I subscribe to bookworm Jack. Just giving a fair warning.

Bod has three housemates, all guys about his age. (What age is that? 20-ish, I'm guessing. The lack of birth certificate makes it had to verify.) Picture the typical slovenly, fresh-out-of-college fellows who are pretty clueless about domesticity. They make only minor appearances, since I don't like reading about OCs either.

The house wasn't much farther up the lane. Fumbling because of his numb fingers, Bod fitted the key into the lock and creaked open the door. Frost hung back for a moment, peering into the dark interior, then followed him in.

"The hallway light's broken," Bod warned, stepping expertly over stray shoes. "Main room works fine, though." A flip of a switch, and his current abode was revealed.

He felt a quick stab of embarrassment at seeing it through a stranger's eyes. Between the four of them, they'd only been able to afford the most basic furniture, so the floor was the primary storage area for their belongings. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Bod reached reflexively for the thermostat, then remembered that none of the other boys were home. They hated his habit of turning it off during the day, especially since he rarely bothered to turn it back on when he got home. Vlad, who got off work the next earliest, would walk in yelling, "Christ, Bod, we're not Eskimos here!" But Bod figured his present company wouldn't mind the lack of central heating.

Frost was examining his overflowing crates of books. "They're discards from the library," Bod explained, tossing his coat on a chair. "That's where I work."

He wondered if he should offer Frost something to eat or drink; if so, what? Hot chocolate was seasonal, but maybe ice water would be more appropriate? He settled for, "Can I get you anything?"

"Do they have any Cressida Cowell? 'Cause I've been meaning to get around to those," said Jack, elbow-deep in the hardback fiction.

"I meant food. But I can see about the books, too," said Bod, wondering how he'd give him the books, and where Frost would keep them. Did he have a home? A cave, maybe?

"No thanks, I'm good. About the food. But yeah, books would be great."

"Sure." Bod went to defrost his own dinner. He ate silently while Frost became engrossed in Coraline. Once finished, he placed the empty tray in the trash, sighed, and started scrubbing at Henry's last cooking experiment, which had been soaking since Wednesday. He looked over at his guest, who was sprawled out on the floor.

"What kinds of things do you do, as the spirit of winter?"

"Huh? Oh. Snow mostly. Need a snow day, I'm your guy." Frost noticed Bod's involuntary glance out the window. "Don't worry, you'll have a white Christmas. North's just holding out."

"Who's North?"

"You know. Santa Claus." He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and promptly reburied his nose in the book.

Unsure of how to react, Bod proceeded to methodically dry off his hands. Frost made no further attempt to elaborate. Stepping over the prone body of his guest, Bod riffled through the nonfiction crate. A book on ancient China caught his eye, and he hunkered down next to Frost.

After a few moments, he got back up and relocated to the Autumn Couch. The air around Jack was positively frigid.

(The Autumn Couch was named so because, as Tom had said, "That thing's never seen a spring." It was the approximate color and odor of leaf mold. Henry, who fancied himself a poet, had ceremoniously dubbed it the Autumn Couch. He had then sprained his ankle when he jumped up on it to make the announcement.)

Presently, Jack shut the book with a snap. He rolled onto his back and let out a happy sigh. "Whew, whoever wrote that was seriously twisted."

As if he hadn't just been lying motionless for almost two hours, he leaped up to perch on the armrest opposite Bod.

"Hey, thanks for letting me stay here. It's been great. But I think I should get started on making the white stuff come down."

And with that, he was out the back door.

Taken aback by Frost's sudden departure, Bod scrambled after him. "Wait!" he yelped, bounding through the open door. He wildly scanned the windswept backyard. It was empty. "Jack!"

"What?" came the reply. Squinting upwards, Bod caught his breath. Forty feet above the ground, Jack's shock of white hair glinted in the moonlight. There appeared to be nothing holding him up.

"I'll get you your books!" he shouted desperately, now knowing what else to say.

"I'll come back for them!" Frost yelled back.

If he said anything more, it was lost over the rush of the wind. Bod waved both arms at him, and Jack brandished his staff in reply. Then he was off and away, skimming over the rooftops.

Bod stepped back inside, pulling the door shut softly behind him. He slowly went to pick up his book again, when the sight of the carpet made him laugh.

The Jack-shaped patch of frost hadn't even begun to melt yet.

"Microclimates," said Henry wisely.

"Santa just loves us," said Tom.

"It's going to be a pain to shovel," grumbled Vlad.

Bod said nothing. After all, it wasn't as if it was him who had caused their house—and their house only—to be blanketed with more snow than all their neighbors combined.

Fun stuff. There isn't enough ROTG/Graveyard Book out there, so I'm doing my part to remedy the situation. How was it? Please review!

More Bod-and-Jack to come, I think, although there will be absolutely no slash. Driving lessons, maybe?