The Past
A much younger Spitfire awoke in a much cheaper bed, within a much smaller and less opulent hotel room. The thin polyester curtains did little to stop the morning sun, but the impulse to roll over away from the light brought on a deeper wince, the movement highlighting how her body complained all over.
Every muscle held a dull ache, and not just the expected ones from training. But figuring out why was tough when her temples throbbed with her pulse, like everything inside her skull had been sewn tightly together and was trying to break loose. But she couldn’t just be tired – if the sun was up, she ought to be halfway through her morning exercise regimen. Gritting her teeth, she turned to the alarm clock on the nightstand. In its place she saw only empty bottles. That explains a lot.
On top of everything else, she then felt a sinking in her stomach, prompting her to turn to her other side. Spitfire paused and cocked her head askew, greeted with the sight of a lithe young man, lying with his back to her, clearly naked beneath the sheets. That explains a lot more.
Oh, she’d suffer for that, she internally half-groaned, half-smiled. The price of letting loose and enjoying yourself in such a fashion, which she knew all-too-well from enough Academy boyfriends, was how unpleasant running laps would be the morning after, when even walking would have been sore.
At least she’d be able to relax through training, though, and not be antsy during the show that night. There was only so long she could endure the regular routines, putting her body through the constant cycles of pressure and endurance in training, adrenaline and boundary-pushing abandon during shows, and tension and relaxation in the sports massage at the end of each night’s work without needing a bodily release of her own. Every so often, she had to find some fan at a party and sort herself out, in that respect. Screw it all away and start again the next day with a clearer head.
And with the size of the Manehattan show coming up that night, her drunk self the night before had made a good decision. And – she grinned, glancing at the other occupant of the bed again – had had good taste, too. Only dim snapshots of memory remained of things they’d done together during the night, but its after-effects would be just what she needed.
When did I become so perverted, thinking of it in those terms?
Calling it a need made her sound kind of dependent on it. Perhaps she was, a little bit – she could go without, but it certainly helped – but she still didn’t like the idea. Both of being reliant on something, and on someone else to provide it. And something being required implied it wouldn’t otherwise be wanted, which simply wasn’t the case, and again made her uncomfortable. It being functional certainly didn’t diminish it being fun.
A movement beside her pulled her from her thoughts as her bedfellow rolled over towards her, cracking his eyes open and grimacing blearily at the sunlight. She met his eyes and smiled, making sure it was the kind of gentle smile that said ‘this was fun’ rather than ‘let’s get married.’
“Hey, Spitfire,” he croaked, grinning. “Good morning.”
‘Good’ morning? Sweetheart, for you this is the best morning.
“Hey…” she began, trailing off for a second, “Ga– no, he was last week.”
That was when Spitfire felt her eyes widening, and any cockiness draining away fast. She actually couldn’t remember. She reached out towards what she could recall of the night before, especially the introductions, but nothing stood out.
Nope, I have genuinely forgotten his name. Even Fleetfoot hadn’t managed that before, as far as Spitfire knew.
The mystery man’s eyebrow slowly rose higher and higher, and all Spitfire could do was look sheepish, trying to hold eye contact as she felt her cheeks warming.
“That’s humbling,” he chuckled to himself, looking away. Then he busied himself with rubbing the sleep from his eyes, pausing to turn away entirely to yawn.
“I was drunk!” Spitfire protested through her embarrassment, despite the tightening in her chest. Yeah, that’s definitely it. Not that I plain didn’t care or anything.
Luckily the sheets still covered them both more than decently, preventing an uncomfortable situation from growing even more awkward, with the room already as light as it was. The curtains really were useless.
“I was drunk too,” came the feigned-aghast response, complete with him shaking his head at her, “and I remember that you’re Spitfire.”
“I’m a Wonderbolt,” she scoffed. “Being memorable is my job.”
Not only did his eyebrows shoot up again, they were joined by his mouth dropping a little way open as he stared at her.
“The clue is in the name,” she drawled. “You don’t inspire wonder by being forgettable.”
Up that close, it was easy to spot his nostrils flare, though he didn’t otherwise let slip many signs his fake outrage might be becoming a lot more genuine. “I’m forgettable now?”
Oh, come on! I was kidding! When it came to forgetting names, he’d do well to keep hers in mind, and question what exactly he expected. There was a bit of bite to her, sure, but… But Soarin would have got that. Fleet would have given back as good as she got.
Maybe not kidding, exactly. Half-kidding? ‘Deliberately exaggerating something with an undercurrent of truth?’ She hadn’t exactly had to define it before, her friends just understood it.
“With enough booze,” she rolled her eyes, “anyone’s forgettable.”
That ought to relax him a bit, right? Pointing out that it was nothing personal?
Go on, argue with that: something everyone on the planet knows is true.
He held up a hand. “Again, I remembered you.”
Spitfire closed her eyes for a moment. It was too early for this. Way later than she’d usually be up and dealing with infuriating behaviour from Captain Wind Rider, she reminded herself, but the pain in her skull was still there, and telling her that it was definitely too early. She had to admit, though, that her headache wasn’t so bad, considering the amount she must have had to drink to put up with the guy in question last night.
But then again...
Opening her eyes, she looked at her bedfellow, taking in the wavy hair cascading over his narrow shoulders, and how the slenderness of the rest of him let her see every movement of muscles beneath his skin. She caught a mental flash of him in the tight T-shirt he’d been wearing the night before. Why did the hot ones always have to be lacking in personality areas?
“Maybe you didn’t drink as much as me?” she offered, trying to sound like she wasn’t talking to a child. And maybe succeeding?
“And besides,” she followed up with, “you knew my name long before last night, so that’s not a fair comparison.” Was the unspoken implication there subtle enough, that a fan really shouldn’t need to be that drunk to want to sleep with a celebrity they’ve no doubt bought pin-up calendars of, but that the reverse was not true?
She thought she spotted his ears flushing, hard to hide with skin that pale. “Yeah, there is that,” he rubbed the back of his neck and looked away again. Going from that, she doubted she’d ever know if he’d picked up the subtext.
It would probably lead to a calmer morning if not. A slightly less satisfying one, too.
“So…” he began, then squirmed around rearranging his pillows upright before sitting up against them.
Spitfire, still lying entirely beneath the sheets aside from her head and one leg, surreptitiously kept a careful hold of them to remain that level of covered.
His task completed, he cast his eyes around the room, obviously trying to think of something to say. “...Uh, what does today hold in store for you?”
The problem with choosing people with one-night stands in mind was how they suffered when required to do anything more. Who knew how Spitfire might ever find someone for a relationship, if she couldn’t even get one who could handle both the night before and the morning after? But if this one had struggled just to come up with that attempt at conversation, she ought to try to think of a decent answer, as the next topic would no doubt be even worse. So…
What did the day have in store for Spitfire? Well, it was a show day, which dictated everything else. Training would only be an hour, rather than the usual schedule of all morning. Then, after they’d showered, changed and eaten lunch, they’d hit the road, arriving in Manehattan by early evening. They’d be on stage at nine, and off at eleven. Half past, if the crowd wanted an encore. After-show party, and then bed – probably alone.
At some point someone on the team would probably inadvertently set Wind Rider off, and he’d throw a hissy fit and start screaming about professionalism – because everyone knew the shows were selling fewer tickets each year, and he blamed the rest of the team for it. Especially Spitfire and her closest two friends, who he charmingly referred to as the ‘young upstarts,’ and thought to be reckless glory-seekers not taking the job seriously or treating it with the prestige it deserved. Just thinking about it got Spitfire’s pulse firing up, and her teeth ground together out of the learned habit of holding her tongue all the times he’d shared his views with them. Prestige belongs in a museum, and so will we if you don’t recognise that!
And if Wind Rider had his temper tantrum before they left for Manehattan, then that was what she, Soarin and Fleetfoot would spend the journey discussing, tucked somewhere out of sight and earshot at the back of the bus. And by discussing, she meant the other two would be trying to calm her down or hold her back.
On the off chance that Wind Rider managed to act like an adult right the way to Manehattan, then maybe Spitfire would have a much more pleasant time with her friends on the bus, laughing together at whatever they’d got up to the night before, whether Fleet’s antics at the bar or Soarin’s at the buffet table.
Or dreaming of the day that sometime they might be running the ‘Bolts themselves, doing things the way they wanted to, and possibly making the team an act considered cutting edge and genuinely daring again.
And the guy across from her in the bed – whatever his name was – she couldn’t tell him any of that. If it somehow got back to Wind Rider, of course, he’d see her as the height of unprofessionalism, and for once she might agree with him. Not to mention that, as far as the public were concerned, Wind Rider was something of an infallible hero. A reputation he’d built mostly just by saying it often enough. And threatening to kick anyone who said otherwise off the team.
But it went way deeper than that. Difficult bosses and the confidentiality problems of discussing them were probably something most people could relate to. Life on the road, though?
Normal people got to go home each night, rather than to a different hotel room. They got to see their families, and their friends beyond those they worked with, and even do normal boring things like buy groceries and go out for coffee dates.
And where would I even begin complaining about that without sounding like some pampered celebrity.
Yes, she had some degree of fame. Yes, some people looked up to her. But she also didn’t have any long-term career prospects, since an ageing body wouldn’t take the physical stress of being a Wonderbolt, and there weren’t really any upper echelons to go on to. In fact, her career would be dead the second she suffered an injury that’d take longer than three months to heal; a worrying prospect she tried not to dwell on.
Not to mention that ‘pampered’ was a bit rich when she pushed her body harder in a day than he probably did in a month.
The other ‘Bolts all understood that, of course. Even Wind Rider. But this guy?
He never could.
“Just another normal day of training and a show,” she said. And, from the looks of it, there’d been nothing peculiar about her taking several seconds to think about it before answering.
He didn’t know the journey she’d been on, just in those last few moments. He wouldn’t get it even if he did. So why bother explaining? Much easier just to keep it to herself. Now there’s a depressing thought: I, a Wonderbolt, am becoming introverted.
How she’d have laughed at that party last month if she’d known she’d be having that thought now.
Nothing quite said ‘favourite song’ at a party like leaping onto the podium, bottle in hand, and going wild for it up there. The whole top floor of the hotel was the arena for the private event, ‘Bolts and a couple of dozen fans only, and, in Las Pegasus, the floor lounge came with a dance floor, a DJ, strobing lights, and a podium. But sooner or later, you’d run out of drink and have to come down.
Which made it all the more important to enjoy the occasion to the fullest when one of your best friends leapt up shortly afterwards to join you for the next song, bringing fresh drinks with her. Of course, then the song finished and another began, but you both liked that one so you kept dancing. And then another one, with a racier beat, and you were dancing together. And then came an even more charged one, and soon, between sharing swigs from a bottle, you were kissing her.
Of course you were kissing her, because she was like you in a different body. A different name and face over the same spark. So connecting with her physically, when you were so tied together in so many other ways, was the most natural thing.
And then you’d grabbed her hand when no one was looking and led her off somewhere more private, both stumbling and giggling all the while. You reached a quiet corridor, deserted save for a couple of blurred forms in Wonderbolt Blue sitting spread-eagled and surrounded by bottles against the wall at the other end, then turned, cupped her cheeks, feeling her doing the same to you, and kissed her a lot more.
Those tender lips being on your own was new, but felt familiar, and you quickly began competing to see who could grope the other most cheekily. That rump had exactly the firmness you expected, but then you’d slapped it playfully enough times over the years to make a pretty good guess of how it would feel if you were so inclined.
Then you broke apart to grin at each other, and you took her hand again, looking towards one of the unlocked suites which would likely be empty and contain a bed. But she held fast when you tried to pull her in that direction. Turning back towards her, you looked into her eyes. She looked over your shoulder for a second, then back to you, and shook her head.
But she held your eyes. And you hers. And the love that flowed through that connection… ‘Everything about you is exactly as it should be,’ it said. ‘There isn’t a single thing I’d change. I’m so glad I met you, and, this life we share… I want it to last forever.’
By that point, there were tears in your eyes, and hers too. So you pulled her into a hug, murmuring in her ear about how much you loved her, and she was doing the same, and you both knew that, however true it was, you’d be mortified if you remembered it in the morning.
And after a few moments, a warm, protective arm enveloped your shoulders, and another around hers, and neither of you had to look to know that it was Soarin holding you both close to his chest. And you both closed your eyes, and he bowed his head between yours, and all you knew was love.
Spitfire couldn’t keep the smile from lighting up her face as she stared at nothing in particular while recalling the scene. She certainly had remembered it in the morning, and many other times since. More than the day she made the ‘Bolts or her first show, that hug might just be the last thing she remembered in her final moments.
No one could ever connect with her the way her teammates did. That much was certain. But while she had them, that was ok.
“So, it’s been fun, but I’m afraid you should probably get going,” she said, the lingering memory making it easy to keep her voice sounding gentle.
Just leave quietly, please, and let me enjoy daydreaming of that moment.
The still-nameless man wilted at that, eyes widening and mouth falling open before he caught himself. “Aw, don’t be like that; we could get breakfast together if you’d like.”
And then what? Go for a walk in the park hand in hand, then exchange numbers? With a promise I’ll call you next time I’m in town?
No sooner had Spitfire thought it than the guy had reached out and touched her hand at the edge of the covers, looking into her eyes as he did so, no doubt trying to inspire her to feel some semblance of a bond between them.
But all that really achieved was reminding her of that corridor, standing with Fleet’s hand still in her own, staring into each others’ eyes. Even it flashing before her vision again made her heart leap, in a way that guy opposite her in the bed could only have dreamed of. Comparing that to his own touch on her hand… Yeah, not quite the same.
Spitfire arched an eyebrow. “We were never going to last until breakfast.” Could he really have been that naive? In that case, she’d be hurting his feelings, but there wasn’t much else for it. But no, that couldn’t be right, because even when drunk she never would have gone for him if he’d given any indication he wasn’t interested in it being a one-time thing. She frowned. “You knew that last night as well as I did.”
“That’s not fair,” he backed up, holding his hands out in front of him defensively, “you should at least try to connect with people?”
I should, should I? His by-rote platitude said nothing about why it was important for her to bother, or why that was better than sticking with the people she was already connected with. Those who had a chance of understanding her, where he never could, or even why he couldn’t.
All he could do was try to pull her in a direction she didn’t want to go, and protest and get angry at something that wasn’t her fault. Something that, even if she could give one, she didn’t owe him an explanation for.
In fact, she didn’t owe him a single thing.
“Get out of my room.”
He recoiled with a flinch, then further still as he looked back to her with his lip curling up. “I didn’t realise you were that kind of girl.” Yet somehow, despite the sneer, his eyes still held a glimmer of longing.
Oh, wow, drunk-me certainly misjudged you…
Pinning the bedsheet to her chest with one hand, she shifted her pillows with the other and dragged herself into a sitting position as smoothly as she could, then crossed her arms beneath her breasts and gave him a glare. The kind Fleetfoot, convinced from their first meeting Spitfire would be captain someday, called ‘cadet-melting.’
“Here’s what you should have realised: I am a Wonderbolt. I have a touring lifestyle. I will be in town for one night only, so that’s all I will commit to.” For all her thoughts of him not being able to relate, that bit really should have been obvious to anyone. “You were fine with that last night, so trying to adjust it now, after the fact, is not something I’m happy about. You think I enjoy breaking hearts the next day?”
Each sentence drove the pathetic anonymous man further off the bed, as if her words were literally smashing into him with their weight. Reaching the edge, he half-scrambled, half-fell to his feet, but still couldn’t take the hint to start looking around for his clothes.
“You seem pretty good at it,” he said instead, like a belligerent schoolgirl.
Had he ever been beaten up by a naked woman before? Only the image of Wind Rider’s smug face as he kicked her out of the dream she’d worked her whole life for kept her restrained where she sat and settling for giving him a flat look. Plus, the guy was kind of creepy with his clinginess, so he’d probably have been into that, and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“You make it so easy for me.”
But not in a thoughtful way, of course; not by sparing me this scene in the first place.
“Now,” she growled, “get out of my room. I won’t say it again.”
And that, finally, appeared to have done the trick, as he set about grabbing his clothes and stuffing himself into them. He made no comeback aloud, but his scowls conveyed his feelings, if not wit. Spitfire rolled her eyes, because she’d been angry enough to give him more of an explanation than she’d planned to, and he still didn’t look like he got any of it. He probably could have been gone already if he didn’t waste so much time glaring while getting dressed.
I am letting you dress yourself before you leave as a courtesy; do not test my patience on that front.
Just as he was jamming his feet into his shoes, a gleam appeared in his eye. “If you’re that famous, there are probably reporters lurking outside, right? What would they say if I gave them a scoop on my wild night with a Wonderbolt?”
“Tabloids,” she snorted, making sure he’d finished getting dressed before responding, so there was no conversational excuse for him to stay longer, “you’d fit right in. But I’m barely more than a newbie on the team; hardly front page news. The best you can hope for from those so-called journalists is a high five.”
If the press had got wind of the rift between her and Wind Rider, then it might have been a different matter, but no captain wanted reports of team feuds, and so in that respect his insistence on lying about anything which might damage his reputation worked in her favour.
“Oh, I think I’d get an interview,” he smirked, like he had any idea what he was talking about. But at least he was heading towards the door. Opening it, he took a step through, then paused and looked back at her. “Any words for ‘those so-called journalists?’ ”
None with more than four letters.
“Yeah, tell them they’d better write down your name.”
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I have found the theme song.
Seems fitting to me at least.
~Skeeter The Lurker
It's a nice conjecture, but I think every other named character in the story proves her wrong here?
Ouch.
This was a surprisingly nice chapter for something with no Adagio in it
Nobody likes Wind Rider in either universe, do they?
9789760 I can see where you're coming from with that, eeyup
I think that's a song I've possibly heard once before, skating just beyond the edge of familiarity in my memory 
9789774 Oooh, good point. Um. Bear in mind this is several years before she met Adagio, so that one at least doesn't count?
Because the hot ones who aren't lacking in those areas become her friends, and so get thought of as more than just 'one of the hot ones'
I don't think she'd deny Fleetfoot and Soarin are hot, but her instinct to see them as prey isn't there, so she doesn't think of them that way off the top of her head 
I mean, she is literally called spit fire, so if she insults you, it burns.
Best I can do under those tragic circumstances!
9790062 No redeeming qualities, and the antithesis of everything a Wonderbolt is supposed to stand for, so, nope!
I think the best comeuppance is that in the second chapter Spitfire is worrying about being seen as the captain under whom the Wonderbolts lost their edge, so Wind Rider, who in FIM wanted to make his mark on the history books so badly he framed a pony, has been totally forgotten by that point. Even by her.
9790122
In the 90s, sure. Not quite as big as its album maybe All Star, though.
~Skeeter The Lurker
9790157 It's definitely All Star of theirs I remember, especially the live performance of it at the end of the movie Rat Race.
Actually I heard it again a little while ago in the form of an unconventional mashup that worked better than it ought to. At least the first verse