For Jack

by IceEckos12

Or the one where Jack and Pitch are roommates, and everything and nothing changes. Character Death.

Cross-posted from my AO3 :D

Pitch Black found Jack Frost in the early morning, when the sky was still dark and cold, the sun not yet risen.

Pitch knew, of course, that the boy was some sort of winter spirit; there was no other thing he could possibly be, with that ice-white hair and frost-blue eyes. Not to mention, the air around him fairly rattled with chill, the ground around him covered in a thick layer of frozen water emanating from a long, curved stick, building more and more by the second.

Pitch followed the boy's gaze, out at the empty village in front of them; it was early, much too early for anyone to be out. Even so...he recognized that look; the miserable set of the jaw, eyes that glittered with confusion and dawning horror, and under it all fear. So much fear that Pitch had to pause for a second, heady with the sudden, tiny rush of power.

He pulled himself together and gracefully lowered himself to the ground, ignoring the frigid cold that twisted through him. The spirit was...unusually powerful, if the ominous storm clouds gathering on the edge of the horizon was any indication. It was a wonder he hadn't met this one before, or at least he didn't think he had; they all just sort of bled together after a certain point.

"Are you planning on burying this village?" Pitch asked calmly, and the boy startled so violently that he almost flinched.

The spirit stared at him, big blue eyes wide with shock and….innocence. He was so young, Pitch realized, and felt a flutter of pity in his stomach. Young and still invisible, and no doubt the Guardians wouldn't deign to get off their pedestals and help the young spirit.

"I-" The boy stuttered, wrong-footed, and looked over at the horizon, where the clouds were still roiling with his emotions. His mouth went a little slack, and the clouds suddenly bloomed like flowers reaching for the sun. "I'm doing that?" He looked at the town again, then at Pitch, expression pleading-and God, if he didn't wear his heart on his sleeve. "H-How do I stop?"

Pitch considered not telling him, because the temptation of rampant fear was almost enough to sway him...but no. He didn't want to massacre an entire settlement, even if it wouldn't technically be by his own hands. "Control your emotions, stupid boy."

The boy recoiled a little, as though he'd been slapped (Pitch tried not to feel guilty about the gobsmacked, hurt expression), but swiftly closed his eyes and breathed deeply, hands white-knuckled around his stick. It took minutes, but then again, Pitch hadn't really been expecting for the boy to be able to control his fear at all. But sure enough, the clouds slowly dissipated into a decent sized storm, but nothing life-threatening.

There were a few moments of silence, except for the boy's steady breathing, and Pitch watched the puffy clouds as they advanced toward the town.

Then the boy sat back, and let out a long, controlled stream of air, which froze in midair. "No offense…" He shifted a little, as though he could hide behind the staff (the source of his power, probably) and glanced at Pitch shyly from one corner of his eye. "But how...can you see me?"

Pitch was momentarily taken aback-surely this boy had heard of him! Everyone at least knew of the story of the boogeyman, and most spirits knew of his fall from grace a few hundred years before. It was...oddly refreshing, actually, to not be looked at with abject suspicion or bitter mockery.

Maybe the boy just didn't recognize him, though Pitch was uncertain if there was anyone else on the planet he could possibly be. The darkness and shadows were usually a tipoff.

Well. It was time for an education.

"Pitch Black." He said, grinning at the boy from behind his wicked sharp teeth and odd, discolored eyes. Everyone told him that he shouldn't smile, because it was terrifying, so that was what he would do. "Otherwise known as the Boogeyman. Pleasure." Then he stuck out a hand to shake, expecting the young thing to run like the hounds of hell were chasing him.

But the spirit did none of that.

He did not scream, or pelt into the forest; his face did not crease with horrid recognition, or twisted malice. Instead, he reached out with one frightfully pale hand and shook Pitch's own, his skin a shock of cold. "Jack Frost." Jack paused, then smiled a little, self-deprecatingly. "Otherwise known as Jack Frost. I think."

"Jack Frost?" Pitch asked, dropping the hand as quickly as he possibly could, because lord but that block of ice was going to give him frostbite. "I've never heard of a Jack Frost." Then the second part of that comment caught up to him. "What do you mean, you think? Are you or are you not, Jack Frost?"

Jack made a helpless gesture at the moon, which was steadily disappearing behind a thick layer of clouds. "I mean-the Man in the Moon, he told me that my name is Jack Frost, but…" He sighed, and pulled his knees up to his chin, dragging his hands through his hair. "He hasn't said anything else. Maybe I'm just crazy."

Pitch's jaw went slack, just a little, as he considered the implications-the boy had no idea who he was. He didn't even know his own name, which- "That's unusually cruel, even for you, old friend." He said reprovingly up into the sky, as the moon finally winked out behind the layer of cloud.

"What?" Jack asked.

"Nothing." Pitch said quickly. "Well, this has been fun, but I have other places to be. Things to do, people to terrify. "

"Wait!" Jack shouted, and snagged the sleeve of his coat as Pitch rose to leave. "Wait, don't-can I come with you?"

Pitch stopped dead in his tracks, so shocked for a second that he couldn't think to find the words to speak. In fact, he was so surprised, he turned around and stared at Jack, for once forgoing dignity. The boy stared back, with such innocent earnestness, it nearly took his breath away. This was a child, created so recently he hadn't yet come into his own, so new that he was reaching out to a stranger who hadn't even been very kind.

"You don't know me." He said, very quietly.

"I don't know me, either." Jack responded instantly.

"I'm the Boogeyman." Pitch couldn't help but reiterate that point. "I am fear, all the way down to my core."

Jack took in a shuddering breath, fingers furling and unfurling around the stick. "I nearly murdered a village, because I was scared. And you helped me. And...I don't know where else to go." His eyes widened minutely, mouth downturned at the corners, eyebrows pinched in hopeful expression that bore a remarkable resemblance to a kicked dog. "I promise I won't cause trouble, I just need somewhere to get my bearings."

Pitch wavered a little-because it had been so, so long since he'd seen a friendly face, and Jack was nice in a way that everyone else wasn't. And maybe...maybe he remembered being on top of the world, feared by all, and then toppling like a fallen god. Maybe he remembered suddenly waking up and realizing that barely anyone could see him, and that those he'd considered allies turned against him just because he no longer had power.

He remembered the loneliness that Jack was currently feeling, that he himself had buried so deeply that he hardly felt it anymore.

"Don't touch any of my things." Pitch said warningly, turning away from Jack's wide grin. "If you do, you'll regret it."

"Of course!" Jack chirped, and let out a loud, excited laugh as Pitch grabbed his arm and dragged him into the shadows.

Jack was...actually, an ideal roommate.

He was rarely inside, preferring to play in the snow with the kids in the village, even though they couldn't see him. When he did come back to Pitch's den, he was skittish and quiet, unfailingly polite despite the reputation he was gaining as a troublemaker. It seemed, to Pitch anyway, that Jack was so frightened of losing the only person who could see him, that he was willing to do just about anything, including be oddly subservient. It was...a little creepy, actually.

Pitch, in contrast, was a deplorable roommate, and he was not afraid to admit that. He was frequently accosted by wandering spirits who wanted to make fun of the once great Pitch, which made him pretty much constantly grumpy and snappish. Occasionally he would bring random knicknacks back home, which had built over the years into a rather impressive pile of stuff. He was also extremely possessive over his stuff; one day Jack had been bold enough to poke curiously through one of the piles, and had almost got his head bitten off.

Pitch felt a little guilty about it, but was too prideful to apologize. Instead, the next time he'd brought something home, he'd offered it silently to Jack to inspect. The boy had smiled warily, then with growing enthusiasm, and by the end of it he was riding the bike all over the walls and ceiling.

But nonetheless, the first year was an awkward dance of polite smiles from Jack and grumpy silences from Pitch.

Jack slowly began to relax as time passed and boundaries were tested more and more. Jack accidentally started a snowstorm in the middle of the lair, Pitch grumped a little and told the stupid brat to control his powers, but didn't really get mad. Jack teased Pitch a little about the massive piles of stuff, Pitch sniped back that the boy was too much of a minimalist and that he had no eye for finer things. Jack started hanging out more and more in the lair, tentatively bringing back pictures and shiny things that caught his eye, until he had sectioned off a corner of the place as his own.

One year turned into two, turned into four, turned into ten; and then one day Pitch set down the book he was reading and stared at the teenager who was sprawled on a massive squishy chair eating something made of spun sugar. I have somehow obtained a roommate I get along with without intending it.

The thought made him smile a little, and he picked the book back up again, listening to the familiar giggling with a fond ear.

Jack found out about the Guardians purely by accident-honestly, Pitch wasn't all that surprised. It had only been a matter of time before the boy heard the disgusting children in the village chattering about dear old saint Nick, or saw them running around after Easter eggs.

It was only a matter of time before Jack decided that he, too, wanted a visit from Santa Claus.

A week before Christmas, Pitch came to the den and saw Jack, flitting nervously around a massive evergreen, half frozen as the boy's nervous energy lashed out. He stopped dead in his tracks, momentarily speechless from horror.

"Jack..." He said very slowly, accepting the boy's absentminded hug and watching as he darted away again. "What...are you doing?"

"It needs to be perfect for Santa!" Jack said cheerfully, forming a blue angel between his fingertips and setting it gently on the tree.

Pitch closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, slowly counting to five in his head. He really, really did not want to be the one to tell Jack that Santa Claus hated his guts, and by proximity, Jack's.

"Listen, Jack..."

"Yes?" Jack whirled around, crystal tinsel glittering over his shoulders, snow sliding from his hair in giant poofs. His eyes were enormous with childish wonder and innocence, a smile stretching across his pale face.

...dammit.

"Nothing, Jack." Pitch forced an aloof tone. "Carry on with your...tree."

Jack's expression suddenly went shy, a look Pitch hadn't seen for-god, was it nine years now? "Actually, Pitch, I was hoping you'd help me decorate?" He unwrapped the tinsel from his shoulders, and draped it around Pitch's neck, a hint of devious humor in his eyes.

Pitch hated Christmas-he hated everything about it, from the cheesy songs to the delicate snow to the truly atrocious decorations hung on the trees. Most of all, he hated dear old Saint Nick, who had grown fat and arrogant because of the spoils he gained by simply being a Guardian.

But he liked Jack. Jack, who was simple and kind. Jack, who laughed easily and just wanted everyone to be happy. Jack, who made him feel just a little less lonely, even for a moment.

Jack, who deserved a decent Christmas.

"Alright, then." Pitch muttered, unwrapping the tinsel and throwing it back at Jack unceremoniously. "But I refuse to put up anything frozen. Frostbite doesn't agree with my constitution."

Jack let out a loud whoop and flipped in midair, before shoving a large box of carved wooden ornaments into Pitch's hands and dragging the older spirit toward the tree.

The next day, the ground was covered in a very fine, thin layer of snow-Pitch was so used to the temperature being constantly below freezing that he almost didn't notice it. He wouldn't have, if he hadn't decided that today would be a mighty fine day to organize the things he'd hoarded and exchange old items for new ones. Pitch sent Jack a very suspicious look, but the boy was doggedly slogging through a copy of Dante's Inferno.

The next few days, Jack was gone, presumably out playing with the other children in the village, and Pitch had the freedom to puzzle over the steadily thickening layer of snow on the ground. He knew that it was connected to Jack's childish desire to have a proper Christmas, but the closer the actual date came, the more and more nervous Pitch got. He wished, for the first time, that he was on better terms with the Guardians, for Jack's sake. Then he immediately went to go terrify small children, because he if were wishing that he were closer to those arrogant sods, there must be something wrong with him.

Two days before Christmas, Jack brought home a massive jug of eggnog, and a plate of Christmas cookies. He also put candles all throughout the den, giving their usually dreary home a cheerful glow, and strung long lines of popcorn through the cages on the ceiling. Snow blew gently from nowhere and everywhere at once, building up the massive snowdrifts on the floor even more.

"Jack." Pitch said, staring out at the pure white that covered every inch of his things.

"Yes Pitch?" Jack asked, carefully freezing the eggnogg in the cup so it turned into a sweet, sugary slushy.

He rubbed at his temples, praying for anyone in the world to give him the strength to make it through his time of need. "My stuff, Jack." He said finally.

The boy's smile faded, and he suddenly found the eggnog slushy much more interesting than he had moments before. His shoulders set mulishly in a way that Pitch knew very well-guilty but determined to get his way. "It's supposed to be a white Christmas." He muttered.

All at once, Pitch felt the air whoosh out of him, leaving him oddly tired as he watched that vaguely hopeful, very determined expression. Dammit, dammit, dammit all to hell-why couldn't he and Saint Nick have just reconciled when they had the chance? Now he had to deprive his only friend of something he'd been so excited for, something he'd clearly been planning all week.

Dammit.

"Jack," Pitch said slowly, hating every word, "We can't...have Christmas."

Jack froze. "What do you mean?"

"Jack, I…" He floundered helplessly for an explanation, before exhaling gustily and gesturing for Jack to sit down next to him. "I need to tell you something."

Jack's big, blue eyes stared at him, questioning and wary and a little bit hurt, as he slowly floated down to the indicated chair. His silence was more of a pointed accusation than words could ever be.

"There are four Guardians who protect believers-Saint Nicholas, the guardian of wonder; the Easter Bunny, guardian of hope; the Tooth Fairy, guardian of memory; and the Sandman, guardian of dreams." Pitch's mouth twisted bitterly. "And then there's me. Guardian of fear."

"I still don't see why this means we can't have Christmas." Jack interrupted persistently.

"Listen for once, foolish boy." Pitch snapped, then reigned in his temper before he said something he really regretted. "In the Dark Ages, I was powerful. Everyone was frightened. Then the Guardians rose, and I fell." He remembered his powers slipping away bit by bit, the horror and anger that became part of his very being. He remembered the scorn of his friends, their laughing mockery following him as he turned away...

"Pitch?"

He snapped out of his reverie, and realized he'd been staring into thin air. "The point is," he continued brusquely, "We don't like each other. At all."

Jack was silent for a moment, usually expressive face clouded with pensive thought. "But..." He murmured, "Isn't fear necessary too?"

Pitch felt like he'd been struck.

No one...had ever said that before.

Not his friends, not his enemies, not his true believers.

"I mean, being happy and having fun is good and all..." Jack continued on obliviously. "But if we're not afraid, then there's nothing keeping us from throwing ourselves into dangerous situations. Death is scary." He was gaining momentum now, becoming more animated as he spoke. "And, to love someone is to be afraid to lose them, right? Fear isn't always pleasant, but we need it-"

Pitch cut Jack off with an impromptu hug.

Come hell or high water, he thought, ignoring Jack's stunned silence. Jack Frost is getting a proper Christmas.

The day before Christmas, Pitch waded through shadows all over the world, searching for a suitable present for Jack. He traversed the continents swiftly, discarding hundreds of options with no modicum of disgust. He hated shopping for presents. With a passion.

Finally, Pitch found himself back in the den, brooding at nothing in particular. Most presents were too gaudy, or too insubstantial for beings such as they. Pitch wanted a present that would last, something-

Ah.

Of course.

Pitch slipped from his brooding corner, as Jack so affectionately referred to it as, and went off to search for the winter spirit. It took him barely a second-Jack rarely strayed too far from the blasted evergreen tree and cookies, when he was in the den-and he paused a short distance away, tilting his head as he stared at Jack.

He looked...tired.

It occurred to Pitch that Jack probably hadn't slept in several days, too keyed up about Christmas. They didn't need to sleep often, but they did need to, occasionally. Pitch cursed himself for forgetting about that little tidbit, watching with despair as Jack floated wearily to the ground, knuckles white around his staff.

It made him feel a little better about his plan.

In the end, it was easy enough to distract Jack, with a battered old copy of a Tale of Two Cities. It was an frighteningly simple to lull Jack asleep-Tale of Two cities was difficult, even for people with all the energy in the world-and soon enough the book slipped from the boy's numb fingers. Frost covered him like a shiny, frozen blanket, shading his lashes and eyebrows with a soft blue.

Pitch smiled a little at the picture-he knew Jack wanted to have a proper Christmas Eve dinner, but they'd just have to move it to tomorrow. The boy was run ragged, dark blue circles whorling under his eyes; he would sleep till morning, easily.

Pitch leaned over and carefully lifted Jack from the chair, deceptively light. He kicked aside the book, knowing that Jack would probably like to read it later, even if it was difficult for his exhausted mind, and settled the ever-present stick over his shoulders.

"Cookies." Jack muttered, eyes flicking open a little.

Cookies? Pitch frowned, trying to decipher that statement. What did-oh. "Don't be too concerned." He whispered. "St. Nick will fatten himself on our food."

Jack let out a sleepy giggle, and curled his face into Pitch's shoulder, grinning a little. He somehow managed to look absurdly pleased, even drowsy with the pull of sleep-probably about stupid Christmas, Pitch thought uncharitably, but carefully tucked the thought back into his mind.

He settled Jack down into the nest of blankets next to the tree that he used as a bed, and carefully tucked a quilt up around the boy's neck. Even if he wouldn't be able to tell the difference, it was still a nice gesture.

A few hours later, after Jack's present had been made and safely tucked under the stupid tree, Pitch found himself sitting in his brooding corner-which wasn't visible to anyone who didn't know it was there-and stared out at the Christmas tree. He didn't think North would lash out if he found Pitch living with a child spirit, but just to be safe...

He began drowsing right around midnight, curled up with his coat around him. He was just about to drift off, when...

"...who lives in a place like this?" There was a crash, and a painful sounding grunt.

But that was...

Oh. Pitch abruptly tensed up, eyes shooting open.

Shit.

"Hush, Bunny." North murmured, his voice low and soft, a vast contrast to his usual volume. "Not all children live in nice places."

"Yeah," The fucking Easter Bunny, who hated him with a passion (and okay, maybe he deserved it, a little-the Guardians weren't the only ones who had done some not-so-nice things in their battle for power) snarled. "But look at this place. It's so dark, and covered in snow!"

Snow-oh, thank god. The snow would probably be enough to mask his scent from Bunny's keen nose. He was stupid, stupid-he'd completely forgotten that Bunny got bored easily between Easters, and oftentimes joined the other Guardians. Now things were getting dangerous; if Bunny figured out who Jack's best friend was...

Pitch didn't know what Bunny would do to the boy. What he did know was that the ancient rabbit was more of a shoot first, ask questions later sort of guy.

"Ah, here is child!" North crowed cheerfully, interrupting Bunny's distracted swearing. "He left cookies! What a sweet boy." There was a soft crunching sound. "No! Bad rabbit, get your own cookie."

"I've just seen you eat more than a thousand cookies, mate." Bunny groused. "Share a little, you fat lump."

North, rather than get offended like any normal human being would do-the crazy bastard-let out a loud, rolling laugh, and didn't respond. There was an unusually long silence, which Pitch guessed was Santa dropping off a present or two, or maybe reading the card he'd seen Jack scribbling in the day before.

Pitch got his answer a second later.

"Jack Frost…" North sounded thoughtful and distant. "I have heard of a Jack Frost."

"Hm?" Bunny asked, mouth occupied with one of the stolen cookies. Pitch gritted his teeth, annoyed despite himself-he tolerated North eating his food, but that giant menace was pushing it. "Jack Frost...Jack Frost! Yeah, he's some up'n coming winter spirit. Haven't met him, but then, he's very young."

"Would explain the snow." North said knowledgeably, and Pitch could just imagine the giant man tapping his nose, the motion vivid in his mind.

"Mmmm." Bunny hummed distractedly, and let out a noise that chilled Pitch right down to his very bones, one he had heard all too often during the power struggle of the end of the Dark sound of air whistling through nostrils, the thoughtful silence of a predator tracking its prey...

The rabbit sniffed again, and Pitch could imagine it-the enormous creature, green eyes fairly gold and predatory in the fading sunlight, back on his haunches as he scented the air. "Hold on, I smell…"

Pitch rose from hiding place and vanished into the shadows around him, just as Bunny hissed, "Pitch Black!"

He considered, for a moment, leaving Jack.

It would be easy. He could find a new home, rebuild; find new knicknacks, except without all the errant snow and frost that constantly wormed its way into his more delicate items. He could hide more thoroughly this time, keep himself away from all the small, lost, lonely spirits that just happened to cross his path. He could be alone again, as he had once been, and all he had to do was leave Jack to this fight, leave him to feel betrayed and abandoned while the people who were supposedly kindly strangers interrogated or even attacked him.

It would be so easy.

Then, Pitch heard it-a soft cry of pain, followed by muffled, growling words, and his insides shook.

Pitch soared from his shadows like he was still a monster, like he still had the fear of every human on the planet, his long coat swirling around him. He wielded his chosen weapon, a black scythe, its weight familiar and friendly in his hands. He didn't care that he didn't have power anymore-didn't care that this fight would likely be his demise, or that it would've been so easy to escape. Jack was in trouble, who trusted easily and laughed often. Jack, who filled the den with annoying snowstorms when he was emotional and acted like Pitch was going to throw him out when he did. Jack, who was still naive enough to believe that the good guys were simply that, and the real antagonist didn't live in his house drinking iced tea and reading old prose.

Jack, who had somehow seen something in Pitch worth believing in.

Pitch's roar echoed off the walls of the cave, the stone fairly rattling with his anger. Darkness rose with him, its hungry caress a familiar one, wild and untameable as it had once been many years before. His anger lighted a fire in him, and the familiar feeling of fightfightfightkillfearsurvive rolled through him like a tidal wave.

Bunny, who had been holding Jack by the neck, dropped him, startled by Pitch's appearance. He quickly recovered, though, and withdrew his wicked boomerangs, followed closely by North, who was now grim and silent.

And then they met.

Pitch was not going to win this battle-despite his sudden rush of adrenaline, and the power he got from fear, and the darkness that coiled throughout his very being, he knew it to be true. Hope was frightfully strong as the New World flourished; wonder was equally so, as the world connected and blossomed into a close network of trade and exchanged ideas. Fear was still prominent in the world, but barely enough for him to combat one guardian and come out alive, much less the victor. Two was a death knell.

But that did not stop him from fighting.

He whirled and danced with his scythe, the darkness covering any openings he left, and draping over his back like a cat. He snarled and fought like one possessed, his movements slowly but surely losing the subtle grace he had developed over the years, falling away into brute strength tinged with the desperate edge of fear.

For every hit he landed, another three broke through his defenses, lancing lines of pain throughout his whole body. He hardly noticed them, the beserker rage he'd been thrown into temporarily numbing the sensations, but they still affected him. One minute he was up, twisting wildly on one slender foot, and then-

His leg crumpled beneath him.

He was momentarily so surprised that he froze on the ground, not quite able to comprehend that one of North's swords had managed to hamstring him-and it was enough of an opening for Bunny to come in from behind and strike him on the head. His head cracked on the ice, scythe dissipating from jelly-like fingers, body suddenly aching and heavy with pain and half-remembered wounds…

Pitch shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind, and looked up just in time to see Bunny and North advancing towards him. He tried to scramble backwards, fear rising like gorge in his throat-he might have prepared to die, but it wasn't like he wanted to-but his injured leg only twitched uselessly, grounding him.

He could do absolutely nothing as North leveled the sword under his chin, face half-shadowed as moonlight sprawled through the hole in the ceiling. Bunny stood next to him, green-gold eyes half-glowing. "You've been a blight on this world long enough, Pitch Black." The rabbit hissed.

The sword rose in a graceful arc.

Pitch spared one last desperate thought-thank god Jack is okay, thank god he's safe-as the blade swooped in to sever his head from his neck.

"Stop!"

North tripped a little, and only barely managed to divert his path as a brown and white blur flew in front of Pitch. The high-pitched, terrified wail echoed throughout the entire den, and it was only then that Pitch noticed that the temperature had dipped about twenty degrees in the space of two minutes. Frost was everywhere, and building more and more by the second, so enormous icicles descended from the ceiling and froze to the ground.

Pitch pushed himself to his knees, his injured leg more a piece of stone than a functioning limb. "Jack," He whispered into the silence.

"Please, stop!" Jack repeated, his voice wrecked with tears, that were no doubt frozen and disintegrating from his face, the cold was so absolute. Pitch had never felt such a desperate fear from him before, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap Jack back up in the blankets and tuck him under the tree. "Why are you doing this?"

"Jack Frost, move." Bunny growled, but there was a softer edge to his voice, a gentle urgency that demanded obedience.

"You're-" The boy's voice cracked. "No!"

"This is a dangerous spirit, Jack Frost." North said quietly, flicking the blood from his blade with a smooth movement before it froze on. "He is better off dead."

Pitch sucked in a breath, and watched as Jack slowly fell apart.

Jack clutched at his head and whipped around, and Pitch could see that his eyes were squeezed shut, crystalline tears falling from his face with tiny, clacking drops. He drew a shuddering breath, and his hands very, very slowly dropped from his hair, resting lightly at his side. His eyes shuttered open, just a slit, and Pitch could see the abject despair, the dying knell of childish innocence. "Why doesn't anyone see?" He whispered, and Pitch suddenly remembered the conversation tucked close to his heart, where Jack saw and understood why everyone needed a little fear in their lives.

North took a step forward, his face suddenly uncertain. "Jack Frost-"

The temperature dove.

"Get out." The boy whispered, ice spikes twisting from the ceiling and burying themselves half a foot into the rock wall with a harsh crack. The den around them groaned unnervingly, and Pitch suddenly remembered that, if cold enough, anything would shatter.

When neither Bunny nor North responded, Jack's eyes widened with animalistic rage a second before he whirled around, turning his glare upon the Guardians. "I said get out!" He screamed, and ice descended so fast the whole room shook with the force of it, blocking Pitch and Jack from the other two.

Pitch felt it the moment the two left the area, taking the light they naturally projected along with them, until there was only darkness and the weak moonbeam that barely pierced the maze of ice. In front of him, Jack fell to his knees, altogether too still for Pitch's comfort, especially after that rather extravagant display of ferocity.

"Jack…" He whispered, and finally, finally, his hamstring reconnected back to where it was supposed to be-he just adored the super-fast healing that came with being a spirit. Pitch forced himself to his feet, grimacing at the tingling in his leg, and limped over to where the boy sat. He slowed as he approached, the utter feeling of wrongness growing as he neared, so much so that he was almost sick with it.

Jack was staring at the ground, face empty and devoid of all emotion. Only his eyes gave away his true thoughts-shattered and broken, asking one simple question, which was so hard to answer-why?

Pitch gathered Jack into his arms, and hugged the boy close.

Jack did not cry.

(Three days later, a healthy distance from Christmas, Pitch carefully gave Jack back the staff he had so lovingly carved with depictions of frost as a present. The boy's smile dimmed minutely, but then the darkness faded, and he cheerfully thanked Pitch, any shadows tucked cheerfully behind a mask of happiness. Pitch knew better, though.)

The years passed, and everything and nothing changed during that time.

They moved to a new home, partially because Pitch was getting bored with the scenery, and partially because the Guardians now knew where he lived, and that made him very nervous. Jack had seemed...not unreceptive to the idea, but definitely uncertain, which only reminded Pitch as to how young the spirit was. After all, he'd lived in the same place for the first ten years of his life-the only ten years of his life.

Pitch decided to choose a place far away from Burgess, but still in the far north, because Jack couldn't handle hot summers very well. He didn't want to leave this continent-as much as he enjoyed the wry, dark humor of Europe and Asia, it held too many bad memories for him-but America was getting a bit dull for his tastes. Canada, now that was more like it. The winters were brutally cold and the summers were usually cool, and the people were easy to frighten with diseases, witchcraft, and natives.

Jack did not object to this decision, not that he objected to anything much; Pitch usually found him to be fairly easy-going, for all his big talk. He wasn't entirely certain if this was because Jack honestly didn't care, or if the boy was just willing to go along with whatever he said. It was a question that bothered him in the abstract, but for now he just took it as the blessing it was. He wasn't exactly sure when the mulish 'teenager years' would come along, but he was hoping that if they happened at all, it would be far in the future.

So they picked themselves a new home to settle into: the ruins of an old mansion, which the locals thought was haunted. Of course, Pitch did nothing to discourage these rumors.

But things were still the same; Jack still flew the winds everywhere (he had a preference for Burgess, his birthplace, but Pitch thought he probably always would) and caused giant drifts of snow and made a general nuisance of himself. Pitch continued to stalk the shadows and the nightmares of small children, picking up knicknacks and other small items as he went. The children of the local village became more and more convinced that the house was haunted, especially when frost began creeping up the walls like nothing natural should.

It was nice, Pitch supposed. The house was old but roomy, and the local people where the normal breed, quick to laugh but easy to frighten. And yet...it wasn't the same as the home in Burgess, with its snaking tunnels and its cool damp. Pitch used to be able to tell whenever Jack came home, because the ever present water would freeze on the walls. And the knicknacks-well, the floors used to be covered with his treasures, and he could sit on a little rocky outcropping and simply admire the massive piles for hours. In this house he had to tone it down a little bit, and had to use several rooms, and he wasn't able to see it all at once.

He missed his cave. In a place like this, he felt as though he were squatting, homeless and simply existing until he found a real place to live. He didn't know if Jack felt the same, but…

Pitch hated the Guardians more in that moment than he had ever had in his entire life.

First they had taken his power from him, so he was weaker now than he had ever been before. And then, disgusted by his descent from greatness, the people who he used to think of as friends, who used to come crawling to him, begging for help, scorned him. They treated him as though he were no longer real, as though he were no longer worth knowing. And the Guardians-well, they thought they were so great and noble, but they did nothing to discourage the cruel mockery, and in some cases even encouraged it.

And then they had attacked a young winter spirit, who had done nothing wrong, because he smelled like Pitch. And Pitch and Jack had been forced to leave their comfortable cave because of it.

The Guardians had taken everything from him-his power, his pride, his home, and now even his peace of mind. Because both Pitch and Jack were a little jumpy, and were frequently looking over their shoulders for another attack. Which was wrong, because this was supposed to be home to them, this was supposed to be a place where they could live in peace.

Pitch hated how easily he'd been defeated by the two Guardians, like they were squashing a bug under their feet. He hated that his leg, the one that'd been hamstrung, still throbbed occasionally with remembrance. He loathed the lack of power he had, and by extension, the lack of power he had to defend himself and what he cared about.

And it was then, in the early seventeen hundreds, that an idea began to tickle his mind. Why should we bow to them? Why should we not be seen, when we are just as deserving as the rest of them?

Why should we not be believed in?

-0-

2012

Jack swooped back into the house, letting out little billowing laughs as he sank to the living room floor. There was color high on his cheekbones, and his hair was windswept and covered in tiny layers of frost. His ever-present staff's carvings were filled in with bright blue ice, and the effect was rather impressive, if Pitch did say so himself.

"Jack." Pitch said, his smile sharp but warm. "Out making mischief at Burgess, I take it."

Jack grinned widely as he walked by, resting the staff on one shoulder. His long strides took him into the kitchen, where he stopped to open their freezer. Pitch trailed behind him like a shadow, and rested in the doorframe, watching the boy. Too skinny, he thought, but then again, Jack hadn't changed at all in the past few hundred years. He would always look like a malnourished welp.

"Yeah, a little bit." Jack responded cheerfully, and apparently was satisfied with the Coke slushy that was half hidden behind some bacon. Pitch scowled. He'd been hoping Jack wouldn't find it so he could drink it. But no matter. "I accidentally knocked some kid's tooth out, poor thing." But the boy didn't sound very repentant.

Pitch snorted quietly, silently disapproving of the rotten little brats. He had no idea why Jack liked them so much; they were short, snotty, diseased little pests that were only as good as their fear, of which they had little. But he shook his head and forged on, as this was an old argument he didn't want to retread. "Listen, Jack, there's something I want to show you."

Jack looked up expectantly as he poked a straw into his slushy, which was made all the more difficult because the drink was becoming more and more solid the longer the boy held onto it. "Is this about that thing you've been working on that you don't talk about?"

"It wasn't ready!" Pitch protested, then realized that he'd been caught when Jack just smirked at him. The older spirit coughed into his hand to hide his embarrassment, before nodding. "Yes, it is. Follow me, please."

Jack took to the air without a sound, lounging on his staff like it was a particularly comfortable couch as it trailed behind Pitch's crisp steps. The two of them were so different in so many ways, that sometimes Pitch wondered how they ever managed to function as roommates. Jack, despite being the spirit of winter, lacked all the usual features of one; constant tension, a biting personality that snapped at anyone it could. No. Jack was more often than not relaxed, seeming more comfortable in the world than Pitch had ever been. His only want seemed to be to have fun, and to have fun with other people.

Pitch, by contrast, was constantly snappish, and wherever he looked he found the world wanting. He would never be satisfied until he received the praise and fear that he deserved, until the Guardians and their arrogance bowed to his will.

They were an odd pair, their very natures so violently different that simply being in one another's presence should've created a volatile reaction. And yet, they had found companionship and even friendship, that was comfortable and lacked the usual edge that all of Pitch's other friendships had had.

And that was why he had done what he did. Because he hated that he only felt safe in his own home, and even then it was only a little. Because he hated that Jack was forced to turn tail and run whenever he saw Saint Nick or the Easter Bunny (or create giant blizzards as a distraction, as he'd done in 1968). Because he wanted to be strong everywhere, and happy everywhere, and not just when he was enjoying his friend's company.

"Feast your eyes, Jack." Pitch said, gesturing at the hard won prize hovering in a glass cage in the center of the room.

Jack gasped and nearly fell off his staff, gratifyingly enough. Pitch had found it harder and harder to startle the boy as time passed, as he became more and more used to the older spirit's ways. There was something very satisfying in the knowledge that if he chose to, he could still shock his closest friend.

"Is that-?" Jack scooted to the end of his staff, as though he'd forgotten he could simply get off and move closer.

Pitch's smug smirk crept leeched into his voice as he said, "The Sandman's dream sand? Yes."

Jack looked entranced at the gold dust that swirled inside the glass ball, resting his fingertips hesitantly on the surface, as tempted to reach in and touch it. Pitch had once or twice seen the boy playing with the floating dust (and had stomped rather viciously on a flicker of jealousy), though he didn't quite understand the fascination. The rotten stuff more often than not chased away the nightmares he created, further weakening him, and it was also obnoxiously bright. One could get a headache staring at it too long.

"It's beautiful." Jack whispered, dragging his fingers along the glass and giggling a little when the dust followed his hand.

Pitch scowled at that and grabbed Jack by his hood, pulling him away and depositing him in the corner of the room. He knew that he wasn't doing a very good job at hiding his resentment, but couldn't quite bring himself to care. "The Sandman has enough fanatics without you mooning after him." He sensed rather than heard when Jack flinched away at that. "Now shut up and watch."

Jack looked as though he were going to protest, but instead sighed quietly and stayed where he was, staff clutched loosely in one hand. He didn't look happy, per se, but Pitch couldn't quite bring himself to care. Jack would get over it, as he always did.

Pitch turned away from the winter spirit and reached over his shoulder, pulling his eternal cloak of darkness away from his shoulders and tossing it into the air. Usually it was invisible; after all, when light is shining directly on something, darkness hides in the form of shadows, shying away. However when Pitch so chose to command it, he could expand the darkness, turn it into a small bubble, where all light failed to reach. To the outside it would seem as though Pitch had vanished, but on the inside, there was only darkness, cool and as welcoming as ever. However it was a little difficult to maintain, especially with his waned powers. In his prime, he could expand his bubble of darkness until it covered several miles, allowing him to control all inside.

He breathed out deeply through his nose, allowing himself to feel a small shiver of vicious satisfaction. With any luck, soon he'd have that power again.

Jack let out a small noise behind him, and then Pitch felt him push through the edges of the bubble-obviously he'd been standing too far away.

The bubble didn't even encompass the edges of the room. How pathetic.

Pitch waited until Jack pulled up next to him, obviously using the light of the dream sand to see where he was going. "Alright," The boy said, looking around nervously. "What's so important that you had to make the bubble?"

Right, the darkness unnerved him. Pitch had forgotten about that in his excitement, but it was no matter. He'd only be uncomfortable for a few minutes-this was far more important.

"Just watch." Pitch grinned at him, and then manipulated the darkness so that it shattered the glass globe containing the dream sand. For a second the particles hovered there, as though surprised by their sudden freedom, before rushing to one side of the bubble, obviously trying to get free. Pitch sneered at the pathetic sand, then used the darkness to corral them back to the middle.

Then he reached deep into the sand, and pushed.

It was always odd, doing this; because for one second, the one second before his powers worked, there was always a draining feeling. He knew, logically, that it was because the Sandman's powers weakened him, but he'd always gotten the feeling that the particles were alive somehow, and fighting back. A ridiculous sentiment, of course, but there it was.

And sure enough, a second later the sand's bright light faded, and there was only blackness.

Jack let out a soft noise behind him, and he felt tentative, panicked hands reaching out, trying to find him. Pitch impatiently snagged one of the cold appendages, even as he snagged at one edge of the bubble with his fingers and dragged it away, letting the light filter through again. Jack looked momentarily confused, as he always did when Pitch did things without warning him, clutching at the other spirit's hand like he didn't know what to do with it.

Then he noticed what was in front of him, where the dreamsand had once been. "What-"

In it's place, there was a floating cloud of black particles, so dark they seemed to absorb all the light around them. Pitch grinned wickedly and moved the particles around with his mind, controlling them with the same ease he controlled his own darkness. Jack's grip was very, very tight around Pitch's hand.

"This, Jack, is my sand."

"You…" Jack slowly unclenched his fingers, and reached out with the same hesitance he'd shown the dream sand, gratifyingly enough. He carefully felt the particles, and Pitch could feel tiny shivers of fear running through the boy before he finally pulled away. "That's...amazing. What do you intend to do with it?"

Pitch grinned at him. "It creates nightmares, Jack. I'm going to use this to regain my rightful power, and to knock the Guardians down a peg." He gestured towards the floating grains, and they crept closer to him. "We're going to make them regret ever taking us for fools."

But surprisingly enough, the boy did not look so enthused about this idea. In fact, he was giving Pitch a very odd look, searching and nervous all at once. But Jack understood why this was necessary, why he was necessary, so why was he looking so….afraid?

"Pitch…" Jack said quietly, fiddling with his staff. "Look, as much as I appreciate-this….I really do! But you have to tell me-are people going to get hurt?"

Pitch stared at him.

"I know you have a plan-you always do, for these sorts of things-but does this plan involve hurting people?" Jack breathed out a little through his nose, looking as though any second he would run and bolt. "When are you going to stop?"

Oh, well-of course. The ridiculous boy was a pacifist, and more often than not despised seeing people injured, including his enemies. Perhaps it had been too optimistic to think that Jack would willingly come with Pitch to the battlefield, but he had expected a little endorsement, at least.

And then he looked-really looked-and noticed that Jack was breathing harshly, and that fear was radiating off of him. And he noticed the white-knuckled grip around the staff, and the tenseness in his posture. Ah, Pitch thought, remembering another conversation, so long ago, about balance and why both sides were necessary, not just one. "I'll stop as soon as they're willing to listen to me, Jack. I'm not about to go on a crazy mission to destroy them all."

And with that, all the tension drained out of Jack, and he gave Pitch a relieved, fond smile that showed that he'd been even more worried than he'd let on. "Thank you." He said, then turned to look at the floating sand particles once more. "I can't help you, because I don't want to fight, but...I'm definitely rooting you on."

And Pitch supposed that was all he could really ask for.

"Also, have you thought of a name for this thing?" Jack gestured at the darkness. "It's not exactly like you can go around calling it 'dream sand' anymore."

Pitch thought about that for a second, because that was very true-and then let out a short bark of laugh, because he had the perfect name for this. With a wave of his hand, the sand quickly reformed into the shape of a horse, a black steed that was more skeletal than whole.

"Jack, I'd like to introduce you to my nightmare."

Jack's laughter pealed out from him like the pure, sweet ringing of a church bell.

The first thing they did was move back to their cave in Berk.

"Wow, it's been ages since we've been here!" Jack practically squealed, throwing himself into the air and forming enormous clouds of snow in his wake as he flew through the room. Once again, Pitch wondered if the only reason the boy had agreed to move to Canada was because he would be there too. He….hadn't quite realized that Jack missed this place enough to get so excited about it.

It was an odd feeling, that someone liked him enough to uproot himself all the way to another country. The novelty of it would never wear off, he swore.

"Settle down, Jack, you'll freeze everything." Pitch said, tucking the feeling beneath irritation at their new (old) home being covered in snow before they even moved in properly. He looked over at Jack's old corner, where the Christmas tree had once stood that one disastrous Christmas-and they'd been in such a hurry to leave that they hadn't taken the damn thing down-but of course, time had knocked it down and chewed the dead wood until it was a pile of mulch and broken scraps.

He'd...expected something to have lasted.

Unfortunately their old armchairs had also not survived the past two hundred years; his looked as though something small and annoying had burrowed into it to get out of the cold, and Jack's had been...dismantled. Several pieces were missing, and Pitch thought that probably some rotten children had decided to make a campfire or something equally cheerful and unpleasant.

He noticed a small lump next to the foot of his armchair, and reached over to see what it was. He was barely able to make out the old, faded cover of Dante's Inferno, damaged by water and chewed through by insects. When he picked it up, the pages all sloughed out onto the floor, and spine practically disintegrating in his hands.

Pitch scowled darkly, and let the rest of the book drop, pages skittering out in all directions. This wouldn't have happened if the Guardians hadn't forced them out.

"Alright, well…" Pitch hovered uncomfortably above Jack's new chair, an enormous hammock that he'd strung up between two rock formations. He flitted about a little bit, examining the book the boy was holding (Harry Potter this time-the sixth, to be exact), and the plate of cookies that was slowly being devoured, and…. "You'll...call me if you're in danger, yes?"

Jack blinked into awareness, looking away from the page he was staring at. "What? Oh, yeah. I'll be fine. Go on, go...you know. Fight those Guardians."

Pitch frowned slightly. "You'll leave a note if you decide to go out?"

"Stop worrying." Jack said, and while his tone was annoyed, there was also a note of gentle humor in it that relaxed Pitch, just a little. "This isn't like the last time, I'm awake and I can defend myself. It's you you should be worrying about."

He sighed a little, knowing that his nervousness was just a little unreasonable, but he just couldn't forget that Christmas so long ago. He couldn't help but remember as Jack was wrongfully attacked by that stupid furry kangaroo. "I'll be fine, Jack. I've got a plan, remember? The Guardians won't even get close enough to look me in the eye. Not that they actually could, the cowards."

Jack smiled encouragingly at him, even as his fingers twitched a little around the pages-he tended to get a little irritated if his reading was interrupted. Pitch was probably lucky he hadn't just been given the cold shoulder. "That's the spirit. Though if you're in any real danger-you know you can count on me, right? Just call. I don't want you to get hurt."

Pitch did not comment at the naivety of Jack's statement, but he did appreciate the sentiment.

The Guardians were...honestly a bit easier to defeat than he remembered. Perhaps it had been all those centuries of lazing about in their homes, not entering the field at all. It was a bit...disappointing, to tell you the truth. Pitch had been hoping for a real fight, not for some half-hearted banter and a few tearful looks. Though he supposed it had been interesting to see the Tooth Palace again; it'd been ages since he'd last gone.

"Oh Jack, won't you come assist me with this?" Pitch asked, lugging a cage of tooth fairies to the ceiling while simultaneously trying to ignore their excited jabbering. Annoying little creatures.

Jack let out a soft noise of surprise as he watched the nightmares and their cargo enter the cave. He quickly bookmarked the page and took to the air, coming in to get a closer look at the fairies and the teeth. "Woah," he whispered, seemingly unconcerned by the sharp beaks jabbing out from between the bars, like some sort of mutated porcupine. "They're...really pretty."

Pitch let out a soft growl of annoyance between gritted teeth, even as the tiny fairies immediately started cooing in embarrassment. And then they started cooing in excitement again, because Jack had revealed his white, dimpled smile. Annoying, annoying, little creatures; he wished that their was a way to get rid of them all quickly, but that would definitely put a damper on any negotiations with the Guardians.

He wanted to weaken them, not kill them. How uncouth.

"Are you going to help me or no?" He let out a soft grunt as he finally managed to secure the chain to the ceiling. "There's still plenty more cages to put up."

The silence that greeted him was rather unexpected; Pitch turned to look at Jack curiously, letting his hands fall away from the cold chain. The boy was examining the fairies with luminous blue eyes, and he had that look on his face-the one that meant he was thinking something that Pitch probably wouldn't like.

Pitch rolled his eyes, annoyed at Jack's sudden reticence. He'd said that he'd support Pitch's campaign. "Well, spit it out."

Jack winced a little, and then placed one slim hand against the bars of the cage; the fairies inside reached out and touched his skin, letting out tiny chirps when they discovered how cold he was. They made a rather odd looking picture, the boy who was paler than the freshly fallen snow and the bright, colorful little creatures. "Is it...is it really necessary to keep them in cages like this?"

"If you can think of another way to keep them from escaping, I'd be happy to hear it." Pitch gritted out, miffed that Jack was questioning him, because this was necessary! Of course they needed to be kept in cages, otherwise they would go out and help the Guardians, wasn't it obvious?

Jack let his hand rest up against the bars a second longer, before sighing and letting it drop, something like defeat entering his posture. The older spirit had no idea what to make of that, because….well, Jack said he would help, and he even understood why Pitch was doing this! What could the problem possibly be?

No matter. It was probably one of Jack's odd little mood swings.

Then Pitch noticed the little fairies that Jack had turned away from; they were crying and wailing pitifully at the winter spirit, trying to get him to come back. Pitch hissed at them, bearing his blackened teeth like an animal, and they shrunk away, huddling against each other. Really, no wonder they were so easy to take and defeat.

Pitch came to the cave in the afternoon, plans and thoughts running through his head, turning his mind into a whirlwind of ideas that he could hardly keep straight. He of course needed to make his next move during the Burgess night; if he gave up any ground now, the Guardians would be able to rebound. He opened his mouth to talk to Jack, ask him what he thought-

Only to realize that the boy was absent from his usual seat, the Harry Potter book sitting comfortably where Jack had once been. He glanced around, confused, wondering where on earth the boy could've run off to. Perhaps he had gone back to the town to play with the children, but that was a little ridiculous, because all the children were too grumpy to play right now. Surely Jack…

Pitch paused when he heard quiet murmuring, and after a second he realized that it was coming from the direction of the floating cages and the massive piles of teeth. A quiet feeling of foreboding building in his gut, he crept quietly in the direction of the voice, intermingled with the quiet fluttering of wings.

Jack Frost was clinging to one side of the cage, and the only thing keeping him from falling was his staff propped through the metal bars. In one hand he held a book, the first Harry Potter book to be exact; he was reading it out loud, and with his other hand he occasionally turned a page, or made a wild gesture. The fairies appeared to be hanging onto his every word, and quietly squealed whenever something particularly interesting happened.

Pitch could only watch for a few seconds, too horrified to do anything-this was the first time he'd seen Jack so happy since yesterday. How could he possibly get so much joy from reading a book out loud to a bunch of sniveling creatures too foolish to know when to give up.

And then, when Jack started doing the unwieldy, obnoxious accent that was Hagrid, Pitch finally snapped out of his trance.

He pulled his darkness around him, and then used it to push himself up, so he was level with the smaller boy. Jack didn't notice him for a moment, too engrossed in the story, but the baby teeth did; they all slowly backed away from the edges of their cages, quiet as mice.

Jack paused in his storytelling, giving the fairies a confused look. "What, you think the Hagrid voice is too much? I dunno, I thought it was pretty accurate, considering-"

"I thought it was atrocious, Jack." Pitch said cooly, and the boy startled so sharply that his staff came out from between the bars. He fell several feet before finally managing to right himself, clinging to the staff like it was a lifeline, but not looking all that repentant. "You mind if we have a word?"

"Pitch, you're back!" Jack said cheerfully, looking for all the world like he couldn't understand what he'd been doing wrong. The book was placed carefully on the small ledge of the cage."How're things going with the planning?"

"A word, Jack." Pitch repeated. "Now."

Jack's smile faded, ice blue eyes uncrinkling into a neutral yet vaguely defiant look, chin tilted ever so slightly up. Nevertheless, he followed Pitch in perfect silence, and only the quiet formation of frost that trailed him showed that he was feeling very strongly. Which was perfectly fine, because Pitch was also feeling very strongly.

As soon as he was out of earshot of the fairies, he turned on Jack. "What are you thinking, Jack? Those are our enemies! You shouldn't go around reading…." He let out an angry, wordless noise, "Stories to them!"

"Why shouldn't I, Pitch?" Jack immediately countered, a hint of steel filtering through his voice. "We're keeping them around only to weaken Tooth, but we're going to need to be friendly with them eventually!" His volume lowered until it was barely a murmur, but somehow it was all the more audible. "Or have you forgotten that?"

"Maybe they don't deserve to be Guardians, Jack." Pitch turned away, saying what he was thinking before he was even aware of what the words would be. "Maybe it's time for someone else to step up, take their place."

"What?"

"Oh think about it, will you?" Pitch whipped around, turning to face Jack full on, because this had been brewing for years. Not this argument, but this situation, this series of events; it was going to happen eventually, and he would need to know whether or not he could count on Jack to help him ride it out. "They're past their prime. All they do is sit on their thrones and never associate with the children they're supposed to...protect." He sneered around that word. "And when they actually do get involved, they attack innocent people. Is that really what a Guardian would do?"

Jack looked so stunned by the thought that his mouth snapped shut and his eyebrows flew up into his forehead. It just went to show, Pitch thought irritably, that being a thoughtless lemming was an awful thing, because it just made you look awfully stupid. Like Jack did right now.

"But-what about Hope? And Dreams? And...Pitch, if the Guardians are gone, who's going to help the children?" Jack actually stuttered a little, like he hadn't in years, like he hasn't since those first few awkward years together. It disgusted Pitch, because there was a time to indulge weakness, and a time to let it go for a greater purpose.

"The children don't matter, Jack-"

And that put the most stricken look on Jack's face he'd ever seen. "Of course they do Pitch, isn't this what it's all about? Isn't that what being a guardian means?"

And of course, of course. When Pitch thought that he would finally have someone who cared, who understood….of course it would turn out that they didn't. People were all the same, it seemed, selfish and cruel even when they weren't intending to be. Even Jack, who seemingly understood why fear was necessary but didn't want to let Pitch do what was necessary to restore himself. When it came down to it, those rotten brats were more important than he, it seemed.

Pitch stalked away, not bothering to answer Jack. He didn't need someone who didn't believe in his cause whole-heartedly.

Not even a friend.

Inevitably, there came to be a battle that Pitch would not do so well at. Yes, it was true that he had won a great victory of the Guardians, destroying their precious little Sandman, but now they were pursuing him more fiercely than before. He couldn't quite shake them, no matter how hard he tried, and any nightmares he dispatched to slow them down were quickly vaporized by Bunny's quick boomerang.

He didn't want to admit it, but-well. He needed help.

"Jack!" Pitch roared as he stumbled into the cave. He wasn't sure if the boy still wanted to help him or no, but at the moment he had no other allies who could help. "Jack, I need you to keep them from getting inside."

To his credit, Jack immediately threw down the book and took to the air, not even stopping to question what it was all about. He disappeared out of the entrance, and Pitch let out a soft sigh of relief. He knew he could count on his friend to help, even if he didn't quite get it.

"It's that cave," Bunny growled, gripping his boomerang with white knuckles. "That one from all those years ago. Of course he decided to hole up here."

Toothiana sent him a confused look, but didn't press. They were all still shaken from Sandy's demise, and she didn't know what sort of reaction she'd get if she pressed.

North just nodded grimly though, as if that ambiguous statement made perfect sense. It was a bit weird to remember that North and Bunny had more shared history than she did with the others. She of course had no time to socialize, being so busy all the time. "He is cornered." The big man said quietly. "We can stop him here."

But then the reindeer stopped moving suddenly, sending the three occupants sprawling.

North started saying something in Russian, but then abruptly his mouth clapped shut, and he turned to stare out across the empty space, toward the cave. Bunny was also staring, which almost never happened, because it was awfully difficult to get the drop on the oversized rabbit. Tooth decided she better turn and see what all the big fuss was about.

She looked.

It was a boy, as pale as the freshly fallen snow, wearing simple, frost covered clothes. He was holding a staff in one hand, and was fixing them all with an oddly intense look. He was also, coincidentally, the boy who the Man and the Man claimed was the next Guardian.

"Hey, isn't that-" Tooth started, but was interrupted by Bunny's surprisingly vehement,

"Jack Frost. I should've known."

Jack gave him a very calm look, before fixing his gaze on Tooth. She recoiled a little, taken aback by the sudden scrutiny, and a little confused by what appeared to be the shared history of Bunny, North, and the boy in front of them. But she was also intrigued-because when the image of Jack Frost had appeared in the thin moonbeam, it'd gotten the most curious series of reactions from the other two Guardians.

Maybe a little guilt, maybe a little shock, maybe a little hatred. Perhaps Tooth had missed more than she'd thought, holed up in the palace for years at a time.

"Hello!" Tooth called across the empty air, startling all who heard. "My name's Toothiana!"

Bunny threw a hand across her mouth, looking horrified. "What're you doing, Sheila, he's the-"

"Hello." The boy called very tentatively back, his hands curling self-consciously around his staff. He had very white teeth, she noted with delight. "I'm, um, Jack Frost."

That seems to catch Bunny off guard, like he didn't actually expect a response from the smaller, younger spirit; but then he just shook himself, growling. There was a look in his eyes that made Tooth think, very strongly, that he was about to launch himself at Jack and try and maul him to death. It made her a little...nervous, to be honest. Normally Bunny was a very nice….bunny; however being around Pitch just seemed to bring out the worst in him. In all of them.

Luckily, North stepped in before anything too drastic happened. "Jack Frost, move out of the way."

"That didn't work last time," Bunny muttered quietly, and sure enough, Jack just twitched a little, almost sheepishly.

"What has he done that's gotten you guys so riled up?" He shouted back instead, and there was a determined set in his shoulders that told Tooth that something...deeper was going on here. It wasn't just an open and shut case like they'd assumed-Bunny had outright told he that Jack Frost was no Guardian and would never be one. But….

"The Sandman is dead." North called back, and some of his grief he must've been feeling colored his voice, just a small catch that most people would've missed. They were all running on adrenaline, too hyped up to fully understand what had just occurred. But they were discovering it now.

But Jack's reaction was not at all what she had expected. Well, if he had been an enemy, that is.

Because he physically recoiled like he'd just been punched solidly in the face, his eyes flying open so wide that Tooth imagined she could probably see the tiny capillaries and veins running through the whites of them. He clutched his staff to him (it was obviously very old, and obviously very dear to him, with the way he was treating it) like a drowning man, and his distress was so obvious that Tooth longed to reach out to him. There was something….off about him, and not just because he was an enemy; he was too brittle, to fragile, his edges glittered like cut glass in the sunlight.

Tooth...looking at him now, looking at this small, scared boy-she didn't think that he was evil.

But Bunny-well. He saw that expression, that small movement, and took it as an invitation to attack. He lashed out, so fast that neither North nor Tooth could've stopped him even if they wanted to, boomerang flying with the same unnerving precision it always did. It cut through the air with a shriek, spinning in tight, devastating circles, dangerous and deadly and Tooth could only watch with horror.

Jack barely managed to jerk his head away in time, but a small line of blood cut open on his cheek all the same. For a second he didn't move, paused, as though considering-

And then he lifted his hand to the sky and called, "Wind!"

But that was ridiculous, of course. Because the Wind did not answer to anyone.

Until she did.

Toothiana had known the Wind for as long as they both had been alive; they respected each other, the way two powerful gods did. Tooth subsequently knew all the forms that the Wind tended to take; the small, fluttering hummingbird of the warm summer breeze, the great, shrieking hawk of the great windstorms. The Wind did what she wanted when she wanted, and only the earth could contain her, and only then just barely.

Except that a great transparent dragon was climbing out of the cave behind Jack, roaring furiously at all who dared listen. Her wings were magnificent, tight, detailed eddies that weaved in and out of each other, tiny tornados only visible because of the snow dusting along the inside. Her teeth were ferocious and sharp as any real teeth would be, and her roar-oh, how she roared, as Tooth had never heard before. As her graceful, pale neck stretch to the sky to wail out her warsong, the Guardians could only watch the magnificent show of strength.

And standing before her was Jack, so small and young amongst this ancient force, and somehow he was controlling her. The form of the dragon dispersed after a bare second (but a bare second was enough, enough for them all to feel the great and terrible rage), but the wind around them continued, buffeting them so harshly that the reindeer let out little screams of terror.

Then Jack lifted his arms to the sky, and above his head a cloud began to form. It was not a normal cloud, for it didn't stretch out, as nature had intended it to. Instead it soared up, up, up into the sky, and expanded out into a very tight cylinder, a force of nature contained only by the small winter spirit below. His face was set in a grimace, and of course it was difficult, these kinds of storms didn't just happen-but yet here they were, watching as the snow began to fall, slowly at first, but then with increasing fervor.

The snow battered like javelins against the sleigh, given all the more force by the howling wind around them. The cloud, after gaining a rather impressive amount of height, began spreading out around the cave, and still dropping snow. It became so fierce that none of them could actually see around them, much less the entrance of the cave. Even if they could move forward, the wind was a bit too strong to navigate through.

The only way out was back.

North let out a roar that was as much a noise of effort as it was a battle cry against the raging wind around them. He folded his grip around the reins once, twice, and then heaved with incredible strength, turning the poor frightened beasts around. The Wind responded in turn, and abruptly the snow began pounding against them, following them all the way as they left the massive storm that a young winter spirit had created.

They got perhaps a mile away before the Wind stopped pursuing them, growing bored with the chase. She let out one last wail of triumph, before fading from their surroundings with one last ruffling of clothes, one last touch of a gentle breeze, so they wouldn't forget her rage.

Tooth thought that perhaps that reminder wasn't necessary; she certainly wasn't about to forget anything.

They all stared at each other, the three of them, breathless and confused and at the moment looking for answers that none of them had.

Finally, Tooth couldn't help it. She needed to break the silence, because curiosity was burning through her like a wildfire. "That was….a winter spirit?"

North looked away. Bunny just looked spooked.

"No." North said with dark melancholy, tasting the words in his mouth. "That was Jack Frost."

"That was….quite the storm you created." Pitch said quietly, handing Jack a cookie and a blanket, listening to the enraged howling of the wind outside. It had been going on for nearly an hour, ever since the Guardians had attacked Jack. Jack had yet to say a word, which was...a bit worrying. Even when Jack was quiet and shy, he hardly ever shut up. That was when you knew you needed to start worrying.

Jack accepted the cookie, and curled the blanket around his shoulders. And yet, he did not say a word. If Pitch didn't know any better...well, he'd say that Jack was brooding. But Jack didn't brood, that was more Pitch's way.

He waited another second before saying, hesitantly, "You can probably take it down now. Wouldn't want to go scaring the locals." Hopefully that would get a rise out of him-the boy was, after all, very protective of the normal citizens.

Instead of complying or reacting in his usual fashion (something lighthearted), Jack just let out soft snort and said, "It only extends a mile in every direction. As long as no one comes near, they shouldn't be affected."

"Oh." Pitch said, taken aback by the lackluster response. He hovered for a moment, wondering what was wrong with the boy, but not quite willing to accept another round of questioning. No doubt it was something silly anyway; the boy was so sensitive sometimes, it was bizarre. "Well, I'll leave you to it then. Very busy, you know."

He waited another moment for a response, before shrugging a little and turning away. Let the boy brood, if he was going to put on such poor airs for his roommate.

And then, he was stopped by Jack's quiet voice.

"You're still going to talk to them, are you?" He said, and there was no judgement in his tone, no hesitance, just quiet and empty and cold. Pitch had never heard that tone of voice before, not once in the two hundred years they'd been living together. He was so stunned by it, that he only realized that he should probably respond a second later.

"Well of course Jack." Pitch lied through his teeth.

"I see." And then he turned away and would speak no more.

Jack was many things. But he was not stupid.

Ever since he'd first seen Pitch, that awful day when he'd nearly buried Burgess under three feet of snow, he'd known who he was living with. Not exactly who, perhaps, for he had no memories, and therefore had no reason to be scared of his friend. No, he'd known that he was living with someone who was, for all intents and purposes, the bad guy. The man was too careless, too cold, too full of hatred to be anything but the villain.

And Jack had known that, the minute he'd begged to stay, but he didn't and hadn't really cared about that. After all, just as heros weren't entirely good, Pitch was not all entirely bad. He was prickly and rude, but he also was thoughtful and surprisingly mellow if one got to know him. And he was so loyal, so fiercely loyal, that he would throw himself into a battle he couldn't win just because a friend was about to get hurt.

That was why Jack stayed, because he liked Pitch, for all his false bravado and sharp attitude. Yes there were times when Pitch had made Jack cry; yes there were times when it was all the winter spirit could do not to throw a punch. But yes, there were days when Pitch smiled at him like he didn't quite believe Jack was there, like he didn't understand how something so good could've happened to him.

That made it worth it. That made the tears and the heartache worth it, because he knew that he had a staunch and loyal friend in this strange mess of a man.

He hadn't really thought about the whole villain thing all that much, though. Not until Pitch had claimed he was going to topple the Guardians from their thrones and place the crown on his own head. Not until three Guardians had shown up on his doorstep, telling him how someone who had always been kind to him was dead.

He wished he'd considered this whole thing sooner, because then maybe the truth wouldn't have come as such of a surprise. And the truth hurt, there was no denying that.

(There was a time, a very long time ago, when Jack had spotted a strange glowing cloud in the center of the sky above Burgess.

When he investigated, well-there was a strange little man on the cloud, tossing out long lines of glowing sand everywhere! Jack had been so fascinated that he crept right up close, barely a hair's breadth away from the glowing particles.

And then he realized that someone was watching him. It was a funny little man, a funny little golden man, his hair wild like a lion's, his eyes glowing with bright mischief. He waved, and somehow Jack knew that this strange creature could not speak.

Jack waved back, and somehow he ended up spending the rest of the night riding on the giant golden cloud, laughing at the dreams of the children around them. Sandy did not say a word; however his smile spoke volumes.)

And now he was left with a choice. To stop Pitch, to bring down the villain so that the children could be safe, or to keep a friend, the only one he'd had in the last two hundred years. Who'd been there for him, and gave him books and, on rare occasions, hugged him if he was feeling sappy enough.

Jack'd thought...that there was some good left in Pitch. He'd really, really thought that maybe Pitch wouldn't go too far, that he would be able to hold himself in check. For Jack's sake, if for nothing else.

Now Sandy was dead. And, if he'd heard correctly, Easter had been ruined. The children were grieving for no other reason than an adult's grudge match.

Really, there was only one choice left to make.

Jack climbed onto the globe in the center of the room, watching as the lights slowly winked out. He waited and waited, and sure enough, there was only one light still there.

Jaimie.

Pitch Black found Jack Frost in the early morning, when the sky was still dark and cold, the sun not yet risen.

They would find each other again someday, and their meeting would be as new as though they were strangers.

Jack Frost brought Jamie to them, both children a little wide-eyed, but for very different reasons.

("I knew you were real!" Jamie shouted, running forward to get a closer look at the now tiny Easter Bunny.

"He can see me." Jack whispered, though it's so quiet that only Tooth heard it. It's so quiet that she was certain she wasn't supposed to hear it.)

"Listen," Jack said to them as soon as Jamie waa out of earshot, running to gather his friends from their homes. "I'm not doing this for you guys, because you're...well you're kind of bullies, to be honest."

North had the decency to wince at that, and even Bunny looked a little uncomfortable. But whatever they did, it was obvious that they deserved the dressing down they were getting now; otherwise they wouldn't look so guilty. But then again, she really shouldn't have been so surprised; it's so easy to forget that at one point in time, these two were violent fighters.

Jack continued on blithely over the top of her musing. "I'm doing this because my friend has gone too far, and it's up to me to bring him back down." The look he shot Bunny as he said this was one part defiance, two parts challenge.

Bunny didn't disappoint. "You listen to me, mate. I know we haven't exactly been friendly in the past, but there's a whole lot of history here that you-"

"Is there?" Jack hissed out, getting up in the Easter Bunny's face, which was ten times easier now that he was tiny and had to stand on the sleigh to get any height at all. "Because from what I've seen, most of your history consists of bullying Pitch for no other reason than because he exists."

Looking at it from a subjective view, Toothiana supposed that was probably what most people saw, because it had been ages since Pitch had last terrorized the planet. Though Jack really was missing more than he probably thought he was-the Dark Ages were utterly terrifying-from his point of view, Pitch had been kind to the boy, and the Guardians had not been. From his point of view, his only friend was constantly mocked and bullied for no other reason other besides 'he lives off of fear'.

Perhaps they had mishandled Pitch's fall. Perhaps it would've been wiser to try and negotiate with the spirit, to establish some sort of truce before this all festered and turned into poison. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. They could talk about what could've happened all day; what was important was stopping Pitch, now.

"Listen, Jack," Toothiana interrupted, because it looked like it was up to her to bridge this wide chasm that had opened up years ago. Even though she hadn't really been party to it's creation, her continued absence had seemingly facilitated it, encouraging Jack to think of the Guardians as enemies rather than the protectors they were. "If...if you can talk Pitch down and make him see sense, we'll talk to him."

And just like that, Jack turned to her, staring as though he'd never seen her before in his life. (To be fair, this was only the second time they had ever met.) He looked….hopeful, so damn hopeful that Tooth's heart hurt with it, and there was a vulnerability in his face that she never wanted to see on another person again. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bunny shift slightly, no doubt getting a heady rush of power from an emotion this strong.

"You…" He swallowed hard. "You would do that?"

Toothiana smiles encouragingly. "Of course."

Pitch had been betrayed by the one he cared most dearly for. He should've seen it coming, of course; just like everything good in his life, the Guardians were sure to take it away. Pathetic of him, to believe that anything different could possibly be true.

"Pitch, please!" Jack, the traitor, begged, as he touched a nightmare and let it crumble away into frosty black slush. Their powers, if used together, could've done amazing things, Pitched mused to himself, even as he swung his scythe at the boy's head. "Please stop, you're better than this!"

Pitch lifted his hand into the air, gathering the darkness around it, until it was a shaking, shuddering ball of power (and his powers were being restored to him, slowly but surely. Not too long ago, doing this sort of magic would've exhausted him; now it was so simple, so easy, and he loved it). While Jack was distracted with fending off a nightmare, Pitch threw the ball, and it was a direct hit; the boy let out a small cry of pain as he fell (but it wasn't fatal, he knew that, because when this was all over and Pitch had won, he was going to convince his former friend that he was right).

With Jack out of the way, Pitch was free to destroy the Guardians-only to get a face full of Sandy's dream sand. "Impossible," He hissed at the little man (even as he felt a small twinge of relief), and turned to face this new opponent.

The Guardians, they were-regaining their powers, from these children, regaining their own strength, and that simply wouldn't do. He was so close, so close to being the only one left standing; all he had to do was destroy the rotten brats, and then the Guardians would be gone. Destabilized. And Pitch's dream, of finally being powerful again, of finally being the one everyone envied and feared in equal measure, would be restored.

Pitch looked over, just for a second, as he avoided a downward slash of Sandy's golden whip. The children were, of course, running around and turning his nightmares back to dream sand, but they were unprotected. The Guardians had left them to their own devices, apparently reassured in the fact that Pitch wouldn't attack them directly.

Oh, they'd pay for that miscalculation.

Pitch seized control of some nearby nightmares and pushed them towards Sandy suddenly, burying him in a deluge of blackness and dark sand. Then, while the spirit was occupied trying to fight off the horses, Pitch allowed himself to sink into the blackness, away from the fight in front of him. Finding the children was easy, of course, as they were tiny pinpricks of light, their bravery like a flashlight in the midst of his darkened fear. Easy to spot.

Easy to snuff out.

He knew who he would take out first; their leader, the little boy who'd stood before him so defiantly, pledging to protect the weakened Guardians like they actually deserved such a thing. With him gone, the others would quickly fall prey to their fear; after all, children were predictable.

Jack will never forgive you if you do this, A small voice said in the back of his mind, just as he was about to lunge from the ground.

He considered that for a second. I don't care.

The next series of events...it's never quite clear to Pitch what happens. All he knows is that he rose from the ground, scythe lifted above his head, like the caricature of the Grim Reaper he was so often compared to-

He brought it down-

There was a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, a movement of blue and white as fast as the rushing wind-

And then Jack was in front of him, big blue eyes furrowed in determination, mouth set in a steely, hard line. It was too late for Pitch to pull back-the scythe was moving, it was going down, it was going to hurt his best friend-but he just barely managed to divert it a little, so instead of slicing Jack in two, it just razed a line down his entire right side.

Silence reigned, so still and absolute that everyone was too afraid to break it, too frightened to take away this moment of perfect stillness.

And then Jack collapsed, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, blood spurting from his deep wounds.

Pitch collapsed next to him, reaching out with shaking hands for the boy, his friend, his only friend, who was bleeding out on the ground. Tiny whimpers escaped hisJack's throat as his hands clasped at open air, the staff long since fallen from deadened fingertips. Pitch pulled Jack to him, a small litany of "Nononono Jack no, I'm sorry, please don't-I'm sorry, nono…." escaping with every breath he took.

He realized that one of his hands was slipping on something warm and sticky. He lifted it, and could only stare in horror at the thick layer of blood now coating the skin of his hand.

The older spirit carefully set down his hand so it could curl back around the boy, pulling him gently into his lap, rocking him back and forth. Jack had stopped reaching for the air, and was now holding tight onto Pitch's arms, like he'd-like he'd forgotten who had done this to him.

"It's okay, Pitch." Jack whispered, even as his face lost what little color it had once had. "It's okay."

"There's nothing to be okay about." Pitch snarled back, though it lacked its usual bite. "Because you're not dying, you overdramatic fool. You're not."

Jack didn't respond to that, even when Pitch shook him. Even when Pitch started shouting at him, uncaring of who saw his slow but sure breakdown. Even when Pitch began to cry, great heaving sobs that made him sound as though he were dying himself.

Later, much later, Pitch sat uncomfortably in front of North, holding the steaming teacup away from him as though it were about to attack. To his credit, North was handling the situation much better than he, sipping from his metal flask calmly and without his usual joy (though that was probably because of the vodka, rather than any actual composure).

For Jack, Pitch thought, breathing in and out deeply, and then drank down some of the beverage. It was some sort of chocolate mint mixture, and Pitch hated mint, and at any other time he would've told North how much he hated it. But...that wasn't very diplomatic.

He was here to discuss and hopefully come to sort of agreement with the other Guardians, not to...not to insult North's choice of drink. As much as he loathed the idea, he owed that much to Jack.

"Before we begin…" North said quietly, startling Pitch out of his thoughts, "I just wanted to tell you, because you deserve to know. The day you took the teeth from Toothiana's palace, Manny picked Jack to be a Guardian."

Pitch wasn't all that surprised by that. He swilled the steaming liquid around in his cup, suddenly wishing that it was half frozen, like how everything used to be in his shared home with Jack. The boy always managed to turn anything hot into something frigid cold. It had...grown on him some. He always pretended that it bothered him, but there were some days when having a frozen drink was...nice. "Of course." He said eventually, and took another small sip of the cocoa, grimacing at the flavor. "He would've been a better choice than any of the current Guardians."

Then again, maybe that statement was a bit hostile as well.

He was lucky that he was speaking to North, and not Bunny; the other spirit would've definitely attacked him for saying something like that. As it were, North just snorted softly and took another gulp of vodka. "It does seem that way, doesn't it."

Pitch was...offset by that reaction, so much so that he had no idea how he was supposed to respond. He'd always painted North and the other Guardians as arrogant sods, so sure of their own importance that they never bothered to leave their homes. Or their heads were too large to fit through the exit. To hide his surprise, he choked down another small drink of the mint concoction.

North smiled wryly, and gently extracted the cup from Pitch's grip, telegraphing his movements as he did so. "If you don't like it, you don't have to drink it."

And now Pitch had nothing to do with his hands. He twisted his fingers in the folds of his clothes, focusing his gaze on the far right corner of the room. This is why he didn't talk to people; it was so awkward. So much easier just killing people.

"But you know, I don't think he was trying to tell us that Jack would be a new Guardian for the children." North said thoughtfully, stroking his beard. "I think maybe he intended for Jack to help bridge the gap between you and us." Then he grimaced. "Though this was probably the last thing he had in mind."

Pitch forced himself to consider that sentiment, forced him to think around the anger that threatened to engulf him at even the mention of Manny and Jack. He thought about his own growing anger, his bitterness, the need to be believed in slowly morphing into the need to get back at the Guardians. To destroy them, the same way they had once ruined him.

And he also thought about Manny, and Jack, and the way things came to be.

"Manny created Jack, told him his name, and then abandoned him in a world where nobody cared about him or believed in him." Pitch said quietly, carefully not looking at North. "If I hadn't been there to stop him, Jack would've buried a town of innocent people in the snow, because he was scared and didn't know how to control his power."

North drew in a shaky breath, but Pitch didn't leave room for him to comment. "I know you believe in the Man in the Moon, but even he does not possess a clear conscience."

He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage.

Instead he said, "Perhaps he always intended for Jack to become a sacrifice."

In a cave in the ground, several miles outside of Burgess, a boy sleeps.

Those that can see him would think that he were no more than fifteen, with unusual white hair and pale skin. He has slept there for many, many years. He will sleep there for many more.

He is a reminder, and a warning, to all spirits who visit him; the boy whose fall once calmed the bogeyman's rage. Whose fall heralded the arrival of a great age of peace, where spirits and Guardians alike came to be close, and any resentment subsided.

For Jack, the Wind whispers, deceptively gentle, always grieving for the friend she once had. Do it for Jack.