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

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

Failure and explosions. Lots of explosions.

Jack had always hated those damn machines.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pitch?" Jack managed to choke out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sally paused, then gave a little shrug.

"From what I've heard, anyway. I was sewn together in a lab."

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

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