//------------------------------//
// Chapter 5 
// Story: All In the Making 
// by Lapis-Lazuli and Stitch 
//------------------------------//


Chapter 5


Once again, the sweet scent of fresh apples overwhelms my nose before we even make the turn and see Sweet Apple Acres. “Do you ever get used to the smell?” I ask, only to add hastily, “Of apples I mean.” I mentally wipe my forehead. Context Fleetfoot. Context.

“Eenope,” Mac says, taking in a huge breath. “Can’t ‘fford to.”

“To help with picking time and… stuff?” I venture, hoping I don’t sound too much like a dunce. Farming is about as far away from competitive flying as Luna’s moon is from Equestria.

“Eeyup,” he replies with a shrug. “AJ’s better at readin’ it though.” He chuckles, and I feel myself smiling. “Don’ tell ‘er I said so. No need to give ‘er a reason ta call me ‘er workhorse.”

“Do I hear a little family competition?” I tease with a flick of my wing, forcing down the spike of nerves telling me I’m being too forward.

“Ain’t much of a competition,” Mac says, his chuckle becoming a hearty laugh that makes my spine tingle. “AJ’s hooves away tha best apple farmer the family’s had in generations.”

“She’s so modest about it…” I muse, turning my eyes back to the road. 

“Eeyup,” Macintosh says. The lull in our conversation is broken only by the incessant clatter of the cart behind Mac, and it goes on almost long enough that I go to interject to keep it from being awkward. Except, Mac beats me to it. My head is rushing with half-formed blurs of thoughts, because if I’m recalling right, this is the first time he’s initiated the conversation. “If ya don’ mind mah sayin’ Mi -” he coughs, but picks back up, “Fleetfoot, ya’ll’s pretty modest yerself. Ya ain’t mentioned flyin’ once today.”

“I - I… well…” I stutter then trail off, making a supreme effort to keep my wings glued to my sides. But my rapidly rising heart rate has to put that energy somewhere, and since pulling on my mane while walking is less than advisable, I shuffle my feathers with a small wiggle. A sigh escapes me. “It’s all anypony ever wants to talk to me about,” I say, trying to keep the mild frustration from coming out like straight resentment. “When I’m with the team, sure. It’s our job. We’d be a mess if we didn’t talk about it…”

“Ya’ll don’ like yer work?” Macintosh asks, and he sounds more curious than anything. I turn to look his way, and he’s eyeing me with something I think is concern. 

I can’t help but hold in the giggle, and it does the double good of getting a small smile out of him. “I love it,” I say simply. “But I love other things too, you know?”

“Eeyup,” Mac nods, and I get the feeling he’s not just saying that to agree with me.

“I’m not trying to sound like a whiny Canterlot celebrity… ughhh,” I shudder, “I’d just rather not have to take my head to work when I’m off.”

“So whats’it ya’ll like doin’ when ya ain’ flyin’?” he asks me just as we come to the farm’s gate. I pass on the question for a moment to trot ahead and get said gate for him. 

“Reading… er…” I start to rattle off only to cough briefly. It hasn’t been as bad today (probably because I haven’t had any in the last twenty-four hours, who’d have thought…), but that one hack flares up my desire to smoke. I push the need down with a shake of my head and swallow hard. “I like to read,” I repeat, more conscious of my scratchy voice… again. “Classics. Oh, and classical music too.”

“Mm,” Macintosh nods as he unhitches from the cart and makes his way toward the farmhouse, motioning for me to keep up and follow. A quiet giggle escapes under my breath before I trot up to his side and enter the Apple family house for the second time in as many days. “Y’all said ya like the classical music, so ya’ll know The Ice Queen?”

“Oooooo!” I squeal. Yes. Squeal. Like a little schoolfilly. “It’s such a pretty but dark song!”

“The hay you yellin’ over Apple Bloom?!” I hear Applejack shout from further in the house. I cover my mouth and eye Macintosh apologetically. He only shakes his head with a deep chuckle and continues toward his sister’s voice. We pass by the off-shoot of a room where I found Granny Smith yesterday, and continue on past a flight of narrow stairs before the hall opens up into what can only be the single most impressive kitchen I’ve seen in a home. I mean, there’s nothing immediately fancy or expensive that draws my attention… it’s just huge. 

Applejack has her back to us, making something on the ample counter space with some ingredients (bread, spiced hay, pickles, cheese… the works as far as sandwiches go). She turns around when we enter, no doubt since Macintosh’s hoofsteps aren’t exactly soft. “Yer late today Mac,” she starts to say before she’s fully facing us. “Somepony hold ya up at -” She and I lock eyes and this is the first time in a very, very long time I can’t be sure what’s going through another pony’s head.

“Hi,” I choose to say with a wave. Applejack’s unreadable expression transforms right in front of me, an all-knowing smirk lighting up her face as her eyes drift to Mac.

“I’ll leave tha sandwich stuff out,” she says, sliding her own plated food down the counter toward another of the kitchen’s three doorways. “An’ Big Mac… Oh horseapples!” she swears before loosing a hearty laugh around her sandwich plate.

“Do I even…?” I trail off asking, watching Applejack disappear somewhere else in the house. 

“Ain’t a clue,” Mac answers for me anyway, making his way to the counter and rearranging the many jars and containers before removing four slices of bread. “Ya’ll don’ like sandwiches?” he turns and asks me, and I realize I’ve been kinda staring off into empty space. 

“Wha… Oh no! I mean, yes…” I suppress a small series of coughs and grumble under my breath. “Sandwiches are good,” I say, trotting up to his side to share in the many toppings available. 

We make our lunch and eat on the spacious porch in mostly silence (Mac introduced me to peanuts on sandwiches, which is surprisingly tasty). And for the first time since meeting Macintosh, I’m not being assaulted by nervous thoughts and fretting over how I’m acting. And for the first time since what feels like forever, I don’t want to smoke. It’s just peaceful. Just the two of us, eating a normal lunch, listening to the normal countryside sounds, feeling a light breeze sweep through the orchards and carry the tint of apple scent. 

A part of me wants to just lean over and rest my weight on his side, but nervous thoughts or not, I still have enough reservation to tell me doing as much isn’t the best idea. So I just enjoy the moment for what it is. A quiet, nice time with a gentlecolt. 

And even though I know it’s been the better part of an hour, it still feels too short when Macintosh stands up with a strong crack of his neck and stretch. “Gotta tend tha apples,” he says with a smile my way and takes to the yard of equipment to gather up his tools. I take the moment to stretch my wings myself since my head is feeling blank for thought after the morning I went through. And have enough common sense to tell me it’s time to head back. My stretching exercise is about to turn into a launching beat, except I’m stopped by creaking wheels of an old mare’s walker.
______________________________________________________________________________   

“Hold yer feathers there, Missy,” Granny Smith’s voice joins the sounds of the walker. I make to turn my head around to see her, but end up just following her slow stride to a different rocking chair on the porch. I stretch my wings a second time and fold them, shuffling the feathers around a few times before trotting over and sitting beside Granny. 

“Yes?” I ask, equal parts confused and apprehensive.

“What’re ya doin’ back here?” Granny asks, not aggressive or accusatory… really almost sly. One of my eyebrows arches at the question, and Granny Smith takes it as a cue to carry on. “Didn’ ‘xpect a filly with bits to spare to come trottin’ back to ol’ Sweet Apple Acres.”

“Uh… I… um…” I struggle to answer. Keep it together, Fleetfoot, I growl at myself. I mean, sure, she might have an idea already (I think Applejack finds it outright funny… I think), but needlessly dropping my flank into that conversation is an experience I will not let repeat itself. “It’s nice here, honestly,” I say, swallowing. It’s not untrue. There’s something peaceful yet still driven to carry on about the Apple farm.

“And?” Granny Smith asks, her sly grin going from subtle to stupid levels of obvious. Luna’s starry plot… I’m done for. Officially. Applejack I might, might be able to feint around, but I doubt Granny will be as easily disuaded. Not that there’s not reason to try. But… oh futz…

I swear up and down to the princesses and even Discord my brain cooked up a nice reply, but I think I’m so used to mild panic after my past few days that I don’t notice it shaking my core. Instead of a reply befitting of an intelligent mare, all that comes out of my mouth is, “Geh heh ha… hrmmmm…” I catch it before I make an even larger fool of myself (not sure how that’s possible, but I won’t jinx myself), and just clamp my mouth shut. I look away from Granny, scrunching my nose. As if doing so and giving the porch’s wooden planks a death glare will somehow rescue me from this.

“Ain’t no reason to hide it, Dearie,” Granny Smith says, her tone moved from amused to genuine care. I feel her frail foreleg pat my back and rub up and down… and I shiver as she somehow manages to start draining all the tension I’d been building up. “Frankly speakin’, even if ya’ll weren’t so tellin’, Mac don’ smile like that for just anypony.”

“Wha?” I half-mutter, looking back to the older mare. She’s still smiling at me, but the sly grin is soft and warm now. “I’m… Am I that obvious?” I ask. No getting around it now. This is happening. And even though every part of my brain is screaming that talking about this isn’t the brightest idea, Granny’s steady rubbing along my back wins. I shiver. “Sorry,” I say, trying to regain what little composure I may have had. “I’m a bit pent up.”

“Sounds like the understatement of the year ta me,” Granny replies, patting my shoulders. “An’ ta answer yer earlier question, yer more obvious than ‘n orange in an apple stand.”

“Sorry… again… for coming on too strong, I mean,” I say. “Not sure how Earth ponies treat this sorta thing. I’m not even that good at it by pegasi standards.”

“Oh hoo,” Granny Smith sputters in disapproval. “Ain’t no ‘right’ way to woo a stallion ‘cept bein’ honest.”

“So… wait,” I say, blinking a fair few times trying to sort out why Granny is talking to me about this. I don’t think she’s upset or anything like, but that’s usually the singular reason stuff like this happens. “I’m confused.”

“Why’ve ya taken a shine to mah grandson?” Granny asks, suddenly severe but still not unkind.

“Geewillikers… if I had a simple answer, wouldn’t that make the world easier?” I grouch before sighing. Part of me wants to describe everything about Macintosh I find attractive, but most of all that is just icing when compared… well when compared to the simple fact I tell Granny Smith. “He’s a real gentlecolt,” I say, smiling at the thought. “And! And!” I scramble when Granny’s head cocks to the side, “And I know that sounds silly! I know. And… yeah, it’s kinda silly for me to want it, but… I just want a stallion who treats me…” I gulp. 

“Yes?” Granny urges me on despite my growing terror at having dumped out so much of myself so quickly. 

“I just wanna be treated… like a lady,” I say, and I feel a single tear leak from my left eye. “The hay…” I mutter, wiping it away. I am not crying. Especially not in front of anypony. Sure, actually saying it felt like the weight of a kingdom came off my chest, but I swallow to force down the feeling. That much is private.

“Don’ hear many mares sayin’ tha’ no more, heh heh,” Granny laughs, leaning back in her rocker, eyes closed. “I ain’t tha type to get a mare’s hopes up, but Fleetfoot… If it’s worth a hoot to ya, I think ya’ll’d make a fine Apple. An’ yer welcome ‘round the farm whenever. Dontchu forget.” And with that, I’m fairly sure she straight up conks out. And I’m just left on the porch, staring off into the farm yard with too many thoughts zipping through my head to make any sense of them. 

I idly make a few small beats of my wings, carrying myself to the porch roof to at least have the warmth of the sun to think in. It’s just… nothing is making much sense. Futz it. I lay down on the roof, wings splayed absorbing the sunlight, and I’m lights out before I know it.
______________________________________________________________________________

I scare myself awake. No lie. I feel myself coming to, and before I have time to really register I’m lying on half sticky roof tiles, I scramble up with a little yelp and heavy breathing. At first, I’m in a panic. I don’t remember where I am, why I’m passed out on somepony’s roof, or… My head makes its way back onto my shoulders as I take in the full extent of the Apple farm yard. And it’s also dusk. 

I blink and rub my eyes, raising a perplexed eyebrow. Dusk? Really? “That was one flop of a nap, Fleetfoot,” I mutter a bit in disbelief to myself. I brush off the tile grit sticking to my chest and belly, searching the yard. I find both Mac and Applejack, busying around with stowing, cleaning, and spot repairing their equipment. I watch them for a good while in a blank sort of peace, able to admire how smooth and coordinated they are. I chuckle. That’s basically what I do for a living.

But my mind starts to wander, and with it, the calm I had been feeling. Granny Smith’s talk with me is ringing in my ears, and yeah… I’m glad she didn’t rip my head off (proverbially, of course. Hay… If I were a bit more of a dreamer, uh, huh Fleetfoot, this is totally not dream chasing territory. Sheesh. Either way, dare I say I think Granny Smith approves. I just can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. Something that’s missing that keeps it all from being perfect.

“Not that it’ll matter in a day or two you nitwit,” I sigh under my breath, only to knock my hoof against the side of my skull a good few times. No. I will not think like Spitfire. Not on this one. I shiver and shake my head. Pity parties never help anypony either. I can’t think here. I need a smoke. I need to be alone. And I definitely need to be away from all this for a bit. I stand and stretch lightly before fluttering down to the porch proper. I do need to at least excuse myself before I go. 

I knock on the farm house door, and when nopony answers, I crack it open to be met with an assault of delicious, savory dinner scents. I wander inside and make my way toward the kitchen and source of the amazing smells; and without surprise, I find Granny Smith there working her oven and stovetop with multiple pots and pans. I open my mouth to offer my greeting, but my mouth is dry from sleeping outside, and it doesn’t mix well with my coughing problem. I practically wheeze for a good couple seconds before recovering with some ungraceful lip smacking and a, “Blegh,” for good measure. “Sorry,” I say instinctually. 

“What for, Dearie?” Granny asks with a clever laugh. “Sleeping all afternoon?”

“And almost dying in your kitchen,” I laugh with her. 

“Ya’ll could fix both ‘em problems lendin’ a hoof with yer supper,” Granny says, never once taking her eyes off her cooking.

“My… What? Oh!” I reply, trying to cover my momentary confusion. I’m fairly sure my eyebrows weren’t helping my case, even though Granny wasn’t looking my way. “I… I hadn’t planned on staying. I was just coming by to say thank you for letting me stay for a while…” Wow… Just, wow, Fleetfoot. Had that come out any more awkward, I think Discord himself would have paid me some attention.

“Horseapples,” Granny replied staunchly. “Ain’t very neighborly to let ya go back ta whatever ya’ll can scrounge together.”

“I appreciate it, I really do,” I say, meaning all of it, “but I don’t wanna intrude or make things awkward or - ”

“Fleetfoot,” Granny Smith says, stopping in her cooking efforts to turn to face me. “We ain’t one of ‘em high tootin’ families from Canterlot or nothin’. Ya’ll’s a nice filly and takin’ a likin’ ta mah grandson. If ya might end up an Apple some day, ol’ Granny Smith’s gonna get ahead o’ tha game. This is what family means t’ an Apple.”

“I…” I try to speak, but something gets caught in my throat. Neither of us say anything, the only noise coming from the pleasantly simmering food and boiling water. It dawns on me then. Everything just falls into place so neatly I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Well, actually I can seeing as I’m something of an anxious ball of… whatever. “I… thank you,” I manage to say, then lean over to give the old mare a warm hug. 

She returns my embrace with a quiet understanding, and whispers gently. “Ya’ll sort yerself out?” she asks, breaking away. 

“Yeah, mostly,” I scratch out and swallow.

“Well ‘en c’mere an’ help an old mare,” Granny motions with enthusiasm fit for a foal. “An’ don’t be cryin’. I already salted everything.” I let myself giggle, and it feels good to be able to do so genuinely. Not out of nerves. Not from awkwardness. And sure, I am no cook. I do too much traveling with the team to practice or get into a rhythm with it. But I do at least know how. 

I step up to the counter confidently and eye Granny for directions. She takes my cue without a blink, and points to a set of bell peppers. “Ya’ll c’n start by choppin’ them there suckers an’ gettin’ ‘em in the pan.” I nod and set to work, and before long, I’m enjoying the one thing about cooking I’ve always thought was the best. It feels like flying. And no, not like the normal day-to-day flying every pegasus does just to get to work or school. It feels like the stuff ponies like the ‘Bolts do. Sure it’s all about precision and focus, but if somepony has the ‘touch’ like Soarin’ says, a pony can turn her brain off to the world and embrace the action itself. 

I pause in my pepper demolition, realizing what a strange and esoteric comparison it is, but I shrug and keep on. I think it’s a good one. Granny and I keep working, and Mac’s little sister, Applebloom, is the first to join us back in the house. We exchange hellos, and while enthused and curious (I think… reading foals is much different than adults), she is far less star struck than her friend… Scootaloo I think her name was. 

Applejack follows her inside not soon after, and I wave. Applejack smirks, then actually winks at me. She strikes up her little sister in conversation (initially about homework, but soon to talk about Applebloom’s friends) and leaves me to stir the contents of a skillet with a distinct uncertainty festering in the back of my head. She has to know, but I’m beginning to get a vibe that she’s watching for personal amusement. And not me either. I grew up with four sisters. Four. And each and every one of us did more than our fair share of needling the others about our relationships. Macintosh has probably been getting his own piece of the proverbial pie, come to think of it. 

Finally, my… I gulp. I gulp twice. And force that near slip very far down. I cannot get too far ahead of myself. I refuse to take too much of the responsibility with what happened last time, but even I know part of my problem was making assumptions just like I almost did. Either way, Macintosh finally makes it inside. He smells of sweat and outdoor work, and I roll my eyes. Most mares would be losing their marbles (not that I’m really one to talk, sheesh) at that scent, except I’ve smelled like that for days on end. And so has every Wonderbolt before and with me.

He makes no comment about it, but I am unsurprised to hear water flowing after he makes his way upstairs. “Time to get the table set,” Granny says. “AJ, dear, grab a chair from someplace for Fleetfoot.”

“Sure thang,” Applejack replies before meandering off. 

“And ya’ll, let’s get this darn good cookin’ in some bowls,” she tells me. I nod, fishing the kitchen drawers for serving spoons while she sets out said dishes. We plate up rolls, rice, beans, and the main dish, which I have no idea what I would call. All I know is that it looks and smells amazing. And I get a feeling it doesn’t have a name and that Granny just threw it together on the spot.

Applebloom clears away her homework (which looks a lot more like vengeful drawings of the schoolyard prick than homework) and Granny and I slide the food into place. Applejack returns with my chair, sitting me on Applebloom’s side of the table, but closer to Mac. Granny takes away the apple sappling table centerpiece, and everypony takes a seat to wait for Macintosh. 

He doesn’t take very long, and I will admit his cleaned smell does give me rosy cheeks. Not too rosy though. Thank Celestia for it, but Spitfire has told me I don’t blush, even drunk. When Mac takes his seat, all the Apples reach around the table, grasping hooves, and I hastily bring mine up to do the same. Geewillikers, Mac’s grip is strong! My initial confusion at the strange ritual evaporates at Granny Smith’s words. “Celestia be praised,” she says, “for giving light that the food before us might grow, and Luna too, for giving us darkness in which to rest.” 

Everypony’s hooves fall and Applejack cheerfully says, “Dig in!” The next moments are a flurry as each of us plate up and pass food, Applejack making the circuit fastest and chomping down first. The table is silent for a good while as everypony savours the cooking. It’s the kind of thing I always dreamed home cooking was supposed to taste like, and my mouth waters even while chewing. It’s amazing. Conversation does pick up, with talk over Applebloom’s school day being the first major highlight. Granny asks Applejack about her friends (whom I assume includes Rainbow Dash and the ‘gang’ the blue zipporwhill is always talking about), but the point of talk does eventually circle around to me and the Wonderbolts. 

I knew it would happen, and I thought I was going to dread every minute of it. I have to do too much talking about my stunts for press as is. But there’s something different about recounting some of my most exciting times on the team now. None of them except Applejack has ever seen one of our shows, and there’s nopony to judge my giddy excitement in describing our maneuvers. Before long, we are all bouncing topics back and forth, and I almost forget I’m a guest. And not more than once do I think that, yeah, I could do this.
______________________________________________________________________________

Dinner ends with some delicious apple pie (as if I should have expected anything else, heh), and I would have helped clean up the veritable mess the dining room and kitchen were in, except Applejack insisted I not. In Apple house rules, those who made the food already did their part. Granny Smith retreated to her rocker and some reading. That left me with… nothing really. Sitting and watching the other three Apples clean would definitely be more awkward than even being told to skidaddle (Applejack’s word, not mine). So, without much else to do, I step onto the porch, taking in the sweet, apple tinted valley air.

I intend to pause, let myself think. I want to figure out what I’m gonna do from here on out, because Celestia’s plot knows I’m going down this road faster than any filly my age has any right. But I end up doing a whole lot of blank staring into the half darkness. There’s a semi chilly breeze clipping through the valley (too spastic to glide on), so in addition to sitting outside doing nothing, I ball up as best I can without lying on the porch wood. 

I can’t be sure how much time passes, but somepony else eventually joins me on the porch. I flick my head over, and my heart jumps a bit at seeing Macintosh. Not nearly as much as it has before, thank goodness, but still… Two quilts are draped over his back, and he’s carrying a small case that looks about as old and delicate as whatever’s likely to be inside something so obviously antique.

“Cold?” he asks me, shrugging off the quilts. 

“Kinda,” I reply. “Not as easy to ignore when you aren’t concentrating on flying.” Macintosh only nods, grabbing one of the dense blankets and fanning it out with a mighty shake. He let it fall to the deck right next to me, and it didn’t take me consulting my frozen plot to scooch onto it’s much warmer, softer surface. 

“Ya’ll like watchin’ stars in the evenin’?” he asks, placing down the little case on a table and unclasping its lid. 

“I did when I was younger,” I say. “It’s not that they’re boring anymore… just, when you fly all through the night so much closer to them, a bit of the fascination fades.”

“Wouldn’t know, eenope,” Mac softly chuckles, and he draws out what I can only describe as an aristocrat’s pipe from the case. Suddenly, it’s no longer strange he doesn’t fuss over my smoking (even if he probably would if he knew why I did). 

“You?” I ask as he settles next to me on the quilt, packing the pipe and lighting it with a single, strong draw. 

“Only strong memory of mah pop I got,” he tells me.

“I - I didn’t mean…” I struggle to back out of the minefield I may have just jumped into.

“Don’ worry,” Mac soothes with a warm smile around the pipe. “I’s all Ah remember.”

“I usually just read on my balcony, if I have one,” I say, mentally wiping sweat from my brow. 

“Good choice,” Mac tells me. It feels like so much was said at dinner, I’m content to just enjoy the quiet as Macintosh works away at the pipe, adding its distinctly musky aroma to the apple air. But as the quiet night sounds drag on, my head starts to fill with daring idea after daring idea. Sure, I can toss most of them without hesitation, but one just keeps poking me in the back. But I’ve been on the anxious train too many times recently for nerves to keep me back, and after wrestling over it… Futz it, I’ll be being honest, I fuss at myself. 

I stand briefly, grabbing the second quilt Macintosh brought with him. I give it a good shake to fan it out to its fullest, and drape it over his back and shoulders. Before it settles though, I zip under and rest my head on Macintosh’s shoulder. I tense slightly, expecting some form of recoil from him, but instead, to my complete shock… Macintosh shifts his weight around so my head rests more on his chest than shoulder, and gently wraps his hoof over my back. 

Every bit of tension melts away. I forbid myself from thinking. I just sigh and say, “I don’t deserve you…” before resting my eyes…