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bakerstreet2015-10-12 01:18 pm
acrobatically) wrote in bakerstreet2015-10-12 01:18 pmthe picture prompt meme.
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acrobatically) wrote in bakerstreet2015-10-12 01:18 pm
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Pitch keeps focus on his task, brow knitted and mouth in a tight line. It's odd, his fingers again bare skin. He's not so warm as a human, but there's definitely a temperature difference between him and Jack. There's also the small matter of being enemies. The blood doesn't seem to faze him, other than to be mildly annoying when it hinders him. Gauze first, then the roll of bandages. Pitch isn't exactly a gentle nurse, but he's not unnecessarily rough, either.
He looks up from what he's doing, almost startled out of his concentration. His eyes lift, and as it actually sinks in what Jack said, Pitch's expression deadpans, but he gives a small chuckle despite himself.] It's hard to say. [As if to punish the frostling for that crack, he tugs a little harder than necessary on the bandage.
The oddity of the situation strikes him again, kneeling next to the Guardian, leaning so close so as to be able to get the bandage around his small frame.]
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when the bandage pulls tight he whines, pained and petulant, and hisses on the exhale. ] Ow, shit. Has anyone ever told you that you have a horrible bedside manner?
[ the mild complaint is more collected than he otherwise seems. without the stinging pain to focus him, Jack's expression is somewhat dazed, and he sits quiet and still. he's easily directed by Pitch moving and adjusting him to wrap the bandage, leaning into touches without even realising it, rendered pliant and completely unguarded by simple contact. it's strange behaviour to anyone unfamiliar with it, but a confirmation of how touch-starved Jack really is. ]
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When he considers that the reaction might not from pain, but maybe his touch instead, it unnerves Pitch. Like Jack, he had spent centuries without so much as a friendly word towards him, much less touch in any sort of kind capacity. The distraction is enough that he wraps once too loosely, and, cursing himself silently, pulls to adjust it though not so roughly this time. He finds himself unsure of what to do with this information he's figured out.
Maybe it's because Jack is so young, at least compared to Pitch, that he's so unwary. His eyes flicker up more than once to take note of the Guardian's expression, and his work slowly considerably. Finally though, he's finished, and he ties off the wrapped bandage. It's not a professional job by any means, but it should be tight enough to do the job.
Pitch doesn't pull away immediately, one hand running across the bandage away from the wound as if inspecting his work. It's a test of his theory, the only thing he can think of that wouldn't be immediately suspicious.]
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Are— [ his voice cracks high, and he hurriedly clears his throat to try again. ] Are we done? All in one piece?
[ he feels surprisingly calm, almost drowsy, even while the pulse of his magic flutters in his chest. whatever fears he came in with have drained away to something below even his usual baseline anxiety. it hasn't yet sunk in just how much he lost track of things and how alarmed he should be about letting himself become so vulnerable while he's sitting here, wounded, in the Nightmare King's lair. ]
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Eyes narrowed slightly, Pitch watches Jack as he pulls his hand away. There's something about that reaction, and it seems to him that Jack wants the touch, that he enjoys it. It makes him not want to pull away at all.
When the realization of that thought strikes him, Pitch does pull away, quicker than might be expected. He scowls, more to himself but it's still visible briefly. This was-- this was ridiculous. Pitch stands, and finds himself slightly unsteady. He recalls the amount of energy he's used, and he decides he's probably better off than he would've thought, given his current state. He thinks of moving away before sitting, but there's a certain draw that makes him not want to.
So Pitch sits back down somewhat carefully, shaking his head in attempts to clear it of the dizziness, and more than that, of the odd urge to not stray too far from Jack, as if another opportunity might present itself that he could touch the other spirit again, and observe the same reaction.
Pitch isn't used to touch either, but even more rare is being wanted in some way. He chides himself mentally, angrily, that even if Jack did want the touch, it was because it was contact, and not who the contact was from. Anything outside of this situation would be refused or at least ignored.
He's almost forgotten that Jack has asked him a question, and belatedly he answers.] Mostly. [He tries to keep the sarcastic sort of joking tone, but it doesn't carry in his voice. He leans his head back a little, gaze flicking up towards the vaulted ceiling.
The hell was wrong with him? With them?]
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he's uncomfortably aware of the fact that Pitch has done him several kindnesses — and at his own expense, judging by how exhausted he had been when they first reached the lair, how worn he still seems now — and he struggles through the uncertainty of how to respond. it would definitely be easier not to make a big deal of this, but... it doesn't seem fair. ]
Thanks. [ he only hesitates for a brief moment before he goes on, ] For, you know, grabbing me and for playing doctor. I was running here anyway, but the plan was to sit in the tunnel and bleed all over my hoodie until it was safe to leave. So, hey. Better than expected.
[ far better than expected; he would never have even imagined this outcome at all. the best case scenario he had considered, when he decided in his panic that his only option was Pitch's lair, was Pitch not immediately throwing him back out into the snow. the worst was getting caught by the fae before he could make it there, and the most likely thing he had envisioned was being thrown out of the lair, but after a short delay of questions and arguing that meant Jack managed to barely avoid the fae for long enough. he hadn't thought there would be very many possible scenarios.
now that Pitch is finished with the wound, Jack pulls his hoodie back down (cringes at the blood soaked into the fabric and the shredded side, he'll have to steal something new later) and his hand hovers over where the bandage sits beneath it, considering. ] I, uh— I think this means I owe you now.
[ the thought isn't as bad as it would have been once before. he isn't opposed to doing Pitch a favor, exactly; he's only wary of it being exploited, especially if it's done in such a way that Jack won't even notice until it's too late. ]
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He's still staring upwards when the other speaks, and his gaze slides to meet Jack's at the sound of his voice. A 'thank you' isn't really surprising, but it feels irrelevant. He wants to comment on what just happened, but there's some fear that speaking of it will break the spell or...whatever this is. He makes some small sound in the back of his throat in acknowledgment. So he wasn't wrong, the frostling was headed directly for his lair. It made sense in that the entrance was a nondescript hole in the ground which was easily passed over. Not so much in that if Pitch was stronger, if he was being just a little less friendly, he could've taken advantage of the situation.] Indeed.
[Pitch turns his head to frown pointedly at the dark stain on the hoodie. Not that Jack really had much other option at the moment, but:] The goal isn't to soak the bandage through on both sides, Frost. [He just went out of his way to bandage you up, boy, the least you could do is not hasten the need to change it.
...Owe him?] If you insist. And how do you plan on repaying me? [He sounds a bit smug, due course for the Bogeyman, but beneath that there's a certain thin quality to his voice, worn and tired.]
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[ it's a petulant complaint more than anything genuinely irritated, and although he huffs, he takes care to try and sit in a way that doesn't cause too much contact between the bloodied material and the clean bandage. he rolls his eyes at Pitch's question, too — but he considers that maybe it shouldn't be a surprise that Pitch doesn't expect the version of owing that Jack intends. maybe he has more experience with appeasement than gestures returned out of gratitude or a sense of fairness.
he shrugs. ] I don't plan on anything. The whole point of an I.O.U is you call the favor. Either now, or you save it for later. [ he holds up a hand (not on his injured side, this time) and hastens to add, ] And before you even say anything, I'm obviously reserving the right to turn down anything that screams "bad guy".
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He listens to the explanation of what Jack intended, and finds a smirk.] And here I was already thinking up plans for world domination and how your 'favor' might fit in. [A joke, of course. Really, a favor that was screened to be 'appropriate' really didn't seem useful to the Bogeyman, but...] I'll think on it. [Hell, nothing else seemed to be going as expected, so maybe he'd unexpectedly find a use for a favor from his enemy.
He keeps coming back to that term, 'enemy', as if that might ground him from getting too invested in whatever this unnatural sort of peace was. That he wouldn't sink too far, become too trusting or too open. As concerned as he is that exact thing might happen, it seems Jack is struggling with the same. Maybe more than Pitch - it seems Jack is more trusting, if the little episode that just happened was anything to go by. He'd have to be, to just sort of go slack when the spirit that incapacitated him just a few short years ago was bandaging his wound. Or maybe it was the touch that did it, rather than trust.]
...You should feel honored, Frost. It's not anyone I'd risk my neck to save. [It wasn't a serious tone, and in saying that, he invited the conversation of 'well why the hell did you', but it's a calculated statement. He decides that as long as it suits him, he's not going to disrupt this peace between them. In fact, part of him is curious to see just how far he can get.]
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Aha, right. I'm so flattered by your kindness, Lord Vader. [ he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing again, knowing that Pitch won't understand the reference. ] Not that I needed saving — I had it all under control.
[ and the fact that Pitch brought this up by mentioning the fact of his assisting Jack means that he must surely be expecting to be asked why, especially since the question has been hanging there unspoken since they reached the lair. despite wanting to know, Jack still feels some apprehension about the question. he doesn't know what the worst answer could possibly be; he does know that he doesn't want it. but if he leaves without at least getting some kind of answer, whether sincere or not, it's going to bother him for weeks. ]
Any particular reason for risking your neck? [ he brings his head back down and tilts it to the side, smile flattening somewhat as he goes on, ] Or were you just not thinking.
[ if he had to bet on anything, it would be that. ]
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Oh? That Guardian pride. I'll remember that next time you're, what was it - bleeding all over your hoodie in the tunnel?
[Why was the question, wasn't it? He invited the obvious question, so he doesn't show irritation at it, but he does take a moment to consider it. Jack was right in that he hadn't been thinking, but the subconscious action that the Bogeyman defaulted to while 'not thinking' certainly should not have been 'save my enemy', and he knows that, and it doesn't make sense. He can justify it, decide what he's going to make of the decision, but that doesn't explain why it was made in the first place.]
I don't know.
[The answer is a raw, open and honest one, and the quietened tone of his voice reflects that. He frowns momentarily, but seems to have relaxed into acceptance of the whole situation.] Perhaps I've claimed you. [He looks to Jack with a small, almost challenging smirk.] If I can't defeat you, neither can anyone else. -- Yes, yes, I know you had it 'under control'. [It at least made more sense than 'I've come to have something of a soft spot for you in this blackened hole where my heart should be."]
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Pitch's theory startles an incredulous laugh from Jack, not loud but still bright as it usually is. ]
Claimed me? [ honestly, he wonders if Pitch has always sounded this much like a supervillain or if it comes with the territory. Jack isn't sure whether to be amused or indignant, so he settles for somewhere in between. ] Okay, that's not a thing, nobody does that. But — hey, if that means my fate is sealed, and the only way I can lose is if you take me down...
[ he hums, pretending to consider the idea. ] I don't know, I think I could live with having immunity.
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Laughter hadn't been a reaction he expected in response to that. He fixes Jack with a sidelong stare for a few moments, expression rather blank. Immunity? Did he mean to say he didn't mind if he defended Jack with the pretense that one day it would be the two of them at odds again, or did he mean to say that Pitch would never be able to harm him? If it's the latter, Pitch will let the little Guardian fledgling think that. Let him have his confidence. They may be amicable now, but there's nothing keeping it that way but Pitch's own weakness. Well, that and the lack of the Guardians' interference, thus far. He's sure peace will be short-lived, once they find out.
But...maybe it wouldn't come to that. Pitch wavered between the idea that one day he would have regained his strength and the fighting would resume, and the odd, tentative idea that had surfaced during their quiet talks on snowy nights: the idea that maybe the peace could remain between them. Jack has been remarkable friendly towards him for an enemy, and it recalls to Pitch the conversation they had, and their little running 'game': was it too late?
He leaves Jack's comment about 'immunity' unanswered, and instead remains silent, thoughtful. He'd thought of asking, but Jack had reminded him clearly last time that his life certainly didn't revolve around Pitch, so he doesn't push it now.]
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he sits well in the silence for a while, his eyes drifting shut, and... with the magic of this place gone, as unnerving as it is to see such disrepair, it feels a lot less oppressive. it might be a surprise to most that Jack prefers the quiet a lot of the time; he'll always be unabashed in how loud and energetic he is when he's playing games with children or causing mischief in cities, but even the Guardian of Fun can't be without limits. he likes the softness of silent, snowy nights; he's spent a lot of his time over the centuries in the forests of Russia or on the rooftops of isolated log cabins in Scandinavia. eventually, though, he opens his eyes again to consider Pitch, searching his expression. ]
You know, [ he cants his head to the side, leaning it against his staff, still smiling ] it's probably safe by now. Promise I won't call you a bad host if you want to throw me out into the snow.
[ the Guardians have their fortresses, each one a cacophony of sound and color, always full of life — but they can also go anywhere else in the world whenever they like and still feel just as welcome. Jack is sure that this is more of a sanctuary for Pitch, one of the only places that remains his, different to the workspaces that the Guardians' "homes" operate as. he doesn't want to intrude on that, not anymore. ]
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But sitting here with Jack in the silence is different, less lonely, and Pitch won't slight that for now. So he lets them sit in quiet,
When Jack speaks, Pitch looks to him. He arches a brow. Kicking Jack out hadn't actually crossed his mind; maybe it should have. But then again, Jack was here because Pitch wanted him to be, so it wasn't an intrusion that would be looked upon unfavorably.]
And if I don't?
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[ it's a careful effort to pull his legs up and lie himself down without moving in a way that hurts his side, and there are a few minor winces. but he winds up on his back without incident in the end, staff laid out on top of him with the crook resting against his forehead. frost laces idly around him as he relaxes, the trails of ice glowing a faint blue in the darkness, Jack's eyes falling shut again. he breathes out cold mist, and ice starts to form on his hoodie, quietly crackling as it appears, over the place where his wound is, the magic that sustains him trying to react to the injury. ]
I'm not crazy enough to fall asleep in your lair yet, though, so we can still talk.
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He could comment that 'not kicking you out' and 'make yourself at home' were two entirely different things, but it's wasted breath in this case. He just lets the boy do as he will. When Jack shifts to lie down, Pitch moves out of the way reflexively (even if its not particularly necessary), as though Jack were a child that came too close and he was avoiding getting passed through.
The winces and the sight of magic around the wound elicit a small frown. 'Does it hurt' seems like a stupid question, but Pitch isn't sure how to ask if the fae magic was affecting him more than a regular wound would. Because that, he doesn't know what to do. He was the last person to come to for any sort of benevolent magic.]
How long until it should be healed? [He tries for that, instead.
Quietly, Pitch looks over the Guardian, the way his staff lying atop his body is reminiscent of burial rights for old kings and knights with their swords on their chest. There's a surreal...beauty to it, with fern frost trailing delicately around him.
Pitch pulls himself forcibly from the thought when Jack speaks, and he answers him with dry humour: ] Good, I haven't got a blanket for you.
[A small pause.] And what would you have us talk about?
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it makes Jack consider the matter of compromise again. that it isn't fair, that there should be a way to resolve everything that doesn't reduce one party to the bare minimum. he can picture it easily now, the comparison Pitch had given him once before — an ultimatum that Jack Frost could exist in the world only if there was less, if the seasons grew warmer, if spring and autumn pushed at the edges of winter until it was barely there at all. it's stupid; that's such a childish way to feel but it's stupid and it grates at him, the fact that he can't think of any alternative. when he thinks about it, he doesn't hate darkness, or fear. trying to sort this out just feels like weighing Pitch's life against the comfort of humanity, and that leaves such a bad taste in Jack's mouth.
he pulls away from those thoughts, knowing they won't lead anywhere but frustration, and tries to remember what Pitch had actually asked him when Jack was more focused on the sound of his voice. how long the injury will last. ]
I don't normally get hurt like this, but I feel like... a week 'til it stops being a problem? [ meaning not actually healed, but less painful, good enough for him to go back to his usual reckless lack of self-preservation. ] Only a few days until the magic goes away, I know that much. And a few weeks for it to properly close up, I guess.
[ he cracks an eye open to find Pitch's expression. ] It's your house — topic of conversation is your choice. I'd say it's your turn for 20 Questions, but I'm pretty boring compared to you, spaceman.
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Peculiar, how a spirit's body could endure far more than any human, and yet an open wound would take a comparable amount of time to heal. He knew from first-hand experience just how long it took to heal, especially the weaker he was. For Jack, who was stronger than he had ever been, it would be a minor annoyance, Pitch surmised. Then again, it was fae magic, and Pitch thankfully didn't really have first hand knowledge of that sort of wound (though Jack seemed to - how many had he pissed off?). The look of the wound itself was not unlike one afflicted with poison; he wondered idly if the effects were similar.
Once again, Jack gets a sidelong look, a small smirk.] My interests don't lie in your distant past, Jack.
[No, his interests lie in Jack's mind, in the 'what if' and 'could have been'. He thinks, and the silence stretches out long enough to be questionable, but finally, he speaks. His voice is quiet, and thoughtful, and heavy with weariness.]
Humour me. What would it have taken for you to say 'yes'?
[What would it have taken back then, in Antarctica, when Pitch had bared his most closely held, private yearning. It had been for the sake of manipulation, coercion, but the Nightmare King did not risk without the confidence of reward. And in that, he had been genuine. So after this, he'll put it aside, but the curiosity nags at him, especially now that they've had quiet moments like this, where the 'could have been' seems so much more plausible.]
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[ it's rare for Jack to really hesitate when he speaks — not just pause but stammer over his words as he does now, trying to pull a response together and failing. he's asked himself a thousand times what would have happened if he said yes, but never wondered what would have made him take the offer. the fact that he had considered it at the time, even in some small way, is already enough to make him feel guilty on most days. and he should absolutely think about this more before he answers, pick it apart to decide whether he's exposing anything that Pitch could use, anything that might leave vulnerable spots...
but he doesn't. he wasn't lying when he said he was tired; examining his own words like that is too much work even on a good day. he's tired of this, too, constantly second-guessing things in these talks and having to force himself to keep on-edge. Pitch was honest when Jack asked about the past; Jack will just risk the same here. ]
I don't think I could have said yes if I knew people were going to be scared of me. [ he blows out a long, slow breath, flecks of snow caught up in it. ] I was so done with everyone just wanting me gone, and if the whole world was like that... God, I could never live with myself if the kids I watched over hated me.
[ everyone else, maybe. adults rarely spared a thought for winter at all other than finding it an inconvenience, never taking any notice of the touches of magic he put into it, and they had been the ones to warn children away from the bad Jack Frost back in earlier days. every other spirit already hated him, or just considered him so utterly insignificant and unnecessary that he wasn't worth a moment of their time. but — to have children see him that way? and really see him for the first time, believing in him not because they liked him but because they feared him, he couldn't.
it's hard to shrug when he's lying down, and he's not even sure if Pitch is looking at him, so he just pauses and then concludes, to actually answer the question: ] So you could have lied about that, I guess. Once I was on your side, it's not like there would have been anywhere left to go.
[ the next hesitation is much heavier, tense with something and underscored by flickers of fear, like cinders reigniting. Jack would roll onto his side if he could, turn his back to Pitch before he even lets the words claw their way up his throat; it's a shift that would pull at the wound, though, and instead he simply turns his head to the side, facing away. ]
Before you said that — when you were just talking about cold and dark, about us working together... [ the words tumble from him in a rush before he can think the better of them, ] I did think about it. Saying yes.
[ in hindsight, he understands why, even if the fact of it doesn't pain him any less. Pitch had noticed him. noticed Jack in a way that no one else had, ever; he had looked at Jack and seen more than the Guardians had, pried his fears open and understood his loneliness, measured the whole of Jack and actually wanted him. it had been a means to an end, manipulation, trying to turn the Guardians' new weapon back against them, but it remains that the Guardians had welcomed Jack under the Moon's order.
Pitch had done it of his own accord and known more about Jack than the Guardians had even tried to learn when they made their sales pitch, and Jack hates that it means anything to him. it shouldn't, it shouldn't. it did, and it does. ]
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He regrets it, almost immediately. There was nothing for it now; he couldn't turn back time, take back what he had said or say anything else, but he had asked as though it would make a difference but all the answer did was hurt. Maybe Pitch had hoped that the Guardian would say that nothing could have changed his mind or stopped him from joining the other four, that there were no means Pitch could have employed to come to a different, more favourable end.
But Jack didn't say that, didn't assuage Pitch's regret. If anything, the Nightmare King feels regret more keenly now that he knows not only that he could have done something, but knows precisely what that something was.
He notes with a despondent sort of detached interest that he had been slightly off in his assessment of Jack's fears and wants: it wasn't that Jack only wanted to be believed in, but he was also tired of others not wanting him around, too. Pitch had accepted early on that as the embodiment of fear and darkness, spirits and people alike wanted him away, and it never occurred to him to wish for that to change, for a day when the Bogeyman would be welcome.
The Nightmare King could offer nothing to Jack but fear. It was, and had always been intrinsic to who he was, even more than darkness. It was something he couldn't help. And maybe Jack was right, he could have lied, but,]
I never lied to you, Jack - not until we were enemies. [His voice comes soft and weighted with some regret that stays, for now at least, unspoken. Perhaps it was the fact that, for all his manipulation and even exploitation of Jack's fear, he'd never outright lied to him (the two things were certainly distinct, at least in Pitch's mind). Or perhaps it was the fact that he was incapable of offering anything else to Jack to encourage him to stay.
It was bad enough, to hear Jack say that there had been a chance, if only he'd refuted the frostling's misgivings of fear, that they could have been something, something wonderful and powerful and great and believed in. That was painful enough but -- but then Jack has to go and say that, that he had actually thought about saying yes. It hurts, as it sinks in, Jack's words a broken blade that twists in his gut.
Things were almost so different.
He had been....so close. So close, and now it was too late.
Pitch's eyes sink closed, face drawn and brows pinched in a pained expression that he doesn't bother hiding (or maybe doesn't think to.)]
It's true. [He says it a bit belated, abjectly, and bows his head. Cold and dark. For eons, humans and their ancestors had worried about few things more than the dangers that came from both. In tandem, they were a force that brought unprecedented fear, and they could have had that.
But more than that, Pitch would have had someone that could have become important to him. 'To long for a family' - he remembered speaking those words, and how after they were like ash on his tongue. The Nightmare King had tried, at various times, to draw someone in so he wasn't so alone; miserable attempts to replace the family that he -- no, the man before him had lost. The lunanoff prince first, then the girl Katherine, then Jack. But those attempts, all of them, had failed spectacularly. He was a product of fearlings, the culmination of fear and darkness. They were things seen as evil, thus Pitch was seen as evil, and it seemed more and more to him that it meant he was destined to be utterly alone, punished for something he could not help.]
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Of course it's true. [ he doesn't think that anyone could deny a connection between the two. ] I like cold and dark. You run into me making it snow at night for a reason, y'know.
[ there's always been something about the combination of cold and dark that soothes every raw, frayed, desperate edge of him, something necessary in quiet and stillness. maybe it's an equilibrium, needing to balance out his chaotic energy and wild, fey nature with a feeling that he's only safe and comfortable when he can take the time to breathe in calm, snowy nights.
but when Pitch had said cold and dark back then, he had meant a force of power and fear, not the softness that Jack sees in it or the feeling of wholeness he gets. and while he had pulled Jack apart to understand him, Pitch hadn't accounted for the fact that the cold was only an energy in Jack, a way he interacted with the world instead of the essence of what he is. it's surreal to be able to look back on what had been such a harrowing experience for Jack and just... understand, even if only a little better. to see more clearly what had gone wrong, what had been a clumsy blindness of the other's shape on both their parts.
Jack shifts his staff, adjusts his grip and angles it to aim the crook just barely over Pitch. the frost that his magic spins as he tightens his fingers around it is different to how it usually spreads, weaving a careful, focused thing; filaments of ice and delicate spiralling frost thread together to form a cold, glittering crown atop Pitch's head. ]
But "cold" isn't all I am. [ the staff returns to where he had held it before, along the length of his body, and he looks back up at the ceiling to rest the crook against his forehead again. ]
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He sighs in defeat, shoulders sinking.] I've always had a predilection for cold and dark, myself. [Fear was most prevalent in winter, with dangerous temperatures and longer nights, but much like Jack, he also enjoyed the quiet. There was a difference in the still silence of his underground sanctuary, and the stillness of a forest freshly blanketed in snow. Even if it wasn't useful, it was lovely, and even the Bogeyman could appreciate lovely things sometimes.
His thin frame tenses as he feels cold magic just out of sight, but for some reason he trusts Jack, and he stays still.]
That was my mistake. [Contrition slips into the undertones of his voice again. Delicately he plucks the crown from his head, and turns it over in his hands.] I knew nothing of you, before then. [ Jack Frost, a nuisance of a spirit that made a mess of holidays (the blizzard of '68 Pitch had applauded him for, privately) and frequently got in the way.] A mischievous winter sprite.
I know now I was mistaken.
[Not that it mattered, now.
It's probably not something he should be making the effort to do, given his weak state, but Pitch is sure that he'll have little need to expend his powers more tonight anyway. Long fingers pass over the crown, and shadows wind their way across the surface of the crown, settling into the spaces around the filigree. The Nightmare King surveys his work after a moment. The shadows tended to not be nearly so delicate as frost, but they highlighted the glittering patterns well. ] I suppose I'm not as complicated. [ More attempt at a humour that falls flat. He holds the altered crown out towards Jack without looking directly at him.]
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Pitch may feel as if he's lost something, hearing that it really had been possible for Jack to have joined him once, but sitting here now — Jack feels like he's gained something, and it feels important. a weight in his chest that is heavy without being burdensome, and he presses a hand against his ribcage as if the weight is a real, physical thing that needs to be guarded. ]
Oh, yeah, you're an open book. [ his expression is almost soft and there's a confused furrow to his brow, but he grins. ] I had you figured out in like two seconds, tops. The Nightmare King has nothing on the complexity of what's going on in Jack Frost's head.
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He remembers very, very long ago, how he intended to call the Lunanoff boy his 'Prince of Nightmares'. Offhandedly, he comments.] It suits you.
[His expression relaxes at the quip, and he finds himself smirking in response.] Of course. [He settles in a more relaxes posture, head cocked slightly as his mind wanders.
Cold wasn't all, huh.
Pitch thinks of their conversation before about Halloween. Jack had said it was 'the best' holiday, or something to that effect, and it was certainly Pitch's favorite (or at least the one he didn't hate). Fun and fear went well together sometimes too, didn't they?
Pitch's demeanor changes then. At the least, he seems less glum.] Frost, [he ventures conversationally,] Have you thought about our little 'game'? I've found you a second time, I wonder if you can still win.
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