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"Hey, Pitch? What happened to your eyebrows?"
Pitch Black, the Boogeyman and the King of Nightmares, archenemy of the Guardians and long-time foe of the Man in the Moon himself, blinked. Twice.
He then carefully closed his book, carefully placed it on the small iron table at his side, and carefully drew the small black fox cub lying on his lap a little closer towards himself, before carefully leveling a glare at the (ill-advised and quite possibly insane) winter spirit grinning at him.
"What," he asked, carefully and deliberately, "are you doing in my home?"
Jack either ignored the question or forgot to answer it. "I'm just asking because I've always wondered, y'know? I mean, it's not often that you see a dude wander around with no eyebrows, mostly because it looks stupid. But then again, you have very questionable fashion choices, so maybe you either don't care or don't know that it looks stupid."
Pitch considered being irritated at Jack's offensive opinion of his exceptional and stunning fashion choices, but decided that figuring out what the nutcase was doing in his house in the first place was probably a higher priority. "What," he asked again, "are you doing in my home?"
"Of course, there's always the possibility that you're an alien who naturally doesn't have eyebrows. I mean, Bunny is an alien and so is Sandy so I guess it's not that far-fetched that you might be one too."
Clearly, Jack was insane. Pitch tightened his protective grip on the fox cub, ignoring its small squeak as he cradled it to his chest. It would not do for anything bad to happen to Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth, and Pitch would gladly give his life to protect the small, furry creature.
Well, maybe not his life. The lives of his Nightmares, though, certainly.
"Jack," he said, preparing to bolt along with Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth if the need so arose, "are you alright?"
Jack stopped rambling under his breath about eyebrows, instead looking at Pitch as if the Boogeyman was insane. Which, for the record, Pitch considered to be a clear example of the pot calling the kettle black.
"...Yes? I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
"If you're fine, what are you doing in the lair of one of your greatest enemies?"
"To ask about your eyebrows, of course," said Jack as if it were obvious.
Now, Pitch Black may have been the Nightmare King, but he was far from recovered from the battle he'd recently had with the Guardians, and he harbored no delusions as to the fact that, in his current state, Jack could easily beat him in a fight. With that in mind, he rose from his chair and started backing away from the winter spirit, still cradling in his arms the fluffy mass that was Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth. "Is that so," he asked cagily.
Jack nodded. "Yep. Is that a fox?"
Pitch blinked before looking at down at Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth. "...Yes?"
"Oh. What's its name?"
"... Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth."
Jack blinked. "That's a stupid name."
"It's a perfectly respectable and honorable name, and kindly get out of my house."
"Make me," Jack challenged cheerfully.
Pitch briefly fantasized about doing so, but he knew that he wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of winning the resulting fight and would likely be maimed and/or killed. It was with this thought in mind that he promptly decided that, as cowardice was the better part of discretion, so discretion was the better part of valor, and with that he valiantly decided not to attack the winter spirit.
It was for everyone's best, really. Especially Frederick's.
Still, that didn't mean he couldn't complain about it.
"What can I do to make you go away?"
"Well," said Jack, still irritatingly cheerful, "you could start by telling me why you don't have any eyebrows."
Pitch raised a non-existent eyebrow, looking skeptical. "And would that make you go away?"
"Nope, but it'll pass the time until I do."
Of course Jack would stay to pester him, it was just his luck. Although why someone who was supposed to be his archenemy would willingly spend time with him was beyond Pitch.
"...Why are you even here, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be with the other goody two shoes Guardians, plotting ways to bribe small children with candy and toothpaste?"
"First of all, nobody says "goody two shoes" anymore, Pitch. Secondly, I can be wherever I want, because I'm a winter spirit and winter spirits are known for not giving a damn. And thirdly, I wanted to know what happened to your eyebrows."
Again with the eyebrows? "Nothing happened to my eyebrows!"
"So you naturally don't have them? Gee, dude, that sucks. I'm sorry for you."
Pitch sighed as a headache began to settle behind his forehead. "Indeed, I naturally don't have them. Now, will you get out of my house?"
"Nope."
Pitch momentarily contemplated throwing Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth at him, but decided that it would be a rather irresponsible course of action for a loving pet owner and unofficial animal rights activist to take. Instead, he opted to back away some more from Jack, retreating until his back hit the cold stone wall of his lair. "May I ask again how I can get you to leave?"
Jack tilted his head to one side. "Hmm, I don't know. Nothing, really. But if you let me pet Vincent Frederick-"
"Frederick Vincent Claudius Bill the Fourth," Pitch corrected automatically.
"-Yeah, that. If you let me pet him, I might consider it."
Pitch stared. "You want to pet the fox of one of the greatest evil villains to ever nearly succeed in taking over the world."
"Yes."
"The villain who taunted you, broke your staff, tossed you in a crevice, and left you to die."
"Yes."
"The villain who dearly wants to kill you and is only prevented by his weakness and general lack of power."
"That's right," Jack said jauntily.
"...Alright, fine. Why the hell not."
"That's the spirit," Jack grinned, before stepping forward to pet the fox. He didn't seem to care that he was only six inches away from Pitch, instead preferring to coo over the the cub as he ran his fingers through the dark fur. Pitch, for his part, merely stared, because honestly what else could he do?
When Jack grew tired of petting the fox, he stepped away as if nothing unusual had happened. "Well, I'll be off, then. Bye Pitch."
"Goodbye," Pitch said dazedly.
Jack smirked before taking to the air and flitting away, yelling as he went, "I'll be back next week!"
Pitch swore. Loudly and creatively.