He might even admit that he's keen on the buck, but he has responsibilities other then himself.
Soarin' doesn't mind the stallion taking care of him and he might even admit that he's keen on the buck. It's a respite from the starstruck life he's become accustomed to, and he enjoys some of the best pies he's ever had, but, with all things, there's always things that come up. A collection of chapters based on novel prompts.
[on hiatus do to several things but not abandoned]
Prompt: Take a novel, and use the first full sentence on every tenth page as a prompt.
Afraid of loosing her, I hurried down the last of the steps and followed the girl.
--Odd Thomas, pg 10
Like some kind of whisper, he flutters his wings and lets himself get carried on the breeze using the thermals for an easy ride. Wings spread out as far as they can go, feathers tickling in the winds, he loops lazily over the sky carriage the rest of his team are resting in. The landscape around him is beautiful, in a different way then he's used to. It's filled with russet and copper and orange and he's never seen a beauty like this before. Flat open spaces, in the far, far distance he can barely make out mountains. There are crags and canyons and cacti here and there but it's nothing like the crowded architecture of Canterlot or the billowing soft white of Cloudsdale, it's not even like the industrial Fillydelphia.
When the barest outlines of a town eases over the horizon he drops back down to the carriage and pokes his head inside. Thunder Rush is lazing, resting maybe. Her yellow mane is frizzed and flopped over her head. Spitfire, on the other hand, is looking intently out a window, possibly trying to make out Appleoosa. He whistles lowly, enough to catch Spitfire's attention.
“Soarin'.” She greets and plods over to his window. He likes looking into Spitfire's eyes. Despite her name and her daring acrobatic aerial tricks she's a very mellow mare. A soft hazel under glassy lids, often filled with lazy amusement or a mothering type of concern.
“I can see the town now.” He says instead of answering. His voice is eager, he can't hide his excitement. Even his wings are trembling faintly.
Spitfire smiles wryly and gestures towards at a small door separating the main carriage from the resting area. Behind the door lay the Wonderbolt Manager, who, though she means well, often set tight restrictions on their collective lives. Spitfire won't forbid him from leaving, but it did her conscious good by acting like his conscious.
“Ya know she never lets me go nowhere fun. I'm not even in uniform, no pony'll even recognize me,” He reasons.
“It's true, you don't immediately bring to mind The Wonderbolts Superstar when you're not in costume. You don't look very remarkable,” She teased.
“Well! I'm not bringing pie back for you, so there!” He sticks out his tongue foalishly, a childish pout, “I'll probably be back before you know it,” He reassures, then, as a last retaliations: “Bye Spitball!”
After speeding away from the sky carriage and Spitfire's huff of amusement, he makes a gentle dive towards the town. Going faster then the leisurely pace the Sky Carriage is taking, he makes it to the town rather quickly and stops near the edge, finding the abrupt transition of desert and bustling frontier village odd. In one step he is out of the barren plains and suddenly among busy ponies. He shuffles his wings and presses them tight against his body before trotting among the other ponies and taking in the sights.
He finds that the town isn't all that large but it's rather easy getting lost. Don't misunderstand, he has an excellent sense of direction, but that applies almost exclusively to the skies and pie stands. A bird's eye view—or, as the case may be a pegasi's view—is the way he's used to looking at things. He chooses to walk, however, because it's easier to be a tourist looking at stuff walking then it is flying above everything.
Wandering around the town easily occupies him and he's struck by a thought, watching the wagons and studying the architecture, that he feels like he's on a movie set, and it's such a weird thought that he finds himself looking around for cameras. He notices the various Appleoosans studying him with a curious look as well, and he wonders why and unconsciously shuffles his wings. It's during this movement that he the slight breeze brings him the smell of a delicious apple pie. His eyes flutter shut as he breathes the scent in deeply enough to taste the thick apple syrup and warm slices on his tongue. When he opens them, it is with a determination to find this apple pie.
The smell leads him around the town and through it, past carts and houses and carriages and what looks like a saloon. He trots as fast as he can without running into any pony, his eyes half closed in bliss at just the smell alone, previous thoughts buried. He quickly finds himself in a forest of apple trees without him knowing how he got there, but he doesn't really register that fact because the apple pie is so close it's making him want to drool.
A strange gust of wind blows the scent away and, afraid of loosing his sweet temptress, Soarin's leans into a gallop and races through uniform trees then back into a canyon before he's forced to stop. It's a dead end that his nose has lead him to, though the smell of the pie is so close. He flicks an ear and looks around, like his pie will pop into existence if he looks at the canyon wall hard enough.
It doesn't and he frowns and, for all the world looking like a put out foal, he sits down and stares at the sky like it had wronged him. Then it hits him: the pie has to be just ahead of him. Just not in the canyon. He squints and focuses on the edge of the wall so up high. The only question is, how does he get up there? He pouts and shifts his wings.
It takes him a moment, but once he realizes the answer he's glad that Spitfire isn't around to make fun of him. In his defense, pies make him giddy.
A hop, skip and a jump later he stands on high ground—which doesn't look any higher because everything is so flat—and he resumes tracing his lovely pie. He doesn't realize that he's closed his eyes a long time ago and is completely relying on his sense of smell to lead him until he hits a wall. Quite literally.
His head smacks into a wall, bouncing him off completely, sending his light body tumbling head over hooves. He groans, contemplates opening his eyes, and then does so. For some reason he feels thoroughly rejected by his sweet apple pie. Soarin' huffs as he takes a moment to focus on the ground and then gets up. Or attempts to. As soon as he's on all four hooves his head starts ringing quite loudly and he topples over again.
“Oooww. Oh, Cash Box is not going to like this,” He mumbles to himself and rubs his head.
“Ah, you all right there, stranger?”
Soarin' jumps, making his head ring more, at the sound of the voice. He groans and lays back down.
“Yeah, I'm fine. I just ran into something, is all,” He hears hoof-steps make their way closer to him and he feels a shadow cast across him. His eyes are closed again.
“That was you? Ah heard somethin' hit muh window, but Ah thought it was a bird, not a pegasus,”
“A window?” He frowns and opens his eyes, squinting against the sky's contrast and the pony leaning over him. “I hit a window?”
“Ah reckon t'was you. Ah mean, yer the only thing 'round here with a head ache,”
He eyes focus finally and he can see the pony is an earth pony, carmal toned with some sort of hat on. The pony continues.
“Ah dun't know how you managed ta actually hit muh house, though,” A hoof extends and Soarin' takes it, allowing himself to be helped up and steadied when his head threatens to topple him. Blinking away spots from the motion, his vision finally clears enough so that he can look around.
“If you don't mind me askin', why did you hit muh house?” Soarin's attention is drawn back to the earth pony and he finds himself embarrassed. His brief scan of his surroundings showed him that the house was the only prominent thing in the desert. He managed to hit the only thing that was in his way.
“Uh, well. I was kind of walking with my eyes closed,” The caramel pony briefly looks puzzled so he rushes to explain, “I smelled a pie and pies are my favorite food in the world,” The pony laughs. Soarin' finds himself thinking it's not too bad of a laugh.
“That's a story. Muh name's Braeburn, stranger,”
Soarin' takes the offered hoof, “My name's Soarin',”
[Note]: Time's really fluid, but, because of certain events, I have to say that this is before Rainbow saves the Wonderbolts. And obviously before the Galla.
Prime hostage material.
--Odd Thomas, pg 20
Braeburn helps him into his small house, offering a shoulder to lean on when his headache gets a bit too much. Soarin' thanks him, a bit embarrassed but genuinely grateful for the help. He really can't imagine why the small knock to his head has him so disorientated. He's a stunt pegasus, injuries are part of the job. He really should be used to these kind of things. But he's not, so he leans against Braeburn and lets himself be led inside the stallion's home.
It's a nice home, Soarin' thinks as he enters it. The colors are earthy and there are a few books laying around but he doesn't notice anymore because his head is clouded by that smell. So delicious, he can feel the light crust crumble in his mouth and release an explosion of fresh apple confection spill onto his tongue.
“Uh, Soarin'?”
“That pie.”
Braeburn looks at him funny, and he's sure he makes a funny picture. He doesn't have to look in a mirror to know his wings are stiff and spread out and he's nearly in a hunting dog point position, facing the direction he knows that pie is hiding. The delicious aroma is enough to make him forget his headache.
“Uh. Would you like a sample? Of the pie?”
“Yes.”
“All righty then,” Braeburn walks forward and disappears through a doorway. Soarin' can hear him moving around. “Well, are you gonna get some?”
He nearly busts down things not even in his way at the invitation. He thinks he might be drooling in anticipation.
Despite how much he wants to dive into the pie Braeburn expertly handles—and how is it that earth ponies can carry things like that with their hooves?—he remembers his manners and manages to find a seat. He can't, however, stop staring at the pie and he's fairly positive it's wierding Braeburn out.
He watches Braeburn bustle over at a cabinet, retrieving two plates—that means he's going to have to share doesn't it?—and again with that hoof thing—before asking a vague question about milk that he hmms to. He swears that pie is laughing evilly at him. The only reason it hasn't been totally massacred is because Braeburn is toting it around. The pie is smart. It knows that the cowpony is prime hostage material.
Finally his host sets the pie and tin onto the table accompanied by two plates and using a pie cutter—with his hoof, he's never spent much time around earth ponies, do they do everything like that, he'll Spitfire later—to slice two fairly large pieces for them both. Politely, Braeburn serves him and he waits, barely, for Braeburn to seat himself before asking a question.
“Can I have seconds?”
Braeburn looks askance at him, but he has fairly complicated ways of eating pies. There's a tried and proved technique for every pie-related situation, though the actually eating is, in itself simple. Braeburn's answer affects the way he will show this pie who exactly is boss.
“Uh, sure, Ah don't see why—”
Before the he can even get the words out, Soarin' is halfway through his pie, licking around the plate and lapping up the amber syrup like he's been poisoned and its the antidote. When he finishes the last drop on his plate and looks up expectantly at his host, he finds Braeburn wearing the most confused expression ever. It's almost as though his face can't decide whether to be bemused, awed or disgusted and instead settled for a combination of all three.
“Ah don't think Ah've ever seen something disappear that fast,” he says and smiles and seves Soarin' another slice.
“Sorry, I can't seem to help it,” he says, a little more bashful now that he's slated the pie demon nestled in his stomach. This time, however, he goes about eating his pie a bit more reverently.
He takes a bite and lets himself savor the flavor considerably happy at the decidedly fabulous taste. He finds himself asking, after a good thirty seconds of just savoring that bite, “Which kind of apples? They taste homegrown,”
Braeburn smiles enthusiastically, “You can tell that just by eatin' 'em?” Soarin' nods. “It's not 'xactly homegrown unless yer of the mind that orchard is muh backyard. But Ah'm the one ta take care of 'em so Ah guess it's'all the same. As ta the kind of apples: it's truly a blend. Pink Lady an' Braeburn,” The admission seems to embarrass him.
“A blend?” Soarin' repeats after swallowing another savored bite, “I've never thought of that,”
“Do you bake?” Braeburn asks half-way through his slice with his moderate eating pace. He eyes Soarin's curiously, half-expecting it to pull a disappearing act as well.
“No, no. I can't bake or even make a hay sandwich right.” He's never had much time to learn, really. He got accepted into the Wonderbolts at quite a young age, he'd barely moved out of his parent's home. And with the Wonderbolts they don't really cook their own food. They go out as a group a lot, and often times he crashes at Spitfire's or Thunder Rush's place and bum their food. “But I think I've always been a pie connoisseur. Really, my cutie mark should be a pie,”
At the mention of cutie marks Braeburn twists his head to get a peek at it, and Soarin' shifts so he can. It's a lightning bolt, streaking out of a cloud with outspread wings. He supposes it's rather large, and kind of showy, actually.
“That looks familiar,” Braeburn mumbles, “Mahn's an apple,” He turns so Soarin' can see it fully, Soarin' raises a brow. He's not quite sure how a pony goes about getting an apple cutie mark.
“It's a braeburn, right?” he asks, just to be obvious. Braeburn smirks.
“Yup. It's a sign of family, really. Most anyone you see with an apple cutie mark is part of the Apple family. We're spread all over Equestria, makin' apple products and confectioneries,”
“The apple family? That's why you make such a perfect apple pie, isn't it? It's in your genes,” Soarin' takes another bite of his pie.
“Ahaheh. Well, if yer impressed by muh pies you need ta try muh cousin Applejack's. She's the best baker in the Apple family. Course, if you're at Ponyville at all—that's where she lives by the way, or at least near 'nough in Sweet Apple Acres—you might as well try the pies and Sugar Cube Corner, too. Muh cousin grows the apples they use in their pies and the ponies there are very skilled bakers, at least that's what AJ told me,”
Ponyville, Soarin' thinks that name is familiar but he doesn't really remember it. It conjures flashes of rainbows when he thinks of it, but nothing more. He'll ask Spitfire later, she's better with remembering these things.
“I can't believe that a pie can be much better then yours. Anything more and you're going beyond the divine,” he punctuates with another bite, his fourth so far. He's done with flavor and now focuses on the texture of the pie, thick, almost creamy with the crust being just the right kind of sturdiness that it didn't just fold but almost flaked. And the apples. They were hot but he could still crunch into them.
“Uh, well, thanks,”
Braeburn serves himself another slice and they eat in a comfortable silence and finish at about the same time as each other. Braeburn stands and gathers his plate and reaches for Soarin's.
“I can take care of it,” He says, standing.
“No way, Ah'm the host. 'Sides it's nearly spotless already,” Braeburn's lips twitch up in a smirk.
It's true, after Soarin' had finished his sliced he'd gone and licked the plate clean, catching every crumb and wiping the apple syrup away. Soarin' shrugs and mutters thanks, still standing because he'll feel awkward if he sits while Braeburn cleans his—considerably less than most times he eats pies because even he can't really and truly finish an entire pie tin—mess.
“Thanks,” He says when Braeburn finishes and the pony just shrugs and gives him a short welcome back. “So,” He feels awkward still, “I've got friends coming into town today. They're probably almost here, and I said I'd be there to meet them...” He trails off.
Braeburn looks at him with an interest, “Ah'm meetin' some folks down there anyways. We've got some guests coming. We can walk together,” Soarin' nods amiably, feeling less awkward now. He really hates eating and flying unless it's at a restaurant, where that's expected. Besides, now that the scent of pie isn't leading him, he doubts he can make it back to the town on his own even flying.
He follows Braeburn out of the kitchen and watches him shrug on a vest like he does it every day, and with his hat he strikes the very picture of a western pony straight out of a classic film, and he figures that Braeburn will fit into the rustic vision he has of Appleoosa without a seam. They leave the house and Soarin' trots to keep up with the golden pony's brisk pace. He wonders about Braeburn's ability to scale the canyon walls without wings but he's surprised at the deftness he shows while picking his way down the steep, near vertical wall on a narrow winding path. Soarin' tries following but gives up and flaps his way down, keeping pace with Braeburn out of a courtesy.
Braeburn eyes his wings like it's the first time he's seen them.
“It's weird, getting so many pegasi at once,”
Soarin' raises his brow, “Not many pegasi here?”
Braeburn hops off a final rock and lands at the floor of the canyon. “Nope. Aaaaapppleooosa—” And here Soarin' raises an eyebrow as Braeburn raises his forelegs and happily shouts the name “—is a fairly new town, founded by earth ponies. We don't have many pegasi or unicorns. Ah suppose it's cause we're so far from Canterlot and Cloudsdayle,”
Soarin' shrugs, “Well, the weather here doesn't seem to need much controlling, either. Most of what pegasi do is keeping the weather on schedule for towns, or doing air deliveries, or other such stuff. It doesn't really look like there's a niche here for many pegasi,”
Braeburn also shrugs, “Maybe. But that just makes it a mite weirder for a group of pegasi arrivin' here all coincidentally,”
Soarin' flicks an ear, “So they're more pegasi in town then just me?”
“Well, not yet,” they enter the orchard and Braeburn switches the topic excitedly, “Ya know, all this might've not been here taday if'n t'weren't fer muh cousin' an' her friends,”
“Really?”
“Yup, ya see, this land ain't real friendly to towns livin', 'cause there's a surprisin' amount of obstacles that get in the way of farmin' and there jus' t'ain't enough growin' naturally ta feed a town. So the sheriff got in touch with the Apple Family an' Ah got sent here ta set up an orchard,”
“You're the one who set all this up?” Soarin' didn't really take Braeburn for such an industrialist at first.
“With a lot of help, yeah. 'Course, Ah'm the one who picked this here spot, which got all of Appleoosa in trouble,” Soarin' thinks Braeburn looks a bit embarrassed or shameful.
“How so?”
“Wull, this passage is part of the local Buffalo stampeding grounds, an' we—Ah—jus' planted an orchard without their permission,”
“But doesn't this lead to a dead end?”
“It forks off and levels out farther down,” Braeburn explains, “Anywho. The buffalo were right set to stampede our orchard down 'cause we earth ponies are a little stubborn. Muh cousin so happens to be comin' down fer a visit with her friends. They ended up helpin' settle things between the Appleoosans and the Buffalo, but not 'fore a huge fight. At first Applejack was on our side, o' course but her friend Rainbow Dash was with the Buffalo and I s'pose the two've got a natural rivalry goin' on—”
“Rainbow Dash?”
“Oh yeah, she's one o' AJ's friends. She's a pegasus pony, like you. Spunky filly, with a rainbow mane, know her?”
And now Soarin' remembers Ponyville, at least in name. It's the place that Rainbow Dash lives. Cash Box has been thinking about recruiting and briefly mentioned the filly. Now she's a saver of towns? He thinks he might have to put a good word in for her.
“I've heard of her. Go on,”
“Okay. Wull, we were almost at an agreement then Pinkie Pie starts singing and it wasn't that bad of a song, really, but it wasn't the right time and the Appleoosans and Buffalos ended up fighting it out. So many pies were lost that day,”
They both gave a silent moment for the forever gone pies.
“But then Chief Thunderhooves tasted one of our pies and a compromise was agreed upon,”
“And that agreement was?”
“When the buffalos came by for their annual stampede, instead of trampling the orchard, they'd settle for some pies instead,”
Soarin' laughs, “Of course, pies solve everything,” He says with an assured nod.
“Of course,” Braeburn shares the smile, then gestures at the town they've come upon. “Welcome to...” he sucks in a breath of air and rears up again, “Appleooosa!”
[Note] She knows he's had pie because she's Spirfire. /vague. And I'm not a professional in the medical field so don't take any recording here as text book.
'No sir. I've been thinking about a career change to tires.'
Odd Thomas, pg 30
Braeburn watches as Soarin's eyes widen a bit. Surprised that they're at Appleoosa already. He grins and starts forward, about to enter the town when a shadow crosses over him. He looks up to find himself staring at the underbelly of a carriage, wondering in the back of his mind how does a carriage get above a pony? while backing out of its shadow. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Soarin' flap his wings and land beside him, also out of danger of being crushed by the wagon.
It's when the blue and white carriage actually lands that he sees that it's pulled by a pair of pegasi this must be the arrival of our guests, then and the carriage door opens to reveal a pretty yellow mare, with glassy copper eyes and a wild, fiery mane. She steps easily out of the carriage and following her is a white mare, mane a sun-bright yellow. They stand, squinting their eyes at the brightness surrounding them.
The first mare spots him and Soarin' and her eyes widen, in recognition he thinks but he's never seen her before and she trots up to them with a look in her eye he's not to fond of. He takes a step back before he hears what she's saying and realizes it's not directed at him.
“Soarin'! You said you'd be back! You know how difficult it is hearing that mare nag and nag and nag because you've decided to take an unscheduled flight?”
Soarin' looks only a bit sorry, “I can imagine, Spits,” then he leans in and whispers, “she's not out of the coach just yet,”
The mare grins, “I hope you found your pie worth it, because Cash is pretty upset one of her Wonderbolts went MIA,”
This is news to Braeburn. Not that the mares are Wonderbolts, because he was expecting them, but because Soarin' is and he didn't say so. Without any reason, Braeburn feels slighted, though he knows it's got no logic to it. He supposes it's because he and Soarin' seemed to get along well and he'd divulged many facts about himself. He shrugs it off.
“Spits, you know pie is always worth it! Which reminds me!” Soarin' turns suddenly and faces Braeburn. “This is Braeburn, he's the one with the pie!”
The mare turns to him and smiles, half-lidding her copper eyes. “Stallion with the pies, huh? My name's Spitfire, it's nice to meet you,”
“Mighty fine ta meet you, too, m'am,” He gives a polite bow to her and also the white mare behind her, “This actually works out fine, 'cause Ah'm s'posed ta be yer guide around here. Which reminds me: Welcome to...” He rears up, enthusiasm spilling out of him as he smiles broadly, “Appleooosa!”
“Is that because you're happy to see us, or do you do that for every pony?” Spitfire asks, eyebrow raised. He hears Soarin' chuckle next to him. He cracks a grin as well.
“He does that for everypony, I've been thinking about making him our official Appleoosa Slogan Sayer,” Braeburn starts at the Sheriff's voice, gives a sheepish smile and jumps to introduce him.
“This is Sheriff Silverstar, the fine sheriff of our humble town. Sheriff, this is Soarin', Spitfire and...” He trails off. The white mare opens her mouth to fill in but is interrupted by another pony—this time a unicorn, not a pegasus—jumping out of the wagon. Her frizzy orange mane bobs with her movements.
“Thunder Rush, and I'm Cash Box, the Wonderbolt's manager. Please excuse me for I must rage against one of my compatriots,” Cash Box turns to frown at Soarin' before unleashing a torrent. “What were you thinking? Going on an unauthorized flight like that? It's all fun and games giving me a heart attack but what if you strained a muscle? You didn't strain a muscle did you? We have a show in a week, Soarin', Celestia help you if you strained a muscle—”
“I didn't strain a muscle, Cash. I'm fine. I just stopped for a bite to eat with my buddy Braeburn here,” Braeburn looks slightly aghast as Soarin' practically dives behind him. It doesn't work.
“Hi there Braeburn. And what exactly did you eat, Soarin'? You know you're on a diet because of the shows! You need to watch your calories. You didn't eat any of those sweets did you? Not a pie?” She stepped closer, pointing her horn at Soarin' and therefore Braeburn, “You had a pie! Soarin', you know how bad those things are for you! You aren't built like Spitfire and Thunder Rush here, you need to keep yourself slim or you'll fall behind in the formation,”
Soarin's ears were folded down as he nods at his manager's words sullenly, “I know Cash, I know.” Braeburn sees fit to step in.
“Miss Cash Box, is it?”
“Huh, oh, yes. And you are?”
“Braeburn and Ah'm your assigned guide for yer stay in Appleooosa!” Complete with rampant action and all, “Ah'm sure ye'r all tired right about now so why don't Ah show you to your rooms?”
“That sounds, quite fine, actually,” Spitfire agrees and Braeburn sends her a thankful smile.
He leads the way confidently, because there's only one inn suitable for the Wonderbolts in Appleoosa and he felt that if he didn't he'd be looked down upon, though he's not sure why he feels that as the Wonderbolts seem fairly agreeable ponies. Not like they would look down on anypony at all. Still, he walks confidently and talks confidently as he gives the Wonderbolts and Soarin' a short tour on their way to the Inn. They pass the Salt Block and Artist Alley, but the wild and mild west dances are clear across town as well as most other attractions, so he fills in blanks with cute anecdotes that just spring to mind.
Thanks to his cousin's visit he has plenty of stories to tell about certain places and their time spent here. Being from Ponyville they weren't all used to life in Appleoosa and some funny things happened and he enjoys sharing the stories with other ponies. It all reminds him how wonderful Appleoosa is and how much he loves living there.
The group nearly gets to the inn when it happens.
Braeburn was chuckling softly while he recalls and tells of the time Rainbow Dash goaded Little Strongheart into a race that circled and crossed through Appleoosa. It wasn't long before cousin Applejack joined in, too, and the entire town had been in an a happy mood. Rainbow and AJ had ended up somehow wrecking the entire artist alley, but they'd helped rebuild and established the annual Appleoosan Fair.
Anyways, he is telling the Wonderbolts this story when he hears Soarin' moan and then the soft collapse of a pony. He stops midway through a sentence and whirls to face Soarin' who lies on the dusty ground unconscious.
“Soarin'!” Spitfire gallops the few steps to her friend and kneels next to him, gently pressing her nose to his neck. “Soarin', are you alright?” She looks fairly worried when the lump of pegasus doesn't respond.
“Braeburn, get Dr. Mendheart--” but Braeburn is already galloping down the road before Sheriff Silverstar can even finish his words.
Horseapples! he's thinking as his hooves leave a dust trail behind him. For some reason the incident feels like his fault. His head! He hit his head on muh window an' Ah didn't even check it. He neighs an excuse me as he whirls pass Cormana and her brother. Even Ah could see he was out o' sorts and a mite dizzy lookin'.
He turns in a doorway and nearly crashes into Dr. Mendheart's clinic, ears folded back. Mendheart looks up from her papers, eyes worried at his apparent rush. She stands, inquiring the problem as she starts gathering her supplies. He stumbles over his words.
“Muh friend just passed out in the middle of the road, Doctor,”
She grabs her bag and keeps pace with him even though he's galloping for all he's worth, worry gnawing at him like he's a salt block. It's easy to spot the group because everypony is crowded around Soarin' as if to protect him. Mendheart passes her bag to Braeburn and her sharp voice quickly clears a path to him.
“Everypony out of the way, please! Doctor coming through,” She stops near Soarin's head and Braeburn drops the bag next to her.
“Is he alright?” Cash Box asks, stepping near Mendheart.
“I don't know right now. It's ideal to move him but I don't know if he has a neck injury or not. Has any trauma happened recently?”
“He's a stunt pony, but he's surprisingly good at taking care of himself,” She says with a shake of her head, “Can you think of anything, Spitfire? Thunder?” The two mares shake their heads forlornly, wracking their brains for answers they don't have.
“He ran into a window,” Braeburn speaks up. The Doctor and the Wonderbolts look at him askance. “Ah mean, that's how Ah met up with him. He ran into muh house. Ah didn't think nuthin' of it 'cause he didn't act so bad, he was just a bit dizzy at first but got over it real quick like,”
The doctor frowns and reaches in her bag to bring out a penlight. She opens Soarin's eyes and flashes the light in both of them, looking for something, her frown not leaving her face or becoming worse. Braeburn doesn't know whether that's a good thing or not.
“He has a concussion. His should be fine, but I'm used ta earth ponies, not pegasi,” She shrugs, “In any case it's best ta move him off the street. He doesn't need ta stay at the clinic so he can stay wherever you were planning on staying,” Mendheart folds her penlight back into her bag and glances at the ponies next to her before settling on Silverstar, “Sheriff, you should go ta the office and file the injury reports. Braeburn can help me get him ta his room,” Silverstar offers a rudimentary argument in favor of staying to help out of concern, but the doctor insists that Braeburn is enough so Silverstar returns sullenly back to his office.
Braeburn and Mendheart work together to carefully lift Soarin' and place him on Braeburn's back. At once, he is surprised at how very light Soarin' is. The pegasus isn't a small pony, and looks like he should be solid with muscle but he feels almost the same, maybe just a bit heavier then Apple Jack, making him easy to haul around. Braeburn mentions this.
“He's a pegasus pony,” Mendheart says, matter of factly.
“He's an athlete,” Cash Box says at nearly the same time. The two mares look at each other, “What's being a pegasus got to do anything with that?” Cash Box asks.
“Pegasi have a naturally lighter build then other ponies. Our bones are also lightweight to accommodate flight,” Spitfire offers. She trots beside Braeburn, looking at Soarin', her brow furrowed, “But like Cash said, he's an athlete. Wonderbolts pack on muscle because of our training schedule. Soarin' shouldn't be too different in weight because of that,”
“He feels like a feather,” Braeburn comments as he starts up the flight of stairs to the Wonderbolts' rooms.
There's an uneasy but resigned silence as they finish the short journey to the rooms. Thunder Rush noses open the door and Braeburn makes his way to the bed before transferring Soarin' to the mattress. The pegasus lays sprawled out on the bed, looking like a doll tossed in the corner. It's wrong, or feels wrong, so Braeburn bites the corner of the sheet Soarin' lays on and works it out of under the pony and uses it to cover him.
“Braeburn, try waking him up, I want to keep him up for a couple of hours to see if it's really serious. You three, lets get a medical history on our patient, shall we?” Mendheart leads the mares into the adjacent room—in the back of Braeburn's mind he thinks that it's the filly's room and not just a random room the doctor decides to barge into—leaving the two stallions alone.
“Soarin',” Braeburn says softly, reluctant to really wake him up. But the doctor said it's for his own good, so he tries again, more firmly, “Soarin', ya'll need ta get up now. Doc says it's bad fer you if you sleep in,” He studies the pegasus before gently nosing him in the side. “Soarin'. Up an' at 'em, brony,” He pokes softly with his hoof. “Hey, Soarin'!” A twitch, but otherwise no response.
Braeburn frowns and looks around worriedly, like he'll spot Mendheart in the corner of the room disapproving of his frail attempts at waking Soarin'. Instead he spots a small cold box. His ears perk up. When he was sleepin' in, and he'd been stayin' at Granny Smith's, AJ had poured water on him to wake up, Maybe it wasn't the best idea in the world, but if sleeping wasn't the best thing to be doing, water definitely made a good alarm clock.
He plods over to the box and opens it. There isn't any water, maybe because it hasn't been stocked all the way, and he should remember to tell the Inn keeper that, but there is an apple. It's a braeburn, and he picks it up and shuts the cold box. His plan foiled, he finds himself back at the bedside, crunching into the apple. Apples are wise, maybe it'll give him an idea. He shakes his head with a silent laugh.
Surprisingly, the crunch of his apple makes Soarin's ears twitch. Or maybe it's a coincidence. He takes another loud bite of the apple and like they're attached to a string Soarin's ears twitch again. Braeburn leans forward with the apple and, right next to soft blue ears, he crunches. Soarin' starts awake.
“Yer up!” Braeburn lets the apple drop to speak with his excitement.
“Of course I'm up. I can't sleep with somepony sadistically eating a delicious apple when I'm famished,” There's sarcasm in his voice.
“Famished? You just had pie!” Soarin' just shrugs then winces, leading Braeburn to ask, “You alright?”
“Just a crick. How'd I get here?,” Soarin' reaches a hoof up to prod at his neck lightly, then, as if an afterthought, adds, “ And yes, I am hungry,” Braeburn fights a concerned frown and returns to the ice box to grab another apple.
“Doctor Mendheart says you have a concussion. You passed out in the middle of the street,” He grabs the apple by its stem and deposits it next to Soarin's head. Soarin' takes the apple and munches on it while Braeburn explains that he helped cart him up to the room, then woke him on the doctor's orders.
“Thanks,” is muttered between crunches.
“No problem,” is floated in the air.
Soarin' busies himself eating the apple, and demands another so Braeburn busies himself fetching apples and smiling at the pegasus's eating manners. He finds the trips to and from the cold box relaxing to his nerves. Keeping his hooves busy waiting on Soarin' also assuages the guilt for letting him pass out. He grabs another apple and tosses it on the bed. There's mumbling from the room next to them and Soarin' gives Braeburn an inquiring look.
“Yer teammates are talkin' to Doctor Mendheart. She's gettin' a medical history, er somethin'. She might want ta know yer up, actually. Ah'll jus' go tell her,” He says and backs a step away before turning and walking to the door connecting the two rooms. He knocks on the door and the conversation behind it halts so he nudges it open and peeks his head around.
Mendheart looks displeased at everything in general and Cash Box looks confused. He kind of wishes he'd just let the mares find out Soarin' is awake by themselves.
“Uh, Soarin's awake,” There's silence still, until Mendheart trots to the door nearly pushing him out of her way to look at Soarin'. Braeburn waits until the other mares enter Soarin's room before he shuts the door. When he finds a place near the bed he sees that Soarin' has already finished his apple.
Doctor Mendheart looks over him, sends a contemptuous glare at Cash Box, before speaking, “I don't believe your concussion is anything truly bad but I want you to take it easy for a few days. A week at least. That means no stunt flying—in fact, you might want to take a break from flying all together—and no more running into houses,”
“What do you mean, no flying?” Soarin' sits up in bed abnormally fast and winces, “I'm a pegasus, flying is in the blood,” He wiggles his wings.
“You should have thought of that before you ran into a house,” Mendheart shrugs, “I suggest resting. Lots of sleep and rest. And eating,” She stresses the word. Soarin's ears perk as she steps forward and prods a hoof at his ribs. “You're way too skinny! I don't care who--” more glaring at Cash Box, “--told you ta take a diet, you don't need it,”
Braeburn feels the conversation has taken a turn and maybe that he should excuse himself. But Mendheart keeps talking and he doesn't want to interrupt to draw attention to himself. She's not showing it now, but there's still a chance that she'll be upset with him for not bringing Soarin' directly to the clinic knowing that the pegasus had hit his head.
“Let me tell you how this sports thing works,” Mendheart says in response to a half-willed protest from Cash Box, “Athletes work out all the time. They exercise all the time. Exercising makes a diet a moot point. Athletes need the calories or else they'll burn out and their body will start eating their muscle for energy instead of their fat. So, no more diet. Lots more food,” She puts her hoof down as if to say end of conversation, and picks up her bag of doctor things. She gestures to Braeburn as she leaves the room.
Braeburn slips out of the tense room hesitantly. This is it, he thinks. She's going to berate him for being a stupid pony. His ears are drooping when he reaches her side, expecting the worst. She glances at him and stops in the hallway a few doors down from Soarin's room, dropping the bag. Braeburn stares at it and tentatively asks, “Why didn't'cha get yer saddle bags?”
“You said it was an emergency, I didn't want ta waste time fiddlin' with straps,”
He nods, sheepishly then, “Ah'm sorry,”
“For what?”
“Uh,” Was she going to make him say it? To absolutely embarrass himself? “Fer not bringin' him to ya sooner...”
“Silly pony,” She says and he braces himself, “Don't beat yourself up about it,” What? “Usually a bump on the head isn't anything to worry about, just happened ta be something this time,” She shrugs the comment off. “'Sides, I've got a favor to ask you,”
Braeburn perks up and smiles at her, “What can Ah do fer you?”
“Well, I don't trust that Cash Box pony ta not mess with Soarin's recovery. She has good intentions at heart, maybe, but she's really one minded,”
“What'd'ya want me ta do about it?” He asks, thinking maybe he can stop by every now and then to check up on them when the doctor can't.
“Play nurse,”
“What?” If they had been walking he would have stopped in his tracks. Mendheart chuckles lightly.
“I mean, I want you to be Soarin's personal attendant. Take the trip down here make sure he's feeling alright, that he's getting rest and that he eats, spend time with him if he wants, then you can leave,”
“What about the orchard? Ah can't just leave that sittin',”
“Of course not, get Toffee ta help. She's a hard workin' pony and you don't need ta harvest apples today,”
Braeburn thinks it over, but it's true. The orchard is doing fine and just needs somepony to look after it. He doubts that taking care of Soarin' will be all that time consuming so he can go back and take care of all the manual stuff. He finally nods.
“But Ah'm not wearing that nurse outfit you have hidden in yer closet,” Mendheart laughs and shakes her head.
Braeburn finds Toffee quickly, and explains to her his situation. He doesn't tell her that the patient in question is a Wonderbolt, the fact that Soarin' is a famous flier has actually escaped his mind, but Toffee is quick to comply and he finds himself running over a list of things to do with the caramel colored pony. Toffee learns quick enough and, after a quick tour and re-brief the next day, he feels a little better about leaving his orchard behind.
The streets of Appleoosa—and when he's feeling good like this he finds it hard not to let the enthusiasm show in a rampant pose—are bustling already and he smiles friendly-like at his fellow Appleoosans. His hooves quickly bring him to the Inn he'd left the Wonderbolts at and he enters it with a sort of anticipation. He nods to the innkeeper and clops up the wooden stairs to make his way to Soarin's room before knocking politely. He hears a muffled noise that he can't quite make out but assumes it is an invitation so he presses open the door slightly.
He peeks into the room to see the blue pony flopped on the bed with his wings splayed out. “Hey, Soarin'?”
He looks up with tired, frowning eyes. “What's up, Brae?” He pushes himself up into a sitting position, his wings still drooping but looking a bite less depressed.
Braeburn walks into the room and shuts the door before answering with a vague, “Just wanted ta see how yer fairin',”
“Well. Usually I'd be flying around right now, practicing our routine for the next show,” He says and flops his wings, “But I'm under orders to stay put,”
Braeburn snorts and trots up to the pegasus, “Yer under orders not ta do anythin' stressful. You don't need ta stay put,” He smiles widely when Soarin' perks up at the sentence.
“What did'ya have in mind?” Soarin' folds his wings against himself and pulls himself off the bed almost prancing in his place.
“Uh well,” In truth, Braeburn hasn't thought this far. But he's creative, or something, because he comes up with, “Have you eatin' yet?”
“No, but I'm starving!” He's already skipping to the door and Braeburn can feel the anticipation running off of him.
“What're'ya in the mood fer? The Salt Block's a cozy little saloon that serves some o' the best Hay Chips and sandwiches around. Then we have a few market stands that have anythin' from apples n' carrots ta cupcakes,”
“Not many options, huh?”
Braeburn shrugs and starts his way downstairs, keeping a keen eye on his friend, “Appleoosa is barely a year old. Most of us make our own food, grow our own crops in the backyard and sell 'em fer profit. The Salt Block is makin' some on tourism but we ain't had 'nuff o' that ta make buildin' restaurants worth it. Muh orchard is the only thing that's available ta anypony,”
“You don't sell your apples?” Soarin' looks surprised but makes in down the steps perfectly fine.
“'Course not. Everypony needs the apples ta live on. We're not 'xactly the richest town in Equestria. We're a community of salt miners and such. Ah mean, 'course Ah sell them in the market fer tourists and ta the Salt Block and sometimes Ah cover fer AJ when she can't get a shipment of apples somewhere but the orchard is Appleoosa's foundation. 'T'wouldn't be fair ta take that away fer profit,”
“You're a good pony, Braeburn,”
“Nah, Ah'm just doin' what's right,”
Soarin' let's the conversation go without an argument mostly because they've reached the Salt Block, which is where Braeburn's hooves took them. He finds this odd as usually he goes to the market and then just bakes at his home. The Salt Block is reserved for when he has time to be away from the orchard.
He bustles into the watering hole, immediately drawn into the atmosphere the Salt Block permeates. A piano pony plays a wistful tune in the a corner near a tiny stage and the burning oil lamps cast a flickering, home-y light across the wooden floors. There are a hoofful of tables and even less ponies sitting at them, eating or playing cards or a combination. He leads Soarin' to the bar.
The barhoof—Salt Shaker, founder of the Salt Block—stands imposingly behind the counter polishing a glass. The pony isn't as bad or stuffy as he looks, Braeburn has found out that the buck's slender build and incredible height is the root of his stand-offish demeanor. Once a pony gets to know him, he's alright, really.
After setting down his hat, Braeburn orders haychips and carrots because he really isn't that hungry and looks over to Soarin' for his order. The pegasus is looking at the racks behind Salt Shaker, filled with a fine selection of salts, various fermented juices and a small selection of donuts both plain and sprinkled. Catching his look, Soarin' shrugs and mumbles something under his breath that Braeburn can't quite hear. Then louder:
“What do you recommend?”
Braeburn takes a moment to think; he knows Soarin' is almost constantly hungry so maybe he'll appreciate something larger. He mentally runs through the menu—he's memorized it, not such a hard feat considering it takes up maybe a page at most—running through such possibilities as salads, chips, muffins, bread, carrots haychips like his, or even alfalfa, but he doesn't know if Soarin' even likes alfalfa. But he does know that he likes apples.
“Apple salad with uh... carrot fries?” He offers, a flutter in his stomach he realizes is nervousness. He shuts it down, being nervous is silly, there's nothing to be nervous about, and he grasps for the confidence that is second nature to him. He realizes, when he finds that confidence hiding in a corner, that he hasn't really been acting like himself at all and that's unusual. For the moment he'll attribute it to Soarin' being paramount to a superstar (even though he's hardly heard of the Wonderbolts, and never heard of Soarin' before).
“Sure,” Soarin' gives a nonchalant shrug—does he not like the choice?--before getting a quirk in his lips, “What kind of apple salad?” He asks.
“Granny Smith and Pink Lady,” He says, automatically, because he knows where his apples are at any given point in time as long as they stay in Appleoosa or on their delivery routes. He's not one to gush over his favorite tree—though Bloomburg is taking his translocation quite splendidly—but he does like to keep track of and make sure his apples are healthy and safe.
Soarin' smirks, self-satisfied, and Braeburn wonders if he had just walked straight into something that he can't quite see or deduce. Feeling like he's lost a battle he waves Salt Shaker over and orders a salt cube partly out of habit and partly because he doesn't like feeling out of his element and the salt may help, and nods towards Soarin'. For a moment it looks like Soarin' will refuse but then goes for donuts with extra sprinkles and jam filling. The salt dish and a plate of two donuts arrive before their meals and both refrain from them in favor of waiting for their food.
“So. Donuts,” Braeburn observes, not quite asking but inquiring none the less as he studies the confectioneries near the pegasus. Soarin' shrugs, defensive.
“Yeah. They're not any worse than salt,”
“What's wrong with salt?” Now it's Braeburn who is defensive.
“Nothing wrong with it, just what I said,” Soarin' teases, confident now that his preferred vice is defended, “Its just, you couldn't be more stereotypical if you tried,”
Braeburn frowns, raises an eyebrow, “What'd'ya mean by that?”
“I mean,” Soarin' gestures, “That every buck in Frontier towns are always nibblin' on their salts. At least, that's the stereotype where I come from,”
“Well, I don't usually have—” salt. Or any hard intoxicants. Being drunk and trying to buck apples and not injure yourself is more difficult then you'd imagine, but Soarin' interrupts before he can say any of that.
“And look!” Soarin' points to the counter and Braeburn does look, “You have a hat, too! Just like in the movies!”
Braeburn touches his hat in reflex, as if to shield it from scrutiny, “Hey, this is muh da's hat,”
Soarin' grins and raises his hooves in surrender before saying, “It's not as if it doesn't look good on you. I actually like cowpony hats. They're of the more sensible fashion statements you see around,”
Before Braeburn can say that his hat isn't a fashion statement, it's got sentimental value and it's functional to boot, Salt Shaker has set down their food, effectively ending the discussion. Braeburn turns his attention to the warm food in front of them, feeling his stomach clench in new found hunger.
His hay chips look crispy, and after months of eating here he knows that they have a satisfying crunch as well. He glances to Soarin's plate. The salad is an appetizing array of green and pale pinkish yellow slices of apples mixed with garden variety lettuce and draped with some kind of caramel sauce. The carrot fries might have been appealing before they disappeared into Soarin's black hole of a stomach, but he has his own carrots.
Speaking of, he takes a carrot and starts chewing. He doesn't hate carrots. He doesn't like them as much apples or even oranges, but he doesn't hate them. He'd ordered them because he hadn't been feeling hungry and carrots were as about filling as water, though slightly sweet tasting water. When he does eat carrots, he prefers them best at the Salt Block because, for some reason, they seem thicker and more satisfying then anywhere else. He attributes it to the atmosphere.
“These are... nice,” Soarin sayas, licking his lips clean of the bits of fries-flakes that settled there, and starts in on the salad, taking a crunching bite from an apple slice.
“Good nice? Or bad nice? Braeburn asks, finished with his carrots as well and stating on the crisps.
“Good nice. They taste different from the, uh, usual stuff I eat, but they're nice,”
Braeburn nods, accepting the answer. And takes another bite of his chips. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Soarin' eats the salad, and finds himself puzzled when the pegasus doesn't completely devour the apples. Instead he seems to be taking it slow, eyes closing after a bite, soft inhalation before he starts chewing, tongue swiping out occasionally to catch escaped juice, or lettuce or caramel drop.
He jerks his attention to his plate, a warm flush bleeding into his cheeks. He licks at his salt to give it a reason (an acceptable, explainable reason) for being there.
“Ah, these apples are from your orchard, right?” Soarin' startles him, but he feels he conceals it well enough.
“Appleoosa's orchard, but yeah,” He corrects automatically. He takes care of the apples, yes, but the orchard belongs to all of Appleoosa.
“I just knew that,” Soarin' smiles, “All of your apples have this certain... niceness. A good niceness,”
Braeburn feels that flush again, and again he takes a lick of his salt to explain it (or keep up with it) and thanks Soarin' before adding, “But really, all Ah do is help the trees grow. They do all the real hard work themselves,”
Soarin's reply is to take a bite of his donut. Braeburn watches as green eyes light up and he catches sight of a quirk of lips. He seems delightfully happy, for whatever reason, with the donut.
“Ah, Princesses, I haven't had a proper donut in ages,” Soarin's smile widens as he catches a sprinkle on his lips and licks it into his mouth.
“Why not?” Braeburn asks, to keep himself from thinking too hard about how a pony could possibly be jealous of a donut.
“Donuts aren't in Cash Box's diet plan and sprinkled donuts even less so,” Soarin' explains, taking another bite of the pastry, prompting Braeburn to take a healthy lick of his salt because the pegasus moans at the donut's taste this time and he's not sure he can stop his embarrassed flush without some crystalline courage dehydrating him.
Soarin' alternates between the donut and his salad haphazardly—Braeburn notices that Soarin' has gotten over eating delicately and is now taking bigger bites, faster, and it relieves the bubble of anxiety he didn't know he had—and Braeburn follows his example, licking his salt and chewing on his crisps. He finds the silence that lapses over them as they finish their meals to be companionable and friendly.
Soarin' takes it upon himself to order the pair of them a shared serving of hay fries, (”These are good, Brae,” Soarin' says after leaving his salad to taste them) to accompany them as they start on their respective salt and donuts in earnest. It's not too long before Braeburn is feeling a pleasant, body-warming buzz and he thinks that Soarin' has to be pretty tipsy, too because he laughs and then Soarin' laughs and then they start talking again.
“I've never been in a saloon before!” Soarin' starts.
“'S not 'xactly a saloon,” Braeburn points out, even though hes pretty sure that the Salt Block, is, in fact, a saloon.
Soarin' shrugs, “Close enough!” and takes another bite of his donut. A thought must strike him because he laughs out loud.
“What's so funny?” Braeburn thinks (worries) that it might be himself, but even on the chance that it's not he wants to know the joke.
“Well, I just remembered,” Soarin' chuckles, “It's kind of stupid,”
Braeburn shrugs, a silent invitation to continue without making commitments.
“Okay, well, when I just arrived in Appleoosa--” And here he is interrupted by Braeburn because the earth pony is getting drunk and happy and excited.
“Appleooosa!” And it's accompanied with front hooves pawing the air and a nicker. Soarin' smirks, indulges him and repeats himself.
“When I arrived in Appleooosa--” He does a pale imitation of Braeburn's excited movements, “--I was looking around at the wagons and all the wood and buildings and I thought This looks like a movie set,” And his eyes were sparkling like they must have when he thought that, Braeburn observes, as his friend looks around the Salt Block like he's in a memory and finding it wonderful.
“That's not stupid,” Braeburn defends, because he imagines that would be his reaction going to any big city, “But you're like, a movie star or somethin', shouldn't you be used ta movie sets?”
“Nah, I'm a Wonderbolt.” Soarin' says with obvious pride, shoulders straightening back, “I do stunts, that's all,” And Soarin' laughs again and Braeburn is glad the pegasus isn't mad at him for forgetting the obvious distinctions between a movie star and a athletic one.
“You've got the looks for it,” Braeburn offers.
“No, no! I mean, you'd look better on-screen then me,” He gestures vaguely at Braeburn's head, “You've even got a movie star-tier mane!”
Braeburn shakes his head, then stops when he feels his mane rustle around his shoulders, and fights the urge to put his hat on and cover the mess from sight. He doesn't want to talk about his mane, movie star-tier or (as he suspects) not, so he tries diverting the conversation with another round which Soarin' accepts as a defeat.
He will regret this later, probably the next morning, but for the moment he doesn't care because his head is deliciously light and he feels like he can float better then a pegasus. Braeburn doesn't remember the last time he got drunk on salt, but he does remember the morning after, and suffering through Promonotory's train team's extreme pleasure with the fact that he had been late instead of them despite them being just as knackered as he'd been.
It does cross his mind that getting a sugar high probably isn't the best possible thing for Soarin's head injury, but he supposes it can't be horrible for him as long as Soarin' doesn't get a hold of his salt or anything stronger. Right now, it's really hard for him to be concerned with Soarin's state of health because the pegasus is badgering him about his hat in a topic completely unrelated to stardom but completely related to farm-work and why the hat is necessary.
Braeburn slurs something he hopes sounds like “It keeps the sun outta muh eyes,” but even he can hear his accent muddy the words. Soarin' either understands it because of his extremely hyper senses or ignores it completely as he doesn't ask for a repeat, instead nabbing the hat from Braeburn's hooves to look at it close up.
“This is so cool!” The pegasus says through a smile, turning the hat around and around before getting a wicked grin on his face and slapping the five gallon on his head. “How do I look?”
Braeburn readies a genial reply, Like a pegasus playing cowpony, or some such but when his eyes actually pause and focus in his inebriated state the semi-witty phrase he'd prepared fluttered away. Soarin' doesn't look any different, physically. He's still a pony with a coat just lighter then the blue sky at the hottest point of day or, conversely, just bluer then an overcast morning. He still has a stormy blue mane with a striking sky-blue sheen. Apple green eyes. Wings. The difference is that he's wearing a cow pony hat.
Braeburn's cowpony hat.
Well. Of course he is, Braeburn saw him put it on. That doesn't change the fact that his throat feels dry and his face is too hot and Soarin' is wearing his hat that his pa gave him when he was still a colt and he didn't look too bad in it.
He blinks.
Soarin's eyebrow raises in what might be amusement of concern, he can't really tell, the world is kind of funny right now. Like. There shouldn't be two of Soarin', right? Because two of Soarin', somehow both in his pa's hat and looking back at his was too much and not fair.
“Since I don't think my face is that horrible looking, you've had too much salt,”
He groans in agreement and lets his head fall against the bar which, quite suddenly seems like the proper place to put his face. Besides cooling down his cheek, it has the added benefit of hiding his flush from Soarin'.
“Come on, uh, hey, Bar Pony—right, right, Mister Salt, sorry—can we get some water? Yeah, uh, please?” Braeburn has a vague thought that he should be able to focus on Salt Shaker's part of the conversation, but that would take too much effort so he resigns himself to only Soarin's part. Not that he thinks that's particularly horrible, Soarin's voice is very soothing.
“Brae took a bit too much salt, I guess,” How is it, he thinks, listening as Salt Shaker moves to get a glass of water, that Soarin's voice is fine. He Sugar-High shouldn't he be talking fast or something? A glass is set down beside him and he abandons his train of thought to slurp it down, feeling his head clear just a bit.
“We should get you back to your place. You're gonna need to sleep that off,” Braeburn gives a grunt of agreement before letting his head fall back down this time landing in something wet and smelling of apples and caramel. He jerks back up coughing and starts trying to wipe caramel and lettuce off his face. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Soarin' as he bursts into peals of laughter.
“Why? This is so gross!” Soarin' continues laughing at his misfortune, almost giggling, and practically falling off his seat—that he recovered from the dangerous tip leaves Braeburn feeling slighted, karma should've dictated that Soarin' fell on his flank for all that laughter—the laughter having to be fueled by the coma-inducing amounts of sugar he ingested because it takes forever for it to finally taper into quiet chuckles.
“You fell in my salad!” This sets off another bout of giggles that last until Braeburn pulls some bits out of his vest and sets them on the counter—not bothering with the exact amount, knowing Salt Shaker will reimburse him the next time he comes in—and hops off the seat to head out.
“Hey, wait up!” Braeburn does, because he remembers that Soarin's the one with the concussion, not him, and then promptly forgets that he's irked at the pegasus for the salad incident and the laughing uncontrollably once he catches sight of his hat on Soarin's head. Still.
The clear, hot air fights to clear his head but only serves to make him thirstier. He turns towards the Inn Soarin' is staying at and the pegasus walks next to him. Their shoulders almost brush, Braeburn's swagger sending him closer to Soarin' then strictly necessary, but salt does that to a pony.
There's an amiable silence in which Braeburn ponders his friend, concentrates on not tripping over his hooves, watches Soarin' nearly shiver with the pent up energy of sugar, and focuses on keeping in a semi-straight line.
In a lucid moment, about a block away from the inn he feels like he is hyper aware of everything, or at least of Soarin'. He can feel the heat of Soarin's body and the thrumming tenses of his muscles. When he turns his head he believes that he sees every feather on Soarin's wings vibrating with the need to move.
He blames Soarin' for tripping.
It couldn't be him, he doesn't even remember the transition from standing to lying on the dirt road with Soarin's face staring down at him.
“You alright?” He grins sheepishly (drunkenly) at Soarin's concern.
“Yeah, Ah'm fine,”
“I should probably make sure you get home alright,”
“But Ah'm s'posed ta make sure you get back fine,”
“A little role reversal should be good for you, then,”
Something about that sentence strikes Braeburn dumb (he's still wearing his hat), so he agrees with Soarin' and lets himself get pulled up and pushed in a direction away from the inn. He stays dumbstruck for a minute or two, but regains enough mental capability in time for Soarin's question.
“How exactly do we get you to your house again?”
It takes both of them to navigate to Braeburn's house (“I don't remember this being here.” “It's my house, I should know whether there's a shortcut or not,” “Didn't we pass this tree already?” “No, this one's Macerana, the other one was Macbeth,”) and they both stood at the base of the rocky cliff leading to Braeburn's house with more than a bit of trepidation.
“How are we getting up there?” Soarin' asks him.
“Ah have no clue,” Braeburn admits.
It, again, takes both of them to navigate up the cliff. Braeburn is, naturally, in front, picking the path mostly from muscle memory, and Soarin' is behind him, playing catcher. Braeburn doesn't slip, even half-drunk he's amazed by this. Soarin' does slip, but he catches Braeburn's tail between his teeth and flaps his wings instinctively there by keeping them both from tumbling down.
Braeburn has a head ache by the time they get to his house though Soarin's hasn't come down from his high just yet. He trudges through the front door and manages to get to an old sofa before he collapses. He blinks, sees Soarin' trot through the door, before he falls asleep.
He wakes up almost immediately, he thinks, and his head throbs. He lets out a groan and shuts his eyes again wishing the head ache away. The blood pounds so hard in his skull he nearly overlooks the clip-clopping of hooves in his kitchen but he's not stupid even suffering from a hang over. Blinking his eyes open, feeling his body tense in preparation for whatever came through the doorway from his kitchen, he feels blessedly lucid until the pony making the hoofsteps is visible.
“Yer still wearin' muh hat,”
“What? Oh, yeah. I guess I am,” Soarin' flushes, beneath Braeburn's hat, the blush a neat purple on his coat. “I can take it off, I mean, if you don't want me wearing it,”
“No! Ah mean. You can wear it. It's fine. Looks good on you, anyways,” Braeburn has no idea why he likes Soarin' wearing his hat, but he does and his headache has returned with a vengeance so he doesn't dwell on that too much.
“Oh, cool!” Soarin' resumes his trot and Braeburn notices that he's balancing a cup of water and an apple on his outstretched wings. When he's close enough, Soarin' kneels and offers the cup and apple to him.
“Thanks,” He manages the cup with his hooves and gulps down the water, the head ache receding a bit more, and also takes the offered apple. When he sets the glass aside and takes a bite of his apple he notices that Soarin' looks a bit strung out. He's surprised that the sugar lasted this long, Soarin' hadn't had an enormous amount of donuts. He moves over on the sofa and offers the empty end to Soarin' who flops into it neatly.
Braeburn crunches on his apple, his headache slipping into submission, and watches Soarin' who is watching him while awaiting his inevitable crash. Braeburn's almost finished with the apple when Soarin' groans and slumps in the couch. Braeburn resists laughing at the sullen face Soarin' makes.
“You should probably stay here until you even out,”
He takes Soarin's grunt as acceptance.
He intends to get up and maybe fix Soarin' some water for when he feels up to it, but Soarin's hoof stops his movement quite easily. He looks over at the pegasus, who has managed to wriggle over to his side of the couch.
“Stop movin' Brae,” He does so (Soarin' saying Brae in that gruff, annoyed and sleepy voice has got to be against the law or something) and Soarin' manages to use Braeburn's side as a pillow before Braeburn even realizes he'd stopped moving. He looks over at Soarin's head, finding that he can only see his hat and suddenly wishing he'd asked Soarin' to give it back.
He counts in his head to a reasonable number and asks, after realizing Soarin' apparently has no intentions of moving, “Are you tryin' ta fall asleep on me?”
“Yes,” Comes the reply.
“Why,”
A few seconds pass before Soarin' deigns to reply to him.
“'Cause you smell like apples,” A snort, “It's a conspiracy,”
Although her eyes are neither golden nor heavenly blue, Terri Stambaugh has the vision of an angel, for she sees through you and knows your truest heart, but loves you anyway, in spite of all the ways that you are fallen from a state of grace.
--Odd Thomas, pg 50
“That's wonderful news!” Spitfire said as Dr. Tenderheart nudged open the door to leave.
“What's wonderful news?” Thunder Rush trots through the door that Tenderheart holds open, two glasses of water balanced on her outstretched wings.
“There's wonderful news?” Cash Box trots in after her, levitating two more glasses, floating them over to Spitfire and Soarin' before snatching one from Thunder for herself.
“The doctor proclaimed me fit and healthy. A tumble ain't gonna keep me down for long!” Soarin' spreads his wings and strikes a pose.
“That's great! You made it in time for the show!”
“And this means no more bed rest!”
“We should celebrate!” Thunder Rush's and Cash Box's voices melted together enough that Soarin' couldn't really tell which exclamation came from whom, but it doesn't really matter as they both agreed with each other and left the room, dragging the doctor with them.
Soarin' watches them disappear, faintly amused at their eagerness. Spitfire laughs and takes a drink from her water, glancing at him nonchalantly.
“So,” She starts, leaving the rest of her sentence hanging in the air for him to figure out.
“Yeah?” He asks, trotting to the coldbox in the corner of the room, he nudges it open and looks at the collection of apples neatly stacked inside. He picks a shiny red one and crunches into it, nearly missing Spitfire's question.
“Where were you all morning?”
“Hmmcrunchcrunch,” He swallows the bit of apple and clears his throat. “I was with Braeburn,”
“The cowpony?”
“Mm-hmm,” He takes another bite of the apple.
“What'd you guys do? We thought somepony had foalnapped you,”
He slowly finishes chewing, testing Spitfire's patience. She purses her lips in annoyance.
“Well, we ate breakfast. We should take Thunder and Cash to the Salt Block, it's got some good food,”
“The Salt Block? Isn't that the little saloon down the street?”
“Yup,” He nods, “It's got this really nice apple salad you should try,”
“You guys stayed at a bar for the whole morning?”
“Of course not,” He takes another bite, loudly crunching over her face of intrigue.
She waits until he finishes chewing before asking, “Then what happened?”
He shrugs and trots to the bed and jumps on it. “You gonna go over the moves with me? I need to catch up,”
“You don't need to catch up, you were out of commission for a day and a half,”
“But that's a day and a half without flying,” He whines. Spitfire rolls her eyes.
“Fine, I'll practice with you if you tell me what happened.”
He takes another bite of the apple and briefly closes his eyes before starting his story. When he's sure Spitfire is anxious with anticipation he starts.
“Well, Brae came over and offered breakfast, which I of course accepted, so he showed me to the Salt Block. I wasn't too sure about it, you know? I mean, it's a bar, so how can there be good food there? But Brae suggested this awesome salad—which was magnificent, you need to try it sometime Spit—and then he got some salt cubes so I got some donuts. With sprinkles. They have awesome donuts there. Not as good as Pony Joe's that time we went, but close enough,” He pauses to breath and Spitfire takes the moment to interrupt.
“You got sugar high when you had a concussion? Soarin'--”
“Well, nothing bad happened, Spits,”
“But that's bad for you, you could of made your concussion worse!”
“Well, Brae would of taken care of it,” He dismisses with an eye roll.
“He's a stranger, Soarin', you're giving him way too much trust. You said he was having salts? Well, how do you know he wouldn't be too intoxicated to do anything if something happened?”
“He's not like that, Spitfire. He was watchin' out for me,”
“Fine, go on,”
“Fine. Okay, well, we talked a lot. Did you know that those cowpony hats actually have a use? They've got a wide brim so the rain and sun don't get into anypony's eyes while they work! Anyways, I ended up stealing his hat and then Braeburn fell into my salad and I laughed really, really hard, and then we decided to get back here 'cause he was feeling a bit dizzy,” He pauses again and Spitfire gestures for him to continue.
“While we were on our way back to the Inn, he fell flat on his face, so I, being the gentlecolt I am, decided I should make sure he got home safely,”
“You're the one with the concussion, though,”
“That's what he said. Anyways, after an epic adventure to Braeburn's house he passed out on his couch and I decided to get him some water so his head didn't feel like a bronco bucked him. By the time he woke up I was crashing and he offered the other half of the couch to me, so I slept the sugar off. Then I woke up, Brae fixed some lunch and I came back.”
Spitfire stays suspiciously quiet, studying him through slightly narrowed eyes until he gets the shivers. He flicks his wing out to brush her shoulder.
“What, no comments on how I shouldn't have gone to a stranger's house, mom?”
“That was a sucky story,” She says, “I thought you guys, like, brought home some flappers or something,”
“Spitfire!” He slams his hooves against his ears.
“Maybe watched some Mares gone Wild, you know, buck stuff,”
“Stop it, my innocent ears!”
Spitfire snorts and pushes off the bed, “Well, as soon as your 'innocent ears' are finished being traumatized, I'll be at out practicing,” With that, she swishes her tail and leaves the room.
“Oh hey, wait up!” Soarin' stumbles off the bed after her, refusing to miss out on drills for another day.
As soon as the two exit the Inn, Spitfire snaps open her wings and jumps into the air. With little hesitation Soarin' follows, launching himself off the ground, startling an earth pony walking towards them. He barely pauses enough to apologize before racing after Spitfire's trail. A grin inches across his face, slowly widening in time to the beat of his wings. The wind rushes against him, yanking his hair back and tugging on his body, berating him, he thinks, for keeping it waiting so long.
Ahead, Spitfire's trajectory starts to incline, and he instinctively follows, pushing the himself harder, propelling him upwards into the bright, open sky. The slight protesting of his muscles only sharpens his drive as he climbs higher into the atmosphere. Ten yards ahead of him Spitfire reaches the apex of her climb and she folds her wings close to herself. Soarin' flares his wings, loosing as much speed as he can while Spitfire's body hangs at the height of her potential momentum.
A moment, and then Spitfire succumbs to gravity and starts falling, angling earthwards. She passes Soarin' and he dives after her, starting a spiral around Spitfire's forming contrail. He shifts so his spirals wind tighter and tighter as his teammate gets closer to the ground. His wings work hard to keep him only yards behind Spitfire's dive and tension builds in his chest with each forceful flap. He starts counting, slowly, in his head.
Ten. He fights against the wind resisting his dive. Nine. Sparks from Spitfire's contrail send electricity through him. Eight. His head is light from all the spinning but in a good way. Seven. He can see the coat colors of the Appleoosans below. Six. And now he can see their manes. Five. The epinephrine flooding his systems make him giddy. Four. Three seconds left. Three. He bites his lip and watches Spitfire carefully for his cue. Two. The knowledge that the dive will soon become a disaster if they didn't pull up floods him. One.
Spitfire spreads out her wings and sharply angles out of the dive. Soarin' snaps his close and carefully merges into the smoke contrail behind her, once hidden in the dense trail he resumes flight behind her. The crackling of lightning messes with his mane and, without his suit, dances lightly over his skin. Smirking, he speeds up, chasing after Spitfire.
Electricity builds up in his mane and his fur, he can nearly taste it on his tongue and see it sparking off of him. When he does see a flash of light he bursts out of Spitfire's cloud, pleased to see he's right behind her. She slows just enough and he rolls around her, brushing his wing against hers. The static electricity built up around him immediately jumps off him, leaping to her feathers and back to his. Slowly, they spin around each other, building the electricity between them until it reaches a spitting, crackling fury.
With a shared glance they both start another upward trek, carrying the electricity with them. When the town was out of their blast range they immediately stopped, forcefully reversing their trek, releasing the miniature storm they created between the two of them. The lightning snaps across the sky, flashing in bright, abstract shapes, arcing across the sky of Appleoosa before shimmering, then dissipating.
A cheer rises from below and Soarin' looks down to see a crowd of ponies in the town square, clapping at their spontaneous show. He meets Spitfire's gaze and laughs, exhilarated. How he'd managed to go a day without flying he wasn't entirely sure (hovering when stumbling off cliffs not withstanding), and he didn't plan on doing so again.
“Woohoo! Yeah! I'm on fire, today!” He pumps his wings and trots in his place, swishing his mane back and forth. “You hear that crowd, Spits? I can't wait for our next show!” He holds out his hoof, waving it in her general direction, wiggling it when she fails to understand its purpose immediately.
“You are such a foal,” She laughs and finally hits his hoof with her own.
“Yeah, but you love me anyway,”
“Now what would give you that idea?” She blinks innocently.
Soarin' pouts and turns his nose away, frowning at his friend's wit, and starting his way back down to Appleoosa. The group in the town square had started to disperse a bit, but a few were still waving and cheering at them. He raised a hoof at them and did a small loop-de-loop just because, smiling when another little cheer erupted.
Squinting, he could see a few of the ponies he recognized—the sheriff, though he looked like he was just walking, an old pony he thinks he remembers from the bar—but he finds himself disappointed for some reason. It takes him a bit before he realizes it's because he doesn't see Braeburn. A free show and he didn't even see it! He's only slightly surprised that feels like that, flying is his one true love (disregarding pies, of course) and of course he wants to share that.
He laughs as the epinephrine coils through his system and his heart races and his body quivers. A day, he decides, is much too long to avoid flying. He closes his eyes and feels the warmth of the sun, a gentle radiation and a warm, enthusiastic glow.
“I want to fly with Brae,” the words tumble, unbidden, from his mouth. He glances to the side, at Spitfire, and refuses to acknowledge the warmth in his cheeks. Her sly smile clearly said I knew it wasn't just hanging out at the saloon.
“You should invite him to our rehearsal,” she says.
“I should?” He smiles, “I mean, I should!” He prances a few feet, almost running into somepony. He apologizes meekly. Spitfire giggles and gestures with a flick of her wing to follow him into the Salt Block.
She doesn't look back to see if he does follow her, but Soarin' does anyway, of course. He passes through the threshold of the swinging doors and a warmth rushes through him as he imagines himself and Braeburn sitting at the bar earlier. He joins Spitfire at a small table and waits for Salt Shaker to ask for drink and leave before he continues their conversation.
“But, how should I ask him?” He peers up at his friend, suddenly shy.
“You,” She taps her chin and looks at him with sly eyes, “You're sweet on him, aren't you?”
“Spits!” Soarin' gapes at the yellow pegasus, “I'm not!”
“Come on Soar', you do nothing but talk about him and we just met,”
He firmly hides behind his wings and his hooves, briefly wondering if his head could catch fire from his embarrassment.
“I don't mind, you know. Colt-cuddling isn't an uncommon thing now-a-days,” He feels her hoof touch one of his and he peeks between the feathers of his wings to see a slightly concerned face. Her warm, amber eyes are honest and accepting.
“I just... I do like him, he's really— I feel like I'm a normal guy around him, not a Wonderbolt Star,” He pulls his wings back from his face before continuing. “I not ready... I don't think I'm a colt cuddler. I just like a colt,” He shifts in his seat.
Whenever he had caught Braeburn staring at him this morning, a rush of feelings would flood his head, but he'd though it was the sugar playing interference. Sugar that crossed some wires in his brain and gave him enough care-free attitude to enjoy hanging out with someone who didn't ask for his autograph or stare at him with the awe-worship that fans had. But even when the buzz wore off enough to think a bit clearer he'd liked taking care of Brae, even if it was a small thing, like getting water ready for him when he woke up.
His actions had been oddly similar to what he would do for Spitfire or any of his other teammates had the situation been different. Minus the using Brae for a pillow. And that is the difference, isn't it? He feels butterflies in his stomach, brushing gossamer wings against his insides whenever Brae opens his mouth. Or looks at him. Or when he could study Brae's features when the other was looking away from him.
It is confusing, of course it is. He's never had any interest in stallions before and the thought that he might be switching it up now scares him. It's a deviation, an unplanned flourish in the middle of a complicated but well-practiced routine. He doesn't even know the mechanics of a relationship between two stallions. Would it be similar to what he would do with a mare?
“What are you thinking?”
Soarin' blinks his eyes and focuses on Spitfire's sassy little smirk.
“Nothing, what do you think?”
She didn't say anything, but she did, not so subtly, point to his wings which, belatedly, he realized were stiff and spread. His flamed and he gasped like a fish out of water, staring wide-eyed at his traitorous wings. “I don't even...” He buries his face in his hooves and tries to force his wings back to his side.
“So, what were you thinking?” She prompts again.
“Just that...” He mumbles quietly and avoids her eyes, then adds, “I don't even know if he likes me. I don't know if I like him, like, really, really like him like that,”
“Invite him to our site rehearsal,” she said, “He'll see you flying, he'll see you at your best. And it's not suspicious, it's something a friend would do.”
“Can I just ask him that? Just, 'hey, Brae, come watch me fly?'” He looks at Spitfire, his brow in a confused furrow.
“You can,” She answers, “How would you ask me?”
“I wouldn't. You're flying with me,”
“She sighs and rolls her eyes. “How would you invite me to hang out? To go see a movie or dinner?”
“Dinner!” Soarin' shouts, and idea rustling in his brain, “That's it!”
“I don't follow...”
“We invite him to dinner first and then the team can ask him to the rehearsal! Absolutely no pressure on me!” He smiles brilliantly.
“But doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of you asking him out?”
“What if he refuses? At least it won't feel personal if he's rejecting the entire team,”
“But what if he accepts?” She counters with a sly eyebrow raised. “It won't feel personal if he's accepting the offer from the entire team.”
“I...” He falters and Spitfire laughs, waving that off.
“We'll invite him to dinner,” She says and he nods his head but there's a feeling in his chest that he doesn't know exactly what he's agreeing to.
They finish their meals and leave the saloon to head back to the Inn where they'd hopefully find Cash and Thunder. There is a silence around them, though it's not oppressing or awkward, just companionable as they both think of a reason to have a team dinner. Or, well, that's what Soarin' had been thinking about before he found himself looking at the Appleoosan scenery. It really was different from what he's used to. Usually the team puts on shows in bigger cities, but Appleoosa was large and had clear skies most of the year, which is surprisingly hard to find.
The weather isn't the only thing different, he notices. The very feeling of Appleoosa is different from the other cities.
Cloudsdayle, for example, is always lazy feeling. There is constant motion: the billowing clouds, pegasi flying in the sky, a unicorn or two trotting around, very rarely a griffon will visit. The residents who aren't working a shift in the Rainbow or Weather Factories are on the Weather Patrol, a field job that requires you to take a post on a cloud and scan the skies until you need to clear or position a weather formation. The only time there's really a commotion in Cloudsdayle is when there's a concert, or festival or Wonderbolt show.
Manehatten always feels busy, Canterlot always feels stuffy at least in the high society circles, Staliongrad is kind of rigid, Fillydelphia is industrial, Trottingham is mellow, but he hasn't ever really felt something like Appleoosa.
There's a unified harmony here, he thinks. Everypony has something to do, but he often sees one stop to help another, or greetings being called out. Everypony knows everypony and likes everypony, it seems. It's like a large family. He feels, as he walks through it at Spitfire's side, that he's on the outside of some window looking inside a home.
“Cash Box! Just the mare I wanted to see!” Spitfire's greeting pulls him back, and he focuses on his manager catching sight of them and trotting towards them, Thunder in tow.
“There you guy are!”
“Yeah, went back to the room and you weren't there, gave Cash a bit of a fright,” Thunder rolled her eyes.
“You two need to leave a note or something when you leave,” Cash Box chastised, “We can't afford to misplace you two! What if you'd been injured?” She gives a quick glance towards Soarin'.
“Cash, we were just practicing a bit, getting Soarin' back on his wings,” Spitfire appeases.
“Yeah, it's not like I'm made of glass,” He tells his manager, sniffing as if affronted.
“Well, even if you were glass I'm sure Spitfire wouldn't get you in any trouble,”
He shrugs.
“Anyway, Cash, do you know of any good restaurants around here?”
Cash box shrugs, “Not really, why?”
“We thought it'd be a good idea to have a team dinner now that I'm back in commission,” Soarin' offers.
“That's a good idea,” Thunder nudged Cash, “We should have a team dinner, Cashy!”
“It sounds nice, but where's a good place?”
Spitfire shrugs then lights up, like she's thought of something clever, “We can ask Braeburn,”
“Yeah, he knows this place the back of his hoof!” Soarin' puts in, nearly prancing. His idea was great!
“Who knows the place like the back of his hoof?”
Soarin' turns to see the very object of their conversation trotting towards them, carrying some saddle bags.
“You, of course,” He says, craning his head a bit to see that Braeburn's saddle bags had his red apple cutie mark embroidered on the clasps. They look sturdy.
“Yeah, we wanted to know if you could help with something,” Spitfire waves the cowpony towards the group with her wing.
“Well, how ken I be of service then?” Braeburn tips his hat to the girls and smiles at Soarin' as he comes towards them.
Spitfire explains the situation as Soarin' kind of just stares at Braeburn with his heart in his throat. The sunlight pours a dusty orange glow over Braeburn and casts a deep shadow from his hat onto his eyes. He glances over at Spitfire who looks like a living flame in the daylight, with rippling orange and yellow for her mane and brilliantly sharp coat. He looks back to Braeburn, a mellow sunbeam. Thunder Rush is bright against the landscape, bright white and electric yellow hair, a flair of lightning captured in pony form, even Cash Box looked nice with her green fur and sandy mane. What he can see of himself—his pale blue hoof—doesn't look nearly as flattering with the light around him. He kind of looks like a washed out marshmellow, he thinks.
“So do you know a nice place?” Spitfire asks.
“Oh, well, the only really nice place here is the Salt Block,” Braeburn says. “But it gets kind of full and loud sometimes.”
Soarin' frowns—pouts really—because if they don't have a place to eat dinner then they can't invite Braeburn to dinner and then they can't ask Braeburn to watch the show.
“Ah, well, I ken talk to Salt Shaker an' see if he can't set off the back room for you guys,” Braeburn hastily adds.
“Oh, that would be nice, if it's not too much trouble,” Cash says.
“T'ain't a drop of trouble. I'd love to, for you guys,” Braeburn assures.
“Well that's settled, then, thank you Braeburn,” Cash lifts her hoof to shake Braeburn's to set the deal.
“We were actually wondering,” Spitfire cuts in, “If you could join us.”
“We wer—?” Thunder receives a covert kick from Spitfire, “Oh, yes, we were. I mean, you've been so helpful,”
“Oh no, I really couldn't impose like that,”
“No, you wouldn't be imposing! I mean, you really helped yesterday and this morning,” Soarin' rushes in. He scrapes a hoof against the dirt, “It'd be really nice if you could join us,”
“Uh, well,” Soarin' avoids looking at Braeburn while he waits for a yes or no, “I guess I could, if it's no trouble to y'all, or anything,”
“No trouble at all,” Soarin' asserts.
“Would Friday work?” Spitfire asks, “That's not too soon, right?”
“I think that'll do. I'll ask Shaker today and get back to you guys later. I'm actually picking something up right now...”
“Oh, we didn't mean to keep you. We'll see you later,” Cash waves.
“Right, uh bye,” Braeburn returns the wave.
Soarin' takes a few steps from Braeburn with his team and manager before turning back around and asking, “Hey, Brae, do you need any help?”
Braeburn blinks and smiles at him, “Sure, Soar', that'd be great,”
“Cool, see ya later guys,” He waves to his teammates. He catches Spitfire's eyes and her knowing little smirk before he trots to Brae.
“So what'cha getting?”
“Just some stuff.” Soarin' keeps staring inquisitively at Braeburn's face so he adds, “Some of the tools have been worn down a bit so I decided I should start fixing them. I'm just picking up the stuff to do that.”
