He has preserved a frigid gust of wind from the Arctic Circle; when he disperses the small globe of shadows he holds in his hand, the cold breeze shoot down the tunnel as an informal, false summoning.

His mind is very distracted. He wonders where Jack is. He has not seen him since yesterday. Since their foolish little spat. Pitch wants to say it was Jack's fault, but his heart will not allow it. He will take all the blame if need be. However, he is plagued by unanswered inquiries. He wants to know where Jack is, how he is, if he is still angry with him. That is the most worrisome thought of all. What if the spirit will not return? He wasn't at the lair when Pitch last checked.

A rhythmic thumping mercifully pulls him from his thoughts, and he clasps his hands behind his back and watches the Pooka come bounding into this smaller chamber of the Warren. "Didn't expect ya to show up so soon, mate!" When he sees Pitch instead of Jack, his ears twitch with confusion, then droop with annoyance. "Aw, cripes. Whadda ya want?"

"You know what I want." Bunny scowls, but Pitch spreads his hands almost pleadingly. "I am blind to his troubles, Bunnymund. I am worried. He did not come home last night."

"Home?" Bunny latches onto the word with a suspicious look and a teasing gleam in his green eyes. "What do you mean?"

Pitch blinks at him. Yes, what does he mean? Home? His lair can hardly be called one. It is certainly not suited for a Guardian. For Pitch? Oh, certainly. He's been living there for as long as he can remember, but now he has this…wonderful creature by his side, and he wants to give him something more. Thanks to Lunanoff's words and the truth which is now inscribed on his heart, he wants to give Jack Frost the world.

"Whoa, whoa, wait. Did you say he didn't come back? I thought you two left together."

"We had a fight. He left. I have not seen him since." The Nightmare King pauses imploringly. "I can help him. I want to help him."

He can see the Guardian of Hope hesitate, and he cannot understand how this is a difficult decision. Jack is a part of the team, so Bunny should naturally want to take advantage of any opportunity that comes along to put things right. After a moment, he jerks his furry head. "Let's take a walk."

This is the first time Pitch has been to the Warren under invitation—although, now that he thinks about it, he wasn't really invited. So this is the first time he has been here without malicious intent, the first time Bunny has not attacked him for his intrusion. They walk; Pitch eyes the winding streams of bright spring colors with distain. Bunny notices the look and laughs, and points out the new trees and vines he recently planted in order to facilitate new designs.

"What can you tell me about the fight?" Pitch asks as Bunny checks on his plants.

Those large ears droop. "Which one?" he asks wearily. "There were so many."

"Start from the beginning."

"We'd be here for a long time, and I don't feel comfortable giving you some of the details that aren't mine ta give."

"Then start with the teeth. That is what started this, isn't it? He saw something in his memories—"

"Well…not exactly. Who'd ya talk to? Jamie?"

"Yes, though he said he did not know everything."

"Yeah. What really happened was…worse than Jack seeing something from his own memories. See, he went to Tooth for his box. And he took it away and looked through it for a few days. When he got to the end of his life, he…wanted to know what happened to his sister. And Tooth…made a mistake. She gave him the little girl's teeth."

Pitch knows what Toothiana does, but he does not understand the mechanics or magic behind her job. "But all he had were her baby teeth. He couldn't have known what happened to her as an adult. Could he?"

Bunny nods gravely. "Baby teeth are collected, and the adult teeth are left in the skull when humans die. However, the memories can transfer to the original teeth. Had Jack lived longer into his adulthood, he'd have more of his memories to look through, and maybe the incident would never have happened."

"But then we'd never have met him," Pitch says quietly. Bunny smiles a bit. This moment is too odd. They should not be standing here, conversing like polite acquaintances. All he wants to do is find Jack, go home, and hide away in the dark. However, he has some answers to find. "What did he see?"

Apparently, this is one of those "details" that the rabbit isn't comfortable with disclosing. "You've gotta ask someone else. But after that…well, we made a mistake. He had his little episodes, and we tried to…fix him."

Pitch rears up, snarling, "He does not need to be fixed!"

Bunny sinks even further onto his haunches, eyes wide, paws curled inward. "I know. We know. Now. But at the time, we thought…"

"No, you didn't think."

A shaky breath. "No, I guess we didn't. What we tried to do was…awful."

"Does it have something to do with the toys?"

Once upon a time, it would have brought Pitch great cheer to watch this nuisance of a Guardian wilt with sorrow. However, it makes him sick at this very moment, not because he gives a damn about Bunnymund, but because his reaction reveals that the toys are tightly intertwined with Jack's ordeal.

"He…told you?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Well, that's…oh."

Silence stretches between them, disrupted only by the marching of tiny feet and soft splashes as the tiny, animated eggs jump into the streams. Then Bunny gives himself a shake, as though rousing himself form a cesspool of distress, and looks at Pitch. "If I were you, I'd talk to Sandy. And maybe Tooth, if you're up for it."

Pitch is up for anything. He thanks Bunnymund politely, surprising them both, and even more surprising is when the Guardian invites Pitch back to discuss hiding places for eggs. "After all, you're pretty good at hiding, bein' the snake you are." Pitch takes that as an immense compliment, and says that he would not mind returning.

"Find Jack first," Bunny advises quietly as he slips into the shadows.

As it happens, Pitch does not have to look far. As soon as he steps into his lair, he knows Jack is there. The slight dip in the temperature and the smattering of frost on the walls are obvious hints. Pitch dives into the black tunnels of his home until he finds the boy curled up on that lonely bed they usually frequent when they are in a mood. He is on his side, facing away from the door, the perfect picture of cold dejectedness.

Pitch wants to sweep him up in his arms and hold him close, purge his soul of all the wrong he has suffered. But he does not know if he has been forgiven yet. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies their stockings lying on the old bureau. Maybe he can lay Jack's on the bed and slip out unnoticed so that the boy can have his rest. He moves to the dresser and picks them up, but freezes when the bells that are sewn along their edges – he'd forgotten – ring too merrily.

Jack does not move.

Pitch sighs. He now knows the young man is not asleep. There would have been some sort of faint stirring, for he is not that deep of a sleeper.

He pads over to the bed and sits hesitantly on the edge, then pushes himself to the center. He puts Jack's stocking between them, then begins to rifle through his own. At first, he considers tossing out all of the candy which spills onto his lap, but as he looks and looks, he decides that he does not mind candy canes, and he has always had a soft spot for dark chocolate, so perhaps the sugar can stay. There are also cards with holiday recipes for eggnog, gingersnaps, fig pudding, and more. Pitch does not bake, but perhaps he could keep these, just because. Several tiny gifts tumble out too, and he starts to unwrap one.

Jack shifts. Pitch freezes.

The winter sprite rolls over slowly and fixes Pitch with a Look. The shade is not sure what it signifies, but it is a Look nonetheless, so it must be meaningful. Jack tucks his own stocking under his arms and wriggles closer until his head rests on a dark thigh. Pitch is not sure where they stand, so he hesitantly raises a hand and rests it on his soft head. When he is not reprimanded, he cards his fingers through the shock of white hair and continues to open his gifts with one hand.

They are little baubles: a tiny fairy charm, a small glass ornament filled with undying, ever-flickering flames of gold, and an enchanted bell which only rings when he wills it. He then feels two more packages in the bottom of the stocking. That would explain why the whole thing felt heavier than when he had retrieved it last night. He pulls them out and weighs them, then starts to unwrap the heavier one. Jack lifts his head to watch.

There is mint lip balm, peppermint hand lotion, and a pine-scented candle, all wrapped up with a pretty blue bow. When he looks at the tiny card dangling from the set, he reads "Winter Skin Care Kit".

"That one's from me."

Pitch looks down at him with a small, hesitant smile. "You?" He is hesitant because he cannot read Jack's face. It is so neutral that it is nearly frightening.

"Yeah. I was going to have North rig the white elephant gift exchange so that you would end up with it, but…" And that is all he says on the matter.

Pitch drops an absentminded kiss on his forehead, and only when he realizes what he's done does he apologize with a gaping mouth. However, Jack's eyes glitter, as though he does not mind, and he says, "Open the other."

Pitch does so obediently, and is gifted with a scarf made of the thickest yarn he has ever seen. It is as black as his shadows, as warm as his skin, and as soft as Jack's hair. The pale spirit pipes up, "Do you know how many times I had to unravel it because the stitches were too loose? Pippa taught me."

The image of Jack settling down in an armchair with a skein of yarn and a pair of knitting needles while Pippa Bennett instructs him is amusing, but Pitch decides that he can laugh later. He rolls over the young man and loops the scarf about his neck, drawing him upwards. His hands replace the scarf and he mashes their lips together desperately. Jack responds eagerly, wrapping his arms around that dark neck and pressing their bodies closer. They nip and lick and suck, trying to make up for whatever happened yesterday.

Pitch wishes he could apologize for what he intends to do. "Jack."

"Mmn…yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I said stuff that I shouldn't have. I take it back. You're not nothing to me. You are my friend. Heck, maybe even my best friend, next to Jamie. Never thought that would happen."

The shadow is torn between joy and sorrow. To hold such a high status in the youth's life is a great honor, but the status is not high enough for him. He wants to be so much more, like how Jack is to him. "You don't understand. I'm sorry for that. And for what I will do. What I must do."

Jack pulls back hesitantly. "What…do you mean?"

"I am going to talk to them. I need to know." The youth jerks uncooperatively, but Pitch holds him fast, clutching him to his chest. "Please, please. I will take every single word with a grain of salt, but I think if I learn more—"

"No," he chokes out.

"Please, Jack." Those words are burning in his heart, words that he has to say. "I care about you enough to want to do this. You must understand that."

Icy hands slam into his chest, but they only generate enough force to loosen his hold and make him sit up. He sees Jack staring at him, furious, teary-eyed, hurt, and he takes that as his blatant cue to leave. He gathers up his gifts and puts them in his stocking—he is actually considering hanging the wretched thing up somewhere—but not the scarf. That, he wraps once around his neck.

Jack speaks suddenly as he climbs off the bed. "You don't have to. Please, just don't ask and I'll tell you when I'm ready."

"It will tear you apart while you wait. I can't allow that."

"And why the hell not? Pitch? Pitch! Come back here!"

He pauses at the door. All he wants to do is rush over, climb into bed, and cover the boy with himself. The spirit is just sitting there, hair mussed, lips red, cheeks pink, eyes red-rimmed and watery.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"You're mistaken. You do this to yourself."

"Why do you even care?"

There are words burning his tongue. He must say them. So he smiles serenely. "You want to know why I care? The answer is the most obvious thing in the world, Jack."

The Guardian stares at him, waiting, straining his ears.

"It's because I love you."

The reaction is not what he expects. Even if he does not know what to expect. If anything, it is far worse. Jack Frost shuts down. His eyes dim, his mouth slackens, his entire face grows cold and hard and blank. The most awful voice punches through his teeth as he grits out dispassionately, "And what would you know about love?"

That void—he thought it had healed, but it had wavered last night. The void threatens him again. He tries to ignore it.

"A great deal. I know about love," Pitch insists, for it is true. Once, long ago, he knew love well. He knew how to love. Although he tries not to remember that age, he thinks it cannot be too difficult to relearn. Not if Jack Frost is the one he loves.

"Do you? I find that hard to believe."

"So you know love much better than I?" He doesn't mean for the inquiry to be insulting. It is only a curious question.

Jack sneers. "I know a kind of love. And it's the same as yours, I bet. If you're telling the truth. But if you are, and if it is, then I don't want it. I'll never want it, never again. So you can take your love and fuck off."

The void rips itself open, roars its renewal and begins to consume him from the inside out. And yet, in the midst of the black hole, Pitch still smiles, albeit sadly. "I do love you, Jack. But I can wait for you too."

"You're gonna be waiting for a long time."

Jack Frost turns away and lies down; the sight of his cold back is the sign that this conversation has long since been over. There is no point in lingering. Pitch goes into the main cavern and jumps through shadows to his globe. From the protruding point of Alaska, he hangs the silly stocking while he soothes his broken heart with the faint victory that he has said those words first. He never would have thought…

Well, he has been doing many things lately that he never thought he would do, thanks to Jack. He has changed…no, he is merely more open to new ways of life. But he is still the dark, cynical spirit he has always been. Always.

Always?

He shakes the thought away. Open-minded he may be, but he will use his unsavory qualities to his advantage. It is time he and Sanderson Mansnoozie had a very serious, unpleasant talk.

Author's Note: Wow. An update the very next day. I can explain. First order of business: I might not have internet access where I'm going for Thanksgiving tomorrow, meaning I won't be able to update until Monday, so I said to myself, "They deserve a holiday gift!" So here it is.

Second order of business: if I frightened you with the ghost chapter, I apologize. The website's publisher was being screwy, so that when I uploaded the chapter, it just appeared as a giant wall of text, no new paragraphs or italics or anything. I said to myself (again), "They deserve better than this!" So I deleted it and reposted it the next day when the problem was fixed.

Final order of business: my USB stick, after over four years of loyal service, passed away late last night. Luckily, I had backed up all of my files 10 days prior, so there is not much to mourn, save the loss of a couple of new chapters of other projects, including the one you just read. I had to rewrite it, though I think this version is better. Moral of the story? Have backups. And update them frequently.

Sorry for the long note. Happy Thanksgiving!