//------------------------------//
// Closure 
// Story: A Job With Benefits 
// by Boomstick Mick 
//------------------------------//

	"That sounds strange," Big Mac commented as he and Soarin labored tirelessly through the orchards. "Do you often have dreams like that?"

"Not like that one, no." Soarin gripped an apple's stem with his teeth and flung it into a barrel along with the others. "You know how when you're having a nightmare, and there is always a small part of you that knows it's a nightmare, yet you still can't help but be frightened by it? Well, that wasn't how this dream was. It just seemed too real. I'm just glad it's over and done with now."

"Don't be so sure about that," Big Mac cautioned, giving Soarin a wary look. "Dreams can be just that. Dreams. But sometimes they can be something else entirely." The powerful earth pony grounded his front hooves into the soil and let loose with a powerful back kick that rendered a tree bereft of its fruit. 

"Like what?" Soarin asked, watching the apples rain down around his earthen comrade.

Big Mac began picking the freshly-bucked apples off the ground, and deposited them into a half empty barrel. The two had one more barrel to fill quota before lunch time. "Omens," he replied matter of factly, "warnings, prophecies, things like that. Ah woudln't be so quick to just discredit a freaky dream like that, if Ah were you."   	

Soarin wasn't ready to go so far as to say that he was capable of clairvoyance, but he decided to humor the earth pony's suggestion with an open mind. Stranger things have happened, he supposed. "So, what kind of warning or omen or prophecy do you think this dream contained?" He selected a random tree and readied his scythe.

"That's somethin' Ah can't answer. It was yer dream, it was meant for you to figure out." The large earth pony placed a pensive hoof under his chin and added, "If Ah were to take a guess though, Ah'd say it's a warning. You say the Wonderbolts were the shadows that attacked you?"

Soarin turned and gave him a nod before tearing into the tree, his scythe reflecting the glare of the sun with every slash in a rapid blinding pulse.

"Well... Maybe it has something to do with yer past. You were a Wonderbolt."  

Soarin breathed deep after stripping the tree. He landed, his wings furling back into his sides, and he began the process of depositing the harvest into the barrel. "Can you elaborate a bit more?"

"No, Ah can't. it's like Ah said, It's yer dream; Ah can't interpret yer dreams any more than Ah can read yer thoughts. You'll figure it out when the time comes, Ah'm sure." 

My past, Soarin thought. The Wonderbolts are my past... My past consumed me... But what does it mean?

The midday sun was blazing overhead when Soarin filled the last barrel. The wheel cart that he rinsed down thoroughly with a pressure washer before he could bring himself to touch it again was filled with half the day's harvest. A few taps with a mallet and the final barrel was sealed. "Well," Big Mac said as he watched Soarin heft the barrel onto the cart, "Ah suppose that's it for now. What say we head on to the house and see what Grandma whipped up for lunch?"

"Shouldn't we take the barrels to the cellar first?" Soarin asked.

"We can do it after. Ah'm hungry. Braeburn should be just about finished with the golden delicious trees. He'll probably beat us home." 		. 	

Soarin was all a bundle of smiles and nerves as they trecked through the pasture, and it wasn't just because it was lunch time. It was finally the time he had been waiting for. He had been planning out all day how he would ask Applejack out, the words he would use that would woo her out of his dreams and into his arms. In his eagerness he might have flown, but he decided to walk with Big Mac instead. Flying ahead of him and leaving him behind would have seemed rude. 		

The front door of the house squeaked on rusty hinges as Big Mac opened it. Soarin followed him inside, rounded the corner, and it was just as Big Mac had said. Braeburn was already in the kitchen. "You boys got here just in time," Granny announced cheerfully. "Braeburn, be a dear and take the plate to the table."

"So, what's for lunch?" Soarin asked. And where's Applejack? She was nowhere to be seen. It wasn't like her to miss a meal. 

"See fer yerself, green horn." Braeburn set a large platter stacked high with sandwiches down on the table. It was peanut butter and jelly on white bread. Not the most extravagant meal Soarin had ever had, but it was always a welcome child hood favorite. He reached out for a sandwich and took a bite. 

"This jam is amazing," he said at once. There was a kick to it, like a burst of static electricity intermingling with hints of cider and cinnamon. He never had anything like it.

"That's a family secret special recipe," Granny pointed out proudly as she took her seat next to him. "That there is our Zap Apple Jam. It's made right here on the farm. it ain't got no preservatives or none of that corn syrup stuff city boys like you are probably used to. We can only make it once a year, so don't let any of it go to waste."  

As if Granny had to say that. Soarin was already licking the jam off his hoof before helping himself to another sandwich. "Is there anything you guys make that isn't amazing?"	

The house suddenly shook when the front door slammed. Angry hoof stomps could be heard thundering up the staircase. "Applejack?" Granny called out. "That you, sugarcube?"

"Not right now, granny," Applejack's voice hinted a tone that was wrought with ire.

The concern in Soarin must have been contagious, as Granny looked at him and said, "Well, what are ya waitin' fer? Go to her"

Soarin was surprised by the demand, but now wasn't the time to be flummoxed. Wordless, he nodded, got up from the table and pushed open the double doors. Skipping the stairs, which would have only slowed him down, he leaped up from the center of the living room and vaulted fluidly over the second story railing. He managed to catch her just in time. Just as she placed her hoof on her bedroom door, Soarin was there, placing his hoof over hers to stop her. "Hey, what's going on?"

"Nothin'!" Applejack shouted, her face beat red. Soarin was taken aback by her tone. She was quick to take a breath and calm herself. "Ah..." She had to breath again. "Ah'm sorry. Ah didn't mean to snap at you like that."

"I'd be a hypocrite for getting upset," Soarin replied. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"It's Rarity again. Today, she just... She pushed me too far!"

"What'd she do this time? Is she still mooning over that Trenderhoof guy?"

"More than ever. You should see the new theme Rarity is using for the festival. She's calling it 'simple ways.' Can you believe that? She's prancin' around acting like some sorta dang backwoods inbred clown. Ah know that she's trying to be like me, but is that really how she sees me?" She looked down, letting the brim of her hat obscure her face. "Is that... That ain't how you see me, do you?"

"No." I see you as the most beautiful mare to ever walk this unworthy planet on four legs. "I think you're cute and classy." 

The compliment seemed to be just the thing to placate the miffed mare. "Those are words Ah don't hear too often." she looked back at the saddle bag hanging off to her side. "Classy, huh? Well, you ain't seen nothin' yet. Rarity's gonna see just how classy Ah can be."

"What do you mean?" Soarin noticed a tail of blue fabric hanging out of her bag. He pointed at it. "And what's that?"

Applejack smiled slyly. "Oh, it's just a little somethin' that's gonna fix Rarity's caboose fer good. Talkin' to her ain't workin', So Ah'm just gonna have to fight fire with fire."

"Okay," Soarin chuckled nervously. "But what is it."

Applejack turned her head, ever so slightly, and purred, "That's for me to know and you to find out, cowboy." She pushed her door open, entered her room, and said, "Anyway, Ah gotta start gettin' ready. Ah'll be sure to apologize to granny for bein' so snippy."

"Getting ready for what?" Soarin asked.

"You'll see," Applejack giggled. "See you at dinner." And then she closed the door between them. Baffled, Soarin could only stare stupidly into the grainy texture of the wooden door in front of him. Why so mysterious...?  		





The midday sun blazed overhead as the three stallions resumed their labors. This time Soarin volunteered to trade Braeburn's place to go it alone at the gold delicious trees, so that he could be alone with his thoughts. There were two things that he was unable to get off of his mind: The presumed message his dream may have carried, and Applejack's strange behavior. The two subjects warred with each other for dominance within his chaotic mind. His nightmare eventually won that battle. Every time he thought of his dream, he would find himself stealing a glance at Cloudsdale, the city of his birth. The town was constantly shifting directions under the mercy of the wind, yet it always seemed to stay within the proximity of Ponyville. He would sigh wistfully every time he looked its way. My past consumed me.

Perhaps Big Mac was on to something when he said his dream may have been a warning. He liked living on the farm, but Cloudsdale would always have a place in his heart. Not all the Wonderbolts were rotten to him. Misty Fly, Fire Streak, Blaze, High Winds, they were the ones he could consider friends. And then there was Wave Chill... "Waves." Soarin couldn't help but wonder what he was doing right now. It was true that Wave Chill abandoned him, but he never would have said farewell to him if Spitfire hadn't been standing over him making him say it. He couldn't grudge his best friend for wanting to stay on the captain's good side.

My past is consuming me. The message in his dream was becoming more clear as the day progressed. His cart was nearly filled, and the sun was just beginning to set. Having such a splendid view of his home from Sweet Apple Acres was making him heartsick. He tapped the top of a barrel shut with a mallet, lifted it onto his back, and placed it in the cart. What would be the harm in visiting? 

Every time he thought of Spitfire and all the indignation she had ever put him through, he'd become angry, or depressed, or both. He didn't want to be like that anymore, he decided. He didn't want to 'curse Spitfire until the end of his days,' as Fleetfoot put it. Maybe that's what everything meant. If the Wonderbolts represented his past, and the darkness their bodies were formed from represented the negativity he felt toward them, maybe it was a sign that it was about time he tried to get some closure. He had a new life now. A better life. He didn't want to spend the rest of it looking back on his old one, regretting the things that were never said. He doubted that he and Spitfire could ever be friends, but that didn't mean they had to be enemies.

Soarin's mind was made up by the time he was finished transferring the barrels from his cart into the apple cellar. If he could seek closure with his past, perhaps it would cease to haunt him. Spitfire was nothing if not predictable. When it wasn't academy season, she'd always do her PT in the morning, her synchronization drills with the team during noon, and in the afternoon she would go over academy enrollment applications and other paper work that the board would set in front of her. The sun was going down, whatever business the captain may have had that day was most likely done with, and she'd probably be where she always was at this time when she wasn't touring.




     

Soarin was grateful for the dark, moonless night that shrouded him as he stealthily made his way toward the Wonderbolts academy. In light of the rumors that were going around about him, who knows what kind of hostilities he would be forced to face should he be discovered. He decided to take the back way, which was closer to the estates. There was a gate that was secured for the night with a padlock, but Soarin merely leaped over it. He had always pondered upon the usefulness of a locked gate in a city populated by Pegusi.

Ducking and dodging the security personnel with relative ease, Soarin was successfully able to make it to the private living quarters. He strode down the path between the homes with a photographic memory of the ground's layout. Spitfire's estate was the largest one at the very center. His own was directly across from hers. Maybe it was simply nostalgia that drew his eye, he couldn't help but take a quick a glance at it. He was dismayed to see that it had been vandalized, possibly by students or former students that knew it once belonged to him. The windows had been smashed. Insults that covered such colorful topics ranging from his lack of testicular fortitude, to his mother's virtue, were scrolled all over the property. "Classy," Soarin sneered, reading the invectives. "Burn in Tartarus, you greedy bastard..." That one seemed a little over the top. Just what the hell were the papers saying about him now? He had to force himself to look away. Subjecting himself to acknowledging the monument of disgrace that was once his home was maddening beyond belief. 

He approached the front door to Spitfire's house, his stomach clenching. In his mind, that soul crushing voice that would tell him he couldn't do anything right, and suck out whatever confidence he may have had, sounded like Spitfire. She was the evil spirit in his head that turned every task before him into an insurmountable obstacle. He swallowed hard before forcing his hoof to tap the door. He waited, but there was no reply. He knocked again, which bared the same result. Somehow that was almost a relief. It gave him an excuse to turn around and go back home to the one place where he'd be welcomed. But he could't bring himself to leave, not after he had come so far. He hadn't realized it until he was standing there in front of Spitfire's home: He had to do this. He needed closure; he needed to write the end to this chapter of his life.

Soarin knocked, much harder this time. Once again there was no reply. "Dammit, Spitfire, are you freaking deaf, or what?" Seeing no other option, he decided to try the door. It was unlocked. Steeling himself, he entered Spitfire's domain, cursing her all the while for making him trespass just to talk to her. 

The front door led through a large lobby with a spiral staircase at the center and two lacquered wooden doors on each side. The floor felt smooth as polished marble as his hoovesteps echoed upon the immaculate white tile. Soarin had a feeling he knew where Spitfire would be. He ascended the staircase, which took him to a similar looking room. There were two doors on each side, only this time the flooring was covered with thick lavish rushes. If he remembered correctly, Spitfire's study was through the door on the immediate right. He had been in her house a couple times for homecoming parties the captain would throw for the Wonderbolts returning home from long tours.	

To his left, framed scroll-work, ornate paintings, and photographs new and old of Wonderbolts from every generation lined the walls inside the study. To his right there was a large pane that led out to a balcony that offered its occupants a splendid view of the city of Cloudsdale - especially at night, when the moon's light shone brilliantly upon its ethereal surface.  Books concerning vast topics such as Wonderbolt lineage, Equestrian history, art, culture, philosophy, refurbished writs and accounts of ancient long dead historians,  and even a few well-known works of fiction adorned a massive wood shelf that spanned floor to ceiling and wall to wall. And sitting in a large cushioned recliner, basking in the glow of the flames crackling in a cobblestone fireplace at the far center of the room was her. Spitfire didn't even so much as bother to look up from the book she was reading to acknowledge him. "What are you doing in my house, Soarin?" she said, her tone icy with contempt.       	

Soarin took a deep breath before he spoke. "I came here to talk to you."

Spitfire licked the tip of her hoof and turned a page in her book. "And so you decide to just barge in to my home and invade my privacy?"

Soarin's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, kinda like the time you let yourself into my home uninvited, before you accused me of sleeping with Rainbow Dash."

"That dilapidated piece of crap barn is your home?" Spitfire reached out for the glass of undoubtedly overpriced liquor that had been sitting on a small round table at her side, and gingerly tipped the rim back between her lips. "Well, congratulations," she said, contemplatively swirling the fluid around in her glass. "It's more than what you deserve." 	      

Soarin rose to the bait, bristling at the unprovoked insult. "And might I ask what that piss is that you're drinking?" 				

"It's brandy."

"It's piss," Soarin corrected her. "Aged liquor tastes like crap and you know it. Pretentious shmucks like you would quaff down fermented toad piss and rubbing alcohol if you were told it was fine wine. You'd probably ask for seconds after bleating on about the vintage."

If Spitfire was miffed by the sally, she didn't show it. "As if a beer swilling blue collar such as yourself could appreciate a fine wine."

Soarin was about to fire back, but he remembered the reason for which he came. "I didn't come here to trade quips with you, Spitfire."

"As if you'd have the wit to come up with one."

"Spitfire, enough. I came here because I want to talk. Is just a minute of your time without you condescending to me too much to ask?"	  

"One minute?" Spitfire finally looked up from her book, the fire near her casting shadows upon her face that accentuated her austere visage. "Okay, Soarin. I'll give you one minute. Then, you'll get out of my house, and never come back. Deal?"

"Deal." Carefully, Soarin approached and took a seat on the recliner across from her. They sat there, studying each other as the fireplace roared between them. "Spitfire," he finally began, "I want to make amends with you. I've come here because I... I don't know. I want to understand you a little better."

Spitfire raised her eyebrow. The burning log in the fireplace popped loudly. "Understand me?"		

"Spitfire, you have to admit that you've treated me rather unkindly over the years. I need to understand why. I rack my brain for reasons for your, well, for lack of a better word, hatred for me. I honestly can't think of a single thing I've done to you. I understand that you're angry about the Equestria Games. I get it. But this goes back way before a week ago. You've despised me from day one. I just need to know why."

The captain sat back in her seat, then suddenly clapped her book shut with a thunderous thud. "You want to know what my problem is with you?" She took another drought from her brandy glass, keeping her eyes locked hotly on Soarin's. Then she put the glass down. "You never deserved it," she said in a voice that was almost too low to hear.

"Never deserved what?"

The captain folded her hooves over her closed book, as if to deliver her rebuke in a sophisticated manner. "You never deserved to be a Wonderbolt, Soarin."

"Care to elaborate?" Soarin regretted that request the moment it passed through his lips. No doubt he was in for a scathing lecture now.	

"Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to just become a reserve? I had to hold down three part time jobs just to raise enough money to be able to pay the entrance fee for the academy. If that wasn't enough, my applications were rejected for three years in a row. When I was finally accepted, I still had to hold two of my jobs as I attended in order to keep up with tuition costs and ends meat. Seven years I spent in the academy. Seven years, Soarin, before I was finally noticed and made a reserve. It was another five before I could be sworn in as a full fledged member. It was a living hell. The best years of my life were sacrificed to accomplish this dream that I hold today." 		

"And what does any of that have to do with me?" Soarin asked. "You sacrificed, you slaved, you persevered, you let nothing stop you, and here you sit, the captain of the Wonderbolts. Bravo. But where do I fit in to all of this?"

Spitfire's face soured. Soarin had never seen so much rancor, so much acid, in the scowl the Wonderbolt captain was giving him. "You make me sick," she said in a tone that was as dark as it was personnel. "All the blood, sweat, and tears that I put it to become a Wonderbolt. Then there was you. You never took anything seriously. You laughed your entire way through the academy. It was all just a big party to you and your friends; going out and getting smashed every night, screwing any skank that batted her eyelashes at you!"

Soarin had to bite back his rage. It was true that he liked to cut back and have a drink with Wave Chill every once in a while, but he didn't get 'smashed every night.' And the accusation about all the girls he had been with. There was of course a one night fling here and there, but he wasn't even close to the portrait of hedonism Spitfire was painting him as. Regardless of the accusations, Soarin stayed silent, listening attentively to his former captain's rant.   

"Your line and performance scores were mediocre at best," she went on, "and yet, after attending the academy for only one year, which your parents paid for, you spoiled little piece of shit, the board decided to let you skip the reserve and induct you right off into the greatest team of flyers Equestria has ever known. And do you know why? Why you got a free ride, when the rest of us had to practically kill ourselves just to get into the reserves?"

Soarin looked at one of the pictures on Spitfire's wall. An old black and white picture of Squall Queller, his grandfather, standing proudly with his barreled chest, his leather jacket and his aviator shades. His wide, beaming smile of pearly white teeth was centered perfectly between his prominent cheek bones and strong squared jaw. Standing directly aside him receiving a noogie was a young Wind Rider, a teenager that his grand father had mentored, and went on the become the current holder of the coveted long distance flight record. "I think I can take a guess, now that you have me thinking about it."

Spitfire must have known what Soarin was looking at. "And for once in your life, you'd be right. Your grandfather was one of the greats..." She sat back in her seat, sneering. "If only the board could have known how far the apple had fallen from the tree."

Despite himself, Soarin almost laughed at the irony of the metaphor his former captain had just used.  

"The board figured you'd be some kind of second coming, and through all that nepotistic crap, they made you a Wonderbolt. They practically begged you to join. You, Soarin, a screw up, a nothing, the worst disgrace to the uniform I have ever seen or heard of, born with a silver spoon up your ass, laughed your way to the top - while it took me fifteen years of hard work and sacrifice." This time she reached for the bottle of brandy instead of the glass, uncorked it, and took a deep pull.

The dawn finally broke for Soarin. It was all clear now. A truth that he never could have anticipated rolled unbidden off his tongue in his state of disbelief. "You're jealous."	

Spitfire suddenly hurled the now empty receptacle into the fireplace. The flames leaped and roared so fiercely that Soarin had to shield his eyes from the intensity of the heat. "You're damn right, I'm jealous!" Spitfire roared, extending a hoof toward him with a tear in her eye. "Why should a spoiled little up-jumped no talent hack like you get a free ride when I had to throw away my childhood, my teen years, and the best part of my adult life?"

She's drunk, Soarin realized at once. Drunk on the misery she always kept bottled up inside of her over the childhood she so willingly threw away, as much as that overpriced liquor she had been quaffing.

"The other Wonerbolts hated you just as much as I did!" Spitfire threw her hooves into the air. "They were all beside themselves with excitement at first, thinking you would be Squall Queller the second, but no. All you brought them was shame and disappointment."

"Can you blame me?" Soarin asked defensively. "I only attended the academy for one year. The rest of the team were veteran flyers."

"You didn't have to accept the board's invitation!" Spitfire spat. 

"What would you have done, Spitfire? My parents filled my head with hopes and dreams of becoming a Wonderbolt since I was a foal. The board insisted I was ready. What would you have done if you were just handed over your dream on a silver platter?" 		

"Your dream?" Spitfire laughed derisively. "Your dream that was just given to you? Your dream that you just threw away like it was nothing?"

Soarin puffed up from his seat. "Because you and the team treated my like shit!"

"Because you are shit!" Spitfire roared back. "Even the fans are finally realizing that." 

"No thanks to your lies."

There was a sudden change in Spitfire's demeanor, her furious scowl softening into a suspicious glare. "What lies?"

"The lies that you told to the Foalstreet journal. Something about how I quit, losing the Wonderbolts the Equestria Games just to spite the team and all of Cloudsdale over a financial dispute. Ring any bells?"	

The captain gave him a blank look. "If you're accusing me over the things that ass wipe of a newspaper is saying about you, you're dumber than I thought you were."

"That a fact?" Soarin glared at her.

"Yes, that's a fact." Spitfire returned to her book, plodding her hoof along for the page she had been reading. "Now get out of my house. Get the hell out of my life. If you truly want to make amends with me, then apologize and get out."

Soarin swallowed hard. He needed this. Closure. It's why he came all the way up here. Even if that meant giving Spitfire the last word. Even if it meant apologizing for things that were not his fault, and sitting there as she spat embellishments and lies about his academy life. Even if she did lie to the press, an accusation that Soarin was beginning to doubt, he needed to do this. "I'm... Sorry." He had to force the words out, but there they were. "I'm sorry, Spitfire. Okay?"

"I know you are. Now go door-to-door and apologize to everyone in the team, then, to all of Cloudstale, then, go kill yourself so you can go to Tartarus and beg forgiveness from your grandfather. Then, you can look for your father while you're down there, so he can apologize to you for raising the spoiled, ungrateful piece of shit that he brought into the world."

Soarin was so surprised by that last part that he quivered with wordless fury. There was no comeback, no quip, no insult or rebuke that could soothe the deep cut that her words dealt him. His father. She just had to bring his father into this. What kind of monster uses somebody's dead father as ammunition for an insult?

"Why are you still in my house?" Spitfire asked him in a tone that was as cold and casual as if she were inquiring about the time, her head down as her eyes scanned the text of whatever it was she was reading, her burst of outrage gone as quick as it appeared.

Soarin felt numb as he stood up and made his way to the door. Just as he was leaving, the parting words came to him, in all their cold, venomous fury. "Spitfire," he said icily, turning his head to look out at the city that despised him, through the ostentatious crystal glass pane. "I hope the day comes when you lose everything you've ever worked for. I pray that the day comes when your happiness turns to ashes in your hooves, and the only one you have to turn to is me. I hope you come crawling to me on your belly, too weak to stand, with tears of desperation in your eyes, and when - if - that day should ever come, I'll spit on you. I'll spit on you, and I'll laugh as I watch you wallow in your own self pity and regret."  

"You were spitting in my face every day that I was forced to watch you gallivant about in that proud uniform," Spitfire replied. "What's once more for old time's sake?"

Outraged beyond words, Soarin shoved the door to Spitfire's study open. "Don't slam my door," Spitfire shouted after him. Soarin slammed the door as hard as he could, stomped down the stairs, exited the house, and spared a last glance at his former home, so enraged that the lump in his throat threatened to choke off his breath. His final business in Cloudsdale was concluded, it seemed to him. There was no point in ever coming back. Spitfire and her loyalists all hated him for something that he had no control of. His fans and students alike hated him for the unforgivable crime of moving on in search of a happier life. He gave, and he gave, until he had nothing more to give, then he was thrown away.  


	

Soarin was quite through dinner, and he ate little. He picked at the fries that had been served with his sandwich as he did his best to avoid eye contact with everyone. Getting to see Applejack was the one thing he was looking forward to, but even that was denied of him. He had heard it from Big Mac that she and Rarity had made up and decided to go out to the hay burger for dinner. Soarin should have been happy by the news. It was good to hear that Applejack's plan had worked, whatever it was, and that she and Rarity were friends again. He should have been happy, but he wasn't. He choked down one last hoof full of hayfries and finished his cider. "Thanks for dinner," he said as amiably as he could manage.

Granny gave him a knowing look of concern. "There's plenty more. You sure you had enough?"

"I couldn't eat another bite," Soarin insisted. "I think it's about I headed off to bed. I can barely keep my eyes open." In truth, the last thing he felt like doing was sleeping, but he had to come up with an excuse to retreat before questions concerning his antisocial mood would arise. He hated falling back into his old habits, especially when Granny was always so sweet to him, but he simply hadn't the will or energy to talk about his troubles. Not tonight. 

Soarin thought of his dream as the bucket that was his makeshift shower head rinsed the lathered up soap from his fur. Spitfire would never grant him the closure he needed. He remembered the way he held his hoof out to her as the shadows seized him. She made no move to help him. She just watched as his past literally swallowed him. 

The bucket dripped down its last drop, but Soarin stood there, staring into nothing. How could someone hate him so much over something he had no control of? It wasn't fair. He had no more say in the decisions the talking suits at the board made than he did in choosing the color of the coat he was born with.  	

Soarin laid awake in his pile of straw. He didn't want to sleep. He especially didn't want to dream, but what else was there to do but lay around? His thoughts were plagued by thoughts of his father and grandfather. Was he truly nothing but a big disappointment to them? He was wishing that he could have been old enough to remember his grandfather before he passed away. He looked so strong, and confident, and gallant in the picture on Spitfire's wall - everything that Soarin feared he would never be. It was doubtful that anybody ever called Squall Queller a piece of shit.    

A sudden rapping at Soarin's door caught his attention. Granny, he thought. She wanted to talk to him about his mood. Having been allowed the space to vent, he felt that he may have been ready. He was sick of being alone with his thoughts, besides. Soarin lit his lantern that he liked to keep close by at night, the orange glow illuminating the dark confinements of his barn. "Who is it?"

"It's, uh. It's me, sugarcube," Applejack's voice rang out softly. "Ah ain't bothering you at this hour, Ah hope."

Soarin's heart skipped a beat. "Not at all," he said at once. "Are you coming in?"  	

"Get in there!" Soarin heard a second voice hiss from behind his barn's door. "You've been talking about him all day. You had better not be getting cold hooves!"

"Would you just give me a second to prepare?"

"Prepare for what? You've had all day to prepare. You look fabulous darling, now march in there."

Soarin squinted at his door. He picked the lantern up in his teeth and leaped down from his hayloft.

"Ah ain't never worn mah hair like this before. What if he don't like it?"

"Darling, if he can resist you as gorgeous as you look, he's either gay or he's a eunuch."	

"Who's with you?" Soarin called out to her after carefully placing his lantern on the floor.	

"Could you at least give us some privacy?" Applejack whispered.

"Of course, darling," said the other voice. "Just as soon you walk your fabulous little self on in there."

"And how can Ah be sure that yer not gonna just hang around and eaves drop?"

"I suppose you can't," the mysterious voice giggled.

Soarin was just about to open his door, since Applejack seemed reluctant to let herself in. But as soon as he touched it, it began to creak open. From the narrow opening, Soarin spied those beautiful green emeralds that he was all too familiar with. "H-hi sugarcu— Whaa!" The door flew open. Applejack let out a cry of dismay when an unseen force suddenly shoved her from behind, reeling her into Soarin's chest. He tumbled onto his back with her on top of him. 	

"Rarity!" Applejack yelled.

A smiling ivory white unicorn peaked in at them through the barn door's opening. "You can thank me tomorrow, darling," she giggled before she turned around and scampered off, as if to retreat before Applejack could think to give chase.

"Oh, Ah'ma do more than just thank you, Rarity Unicorn!" Applejack spat over her shoulder as Soarin studied her, her golden hair held back by a diamond encrusted hair brooch, the blue dress that hugged her curves in a way that showed how flawless her figure was. Applejack looked as if she had already forgotten what she was angry about when she finally looked down at him. Her face reddened. "Ah'm so sorry!" She dismounted from him in an awkward flail of limbs. "Rarity just completely ruined mah entrance. Ah was gonna mosey on it and try to strut a little, but she shoved me, and you were right there in front of me, an—

"It's okay," Soarin said, trying to calm her. "It's alright. You... What are you wearing?" He picked himself up and just looked at her.

The light from Soarin's lantern seemed to make Appleack's hair shimmer. She blushed under the foundation on her face, between those freckles of hers. "You," she tried to say, but she started over again. "It's what Ah'm wearin'. You know, tomorrow? Ah was wonderin' what you would think. About me. Wearin' this. Tomorrow. At the... Ponyville day festival?"

"There are no words that exist that can accurately describe how beautiful you are at this moment," Soarin said stupidly. 

The compliment made Applejack smile a shy little smile. "Ah was hopin' you'd like it," she said, relieved. "Ah was lookin' forward to showing this little number off to ya ever' since Ah tried it on, but then Ah got to yer barn, and mah confidence just abandoned me." All the sweetness in her voice left when she added, "Then Rarity shoved me."    

"How could you think I wouldn't like it?" Soarin wondered.

"Ah'm glad that ya do." Applejack shot him a smile. "Ain't ya got somethin' to ask me?"

Soarin suddenly remembered. "I do. You, uh. Applejack, you..." He seemed to forget the speech he had rehearsed in his head earlier that day. It was a good one too... he thought sadly.

"Sugarcube?" Applejack said sweetly.

"Yeah?"

"Quit bein' a butthead and ask me out."	

So much for the cute shyness. "Wanna go out?" were the only words that would come.

Applejack played at being thoughtful over his invitation. "Gee, Ah don't know." She knew she had him, now she was just being a tease. "You gonna dance with me like you said you would a week ago?"

Soarin nodded.

"You gonna buy me drink If Ah ask for one?"

Soarin nodded.

"Well, hey," she said, "sounds like a good time to me." She placed her hoof gently under Soarin's chin and kissed him on the cheek. "You show me a good time tomorrow, and there'll be more where that came from."

Soarin ended up walking Applejack back to the house. They must have said goodnight a hundred times, but a conversation would always somehow come back up. Applejack told Soarin about her day, and what she did to 'fix Rarity's caboose,' as she put it. She apologized for not being there at dinner like she said she would be, but she wanted to have some girl time with her friend, now that she had finally reclaimed her senses. Soarin almost told Applejack about his day. He almost told her about the things Spitfire said, the truths she revealed, but he didn't want to ruin the moment. He simply told her that he had a good day at work in the orchards, and that he had hayfries for dinner. 

As he walked back to his barn, a mirthful bounce in his step, he remembered his dream and the conversation he tried to have with Spitfire. It somehow wasn't bugging him anymore, and it was then that he was beginning to realize what his dream truly meant: let go of the past. Just let it go. Every time he would look back at it, every time he'd try to fix it, it would just make him miserable all over again. In his nightmare, he pleaded to Spitfire for mercy, but he was granted none. It was eerily similar to what happened today. Letting go of his past was something that was going to be easier to say than do, Soarin knew, but as long as he had Applejack and her family, he felt that anything was possible.

Soarin took his lantern and leapt up to his hayloft. Thoughts of Applejack in that dress filled his mind, and he knew that he would be dreaming of her tonight. He sprawled out on his straw bed, yawned, and turned out the light.