Television.

It’s a funny concept, transmitting invisible waves across miles upon miles of various terrain types and weather patterns, only to reach a small, thin piece of metal that converts them into electric signals and display them on a digital screen. Not too long ago, I’m sure most anypony would’ve simply scoffed at the idea; electronics aren’t exactly a new invention, but once upon a time, as far back as when Twilight hadn’t ascended, the most digital anything got was a projector, and even those were pretty darn rare.

Now, I can flick through the channels on my flat screen with the simple push of a button, pause and rewind live TV, and set future shows to record while browsing through a list. And really, I’m spoiled for choice: cooking, documentaries, movies, sports, dramas, comedies — heck, even children’s programs if I’m in the mood for something absolutely devoid of any substance.

It honestly surprises me how quickly all this had spread, relatively speaking. I mean, you’d expect to have had several iterations before we got this far. But no; the ergonomics are on point, and I’ve never once had a complaint with how to operate it. The odd elderly pony may put up a big fuss about how it encourages inactivity, but hey, with half my day spent training and exercising, it’s good to have something that helps me wind down. The frequent snacking and occasional private sessions notwithstanding.

Currently, I’m watching the pilot episode to a newish thriller, where two parallel worlds must stop a plot that threatens to sever their connection. Needless to say, doppelgangers and mistaken identity abound, and the threat of espionage has always grabbed my interest.

And as with most of the shows I choose to watch, it’s actually really good. Of course, the quality’s never a problem when everypony works a job best suited for their special talent; in Equestria, it’s hardly ever the competency of the guy in charge you need to worry about, merely their moral character. And there are a lot of shady folks in this show.

All the better to munch my popcorn at, if I had any popcorn to munch.

But then the screen cuts to black and the credits roll, and the tightness in my chest I didn’t realise was there lets go. And I’m left feeling a little lost, blinking and glancing around my own home as if I expected somepony to be there — somepony I could turn to and laugh with at just how engaging it was. Of course, there isn’t, and I chuckle to myself, shaking my head with an impressed grin as I make a mental note to keep a track of this one.

I turn my attention to the remote held in my wing, then point it at the screen and begin cycling through for something else to watch. I’ve a full two weeks before my duties as Number Three kick in again, and I don’t plan on wasting them. Much. All three DVD cases of Second Wind lying open on the floor are a testament to that. And boy, does that trilogy stand the test of nostalgic time.

But that was last night, and as much as I’d love to see them all again, it’s probably better to wait a few more days, and bide my time with other shows and activities. Mainly napping, but after what I just witnessed, I don’t think that’ll happen anytime soon.

I feel a soft pain in my belly and check the time. Almost midday. I haven’t had anything since a light serving of oats this morning, and now it’s coming back to bite me.

Tossing the remote aside with a yawn, I hop off and stroll for the kitchen, flexing my wings, stretching my legs and rolling my shoulders and hips as I do so. Staying static for hours on end isn’t healthy, I know, and it won’t help me beat Lightning’s Dizzitron record, but this is my home, my space, and my me-time. And everypony I know has told me to take it easy. Even Philip.

What’s the harm in actually listening for once?

Once in the kitchen, I begin gathering the ingredients for something just as uninspired as my breakfast, but a favourite of mine all the same: toast with PB&J. Strawberry jam, to be precise, and smooth peanut butter; never, in the whole of Equestria and beyond, have I ever tasted something so quintessentially breakfasty.

I take out a plate and set it on the counter, then fetch the PB from the pantry, the J from the fridge, and a butter knife from the cutlery draw. But just as I’m about to go back for the bread in the freezer, my ear twitches at the sound of something on the TV: the all-too-familiar jingle of a popular talk show. Somehow, in my infinite wisdom, I’d left it on the one channel I’ve been avoiding for the past few days.

But simply roll my eyes and shrug. It won’t matter in a few minutes; I’ll be back over there before long, maybe digging even deeper through the stockpile of recorded shows I’d promised myself I’d watch later. That short comedy regarding Celestia, Cadance and Luna’s brief stay in Tartarus sounded like good, mindless fun.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome one and all, and for the regular viewers, welcome back to another instalment of The Spyglass,” chimed a mare with frizzy hair and a personality oozing with camp. “My name’s Opal Spotlight, and today, my dear angels, today… we have a very special guest appearing later.”

The offscreen crowd murmurs excitedly as I put four bread slices in the toaster.

“I know, I know — who could it be? Only time will tell, but I assure you, it’s worth the wait. But first! Yes, yes, but first… there’s one story in particular I’m sure is still on everypony’s lips.”

“The alien!” some distant voice cries.

“The human, yes!” she replies as jovially. “That strange creature nopony’s ever seen before, at home or abroad. Even now, the princesses refuse to comment. However, my angels, however… we do have some extra information regarding his sudden appearance, and more importantly who saved him.”

My ears twitch and my eyes widen, staring blankly ahead.

The crowd stirs again.

“Yes, that’s right, lovelies, we do indeed know a little more about his rescuer. We already know she was seen returning to Ponyville General the very next morning for a visit, but what we didn’t know, and we now have photographic proof of, is this was one of the exceptionally rare occasions where Fleetfoot of the Wonderbolts went out in public without her con—”

The screen cuts to black with the press of the remote’s power button, and I’m left only with my reflection in front of the couch, looking like I’d seen a ghost.

Speculating on the incident, I can live with, so long as nopony breathes a word of it around me, and especially, especially not when they’re guessing what my motivations were. If they want a proper answer, they can come to me. I won’t give them one outside a press conference, where the other Bolts can cover for me by simply being there and sharing the load, but they’ll get one eventually. Better to just lay it on thick and say it only once — hammer the point in as far as it’ll go.

Sisters, if this gets out of hoof…

The gentle flap of wings comes from outside my door, snapping me out of a staring contest with myself, and turn toward the sound. For a second, I’m worried it might be a reporter with a terrible sense of tragically poetic timing, but quickly dismiss the idea with a soft shake of the head. If they’d been decent enough to respect my boundaries so far, they wouldn’t start so late. So, it must be an actual visitor.

I replace the remote on the couch and trot to the door, then undo the lock and bolt and pull it open.

Sitting on the porch, fiddling with her saddlebags, dressed in the brown uniform and matching cap of the Equestrian Postal Service, is a mare I… don’t believe I’ve seen before. My usual courier’s Bifröst, and she never mentioned any plans on changing occupation. Unless she’s off sick today, and this is her replacement.

The mare notices me and instantly stands to attention, giving a dutiful, chipper salute with a smile. “Express delivery from Ponyville,” she announces, yanking her wing out of her bag’s pouch and presenting a small envelope for her to read, squinting through wonky eyes. “To Miss Fleetfoot; Cloudsdale, Eastern Quarter; from Princess Twilight Sparkle.”

I blink. A letter from royalty. Not in the strictest sense, but still, it’s not every day you get a letter sent to you by one of the Big Four. And although I get the feeling I already know why I’m being sought out, it could still be anything. “That’s… me.”

“Oh, good,” she says with a relieved, and somewhat endearing chuckle, returning to me and offering the envelope. “I almost thought I’d never find you. All these cumuli look the same. No offence.”

I can’t imagine why.

“Yeah, we get that a lot from outsiders,” I half-lie, not sure if there’s any truth to it. I accept the letter, confirm the address, then flip it over and break the wax seal of a six-pointed star. “It’s easier when you’ve been living here your whole life.”

“Sounds like you’re happy where you are.”

“Pretty much.” I slip out the note inside and unfold it, scanning the lines.

Dear Fleetfoot

I’m writing to inform you our mutual friend’s now well enough to move, and will be staying at my castle until further notice. I know you’re probably busy right now, but if you’d like to swing by and say hello, you’re always more than welcome. If I’m not home, Spike will let you in.

While I’m not entirely comfortable requesting your presence, I honestly think you being here would help Philip immensely. He’s coping with his situation remarkably well, all things considered, but I can’t help feeling he’s holding something back. I’m not sure if it’s just me seeing something that isn’t there, but if there is, perhaps you can do what I can’t and get him to open up.

I’ve heard from several sources you’re — and I hope you don’t mind me being blunt here — a bit of a recluse, so I’m sorry if this is putting more strain on your shoulders than you’d like, but I think we can all agree we care for him. Judging by what he’s said, you two seemed to be getting along quite well before I interrupted. I don’t mean to presume, but maybe this could be the start of something; you could be the first friend he makes in all Equestria.

We hope to see you soon.

Sincerely,

Twilight Sparkle

My brows crease and I lower the note absentmindedly, staring off into nowhere.

So soon?

I mean, I’d expected to return at some point, but… really? Now? When I’m doing… nothing important, just sitting on my arse all day, getting the rest I no longer need. I’m fit, awake, and with the pop of the toaster, soon to be fed.

What’s stopping me? Is the weight on my withers hesitation, or am I actually feeling… I don’t know… obliged to go? I’d promised him, my friends, my family, and even myself, so it’s only natural I’d want to live up to all those vows.

But if she wants me to get him to open up…

I… can be pleasant. I know I can. If somepony wants to tell me their problems, I’ll listen. It won’t mean I’ll care all that much, but I’ll listen all the same. But the thing is, I don’t plan on being the shoulder to lean on — if it happens, it happens. This, however, is just that: she wants me to be the nail to her friendship hammer. And I don’t want to be used, even if she’s being honest, even if her intentions are noble. I’m an performer, not a tool.

…But I can’t stay away from him forever, or else I’d be breaking all my promises. And if I do that, nopony would give me a moment’s peace about it.

I sit down and groan, closing my eyes and letting my head sag into waiting hooves.

“Oh dear,” the mare murmurs, “am I the bearer of bad news?”

“No.” I sigh, dragging my hooves down my face and frowning at the cloud beneath me. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not.”

There’s a long pause as I brood in silence, slowly grinding my teeth from left to right. I try thinking of a solution that doesn’t involve me disappointing everypony, and also doesn’t turn me into a social pawn, but the only thing that comes to mind is the toast cooling off in the kitchen, and how much the taste of my brunch will suffer because of this.

“Well, they say don’t shoot the messenger, but… that doesn’t mean the messenger can’t have their own input.”

I look up at her and cock an eyebrow, but maintain a doubtful frown.

She glances away awkwardly, scrunching her muzzle. “Unless that’s too forward of me…”

I continue to watch her with scepticism, but eventually lower my gaze and shrug. “Sure, I guess. Can’t be worse than whatever mess I’m going through now.”

“Oh, goodie!” She sits down and claps her hooves, instantly perky and beaming a grin. “So, what’s up, Miss Wonderbolt?”

I wince, wondering for a second if I’d found myself face to face with a mega-fan in disguise. It wouldn’t be the first time, but this mare seems innocent enough. Must be the eyes. “There’s… somepony I promised to meet. An acquaintance. But now… somepony else wants him to open up about something, and she wants me to be the one to do it.”

“Ooh.” Her eyes widen as her head draws back, nodding. “That is a tough one.”

“Yeah. So, either I stay here and piss both of them off, or I play into her hoof and betray his trust, what little of it I have.”

“…Tricky.” She lowers her gaze and hums, pursing her lips. “Very tricky.”

I sigh again and return to the floor. “No kidding.”

Another pause, just as long, veering on the depressing side.

“This thing she wants him to open up about…” the mare continues, lifting her head slightly, “is it hurting him, or anypony else?”

“No,” I answer, as if it’s the most obvious response in the world. Then I shrug and soften my tone. “I mean, I’m pretty sure it isn’t. Last I saw of him was three days ago, and he seemed okay back then, so… I’m not entirely convinced there’s anything to be worried about to begin with.”

“Hmm.” She nods thoughtfully, then beams another wide grin and looks straight at me. “Well then, leave it at that and go see him.”

I switch back to her, raising my eyebrow again. “What?”

“If there’s nothing to worry about, why worry?”

I blink, stunned, then squint and open my mouth to respond, but… nothing comes out. And no matter how hard I try, the words simply don’t come.

It… can’t be that simple, can it?

No. No, there has to be something I’m missing — something that justifies my reservations — because I can’t just simply choose to…

But no matter what happens… time and time again… there’s always one indisputable fact that’ll never change for as long as I can help it.

I have a choice.

And right now, I can choose to visit him, and I can choose to not be a pawn.

I am in control.

“Is everything okay, Miss Wonderbolt, ma’am?” the mare queries, waving a hoof in front of my face.

I blink once more and shake my head. “Yeah, yeah, sorry,” I say, meeting her mismatched gaze once more, “just… having an epiphany, I suppose.”

“I get those from time to time. They make me fly into things.” She shrugs. “I’ve learned not to overthink something before I do it, or I end up making myself anxious over nothing.”

I pause. And then I snort, giving her a small, coy smile. “Well then, I’ll have some of whatever you’re having.”

“Muffins, mainly. My favourite’s lemon muffin surprise.”

My eyebrow quirks yet again, but my smile grows. “Thanks, I’ll… keep that in mind.”

“No need to thank me,” she dismisses with a wave of her wing, then seems to realise something and quickly stands up. “No time for it either — I need to get back to Ponyville before too long, or I’ll miss Dinky’s recital.”

“Oh.” I stand up as well. “I shouldn’t keep you waiting, then.”

“Sorry, Miss Fleetfoot.” She hops into the air and salutes. “It was nice chatting.”

“You too, Miss…?”

She pauses for a moment, and in that moment as she hovers away from the porch, her grin shrinks to a mischievous smirk. “Let’s make that something you’ll have to make me open up about.”

My jaw drops and eyes widen. “Don’t you dare…”

“See you later,” she farewells with a final wave of her hoof, before falling back and diving out of sight.

“You little…” I mutter to myself as I dart to the edge and peer over, catching her twisting as she falls and spreading her wings, pulling up and flying off in the direction of Ponyville. “I could fly after you right here and now and chase you down in five seconds flat!”

“You’re welcome to try!”

And she’s making me want to; I don’t like the suspense — if somepony gets involved with my life, the least I deserve is their name in return, especially if they already know mine. Given my public status, that wouldn’t be hard on their end, but still, fair’s fair, and leaving me in the dark is just plain cruel. And I laugh because of it.

And also because… things seem a little brighter now. The sky’s clear and blue, the sun pleasantly warm, and I don’t believe the weather teams have any plans to change it. The perfect flying conditions. The perfect time to be up and about.

The perfect time to see somepony I’d promised to see three days ago.

But not before a spot of PB&J.

---

As Ponyville comes into sight from behind a passing layer of clouds, so too does the faint smell of baking goods. The famed Sugarcube Corner must be working overtime. In fact, I’m somewhat surprised the resident Element Bearer isn’t already supplying half the kingdom with her confections, considering how much and how fast she likes to bake, or so it’s been said.

I also see farms to the north and south of the town, sparsely populated with ponies working the fields and orchards. I even spy the form of a big, red stallion I’d accidentally crashed into once, and subsequently had a short-lived, concussion-induced obsession over. One I’m none too proud of, and can safely say does not represent me in any way.

I’m just thankful he never cottoned on to me, or the mare I fought him over, and he’s too preoccupied to look up and see me now.

Sisters, if that wasn’t the lowest point of my life…

But the most obvious landmark, and the one I’m currently descending toward, is the Castle of Friendship, located adjacent to the School of Friendship, both owned and run by the Princess of Friendship. If the name’s not jarring enough, the architecture’s plain overkill; it sticks out like a broken feather, only purple and blue and shiny where the rest of the wing is more soothing and… well, easier on the eyes. Besides the Carousel Boutique, of course. The Element of Generosity sure loves attention. Definitely more than I’m liking it, that’s for sure.

As I approach, the wind whipping through my hair and catching in the nooks of a new pair of goggles, more ponies come into view; walking through the streets, hanging laundry by their windows or in the backyards, playing in the schoolgrounds, chatting, socialising. Simply being. And strangely, it helps ease my nerves, knowing these ponies have more important things to do than worry about what’s happening in my life.

But then that comfort fades when I return my attention to the castle, and I see a herd of news crews camped outside the front door. The windows are shut, the blinds drawn — if any — and the dim, purple sheen of a spell coats the outside. Some pegasi with cameras circle about in the air above, hoping for a glimpse behind the crystalline curtains. And I realise I shouldn’t have spoken too soon.

A pegasus spots me, and another, and another, and a fourth has the brains to shout for their associates on the ground, and as soon as my hooves touch the earth, I’m swamped by five microphones, three notepads, a dozen blinding flashes, and a chorus of journalists asking why I’m here.

“Space, space, personal space, please.” I demand, flapping my wings in the faces of those on either side as I slide my goggles from eyes to forehead. “I’m not here to answer questions, I’m here on private business.”

“Miss Fleetfoot, is it true Soarin made you feel uncomfortable in Griffonstone?”

“Do you have any idea how the storm started?”

“Why are you wearing your contacts now?”

“How well do you know the human?”

“Are you confident you’ll keep your position as Senior Wingpony?”

“Have you considered other careers?”

“Does your private business have anything to do with Princess Twilight?”

“No comment,” I drone, trudging through the miniature crowd and up the steps to the door. They wait at the bottom as I knock, still begging for an answer, but unwilling to break whatever taboo they have against laying a hoof on royal property.

A few awkward moments later, standing with my rear to the reporters, pretending to ignore them as they take their shots and continue to ask their intrusive questions, I feel — not hear, but feel — the soft thump of hoofsteps come toward the entrance. Not unlike stampeding yak, I suppose, but not as rushed and without sound. And when they end, the handle turns, the door opens, and I’m greeted by the sight of green eyes and purple scales. “Fleetfoot?”

I blink, still a little caught on the fact I’m finally face to face with the dragon once described by Rainbow as squat. “Yeah,” I say after a brief pause, blinking myself out of my thoughts, then raise a hoof and gingerly point at him. “Spike, right?”

“The one and only.” He smiles and opens the door a little further, walking back a few small steps and bidding me through with a gentle sweep of a foreleg. Or arm. A bit of both, really. “Twilight said you might swing by.”

“I bet she did,” I reply with a snort, trotting inside and away from the ever-desperate pleas of the newsponies. “She isn’t here, is she?”

He shakes his head and shuts the way behind me, silencing the cacophony and returning to all fours. “Gone to meet with Celestia in Canterlot — something about the storms and the magic that fuels them. Wouldn’t be surprised if they talked about Philip as well.”

I nod absently, examining him. I’ve seen bigger drakes, both within and without the Dragonlands — most notably Lord Ember’s father, upon whom her kingdom’s audience could’ve sat with room to spare — but none who know a pony I know.

He’s almost twice my height — slender, but not thin, with a lot of strength in those arms and legs of his, even if the muscles are hidden beneath a dense layer of scales. His snout is also longer; more pronounced than the old photos I’ve seen of him, back when he was shoulder-height and walked on two clawed feet. His batlike wings, too, though currently folded at his sides, have developed to something more befitting his size.

He looks down at himself momentarily, searching for what I’m seeing, then raises an eyebrow and returns to me. “Something wrong?”

I slowly shake my head. “You’ve grown.”

He blinks, then emits a soft chuckle. “Yeah,” he says, bashfully smirking and rubbing the back of his neck. “We all do at some point, I guess.”

I nod again, still admiring the new look.

“Anyway, you’re here for Philip, aren’t you?”

I pause once more, remembering I had, in fact, come here for a reason. And although I’d convinced myself it wouldn’t be so bad, being reminded of it somehow adds a sour air. But I force a smile and nod yet again.

“Up the staircase, to the left. Just follow the music. I’ll be making lunch in the meantime.”

“Thanks, big guy.” I give a quick salute, much like the one I’d received earlier today, before trotting off down the carpeted hall, and truly realising just how massive this place is.

I’ve heard the story of how this place sprouted from some kind of seed from the Tree of Harmony, but it’s honestly hard to believe. Granted, magic works in mysterious ways, sometimes even surprising the most adept unicorn mages, but something of this scale, so well-formed and… if not nice-looking, then certainly impressive? Even Harmony has to have its limits, and I’m fairly certain it ends with connecting the drainage of a newly formed castle with that of an existing network.

Matters of plumbing aside, it really does feel too big for just two ponies — or rather, a pony and a dragon, and now a human on top of that — and the faint echoes of my hooves on solid crystal as I ascend the stairs only confirm it. If this place isn’t enchanted to keep itself clean, they’d be working themselves to the bone every day. Add to that all the duties of being a princess and her assistant, and it’s no wonder Twilight’s earned herself a reputation for being a tad manic.

Who knows? Maybe that trip to Canterlot’s actually a vacation in disguise.

I wouldn’t blame her; everypony needs a break from time to time.

And judging by the music I hear drifting down the landing, it seems like Philip’s making the most of his. And just like the track he shared with me in hospital, this one doesn’t sound half bad.

I wander down the gallery, passing door after door on my left and right, before I stop and knock on the one the music’s coming from. And just as I finish doing so, I realise I’d done it all without any hesitation.

But before I’m given any time to reflect on what that means, if anything, the door opens.

Feet with short, stubby toes poke out from beneath the veil of black trackpants, an extremely fine and very thin covering of hair on their tops. A cyan shirt covers his torso, leaving a forearm bare from the elbow down while the other remains hanging in a sling looped around his neck. The swelling has gone, and his small eyes — brown, I realise — stare down at me.

If I stood on my hindlegs, we’d be about the same height, but on all fours, my scalp reaches the top of his stomach — or where I can only assume his stomach is. And with this sudden shift of perspective, from the bedside to now, I find myself a little lost for words.

Sweet stars above, don’t let it show…

“Uh…”

“Oh, Fleetybee,” he remarks, brows rising in pleasant surprise. “Fancy meeting you here.”

I blink a few times, cognitive functions slowly coming back to me. “Well, yeah, I… uh… promised to see you again, didn’t I?”

“That you did,” he muses with a nod, and, evidently seeing no problem with the fact, promptly steps aside. “Well then, feel free.”

I pause, caught on whether I’d expected something more substantial — a line of questioning, maybe, for whatever reason. It wouldn’t have to be much, just… more resistance. But the longer I stay out here saying nothing, the more awkward the situation becomes. So, without any further ado, and reminding myself to heed that courier’s advice, I walk inside, strolling past him, and hop on a cushioned armchair.

The room is spartan, lacking any real sense of character; a bed, a dresser, a bookcase, a nightstand with a lamp, but nothing that defines it from, say, a hotel room. Of course, I can chalk it up to him moving into this place just today — or so the letter implied — but at the same time, I’m not entirely sure I’d want to be making a mess of the princess’s castle either. But the window on my left pours in the afternoon sun like warm milk, and the song playing from a small stereo heralds its arrival.

There’s an air here. I can’t exactly say what it is, but I can appreciate it.

“So,” he begins, closing the door and moseying on over to the bed, putting his feet up, “what’s cooking?”

And then I realise something about the window, and narrow my eyes at it.

“Fleetfoot?”

I blink again and shake my head, returning to him. “Sorry, what?”

He glances outside. “Was a reporter making a funny face or something?”

“Oh, no, just, uh… I can see out, but I couldn’t see in.”

“Ah, right, yeah.” He nods and waves his hand dismissively. “That’d be the spell Twilight cast before she left — some kind of privacy thing. The way I understand it, the windows are now basically one-way mirrors, and nobody out there can hear what happens in here.”

My brows rise. “That’s… actually pretty neat.”

“I know. Now I can brood in silence like I always wanted.”

I smirk. I get the feeling one-liners like that are going to be a habit of his, and while I’m sure they’ll grow tiring eventually, they’re a welcome way to relieve the tension in the meantime. Not that I wasn’t at ease in the first place. “Except, you’re not really brooding in silence are you?” I tease, gesturing to the stereo, which I now notice has his audio device attached to it by a cable.

He looks to the stereo as well, and his smirk shines through like mine. “No, I suppose I’m not,” he says with a gentle sigh, then picks up a book I hadn’t noticed from the nightstand. “Listening to some Beatles while I brush up on Equestrian history.”

“Did Twilight put you up to it?”

“Actually, no; I just like knowing things. And I have to say, history here seems very…” he drifts off, looking a little way off to the left as he searches for the right word. His expression tells me he’s found one, but he’s after something less harsh.

I fill in the blanks. “Whitewashed?”

He pouts disagreeably, but switches back to me a neutral look. “Let’s go with simplified.”

“Hey,” I shrug, “it’s no secret things have been dumbed down. I mean, you can’t live in the same world as the griffons and the dragons and not have a history as violent as theirs. That’s just too convenient.”

“So, you think someone’s altered your history books?”

“Oh, everypony knows, and we’re pretty certain Celestia has something to do with it, or she’d be correcting everything left, right and centre. We just… don’t kick up a fuss about it — I guess because we don’t want to deal with any baggage we find. And I think that’s what she’s trying to protect us from.”

He nods, now looking up in thought. “Okay, sure, but… if you forget your history, you don’t really learn from it, do you?”

“Hey, don’t look at me.” I shrug again with an innocent smile. “I’m honestly all for finding out what happened before the Sisters came to power.”

“You have your suspicions?”

Soarin’s theory from Griffonstone suddenly comes to mind, and how the press claimed the storms aren’t magical in nature, and how Spike said at the door that they are. “No more than the average pony,” I say neutrally, shifting my weight slightly.

He smirks. “Sounds like something out an old noir film.”

“Please,” I scoff, “I’m getting enough press coverage for saving you as it is — I don’t need a movie solidifying me as a conspiracy nut on top of that.”

“You don’t like the attention?”

I hesitate. “It’s… hard to describe.”

This time, he shrugs. “We have all day, and it’s not like I’ve anything better to do.”

My eyelids and ears both lower to half-mast.

“Well, it’s the truth,” he defends with a small, good-natured smile. “So far, all I’ve seen of Equestria is a hospital, a brief glimpse at Ponyville, and this castle. And the reporters outside. Being able to talk with you, Twilight and Spike has been the only highlight.”

His… frankness on the matter surprises me a little, but I try not to let it show — best not make it awkward for him. Instead, I pick out another point of interest. “You’ve patched things up with Twilight?”

“More or less.” He sighs and adjusts himself to sit more upright on the bed. “She’s not bad. A tad obsessive, I’ve noticed, and Spike’s confirmed, but otherwise fine.”

“Oh, yeah, those neurotic episodes of hers are well documented. You should hear the stories from Rainbow, about what she was like before becoming an alicorn.”

“Rainbow… Dash?” he queries with a slight cringe. “The Element Bearer?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know her?”

“She’s a stuntpony, like me. We fly in the same unit.”

His brows crease. “She… takes up a civilian job on the side?”

I shrug. “When they’re not saving the world, the Bearers have to occupy themselves somehow.”

He pauses, lowering his gaze for a moment. “Huh…” he muses, looking off to the right. “Thought there’d be more dignity in being a hero.”

For a second, I consider asking him if being a Wonderbolt isn’t dignified enough, but I shut my mouth before anything comes out. That would’ve been needlessly probing, and the more I think on it, the more logic I see behind his words. “Yeah,” I murmur, sighing as I turn my head to the window and see a pony armed with a camera fly by. “But we can’t always get what we want.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

I nod vacantly, eyes lowering to my wing, where I see a few feathers out of place. Must’ve been from flapping them in the faces of all those ponies outside. “You don’t mind if I preen myself, do you?”

“You what?”

“Preen,” I repeat, turning back to him. “You know, like birds do.”

“Oh.” He blinks, then waves his book permissively. “By all means do what you got to do. So long as you don’t mind me reading in the meantime.”

I shrug once more, extending the wing and nibbling away through each line, using the ensuing silence — now the song on the stereo has finished — to measure the air between us.

Comfy is the word I’d use. We’ve not made much progress into either of our personal lives, but we don’t need to, and I don’t think either of us are all that interested. Not that we aren’t disinterested, just… apathetic, but not in a bad way. Twilight will be disappointed I’m not pushing her agenda, but I came here to satisfy my curiosity, not the ‘friendship problem’ that might not even exist.

But then I pause as I pluck a secondary.

I came here because I was curious, not because I felt obliged?

Well, why not?

…I’m not arguing, just… surprised; it’s the only reason that came to mind. And it’s not bad by any stretch of the imagination, just… interesting.

Curious, I’d venture.

“Why purple?”

I look up to see him watching me from over the top of his book. “Sorry?”

“Your eyes. Why the purple contacts?”

“Oh.” I set the feather down at my hooves so I don’t lose it and return my wing to my side, shifting my weight again. “It’s just a… style thing, I guess. Worn them for as long as I’ve been able.”

“Don’t you like green?”

“Purple’s my favourite colour.”

“Ah.” He pauses, then shrugs and goes back to reading. “To each their own.”

I angle my head inquiringly. “Do they bother you?”

“Not really. I mean, I don’t mind one way or the other, but I think green suits you more.”

I blink. Mum’s disapproved of them as far as I can remember, so it’s hard to not hear a little of her coming through him, but at the same time… I don’t feel averse to the comment. And that’s all it is: a comment. Not a scathing critique, or a reproachful statement. Just a simple, amiable comment.

I look away to the open door in case I’m accidentally letting something show — a tiny, upward curl of the lips betraying the beginnings of a small smile, perhaps; a small smile at how surprisingly pleasant this experience is turning out to be. And if this is how each meeting’s going down, I can certainly see myself coming back for more.

…Sweet Celestia, I’m actually enjoying this…

And then I hear heavy footsteps travel down the hall, and the shadow of a dragon poke through the doorway, soon followed my the dragon himself, walking on two legs with a silver platter in his claws. “Lunch is ready,” he announces, ducking through the arch, holding the dish out for us to see. “Cheese, crackers, grapes, and homemade s’mores.”

“S’mores?” Philip exclaims, setting the book aside and shimmying to the edge of the bed with wide eyes and an open-mouthed grin. “Oh, mate, you spoil me.”

Spike shrugs, chuckling, putting the platter on the bed between them, waving me closer. “Just doing my job, Philip, just doing my job.”

The smell of chocolate and melted marshmallows fills my nose, and I don’t hesitate in hopping off and pulling my seat within grabbing distance. And when I treat myself to mouthful sweet, sugary bliss, I close my eyes and savour every bite.

Good food and good company.

Yeah, I’m coming back for more.

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