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Chapter Text

It had been several months since Pitch Black had lost to the Guardians, forced back to his underground lair where he was mercilessly attacked by his fearlings. The nightmares whispered dreadful things, horrifying tales of loss and damnation until Pitch could no longer take it. He spent weeks running from them, hiding in the shadows, trying to recover what strength and composure he could.

Slowly, he regained control over his fearlings. The world was still full of fear, it just came in smaller doses – a close call with a speeding car here, a spider in the bath there – but Pitch took what he could. The weeks leading up to Halloween were a helpful boon, but he couldn’t help but grouse to himself that it wasn’t like the old days, not when people really were scared of ghosts and monsters. Now it was all sugary candy and superheroes. But people love a good scare, and watered-down fear was better than nothing.

Now it was November, and Pitch was as strong as he’d been since Easter, but children still passed through him without a thought, and the fearlings still circled him when he slept. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since that horrible night in Burgess; none of the Guardians had bothered to check up on him in all that time.

None except one.

A ray of moonlight encroached on Pitch’s shadowy path as he skulked on the outskirts of a sleeping town. He looked up, into the full face of the moon. “You,” he spat. “This is your fault.”

The moon did not reply. It never did.

Pitch slinked into deeper shadows and returned to his underground lair. Nightmarish shapes skittered along the walls, welcoming their master. He waved them away with a dismissive hand, but he knew once he let his guard down, they’d return. They’d bring with them recriminations of failure, and older, deeper images that he didn’t recognize – a golden ship, stars burning in the skies, and a little girl’s eyes.

But he was tired, and hopefully strong enough to keep the fearlings away for at least an hour or two. He lay down on a slab of onyx he called a bed and shut his eyes. Those blasted Guardians, he thought to himself, especially that insufferable little glowworm, Sandman. Probably up at the North Pole, drinking eggnog and laughing merrily, while he lay down here, no one for company but his nightmares.

Don’t you like being alone? Said a voice that didn’t quite sound like his inner thoughts. Pitch was too tired to notice. His eyes shut and as he drifted off into a restless sleep, he answered:

No.

I wish I weren’t alone.

Chapter Text

The first thing Pitch noticed when he woke up was that he was cold. The next thing he noticed, as he snuggled down into the blankets that covered him –

Blankets?

Pitch’s eyes snapped open and he sat up in bed. Not his bed. It was far too comfortable, for one thing, and covered in red and green flannel sheets. He took a slow, careful look around the room as he woke up fully and realized that he was most definitely not in his bed or in his lair. There was far too much wooden furniture, cheerful patterned wallpaper, and decorative knick-knacks for it to be his lair or anything remotely close to it.

“North,” he hissed.

He shot out of bed and grabbed the handle of the room’s door, giving it a forceful tug. It was surprisingly not locked, and it slammed against the wall in a satisfying manner. The hallway was empty, but Pitch heard a familiar jingle.

He looked down. Two elves were holding a tray of cookies and milk. They held it up to him encouragingly.

“Get. Out. Of. My. Way,” Pitch growled. The elves, not bright even by their species’ standards, still had enough self-preservation to drop the tray with a clatter and run away.

Pitch’s glower faded a fraction of a notch. That was better. He stalked down the hallway, fists clenched. How dare North kidnap him and bring him here! Wasn’t it enough that he had been defeated? North had to bring him here and further humiliate him? Weakened state or not, he was going to wring that oversized elf’s neck and burn his workshop to the ground!

He wasn’t entirely unsurprised to find Jack Frost waiting for him at the end of the hallway. “Well, well, if it isn’t the Boy Wonder,” Pitch sneered. “Here to do North’s dirty work, hmm? Tell me, has he forgiven you yet for your stupidity? Or are you so happy to finally have a family that you’ll follow his orders regardless?”

Jack didn’t rise to the bait. If anything, he looked amused. “Sleep well, Pitch? North wants to see you.”

“Oh, he does?” He raised his hands, intending to form a scythe of darkness. “And you’re going to take me?”

“Nope,” Jack replied gleefully. A pair of huge, furry arms grabbed Pitch around his waist, pinning his arms to his sides. He had just enough to time to gasp in surprise before he was hauled onto a furry shoulder.  “He is.”

A yeti. Pitch kicked his legs in vain, but it was like trying to fight a hairy couch. “Unhand me, you overgrown hairball!” He shouted as he was carried away. The yeti grumbled something in its alien language and continued its loping pace. Something like, “This is for all those eggs I had to paint. Twice.”

Pitch caught a glimpse of Santa’s workshop – ridiculously busy this time of year – before he was carried into what looked like an office. The yeti unceremoniously plopped him into a chair and then left, shutting the door behind him. Pitch took a moment to brush the fur off his robes before looking up.

North was standing in front of his desk, looking unusually anxious. Jack stood next to him, along with Tooth. Bunny was there too, albeit a bit further away. Nobody looked gleeful, as he had imagined them the night before. Quite the opposite, in fact.

His anger quieted at the sight of their somber faces, well aware of the imbalance of power. “Hey, hey, the gang’s all here,” he crooned, covering up his nervousness with a nasty smile. Except that wasn’t exactly true, now that he thought about it. “And what do I owe the pleasure of your esteemed company?”

“Well, Pitch,” North sighed, talking for the group as he often did. “We have problem that we need to talk about.”

“Problem?” Pitch echoed in North’s accent before adding icily, “The only problem I see here is that you removed me from my realm without my consent and dragged me unwillingly to your over-rated toy store.”

North sighed. “Well, yes, but there is good reason for doing so –“

“Hey, I was fine leaving you where you were,” Bunny interrupted, his expression baleful. “After all you put us through—“

“Bunny.” North raised his voice. “Please not to be interrupting.”

“He ruined Easter! I’m still cleaning up eggshells from my burrows.”

“I know you’re mad, Bunny, I am too,” Tooth interjected, fluttering over to lay a consoling hand on the giant rabbit’s shoulder. “But look at him. Even if we hadn’t talked to Manny, we couldn’t just leave him like this.“

“WILL SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON!” Pitch shouted, patience gone and outrage at being ignored boiling over. The full attention of the guardians upon him once more, he took a deep breath and added with slightly less volume, “And what do you mean look at me? Like what? Leave me like what?”

The guardians exchanged worrisome glances and Pitch unconsciously shivered. Just cold, he told himself, although that silent look spoke volumes. Finally, Jack rolled his eyes and headed over to the wall. “You guys, always over-thinking things,” he sighed, not unfondly, and took a dinner plate-sized mirror off its hanging and then handed it to Pitch. “Here. Look at yourself.”

Pitch glared. What is this, some kind of therapy session? He snatched the mirror from Jack’s icy hands and looked at his reflection.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

His reflection was human.

“No,” he said, his voice weak. It was him all right – the same jet black hair, the same golden eyes, the same beaked nose and gaunt, angled cheeks. But his skin was white, not gray, and his cheeks had a warm, healthy blush.

He exhaled, and his breath fogged the mirror.

“No,” he repeated. He lowered the mirror all the way to floor and set it down, afraid he’d break it. He was shaking so badly. “This is a trick. A trick mirror. You’re trying to trick me.”

“It is no trick,” North said, somewhat sadly. “You are human now, Pitch.”

“NO!” Pitch raised his hands, once again intending to form his shadow scythe, but nothing happened. No surge of power, no dark shadows coalescing around him, nothing.

His hands. Pitch stared at them. His fingers were still long and thin, but not inhumanly so, and he could see the veins just underneath the skin.

Veins. A pulse.

He had a pulse.

Pitch threw his head back and laughed, a miserable bone-chilling cackle that made the guardians wince, not that he could see or cared about their expressions. It was either laugh or cry, and for a terrifying moment he thought he would do both, but slowly his sanity returned and his laughter died down to a harsh wheeze.

He kept his head down while Tooth explained that she found him outside the entrance to his realm, asleep but becoming hypothermic in the chilly night air, so she brought him to North’s.

“Why were you even looking for me in the first place,” Pitch muttered, gaze on the floor, cheeks burning in humiliation at the thought of Tooth of all people carrying him to safety.

“Well,” North answered, “That is other part of the problem.” He coughed awkwardly. “You are not the only one to have turned human.”

Pitch looked up sharply at that. He saw Bunny shift his stance, as if pushed lightly. The spirit of Easter looked behind him in concern. “You sure, mate?” he asked softly, then nodded and stepped to the right.

Behind him stood a man, short and plump, with wild blond hair and wearing what looked like gold pajamas. He stayed close to Bunny, as if ready to hide behind him again at any second. His warm amber eyes met Pitch’s golden ones and the former King of Nightmares gasped, dumbfounded.

“Sandman,” he whispered. His heart dropped, and for a fleeting moment he thought, Oh, no. Not you, too.

And then, like a fountain bubbling out of a deep spring, he began to laugh again. Louder and louder, until he was clutching his sides in agony. Oh, this was too rich. Too rich by half. The Guardian of Dreams, his greatest enemy, a mere human! Bunny put a protective paw on Sandman’s head and the other guardians glared at him, but he didn’t care. If he was going to have a morsel of delight in this endless buffet of despair, he was going to savor it for as long as he could.

His laughter faded and he sat back up, wiping at his eyes and feeling marginally better. “At least that’s one bit of good news,” he chuckled, pointedly ignoring the hurt look on Sandman’s face. He absently smoothed out his robes. “Now, then. Do any of you idiots have any idea why this happened?”

Bunny and Jack bristled at the insult, but North seemed unperturbed. “Manny –“

“Man in the Moon,” Tooth interrupted, for Pitch’s benefit.

“I know what his insipid nickname is,” Pitch grumbled.

North continued on, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Manny explained to us that when two souls make a wish at same time, without one another knowing, a very powerful magic happens. This magic can only be undone when wish is granted.”

Pitch listened silently. “So what’s the wish?” he asked.

The guardians looked at one another uneasily. Pitch felt his anger rising once more. “You mean to tell me that two little brats made a wish so powerful that Sandman and I are human and you don’t even know what it is?” His voiced quavered dangerously and he clutched the arms of his chair to avoid jumping out of it. “It could be anything! A hot air balloon ride, a lifetime supply of taffy, world peace—“

His face paled and he sank back into his seat. Oh gods, if it was world peace then he was really screwed.

“Cut us some slack, Pitch,” Jack admonished. “We only found out about this a couple of hours ago. We’re trying as hard as we can to figure out how to fix this.”

“Certainly not for your sake,” Bunny added.

Pitch ignored the slight. “Wait a minute. If Sandman is human, then how are any children still dreaming?” He hadn’t missed the bright pinpoints of light on North’s globe, as strong as ever.

“Sandman’s sand is still at work, it’s just relying completely on the children,” Tooth replied. “My girls have been keeping an eye on it. This close to Christmas, the dreams seem to be doing okay.”

That was oddly disappointing. “So what am I supposed to do while you solve this problem? Sit here and eat cookies?”

North laughed, a booming jolly sound that made Pitch jump a little in his seat. “Nonsense. Santa’s workshop is no place for mortals, especially not during busy season! But we have things covered, Pitch. We found place for you and Sandman to stay until you return to normal.”

“How thoughtful of—wait.” Pitch looked over at Sandman, who was looking far too innocent to be believed. “What do you mean me and Sandman? Where are you sending us?”

“Burgess,” Jack answered, and Pitch gagged. “No, I’m serious! Jamie and the other kids believe in us so strongly that we can get you settled there without any problem.”

“You want me to live. In Burgess. With humans.” He looked at Sandman again. “And you? Was this your idea, old man?”

Sandman opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

Pitch blinked, and then snickered. “Oh, dear. You’re completely mute as a human!” His snicker turned to a cackle, and Sandman glowered at him. “The guardian of Dreams, a pathetic, fat little –“

He didn’t get to finish his insult as Sandman came rushing at him and crashed into his chest, knocking the both of them over. His little hands slapped Pitch’s face several times before he was hauled away by Bunny. “Easy, mate, easy! You’re both human now, you could break something!”

Pitch got back to his feet. Sandman was still struggling in Bunny’s arms, looking furious. It’d be hilarious if his face didn’t hurt so much. “I apologize,” he purred. “Your weight is clearly an advantage in your current state.”

Bunny hissed at the insult but Sandman stopped struggling and – was he grinning? That was even worse than the slapping. “Pitch,” North boomed, looking serious, “It is for your own good that you live with Sandman in Burgess until we fix things.”

“I am not living with humans,” Pitch replied flatly, smoothing back his hair. “I’d rather die.”

“That can be arranged,” Bunny rumbled, putting down Sandman and cracking his furry knuckles.

“Bunny!” Tooth admonished, and the guardians began arguing over Pitch’s fate once more.

Sandman suddenly grabbed the mirror from the floor and threw it as hard as he could against the wall. The crashing sound startled everyone, Pitch included, and the little man walked over to Pitch in complete silence. Taking out a notebook and a pen from inside his pajama pocket, he wrote one word and held it up to Pitch.

Please.

Pitch looked from the writing to Sandman. His eyes, human but otherwise unchanged, stared back at him without malice and just a touch of hope.

Pitch rubbed a hand over his face. “Fine,” he sighed. “Fine. But while we’re there, you simpletons better be doing everything in your power to free us from this ridiculous curse.”

“Wish,” North replied, tension gone from his face, replaced with a relieved smile. “It was a wish.”

“Whatever,” Pitch muttered, looking away.

Chapter Text

That evening, Pitch stood in Jamie Bennett’s living room and wondered wearily which malicious fates conspired to create such a horrible, spirit-crushing day.

It began with North ushering him and Sandman to a quieter part of his workshop so the yetis could make them some clothes. It was the high point of the day, not because Pitch wasn’t still miserable, because he was, but North was at least letting him choose the cut, style, and color of his new wardrobe.

“Black,” he said, when North asked what color he wanted his shirts.

“Black,” he repeated, when North asked what color he wanted his pants.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied thoughtfully, when North asked about the socks, “Perhaps a nice shade of what do you think.”

“Why so much black? Is boring!”

“Because I’m the Bogeyman, you over-cooked fruitcake,” Pitch snapped.

“Not now you are not,” North replied before returning to his office.

Pitch nearly shouted something at the Guardian of Wonder’s retreating back, but bit the inside of his cheek and sulked instead. There was no point refuting it, he wouldn’t be having anyone quake in fear like this, dressed all in black or not. Still, he was grateful to have something to wear besides his increasingly inappropriate robes, and his new outfit felt comfortable and looked, dare he say, acceptable.

He emerged from the changing room to find Sandman had also put on new clothes, a simple pair of slacks and a brightly patterned sweater that made his eyes bleed. “What in the name of spider silk are you wearing?”

Sandman beamed and turned around to show off his new threads and Pitch rolled his eyes. “Stop, please, you’re making me queasy.” He really did feel queasy, or at least some sort of unpleasant feeling in his stomach.

Oh. He was hungry. He hadn’t been hungry for food since… well, since before he could remember. He didn’t like the feeling. How many more of these human urges would he have to bear before this ordeal was over? He didn’t want to find out.

Lunch was uneventful, but things went downhill from there. Sandman insisted on picking out their aliases.

“Kozmotis Pitchiner?” He looked down at Sandman who seemed oddly hopeful. “That’s a ridiculous name, even by your standards.” But Sandman insisted, and Pitch didn’t find it worth arguing over. “And you are— Sanderson Mansnoozie? You are seriously going to use that as a name? Why not just call yourself Sleepyhead the Tooth-Rottingly Sweet and be done with it.”

Sandman burst into silent giggles and Pitch wondered what he said that was so funny.

Then North explained in more detail what they would be doing (pretending to do, Pitch pointed out), and where they would be staying in Burgess. And so, with the weight of the day’s events on his shoulders, Pitch smiled as much as he could, which wasn’t very, and listened while Mrs. Bennett thanked them for being able to answer her room-for-rent ad on such short notice.

“We’re using one of the closets on the third floor for storage, but otherwise the space is yours. Let me know if you need another dresser or more blankets.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Pitch replied. He was tired, close to exhausted, and just wanted to go upstairs and sleep.

“I have to say, I’m pretty excited to have a painter and a writer staying here.” She laughed. “Nothing very interesting happens in Burgess.”

“Really.” Pitch’s voice dripped with enough sarcasm to earn a nudge and disapproving look from his companion. “Anyway, it is quite late and we are quite tired. Goodnight.”

He trudged up the stairs, suitcase heavy in his hands. Sandman hopped up after him, huffing silently with an even larger suitcase.

On the second floor, they were waylaid by Jamie, that horrible little spawn who had destroyed Pitch’s plans for world domination and more or less brought him to his current pathetic state.  The grip on his suitcase tightened.

“You harm a hair on his head,” he remembered Bunny saying earlier that day, “And you’ll be finding eggs where they don’t belong.”

Jamie had already moved past Pitch. “Sandy!” he whispered happily. He hugged the little man who smiled warmly in return. “I’m so glad you’re here, even if you are stuck as a human. I have so much to tell you but I have to go back to bed now or I’ll get in trouble. I’ll have extra good dreams for you, okay?” Sandy beamed and gave the boy a hair ruffle before shooing him off to bed.

Pitch felt ill. That fat little creampuff had children believe in him and he wasn’t even the Guardian of Dreams anymore! And here he was, just as ignored as ever –

Something poked his knee. He looked down and saw Sophie, the other Bennett child. She was staring at him with one eye, the other covered by her long, un-brushed hair. She reached out and this time patted his knee, as if testing to see if it was hollow.

Pitch stared. She touched him. She didn’t pass through him. Not that she should, because he was human, but it had been months since a child had seen him, let alone not slip through him like he was a ghost.

She was still staring. He stared back.

“You look funny,” she informed him.

“You have a spider in your hair,” he replied mildly.

She let out a shriek and brushed at her hair wildly. Finding no spider, she lowered her arms in a huff and gave him the evil eye before returning to her room and slamming the door.

He smiled to himself and turned. Sandman was blocking his path, a frown on his wide face.

“Please, that was hardly a scare,” he said dismissively as he pushed past the smaller man and headed up the second flight of stairs. “Maybe now she’ll let her mother comb her hair out at night.”

The third floor was really a converted attic, enough space for two beds, a dresser, nightstand, and armoire. There was some unfurnished space, presumably for Sandman’s painting, and a desk, for Pitch to work on his novel. As if. At least they had professions that they could pretend to do in privacy.

There was also a bathroom, and Pitch made use of it, changing into his pajamas (also black) before returning to his suitcase and meticulously unpacking everything. Sandman, on the other hand, was stuffing items rather haphazardly into their drawers. “You’ll never find anything like that if you–a snorkeling mask? When do you think you’ll need that?” He grimaced. “And why so many of those horrible sweaters?”

There were other items in Sandman’s suitcase, curios and books and stuffed animals and gods knew what else. The little man shoved the last of his items away, then stuck a cowboy hat on his head and smiled at Pitch.

“Your antics may amuse your fellow guardians, but I find you insufferable.”

Sandman shrugged and then drew a series of symbols on his pad of paper before showing it to Pitch.

“What do I think of Mrs. Bennett? She’s an idiot.”

Sandman frowned and drew something else. Pitch sighed. “Yes, she’s very nice, but she’s also an idiot. Letting two grown men she doesn’t know rent out a room in her house? She has children.” Sandman drew a picture of Jamie surrounded by the guardians. “Yes, it’s fine in this case, but she could have rented a room to someone with ill intentions. It’s like putting a wolf in with the sheep.”

Sandman looked at him thoughtfully before starting to draw another symbol, but Pitch cut him off with a yawn. “I’m exhausted, old man. Let’s continue this conversation another time.” He crawled under the covers of his bed and shut his eyes, then put a pillow over his head to block out the light of the lamp and the sounds of Sandman getting ready for bed. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep.

The nightmares arrived, right on time. He was in his lair, hiding from the fearlings. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were around every corner, waiting for him. He tried to run, but the air was like jelly, or maybe his legs didn’t work, but either way he couldn’t get far.

Something ran its fingers through his hair and he shrieked, waving it away, thinking it was a fearling. He lowered his hands and stared at them, expecting black shadows.

His hands were coated in gold dust.

Pitch woke up with a start. His heart was pounding in his chest, which he hated, and he was covered in sweat, which he hated and was gross, but there weren’t any fearlings to shoo off. The small bedroom and its simple shadows were comforting, too.

He heard Sandman sit up and turn on the nightstand lamp. The light blinded him.  “Go back to bed, old man. I’m fine.” He blinked back the afterimages and squinted at Sandman’s worried expression. “And take off that stupid cowboy hat.” Pulling the covers over his head, he fell back asleep. This time, thankfully, without dreams.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Pitch stood outside the door to the bathroom and tapped his foot impatiently. Sandman had been there for what felt like forever, and he desperately wanted a shower. Humans were filthy creatures and if he didn’t get himself washed and his teeth brushed soon, he was going to scream.

He banged on the door. “Hurry it up!” He yelled, hoping it would speed things along. “You’ve been in there long enough!”

A door creaked open, but it wasn’t the one to the bathroom. Sophie Bennett was poking her head inside the room.

Pitch tightened the belt on his (take a wild guess at the color) dressing gown and glared. “You are most definitely not supposed to be up here, little girl.” He stalked over to the door. “Leave at once.”

Sophie jutted out her chin defiantly and didn’t budge.

“Do you have cobwebs in your ears?” He crouched down so he was at eye level and glowered dangerously. “Leave.”

Sophie stayed put.

Pitch reared back suddenly, his arms wide like a grizzly about to attack, his teeth bared. “BOO!” He shouted, and Sophie Bennett screamed and slammed the door shut.

He listened for the running patter of feet down the stairs before sighing contently. There, that should keep the little imp from sneaking in again.

The bathroom door opened and Sandman emerged, clad in a fuzzy rubber-duck-print bathrobe. Rabbit slippers squeaked on his feet. He smiled at Pitch, and gestured to the bathroom as if to say “all yours”.

“Finally,” Pitch sighed, sour mood returning. He stalked to the bathroom and shut the door. If that strange little man had used up all the hot water, he was going throttle him.

Fortunately, there was still plenty of hot water for Pitch’s shower, and he couldn’t help but let some of his foul mood melt away as he washed off the sweat from last night’s nightmare. He dried off and dressed himself quickly, then wasted an inordinate amount of time trying to get his hair slicked back. He never had this problem when he was the King of Nightmares, why was his human hair determined to stick out in every direction?

Finally satisfied, he exited the bathroom and noticed that Sandman had changed into another one of those disturbingly colorful sweaters. His hair was in its usual spikes and Pitch almost asked how he managed to do that, but the little man was busy. He was setting up his easel and paints in a corner of the room near one of the windows.

“You’re not really going to paint, are you?” Pitch asked incredulously. “That was just some ridiculous drivel North concocted to give us a cover story.” Sandman ignored him, and Pitch sneered, “You aren’t the Guardian of Dreams anymore, old man. It’s going to look like a piece of—“

The door to the room opened again. This time it was Jamie, who bounded in without a second thought over to Sandman. “Good morning, Sandy!” Sandman smiled at the boy, who was now looking at the blank canvas. “Oh, you’re going to paint something? Cool!”

Pitch sighed loudly in irritation. “Does no one in your household believe in privacy, James Bennett?” The boy turned to him with wide eyes. Sandman glared threateningly over the boy’s head and Pitch softened his tone. “Please knock next time, dear boy, and show some manners.”

“Sorry, Mr. Pitchiner,” Jamie replied apologetically, and Pitch unconsciously bristled.

“My name is—“ He cut himself off as Sandman frantically waved his notepad at him. The quick doodle showed Pitch mercilessly terrorizing the children with his nightmares.

Ah, yes. Even if children no longer believed in the Boogeyman, this child probably remembered what wicked things he had done to the Guardians that fateful Sunday evening. A mental image of Jamie kicking the tar out of him gave him the chills. No, it would certainly not do to reveal his true name, to this child or any other.

“That is,” he recovered smoothly, “Call me Kozmotis.”

“Uh, okay,” Jamie replied. He looked over at Sandman, who had turned his notepad to a blank page, then back at Pitch. “You and Sandy are friends?”

“Oh, yes,” Pitch smiled slyly and moved to Sandman’s side, placing an arm around his shoulders. Unseen by Jamie, he pinched the underside of Sandman’s arm, causing the little man to squirm uncomfortably. “The best of friends.”

Mrs. Bennett’s voice floated to the top of the stairs. “Jamie! Time for school!”

“Well, I gotta go. See you later, Sandy! Kozmotis!” He waved goodbye before disappearing out the door.

Sandman shoved Pitch away violently and rubbed at his upper arm, a frown on his face. “It was your idea, old man,” Pitch laughed and sat on the edge of his bed. “Better get to work now. Jamie will want to see what his funny Uncle Sandy has painted so far.”

Sandman sighed silently, then turned to his easel and began to paint. Pitch watched, eager to find something to insult, somewhat disappointed when he could not. Sandman’s strokes were confident and careful as he dotted some stars onto a dark, swirling sky. It was beautiful, and familiar in a way Pitch couldn’t identify.

“I didn’t know you could paint,” he said softly, mostly to himself. Sandman paused to look at him, then shrugged.

Pitch groaned. “And you didn’t either. Great.”

Sandman stretched, apparently needing a break. He opened the window next to the easel and Pitch grimaced. “You’re letting in cold air, idiot.” The little man ignored him and instead took in the view. A delighted smile appeared on his face when he noticed the small wooden balcony and he eagerly began to climb out onto it.

The wood creaked ominously.

Pitch lunged forward and dragged him back inside. “You fool,” he hissed. “That balcony is purely decorative! You’ll break it and tumble to your death if you step onto it.”

Sandman looked surprised, then chagrined, and Pitch itched to shake some sense into him. “Would you please try to use your brain from now on, as feeble as it is? You’re human now. I can’t always be around to keep you out of trouble.”

The little man raised an incredulous eyebrow. He pantomimed stabbing himself in the back and Pitch waved a hand. “Oh, that. That was different, we were in battle.” He grinned. “I can’t let you go and die now, it wouldn’t be sporting.”

Sandman’s expression didn’t change, and Pitch looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. Maybe it was the conversation topic, or maybe he was just hungry again. “I’m going downstairs for breakfast. Try not to kill yourself while I’m gone.” He headed for the door, not missing the ghost of a smile that appeared on Sandman’s face.

Chapter Text

Snow blanketed Burgess the next morning, just enough accumulation to cancel school. The weather report described it as an unexpected cold front, but Pitch knew the real cause. Jack Frost wanted to check up on him.

And Sandman, too, he conceded. But mostly him, in case he was causing trouble. Ha. He wasn’t the one who coated the roads with dangerous ice or burdened weak rooftops with an early snowfall. If Pitch had his way, everyone would be indoors, terrified of slipping on an icy patch or getting hit in the eye with an icicle.

Instead, the neighborhood kids were running around like monkeys, throwing snowballs at one another and laughing hysterically. Sandman had joined in the fun briefly before working on a snowman in the Bennett’s front yard.

Pitch watched from the porch’s steps, glowering at the manic scene of delight in front of him.

A snowball hit him in the face.

He spluttered and wiped away the freezing fluff before looking up at Jack Frost. The white-haired boy was balanced on the porch’s railing, his staff loosely gripped in one hand. “Hey, Pitch. What’s up?”

“Figure out what the wish is?” He asked curtly, in no mood for pleasantries.

“Nope.” Jack grinned. “Having fun being human again?”

“No.” Pitch turned his gaze away, disappointed. “And I never was.”

Jack blinked and hopped off the railing. “You weren’t human before you became the Bogeyman? What were you then?”

Pitch shrugged. “I don’t remember. I just know that I wasn’t.”

“Huh.” The sound of children’s laughter filled the silence and Jack smiled cheekily. “Well, whatever you were, didn’t you ever try to have fun?”

“Oh, I don’t think anyone here would like that much.” Pitch’s lip curled, showing off his teeth. “My idea of fun isn’t the same as yours.”

Another snowball hit him in the face. “Frost, you insolent cur!”  He cursed, shaking the snow off his head like an angry cat.

Jack held his hands up in appeasement. “It wasn’t me that time.” He pointed his staff at the little girl standing at Pitch’s feet. “She did it.”

Pitch looked down into the crafty eyes of Sophie Bennett. She dusted the snow off her hands and pulled on the earflaps of her over-sized trapper hat.

“What do you want,” Pitch asked through gritted teeth.

“Gotta tell you something,” she replied, beckoning him to lean down. He did so, reluctantly, curious what this little waif possibly had to say.

“BOO!” She suddenly screamed. Pitch clamped his hands to his ears and she took off, shrieking in delight. His lips split open into a devilish grin. “Challenge accepted, little girl,” he hissed, scooping snow into his hands and rising to his feet.

Jack’s staff stopped him in his tracks. “Don’t you dare hurt her,” the winter sprite warned, an icy wind in his words.

The grin fell from Pitch’s face. “I’m making a snowball, Frost. What did you think I was about to do?”

Jack lowered his staff, confused by the hurt tone in Pitch’s voice. “Uh, I dunno. You just looked—“

“I don’t beat little girls, Frost.” Pitch fought to keep his voice from wavering. “There are enough humans out there who do that already.”

“Sorry,” said Jack, but Pitch didn’t want to hear it. He dropped the half-formed snowball on the ground and stormed up the steps and into the house, slamming the door behind him.

He spent several moments standing still, breathing hard and trying to regain his composure. Why did it bother him so much what that wretched freezer-burned brat thought of him? He was the King of Nightmares, wasn’t he?

But he attacked children with fear, not fists. The distinction mattered to him. He just wasn’t sure why.

He snuck a glance out the window and saw Jack conversing with Sandman. There was a sweet, playful banter between the two and it made Pitch feel bad in a way that he couldn’t blame on being hungry. He huffed and returned to his room, flopping down on his bed and shutting his eyes. Maybe if he fell asleep right now, this miserable day would end.

A small hand poked him in the side. He turned his head and stared at Sandman blearily. What time was it? Had he fallen asleep? “What do you want?”

Sandman drew food on a table and a clock. Dinnertime.

He had really slept that long, uninterrupted? Pitch rubbed his eyes. “This pathetic body and its ridiculous demands,” he grumbled to himself.

Sandman tugged his hand and pointed to the window. “Hmm? What is it?” He got out of bed and followed his roommate in order to look outside. There, on the lawn, were two snowmen. The taller one sported a pointy carrot nose and had triumphantly knocked the head clean off the shorter one with its spindly stick arms.

“Is that… is that supposed to be us?” Sandman nodded and drew a smiley face on his notepad. “You made that to cheer me up?”

Sandman smiled and Pitch stared at him, bemused. “You are an odd little man,” he finally murmured, not unkindly.

Sandman winked and then headed for the stairs. Pitch followed, feeling just the tiniest bit better.

Chapter Text

Pitch tugged uncomfortably at his blanket and grumbled in frustration. He had spent the last hour tossing and turning, but sleep would not come. He guessed it had something to do with that nap he accidentally took earlier. He cursed his human body once again and looked over at the other bed. Sandman was sleeping soundly, a small smile on his peaceful face.

Way to rub it in, old man, Pitch thought in annoyance. He got out of bed and slipped on his dressing gown and slippers. Perhaps a glass of warm milk would help him get to sleep.

He opened the bedroom door and nearly tripped on a small figure draped across the stairs.

“What are you doing up at this hour?” he whispered to Sophie, who sat up and rubbed her eyes. “The Sandman can’t give you pleasant dreams tonight even if he weren’t already asleep.”

The little girl shook her head and tugged on the hem of Pitch’s robe. He sat down next to her on the step obligingly. “Want a story,” she said, looking up at him.

“From me?” Sophie nodded and Pitch laughed darkly. “Little girl, you do not want a story from me if you want to sleep tonight or ever again.”

Sophie was undeterred. “Story. Story!” she repeated, and Pitch hushed her, afraid she would wake the whole household.

“Fine then. If it’s a story you want, it’s a story you’ll get.” He leaned closer and Sophie shrank back against the wall. “Once upon a time there was a little girl who never listened to her parents. Her mother told her to go to bed, but instead she snuck up to the attic. She found a trunk full of old dresses and tried them on, each one prettier than the last. But the final one she tried on, the prettiest one of all, she couldn’t get back off. She tugged and pulled but it wouldn’t budge.”

Sophie’s eyes were huge, tracking Pitch’s hands and he mimicked the tightness of the fabric with his robe. “The dress felt tighter and tighter. It was going to choke her to death! She ran downstairs and woke her mother, who tried pulling off the dress, to no avail. Finally her mother grabbed a pair of scissors and tried cutting off the dress along its seam.”

He was inches from the girl’s face. He could see her lower lip tremble. “Do you know what happened then?” He asked, and she shook her head, mesmerized.

“The seam split open, and the little girl screamed. Inside of her was nothing but stuffing.”

Sophie gasped and clutched her own stomach as if stuffing would tumble out. He grinned wickedly, his teeth shining in the faint light. “Now go to sleep if you can, little one.” He stood up and continued his way downstairs silently.

The warm milk tasted disgusting and didn’t make him any sleepier. He finally returned to his room to toss and turn some more, dreaming briefly of a little girl who looked like Sophie but didn’t have her eyes.

He came down for breakfast a tired mess. He had showered and dressed, but his hair wouldn’t stay down, no matter how much he tried. Sandman gestured at his unruly locks and gave it an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“Shut up,” he grumbled before grabbing some toast and sitting at the kitchen table. Mrs. Bennett and Jamie were in the living room, getting the boy ready for school.

Sophie walked in and Pitch sat up in anticipation. The one thing he had looked forward to this morning was the sight of a child traumatized by his nightmare. But the little girl seemed untroubled as she hopped into a chair next to him. He eyed her suspiciously. “So, little girl, what did you think of my story? Did it give you bad dreams?” He ignored Sandman’s suddenly sharp stare, his gaze firmly on Sophie.

The girl nodded slowly and Pitch smiled. “Nightmares?” he asked and she nodded again. His smile grew and he couldn’t help but rub his hands gleefully while Sandman looked increasingly distressed. “Oh, my. And all from just one simple story?”

Sophie nodded and then clapped her hands together. “More stories!”

Pitch nearly fell out of his chair. “More—You want more stories?” Sophie nodded enthusiastically and Pitch ran his hands through his hair, uncomprehending. “I don’t understand. My story gave you nightmares and you want to hear more of them?”

Sophie leapt out of her chair and jumped up and down. “More, more, more!” she shouted gleefully and Pitch waved his arms around as if trying to fend off a pesky fly.

“All right! ALL RIGHT. I’ll tell you more stories!” Sophie shrieked happily and continued jumping around. “But not right now! I’m tired and hungry! Please remove your overenthusiastic self from my presence!”

Sophie bounded out the kitchen door and Pitch stared in amazement. “She… she wants to hear more stories…” He looked over at Sandman who was doubled over in mirth. Pitch was sure that if he could hear it, the man’s laughter would be ear-splitting. “It’s not funny,” he muttered, taking a bite of his toast and chewing it furiously.

Sandman wiped his eyes, still leaning against the table’s edge, and gave Pitch a broad smile. Oh, he begged to differ.

Pitch turned away rudely and ground the dry bread between his teeth. Fine, then. If Sophie wanted more stories, he would give her more stories. Human or not, he would get his fill of fear. Even if it was what that little girl wanted.

Chapter Text

The rest of the week passed without incident. Pitch spent most of it moping in his room. The only highlight of the day was telling Sophie little tales of terror. He filled them with spiders, snakes, and things that went bump in the night. They frightened her but they did not intimidate her. If anything, they only fueled her desire for more.

One quiet afternoon, Pitch sat on the edge of his bed and watched Sandman work. The little man had filled most of the canvas with a starry sky, and was now adding a golden spaceship to the foreground. “Why don’t you paint something more interesting?” he asked. “It looks like a Van Gogh in space.”

In a blank corner of the canvas, Sandman doodled a cartoony Pitch wearing a beret and square glasses and whining at his art.

Pitch pouted. “I can’t help it, I’m bored. There’s nothing to do here except watch you paint.” Sandman doodled a typewriter followed by a question mark and Pitch sighed. “Of course, my novel. You may be enjoying your phony profession, but I have no interest in writing some fictional nonsense.”

His roommate drew a more dignified looking Pitch and the former King of Nightmares snorted and flopped back onto his bed. “An autobiography, wonderful. Dear diary, today I am still a human and it sucks. The end.”

Sandman gave him a pathetic look. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do feel sorry for myself,” Pitch replied, propping himself up on his elbows. “It wasn’t enough to be utterly ruined by you and your friends, but now I’m stuck with you in this wretched little town—“

Sandman drew a baby Pitch crying giant tears.

Pitch’s eyes narrowed. “How dare you,” he snarled. He stood up suddenly and grabbed his coat. Sandman looked at him questioningly. “I’m going out,” he snapped, shoving a hat on his head. “If I’m lucky I’ll find someone in this town who’s more miserable than I am.”

He slammed the door with a flourish and took the stairs two at a time. Crybaby. It wasn’t so many months ago that he had brought the Sandman to his knees, swallowing him up in his nightmare sand until nothing was left.

He felt an unpleasant pang in his gut and deepened his frown. He had to do it, that glittering troublemaker didn’t leave him any choice. How else was he going to spread fear into the hearts of children everywhere?

How else were they finally going to listen to him?

It was several blocks to the town center, a quaint collection of brick buildings, older looking than the surrounding neighborhood. The trees glowed with strings of sparkling lights, and the stores all had Christmas displays in their windows. Pitch tried not to gag at the spectacle. It wasn’t even December yet, and North’s handiwork was everywhere.

“Merry Christmas,” a friendly shopkeeper called out as Pitch passed by his open door.

“Check your calendar,” Pitch retorted, tugging his hat further down his ears and picking up his pace.

His wanderings took him past other buildings  – a town hall, a high school – until he ended up in a park. He suppressed a shudder as he recognized the pond as the sight of his brutal defeat. He remembered the nightmares circling maliciously as he lost control of his fear, their snorts and whinnies still ringing in his ears.

The pond was icy along the edges, but not frozen over. He sat down on a bench and let the chill of the air seep into his bones. It was an overcast and dreary day, and no one else was around to interrupt his dark and brooding thoughts.

“G’day, Pitch,” an accented voice said in his ear, and Pitch jumped. The giant rabbit sat down next to him and smiled toothily. “I’d apologize for startling you, except I’m not sorry at all.”

When he was the Bogeyman, the only guardian Pitch ever truly feared was Sandman, but in his current state he had to admit that a giant weapon-wielding rabbit was incredibly intimidating. He scooted as far as away as he could, pretending he was disgusted rather than nervous. “Bunny. Shouldn’t you be busy laying eggs somewhere?”

“It’s my off-season,” Bunny replied, absently twirling his boomerang. “Shouldn’t you be inside, staying out of trouble?”

“What trouble?” Pitch gestured at himself with a sneer. “I’m human now, or have you already forgotten?”

Bunny put his boomerang away and pointed an accusing finger. “You’re a crafty one, Pitch. If anyone can think of a way to cause problems, it’s you.”

Pitch smiled inwardly at the unintentional compliment. “Speaking of problems, any progress on finding the two idiots who made the same wish? Or what that wish was?” Bunny shook his head, a little embarrassed, and Pitch made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. “Well then, I suggest you use the copious amounts of free time during your off-season to work on that instead of harassing me.”

Pitch’s snark was rewarded with a large furry hand grabbing the front of his coat and yanking him close. “You ungrateful little prat,” Bunny growled, glaring down his nose into Pitch’s suddenly terrified face.  “We’ve been working our bloody tails off and all you can do is sit here and complain! Who made sure you didn’t just freeze to death in the middle of nowhere?”

Pitch made a sound halfway between a choke and a whimper and the furry hand released him. He scurried to the far end of the bench and brought his knees up to his chin. “You should have just left me for dead!” he spat, wrapping his arms around himself and desperately trying to stop trembling.

Bunny’s expression softened. The look of pity was even worse and Pitch shut his eyes while the Guardian of Hope spoke. “It’s not just about you, mate. Sandy’s suffering too and we need to help you if we’re gonna help him.”

Pitch slowly unwound himself and smoothed out the wrinkles on his coat, opening his eyes but keeping his gaze down. “Please,” he muttered bitterly. “That glitter-soaked space cadet may be human, but he’s still as happy as ever.”

“You really believe that?” Bunny asked. He slapped the ground with his foot, creating a tunnel. “Then you’re not as smart as I thought.”

Pitch looked up with a nasty retort on his lips, but the giant rabbit was already gone.

It was late by the time he returned to the Bennett’s. Sandman pestered him with questions about what he’d done while he was out, but Pitch wouldn’t look at the doodles. “I don’t have time for your jabbering, old man. I’m going to bed.”

Sandman poked him insistently until he snatched away the notepad and threw it on the floor. “I said I’m not in the mood to talk to you!” He headed up to the third floor and got ready for bed as quickly as he could, wanting to put an end to the day.

He glanced over at Sandman’s painting and noticed that the cartoonish doodles of him had been painted over. All that was left was the one in which he looked like himself, regal and menacing.

Pitch sighed and turned off the light before getting into bed. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken his foul mood out on the little man earlier. If Sandman wanted to bother him with questions before he slept, he wouldn’t ignore him.

But Sandman never came upstairs, and Pitch fell asleep, unable to keep waiting.

Chapter Text

Pitch stood at the helm of a mighty ship as it sailed through space, cutting through the darkness with ease. A shooting star sailed past and winked at him. He raised his hand in a salute, honored by the acknowledgement, and sailed on.

There was a cracking sound behind him, and he looked back in horror as a giant squid, black as ink, wrapped its shadowy tentacles around the ship’s hull and began to squeeze.

A golden whip suddenly smacked at the beast’s pale eyes and it screeched in pain. Encouraged by the sight, Pitch unsheathed a mighty sword from his side and charged, slicing the monster’s limbs off piece by piece until it finally gave way, his ship free once more.

He opened his eyes, dream suddenly over. It hadn’t been a bad dream, not at all, but it left him with a funny ache in his chest, like he had lost something important.

He looked over at the Sandman’s bed. It was empty, but it had been slept in. Yawning, he sat up and stretched, then got ready for the day, wondering absently where the little puffball had gone. His question was answered when he entered the kitchen and saw his roommate slumped in a chair, dozing lightly.

“Hey.” The blond continued to sleep and Pitch kicked the back of his chair, startling him awake. “Hey. Why are you so tired?”

Sandman glared at him and then looked away, arms crossed at his chest. Pitch raised an eyebrow at the silent treatment and took a seat next to him at the table. “Couldn’t sleep?” He leaned in close and leered, “Bad dreams?” Sandman frowned mightily, then yawned and rubbed his eyes.

Mrs. Bennett came in with the newspaper and didn’t miss the circles under Sandman’s eyes. “Oh, dear, you look exhausted. Would you like some coffee?”

Sandman grimaced and waved his hands in a panic. Pitch chuckled at his reaction. “My esteemed colleague does not react well to caffeine, Mrs. Bennett. His art suffers.”

Their landlady shook her head in amusement and left the kitchen. Pitch nudged Sandman, who was falling asleep again. “A little caffeine wouldn’t hurt you in your current state. You’re pushing yourself too hard with your painting.”

Sandman pretended to ignore him again. Pitch stood up. “Get your coat, old man, we’re going out.” The smaller man blinked, surprised, and Pitch gestured impatiently. “You need a break and I need a treat. Come on, before I change my mind.”

Sandman clapped his hands excitedly and rushed off, returning with both their winter coats. Pitch grabbed his, starting to regret his offer, but it was too late. Sandman was practically shoving him out the door.

They walked to the center of town, Sandman asking repeatedly where they were going. “Be patient,” Pitch murmured. Finally, they reached their destination, a tiny tea shop on an unassuming side street.

Sandman looked intrigued and stepped inside. Pitch paused at the door and inhaled deeply, letting the fragrant smell of dried leaves wash over him. Tea, preferably black, was one of the few gustatory pleasures he allowed himself as the Boogeyman.

Well, that and chocolate, but only the really good stuff.

He ordered an Earl Grey for himself and a white Darjeeling for his companion. Looking over the glass pastry display, he decided to indulge in a small chocolate torte. He selected a table as far from the display of Christmas mugs as possible and gestured for Sandman to join him.

A waitress brought over their order. Pitch let his tea steep while he stuck his fork into the torte and brought a small bite to his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled. It was excellent. It appeared there was something these dim-witted humans in Burgess could accomplish, after all.

He ate some more torte before pouring himself a cup of tea. Sandman was staring at the half-eaten dessert with an expression of longing.

“Did you want some?” Pitch offered, pushing the plate towards him. The blond smiled eagerly, then shook his head and poked at his soft belly, looking guilty. Pitch rolled his eyes. “Oh, you aren’t dwelling on that, are you?” He nudged the plate again. “You’re still disgustingly adorable as a human, old man. Eat the torte.”

Sandman blushed and ducked his head before picking up Pitch’s fork and happily tucking into the rest of the treat. Pitch sipped his tea. “Tell me, do you remember what it was like for you? Before you became the Guardian of Dreams?”

The question surprised Sandman. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and nodded.

Pitch set down his tea. “What were you then?”

Sandman drew a star on his notepad. Pitch snorted. “Don’t be daft. I know you weren’t human before, but a star? What did you spend all your time doing?”

The little man added a fleet of ships, and drew an arrow from the star to each of them. Pitch looked it over and smirked. “How cute,” he remarked sarcastically. “Zipping around the galaxy and visiting all your alien friends.”

Sandman took a long sip of tea and didn’t draw anything else, looking uncharacteristically morose. It made that strange ache return in Pitch’s chest, the one he felt when he woke up from his dream.

The tea shop filled up with customers and their loud, cheerful conversations grated on Pitch’s nerves. He finished his tea and stood up. “I’m done with this place. Let’s go.”

They walked through the town center in silence until another building caught Sandman’s attention. He grabbed Pitch’s hand and pointed excitedly to the multi-story bookstore on the corner.

Pitch pulled his hand away. “Yes, lovely. Knock yourself out, I’m going back home.” Sandman took his hand again and gave him a look that Pitch didn’t want to argue with. “Fine,” he sighed, “I’ll go in with you.” They went in and he pulled his hand away yet again, annoyed. “And stop doing that.”

Sandman took a quick look around and made a beeline for the children’s section. “They’re going to think you’re a pedophile,” Pitch warned, but Sandman was already out of earshot.

The bookstore was painfully bright and cheery, but it least it had a decent horror section. Pitch’s fingers brushed against the soft spines of the paperbacks as he silently read their titles. He smiled with familiarity at the classics, then selected a few new releases, curious what sorts of tales of terror the newest generation of writers were crafting.

Hours later, he slammed the last book down in disgust. Not a single fright to be had, just lots of gory imagery. And why was every new book about zombies? What was so special about zombies?

“Useless drivel,” he sneered.

“Like to see you do better,” someone said. It was a young man sitting at a nearby table, drinking a latte and typing on his laptop.

“I have,” Pitch replied, quiet and dangerous.

The man looked up from the computer screen and adjusted his stylish thick-framed glasses. “You’re a writer, then?” Pitch hesitated before nodding, deciding to use his cover story after all. The man snorted dismissively and went back to typing. “You don’t look like one.”

“My dear boy,” Pitch growled. “One does not need to sit in a bookstore and ostentatiously display his laptop and an over-priced cup of coffee to look like a writer.”

The man frowned, then yelped as Pitch leaned over his shoulder suddenly, reading the words on his computer screen. “Hey, don’t look at that,” he snapped, slamming the laptop shut and trying to scoot away.

“Zombies again!” Pitch shook his head in distaste. “Don’t any of you people have an original idea anymore?”

The young man stood up, disappointed that he only came to Pitch’s shoulder. “Zombies are scary,” he replied defensively, his voice rising in nervousness. “What have you written that’s so much better?”

“My dear deluded child,” Pitch sighed, stepping into the young man’s personal space. “Zombies are scary, but not when there are hundreds of them at every turn, showing off their rotting husks in the very first chapter.” He held his hands together as if cradling something delicate. “Nightmares need to start out small, like a seed. You let the roots burrow deep into your mind until it finally blooms.”

A couple of people wandered over, intrigued by the conversation. The young man took a step back but Pitch stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. “And nightmares certainly aren’t outlandish things that seem ridiculous even while we dream them. Oh, no.” His eyes narrowed. “Nightmares keep us awake, scanning shadows for the slightest sign of movement. Knowing – just knowing­- that something awful will happen as soon as we look away.”

The young man swallowed and stared up into Pitch’s golden eyes. “Uh. Do you think you could tell me one of your stories?”

Pitch obliged, weaving together a tale of growing paranoia in a small town that had gotten too comfortable in its ways. A crowd gathered as more people overheard his story. He was pleased to see the fear in their eyes, the way they huddled together anxiously, as if their own town was under attack. The brave ones chuckled nervously, but he knew they would all remember to lock their doors tonight.

He finished, and was surprised by the applause that followed. A couple listeners even offered him compliments before walking away. The young man who had insulted him earlier picked up his laptop with a defeated sigh and left.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was a friendly-looking older woman wearing the name of the bookstore on a lanyard around her neck. “Excuse me, are you Kozmotis Pitchiner?” Pitch nodded, surprised by the inquiry, and she smiled. “I thought so. Mrs. Bennett told me that a writer was staying with her.”

“I see my reputation preceeds me,” Pitch murmured. “And you are…?”

“Sarah Watkins. I’m the manager.” She offered her hand and Pitch shook it, somewhat nonplussed. “Listen, we’ve been trying to set up a storytelling hour here at the bookstore with some of the local writers. Would you be interested in coming every so often to tell more stories?”

Pitch considered it. So far Sophie had been his only chance to scare someone. A whole store full of frightened souls was very appealing. “It would be my pleasure,” he answered, his tone like dark honey.

“Great.” Ms. Watkins looked pleased. “Do you have a phone number or email I can reach you at?”

“You may call on the Bennett household when ready to contact me,” Pitch replied. “Good day, Ms. Watkins.”

He turned away, intending to make a mysterious exit, but his plan was ruined when Sandman chose that exact moment to arrive. He had a stack of books in his arms as well as a set of coloring pencils and a stuffed hedgehog. He showed off his purchases to Pitch before putting them in a bag. The hedgehog he tucked into his coat pocket.

“Are you quite done?” Pitch hissed before turning back to the manager who was wearing an amused expression. Pitch tried not to groan. “Ms. Watkins, this the Sandm—mmf!” He pressed his lips together to keep from crying out while Sandman pinched his back as hard as he could. Even through his coat, it hurt, and he glared down at the blond man who gave him a pointed look in return.

Ah, yes. The aliases. He started over. “This is Sanderson Mansnoozie,” he said, sickened by the sweetness of the name. “My roommate.”

Ms. Watkin’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes, the painter! A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mansnoozie.” Sandman shook her offered hand with gusto. “I need to get back to work, but I’ll be in contact with you soon, Mr. Pitchiner. Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it,” Pitch muttered as she walked away. So much for a mysterious exit.

Sandman was looking up at him curiously and he waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing. She asked me to come back and tell scary stories to the customers.” The blond seemed surprised that he accepted the offer and Pitch shrugged. “It’s either that or go mad with boredom. Besides,” he smiled wickedly, “how can I miss a chance to bring the taste of fear to all those simple-minded fools.”

To his dismay, Sandman was pleased rather than disconcerted, and gave him a congratulatory slap on the back -- right over the spot where he had pinched him. Pitch winced and practically chased the smaller man out the door. “You did that on purpose, old man!”

Sandman giggled the whole way home.

Chapter Text

Pitch spent the next few days at his desk with a spiral notebook and a handful of pens. Not writing a novel, he reminded himself, just jotting down some ideas that he could use for his next story. He wanted it to be terrifying, something that would keep his listeners looking over their shoulders for the rest of the day, jumping at any unexpected sound and staring in unease at the shadows.

He tapped his pencil against his notebook, eyes dark in thought. That was what he wanted, he realized. More than just being afraid, he wanted those weak, pathetic mortals to stop waltzing through the world as if it was one giant party. There really were monsters out there, and all the electric lights and locked doors couldn’t keep them away.

His pencil tapping caught Sandman’s attention. “Just thinking,” Pitch murmured, looking up from his notes.

Sandman wrote something on his notepad. Tell me?

Pitch mulled it over. It had been too long since he had shared his thoughts with anyone. Maybe Sandman would understand. So he told the former Guardian of Dreams what was on his mind and soon they were having a discussion about fear. Their discussion turned into an argument, as Sandman had his own opinions, and things got heated. Why couldn’t he make the old fool understand where he was coming from?

Pitch raised his voice for the umpteenth time, loud enough that the Bennett children knocked on their door, worried that something was wrong.

“We were just having a lively debate,” Pitch said coolly, after Sandman let them in. Sheets of angry doodles littered the floor.

“No, you were fighting,” Jamie replied. “I know the difference. How come you were fighting if you’re friends?”

“Because he likes it that way,” Pitch snapped, still frustrated at how their conversation had gone. Sandman smiled innocently.

Jamie shrugged and let the subject drop. “Hey Sandy, look.” He opened his mouth wide and poked at a wiggling tooth. “I bet it’ll fall out today and then I can leave it for the Tooth Fairy.”

Sandman beamed and Pitch rubbed his face. Just what he wanted, a visit from another blasted Guardian. “Better not accidentally swallow your tooth,” he mockingly warned. “Then she’ll have to slice open your stomach to get it.”

Sandman looked outraged. Jamie rolled his eyes. “She will not,” he scoffed. “She’s really nice.”

Sophie, who had been quietly playing with the stuffed animals on Sandman’s bed, turned to her brother with a manic gleam in her eye. “Slice your stomach!” she teased, poking Jamie in the belly.

“Hey!” Jamie frowned. “That’s not nice, Sophie.”

“Slice your stomach! Slice your stomach!” Sophie cackled. She imitated a flying fairy and lunged for Jamie’s stomach again.

“Sophie, stop it!” He ran down the stairs, his sister following. “Mom, Sophie’s being mean to me!”

The sounds of the bickering Bennett children slowly faded away. Pitch smiled languidly. “Ah, the sweet sounds of discontent. It warms the cockles of my heart.”

Sandman gave him a surprisingly rude gesture.

“Language, old man,” Pitch tsked. He laughed to himself and returned to his writing.

Unfortunately, his good mood didn’t last. Jamie’s tooth fell out, which meant a visit from a tooth fairy. Pitch was positive Tooth wouldn’t miss the opportunity to show up in person and check on things.

Sure enough, that night the feathered fairy flew into the converted attic and woke up Sandy with a gentle shake. He sat up and gave Tooth a warm hug. “Oh, Sandy. I’ve missed you.” She returned the hug fondly and asked, “How are you holding up?” He opened up his mouth and Tooth peered inside. “Sandy, you’ve been flossing! I’m so proud.” She ruffled his hair, then turned at the sound of Pitch sitting up in his bed.

“Try that with me,” he said dryly, “And I’ll bite your fingers.”

“Hello, Pitch.” Tooth’s tone was cool. “Want some quarters?”

Pitch clamped his jaw shut, remembering their previous encounter.

“That’s what I thought.” Tooth returned her attention to Sandy, babbling at him about the dream sand and her girls and everything he’d missed since he’d become human. Pitch sighed and lay down again, hoping her inane chatter would lull him back to sleep.

He was just drifting into unconsciousness when a feather tickled his ear. “How are you doing?” Tooth whispered, and he sat up with a startle. “Relax, I’m not going to check your teeth. Although they look a lot better than when you were the Boogeyman.”

“Thanks,” Pitch muttered sarcastically and pulled his blanket up to his chest. “And I’m doing wonderfully. In fact, it’s been an absolute dream.”

Tooth looked at him sadly. “You know, none of us wished for you to end up like this.” Pitch scoffed and Tooth sat on the edge of his bed. “I mean it. We only wanted to stop you from taking over the world with your fear.”

“No, you wanted to save your sorry hides,” Pitch hissed. “You wanted all those stupid little children to keep believing in you so you wouldn’t know what it feels like to have them walk right through you like you never existed.” He leaned forward accusingly. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you hated me so much that you were willing to let Sandman suffer just so I could be reduced to this.”

Tooth shook her head. “I don’t hate you.”

Pitch choked out a bitter laugh. “Then you’re a weak-hearted fool. I kidnapped your daughters. I stole your teeth. I nearly killed you.”

Tooth dipped her head, her feathery crest shimmering in the dim light. “When I found you, you were crying in your sleep. Asking for someone’s forgiveness.”

Pitch’s chest clenched as he felt an old and painful memory threaten to resurface.

“What happened, Pitch?”

“Get out,” he whispered, his hands starting to shake.

“What was it that you couldn’t stop?”

“Get out or I will start screaming and never stop.” He wasn’t bluffing. Tooth gave him a pitying look and took off without another word.

Pitch shut his eyes, a great shuddering breath escaping his body. Something beyond his senses was taunting him, and he was sure that if he let his guard down, he would disappear in a swarm of nightmares.

He opened his eyes again, and Sandman was standing by his bed, a look of concern on his face. “Not a word from you,” Pitch warned, wishing his voice wasn’t shaking so terribly, “Or Tooth will be back for all of your teeth.”

Sandman nodded, looking guilty. Pitch sighed at his expression. “You couldn’t give me a good dream even if you had your powers, old man. Go back to bed.”

For once, Sandman did as asked, but instead of getting back under the covers, he picked up something from the tousled sheets and tossed it onto Pitch’s bed.

It was that stupid stuffed hedgehog. Pitch looked at it in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? How is this supposed to help?” But Sandman had already gotten into bed and wasn’t answering.

Pitch shoved the toy unceremoniously under his pillow and yanked the covers over his head. Of all the idiotic ideas! But for whatever reason, when he finally fell asleep, he was not greeted by any nightmares.

Chapter Text

The last of the leaves fell from the mighty oaks and maples in Burgess as November neared its end. Pitch busied himself with his stories, both for Sophie and the bookstore. They were the only things that kept his bleak, haunting thoughts at bay. He told himself that these stories would prove useful when he was once again the Boogeyman and spreading fear across the globe. He repeatedly stamped down the nagging worry that he wouldn’t get that opportunity for a long while.

He had more conversations with Sandman, both at the Bennett house and during frequent trips to the tea shop. Their debates on fears and dreams were heated and antagonistic, but Pitch enjoyed them, even if he couldn’t get that obstinate little starman to concede to anything.

Mrs. Bennett and her children visited some family out-of-state for Thanksgiving weekend, so Pitch and Sandman had the house to themselves. Sandman suggested they take advantage of the empty house and watch some movies.

“Not a bad idea,” Pitch mused. “I’d been meaning to see The Human Centipede for some time now.”

Sandman made a face like he might be sick. Pitch laughed at his reaction. “I’m joking. I heard it’s over-rated, anyway. What film did you have in mind?”

The blond popped The Nightmare Before Christmas into the DVD player and they settled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. The animation was a little cutesy for Pitch’s taste, but it was a children’s movie, after all, and still had plenty of disturbing imagery. He made a mental note to watch more films by this Burton fellow for further inspiration.

Sandman asked him what he thought of the movie and Pitch shrugged tepidly. “The plot was quite promising until that bone-headed moron rescued Santa Claus from my namesake.”

The smaller man smirked, then cringed when Pitch leaned in suddenly, a predatory smile on his face. “Now then, I believe it’s my turn to choose a movie.”

He selected The Ring. He had seen it before, but he wanted to give the old man a good scare. It was one of his favorites – nobody did creepy horror quite like the Japanese. It wasn’t too long before Sandman had clutched a decorative pillow to himself for dear life, burying his face into it whenever he thought something terrible was about to pop onto the television screen. It was amusing at first, but Pitch knew that Sandman wouldn’t be able to follow the plot if he kept hiding his face like that.

“Stop cowering, there are baby animals who find this less scary than you.” Pitch yanked the pillow away and Sandman scrambled to cover his eyes. “Nothing is even happening right now. It’s safe to look.”

Sandman peeked through his fingers. It wasn’t safe to look. He silently shrieked and looked like he might try to crawl underneath the couch cushions. Pitch cackled like mad. “Oh ho ho! Your face, old man! I can’t believe you fell for that.”

His laughter was cut short when Sandman suddenly buried his head in Pitch’s shoulder, using it as the next best thing as a pillow to keep from seeing the television screen.

“What are you doing?” Pitch demanded, but Sandman wouldn’t budge. “Pathetic,” he sighed, but didn’t bother pushing Sandman off his shoulder. Eventually the smaller man worked up the nerve to pull away and watch the rest of the movie with his eyes uncovered.

The credits rolled. “Nicely done,” Pitch commented aloud. “Too bad they had to ruin it with a sequel.” He looked over at his roommate, who was blotting his eyes with a tissue. “What’s gotten you so upset?” he asked, surprised by the sad expression on the other man’s face.

Sandman drew something on his notepad and Pitch balked. “You feel sorry for the little girl? You’re not supposed to feel sorry for her. She’s evil.”

Sandman drew some more and Pitch sighed. “Yes, she’s all alone. Because she’s evil.” The smaller man drew something else and Pitch snapped, “Well, if her father didn’t want her to turn into a vengeful ghost then maybe he shouldn’t have dumped her in a well!”

He sat back and sulked. Sandman balled up the tissue in his hands, a small, guilty frown on his face. Pitch’s pout softened slightly and he offered him the remote. “One more movie before bed? You choose.”

They watched Inception. It wasn’t the least bit scary, but it kept Pitch’s interest, even when Sandy went off on an annoyed drawing spree about how that’s not how the subconscious works, dreams weren’t like that at all.

By the end, Pitch had a bit of a headache. “So, did he escape his subconscious or didn’t he? Ah, I suppose it doesn’t matter, his silly little wish came true. I do like the idea of a dream within a dream… ever try something like that, old man?”

He turned toward Sandman, but the blond was fast asleep, curled up on his side of the couch like a cat.

“Hey, wake up.” Pitch nudged him with the remote. “I’m not carrying you upstairs, old man. Get up.” The smaller man didn’t move.

Pitch grumbled something about deep sleepers and stood up. “Suit yourself, you’ll be sore in the morning. Goodnight.”

He was almost to the stairs when he remembered the tossed pillow on the floor. He returned and picked it up, then looked over at Sandman again. “You cannot possibly be comfortable like that,” he muttered. Carefully, so as not to wake him, he tucked the pillow under the sleeping man’s head, then pulled a throw blanket off a nearby chair and laid it on top of him for good measure. “Sweet dreams,” he murmured, before heading upstairs. He meant for it to sound sinister, but the dark undertones never quite reached his words.

Sandman nuzzled into the pillow and sighed peacefully.

Chapter Text

The first half of December passed surprisingly quickly. Pitch’s weekly storytelling session was gaining in popularity and he strived to make each new story scarier than the last. He lived for the frightened looks on the faces of his audience, but the praise and compliments he received didn’t hurt, either. It fed his ego in ways that the fear could not, and kept him in a decent mood.

He and Sandman spent their free time debating the merits of fear and their place in dreams, but occasionally their conversations drifted onto other topics. Sometimes they reminisced about the dark ages (the good old days, as Pitch liked to think of them) when the nightmares were darker but the dreams were purer.

This is how it used to be, Pitch thought suddenly, as they chatted over a pot of Oolong at the tea shop. They hadn’t always fought. Sometimes they had entire conversations before parting ways. It wasn’t until the other Guardians showed up and the light started overwhelming the dark that he and Sandman stopped talking to one another.

Sandman drew a question mark on his napkin and Pitch blinked. “What? Oh, sorry, Sanderson.” He wasn’t sure when he started referring to Sandman by his alias, but being forced to introduce him repeatedly when they were out in public had made the habit stick. “My mind was elsewhere. Please, continue.”

The blond flipped the napkin over and drew another symbol. Pitch groaned. “For the last time, I’m not calling you Sandy. You may like your childish nickname, but I don’t.”

Sandman drew something else and Pitch’s nostrils flared. “Pitch is not cute. Your brains have rotted out from all the sugar you put in your tea.”

Sandman’s eyes twinkled in amusement, but thankfully he changed the subject.

Back home, Sandman finally finished his painting. It was a vivid scene of space, bright and colorful despite the darkness between the stars. The spaceship added a taste of adventure, inviting the viewer to go exploring.

“What are you going to do with it?” Pitch asked. Sandman carried it downstairs and gave it to the Bennett boy. Jamie was so delighted that he asked his mom to hang it up on his bedroom wall that very minute.

Sandman puffed up happily, very pleased with the boy’s reaction. Then he pointed to Sophie. He wanted to paint something for her, too, what would she like?

Sophie bounced up and down on her heels, thinking hard. “A mermaid,” she finally decided, “With big teeth and webbed hands and her scales are purple and black and when she sings people start to cry.”

Sandman’s eyes widened at the request. He looked at Pitch accusingly and the taller man gave a nonchalant shrug. “Sophie may have asked me for a story about a mermaid yesterday. I was only happy to oblige.”

It was Pitch’s last storytelling hour before Christmas, so he told his audience a dark and tragic tale of Santa’s workshop shattering into black dust. His descriptions were so detailed that it gave his listeners the chills, and he hoped it was enough to dampen their holiday spirits, at least for a little while.

Sandman had come with him, and Pitch found him afterwards in the children’s section drawing doodles for the customers. He watched as children and adults alike held those pieces of paper as if they were precious gifts, thanking the former dream-weaver with smiles and, in the case of most children and the occasional mother, warm hugs.

Pitch felt a twinge of jealousy, then stifled it down with sneer. He didn’t need that kind of sappy adoration. He wanted to be feared, not coddled. Still, to have that kind of attention, from even just one person…

He shook his head free of such foolish thoughts, and just in time, too, because the store’s manager was trying to get his attention.  “There you are, Mr. Pitchiner,” Ms. Watkins said, walking up to him. “I wanted to give you this before you go.” She handed him a card with a snowman reading Dickens on the cover. Inside was an invitation. “We’re having a holiday party at the end of the week. It’s usually just for employees, but this year we’re inviting you and the other storytellers. It’d be an honor if you could make it.”

Pitch was about to decline when Sandman suddenly joined them. He raised his eyebrows at the card and snatched it out of the taller man’s hands.

“Hey!” Pitch protested, but it was too late. Sandman read over the invitation and smiled at him and Ms. Watkins excitedly. A party! How fun!

Ms. Watkins returned the smile. “Oh, Mr. Pitchiner, you should take Sandy as your guest.  You’ll both really enjoy yourselves.” Sandman doodled something on his notepad and showed to her. She laughed. “Yes, we will have eggnog. Can’t wait to see both of you there.”

Pitch scowled at the other man fiercely once the woman walked away. “You meddling little sugar cookie. I was going to say no.”

Sandman smiled sweetly and patted Pitch’s arm as if to say, and now you can’t. Problem solved.

The night before the party, Pitch dreamed that he was telling a story at the bookstore, but he couldn’t remember the words, and for some reason his pants were missing, and he had a big test the next day in school that he hadn’t studied for but wait a minute, he hadn’t ever even gone to school, why was he –

He blinked his eyes open. Sandman was standing at his bedside, eyes worried, his arm held out slightly as if he had been planning to reach for something.

“Why are you hovering over me like a mother hen?” Pitch asked drowsily, the images from his dream dissolving in the early morning light.

Sandman pantomimed Pitch whimpering in his sleep. Pitch flushed and looked away. “It was just a bad dream, incredibly tame and banal compared to the ones I usually have.” He frowned suspiciously. “How long have you been watching me?”

It was Sandman’s turn to look away.

“Well, stop doing it.” He sat up, intending to start his day, then remembered what torture awaited him that evening. “You’re really making me go to that dreadful party today, aren’t you?”

Sandman nodded adamantly. He wanted to go, and he couldn’t if he wasn’t there as Pitch’s guest!

Pitch sagged his shoulders and dragged his miserable body out of bed, wishing vaguely for some sort of natural disaster to occur that would cancel the party. But the day passed without any much-desired catastrophic events, and by late afternoon Pitch resigned himself to his fate.

That evening, Pitch changed into something a little more formal, taking great care to make sure his hair was perfectly slicked back. He adjusted his tie (black with black pinstripes – he had to give the yetis a little credit for such a well-crafted design) and headed downstairs. “Are you ready yet, Sanderson? I want to get this over with.”

Sandman was standing by the door, wearing the most horrible sweater Pitch had ever seen. It was green and red and had a giant felt reindeer face on the front.

“You are not wearing that.” Pitch looked mortified. “I am not walking into a room with you while you are wearing that.”

The shorter man grinned and pushed the reindeer’s nose. It lit up.

“No. Absolutely not. Wear something else.”

Sandman grinned. He would change his sweater, sure, but only if the other man wore a Santa hat.

Pitch paled. “On second thought, what you have on is just fine. Let’s be on our way, shall we?”

The bookstore used a rented hall not far from the town center for its annual Christmas party. Someone had put a lot of work into decorating the space from top to bottom. There wasn’t a spot Pitch could rest his gaze without being bombarded by nauseatingly festive imagery. Damn North and his loyal followers! Children grew out of the Tooth Fairy and often abandoned their Easter rituals, but they never stopped celebrating this time of year. Adults may not believe in Santa, he thought ruefully, but they certainly believed in Christmas.

He tried to mingle. He really did. It was a pleasure to discuss story-crafting with his fellow writers, but when the conversation turned to the sorts of things humans usually talked about, he grew bored. Sandman, on the other hand, seemed to be in his element. He drifted from one group of people to the next, and though he couldn’t speak, he kept everyone in good spirits.

Pitch eventually found an unoccupied corner. He stood there, nursing his cup of hot cider, wondering how much longer he had to put in an appearance before he could leave.

“Hello, Mr. Pitchiner.” A young woman had joined him. He recognized her as one of the employees who often stopped and listened to his stories. Her hair was as dark as his and she was thankfully not wearing a dress that matched the decorations. “I’m really glad you could make it. I’m a big fan of yours.”

“Ah, thank you, Miss…?” Drat, what was her name again? He used to be so good with names.

“Penny,” the woman smiled. “The way you speak is so amazing. It leaves me in chills. Have you ever considered putting out a recording?”

Pitch couldn’t help but preen a little at the compliment. It was nice to know that his voice was still terrifying, even while human. “That’s high praise, my dear. But it is much more enjoyable for me to tell my stories in person. Call it an old tradition of mine.”

“Ah, I see.” Her eyes gleamed and she pointed to something above Pitch’s head. “I’m glad you subscribe to tradition.”

Pitch looked up. A sprig of mistletoe was hanging right above him.

Oh, no.

Pitch tried to step back and felt his heel hit the wall. Oh, no no no. Penny moved towards him and his eyes darted back and forth, trying to find an escape. How could he get past her without pushing her and causing a scene? What was he going to do?

Sandman was suddenly at his side. He wrapped an arm around Pitch’s waist and gave Penny a decidedly unfriendly look. She took a step back and Pitch was too relieved to wonder what the little man was up to. “Oh, uh, there you are. Have you two been introduced? Penny, this is Sanderson Mansnoozie, my--”

Sandman gave the taller man a possessive squeeze and narrowed his eyes cattily. Neither Pitch nor Penny needed him to draw a picture to know what he was saying with that look.

Back off, sister. He’s mine.

“Oh…” Penny took another step back. “Oh, I didn’t know you were… that you and he…” She tittered nervously, trying to hide her embarrassment. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just… um, I think I need another drink, excuse me.” She darted off to the other end of the room.

Pitch let out a long breath, the tension draining from his frame, then frowned at Sandman who still had his arm around him. “Was that really necessary?”

Sandman pointed at the direction Penny went and made a kissy face. Pitch grimaced and shook his head. “No, I most certainly did not want that woman kissing me.” He gave the shorter man a small smile and added, “I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Something subtle changed in Sandman’s expression as his gaze drifted up to the mistletoe.

Pitch’s pulse suddenly quickened. “Why are you looking up there?” he demanded, a blush blooming on his cheeks.

Sandman tightened his grip around Pitch’s waist and reached up with his other hand to gently tug at the pinstriped tie.

“She’s gone, you crazy little man,” Pitch hissed, his blush spreading out to his ears. “You can stop pretending that you’re going to kiss me.”

The blond raised his eyebrows. Who said anything about pretending? He pulled harder on the tie, just enough so that Pitch had to lower his head or risk ruining the fabric. He stared at Pitch so intensely that the taller man fell silent, any further protests drying up in his throat like dead leaves in the autumn winds.

Pitch’s heart was beating so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest. He felt like he did during one of his nightmares, except he was light-headed and oddly giddy and he was drowning in Sandman’s eyes and oh gods he was really going to kiss him and no one had ever been that close to him before and he shut his eyes because he couldn’t bear that stare anymore and Sandman’s breath smelled like eggnog and he was so close –

Sandman pressed his lips to Pitch’s cheek and gave him a slobbery raspberry. The taller man yelped in surprise, but Sandman had already darted out of arm’s reach, laughing so hard that he could barely stand.

Pitch wiped at his face with his sleeve and nearly bared his teeth in rage. That… that… he couldn’t even think clearly enough to come up with a proper insult! If only he had his powers, he’d wrap his shadows around Sandman and drag him right back to this very spot so he could—

His blush returned with a vengeance as his mind conjured up a rather explicit mental image. Where had that idea come from? He wiped at his face again, this time in an attempt to regain some composure and glared menacingly at the devious little creampuff.

Sandman looked back at him and winked.

Pitch quickly moved out from under the mistletoe, lest the little man get any more ideas.

Chapter Text

The Bennetts were visiting family again for the holidays. Pitch offered to dismantle the Christmas tree while they were gone. Wouldn’t it be nice to return home with all the decorations put away?

Mrs. Bennett smiled. “That’s very kind of you to offer, Kozmotis, but I wouldn’t want to deprive you and Sandy of some holiday cheer.”

“How very thoughtful of you.” Pitch tried not to seethe.

When it was time for them to go, Jamie gave Sandman an especially long hug goodbye. “I wish you could come with us,” he lamented.

“I want Kozmotis to come, too!” Sophie chirped, clutching Pitch’s leg like a barnacle.

He gently pried her free, then crouched down so he could look her in the eyes. “You must be very good when Santa comes,” he told her seriously, before leaning in and whispering, “The reindeer bite.”

Sophie shrieked and darted away, before clicking her own teeth together in an imitation of a fearsome chomp. An unusually fond smile graced Pitch’s face.

little girl with long dark hair dancing in a field of butterflies

He raised his hands to his head as the strange almost-memory danced in and out of his vision. Sandman looked at him worriedly, but Pitch waved away his concern. “Just the chronic headache I get this time of year,” he muttered acerbically while massaging his temples.

Christmas Eve arrived, and as Pitch got into bed, he hoped desperately that the Guardian of Wonder would not be paying them a visit. No kids, no Santa, right?

No such luck.

He woke up to the sound of hoof beats on the roof. Then came the jingling of sleigh bells. Oh, gods, the jingling. Then the smell of pine trees and gingerbread filled the air and North was suddenly standing there, a sack of presents on his back.

“Sandy! Pitch! Merry Christmas!” He set down the sack and scooped up Sandman into a bear hug. “It is so good to be finally seeing your face again, dear friend!”

Sandman was flailing and not in a good way. North let go in a hurry. “Oh, so sorry, Sandy. I am forgetting you are more fragile as human. Are you okay?”

“Why are you even here, you over-stuffed Cossack?!” Pitch suddenly shouted, nerves frayed by North’s boisterous voice. “You’re only supposed to visit children!”

“Ah, Pitch, that is not the case,” North replied with a twinkle in his eyes. “I visit any soul who believes.” He pulled out two small wrapped boxes and handed one to Sandman, who was still rubbing his back and wincing. The other box he placed on Pitch’s bed. “I am already behind schedule, but I am staying for opening of presents.”

Pitch snorted in disbelief. “You brought me a present. Me.”

“Da!” North smiled benevolently. “Ever since turning human, you have remained on Nice list.” Pitch sputtered. “Is true! I am very proud. You on other hand,” he wagged a finger at Sandman, “Are teetering dangerously onto Naughty list. It is not nice to tease. But, enough talk! Time for presents! Open!”

Sandman tore into his box eagerly and lifted out a small, golden bird. He wound the key on its back and it took flight, soaring about the room before landing in his hands and whistling a tune. Sandman smiled warmly in thanks.

“You are quite welcome, small friend.” North looked over at Pitch, who was staring at his gift. “Go ahead, open present!”

No one had ever gotten him a Christmas present before, thought Pitch. He wasn’t sure if he wanted it or not. He gave the brightly colored box a tentative poke, as if it might burst into flames. “I don’t need one of your toys, North.”

“It is no toy. Now open!” Pitch reluctantly peeled off the wrapping paper and opened the lid of the slim, rectangular container.

It was chocolate.

The really, really good stuff.

“Eighty-seven percent cacao,” North said as Pitch lifted the foil-wrapped bar to his nose and inhaled. “Organic beans hand-picked in foothills of Andes.”

Pitch hastily wiped off a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth and put the bar back in its festive packaging. “Well, I suppose this is acceptable,” he conceded, moving the gift to his nightstand.

North cleared his throat. “Something else you should be saying to me? In response to gift?”

Pitch pursed his lips and looked down. “Thank you,” he hurriedly mumbled.

“Hmm.” North crossed his arms, although he was smiling. “Your words so quick and quiet, Pitch. I think maybe it is little mouse thanking me instead of you, but I am knowing that any other creatures in house are not stirring.”

Something banged on the window. A yeti gestured impatiently at North and then pointed to its watch before disappearing back onto the roof.

“Ah! Natasha is reminding me of time. I must go.” He patted Sandy on the back. “Stay strong, friend. After today, I am devoting myself to solving problem of wish. Even yetis will help.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Elves, not so much.”

The Guardian of Wonder put a finger to his nose, and even though there wasn’t a fireplace anywhere in sight, he somehow disappeared.

“Little mouse,” Pitch muttered sourly. He looked over at Sandman who had set the toy bird aloft once more. “Put that thing away so I can go back to sleep.”

The bird landed in Sandman’s hands and whistled cheerfully. The blond ran a finger along its shiny metal back and suddenly looked like he might cry. It was so unexpected that Pitch wondered if it was a trick of the light.

“Sanderson?” he asked softly. Sandman blinked and the expression was gone. He put the toy bird back in the box and curled up under his covers.

Pitch decided he must have imagined things and tried to fall back asleep as well, but the sound of North’s booming voice suddenly rang out above Burgess.

“Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!”

 Pitch shoved a pillow over his head and grumbled, “Bah humbug."

Chapter Text

The one good thing about Christmas morning, Pitch thought as he boiled water on the kitchen stove, was that it was quiet. No sounds of children playing outside or cars driving past, just him and his tea and perhaps another chapter in the book he borrowed from Sanderson before he worked on his own stories for the rest of the day.

He was steeping the tea when Sandman walked in. “There you are. Would you like a cup?” He asked, gesturing to the teapot.

Sandman shook his head. He had a coy smile on his face and his hands behind his back. Pitch tensed immediately. “What are you up to, old man?”

Bringing his hands out of hiding, the blond revealed a newspaper-sized rectangular box. He grinned and tossed it to Pitch, who caught it instinctively. The packaging was remarkably subdued: matte black paper, no ribbons or bows or garish decorations.

“You got me a Christmas present?” Pitch asked, taken aback. He frowned a little. “I didn’t get you anything.”

Sandman shook his head. That was fine!

“I mean it. It honestly never crossed my mind to get you something. Why did you get me something?” Pitch felt a little anxious. “It’s not a sweater, is it?”

Sandman rolled his eyes and plopped into a chair. Just open it, his expression said.

“All right,” Pitch sighed, curiosity getting the better of him. He ran a fingernail along each taped seam until the adhesive gave way and he could unwrap the paper without ripping it.

Inside was a black wool scarf, tightly woven and soft to the touch. He held it up and gently ran the fabric through his fingers. It was in a style he admired, the rich dark fabric fading to pre-dawn gray at the ends.

“It’s lovely,” Pitch murmured. He looked at Sandman and said, quite genuinely, “Thank you.”

Sandman beamed.

Pitch’s frown returned. “This doesn’t mean I’m getting you anything.” The other man laughed silently and left the kitchen.

The rest of the day, Pitch tried to enjoy the peace and quiet, but his own thoughts kept him preoccupied. He kept looking over at that scarf and picturing Sandman’s smiling face.

It had to wait until the next day because nothing was ever open on Christmas, but the following afternoon, Sandman looked up from his book to find Pitch holding out a small white box.

“Here,” Pitch said, and he shoved it into Sandman’s hands. The blond looked up at him in surprise and Pitch sniffed. “It’s psychological torture to give someone a present when they weren’t expecting it, old man. So, here. Open it.”

Sandman grinned, then popped off the box’s lid. His grin turned to a look of amazement as he lifted up a small golden pin in the shape of a shooting star. He searched Pitch’s face questioningly but the other man looked away, as if embarrassed. “I saw it and it reminded me of you.”

Sandman smiled in delight and stood up, causing Pitch to back up hurriedly lest he be on the receiving end of a hug. “No need to get all sappy about it. I just couldn’t stand the thought of being in your debt.” He turned to go, then paused and pointed a warning finger at the other man. “And don’t you dare pin that to any of your atrocious sweaters or I am taking it back.”

He left Sandman in the living room and went upstairs. The scarf around his neck no longer felt like a burden.

Chapter Text

The year was drawing to a close. And what a year it has been, Pitch thought morosely, sitting on the couch and watching the New Year’s Eve coverage on television. Plans for world domination nearly achieved only to be dashed by the belief of a single child. And now here he was, human, sitting in that very child’s living room and chatting amicably with his nemesis.

It was one for the history books, he mused silently, not that any history book would contain such a story. He sipped his glass of champagne and coughed a little at the bubbles. What a vile drink, far too fizzy and light. But perhaps that made it the perfect beverage to toast away the end of this ridiculous year.

Jamie and Sophie had begged their mother to let them stay up and watch the ball drop. Jamie made it to about 11pm before he conked out. Sophie held out a little longer, slumping into Pitch’s side and mumbling something about ponies. Mrs. Bennett gathered up her children and wished Pitch and Sandman a Happy New Year before heading upstairs.

Pitch yawned. He was compelled to make it to midnight, but he was fading fast. He looked over at Sandman who seemed just as tired. Maybe even more so: there were worry lines around the blond man’s eyes that Pitch never noticed before.

“Something on your mind?” he asked. Sandman blinked wearily, then drew a picture of North and a calendar in his notepad.

“Ah.” Pitch nodded in understanding. North had been working hard on the problem of the wish for a week now, and still no progress. It was very depressing, and Sandman seemed to be taking it especially hard. “Cheer up, old man. Your friends are idiots, but persistent idiots. They’ll figure things out soon enough.”

Sandman smiled tiredly and patted Pitch’s hand.

On the screen, the ball began to drop. “3… 2… 1… Happy New Year!” the crowd cheered.

Pitch clinked his glass to Sandman’s. “Happy New Year, old man. May this hellish nightmare end soon for the both of us.” It wasn’t much of a toast, but it was sincere.

Sandman finished his glass, peered into it, and then slumped against the couch cushions.

Pitch raised an eyebrow. “You were, perhaps, holding out hope that somehow a New Year’s toast would break this magic spell?” The other man nodded and Pitch let out a small sigh before slumping back as well. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

Pitch came down the stairs New Year’s Day to find Mrs. Bennett and her daughter having an argument.

“I told you, Sophie, that hill Jamie and his friends are going sledding on is too high for you.”

“But I wanna go!” Sophie whined, stamping her foot in frustration.

Mrs. Bennett shook her head. “No. You didn’t listen to me last time when I said to be careful and you nearly broke your collarbone. I’m not letting you go with them and that’s final.”

“You’re mean!” Sophie shouted. She ran past Pitch and up the stairs, the sound of angry footfalls punctuated by a slamming door.

“Three going on thirteen,” Mrs. Bennett muttered with a shake of her head. “Sorry, Kozmotis. I hope she didn’t disturb you.”

“Not at all,” Pitch remarked. “And may I commend you, Mrs. Bennett, for keeping your daughter out of mischief.”

Sandman was waiting outside. “We need to stop at the bookstore first,” Pitch informed him. “Ms. Watkins wants to talk to me about January’s schedule. Then we can go for tea.” The other man frowned impatiently and Pitch spared him a droll look. “Relax, Sanderson. There will still be croissants by the time we get there. They don’t sell out until—“

A high-pitched scream and the cracking of wood cut off Pitch’s words. He looked up to see Sophie clinging for dear life to the decorative balcony that was now breaking away from the third floor window.

He was back in the house and bounding up the stairs before he was even consciously aware of what he was doing. He ran to the window and leaned out as far as he could. Sophie had slipped further down, huddled against the railing, and even with his long arms, he couldn’t quite reach her.

Help me, Daddy!  a voice called out in his mind, and he bit the inside of his cheek so hard it bled.

Sophie’s whimpering brought him back to the present. “Sophie, you need to reach up and grab my arms,” he said in a steady voice, his hands held out to her.

Sophie shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m scared!”

“You should be, you’re about to fall,” Pitch replied harshly. “Now grab my arms.”

Sophie shook her head again. The railing dangerously creaked.

“Sophie.” His voice lowered. “Listen to me. Once upon a time there was a little girl who wasn’t afraid of the Boogeyman. It made him so mad that he kept trying to scare her, but nothing worked.”

Sophie opened an eye. She lifted up a trembling hand, but was still maddeningly out of reach.

“One day he chased her into the woods. A big wolf crossed their path and tried to eat her. Do you know what she did? She jumped into the Boogeyman’s arms and he scared the wolf to death.”

Sophie reached higher, just enough so that Pitch could grab her wrist. He yanked her upward and wrapped his arm around her body just as the railing gave way and the balcony tumbled to the ground with a loud crash.

Pitch pulled her back through the open window, then sat down and cradled her close while she sobbed into his chest. “Hush,” he murmured in a tender voice that he had not used for millennia, “You’re all right now. You’re safe.”

There were the sounds of running footsteps, and Mrs. Bennett burst into the room, Sandman not far behind. “Sophie!” she cried and the little girl untangled herself from Pitch and ran into the beckoning arms of her mother. “Oh, my little girl,” Mrs. Bennett whispered, holding her daughter as if she’d never let her go.

Sandman looked both relieved and ridiculously proud of Pitch. Mrs. Bennett wiped her eyes and gave the former King of Nightmares a grateful smile. “Kozmotis, I don’t know how to thank you. If you hadn’t gotten to her in time—“

“She’d be dead.” Pitch’s voice was soft, but deadly. He looked at Mrs. Bennett with cold, harsh eyes, and slowly rose to his feet. “She’d be dead because you never warned her about climbing out of windows and onto poorly constructed balconies.”

Sandman’s expression became alarmed. He held up his hands, palms out, as if trying to calm a skittish horse, but Pitch ignored him. “She’d be dead,” he continued, his voice rising in volume,  “Because you never let children be afraid anymore. You tell them, it’s all right, everything is safe, there are no such things as monsters. But there are monsters. They take the form of weak railings and busy streets and loaded guns that aren’t locked up.”

Long-forgotten memories boiled within him and he clutched at his head, dragging his fingers through his hair and yanking on the ends. “I have tried so hard to get you to see that,” he hissed, although he wasn’t talking to Mrs. Bennett anymore. “This world needs fear but how can I get anyone to listen if no one even believes in me!”

I let them out it’s all my fault I can never make it right again

Pitch flinched at the voice in his head. It was his.

It’s all my fault

He lowered his trembling hands.

Can never make it right

He didn’t say another word, or even make a sound. Just turned towards the door and ran, down the stairs and out the door, as fast as his legs could take him.

He didn’t know how long he had been running when he finally collapsed to the ground, hands and knees grinding into gritty snow as he coughed against the icy air that burned his lungs. He nearly retched as the memories filled his mind. They were heavy, fragmented things that didn’t make sense but stabbed themselves deep into his chest until it was all he could do to keep breathing.

By the time Sandman finally caught up to him, he had managed to push himself to a sitting position, but his body felt heavy and he could barely look up.  He felt the smaller man take his hands in both of his, and he didn’t have the energy or desire to pull away.  

“I have a daughter,” he murmured, voice heavy with grief. “I know that now. I can’t remember her name, but I can see her face.” He shut his eyes. “She was so precious to me. So precious.”

He pulled his hands out of Sandman’s gentle grip and raised them to his face, as if trying to blot out the memories. “I tried to keep her safe and failed. Or, I… I thought I was keeping her safe and did something much, much worse.” He laughed hollowly and kept his face covered. “I took all those monsters inside me, and then I opened up my maw and swallowed worlds. Whole worlds. And when they finally let me go long enough to think, I couldn’t remember anything except the fear. Deep down, I must have thought I could pay penance, but that hasn’t worked, has it? I scream and scream and no one—no one listens—“

His words snagged on a sob and Sandman wrapped his arms around him in a gentle hug. Pitch grabbed onto him like a lifeline, his fingers digging into the fabric of the other man’s coat.  “I just wanted to keep her safe,” he whispered brokenly, burying his face in Sandman’s shoulder. “I just wanted to keep them all safe.”

He cried silently while Sandman rubbed his back in a slow circular motion. Eventually his tears dried, but he felt empty, so empty, like something heavy and viscous had been poured into him and then squeezed out. He exhaled softly, and it was then that he noticed Sandman shaking ever so slightly. He pulled back to see the smaller man fighting back sobs, tears staining his round cheeks.

“Sanderson…” Pitch reached up and wiped away a tear. “Sandy, no. Don’t waste your tears on an old fool.”

He cupped the blond man’s face in his hands, brushing away more tears with his thumbs. Sandman smiled faintly and mirrored the action with his own hands. He drew Pitch’s head down and kissed his forehead as a sign of forgiveness, and Pitch felt a warmth flow through him, filling up his empty chest and lessening its ache.

He pressed his forehead against Sandman’s. They stayed like that for a while, their breath mingling in the space between them, until Pitch began to feel the sting of winter again. He pulled away and rubbed his hands together, cursing the cold. “We should head back. I want to make sure we haven’t been evicted because of my outburst.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping at his eyes before offering it to Sandman. “Here, you look terrible.”

Sandman rolled his eyes, but took the offered handkerchief anyway. He blew his nose, and the sudden sound made Pitch jump. Sandman smiled sheepishly and Pitch’s laughter was for once not filled with malice. “So you can make a sound after all. No, I do not want the handkerchief back, old man. Let’s go.”

They walked back in companionable silence. The house was empty, much to Pitch’s relief. Mrs. Bennett left a note explaining that she had taken her children out for ice cream, and once again thanked Pitch for saving Sophie’s life.

“Hmm. It appears we still have a roof over our heads.” Pitch considered going to bed, but the thought of walking up two flights of stairs was unappealing. Instead, he sat on the couch, resting the back of his head on a decorative cushion and stretching his long legs out before him.

He wasn’t surprised when Sandman sat next to him, but when the other man starting petting his hair, he balked. “I am not a cat, Sanderson.”

Sandman held his hands to his chest as if to say, “Trust me.” Pitch sighed and shut his eyes. The hair petting resumed, and though he would never admit it aloud, the touch was comforting. Combined with the exhausting events of that morning, he couldn’t help but drift off to sleep, for once not worrying about what nightmares may come.

Chapter Text

Something bright and golden roused Pitch from his slumber. “Sanderson, turn off the lamp,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face into the couch cushion.

When the couch cushion instead felt like cold, hard ground, his eyes popped open and he sat up with a start. He was in the forest outside his lair, and the light that had woken him up was the Sandman himself, curled up next to him and fast asleep.

Pitch’s gaze followed the grains of glittering sand that hovered in the sleeping man’s hair. He reached out, as if to catch one, then stared at his own arm. The black fabric of his robe faded into his wrist, and his hand was gray. Tentatively, he flexed his fingers. Black shadows slithered up between them.

“We’re ourselves again,” he whispered, as if afraid to believe it. He gently shook Sandman awake. “We’re not human anymore, Sanderson. We’ve got our powers back!”

Sandman sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes. Impatient for the little man to join him in celebration, Pitch leapt to his feet and stretched his arms wide. He felt like laughing. He felt like howling. Shadows flew from his arms to play among the trees, darting around branches and hiding behind the colorful leaves.

Leaves. Pitch frowned. Why were there leaves still on the trees? He looked up at the constellations in the night sky, checking their position. They did not lie. It was the same November night he had fallen asleep, wishing bitterly that he wasn’t alone.

The playful shadows melted into the darkness and disappeared. Had the last two months really never happened? Had it all been a dream?

Pitch’s eyes narrowed. Sandman must be responsible for this. A shadow scythe formed in his hands and he clenched it, enraged. Old wounds reopened as he remembered the repeated humiliation he had suffered while asleep. It felt like a betrayal. Had he almost thought of the sadistic little dream-weaver as a friend?

His lips pulled back in a snarl as he turned and raised his scythe, intending to cut the other man clean through.  

Sandman was staring at the trees with a question mark above his head. It was only because he looked so lost and confused that Pitch hesitated, but it was a long enough moment of uncertainty for Sandman to notice the scythe and jump back several feet.

But instead of creating sand whips, the Guardian of Dreams merely held out his hands in a gesture of supplication. I don’t know what happened, either. Give me time to think, the symbols above his head pleaded.

Pitch lowered the scythe a fraction of an inch. “Make it quick,” he growled.

Tiny sand spirals danced between the dream-weaver’s fingers as he paced in a circle, deep in thought, until a look of realization dawned on his golden face. Symbols flashed above his head too rapidly for Pitch to understand.

“You’re speaking nonsense, old man.” Pitch sighed in exasperation and lowered his arms. The scythe disappeared. “Start from the beginning.”

A moon appeared over Sandman’s head as he tried explaining again, this time more slowly. Pitch grimaced. “He told you to look for me? Well, naturally, you’ll do anything that decrepit crater-face tells you. Sneaking up on me while I’m asleep, though, that’s a low one even for you…”

Sandman shook his head. I wasn’t planning to attack you. You were surrounded by fearlings. I made them go away.

Pitch felt his cheeks burn. “Well, good for you. Your good deed for the day, was it? Why didn’t you just leave afterwards?”

It was Sandman’s turn to look embarrassed. I fell asleep. I try not to do that around other dreamers. The sand can merge.

“So somehow we shared a dream, is that what you’re telling me?”

We shared more than that. Sandman looked at him meaningfully.

“The wish.” Pitch looked away, a scowl on his face. “We may have made the same wish, but it was still nothing more than an illusion.”

Sandman approached him and gently tugged at something wrapped around the Boogeyman’s neck. Not quite.

Pitch looked down. He was wearing the scarf Sandman had gotten him for Christmas. He ran his fingers along the fabric in disbelief. “How… how is this possible…?”

Sandman floated up so they were eye-to-eye. He gently touched the shooting star pin stuck into his ascot. I don’t know.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Was it real or not?” Pitch balled his hands into fists. “Answer me, Sanderson! Was it a dream or was it real?”

Does it matter? The dream-weaver pursed his lips together, but his gaze was soft and vulnerable. It doesn’t matter to me.

“Of course it doesn’t to you, O Guardian of Dreams,” Pitch replied sarcastically, but there wasn’t much heat in his words. “What I also don’t understand is why you of all people would wish not to be alone.”

Sandman smiled. He showed a shooting star crash into a familiar planet. A little figure of him and Pitch walked the globe, sometimes facing towards one another, sometimes facing away, but never far apart. The other Guardians appeared, but the tiny Sandman was not standing next to them. They are my friends, but they are not like me.

“And you think we have more in common,” Pitch remarked dryly, crossing his arms.

Sandman’s smile grew. He lifted up his hands. Stars and planets and elegant ships spiraled out of sand and whirled above their heads.

The celestial view brought out a deep sense of longing from within Pitch. He was suddenly afraid, too, of something new and fragile that he couldn’t yet name. He hid his anxiety with a sharp smirk. “So, then, our wish came true. Very well. Are we to be friends? Amigos? Spend our days playing chess and gossiping over cups of tea?” Tendrils of shadow radiated from his body and a dangerous glint appeared in his eyes. “And what if I decide that I want to be seen again, to be believed in so strongly that there isn’t any room for your dreams? What will you do then?”

Sandman raised his eyebrows, his smile turning sly. An image appeared above his head of himself with a paddle in one hand and Pitch bent over his knees.

Pitch blushed furiously and waved his arms above Sandman’s head, trying to erase the image. “Be serious!” he barked. “We’ve been enemies for millennia! What makes you think things will be different now?”

The dream changed us. You talked. I listened. Maybe we can keep doing that. He looked at Pitch hopefully. I liked not being alone. Didn’t you?

“Yes,” Pitch admitted quietly, the memories of their time together out-weighing his pride. He cleared his throat. “All right. I suppose, considering what we’ve been through, it’s only fair to call a truce.” Sandman beamed and clapped his hands. Pitch glared at him. “But that doesn’t mean we’ll be friends!”

You’d prefer us to be something else, then? The golden man hovered closer, a crafty look in his eyes, and Pitch suddenly felt nervous.

“No. I take that back. We can be friends.” Sandman placed a hand on Pitch’s scarf and trailed it up to his neck. “Good friends.” He watched as the little man leaned in and lightly nipped at the fabric. “The best of friends, stop it right now you glitter-dusted lunatic!”

Sandman chuckled silently and floated out of Pitch’s personal space.

“I honestly do not understand how anyone tolerates you.” Shadows pulled at Pitch’s feet. “But that is a puzzle for another time. I need to return to my work, and I suspect you do, too.”

The Guardian of Dreams nodded and turned to leave. Pitch cleared his throat. “Perhaps… tomorrow. We could meet here again. To talk.”

He expected the huge grin to appear on Sandman’s face.

He did not expect the tackle-like hug and manic ruffling of his hair.

“Argh!” Pitch grabbed Sandman and threw him off, sending the dream-weaver somersaulting through the air. “Blast it, old man! I have an image to maintain!”

Sandman righted himself and formed a jetpack with his sand. He waved cheekily before blasting off into the night. Pitch watched him leave while he smoothed down his hair, a faint smile passing over his face.

Far above, the moon watched over them both.