Chapter Text
Dropping slowly and clumsily from the sky, Jack landed on his lake, dropping to his knees. Ten years since he’d risen from the dark, cold water, and he was no closer to finding answers than he had been when he first broke through the ice. Most days he could forget no one could see him, that no one would tell him what was going on, lose himself in playing tricks and trying to figure out his powers, but…
Someone had seen him today. Another winter spirit, if he had any guess, seeing as how they had ice coating their hair and ice crusted on them in place of clothing, skin tinged an unhealthy blue, barely even human in form. He’d tried to talk to them, but they’d hissed and driven him away before he could even say more than hello.
With a shuddering breath he gave up on trying to hold back the tears. It was all just too much, and no one was going to see him, so what did it matter if he was sitting in the middle of his lake bawling like a child?
He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there when he finally ran out of tears, hiccuping quietly. Crying didn’t help anything, but he did feel a little better now. He raised his head as the wind sent a soft breeze to twine around him, lifting his cloak and ruffling his hair in the closest it could get to a hug.
The lake was brightly lit with moonlight as he sniffed, rubbing at his nose and giving the moon a small, if watery, smile. If felt like the moon was trying to comfort him too, and although he would have preferred words, at the moment he’d take what he could get.
Standing, he started to walk across the lake back to shore and nearly fell as something small and hard rolled underfoot, making him skid across the ice. Going back to his knees, he scooped up a few of the tiny things, holding them up to take a better look.
They were small, shaped like perfect teardrops, clear with a rainbow sheen when he tilted them in the moonlight to watch them glitter, sparkling brightly in the pale moonlight, and a tiny snowflake was trapped inside each, almost seeming to move as he turned it. Sniffing again, he felt something on his face and caught the tear as it fell down his cheek, holding it up in wonder to compare to the little gem he held.
They were…his tears? Suddenly seeing the humor in the situation, the pure, ridiculous, fairy-tale scenario it was, he began to laugh, the sound echoed in its own way by the wind. Still laughing, he gathered up the tiny stones, getting as many as he could find. He’d have to find or make something to store them in, but…maybe, someday, someone would see him, and these were pretty, maybe they would make a nice friendship gift?
He left the stones in a small cave next to his lake for now and flew off, lighter in heart, and if he wished there was someone to share this new discovery with or to explain why he cried rocks instead of water like a human, that was for him alone to know.
Roughly two hundred and ninety years later, Jack landed on his lake gently, floating down to land with the grace of a falling snowflake. He had a palace in Antarctica now, hidden away, built mostly to pass the time and for the sheer fun of it (there was one slide he was particularly proud of even if no one had ever seen it, wrapped around the tower in the middle of an ice rink/snowball fight arena, that he could hardly wait to introduce the other Guardians to), and North was talking about building him his own room at the Pole, and the others were beginning to hint of similar thoughts in their own ways (before a month ago, the others had never even seen the inside of Bunny’s Warren or Sandy’s island, but after Easter they had realized just how short-sighted that was), but for some reason, it still felt right somehow to store his tears in the cave that had been his first home.
It looked like no one had discovered it yet, and idly Jack wondered if the same magic that kept mortals from finding the other Guardians’ homes was protecting his cave – or den, as he liked to think of it.
Shrugging off the thought, he pulled the box from its shelf, hidden away in a niche near the back of the cave, to add the latest batch of tears. He’d had to remake the box a few times over the years, mostly to make it larger, but to his own surprise he’d found he was good with woodworking. He understood why he was now that he had his memories back, but at the time, it had simply been something small to be grateful for. He’d added decorative touches to it over the years, but the frost covering the carvings was what marked it as uniquely his.
Easter had been bad, very bad. The others had apologized for it, telling him how they had regretted what they’d said as soon as they had calmed down that day, had been so guilt ridden and truly apologetic he’d been able to forgive them – he sucked at holding grudges anyway, and could understand why they had jumped to the conclusions they had, even if it had, and still did, hurt, even still blamed himself for not thinking, for not being there for them – but he had quite a store of tiny gems in his hoodie pocket from before Pitch had found him.
He supposed he should count himself lucky he’d moved on to angrily trying to get rid of the tooth box by the time Pitch had shown up – being caught crying or collecting the tears by the Bogeyman would have been embarrassing.
There were a few spirits he’d told about his unique ability – a kitsune in Japan, a few friendly Fall spirits (proper seasonals, not like him, with the touch of the Man in the Moon on him that marked him as something other than just a seasonal spirit), a few of the other trickster spirits (to add the tears to their off-limits prank lists, short as those were), one or two others who had seen him rather than his reputation, been willing to be friends with him and had been trusted enough to be gifted a tear. Each cared for it proudly, and swore not to tell where it had come from.
They were the only ones who knew why he never cried, not where anyone could see him. Any other spirit he encountered seemed to think he just couldn’t, that any winter spirit, let alone the Spirit of Winter, would be too cold-hearted to cry, that the tears would freeze before leaving his eyes if he even tried, and he didn’t bother to tell them otherwise. What did it matter what they thought?
The other winter spirits probably didn't cry since they were either too prim and proper or too blood-thirsty to shed tears.
Jack was considered the winter freak, the soft-in-the-head spirit that liked humans and playing and talking out problems. It made the other seasonal spirits rather inclined to like him to a point, even if they didn't play or care about humans, and made the other winter spirits hate him. At least they had a reason to hate him, as opposed to the general hatred they had for everyone else. As for the summer spirits, they were still in the mindset of “summer is for work” and took turns trying to out proper each other. So really, no one to tell about his special 'talent' beyond a select few, or really, no one else to talk to at all beyond those few.
Finishing emptying his pocket, he fished out the last tear and smiled at it fondly. The first happy tear he’d shed in three hundred years, he’d found it caught in his hood after everything was all over. It seemed to sparkle at him cheerfully, the rainbow a little more pronounced, the snowflake fancier, than all the miserable tears he had shed over the years. This one he’d give to Jamie, he decided, slipping the tear back into his pocket. Jamie was the reason he’d shed it, after all. Decision made, he started rummaging through the box, trying to choose the prettiest tears for the Burgess seven. Okay, so maybe a Guardian wasn’t supposed to have favorites, but he had to give something to the first children to ever see him, didn’t he?
Oh, and Baby Tooth! That one would be perfect for her, he thought, picking out a tear. Wondering if he should give one to the other Guardians, he settled on the floor, taking his time to pick out just the right ones.