Midnight

I didn't sleep well last night – and it wasn't because of excitement. It's nerves – uncertainties that have been mounting over the last couple of days that were magnified once Starla arrived here yesterday evening. Those worries began the day John confessed his concerns to me; it's been like a poison slowly pumping through my veins ever since.

Starla sounds sure of herself, but I still have concerns about her being out with us in the desert sun all day, hiking through the yard for around eight hours. I don't think I asked enough questions before we all agreed to this. Granted, I don't know what I would have asked about to be certain of her resilience and endurance – the fact of the matter is still that I let my excitement get in the way of logic.

I don't want this sleepover to turn into a disaster – and I certainly don't want anyone getting ill or hurt.

"Midnight." Starla's voice pulls me out of my current internal strife. I find her staring at me expectantly – and a bit concerned.

"What?"

"I asked if you could get into my larger bag out in the living room and fetch my hat," she repeats softly, continuing to eye me warily. "I'd appreciate it since it's easier for you."

"Oh, right – sorry," I stumble out, trying to save face. "Coming right up."

This morning, I have been helping Starla get ready for the day. Much to my surprise, she can accomplish much of her own self-care when it comes to her hair, mane, and tail. It looks a bit awkward to what I'm used to between John having hands and myself having electromagnetic abilities, but Starla wields a hairbrush clutched between her teeth with a fair amount of finesse.

My help came down to the top of her head which she could not reach and would struggle to hold the brush between her hooves, and the process of tying up her mane and tail. Like me, she would rather not drag it all through the sand or on dusty cars – though she has corralled it up shorter than I normally do. But it looks nice nonetheless.

This process – while not particularly difficult or time-consuming – has been easier to tackle in John's room, with the aid of my mirror hanging on the door.

Eager to find distraction in something, I crack open the bedroom door and practically gallop out and into the living room, the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen nearby – which John is currently slaving over – making my stomach growl. Starla's baggage lays at the end of the couch near the wall on the far side, with the larger suitcase sandwiched between said couch and the smaller bag. I drag it out and pull open the zipper.

It's the first time I've peered into what she brought along for her stay, and it's... surprising. Perhaps cooking utensils aren't a shock, but the attire interspersed in here certainly raises my eyes. There are multiple hair accessories such as clips and bows, and what looks to even be some skirts or dresses...?

Oh god. Was one of her ideas for this slumber party a game of dress-up? I know she has mentioned in the past she has some clothing despite not being able to venture out much in public, but I didn't think it was actual – well, clothes...

There's the hat. It's a straw, wide-brimmed hat, complete with a pink ribbon around the cap tied into a bow. I brush aside a few other items to free Starla's hat from getting caught before pulling it out.

"Thief! Thieeef!" The absurd shrieking from the kitchen area draws my gaze upward. John still stands at the stove – but has turned to point a spatula at me in accusation, while his brow and mouth are creased in exaggerated disapproval.

"Shut up, dipshit," I lament, not bothering to conjure up any particularly striking remark. "You've been at the stove for what, twenty minutes now? How long does it take to cook bacon and eggs?"

"And toast. There is toast as well," he corrects me.

"Oh wow, what a challenge."

"Yeah, well – to be level with you, I'm cooking three more eggs and another half dozen strips of bacon. So that's an extra pan each since we have a guest. May I ask how much longer you two are planning to play dress-up this morning?"

"Who the hell said we're playing dress-up?

"Well, you're currently holding a cute hat after rummaging through Starla's stuff, and you've been occupying my room and the mirror for about as long as I've been making food." He pauses a moment to take in my find as I start to head back toward the bedroom – before his eyes light up and he breaks into a smile.

Oh great – here comes something stupid.

"And I do declare, that is a fine bonnet for a Southern Belle such as Starla," he croons in a terrible impersonation of a feminine southern drawl.

It's so painful, that I'm forced to halt in my tracks and stare at him for a second, cringing hard enough to feel like I'm about to strain a muscle. "Please don't ever do that again. That was awful."

"Hey, that was pretty good!" Starla calls out from the bedroom, putting an emphasis on her normally subdued accent.

John now proceeds to offer up his own grimace. "Ouch, she agrees with me. That's rough."

"Means I really question her intelligence."

"Hey!"

"Kidding, Star!" I holler back. Embarrassed that I said such a thing loud enough for her to hear, I hastily make my way back to the bedroom and ease past the door. Despite her objection just a moment ago – which I assumed to not be particularly serious anyway – Starla eagerly greets me back inside, even more so when I display my find to her.

"Yep, that's the one!" she cheers. I set it gently atop her head and Starla takes care of the rest, fiddling with its position via her hooves.

"You know, when you said you were gonna pack a few things to wear, I didn't think it was going to be more than a couple of hair accessories," I comment as she strikes a pose.

"I may have gone a bit overboard on what I brought along," she admits, though her smile grows wider as she continues. "But I wanted to have a selection to see if there was something that might tickle your fancy."

Well, I called that one.

"Eh, I don't think clothes are really my thing, Star. And I think these would get in the way," I add, ruffling my wings in demonstration.

"Oh, nonsense – after all, I hardly ever wear full dresses," Starla laughs. "Think of it more like accent pieces. I get you're kind of a tomboy, but experimenting a bit wouldn't hurt, you know? You might be surprised by what you find."

"Maybe," I answer hesitantly, before making sure to put my hoof down. "But no frilly shit."

My response draws a hum of contentment from Starla, but after a few more moments of posing in the mirror, her bright expression falters. "Are you alright today?" she inquires, turning toward me with thinly veiled concern lining her face.

"Me? I'm fine," I dismiss her, scoffing at her question. "I did a bit of tossing and turning in my sleep last night, that's all."

"Why's that?"

"I dunno. Probably excitement, you know? Me and you the next few days? It's not that big of a deal, I'm just a little... off this morning."

Starla offers a nod for my best attempt at an excuse, though her expression doesn't shift. I'm eager to leave this sudden awkward conversation behind and get to chowing down on breakfast, so I head for the gap in the door yet again—

Only for the door to slam in my face without warning after a deft kick from Starla.

"Jesus, Star – you trying to take my damn nose off?!" I bark at her.

But Starla doesn't flinch at my tone; instead, she sits on her haunches against the door before proceeding to close her eyes and cross her forelegs in front of her expectantly.

...damn, I never realized how dexterous her front legs are until now. Makes more sense how she can manage to hold a brush with them and use it, but that's still more range of motion than I have. It must be the perk of robotic prosthetics.

"I made sure my timing wasn't off," Starla answers, her voice surprisingly stern. "But we aren't having breakfast until you tell me what's really going on. Was it something about last night, this morning? Is something about me bothering you?"

"No – are you high?"

My comment causes Starla's cool violet eyes to make an appearance, springing open as her face contorts into befuddlement. "What?"

"It's— nevermind, it's just a stupid saying."

Rather than spend time on what could be a long explanation, I focus on getting the door open and bolting from the room. I latch on to the doorknob and start to pull – but it seems Starla is stronger and heavier than I expected. With her back against the door, I can only move it slightly with my initial light touch; that little movement is enough for Starla to take note, as she scoots back to lean her whole body against the door, causing it to thump back against the doorjamb.

I know I'm strong enough... but the risk of either hurting Starla or breaking something by yanking open the door is not worth it.

"Hey, no horseplay!" John shouts from beyond in the kitchen.

"It's a good thing we aren't horses then, numbnuts!" I holler back.

"I would have said 'ponyplay,' but uh... that's got another meaning. Forget it."

Starla's expression turns quizzical at that ominous statement from John. I have to just shake my head. "Trust me, if he says forget it, there's likely good reason for that," I comment.

"But it sounds harmless enough..."

"Welcome to the sick, sick world we live in."

That quip is enough to free Starla from this little diversion – though it means a return to the interrogation taking place beforehand. "Seriously, we aren't leaving this room until you tell me what's going on. You've been distant almost all morning, and it's making me a little uneasy now," she says, her tone and her face stern in conviction.

I'm not getting out of this until I spill my internal thoughts. I hate this, but I've no other choice.

"It's... I don't mean this in a bad way, and it's hard to articulate it properly," I begin with care. "I know we already talked about it before and we were all confident and set in you accompanying us while we work – but we really are going to be out in the heat and the sun all day."

"Mhm – that's why I brought my hat," Starla replies without hesitation, flicking the brim of her headwear with a hoof.

"We also do a lot of walking, Star. Yes, we take the truck out there, but—"

"Why don't you think I can handle myself, Midnight?" Starla interrupts. While there is a tinge of hurt in her voice, the question comes out calm and patient – genuinely seeking the honest truth from me.

I can't bring myself to say one of the reasons; instead, I focus my gaze on Starla's pale pink forelegs. She traces my line of sight to her crossed limbs, and as she unfolds them, she emits an unexpected chuckle. "Is that really it? I was expecting something a bit more complex," she jokes, dropping back to all fours and standing. "You could have at least thrown in I'm much more in touch with my feminine side and more of a homemaker type."

"I suppose it might be a little of that, too."

"Well, I think I'm going to surprise you, Middie," she replies, cracking a wry grin as she saunters around me. "No, I don't have your level of smarts or the ability to pick things up with a wave of my... horn— that doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"I get the gist of what you're looking for, I'm not gonna split hairs."

"Right – anyway no, there are things I cannot do. But physically, I'm more than capable of a few days out in the sun and all the walking that entails. Who knows – maybe because I don't have 'magic,' I can do more with my hooves than you."

"I'll give you that one for sure – you've surprised me this morning how you can manipulate your hairbrush."

"Believe me, I appreciate your concern – but today isn't going to be particularly taxing for me. I know what I'm getting myself into," she consoles me, patting my shoulder with a hoof before gesturing to the closed door in front of us. "Come on, let's go get some food."

She doesn't have to tell me twice – I ease the door open for Starla and follow her through, greeted once again by the smell of a freshly cooked breakfast. Seated at the kitchen island now, John has already begun mowing down his plate, a fork with eggs in one hand and a strip of bacon in the other.

"Really, you couldn't wait for us?" I lightly chastise him. "That's just rude."

"Hell, I was gonna start on your plates if the standoff between you two lasted any longer," he shoots back. "Count your blessings, Middie."

"Well, thanks for hanging on as long as you did," Starla teases, hopping up on a barstool. I take the one right beside her, and across from John. Despite his comments, I can see there's not much missing from his plate compared to the ones sitting before Starla and me. As I glance at him again, a thought strikes me.

"Why were you listening to our private conversation?" I ask him, making my suspicion clear in my voice even before I narrow my eyes.

He abruptly halts his chewing at the accusation, shooting me a queer expression even as his eyes go wide. "You do realize the doors and walls here aren't soundproof, right? Hell, that bedroom door has a hollow core – good luck keeping any noise muffled with that standing in the way."

...he has a point. Not that I want him to feel good about that.

"Cut me a break – I didn't sleep that well last night."

John nods his head. "Yeah, you did some minor gymnastics last night – woke me up once or twice with your tossing and turning, but I wasn't gonna say anything about it. Still, that's a lazy excuse – you're not getting a free pass from that dumb question."

"Jackass."

Of course, my insult only brings a smile to his face – but no vocal reply follows. In fact, silence settles over the breakfast table for a short spell as we all dig in to fill our stomachs for the day ahead.

While John did not have a major head start on his breakfast, he nonetheless finishes first – and his focus turns to Starla. "For what it's worth, I had my concerns about you tagging along with us and how you might fare," he admits to her, almost apologetic in his tone. "It's not that I don't think you can do it – I just don't know you like I do Midnight. But Midnight took that bullet for me this morning sharing that worry. Thanks, Mid."

"I suppose I do have an air of delicacy about me compared to Midnight, don't I?" Starla replies in a calm, pleasant voice. "I guess I just have to show I really do have some grit in me."

Despite the playfulness in her tone, there's a fierce determination behind those violet eyes. She has something to prove now – and she means to do so. Even John appears to take note if his subtle raised eyebrow is anything to go by.

"Well... alright then," he manages to sputter out, gaining a hint more gusto and confidence by the end. "I guess once you gals finish up, we'll get this show on the road."

"Yep, it'll be a real fag and pony show today."

John shrinks down in his seat at my comment, his eyes darting frantically between me and Starla a few times, before honing in exclusively upon me. "Don't tell her – I'm not ready to come out yet," he whispers, cupping his mouth as if to prevent Starla from hearing or seeing his lips.

"Oh, I've known for a while now," Starla wisecracks, offering John a smirk as his eyes go wide with surprise.

"Hey, nice one!" I belt out through a laugh, leaning over to bump shoulders with her in camaraderie.

"Dammit, even the sweet one picks on me now," John mutters, pouting in defeat. He tries selling it as much as he can, slumping his shoulders as his eyes drop to the counter.

It garners a trill of laughter from Starla, which sates John instantly.

Well, if this moment is anything to go by, maybe John and I are wrong about Starla after all. She's got some surprises up her sleeve this morning – what awaits the rest of the day?