21 - A Second Scarf
The look on Pitch's face, as Gwyn mentioned using Jack as a 'diversion' – nice avoidance of the word 'bait' there, Gwyn – was thunderous. They walked through the Seelie Court, the energy of it chafing at Jack. He was not particularly happy to be back, but Gwyn was so busy now that he couldn't afford to spend hours away from his people. Pitch looked around curiously, but the place reminded Jack of a time when Pitch wasn't present, and his feelings on the matter were raw.
'A diversion,' Pitch said, and Jack resisted the urge to pull on Gwyn's sleeve and point out that he was right, Gwyn was about to get murdered.
'You want to use him as bait?' Pitch said, incredulous.
Gwyn pushed aside a curtain of thick, lush vines and showed them into a quieter room, free from observers. There weren't even any birds in the branches overhead. In front of them, a room of giant fungi and strange smooth outcrops of granite, moss clinging verdant at their roots, sprawling across the ground. It smelled damp and fertile. In the corner, tiny fragile plants grew, with inflorescences of tiny green lights.
'Yes. I do,' Gwyn said. 'Defeating Augus is nothing more than having the right people there at the right time.'
They had been talking over the outskirts of a plan for more than an hour. Hearing it broken down, realising so much of it was dependent on Ash's agreement to see through his side of the bargain – which Jack knew he would find difficult – still didn't fill Jack with a great deal of confidence. He couldn't even wrap his head around the fact that Gwyn wanted Jack there in front of Augus, wanted him to stand and let himself be compelled.
The worst part was that Jack could see the logic of it, in a strange way. The worst part was that Jack had agreed to it, heart pounding in his chest, wondering if at some point he'd cracked his sanity apart and left it in pieces in the Workshop.
'It has to be this way,' Jack said, seeing Pitch's stubborn expression grow into something murderous. Pitch looked at him in shock, shifted the axe in his grip; ever since their trip to the snowfield, Pitch had taken to carrying it with him everywhere.
'Jack, I will not let-'
'You can't stop me from doing this,' Jack said, 'It's my choice. I don't like it, I mean, duh, but...we can't keep going on like this. I don't like living in the Workshop. Gwyn looks like he hasn't slept in six months. I don't want to hide anymore, within some kind of magical ward. I'm not...I'm a frost spirit, Pitch, I'm not supposed to live like that. I'd rather throw my lot in with Gwyn's stupid idea, than spend the next six months trapped like some animal, waiting to see what happens next.'
Pitch looked at him for a long time, lips thinned, considering. He turned to Gwyn, and sighed.
'If you just expect me to stand there, passively, while Jack is led into the fray as bait, then-'
Gwyn grinned, the expression all teeth and predatory cunning.
'Oh no, I have plans for you, Pitch. How unstable have you been feeling lately? How much of that darkness do you have left? What would you say to putting that to a purpose?'
Jack's eyes widened. That didn't sound...like a good idea at all, but Pitch's eyes lit with an eagerness that made his eyes practically glow.
'Revenge,' Pitch said bluntly, and Gwyn nodded, a cold satisfaction on his face.
'If you can put aside your distaste for what the Nightmare King has done, long enough to see how effective his techniques were when dealing with Augus, we-'
'Oh,' Pitch said, and then instead of looking horrified, or perturbed, as Jack expected, he looked hungry for something Jack didn't understand.
'What?' Jack said, wanting them to elaborate. But whatever Pitch and Gwyn were communicating silently to each other, Jack wasn't a part of it. He clearly didn't understand their weird, creepy army telepathy. Jack floated over and perched on one of the giant mushrooms. He tried icing it, and then stopped abruptly when it squealed in distress.
'Whoops,' Jack looked over to Pitch and Gwyn. 'You both like this destroying people thing a little bit too much, if you ask me.'
He didn't feel the same way. He wanted Augus gone, buried in sixty feet of soil if he had any say about it. He didn't want to share a world with the Each Uisge. But he'd felt something from Ash when he'd talked about his brother. Felt his genuine distress, and knew something about that too. It was Ash, attempting to chain-smoke his anguish away, that made Jack all too aware that nothing was black and white anymore. It was something that he'd hung onto for far too long, the idea that all Unseelie fae were evil, that the Seelie fae were good. That was obviously untrue. Gwyn had done horrifying, cruel things. And then there were fae like Ash, and Makara, who didn't seem so bad.
'Since he's already made a scarf for you once, and you clearly survived the experience of being in his presence, I'd like for you to visit Makara again today.'
Jack's heart leapt. He smiled a little. He didn't really want another scarf, but the one that Gwyn wanted was one that shouldn't impact on Pitch at all, he hoped. It would be nice to see Makara again.
'You'll need to take him,' Gwyn added to Pitch. 'Since I can't teleport him there myself.'
'I can't say I'm looking forward to that,' Pitch said, and then narrowed his eyes at Gwyn. 'You cannot visit Makara?'
'No, it's not safe for me.'
'All you have to do is not lie, and things are fine,' Jack said, and then looked at the expression on Gwyn's face and raised his eyebrows. 'Seriously? Well, anyway, I'm looking forward to seeing him, even if you're both so weird about it.'
They had to teleport to see Makara, from a distance away from the Seelie Court. Apparently – according to Gwyn – it was rude to teleport from a Seelie to an Unseelie residence, and it was best to leave from a neutral space instead.
'It's interesting that Gwyn can't see Makara, yeah?' Jack said, and Pitch shrugged.
'It means he knows that he would have to lie about something in advance.'
'Yeah, maybe how much of a douche he is. He seems determined to hide that from everyone. Badly.'
Jack thought Pitch would agree with him, even laugh, but Pitch didn't respond. When Jack looked at him, Pitch was pensively looking out into the middle distance.
'Not everyone is blessed with the ability to have such openness, Jack,' he said, finally.
'Are you going to be okay seeing him, then? I mean, if you think you can't, then-'
'It's not a problem,' Pitch said, and then paused, looking around them. 'I would like to leave sooner rather than later, and take my chances with Makara. I feel eyes upon us.'
Great.
Jack stepped in close to Pitch, something that was easier to do than it had been. Proximity was something he'd craved for so long, and now that it was something he could have, he already became aware of how much more he wanted. To slide his hands into Pitch's robe, to wrap arms around him. Even while looking beyond Pitch's arm to see if he could see anyone watching them, even while Pitch raised his arms up to curve around Jack's back, Jack wanted more.
'Do you know how to get there?' Jack said, absently.
Pitch's hands tightened on his back in silent answer. As they dissolved into shadow, Jack wondered when it was that he'd gotten used to this strange, threatening method of travel. Had it been when he'd confronted his own mortality? Or when he'd realised that even the worst nightmares his brain conjured couldn't kill him?
It was humid in the underground cavern, heat sticking to the moisture in the air, the sound of water lapping at the looming, carved stone walls. The lake itself, huge and extending far beyond Jack's sight, made faint music as droplets of water plinked back into the deep, creating ripples and causing curious fish to swim up and nibble at nothing. Giant crocodile heads with angry eyes and elephant ears were perched on peacocks with snarling demon faces in one pillar, in another, a giant serpentine creature with a thousand elephant legs made up an entire pillar on its own.
All gifts of honesty to Makara, the vahana of Ganga.
Pitch seemed happy to stay in the shadows by the wall, but Jack wanted to see Makara again, and made for the central dais where Makara received most of his clients.
Jack saw him leaning over a fruit bowl, plucking a pale blue grape off a multi-coloured bunch. He was naked as always, except for his golden jewellery – his crown and braces and cuffs. His peacock tail was more resplendent than ever, flatteringly lit in the shifting light. Makara must have known he was approaching, with his ability to read the truths from people's minds. He turned and offered a pale yellow grape to Jack, smiling as he approached.
Jack smiled back. The last time he'd seen Makara, he had been convinced he was going to die, convinced that he would never see him again.
'Thanks,' Jack said, taking the grape. 'How've you been?'
'In all ways, well, thank you,' Makara said, looking quietly over Jack's shoulder as Pitch approached.
Jack turned to see Pitch staring up in horror, at nothing. And Jack's eyes widened when he realised that Pitch was seeing his version of Makara.
'Oh, that's really trippy,' Jack said, looking up twenty feet in the air to see a whole lot of darkness, but no Makara. The Makara that Jack saw was tall, but a perfectly reasonable size.
'I am glad that you are no longer wearing the scarf I made for you,' Makara said, following Pitch's line of sight and smiling quietly.
'That scarf was an abomination,' Pitch said, and Makara nodded in acknowledgement.
'It is not for me to talk someone out of a scarf, but to heed their request. Just as now, I will heed it again. I know what you need this scarf for, my friend,' Makara said, turning back to Jack. 'I will help you. I doubt Augus will be able to read your fears quite so clearly, but as he does have a capacity to feel them out, a scarf would make sure.'
Jack followed Makara up the three stone steps to the table where he worked, and watched him pull an assortment of pre-made silk scarves out from a green, woven basket beneath his table. He lay five out, touching each one with discerning fingers, and then selected a pale green from the group. He held it up to the light and then spread it out.
'As this one is much less complicated than the one I made for you before, I do not need to weave it for you. Only write the words.'
'I...don't want to wear it until I need it,' Jack said hesitantly.
'You know how dangerous they can be, now,' Makara said, selecting a fine brush from a glass of brushes of many thicknesses. He lifted a ceramic lid from a shallow dish and revealed the magical silver paint he used. Jack wondered where he got it from. He wondered where the root of Makara's magic lay. Was it in the scarf? The paint? Or in the act of Makara painting the words himself? 'But there is good news, Jack. You may take the scarf off until you need it. I only need to affix it to you the first time. My friend, you may do whatever you like with it after that.'
Makara looked over at Pitch, who was staring at Jack at the table, eyes skating over to the much larger creature he was seeing behind it. Pitch's hand twitched on his axe, but otherwise he remained calm, if obviously disturbed.
'But this scarf will not affect you or your companion, I assure you.'
'How's your garden going?' Jack said, picking another grape from the bunch; a lilac one this time. The burst of sweetness was surprisingly floral, and a completely different flavour to the one he'd had before. Makara looked over at him and smiled warmly, gestured gracefully for Jack to help himself to more of the fruit.
'Very well, it is kind of you to ask.'
Jack smiled as he picked a dark, opaque green grape off the bottom of the bunch and bit into it. It was a rich chocolate peppermint, and Jack wished there was more of them, but each grape was a different colour and therefore flavour.
It was strange, watching Makara work. Jack felt easier in Makara's home than he did in the Workshop, but as he watched Pitch, it was obvious that Jack was the only one. He wished Pitch could see what he could see, and he wished that Makara wasn't always being visited by people who only saw him as monstrous. Jack had no doubt that Makara could be very monstrous, he'd heard that growl last time, he could see the carvings on the pillars and the walls for himself. Maybe he did look like some hybrid elephant, peacock, crocodile creature. Jack didn't really care. To him, Makara was who he was, and obviously time and hearing other's accounts hadn't changed that.
'So, in exchange, do I just do...like I did last time? Do we both do that?' Jack said, and Makara shook his head slowly.
'As the scarf is for you, Jack Frost, you are the only one who need offer your impression of me, in a method of your own choosing. I confess vanity, as I have been quite looking forward to seeing your skill again, and now you are stronger, also.'
'Ha, yeah, stronger,' Jack said and then rolled his eyes. 'Tell me about it.'
Pitch walked up carefully to the table, looked down at the scarf that Makara was painting, a faint distaste on his face. Makara didn't look up, but his hand slowed, and he took a deep breath.
'You think I should have denied him the last scarf.'
'You deny most people scarves,' Pitch said. 'I'm not sure why-'
'Jack's need was great,' Makara said, interrupting him smoothly, though his voice took on a harder edge. 'I do not regret that it was difficult for you. I made that scarf well, and it did everything I intended it to do. The energy here, it makes you uncomfortable, I would advise you to watch your words around me.'
Jack's eyes widened, and he frowned. He found himself in the odd position of feeling strangely protective towards Pitch. After all, it couldn't be easy for him, a reader of fear in front of someone who stifled Pitch's ability with every swipe of his brush.
'How ironic that you cannot tolerate dishonesty, and yet create items that facilitate such dishonesty.'
Makara paused and looked up, frowned. His eyes narrowed scrutinisingly at Pitch, and the tension ratcheted up in the room. But then he only sighed, and went back to his work.
'Yes, that is quite ironic.'
Pitch didn't seem to have anything else to say, after that, and he wandered away from the table to stare up at an elaborately carved pillar.
Jack watched Makara work for a little bit longer, and then walked away from the dais himself, to where the underground lake met the heavy, stone slabs of the floor. He dipped his fingers into the water absently, and a shoal of tiny fish came up and nibbled at his fingertips. He lifted his hand in surprise, and they swam away quickly, leaving only ripples to indicate their presence.
Jack looked over at Makara quietly working, and then pointed his staff to one side, creating the frost-Makara with a quiet ease. This was not like last time, when it required all of his concentration. Makara's doppelganger sprang up in particles of ice, gleaming in the light, casting a faint shadow on the ground.
'That explains a lot,' Pitch said softly, taking in the sculpture of how Jack saw Makara. Jack sent the frost-Makara to walk, complete with his careful steps and the swishing of his tail, back up to the dais. Frost-Makara quietly watched the real Makara work, and then ran his hand languidly along the table. Makara looked up at it and beamed, then went back to work again.
'Yeah, it's pretty obvious you don't see Makara like that,' Jack said, and Pitch laughed out a single breath.
'No, emphatically not.'
'He would need considerably more ice to make your impression of me, would he not?' Makara called lightly to Pitch from where he sat at the table, and Pitch winced.
'Considerably,' Pitch agreed.
Pitch watched the frost-Makara with a sour expression on his face, and then his mouth pulled into a troubled frown. The sourness disappeared, and a strange distress was left in its place, pulling at Pitch's brow, changing his posture.
Jack looked between Pitch and the frost-Makara. And then he felt a chill – colder than his normal temperature – move through him. The last time Pitch had seen Jack make a person out of his frost, it had been...that had not been a good time.
'I didn't even think,' Jack said, and Pitch looked at him, face etched with a sadness made even sharper by the dim lighting in the cavern.
'What does this remind you of?' Makara asked Pitch from the table, gesturing at the frost-Makara, and Jack frowned. Makara would know perfectly well what the frost-Makara was reminding Pitch of. Was it a test? Did he want to see if Pitch would lie to him? Why would he do that?
Pitch paused, and then his shoulders rose and fell on a slow breath.
'My daughter,' Pitch said softly. Makara kept painting letters onto the scarf, and then stopped and looked at the frost-Makara with a strange longing on his face.
'You may let this image go, Jack Frost,' Makara said. 'You have done more than enough to earn this scarf.'
Jack felt a wave of relief move over him. He let the frost-Makara dissolve into particles, and decided he would have to come back and make frost-Makara again while Pitch wasn't there, since Makara enjoyed him so much. Pitch didn't look pleased that the frost-Makara was gone, only pensive. He looked over at the scarf and then at Jack, and Jack saw it; a fragility that he was still getting used to.
He wanted to fly over and console him, somehow. But he didn't know if Pitch would want that, here, in front of Makara. Pitch was someone who – Jack knew – liked to hide his vulnerabilities from others, even if Makara could peel them all directly out of Pitch's head without even trying.
'It is done,' Makara said, cleaning the brush in some water. He pressed water out of it on the glass rim, and then laid the brush flat on the table. 'This is simple work, but it is lovely to not need something quite so challenging for you, Jack Frost.'
He walked out from behind the table, carrying the pale green scarf which glimmered with silvery text, far less than the cluttered, tiny scrawl that Jack's scarf for Pitch had needed. Makara smoothed it over his wrist, the paint already dry.
'You will need to lift your sweatshirt again. I am sad to see that the one I made for you did not last.'
Jack made a face. Gulvi had destroyed it with her claws. It seemed like such a long time ago that happened, and yet...it wasn't that so much time had passed Jack, it was that so much had changed in Jack.
Makara was standing patiently in front of him, and Jack realised what he'd asked and looked at Pitch in alarm.
My scars. I don't...I'm not ready.
He swallowed and Pitch nodded in acknowledgement. Makara wasn't the only one who could discern truths without Jack speaking.
'I will turn away,' Pitch said quietly, and Jack felt a wave of disappointment in himself as Pitch turned his back. It didn't feel right that Makara should see the scars, but Pitch shouldn't.
He just wasn't ready yet.
He lifted his sweatshirt and Makara knelt at his feet, looping the gentle silk around his torso. Feeling the shape and weight of another scarf around his ribs was horrifying. He made a sound of distress, and Makara paused and looked up at him, dark eyes sober, sympathetic.
'You may remove it as soon as I've placed it,' he said. 'It only needs to be tied by my hands for the magic to activate. Otherwise, you may do with it what you wish.'
But Jack's fear remained as Makara reached behind him and tied the knot. And as soon as Makara stood gracefully and stepped back, Jack twisted his hands behind himself, fumbling for the place where the scarf was attached. His breathing was coming faster. He removed it quickly, relieved to unwind it from his skin, wincing a little as the backs of his fingers brushed scar tissue, some smooth, some whorled and knotted.
He folded the scarf carefully, looked an apology at Makara.
'How about the next time I visit, it's just because I want to visit, and not because of a scarf. Yeah?'
'I would very much like that, friend,' Makara said, his troubled expression smoothing to a smile. 'Perhaps when the worst of your dark times are over.'
Pitch had turned back. He looked truly bewildered, eyes moving from Jack's face, up to the twenty foot creature he was seeing. Makara cleared his throat delicately.
'Your heart is becoming more true,' he said. 'It's pleasing. You are both very fortunate to have one another, as you do.'
Jack and Pitch's eyes met, gold on blue, and Jack knew they should go. He could read the discomfort in every line of Pitch's body. He wanted to stay, he wanted to talk with Makara about his life, about his garden, about what it was like being him, but...there was a time and a place for that, and it wasn't now.
'Soon, huh?' Jack said, and Makara nodded at him.
'Farewell, friend,' he said, as Pitch strode up to Jack. Pitch stared an unreadable look up at the twenty foot monster that Jack couldn't see, but Jack only waved at Makara, clutching the scarf in his hand. He stepped into Pitch's arms and tensed, but was able to ignore the small pulse of fear, and it was gone by the time Pitch's arms tightened around him. The last glimpse he had of Makara as they disappeared into the shadows, was of Makara lifting his hand in a lazy, graceful wave.
Later, Pitch was doing drills with his axe in the training arena. Golden light spilled from his axe, pulsing through it in waves, flaring out from the sharp axe blades. Jack watched him, relieved to see the golden light, the scarf from Makara safely tucked away in his room.
Pitch didn't need the snowballs anymore, but there were times, after he was finished with a drill, when he would stop and press his hand to his face, his shoulders would bow. Jack wondered what Pitch was thinking of to summon the light, and realised he didn't need to wonder. Seraphina felt closer to the surface than ever. They didn't talk about her, but she was there. Her memory drifted around them like smoke.
Jack walked forwards and Pitch looked up, smiled weakly, leaned his axe on the ground.
'Tomorrow, Kostroma,' he said, simply. 'The shadows aren't here, and so I wonder if they were directed to stay at the locations themselves. Perhaps they are self-directing.'
'Kostroma,' Jack said pensively. He saw two images in his mind's eye. The Kostroma he'd associated with trust and safety. The Kostroma that had been destroyed. Between the living shadows, and the fact that Augus was still at large, Jack wanted at least one of them – if not both – sorted out.
'I have to admit, I'm not sure how I feel about you and Makara as friends,' Pitch said, and Jack shook his head, smiled ruefully. He turned and floated a short distance of, making small Christmas tree sculptures out of hard, long-lasting ice. Maybe North would see them later. He still hadn't caught up with North properly, but when they'd seen each other from a distance when Jack had returned from Makara's home, North had lifted a hand and waved cheerfully, and didn't seem overly concerned or cloyingly sympathetic, and Jack realised he was maybe being unfair on the man.
'Well, no one knew what to think when I started hanging out with you,' Jack said, 'So maybe I just have strange taste in friends.'
'Jack, I didn't know what to think when you started 'hanging out' with me,' Pitch said, and Jack could hear the amusement in his voice.
'Me either,' Jack said, creating a metre tall Christmas tree and decorating it with small, patterned Easter eggs. He finished that one off with a dusting of snow, and smiled at it.
'And how are you since yesterday?' Pitch said, his voice closer, approaching from behind.
Jack shrugged. They had gotten back to the Workshop, and Jack had felt so trapped to be there again. A loud, noisy, bright, flashing toy car had whizzed by them in the air and Jack had felt a wave of sadness move over him again, it choked him up. Pitch had seen immediately that Jack was going to cry again and ushered him into his own room, and once there, Pitch had drawn Jack down onto his bed and lain down beside him, faced him, a steadying hand on his shoulder. Jack had cried silently then, and Pitch had only said at the end, once some time had passed; 'I know, I hate the Workshop too.'
Jack had laughed. It was hard to hang onto his embarrassment about emotional outbursts around Pitch. He'd experienced a moment of shame, of humiliation, but it trickled through his fingers like sand and he was left only feeling tired and flat. With the wall of ice around his heart cracked open, he could feel the fluttering of fun, the hardness of his resolve, and he could sense the weight of his sadness. It didn't go away, and he wondered if it ever would.
It seemed, now that he thought about it, that it had always been there. He'd always known. He hadn't known if he could survive it, the power of it, and knowing that it was still there, he felt trepidation about it. Over how it might change him to experience it.
'Tired, I guess,' Jack said, starting on another Christmas tree. 'Just kind of...I think the word is world-weary? It's always great when spirits refer to me as being a boy, or really young, because I don't think I've really felt young for hundreds of years. Ageless sometimes, sure, and exuberant around the kids, absolutely, but young?'
'Beneath the surface, you were never even that young at heart,' Pitch said, and Jack nodded, glad that Pitch recognised it. After all, his centre had been fun, but it hadn't been youth. The other Guardians had lived more of their lives before they had become Guardians but Jack...Jack had seen death, had experienced it in a way that none of the others had.
It left him outside of time, an anomaly. Almost-fae, according to Gwyn. Not quite a Guardian, no matter what the other Guardians thought.
'The others don't really get it,' Jack said. 'But then, they weren't dead and frozen at the bottom of a lake.'
'It is a hard life, being a zombie,' Pitch said, a touch of melodrama making his voice as musical as it had been back in the old days.
Jack turned to him, indignant laughter bubbling up in his throat, and was shocked to see Pitch right behind him.
His laughter died away immediately, fear wound up in him quickly. He saw – as though he were watching the scene from a corner – Augus standing behind him and raising bloodied fingers to Jack's mouth. Jack cried out, Pitch stumbled backwards, and when there was a good six feet of space between them again, Jack stared at Pitch in dismay.
'I didn't realise that you were right there,' Jack said, and he was grateful that Pitch didn't seem exasperated, or impatient as he'd expected. Only sad and shocked.
'We're still learning what you don't like,' Pitch said, 'and I have had far too many years of sneaking up on people to know when I'm doing it absently.'
'Well, that woke me up,' Jack said, exhaling shakily and placing a hand over his chest.
'Nothing like a shot of fear when you least expect it,' Pitch murmured.
The laughter that had bubbled up in Jack's throat came back again. It was bittersweet. Regardless of how difficult things were for Jack, there was something about being with Pitch that just made them easier overall. He'd rather deal with his fears with Pitch alongside him, than without, and he was glad to know that about himself again.
Baby Tooth whizzed past Jack as he floated up some stairs onto one of the Workshop landings. He held his hands up and cradled her as she looped back to him, twittering in excitement. He smiled to see her. She'd been a bright point during a very dark time, and even now she made his heart feel warmer.
'The experiences she's had have changed her,' Toothiana said, flying up from behind the landing's balcony and hovering in front of Jack. There was a Christmas wreath made of holly decorating her left wrist. 'I always have a helpful team with me, most of the time, but she's been a constant companion ever since you saved her.'
Jack pointed to the wreath, and Toothiana laughed.
'I think one of the yeti might have a crush.'
Jack shook his head, laughing.
'He probably saw how amazing you were with a cannon. Seriously, I had no idea that you could do that!'
'I'm just sorry I didn't knock him out!' Toothiana said, eyes lighting up with a predatory gleam.
'Yeah, I think everyone's sorry about that. How have you been, anyway? What's it like working from North's?'
'Oh! Well! Great to catch up with everyone, but cold! Did you know...'
Toothiana started talking about teeth, and Jack zoned out a little bit, because try as he might, he could never be as fascinated by bicuspids and molars as she was. He followed the conversation a few sentences, and then found his mind drifting.
Toothiana laughed gently.
'North makes that exact same expression when he's zoning out! Teeth are special, Jack, and you know that!'
'Well, they saved me once,' Jack smiled, and Toothiana's head crest flared in acknowledgement.
'The memories did, and I'm so glad we had them for you, I only wish I'd known sooner that you...didn't know. I...well I think about how that must have been for you. Not knowing. For so long.'
Jack opened his mouth to say 'no harm done,' to say that he was okay, that it didn't matter, and then he tilted his head at her wondering if he should. He'd protected all of them, and himself, by lying to them about how hard it had been. He wasn't sure he wanted to do that anymore. He closed his mouth again, and Toothiana nodded in understanding.
They talked a little longer, about teeth, about Toothiana's unexpected delight in Pitch extending some trust towards her. They talked about how Toothiana's fascination with Gwyn had waned as soon as she'd gotten to know him, and Jack learned that Toothiana knew her way around vintage and contemporary cannons, and once – for three years – dreamed of being a fusilier.
They parted when Toothiana spotted the yeti who was infatuated with her, approaching with a wreath constructed from tinsel. Jack noted that it matched the colour of her feathers, and he had to give the yeti props for effort.
'Oh dear,' Toothiana murmured. 'I think I need to nip this in the bud. See you soon, Jack!'
She flew off, and Baby Tooth followed, nuzzling Jack's hair quickly before flitting away.
Jack watched as Toothiana escorted Jeremy the yeti into a side room. He shook his head and then flew up to Pitch's room. The door was closed. It was almost always closed.
He knocked before letting himself in, but he didn't hear an answer, and Pitch wasn't there. He closed the door behind him, muffling the Workshop noises. He sighed in relief and leaned against the door.
Soon, Pitch would take on the living shadows again. Soon, Jack would wear one of Makara's scarves in order to convince Augus that he was no longer scared of him. And he would present himself as bait for a plan that...if it failed, they had no Plan B. A plan that left Pitch with a gleam in his eye that suggested all of his revenge fantasies were about to come true. It left Jack tired of war, of pitting himself against other people, of worrying for his life, for Pitch's life, for the safety of the Guardians.
He flew onto Pitch's bed, rested his staff against the wall and curled up. Pitch would be back soon enough.
Dread curled through him as he looked for sleep. He felt, strangely, the way he'd felt before the battle at the gymnasium. Desperate for one last time with Pitch, desperate to make sure they shared something together before...before...Jack didn't even know what he'd been dreading at the time, only that he felt something awful was going to happen.
Something awful had happened.
He had never been good at convincing himself that everything was going to be okay, not when it came to relationships and friendships with others. He could help other people in a crisis, convince them everything was going to be fine, but...
The Nightmare King could be back again before they even managed to defeat Augus, if Kostroma didn't go to plan.
Jack groaned and wrapped his hand around his head. His mind wouldn't stop. If he could just get out into the forests and the open air, he'd have something to do again. But as it was, he felt like a hamster stuck on an exercise wheel, and he just wanted to get off for a while.
Sleep was sometimes the only option.
The nightmare sank its claws in deep, and Jack was back in the gymnasium, watching a tornado of living shadows whirl around Pitch. They pressed past his golden sphere of light and took him over. It was happening, he was losing him again. Augus stood idly by, the Nain Rouge watched with an avid hunger, having no idea that the Nightmare King would never be content until he was at full power again, until he could consume the shadows she held as well.
Pitch turned towards him and Jack started screaming, over and over, not wanting it to be true. But his voice wouldn't spill forth, and Pitch couldn't hear him. And instead of crying out for Jack to save him, Pitch turned his head away at the last minute, despair rolling over his features. He didn't believe in Jack.
Jack woke up with a cry, calling Pitch's name, reaching out blindly and finding warmth in front of him, arms hovering over him. His voice was choked up, thick with distress, and he couldn't untangle himself from the nightmare, desperate for everything to be okay, for Pitch to believe that he could make it okay. He needed Pitch to believe in him, he needed, he-
'Jack,' Pitch said, concerned. 'Jack, you-'
'Please,' Jack said, confused and knotted up, remembering how Pitch had denied him this before the gymnasium, remembering how Pitch had refused on the basis that it wouldn't be good for them both, on the basis that they weren't about to lose each other.
Pitch had been wrong.
'Please,' Jack whimpered, and dug his fingers into Pitch's robe. 'Please.'
'I don't know what you-'
Jack dragged him forwards, pushed himself up with the grip on Pitch's robes and pressed his lips to Pitch's in a clumsy kiss. He tasted warmth and cinnamon and something bitter, he felt his own lips shaking against Pitch's, felt the heat of him against his skin and dragged himself up Pitch's robes until he could hold on at the collar.
Pitch's hands came to rest tentatively on Jack's shoulders, and he pushed gently. Jack withdrew, but wouldn't let go, couldn't.
'Pitch,' Jack said, remembering only that Pitch had denied him all that time ago. He remembered that Pitch didn't believe in him. But that had been the dream, hadn't it? He was confused, filled with a terrible need for closeness. He knew there were dark masses, jagged edges in his mind. He knew he was playing with something dangerous, not because of Pitch, but because of his own memories, the minefield that was his own mind. But he just needed to know that Pitch was still there, still his, wouldn't leave him again.
'I don't want to go back to Kostroma tomorrow,' Jack said, voice shaking. 'What if you go? What if it happens again? I can't, I can't do that again. I can't.'
'Jack, it's-'
'If you tell me it's going to be okay, I will turn you into an icicle, and push you down the stairs.'
'Jack, I-'
'I want-'
Jack pressed his lips back to Pitch's and moaned softly. He wanted this.
Pitch didn't respond for several long seconds, where Jack felt his own heart racing in his chest, his pulse pounding up in his throat. And then one of Pitch's hands came up and wrapped firmly around his back, heedless of the way Jack tensed in involuntary apprehension. He opened his mouth against Jack's, licked his way inside, and Jack had a moment, a dizzying moment where it wasn't Pitch's tongue in his mouth but something else, someone else.
Pitch made a muffled sound of frustration against him and Jack, distracted, felt Pitch draw back just enough to press his teeth into Jack's bottom lip. Jack moaned at the slight ache of it, and his eyes flew open to see golden irises staring at him.
Jack pushed hungrily forwards, wanting more, but Pitch pushed back, leaning over him and holding him upright with the hand that splayed on his back. Pitch was sliding his tongue into Jack's mouth again, heat warming his tongue, tracing the back of his front teeth, slowly licking a wet path back to the outside of Jack's mouth, where he lingered, breathing shallow, fingers flexing into his skin.
'We can,' Jack said, 'You can. Let's, I mean, I want to-'
Pitch groaned against his mouth and slanted his lips over Jack's. And the taste of cinnamon was soon gone, replaced by only what was quintessentially Pitch; heat, bitterness, a faint astringent flavour. Pitch tasted like his very body's chemistry had been altered by his life experiences, and Jack sucked hard on Pitch's tongue, surprised at himself, surprised at how much the neediness wasn't leaving him even has he started to disconnect from the hooks of the nightmare itself.
Pitch dragged his hand down the back of Jack's sweatshirt, and Jack felt the grip slide over one of the more sensitive areas of scar tissue. He stiffened, uncomfortable, and Pitch stilled.
'Jack,' Pitch whispered, drawing back and resting his cheek against Jack's. 'How many scars do you have?'
'Enough,' Jack said. 'A few. Don't stop, you don't have to stop.'
Pitch said nothing, and then rubbed his cheek alongside Jack's, as though he wanted to stop but couldn't make himself disengage. Jack's hair stuck to his, Jack felt his cheek begin to warm. He slid one of his hands underneath the fold of Pitch's robe, traced the thinner material of his undershirt, felt the furnace that was his skin.
'You don't have to stop,' Jack said, shivering and nervous and hungry for more.
'I want to see them,' Pitch said, and Jack grit his teeth together.
'I'm not ready,' Jack said, 'I can't. I don't want you to see them.'
'Because it will make it real?' Pitch said, with a perception that struck hard at Jack's gut. 'Because it will be something we must share between us? The knowledge of where you got them from, and how they were etched into your skin? Because I will see what you will not talk to me about?'
Jack leaned sideways out of Pitch's grip, but Pitch held onto him, following the movement of Jack's face with his own, capturing the corner of his neck with his mouth. Jack choked off a moan.
'Jack,' Pitch whispered. He licked his way across to the pale scar at Jack's neck, and closed his mouth around it. Jack's voice cracked on his cry, and he felt his body grow lax. Once, Pitch had done this, and he'd hated it. Now...
Pitch licked the edges of the scar and then scraped his teeth across it, creating a mix of sensations that crossed from the sharp, alert thrill from his unscarred skin, to the dull tingle that pulsed in the centre of his scar. His hand under Pitch's robe curved around his ribs and clutched onto his back, his other hand held onto Pitch's collar. He felt like he was falling. He realised at some point he'd gotten hard, and he shifted uncomfortably, pressed up without thinking.
It had been so long.
'Please,' Jack said. 'Please.'
'You're still scared, Jack,' Pitch said. 'More than usual, I-'
'You want me to share my scars with you,' Jack gasped, 'but I've got scars everywhere, Pitch, not just on my body. I don't want to wait forever, I don't want...I mean I don't even know if I can do this, I just, you could be gone again tomorrow, and if I don't, if I don't try...And I have to try, I want...I-'
He shuddered into silence as Pitch licked a warm stripe up his neck, across his jawline, and then back to his lips again.
Jack was sure Pitch was going to stop, and his eyes widened in surprise when Pitch placed a warm hand over his heart and pushed him back down onto the bed, climbing over him, settling between his legs and looking down, eyes glowing golden in the darkness of the room. Jack couldn't be sure, but since he'd learned how to make the golden light again, his eyes seemed brighter, mellifluous like the light itself. The embroidery had returned to his robe completely, not quite as striking as the golden embroidery he'd had before, but still picked out in fine silvery detail all the same.
Pitch kissed Jack again, and Jack's eyes fluttered closed. He raised his hands up and burrowed them in Pitch's coarse hair. Pitch, absently, reached up and feathered his fingers through Jack's hair, and Jack jolted, fear stilling the breath in his lungs.
'Not that, not-'
'Of course,' Pitch said quickly. He'd already moved his hand away, and Jack wanted to dispel the fear that had swelled inside of him. He stuttered through a shaky breath and dragged Pitch's mouth down to his. But as they kissed, Jack couldn't quite get the uneasiness to go away, and he made a small sound of disappointment.
'It's still there,' Jack said, 'I just want it to go away.'
'It will,' Pitch said. They looked at each other, their breathing audible. Pitch was a heavy, long weight between his legs, and Jack raised and bent one of his legs, leaning it into Pitch's body, unsure what he wanted, not ready to let Pitch go.
'Do you want to keep going?' Pitch said, and his palm came up and cupped Jack's face, his thumb smoothing over his cheekbone.
'I thought you wouldn't want to,' Jack said, 'because of...the fear.'
'It is difficult,' Pitch admitted quietly, 'but it is obvious that you want this.'
Pitch pressed his hips down slowly, placing increasing pressure over Jack's cock through his pants. Jack felt a lance of pleasure, his mouth opened on a silent cry. He wanted his pants open, he wanted Pitch against him, but he wasn't relaxed. Beneath the nervousness, there was a fear that anything could go wrong, of what lurked inside his own mind. Jack scrambled to think of something else.
'And you?' Jack said, and Pitch reached up and took one of Jack's hands in his own, removing it from where Jack was still holding onto Pitch's hair. Pitch hesitated, as though thinking something through, and then drew Jack's hand down his body. He drew it down between them both, and Jack's breathing became shallow as Pitch pressed Jack's hand against the thin pants he wore, the shape of his hard cock beneath it. Jack wasn't sure what to do, and then his fingers curled around the length of Pitch, tentatively.
Pitch exhaled a rush of air.
'What do you want, Jack?' Pitch said, and he let go of Jack's hand where it rested against him, and smoothed his palm over Jack's hipbone. His fingers started to creep under Jack's sweatshirt, touching cold skin, and Jack winced.
'No,' Jack said, gritting his teeth. 'Not the scars. I'm not...I'm not making this easy, am I?'
'No,' Pitch said on a small breath of laughter, 'but no one said it had to be easy every time. So tell me, what do you want?'
Pitch's hips rolled into Jack's again, trapping Jack's hand between them both, and Jack shuddered. He wanted Pitch against him. He wanted to feel warmed through, and he wanted something to add to the pile of memories in his head, something new and recent, something he could pull on when the darkness threatened to drown him.
'More,' Jack said, and Pitch chuckled.
'You can't be naked, I don't think we should fuck, but we can manage more. Do you trust me?'
'I trust you,' Jack said, 'I don't trust my own head, the roadblocks it keeps throwing up.'
'As long as you let me know when I misstep, it will be more than fine,' Pitch said. 'Just let me touch you.'
Pitch's fingers made short work of the catch at Jack's pants, and then Jack's back arched when Pitch slid fingers around him, a brand of heat that was almost painful. His mouth worked around his next breath as Pitch drew him out of his pants and stroked the tip of his thumb over the head of Jack's cock.
Jack's voice broke as Pitch started to work him slowly, his legs bent restlessly, his hand shifted against Pitch's hardness. He lacked coordination, dazed by heat and lust, caught up in thin threads of worry that framed him like spider's web.
Pitch swallowed down Jack's next cry, kissing him with a slow, hypnotic confidence that made Jack's mind begin to fill with a luscious, heat-warmed darkness. He removed his hand from Jack's cock and reached out blindly to the chest of drawers by his bed, opening it without removing his mouth from Jack's, pressing the fabric of his robe down onto Jack's cock and humming in amusement when Jack groaned from the rasp of it.
'How do you have lube?' Jack managed, as Pitch popped the lid open and poured some on his fingers. Jack had no idea what Pitch had planned.
'I can teleport through shadows to any place in the world, Jack, lubricant is not a difficult thing for me to acquire.'
'Yeah, but...I mean, you got it with...us in mind, right?'
Pitch dropped the small tube onto the bed and returned slick, warmed fingers to Jack's cock, and Jack's mouth dropped open. Pitch chose that moment to lick the corner of it, then bit again at his bottom lip.
'Jack, I loathe this Workshop as much as you do, and let's just say I do not have the same constraints of trauma interrupting my imagination.'
Jack's eyes widened.
'Just how much do you think about us...doing things?'
Pitch laughed behind a closed mouth, and his fingers tightened around Jack's cock briefly, before he drew his hands away and pulled his own pants down. Pitch kissed Jack again, was drawing himself out of his own pants, and then Jack made a small squeak when he felt the length of Pitch press against himself, and Pitch's fingers wrap around the both of them, slicking them both up.
Oh god.
Pitch groaned, and Jack's hips thrust up immediately, small sounds falling out of his breath on every exhale. The friction was intense, and it felt startlingly good. He'd never done anything like this before in his life, and he was starting to wonder what else Pitch knew about, that Jack had never experienced.
Pitch rolled his hips into Jack with fluid, undulating movements, and his four fingers kept them anchored together, while his thumb brushed over the heads of both their cocks. Jack fisted his hands into the blankets, and then reached up and wrapped his arms around Pitch's back, hips arcing in time to Pitch's rhythm. His body was a wash of sharp, vibrant pleasure. He realised he wasn't going to last. It had been too long, it was too intense.
'Pitch,' Jack whimpered, 'I'm-'
'Yes,' Pitch hissed, and his hand tightened. He thrust harder, and Jack trembled, awash in sensations that kept building even when he was sure they couldn't anymore. A moment of fear, that it would be too much, too intense, but even that was flooded away by the rise of want inside of him. His lower body was burning, his heart felt like it was going to pound right out of his chest.
'Pitch,' Jack cried out, and a tight, stretched band in his lower body pulled taut and then snapped with a painful force. Jack's spine arched as he started to come, Pitch's hand moving faster around him, driving towards his own release. And the increase in intensity made Jack wail into his palm, muffling the sound so that it vibrated, high and wrecked, against his own skin. Pitch dragged his release out, moving against his cock with his own, thumb catching and smearing his come back over the head of him.
Pitch's hips stuttered against his and then jerked hard, drawing a ruined groan from Jack. Pitch's hand curled over the both of them, catching his own release as he came. He fisted his hand into the pillow by Jack's head where he was bracing himself. He kissed Jack with a bruising, overtaking force, tongue driving deep. Hot, long breaths shivered out of him. Fluid dripped from Pitch's hand back over them both, a mix of hot and cold. And then Pitch's grip abruptly loosened and he slumped, licking lazily, sensuously at the inside of Jack's mouth, before pulling back and taking several deep breaths.
Jack's lips were swollen, his heart was still racing inside of his chest. He still felt like it wasn't enough, even though he was spent, even though his body ached from the force of his release.
He was still afraid. And as he realised they were both still fully clothed, a sadness curled through him. He wanted to offer Pitch more, but he didn't know how. And Pitch's hand flexed by his head, like his fingers wanted to slide through his hair, and then his hand clenched into a fist again.
Pitch had been holding them both in the loose circle of his hand, and he slid his fingers sensually up Jack's oversensitive shaft as he let go, drawing a whimper from him. He reached across them again, and came back with tissues, and Jack hissed when Pitch wiped him clean. Pitch hummed in approval, and Jack remembered that Pitch liked that, when Jack was too sensitive, when everything bordered on some precipice of pleasure and pain.
Pitch tossed the tissues into the wastepaper basket by the chest of drawers, missed, and then grunted tiredly. He lowered his head to Jack's open palm where it rested on the bed, and kissed the centre of it tenderly. Jack shivered. It felt nice. It was something Augus hadn't ruined.
When Pitch kissed the inside of his wrist, Jack dragged his other hand back through Pitch's hair again.
Eventually, Pitch shifted from between Jack's legs and lowered himself down so that he was lying alongside Jack. He wrapped one of his legs around Jack's possessively, enough that Jack turned into him, wished the worst fear would stay away forever. He hated the barrier of his clothing, of Pitch's clothing, it had felt...wrong that they were both so fully clothed. But it was the only way, and he'd needed that. Needed the affirmation that they still had their connection.
Jack remembered all the times he was by Pitch's side while he had nightmares, and it reminded him of nights spent touching his scarf to make sure it was still there, worried it would fail.
'I sort of hated that scarf. I had to check it all the time. It just...'
Jack pressed closer, and pretended he didn't tense when Pitch's hand dug into his back in response, directly over the scar where his sword had rested. The tension wound away after a couple of minutes, and Pitch rubbed at his back as though he approved.
Jack realised that he might go and speak to Sandy about what could be done about desensitising himself to having hands in his hair, having people approach him from behind. He wanted to do something about the tension, about the lurking dangers in his mind. He didn't want to talk to anyone about it, not anyone, but...the cost of keeping it to himself was so very high.
'The first time I saw you again, when you were conscious and awake, I just...well okay not the first time, because oops, that axe didn't go down well. But the first time I saw you, properly, and...I just wanted you to know. I wanted you to read my fears so I wouldn't have to say anything. I knew we needed Makara's scarf, I knew that, but I hoped so much that you would just look at me and the scarf wouldn't work and you would feel it or see the colours of it and understand.'
Pitch had shifted back in surprise, staring at Jack.
'I didn't know that,' Pitch murmured. Jack sighed.
'I mean, I didn't want you to know as well. I was...confused. But I just wished you would...I felt like I was trapped.'
'Gwyn should never have made you do that,' Pitch said, referring to the scarf, and Jack laughed softly.
'It was my idea. I was the one who went to the Nain Rouge on my own – Gwyn was furious with me – and I was the one who found out about Mak-'
'You did what?' Pitch exclaimed, his voice rising on an edge.
Jack realised that there were still significant gaps in Pitch's knowledge. He hadn't told him about the visit to the Nain Rouge, and evidently Gwyn hadn't either.
'Well, it was-'
'Jack, of all the stupid, destructive, foolish-'
'I was dying, okay?' Jack said, pushing at Pitch with the fist he had wrapped up in his robe. Frustration circled through his spent body and he shook his head, not knowing if he could make him understand. 'It worked, and I was dying. I was good as dead. As far as I was concerned, I was a dead man walking. Gwyn and I both knew it. We knew there wasn't any hope. We were racing against the time I had left, in order to bring you back. We didn't have time to look for a cure or a solution. Okay? There were priorities and I wasn't one of them. It was like I was already dead, especially after what happened with...you know. What was the Nain Rouge after that?'
Pitch shifted quickly and drew Jack close, crushing him to his chest, tucking his head into Jack's hair. Jack tensed, made a small, thin sound of discomfort, but Pitch didn't let him go. He held on, and Jack realised that Pitch was shaking.
'...Pitch?'
'It terrifies me,' Pitch said, drawing back, lifting his head out of Jack's hair. Jack felt his body go lax in relief, tried to ignore the phantom fingers he felt carding through his hair that linked him to a different time. 'I want you here, with me. That you could have been...that you could have died. I have spent all my life understanding that death is a reality of war, but I want you outside of that, and separate from it.'
'I'm not though,' Jack whispered.
'No,' Pitch sounded sad, his voice heavy.
'I don't want tomorrow to be like last time. The gymnasium. The...everything.'
'It can't be,' Pitch said quietly, and though he sounded worried, he sounded sure. 'It can't be like last time. The circumstances are different. And the bulk of the shadows have been destroyed. Even if the worst were to happen and I were possessed again...'
Pitch made a small sound in response to Jack's whimper of denial.
'Even then, Gwyn can make the light. And I might very well survive a possession if less shadows were involved. And you have saved me before. I believe in you Jack. I know you will save me again, if it came to that.'
Author's Notes: In our next chapter, 'I Want More,' Jack approaches Sandy and North about his issues with comfort. Jack and Pitch go back to a ruined Kostroma to confront the living shadows. '
Ahhhhh thank you so much for all your comments and lovely attention this fic has been getting. I am beyond flabbergasted, and often very speechless about it. I never thought this fic would get popular. And I know I still have a lot of flaws as a writer, and you guys help me motivated and be more diligent about what I'm putting out there for you. So thank you. :)