Trixie knew that she should be running.

The landscape had exposed itself with grim pleasure: a flat plane of brittle dust and wounding silence with no source of comfort or shelter other than the distant ruddy smudge of the horizon. Squinting against the dry air, Trixie tried to ignore the sick dread creeping on a million spider legs across her body.

She wanted to turn and stare down the threat, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. A terrible fear had forced her mouth open and was ripping the air from her lungs. Her hair bristled and parted, and Trixie began to taste bile.

She needed to run—she knew that! So why were her legs refusing to move?

The construct behind her had begun to shake and tremble. Trixie had never once set eyes on it, but she knew that it was there, and she knew that it was going to collapse. She knew that, coiled inside, shadows of a colour with no name were waiting impatiently for an opportunity to escape. She knew their voices were born from the fragments of arguments and laughter, and she knew that they were calling her name. She knew so much, and yet she knew so little.

They were coming for her. The hatred and the envy and the spite—when it fell they would come for her and they would consume her. No, not consume. Unite. Fire broke out across her skin—a fire that was familiar and comforting; a fire that was loathsome and fierce. She had to run.

Oh, hey! Here’s another good one. What race is never run?

What? Trixie shook her head as the voice cut like the sweetest knife through the buzzing in her head. The breeze flung dust and quartz at her face, whispering that it would hold and protect her even as it sapped the strength from her body.

A swimming race, of course! Hah, told you it was a good one!

Confusion momentarily overcame panic and fear. Then the shadows were upon her, reaching into her eyes and mouth and nose and filling her with violence and hurt and indignation and—

Trixie leapt up with a strangled cry, eyes snapping open to banish the red imprint of the nightmare from her senses. Gradually she became aware of the ringing in her ears and the feeling of her heart throwing itself against her chest. Focusing her gaze on the muted outlines of balloons and trinket-lined cupboards, Trixie felt cool relief settle across her body. She was in Pinkie Pie’s bedroom. She was safe.

The air wasn’t yet tinged with the delicious and comforting aroma of baked bread, and the warmth in the room still felt natural. Early then, Trixie decided, gazing at the heavy moon framed by the window opposite her.

Then she noticed the fuzzy pink foreleg wrapped tightly around her chest. A quick turn of the head revealed an equally pink muzzle a hair’s breadth from her own.

Trixie whinnied in alarm and leapt back against the wall beside the bed.

“What are you doing, Pie?” she hissed, trying to keep the dying panic from her voice. “Crazy mare, you scared me half to death!”

A wide grin split her marefriend’s face as she scooted closer across the bed. A small ukulele rested loosely in her forehooves. “Cheering you up, silly—ew!” She wrinkled her muzzle. “You smell like a pre-loved Trixie.”

Trixie tried to articulate a response that appropriately conveyed her outrage and indignation and tiredness. When no words came she opted for a low growl instead.

Pinkie dropped the ukulele and held up her forehooves. “Hey I didn’t say I minded,” she replied. “I mean, it is kinda hot—Heh, get it? You smell like this because you’re hot?”

A whimper escaped Trixie’s lips. Oh she didn’t need this—not tonight of all nights. In a few hours she would be starting the first day of her guest week at the Ponyville Schoolhouse, teaching unruly foals all about drama and stage performance and how to admire and revel in her great and majestic presence. The request had been Twilight’s—one of her cruel little tricks no doubt. She needed to be on top form, and to be on top form she needed a calm and peaceful night of sleep.

She closed her eyes. Her whole body ached—no, yearned. A terrible hollowness was growing in the pit of her stomach, akin to hunger or thirst but so much worse. It swelled and twisted, pushing out and prickling and needling, and making Trixie want to rip the skin from her body. The bed sheets were slick with her own sweat, and she kicked them away.

It was still out there. Trixie didn’t know where exactly, but she did know—with absolute certainty—that if she set off now with those desires and feelings in the forefront of her mind then she would find it again. And on nights like this, when her fears and anxieties felt too real, it was hard to resist.

“Hmm... Nope, still no colour in you.” Pinkie peered in close, tilting her head in various—and increasingly bizarre—angles as she looked Trixie up and down. Her cerulean eyes, so often sparkling and bottomless, were narrowed and critical. “But don’t you worry your pretty little head. Ol’ Dr. Pinkie is here to sort you right out with—”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Trixie slapped away Pinkie’s prodding forelegs. Her marefriend sat back, eyes crossing as she considered the question.

“Two minutes past three—in the morning,” she added, not once looking for a clock. “More or less, anyway. I mean, you started having that super scary nightmare at midnight, and since then I’ve told you precisely three-hundred and forty eight jokes.” Pinkie stretched out across the bed, swishing her tail in a manner that reminded Trixie of that equally playful—and equally slobbery—dog Applejack owned.

“Want me to keep going?” Pinkie continued to chatter on. “Because I totally can; I drank a whole buncha coffee about an hour ago so that I could keep you company all night long if I had to. Oh, oh please say yes—joke number three five one is a delight, which is just as well because three five zero is a little... lame.” Pinkie lowered her voice and looked conspiratorially around the bedroom. “Between you and me, I really don’t think he’s been pulling his weight lately.”

Trixie clenched her jaw as the last hazy vestiges of sleep were chased away by Pinkie’s excited babbling. The dull fire beneath her skin was growing stronger, snapping and nipping until she was forced to jerk and shift her limbs to quell it. Feeling defeated and tired, and weak, she slumped back down onto the pillow. She needed to get out—it was too claustrophobic and noisy in the bedroom. But she didn’t trust herself not to keep walking if she stepped outside.

Sleep. She just needed to sleep.

“No you can’t sleep! Not yet!” Pinkie’s voice was almost a squeak. She began to poke Trixie repeatedly on the muzzle, her expression slowly becoming wild and desperate. “Come on, Trixie-wix, up on your haunches. You’ve still got a whole lotta being cheered up to get through!”

Poke

“I’ve got my ukulele on standby and board games under the bed. Oh, we can totally have a go at karaoke Monopony! You know, siii-iiing a song to paa-aasss go?”

Poke

“Or we could do something that you wanted to do? Throw a puppet show? Do some magic tricks?”

Pokepokepokepokepoke—

“Would you just quit it, Pie?” Trixie barked. She grimaced as she forced herself upright again, and then levelled a glare at her marefriend. “Seriously, I love you and your—” she tripped over her words and waved a hoof in frustration “—you, but this is not the time. Not tonight.”

“But you’re all grey and frowsy,” Pinkie retorted. Her smile was stretched wide, her teeth uncomfortably visible. “That means there’s no better time!”

“What are you even talking about? Just let Trixie get some sleep. Please.”

Pinkie shook her head. Those blue eyes looked as though they had never known peace. “No can do. When you’re all bursting with yummy blues and silvers again then I’ll totally let you sleep for a gazillion years. But you’re grey right now, so I can’t—I’ve taken an oath!”

“Would you stop calling Trixie grey!” she looked down at herself. “It’s just the moonlight. It does that.”

“I-It’s not the moonlight.” Pinkie’s chest had begun to heave and twitch.

“Yes it is!”

“No it’s not!”

“Pinkie, for the last time I’m telling you it—”

“No it isn’t, no it isn’t, noitisn’t!”

Bounding across the bed sheets, Pinkie switched on the bedside lamp and pointed triumphantly at Trixie as harsh, ugly light filled the room. “See?”

With a groan, Trixie looked down at herself. The blue hairs of her pelt were glistening with sweat, like stars in the night sky—achingly warm and yet cold and distant. Her breath thick, Trixie ran a hoof down one of her hind legs and smeared a cluster of beads into a single line pierced only by occasional strands of unruly hair. The sight of such fragile things gaining definition and stability in their unity made her feel somewhat better.

Pinkie was talking rubbish, of that she was certain.

Trixie was also certain that they had both been shouting.

She granted Pinkie an apologetic twitch of the lips, and was relieved to see the same embarrassed glow on her marefriend’s face. The sight of it quelled some of the fiery cravings, though the embers within her were still uncomfortably warm. Trixie flopped forward and grimaced as damp mane fell across her face.

“You’re both heckler and cheerleader. You know that, right?”

She felt the mattress beside her dip and suddenly Pinkie was at her side, her hoof scraping away Trixie’s unruly mane. “Pinkie Pie: Heckleleader, reporting for duty, ma’am.”

Despite her tiredness, Trixie couldn’t help but chuckle at the lazy salute thrown by her marefriend. As the sound left her lips, a beaming smile appeared on Pinkie’s face—one that shone brighter than the light of both lamp and moon.

“Hey, your colour’s coming back.”

A light breeze drifted through the window, casting off the sickly tackiness from Trixie’s body. She turned gratefully towards it and watched the dark silhouettes of birds taking their first flight of the day from the trees outside Sugarcube Corner. Then she felt Pinkie Pie’s eyes upon her.

She battled in silence for a few moments before snorting in protest. Then she hung her head.

“Well if Trixie is expected to reveal her secrets,” she commanded, lifting a foreleg to accommodate her marefriend, “then she expects her audience to be a little more attentive.”

Pinkie giggled as she burrowed in close, rolling on her side to wrap her forelegs around Trixie. “Mmm, sure thing. You look super cute from the front row anyway.” She pressed her head so close that Trixie could feel her marefriend’s hot breath on her cheek as she spoke, and an excited tremor cut through her tiredness.

“I look ‘super cute’ from any row,” she retorted. “From the front row I would accept either ‘majestic’ or ‘awe-inspiring’.” She gazed at the bed-pressed curls of Pinkie’s mane and softly inhaled.

“I get them when I’m anxious,” she continued. “The nightmares, that is.”

Pinkie snickered. “Wait, you get anxious?”

Trixie tapped a warning on Pinkie’s barrel. “Like I said: if I really must reveal my secrets. Yes, unbelievably Trixie gets anxious sometimes.”

“About your shows?” Pinkie rubbed her head against the underside of Trixie’s muzzle. “Mm, I totally get that—sometimes I get so shaky-wakey before a really big party that I throw up. Applejack always says it’s more to do with the triple-decker-shakes-be-gone cakes that I eat beforehand.” She giggled softly. “But really, when else are you supposed to eat triple-decker-shakes-be-gone cakes?”

A languid raspberry glow surrounded one of the stuffed toys sitting on a shelf as Trixie launched it at Pinkie’s head. “The reasons aren’t important, Pie,” she replied. “I get anxious, and the amulet remembers. That’s it.”

Pinkie’s laughter died away. “The amulet? Oooh... You mean that amulet.”

Trixie swallowed. “Yes.”

“Oh, so what if you went totally doolally once and enslaved most of Ponyville just to get your revenge on Twilight for something that didn’t really warrant revenge, and afterwards only apologised to Twilight even though she got the least raw deal out of all of us and even when you did apologise to the rest of us it was through a magic show rather than you actually saying sorry.” Pinkie gulped down some air and grinned. “That’s nothing to have nightmares over.”

“Thank you for such generous comfort and support,” Trixie growled. “It’s a little bit more complicated than—oh, look, let’s just cut to the climax. When I get anxious I can sometimes feel the amulet again.”

“Okay.” The smile had reappeared on Pinkie’s face, though much to Trixie’s relief it was muted. Her marefriend kept it fixed in place, waiting patiently.

“I asked around,” Trixie continued, “read a few books, even wrote to the Princess—Celestia!” she added hastily. “Turns out, when you use the amulet it leaves a little part of itself inside of you.”

Pinkie pulled a face. “That sounds pretty gross.”

“You don’t really notice it. Besides, it’s not like I need its power anymore. My magic has wowed audiences all across Equestria since then. But it’s there. Princess Celestia said the amulet’s power comes from the desires of the wearer—it feeds from that desire and uses it to amplify the magic spell.” A shudder passed through Trixie’s body at the thought, and she pressed herself closer to Pinkie.

“She also said that using that desire leaves a hole in the wearer—no, not a physical one,” she added on seeing Pinkie’s appalled expression. “And the amulet fills that hole with its own magic. Like the worst kind of a contract. As much as I’m reluctant to admit it, I’m lucky that Twilight was able to trick me into giving it up.”

Pinkie placed a hoof against Trixie’s cheek. “But you can’t get the rest of it out? Huh, I had the same problem once with a three day old fried hay burrito that I really shouldn’t have eaten.” She paused then, swallowing down whatever else she was going to say and offering an apologetic smile. “So how do we do it?”

Trixie shook her head. “There’s not much left of it now anyway—just a few splinters and even they’re fading.” She caught Pinkie’s expression, and forced a triumphant snort from her muzzle. “In fact, it rarely bothers me these days.”

Pinkie grinned. “Oh totally—I mean, apart from the last three nights of back-to-back nightmares, I’ve hardly noticed it at all.”

“Oh, so I’ve been a little worried about—” Trixie blinked. “Wait, is that why you’ve been so tired the last couple of days? Have you been up all night doing... this?”

“Aww, busted.” Pinkie giggled and pressed her lips against Trixie’s cheek. “For the record, though, you’re a total boss at charades when you’re asleep.”

Some of the dull fire returned, coiling up Trixie’s limbs and into her stomach. “That’s just creepy, Pie.”

“It’s not creepy!” Pinkie protested. “You had turned all grey and gloomy—what was I supposed to do, wait until the morning?”

Trixie bristled. “Maybe? I certainly didn’t ask you to do that!”

“Nopony ever asks me,” Pinkie replied, in a tone that suggested such a request wouldn’t be unwelcome. “But it’s all part of the Pinkie Pie ’Panion Pledge: happiness and joy for at least as long as I’m around.”

Trixie bit her tongue. “Okay, let’s try again. I don’t want you to do that!” On seeing Pinkie’s crestfallen expression she held up a hasty hoof. “Don’t misunderstand, it’s... nice of you. But I can manage my own happiness just fine.”

“But I want to!” Pinkie grabbed hold of Trixie’s forehooves. The smile had become tight again. “You’re my marefriend, silly—if anypony can expect exclusive rights under the Pinkie Pie ’Panion Pledge it’s you. Your happiness is my happiness! Your joy is my joy!” Her expression wavered slightly. “Um... your indigestion is my indigestion?”

A soft laugh escaped Trixie’s lips. She wanted to protest, to assert her right to be responsible for her own happiness, her own sense of contentment. But then she realised who she was talking to. All of those tight smiles and heaving chests, not to mention that silly pledge of hers—Pinkie Pie was feeling pretty anxious herself.

So instead of protesting she pressed her muzzle against Pinkie’s cheek. “And that isn’t a burden in the slightest?

“Of course not, I—” Pinkie Pie’s mouth clamped shut, and Trixie snorted in satisfaction. Pinkie would never willingly offer up a negative of helping somepony, but Trixie knew that such things existed, and she knew from her marefriend’s body language that Pinkie was aware of them too. So she often laced opportunities to safely talk about them into their casual conversations, and sometimes, like now, Pinkie Pie took the bait.

Her eyes looked conflicted and her muzzle crinkled; her tail beat out a rhythm on the bedcovers and her mane undulated like a piston. Then, in a manner that Trixie found beautiful, Pinkie’s body sagged in defeat.

“Okay, well maybe just a tad,” she continued, looking apologetic, “or part of a tad, even—a ‘ta’. Maybe sometimes I have to just bury myself in my bedroom with ice cream and cider because my heart keeps beating too fast and I can’t tell anyone the reason why because it isn’t fair on them and besides, I’m good at making ponies smile, and there’s absolutely-tutely no difference at all between making somepony smile for a couple of hours and making sure your special somepony is happy twenty-four seven—”

Trixie dipped her head and pressed her lips against Pinkie’s mouth. It took her marefriend a few seconds to realise what was happening, but she quickly stopped gasping breaths of sweet air into Trixie’s mouth and began to whicker appreciatively.

Breaking the kiss, Trixie smiled. “Seems pretty simple to me,” she said, leaning in again. “Like so.”

“Uff... you’re cheating!” Pinkie giggled, ducking the kiss and instead planting one on the end of Trixie’s muzzle.

Trixie mock-gasped. “Cheat? Moi? Why the very idea.”

Pinkie’s laugh thickened, and her eyes once again became deep pools of shimmering light. She pressed her hooves against Trixie’s chest. “I just want you to be happy,” she whispered. “Always and forever, and sometimes it scares me that you aren’t and there isn’t anything I can do about it.”

Trixie rested her head against Pinkie’s. “You do make me happy, but don’t be so greedy. I’ve managed for too long on my own now to give my right to happiness over to you completely. And it definitely doesn’t make me happy knowing you’re panicking about not being able to manage it.”

“It is a pickle,” Pinkie Pie conceded, “and not a tasty one.”

Trixie chewed her lip for a moment. “Well... Maybe just ask me if I want cheering up in future. You never know,” she added with a smile, “I might just favour you with a yes.”

Pinkie cocked her head. Then her tail began to swish. Rolling onto her side, she opened her forelegs wide and beamed.

“So... Do you want cheering up?”

Trixie looked across at her marefriend. Her stomach had settled, but though the fire beneath her skin had cooled, it was still there, waiting. She honestly didn’t know when it would finally die completely—whether it ever would. The thought made her feel sick, but she had battled the amulet’s echo for years now, and had been victorious every time.

And now she had Pinkie Pie too.

Pushing herself across the bed, Trixie answered her marefriend’s lingering question with a tight embrace of her own.

Author's Notes:

Thanks kindly for reading. For those of you who read Selfish Things/Unselfish Things, and are of the opinion that this shares a particularly similar setting and drama/fluff ratio, then I'm happy to confirm this fact. The core elements of this fic were considered alongside those that featured in the aforementioned story, but were ultimately taken out to ease... plot congestion.

I thought I'd let these ideas see the light of day regardless, however, and at the very least contribute to an increase in the number of Pixie fics floating about. It also addresses a few areas that I'll probably develop further in a serial Pixie romance I've got in the works. So, maybe I'll see you back for that if you liked this one.

As with Selfish Things/Unselfish Things, I listened to a lot of Alice Francis when attempting to tap into that Pinkie/Trixie dynamic. In particular, this track:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZu69_ouc-U