Chapter Text
It happens occasionally.
Pitch finds himself in a bedroom, lured by the promise of a child’s dreams, and finds a not-child. An adult, technically, but a not-child because they are not quite at the stage where their youth has gone, and it confuses his nightmares.
“Who’s there?”
That, in itself, is unusual. Normally, when he is noticed, the person reacts by switching on the light, burrowing under the covers or even leaving the room. No one would think to ask who is there, because they know full well that there isn’t anyone. The Nightmare King does not exist to them. They feel fear in a way that is irrational, but they are certain in their convictions that spirits such as he do not exist.
But this, this not-child… he believes.
“Answer me,” says the not-child. “Show yourself!”
Pitch can just make out the human's features in the moonlight. He has thick dark brown hair and eyes almost the same shade. He’s slender, of average height. He wears blue pyjamas with snowflakes on them.
Pitch mulls over it. What’s the harm? To have a not-child believe, well… Is that an opportunity that he should turn down?
So he reveals himself, slowly. He allows his shadow to grow larger until his form is displayed as he casually leans against the windowsill.
The not-child's eyes widen and he doesn’t appear afraid, not at all. And this should anger Pitch – he should want to see fear in the eyes of the not-child – but instead, it intrigues him.
What is it about this human that makes him so calm in the face of such strangeness?
“Oh,” says the not-child. “Wow.”
Pitch frowns. He doesn’t know what to do now. He’s been seen, and that in itself is satisfying, but there’s not much point continuing this if he can’t even scare the recipient of his attentions.
And yet…
“Who are you?” asks the not-child and, to Pitch’s shock, leans closer and holds his hand out. That same hand grabs the front of Pitch’s robe.
Pitch winces, but doesn’t push him away.
The not-child lets go, and appears almost endearingly disappointed. “Can’t you talk?”
“Of course I can talk,” snaps Pitch, before he can stop himself, and now he is being heard as well as seen. A thrill runs down his spine.
The not-child's eyes light up. “I’m Jack. And you?”
Is this human really introducing himself like this is a normal conversation, like they are two strangers at a party?
“Pitch,” he says, and now there’s no point questioning why he’s still here, why he’s bothering to interact with this not-child who isn’t at all afraid of him.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Pitch? I thought… I mean, I thought you’d have a name like, I don't know… the Shadow Man, or something.”
“How old are you, boy?” asks Pitch, because he is curious now.
Jack shrugs. “It's Jack, not boy. And I'm eighteen. You?”
More silence and really, what on earth is Pitch doing? He should leave, he knows this, and yet the boy’s focus is keeping him in place. It’s been a very long time since he had a believer, let alone one old enough to have a proper conversation.
“No one’s going to believe me if I tell them about you,” said Jack. “So the least you can do is make it worth my while and talk to me!”
"I owe you no debt."
"I guess you don't." Jack rests his back against the headboard and draws his knees up, his arms folded around his legs. "But you're still here."
Pitch should leave, he should, and yet he feels pinned to the spot.
Jack doesn't take his eyes off Pitch, not for a moment.
"Talk to me," says Jack, again.
"Are you so desperate for company?" It's a cruel remark, one that Pitch of all entities should know better than to make.
Jack doesn't respond for a while. Then, "I suppose I am."
"Alright."
Jack brightens. "Alright? You'll stay?"
Pitch nods. "The night is long," he says carefully.
"It really is," says Jack.
There's a sadness in Jack's voice that belies his smile and Pitch wonders what this means.