Chapter 1 - Rise and Shine on a Special Day
Mornings were a blessing and not merely in the ‘thank you, Princess Celestia, for the day’ kind of way. No time was better than the early morning as the sun began its rise. The horizon catching fire and setting the sky ablaze in orange and yellow and casting light on the perfect ray of sunshine resting against Soarin’s chest. The sunrise outside could not hold a candle to the radiance tucked to his side and lightly snoring. He counted himself the luckiest stallion in the world to get to be the only one blessed with this view every morning. Spitfire’s wild, spiked mane tickling his chin where it wasn’t plastered to the side of her head. The cute way her eyes darted and shifted under closed lids. The endearing string of drool’s painstakingly slow descent toward his chest. Truly, he was the luckiest stallion in the world.
Sure, Spitfire latching onto him in the middle of the night while he had been stretching put him on his back in a somewhat uncomfortable position. There was also the way her well-built and surprisingly dense body laid across his outstretched wing, pinning it to the mattress. It cramped, severely, at least in those places it wasn’t tingling and numb. Waking her, though, would ruin the perfect morning. Not because her being awake was a less desirable condition, but simply for the fact that he took such joy in watching how she slept without tension or worry. It wouldn’t last.
The end began with a shiver along her spine and the ghost of a grimace moving across her face. Her hind legs stretched out and down and her back tried to arch without her forelegs moving from where they encircled Soarin’s neck. Those legs decided the best way to start the morning was to squeeze around whatever was between them which saw to it that he would not be saying ‘Good morning’ until after the crushing hug relented and let him breathe. She shook her head, rubbing it into the side of his chest and smearing moist drool into his fur. The motion at least loosened the grip around his neck.
“Morning, Spitz.” The dopey grin was audible in Soarin’s chipper voice.
“Uck murn’n ‘n th’ gert ash.” Spitfire’s muzzle found a home in the warmth of the joining of his chest and foreleg. Without the appeal of young recruits to torment, the Wonderbolt’s captain lacked a certain motivation to get up and meet the day.
“The goats don’t deserve that. Come on, I’ll make you breakfast while you shower.” Soarin’ found his progress out of bed impeded by Spitfire’s iron grip. Her face worming its way more firmly against him.
“Um ‘ith?” Said the muffled voice from deep within his armpit.
“Not this morning, hot stuff, you’ve got press day and I don’t.” Soarin’ didn’t mean for it to come out so singsong, but sometimes things just happened. The room seemed to darken, like a storm was fixing to blow in. The snuggly face buried in his chest found enough motion to turn narrowed eyes up at him. “Umm… Doctor’s orders?”
Spitfire’s trepidation in rising seemingly forgotten, the Wonderbolt surged to standing on the bed with wings flared. An angry Spitfire had a certain… aura… about her, like the whole world was one wrong word away from spontaneously combusting. Her glare game was on point, too. It took all the willpower Soarin’ had not to curl in on himself under that stare. That and the fact his wing was still too numb to fold up and that she just looked so cute when she was mad.
The eyes narrowed further, little specks of intense orange that interrogated without words. Sweat started to dampen the fur on his forehead, starting the process of oversaturating which would eventually allow beads of the incriminating liquid to roll down his face. Not yet though and Soarin’ swallowed in preparation for his well-reasoned response. “Sorry?”
Spitfire’s hoof met her forehead at a speed low enough not to cause any damage but fast enough to cause the fear that it had. She pinched the bridge of her nose within her fetlock. “What did I do to deserve this?”
“You did say yes.” Soarin’ started ratcheting himself into a more seated position with his forelegs stretched back behind him. “Well, ‘I do’. Three years ago, precisely. Happy anniversary.” He darted his head forward like a cobra and placed a peck of a kiss on the end of her nose.
The golden muzzle scrunched up instinctively as the mare behind it weighed the pros and cons of staying angry. With a sigh, she gave it up as a lost cause. Staying mad at Soarin’ was like staying mad at a golden retriever, it just wasn’t possible. Frustration? Now that was an emotion Spitfire could get behind. “Yeah, yeah. Happy anniversary, I love you, all that. You don’t get off the hook that easy though!” A hoof poked Soarin’s chest just below the level of painful. “Mutual shower privileges are rescinded!” With a huff and a swat of her tail against his muzzle, Spitfire spun and hopped off the bed in a smooth motion worthy of the Wonderbolt’s captain. She strutted out of the room with her nose and tail lofted equally high, leaving a much-bemused stallion in her wake.
He wouldn’t complain, he rather liked her sass. As much as he liked the two ‘s’ version or more. They really didn’t have time for shenanigans anyway. Soarin’ rolled out of the bed and made his own way to the kitchen to make breakfast while pondering the entertainment value of the word ‘shenanigans’.
000
The smell of hay bacon and flapjacks filled the kitchen by the time Spitfire made her way out of the bathroom with a towel around her neck and her still damp mane appropriately swept back. She closed her eyes and made her way to the stove by smell. Her wings puffed slightly, and a little flutter brought soft contact against Soarin’s side. A soft sigh escaped her, and she opened her eyes enough to make out the words on the stallion’s apron. She decided to oblige him with a kiss on the cheek. “You’re my favorite doofus, you know that?”
“I’m your only doofus.” A surprisingly skillful flick of the foreleg sent the flapjack into the air, flipping in a graceful arc that neatly deposited it back in the pan.
“Thank Celestia for that.” A golden hoof swept all but one piece of the crispy hay bacon onto a plate before Spitfire slipped around the other side of him to spear a couple flapjacks with a fork. She stuck close, her fur brushing against his, interlacing as she stopped beside him to drip syrup onto her short stack. Intentional or not, the light press and subtle motion of her hip against his side made Soarin’s breath catch in his throat. He nearly dropped the next flapjack. The smirk on her muzzle proved she was quite aware that she’s ‘still got it’.
Soarin’ poured the last of the batter into the skillet and waited for it to bubble as Spitfire balanced the heavy plate of hay bacon and her short stack of flapjacks on her wings. He risked his attention on watching her make her way to the table, outstretched wings perfectly level lest the syrup ruin the morning’s grooming. She caught him looking as she placed the plates in front of a low bench at the table. This just made the motions of her rear exaggerate as she sashayed to the refrigerator to pour a couple glasses of orange juice. Soarin’s flapjacks were bubbling significantly by the time he looked back, and the hurried flip finds the other side a bit darker than he’d like. A small price to pay.
The stack of flapjacks piled on Soarin’s plate dwarfed Spitfire’s portion. Slathering it with butter, Soarin’ poured an extravagant amount of the sweet syrup over top before dusting the whole thing in powdered sugar. The single piece of hay bacon looked more like a garnish than part of the meal as he balanced it on the edge of the plate and moved to join his wife at their table. He tucked himself in and smiled across the short distance between them. He had his somewhat dopey, quite endearing smile on. It was so hard to stay mad at that smile, but Spitfire had practice and resolve. He sipped his orange juice and leaned his head forward just slightly as he placed the glass back on the table. “Have I said ‘Happy Anniversary’ yet?”
A nonplussed mask of general disinterest settled over Spitfire’s face. “You have.”
“I’m sorry I can’t go to Press Day with you and have to stay home.” A slight twist up of the corner of this mouth was partially suppressed, but not enough for her to fail to recognize the smirk.
“No, you’re not.” Spitfire huffed. She brandished a piece of hay bacon like a weapon, thrusting it at him for emphasis. “If I didn’t know you, I’d think your little ‘slip ups’ were a deliberate ploy to get out of media duty. It’s dereliction of duty! You are dereliction of duty!” The way his muzzle scrunched up and the slight biting of his lower lip only increased the volume of her words and the emphaticness of her accusatory bacon pointing. “And don’t you dare laugh at ‘duty’! I’m serious!”
The snort was completely indeliberate, and the stifling of it a complete failure.
Spitfire plopped back down on her bench and popped her impromptu pointer into her mouth, crunching on it aggressively. She swallowed it down with her bubbling temper and exhaled it all as a resigned sigh. “I’m married to a foal. They are going to come any day now to drag me away in shame and scandal.” She used one forehoof to massage her forehead while the other reached across the table to swipe the slice of hay bacon precariously balanced on the edge of Soarin’s plate. She considered it his personal idiot tax of the day.
Soarin’ didn’t seem to mind, or at least it wasn’t clear if he did past his attempts to repress any inappropriate giggling over ‘duty’. The stallion had the capacity to be serious, it just wasn’t something he preferred to be. Besides, Spitfire worried and businessed enough for both of them. “I’ll visit you in prison. I’ll even bake you a file with a cake in it.” The groan and head rubbing intensified across the table. “Hey, don’t mess up your mane, you’re getting pictures taken today.” Was it needless needling? Yes. Was he aware it was needless needling? Also, yes. If you can’t torture the ones you love, though, who can you?
With a display of absolute willpower, Spitfire refused to rise to the bait. Soarin’ had skill in pushing her buttons, in some ways he was a master baiter, but it was the playful teasing of love. Mostly. Honestly, picking on each other was basically their love language and frustration seemed to be an efficient windup for some rather enthusiastic sex. Not today, though. Duty called.
“What about your day?” Spitfire preferred a direct route to swerving a conversation. “Going to stay home and paint your dolls?”
Soarin’ looked offended. “They aren’t dolls, they a wargaming miniatures. Wingblade: Discordant Era is a serious historical game system that develops a keen understanding of unit tactics and teamwork. I haven’t even assembled my new pegasi division yet. It’s nowhere near ready for base coating, let alone paint.”
“So, not painting your dolls?”
Turnabout, as they say, was fair play. The look of absolute offense on his face could do nothing but bring a smile to hers. “I love you.”
Soarin’s next words forced themselves out past a strained huff and over crossed forelegs. “Love you, too.”
Spitfire dabbed her muzzle with a napkin after downing the rest of her orange juice like she was shotgunning… well… not a morning beverage. “Well, whatever you do, don’t burn the place down and have fun. One of us deserves some today.”
He moved quickly, which was unsurprising as a Wonderbolt, coming around the table and pressing his lips to hers with a passionate fierceness which made the words die in her throat and her forelegs rise to encircle his neck. Her head tilted slightly to the side, muzzle pushing forward against his with equal intensity. Lips parted and an eager tongue slipped forward to gently brush sweet, somewhat syrupy, lips. A deep, maple-flavored, kiss wasn’t the worst way to say goodbye. Honey and syrup and things elsewhere... well… it sounded fun in the books until someone passed out in a sugar coma before even half of it licked up and the other had to spend hours getting crystalized sugar out of her fur. It was like getting sand in your uniform but times ten. That particular memory was quickly suppressed as a firm tongue slipped forward to battle. There were times for slow, meticulous strokes to slowly build a wave of sensation, this wasn’t it. This was a tongue war, and the competitive mare was determined to win. An armistice was declared when they bumped the table hard enough to cause an empty glass to fall over and roll off onto the floor with a crash. It broke them out of their passion and lips parted. Both looked at each other with soft smiles and warm eyes. Soarin’ dipped his head, angling to walk his lips down her neck in a trail of kisses but was quickly rebuffed with a swat of a wing. “None of that. You’ll get syrup in my fur. I’ll see you tonight, be careful cleaning up the glass.” She rubbed the back of his head with a hoof and darted her head in again to steal a last quick peck. “Have fun, I’ll be thinking about you.”
Her hoof’s playful boop on his nose as he pulled away spread a dopey grin across his face. The height of her tail as she walked to the front door brought a blush to his cheeks and threatened to send the excess of blood down to other regions. It wasn’t until she was gone and the glass was cleaned up that he considered himself fully in control again. She had that effect on him. Always.
It took willpower to have the following shower stick strictly to grooming. He managed it somehow. A good brushing of fur and a few strokes of a comb were all he spared himself as he stood in front of the mirror. The wind on the flight would handle the drying and styling. He fixed the stallion in the mirror with a serious look. “Well then, it’s time for…” Pause for dramatic effect. “The plan.”
000
Ponyville was a reasonable daytrip on hoof from Canterlot. The train made it a manageable commute for those who wanted to live a smalltown life while working a big city job. For both methods of transportation, a lot of effort and time was spent going up. The problem with a mountaintop city was dealing with the elevation change. More than a few unicorns and earth ponies found time to grumble that the views weren’t worth all the switchbacks, ramps, and Celestia-damned stairs. For a pegasus, though, one could almost glide from Canterlot’s spires to the growing town down below without beating their wings. The flight did require a lot more effort on the return, but even the most prismatic of pegasi couldn’t be lazy all the time.
Soarin’ carried a simple pannier-style saddlebag, draped across his croup. They obscured his cutie marks but it wasn’t a true attempt at concealing his identity. Generally, fans of the Wonderbolts would recognize one of primary triad regardless of disguises and the ones who weren’t fans wouldn’t recognize him regardless. There was a certain amount of anonymity attained by being out of the distinctive flight suit, though. Even a laypony would recognize the blue and gold, full-body suit. He didn’t expect any trouble as the town continued to get bigger and bigger in his vision. Ponyville had a certain ability to downplay the ponies who lived there or visited. It was already the home of a Wonderbolt and other Wonderbolts visiting was a regular occurrence. It also had a princess and the Elements of Harmony, who by all rights should have been celebrities of the highest order. What the town saw, though, was a somewhat obsessive librarian, a good-hearted fashionista, a hard-working farm mare. It was a special place, really, where who you were day-to-day counted for more than accolades or awards. That or the town had just collectively decided the nutjobs didn’t need obsessive fans and celebrity worship adding to what was already a disproportionate number of mental breakdowns among the group. Whatever the case, celebrity didn’t mean much to the residents of Ponyville, unless you caught them on an odd day.
As Soarin’ came in for a landing, he found the town a bit more active than he was used to. The hustle and bustle of the market had spilled out of its normal confines and ponies were wandering about the residential areas as well. A festive atmosphere hung in the air alongside the smells of festival food. He landed farther from his intended destination than he had planned. It meant more trotting around, but that wasn’t a bad thing and it kept him from offending anyone by landing on top of them. The chatter of happy passing ponies and the scent of baked goods reached him, and he smiled. He then wiped his mouth as the delectable scent of apple pie had him drooling, just a little.
Moving through the wide streets with a bounce to his canter, Soarin’ tried to figure out exactly what the celebration was. Perhaps they had warded off a monster attack or solved some sort of major friendship problem. Perhaps it was just a Tuesday and that was cause enough. His musing brought him past a busy candy shop, the cream-coated proprietor setting trays of little chocolate delights in the window to draw in the passersby. Precariously perched on the fence in a position that looked as painful as it did impossible was a mint unicorn watching the crowd. She hummed a soft tune as her hind legs kicked back and forth absentmindedly. Soarin’ put on his best smile and made his way over to the mare, rearing up to rest his pasterns on the rail. He cleared his throat and got only a small startle out of the unicorn as she was broken out of her ponywatching. She turned her head with an uncertain look on her face and brushed her fringe away from her pretty face. The partial scoot away had Soarin’s ears rotating back guiltily.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wondered what was going on and thought you looked like you might know.” He reinforced his friendliest smile as much as he could, and it seemed to put the mare a bit more at ease. It was odd, then, that he suddenly felt like somepony had just walked over his grave and it coincided with the tinkling of the bell from the storefront.
The unicorn’s ear swiveled back toward the supportive sound and she gave a quick nod. Her response was a bit overloud, but her voice was rather pleasant. “Oh, you just want to know what’s going on in town today! That’s no problem!” The last words had a strange bit of emphasis that Soarin’ didn’t quite understand. She continued, “It’s Ponyville Stable Sale Day. We always have one in the spring and another in the fall. Everypony tries to sell what they are wanting out of their house, then they fill that space by buying what their neighbor wants out of their house.” The laugh that followed verged on a giggle and had the quality of a windchime. “And if the whole town is doing something, might as well make it a party. You should buy some bonbons. It’ll be good for you.” He didn’t understand the wink but leaned over to look at the display in the window. It was a bit hard to see with the scowling cream earth pony in the way.
“We don’t normally eat a lot of chocolate at home, but it’s a special occasion. It’s my anniversary today. I hoped to get something nice for when she gets home from work.” The mental image of Spitfire stuck in a room in a formal uniform giving meticulously constructed answers to journalists for hours sealed the deal. He looked back to the display and found the confectioner’s scowl had completely disappeared and the mare was heading back inside. “Yeah. I think you’re right. She definitely needs something extra special when she comes home tonight.”
“She sounds like a lucky mare.” The unicorn offered a very sweet smile.
“I’m the lucky one.” Soarin’ dropped his forelegs to the ground and trotted inside to pick out something nice, but chocolates couldn’t be all of it. No, he needed something bigger.
000
The candymare, Bon Bon it could be assumed from her seeming ownership of the store and the name on the sign, was entirely pleasant as he browsed the store and made a rather hefty purchase of a variety of confections to try. After all, variety is the spice of life, or at least that’s what Bon Bon insisted. They shared some small talk about married life and anniversary plans and she sent him out with a bundle of quality chocolates and a sample for the road.
The hustle and bustle of Ponyville on a festival day rivaled Canterlot during the commuting hours. Similar, but different. The ponies here were both more pleasant and less dressed. A few hats or accessories caught the eye, but most stuck to their own fur. He found himself looking for hats, especially when the scent of apple pie got stronger.
Soarin’ was a faithful stallion and his heart would always belong to Spitfire, but some part of him loved the Pie Mare. It was his stomach, in particular, but it was part of him, nonetheless. There was nothing untoward about using a few off hours to go a town over to buy a dessert. Nothing was wrong in frequenting one specific vendor. Having a favorite food was completely fine. He even shared sometimes. It didn’t mean he was immune to teasing about it. After once getting caught in the middle of the night sneaking a midnight pie, he found himself forty-five minutes later with Spitfire in a ball of sweaty pony and soiled sheets being asked if she needed to buy a hat.
He liked the hat, and even got to wear it sometimes.
It wasn’t the Pie Mare’s distinctive Stetson he ended up spotting, though, it was the sign over the service cart. A wagon stacked full of apple products was parked behind. A pair of ponies were working it, the small yellow filly standing up on the counter taking orders and the large red stallion behind her bagging them up. Large was an understatement. The red mountain of a pony was tall and thickly built. One athlete to another, he could appreciate the heavily corded muscle dancing under taut skin. The sheen of the stallion’s coat caught daylight and the little shine of the healthy fur added more definition to a strong body that effortlessly loaded apples into a patron’s cart two bushels at a time. The blonde mane was damp with sweat from a long day standing in the hot sun, but the smile didn’t leave the stallion’s face as he seemed bolstered by the very act of labor. A pony built for stamina and rough plowing…
“Uhhh… You lookin’ tah buy somethin’, mister?” The filly’s question drawled across his senses, and he blinked a few times before clearing his throat.
“Pie?” Soarin’s ear rotated back in embarrassment, though the filly didn’t seem to register it.
“Riiiight.” The red bow on the filly’s head bobbed with her head. “I reckon yer in the right place, then! Apple family pies are the best pies yah can stick yer muzzle in!”
Soarin’ continued to nod along dumbly at the sales pitch.
“Granny’s pie, AJ’s pie. Apple’s pies satisfies!” The filly beams. “Soon Ah’ll be able tah sell mine! Applejack says it’s not quite there yet, so it’s just fer family, but ah know ah’m close! An’ we’re diversified! Apple, pear, peach, cherry. Ah think mah cherry is closest tah ready… maybe next year… anyways! What can I do yah for?”
“Yes.” It was a word and about the only noise Soarin’ could push out. He’d never been on this side of so many inadvertent innuendoes before… he was beginning to come to a limited understanding of Spitfire’s headaches.
“We like a stallion with a good appetite! One ah each then! Big Mac!”
The red-furred face turned from the retreating customer, the lazy smile the only thing to appear lazy about the stallion. “Eeyup?” Came out as an acknowledgement and query both.
‘Pack’im up, move’im out!” The swat was probably a bit much gauging by the narrowing eyes and flaring nostrils on the red face. The filly blushed in embarrassment and eked out a ‘sorry’ under her breath as the four pies were individually boxed and tied up in a convenient package to be hoofed over. Soarin’ took the bundle in his teeth after sliding over the cost plus a good tip. The filly waved as he turned to leave, gaining back a bit of youthful exuberance after the stallion returned to his work and stopped staring his ire into her. “Come on back now, yah hear?”
000
Stable sales weren’t popular in Canterlot. The city preferred the spectacle of an auction. Small, expensive snacks, close confines in constricting clothes, and the feeling of superiority that came with spending more on some or another piece of art or history or art history or what-have-you than the next pony over. Canterlot ran on casual snobbery and any opportunity to inflate one’s own feeling of self-worth was pounced on by the Canterlot Elite like seagulls after spilled popcorn. Soarin’ liked to consider himself above the snobbery, but it had its ways of insidiously slithering its way inside you to pop out at inopportune times. He tried hard to keep himself grounded (not necessarily physically) and humble. It helped to be able to take off the suit and mostly blend in. To be just another blue stallion walking about a small, but growing, town. Below the attention of the ponies going about a festive day haggling over this or that doodad that they’ll end up trying to sell at their next stable sale. It was relaxing in a way that Canterlot never was.
Cloudsdale was worse. It didn’t have as much snootiness, but it had so many more true fans. Soarin’ loved the fans, they were why he could live a life where he could follow his greatest passion. He also got to fly. Their joy and appreciation paid for Spitfire to be captain, for him to be on her team, and for them both to live a comfortable life enjoying each other and the sky. There were few things as pure as the smile of a filly or colt getting an autograph. He stopped at every foal’s ward at every hospital in any city they visited to help bring a little joy to the ones who couldn’t stand in line for them. He wept every time he flew away from those meetings. He gave his whole heart to the fans, but they weren’t all the same. A ‘dad’ begging him to sign a filly’s cast that then ended up being sold as a set with the other casts she’d been wearing over the course of the day, the grown adult busting into the middle of a candlelit dinner in an upscale restaurant, the mare screaming herself into a froth that she should be able to buy out the whole event’s limited edition plushies just because she had the money… some fans were worse than others. Even the best ones could interrupt a quiet stroll, or a tender nuzzle.
In Ponyville, though, Soarin’ could be a pony. Just a pony.
“Hey! I know you!”
The excited, youthful voice broke him out of his thoughts even before the mixed smell of baked goods, marshmallows, and cotton candy. The grimace that creased his face was short-lived, a fraction of a second, but enough to put a hitch in the rapidly expanding smile on the pink face that just appeared well within his personal bubble.
“…Is what I would say if I recognized you as anypony but just a pony! Helloooooo, straaaaanger!” The stretching of the vowels exaggerated and singsong. “And welcome to Pinkie Pie’s Stable Sale! I was going to come up with a better name with some alliteration, but Pinkie Pie is two ‘p’s and Stable Sale is two ‘s’s, so it would be hard cause I can’t change my name and a stable sale is a stable sale and you can’t call it not a stable sale when its Ponyville Stable Sale Day, which isn’t an alliteration either. Pinkie Pie’s Ponyville Stable Sale gets up to three ‘p’s so maybe it counts but it doesn’t feel like it counts and maybe if I had some extra ‘s’s it would count. It could be Pinkie Pie’s Ponyville Super Serious Stable Sale cause the Cakes say I can’t keep my stuff in the attic anymore and so it has to all fit in…” It qualifies as the first breath he’s seen the bubblegum pony take and coincides with a furtive look around before his personal space is further violated as he’s brought forcefully into a conspiratorial hug. She’s soft and has a very strong grip… and something in her mane blinked at him. “…my super-secret party planning cave! It’s where I keep detailed information on everyone I know! It’s also kinda cramped so this is Pinkie Pie’s Ponyville Super Serious Stable Sale to Clear the Super-Secret Cave Some Space!” The blast of confetti and streamers covered the area in front of Sugarcube Corner and the hapless stallion still standing there. The banner was a nice touch, giving Pinkie something to be reared up in front of in a dramatic pose. She pronked down from the crate which had become her impromptu stage and brushed some streamers from in front of Soarin’s eyes. “Soooooo! Can I interest you in some slightly used streamers or a cannon?”
Soarin’s mind, still reeling, grasped at potential words to use and landed on the safety of repetition. “Cannon?”
The green suit and wide polka dot tie were less of a nice touch, and equally as inexplicable as the banner. More concerning was the way her mane managed to look slicked back and curly at the same time… and continued blinking at him. He swallowed mightily as the smile spread across Pinkie’s face, looking like the cat who caught the canary or the carriage dealer who caught the rube. Soarin’ took a half step back, eyes darting around looking for vectors of escape. There’s a storage building in Canterlot with two units rented out in his name due to high pressure salesponies. His wings start to flare…
…and are gently but firmly pressed back down against his back by the foreleg casually draped across him now. A pink cheek pressed against his in a complete disregard of personal space. Again. “Cannons! I bet a nice buck like you can find a reason for a party, right? You probably have been thinking of one all day! A special day! I can tell! I can smell the party on you!” Her nose is nearly touching his ear when she sniffs, his mane shifting toward the sudden intake of air. “Smells like… monogamy.”
Soarin’s misfiring neurons briefly flashed the idea that he needs an adult and that nopony in the vicinity truly qualifies.
The grip got tighter, and he found himself being led deeper into the piles of party supplies and boxes. “No… no… noooo.” The singsong voice suddenly decided for him. “You don’t need cannons. Blasting off in ponies’ faces is more of a me thing and not something you surprise a married mare with. That’s what Mr. Cake says anyway, but he also says it would have led to less mouths to feed, so your milage may vary!” The vice grip left him as Pinkie swirled herself around dramatically to pose beside a large crate. “No! You, mister monogamously married stallion! Need some spice for your night!” A skillful kick let the front of the massive crate fall forward to reveal the contents. Rows and rows of contents that seem to defy the dimensions of the crate they are contained within.
“What?” asked Soarin’, scholar amongst ponies and noted quick thinker.
“Collectibles! Everypony loves collectibles!” Pinkie beams.
“Ummm… are they… is it… real?”
“100% real imitation fur! I’ve got all of Ponyville, half of Canterlot, most celebrities, and even some ponies that are only figments of the imaginations of hideous beings on another plane of existence!” Her eyes shifted over to a point in space above and to the right of Soarin’s head and an extra broad smile spread across her face. “But, then again, aren’t we all?” She stared at the point long enough for Soarin’ to fluff out his wings in preparation to escape. Before he could, she turned to lock her eyes on him again. “Anyway…”
“What would we even do with them?” Soarin’ tilted his head to the side, still trying to wrap his head around what he’s seeing.
“You’re a clever stallion.” The elbow in the ribs was just on the near side of friendly. The eyebrow waggling gets rather dramatic as she reaches in and runs a hoof over an orange specimen inside the box. “I’m sure you can think of all kinds of uses.”
“And they… do everything?” A curious blue hoof reached out to feel the 100% real imitation fur.
“Absolutely everything! Tested in combat conditions in the Crystal Empire! Spy tested; foal approved!” Big blue eyes batted at him. “And quite reasonably priced! I’ll let go of the whole crate, at a loss! A stallion that I definitely don’t recognize as being a rich and famous stunt flier would definitely help a filly out, wouldn’t he?”
000
Soarin’ now owned a crate. The ropes wrapped around it allowed for a rudimentary harness to attempt to drag the thing, and they had cost him a hoofful more bits. He wasn’t sure if high pressure sales tactics or puppy dog eyes were more effective on him, but in unison they proved to be able to separate him from his personal ‘You get this much a check which I won’t judge your purchases with and I get the same’ fund. The Storm Manta for his pegasi army was going to have to wait.
It was too heavy to lift. He could fly with it a short distance, but not all the way to Canterlot. He’d be lucky to make it to the train station with it. He was already getting some glares for what dragging it was doing to the road and he’d only made it half a block. Looking back, the waving pink form still counting his bits didn’t help. He waved back though, no reason not to be polite. Still, he had to face facts.
It was too big for him to handle.
He hadn’t liked the admission, even in his head. It felt like failure, like if he could just grit his teeth and try that somehow, he could manage. He hadn’t gotten to the pinnacle of his sport by going soft when presented something hard. He was a Wonderbolt, and more than that, one of the primary triad. He made it by beating off all comers, by being the last stallion standing when other’s stamina failed them.
But this was too big and too hard for him. Physics could be the enemy, but it couldn’t be denied.
He needed help. Big help.
A smile stretched across his muzzle as the idea came to him. That Big Mac pony at the apple stand was big, burly and strong. He’d have no problem ponyhandling that box onto the train. He could probably hire him to make the trip and get it all the way to their flat. He’d probably need to write off buying the Cloud Titan for a while too, in order to pay the stallion, but that’s what you do for love.
Slipping out of the improvised traces, a quick flap of his wings put him high enough to get a good view of the town. His target was a big, red mass that would struggle to hide even if they intended to. Scanning the crowd brought his eyes first over the signage for the apple stand and then past to the big red pony working behind it. It didn’t take years of being a search and rescue ace before the ‘Bolts to complete this mission. His first instinct was to stoop into a dive, but dramatics would only hamper his plans. He circled the town square and found a nice roof to land on behind the apple stand. A quick drop put him behind the wagon with the last of the family’s goods.
Soarin’ rounded the wagon into the end of a family conversation as the Apples appeared to pack up shop for the day. Big Mac’s low baritone speaking gentle words of encouragement, “Yah did good, Bloom. Sold out as soon as Ah take the last bushels over to Sugar Cube Corner. Yah can go play with yer friends, just don’ get intah trouble.” There was a familiar kind of defeatist breath taken then. “An’ git back to tha farm by sundown. Yer sister’s about here somewhere, if’n yah need anythin’.”
The filly nodded her head fast enough to cause the oversized bow to blur and was off like a shot with dust kicked up in her wake. The enthusiasm brought a bemused smile and a slow headshake to the big red stallion. Macintosh’s eyes widened in confusion on turning and finding a powder blue pegasus stallion in his wagon. They still only managed to be about two-thirds of the way open, but it was a noticeable increase of the usual half. The arch of one brow cocking up dramatically added quite well to the look. “Ee…”
“Hey there, big guy!” Soarin’ offered a hoof toward the stallion, letting it hang in the air. “Big Mac, right? I couldn’t help but be impressed watching you work.”
Big Macintosh pressed a hoof to the one hanging in the air, giving a singular polite shake to the limb. “Thanks?”
“Let me get to the point. I need you.” Soarin’ flashed his most convincing smile and a little toss of his mane to clear his vision of a few stray hairs. It’s important to maintain eye contact when negotiating.
“Whoa there, Ah don’t think…” Big Macintosh let his hoof drop back to the ground.
“Don’t say no yet! Look, I came to town to find something special and now I’ve made a few impulsive decisions that led to me being left with a hoofful to deal with. You know how it is, right?” Rearing up brought both blue fetlocks over the edge of the wagon and his wings spread out like he was readying himself to pounce. The posture also evoked a level of enthusiasm that was hard to flee from.
“Right… but…”
“I just need a strapping stallion to help me handle a big package, and you look like you are a master of package handling.” His wings perked up and gave a little flap and he leaned further out of the wagon, face hopeful.
Big Macintosh’s mouth dropped open to give a response, but the only thing to fall out of it was a sprig of wheat he’d been nibbling on over the course of the day.
“So, how about you help me out? A little trip up to Canterlot? Hop on the train, spend the night? It’ll be my treat. You won’t have to worry about anything except putting your back into a couple jobs on the way.” Soarin’ knew that ponies always respond well to a wink.
“Eenope.”
“I’ll pay you.” Bits sometimes worked better than winks, though.
Big Macintosh’s eyes darted side to side, for once hoping a certain overbearing orange pony would show up to bail him out of an awkward situation. True to history, though, his sister appeared only able to appear and stick her nose in his business when he didn’t want her butting in. “Ah’m flattered you think Ah’d be a good choice but…”
“Come on, you’re perfect! It’s nothing somepony your size can’t handle.” Puppy dog eyes and a slight pouting of the lip. If it worked on Spitfire, it would work on anypony!
“Look, the barn door just doesn’t swi…”
“1,500 bits?”
“… Eeyup.”
000
In a cargo car toward the back of the train sat a rather large crate, leaning against it were two stallions. The red and blue sat shoulder to shoulder passing around a flask of applejack. Soarin’ took a slug off it before passing it back. Turns out he rather likes applejack.
Big Macintosh took the flask and a swig of his own before slipping it back into its place under his harness. “So, it’s yer anniversary and yah spent it in Ponyville without her?”
Soarin’ frowned, “I was looking for something special and it was my only real chance to sneak away. She’s got work all day.”
“Eeyup.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Soarin’s frown bunched up on one side. It was a perfectly acceptable plan to sneak in some shopping today! Sure, he had some fun, but there’s nothing wrong with having fun without your wife. He’s married, not dead.
“Nothin’.” A big, red hoof adjusted the harness around Big Macintosh’s neck in a way very similar to Tale Spin adjusting his tie before going to meet the presstitutes to explain Soarin’s most recent misspeak. “Just thinkin’ Ah’d have expected somethin’ in a smaller box, is all.”
“Spitfire doesn’t like jewelry, though. Earrings make her ears feel heavy, necklaces move around to much, wristlets get caught on treetops.” He snorted as dozens of prior gifts flash in front of his mind, each accepted with a smile and never actually worn. “I mean, there’s other places for piercings that wouldn’t get in the way, but she says those are for hussies and whores.” A blush climbed his face, and he quickly added. “No offense to whores.” Great save.
Big Macintosh chuckled. “Oh, saw my dock piercing, did’cha?” The blank expression on Soarin’s face froze, mouth open and at risk of catching flies. The punch in the shoulder rocked him out of his shock. “It’s a joke.”
Soarin’ snapped out of the mental image with nervous laughter. “Right…”
“Well, Ah hope the unorthodox gift works fer yah.” Big Macintosh spared a glance back at the large crate they were leaning against. “It was Pinkie’s?”
Soarin’ nodded. “Took up too much space.”
“Ah can see that.”
“Plenty of space in our flat, though. You’ll see.” Their Canterlot apartment had all the amenities a pegasus could want, and more to boot. The crate would slide in well enough to one of the unused walk-in closets.
“Cain’t say Ah’d figure Pinkie as bein’ one to have romantic second-hoof goods, though.” Big Macintosh scratched at his chin as he spoke, the sprig of grass moving slowly from one side of his mouth to the other.
“It’s neat. She’ll like it.”
“If’n yah say so.”
Soarin’s ears splayed back, and his muzzle showed a defensive little frown. “Well, Big Casanova, if you’re so good at gift giving, what would you give her?”
An easy smile spread across the red face beside him. “Easy. Yah got plenty ah things, right? If’n she wants somethin’, she can just go get it, an’ it dun sound like she’s all in tah fillin’ yer life up with stuff. Ah reckon a mare like that, she gonna appreciate ah new experience over ah new toy.”
The gears in Soarin’s mind turned, grinding along as his eyes went over the large acquaintance he’d made and employed for the night. “New experience…” Soarin’ gave a firm nod as a smile spread across his face. “So… when we get up to the loft…”
000
Spitfire trudged into the apartment complex and made her way to the stairs. She could have flown up to the loft and gone in a window, but her wings ached from all the posing and demonstrations of the day. Being the primary attraction of the annual Wonderbolt’s dog and pony show meant that Press Day was possibly the longest day of the year. It made her pine for the simpler days back in the Search and Rescue Corps. Back in the Corps, all she had to worry about was looking for lost foals in the mountains or putting down the occasional pegasi supremacist movement. Easy stuff compared to dealing with a ravenous press pool that dug into her personal life like the world’s most motivated archaeologists.
It wouldn’t be so bad, except for all of it. When it wasn’t Lurid Photo trying to convince her to pose for Playpony it was Nosy Parker of Better Stables and Gardens trying to figure out why she wasn’t knocked up yet. She had to get through the day without kicking anypony. Every year, smile and give the diplomatic answer. Subtly avoid Lurid’s wandering wingtips while being sure to smile. Her dress blues at least provided some armor against incidental contact with the most infamous of the sleazeballs.
She couldn’t even focus on self-preservation. All the Bolts, save for one lucky idiot, had to be in attendance and that meant she had to ride herd on the lot of them. Pull the leash on Surprise so the mare would stop talking at inappropriate moments. Keep Fleetfoot away from Lurid before she could work up her own scandal and/or centerfold. Keep the newbies away from the worst of them, mostly by offering herself as a living pony shield. Press Day was the worst.
At least she was almost home. A few… dozen… more flights of stairs and she’d be in her own loft apartment. She could relax, get out of her uniform, get her live-in idiot to massage her hooves and maybe pour her a bottle… glass of wine.
A smile quirked the sides of her mouth as she climbed and thought of her doofus. Soarin’ had the biggest heart of any stallion she’d ever met. He could be dense and that could occasionally lead to being inconsiderate, but he was never spiteful. He could manage all the malice of a golden retriever. A subdued chuckle slipped out as she thought about the parallel. Maybe they’d play fetch when she got home.
He had probably gotten a surprise for her, sweet as he was. It was their anniversary, after all, and presents were expected. Her own gift for the love of her life had been tucked up under the kitchen sink. As busy as they were, it had been easy enough to come up with an excuse to go to a private spa day. Then it was just a matter of finding a personal photographer who did those kinds of photo shoots. Not all of them were sleazeballs after all. Miss Boudoir Shoot was the kind who saw her art as a way to empower the mares she photographed, and the results would have been a year’s worth of centerfolds in all the magazines that catered to that market. They would never see print. A personal book for the one stallion who deserved to see her that way.
She hoped part of his plan was dinner. She’d made a few swoops of the snack bar during the course of the day, but it hardly filled her. A grumbling stomach was not the sexiest noise to hear under the covers. Especially when it would be followed with ‘Is there a bear in the cave with us?’. Celestia bless his heart, but he really did think he was clever.
A quick turn of the key in the lock and she was home. The first thing she noticed was the thick floral scents. “I’m home.” She called into the candlelit apartment as she walked in. She squinted through her sunglasses, the sunset through the windows giving her enough light to see the bouquet of flowers and the trail of rose petals leading off to the bedroom. She couldn’t help but smile as she took a step over to smell the bouquet and sample some of the choicer buds. Always a moment for a snack. “You’ve been busy.”
She trotted, almost pranced, toward the bedroom. She supposed they could engage in a bit of strenuous activity before he pampered her with a hoof rub. She swept into the bedroom and took in the wash of red sprawled across her bed. So many roses had to give their lives for the petals that covered so much of the bed. They went well with the coat of the rugged earth pony stretched languidly across the bed. The stud’s apple-marked butt was on her pillow.
His unmentionables were currently his very visibles.
They were apparently also his very strokables, because that’s what the stallion was doing. A base drawl crawled out of the stranger’s throat, low and husky. “I reckon yah might be fit fer plowin’.”
Spitfire’s mouth attempted to work, falling open as she took in the sights and the words. Then it closed. There was an awful lot to take in. A hoof moved up to her face and she pulled the aviators off. It made it easier to see details in the low light. Slowly she folded them up, one side then the other. She placed them on the dresser by the door. Her hoof spent a moment at the throat of her dress uniform, considering the buttons for a moment but returning to the floor. Amber eyes met brilliant green.
The air behind her nearly combusted with the force of the propelling wingbeat.
Green eyes widened and large bulk gave a rather desperate attempt and propelling itself sideways. The valiant push tangling limbs as the red stallion managed to fling himself off the bed as an orange streak of anger flew over his head.
The crack of hoof against wood was deafening and a shower of splinters rained down on the red stallion’s rump from the sundered headboard. He tried to crawl, chest on the floor and rump caught up in fabric. A fast military crawl couldn’t compare to the Wonderbolt captain’s agility. Four yellow hooves landed just in front of his face.
“You picked a bad day to pull this stalker bullshit, buddy.” Furious amber eyes glared down at the red stallion.
Green eyes reflected fear and a sudden realization that bad decisions had been made. “I can explain!”
A surprisingly strong hoof gripped him by the scruff of the neck and started to bodily drag him across the room. “You can explain on the way down, after I throw you out the window.”
Red legs kicked out, trying to slow the drag, but were still mostly caught up in the comforter being slowly pulled off the bed as he was drug across the room. “No! Spitz! I can explain.”
Furious eyes glared back, and the intruder didn’t appear to expect the kick across the face at all. His head snapped to the side and his forelegs came up to protect his head from the next strike. It appeared to be eminent as Spitfire reared up, ready to readjust the stallion’s face with a stomp. Or two. Maybe three. She could see going up to four.
A red hoof came up to the stallion’s fringe and paused there. Gripping something before coming down with a zipping sound. Then there was light blue… except where it was quickly swelling and getting darker. It was the face of an idiot, her idiot, and all four hooves returned to the floor. “Luna’s cratered ass… What?!”
“Umm… Happy Anniversary?”
000
It still looked wrong, the big earth pony body with the smaller blue neck and head sticking out. They’d returned to the bed, laying down to talk. Mostly it was Soarin’ talking and Spitfire doing a lot of very indulgent listening.
“So let me get this straight.” Spitfire pinched the bridge of her nose with her fetlock. “You bought a crate of these magical costumes from a crazy pony in Ponyville and thought they could spice up our sex life?”
“That is the short version, yes.” Soarin’ held a bag of frozen peas to one side of his face and rubbed the back of his neck with the other hoof. “Not that we need spice, but… I dunno… I thought something different would be fun?”
Spitfire moved her hoof to her temple to rub. “This isn’t exactly what I meant by roleplay, I… oh no…” Spitfire’s hoof slowly pulled down her face. “This is my fault, I put this in your head.”
Soarin’ remained dutifully silent for a time. “I love you?”
Spitfire couldn’t help but laugh. It started as a restrained giggle, the grew in intensity. A laugh, a chortle, a guffaw. There was even a rather unladylike snort at a few points. By the time the fit had ended, moisture rolled down her cheeks and she leaned forward with a hoof on his thigh to keep herself somewhat upright. “I love you, too, you big goof.” She took a deep, centering breath and smiled. “So, a big crate of costumes for roleplaying, huh?”
Spitfire hopped off the bed and started to unbutton her dress blues. She faced away and slipped free of the uniform with a lithe grace and a lot more movement of her rear than was exactly necessary. The neatly folded uniform was sat beside her favorite sunglasses and her svelte form moved toward the walk-in closet. “And it’s in here?”
Soarin’ nodded dumbly. “Yeah… yeah it is.”
With a nod, Spitfire disappeared into the closet.
Soarin’ sat on the bed, still mostly in his Big Macintosh costume with the head unzipped. That was the weirdest part, he decided. Looking down at the huge hooves he was twiddling and feeling everything like it was his but knowing his own were inside. Smaller. He quickly looked back toward the closet as those thoughts were rather uncomfortable. Maybe a ‘new experience’ wasn’t the best gift. Last time he’d trust old country wisdom.
The closet door opened to yellow, no, orange forelegs. Green eyes looked to him and a freckled muzzle flashed a warm smile. The mare tipped her hat and leaned against the doorframe. “Ah reckon yah might be fit fer plowin’.” She drawled, giving him a wink.
“The Pie Mare…” Soarin’ gulped, looking over the athletic earth pony. “Wait! We can’t do this! We’re related!”
She arched her eyebrow questioningly. A very exaggerate, dramatic motion. “Soarin’, honey. We aren’t related.”
He blinked a few times and eventually nodded.
“So, yah gonna plow my field?” She sashayed toward the foot of the bed.
Soarin’ gulped again and brought his hoof up to his chest, grabbing the zipper and pulling it up. “Eeyup.”