Too Many Pinkies Plus One [Chapter 6]

 

I locked the Milkshake Palace early—Mix Master had insisted, hobbling out to flip the sign himself—and trudged toward the edge of town. My scarf was wrapped tight, my mane plastered flat under a wool cap, but the cold still bit deep. The little shack I’d claimed by the lake was sturdy enough for mild weather, but tonight the wind screamed straight through the cracks, and the single space heater I’d scavenged couldn’t keep up.

 

I needed somewhere warm. Just for one night.

 

The obvious place was Sugarcube Corner. Pinkie had offered a dozen times—“There’s always room! The Cakes love guests! We can have a sleepover party!”—but I’d always brushed it off. I liked my quiet. I liked my space. I didn’t want to impose.

 

So I’d found another solution months ago: the Cutie Mark Crusaders’ treehouse.

 

It was perfect, really. The fillies only used it a few times a week, mostly on weekends. It had a roof that didn’t leak (much), a tiny wood stove they’d installed during a “Cutie Mark Crusaders Chimney Sweeps” phase, and a stash of blankets from various failed camping attempts. I’d started slipping in on the coldest or rainiest nights, leaving before dawn, tidying up after myself, never taking anything. I’d even left a few bits in their “club dues” jar once when I’d used some of their cocoa mix.

 

Tonight, though, the snow was too deep and the wind too fierce. By the time I reached Sweet Apple Acres, my legs were numb and my teeth chattering hard enough to rattle.

 

I stood at the base of the tree, staring up at the dark windows of the clubhouse. Snow swirled around me.

 

Then a bright, familiar voice cut through the storm.

 

“Diane?!”

 

Pinkie Pie stood on the path in a ridiculous polka-dot snowsuit and earmuffs, holding a lantern that swung wild in the wind.

 

“What are you doing out here? It’s a blizzard! You’ll turn into a poniesicle!”

 

I tried for my usual deadpan. “Just… checking the structural integrity of the treehouse in high winds.”

 

Pinkie’s eyes narrowed. Then widened. Then narrowed again.

 

“You’ve been staying here,” she said, not a question.

 

I sighed, breath fogging in the air. “Sometimes. When it’s bad.”

 

Pinkie’s face did a complicated series of expressions—surprise, worry, a flash of hurt, then determination.

 

“Nope. Not tonight. Not any night anymore. Come on.”

 

She didn’t grab my hoof or bounce ahead. She just turned and started plowing a path through the snow toward town, lantern held high.

 

I followed, because there wasn’t much else to do.

 

Sugarcube Corner glowed like a gingerbread beacon. The Cakes had already gone to bed, but Pinkie led me upstairs to the loft apartment above the bakery—warm, smelling of vanilla and cinnamon, party decorations softened by lamplight.

 

Pinkie pointed firmly at the couch. “Sit. I’ll get blankets. And cocoa. And then we’re talking.”

 

I sat. The cushions were ridiculously soft. Heat from the bakery ovens seeped up through the floorboards. I hadn’t realized how cold I really was until the warmth started to hurt.

 

Pinkie returned with a mountain of blankets, two steaming mugs, and an expression that was trying very hard to be stern and failing because her mane kept poofing with worry.

 

“You could’ve asked,” she said quietly, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. “Any time. You know that, right?”

 

I stared into my cocoa. “Didn’t want to be a burden. Or… explain why I couldn’t just stay in my shack.”

 

Pinkie sat beside me, close but not crowding.

 

“The treehouse, huh?” she said softly. “That’s… actually kinda clever. And sweet. You didn’t mess anything up?”

 

“Cleaned it better than I found it.”

 

Pinkie huffed a small laugh. “Of course you did.”

 

Silence settled, comfortable but heavy.

 

“I just…” I started, then stopped. “I’m not you. I don’t fit in big, loud, crowded places. Even when they’re kind. The treehouse was quiet. Separate. Mine, without taking anything from anypony.”

 

Pinkie nodded slowly. “I get that. I do. But separate doesn’t have to mean alone in a blizzard.”

 

I looked at her then—really looked. Pinkie’s eyes were wide and earnest, but there was something steady in them too.

 

“You can crash here whenever you need,” Pinkie said. “No parties required. No bouncing. There’s a spare room in the attic that barely gets used. It’s quiet. Has a window that looks over the rooftops. You can come and go as you like. No questions. No fuss.”

 

I felt something tight in my chest loosen, just a little.

 

“…Thanks.”

 

Pinkie smiled, softer than usual. “Anytime, Diane. We’re kinda the same pony. Sorta. Which means family looks out for family—even the chill, straight-maned version.”

 

I snorted quietly. “Don’t push it.”

 

But I didn’t move away when Pinkie leaned against my side, sharing warmth under the blanket.

 

Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, the loft was quiet and safe. I drank my cocoa, listened to the wind, and—for the first time in a long while—let myself stay.

 

Just for tonight.

 

Maybe for tomorrow night too.

 

===

 

The blizzard raged for three straight days, turning Ponyville into a muffled white world. I didn’t even pretend to go back to my shack after the first night. Pinkie simply declared the attic “officially Diane territory” and that was that.

 

The attic above Sugarcube Corner was a long, sloping space under the gingerbread eaves—dusty, forgotten, and perfect. Boxes of old party supplies lined one wall, a single round window looked out over snow-covered rooftops, and the bakery’s constant warmth rose gently through the floorboards. It smelled faintly of vanilla and frosting year-round.

 

I moved in slowly, the way I did everything: no fuss, no announcements.

 

First came the basics, carried up the narrow pull-down stairs in a single trip: my wool blanket, the battered space heater that had barely kept the shack tolerable, a small stack of second-hoof books I’d collected, and the scarf Fluttershy had shyly knitted for me after our milkshake apology (soft yellow with tiny butterflies).

 

Pinkie hovered nearby, trying—and mostly failing—to let me do it myself.

 

“Do you want balloons up here? I have glow-in-the-dark stars! Or fairy lights! Or—”

 

“No lights,” I said, setting the heater in the corner where the roof sloped lowest. “Just the window’s fine.”

 

Pinkie nodded solemnly. “Got it. Minimalist cozy. Very you.”

 

Day by day, the space changed in small, deliberate ways.

 

I dragged up an old mattress the Cakes were going to throw out and covered it with my blanket and a plain gray quilt Pinkie found in storage. I built a low shelf out of spare crates for my books and a single potted succulent somepony had left at the Milkshake Palace as a tip. A hook by the window held my scarf and wool cap. On the sill I placed a small tin that served as both coin jar and emergency cocoa stash.

 

I didn’t add color. No posters, no streamers, no confetti residue. The attic stayed quiet and neutral—pale wood, soft light, the occasional creak of the roof in the wind.

 

Pinkie respected the boundaries without being asked. She knocked on the attic door before coming up, never bounced inside, and kept her voice low in the loft below after ten o’clock. In return, I started helping close the bakery on busy nights—quietly washing dishes or restocking sprinkles without fanfare.

 

One evening, about two weeks after the blizzard, Pinkie climbed the stairs carrying a small wooden sign she’d painted herself. It was simple: pale blue letters on white.

 

**Diane’s Room**

 

(quiet hours appreciated)

 

She held it up hesitantly. “I thought… maybe for the door? Only if you want.”

 

I looked at it for a long moment.

 

Then I took it, turned it over in my hooves, and hung it on a nail outside the attic door with a soft click.

 

“Thanks,” I said.

 

Pinkie beamed, but kept it quiet—just a quick hug and a retreat back downstairs.

 

Later that night, I sat on my mattress with a mug of chamomile tea, looking out the round window. Snow still capped the rooftops, but the sky was clear, stars sharp and bright. The bakery below was dark and silent except for the faint ticking of cooling ovens.

 

I ran a hoof over the quilt, listened to the soft creak of the building settling, and felt the steady warmth rising through the floor.

 

It wasn’t loud.

 

It wasn’t crowded.

 

It wasn’t temporary anymore.

 

It was mine.

 

I set the mug down, pulled the blanket up, and—for the first time since waking up in the Mirror Pool—fell asleep without one ear listening for danger.

 

Just the quiet hum of a home that had quietly, willingly made room for me.

 

===

 

Pinkie Pie lay sprawled across her bed in the loft, the room dim except for the soft glow of a Hearth’s Warming candle still flickering on the windowsill. Downstairs, the bakery was quiet—the Cakes had gone to bed hours ago, and the only sound was the occasional creak of the building settling under fresh snow.

 

She stared up at the ceiling, mane spread out like a cotton-candy cloud around her head, unusually still.

 

Diane was upstairs in the attic right now. Pinkie could picture her perfectly: curled under that plain gray quilt, reading one of those quiet books by lamplight, or maybe just watching the snow fall past the round window. Calm. Separate. Content.

 

Pinkie rolled onto her side, hugging a pillow to her chest.

 

She hadn’t expected any of this.

 

When the Mirror Pool mess happened, all she’d wanted was to fix it—to get her friends back to normal, to make everypony stop being scared, to be the only Pinkie again. She’d helped Twilight round up the clones, watched the spell fire, seen the pink streaks vanish into the forest. She’d thrown a “Yay, everything’s back to normal!” party the next day and told herself it was over.

 

But it never really felt over.

 

And then there was Diane.

 

The one who didn’t bounce.

 

The one who didn’t chant “fun” until the world broke.

 

The one who looked at her with those steady eyes and said, “You don’t have to make everypony happy. Just one is enough.”

 

Pinkie squeezed the pillow tighter.

 

She’d made hundreds of herself that day—copies that only knew one thing, dialed up to eleven. And when they became too much, when they started hurting ponies instead of helping… she’d helped erase them.

 

She still didn’t know how to feel about that.

 

Diane knew. Diane thought about it. Diane carried it quietly, the way she carried everything.

 

And now Diane lived here. In the attic. In *her* house.

 

Pinkie rolled onto her back again, staring at the ceiling as if she could see through it to the room above.

 

“She’s me,” Pinkie whispered to the empty room. “But she’s not. She’s what I might’ve been if I’d woken up scared and alone instead of surrounded by friends. If I’d had to figure out who I was without anypony telling me it’s okay to be loud and bouncy and too much.”

 

A small, sad smile tugged at her lips.

 

“I think… I needed her more than she needed me.”

 

Because Diane had shown her something Pinkie hadn’t realized she was missing: permission to be less than everything to everypony. Permission to choose quiet sometimes. To say no. To just *be*, without a party cannon in each hoof.

 

And in return, Pinkie had given Diane something too: a home. A place where quiet was respected. Where she didn’t have to hide in a treehouse or tough out blizzards alone.

 

Pinkie sat up, hugging her knees.

 

“I almost lost her,” she said softly. “We almost poofed her away with all the others. And if we had… I never would’ve known what I was missing. A sister who’s me, but different. A friend who understands the parts of me I don’t say out loud.”

 

She glanced toward the attic door at the top of the stairs.

 

“I’m glad you stayed, Diane,” she whispered. “I’m glad you’re here. Even if you don’t like parties. Even if you never bounce. I’m really, really glad there’s two of us now.”

 

Pinkie flopped back down, pulling the covers up to her chin.

 

Tomorrow she’d probably burst into the attic with breakfast cupcakes and a new idea for a “super-quiet snow-watching party of two.”

 

But tonight, she just smiled into the dark.

 

Upstairs, in her quiet attic room, Diane was already asleep.

 

And downstairs, Pinkie Pie finally drifted off too—lighter than she’d been in a long, long time.

 

Because family, she decided, didn’t always have to look the same.

 

Sometimes it just had to feel like home.