A/N: I actually started writing this a while back as a kicks and giggles. Then when I was reading another fic, I had an idea and wanted to share it. I altered the original version of this to better fit the idea, so it's lots better. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Clearly, I do not own Labyrinth.

A Writer Required

Chapter One

I tapped the keys of my laptop with distracted fingers, staring thoughtfully at the screen. "If Sarah takes this path," I thought outloud, "then that would give her more opportunity to develop as a character-" A sudden cold chill breezed down my neck and I shivered.

Startled, I cast my eyes up from the laptop to the small fireplace keeping the tiny house I lived in warm. The fire continued to burn, the logs crackling a peacefully muted tune. The fire was fine. I frowned and glanced around, but the window by the front door was closed tight against the frigid, early morning winter air. A december snowstorm blew outside, hiding everything beyond the window from sight by a thick curtain of snow. I looked back to the fire and huddled down into my favorite fuzzy fleece blanket. Even sitting on my small couch across from the fire, it was difficult to keep warm.

I noted that the fire was getting low and contemplated getting out of the blanket to replenish the fire's food. With a shiver, I eventually relented and slid my laptop off of my lap to the couch beside me, and got up to place another log on the fire. I'd just put a new log amongst the flames, which were just now wrapping around the log with tentative tendrils, when the window rattled.

The wind howled with such a vicious noise that I jumped in fright. It sounded like an enormous beast, instead of a storm, was raging outside. The noise only grew, and the top of the chimney whistled, sounding oddly like the screech of an owl; and with a bang, the front door was blown violently open. The flames in the fireplace were flung backwards and down low as though cowering, and snow and wind flooded in.

Yelping and jumping to my feet, I tossed the blanket over my laptop to protect it from the cold elements, and sprinted to the ajar entrance. Taking hold of the edge of the door and handle, I shoved it closed with a heave of one tank topped shoulder. The door slid into place, and I turned the lock until it could go no further.

The howling died down as soon as I shut the door, and I prayed the roof would survive such a gale. With my measly income, a roof leak would be the death of my budget, and the end of any meals in the future, for a time. Making sure the door was properly closed and locked, I turned around to reoccupy the couch.

I froze. There, lounging in one of my grandfather's old armchairs, sat Jareth, King of the Goblins. His white-blonde hair was wild, and he wore a faintly sparkling black poets shirt with a glossy black leather jacket over it. His crossed legs were covered in thick black leggings and knee high, heeled midnight black boots. One gloved hand supported his chin on the armrest, while the other idly tapped a silent rhythm against his supported knee. His mismatched eyes, blue and brown respectively, bore into mine with a steady scrutiny.

After having taken in his appearance, I planned to say something-but no words would form. In all honesty, I was too stunned to form a coherent sentence. So instead I stood there; looking very much like an unintelligent lump. He didn't seem to have my same problem, however, for an instant later one eyebrow crawled high on his face, and he lifted his head, only to tilt it to one side. "Hello." His voice made me take a sharp breath in.

"Uh-Hello." I returned, releasing that same breath. That seemed to free me from my previous involuntary silence, and I blinked several times as though to chase away the shock. "How-How are you here?" I stammered, and my cheeks flushed red in embarrassment at the stutter. Jareth smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Was he mad about something? Mad at me? If he was, that didn't bode well. I shifted on my feet again awkwardly, and he replied to my inquiry.

"Magic, of course." He responded simply.

I frowned at him. "But you're not real!"

His lips twisted. "Oh, I'm afraid I very much am." He emphasized the last word with cool assurance.

We stared at each other, and at last I finally asked. "Why are you here?" He studied me with a discerning gaze, his eyes passing over my scantily clad pajama'd figure and making me blush while his index finger moved to tap his thin bottom lip thoughtfully.

"I have a proposition for you." He said, lifting his head from his hand. I stiffened, aghast, and my cheeks went pink. He couldn't mean-! I thought, though a large part of me didn't believe it. It was unlikely-but the idea was certainly still shocking. He chuckled at my expression and I glared back in irritation-though I was considerably relieved. He was just toying with me. "A business proposition, of course." Jareth added belatedly.

"Of course." I repeated meaningfully, sure to put emphasis on the importance of the clarification. He smirked crookedly, revealing one sharply pointed canine. He'd caught what I meant, and I gained a small amount of courage in seeing he wasn't too upset. Walking slowly around to sit down on the couch, my gaze stayed fixed on his person. He watched me right back, his eyes flicking down to my hands when I reached down and lifted the blanket off my computer to lay the fabric around my shoulders before I sat down. The fire crackled, peaceful again, and I felt a little better with its warmth. Returning my full attention to Jareth, I spoke. "Assuming that you are, in fact, real: What kind of business proposition?"

Jareth stood with languid grace from the chair and I stiffened, keeping a sharp eye on him. Straightening his jacket, he strode toward me. My hands tightened around the blanket and I wondered if he might turn violent. But he walked past me instead, sparing me a fleeting glance before coming to my large bookshelf next to the fireplace. There sat the whole of my book collection-a miniature library for a fantasy lover. Books like 'The Chronicles of Narnia', 'The Prydain Chronicles', 'Lord of the Rings', the 'Howl's Moving Castle' series, and the tiny book 'The Great Good Thing'. Those few books didn't even begin to touch the whole collection. The book 'Labyrinth' lay amongst them, a book which held at the end Jim Henson's own handwriting and Brian Froud's designs for the characters and landscapes and notes. It was the shared written brainstorming of two creative geniuses. Beside it a much larger book, 'The Goblins of Labyrinth' lay on its side, too tall to stand up as it should. A great assortment of the different kinds of goblins were inside that book, lending insight into an otherwise magical, imaginary world. My eyes studied Jareth's back. Well, imaginary until this morning's visitor appeared. Now I wasn't quite so sure.

This thought in mind, my eyes flew to the other books, wondering what other worlds were more than just stories. My eyes widened at the idea, but before my imagination could really begin working on that fantastical idea, or of Narnia or Prydain, Jareth responded. "You've been writing about me." He said it distractedly-almost offhanded.

I grew wary when he found and picked up my copy of 'Labyrinth'. He flipped slowly through it, discovering the images and notes at the back made by Jim Henson and Brian Froud, and his eyebrows rose. I swallowed in anxiety when his lip curled. It was difficult to say if he was angry or just annoyed. Deciding to steer clear of the topic of that book, I replied.

"Oh?" I wondered about which story he meant, and a meaningful look over his shoulder at me told me the one he was thinking about. My cheeks gained a much darker shade of pink and my eyes flew to the laptop keyboard resting on the couch beside me, in an effort to avoid his gaze. 'Oh crap!' I thought in horror. 'He means 'Goblins'!' 'Goblins'-the book I wrote about the two of us meeting. Falling in love. Having children.

My face grew redder and my heart seemed to want to beat itself out of my chest. I cleared my throat with difficulty. "Oh…That one." I murmured, and Jareth turned around with the book still in hand.

"Yes," He snapped, closing the book with a similarly sharp sound. "That one."

I spoke in a rush, my face growing darker in its reddish hue, my eyes still fixed in mortification on the 'alt' key on my keyboard. "I'm sorry! If I'd known you were real, I wouldn't have dared to write such a thing-" I stopped abruptly and flinched away when he took a step toward the couch, toward me. Jareth paused there, then carefully turned and replaced the book on the bookshelf. I slowly exhaled in silent relief.

He faced me again, folding his arms. "You paint me differently than others do." I lifted my head to look at him quizzically.

"How do you mean?"

Jareth returned the look with impatience. "Most write my character as sardonic, seductive, or sadistic-often times the three together." He stepped closer to the fire, standing across from me now. The light played off of his leather jacket, momentarily distracting me until he went on. "But you don't. You paint me differently." Jareth tilted his head to one side a fraction. "Why?"

I thought on his words. It was true; I didn't write him quite the same as others. Everyone had their own version, really. In my version he was kind, protective, confident, could be seductive or sardonic, but only occasionally. He was rarely sadistic, unless issuing punishment to some type of villain.

These thoughts in mind, I at last explained myself. "It's how I see you." I said quietly, shrugging my shoulders, I unconsciously took on a more confident tone, my eyes fully meeting his. "I think you mean well. When it comes to a Runner, you pretend to be-or are compelled to be-the villain." Jareth returned the look and I continued, folding my legs onto the couch, one knee raised beneath the blanket. "I think you do it because you're trying to teach the Runner a lesson. So they'll realize how much they love the ones they've wished away. So that they'll appreciate the one they've wished away..." I trailed off as an idea occurred to me.

Jareth's lips were pressed together thin but he didn't answer, and this only confirmed my idea. "Everyone beats the Labyrinth, don't they, Jareth?" The crackling of the fire prevailed in filling up the silence between us. The light glowing off his leather jacket and boots almost mesmerizing in their gentle undulating brilliance.

Jareth uncrossed his arms, stepping back and resting one arm on the mantle, leaning against the side of the fireplace. The scrutinizing look in his eyes returned, but there was something else, too. Curiosity? Interest, maybe? I was going mostly by the fire's glow and the dim blue blizzard's light from the window, so I couldn't be sure. Both threw shadows over his face, emphasizing the dramatic planes and ridges of it.

"You're observant. But you haven't written any of this. Haven't told it to the world-to my fans." He sneered at the last word as though it were distasteful.

I frowned at him. "I could. But I think they know too, in their own ways. They know there's good in you." I poked a finger at him from over my blanket covered knee. "I think you know it, too."

Jareth sneered, but the look of interest in his eyes grew and was joined by a sudden sardonic humor. "Well, then. I'm that transparant, am I?" The way his lips curled showed he was somewhat displeased with that notion, and I shook my head negatively in way of reassurance.

"No. But I've been writing you for a long time-I just know you a bit better, I guess." I said, offering a shrug. "That, and Sarah's Run had you set up as the villain. She needed an antagonist, you portrayed that antagonist, and now because of the story, others see you as the antagonist." A breeze fluttering into the room through the chimney and past the fire sent a chill over me. With a shiver, I bundled the blanket around me tighter with a wrinkled brow, sniffled, and continued. "I think that's why people have differing views of you. Some think you're that way even when not fulfilling the runner's wishes and fears. Some think you're only the way you are because of a wisher's specific needs to grow as a person."

Jareth shifted from one foot to the other. "And which are you?" He asked.

I smiled a little. "The second one." Jareth's eyebrows raised marginally but he didn't seem particularly surprised.

I went on. "You probably look different 'off duty' than you do now, don't you?"

The king turned pensive, gesturing vaguely with his hand. "My appearance depends on what the runner expects, but is integrated with my own true features-" Jareth stopped short and my eyes refocused with interest on him at this new information. He scowled, his expression shrewd as he studied me. "However, these are topics best discussed after we agree on our business proposition."

My stomach sank. I'd forgotten all about that. Biting my bottom lip in apprehension, I lowered my feet back to the floor, and shifted the blanket accordingly. "So... What's the job?" I questioned. Jareth folded his arms, studying me.

"I require a writer."

My eyebrows rose. "A writer? What for?"

Jareth leaned away from the fireplace and began pacing pensively between it and myself. I watched him, intrigued. "I require a writer who can write my story. My true story."

I couldn't help the skepticism in my voice, nor the way the same emotion wrinkled my brow. "..And you chose me? Why? There are plenty of other, better, writers who-"

"Because you believe. Not just in me, but in many things." Jareth peered with firm determination at me.

This statement really made my eyebrows gain height. Was he-? Another look at his serious expression was enough of an answer.

I turned my eyes to my laptop screen thoughtfully. What would be the harm in this? I mean-besides the fact that this is probably just a dream-was there any real danger if it was real? Jareth's reflection on my laptop screen brought be back to the present as it showed him stepping closer.

He folded his arms. "Well? Will you accept?"

I studied him on the screen. If he were real, would there be repercussions to his being in my world? I had no idea what the rules were-or if there even WERE rules. I looked at Jareth thoughtfully. If there were, he'd be aware of them, and if he were really, truly, there; then it must be alright-right…?

Jareth stopped between me and the hearth, fingers on one hand tapping out a stacatto rhythm on his leatherclad arm. Finally, I made my decision. Looking him square in the eyes, I spoke firmly.

"No."

A/N: Hahaha couldn't resist! 😂 *ahem* Probably not the answer you were expecting, huh? Anyway, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! 😊