Aaaaand the moment we've all been waiting for: actual interaction between the main characters!

This is the part where it starts getting juicy. And really depressing. And maybe a little angst.

Or a lot of angst.

I DIDN'T MEAN TO NEGLECT MY PRECIOUS! I'M JUST SUPER BUSY AND I HAVE ANOTHER STORY ON ANOTHER ACCOUNT AND GAH. But yeah, summer is coming soon. I have about 3 weeks of school left and then my first year of college is officially over. Ballin'.

Enjoy!

Musical Inspiration for this chapter: Still - Daughter.

For real. All I could see was Rapunzel lying down and Pitch just chilling, quiet. It might also be because when I wrote this, it was very late/early, and I couldn't help but be in this kind of chill mood that somehow leaked into my writing.

CH. 5

When Rapunzel awoke, it was to the feeling that something had been . . . displaced. As though a part of her, previously there, had not necessarily been removed, but certainly shoved into a spot where it had previously not been. Her head felt . . . clearer, almost. She blinked, looking around in the darkness, as though this source of her strange, newfound clarity would be neatly and conveniently awaiting notice within her quarters.

Which, as it turned out, he would be. If he wasn't having a fit of hysterics on the mainland, just outside the borders of Corona, Pitch would indeed be within Rapunzel's room. What he wanted with her, what he would do, Pitch was . . . unsure. As it was, while the young princess scanned her room, Pitch lay flat on his back, staring up at the sky. He couldn't think past the numbness within himself. This had never happened before. Never. In fact, had the experience not lingered, has his ears ceased ringing with the sound of his own screams reverberating in his memories, bouncing around in his mind in some sort of horrid feedback, had the rawness of his throat lessened, he might've thought it was simply a . . . nightmare.

He did get them, actually. It wasn't known. Manny certainly did, the bastard; he knew far too much for his own good, that boy (the pettiness of lording his age over Manny did not escape him, but it satisfied him all the same). Perhaps Sandy might know, but he'd always been a bit of a wild card. Unfailing in his courage and righteousness (he snorted disdainfully), but unpredictable in most other categories. He decided not to dwell on it, but his other options for mental exploration were . . . obviously less than appealing, so soon after the incident.

He needed to move. To go somewhere. His body ached, but it was a sort of pain that radiated from mental trauma rather then physical. A sore throat was hardly capable of keeping a creature such as he bedridden. (Or was it under-the-bedridden, in his case?)

Without really being aware of his destination, Pitch felt the warm, comforting presence of his shadows crawl over him, blanketing his form, encompassing him as they spirited him off to a new destination. He felt his body, mostly intangible, adjusting to accommodate a new position. His back was propped against something solid, the rest of him draped over something that gave and comfortably supported his weight. When he refocused his eyes, he was only half-surprised to find himself in Rapunzel's room.

The little princess was lying down, though very obviously not asleep. Pitch didn't need his abilities to tell him that much; the girl was wide-awake, for some inexplicable reason. It wasn't her usual, fitful awareness in the dark; it was a quiet sort of awareness. Peaceful. It was strange to see a creature he associated with such vibrancy so utterly at ease with remaining still. It suited and matured her. Pitch got the impression that being awake in the night was something she was used to. He couldn't see face form this angle, but her posture—very clearly defined beneath the thin comforter—spoke volumes. He couldn't quite find the words for it, but . . . he couldn't really find it in himself to leave. To care that, with a small adjustment, she would spot him—should have already spotted him. It didn't matter. Nothing was clear enough to him at the moment, nothing that could garner enough interest that he might regain focus, might regain himself. Had he been aware of how contrary Rapunzel's own mind was, he might've accused her of robbing him of . . . something.

As it was, the room remained dark, and quiet. And might have till morning, until Pascal snorted, quietly, in his sleep. His place on a cushioned chair, well within reach of Rapunzel's soothing hand, caught Pitch's attention. He leaned slightly forward to better see the strange, green creature that fawned over the petite brunette. As expected, Rapunzel shifted up onto one elbow, leaning over to murmur words too quiet for even Pitch to hear. Lazily, he watched her hand stroke lines down the creature's scales. After several minutes, evidently satisfied, she moved back to adjust herself.

And finally—

(finally!)

—caught sight of Pitch, comfortably seated in her window seat, lazing about like he belonged there and utterly at ease with himself.

Rapunzel stilled, mouth opening of its own accord. An automatic reaction. She was stunned into silence, Pitch expected. Those green eyes—green as her pet, he mused—staring directly into his own. The darkness hid nothing; for one thing, the moon shone brightly into the extravagant room. For the other, Pitch was darkness itself; the shadows wouldn't dare hide anything from him. She just . . . froze. And despite his hazy mind, he reflexively frowned. Most people screamed when they saw him, shuddered, shivered . . . something. Staring was common, yes, but she just . . . wasn't moving. Paralyzed, but more with the hesitance of a mind racing to catch up with the situation and make a decision rather than fright. Admittedly, it was all a bit boring.

"I—," ah, there was the ice break. Evidently stunned by her own noise, she quickly pressed her mouth in a thin line. After another moment, she drew her eyes towards Pascal, cautiously averting her focus as she sat up to face him more fully. A queen's regality, he mused, watching the casual hunch of her back neatly straighten itself into an familiar, 'regal' posture.

Still, she remained silent. And as he was hardly in the mood to start a conversation, he simply waited. When light came, he would leave. But there was much time till then. He could sit here all night. And really, all day as well, but then the hens would be here and his tolerance of her caretakers was waning fast, if not dissolving already. So lost in his own musings was he that when she cleared her throat pointedly (though still quietly) he was nearly startled.

She took a very deep, brave breath. He watched her chest rise and expand with the drama of it, taking note that he nightgown was not as frilly (childish) as he might have expected. Her eyes rising from her folded hands, pooled in her lap, captured his attention, and he drew his gaze upwards to where she was trying to meet his eyes in what she might have thought was a polite fashion, but was coming off as more bold than anything else. Curiously, he awaited what she had to say to him, what little speeches she might have prepared. Oh he could just hear it now, as he'd heard it before. "I'm not afraid of you," breathed through chattering teeth. "You're not real," whispered through quivering lips. Oh, how he—!

"Pascals asleep."

It was Pitch's turn to look stunned.

Unwillingly, his eyes flickered towards the green pest, where it rested, undisturbed by the quiet tones of its master. His gaze returned to Rapunzel, expression carefully neutral as he tried to decipher was sort of queue he was expected to take from that statement.

". . . He is," he agreed, for lack of a better observation. She seemed to tense at his cool tones.

(Ah, so not completely unaffected by him.)

"So please, whatever it is you're doing," she eyed him, her eyes searching, as though she'd find a knife or some object that would let her know what exactly he was doing. ". . . do it quietly." She finished, lamely, gaze returned to his.

Pitch couldn't help it. His trademark smirk found its way across his lips, revealing a hint of his canines. Rapunzel's eyes narrowed, body leaning ever so slightly towards her pet.

She thought he was going to take it, he realized. And then he remembered.

"You think me Death," he announced, though he remained quiet, as she liked. It was no matter to him. He doubted the pet would hear him, and certainly no one else could. But the darkness was soothing. There was no need to burden it with shouting (or, not yet it wasn't).

Her brows furrowed, and for a moment, she looked the child he saw her as. "But you're not?"

It came out as a question, when he knew she meant it a statement.

He nodded. "As you say," but offered her no more.

She tilted her head, body subconsciously leaning towards him in curiosity. His smirk remained, but he did not offer her the same courtesy and remained in his lazy slump within her window seat. "I don't understand."

"I don't expect you too," he quipped, easily. "It isn't easy to think, in my presence."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he watched her eyes become guarded.

The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to morph his smirk into a full-blown grin. But he resisted, turning his face away. "There are thing worse than Death, princess," he said instead. "Though I am but one of them." He sniffed the air, sensing a panic. His eyes met hers in a warm fashion that was more mocking than comforting. "I am also not madness, though I have been known to be blamed for it. I don't mind that one, though. It's good for the reputation."

Evidently done with being teased, she bluntly demanded. "Who are you?"

With a grand sweep of his arm, he bowed his body forward slightly before returning to his original position. "I have many names, Princess. The Boogeyman. The Nightmare King. Fear Itself. You, however, may refer to me as Pitch Black. Pitch, if it pleases, little Queen."

"I'm not the Queen," she said, in a way that indicated he'd touched a nerve. He smirked wider, but nodded at her nonetheless. "So . . . Pitch?"

"Pitch." He agreed.

She adjusted herself beneath her blankets, casting a glance at her overgrown lizard once more. The relief in her eyes was unmistakeable.

"You thought me here to take the beast," he murmured. It was no question, and more to himself than her, but she answered nonetheless.

"I thought . . ." She looked away. ". . . It . . . Why are you here, then?" She demanded.

And there it was. He could be honest, although he wasn't sure how well 'I feed off of your depression' would go with her. God, he hadn't conversed with a human in ages. He was shocked, however, to find that it was nice. Refreshing, even, to talk to someone who was preaching words of valor at him, nor quivering an unintelligible past their own terror. The girl had some nerve, he'd give her that. He decided for deflection.

"Where else might I go?" He drawled, shrugging to look back out the window. "The city sleeps, and yet, it is a dead one. There is nothing out there that might interest me tonight."

"Nightmares," she blurted, suddenly, in a quick breath. His head whipped to catch the fleeting panic in her expression that was quickly closed off by her rigid, stony mask. But even still, he could smell it, could feel the puff that had been. Brave, he amended. Very brave.

How vile.

"You . . ." she pointed an accusing finger at him, though she was struggling with the words. ". . . my nightmares . . . You—!"

"I believe it was you who requested the quiet, if I recall correctly," he interrupted, coolly. To be frank, he could care less about the rest of the lizard. But if her shouting attracted attention, she'd no doubt cause a scene more tiresome than entertaining. And besides, she was being so very interesting at the moment on her own. The outside interference would be wholly unwelcome.

Shooting a poisonous glare at him (the green in her eyes pulled it off very well, he noted), she pressed her lips in a thin line as she calmed her temper. He decided to fill the silence before she could make more unfounded, boring accusations.

"Your nightmares are your own, princess," he said, voice still smooth, unhurried, uncaring. "I can influence your dreams even less than you can." A half-lie. Once, he could, but not now. Not yet. "I just eat them, so to speak." He flashed his most charming grin. She recoiled from it by leaning back, ever so slightly. So not entirely a dim-wit, either. "Really, you should be thanking me. When I drain your nightmares, you cannot recall them; it's as though they were never there in the first place."

"You've been . . .?" She trailed off, staring over his shoulder, out the window, eyes hazy with memories he was now unfortunately familiar with. He wondered which one she thought of now, which was the most painful to her. Her mother? Her lover? Although lover was a bit of a strong word for the innocent, unconsummated relations between her and her precious little thief. As Pitch pondered an appropriate term, he witnessed the Rapunzel's expression slowly shutting down, shuttering herself away. Her defenses were rising in a veil of disbelief and—was that anger? Once more, Pitch was momentarily dumbstruck, only just guarding his own emotions behind a stone-cold expression as she turned to glare him down with silent fury.

"You," she ground out. "Had no right to touch my memories."

Pitch perked a brow. "My powers have nothing to do with your memories, child. Your own brain conjures the nightmares, the memories. Blame—."

"I was grieving!" She spat out, only just keeping her voice quiet. Still, her pet shifted, but she didn't spare him a glance, so distracted by her outrage was she. And it was outrage she felt, Pitch could see that clearly enough. "That's . . . That's what people do! You can't just . . . spare me the process! Then I'm not . . . I'm not really better, not really."

His lip curled in disgust, "Spared you? That's what you think this is? An act of generosity on my part? Spare me your foolishness, princess, this was hardly about you at all. Your innermost turmoil was merely a convenient way for me to siphon energy. Your own well-being was merely an unfortunate side-effect."

Rapunzel seemed stricken, "Then why are you here?"

His eyes narrowed, turning away from her with a careless shrug. "In truth, you should be unable to see me." He glanced back into her eyes, searching, trying to find the answer in the field of green hidden in her irises. "My only theory is that you've experienced such horrors, so much fear, that you are . . ." He struggled to find the words. "Perhaps you have gained a sort of inclination for it. I'm not quite sure how to put it, but that is as best as I am able to explain it, for the time being."

Rapunzel searched within herself. A fictional monster that only she could see. A fictional monster that seemed to . . . be eerily apathetic to the whole situation.

And why shouldn't he be? The hysterical part of her mind provided. He had no reason to be afraid.

"Are you afraid now?"

Her eyes glanced up, and she couldn't deny that the panic rising within her. Not so much at the creature before her, but the potential implications. Was she mad? Had she finally gone nuts? A part of her reached out for a face, for a laugh and a smile with a goatee that soothed her nerves more than any physical touch could.

"I . . . don't . . . know," she finally bit out, honestly. She shook her head, staring at her hands pooled in her lap. "I just . . . it's hard to believe that this is all real."

He hummed, "Mm. Not an unwise thought; many who've seen me are close to the bring of madness." The smile he shot her way had far too much teeth to be friendly. She did, in fact, feel rather threatened. "Perhaps the apathy I've brought you is masking your oncoming hysteria."

The notion filled her with a coldness that seeped into her bones. For a moment, she forgot how to breath, before she clenched her fist and decided that, if she were to go mad, she was allowed in a little leeway in some questionable actions.

In one fluid movement, she pulled her arm back, snatched an overly-fluffy pillow from behind her, and hurled it at his person.

Pitch caught it, of course. Years of combat had honed his reaction time well enough to catch the frilly cushion before it smacked him in the face. And he had to admit, it was—

"Well-aimed," he said, a startled laugh in his voice. He tucked the pillow under his lower back, alleviating the tension his position was causing it. "Let it never be said the princess wasn't hospitable to her guests; even the unwelcome ones."

Rapunzel huffed, slouching down into the remainder of her many cushions.

For an untraceable amount of time, the two stared one another down. The last time Rapunzel remembered was Pitch smirking at her. Without even realizing it, she fell into a fitful slumber. Silently, Pitch snickered and looked back out the window.

Perhaps, this time, he'd stay till morning. After all, he couldn't have her convincing herself it'd all been a strange fever-dream, oh no. This was . . . an interesting development to his situation.

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After all, if he was going to stay in Corona

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he might as well have a bit of fun.

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