Hola!

Okidoodle, here's a Jack/Willow interaction. I promise, this'll be the last slow chapter for a while. I'll try to keep it brief from now on.

DFTBA,

doubtfulfig

A gasp tore from my throat, like someone was ripping roots from the soil in my chest, and the force of it pulled me straight upright. It took a few frantic whimpers and steadying breaths in order for me to realize the sun-filled room wasn't the dark road carved into the side of a mountain, littered with pines and firs — not that you could have seen them through the blurs of white, or through the block of concentration you took to keep yourself from slipping on the heavy layers of ice...

I bit down hard on my knuckle, leaning back against the pillows. The pain my teeth inflicted on my skin seemed to keep the tears from bubbling up, so I just closed my eyes and focused on the breathing. That's probably the most useful thing I've learned from the flute lessons I took when I was younger. Now that I'd lost my flute, along with the collection of things other people got to claim of my past life, breathing exercises were the only thing applicable to my present life. Like, for example, filling up the four sections of your torso with air — diaphragm, lower back, chest, and the back of your ribs. Or belly breathing, blowing up your stomach and pushing the air past your chest, like you did when you were a baby. Before your stomach became the home of stress and worry, before you even realized stress and worry existed.

Or putting the metronome on at 60 and breathing in for four, holding for four, breathing out for four, holding for four, over and over again. It's funny how breathing kept me going. I mean, for most people, it's essential in a non-essential way, but it was my backbone. My lifeline. I could remember countless nights where I just kept breathing, even after someone screamed at me to turn the bloody ticking noise off. It came to the point where could count seconds flawlessly. 60 beats per minute had become the pulse of my life.

I slowed my intake of breaths, counting to four, then holding for four without closing off my throat. As I kept the air coming — in, hold, out, hold, in, hold, out, hold — I felt my spine melt against the pillows as I examined the room.

The sunlight's intensity felt like it was tripled by the snow lying in a thick layer along the bottom of the low-lying sill, packing itself against the window. It was like a wall of pure glass. I had to squint against the brightness of the early-rising sun, sending wisps of red and pink along the horizon, like a late warning of the incoming morning. The fire that had been keeping my toes warm last night had burnt itself out, grey ashes and orange-tinted embers lying pathetically dreary beneath the grate. Fortunately, the pitiful state of the hearth didn't detract from the cheeriness of the room.

Last night, I couldn't see past the far edge of the door, but now the snow-boosted sun beamed in through the panes of glass, exposing the walnut desk along the wall, which matched the woodsy beams running along the vaulted ceilings. What looked like a small dining table sat out in the middle of the hardwood floor, which was only interrupted in its shiny coziness by a bold woven rug — I figured I could lose a toe in it, it looked so plushy. A couple of chairs stood around the surfaces, the one at the desk out turned so it faced the others around the dining table. At the other side of the room, another window perfectly mirrored the one next to me. The walls were a cool blue, which denoted the very obvious Christmas-y feel of the room, without clashing entirely. It made the room glow with a crisp cold light, making it easy for me to want to be awake.

And then I saw the narrow silhouette, facing the window with his hood up over his hair. His staff was propped over his shoulder. I noticed that frost laced the knotted wood, but only where his skin made contact — that is, where his hand brushed it, and where it lay against the bare skin of his neck.

I inhaled louder than I meant to as I drew my hands out from underneath the covers — God, it was cold — and it brought his attention over to me. He swivelled his head, and the few moments it took for him to grin at me told me I'd interrupted his line of thought.

"Hey, snowflake."

"Hey yourself," I replied, slightly languid. I pulled myself up onto my elbows, so I could lean back against the headboard. Stars pounded against the backs of my eyelids. I glanced over at the table where Sandy sat at last night. The jar of sand was gone.

"How're you feeling?" His face teased me, with an impishly sharp grin that would make a pre-teen girl faint, but his voice cracked slightly with concern. It made me wonder how much of my nightmares had leaked out into the real world.

I paled at the thought of it. I hoped he didn't see too much of them.

And I really hoped I didn't snore.

I shrugged in reply. Pulling vacantly on the drawstrings of my hoodie, I inhaled that brisk smell of ice, and that scent of wild pine that fills up your entire nostrils. Moving anything in general spiked pain along the surface of my skin, when fabric caught at the hardened scabs scrambled over my body.

"That's for you," he said softly, nodding towards my bedside table. With a lazy gaze, I glanced at the surface by my elbow. At first, I didn't really register the steaming liquid contained in a blue mug, but when I did, I nearly spilt it down my front as I tried to get it into my mouth.

"I remembered you said something about coffee..." He grinned at my clumsy gulps, but I closed my eyes in delight and didn't reply until it warmed my esophagus. It felt strange, that something that was so much a part of my real life had followed me here, through all that fear and darkness. It kind of proved to me how immortal coffee really is; I've always said it's the elixir of life. Now I felt it, more so than ever before, as I let its familiar strength seep into my blood.

When I took a breath, though, I gasped a little at the unfamiliar fire burning in my belly. It was a pleasant fire, don't get me wrong, but alcohol wasn't something I thought the Guardians even had knowledge of. Aren't they supposed to be protectors of children? Kids aren't supposed to get the concept of alcohol.

As if he was reading my thoughts, Jack murmured, a little indignantly, "We're not completely naive, you know."

"So you go and lace my coffee with Bailey's?"

"North thought it might take the edge off. And maybe make you sleep better."

I grinned into my mug, downing the rest of it in a few huge swigs.

He meandered on long legs toward me, hanging his hands over his staff, which was slung across both his shoulders. The way he flicked that thing around, it was like an extension of his arm. It pulled the hood back a bit from his hairline, allowing icy tresses to poke out from under the frost-bitten navy.

"So…" I ran a hand back through my own locks of hair, placing my mug down again. His gaze flicked back up to me. "So, where's Emmett?"

A real smile, this time, small and wry, drew his mouth up. "I've been ordered not to tell you."

I bristled. "By whom, may I ask?"

"North."

"Santa Claus isn't about to keep me from my brother, thank you very much." I crossed my arms.

"He thought you'd say that." He chortled at the stubborn set of my jaw. "Which is why he won't tell you." When I sighed in irritation, he said, almost pleadingly, "You need to rest, Willow. And Emmett does, too." He planted his butt onto the chair next to my bed, reaching over me to lean his staff against the wall by my head. It raised goosebumps over my arms — no, not because he was unbearably hot, but because he was extremely cold.

Of course, my body decided to side with Jack, making me inhale deeply in a yawn. I felt exhausted, and it rusted my bones and the backs of my eyes, which I rubbed rather ferociously as I muttered, "Sandy, last night…said something about his leg."

His eyes looked everywhere but at my own. His jaw worked, and he brought his hand to the back of his neck, making his elbow bend at a harsh angle upwards.

Dread made me slump. The air left my lungs, leaving them limp in my chest. "Jack."

The cobalt in his eyes drowned out the steely grey. "North did all he could," was all he could mumble.

I sighed, allowing a smidgeon of the vast pot of anger, angst, trepidation boiling in my stomach to steam over and filter out of my nostrils. That would be some story to tell his kids someday. If we ever managed to get out of this fairytale land and back into real life. When I was your age, my sister murdered my father. We ran away, but the Bogeyman got to us first, and in the bus accident my leg was crushed, and the Bogeyman basically skinned it. And that, kids, is the story of how I lost my leg!

I tried not to shudder. I quirked an eyebrow at the frigid boy. "You know, you still owe him a snowball fight."

A silver glint reappeared in his eyes. Man, they could change on a dime. "I've been thinking about that."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. I'm thinking you both need to live a little." He poked my stomach, spreading little crystals of frozen water blossoming over the surface of the fabric.

"What would you know about us?" I shot back. I was aiming for a gentle tease, but it all but ripped the light from his eyes again.

His voice was soft, kind of raspy. "Too much, I think."

So he knew. About Jason.

My words came out shallow. "Jack. I know what you must think of me —"

"Sh." He touched a warm, but cold, finger to my lips, which were working kind of hard to bring out an explanation. "You were doing what you had to. To protect both of you."

Yeah. Yeah, sure I was, Jack. The only thing I could do to make it out unscathed was to beat his head in. It was absolutely unavoidable.

I longed to say it, but it wasn't true. And I refused to lie to him. So instead, I just pressed my lips shut and nodded, so he'd drop his hand. He smiled at me in a sort of lukewarm manner, pulling his hood back.

And, of course, my stomach decided to have the last word.

"Woah." Jack stared at my torso, slightly in awe. "I didn't know girls could make noises like that."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help but smile.

"So. Food it is, huh?" He wiggled an eyebrow at me, but I kind of blanched at the thought of a sandwich.

"Um. No. No food." I winced at the sharp pain piercing my stomach. "That would end badly. It's just my ulcers being stupid."

"Ulcers?"

"Um. Heh. Holes in my stomach. It's not a big deal." I figured the poor guy didn't know too much about… well, anything us modern-day kids knew. But, I mean, the boy just handed me a mug of liquored coffee, so I wasn't even sure what the hell he knew about anything. I rubbed my forehead, slightly dazed by the confusing jumble of knowledge Jack seemed to have of the world.

I didn't look at Jack's face as I wiggled my toes under the sheets. I knew the moment they'd make contact with the crisp air outside their warm home buried in blankets, they'd turn blue. "You don't happen to have any socks on you, do you?"

He quirked an eyebrow at me. "Really. You're wearing my favourite hoodie, and now you want to bust into my sock collection?"

"You haven't worn a sock on your feet since the moment you came out of the womb, Frosty," I countered feistily. "And it looks like you've got a whole closet of the same outfit." I eyed the navy that donned his own shoulders. No frost flecked the fabric on me, but it collected possessively along his collarbone and on his elbows and the edges of his sleeves.

He opened his mouth to argue, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he crouched behind the bed to grab something, then chucked them onto the sheets. "Here. North had the Yetis make these up for you."

I slipped the tawny slippers under the blankets to my toes. They were so soft — like heaven and cotton candy and old woman's hair and snow, but toasty and warm. These are never coming off. I hope I don't end up with fungi between my toes.

I frowned at that thought. It would be a price worth paying for these puppies.

"All good?"

I nodded. With my toes properly protected against the primed knives of frostbite, I started to slide my feet out from under the blanketed warmth, gritting my teeth against the swirl of fluid in my forehead. I needed to see Emmett.

"Uh-uh," Jack murmured, pushing my chest back against the pillows.

"What —"

"You're officially a bed-ridden patient." He eyed me playfully. "Like, seriously, we've stationed bodyguards at your door."

I rolled my eyes, but again, to prove Jack's point, my head spun a little. I had the feeling that I wouldn't last very long, standing up or anything.

Sighing dispiritedly, I sunk back into bed, curling into the blankets and the pillows. I could feel sleep tugging at my eyelids — the caffeine had evidently been outweighed by the alcohol, which was making me drowsy — but I was curious. The incarnation of winter itself was sitting feet away from me, watching me as I snuggled into the tangle of afghans and sheets, against his cold. I couldn't just sit there and make small talk.

"So… Can I ask you a few things?" I pushed my voice past a yawn.

He considered. I figured he was debating if he should make me answer his questions, too. But he decided to be kind to me, pulling his feet under his butt. "Ok. Shoot."

I mocked holding a microphone to my face, deepening my voice and lilting it around playfully, so I sounded like Jonny Carson. "Alright, Mr. Frost. Tell us: what's your full name?"

When I swung the mic in his direction, he laughed around his answer. "Jackson Overland Frost."

"Overland?" I made a face, dropping my arm, falling out of character. "What kind of middle name is Overland? Sounds like someone Judy Garland would sing about."

"Huh?" He just blinked at me for a second, then shook his head, dismissing my cultural reference. "It's weird because it's from 300 years ago."

Ok, he gets the talk show reference, but not the Wizard of Oz one? How much does this boy really know about real life? I masked my confusion. I'd have more than enough time to figure him out. So I just said, "So... so that's how old you are…?"

He beamed at me like an idiot. "I'm a seventeen-year-old three-hundred-year-old."

"That makes all kinds of sense." I rubbed my forehead again. "And you're the Guardian of…?"

"Fun," he filled in the blank. He grinned again. God, I figured I could cut myself on that sharp grin. He looked like a teenage hellion, which kind of went along with his next statement: "Snowballs and funtimes."

"Ok, so what kind of powers do you have?"

"Um…" He drew a blank. He obviously didn't think about it too much. "I dunno. I freeze things, I bring kids snow days, I can fly —"

"Wait, what?" I but in, snapping my eyes wide open. "You can fly? I've always wanted to fly." My tone was slightly acidic with jealousy, making him laugh at me.

"Well, it's not technically flying," he admitted, leaning forward onto his knees. "I just hitch rides with the wind. Like a snowflake."

"There's a difference." I snorted. "You're joking."

"Not this time, snowflake." He poked my nose lightly.

"Alright then, Mr. Best Friend with the Wind, if you're cold, does it mean you can't get hot?"

He twitched an eyebrow at me. "That's a very perceptive question."

I just shrugged.

"No, I'm not very comfortable whenever I'm in contact with something warm."

"So, no cocoa for you."

"Nope."

"Or fireside songs?"

"Uh-uh."

"No vacations around the equator?"

"No. Well…" He thought about it for a moment. "Only if I'm really high up in the air."

"So, like in the mesosphere," I supplied.

With a befuddled face, nodded slowly. I could tell he didn't have a clue what I was talking about. "Sure."

"It's the coldest part of the atmosphere." He nodded, but I knew I'd have to explain it a bit better later. "What about human body temperature?"

He shook his head gently, a sad smile upturning his mouth. He knew what I was getting at.

I thought, kind of sickened, about how much blood he must've been forced to deal with because of me. Holding his hands to my throbbing wound. I must've hurt him as much as Pitch had hurt me.

But I didn't say that. I just winced against my growing nausea and said, "Sorry."

He smiled a little. "It's ok, snowflake."

He said it like it really was ok, so I didn't press it. "But that's… kind of devastating."

"What?"

"No cocoa or campfires or hugs or vacations."

"Woah woah woah, whoever said I couldn't give people hugs?" he said with a sly smile.

I didn't know how to reply to that. The Bailey's was starting to make my eyelids droop. So I just turned the conversation at a right angle. "So no school for Frosty?"

"No." He pressed his lips together. "No, I missed out on the whole school thing."

My voice was kind of dusty. I knew sleep wasn't very far off. "You sound sad about it."

"I kind of am." Where my voice quietened with doziness, his voice energized, and he started fidgeting on his butt, splaying his hands around. "I'd like to know things about the world, you know? Like ulcers, or the coldest part of the atmosphere." His eyes lit up, like learning was the most exciting thing he could ever imagine, and his hands cupped something invisible in front of his face enthusiastically.

But you and I both know that's not the case, now is it?

"Um, I hate to break it to you, Frosty," I chuckled, "but school is the complete opposite of snowballs and funtimes. And... there are a lot of things about the world you don't really want to know about."

"I know." Together we pressed our lips together in sad smiles.

But I knew what he meant. I figured he missed the whole guffawing at girls with other guys, or the slamming of the locker door at the end of the day. It was going to school that he missed, not just the knowledge. It made me think… Maybe he didn't have a life outside of this. Maybe flitting around in the snow, unseen, was his version of real life. It made me sad, the thought that no one ever saw him.

But I didn't ask him about it. Maybe, if I didn't ask him about his past, he wouldn't ask me about mine. So, with a jolting thought, I just said, "You know, if you have a computer and WiFi, you can help me with my schooling."

It took a second for him to react. When he did, he jerked his head away, narrowing his eyes at me like I was pulling his leg. "What?"

"I take school online," I explained with a grin. Social services finally got the hint that I'd never stay in one place long enough to get through a year of schooling. Turned out they cared enough about my education to put me online. Probably so they wouldn't be responsible for the uneducated hermit I would become. Or something. "I mean, it's no high school, but -"

"You'd…" He laughed disbelievingly. "You'd let me do that? With you?"

I brought a shoulder up to my ear, his dubious smile making me warm. "It would keep me company. And maybe teaching it to you would make it easier for me to understand."

"I, um…" He choked, like I'd just offered him the key to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, so I beamed at him as he said, "Thank you. Oh, my God."

"You're welcome."

We sat there for a while, Jack's face brightened with a goofy smile. He buried his hand into his hair, leaning on his knee. I smiled, slightly smugly, because I knew I'd just won myself a few brownie points with Mr. Snowballs and Funtimes. "So, anything else you wanna know?"

"Um, yeah. Where exactly am I?"

"You'll see," was all he said, and it irritated me. But it kind of solidified my hunch.

"Ok, fine. Last question: what's with your staff?"

His eyes involuntarily flicked to the knobbly oversized twig, leaning against the wall next to my head. "My staff?"

"Yeah, your staff." I looked at the knobbly G, and remembered where it frosted over with blue where it leaned against the skin of his neck. Now, it just looked like an ordinary stick of wood. "You take it everywhere. It's like… a part of you."

"It is a part of me. Before I was Jack Frost, I used it to save my sister. I guess it's what I'm supposed to be using to protect kids now. It's a kind of gateway for my powers. Without it, there'd be no Frosty."

I nodded against my pillow. I didn't divulge Jack by asking him about who exactly he was before he was Jack Frost, because I was too close to sleep and too wimpy to talk about it. So I just said, "Ok, I'm outta questions." I yawned, gleaking little droplets of spit. Gross.

"And outta energy, it looks like." One side of his mouth lifted. "Don't fall asleep just yet. I have a couple of questions for you, too. Nothing prying," he said quickly when my eyes snapped open. He was holding his hands up. "Promise. Just basic information, kay?"

I nodded warily.

"So, Willow. Full name?"

"Willow Annabella Inkpen."

He nodded slowly. A genuine smile lit up his eyes. "It's nice."

"It's mine. I know what you're thinking," I said, catching the unasked question in his eyes. "Emmett's last name is Abramson."

"Hey, I didn't know if that counted as prying," he said, holding up his hands.

"No, it's ok." I appreciated his thoughtfulness. It made my shoulders relax a little. And he saw it, too, which made him loosen up a little more.

"So you're sixteen."

I nodded again.

"You look older than sixteen."

"Yeah, I get that a lot. It's the height, I guess."

"And you act older than you really are," he added on, looking up at me through snowy hair.

"Aw. You'll make me blush."

He snorted at me. "And, um… " He picked at his fingernails. "Last question for now."

"Hm?"

"Do you… would... you want—?" He cut himself off with a sigh. "Never mind. I'll let you rest."

I knew what he was going to ask. And I really wanted to call out after him, telling him to stay, just until I was under. I wanted someone here with me, so I could wake up and share a glance with them after those stupid nightmares. To let me know that there was nothing to worry about, now that I was awake. I didn't want to be alone.

But alone is what I have. Alone protects me.

And it would've protected Emmett, too, had I left him to be alone.

So I just pretended to fall asleep, as he murmured, "Sleep well, Willow," clicking the door shut gently behind him.

And I tried not to suffocate in the deafening silence.