//------------------------------//
// Unopened 
// Story: The Long Arm of Murphy's Law 
// by Posh 
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Spike hadn't asked if Rarity wanted him to walk her home, but she offered no protest when he fell into step beside her. He was quiet as they walked, as though he didn't know what to say. Or whether there was anything to say.

He broke his silence when they arrived in front of the darkened, shuttered Carousel Boutique. "So... here we are, Rarity."

Rarity studied the intricate facade of her home and livelihood for a moment, before unlocking the door and nudging it open with a flash of her horn.

Spike's feet scraped in the dirt as he turned to leave. "I'll see you around, I guess." 

"Spike, wait." Rarity flashed her horn again, seizing Spike's wrist and pulling him to a stop. She dropped her aura and looked invitingly at him; he stared back, puzzled. "Won't you come and sit with me a moment?"

Spike looked down at his hand, rubbing his wrist where her magic had caught him, delaying for so long that Rarity was certain he'd try to leave again. But, at last, he padded inside cautiously, as though he were walking on rotten ice.

Another flash of her horn, and the lamps and candles around the boutique lit, bathing the showroom in gentle firelight. Ponyquins, clad in formalwear, stood in tableau around the boutique; their shadows, distorted by the outfits, danced against the walls and the floor. Rarity inhaled the scent of melted wax and vanilla, regretting that the scented candles she'd bought and arranged in preparation for tonight would not see their intended use. Still, the candles lent the room a warm and intimate atmosphere, one which she felt was curiously appropriate.

Her horn kept shimmering as she pulled a velvet-upholstered sofa – her chosen piece of furniture for melodrama and emotional indulgence – from a room off to the side. She hopped onto it, gathering her dress and smoothing it out beneath her, and patted the spot beside her for Spike. 

Still looking uncertain, he climbed up, sighing as he pulled the strap from his bag off of his neck. His scales glowed, each one a mirror for the faint little flames of the candles. Nervously, he glanced at Rarity from the corners of his eyes.

"You know, you're allowed to look directly at me, Spike. You won't turn to stone." Rarity cocked her head wryly. "Or am I so disheveled that it hurts to do so?"

"You're a vision," Spike mumbled, pulling the strap taut. "I told you before."

Rarity didn't dispute the compliment. She knew it wasn't true. She knew he meant it anyway.

"I've been thinking," she sighed, leaning against the sofa's backrest. "I've been burned many times before, by... oh, so many stallions over the years that it's become comical." 

Their faces and voices and promises and declarations played out in her mind, one after the other. She always swore she'd never fall for somepony like that again, yet time after time...

I have sewn myself into this miserable garment. She chuckled bitterly.

"Something funny?" Spike said.

"Just my love life. My increasingly ironic, moribund love life. It's comical, I told you."

"I'm glad you can still laugh at it, at least." Spike almost turned to look at her. "Those guys who broke your heart... You know I wasn't after what they were after, right?"

"I know that." Rarity fixed Spike with a scowl that he never saw. "But regardless of your motive, even if your intentions were good, that doesn't make your actions any less wrong."

Spike shuddered, and nodded slowly. "I know. I get that now."

He meant it. He still wouldn't look at her, but Rarity could see his sincerity, hear it in his voice. He deserved the truth from her, too. 

"I'm not trying to condemn you, Spike. You're not the only one who told a white lie, after all." Rarity scooted closer to him on the couch. "After the ice cream incident, you offered to call things off. I said that I wanted to keep going. Remember?"

Spike snorted and shook his head. "I should've known. There's no way you wanted to stick around after that."

"Not really, no. But I knew that being there meant something to you, and I didn't want to hurt you with the truth. So, I put on a happy face, and resolved to tough it out. Which worked out swimmingly, needless to say." Rarity laughed again, a touch less ironically. 

Her laughter was met with a fleeting, sullen smirk from Spike. "That's nowhere near as bad as what I did."

Rarity fought back the impulse to roll her eyes. "It isn't a competition, Spike. We both made mistakes. We both lied to one another, and all we did was make matters worse. But our mistakes don't have to define us, so long as we come to terms with them, seek forgiveness, and learn."

"I forgive you," Spike said, immediately, automatically. His shoulders rose and sagged in a half-hearted shrug. "You didn't need to apologize, though. You lied to make me feel better. I lied because..."

"...You wanted to make me feel better."

"Even so, you were right. That's no excuse for what I did." 

"Nor does it excuse what I did."

Spike shook his head frantically. "Stop it. It's not the same thing. What I lied about was worse, way worse. And however you cut it, I'm no better than one of those other guys who messed with you."

Rarity felt her temper flare. She'd indulged Spike enough tonight; she had no patience for further self-pity. "Do you want me to agree with you? Tell you that you're scum? Will that make you feel better? Hating yourself solves nothing. You don't learn from your mistakes if you let them define you; you become less than what you are. And you don't want to do that to yourself." 

She reached for his shoulder and stroked his scales, watching the firelight play off her pony-pedi as he stiffened.

"Because what you are is a good person, Spike. You came clean and apologized when you really didn't have to, when it may have served you better to say nothing at all. That's something none of those other stallions would have ever done."

Rarity's hoof slid up his neck to cup Spike's cheek and tilt his head toward hers. He didn't bother trying to look away.

"You have a good heart, darling. Good enough to realize when you've done wrong, to account for your mistakes. That's what sets you apart from the Bluebloods and the Brass Buttons and the Lucky Strikes of the world."

She smiled, and saw it reflected in his eyes.

He was right, and I was wrong. I am a vision.

"Even if you err, I can always count on you to do the right thing in the end." She stroked his cheek, once, and let her hoof fall to the couch cushion. "And that is what makes you worth forgiving."

Spike looked relieved for an instant. His mouth opened, but his expression changed before he said whatever he was about to say, as though he thought better of it. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully before speaking again. "Thank you. But I still don't feel like I deserve your forgiveness right now."

"Then take heart. I'm not ready to give it to you yet." She pulled her hoof away from him and straightened on the couch. "But I will be. In time for next year's carnival, I'm sure."

"Next year?" There was a note of hope in his words that made his voice crack boyishly.

"Why not? Tonight was a bit of a misfire; there's no arguing that. I'd love the chance for a do-over under more auspicious circumstances." She hesitated, feeling the cold prick of a needle at her heart. "Wouldn't you, my friend?"

A jolt ran through Spike. He sagged. His face fell. Whatever hope she'd given him, however unintentionally, bled away. For a moment, Rarity worried she'd broken him, but he squared his shoulders and cleared his throat and forced a resigned smile. 

"I'd like nothing more," said Spike.

It was the answer Rarity had hoped for. It was the answer Rarity had dreaded.

She had been wondering whether or not Spike would make them have that talk this evening, if that was why he'd walked her home. After all, on the ferris wheel, he'd come as close to openly acknowledging his feelings for her as he had in years, for the first time since that long-ago moment of freefall. She'd invited him inside half-expecting him to force the issue, and entirely hoping he wouldn't. 

Because what would be the point? He didn't need to hear that she wasn't in love with him; he clearly already knew. And he didn't need to be told that she loved him regardless, not in so many words, anyway. 

If he knew all that, and let the matter pass without comment, then that spoke to his maturity. And if they never had that talk at all, then that came as a relief. But regardless of whether or not the subtext ceased being subtextual, the nature of their friendship was going to change after tonight. His crush on her was never a secret, but he never knew how much Rarity treasured his adoration, covertly and guiltily prided herself on winning the dragon's heart. Winning and keeping it.

And while Spike had taken her to the carnival with the intention of kindling her spirits, nothing had worked half as well as championing him when he needed her.

But that had to come to an end. She needed to let Spike go, as much as Spike needed to let her go.

Rarity looped her hooves around Spike's shoulders, and pulled him close so he wouldn't see her blinking back tears. He buried his face in her dress's fabric and clutched her tightly, like they were swinging in the ferris wheel's cage, at gravity's mercy. They stayed like that long enough for some of Rarity's candles to gutter out, leaving the room dimmer, darker, than before. 

At last, Spike shifted, pulling his head away from Rarity. Gently, he smoothed out the wrinkles he'd made in the dress. "Twi's probably worried sick. I should get home to her."

"Don't let me keep you, darling. Just, I'd like to beg one thing of you before you go." Rarity ran her hoof over the spot where Spike's face had been, feeling the moisture of his tears. She offered him her other hoof. "I wonder if you wouldn't mind letting me keep the scarf after all?"

Spike's puzzled look quickly gave way to a small, gratified smile. He fumbled inside his courier bag and retrieved the scarf, draping it tenderly over Rarity's outstretched hoof. Once more, she marveled at its warmth and softness, even as she noted the streaks of grime mashed into its yarn from when she'd tossed it to the floor of the cage.

It will wash.

"Thank you, Spike. This really was a thoughtful gift."

"I'm just glad you liked it." With that, he slid off the couch and padded to the front door with that subtle, babyish waddle. The door creaked, so slightly, as he pulled it open. "I'll see you soon?"

"You will. Goodnight, Spikey-Wikey."

He hesitated, perhaps savoring the moment. "'Night, Rarity."

The night ended as Rarity thought it would from the start, more or less. She was alone in her darkened boutique, neither drunk nor crying, but tired and sore. The aroma of vanilla wax that had hung in the room was already dissipating, some of it ushered out the door with Spike. Left to her own devices, she looked down at her dress, stained as it was with sweat and chocolate, ice cream and dragon's tears, and she chuckled.

"I am quite a mess right now."

Folding the scarf, Rarity laid it on her sofa and stood. Her aura chimed and tinkled as she strode upstairs, her path illuminated by pale hornlight. Bit by bit, she undid her dress, carefully and gently stripping it from her body, and sighing as the cool air of the boutique kissed her coat.

She found Opalescence sleeping on a ponequin she'd expected to be bare, and gently moved her to the bed without waking her. Habit made her want to dress the ponequin with her discarded formalwear, but she was too exhausted to contemplate the possibility for long – after all, she'd just taken the damn thing off. Masterpiece or no, she wasn't so keen on reassembling, and it needed a thorough wash, anyway.

So, with a sigh, she dropped the dress over the ponyquin's back, mentally adding "cat hair" to the list of things that would need to be laundered off, and turned her back on it, toward her armoire. The doors glowed blue as she pulled them open, revealing rows of impeccably hung dresses and sweaters. Rarity shifted them, one by one, to expose a shelf at the back of the armoire.

Hidden behind her outfits was an unopened bottle of Merlot. There'd been many more; the rings on the wood where less dust had accumulated spoke of the other dates and heartbreaks Rarity had faced over the years. She'd bought each bottle with the intent of sharing, but drank them all alone.

Rarity's mouth watered as she floated the Merlot off its shelf, letting it hover inches away from her face. She turned it slowly, noting how nicely drawn the vineyard on the label was, failing to recall whether the vintage was a good one. She tilted it from one side to the next, listened to the contents slosh against the glass.

This was the last one. She supposed that meant something, but she wasn't sure what, and she too tired to dwell on it.

That's a thought for another night.

She set the bottle on the shelf, slid her outfits back into place, and gently closed the door. 

"I could use a good soak before bed," Rarity declared to herself. She floated over a towel from her closet and headed toward the bathroom, humming a tune she didn't immediately place. One of Pinkie's? A song Sweetie'd been singing?

Then she remembered the calliope's melody, and the lights of the carnival, and the smells of spun sugar and fried food, and couldn't stop herself from smiling.

How funny that a heart so callously broken could still feel so full.