Midnight

"C'mon you miserable son of a bitch..."

As Midnight's low growl reaches my ears, I can't help but snicker a little. "Now surely I don't hear you over there hurling insults at a stubborn inanimate bolt, right?" I belt out loud. "I feel like I remember someone ridiculing me for that same sort of behavior in the past."

"Pound sand," she grumbles back at me.

Even though the wording is perhaps a bit lighter than normal – or perhaps because of it – I can tell Midnight is getting a bit frustrated by what she's currently working on. I set down the tool in my hand and start to make my way toward her. Midnight's focus remains above where she stands, peering into the recesses of the Chrysler's undercarriage as it sits perched on the car lift. Her eyes stay locked onto her task, but an ear swivels to pick up and hone in on my movements.

"Something I can help with?" I ask once I reach her side. I look up to try and get an idea of what exactly her focus is, finding a wrench perched upon a bolt head near one of the spring mounts.

"I don't really think so. I'm trying to get this bolt out of the end of the leaf spring to change the bushing – but it's being stubborn," she explains, removing the wrench and using it to tap the bolt giving her trouble.

"They usually are miserable to get out – especially when they've been in the same place for almost seventy years," I remind her as I grab onto the leaf spring. It wriggles a little bit around the bolt, and once I find the sweet spot where it doesn't seem to be binding, I nod my head. "Try it now, Midnight."

Midnight levitates the wrench back onto the bolt head. In a matter of moments, she's spinning out the entire length of the bolts with little issue until it comes completely free. I let go of the leaf spring just as Midnight starts to shake her head.

"I should have known better. Of course it was binding on the pressure of the leaf spring," she mutters unhappily to herself.

"Hey, tunnel vision happens to the best of us. I just happen to have a fresh set of eyes that could take in everything going on. You get better at noticing stuff like that the more you do it, too," I encourage her, leaning down slightly in order to smooch her atop her head. Despite the work and toil in the sun earlier today, I can still get a whiff of lilac from her shampoo beyond the working mare scent.

"Yeah, yeah. I know," she dismisses me, trying to play off my affections. "You did buy all the suspension bushing like you had planned, right?"

"Yeah, they're..." I can't help but trail off as I remember where I put them, turning my head upward. "They're in the trunk of the 300C."

"Aw, fuck," Midnight pouts. "I should have asked before I got started."

"It's not that big of a deal. Just a few extra seconds of work. At least I know where they are, rather than allowing em to be scattered around the shop."

I step out from underneath the car and clear of the lift with Midnight stepping out on the other side. I pick up the remote from its hanger and lower the lift, halting just before the Chrysler sets back down on its wheels. Digging out the keys in my pocket, I pop the trunk and flip the lid open just as Midnight rejoins me.

While the trunk on this old car is a cavernous space, the multitude of parts I've collected for the car and the parts that have been removed take up much of the space. Even so, I'm able to quickly identify the unmarked cardboard box containing the bushings – as it lies near the top of the heap, being a fairly recent purchase and arrival.

"If it makes you feel any better among all of this, I'm impressed to see you taking the patient and 'easier' way of replacing all of these bushings," I comment while finagling the box of parts from its home.

"Because I'm doing it one at a time, rather than unbolting everything at once?" Midnight chimes in. "Believe it or not, I listen to you from time to time. Focusing on one aspect makes it easier in the long run than total disassembly and scattering parts and pieces everywhere for no reason."

"Uh, when did I say any of that?" I ask, feeling a bit lost while handing off the box to Midnight with one hand and closing the trunk lid with the other.

"Hello, when we were pulling the engine?" Midnight remarks, raising an eyebrow at my absentmindedness. "Rather than draining the transmission and unhooking everything like I expected, we left it in place, suspended by chains."

"Hey, not all of us are part supercomputer that can dredge up every fleeting memory."

"As if a few surplus electronic gizmos in my head equate to a supercomputer," she scoffs in a light-hearted jest. "I'm just thankful I'm not part dumbass."

"Well, apparently you live with someone part dumbass – and dumbassery is infectious."

"Hm, maybe that's why I couldn't think of another way to tackle that bolt until you showed me. I like the excuse – we'll go with that."

"Always happy to help."

"And how goes your little art project?" Midnight inquires in a cheeky tone, leaning to the side to glance past me and off toward the workstation I've set up around the engine stand.

I fold my arms in response as she shoots me a wry grin. "And what's that supposed to mean, Middie?"

"Oh, nothing," she sasses back. "I just think it's cute how you got those little paint pans all set up on a little wheeled workbench. All ready for arts and crafts."

"I'll have you know it's a professionally unprofessional setup that I've created."

"Aw, of course it is. But thanks for the little visual asspat to make me feel better about myself, fruitcake," she taunts.

Asspat, huh?

While she walks past me to get a closer look at what my current project entails, I uncross my arms and turn as if to follow her. But instead, I let her get a step in front of me and wind up before slapping her on the ass – making sure I grab a nice handful of cushion while I'm at it. Midnight emits a squeal of surprise upon first contact, jolted into turning around to face me.

No problem, Middie," I taunt her. "Always happy to give out asspats to my favorite mare."

Midnight glares at me before rearing up on her hind legs, bringing her forelegs down roughly upon my shoulders for balance. But being this close to her, I can see it's all a facade – she is trying desperately not to smirk or smile as her nostrils flare. "You're a sick bastard," she tries to growl.

"What? You were thanking me for asspats, and I didn't remember ever doing such a thing," I try to explain while keeping a straight, innocent face.

"That wasn't a pat."

"Sorry, retarded."

"Well, consider yourself warned now," Midnight replies, leaning in and planting a quick and fleeting kiss on my lips before slipping back down to all fours.

"Wow, that was a warning?" I mumble. "Now I kinda want to do it again and see the next step of discipline."

"I don't think you need to push your luck," she answers, shaking her head before continuing to trot over to my work area. "Come on, what do you really have going on over here?"

Putting my dirty thoughts away for the time being, I head over to show Midnight the current state of the Chrysler's Hemi engine. With one cylinder head fully disassembled and the other in the midst of being pulled apart, there's an organized sort of mess among the wheeled tables I have set up to help me.

"What you call an art station is really a cheap and simple way to keep particular items organized in proper position and orientation of how I removed them," I explain as Midnight gawks at one particular paint pan filled with murky liquid.

"And uh... what the hell is in here?" Midnight asks, wrinkling her nose in mild disgust at the sight. But keen to answer her own question, one of the engine components emerges from the depths – a pushrod that's finally beginning to take on a metallic sheen after years of sitting in oil.

"I'm letting the pushrods soak in kerosene to knock off all the buildup from sitting in what oil didn't drain out – after years, it just turns into a varnish and stains the metal," I explain. "Just be careful, make sure you set that back where you found it."

"I wasn't aware each pushrod was unique," Midnight answers.

"Uh – well, they're not," I admit, feeling a bit awkward with her comment. "I've heard it's best to keep things organized in order to put them back in the particular place you found them. Different wear patterns sort of give each piece a kind of memory, I guess. Dunno if it's actually true, but I would rather not find out the hard way – hence their placement in the pan one by one and the marking of each tray."

Midnight takes care when replacing the pushrod that's in her telekinetic grasp before her eyes dart to the side of the tray and the scrawled permanent marker labels in black. "Wow, beautiful writing as always," she snidely remarks, squinting to discern what's written.

"Yeah, I know. Looks like I had a seizure while trying to color in the lines."

"What lines?"

"Hey, you got it."

Yet again, Midnight just shakes her head rather than give my stupidity any proper acknowledgment. Instead, she turns her attention to another table containing more parts and pieces from the engine's valvetrain – particularly the rocker arm assemblies. "You know, now just sitting here out of the head, this doesn't look as complicated as before – or as it does in diagrams," she comments.

"Looks can be deceiving; it's the same amount of rocker arms and pushrods as any other American V8 built back in the day before overhead camshafts – just an extra shaft splitting up the exhaust and intake rods," I explain, motioning to the rocker arm shafts in parallel. "Just needs a different geometry between the two valves because of the hemi head shape. They make a dome-shaped combustion chamber at the top by being angled and opposed to each other."

"I guess having it explained why they're set up like that helps too," Midnight replies with a smirk as she turns her focus exclusively toward me. "Have you tracked down a crankshaft for this engine yet?"

"Maybe."

The smile that's been present on Midnight's face more often than not today vanishes in an instant. "I'm pretty sure what I asked was a yes or no question," she comments, a touch of edge in her voice.

"I haven't really done much digging yet," I relent, hoping the reveal won't bite me in the ass. "It's not really a priority, as I'm not going to buy one right now regardless of the availability or price. I'm in a holding pattern until I know for sure the engine block is in good shape."

"Wait – I thought you said it looked fine," Midnight quickly replies, cocking her head. "Did you find something during your teardown?"

"No, but something that looks fine is only that to the naked eye. I want to make sure it's structurally sound with no hairline cracks. A machine shop can tell me for sure when they're cleaning it up – until then, no engine parts unless they're universal bits we could use on another engine."

My reasoning only gets a pouting expression from Midnight – something rather odd considering...

"Didn't you tell me not long ago that this engine turning out to be a lost cause wouldn't be the end of the world?"

Midnight snaps to attention at that, looking away from me as she tries to act confused by my accusation. "No?" she finally responds.

It's a feeble attempt at playing stupid – even if she wasn't going up against a self-proclaimed champ. Two can play at that game, and I think I know where to go.

"Oh. Must have been one of the recent discussions I had with Starla," I ponder out loud, shrugging my shoulders before getting situated at my workstation again.

"Oh, shut up. You don't even talk to her," Midnight scoffs, unable to completely put away her slight irritation toward the idea.

"Not that you know of, anyway," I continue to press, fighting off the urge to smile right now as I gaslight Midnight into taking the bait.

"She would have told me. We talk about the two idiots we have to live with."

"Really?" I respond, suddenly intrigued by where this has led. "What sort of things do you talk about?"

Despite being confident and fired up just a moment ago, Midnight shrinks back now, her ears flattened against her head. "Stuff," she answers curtly.

"I see. Does she know... about us?"

"No – that's kinda a private thing, isn't it?" Midnight replies. Her eyes leer at me as if I've suggested something inappropriate...

Which I haven't.

"You know I'm just talking about the standard 'relationship' label, right?" I suggest to her. "Nothing more in detail than that."

"Well no shit, what else would there be other than— no!" Midnight suddenly exclaims, realization hitting her like a semi-truck. "Why in the fuck would I talk about that?!"

"I don't know – why would you feel like us dating would be a touchy, intimate subject to discuss?" I shoot back, feeling like I'm abruptly on my back foot in a more serious conversation than I anticipated.

"I... are we... 'dating'?" Midnight asks with a heap of caution keeping her voice low as she tiptoes the question to me.

"Uh... kinda?" I'm so confused by the abrupt shifts in Midnight's attitude in just a few fleeting seconds that I don't know what to expect from her now. "I don't really know what would make it officially... official— but we do a lot of stuff together now, yeah? Like the little firepit out back on some nights is a good example."

Midnight nods at my awkward explanation – but her gesture lacks any sort of firm conviction. I'm not sure if she still doesn't quite grasp it or expects... more.

"What makes you think of 'dating'? Like a night out on the town?" I continue, pushing the spotlight back to her.

"I don't— I guess I never gave any of it a thought until now," Midnight replies, sounding befuddled by her own admission as it escapes her lips. "Maybe?"

It doesn't sound like a half-bad idea to me, now that I've brought up a date night out. But I would only really consider it and propose such an idea if Midnight were truly up for it – and assuming we could find a nice little restaurant to dine in.

"Maybe we will have to do that sometime soon in the future, Middie," I float the notion to her.

Much to my surprise, as Midnight pretends to intently mull the idea in her head, she is unable to prevent a smile from forming upon her muzzle. "You know, I might have to eventually hold you to that offer," she finally states.

Well, that settles it – one way or another, we will make an official date night happen. But that's a scenario to plan out another day. And there are more important matters to discuss now that Midnight's spilling some interesting tidbits.

"So what kind of 'stuff' do you and Starla talk about?"

"Stuff. That's all you need to know," she coldly responds, keeping a wary eye on me.

"Is there some... girly stuff?" I cup my hand over my mouth, pretending to giggle like a schoolgirl following my question. But a blanket of dark feathers smacks me in the face for my troubles shortly thereafter.

"My god, you are a fucking moron," Midnight laments, folding away her wing once again. However, I can't help but note the embarrassed tone in her voice, if the way her ears flip back once again wasn't enough of an indicator. "I'm going back to my work now, do something productive," she adds as she turns around to leave.

"Aww, you're no fun."

Midnight halts and turns her head to look at me once more. "And you're too much fun. It all evens out in the end," she sasses.