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“Well well well, who’ve we got here?”
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>You find yourself leaning on a doorframe peering into a simple and sterile hospital room.
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>Rapping your knuckles on the lacquered wood twice or thrice, you call the attention of the pouting, paralyzed, powder blue mare.
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>Well, she wasn’t paralyzed, but she was sure acting like it from the sour curl of her lips and scrunched snout. As if she sucked on a lemon right before you came inside.
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>Acid spits from her tongue as she replies through gritted teeth.
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>”What?”
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>She’s in no mood to suffer fools like yourself, clearly. So like any good friend, you continue, sauntering in and grabbing the clipboard attached to the hoof of her bed.
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“Ah, Miss… Crash is it? Says here you…”
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>Scanning through the medical mumbo-jumbo, you spot a few diagnostic terms before setting the clipboard back.
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“Traumatic Puh-knewmo Thorax? Woof, how many Tylenols they get you for this?”
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>You plop down on a plush visitor’s chair beside the patient bed and adjust its position slightly to better face your good pal. It has wheels, of course.
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>The chair, not Rainbow Dash. At least, you hope she won’t need a wheelchair.
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>The mare in question sighs as she does the best impression of pinching the bridge of her nose as a hoof can manage.
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>”Pneumo… It’s pneumo, ya bozo. Didn’t you go to school?”
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“Sure I did. I was there, at least..”
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>You lean over and snatch a covered mug from her tray, taking a sip of what you learn to be cool water through the straw.
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>It goes down the wrong pipe, of course, leaving you to force the refreshing gulp down your throat as you enter a coughing fit, burying your face into the pit of your elbow as you have a conniption.
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>Dash, of course, snorts in laughter as she takes back her mug. Her breath is a little strained between chuckles as she creaks out a retort, taking an audible breath between each phrase.
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>”Don’t choke now, big guy. I don’t wanna see that nurse again. Not until they take this… crud out of my chest.”
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>She gestures listlessly to the chest tube currently draining excess air from outside of her collapsed lung.
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>You clear your throat, catching your composure and giving a cheeky smirk.
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“I was just putting some backwash in there for you. Builds up your immune system, drinking others’ spit.”
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>She rolls her eyes in turn as she offers a chuckle.
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“No, really! How else do you think Granny Smith’s been around this long? She’s no spring chicken, but, boy howdy does she get around…”
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>”Agh, GROSS, Anon!”
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>She manages to kick your thigh with her hind leg, lightly rattling her hospital bed as you both share some laughs.
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>Her expression was a lot softer now. Pained, but mellow.
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“So, what’s the reason for the sour face earlier?”
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>The mare groans in response, planting her head backwards onto the upright bed.
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>“How about eight reasons?”
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“Days?”
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>“Weeks! And I won’t even be at peak performance for a few months after that!”
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>She raises her front forelegs in emphasis.
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>“They say in half of these cases, the lung can even collapse a second time!”
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>The two hooves fall sharply in frustration with matching soft thuds onto the mattress.
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>A sniffle breaks the white noise of her chest tube and the breathing apparatus affixed to her nose, a raspy solemness in her tone.
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>“… I don’t wanna get grounded, Anon.”
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>You lean forward with haste, putting a hand on her fetlock in reassurance.
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“Hey now, that’s not gonna happen-“
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>”This time? Yeah, I know that. Gimmie half a year from now and I’ll be back to doing snap rolls back to back in my sleep… but what about next time?”
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>She pauses for a moment, collecting her thoughts.
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>”I’ve broken a wing, both of them, before. Every time I was lucky. No permanent damage, a few weeks or so of bed rest before I was back in the game. But what if that luck runs out? Or heck, what if something else grounds me while my wings are perfectly fine?”
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>You’d always figured she’d rather die flying than live grounded. She was born to glide, raised to soar. She wasn’t a one trick pony, though, far from it. She had plenty of hobbies, friends, desires, but flying was a fundamental part of her.
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>When somebody says ‘Rainbow Dash’, you look up to the sky.
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>She sighs, tilting her head towards you, her mane frazzled and eyes baggy.
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>”I’m not gonna live as a dodo.”
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>Rolling your chair forward a bit more, you lean towards Rainbow Dash and carefully wrap your arms around her sides in an embrace, careful as not to budge the equipment keeping her stable. She returns the gesture in kind, wrapping her forelegs tightly across your back as she squeaks out a few tears staining your shoulder.
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“Don’t talk like that, you’re gonna be fine. It’s this hospital getting to you. Depressing as shit, these rooms.”
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>”I know...”
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>She sobs into your chest, muffling her cries from any prying ears besides your own.
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>You know that she knows she needs to be more careful. She isn’t stupid. She understands the situation. There’d be no point in saying it unless you wanted to lord it over her.
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>So instead, you do all that you can, stroking the back of her mane, letting her cry it out, having her back like a good friend should.
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>And if— when—she falls again, you’ll be right here with her.
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>Even if she was getting slobber, tears, and snot all over your just-laundered sweater.
by AnonymousDashfag
by AnonymousDashfag
by AnonymousDashfag
by AnonymousDashfag
by AnonymousDashfag