Most anyone when asked would tell you the worst part of any stay-over trip ⎯ regardless of length ⎯ is the lugging of suitcases. Lug them from the house to the car, from the car to the hotel, from the hotel to the car, from the car to the house... All the more to be said if you introduce airplanes, stairs, or multiple bags. It’s a chore one would be hard-pressed to find someone enjoying it. But, it’s the part of the process everyone overlooks for the sake of the experience that lies in the space between.
Thankfully, said process was not so much an issue for Scootaloo, or rather Spitfire as she charged herself with the duty of relocating her charge’s luggage. Up the flight, down the corridor pass two squarely shut doors, and into the first room on the left. While Scootaloo was beyond interested to see this room her luggage was ferried off to, Spitfire all but demanded with a sly word that she’d just have to wait while she got everything set up.
“Well if you look at it now while I’m still moving your stuff in, you won’t get that ‘wow’ moment, will you?” Spitfire had reasoned out. It made sense, perhaps. But, it certainly did nothing for Scootaloo’s mounting eagerness; as well as the dawning shades of exhaustion. Between the anticipation of arriving, the drive in, Soarin’s bouts of play, and Spitfire’s beyond comfortable sofa, Scootaloo was as tired as she was excited for more. Whatever ‘wow’ Spitfire had in mind when showing Scootaloo her room for the week would have to contend with the little one’s want for sleep.
Amidst one beat of sleep from her eyes, Scootaloo adjusted herself upright as she heard footfalls descending the stairs. With not a bag more to be seen waiting near the front door, there could only be one option remaining as the older woman rounded the bend.
“Right. Come on up,” Spitfire smiled, suppressing her own tiredness from this day.
One would think someone of such a petite stature wouldn’t have such heavy bags — especially for just a week’s visit. While reflecting and speculating on just what sort of luggage Scootaloo could have packed, Spitfire was nearly knocked aside as the very same girl scampered from sofa to stairs and up through the dim hall. When she heard the scampering shuffles come to an abrupt stop, Spitfire turned on her heels and started her own way up.
“First door on your left,” the call up seemed to be all that was stopping Scootaloo as the scampering immediately returned followed by the click of a handle.
Spitfire was nearly twice the girl’s size and favored long strides in her usual movements, but it seemed Scootaloo’s scampering would be something to beat given how quickly she managed her way into the room. When she did finally catch up, Scootaloo was standing in the center of the room taking it all in. For a moment, Spitfire looked over the room herself; while she took care to make sure it was ‘safe’, it did present itself much differently with its new occupant standing at its center.
When Dash helped set this entire affair up, one of Spitfire’s main concerns was that her home had only two bedrooms. The obvious answer would have been to just let Scootaloo stay in the guest room as she would be a guest, but the idea didn’t seem very… personable. Anyone could be a guest at any time, but this would be a most special occasion. Luckily, Dash herself had the solution: She and Scootaloo shared a deep adulation for the Wonderbolts Spitfire captained; so what better room to serve as a place of high honor for a special guest than the most honored space in Spitfire’s home?
It took some effort to move the guest bed into the trophy room, but Soarin had been all too eager to lend his captain a hand. Though Spitfire would have gladly argued she had the harder task of organizing and boxing up some of her accolades to give Scootaloo more space in the room — which was not much to say as beyond her own room and the living room, the trophy room was by far the biggest room. Even with the cabinets glimmering with silvers and golds, and shelves stacked with plaques and markers, the room was spacious and hosted a desk, nightstand, a set of bookcases stacked with varying books, and of course a bed fit for a king ⎯ or rather queen.
Spitfire may have argued it was a tad tacky to decorate a room with not only your own accomplishments but also the memorabilia of your job, but blue and gold was a good color scheme, and the ‘decorations’ were free. To her, it was a nice place to stow away one aspect of her life ⎯ loved though it was ⎯ to keep the rest of her life separate; but to a fan, it was a Wonderbolt wonderland.
“So…” Spitfire started as she hoped to break through Scootaloo’s awestruck stupor. “This’ll be your room to do with as you please while you’re here. You can do whatever you’d like, touch whatever you like and place your stuff wherever. I just ask that you don’t break anything and put anything back where you found it.” Scootaloo drifted across the room, perhaps only catching Spitfire’s words in a dull hum. “Bathroom’s just across the hall. I don’t know if you shower or take baths, but...”
As Spitfire trailed off with a satisfied chuckle, she started to take a closer note of Scootaloo. Despite her first inclination, it didn’t seem the room itself was what held the girl’s attention. Her touches were delicate as her small digits trailed over the edge of the sheets of the bed. From the foot to the head, Scootaloo ran her palm against the neatly tucked sheets and mattress. There was a certain tenderness to the way she touched it as Spitfire watched, a concern that perhaps if she touched too firmly the whole of it would sink away.
“Scootaloo, you alright?”
Maybe it was too much. A king-size bed for one pre-teen? Perhaps the Wonderbolt sheets and pillowcases were overboard. There was such a thing as overstimulation, and maybe it was too much at once even for a fan. The list of complications rattled through Spitfire’s head one after the other until a voice pulled her from her own mind.
“This is mine, right...?” Cheer was evident in the young woman’s voice, but the slight crack barely hidden within it nearly caused Spitfire to leap from her skin.
Spitfire couldn’t see the welling in Scootaloo’s eyes as she kept her back to her mentor-for-the-week, though the tremble in her tone told her everything she needed. For a moment Spitfire stood in the doorway unsure of what to say⎯what to do. “Yeah. Of course. Is that a⎯a problem?” Spitfire’s own sudden uncertainty rang true despite her wish to not give that away.
“Totally,” Scootaloo responded, “I’m just used to…” Her arms swiped across her face, letting small stains collect against her cuffs as she brought on a smile and said, “I’m used to sharing a room is all. So, it’s a real improvement.”
A pause saturated the air in that moment, still and impassable. A great deal urged Spitfire to step forward and comfort her charge, to set things on a more open path for the coming week. But the words reached no further than her head as she took a measured step back into the hallway, unsure if that was a boundary she had a right to cross just yet. “That’s… That’s great then. I’m sure you’ll really enjoy it in that case. If you need anything the rest of the night, just give a yell or come knock on my door. I’m sure we’re both pretty beat after today,” Spitfire managed her usual tone despite her mounting uncertainty. “Oh…! Uh… Door at the end of the hall. That’s… That’s my room. In case you didn’t… Know… Yeah.”
Scootaloo only listened as the door clicked shut and Spitfire’s footfalls drifted away down the stairwell. It took her a good while to finally take her hand from the bed and let her mind truly return to the moment. Her eyes scanned over the room with her head on a swivel; each and every trophy sparked in her a burst of the same realization: this was the trophy room. She could spend hours just eying up each medal, plaque, ribbon and otherwise⎯the scores of what she could only assume where scrapbooks or playbooks on the shelves. And she would… Just, maybe another night. Normally she’d get her pajamas out and really settle in, but maybe just for tonight she’d leave that all by the wayside and let herself crash.
There would be plenty of time to unpack: she had all week for that sort of boring stuff. For tonight, her ‘jammies would just have to be what she had on. The bed itself took her a bit of effort to actually get onto, all but having the crawl and tug herself up on.
Comfy… Scootaloo nearly clocked out at the first sensation of the mattress beneath her, but she held fast to her senses. If for no other reason but to send off a message before bed. The light of her cell phone lit up her face and oddly helped in lulling her evermore into slumber even as she rattled off a text.
Sleepy. But made it.
Sleepy too.
Don’t wake me.Sorry hah.
Want to give you an update.Thanks then.
Know what you’re gonna do tomorrow?I thought you were sleepy?
I’m up now.
So now you have to give me an answer.Fair.
She said we could go shopping for food I want.
And she said she was gonna wake me up with a guitar solo.:O
All I ever get woken up to is a chicken yelling in my ear.
Sounds fun.
A few more notifications sounded off one after the other, but those were messages that would wait until the morning to be answered. Out like a light and twice as fast was Scootaloo as her head matted against the pillow.
For a growing girl the kitchen was sparse of the ‘necessities’, but for an older and ‘refined’ woman, it had all one would ever need. If there was one thing to expect as a gift when you reach a certain prestige that everyone knows your name and would love to shmooze you up, it would always be vintage wines from all across the world; the older and harder to pronounce the more it showed you made it. While Spitfire wasn’t a hearty drinker like some close to her, she did fancy a glass in the most troubling times. Fortunately she had a dozen or so bottles unopened and had a bit of trouble to wash down this evening.
A red wine from the mayor for that charity show some years back. What was it called? Donkey Kick? Truly didn’t matter as it went down as smooth as anything else. When the glass clinked against the countertop, Spitfire noted just how quiet the house really was and moreso how it felt. Scootaloo must have passed out shortly after Spitfire retreated downstairs.
“Retreated sure is the word for it,” Spitfire mumbled before chasing the words down with another sip.
It was a great way to end the day: not knowing how to comfort a child when they clearly had something on their mind. It would be her place to say or do something, wouldn’t it? But who was she to go up and hold a kid she barely knows? The thoughts rattled around and battered at the back of her head, and no swig was dulling that. At least something so weak. Of course the mayor wouldn’t give anything hard.
But that still left the problem of her being left with her thoughts. In which case, as she flipped her phone out from her pocket and let it rest against the counter, she may as well not be left alone with them.
Question: Is it okay to give a stranger a hug if you know they’re going through something?
I like getting hugs.
What if it’s a stranger?
You’re not a stranger.
But what if I was?
Then how did you know my phone number, silly?
Hm
Okay.
Is it okay if YOU hug that lady who held Twilight at the bookstore?I don’t know her
That’d be weirdOkay so it’s weird, right?
But if she’s feeling bad, maybe she needs a hug.
Helpful.
I’ll think about it.No problem.
A lot to think about. But, those were thoughts for tomorrow; for the end of the bottle and her head squarely on a pillow. For now, she sat there watching the swill of the wine totter back and forth in the curve of her glass, leaving behind their legs here and there as it went. As restless as Spitfire was awake, she shared that same sensation with the slumbering soul elsewhere in the house. The rested rooms apart, but the silence held them both in their own sense of isolation; awake or otherwise.
“Tomorrow will be all about setting things on the right track. You’ll see. You’ll get it.”