That night, Jack is disturbed by a dream… narrated primarily by a voice that sounds like melting chocolate.
He hovers, suspended in utter darkness. "And just how did you become a figure skater?" He can feel hands, many strong black hands snaking over his ankles, his wrists, his arms, his chest… his thighs… "Dress to impress? I'm hardly amazed." His skin is suddenly bare beneath their fingers. "Better." Jack thrashes. They hold him fast. Eyes open, eyes closed – there is no difference.
"I assume you mean natural talent. From what I have seen, that is not the case." A hand slides over his mouth, clamping down. Jack screams mutely. "Best ease up on that, lest he forget how to talk." They all reel him backwards in one great yank. Something stops his body – something of substance. "Oh, and Jack…" Something lurks behind him, something solid, something that feels alarmingly like another body. He would run, but those hands won't let him go. A new hand eases around the front of his throat. The being shifts. A mouth is grinning against his ear. " Jack… Jack…"
He sits up with a start, shivering in a cold sweat as the last of his name echoes in the air. His chest heaves as his frightened eyes dart around the room. Jack scrambles aside to turn on the bedside lamp. He lifts up the sheets, just to check for hands… and is half mortified when he realizes that other parts of his body have reacted… differently. Jack swiftly drops the covers and seizes the comforter around his calves. He does a double-take at the half empty box of cherry cordials under the lamp. His expression fizzles out. He sighs dramatically and flops back into the pillows.
Running a hand through his hair, "No more chocolate before bed. Never again."
Nothing but restless sleep awaits him from then on. Jack finally gives up and takes his frustrations, his ipod, and his skates to the indoor ice rink.
Jack drops his practice bag on the bleacher closest to the rink's entry above the kiss and cry. This was the reason they chose this hotel after all. It was easy access and never closed so long as one had a card key. Jack would live on the ice if he could.
It is 4AM. The rink is empty, precisely the way he likes it. He dons his skates, tugging his pant legs over the laces. Growing up in Alaska, Jack is used to low temperatures. But even Pierre starts to look at him funny when he strips down to a tank top and dance pants every practice. Jack loves the cold. It is the heat he cannot seem to stand for long.
When they were in California for a smaller state tournament, Adam took him to the beach.
Adam probably won't do that again.
Jack fishes out his ipod, threading the ear buds under his shirt and tucking them into place. He glides out onto the ice rink, effortlessly meandering around while he scrolls through playlists.
Jack's favorite thing is free-skating… where he can improvise, add, be spontaneous, and completely forget about Compulsory Figures, rigid patterns, and perfect form. There are no rules. He does use a dance blade for it though, as a personal preference.
He wants an upbeat, high energy song. Finally, he settles on Jason Derulo's Undefeated. He slips the device into his pocket. Jack proceeds around the ring, gathering speed and momentum.
The mysterious gift is all but forgotten. It may have been compliments of the restaurant. Perhaps the waitress saw what happened. Or maybe Cynthia sent it. After all, it did come wrapped in a big red bow… and she was sitting right next to him.
Whatever the case, it can wait. Jack clears his mind and closes his eyes. He leaps up, double axles, and lands. He turns and starts to skate backwards, banking along the far end of the rink.
Above, in the winding glass walled walkway…
"Here is the lineup for Tuesday night, Mr. Black. The Chairman wanted you to approve it personally."
Pitch accepts the paper, his amber eyes crawling down the list as they walk side by side. Pitch's leisurely stroll is more akin to gliding. He is in no hurry. One who does not sleep has all the time in the world. "No, no," his chocolate tone drips. "This is all wrong. You cannot possibly have the Chinese before an American entry, as the later cannot compare. The Chinese should follow." Pitch is midway through the motion of returning the program when he notices the lights of the amphitheater are on. Moreover, there is someone skating in the rink. He stops to observe, or, more appropriately, scrutinize.
Jack turns rightward, crouching low to build speed. He rises and leaps into a stag jump, lands, and dips into a lunge. He comes up, performs a bracket turn, and glides across the rink, raising one leg in a catch-foot camel position. He twizzles and switchbacks from forward to backward steps by turning his body. He banks, spreads his arms, easing into a layback spin in the heart of the rink.
Jack's movements are effortless, energetic, and natural. There is nothing aside from his life on the ice.
And Pitch… is impressed. Jack happens to open his eyes and see the imposing silhouette in the window. He comes to an abrupt halt, sending a shallow spritz of ice out from under his skate's blade. He stares at Pitch. And Pitch stares back. They are too far apart to see one another's eyes, but Pitch has a fairly good idea of the blue saucers probably resemble.
"I take it back," Pitch says with a deep, dark chuckle. "Keep the order. It may be entertaining to have such high expectations for an amateur."
Jack's eyes follow Pitch until the man and his mousey companion cross out of sight. Suddenly remembering to breathe, Jack greedily gulps up a bout of frozen air. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest. He yanks out his ear buds, flustered all over again. How long was Pitch watching?
It is the end of a long day of hard, ceaseless practicing. The rink is empty again and Pierre is packing up his knapsack. "Jack, it's almost midnight. You should go get some rest. You've earned it."
"I still don't have my triple down…" Jack protests.
"And if you overwork your muscles, you never will. Now, go get some rest. Coaches' orders." Pierre raises his hand in a wave as he ascends the stairs, the car keys that dangle from his palm jingling merrily. Jack responds in kind, smiling. Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do is return to his room. Not after last night's nightmare… But Pierre is right. He would never forgive himself if he got hurt this close to the Worlds.
Jack stops off at the locker room, deciding to shower off and change beforehand. It is as empty as the ice rink, but far less welcoming. He flips on the florescent lights which blink precariously before they come on. Jack selects the shower farthest from the doorway and undresses. He steps into the cubicle, turns on the faucet, and stands under the frigid water as it slowly warms up.
"Jack."
Jack spins around suddenly, met with the same grey, empty locker room. He frowns, leaning out to peer around the nearest row of lockers. He shakes his head and resumes soaping up. Maybe he should try to get some sleep afterall.
"Jaaack," sings the same wicked whisper.
Jack spins around again. "Hello?" he says aloud, considering turning off the water, dressing while he is still soaking wet, and hurrying out. His skin prickles, and not in the good way. This is getting downright creepy. Jack rinses off, facing so he can survey the room instead of the wall. There are no more incidents, but he is in a hurry to leave. He turns around and shuts the faucet off.
The farthest set of fluorescent lights clicks out. Jack stands, frozen, staring at his hand, as more and more sets go dark until he is corralled between his short shower walls with only the beam above him remaining... until that one goes too. Jack, paralyzed, hears footsteps behind him. His eyes start to adjust just as a cold hand slides around his abdomen and another around his throat.
Jack shivers, more inclined to blame it on the terror than the beads of water sliding down his body.
"Are you afraid?" asks a voice that sounds oddly familiar.
"Y- yes," he manages, shaking. The haunting presence pushes up against his back, sandwiching him between it and its body. The long, large hand once positioned over his navel slides aside and down, easing over his hip. The being pushes again, slowly, sensuously, and Jack balks at the moan waiting in his own throat.
Lips against his ear. Smiling, wicked lips. "Good."
Jack's eyes snap open, assaulted by bright fluorescent lighting. He whirls around to find his visitor, but the room is empty and undisturbed. He races to his bag, ignores his towel completely, and dresses as quickly as he can. Jack doesn't even care what Adam would think at this point. He is totally going to sleep in his room!
"Come on, come on," Jack pleads, swiping his car key three times before the elevator reads it. He punches floor 11. Jack stares with bated breath at the digital readout above his head.
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
And then it stops with a startling DING.
And when the doors part, Jack comes face to face… with Pitch Black.
When he realizes he is gawking, he averts his eyes and shuffles aside.
Pitch's amber leer rakes down Jack's short, dripping frame to the growing puddle of shower water on the floor. He pins Jack in place with a decidedly spiteful smile. "That's alright. I'll catch the next one." The doors slide closed and the elevator climbs to floor eleven.
Jack decides against visiting Adam's room. The man will either think he is crazy and insist on heavy narcotics… or scream at him for not only soaking the floor of the elevator, but simultaneously making an idiot of himself in front of a judge. Once inside, he slumps against the door of his room and huffs out a dejected sigh. His clothing is sopping wet. Jack drops his bag and tromps into the washroom to towel off, change into some grey sweatpants, and hang his drenched garments up on the shower bar to dry. Upbeat music would help. He fishes around in his sports bag for his ipod. He frowns, rummaging deeper.
"No," he groans. He did. He completely forgot it in the locker room. He left it on the counter so it would be far enough from the water. And he's too much of a chicken to go get it! Right?
Jack paces back and forth for a moment. If he leaves it there too long, surely someone will steal it. And asking Adam to go with him would make him look like more of a child than he already does. What the hell is Pitch doing wondering the hotel at this hour anyway? He was probably on his way to his room… There is no way Jack will see him again.
Jack grabs his card key and his favorite hoodie and tiptoes out of the door and back down the hall. Just to be extra inconspicuous, he takes the stairs.
He skirts around the hotel lobby, headed for the amphitheater. He rounds the corner and runs right into…
"I see you're dry," Pitch mutters wryly, eyeing Jack all over again.
Jack scrambles for an excuse. "Y-yeah. Sorry about that. I guess I forgot my towel."
"Nothing a mop cannot handle," Pitch quips poisonously, his disapproval evident. "Quite scatterbrained tonight, aren't we Jack? Seems your towel was not the only item that slipped your mind." Jack is awestruck when Pitch extracts his ipod from the pocket of his Armani suit. Jack stares at it, the strangeness of this encounter corrupting his reflexes. "Afraid?"
Jack's eyes snap up to Pitch's face. "What?"
Pitch merely blinks and inclines his chin. "That someone made off with it. You do have quite a collection on here. Vapid. But extensive."
"Oh… Th- thanks." Jack manages a shallow smile as he accepts the device and stuffs it (along with his hands) into the pocket of his sweatshirt.
Jack shrinks under the enormous weight of Pitch's berating gaze. He sure picked an appropriate profession… Meanwhile, Pitch's eyes crawl down to Jack's bare feet. Jack curls his toes and turns them inward sheepishly. His cheeks are on fire.
"hm," Pitch dismisses, gliding past him and continuing on his way. Jack treks to the elevator, sulking and edgy. Something about that man… is strange. Something about that man is… something he wants. Or, erm, wants to understand. That's it.
That night, Jack has another nightmare.
Author's note: Wait… who said there was no magic in my AU supernatural romance? Caaaause I sure didn't.
Love to you all!