Chapter Text
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xix.
“I'm sorry.” Says Bunnymund for the first time in what seems like ages.
(And it probably is. Bunnymund never gets into situations where an apology is merited on his part, after all, he's not usually wrong.
Expectably for this time, it turns out.)
The huge frightened eyes blink, startled. The shepherd staff, pointed at Bunnymund trembles in the cold, pale hands.
In a surge of impulsiveness (and stupidity) Bunnymund brings a large paw toward the staff, trying to deflect it away from his chest.
The little spirit doesn't seem to agree with Bunnymund's action because his gaze narrows and his hands clutch the wooden stick tightly.
“Don't come any closer. If you have to say something else, say it from there. If not, I'll leave.”
The winter child doesn't accept his apology, and though it sends a twinge of pain through his chest, he really wasn't expecting him to accept it. Not now, at least, not until Bunnymund can explain himself.
Bunnymund prepares himself, taking a step—,
“No.” The winter child looks up at him, furious eyes under a rather impressive scowl. “Don't take another step or I'll freeze you and this place.”
Familiar anger surges under Bunnymund's fur, simmering at low heat. How dares he to threaten him in his own home?
And he tells him so.
The child, to his no-longer-so-surprise, lets out a snort. Something between amusement and disbelief.
“You brought me here, kangaroo. And I told you, if you want me to listen to you, don't come any closer to me, or I'll take it as a threat.
Bunnymund takes a breath. And exhales. And inhales. And exhales.
Calm down, he remembers, he's a scared little child. And you're a guardian, you just need to make yourself as non-threatening as possible.
(Easier said than done; with a height of almost 7 feet.)
Bunnymund sits back on his haunches, his ears pinned to his skull.
From the still frightened gleam in the crystalline eyes, Bunnymund realizes he didn't do a very good job.
But he can't do any better.
(That always seems to be his excuse.)
The guardian of hope braces himself, raising his paws in a sign of “I swear I'm not going to grab my boomerang and crack your head open a second time.”
From the child's still suspicious face, it doesn't work.
(Not that Bunnymund blames him, after all, if he did it once, why not twice? Or thrice. Or four, five, six, seven—.)
The pooka shakes his head, trying to focus. From the way the child's feet are halfway to darting away, he knows he's running out of time.
“It wasn't your fault.”
The winter spirit tilts his head, suddenly confused. “...What wasn't my fault? Speak clearly, I don't have time for your riddles, Kangaroo—,”
Bunnymund interrupts him. (He's not a kangaroo, he's a pooka, he's a pooka, he's a pooka-—)
“Easter '68'—,”
“No.” Whispers the child in horror, his white hair falling over his eyes. “No. We're not going to talk about it, I'm leaving; Wind!” He screams, desperation growing more and more evident as the seconds tick by and the wind does not respond. “No, no, no.”
“Okay, child-” Bunnymund begins, a looming headache surging in his temple. And because Mother Nature loves to make him miserable, a high-pitched voice interrupts him, demanding and, dare Bunnymund say, childish.
(Perhaps because the child is, well, a child.)
“Jack.” The child corrects, somewhat tremulously, folding his arms-or rather, hugging himself. He keeps muttering for the wind.
(Bunnymund refuses to call him that.
Jack Frost, to his gaze, is an evil spirit who doesn't care who gets hurt.
The winter child is just that, a lonely winter child looking for love in the most nefarious places on this earth.)
“... As I was saying, I know Easter '68 wasn't your fault, take that bloody expression off your face, will you? Don't look so surprised, I'm not that much of a fuckwit. I know those spirits in the bar had something to do with everything. Believe me, if I had known, I swear to the man in the moon, I would never have—,”
“Hurt me...?”
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xx.
Jack can't help it; he laughs. The laughter rumbles painfully in his chest. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to stop them. A guffaw escapes his mouth. And another, and another and-
And...
And he's crying...
(The drops come out in a frozen state, shimmering in the natural light of the warren like little gemstones.
It's quite beautiful.
They remind him of the ice on his lake, as the end of winter approaches and summer begins to loom, not enough to melt it, where before— before what? There never was a before; Jack was always Jack, the spirit ignored by all but two spirits.
—Jack was nobody before he was born,
Or was he?—
He hopes he's wrong, because being right would mean that no one missed him enough to recognize him once he came out of the darkness and ice.)
The thought only makes him cry harder.
“Hurt me...?” He repeats between laughter and sobs intermingled so tightly that there's no difference between one or the other.
It's funny.
("Child? Child? Child!
He hears it repeated over and over.
But Jack is Jack and Jack is not child.
Because children are naive and pure.
Loved.
And Jack is none of those things.
And to Jack, child is one of only two empty words of anger and hatred that anyone other than Tsurara-onna or Hedyoinos have ever said to him.
And it's cruel, Jack thinks, that someone who has only ever dedicated words full of contempt and hatred for everything he is, would use it against him.
Child should be an affectionate nickname from the spirits who love and cherish him, not from a guardian who pretends to care about him, even though he ignored him for three (three!) centuries and tried to kill him for what Jack had thought was harmless fun.
And it's kind of sad, because it's all Jack's fault, it always is.)
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xxi.
“... Child?” repeats Bunnymund for what seems like the tenth time.
Child doesn't seem to acknowledge him as he clutches himself, sparkling tears furrowing his face and cackles rumbling in his unmoving chest.
“Child!” He shouts now, increasingly desperate.
Nothing.
“...Jack?” he half growls, the familiar anger that name brings him replaced by misplaced concern.
Like a spark, the child ignites, responding to the name like a pet.
“They, I-—,” the winter spirit gasps, bursting with laughter. “You think I deserved it, you, you—,”
“What?” asks Bunnymund, totally baffled. It's not a funny situation in the least. It's terrible, a child manipulated and used by spirits almost as old as the wind itself and—,
“They, they—, “a hiccup mixed with a laugh in a screeching, unbearable sound. ”They had nothing to do with it.”
Oh, poor thing, thinks Bunnymund, sorrow shining in his eyes. The child must see it, and he decidedly doesn't like it because he straightens up, leaving all traces of sobbing laughter behind.
“Look, I know you want to defend them, but—,”
“No. You don't understand, I didn't even know them at the time. It was years later that I found that goddamn bar forsaken by the moon.”
What.
No.
That's, that's not right.
Ja—, no, the child, he's a victim.
Innocent.
He has to be.
“... You did it on purpose.” It's not a question, but by Mother Nature how he wants it to be.
And how he wants the answer to be no.
Because if it was true, it means he was right about Jack Frost, and wrong about the child.
(The child is Jack Frost, but Jack Frost is a threat to children.
And he can't be both, not in the black and white world of Bunnymund.
What's next then, if not? Pitch is a victim of circumstance?
“Pitchiner was,” whispers a voice that resembles what he assumes was once his mother's voice, he doesn't remember it, not anymore. “He was deceived by the treacherous, lying tar shadows. They cried and begged in the voice of his little daughter.”)
“Yes! No. Well, I didn't want anyone to get hurt, that was never my intention. But I was so lonely and— ” The child, Jack Frost, continues to stammer out excuses and explanations in search of pity and understanding that he knows will not be granted.
(“It's different,” Bunnymund argues. “Pitch was Kozmotis Pitchiner but Kozmotis Pitchiner was never Pitch”. His voice quivers, making his whiskers twitch;“The child was always Jack Frost and Jack Frost was always the child. And Jack Frost is a danger to children.")
“I didn't mean to, I promise, but no one was talking to me, no one, and everyone was having fun and I wanted to have fun, I didn't want—” His voice sharpens and wobbles with tears and despair. Bunnymund won't fall for it.
(“Silly child,” Her voice is tinged with sorrow. Bunnymund hates it. “It's not the fault of children to be dangerous when they've never been taught otherwise.”
“Oh,” he suddenly realizes. “That's right.”
This time, he thinks, E.Aster is going to do the right thing and face up to his mistakes.)
“-no, I didn't mean to-” The spirit's voice gets tinier and wounded, as he hunches down, trying to make himself smaller than he already is.
He is a lost child, Bunnymund realizes.
And Bunnymund's job, Bunnymund's life, is about protecting the flame of hope for lost children.
And if they don't have it? Then the guardian of hope must fan a new one.
Because dead or alive, he is still a hopeless child.
And it is for the honor of a warrior and a guardian of Bunnymund that he will do something.
He won't run away, not anymore.
(Neither of them can allow themselves to do that.)