgirl, she was a Wonderbolt. And a schoolgirl, in her situation, wouldn’t have pounced. The Captain of the Wonderbolts met nerves head on; she charged into the fight instead of seizing up as it approached. And so she did.
...Or so she would have done, if Adagio hadn’t pulled away again a fraction of a second beforehand. Adagio released both hands and backed off to the far side of the opened doorway in one smooth movement, and Spitfire remained locked in place, as if the pounce command she was barely able to stop in time had never been sent to her limbs.
You tease. You evil, evil tease. But they were so close now. Just a few more seconds. Blood was roaring in her ears. Nervous energy and anticipation gave way to primal need.
“Well then...” Adagio said, extending a hand to offer the doorway for Spitfire first, her eyes losing none of their dangerous lustre. Spitfire stepped through into the ambiently-lit suite that beckoned beyond, with Adagio close behind her, and only realised afterwards that Adagio had acted as if inviting Spitfire into her own room.
Author's Note
Posting this from an airport departure lounge while waiting for a connecting flight on the way home from Bronycon.
Heat. The overwhelming sensation was one of heat. Near-tropical humidity, friction of bodies against each other, an endless ocean of hair. Massive walls of curls falling either side of her face, and more above her forehead. Ginger-hued, when their presence didn’t block all light. Air trapped inside like a sauna. Rivulets of sweat reaching out to grasp at more hair, plastering it to skin.
Lips on her own, and on her body. Hungry lips, never sated, soft over sharp teeth. Seeking out the innocent places, the neglected places, and the best places. Burning as they touched, chilling as they left. Lips that whispered while they teased and staked their claim.
A new sensation with each movement. Explosions of colour as hips rolled. An inner furnace flaring as a back arched. Passion fruit overwhelming her nostrils, whisky in her veins.
Then bodies shifting, cool air on her face. Hair lifted away, hanging a foot above her. A lion’s mane, silhouetted in moonlight, framing a face as a vessel of primal passion. Moving over her, like an animal.
