A fire in his heart

by basalisk120


Chapter 5

“Oh, you poor baby…” Fleetfoot soothed, stroking the yellow mare’s mane gently. “It’s been a tough evening, hasn’t it?”

Spitfire nodded sullenly in return, leaning on her smaller friend and sniffing. She wrinkled her muzzle a little, touching her bruised face lightly. Sniffing hurt. “It’s been awful…” She moaned foalishly.

“Shh, shh…” Fleetfoot soothed, wiping Spitfire’s eyes. “It’s alright… You’ll get better in no time…”

Spitfire shook her head, pulling away from her friend’s gentle forehoof. “No I won’t!” She nearly cried, pushing Fleet’s smaller blue hoof away with her own. “What I did was awful…”

“Look, it wasn’t that bad…” the blue mare said softly. Or lied, rather. “All you did was kiss him…”

“In his sleep!” She cried again, looking at her white-maned friend. Tears started to well in her eyes again. “That’s messed up!”

“Look, Spit… No it’s-”

“You’re going to tell me there’s nothing wrong with that?” Spitfire asked softly, looking her friend dead in the eye. “You’re going to tell me there’s nothing wrong with… molesting my wingpony in his sleep?”

Fleetfoot stared straight back at her, using that exact same mysterious courage that only seemed to exist between her and Spitfire. “No. No, I’m not going to say there’s nothing wrong with that… But you didn’t molest him. You were drunk, and not in your right mind.”

“That doesn’t make things any better.”

“Well, no, but… At least he was asleep, in a way. He won’t remember any of this.”

“But I will!” Spitfire sobbed, slumping onto her friend’s shoulder. “How can I look him in the eye knowing I did that to him?”
“Knowing how you did what? You both got a good time out of it, from what you said. Maybe it’s what you both needed?”

Spitfire sighed softly, feeling empty. “Fleet, do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”

“Hey!” She returned indignantly, pushing her away slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, it’s pretty clear to me that you’re just making this up as you go along,” she said irritably. “How could that be what either of us need? It’s ruined me, and it’ll ruin him too, if he finds out!”

Pouting, the speedy little wonderbolt shook her by the shoulders. Still drunk, the yellow mare almost overbalanced.
“Listen here, captain. I’m just trying to help you out here, and the attitude isn’t helping. Now, you can either go back to your room and drink yourself to sleep, or you can try listening to me.”

“But you don’t know what you’re talking about!” Spitfire cried despairingly.

“And you do?” Fleetfoot replied angrily, her knowledge called into question. For a wonderbolt, Fleetfoot was a seasoned expert at holding down relationships. For a wonderbolt. “Have you ever had a stable relationship before, Spit? Come to think of it, have you ever had a relationship before at all?”

That shut her up. It was safe to say that she hadn’t, or at least it was safe to say that she had never had a relationship that wasn’t driven by sex.
“I-I… Well…” She stuttered, trying to work up to a decent retort.

“You what, Spit?” She asked, her expression softening. Her sudden change in attitude crushed Spitfire’s response straight into the floor. That was the thing that she had discovered about her tiny blue sister-in-feathers – if anypony could really get up her nose and then get immediate forgiveness, it was Fleetfoot.

“Nothing, Fleet.” She mumbled, hanging her head like a naughty schoolfilly being told off by a teacher. “I’ve never had a proper coltfriend…”

“I know, dear… But that’s not a bad thing!” She replied comfortingly, rubbing Spitfire’s back and holding her close to her chest. Something else she was learning about her white-maned friend – she was very good at hugging. “You were just… Keeping yourself.”

“Keeping myself?” She said, from the warm, comforting softness of Fleetfoot’s shoulder. “For what? I’ve had more colts than you’ve had hot dinners…”
“Don’t remind me.” Fleet grumbled, in a
manner that actually surprised Spitfire. She sounded almost… bitter. Jealous? She found it pretty unlikely. She was the one with the coltfriend that Spitfire wasn’t allowed to talk about. “But… That’s different. You’re just… Passionate?” She said delicately.

Yeah, that’s one word. She thought to herself, reviewing her lifestyle with a harsh eye. Sure, it seemed pretty fun at the time, but it felt… Dirty, and pretty horrible, looking back on it.

“In any case, I think you have trouble with… Emotional attachment.”

“What do you mean?” Spitfire asked, pulling her muzzle free of her friend’s chest and staring up at her.

“Well…” Fleet took her hoof away from Spitfire’s back, rubbing her neck awkwardly. “You never… Make an effort to get close to anypony. B-besides me, of course. And well, every time somepony tries, you…”

“I what?” Spitfire said suspiciously. As delicately as Fleet was clearly trying to put her words, it was still pretty obvious that it was a criticism at least, or an insult at worst. What did she mean, didn’t make an effort? She made plenty effort. Even if she… Wasn’t the sweetest of mares. Or particularly pleasant at all, come to think of it.

“You… Try to drive them away, Spit. Haven’t you ever noticed?”

“I do not!” She fumed, pushing Fleet back to foreleg’s length. “How dare you!” That was just straight up rude. How could she accuse her of that? She didn’t know anything. And besides, who else actually tried to get close to her? That was just out of order. If she had known that this was what she would be getting out of Fleet, it would have been a better idea to just go back to her own room.

“L-look, okay, that was mean of me, but… Ask yourself: How do you act around ponies that are close to you? I mean… How do you act around… Soarin?”

Spitfire opened her mouth, ready again for a sharp retort. She’d tell her the truth, she’d set her straight. She’d sobered up enough for that. She’d tell her just where to go. She’d tell that pale-mane the truth. That her and Soarin were nice as anything to each other… Why, whenever they were together, she would almost always… Tell him he was stupid, or make excuses, or avoid personal questions… The dark voice in the back of her mind reminded her. She realised that the voice was probably her conscience, it was just bitter that it had been ignored for the last few years.

Honestly, these last two days are the nicest you’ve ever been to him, and that’s saying something. If he wasn’t so darn star-struck and slow-witted, he’d have left you for any one of a million more loving ponies by now. It’s not like he wouldn’t be able to find one. You aren’t nice enough to have Soarin, Spitfire. In the end, are you really nice enough for anypony who’ll treat you right?

Her ears flopped to the sides of her head, defeated. Slowly, dejectedly, and not meeting her friend’s gaze, she closed her mouth and slumped down onto the bed. With a saddened, half-drunken whimper, she crossed her forehooves over her eyes and sobbed quietly. Now seemed like just the right time for a jolly good cry.

Like the mother she’d never had, Fleetfoot was there in an instant, curling up around the sobbing yellow mare and sliding her forelegs around her captain’s, closing them tightly over her back and drawing her into a warm hug.
“There there…” She soothed, patting the tearful Spitfire’s shoulder gently. “Let it out…”

And, for at least a full fifteen minutes, she did. She held her blue-coated friend tightly to her chest in about the most un-Spitfire way imaginable, letting out all the stresses and the strains of a pretty uncomfortable pair of days in a stream of hot, wet tears that felt as big as golf balls as they rolled slowly down her cheeks and over her muzzle, dripping off her nose and onto the soft, rich duvet.

“I’m a complete bitch, aren’t I?” She asked, sniffing quietly and wiping her nose with upmost care.

“Yeah… Yeah you are, Spit…” Fleet said, cracking a small smile. “But… You mean well. And you’re our bitch, after all. We wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“I bet I know somepony who would…” She muttered sullenly.

“He likes you for who you are, Spit… But maybe you could try being at least a little nicer to him. He’s always so forgiving of your… shortcomings, after all.”

“Shortcomings?” Spitfire asked incredulously, sniffing gently again with a wince.

“Well, I could have said ‘rampant bitchiness’, but I’m trying to be comforting here…”

“Thanks, you’re doing a great job.” Spitfire shot back, sarcastically. It was too much a part of her nature to stop so easily.

“Hey hey, less of that.” Fleet said, poking her side lightly. In return, Spitfire squirmed and rolled away from her.

“Alright, I’ll be good…” Spitfire grumbled.

“Good.” Fleetfoot said, nodding appreciatively. “Now that you’re being cooperative, how about we try fixing this mess?”
“I think that’d be nice, Fleet. What do you want me to do?” Spitfire asked, struggling to sit up.

“Atta girl. Now, what do you want to come out of this?” Fleet asked, sitting up and scooting over to her, helping to keep her steady.

That seemed to be a pretty stupid question to Spitfire, but for the sake of trying to improve herself, she played along. “I… I just want this whole sorry business to be over.” She said, frowning and pushing Fleet’s helping hooves away. She could keep herself up, thank you very much.

“What, you just want everything to be the same as it used to be?” Fleet asked, frowning and cocking her head to one side. She stared long and hard into Spitfire’s eyes, as if reading her mind.

“Well, of cours-” She began, before losing her words. She paused.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything else out of this?” Fleetfoot pressed, narrowing her eyes.
“I… Well…”

“Or is there a certain somepony you’d rather be a little closer to?”

Spitfire could feel her cheeks starting to go red, and the tips of her ears began to get rather hot.
“W-well, maybe-”

“Or perhaps a lot closer?” Fleet asked with a sly little smile.
Feeling rather hot and a little claustrophobic under her friend’s gaze all of a sudden, she did the only thing that came naturally.

“I-I don’t know!” She cried. “Maybe? How are you supposed to know anyway?” She growled irritably.

“What, how you know if you’ve fallen for him?” Fleet asked, ignoring her outburst. She stared at her innocently, as if it were the easiest question in the world, and it was only their friendship that kept her from smirking.

“That’s what I’m asking.” Spitfire growled, trying to calm herself down. She knew she was overreacting, but she still felt pretty emotionally tender at the moment.

“It’s… Easy, surely. How do you feel around him?”

“What, in general, or recently?” Spitfire asked, forcing herself to relax a little.

“Recently, dummy.” Fleet replied, wiping one of Spitfire’s cheeks.

“Well… Weird? I dunno. He’s all… Strange around me, now.”

“How you feel, Spit. Focus, please.” She said in return, wiping her other cheek dry.

“I-I don’t know! Nervous? Like… the last hour before a show nervous, you know?” Of course Fleet knew. She was just as insecure as the rest of them, if not more so. Being the best fliers in the known world was one thing, but proving it on a regular basis was another story altogether.

“Really? That bad?” Fleet asked, frowning sympathetically.

“Well, not that strong, maybe, but the same feeling…”

“Right, okay.” The smaller mare replied in an analytical tone. “Go on…”

“He makes me feel… Self-conscious, and… Weird. But I don’t know if that’s what love’s like, Fleet. I… I’ve not really experienced it before…”

Apparently fearing another breakdown, Fleet scooted over next to her on the huge purple bed, wrapping her wing around her shoulders lightly. “Hey, it’s okay… Love’s a strange one… And besides, it feels different for everypony.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right…” She mumbled, looking down at the embroidered duvet. “But… You didn’t answer my question. Am I in love?”

“Well…” Fleet looked away nervously, looking for the right words. “It’s hard to say. I mean-”

“You mean you don’t know?” Spitfire said flatly, frowning at her.

“I… No. Not really. I mean, it’s too hard to tell from just what you’re saying.”

“Well, thanks for the advice, Casanova.” She said, the words slipping out before she could bite them back. “I feel so much better already.”

“Hey look, please don’t be that way…” Fleet said, looking genuinely hurt. “Really… This should probably be something you find out yourself. In your own time, too.”

“And how long might that take?” Spitfire asked. The way things were going, the longer it took, the less sane she would be when she came out the other side. Especially given that their stay in Canterlot would soon be coming to an end.

“That’s the point of ‘in your own time’, Spit. These things always take as long as they need to.” She said gently, rubbing Spitfire’s shoulder with her wing.

“But that could be ages…” She whined, leaning on her soft, blue friend.

“It might be, Spit. I guess you’ll just have to find out…” She replied mysteriously, like some sort of prophet. Frankly, Spitfire had had enough of her friend-turned-guru for one night.

“Well… I guess you’re right…” Spitfire admitted reluctantly, stretching out her back like a cat. “But sitting here isn’t doing much for me…”

“What… What do you mean, Spit?” Fleetfoot asked worriedly, following her across the bed as she slid to the edge, hopping off gracelessly and stumbling to her hooves.

“Well… I don’t know about you, but… I’ve had a couple to drink, and a pretty eventful evening, and it’s taken it out of me…”
“You’re… Gonna go to bed?” Fleet asked quietly.

“Yeah, I’m knackered…” Spitfire grumbled in response, stretching out a kink in her right wing.

“Are you sure? You can use my bed if you need to…” Fleet said kindly, if a little overbearingly.

“No, really, it’s fine…” She waved her friend away dismissively. “I’m just going straight to bed…”

“Straight to bed?” Fleet asked, circling round to stand in front of her, one eyebrow raised. “You’re not going to see anypony, are you?”

Spitfire sighed gently, before giving her wingpony as soft a smile as she was able. “If by that you mean Soarin, then count me out. He’s caused me enough problems for one night, and he’s still asleep.”

“Well, alright. Are you sure you don’t need a little company? You could stay here for the night…” The silver-maned pony asked, patting the bed lightly. Honestly, if anything, Spitfire just wanted some alone time.

“Sorry Fleet, but I think I need a little bit of time to just crash and think things over…” Spitfire said truthfully, stifling a small yawn. Fatigue had suddenly started creeping up on her with alarming speed. Her bed was looking more inviting than it had done in a long time.

Fleetfoot pulled her back into a final hug, wrapping her foreleg gently around Spitfire’s neck and resting her head against her cheek.

“Okay, dear.” She murmured softly, in a tone that Spitfire could only guess was ‘motherly’. “I’m sorry all this had to happen to you…”

“Ah, it’s okay, Fleet.” Said Spitfire, who hadn’t really got the hang of a tender heart-to-heart yet. “It’ll work out eventually, I suppose.”

“Atta girl.” She said again, giving the bruised yellow mare one last squeeze, before releasing her. “You go and get a good night’s sleep, you hear?”

“I’ll do my best, mum…” Spitfire muttered, cracking a small smile at her blue-coated friend. She rolled her eyes in response, giving her a light cuff on the head.

“Less of that lip, kiddo.” She said, in a mockery of a stern tone.

Spitfire chuckled, and made her way toward the door, her limbs finally complying with her thoughts.
“Oh, and one more thing, Fleet.” Spitfire said, turning as she reached the door. “None of this ever happened, by the way. Just so as you know.”

“Not a word, boss.” Fleet replied, drawing her hoof across her mouth, then lifting it into a salute.

Spitfire nodded in reply, smiling, before opening the door and stepping into the cool air of the hallway.
It was about quarter past midnight by this point, so it came as no surprise to her when she found herself alone. In fact, it was a relief.

With a great, weary sigh that seemed to transcend mortal lungs, she deflated and slumped against the wall, splaying her hind legs out in front of her and sitting down with her forelegs resting by her sides. An utterly graceless and revealing position to be in, but in the solitude of the hallway and the alcohol still in her blood, it didn’t really bother her too much.
She lifted her forehooves, massaging her temples gently and reviewing her ugly predicament. Honestly, things probably wouldn’t be nearly so bad as they were if it wasn’t for her own indecision – indeed, although he hadn’t acted on it, at least Soarin knew exactly what he wanted. She on the other hoof… Really didn’t. It didn’t help that she really didn’t know what love was supposed to feel like, or how it was supposed to manifest itself.

And then, there were the conflicting signals in her own head. A huge part of her still wanted to go and slap another kiss on those… Stupid, happy-go-lucky lips of his. And then there was the part that was sure that she might run away if confronted by him again. What was that supposed to mean? She clenched her eyes shut angrily.

Gah, I can’t think straight tonight. She grumbled internally. I’m still way too drunk. Best I can do is… Get myself to bed, and see how I feel in the morning. That’s what they always say, isn’t it? Sleep on it…

She sighed again, although without as much vigour as last time, slowly dragging her eyes open and staring blankly out into space for a moment, enjoying the quiet. Then, fearing that Fleet might come to check up on her, she scrambled back to her hooves as quietly as she could, pushing herself upright by kicking against the floor and sliding up the wall.

Risking another quick glance at the closed door to her friend’s room, she made her way down the hall, rounding the corner and heading for her room.

Honestly, as much as she didn’t want to admit it before, now that she was alone, she could confess that… As bad as it had been to kiss him in his sleep like that… She really wanted to do it again. After all, he would be asleep the whole time, so she could finally kiss him with utter freedom… After all, only she would ever know, and it wasn’t like she’d ever tell anypony.

My naughty little secret… She mused to herself, trotting straight past her open door. After all… I could keep kissing him all night… All night every night if I want… So long as he doesn’t wake up, I can do what I like…
These thoughts in mind, she drifted happily straight to Soarin’s doorway, and was lifting her hoof to open the door when her thoughts suddenly turned sour.

Sweet Celestia, Spitfire, what the hell is wrong with you? She thought, aghast, dropping her hoof and stepping away from the door like it was made of snakes. That’s disgusting! Taking advantage of him once was bad enough, but… Again and again? You’re sick, Spitfire. She accused herself, tasting imaginary bile in her throat. She could have retched.

Shaking herself to try and free her of such dark thoughts, she trotted shakily away from the unwitting stallion’s room, heading for her own door as fast as she could without breaking into a gallop.

Breathing heavily, she blundered into her own room, pushing the door shut behind herself and pulling the latch across, as if that would shut out the dirty thoughts she had been entertaining.

Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the door, panting heavily and squeezing a tiny pair of tears from the corner of her eyes.

What’s wrong with me? She thought, genuinely a little afraid. I never used to be like this… Why would I want to do that to my friend? Am I really that sick-minded?
Then, slowly, a thought started to trickle into her mind, a realisation.
Is it because… I’m too scared to just talk to him about it? Is that really all that it is? I guess I’m still drunk, so I could just be feeling particularly-

“Well hello there…” A smooth, masculine voice rolled out through the room softly, in what was clearly intended as a warm, inviting tone.

Her eyes cracked open.

Soarin? A part of her brain cried, and her heart leapt into her mouth. Partly due to hope, but mostly through the sheer surprise of having somepony in her room.

But it couldn’t have been Soarin. That was just stupid. For a start, it didn’t sound anything like the bumbling stallion, nor was there any way that he would be awake. For as good at flying as he was, he was just as good at sleeping, and nothing that she could have done to him would have woken him.

“Who’s there?” She asked, doing her best to sound tough and fierce… Like she was supposed to sound. “And what the hay are you doing in my room?”

She turned slowly, as if afraid by what might confront her.

Suddenly, she saw a shape move in the darkness, stepping away from the bed and gliding toward her. She could faintly hear hoofsteps sinking into the thick carpet.

“Names don’t matter, ma’am…” The somewhat suave voice said, getting closer. “Let’s just say that I’m… an admirer.”
Names don’t matter? I don’t care who this guy is, but he’s dead wrong. She thought, taking a defiant step away from the door.
“Yeah, and I’m Princess Celestia herself.” She growled, glaring at the blurry black shape moving toward her. “Give me a name.”

“Like I said… My name doesn’t matter…” The mysterious stallion continued, coming to a stop a few feet from her. Spitfire strongly doubted that he could see her glare in the darkness, or he would probably be standing further away. Clearly, he liked the mystery, but Spitfire was having none of it.

“Oh for the love of Equestria…” She grumbled, stepping to the left and reaching out with her hoof, flicking on the light switch. And not on ‘mood lighting’ this time, either.

Immediately, light flooded into the room, and Spitfire had to squint to see while her eyes adjusted. The mystery stallion, on the other hoof, didn’t fare so well. One of the lights was positioned just above the door, and it had apparently caught him right in the face, because he recoiled, raising a hoof to his watering eyes.

He wasn’t a huge colt, but he was taller than Spitfire was. Probably about Soarin’s size, maybe a touch bigger. His coat was a rich orange, and his mane was white, with a single stripe the same colour as his coat. He was a pegasus too, his wings flared in irritation. While he was still distracted, Spitfire sized him up. If he wanted trouble, she reckoned she could probably take him, full as she was with liquid courage.

“Gah, damn, woman! Give me some warning, please!” The stallion growled, rubbing his eyes.

“Now why the hell should I do that?” She shot back, her glare returning. “What do you think you’re doing in my room?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” The orange stallion asked, lowering his hoof to look at her.

“Apparently not.” She growled in reply. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Well, you told me to come see you sometime… The night before your show the other day?”

Oh no… “I did? I don’t remember that…” She said evasively, trying to dismiss the whole event and get him out of her room as quickly as possible. She didn’t like where this was heading.

“That’s a real shame, because you did…” The irritating stallion said in his soft, smooth voice that was starting to get on Spitfire’s nerves. “And I intend to cash in on that check, so to speak.”

Spitfire desperately wanted to be sick, and for a variety of reasons. But none of those reasons were stronger at this current moment than her repulsion toward this stallion. He had come for one thing, and he’d made it pretty clear what that was.

“Sorry, kid. Bank’s closed tonight.” She growled, reaching back and pulling open the door. “Come back on the twelfth of never.”

“Hey!” The stallion said, glaring right back, stomping irritably. It put Spitfire in mind of a foal having a tantrum. “You invited me down here, you can’t just backtrack on me!”

“A mare’s allowed to change her mind, champ. Now scram.” She said firmly, trying to keep her temper in check. Trouble was, it was rather difficult, given her blood/alcohol concentration and the fact that her emotional well-being had been spread out as thin as a wire.

“No.” The stallion replied, huffing. Now, he was definitely like a petulant foal who couldn’t get his own way. “I’m not going anywhere without getting what I came for.”

“Look, could you please just go? I’m sure as hell not in the mood tonight, and I don’t want things to get… Complicated.” She did her best to imply that ‘complicated’ meant ‘painful’.

“Aww, come on… I’ve seen how much you’ve been drinking…” The persistent stallion said softly, stalking toward her slowly like some sort of predator. “You could just pretend I’m somepony else…”

Now that was tempting. He is about the same size as Soarin, so I assume he would probably be proportionately accurate, if I had to guess… He’s a pegasus too, so that would hel-
“That’s just messed up, kid.” She interrupted herself, feeling her face start to get a little hot. “Now get out, before you do something you’re gonna regret.” Normally, she could handle herself around even the creepiest of propositions, but she felt unusually vulnerable and tender and her chest felt a little tight.

“Oh, don’t worry…” The stallion breathed, a few inches from her face. Briefly, the fire-maned mare wondered if she acted like this often. She desperately hoped she didn’t. “I’m not going to regret any of this…” He continued, stepping even closer.

To her surprise, she felt herself stumbling backward, just to stay away from him. She felt… Strange, like she had lost her flame. She wanted to shout and get mad, and possibly kick him in the face or something, give him a bruise that would last a while. But instead, all her body could think of doing was to try and hide somewhere, possibly even seeking refuge in the hooves of somepony else.

Very un-Spitfire.

“Look, come on… Don’t run. One night, that’s all I ask.” The grotesque stallion continued, pressing forward. Spitfire had a strong feeling that the old Spitfire might well have killed him by now. She rather wanted to be the old Spitfire again.
“And I said no.” She growled, still trying to keep up the act of ferocious defiance.

“Well then, I’m sorry, darling…” He said, putting his hoof firmly on her shoulder and leaning in close, cutting off her access to the door. “Because I’m not taking no for an answer…”

She gulped, a cold sweat running down the back of her neck as she tried to back away yet further, but something firm and solid hit her in the back of her hoof, and her tail pressed up against something large. The cold sweat only increased, and her eyes widened with fear and surprise. The colt must have noticed it, because a wicked little smile overtook his features, and he lifted his hoof to her chin, trying to stroke the soft fur of her face.

Disgusted, Spitfire turned her head away from his hoof, and therefore the door, closing the eye nearest to him in revulsion. She tried to back further away, despite the obstruction behind her, desperate to simply lash out and strike the colt. He had gone from a reasonable attempt at suave to a frankly terrifying shade of rapist in a bewilderingly short space of time. Time being something she felt she was fast running out of.

To her surprise, the obstacle behind her moved slightly, and she heard something wobble behind her, like porcelain nearly overbalancing.

Apparently, she hadn’t backed into a wall.

She turned her whole body away from his now, and he pursued, dropping his hoof and brushing his muzzle against her cheek. He might have licked her as well, but she wasn’t about to ask him. Whatever it was that she had walked into was now on her left, and she risked taking her eyes away from the predatory stallion just long enough to glance over at it.
It was an occasional table, exquisitely carved out of wood and placed against the wall. The wobble she had heard came from a tall, blue china vase that had been placed on top for decorative reasons, a bunch of light blue flowers placed inside. She wasn’t a florist, she had no idea what they were.

Then he tried to kiss her. She recoiled away from him, but he still caught the side of her mouth, his lips puckering revoltingly against her own. Compared to the sweet softness of Soarin’s lips, what he had just done to her shouldn’t even have counted as a kiss. She pulled away from him, and her eyes met the vase once again.

In the time that it had taken for her to formulate the idea in her mind, the normal Spitfire was back, and had darted to the left, grabbed the vase, and lifted it high into the air. By the time the stallion knew what was happening, it was far too late for him, and Spitfire didn’t care.

With all her might, she brought the vase down on his head – hard. With an almighty crash, the vase simply exploded over the stallion’s skull, sending water, bits of vegetation and shards of porcelain everywhere. Under ordinary circumstances, Spitfire might have worried that somepony had heard the vase, but the adrenaline was pumping now, and she wouldn’t have cared even if the thought had occurred to her.

Like a sack of potatoes, the stallion crumpled to the floor with an ominous thud. It had happened too quickly for him to even cry out.

Spitfire stared blankly down at him, panting heavily, her heart thumping as she dropped what little was left of the vase. That was when she noticed the blood. There was a sizeable gash on the side of his head, and it was bleeding quite profusely. Even through her sudden panic, she could remember that head wounds always bled a lot from her vague medical training as an athlete, but as the stallion was either unconscious or dead, the fact suddenly seemed rather trivial in her mind. Without a second thought, she leapt over his body, sprinting out of her door and galloping left.

In the days that followed, she might have told herself that it was because he was the closest pony she trusted, or that he was simply still on her mind from before. But deep down, she knew that it was because if there was one pony that she knew she could trust with a potential murder, it was the one colt who couldn’t say a word against her.

Soarin.