“So, rough guesstimate, we clocked in at fifty-five minutes. Clipper keeps saying it’s a full hour, but my gut says fifty-five, and I’ve known my gut longer.” Fleetfoot stretches over the end table to snag a petal from the get-well-soon bouquet. Carnations. Gross.
Silver Lining’s family put him in one of those fancy recovery centers that want to pretend it’s not a hospital. The kind with therapeutic transcendental dressage in the mornings, sage growing in the walls, and haiku readings. There’s literally a creek running through the room. You’d think they’d get him something tastier than carnations. Fleetfoot sneaks some petals from Brights Brightly’s get-well sunflowers instead.
Lining sits up against the mandala pillows, trying to get a comfortable position for the splinted wing. “Not bad. Sounds like you guys made awesome time.”
“Sure, except for the part where it was supposed to last an hour and a half. Lucky us that Cloudsdale knows how to hustle. Our time was garbage.” Fleet blows a stray lock of mane out of her face with a half-smile she fails to hide.
“But—” He points two primary feathers and winks. “Garbage that worked. And hey, look on the bright side—”
“Whining, I swear, you say that to me one more time and I’m gonna break your other wing.”
“I’d like to see you try.” The loose wing folds in anyway. “I don’t know who you’re calling Whining. I’m not the one who cried.” The stallion’s got enough smug to fill a Canterlot cotillion. He clutches both hooves to his chest like that mare from Hinny of the Hills. “Noooo Thilver Lining, the Wonderbolth can’t looth you! Pleath don’t die!”
Fleetfoot perches on the headboard so she can glare at him from higher ground. “That’s nothing close to what I said, and all that trauma must’ve got you seeing things, Whining, because I did not cry. The wind got in my eyes when I wasn’t wearing my goggles.”
“Sure. It’th all the wind and the goggleth.”
“And my lisp is not that bad!”
“Whatever helpth you thleep at ni—hey!” A macaron bounces off his nose. “Those are five bits apiece, you know.”
“Seriously?” Fleetfoot sniffs at the box of little blue and yellow confections. Soarin could fit, like, ten of these in his mouth at once and barely need to chew.
“Anyway, you got fifty more minutes than I did, and didn’t break anything to do it.” He waves his leg cast in case Fleetfoot’s forgotten about it. “Cloudsdale’s fine, a princess shot a bunch of lasers in Tirek’s face, and nopony died. Cheer up, Flatfoot, that’s what we call a win.”
Fleetfoot’s tail snaps against the headboard. “Still a half-hour less than it should’ve been…”
“Said the mare who punched a Tartarus convict in the eye and flew away without a scratch. Good job not dying out there.”
“Heh. That part was pretty sweet.” The burn scar snaking down her haunch is a lot more than a scratch, but whatever. “Good job not dying, too. I mean, we need somepony flying in back, and who else is gonna talk to all the high-class snobs for us? High Winds? She almost started an international incident last time she tried.”
Lining winces at the thought. “Yeah, I think that was a more than almost…”
“Plus, now you can do something for me.”
“What’s that?” An autograph book plops into Silver Lining’s lap. He blinks at it, then up at Fleetfoot.
“I had it hanging around.” Fleetfoot shrugs her wings and helps herself to the macaron. “Figured I might as well start filling it up.”