“Captain! Over here!”
Spitfire adjusted her descent, angling towards Rainbow Dash’s cheerfully waving form below, and landed precisely next to an empty chair. The table itself stood in a far corner of the seating area, a bit separated from the rest. Wise, if her intent had been to avoid too-eager fans.
Of course, if that was her intent, she shouldn’t have yelled, but that was Crash for you.
“Appreciate the invitation, it’s been a while since I’ve had the hay fries here,” Spitfire said. “What’d you want to talk about?”
“Oh. Er…”
Spitfire squinted at her suddenly-squirming companion. “This isn’t a date is it? You know my policy on that, and it’s –”
“Don’t.” Crash chorused. “And no! Of course not! Uh, not that I think you’re –”
Spitfire gave her an unimpressed look. “I’d recommend you stop digging.”
“Right. Uh.” Crash took a deep breath. “I wanted to ask for teaching advice.” She waved a hoof. “’Cuz, y’know. You teach at the Academy and stuff.”
“Is this about that new school your friend’s running? What’re you teaching there, anyway?”
Crash dropping the news that she’d need to bail from half her practices for the foreseeable future and at least two major upcoming shows on a handful of days’ notice had been a pain and a half to rework the schedules for. Good thing Crash really was one of the best new fliers the Wonderbolts had. And at least it wasn’t as bad as that time Flatfoot’s younger twin siblings had both broken a wing each; she’d been on full-time leave for several months.
“Uhh loyalty I guess?” Crash scratched at the base of her neck. “I’ve been showing the ones who can fly some cool tricks too, but I don’t think that’s on the, like, official curriculum?”
“So you want more tricks to share?”
“No, not – I mean, sure, I love learning awesome new stuff – but that’s not what I –” She paused, frowned, and said, “How do you get them to listen to you? And,” she gestured again, “actually learn stuff?”
Spitfire fixed her with a look.
“I tried yelling already, it didn’t work,” Crash said defensively. “Also, one of the students cried. And Twilight chewed me out afterwards and made me apologize. Which I was going to do anyway because I didn’t actually mean to. And –”
Spitfire raised a hoof. “I get it.” She considered. “Well, the first thing you need to do is figure out how you teach.”
“But isn’t teaching just – teaching? And you’re the best teacher I know.”
Spitfire rather doubted that. “Okay, let’s use an analogy. Your friend, the one with the hat, she grows apples, right?” A nod. “I bet she grows different kinds of apples, too – green ones and red ones and –”
Maybe she should have picked a subject she knew more about. Like updrafts.
“– Oh, and zap apples, yeah! Their jam is awesome.” Crash said with a grin.
“Sure, and zap apples. So, different apples are better for pies,” Crash made a face, “or applesauce, or cider, or whatever, right?” Another nod.
“So, the Wonderbolt Academy, we’re like your friend’s cider stand. All we sell is cider, and if you’re not a cider apple,” whatever kind of apple that was, “you’re not going to make the cut – but we make the finest cider in all of Equestria.”
“Applejack’s is better.”
Spitfire rolled her eyes. “Metaphorical cider. Anyway.” She pointed at Crash. “Your friend’s school, on the other hoof, is like a bakery that uses a whole orchard of apples. You don’t want to turn a cider apple into applesauce.” Those were probably different kinds of apples, right?
“But how do you know what kind of apple someone is?”
Spitfire shrugged. “I push ’em hard, and either they shape up or they drop out.”
She sighed. “To be honest, Crash? Sometimes I wonder if we’ve lost some fantastic flier because I pushed too hard, got too stuck in my own idea of what ‘the best’ should look like. Like we almost lost you.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Spitfire smiled wryly. “Wasn’t my finest moment as a teacher just then, was it?”
Crash looked away. “I probably shouldn’t have cared that much about being lead pony, either,” she muttered.
A breeze drifted across her feathers, and Spitfire munched a couple of fries. “You want to know yourself, too,” she finally said. “Like that ambition of yours. It’s great, pushes you farther and faster than most ponies’ll ever go. But sometimes it trips you up.”
“Or me – I got kicked out of several schools as a filly for telling teachers exactly what I thought of them.” At Crash’s shocked look, Spitfire smirked. “Oh yes. Getting to the Academy, it was the first time someone listened when I said their dumbass idea was stupid, even though I was the newest of newbies at the time.” She leaned across the table and clapped Crash on the shoulder. “’S part of why I like you. You don’t waste my time with bullshit. And you call me on mine.”
She’d been forced to learn to fake tact, eventually. But there were reasons the Academy felt like home, like the only place she wasn’t wrapped so tightly in expectations that she could barely shift her wings.
“So, I need to figure out what sort of apple I am, too?” Crash looked like she was thinking really hard. The analogy probably wasn’t helping. “And – have friends to tell me when I mess up because I’m trying to make the wrong kind of … apple … thing?”
The analogy definitely wasn’t helping. But close enough.
“So that student you made cry. What would you have done if it were your shy friend? The one with the animals?”
“Dragged her along with me anyway and ignored her when she said she didn’t want to?”
Spitfire just looked at her.
Crash wilted. “Okay okay I know, uh … tried to make her feel comfortable? And asked her if something was wrong?”
Spitfire shrugged. “Sounds like a good start. Personally I’d make Clipper deal with them, he’s a big softie.”
“... I could ask Fluttershy for advice.” Crash brightened. “That’s a brilliant idea!”
Yeah, Crash’d do all right. Sometimes all you needed was someone to point out you already knew where all the updrafts were. “If that’s all –”
“Oh, practice. Yeah.” Crash scrambled out of her seat. “Thanks for the advice! And uh, good luck … making apple cider?”
Spitfire laughed. “It is what I do best. Good luck –” no. No more analogies. “Good luck to you, too.”
