I own nothing but the story.
North doesn't luck out for another month, when Jack flies in early to spend some time horsing around the workshop. Normally, he lets Jack go about his business without so much as sending a yeti to keep him out of trouble (though it would hardly make a difference; Jack is as devious as the day is long, and his workshop is chaotic enough on its own), but today, he follows Jack's path—discreetly, of course.
As discreetly as a boisterous, big-bellied man in a red suit can be.
He gets caught when Jack wanders down a deserted hall and turns a corner. When North follows, the conjoining corridor is empty, and Jack calls to him from above.
"Whatcha' following me for, North?"
The bones in his neck make unsettlingly ancient sounds as North snaps his head back, eyes meeting Jack's grin as he crouches upon the wooden rafters. The expression is as satisfied as it is accusing, and North tries laughing off the situation.
"Following? I'm not following—"
"I walked around the globe four times, and you were there every step of the way."
Well, that puts a wrench in North's plans. Fortunately, like any creator, North is adaptable. He plasters his face with a grin that matches Jack's and shakes a finger as he explains, "Well, someone has to keep an eye on you after what happened last time, no?"
He's referring to an incident that occurred nearly five months earlier, one that involved Jack, a large fire, and an unfortunate yeti who lost his balance. No one was hurt, thankfully, but his blowing machine had to be laid permanently to rest, right next to Phil's pride. The excuse works as an explanation as Jack's grin stutters into something more sheepish. He's quick to mask it as he drops to the floor, but North isn't above a little light teasing.
"Just be thankful 'tis me following you, and not anyone else," he chuckles.
He'd specifically sat Phil down and told him that murder was not something he would allow at the Pole, but Jack didn't know anything more than the glowering looks sent his way whenever he happened past.
Come to think of it, if North's plan is going to work, he would need to put a stop to any behaviors, direct or indirect, that will make Jack uncomfortable.
"Yeah, uh," Jack's giving him a shamefaced smile that's positively endearing, "I thought that was water under the bridge."
More like fire...he wants to say, but North doesn't. "Where are you off to today, Jack?"
The change in subject surprises the boy, but he's quick to reply, "The kitchens."
Curiosity blooms inside North's mind, "Oh?"
Jack nods, "I like watching the elves try to figure out recipes. It's like watching a bunch of turtles on their backs."
A beat passes, and North laughs. He can't help it; it's the oddest reason he's heard in a while.
"Well," he says, wiping the smallest of tears from the corner of his eye, "You go do that. Just stay away from trouble!"
Jack grins, "How can I?"
He's right, and they both know it. Still, North lets the boy walk away, and to keep Jack off his toes, North goes the other way. He doesn't leave, though. He waits a while, circles the work area, talks to a few yetis, then follows again. He has a plan; he's going to stick to it. He just hopes that Jack was telling the truth about his desired destination.
Of all places he expected Jack to go, the kitchens never crossed his mind. The kitchens are located at the bottom of the Pole, near the furnaces. It's a hot place, full of humidity and fumes that either smell of baked goods or burnt goods, depending on who was cooking that day.
He wouldn't take Jack for someone to hang around such a warm place, even if the sweets were there (not that the elves would let him take any; they're sticklers about their sugar).
But he follows, taking care to be extra sneaky this time. It's fortunate, he thinks with a smile, that he has what he believes are catlike reflexes.
When he first arrives, he's startled to find that Jack isn't there. He looks left, then right, but is met only with the spooked faces of several elves caught in various stages of tomfoolery. He doesn't tell them off—he'd learned centuries ago that it was a fool's task—but he wonders; where is Jack?
Until he spots the back of a blue hoodie peeking out from behind several racks of kitchenware, he thinks that Jack sent him in the wrong direction. But there he is. He isn't where he'd said he'd be. The elves crowd the ovens in the front; Jack is hidden in a far corner, almost out of sight and seemingly alone.
His curiosity dances a line near suspicion, and he, hoping the noises of the various ovens and stovetops will mask his footsteps, walks a path to the back, looking around. He stops, boot scuffing as he does so.
Jack is baking.
Several bowls and ingredients ranging from eggs to cinnamon sit in piles around him, hardly organized, but Jack has worked out a system. He stands with a bowl of batter looped between his arm and chest, a large wooden spoon in hand as he beats something white and striped on the inside.
Jack has a sheen of sweat on his brow and a look of concentration that rivaled that of his workers. He's so focused, in fact, that he doesn't notice North's presence.
It's hard to describe the excitement North feels upon the sight, but before he can think, he marches right up to the young spirit and greets him with a jovial, "Jack!"
The greeting turns into more of a scare when Jack jumps and the bowl slips from his grip. What follows comes straight from a horror movie (a Christmas themed horror film, naturally). The bowl full of delicious goodness that North no doubt would've enjoyed falls straight to the floor, time itself slowing so that he can watch it in detail. The mixture splatters puddles over the oven and elves and Jack alike, and there's a moment of silence afterwards, like that of a car crash or a similar tragedy.
Jack looks to the floor, then towards North, eyeing him with an expression that more suits someone who's been caught stealing, rather than baking. It's odd.
"Sorry," North says first, raising his hands to show he means no harm—because Santa Claus never means harm. He's still looking at the mess, and that, it seems, is what keeps Jack apprehensive. North is quick to try and dispel it, though. A mess in the kitchens, while a personal tragedy, is like finding snow in Alaska.
"I was just—" Jack's face is nearly as rosy as his own, and his eyes dart as he struggles to speak, "I was...pranking."
Though still crestfallen at the loss of what he decides to call 'exhibit A', North looks up, curious as to why Jack feels the need to come up with an excuse to a seemingly innocuous—and, frankly, charming—task, "Pranking?"
"Bunny," he says, "I was pranking Bunny," a beat, then, "I thought it'd be funny to put syrup of ipecac into his bread."
That's a silly excuse if North ever heard one, and he can hide the chuckle, if not the smile, in his voice as he says next, "You're baking."
"Pranking."
"Baking!" this excites North to a degree he cannot believe; it fits into his plan like the last piece of a puzzle, with every part snapping perfectly into place, "You can bake!"
"Yeah, so?" Jack's got his arms folded now, his stance widened into a more defensive posture, "Never underestimate the lengths I will go to give the kangaroo indigestion."
Cautiously, North approaches, eyes darting over the array of ingredients Jack had been working with and carefully avoiding making a big deal out of the mess, "Bah! We do not have syrup of ipecac here!"
There's a moment of silence as Jack blinks, then he says, quieter, "That's...because...I've used it all."
"You can bake!" North says again, "I didn't know you could!"
"You're not mad?"
"Why would I be mad?"
Jack's quiet, and North is bewildered. Not even after the incident with the blowing machine did Jack look...like he does. North would almost call it embarrassed.
He never gets an answer, and he moves on instead, asking, with as much gentleness as his voice could muster, "What all can you do?"
Later, the Guardians are marveling over various snacks and goodies at the meeting. Jack watches from afar, knees drawn up to his chest and elbows propped on top. Though he's pleased that his work is appreciated, he's thankful that North hasn't told them exactly where those snacks came from.
He's not embarrassed—that's what he tells himself, anyways—but he's slightly self-conscious. He's not sure what to feel about it, actually.
North asked him earlier if, after trying some of the cinnamon mix he'd set aside, he could make some of the snacks that evening instead of the elves. Jack agreed, but only because he didn't want North to think he was nervous.
Because he wasn't. Isn't.
The result was a plate of snickerdoodles (his favorite, by name alone), and a pie that he'd already placed in an oven when North found him.
And he wasn't nervous. Isn't nervous.
He's also sure that the feeling that's washed over him is not relief that the Guardians like his skills, because he has no reason to feel that way. No, none at all.
"Make sure not to eat too much," Tooth is in the middle of polishing off her third slice of chocolate brownie peanut butter pie, but she isn't yet above lecturing about the importance of gum health.
"Jack," calls North, his stare more pointed than usual, "Why aren't you eating?"
It would seem odd that Jack isn't eating his own cooking, especially since he hadn't tampered with it in any ill-meaning way, but in all honesty, he enjoys the process of baking more than he enjoys actual consumption. "I'm good," Jack holds up a hand to drive his point home, "I don't need to eat."
Something passes through North's eyes that Jack doesn't think he was meant to see, and it prompts him to reach out and take one of his own snickerdoodles. As he takes a bite to show North he's a good sport, he thinks that maybe distaste for flying on a full stomach would have been a better excuse. He makes a note to save the idea for later.
North had been incredibly excited when he'd found—no, thinks Jack—caught him baking cinnamon bread in the kitchens (Jack chides himself for not lying when North asked where he was going; he's found that in the months since he became a Guardian, it was getting increasingly harder to lie to this pleasurable group of spirits). He'd asked all sorts of questions: where did you learn to bake? What are you making? Can you make more?
Jack didn't think too much at first. He figured that North was curious and nothing more.
Now, as he observes North switching between interacting with the group and giving him knowing smiles over their shoulders, he thinks that North has something else in mind. Call it a hunch, but the twinkle that normally shines from North's eyes is looking a little more mischievous than usual, like North knows something he doesn't, and Jack isn't sure what to make of it.
Then the meeting ends, and North approaches him before he can leave.
"Your snacks were a hit!" he starts, giving a devilish grin that matches his eyes. "I haven't a single leftover."
"Of course," Jack replies easily enough, "If I set out to do something, I don't drag my heels."
"I'm aware," North chuckles, folding his arms over his chest. The action is casual enough for Jack to lower his hackles, but then North clears his throat, and his suspicions rise again. "Jack," he states.
The mischievous glint in his eye is toeing a border near concerned, and Jack doesn't care for that combination at all.
"Yes?"
"Can I ask you to bake for us again?"
Jack thinks, still watching North with the same intensity the man was giving him, "I can."
North beams, but he isn't finished, "You know, I'm fond of baking, myself."
Jack nods. That cuts out.
"So," says North, and the mischievous glint rears its head, "I was thinking, if you'd like to, that maybe you could come in next week and bake with me. I would love to see all you can do."
That explains the twinkle. North likely had this planned from the moment he caught Jack messing around with foods and tools that he really should have left alone. It's the story of his life, he guesses.
Jack smirks, but the excuse he's about to give dies in his throat.
He's not sure if North is doing something with his face to make him harder to refuse, but for some reason, the idea of saying no to an innocent—and, a part of him thinks distantly—flattering request is something he can't bring himself to do. Instead, he heaves a slow, heavy sigh, and smiles.
"Sure, why not?"
The expression North gives him is almost worth the mortification of getting caught and the subsequent series of events; the man genuinely wants to spend time with him.
It's a nice thing to realize, enough to make him forget the fact that he would be baking with someone who is likely the leading expert in all things sweet.
What the heck, he thinks as he bids goodbye and flies away, it'll be an afternoon.
Just that, he decides as he lets the winds carry him across an endless horizon.
He doesn't notice North watching him as he goes, nor the thumbs up he gives to the Pooka behind him.
*Syrup of ipecac is a type of medicine meant to cause vomiting in case one accidentally ingests a poison. It's only meant to be taken with water.
Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! You guys really made my day!
And thank you all for reading this far! I hope you have a fantastic week!
