A/N: I can't write drunk scenes. Hence why writing a story composed entirely of drunk scenes is probably a bad idea, but how else am I gonna learn?

Warnings: Drinking, underage drinking, angst, and an author who has no idea what kinds of drinks are actually served in bars (I'm just assuming that since this is the only spirit pub in the world, they'd have everything).

Disclaimer: I don't own RotG. At all. I just like playing with the characters and getting them drunk.

He was failing. That much was clear.

With a frown on his face and a curse on his tongue, the frost spirit took another swig of his drink. What the drink was, he didn't know (just that it was something very strong and very alcoholic), but it was successfully numbing the sharp stab of failure throbbing in his chest.

He should have known. He was a trickster, after all, an irresponsible brat. Irresponsible brats were not meant to be Guardians. He had thought it could work, though, somehow, if he tried hard enough (and maybe part of that was Bunny's fault, the rabbit's smile was just so enticing). Now, though, he knew he was wrong, and he was paying for it by drinking his life away at the only spirit pub in the world.

He'd been here already three nights in a row. The other Guardians never hung around the seedy place, so he knew his standing among his companions would not be affected. He was free to spoil his health as much as he wanted.

He swung his head back, draining the contents of the glass at one gulp, and promptly ordered another one.

Pitch Black did not hang around "The Liquid Luck" often, but when he did, it was generally expected that he stayed quiet. The motto of the place was, "don't cause trouble, and we'll let you stay," and he fully intended to live up to that requirement, if only for the bar's excellent Sauvignon Blanc.

Today, however, there were more important things at stake than white wine. Ever since his humiliating defeat at the hands of the Guardians, he'd been staying at the pub far more often than was his habit, and while he could occasionally be oblivious, even he couldn't hope to miss the newest Guardian splurging on Jägerbombs for three nights straight.

It was Pitch's chance to get an explanation out of the youngest Guardian. Cruel and painful revenge was not an option if he still wanted a supply of wine, but closure? Maybe.

The Nightmare King sidled over to Jack's table, where the young man was staring into the bottom of his glass, blue eyes puffy with lack of sleep. Pitch slid into the empty chair opposite Jack, making an order for another glass of wine on the way.

Only when the wine sat in front of the Boogeyman did Jack raise his head, bloodshot eyes twinkling. "Come to try and kill me, Pitch?"

Pitch scoffed. "Hardly. The temporary pleasure that comes with revenge is not worth loosing access to the only supplier of wine that I know of."

Jack barked out a laugh. "Glad to see you value my death so highly."

"Oh, I value your death very highly, my dear. I simply value wine more."

Jack shook his head, weak grin on his face, already this side of "moderately tipsy". A few more drinks and he'd be "comfortably sloshed". He considered, decided that he would like that, and ordered a few more drinks.

"Alcohol is bad for your teeth, you know. Tooth would have a fit."

"Don't care," said Jack flippantly, already attached firmly to what was now his sixth drink.

Pitch was curious despite himself. "And what has occasioned this sudden disregard for the opinions of your little friends?"

Seventh drink, and Jack was edging firmly into "comfortably sloshed". His speech began to slur. "Not m'friends."

"Really?"

Jack shook his head, gesticulating vaguely. "No. They're all "hard work 'n deadlines", an' I'm "snowballs 'n fun times". M'not a Guardian."

The rant had a worn sound to it, as if it had been repeated many times before. Pitch considered briefly whether or not Jack had attempted to convince the Guardians of this fact, but shook his head. He was not here to bandy with his sworn enemy. He was here to find out why his sworn enemy had refused to become his greatest ally.

"If that is the case, why did you not join forces with me?"

Jack chugged his ninth drink. "Didn't want t' be feared. M' not like you."

"But why the sudden fear of being feared? One does not form such fears willy-nilly, boy."

The subject seemed to restore a modicum of Jack's coherency. "...Had a sister when I was human. We were out on the ice, it was cracking. She was scared. I don't want another child to feel fear like that because of me."

Hmm. Interesting. "And that was why you chose not to join me?"

"...Well, there was the "taking over the world" bit as well. You should stop trying to impress recruits with that line. It's a bit of a deal breaker."

Pitch's golden eyes sparkled. "I'll bear that in mind."

Jack nodded, and downed his eleventh drink.

How he ended up with an extremely drunk winter spirit in his hideout, Pitch had no idea. All he remembered was Jack falling over, dead drunk, and Pitch carrying him to his lair, because where the hell was Jack going to stay? In the woods?

...Damn his remaining shreds of humanity. Now he was burdened with one sozzled winter spirit, who'd likely wake up with a horrible hangover, if the sheer number of drinks he had consumed was any indication.

He knew he'd regret this in the morning. He just knew it.

Until then, he'd just have to hope none of the Guardians found the intoxicated winter spirit lying on his couch.

A/N: Again, I can't write drunk-scenes. But I'm not going to stop trying.

"The Liquid Luck" is a Harry Potter reference. Another name for the luck potion, Felix Felicis, is (you guessed it) "Liquid Luck". I thought it made sense, as the owner of the pub, Fergus G. Sullivan, is also the leprechaun.

...Review?