The first half of December passed surprisingly quickly. Pitch's weekly storytelling session was gaining in popularity and he strived to make each new story scarier than the last. He lived for the frightened looks on the faces of his audience, but the praise and compliments he received didn't hurt, either. It fed his ego in ways that the fear could not, and kept him in a decent mood.

He and Sandman spent their free time debating the merits of fear and their place in dreams, but occasionally their conversations drifted onto other topics. Sometimes they reminisced about the dark ages (the good old days, as Pitch liked to think of them) when the nightmares were darker but the dreams were purer.

This is how it used to be, Pitch thought suddenly, as they chatted over a pot of Oolong at the tea shop. They hadn't always fought. Sometimes they had entire conversations before parting ways. It wasn't until the other Guardians showed up and the light started overwhelming the dark that he and Sandman stopped talking to one another.

Sandman drew a question mark on his napkin and Pitch blinked. "What? Oh, sorry, Sanderson." He wasn't sure when he started referring to Sandman by his alias, but being forced to introduce him repeatedly when they were out in public had made the habit stick. "My mind was elsewhere. Please, continue."

The blond flipped the napkin over and drew another symbol. Pitch groaned. "For the last time, I'm not calling you Sandy. You may like your childish nickname, but I don't."

Sandman drew something else and Pitch's nostrils flared. "Pitch is not cute. Your brains have rotted out from all the sugar you put in your tea."

Sandman's eyes twinkled in amusement, but thankfully he changed the subject.

Back home, Sandman finally finished his painting. It was a vivid scene of space, bright and colorful despite the darkness between the stars. The spaceship added a taste of adventure, inviting the viewer to go exploring.

"What are you going to do with it?" Pitch asked. Sandman carried it downstairs and gave it to the Bennett boy. Jamie was so delighted that he asked his mom to hang it up on his bedroom wall that very minute.

Sandman puffed up happily, very pleased with the boy's reaction. Then he pointed to Sophie. He wanted to paint something for her, too, what would she like?

Sophie bounced up and down on her heels, thinking hard. "A mermaid," she finally decided, "With big teeth and webbed hands and her scales are purple and black and when she sings people start to cry."

Sandman's eyes widened at the request. He looked at Pitch accusingly and the taller man gave a nonchalant shrug. "Sophie may have asked me for a story about a mermaid yesterday. I was only happy to oblige."

It was Pitch's last storytelling hour before Christmas, so he told his audience a dark and tragic tale of Santa's workshop shattering into black dust. His descriptions were so detailed that it gave his listeners the chills, and he hoped it was enough to dampen their holiday spirits, at least for a little while.

Sandman had come with him, and Pitch found him afterwards in the children's section drawing doodles for the customers. He watched as children and adults alike held those pieces of paper as if they were precious gifts, thanking the former dream-weaver with smiles and, in the case of most children and the occasional mother, warm hugs.

Pitch felt a twinge of jealousy, then stifled it down with sneer. He didn't need that kind of sappy adoration. He wanted to be feared, not coddled. Still, to have that kind of attention, from even just one person…

He shook his head free of such foolish thoughts, and just in time, too, because the store's manager was trying to get his attention. "There you are, Mr. Pitchiner," Ms. Watkins said, walking up to him. "I wanted to give you this before you go." She handed him a card with a snowman reading Dickens on the cover. Inside was an invitation. "We're having a holiday party at the end of the week. It's usually just for employees, but this year we're inviting you and the other storytellers. It'd be an honor if you could make it."

Pitch was about to decline when Sandman suddenly joined them. He raised his eyebrows at the card and snatched it out of the taller man's hands.

"Hey!" Pitch protested, but it was too late. Sandman read over the invitation and smiled at him and Ms. Watkins excitedly. A party! How fun!

Ms. Watkins returned the smile. "Oh, Mr. Pitchiner, you should take Sandy as your guest. You'll both really enjoy yourselves." Sandman doodled something on his notepad and showed to her. She laughed. "Yes, we will have eggnog. Can't wait to see both of you there."

Pitch scowled at the other man fiercely once the woman walked away. "You meddling little sugar cookie. I was going to say no."

Sandman smiled sweetly and patted Pitch's arm as if to say, and now you can't. Problem solved.

The night before the party, Pitch dreamed that he was telling a story at the bookstore, but he couldn't remember the words, and for some reason his pants were missing, and he had a big test the next day in school that he hadn't studied for but wait a minute, he hadn't ever even gone to school, why was he –

He blinked his eyes open. Sandman was standing at his bedside, eyes worried, his arm held out slightly as if he had been planning to reach for something.

"Why are you hovering over me like a mother hen?" Pitch asked drowsily, the images from his dream dissolving in the early morning light.

Sandman pantomimed Pitch whimpering in his sleep. Pitch flushed and looked away. "It was just a bad dream, incredibly tame and banal compared to the ones I usually have." He frowned suspiciously. "How long have you been watching me?"

It was Sandman's turn to look away.

"Well, stop doing it." He sat up, intending to start his day, then remembered what torture awaited him that evening. "You're really making me go to that dreadful party today, aren't you?"

Sandman nodded adamantly. He wanted to go, and he couldn't if he wasn't there as Pitch's guest!

Pitch sagged his shoulders and dragged his miserable body out of bed, wishing vaguely for some sort of natural disaster to occur that would cancel the party. But the day passed without any much-desired catastrophic events, and by late afternoon Pitch resigned himself to his fate.

That evening, Pitch changed into something a little more formal, taking great care to make sure his hair was perfectly slicked back. He adjusted his tie (black with black pinstripes – he had to give the yetis a little credit for such a well-crafted design) and headed downstairs. "Are you ready yet, Sanderson? I want to get this over with."

Sandman was standing by the door, wearing the most horrible sweater Pitch had ever seen. It was green and red and had a giant felt reindeer face on the front.

"You are not wearing that." Pitch looked mortified. "I am not walking into a room with you while you are wearing that."

The shorter man grinned and pushed the reindeer's nose. It lit up.

"No. Absolutely not. Wear something else."

Sandman grinned. He would change his sweater, sure, but only if the other man wore a Santa hat.

Pitch paled. "On second thought, what you have on is just fine. Let's be on our way, shall we?"

The bookstore used a rented hall not far from the town center for its annual Christmas party. Someone had put a lot of work into decorating the space from top to bottom. There wasn't a spot Pitch could rest his gaze without being bombarded by nauseatingly festive imagery. Damn North and his loyal followers! Children grew out of the Tooth Fairy and often abandoned their Easter rituals, but they never stopped celebrating this time of year. Adults may not believe in Santa, he thought ruefully, but they certainly believed in Christmas.

He tried to mingle. He really did. It was a pleasure to discuss story-crafting with his fellow writers, but when the conversation turned to the sorts of things humans usually talked about, he grew bored. Sandman, on the other hand, seemed to be in his element. He drifted from one group of people to the next, and though he couldn't speak, he kept everyone in good spirits.

Pitch eventually found an unoccupied corner. He stood there, nursing his cup of hot cider, wondering how much longer he had to put in an appearance before he could leave.

"Hello, Mr. Pitchiner." A young woman had joined him. He recognized her as one of the employees who often stopped and listened to his stories. Her hair was as dark as his and she was thankfully not wearing a dress that matched the decorations. "I'm really glad you could make it. I'm a big fan of yours."

"Ah, thank you, Miss…?" Drat, what was her name again? He used to be so good with names.

"Penny," the woman smiled. "The way you speak is so amazing. It leaves me in chills. Have you ever considered putting out a recording?"

Pitch couldn't help but preen a little at the compliment. It was nice to know that his voice was still terrifying, even while human. "That's high praise, my dear. But it is much more enjoyable for me to tell my stories in person. Call it an old tradition of mine."

"Ah, I see." Her eyes gleamed and she pointed to something above Pitch's head. "I'm glad you subscribe to tradition."

Pitch looked up. A sprig of mistletoe was hanging right above him.

Oh, no.

Pitch tried to step back and felt his heel hit the wall. Oh, no no no. Penny moved towards him and his eyes darted back and forth, trying to find an escape. How could he get past her without pushing her and causing a scene? What was he going to do?

Sandman was suddenly at his side. He wrapped an arm around Pitch's waist and gave Penny a decidedly unfriendly look. She took a step back and Pitch was too relieved to wonder what the little man was up to. "Oh, uh, there you are. Have you two been introduced? Penny, this is Sanderson Mansnoozie, my-"

Sandman gave the taller man a possessive squeeze and narrowed his eyes cattily. Neither Pitch nor Penny needed him to draw a picture to know what he was saying with that look.

Back off, sister. He's mine.

"Oh…" Penny took another step back. "Oh, I didn't know you were… that you and he…" She tittered nervously, trying to hide her embarrassment. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, I just… um, I think I need another drink, excuse me." She darted off to the other end of the room.

Pitch let out a long breath, the tension draining from his frame, then frowned at Sandman who still had his arm around him. "Was that really necessary?"

Sandman pointed at the direction Penny went and made a kissy face. Pitch grimaced and shook his head. "No, I most certainly did not want that woman kissing me." He gave the shorter man a small smile and added, "I suppose I should thank you for that."

Something subtle changed in Sandman's expression as his gaze drifted up to the mistletoe.

Pitch's pulse suddenly quickened. "Why are you looking up there?" he demanded, a blush blooming on his cheeks.

Sandman tightened his grip around Pitch's waist and reached up with his other hand to gently tug at the pinstriped tie.

"She's gone, you crazy little man," Pitch hissed, his blush spreading out to his ears. "You can stop pretending that you're going to kiss me."

The blond raised his eyebrows. Who said anything about pretending? He pulled harder on the tie, just enough so that Pitch had to lower his head or risk ruining the fabric. He stared at Pitch so intensely that the taller man fell silent, any further protests drying up in his throat like dead leaves in the autumn winds.

Pitch's heart was beating so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest. He felt like he did during one of his nightmares, except he was light-headed and oddly giddy and he was drowning in Sandman's eyes and oh gods he was really going to kiss him and no one had ever been that close to him before and he shut his eyes because he couldn't bear that stare anymore and Sandman's breath smelled like eggnog and he was so close –

Sandman pressed his lips to Pitch's cheek and gave him a slobbery raspberry. The taller man yelped in surprise, but Sandman had already darted out of arm's reach, laughing so hard that he could barely stand.

Pitch wiped at his face with his sleeve and nearly bared his teeth in rage. That… that… he couldn't even think clearly enough to come up with a proper insult! If only he had his powers, he'd wrap his shadows around Sandman and drag him right back to this very spot so he could—

His blush returned with a vengeance as his mind conjured up a rather explicit mental image. Where had that idea come from? He wiped at his face again, this time in an attempt to regain some composure and glared menacingly at the devious little creampuff.

Sandman looked back at him and winked.

Pitch quickly moved out from under the mistletoe, lest the little man get any more ideas.