Got Your Dancing Shoes On

Jack did not acknowledge the fact that time passed. He did not leave his room at all. He stayed curled up on the bed, or in a chair, or on the window seat, head pressed to his knees. His fingers would pick and scratch quietly at his skin – at any bit of it that had a black mark. It was futile work, of course. He would be left with red scores all over him. His skin, for some reason, was not healing itself like it usually did. He chalked it up to the curse.

Servants and soldiers came and knocked on his door. They knew he was in there because they had not seen him in the skies. Pyotr would ask if he could come in. Jack would not answer. Pyotr would leave. Everyone would leave.

Pitch would knock too. He would ask for Jack to open the door. Jack never budged from wherever he was sitting. He waited for Pitch to slink into the room through some shadow, but to his surprise and great relief, that never happened. His privacy was respected. That made it hurt more somehow. He prayed for death more often now, because if the curse or the voice did not kill him soon, his broken heart just might.

On the day of the ball, he was roused out of his lifeless pose by a new voice. A servant was asking if he wanted her to leave his clothes out in the hall or bring them in. Jack went to the door, cracked it, and took the neatly folded bundle that was hesitantly passed through to him. When the door was shut and locked, he lay them out on the bed and looked at them.

They were just as decadent as the previous uniform, if not more. They had more patterns on them. Fine, delicate embroidery of frost. He looked at the clothes and decided that maybe, after tonight, he'd go somewhere. Somewhere they couldn't find him. He could go anywhere, and although he and Pitch and the Guardians must have traveled every inch of the world a thousand times over, he knew that there were places he could hide.

He slowly began to get dressed. He'd start with Antarctica, he decided. And if they came looking for him there, he'd go somewhere else. Alaska, maybe. Or Canada. Maybe the Sahara.

No. He scratched that last location. He didn't do well in heat anyway.

When he was done dressing, he took to the window seat again. He sat and stared and waited, because what else could he do? The hours went by and at last, when darkness fell, he heard another knock at the door. No one spoke out there, but he went anyway, inhaled slowly and opened it.

Pyotr looked utterly shocked to see Jack's face. He grabbed his shoulders and shook him gently. "Where have you been?"

Jack raised an eyebrow. "I've been in here."

"That's not what I meant! You—you completely vanished."

"How can I have vanished if I've been here the whole time?"

That earned him a frustrated growl. But the grip on him slowly relaxed. "I don't know what you want, Jack. What do you want?"

He thought about it for a second, then said truthfully, "For all of this to be over."

"But what, Jack? What is 'this'?"

He shook his head and looped their arms together. "Come on. Dinner's starting soon, right?"

The dining hall was more crowded than before. There were more than just winter spirits there now. There was a wide variety of other elementals and elves and fairies—creatures of light, Jack noticed. As a matter of fact, the only spirit who really stuck out to him was Pitch Black. He looked away before he could focus on him. He wanted to go anywhere, anywhere. Even the Sahara was sounding appealing now.

"Alright?" Pyotr murmured.

"…Yes." They made their way around, and Lady Rochka approached and chatted with them for a bit before the dinner bell rang.

When everyone took their seats, Jack noted that Pitch did not sit with the Guardians as he did before. That being said, Jacks still did not sit with them. He sat with spirits he had never met before. He had to distance himself from them too. The dinner was, in his clichéd mind, a tiresome affair. He kept his mouth shut during conversation, and only opened it when he ate. He was mercifully left alone.

And then dinner ended, and everyone moved to the ballroom, and he felt so wound up that he thought he might smash the nearest ice sculpture and flee. There was a lovely quartet in the corner playing sweet music, and everyone was laughing and talking and drinking—and dancing. There was a great deal of dancing.

No one asked him to dance. He did not give them the chance to. He hid himself away in the corner, a wallflower to the end, desperately praying that he could run without giving anyone great cause of suspicion. Though, if he disappeared afterwards anyway, even if he told them, would that not be suspicious enough in itself?

An hour or so into the dance, he slipped out of the great doors and into the dark corridor to pull off the necklace and scream silently into the void of his head that if someone did not come to pull him apart soon, he just might do it himself. He was replacing the charm about his neck when he heard voices just down the hall. He darted upward to hide amongst the rafters, and peered over to see who spoke.

"—thinking that you are mad, even now."

"I am not mad. And that is not the reason I have to speak with you."

He peered down into the darkness. Pitch and Isobel. Was this the first time they had spoken since she had come to visit that one day in the lair?"

"What could you possibly have to say that I have not already heard?"

"You certainly haven't heard this, dear, I can promise you that." A pause. "It's about Jack."

Pitch scoffed. "I swear to the stars, if you want to lecture me on my personal life—"

"No, I just need to warn you—"

"You've given me plenty of warnings, and I have ignored every single one of them, and yet here I still stand."

"Will you just listen to me?"

Jack's heart thumped madly in his chest. He had to stop her. She was going to tell. She was going to ruin everything. Pitch would storm back into the ballroom to find him, to tell him that he could help.

Or. Maybe he would hate Jack so deeply for not bringing this matter to light that he would leave him be. It was too early to tell. He had to wait.

"…What about the boy?"

A sigh. "You should worry about him more. Pay more attention to him."

"I have been trying to give him my attention. But all he can see is that damn spirit." The bitterness in his voice nearly made Jack leave. "He has no desire to stand with me. He is…beyond my reach now. I think that he should stay here. With his own people. He's been deprived of them for so long, I can't…I won't deny him that. Even if I hate it."

"You love him."

"I have never said that."

"You don't need to. But I am not here to tease you. I am here to…inform you of a miscalculation that I have made. I take full responsibility." She stopped. "You know my network is vast."

"Yes. And I know not to trust you."

She laughed quietly. "And I have learned the same about you. This little game we play though—I thought I could up the stakes."

There was a heavy beat of silence that made Jack's skin crawl. Something was wrong. And he had the strangest urge to go back to the ballroom.

"I was not aware that we were playing a game." Pitch's voice was dangerously low. "What have you done, Isobel?"

"I…tried to up the stakes. And I miscalcula—" It sounded like she was being choked, and there was a heavy thud and a sharp gasp. Jack squinted and could make out a body pressed up against the wall.

"What, Isobel. What?"

"I—warned you—what I do—for the best."

Pitch released her, and she doubled over, gasping. "I will not ask you again."

But she did not answer.

Quick as a whip, Jack flew back to the ballroom and stationed himself by the table of refreshments and food. He could hardly hear the music and the chatter over his roaring blood. He did not understand. And he had forgotten. The entire reason all of this had come about—the only reason, in fact—was because someone had made a threat upon Pitch's life.

Selfish, he chided bitterly. Why the heck are you so selfish? And now Pitch…no. Isobel.

Yes. Isobel. Something was up. He was more than willing to bet that she was involved. Now the hot anger came washing over his body, because if she had anything to do with this, he would never forgive himself. He had trusted her, hadn't he? Oh, he certainly had. Had spoken companionably with her and had been charmed by her, and now?

Now she was walking back into the room with Pitch at her side.

Jack watched enviously as the pair made their way onto the floor and slipped into the slow waltz. He had not really taken much notice before, but Pitch looked very handsome in his old uniform. It was clear that the clothes were from one of his old chests because of the little golden patterns that decorated the black fabric. He looked so tall and regal, dancing there with Isobel Gowdie.

Just like the king he is.

Too much. There was too much to worry about. Pitch's life. The relationship. This—thing that was eating him alive. And there were probably so many more details that were slipping his stress-riddled brain. He scooped up a glass of champagne from a passing server and downed it. He was never really one for alcohol. It tasted weird. This drink was of human make, so it did not affect him very well. Pity. He wouldn't mind getting drunk out of his mind for a few hours just so he could forget.

Wouldn't that be nice?

A paw slapped down on his shoulder, and a cheery voice drew him away from darker thoughts, if only temporarily. "How're ya holdin' up, Frostbite?"

Jack turned and smiled a bit at Bunny. "I'm alright. There are a lot of people here. It's so noisy."

"You like it?"

"I do," Jack lied quietly. "How about you? Did Tooth get you to dance yet?"

The Pooka's ears flattened unhappily against his furry skull. "Did she ever! Did ya not see? She might be tiny, but the lady's got a grip on her. I was swung about the dance floor like a rag doll."

He could see the image. "But did you have fun?"

Bunny's nose twitched. "…Yeah. I did. How about you, kid? You gone dancin' yet?"

Jack laughed. "I'm not really into that sort of thing. And who would I dance with?"

"Maybe you should ask Tooth to dance, before she comes after me again. How's that for a plan?"

"Ha! I'll take the fall for you on the battlefield, but on the dance floor? Maybe not."

Bunny punched him gently and ruffled his hair. "You should go talk to people. Mingle an' whatnot. It'll be good for you. You seem a little down."

Jack scratched his neck and set the champagne glass down on an empty platter as it passed. "Do I?"

"Can't fool me. And…" Bunny looked highly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. "You haven't spoken to Pitch at all. Granted, I don't particularly like seeing the two o' you together. But…I think your friendship has done some good fer him. It's made him…calmer."

"Calmer," Jack repeated. "You hate him."

Bunny nodded. "Yes. I do. But you've done something to him. I don't know how, but you just have." He shifted his stance and lowered his voice, glancing at the Nightmare King who was still dancing with Isobel. "I'll be honest with ya. You might think the both of you are friends, but he doesn't. I promise you that."

So much irony. It made him sick. "Then why does he let me stick around?"

"Because you amuse him?"

Jack considered it. Then he smiled softly. Once upon a time, he might have doubted it. He might have thought that Pitch believed him to be a toy. Long ago. But certainly not now. Not after what he had seen in him. He had seen Pitch's eyes and had known. The man was a brilliant actor, but Jack was confident in his ability to see through his lies.

Or not. He really pulled the wool over your eyes with Faust.

His smile faded and he shook his head. "No, Bunny. He l—." Too close. "Likes me. I think he really does."

That earned him the expected eye roll he was waiting for. "Keep deluding yourself, Jack. But I know Pitch Black. The Guardians know Pitch Black. And what we know is that the man does not have a real heart anymore."

That perked his interest. "What do you mean, anymore?"

"I mean…" Bunny paused and looked down at him, green eyes wide. "You know, that's not really a story that I should tell." He smirked in an almost vindictive manner. "You can ask him yourself. If Pitch is really your friend, then he'll tell you."

"Alright. I will!" Jack retorted indignantly. "Um. Later. I think Tooth is waving at you." It was both a diversion and a reality. The Tooth Fairy floated some distance away, eyes locked on Bunny's cringing form.

"Gotta go," he cried, loping away. Tooth darted past Jack with a quick wave, then shouted at Bunny to get back. Apparently they were considering playing a tango next.

He watched the chase with a laugh, then went to take his place against the wall as the current waltz ended. He spotted Isobel marching towards him with a determined air and straightened a little, trying to keep the sneer off his face. This did not bode well.

She stopped a foot in front of him and smiled thinly. "Jack."

"Isobel."

"You seem tense. Is there a problem?"

"Not at all," he replied pleasantly. I hope you're not going to ask me to dance. I don't tango."

"Nonsense, dear." But she took his hand with that steel grip of hers and dragged him to the dance floor. "It's another waltz."

He saw Bunny, terrified, across the way with Tooth. However, as the music began with a gentle swell, his fur flattened slightly and he settled to grumbling while Tooth pouted, but started to dance. The floor was crowded, so Jack and Isobel didn't have to worry about being heard as they talked. It was slightly strange, though, to dance, because Isobel was several inches taller than him.

"Well, you have the basics down," Isobel commented as he moved one hand to her waist and took her delicate fingers into his other. "I hope my height isn't too off-putting."

"Nope," Jack mumbled. The shoes did not pinch his feet, but he did not like them either way. He was used to going barefoot. And he was certainly not used to dancing. "What do you want?"

"Why the hostility, darling?" she crooned, her red lips brushing his cheek with a smirk. "You seem anxious."

He saw Pitch watching them, brow thunderously low, eyes unusually bright. "I just don't know how to dance."

"You're doing fine."

He wanted to strangle her, but his stomach did a strange flip-flip, and a shiver scratched his spine with cruel claws. He blinked several times, and the feeling slipped away, but as he prepared a snide retort, he swooned. To his embarrassment, only Isobel's nails suddenly digging into his waist kept him upright.

"Jack."

Ah, he just wanted to sleep for a thousand and one years. Maybe more.

"Jack, you need to focus on my voice."

It was a struggle not to let his head loll back. "Mmm, yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

That simple apology pushed some clarity into his mind, but not into the rest of him. There was a low rumble, and then a heavy, muffled noise, like a thud or a boom. His eyes widened. People were screaming. At least he thought they were. He felt like he was underwater, because that was what everything sounded like.

"Focus for a few seconds longer, dear."

He struggled to. "You—"

"I just want them to have a home, Jack. That's all this has ever been about. And I'm sorry about the misunderstanding. He gets carried away sometimes."

She stepped away, and Jack squinted wearily because when had she gotten a hold of his necklace? His neck felt bare without it now.

"Wait," he slurred as she started to slip away into the crowd which was running for some reason. "That's my—Pitch—"

He stumbled when the ground shuddered with another explosion. He knew it was an explosion. The screaming crowd parted just enough for him to see Isobel Gowdie hand the golden arrowhead off to a man approaching him. A man dressed in black with an unruly mop of brown hair.

"He was a holy man."

A man with an upside-down crucifix on his neck.

"He carried a cross with him, and he was very beautiful and pale, almost as pale as me."

Emily's chirping voice. So bright. Clear. Trusting.

"He had nice eyes. They made me feel warm and safe."

Oh, he felt warm. He felt like he was on fire. Like his skin was boiling. He could hear screaming, and people were running, and he thought there was another explosion, because he could see sparks flying in the distance. This place was going to be a mess.

The man stopped in front of him, and his neatly tucked wings now spread themselves, giving him the image of a terrifying demon. He smiled, sharp and razor-like.

Well, well, Jackie boy.

Jack was pretty sure he was going to throw up.

At last we meet. Again.

One pale hand went out, and Urdu Lili said with a grin, "You're coming with me."

Jack blacked out as he listed sideways, but not before watching the pretty ice sculpture in the punch bowl explode with darkness.

Author's Note: Short chapter. Weather's clearing up. Spring break!