Work Text:
Pitch was reading in his library, an ancient tome of some forgotten history, when Jack came sweeping in on a freezing wind. If Pitch hadn’t had a hand on the page, it would have been lost in the chaos. But he didn’t even look up as Jack trilled and chirped from a perch on top of a bookcase, merely saying “use your words Jack, you have a tongue. Use it.”
A huff of a sigh later and the trills were carefully formed into “it’s snowing!”
A black eyebrow went up. “…and? Is that so surprising to see?”
Another huff and Pitch finally looked up at the boy. Jack Frost was quite a pale child, seemingly formed of his own element with pale skin, light blue eyes and white hair. And a pout to remind Pitch of the child this creature still was. And would be.
“It’s snowing and it’s Easter,” Jack clarified. He spoke carefully as if unsure of his words. As if this was not his primary language. Pitch thought he did remarkably well considering it had only been a few months since Pitch forced him to start speaking.
Really, the man could only take so much chirping. Even if Jack had the brains of one, he was not a bird.
But this.. now this was interesting. “You’ve made it snow on Easter Sunday? Why would you do such a thing?” Even as his lips curled into a smile, because anything that tweaked the tail of a certain rabbit was.. enjoyable.
Apparently Jack thought the same, the boy giggling. “A present. For you. For..” he waved his arms around vaguely, staff jammed between a leg and the bookcase. He went silent, not knowing the right words for the why.
Pitch just grinned toothily, grey lips revealing pointed teeth. “Come down Jack, and I’ll read to you.”
* * * * * *
Pitch hadn’t meant to take the mad little creature under his wing. He had stumbled over Jack when a blizzard had suddenly stirred up the fear and dread of hundreds of children, calling for Pitch to come investigate and see how he could use it to his advantage. He was the Nightmare King after all.
The Winter Spirit was not hard to find, being in the center of town square and spewing his terror of being alone and ignored forever into the air around him. It should have been something Pitch enjoyed, made him feel powerful. Instead he found that it echoed too close the loneliness that seeped close to his own bones and..
Pitch was not sentimental. It was merely in interest of seeing if he could bring the power of this child under his own control that had him cradling the small frozen body in his arms. The boy had not even looked up at being lifted, sobbing tears that broke off his cheeks as ice.
Until he felt the soft cloth of Pitch’s robe against his cheek, then he went swiftly and eerily silent. It was even more creepy as the blizzard that howled and swirled around them went dead. The silence was smothering. Pitch eyed the child who stared up at him with shocked eyes. The child was not even afraid anymore, stunned as if Pitch had hit him with a sledgehammer rather than gently lifted him from the iced-over ground.
Pitch bared his teeth at the child with a cold “have you finished your tantrum then?”
There was a small and confused whimper, blue lips barely moving.
* * * * * *
Pitch glared at his throne. It had been a perfectly horrific piece of black stone and sand. Had. The sharp spikes and screaming faces had all been covered in a thick layer of white ice, then swirled over with delicate frostwork. Now who on earth could have done such a thing? Who indeed..
Grinding his teeth, “JACK!”
Laughter only echoed around the formerly-foreboding room.
Taking a good guess, Pitch looked up at the webbing of thick black chains and cages. Jack was perched on a swinging chain, feet dangling down and staff on his lap, and cheerfully grinning.
The urge to cane the boy with his own staff was strong. Pitch ground his teeth together a few more times as he tried to rein back the temptation of doing so. He simply turned his back to the boy and stalked out.
Far more effective.
Cold wind pushed past him and he was pulled to a stop by a pair of hands gripping a sleeve. He didn’t look down at the pleading eyes, simply looked forward as if noticing nothing. Yes, far more effective. Nothing frightened the little spirit more than the possibility of not being noticed. The kittenish mewl of despair let him know when to drop his gaze.
Voice laced with disapproval, “you will not do that again. Not my throne, my bed, or my books. Try this again with any more of my belongings and I’ll throw you out. Understood?” He gripped the small chin in a hand, the little spirit almost in tears.
“Thought it’d be funny,” in a small voice, nodding his head to agree he would not do it ever again. “’m sorry.”
* * * * * *
Not long after Pitch had brought Jack to his underground lair, he realized Jack never spoke. Words that is. He made a menagerie of animalistic noises, such whistling when he was pleased and whining when he wasn’t, yet able to understand Pitch perfectly fine when he told the boy to sit or be quiet or go to sleep or STOP THAT! He wasn’t mute, and Pitch had checked to see if the boy’s tongue had been damaged. Jack laughed, shrieked, growled, even purred on one occasion when he’d fallen asleep at Pitch’s side with the man stroking his hair. So.. what was the problem?
It was after some thinking, and quite a lot of watching, that Pitch finally realized what was going on. And it was so simple. For almost a century the only things that reacted to Jack’s speech were animals! Unnoticed by humans, ignored by other spirits, only animals reacted to Jack's cries. He probably hadn't even noticed when he'd stopped saying 'hello' in favor of cooing chirp, or a screech of warning should a predator come too close. Was it any surprise at all then that Jack had forgotten his native English?
…all in all, how irritating for Pitch that there was finally someone willing to spend time in his company without ending up in a fight, and unable to have the simplest conversation.
Chirps did not count. Even if Pitch found himself able to translate Jack entirely too well.
Jack would learn to speak properly if Pitch had to beat it into him.
* * * * * *
“While ssss…severe cold and large amounts of d..drift-ting snow may accom…acc.. accompany blizzards, they are not required.”
Not the smoothest voice, but Pitch was still pleased. It had been easy to snag a book on storms from a bookstore, no locks could keep Pitch Black out as long as there were shadows. It served several purposes; make Jack practice speech, teach him to read, and to inform him on the various ways he could create a storm. Doing the same type of storm over and over again was hardly entertaining after all.
“The d-difference between a blizzard and a snowstorm is the strenth.. strenk.. strength of the wind..”
* * * * * *
Pitch wondered sometimes if it was worth it.
On days when Jack was just an insufferable child with his pranks and teasing, Pitch wanted to just throw the spirit in his darkest pit and leave him there.
The days when he coated the hallways of Pitch’s lair with ice just to see the Nightmares, and at times Pitch himself, slip and slide around.
The days when Pitch found his wine frozen hard, in both bottle and glass.
Then there were days when Pitch couldn’t imagine anything else.
Like when Jack cuddled close against his side and fell asleep gripping Pitch’s robe in one hand, so small and trusting. Pitch could try to wake him, earning himself a few sleepy whines, but usually ended up with Jack on Pitch’s lap and an arm around the boy to keep him from falling off as he slept.
Or when Pitch was out finding ways to torment sleeping children, and Jack pointed out ways to make a nightmare more interesting because “why just dream of falling out of a tree? Why not dream of falling out of a tree while a hungry monster waits at the bottom?”
Any parent could agree it was worth it in the end.