When Jack next awoke, it was morning again. Of course, there was no actual way for him to know it was morning, he could just feel it in his bones.

Looking around at his surroundings, Jack saw that the infirmary he was laying in wasn't quite what he had imagined. It was indeed black, but its size was small, compared to the grandeur of most of the rooms Jack had observed here. The cot he had slept in was the only bed, and aside from that, the room was bare, but for a few small black cabinets and a black sink. At least Pitch had some care for sanitation.

With a quiet moan, Jack sat up on the cot. Well, he tried to. The moment he lifted his head from the pillow, it began to throb. It hurt far worse than anything Jack could ever remember feeling, and he quickly laid back down. The pain dimmed, though he was still well aware of the gash on his forehead.

"I'm never touching a sword again," Jack moaned dramatically. Unbeknownst to him, Pitch, who had been summoned by Onyx the moment she had seen the boy begin to stir, had been standing in the doorway. At Jack's remark Pitch rolled his eyes, and thought to himself, "I strongly hope that I was never quite that dramatic. He's being ridiculous." Pitch often was, but no one would ever be foolish enough to tell him that.

"It's not the sword's fault. You just need to learn to use it properly," Pitch chided him in an annoyed manner. After jumping slightly at Pitch's voice, Jack rolled his eyes and muttered Pitch's words to himself in a ridiculous voice under his breath. Luckily Pitch hadn't heard him, or he might have tossed the boy out the door right then. But Pitch was busy sifting through his cabinetry, looking for some form of painkiller. He never used any on himself, but Jack clearly needed it. Whereas Pitch was–sadly–used to injuries and dealing with them, the frost spirit was young, and had very little experience with extreme pain.

Mulling over this thought as he continued to look for medicine, Pitch wondered who would ever teach Jack about treating wounds. Pitch had learned from his father, while still human. But that was a painful memory, as were most of his memories, so he quickly moved on. Bunnymund had learned from his tribe, most likely, Toothiana from books, North from the Cossacks, and Sandy... Well, he didn't know about Sandy. But who would teach Jack? He was an outcast to them. A traitor, even, if they ever learned he had accepted Pitch's help. But if they wouldn't show him, who ever would? It was sad, really, because Pitch knew that he'd likely never learn. Jack would go through his existence lacking basic knowledge, with no way to learn it, because no one would ever teach him.

'You could.'

Pitch froze. That thought hadn't even crossed his mind. Him? Him teach Jack?

"What are you looking for? Oh, and can you make my head stop hurting? I know that's kinda a lot to ask, but I don't know how."

And there it was. Jack was almost asking Pitch to teach him. Without even realizing what he was doing, Pitch had closed the cabinet, which, sadly, had not contained any painkillers, and was striding over to Jack's mat.

"I can't find you any painkillers, so this process will be a bit more painful than it would be with them."

He ignored Jack's, "Obviously."

"So that next time something like this happens you ca fix yourself up, I'm going to tell you what I'm doing. Now listen carefully, because I won't be helping you again.

"You start by..."

And so Pitch Black, the former Nightmare King, found himself teaching Jack Frost, whom he viewed a mere week before to be his greatest enemy of all the Guardians, how to properly tend to an injury. He soon found himself digressing to teaching Jack about caring for broken bones, fractured bones, sprains, bruises, and nearly every other injury as well. Much to his surprise, Jack was still, quiet and listening attentively the entire time, which simply encouraged Pitch's newfound teacher-side more.

Jack had taken advantage of Pitch's teaching. Never before had anyone ever tried to teach him anything. He soaked up all of the information about diagnosing, cleaning, setting, and wrapping injuries like a sponge. Though no one had ever really noticed–no one had ever really seen him before, and the Guardians hadn't taken the chance to learn this much about him–, Jack had an incredible memory. It wasn't a problem for him to take in everything Pitch told him. In fact, he found himself wanting to learn more. He had continued to ask Pitch (very intelligent) questions, carrying their conversation on for hours. When Pitch finally left, Jack fell asleep, happy, despite not having a dream.

Though he had been too happy to notice, Pitch had stayed in the doorway to the infirmary long enough to see how joyful Jack was before he drifted to sleep. It truly struck him. Without trying at all–at all–, he had made the boy happier than Jack had been since before Pitch first saw him at the lake a few days previous.

Could he really do that? Bring someone joy like that?

A part of him was utterly revolted by it. You know which. 'You bring fear! You're a monster who terrifies kids for entertainment! You are not some teacher! And you certainly do not make people happy!' it yelled at him. And, he admitted, it was right. Completely right. So why did he feel almost... sad?

'You aren't just a monster. There's still a man in there somewhere. A smart man who understands the benefits in teaching this boy.'

Pitch's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'understands the benefits in teaching this boy'?" he thought, angrily and demanding. He hated being called good. He was the Boogeyman for goodness sake!

'You are fading.'

"Brilliant observation. I hadn't noticed."

'All of the knowledge you have acquired is fading with you. By teaching the boy, you are leaving behind a legacy. A part of you, your knowledge, won't die. It will remain in the world as long as Jack Frost is in the world. You won't be completely forgotten.'

It was the last line that actually made him consider it. The last line hit a nerve. For that is exactly what had happened in the Dark Ages: Everyone had simply forgotten about him once the other Guardians, representing happier, more enjoyable traits, came. He had been forgotten. Over and over, forgotten. Forgotten by the world; forgotten by his Kathryn; forgotten.

The dark voice knew it had been defeated, and did not fight as Pitch slowly came to the decision that, maybe, the light voice was onto something. It allowed him to make the decision to try to teach Jack. To show him whatever the boy would let him show, and tell him all that he knew. It began scheming ways to change his decision, but, for today, Pitch had finally, for the first time in hundreds of years, set one shaking foot back on the right path.

He finally began to show again who he once had been.

Bouncy.

Energetic.

Hyper.

Excited.

Fresh.

Any other antonym of tired.

That is what Jack was as he lay on the cot in the infirmary. He had woken up less than 5 minutes ago, but was already bored to the point of having a mental debate over if spiders are creepier, or snakes. He blamed the subject of his thoughts completely on Pitch.

He was dying to jump up, run around, play, have a snowball fight, fly, ski even! Anything but lay around doing nothing. Anything. He would do manual labor! Mop, dust, garden, carry stuff–at least then he would be moving. Moving, and not stuck in this one place, with a killer headache, no painkillers, and nothing to do.

Whilst he was thinking about this was when Pitch was reaching his decision to try to teach Jack. Jack's focus soon moved on to counting the hairs on his hand.

Miraculously, this entertained him for the better part of an hour, but then he was just as bored as he had been before.

Luckily for him, that was also when Pitch struck an idea. It was perfect! It would entertain Jack, he could teach Jack something–assuming Jack wanted to learn. But Pitch was rather certain that he would–, and Pitch would get something out of it.

With a broad smirk on his face and a bounce in his step, Pitch ordered his shadows to take him to Jack's room. Much to his annoyance they ignored him, and he was forced to walk there instead. He eventually found it anyway, and eagerly entered the room to extend his offer to his house-guest.

His plan had worked. Really, it had been almost too successful. Jack simply wouldn't stop peppering him with questions, or asking for more work to do. The only reason Pitch didn't lose his temper was because Jack was indeed doing work for him. The boy hadn't really noticed in his excitement, but Pitch was simply observing him doing work that otherwise, Pitch would've had to do.

The brilliant plan had been to teach Jack how a clock works. Clockwork is difficult to learn; but Jack blew Pitch away and picked it up nearly immediately. Pitch wasn't complaining at all as Jack fixed clock after clock and begged for more to look at. Pitch had dozens of clocks throughout his home, nearly all of which he had found in human garbage dumps and brought back to his lair, never actually getting around to fixing them. With Jack's help, they would all be working properly by the end of the day. Perhaps when he was better, Pitch could even show him how to fix the body of the clock. Most of the clocks' bodies were dented or in need of paint and a good sanding, and if Jack found this much joy in fixing the inside workings, he was sure to enjoy fixing the body.

It was sad, really, just how much joy Jack did find in something as menial as clockwork. Pitch had always found it a relaxing hobby, but Jack was treating it like an obsession. Pitch supposed that that was likely because he'd never been taught to do anything like this before, which even a heartless being like Pitch found disheartening.

"Hey Pitch? I think I've fixed this one! Could you take a look?" Jack asked, excited. Suppressing both a sigh and a smile, Pitch stood and went to look at the clock Jack had just finished working on. It was an older clock, with an intricate body. A mantel clock from the looks of it, likely from the 1930's.

Pitch took it from Jack, who was still lying on the cot in the infirmary, and looked it over. It was a fine piece of workmanship, and Jack had it working perfectly again. "Very good," he commented. "I never would have taken you to be this good at a still-hobby." [A still hobby being a hobby like knitting. Something you do while sitting, without moving that much.] Jack beamed at the praise, but then his smile shrank slightly into a sheepishly hopeful smile.

"Do you think I could keep it? I mean, I don't really have anything to do with it, or anywhere to put it, but I really really like it, so I was just kinda wondering if you would possibly, maybe consider letting me have it." Pitch stared at him unblinkingly for several moments.

"Your ability to speak gibberish so fluently amazes me. Yes, you may keep the clock. If you wish, I could put it in a spare room," Pitch replied nonchalantly. Jack stared at him, looking shocked that he had said yes.

"Y-y-yeah! Yes, please! Thank you!" he stuttered, clearly not used to being given anything. Pitch rose with the clock and started to the door. He paused and offered Jack another clock–an offer that was quickly accepted. Pitch sent Onyx to find another one–and then left the room.

He had to find a guest room.