The needle was slim, barely noticeable between Spike’s pudgey claws. Over and over he dipped it into the silver fabric. He tugged his thumb from below. The needle came with it, jerking the fabric from his grasp. Once again the needle had stuck into his thumb. It had come dethreaded, too. Grumbling, he reached for the threader. “Oh Spiiike.” He heard his name come in a singsong voice through the door to his room, then turned his back to it. The needle quivered in his claw. “Spike?” Again he heard the voice, sweet and concerned. “Are you going to mope in your room all day? I have a gift for you, if you come out.” Spike set his needle aside on his little sewing table. Five other needles sat there, all with skewed and cockeyed tips. Gingerly he held the delicate fabric in his upturned claws, taking great care to not tear a hole in it, thus requiring him to start again from scratch. The silver sheet made him think of polished snow. This time there was a knock. “Darling, there’s a bowl of warm rubies out here for you that’s growing cold. I’m going to open the door a smidge and slide it through to you.” He heard the door click. He took a deep breath, letting his shakes subside and forcing his head not to turn. He heard ceramic scuff the floor and gemstones brightly tinkling. The door didn’t click closed afterward. “What did you bring me?” he asked, after some silence. Still he didn’t turn around. “Are you going to come out?” Spike shook his head. “Would you like to stay in here and talk?” After some hesitation, he nodded. Hoofsteps approached from behind. There weren’t any pony-sized chairs in Spike’s room, so Rarity found a spot on the floor beside him. Though she was on the floor and Spike was in his chair, Rarity’s horn managed to poke several inches above Spike’s head. He didn’t know what expression she wore. He hoped his gaze couldn’t burn holes, too. From beneath, his claws made ridges and valleys in the soft fabric—or at least he assumed it was soft. It [i]looked[/i] like things he’d been told were soft. “What are you working on, darling?” Spike shrugged. “S’nuthing.” Rarity extended her hoof, which also looked soft. “May I have a look?” Protectively, Spike withdrew his fabric. It wasn’t ready yet. “Is it for me?” The surprise in her words hung too thick to sound genuine. “It’s a handkerchief, isn’t it? To replace my old one? Oh, Spike, that’s so thoughtful of you.” Spike sighed, adjusting the silver ridges with his knuckles. “Twilight told you, didn’t she. You don’t have to act surprised.” “I—” Rarity faltered. In his mind, Spike tried to picture the expression shifting on her face. Angry? Ashamed? She knew he didn’t like being treated like a child, but he was numb to it by now. Like needles and fabric, those words didn’t reach below his scales. After another drawn silence, he heard Rarity breathe her own weighty sigh. “What happened was my fault. I should have asked Saffron what kind of spices were in the curry. You shouldn’t blame yourself, dear.” Trying to sound helpful, she added: “If it’s any consolation, the damage was minimal. What they can’t recover, their insurance will take care of, Saffron assured me.” Spike scoffed. A warm puff of smoke came from his nostrils, and he nearly raised his claws to cover, but remembered what they held. His heart vaulted over a few beats when he realized what he’d nearly done. “She wanted to apologize for the spices, too,” said Rarity. “She didn’t know dragons could even [i]have[/i] food allergies.” “[i]Flammable[/i] food allergies,” Spike corrected coldly. Peripherally he saw Rarity shift closer. He saw her hoof reach out to rest upon his back. Through his thickening adolescent scales, he could barely feel the pressure. But, no matter the degree, her touch always felt good. At last, he looked up at her face. Her eyes were damp. Her expression spoke of kindness, warmth, understanding. Spike’s guess had been way off. “Here. The present I got you.” She held out what seemed to be a spool of red thread. “What’s this?” By now, his voice had softened, and he too was holding back tears. “Fibers drawn from phoenix feathers. Fireproof.” She grinned. “Use them in my handkerchief.” Spike pinched the spool between his thumb and foreclaw. His face lit up. “It’s...[i]warm[/i].”