Do Right by You

There's a desert-like cavity that dries up in her throat. Sunlight’s warmth cradles the room, barely ripping open her consciousness. It would be mildly annoying at best, stomach empty as her mouth dry, to pry awake. That one form of solace was in the guise of a doughy mattress, and feathered blankets that hugs a half asleep unicorn… Feathered?

Starlight bolts upright, eyes snapped open as they scan her surroundings—kites, her desk, the parchment that had kicked off every piece that fell into place. All intact and exactly as she’d left it. She wasn’t on the balcony. Which should be a given, because Twilight wouldn't allow it.

Lastly, there was that gnawing pain in her stomach, curling around her in sharp jabs from the previously crisp flooring where she had likely spent most of the night. Starlight grinds a hoof to her face.

Never again.

It's peculiar, seeing her former castlemates be completely bare of all their sovereignty.

Spike had himself occupied on the stove, singing and chortling all the while flipping pancakes with needless vigor.

When she entered the kitchen, they both acted as if nothing had changed. There was no golden medallion helming his neck, nor armor binding her hooves and chest. It threw her off balance, but their morning greetings quickly pulled her from an otherwise spiraling train of thought.

Twilight sat beside her, tea in mid-air, and face partially obscured by a book pulled from Sunburst’s collection. The atmosphere held no tension; only her usual demeanor sprang through each page flip and hum that escaped her lips.

“Didn't I tell you?" Spike yawns, “That guy's made a total mess in your library.”

Twilight shakes her head, a faint disregard of his tattle, but her slightly miffed impression gives it away. “For one, it's Sunburst’s,” she corrects, “and everypony is entitled to their personal library. I'm not guilty of this.”

“That’s true,” Spike tosses another one in the air. “Do you think he'd be mad if we tried anything?”

Twilight lets out a sort of whine, “Maaaybe?”

The steaming cup was far too late. Her head narrowed to it still, relishing in her own sense of routine. Starlight didn't have the capacity to mention the events that came down yesterday; more or less had the energy to even say anything.

Some part of her jostles the guilt closely, even literally so, as the mare beside her never wavered from her misplaced judgment. Disappointed could be its name, if briefly felt.

Half a stack of pancakes slid to her side of the table, no taller than herself as the homecook smiles, “This one's standard protocol.”

Twilight rolls her eyes. “Do you have to do that every time?" She allows a bit of amusement to slip.

Arms crossed, a draconic pride took damage when he scorns. Playfully. “You act like that's a bad thing! I need to stay on brand.”

Despite his claims, the breakfast he'd concocted had that same touch to it. She can't be sure for certain, with yesterday's hayburgers to go off of, but the way they were fluffier than “standard protocol” was something worth mentioning.

Other platters accompanied her own seconds after. Starlight knew better than to feign ignorance of her emotions, and it seems that recently she'd been going against everything she stood for.

It was hard to admit it.

It was hard to admit that the room lit up in their company.

And It was even harder to admit that, with each forkful of cake batter…

Being a morning pony doesn't seem so bad.

By the time they finished their meals, Starlight finally got up and managed her first words about needing to run some errands. Her voice came out grating as she tried to quell the overwhelming urge to teleport off the castle premises then and there.

The dragon clears his throat and invites himself along on her little escapade, pleading in the way foals often do. Tentatively, she casts a glance at Twilight, who granted approval with that warm smile of hers. It makes Starlight's heart swell and sting all at once. An alienating sensation.

She searched her features, wondering if any trace of what had happened still lingers in her step. Perhaps she lingered too long, staring without regard for common courtesy, as the princess cocked her head to the side, almost fretting.

Starlight whirls out the door in light footfalls.

"Heavy on the heart, is it?" Spike flicks three bits in exchange for the same amount of tomatoes. The castle pantry had the ingredients he was talking about getting, but he insists that his way of meal preparation required fresh, out in the open. That could just be an excuse to have a certain conversation alone. She knows how terrible he is at lying. They both are.

"Hardly."

"Oh, you don't get to play that game. I know that face."

"What face?" She eyes him quizzically and scuffs a mouthful of insipid street food in one go. Her cheeks puff out into a chipmunk's.

Spike sours, mouth twisting in a manner of bemusement. He flicks another three bits at a nearby stand.

It. Was. Embarrassing. Leaving the kitchen with the boy tailing behind as he exchanged parting words with his sister.

She was the one to linger, in her every step, as painstakingly obvious as it was to him. She's Starlight Glimmer, for Celestia’s sake. Headmare of The School of Friendship. She knew what to say, and how to speak her mind. But this particular instance had her thoughts and words slurring all the same. So she, unwittingly, responds to his attempt at conversation with less-than-stellar appraisals.

Her reluctance wouldn’t stop the dragon from egging her on, though, as they arrived at an intersection that didn’t have anything to do with food stuffs. Which confirms that it was most definitely an excuse.

“So I'm assuming that you couldn’t get it off your chest?” he flips through comic pages mindlessly, like a prop to fidget with when something is bothering somepony.

The intimate smell of centuries-old library dusts the stand, its vendor looking anywhere but the nerdy articles displayed on a flimsy table that's on the verge of collapse. She bears in mind not to leave a stray hoof on its surface.

“Kind of,” Starlight mumbles. “Well, it was late, so I couldn't admit it to her in earnest. You know how it is, right?”

He stops at a page and opens it wide for her to have a look-see. “You think this one’s good?”

She's incredulous. “Action is your go-to, so I’d say as much.”

“Really now, you gotta look into it to form an opinion.”

She sighs and levitates the comic to full viewing experience. The colorful burst of action paints closely to real movement, she'd nearly been enthralled. Or should've. “Huh, I ought to buy this for myself.”

“Awesome! Thank you for your input!” he swipes the cyan out of the paper, tending to the vendor with more chosen in her distraction.

Spike pauses shortly, and rigid, like time does when it stops. She could see dim, candid flickers in his regard.

“I guess I’d hoped you two would reconcile on the balcony, but the way you both were at the kitchen didn't feel all fuzzy to me,” Spike's words seemed to tumble out unfiltered, jagged teeth denouncing the mind rather than being an admission to Starlight herself. Incidental.

Just as time would stop, time began flowing, and the market was louder than the moment before.

She had nothing to add to that.

This went on for about an hour or two, leisurely gawking at stands and filling up saddlebags (and bags) to heavyweights. Spike didn’t bring it up again, or at least opted not to. Starlight greatly appreciated his restraint, no matter how frequently his eyes darted in all directions when similar topics were brought to the forefront. Not when so much remained unsaid and the wall she had inadvertently put up wouldn’t allow for it.

Instead, he prattled on about their days in Canterlot. Apparently, having the ruler of Equestria stand on all fours 24/7 had taken a dangerous toll. That was nothing surprising, rather expected, as the Council of Friendship pried so often when it got harder to ignore. Like foalsitters, she recalls. Pressing for healthy eating habits, instilling curfew after curfew, and taking shifts with precariously long to-do lists each day. It reached the point where Twilight had been forced to take proper care of herself—with varying results.

Starlight wonders how long it had been that way and whether any deed on her part could have made a difference. She bites the thought down, the taste of street food mixed in her gullet. There was no way it would change anything.

The final stop brought her to the reason for the escapade: kite repair supplies, assorted essentials, and whatever else might catch her eye that related to this hobby, one that had become a lifeline. Perhaps Spike could muck around with.

“There’s one with your colors!” Starlight beams genuinely, and with effort, to lighten the mood. There's a basket holding discounted kites, and it so happens to have patterns of oddly familiar palettes that would rightfully be owned in coordination.

Spike doesn't answer right away, but looks as though a light bulb has gone off in his head, a choice reflected in a purple, sparkly design that matched somepony else. He hands it to her and flicks three final bits onto the counter. “I need to take these ingredients back home. I’ll catch up with you afterward.”

With newfound pride, Spike marches off, his silhouette fading into the teeming crowd.

A dragon's nerve is unmatched.