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“It is too soon; Pitch will not have changed. Nothing good can come of this,” North’s serious tone spoke volumes in itself. The atmosphere of the workshop seemed to dim, as if sensing what Jack’s reply would be.
“It’s been long enough. I have to try.”
He didn’t voice his true thoughts - that it had already been too long. Five years of solitude after centuries of loneliness seems inconsequential, but Jack knew. He knew just a few more years could make all the difference, and after a crushing defeat like that… His mind flashed back to the Blizzard of ‘68, but he stopped himself. No use pondering on the worst case scenarios. If Pitch could be saved, now was the time to do it. He may be five years late, but he was going to try.
“You’ll see,” he finished simply before jumping up, the Wind carrying him swiftly through the open window.
Pitch’s lair was just as dreary as he remembered.
The air was stagnant, darkness creeping up the walls and enveloping the stone. Although it still felt incredibly unnerving down there, something seemed amiss; something Jack couldn’t quite place. The lair… Felt somehow empty. Not just with a physical lack of people, but the atmosphere. Last time he had been here, there was some sort of sense of foreboding surrounding him, telling him he should not be here, should leave immediately. Now, however, it was gone. He didn’t feel welcome, nothing of the sort, but he did not quite feel unwelcome either.
His musings were answered when, with his heart giving a lurch, he found Pitch sat on his throne with as much of a regal air as he could muster. Which, fair to say, was not much due to his current situation.
“And what, pray tell, are you doing here, Frost?” Pitch’s cold voice cut through the air, just a hint of restrained shock seeping through. If Jack faltered, it was barely noticeable.
“I came to check up on you,” he stated, as if it were obvious. Pitch raised a brow indignantly, looking for all intents and purposes as though he was the one in command, as if Jack had been the one trapped in his own lair for years.
“I don't need a babysitter. I'm not one of the precious children you and your Guardians protect.”
“The Guardians didn’t send me. I sent me,” Jack stated resolutely.
“Oh?”
Jack could almost taste the sarcasm in Pitch’s reply; the patronising, humouring tone attempting to cut into him. And it might’ve worked, back then. Planting a seed of doubt in Jack’s mind could’ve easily derailed his entire standpoint. But Pitch didn’t know this new Jack, the Jack who had grown, who had a greater sense of purpose and self.
“It’s not like how it was before, Pitch,” Jack changed direction abruptly. “I understand. You helped me; now it’s my turn to repay the favour.”
There was a moment’s silence, in which Jack began to presume their conversation had come to an end, until,
“I see.”
The words were almost ground out, as if it took physical effort. After all, Pitch was not used to… well, anything like this. Someone offering help, even after everything he’d done, was unexpected to say the least. Despite it paining him to accept, to not just kill Frost where he stood (although, could he really?), he wanted someone. He needed someone. He’d been alone for so long.
“Why?” Pitch questioned, not without reason. The last person he’d expected to see, let alone help him, was Jack. And yet, here he was, offering his presence and comfort with nothing to gain. He almost suspected it to be a trap, an illusion of kindness to lure him in, weaken his defenses and finally exact revenge. But he knew Jack; the boy was open, forward with his feelings, at least to Pitch. If he’d come here for revenge, Pitch would already be in the midst of a fight.
Whether he could trust the boy or not, he kept up his guard. No use ruining what little facade of grandeur he had left. Even if he was allowing himself the luxury of company, of some semblance of honesty in this conversation… He couldn’t let himself lose everything.
“You regret it,” Jack replied, suddenly. It wasn’t a question.
A sigh. “Yes. I suppose I do,” Pitch conceded.
“You know, it’s not too late. You can still fix this.”
Pitch scoffed. “You’re too naïve, Frost. What’s done is done. Nothing can ever truly be forgiven.”
“But what about that Easter, the Guardians have--”
“You really think they’ve forgiven you for that? They still don’t trust you. Or at least, you don’t believe they do. Don’t try to hide your fears from me.”
Jack flinched at that. It stung a little, but he brushed it off. His fears were not what he came here to discuss.
“North was wrong.” Jack spoke after a moment of silence. Pitch rose a questioning eyebrow in return, and Jack took it as a sign to elaborate. “You have changed.”
“Oh? How so?” As if it wasn’t clear enough from his admission of regret. Yes, on the surface, Pitch was still very much the same condescending, scathingly cruel bastard he was before; yet somewhere, underneath his forced animosity, there was something else. Something reminiscent of the Pitch Jack had known before, albeit briefly.
“You remind me of the way you were 200 years ago,” Jack told him. And it was the truth. When they had met all those years ago, Pitch had been calmer. Not necessarily the standard definition of calm, but less aggressive than he’d become in the years to come. Their meeting, back then, hadn’t been perfect. But it had done something for the both of them, changed their view and gave them a push to start taking action.
For Jack, it was the first time anyone had interacted with him. Spoken to him, touched him - even if it was only a handshake - and most importantly, respected him. Even in future interactions with other spirits, no one would regard him with the same understanding that Pitch had. Jack savoured the brief conversation he’d had with Pitch, played it back in his mind every time the crushing loneliness became too much to bear. He took the memory, and from it he cultivated joy. He’d thought Pitch would have done the same.
However, the Nightmare King lived up to his reputation - his meeting with Jack only fuelled his anger at the Moon, and eventually drove him to create his nightmare sand. That day was the first time he had talked to anyone in hundreds of years, and the first time he had been touched in even longer. He’d been an outcast for so long; he was used to it, he told himself. It didn’t bother him. But his brief time with Jack, an innocent sprite who shared his pain… It angered him. MiM had discarded not only him, but another spirit too? How many more were going through this? And suddenly, the loneliness came crashing down, along with the weight of the knowledge that he could not do anything. He craved contact, he craved the old days. He craved belief. So he would make them believe.
Pitch let out a sigh. He knew he was losing his edge, but…
“Don’t say such things so heedlessly, Frost. The man you knew all those years ago is as good as dead.” And it was true, as far as Pitch considered; even if his anger was faded, even if his vengeance had all but collapsed around him, he could never go back to who he was. The spirit from back then had never been truly engulfed by rage, by desperation. The Pitch of now knew the utter devastation of losing everything, the terror of being forgotten one by one until nothing remained but a faint memory. ‘Just bad dreams’ indeed.
“You’re wrong.” It was somewhat surprising that, after all that had happened, Frost was so adamant to prove him wrong. He’d thought the winter sprite would’ve run off without so much as a farewell at this point. “The look in your eyes,” Jack continued when Pitch offered no interruption. “It’s the same as back then. You’re not angry. You’re lonely.”
Pitch stiffened. He knew his options: make a low blow at Jack and his 300 years, or avoid answering. He couldn’t admit to it. Not after already appearing weak in the face of his enemy. (Did they still count as enemies? Pitch shooed that thought before it could settle.) He settled on avoiding via snark; his speciality.
“Is that why you’re here? To keep the poor old Boogeyman company?”
“If that’s what you want me to be here for.” An unexpected reply, to say the least.
Silence stretched between the two, and Jack took Pitch’s slowly softening features to mean the affirmative. Jack seemed more resolute now, more sure of his task. He knew the older spirit would not anticipate the question he was about to ask; but that was why he had to do it.
“Tell me,” Jack began softly. “When was the last time you were touched?”
Pitch froze. That was… an almost exact copy of what he’d said to Jack once upon a time, when they’d met and the frost spirit had reacted rather oddly to the mere act of a handshake. And Pitch knew Jack wasn’t asking about simply experiencing contact - the punches from the Easter debacle hardly counted. No, the last time he had been touched kindly, gently, was…
The handshake.
And before that, it was…
He couldn’t remember.
It had been so long since he’d dwelt on this, the thoughts far too painful, the loneliness unbearably overpowering. But now? Now Jack was here. Someone who understood, who probably to this day savoured that handshake as much as he had.
“I am… not quite sure,” Pitch replied simply, his tone carrying the weight of his words.
“Then…” Jack held out a hand, the question hanging in the air, not needing to be spoken. Pitch’s answer was obvious, both he and Jack knew it, yet he still nodded his assent. Bracing himself for the first normal contact in centuries, he tensed.
Jack reached forward tentatively, carefully. With his outstretched hand, he lightly cupped Pitch’s face, not entirely surprised when the Nightmare King relaxed and leaned into the touch (the logical part of his mind told him it was subconscious, a guaranteed effect of experiencing this sort of contact for the first time in hundreds of years. The hopeful, more traitorous part of him told him it could mean something more).
Pitch easily and quickly became lost in the contact. For Jack, he had become acclimatised to this, soft contact becoming almost normal. But for Pitch, it had been centuries. Centuries of loneliness and solitude, of being forgotten until he was nothing but a bad dream. And now, after everything, someone was here with him, giving him a reprieve from his desolate existence. Did he deserve this? Right now, he didn’t care. Melting into the touch, uncaring of how ruining it was to his image, he was finally content.
Opening his eyes (at which point had he closed them?), but not leaning away just yet, he gazed into the eyes of the spirit in front of him. He saw the empathy, the hurt, the relief. The joy. It made something inside him stir, his heart beat just that bit faster. He considered pulling away - but no, he couldn’t. Not now. Not when...
“Don’t try to hide it Pitch,” Jack smiled softly. “I can sense your Joy.”