There’s an old joke. I’m sure you’ve heard it. A horse walks into a bar, and the bartender says, “Why the long face?”
I’ve always disliked it.
It’s not the concept or the punchline especially. I can see it’s a pretty funny joke when you think about it – or would be if it weren’t so ubiquitous. The reason I don’t get on with it, is the bartender.
Because if that pony has come to the bar feeling low and looking for a way to leave their worries behind, the bartender making jokes is the last thing they want to hear. The bartender should know that. The bartender should hear the order and pour the drink. The bartender shouldn’t jest or pry or gossip, they should keep their yap shut. And if – and only if – that pony decides they want to talk... the bartender should listen.
I should introduce myself. I’m Single Measure, though I also tend to respond to, ‘Excuse Me’, ‘Yes Please My Good Fellow’, and even ‘Hey, You!’ I’m a fairly stout unicorn with a dark tan coat and a black mane I try to keep well-kempt. My eyes and my aura are blue-grey, my cutie mark is a barley-stalk crossed with a bunch of grapes, and for the past few years I’ve been the proud landlord and proprietor of Ponyville’s public house, the Run for the Roses.
I’ve been around. Working bars, pubs, taverns and inns from one side of Equestria to the other. Before I was pouring pints in Ponyville I was dispensing drinks in Dodge Junction, breaking up bar brawls in Baltimare, and concocting cocktails for classy clients in Canterlot. I’ve held most jobs that you’d care to name in this business, always moving from town to town until I finally scraped enough together to get a place of my own. When I found this old inn in this small, sleepy village I never thought it’d amount to much, but I was so wrong. Because of all the places I’ve ever worked, this one right here is by far the most special.
That’s me mostly taken care of, so let me introduce the Roses because she’s a truly great place. A free-standing three-story building which strikes a humble pose on one of the busier streets in the village. Outside, the walls are white, made of wattle and daub and the roof is one of thick, healthy thatch. The windows come latticed in traditional small diamonds and the interior is all chunky oak beams with matching floorboards, and comfy chestnut furnishings. The whole place exudes charm and character like nowhere else I’ve been. Certainly a far cry from places like Canterlot where stark masonry is largely the order of the day, or Manehatten where every brick-and-glass building starts to look the same. Or even frontier towns like Appleoosa, whose wood-built buildings manage to appear purposeful and utilitarian rather than quaint. No, I’m so lucky to have this place. They just don’t build them like this anymore.
The main bar is one rectangular room taking up most of the downstairs space. The front entrance is a sturdy oak door in the centre of one of the long sides, leading out onto the street. Set into the wall to the left and right of the door, two diamond lattice windows in mahogany frames allow a view outside to the ponies sat at the tables next to them. It’s about eight paces from the front door to the bar which runs the length of the opposite wall, and that’s where you’ll usually find me, serving, cleaning mugs or glasses, chatting or reading the paper if it’s a particularly quiet day. The bar itself is solid chestnut, thickly varnished though that hasn’t stopped it picking up a few scrapes and knocks in its time, and there are four high, well-cushioned bar-stools arrayed in front of it. From where I stand, behind the counter looking out, half-a dozen hoof-pumps offering draught ale and cider are lined up in orderly fashion to the left hand side, while the back wall behind me is dominated by shelving containing all manner of bottles, spirits and liqueurs. The middle third of the bar is bare-topped and where I spend most of my time with the customers, and the rightmost section has a flip-up hatch secured with stout brass hinges and doubles as an impromptu reception for folks here to rent one of the rooms.
If the main room front-to-back is about eight paces, then side-to-side it’s about twelve. I have sixteen tables of various shapes and sizes down here, haphazardly arranged to cater for a variety of groups and numbers. On the right hand wall, next to the end of the bar, a wood door with glass panels leads to a hallway running towards the rear of the building. Off the hallway is a water-closet, the kitchen which sits behind the bar, a doorway to the cellar stairs, and the staircase leading up to the first floor landing. I have six rooms upstairs which for a small, peaceful place like this is usually enough accommodation. And finally the top floor of the building is a small apartment which I call home.
That’s me and the inn. Only thing left to tell you about are the customers, and more than anything it’s them that turn the Roses from being just another gin-joint into something really special. Because even though this is a drinking establishment, the folks here aren’t the kinds of ponies that come just to drink. You know the sort, I’m sure: the folks who live to see how much liquor they can stuff in their bellies like it’s some sort of contest before deciding that they need to cause some trouble to prove a point. I’ve dealt with my share of, shall we say, ‘difficult’ patrons in other places and, yes, more than once kicks have been thrown. But that just doesn’t happen here. In Ponyville the worst I’ve ever had to do is raise my voice to a yell and point sternly at the door. And the next day it’s all smiles, mutual ‘sorry’s and no hard feelings. Like the ponies in this town don’t even know the meaning of the word ‘grudge.’ It’s just... nice.
I don’t have regulars as such. Just faces I see slightly more often than others. Every pony in town has come through my doors at one time or another, and it’s a testament to everything that makes this place what it is that not only do they all feel welcome here, but that I feel responsible for them in a way I never have anywhere else.
So when somepony walks into my bar with a long face, there are no jokes. I shut up. I pour the drink.
And if they want to talk, I’ll listen.
Run for the Roses
Sunday
Sunday is always a quiet evening in the Roses. By the time the sun had gone down and twilight had begun to stalk the streets I had five customers left in, and it was past the point of the evening where I’d normally expect any more. Three high-spirited stallions with tankards occupied a table near the centre of the room, and in the far right corner near the window a pair of mares sat chatting quietly over a bottle of wine. Aside from that, the only other pony in the room was me, wrestling with three-down on the crossword puzzle – You, with a warm woollen coat (3) – until someone deigned to call out another drink order.
When Applejack walked in at about five-past eight, it was a surprise.
She slipped inside quietly enough that, had the bar been any busier I likely wouldn’t have noticed. As it happened I glanced up in time to see her close the door behind her as innocuously as possible.
There are a few different ways of walking into a bar, but by far the most common is the quick glance around, looking for the ponies you’re supposed to meet, followed by a nod of recognition and then the swift stride towards the counter. But there’s also the exact opposite. The look of apprehension and dread as you cast your gaze round for somepony you’d rather not see, and the wave of relief when you don’t find them. I’ve seen it often enough to recognise it, but I’ve never seen it in Ponyville before now. Applejack waited by the door while she did her survey of the room, then her eyes accidentally locked with mine, looking at her from the bar. She dipped her head and trudged over.
Applejack and I have a good working relationship. She’s been supplying me with a barrel per month of the best apple cider I’ve yet found for a couple of years now, and believe me when I say that you don’t have to be in business long to know that finding a reliable partner who actually knows what they’re doing is rarer than it should be. On its own that’d be enough for me, but to have it come in a package that also includes a friendly disposition and a sense of fair play is almost unheard of. Maybe I’ve been unlucky, but I’ve never found it anywhere else.
She stopped at the counter and didn’t look up save for a quick, acknowledging glance before her eyes lowered once more to the countertop.
“Cider,” she muttered.
I nodded, levitating a tankard under the cider tap and pulled on the pump three-and-a-bit times – enough to fill it. As I placed it onto the counter two bits clinked their way onto the bar. I picked the coins up in my aura and tossed them into the charity jar sat to my left. Applejack and I have always had a silent understanding on this. It’s never felt right to me to charge her to drink her own cider; cider that she made herself, that I figure she’s entitled to. By the same token, she doesn’t feel right about not paying for it when I’ve bought it from her fair and square. So she always digs out the bits, and I always make sure they go to a good cause. Applejack took her mug and ambled away, over to the far-left corner table next to the latticework window at the front of the tavern where she took a seat, alone. She looked at her tankard for a moment, then upended it, draining half the contents before plonking it back down hard and slowly turning her attention to the window, looking out, never losing that distant, morose expression. I went back to my crossword and tried to pretend that the whole scene didn’t bother me. If the customer’s not for talking, it’s not my place to pry.
An hour passed. The boisterous stallions at the table in front of the bar called for another round of ales and I duly obliged. The cosy-looking mares over by the right hand window drained the last of the wine from the bottle equally into their respective glasses. Three-down became Ewe. And Applejack sat by herself in the corner, nursing her pint, her gaze alternating between the depths of her mug and the dark street beyond the window for minutes at a time.
Eventually she drained the last of her drink and after a few lengthy, reflective moments, stood. She ambled back to the bar, bringing her tankard with her – a courtesy rarely shown by customers, for certain – and placed it on the countertop along with two bits.
“Cider,” she mumbled.
I got her a fresh mug and poured the drink. The bits jingled as they were tossed into the charity jar, and Applejack made her way back to her corner table to sit alone and sip.
More time passed. Eventually the mares finished the last of their Merlot and decided more wasn’t on the cards tonight. They stood, slipping on scarves, and headed out the door, closing it behind them. The stallions called for three more ales – promising themselves this would be the last round like they had twice already. Applejack came to the bar twice more. She never called an order across the room, she never left her mug behind on her table. Every time she just came over, scattered two bits on the bar and mumbled, “Cider.” And each time she took her drink to her quiet corner and tried to fathom some meaning from its depths.
By ten-thirty the stallions had finally concluded that they were even in terms of the number of drinks bought, and so as a group they staggered up from their seats and tottered towards the door and out into the night, forgetting to close it as they left. I picked up a tray and flipped the bar-hatch open, heading to their table to collect their discarded mugs, and then over to the right window to retrieve the empty bottle of wine and its two associated glasses. As I reached the front door and pushed it closed, Applejack staggered unsteadily to her hooves, and wove a lazy, meandering course back over to the bar.
She propped herself against it and waited patiently. I finished my collection-run, putting the tray on the bar and assumed my customary position behind it.
Applejack can hold her drink, but by now she was tipsy. Her eyes had lost their focus, and her movements had become unbalanced and sluggish. For an instant she met my gaze with the same sad expression she’d held all night. Then her head lowered and a pair of clinks signified two more bits being dropped onto the bar.
“Whiskey,” she muttered.
I blinked. And that was the first time that evening I got a sense of something being very wrong.
“Applejack?” I asked, trying to find a balance somewhere between ‘are you sure?’ and, ‘are you okay?’
Her head raised once more, brows knitted in slight annoyance, though it lasted only a moment before she hung it again. “Whiskey,” she repeated, the slur in her voice a little more pronounced.
I’ve refused to serve ponies before, when they’ve had too much. But Applejack has always been sensible enough to know her limits and she still wasn’t the drunkest pony I’ve seen in the Roses. I scooped the two bits into the cash register this time, and retrieved two glass tumblers from a shelf behind the bar.
I added ice to both glasses and brought a bottle of dark amber liquid down from the shelf behind me. Unstoppering the lid I poured slightly more than two measures into each glass, pushing one of them her way while I took the other one in my aura and deliberately took a tiny sip.
It didn’t work as I’d intended. The two glasses, the ice, the double measure, my small sip, were all supposed to encourage her to drink the stuff slowly, and try and keep her at the bar rather than have her wobble her way back to the table in the far corner. Stay at the bar she did, but she grabbed her glass, opened her maw wide and tipped the whole contents in. She returned the tumbler to the bar with a thud and a thick grimace, and then worked her jaw to the sound of ice-cubes being crunched without remorse. She swallowed heavily, nudged the tumbler back towards me, and after a pause spoke up.
“Whiskey.”
This time though there was a distinct lack of bits on the counter, and when Applejack seemed to realise that she’d run out of money she glanced up with a sheepish, hopeful expression. “Uh... would ya...?”
“No,” I said firmly. Normally I’d have no problem running a tab for a pony like Applejack, but I’ve never seen her like this, and I wasn’t about to compound the mistake I’d just made by letting her drink until she collapsed.
For an instant that annoyed frown returned and I braced myself for the same angry, alcohol-fueled argument I’ve had in many other bars with many other customers over the years. But instead her scowl ebbed and her gaze found the floor. “Right,” she sighed and turned from the bar as though I’d just asked her to leave.
She began to stagger towards the exit, weaving a drunken line between the tables and chairs, knocking into a few and causing them to scrape the wooden floorboards. The culmination of everything she’d imbibed had finally hit her fully it seemed, turning her into a poor, uncoordinated mess. It’s a fair hike to Sweet Apple Acres, especially alone and in the dark, and with the trouble she was having just reaching my front door I grew genuinely worried that she wouldn’t be able to get herself home safely. What if she stumbled blindly into a ditch, too drunk to get herself out, and ended up there the whole night? Not a pleasant way to spend an evening, and, sadly, I can speak from experience.
Since it was just about closing time anyway I used my magic to slide the deadbolt closed on the front door even as I turned to pick one of six keys off its hook on the wall behind me.
Applejack noticed the door being locked and looked back with an angry – if unfocused – glare. “Hey! What’ssa big idea?”
I held up the key and motioned her over, placing it on the bar. “Room One,” I said gently. “Upstairs, last door on the left. No charge. Just... get your head down, alright?”
I held my breath, because in the moment or so before that glare subsided there was the very real possibility that I was going to have to replace my front door after she splintered it to matchwood. But her frown relented and she hung her head, traipsing back over to the bar. She looked at the key, swayed a little, and then tried her best to focus on me. “Thnkss,” she just about managed. She picked up the key in her teeth and headed through the door to my right, into the corridor. A moment later I heard hoofsteps on the stairs and the landing, and then the clumsy sound of a key turning a lock from somewhere above. Satisfied I’d done my good deed for the day, I set to cleaning down the bar ready for the next morning.
Twenty minutes later I took myself upstairs, stopping on the first floor landing. At the far end, the door to room-one was wide open and I walked over and poked my nose into the darkened interior.
Applejack was there, sprawled out on the bed, not having bothered to take off that hat or those hairbands she always wears. She was breathing regularly and snoring gently which was enough to satisfy me that she was okay. I pulled the door shut and headed up to my apartment on the second floor, and a few minutes later I was asleep myself.
It was difficult not to wonder what had happened, but at the same time I accepted that, if she hadn’t wanted to talk about it, I’d probably never know.
Monday
I woke up at nine o’clock the next morning. I had intended to head downstairs to the kitchen and begin fixing breakfast for myself and my impromptu – and no doubt hungover – overnight guest. But when I went to check on room one, the door was open and Applejack was gone. Heading downstairs into the bar revealed the room key had been left on the counter-top and the deadbolt on the front door had been slid back. She must have woken early and slipped out. With no other guests staying at the inn it was breakfast for one.
Lunchtime came and went, and we had a fair few in looking for something to eat. My chef, Waldorf, is known throughout town for his famous salads and we can usually tempt a few ponies to dessert as well. Myself and Waldorf are the only full-time staff at the Roses but I have a pegasus waitress called Silver Lining who works part-time hours lunchtimes and suppertimes. She’s only here while she’s studying for her weather certification and I’ll be sad to lose her when she goes because she’s really good. Trustworthy, upbeat, and friendly with the customers, and the ability to balance three plates on each wing is a skill that not everypony can boast.
The pub shuts from three until six which gives me enough time to either mess about with stock levels, paperwork, or, as with today, run a few errands in town before opening for the evening. When I returned and opened up again I hadn’t been in more than a couple of minutes when the first pony walked through the door.
Big McIntosh is always a friendly face to see. He comes in about once every fortnight, and though I’ve served him copious amounts of intoxicants before, I’m not certain that I’ve ever seen him drunk. Or, if I have, then it seems drunk Big McIntosh is exactly the same as sober Big McIntosh, except with a slightly happier smile. When I started serving him back when I first got the place I was terrified of the kind of damage a pony of his size might do if alcohol turned him fighty. But liquor only tends to bring out what’s already inside you, and with McIntosh, well, I get the impression that fighting just isn’t part of him.
There’s another reason I like seeing him too, though it’s a slightly sinister one. It’s a game I play with him. I don’t know if he realises but I suspect he does, and when I saw him I couldn’t stop a tiny smile as I waited for the first move.
Big Mac stopped at the bar and looked at me with a more serious expression than I’m used to seeing from him. He took a quick look left and right at the otherwise empty room and then back to me. “AJ?” he asked.
It’s difficult to convey, but it’s amazing. Because with those two syllables, a slight movement of his shoulders, a subtle inclination of his head and the smallest of movements of his eyebrows, Big McIntosh has managed to say an entire sentence, and one that I can hear in my own head as clear as if he had shouted it at me: “Excuse me, good sir. Have you by any chance seen my sister, Applejack?”
That’s the game. Who can say the most, while saying the least. I’ve never won. Big McIntosh is a master at it.
“Eeyup,” I replied, quietly relishing the chance to use one of his own more famous expressions.
“Here?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell if that was meant to be, “Is she here?” or rather, “Was she here?” so I hedged my bets. “Last night,” I replied.
Big McIntosh nodded. He turned as if to make for the exit. “If’n ya see her...”
Whoa.
“Mac...” I called. “You haven’t seen her?”
“Nope.”
It was difficult to pull my jaw off the floor. Suddenly the game was the last thing on my mind. “She was here last night,” I explained. “She drank. Got herself into a state. I was worried about her making it home so I gave her one of the rooms upstairs. By the time I woke up this morning she was gone,” I blurted.
Mac turned fully back to the bar and dipped his head in a deeper nod than before, and once again I heard the sentence inside my own head. “Thanks for taking care of her.” Then he turned and made for the door.
“I’m sure she’s okay,” I called after him.
“Eeyup,” he replied as he crossed the threshold, though with a distinct lack of confidence.
I can sympathise. It’s only natural for a brother to worry, and it’s not like Applejack to just disappear. But maybe her head was worse this morning than she’d hoped and she’s taken the day off to feel better. She’s probably spent it with one of her friends and been lectured from here to next week, I shouldn’t wonder.
But there was a nagging feeling back there, and all throughout that evening it stayed with me.
Tuesday
Tuesday lunchtimes vary wildly from being super-busy to super-quiet depending on the week, the weather, and any number of other factors I’ve never worked out. This Tuesday had all the hallmarks of being a slow day, even before it had reached noon.
Then Rainbow Dash arrived, and quiet was the last thing it was.
I was cleaning shelves when she charged into the pub on spread wings. She made a beeline for the bar, dropping to her hooves and knocking loudly on it to get my attention. All before I’d even turned round.
“Hey you, bar-guy! I want a drink,” she snapped with an accusatory frown.
I finally turned to meet her gaze with my own deliberate stare, but when it became obvious that it was a staring-contest I wasn’t going to win I rolled my eyes instead. “I usually need a little more information than that,” I said. “What drink?”
“I dunno, a drink!” she snapped, scattering three bits randomly on the counter. “That one.” She pointed to a bottle of clear liquid on one of the shelves behind the bar.
I looked around and then back at her with a raised eyebrow. “Vodka?”
“Yeah, sure, that.”
“Rainbow Dash, it’s eleven-thirty in the morning!”
“So? You gonna give me the drink or not?” she challenged, and I was seriously considering, ‘not.’ But... the customer is always right. I scooped two of the three bits into the register and a single measure of neat vodka was duly poured into a tumbler and laid before her.
She didn’t even notice it – her accusing scowl remained fixed only on me. “Okay, enough pony-footing around. Where’s Applejack?” she demanded.
I blinked a couple of times in surprise. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” shot Rainbow Dash. “I know she was here, so spit it out. Where’d she go?”
I shook my head, bewildered. “I have no idea,” I said.
Rainbow Dash snorted. “Likely story.” She turned her face so she could glare sidelong at me with undisguised suspicion. “See, I know Applejack. And she wouldn’t just leave town and go off somewhere on her own. She just wouldn’t. At least, uh... she wouldn’t do it again. Not without telling somepony else where she was going. And you’re the last pony who saw her, so... so just tell me where she is, okay?!”
By now her belligerence was starting to grate somewhat, and I met her suspicious frown with a cold one. “Yes, she was here,” I barked. “She came in two nights ago and stayed in one of the rooms upstairs. Next morning she was gone. She didn’t say two words to me all night and I haven’t seen her since. As for where she is now? You’re her friend. Why don’t you tell me?” I growled.
That had come out a little more forcefully than I’d meant it to, but even so Rainbow Dash shouldn’t have recoiled as though I’d just struck her nose with a fly-swatter. Her annoyed expression vanished, becoming open-mouthed shock and she took a couple of steps back from the bar. Her gaze fell to the floor and for a long moment she was silent. After a second she raised her head again and the scowl came back, though now I got the impression she was directing it at herself rather than me. “Yeah. I... I am still her friend!” she yelled, as though it were a self-motivational speech. “And I am gonna find her. And I’m gonna...” she trailed off, her confident glare giving way to an odd, shamed expression. “I gotta find her,” she whispered to nopony but herself, and then she was on her wings again, taking flight from the bar.
The glass of vodka she’d so vehemently demanded hadn’t even been touched and there was still a single bit on the counter. I tossed the coin into the charity jar and carefully decanted the contents of the glass back into the bottle. I figured it shouldn’t go to waste and I wasn’t about to drink it myself. I should have made a note somewhere, but Dash isn’t exactly a frequent visitor and I had no idea when I’d see her again.
I certainly didn’t expect to see her twice in one day.
By mid-evening the inn had filled out nicely and I had a steady stream of customers coming to the bar; enough to keep me busy and in business for sure. A fair few were here to eat, with Waldorf and Silver Lining admirably seeing to their needs, but the rest were only interested in liquid refreshment.
Rainbow Dash came back in at about eight o’clock and must have joined the back of a queue, because I didn’t notice her until everypony else had been served and she was at the counter in front of me.
She cut a distinctly different figure from the haughty, obstinate pony of earlier. Now she was sullen, subdued, and I struggled to hear her voice over the ambient noise of ponies chattering.
“Uh... drink please. Vod-thingy?” she asked, taking a seat on one of the bar-stools. I turned and repeated the dance I’d done earlier, placing a single shot of vodka in a glass tumbler in front of her, though admittedly with a little more care and patience this time. Rainbow Dash dropped two bits on the counter but I ignored them. She’d already paid for this one.
She looked contemplatively at her beverage for several long seconds and then swiftly knocked it back in a single movement. As the glass found its way back to the bar, Dash’s face crumpled into a distorted visage of agony. “Urrgh, eww! That... is... awful! Ugh, it tastes worse than acid rain. What the hay is it made out of?!”
“Potatoes, mainly,” I said.
“Urck,” she grimaced, trying to lick the taste from her own tongue. “How can you turn potatoes into something that tastes that bad?! Why would you?!”
I shrugged and watched her work her mouth, still trying to get the ick off. “You want some cider to take the taste away?” I asked.
For a moment her face brightened, and she seemed about to reply with an automatic ‘yes.’ Then her gaze fell to the cider pump and to the tag proclaiming it to be Sweet Apple Acres Draught Cider and she stalled. Hanging her head, she shook it.
I have seen Rainbow Dash and cider before. To say she has a love affair doesn’t describe it, it’s more like when she drinks it she has some kind of deep spiritual experience or something. To see her turn it down is beyond rare.
She continued to work her mouth to try and expunge the taste.
On a whim I reached for another bottle from one of the shelves behind me, this one containing a golden-brown liquid the colour of syrup. I poured maybe a little more than a measure’s-worth into a similar glass over ice and nudged it towards her.
“What’s that?” she asked suspiciously, her nose wrinkling.
“Ambrosia.”
She looked up at me with skepticism. “Is it potatoes?”
I couldn’t stop a small chuckle. “It’s honey and nectar. Sweet, and about half as strong as what you just drank.”
Dash sipped it this time and it seemed to meet with her approval. When she looked to her bits I waved her away again. I still owed her change from earlier and she hadn’t exactly been satisfied with her vodka.
I didn’t have time for any follow-up conversation before a trio of ponies stepped up to the bar for three pints of mead and, as is sometimes the case, their request triggered a small flurry of customers. It’s strange when it happens, as though some primal flocking or herding instinct gets tripped, and I got caught up with serving at least a dozen other orders before the tide finally relented.
Twenty minutes later when the throng finally dispersed I found Rainbow Dash still at the bar and, to my horror, discovered that I’d left the bottle of ambrosia next to her. A bottle that had been two thirds full now drained to one third, with Dash absently pouring herself another full glass and taking a large sip.
“Hey!” I scolded. “That stuff doesn’t come cheap, you know!”
“You know I’m good for it,” she replied vacantly, peering into her glass.
“Rainbow Dash, you’re really not,” I sniped. Not that she’s dishonest or anything, but I don’t run tabs for Rainbow Dash anymore. The number of times she’s forgotten to pay them and then not been seen here for weeks on end makes it difficult to justify. Plus it’s safer if I don’t give her what she can’t afford with the bits she’s carrying because, being Rainbow Dash and all, after one or two she gets absolutely convinced that she’s the best drinker ever – totally able to take on all-comers in any drinking contest. It’s caused problems in the past because in actual fact when it comes to liquor, she’s very much a lightweight.
That’s not intended to be disparaging, just an observation. She very rarely drinks so has little in the way of tolerance, plus she literally is very lightweight, even for a pegasus. That coupled with her incredibly fast metabolism means that whatever she drinks tends to go right to her head; and as I looked at her, having gulped her way through probably thirty or forty bits worth of ambrosia that I was already writing off in my mind, I could tell she was well on her way already.
I took the bottle from her and replaced it on the shelf, seeing the look Rainbow gave it: surprise followed by longing, like I was the bad pony who had just taken something wonderful away from her. She looked back to the remaining contents of her glass as though it were her only remaining friend in the world, and wobbled unsteadily on her stool until she braced herself against the bar.
She sat pretty still for a few seconds and when I was finally sure that she wasn’t going to fall off her seat I began to turn away to go stack some glasses. But she caught me.
“Hey, uh... bar guy?” she asked quietly, looking up.
I looked back at her and raised an eyebrow.
She lowered her gaze to her drink and began tracing small circles on the bar with the tip of her hoof. “Applejack... when you saw her... was she mad?”
“Mad?”
Rainbow Dash shot me an impatient glare. “Angry! Was she angry at me?!” she yelled.
I held up a hoof, urging her to calm down or else find herself no longer welcome. “She was upset,” I said after a moment’s pause.
Rainbow Dash blinked, her annoyed expression once more becoming despondent and her gaze dropped to her glass again. “Oh,” she whispered, “that’s way worse.”
An awkward silence lingered, broken only by background chatter from the room.
“I’m sure everything’ll work out,” I said with a smile I tried to make reassuring.
Dash continued to stare drunkenly at the diminishing contents of her glass. “Why’d I just let her walk off?” she muttered. She glanced once more at me. “Do you know how annoying it is when you can’t... can’t find somepony you really need to talk to?”
I gave her my most deadpan expression. It seems like it’s every other day that I overhear ponies in here complaining that they can’t find Rainbow Dash when they’ve wanted her for something. She completely missed the irony though. Instead she turned on her stool to look back towards the front door, as if hoping that somepony would, by sheer coincidence, happen to walk through at that very moment.
But nopony was there.
Dash slumped and turned back to the bar, gulping down the last of her drink. “’M gunnn’ go,” she said, and half-slid, half-fell from the stool to the floor, almost toppling over in the process.
It took the moment she spent getting her balance back for what she’d said to register. “Go where?”
“Home.”
“Oh no you don’t,” I said sternly. “Rainbow Dash, you’re not flying drunk.”
She glared at me and puffed her chest out. “You sayin’ I can’t fly or sumthn’?!” she objected, flaring her wings and knocking the bar stool next to her. It wobbled but didn’t fall.
“I’m saying if you had an accident I’d feel responsible,” I said with a frown. “Don’t do it, Rainbow Dash. It’s dangerous and you know it.”
“Yeah, right. Maybe for like... like... less good flyers or whatever. I’m cool. I got it,” she said, turning away from the bar.
“Rainbow Dash, stay right where you are,” I commanded. To my surprise, she actually did for a moment.
“Silver?” I called, catching Silver Lining as she was heading towards the door to the kitchen, a stack of half-a-dozen used dishes on her back. She raised her head at her name and trotted over to the bar with a smile.
Silver Lining always seems to have that little smile. It’s almost a part of her, and she’d look odd without it, I think. She has a dark coat that’s actually a very dusky blue but easily confused as grey under dim light. Her eyes are crystal blue and her mane is silver, though in sunlight it seems to very faintly reflect the colours of the spectrum when the rays hit it just so. Her cutie-mark is a cloud beneath a cluster of three tiny stars.
“Hey, boss!”
“Silver, put those plates down, I’ll take care of them. I need a favour.”
“Sure thing,” she chirped. “Whaddya need?”
“Rainbow Dash needs a chaperone home,” I said, fixing Dash with my best ‘don’t argue’ stare. Then I looked back to Silver with a smile. “Can you make sure she gets to her front door in one piece for me?”
Of course, Dash did argue. “Hey... I don’t... I don’t need your... help.”
But before I could give her a firm lecture on the well-known perils of flying under the influence, Silver jumped in. “No, but I need yours!” she enthused without missing a beat. “Come on, Rrrrrrainbow Dash! Seeing a real cloud-home up close will really help me with my Cloud Formation and Cloud Architecture modules, and yours is the best one I’ve ever seen!” Silver grabbed Rainbow Dash by the forehoof with a grip that explicitly said I’m not letting go, and slowly tugged her towards the door.
Whether Rainbow Dash fell for Silver’s flattery, or whether she still had enough about her to see some sense, she didn’t protest further. Rainbow allowed herself to be dragged to the front door, and just as they reached it and opened it I caught a self-satisfied smile on her face. “Yeah, it is pretty awesome...”
Silver took Rainbow outside and spread her wings, giving me a sly wink back through the door before helping her unsteady, dizzy charge into the air. I made a mental note to put an extra bonus in her wages at the end of the month. Ferrying intoxicated pegasi home isn’t even remotely in her job description but she never even looked like saying ‘no’. She’s the kind of pony who’s always ready to help.
Heh. And Cloud modules? I’m pretty sure she passed those a while ago.
I’ll be really sad to lose her when she goes.