And Soarin steps in.
“We need to talk,” he says, walking further into the room, and sits down on my bed, back stiff. The smile is gone – it’s gone from his eyes, his tone, and his lips.
I see what he did there. I see it, alright. Walking into the room without asking? Sitting down, instead of standing – specifically, sitting down on my bed? He wants to establish who’s the ‘boss’ here. Who’s in charge here.
It tugs my heart, the littlest bit. I just want to be okay, I just want us to be okay. But I don’t know if I can trust him yet. So. Right. Collection and composure are my friends. Discreetly, I straighten to my full height, lifting my chin, forcing an edge to my eyes. With this form comes instinct. Instinct tells me to clamp my wings tight. So I do. I don’t mind – it probably just adds to the image anyway. “So talk.” I spit it out, like a challenge. There we go, Dash. Get yourself back.
Soarin nods, nice and curt. He’s playing my game, or trying to. I see it. I see it all. “Come sit?” He tips his head to the space next to him, patting it gently, with a forehoof.
I hesitate – no, I pause. Hesitating is a weakness. It could get you killed. Pausing? Pausing shows thought. Cautiousness. Then, with a solid pace, I move to the bed, and hop up. But I scoot farther away; not in the space right next to him. Boundaries. Boundaries are good.
“Dash,” Soarin starts. His mouth opens, then closes, but no sound comes out. So, he didn’t have a speech prepared. I guess that’s good. He inhales, closing his eyes. He trusts me not to attack, then. Was it on purpose, to show that ‘trust’? Did he mean to show me trust, and… almost dare me to betray it? Or was it genuine? “I’m here for you, you know that?” He looks down; he’s not looking at me.
“Yeah.” I bite, almost sarcastically. Got to be strong. Stay strong.
“I’m serious,” Soarin answers, tone limp. “I want to help you, and I wish I could. But every time I try, you turn away. It’s like… it’s like you don’t want to be helped.”
I open my mouth, ready to stay something. But Soarin holds his hoof up, still not looking at me.
“Don’t deny it, Dash,” his tone drops, almost as though he had sighed. “You close up, whenever you start to open. And I get that you’ve only been home for, like, barely a month. You’re allowed to… be like this. But, Dashie, you don’t have to feel like this. You don’t have to hurt.” His tone drops to a liquid gentle, at the end. It’s a tone not many ponies get to hear. It’s his Soarin-tone, not his… not his co-captain-of-the-Wonderbolts-tone.
“My name’s not Dashie,” I whisper, voice cracking. No! No! You’re getting weak again, Dash, that’s not okay! I clear my throat. But… but Dashie… he still cares…
“Dashie’s in there,” Soarin’s voice drops as low as my own, cracking just as much. “I wish I could find her. More than anything.” He sounds… almost angry, now. At me? At himself? Aargh, I can do reading pony behavior, but I can’t do emotions.
“She wants to be found,” I whisper, tone so low, even I can only barely hear it. But as I say it, I realize… I realize that it’s true. Somewhat. Just a little.
Dashie was the mare who loved her friends. She loved her coltfriend, she loved her wings, and she loved the sky – they were the best things in her life. They were her life. She went to Wonderbolt training every morning, where she joked and laughed with her teammates. Her captain drove her into the ground, pushing her to the limit. And she loved every moment. Her life was good – she was living the life she always dreamed of.
Dash – Rainbow Dash – is a mare who went to war one day, and after three years, returned with too many terrible, terrible stories. She doesn’t know how to love, she doesn’t know how to be happy, and she doesn’t want to know the air, anymore. She is the reason her coltfriend took a leave from the Wonderbolts – which was his dream just as much as hers. Her captain – arguably the toughest mare in Equestria – doesn’t even dare raise her voice around this new mare.
“Would you let me find her?” Soarin speaks up again, after a silent, heavy moment. He sounds… almost timid. But, at the same time, he’s sure of himself. He’s asking me to trust him. He’s asking me to open up to him, to let him into the shell I locked tight.
I have to answer. Need to answer – he needs me to answer, I can tell. I don’t know what to say, though. I hate it. I can retort easily, around other ponies. I can easily make them fear me; make them respect me, with just a few harsh, perfectly-timed words.
But with Soarin? I can’t. He still knows the old half of me so well. And it’s helping him get to the new me. It scares me – I can’t hide from him. I want to, desperately, desperately want to, believe it’s comforting, just as much as it is terrifying. Here is somepony who cares enough to know me. Here is somepony who’s offering; giving himself, willingly, at that, to me.
“It’s okay, Dash,” Soarin whispers. I look up – I hadn’t realized I was looking down. Not a good sign, Dash. Get yourself back, and FAST! I bite my lip, hard. I taste copper. “Everything is okay.”
He touches me. Before I know what’s happening, his hoof is on my shoulder, just… just steady. Steady, and there, and strong. When I look even further up, I see the tears. He’s not quite crying – no, he’s far too graceful for that – but his eyes are wet. Wet, and dark. Dark, and… loving. He really cares.
“How do you know?” I answer. I don’t even bother trying to stay strong. He sees right through me anyway, as though I’m just a window – I should stop pretending he doesn’t.
Soarin doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves even closer, so he sits right next to me, facing the same direction I’m facing. But he does it hesitantly. He’s not so sure of himself anymore, I see. But I only think it dryly. I have no reason to use that hesitation right now.
And then his hoof is wrapped around my shoulders. Not suffocating me. Not grasping too tight. Not with hidden intentions. Not forcing me to return it. Just embracing me; just Soarin being Soarin.
I can smell the mint, and the clouds, and the winds. They’re plastered into him. They are him. I can feel how strong he really is, and how he’s literally holding back all that strength, that power, that energy. I can hear his breathing. It’s quiet, but catching. He’s holding back little cries. Because he’s Soarin, and Soarin rarely cries in front of ponies. I can see his pale coat, glistening from years of careful tending. I can see his dark mane; the gel is coming undone. A few tendrils of hair are starting to hang down, into his face. I might have made play with it, way back when. It would have been a cute moment.
I can still taste the blood, from biting into my lip.
Dashie, he’s right there. He’s here for you, why can’t you see that?
Dash. Snap. Out. Of. It. You can’t trust. It’s not safe.
But, Dashie… you want to. You want to be a mare again, don’t you?
No, Dash! You don’t! You might get yourself killed, just like-
Not important, Dashie. What’s important is the here, and the now. Nopony’s getting killed.
But-
All is well, Dashie. It’s okay. See? Even Soarin said so. It’s okay. All is well.
I hadn’t realized how tired I really am. But now, all the exhaustion rushes into me. I don’t think I could sit up if I tried. I go limp; muscles and joints just… collapsing. I lean into Soarin, and Soarin leans into me, his own shoulder tensing, to hold our combined weight.
And we just stay. In that position, together. We stay still.