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Chapter Text

It’d all started shortly after Jack was sworn in as a Guardian. North had approached him at a meeting – and this was when Jack was still interested enough in the newness of it all to not skip every other one – and asked him for a favor. Whenever North tried to fob off work onto Jack, things were bad indeed, so he felt a bit wary of the whole business. But, the request seemed easy enough: a request for a white Christmas, every year, for the realm of the Pumpkin King.

He’d already shut down North’s other (numerous, annoying) requests for a global white Christmas; mucking with weather patterns on that large a scale would make sure that future Christmases were numbered. He’d dealt with the yeti legal team’s attempts to persuade him otherwise. He’d scowled at the blueprints on North’s worktable for massive snowmaking machines, and watched with no little glee as each one met with failure in the product development wing of the factory.

Failure and explosions. Lots of explosions.

Jack had always hated those damn machines.

In any event, a bit of snow every December the twenty-fourth for a single town seemed like a reasonable enough request. The deal they cut on free food for life in the employee cafeteria wasn’t a bad payoff either. (He’d gotten Sandy to act as his attorney when dealing with North’s legal team. The little guy was brutal, really – guess he really wanted that free food deal, too.)

In retrospect he should have asked for a fat sack of cash on top of it all. Then it may have all been worth it.

“Fabulous job this year, my friend! Why, the intricacies of the fractal patterns on this one are simply astounding!”

Skellington held a single, tiny snowflake with surprising delicacy between two bony fingers as he examined it with a magnifying glass. At first it was nice to meet someone so sincerely interested in his work. It had quickly graduated into the class of “weird and kind of creepy.”

…which was honestly the theme of this town, Jack granted, as he watched Skellington gently set the snowflake onto a specimen plate. The man eagerly plucked another single flake from the dusting on his windowsill, and hunched over it with his magnifying glass. Skellington’s wife, Sally, topped off his glass with more pumpkin cider.

“You must be so very busy throughout the year, Mr. Frost,” she said. “Why, making all of your lovely work all over the world. We have our hands full just preparing our Halloween celebrations!”

She offered him a plate of spider-shaped cookies, which Jack declined. In this town you never really knew when something was spider-shaped for kicks or because it was actually full of spiders. Best to stick with pumpkin cider, as it was fairly likely to only have pumpkins in it.

Skellington collapsed dramatically over his armchair, one arm draped over his forehead. He sighed tragically. “Dearest Sally, you’re good to remind me that there are but three-hundred and ten days left until the next Halloween. And yet, we still haven’t decided on a theme…”

“‘Reign of Terror in Eighteenth-Century France’ was very popular this last year,” Sally said, helpfully. “The children were lining up to play on the guillotines for miles!”

“And I, as a striking Robespierre, leading the orchestra of executions with my conductor’s baton. But alas, we can’t have a revolutionary bloodbath theme again…”

Skellington slunk from his chair to the bookcase, and took an elegantly-framed photo from the shelf. He slumped into a chair at the table, gazing at the photo forlornly. Sally tsked her tongue and set a few cookies onto his plate.

“You need to stop comparing yourself to others, Jack,” she said, gently. “Everyone has to deal with a little artist’s block sometimes.”

“But this happens every year,” Skellington sighed. “This scrambling for inspiration. It seemed to come so naturally for the old greats…”

Jack was used to being ignored in conversations, though that didn’t mean he especially liked it. Curious, he leaned over to take a peek at what was considered an “old great” by Skellington’s type. He expected fangs, tentacles, multiple insectoid heads.

Instead he got Pitch Black, posing atop a throne of shadows.

It probably was not the sound of Jack’s jaw hitting the floor that attracted Skellington’s attention, but rather the bizarre contortions that his face had been drawn into. Skellington chuckled uneasily.

“Ah, I do apologize for that little scene of mine, Mr. Frost - ”

“Pitch?” Jack managed to choke out.

Skellington blinked, glanced back at his photo, then back at Jack. “…why, yes, Pitch Black, the Nightmare King, emperor of dread, maharajah of mayhem, tsar of terror…”

He trailed off, staring at Jack. Jack could almost see the wheels turning in his skull, the clues clicking together.

“You…” Skellington set the photo frame on the table with shaky hands, reaching out to grasp Jack’s shoulder excitedly. “M-mr. Frost, I, well, may I be so bold, really, to think that you, in your honored position as a Guardian, may…may perhaps have met…”

Jack was not one to mince words. “He tried to cover the world with darkness. Tried to kill most of us, too.”

Skellington was enraptured, entranced. He leaned his chin on his hands and listened raptly. Jack continued, helplessly.

“He…I mean, kids had nothing but nightmares for days, and those horses, with those eyes that looked like burning lead…”

Jack trailed off. His better judgment seemed to be telling him that this was going into a very bad place, very quickly.

“It sounds…positively dreadful!” Skellington very nearly squealed. “Truly the handiwork of the Nightmare King himself, truly -”

He jolted to his feet in a burst of renewed energy and paced around the room, muttering eagerly to himself. Jack’s better judgment screamed at him to leap out a window while there was still time. Before Jack could calculate the wind trajectory, his shoulders were seized once more by Skellington’s bony grip.

“Mr. Jack Frost. It would be my sincerest, deepest pleasure if you were to join us at our annual Three-Hundred-Days-Before-Halloween masque. And…” Skellington paused, and took a deep breath. “…it would be my, and all of Halloween Town’s, deepest honor, if you would pass our invitation to Mr. Pitch Black personally.”

It was very hard to say no to Skellington. The guy was just so eager and earnest, like a seven-foot-tall skeletal puppy. It was also very hard to say no in this particular situation, as Skellington had immediately raced out the door yelling about party plans after extending his invitation to Jack. Jack rubbed at his aching shoulder, scowling. Sally patted his hand.

“We really would love to have you at the masquerade, Mr. Frost. You and all of your other Guardian friends. And I’m sure Jack would understand if Mr. Black’s schedule is too busy for him to make it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he can make time,” Jack grumbled under his breath. “Just squeeze it in between tea and the four-o-clock bid at control of Eurasia.”

Sally chuckled. “Well, we’d all be so very honored if he could make it. Why, he’s an inspiration to all of us here; let alone Jack. And every young lady here can remember having a poster of Mr. Black on their bedroom wall…”

Sally paused, then gave a little shrug.

“From what I’ve heard, anyway. I was sewn together in a lab.”

“…uh…huh.” Jack collected his staff (now decorated with Skellington and Sally’s Christmas gift; a knitted staff cozy). He sighed, a little guiltily.

He’d give it a shot. For the seven-foot skeletal puppy.

Chapter Text

Skellington had wasted no time, apparently. Jack had flown straight to the North Pole for Guardian headquarters, and was greeted by a room full of his stone-silent coworkers. North sat slumped in his deskchair, rubbing at his forehead, looking distinctly pained.

“I come home from busiest night of year, wanting to relax,” he said. “And I am delivered this by walking bathtub.”

North held up an envelope with an elegant gray-and-black spider design, with the words “Sandy Claws” written in delicate calligraphy on the front.

“As you have no doubt just finished with what I pay you in copious amounts of food to do, I do not suppose you know the meaning of these letters – och! Out! Out!”

Jack’s leg was being nudged by a walking bathtub. Huh. So that wasn’t one of North’s weird metaphors. At the bottom of the tub there was a letter identical to North’s, with Jack’s name written on it. Jack collected it and opened it curiously while the bathtub slowly lumbered out the door, not seeming to care about the two yetis it was dragging along behind as they futilely tried to wrangle it.

Mr. Jack Frost –

You are cordially invited to Halloween Town’s annual Three-Hundred-Days-Before-Halloween masquerade ball.

This year, we celebrate the illustrious career of Mr. Pitch Black, the Nightmare King. Please attend in your most ghoulish attire.

Fondest regards,

Jack H. Skellington

Guilt weighed down Jack’s gut. Skellington really had his hopes up for Pitch. A grunt came the corner of the room.

“Here’s my vote. Why not have Frost go as our illustrious representative?” Bunny glowered at his boomerang as he polished it. “Skellington will have his weird little day made, and no one with any actual work to do has to risk being jammed into a sack again.”

Jack knew that Skellington, North, and Bunny had something of a history. North and Bunny refused to discuss the issue, and Skellington quite fondly spoke of a vacation-turned-adventure that involved the two. Jack later received the version of the story that wasn’t tainted by Skellington’s incredibly loose grasp on reality from Sally. He could barely fly home that day, as he had to keep stopping on treetops to laugh himself sick. No matter how many times he snidely brought it up in conversation, he never could get a straight answer from North and Bunny as to how they were bested by three children and a burlap sack.

“…I’m guessing that means everyone got one?” asked Jack.

“A stunning conclusion,” Bunny drawled. “Though search me how that blasted washtub got into me warren.”

“I live in the sky,” Tooth said, producing her invitation.

Sandy shrugged, and patted his breast pocket where his own invitation was tucked.

Jack grasped for words. He sighed explosively and scratched at the back of his head, frustrated. “Come on, guys, you can’t spare a single night? Skellington’s harmless. Weird, yeah, but harmless.”

“To attend a party celebrating Pitch? ‘fraid not, no pun intended,” said Bunny. “Two and a half months ‘til Easter.”

Jack snorted. “Yeah, well, you always seem to be able to spare the time to attend Patrick’s parties on March seventeenth. Remind me, who was the one who fell off the karaoke stage last year because he was crying too hard while signing ‘Danny Boy’? Still didn’t drop your whiskey bottle, I’ll give you that much.”

“That is because Pat’s holiday is a celebration of punching snakes while hammered out of one’s mind,” Bunny growled. “Not a celebration of one’s mortal enemy.”

Jack rubbed his face. “Give me a break, it’s not like Skellington actually approves of Pitch trying to off us all, he’s just - ”

“It’s just a mutual admiration, I’m sure. Shared interests and all that. Stealing holidays, expressing themselves by scaring the willies out of others.”

Bunny shoved his boomerang back in its holder, and looked over Jack frankly.

“What’s with your sudden concern for Skellington’s feelings? Can’t say that I expect it out of you.”

Because the first time Jack arrived with snow, Skellington had called him down from the lamppost where he’d perched to shake his hand and gush his praise over Jack’s work. Because every time Jack came, he was always welcome to Skellington and Sally’s home, welcome to conversation and friendship and pumpkin cider and cookies that he’d never had the courage to try. Because Skellington knew that North had to bribe Jack into doing this, and didn’t care. Because of the damn staff cozy.

Jack leaned on his staff, looking up at the other Guardians from under his bangs.

“Look. Skellington is a decent guy. You all know that. Probably still feels bad about that incident with you two, North, Bunny. And you’re repaying his invite by calling him a freak. Can’t you let him show you a nice night out?”

The silence in the room was deafening. Bunny ground his teeth, mumbling to himself, and thumped one foot against the ground to be spirited away to his warren. Jack smiled. One confirmed guest. North shook his head.

“Myself, I have little choice in the matter,” North sighed. “I should go to ensure that the fool is treating that poor Sally well. Astounding how a sensible girl such as her would fall so heels over head for him.”

Two confirmed guests. Tooth and Sandy both shrugged.

“I think the fairies should be able to handle most of the early-night collections by themselves, so I can drop in for an hour or two,” Tooth said. “Sandy, what about you?”

Sandy rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. A pair of sunglasses materialized on his face, and a golden disco ball appeared over his head. He did a little dance to illustrate his point, and Tooth laughed.

“Looks like the dream sand can be put on hold for an hour or two, too.”

Four confirmed guests, plus a fifth; himself. And now, there loomed the issue of convincing the guest of honor...

--

“Tell me, Jack, is there any other part of the factory you are now to be demanding access to?” North asked. “I had thought that my own bedroom would be safe from your ridiculous contract.”

“Settle down before I get my attorney on the horn,” Jack said, setting down a trail of Sally’s spider cookies from under the bed to a pile in the middle of the room. “Sandy’s been itching to get VIP access to the employee spa.”

Sally had been more than happy to give him an extra-large batch of the cookies when asked – even slipped in a few extra, for the road. The secret was in grinding up the legs with a bit of wheat flour, Sally had confided. Gives them extra protein and that lovely crispy texture. Jack grinned through his nausea and bade her adieu, keeping his mind on the mission.

The bait was set. At the stroke of ten, North was in bed, pretending to read a book. He was actually scowling at Jack, who was perched atop his dresser, waiting for sight of his prey.

“…you are trying my patience, my friend. Snow every year for at least three populous major cities, is all I ask - ”

There it was. Jack hissed at North to be quiet, slowly creeping down from his hunter’s lookout. A black muzzle peeked out from under the bed, snuffling at one of the spider cookies. It let out a low, interested whinny, and slurped up the cookie with its tongue. Carefully, cautiously, it crept a little further from the shadows, the next cookie in its sights.

Soon, the Nightmare was happily occupied with the cookie pile at the room’s center. Jack approached it slowly, shaking the other bag of cookies that Sally had supplied.

“Good horsie. Pretty horsie. Pretty horsie with your…pretty black mane, and your horrible hellfire eyes.”

The Nightmare eyeballed him, clearly on guard, but holding its ground. It whickered, and crunched the cookie in its mouth deliberately.

“Yeah, that’s right, good, huh? Full of protein and insect legs.”

“Arachnid,” North corrected, lazily paging through his book and looking altogether too calm at the sight of a demon horse in his room. Granted, Jack remembered, he did have pistols hidden underneath his pillows.

“Here’s the deal, horsie. You get all these cookies, plus the ones I’ve got, and all you’ve gotta do is let me chat with your master.”

The Nightmare reached out a tendril of black sand to try and grab the bag from Jack, but Jack gave it a zap with his staff.

“Nope, not until I get an audience with the horsie king himself.” Jack shook the bag again, grinning. “We have a deal?”

Loyalty was not a concept unknown to Nightmares, but it seemed that it evaporated when there were cookies on the line. Jack followed the horse under the bed, trailing a rope securely tied to North’s bedpost for his escape route. North seemed singularly unconcerned, but called after him with a casual “if you do not return, I will be sure to avenge your death!”; which was ironically the same phrase he’d used when sending Jack on that first snow-bringing errand that started this whole thing.

The horse led him through a maze of winding tunnels and impossible criss-crossed stairways, until they reached an open cavern lined with cages that Jack remembered uncomfortably well.

The Nightmare seized the cookie bag with a stealthy tendril, and trotted off with its tail held high. Jack shrugged; a deal was a deal. Now, what should he break first to get Pitch to show his face –

“Ah. What a pleasant surprise. Forgive me, I haven’t got tea on.”

And Jack was really looking forward to denting some of those gaudy birdcages. He supposed it was better to start on a friendly note, anyway. He balanced his staff on his shoulders, draping his arms over it, and shifted his weight lazily from foot to foot.

“Sorry to drop in on such short notice. Just on a little errand to make sure your invite got delivered today.”

Pitch hmphed through his nose. “Yes, yes, the walking washtub was very insistent. I unfortunately cannot say that I am terribly interested in a celebration of my career that involves you and yours.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Give me a break; we’re not the ones throwing this thing. I’m sure you’ve gotten fanmail from this guy at some point, seen him rooting around in your garbage for locks of hair, maybe - ”

Pitch cut him off with a laugh, his hand moving to tap thoughtfully at his temple. “Oh, tell me, what do you suppose the curtain-opener would be? A detailed exploration of my decline in power since the middle ages? Certainly the act two finisher would be you rejecting my sincere offer of camaraderie, and the grand finale – forgotten by all, and shoved down a hole.”

Jack stared at Pitch evenly, saying nothing. He’d learned over the years that it was sometimes best to just let people monologue their feelings out. Fortunately, it seemed as though Pitch was wrapping it up.

Pitch pressed his hands together and gave a mocking bow. “The theatrical event of the season, I’m sure, but I’m afraid I just can’t make it. Busy schedule, you know: licking my wounds, watching as the memory of my existence inexorably fades from the world. But please do give Mr. Skeleton my regards.”

Jack stalked up to Pitch, the clutch of his hand on his staff betraying how deeply Pitch’s words hit. To Jack’s surprise, Pitch didn’t simply melt back into the shadows to appear elsewhere in the lair, and returned Jack’s glare measure for measure.

“Skellington. His name’s Skellington, you insufferable self-absorbed prick. Big fan of yours – though hell if I can understand why, having actually met you – so you could at least be a decent enough person to remember his name.”

Though Pitch would not break his gaze, Jack saw his jaw tighten.

“…what is your point here, Jack Frost? Why do you – you, and Skellington, and all of your little friends – continue to disturb me in the only sanctum I have left?”

His eyes finally flickered away to focus on one of the nearby cages. His fingers absently traced the bars.

“…can you not simply let me fade away in peace?”

“No,” Jack said, shrugging. “I didn’t fade away after three hundred years of no one believing in me, so who knows how long you’d take.”

Jack saw Pitch’s mouth twitch. He supposed Pitch was welcome to take the backhanded compliment as he willed.

“Look. You can either sit down here for the rest of forever wallowing in your own self-pity, or you can go get wasted on pumpkin cider at a party thrown by someone who worships you like an idol. Think he could even teach you a thing or two about using your very unique talents in ways that make people happy, and don’t involve world domination plots.”

…probably, Jack added silently, carefully thinking over the North-and-Bunny incident.

A long moment passed, and the ghost of a smile flickered over Pitch’s face.

“…now, Jack, are you trying to take all of my fun away?” he asked, quietly. “Whatever will I do with my time if I’m not stalking through the streets of Amsterdam?”

…and that maybe, possibly made six confirmed guests. Jack grinned and yanked his hood up.

“Drag yourself out of the Netherlands by eight sharp or else I’m coming back to beat the shit out of your stupid cages. I memorized the way in.”

Jack pointed at his own eyes with his index and pinky fingers, and then pointed at Pitch. He turned to make his way out of the caverns by the cord tied securely around his waist; only narrowly missing being trampled by a stampede of Nightmares battling each other for the last of the cookies. 

Chapter Text

The thing with people who were stuck with specific holidays was that they always took things so seriously, thought Jack as he strolled into town on the night of the party, through crowds of harried caterers and lurching corpses trailing cheerful orange streamers. At least, he imagined that was why something like a “three-hundred-days before Halloween” party existed. Other reasons were a bit beyond his comprehension.

“Mr. Frost!” called Skellington, happily, rushing over to shake his hand. “Too good of you to come! We’re just starting up, as you can see…”

He looked Jack over, concerned. Jack’s head tilted, hand returning to his hoodie pocket.

“Something wrong?” Jack asked.

Skellington gave a polite cough. “Ah, well, your costume, it’s…”

Jack opened his mouth to show the icicles he’d magicked to his teeth. “I’mma vampire.”

Skellington tut-tutted, shooing him towards his own home. “Now now now, Mr. Frost, that just won’t do for our masque – why, look at the striking figure that I cut!”

He struck a pose; the billowing black robe and black wig he wore rustling in a sudden wind. Jack shook his head. Hopefully Pitch would keep to his word and attend, and also not take Skellington’s cosplay with the built-in wind machine the wrong way. If there was a right way.

A dig through Skellington’s truly heroic collection of costumes finally turned up one in Jack’s size: a ruffled white shirt, accented by a black silk vest with silver buttons. Pressed black trousers, and a high-collared black cape lined with thick red silk – don’t mind any lingering petroleum scent, Skellington advised, tying the neck-ribbon for Jack with quick, expert fingers. Bit of a commotion that year with the nosferatu can-can line. They get a bit frisky when there’s so much excitement in the air, and only settle down with a bit of convincing. Skellington left that thought there, humming a cheerful tune as he battled Jack’s hair with a comb, leaving the “convincing” to Jack’s imagination.

“And for the finishing touch!”

Skellington produced a thin black mask from his sleeves, setting it on Jack’s nose with a flourish. Pleased, he nodded his approval.

“You look simply terrifying,” Skellington assured him. “I feel chills down to the marrow!”

His pant cuffs were dragging on the ground. Jack bent to roll them up his calves, a bit unconvinced by Skellington’s statement, but grateful for the costume nonetheless.

Something was amiss, however. Skellington’s usual manic energy was gone, replaced by a stiff, constrained nervousness. He fretfully adjusted his wig in the mirror, sighing faintly when it slipped out of place once more on his skull. Through the window, dozens of posters of Pitch lined the grand stage at the center of the town square. Publicity shots, glamour shots – since when did Guardians get photoshoots? Jack knew he was doing something wrong those long three hundred years – shots that could politely be called “candid” and could candidly be called “greatest hits from Skellington’s creepy stalker album”. While Jack had been dressing, it appeared that guests had started to arrive; they swarmed the banquet tables, the dance floor. Shimmers of golden sand showed Sandy, in a rakishly-tilted hat, leading a shockingly well-choreographed dance number; fighting for your life inside a killer thriller tonight.

Skellington peeped through a curtain, brow furrowed in worry as he scanned the crowd.

“…you don’t suppose we offended him by letting that pompous sack of insects parade around claiming his title for so long?” Skellington asked aloud, mostly to himself.

“Nah,” said Jack. “He probably liked hearing about you and North squashing him just as much as you and North liked doing it.”

That, at least, was a detail he’d recently managed to get from North about the incident. As well as semi-coherent mumbles about never accepting candy from strange children. Wise words, as far as Jack could guess.

A commotion outside heralded the arrival of the other Guardians, and while Pitch was still nowhere to be seen, Skellington’s face brightened at the sight of North out the window. He set a surprisingly gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder, smiling.

“Even if Mr. Black’s schedule prevents him attending,” Skellington said. “I’d like to thank you for…well, everyone else. I realize they may have been a bit reluctant.”

Jack shrugged it off. "Don't worry about it. I only collected your RSVPs."

North and Bunny would’ve come around eventually; he had only sped up the process. He could tell they were fonder of Skellington than they’d admit. As for Pitch’s “schedule”, well. Jack wasn’t lying about busting up all of his furniture.

Skellington checked himself over in the mirror one last time before throwing open his front door with a grand gesture and a mad cackling fit.

“Welcome, one and all, to the Three-Hundred-Days-Before-Halloween masquerade!” His voice easily carried over the excited crowd. “Please do give a welcome to our distinguished guests this evening!”

Bat-like creatures carrying spotlights fluttered to where each of the Guardians stood to illuminate them.

“Mr. Sandyman; an excellent dancer, as I’m sure you’ve seen!”

Sandy tipped his hat and moonwalked out of the spotlight, leaving golden shimmers to scintillate behind.

“Ms. Tooth Fairy; who appears to have already beaten Halloween Town’s standing apple-bobbing record!”

Tooth’s head surfaced from a pool with menacing fins swimming in it. She waved with one arm, set two more apples next to where her witch hat sat on the pool’s edge, and sent a shot from her harpoon gun at a pursuing shark.

“Of course you all remember Misters Easter Bunny and Sandy Claws! Hello, gentlemen!”

Bunny scowled at the spotlight in his eyes, and North gave a little wave as he examined the banquet tables for the least…Halloween Town-esque fare. They had elected to bring along a pair of egg-golem and yeti bodyguards each. Jack couldn’t really blame them.

"And, I'm certain you all recognize our dear friend, Mr. Jack Frost!"

Jack gave a little wave, and sent a little scatter of pumpkin-patterned snowflakes to drift amidst the crowd.

A consummate showman, Skellington did not bring up the conspicuous absence, and instead glided elegantly in his black robes to the stage. His bony hands flitted through the air to punctuate his speech.

“As you surely know, tonight we celebrate the career of a man who strikes terror into the hearts of all, a man whose presence you feel when the night wind raises goosebumps on your flesh, when shadows play upon your bedroom walls. The legend himself, Mr. Pitch! Black!”

Skellington’s dramatic fit of cackling was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a black sinkhole onstage. “Fashionably late” was a word that came to Jack’s mind, unbidden. Also “pretentious overdramatic twat”. The shrieking cries of Nightmares echoed from its depths, and a fleet of the terrible equines burst from the hole like locusts to race through the cheering, hysterical crowds. When the dark smoke of their entry cleared, Pitch stood on stage, looking quite unruffled by the commotion.

Jack had never seen Skellington look so absolutely, wonderfully happy.

Skellington made an impressive effort to keep himself under control, and walked stiffly (but speedily) to where Pitch stood. He bowed deeply, offering a hand to shake.

“Mr. Black. It is my greatest pleasure to welcome you here today.”

The cheers from the crowd were deafening. Pitch smiled and gave a polite bow back.

“Do forgive my tardiness. It can be so troublesome travelling with children, you know.”

One of the Nightmares had dunked its head in the apple-bobbing pool. A shark swam too close, and the Nightmare gave a demonic snarl; the shark wisely decided to seek another playmate.

Pitch gave Skellington’s outfit an appraising look. Despite his professionalism, nervousness descended on Skellington, and he picked at his sleeves worriedly.

“My, it appears we showed up in the same outfit. How dreadfully embarrassing. One of us will simply have to change…”

Pitch’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his body twitched once, twice. His skin seemed to hang too loosely from his bones, as if it was melting off in sheets. His kneecaps and elbows cracked backward, and he began to collapse in on himself. An acrid stench filled the air as the melting skin began to burn through Pitch’s robes, raising furious red welts on the flesh. The welts swelled and burst, birthing dozens of mouths lined with needle-thin teeth to pockmark his ruined limbs. The mouths shrieked an otherworldly chorus, raining black spittle on the audience as they sang. Pitch was now an amorphous lump of scorched flesh and cloth and screaming tongues.

As if being torn from the inside, a gash opened at the top of the mass. With a sickening wet ripping noise, the Pitch that Pitch was pried his way out of the fleshy tumor. He was now dressed in pristine heather-gray robes, instead of his standard black. The ruined giblets of meat speedily dissolved into nothing but shadows and sand.

The crowd went wild. Pitch picked a little piece of bone off his shoulder, and smoothed down his clothes. If the intention of the display was to cause nightmares, then it was a failure, as Jack was pretty sure he’d never sleep again.

“Magnificent! Truly and completely magnificent! I feel eldritch terror gnawing at the very roots of my soul!” cried Skellington. “Mr. Black, you are a legend beyond legends!”

Pitch looked altogether too pleased with himself as he basked in another round of thunderous applause. As he and Skellington settled down on the chairs onstage to conduct an interview, Jack stumbled over to the banquet table with the intention of sticking his head into the nearest bowl of something alcoholic and drinking until he killed of the braincells that remembered this episode.

--

The hour grew late, and the party began to thin out. The interview was a hit among the guests – most of the guests, in any case. When Pitch made a few smug remarks regarding Skellington’s kidnapping skills, a saber lodged itself in the ground at Pitch’s feet. Even while three sheets to the wind on pumpkin cider, North’s aim was impeccable, so he was clearly in a good enough mood to miss on purpose.

Even Bunny was feeling festive enough to provide (probably illegal) help to Tooth in her apple-bobbing battle with egg grenades. Jack knew he had a pretty bad track record with pools, so he stuck with Sandy on the dance floor. While Sandy out-grooved him on most levels, Jack felt he kept up pretty admirably well, and only wiped out a few other dancers when North stormed the disco stage and started swinging them around in an attempt to teach him and Sandy some weird Russian dance.

The clock struck one – it was time to be getting back to Burgess to whip up that snow day he’d promised Jamie as a Christmas present. Before he reached Skellington’s house to retrieve his clothes, he heard a familiar voice.

“‘Consulting Boogeyman’.  It has a certain ring to it.”

Jack turned. Pitch was regarding him, steadily.

“The position Skellington offered,” Pitch clarified. “A consulting position for event planning, presumably.”

“It’d give you something to do with your time, other than wasting away on your fainting couches,” Jack remarked. “He’s a decent guy to work with. Professional, in his own weird way.”

Pitch hummed thoughtfully. “You do seem to have a way with his type.”

With that, he glided back to where Skellington was mingling with the crowd.

Jack shook his head.

He guessed he did have a way with convincing overdramatic weirdoes to work together.