17/2/2004

Title: A Pirates Life for Me.
Author: Squeezynz
Chapter: One - Wendy

Way Post 2003 movie....way way post....

When her first love re-enters her life in a guise she doesn't recognise and needs her to restore a world she's all but forgotten about, what's a teller of tales supposed to do ?

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Authors Note: Year 1912, Wendy aged 20, two years before WWI, end of the Art Nouveau era, George V on the throne. Okay..well this is another Peter/Wendy all grown up story...I leave the younger versions to those that write it far better than I (read any Kimberley A, she rocks.)so I'm sticking with what tickles my fancy. Adult, bad boy Peter Pan. Very hard now to find an angle that hasn't been already done, but that's the fun of writing. There will quite possibly be chapters rated R for naughty bits....but you know that, I'm such a smut monkey. Something similar to this has been explored in other stories, maybe even my own, but I hope this version remains a teeny bit original. If not, too bad....I'm enjoying the writing of it anyway. I may not be able to update with the rapidity of the first two.....real life is just so damn intrusive....but I'll do my best. So, with grateful thanks to all who so enthusiastically enjoyed my last two efforts in this genre...I hope this delivers the goods.

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It was bad enough that she had to endure another interminable concert, with another excruciating soprano murdering a perfectly nice aria, but she was itching to get back to her story, the one she'd only just started and felt an urgent need to continue.

At the advanced age of twenty, Wendy Moira Angela Darling was considered by many to be almost an antidote, certainly a blue-stocking and worse, as crimes in polite society were measured, too outspoken about the rights of women in the first decades of the twentieth century for the comfort of most people. Despite her many faults, and Wendy hardly regarded those that society pinned such magnitude upon, she was a lovely young woman with a fine figure and a face that many likened to one of the a medieval Madonna for its serenity and calm presentation to the world at large. What most didn't realise, and would have been surprised to discover, was that the calm countenance hid the heart and mind of an frustrated adventurer, as amply evident in the stories she continued to write against all commonsense and voluble advice.

She was certainly too nice in her notions about marriage to appease the wrath of certain doting mothers who had approached the young lady's father with a view to a match. Usually such promotions were instigated by the young man concerned after becoming spellbound and intrigued by Wendy's air of aloofness and unattainability, as well as her physical beauty, and been roundly sent about their ways by the young lady herself, to the abashment of her poor parents and horrified aunt. It would appear to anyone who cared to inquire, that Wendy would have none of marriage or men, and in that she held her to her course, true and unwavering.

For Wendy Moira Angela Darling had already given her heart and for her, once was quite enough to be going on with, thank you.

As the music died away and polite applause replaced the noise of before, Wendy politely pinned a smile on her full lips and collected her reticule in readiness for the general stampede to the refreshment room. As she dipped to gather the train of her perfectly fashionable dress she dropped her programme, having a fan and a posy and her train to manage. As she pursed her lips in annoyance, she saw a nicely manicured hand reach down and pick up her programme, the skin coloured a golden brown of someone who spent a great deal of time in the sun and had little care for the current fashion which abhorred the sun and its lowering ability to colour the skin like a common labourer. As the hand lifted the programme she thought irrelevantly of where the man might have gained his golden tan, maybe at the helm of a mighty sailing ship, or in the tropics or maybe Egypt, in the harsh desert.

She also wondered, quite shockingly, if it also extended to the skin covered by his clothes.

"I believe this is yours?" A deep male voice enquired.

Blinking to dispel her vision of camels and date palms, and other inappropriate images, Wendy raised her head and looked up into the face of the man that held her programme out to her. Her first impression was that the young man was very tall, and carried an impressive set of shoulders that owed nothing to his tailor and everything to a fine physique. His hair was fashionably wind-blown, cut in the latest style and the colour of sun-kissed corn. His face was the colour of his hands, golden and healthy, the texture so tempting that she almost lifted her hand to touch his cheek. But it was his eyes that drew her wondering gaze, their colour not anything she could put a name to. As he continued to hold out her dropped programme, his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners in faint amusement as she stood, gazing with some absorption at him.

"Is there something wrong with my face I should know about?" He asked, his mobile lips curving into a smile that revealed very white teeth against his tan.

Mentally shaking herself, Wendy felt a blush stealing over her face and heating her skin.

"I'm so sorry.....its rude of me to stare...I just.."

The stranger returned her bemused stare with a raised eyebrow that lifted mockingly above his thickly lashed eyes.

"Oh dear...I'm doing it again.....I must apologise. Thank you for picking up my programme, its very awkward to bend down....um....in this dress." Not thinking it possible, Wendy blushed even harder, her lips pressing together to stop her saying anything else more henwitted. The stranger continued to regard her flushed face with that faint trace of amusement, his eyes dancing as she tried to look anywhere but at him.

"It was a pleasure.....Miss ?"

"Oh...of course....its..." Her stammered introduction was cut off in mid course by a strident female voice.

"Ahhhh there you are my dear....don't lets keep the carriage waiting, we have another engagement, and I don't want to be late."

Wendy's aunt bustled up, startling her into a little gasp and pulling her eyes away from the hypnotic regard of the man in front of her.

"Oh....Aunt.....this gentleman was kind enough to pick up my...ur...programme when I dropped it."

Millicent Harding raised her quizzing glass and regarded the young man, noting his unexceptional expression and expensively cut evening clothes. She also noted that he was still holding Wendy's programme.

"How kind of your to aid my niece....take your programme from the helpful young man Wendy. So kind of your sir, I'm sure we'll see you again during the season?"

"It will be my pleasure...your programme?"

In a daze, Wendy took the proffered piece of paper, her eyes quite unable to stop their regard as the young man executed a small bow to both ladies and turned to leave. Wendy felt an almost overpowering urge to run after him and ask his name but her aunt was already launching into a sotto voce review of the singer they had come to see as Wendy watched the blond head and broad shoulders leave the room without looking back.

"Come along dear....we will be late."

Gathering her scattered wits about her, Wendy blinked several times and dragged in a breath to her starving lungs. Dutifully she followed the purple and jet-beaded figure of Millicent Harding to the entrance hall of the house where they bid farewell to the hostess and collected their outer garments in readiness to leave the musical evening. As she fastened her pretty blue pelisse around her shoulders, Wendy couldn't resist looking back into the room they had left in the faint hope of glimpsing the blond head and tanned features again. A tug on her arm pulled her back to pay attention to her aunt so that she didn't see the man in question approach the doorway of the foyer and stand at the side, watching the two ladies scamper down the steps and enter the waiting carriage.

With a mocking smile the stranger turned back and walked into the room, the lights from the chandelier turning his blond curls to gold.

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When she returned home that evening, after dismissing the maid who helped her undress, she pulled out her sketchpad and a pencil and began to draw, attempting to capture, from her memory, the man that had so disturbed her that evening. As her pencil flew over the sheet of paper his features started to appear, first the compelling eyes that she still couldn't swear what colour they were, then the straight nose and sculptured lips with their slight twist of mockery that so intrigued her. Finally the firm chin and angular jaw. As she hunched over the drawing, the man's face started to take shape, appearing as real to her as if he was standing in front of her. When at last she stopped, her neck felt stiff and her eyes burned from the poor light shed by her candle. Still in her dressing gown, her fingertips grey with charcoal dust, Wendy lay sideways on her bed, the sketch pad beside her. She only meant to rest a minute before attempting to commit the evenings observations to her journal, but the long day took its toll and before many minutes had passed, she was sound asleep, stretched out on the covers of her bed.

She awoke as the clock in the hall chimed four times, the sound echoing in the silent house. Yawning, she rose from her bed, the candle long since burned to a stub in its holder. Stretching her arms above her head she walked to the window and threw the curtains wide to let the moonlight shine in. Leaning her head against the cold glass, she stared out at the roof tops of London, her expression pensive.

She felt a urge to do more than just look, like a bird in a cage she wanted to fly and see what the world had to offer outside the conformity of her narrow world. She wanted to travel to see what she had only read about in the innumerable books that cluttered her bookshelf, the countries and people that sounded so exciting when she visited the circulating library or toured the museums many exhibitions of exotic cultures as often as she could, or atleast as often as her aunt allowed. She glanced back at her writing desk, the surface littered with sheets of paper covered with notes for her current story. If she was lucky, she'd get this published as well. Her submission to the Strand Magazine, under a pseudonym of course, had been well received, the editor sending her an encouraging letter and asking if she had any further stories of romantic adventures to submit. Wendy chuckled to herself, if only the editor knew. Wendy had a box that contained any number of stories, the outpourings of a stifled young woman wishing to have an adventure of her own. Most were not fit to be published either because they were written before she had a wider understanding of the world and the way it worked, or because they were simply her own dreams and longings put to paper and not for anyone's eyes but her own. The editor had also been impressed with the illustrations she had sent to accompany the story and he had complimented her on her talent. Her aunt knew nothing of Wendy's aspirations for publication, but accepted the explanation that the letters were from an old school friend, which seemed to satisfy her. Sighing, Wendy balled a fist and beat it against the glass, her breath fogging the window as she stared out, her forehead feeling numb where it contacted the cold, smooth surface.

Feeling unbearable confined, Wendy lifted the latch on her window and pushed it open. The narrow French doors led to a tiny balcony that looked out over the street three storeys below. Frigid air wafted into the room and brought with it the smells of smoke and night air, Wendy pulling her wrapper more firmly around her body to keep in her warmth. As she stepped forward, her hands closed around the metal railing that rose to waist height to prevent any falls, and there she stood, her face tilted up to the moon, her hair falling in soft waves down her back. Breathing in the cold air, she lifted her arms and stretched them out on either side of her, her back arching, her head falling back on her neck, her eyes closed. As she raised herself on tip-toes she could almost believe that if she just jumped a little she would start to float and then maybe fly upwards towards the moon and among the stars, her mind already picturing herself weightless and free.

The sound of a match being struck brought her crashing back to an earthly reality. Lowering her arms, she placed her hands on the cold metal of the balcony and peered over the edge to look down on the street below. Almost directly outside her house a man was walking slowly down the footpath, the bright flare of a cheroot the reason for the match, his face invisible from her vantage point, the only clues to his identity being his clothes and his uncovered head which revealed only that he was a gentleman of some means and that his hair was light coloured. Puzzled as to why anyone would be walking the quiet street at such a late hour, Wendy watched the man for several minutes as he paced slowly along the footpath, his steps unhurried as he puffed on his cheroot. As she considered going inside, her limbs beginning to tremble with the cold seeping through her nightclothes, the man flicked the stub of his cigarette to the path and stubbed it out, his shoulders hunching inside his wool coat, his gloved hands digging deep within his pockets. It was then that he looked upwards, directly towards the balcony rail that Wendy was still leaning on. As his face tilted upwards she gasped and pushed herself back against her window frame, her heart suddenly racing as she pressed a hand to her breast.

There had been no mistake, he had been looking up at her window, at her room, at her.

Gripped with a sudden, unreasoning fear, Wendy darted into her room and slammed the French doors closed, her shaking fingers latching them tightly before she stepped back, her eyes on the glass panels as if expecting the man to appear on her balcony. Reaching out, she grabbed at the curtains, pulling them closed before running blindly to her bed in the now darkened room and diving under her covers where she lay for several minutes trying to still the frantic panic that made her heart beat madly and her lungs strain for air. As her body stilled she started to laugh, giggling at her absurd behaviour and reaction to what was afterall only a strange coincidence. Even if the man had been looking at her house, and at her balcony, which was highly unlikely, he would not have seen her there, a dark shape against a dark house. Still smiling at her absurdity, Wendy snuggled down in her covers, tucking herself into a ball to warm her cold feet.

On the footpath outside the darkened house, the man still stood, his head tilted to the moonlight, his eyes on the small balcony that jutted out like all the others in the terrace, as indistinguishable as one star from another. Grinning, his teeth gleaming in the pale light, he finally gave up his vigil and walked slowly down the narrow path, his dark figure turning the corner and disappearing into the night.

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Wendy awoke to Sarah pushing the curtains back and letting in the bright morning sun, the sudden light making Wendy pull her covers over her head in protest.

"Mornin' Miss......I've your hot water here, and a message from Missus 'Arding."

Pushing the covers back, Wendy regarded the prim maid as she stood by the bed, her chin tilted slightly in the air, a suspicion of a sniff apparent in the pert nose.

"And what would that message be, Sarah?"

The sniff became a reality, the maids chin inching up a notch.

"I's to tell you that Missus 'Arding won't be rising early th's mornin'. She says to tell you to get your rest for tonight's ball at the 'ookhams."

"Oh....I see....alright Sarah. Thank you for the water and I'll see my aunt later in the morning."

Again Wendy was treated to a rendition of the sniff as the maid cast a glance over the desk and its covering of untidy paper.

"Does Miss want me to tidy her room today?"

"No thank you Sarah......I like it messy."

Smiling at the maids expression of ill-disguised dismay, Wendy swung her legs over the edge of her bed and made to get up.

"As you wish.....'ere, 'oos this?"

Wendy made a grab for the sketch pad as Sarah lifted it off the floor where it had fallen. She wasn't quick enough.

"Did you see 'im last night? Isn't 'e 'andsome."

"No.....I didn't. It isn't anyone in particular...just a character in a story."

The maid made a moue of disappointment before handing the pad back to Wendy who clasped it to her chest.

"Well, if there's nothing else Miss?"

"That's fine Sarah, I'll ring when I'm ready to get dressed."

Bobbing a curtsy, and sniffing again, Sarah made her exit.

Once the door closed, Wendy held the pad away from herself and scrutinised her work of the night before. The man on the page returned her regard, his eyes, even on the flat page, seeming to know more than she what was in her mind, and maybe in her heart.

Flipping the cover over to hide the page, Wendy chided herself for being so easily swayed by a handsome face and sea-coloured eyes. She suddenly stopped, her mind fixing on the description she'd just voiced. Yes, that fitted the colour, neither blue, nor green or anything in-between but a mixture of both with a hint of something else as well. Laughing out loud, Wendy shook her head at her own fancy, shoving the sketch book onto the bottom of a pile of paper beside the desk, as if shoving his memory to the bottom of her mind.

In all probability she would never see him again, and for her peace of mind, that was the best way to deal with it.

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The lights of the chandeliers cast a glittering glow over the crowd already arrived in the assembly rooms on the first floor of Hookham House, the home of their host, a Mister James Hookham. Aunt Millicent had received an invite to this prestigious event with not a little surprise on that good ladies behalf. Little was known of the gentleman, other than his wealth and the exclusivity of his assemblies. Entree to his house was only for a select few and Wendy's aunt had almost fainted when the ornately gilded card had appeared on her morning tray of mail. Wendy had only shown a mild interest in the whole affair, her attention more readily focused on the newspaper that accompanied the mail. Her perusal of the paper was interrupted when her aunt positively squealed in delight after reading the brief missive, getting to her feet and dancing over to her niece to wave it under her nose.

"There," her aunt produced the card triumphantly, "there is proof that despite your best effort, all my hard work on your behalf has finally paid off."

"I wasn't aware that I had put you to so much trouble aunt..I'm sorry if I've been a difficult charge to unload."

"Tiresome girl, you know I don't mean that," her aunt huffed, lifting the card to peer short-sightedly at it again. "But you have to own you haven't made my job any easier. Three seasons since your turned seventeen and not so much as a flicker of interest in the young men paraded for your inspection. You are heading for the life of an old maid, if you continue to be too nice in your notions."

"You are right Aunt......I am far to nice, and I will continue to be so if your continue to parade such a wishy washy collection of simpering men in my direction."

"Oh come....there was nothing wrong with that nice boy, Roger something."

"Nothing at all, if a complete lack of any imagination is one of your requirement."

"And there was that nicely set up young man, Lawrence something...he came highly recommended by one of my oldest friends."

"You mean the young man with the enormous moustache who thought I shouldn't worry my pretty little head about politics and other such lofty male domains?"

"Oh really Wendy......at this rate you'll end up....."

"Yes Aunt ?"

"I won't say any more....you know my thoughts on this matter."

"Oh yes....I do," replied Wendy shortly, once more burying herself in the paper.

"Regardless of your past.....choices, this ball could open doors that even you couldn't imagine. So I would ask that you be on your best behaviour and don't.......ruin this for yourself!"

"Gracious aunt......you make me sound like a spoilt child. I will be everything you've worked so hard to create. I promise not to get into any arguments over politics, I will simper with the best and keep my mouth shut and my eyes wide.....will this do?"

Suiting action to words, Wendy composed her face into the blandest perfection, her blue eyes gazing up at her fond aunt with only a hint of guile, her long lashes batting like a pair of moths against a window until her aunt dissolved into laughter at her absurd exaggeration.

"You're a wicked tease, Wendy Darling....but I hold you to that promise. You might just meet someone who stacks up to your lofty ideals of the perfect man."

Still chuckling, Wendy grinned at her aunt. "That's impossible, there's no such man on this earth."

"We shall see, young lady......we shall see."

Now, with that conversation ringing in her ears, they stood, side by side waiting to be received inside the lofty portal of Hookham House. As they slowly made their way up the sweeping staircase, Wendy tried to serepticiously assess the surroundings without gawking like a green girl at the elaborate paintings on the walls and even the ceiling above their heads. In that she might just have well not bothered, as everyone was looking up at the ceiling, many pointing at the masterpiece depicted. As they reached the top of the stairs, Wendy chanced to give in to temptation and looked up, her lips parting in a gasp as the image swam before her eyes.

Above her head, in glorious colour and realistic rendition, a ship sailed a painted sea, its sails billowing out as it plunged through the waves, the wind almost palpable as the prow dipped, the men scurrying around her decks, the sky a balmy blue with seagulls and fluffy clouds. She could almost feel the salt spray and smell the seaweed, her hand lifting slightly as if to touch the image so far above their heads.

"Impressive, isn't it?"

Wendy shut her mouth with a snap as the deep male voice struck a chord in her memory, her eyes swivelling to meet his in shocked surprise.

"You!"

"Welcome to my home Miss Darling, Mrs. Harding...you are most welcome."

As Wendy continued to stare at the stranger that had been much in her thoughts, the man himself was talking to her aunt, explaining about the painting and the artist, his voice washing over her as she stared quite rudely at the features she'd tried to catch in her sketchbook. When his eyes turned to hers, she held out her hand for him to shake. Instead he gripped her hand, turning it over and lifted her fingers to his lips, his mouth warm against her gloved skin. Startled, Wendy almost snatched her hand from his grasp as a spark seemed to leap between them, his eyes once more mocking her, as if aware of her reaction to him. Her aunt was asking a question and Wendy listened with half an ear, her mind chaotic with the sensations coursing up her arm.

"You are surely not Mister James Hookham himself?"

"No madam, his adopted son......Piers. My foster father is indisposed at the moment, he hopes to join the ball later in the evening."

"Oh....nothing serious I hope?"

"A trifling matter. I hope you both enjoy yourself tonight."

Dismissed, Wendy and her aunt passed into the ornately decorated rooms beyond, Wendy acutely aware of Piers Hookham's voice greeting the next set of guests behind her.

"Such a nice young man, don't you think Wendy?"

"Oh.....er.....yes, very nice."

"And to think he was the same young man who picked up your programme the other night.....isn't that a coincidence?"

"Yes aunt.....quite a coincidence."

As they advanced into the room, Wendy glanced over her shoulder in what she thought was a negligent manner, only to find that Piers Hookham was, in fact, staring at her, his head tilting in a nod to her before turning away to greet another guest. Wendy found herself blushing, to have been so easily caught out, and briskly followed her aunt, hoping the hectic colour would fade fast.

The evening passed pleasantly enough. Wendy was pleased to note, not without a little surprise, that her advancing years didn't mean she lacked for dancing partners. If they found her a little distracted it only added to her, somewhat otherworldly appeal, her dreamy blue eyes and soft mouth drawing her admirers like bees to the honey. If they'd known the direction of her thoughts they might have been less enthusiastic of their praise, but fortunately that was not the case and Wendy smiled and danced and wondered when it would be a good time to ask to leave.

As her partner returned her to her aunt, that lady in close conversation with one of her cronies, Wendy seated herself, vowing to not dance again that evening and suffer more bruised toes from inept partners. She was about to voice this utterance to her aunt when a man presented himself to her. As she swung her head around to send the importunate individual away she halted, her mouth already open.

Piers Hookham stood expectantly in front of her, his golden skinned hand held out for hers, his face smiling down at her.

"Miss Darling?"

As if in a dream, her former protests dying on her lips, Wendy found herself placing her gloved hand in his, her eyes meeting his briefly before falling to contemplate his superbly fitting evening clothes as he lifted her to her feet and started to lead her onto the dance floor. The music was just starting the strains of a waltz and Wendy smiled to herself as the orchestra warmed to its performance.

"I would hope that you smile is for me, Miss Darling, but I suspect that it not so."

Startled, Wendy raised her eyes to his, his mocking smile causing her heart to contract painfully. As he placed his hand on her waist and gently clasped her hand in his other, she found herself drawn towards him, closer than the required space, her remaining hand reaching up to rest on his shoulder. She tried to relax into his embrace, her body stiff and upright, defeating the purpose of the dance, making her stumble, a mistake quickly covered by her partner.

"I know that you dance divinely, so I can only suppose that your mistake is my doing."

"Oh no....I'm sorry, I don't seem able to..."

"Relax? I had noticed....I've danced with broomsticks that were more pliant than you."

Her face already heated in an embarrassed blush, Wendy now found herself burning with resentment at his rude assessment of her abilities.

As she fumed, she forgot her awkwardness and actually relaxed in his arms, the dance coming naturally to her as she internalised her rage at his impertinence.

"That's much better....I think you are actually enjoying it now."

His infuriatingly urbane voice brought her back to the present and she realised that what he said was true. She was enjoying herself, so expertly swept around the dance floor, her feet and body following his lead so that she almost felt that her feet were no longer on the floor at all but she was flying. So enthralled by the surprising sensation she closed her eyes, a smile tilting her lips, the steel arm behind her back pressing her even closer to him as the dance spun them around the room.

All too soon the music ended and Wendy opened her eyes to find her partner's hooded gaze focused on her face, her breath leaving her body at the intensity of his look. Without waiting for her to speak, Piers led her away from the dance floor and out the French doors that opened onto a flag-stoned balcony lit by dancing flambeau at regular intervals. It was deserted for the moment and Wendy barely had time to catch her breath before she found herself swept into a tight embrace and her mouth crushed under insistent lips. For a moment she stood rigidly, her body shocked into immobility, then his tongue begged entrance to her mouth and surprise parted them for him, allowing him access to the tender interior. With this intimate invasion Wendy melted against him, her arms, far from pushing him away, coming up to press him closer, her own tongue tentatively exploring his with naive delight. Heat pulsed everywhere their bodies touched, his assault on her senses complete and uncompromising as his hands swept down her back to press her intimately against him.

"Wendy!"

Her aunts horrified voice penetrated the thrall of passion, Wendy pushing herself away, their lips clinging for a second before her usual reticence belatedly came to the fore as he let her go, her arms wrapping around herself in a gesture of protection. Whether from him or from herself she wasn't sure.

"Wendy.......I've never.....an exhibition....whatever has come over you."

Her aunts voice continued to rail at her, although discreetly quiet so as not to alert the rest of the assembly to her indiscretion. As she stared in horrified fascination at Piers Hookham, Wendy noted that his eyes shone strangely, neither with guilt or shame, but another emotion that she was hard pressed to understand, triumph.

As her aunt bustled up, Piers executed a brief bow, "Miss Darling, Mrs. Harding," before leaving the balcony without another word, a smile lighting his face once his back was turned to the two women.

If Wendy had seen that smile she might have had an inkling as to who her amorous dalliance had really been with. As it was she had to suffer the continued berating of her shocked aunt before pleading a headache and asking to be taken home, a request her aunt was more than happy to agree with.

Once home, her punishment for such wanton behaviour wasn't done with until her aunt completed a full hour on the subject of young women and their reputations. Full of despair at her nieces strangely atypical behaviour, Millicent sent the girl to her room, her fervent hope that no-one at the ball had made any note of the whole affair.

In that she had nothing to worry about, the three were the only witnesses to the kiss, at least from the ballroom. But there had been one witness that none of the players had seen.

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"You weren't supposed to seduce the chit.....what were you playing at?"

With his back to the door of the library, Piers hadn't heard the door open from where he stood, on well shod foot propped against the fender of the dying fire, the embers casting his face with a ruddy glow as he leant his forehead on his arm against the marble mantelpiece.

"It was only a kiss......we barely touched lips."

"A minute longer and you could have had her on the flagstones!"

Turning around, Piers grinned at his foster father and shrugged.

"Well she is a rather a delicious morsel.....can you blame me?"

"Blame or not......I don't need you upsetting the apple cart at this late stage. Control your rampant libido, we need her intact if we're to make this work."

As he stood waiting, the glow of the fire behind him, Piers watched as his foster father limped to the chair beside him, the man's good hand reaching to the arm of the chair to help lower him stiffly into its overstuffed embrace.

"I still don't see why we have to go to all this trouble to kidnap one young woman. There are dozen's in London far more willing and possibly more beautiful."

"But this is the only one that can put back what was taken."

Piers met the fiercely blue eyes that blazed from the scarred face of the man he regarded as his surrogate father, and had done for as long as he could remember. Walking over to the other chair flanking the fire, Piers flopped down into it, one leg hooking over the arm, his hand reaching for the glass and decanter on the small table beside him.

"Whisky father?"

"I prefer Muscat, you know that....whisky makes my ulcer play up."

"A nice cup of tea then?"

"Don't get cocky with me, boy.......I can still best you if you get too big for your breeches."

Grinning, Piers downed the glass of whisky, his lips thinning appreciatively as the warmth chased its way down to his stomach.

"So now we've hooked our fish......when do we land her?"

"Patience....we have to hope your stupid stunt tonight doesn't scare the fish away completely."

"If her response was anything to judge by, I think Miss Wendy Darling will be panting in anticipation of seeing me again."

"Your arrogance will be your undoing......curb it. We will lay low the rest of this week......give our little minnow some room to breath before we move again."

"Whet the appetite hmmmm?"

"More like douse your fires.....I suggest you take yourself off and relieve your needs with one of the maids. You'll need a cool head to get Wendy Darling to follow your willingly back to Neverland."

"You worry too much father......I tempted her before.....I'll tempt her again." With a smug smile, Piers, formerly known to Wendy Darling as Peter Pan, lifted another glass of whisky to his foster father, the pirate Captain, James Hook before tossing is back as if it were water.

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Chapter: Two - Peter

Rated: R - for naughty bits of a sexual nature.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Authors Note: Thought I'd reply here to some interesting points raised in the reviews for this fic. Yes I had noticed, despite my advanced age, that there was another wonderful actor, Jason Isaacs in this movie.....I thought he made a delicious Hook. Maybe it squicks some of you out that a woman of such a great age (42) should have such a passion for a "young" boy. I should mention that I have been a fan of Peter Pan (the character and story) longer than most of you have been alive. Having him brought to life by such a beautiful boy who also happens to fit the part like a glove, made my love of the character come alive in a way the Disney movies couldn't. So as much as I loved Jason as Hook, and in fact have a great liking for Hook as a baddy....it is Jeremy as Peter, and Rachel as Wendy that inspire me to write. Hook will always be Hook, a tortured soul with a black heart.....but I'm working on that side of his wicked nature too.

And to answer another point raised.....if my story reads a little (or alot) like a Historical Romance....well guess what I live and breath and devour in three hours flat. I have been a reader of HR fiction again, most probably, longer than most of you have been around, and I never tire of it. It takes me to places I will never see except in my imagination, and times in history I will never experience except in a book, throw in a dash of romance, a good helping of daring do and lashings of adventure and I can't think of a better way to spend a couple of hours. I adore stories that bring history to life. So if you think my stories are like those wonderful authors I admire, that's diamonds and rubies to me, and kudos to the author's I'm emulating. Thank you to all who have been so encouraging regarding my new story, and in fact my previous stories, I hope I continue to deliver what you have come to expect. If I don't.......never mind, I'm sure you can do better!

Now, on with the adventure.......

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He was dreaming again, his eye's flicking rapidly under his closed eyelids as his unconscious mind took him away into the realm of fantasy. Only it wasn't fantasy, not really, because this was Peter Pan and he was dreaming his most favourite fantasy, he was flying.

In his dream he looked down and saw a tropical island with a volcanic peak, its flanks covered in thick jungle, the shades of green as numerous as the clouds floating above it. As he skimmed the tree-tops he reached down and plucked a flower, its trumpet petals exuding a rich aroma along with its exotic colour. He tucked the flower into the leaves across his chest ("leaves?") and flew onwards, his skin alive and tingling as he swooped and dived among the peaks and valleys of his island ("his island?"). In the dream there was someone he was flying to see, someone he wanted desperately to see but the island below him was changing, the flower he held so close to his heart withering as a chill wind buffeted him, tossing him high in the air before pushing him down towards rocks that loomed pointed and dark below him. Now he clawed at the air, frantically trying to fly again, but as always he fell, spiralling down to the rocks, his mouth open in a scream of remembered terror.

With a harsh cry he awoke, his body still trembling in the aftermath of his most common nightmare. As his heart beat a tumultuous tattoo in his chest, he sucked in lungfuls of night air in a vain attempt to calm himself, his skin feeling clammy and cold. With staring eyes he tried to cling to the sensation that started his dream, the feeling of flying with no cares and no worries, free as a bird. Slowly his pulse quieted and his heart slowed to its normal pace, his lips pulling back in a grimace, half smile, half snarl as he raised his hands to cover his face.

"Another dream?"

He jumped, not expecting the voice to come out of the darkness.

"Don't you have a bed to go to?"

"I was in my bed when I heard you crying out boy....you've had this dream every night this week....."

"It's only a dream......its nothing,"

"A nothing that leaves you sweating and shaking....tell me about it."

"NO!.....no.....its alright father......its just......a dream."

"Hmmmmmm...." James looked on as his son turned on his side in his wrecked bed, pummelling one of the pillows into submission before burying his face in the damp linen. He knew Peter wasn't going to tell him anymore that night. It had been the same when the boy first was brought to him, bloodied and half-alive. James had wanted to kill him, had ached in his bones to end his life, his hook raised to deliver the killing blow, but something inside him stilled his arm, cooling the murderous thoughts that bubbled and boiled in his brain. A voice spoke to him, to his heart and he took another look at the child that had been his constant source of aggravation for longer than he cared to remember. For that was what he was, only a child and injured and in need of care that only James Hook could provide. How Peter was hurt, Hook never found out, for whatever injuries the boy suffered, it took weeks for him to recover. Peter lay in a fever that sapped his body and his will until Hook was convinced that the child would fade to nothing and blow away when he died. But Peter hung on, the fever leaving him weak and almost entirely unaware of his life before, a condition that Hook relished as the supreme irony of his life.

Hook was not exactly in prime twig himself when he became Peter's nursemaid and saviour. He had killed the crocodile that so relished the flavour of his flesh, but in doing so had suffered cruel lacerations over most of his body from the sharp teeth that tried to chew him up, as well as having one leg so mangled it now carried him with a permanent limp. No, James Hook was not the same man that had swaggered the deck of the Jolly Roger, supreme in his strength and purpose, he was a man changed by savage circumstance and the strange twist of fate that delivered up his enemy, to become his son.

When Peter recovered from the worst of his illness the dreams started, the boy crying out every night for something he had lost, for people he remembered only in dreams. One name came most frequently on his lips, one name that left the boy weak and trembling, crying anguished tears into his pillow, the sound so gut-wrenching that another piece of Hook's pirate heart melted and he held the boy in his grief until he slept again. As the weeks and months passed, and Peter regained all of his youthful strength, it became clear that something had pulled a curtain over the boys memory, making his dreams the only place that he remembered the time before Hook, before he gave up being Peter Pan and became plain Peter, a cabin boy on the Jolly Roger, adopted son of a Pirate Captain.

As time flew on faster and faster wings the boy became a young man and eventually took over his fathers position as Captain of the Jolly Roger. His command of the ship netting himself and the crew many handsome prizes when they raided the world beyond the island that was Neverland, for they had found that if they sailed far enough the two worlds of reality and fantasy merged, creating a barrier that only the Jolly Roger seemed able to breach, bringing the pirate ship into an age where the rich pickings were easy and few ships equal to defending themselves against a fully armed, expertly sailed pirate ship of a bygone age. The raids were not many, but they were bloody and brutal, with no quarter given, blooding the young boy and giving him a taste for life on the edge which, as any pirate will tell you, is the only way to live.

In time the dreams of his past life faded, eclipsed by the hard life he now lived, and he no longer awoke crying out and being held in an old pirates arms for comfort. Until now.

As he closed the door on Peter's room, Hook was under no illusions as to why Peter was having his nightmares once more. It was all that poisonous Wendy's fault, and the witch magic she continued to wield where Peter Pan was concerned. The sooner they returned to Neverland the better.

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Peter heard the click of his door shutting and turned over onto his back.

Rising, he stripped off his sweaty nightshirt, throwing it with some force against the wall near the door. With his fingers threading through his damp curls to lift them away from his scalp, Peter padded over to the wash basin, pouring cold water from the jug into the porcelain bowl. Bending down he scooped up handfuls of the cool water and splashed it against his face and over his head, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck as the water rivulets cascaded over his shoulders and down his back to his buttocks, where it continued its long journey, down his legs to the floor. Leaning on the washstand, he bent down once more and scooped a handful of water to his mouth, drinking greedily, the excess running down his chin and throat as he stood up, his head back, eyes closed. After a second or two he reached for a towel, the drips running down his chest tickling as they dried. Scrubbing his skin, he dried himself off before tossing the towel to land on the discarded nightshirt. Once more he threaded his fingers through his short hair, pushing the damp strands off his face where they tended to flop if given a chance. Padding over the soft carpet he didn't bother to find another shirt but just flopped onto the bed after straightening the rumpled bottom sheet. He lay there, his body cooling in the night air, the remaining damp making patches of contrast on his skin, as he closed his eyes and tried to sleep again.

This time his dreams took another slant, bringing with them moans of pleasure from his lips instead of grief.

He dreamt he was back in the ballroom, his eyes seeking and finding the girl that had such a hold over him. She was dancing with some nonentity and he didn't feel himself walk but suddenly he was there and she was in his arms instead. Her body was supple as it swayed to the music, her full lips curved in a smile that bathed him in a warm glow, her cheeks faintly flushed. As he held her, his hand spread across her back, he felt an answering heat coming from her, her body glowing with a faint light that surrounded him and made him pull her closer. Suddenly they were alone in the room, the other people all gone, only the two of them circling the room. She was speaking to him but he couldn't hear her words, only the movement of her ripe lips as they formed words, their shape and movement mesmerising him, his own tongue coming out to wet his suddenly dry mouth. The scene shifted again and he was once more on the balcony with her, her softness held against him, her breasts pressing against his shirt front. As he kissed her they fell, their bodies hitting a yielding surface, his mouth plundering hers as his hands found her flesh, their clothes no longer a barrier. She writhed under him, her glorious eyes begging him to make her his own, his body rising to the occasion, hotter and harder than he'd ever felt before. As he made love to her mouth, his body worshiped her, plunging into her sweet warmth as he took her and melded himself with her. As their bodies became one he felt the heat take up residence in his loins, his flesh exploding and splintering into a thousand shards as he found his release.

Jolting awake, his breath hitching, Peter groaned deep in his throat, his body still trembling with the force of his dream, his hands shaking as he lifted them to touch his stomach that still twitched and jerked under his fingers tips. The evidence of his passion was still there, slick and warm on his warm flesh, his fingers smoothing it into his skin as his lips curved into a drowsy leer of remembered lust. Reaching further down he stroked his manhood, still aroused and hot, his fingers finding their familiar rhythm, moving leisurely at first, but picking up the pace as he revisited his dream, his images more intense as he thought of new positions for the object of his desire to perform, his hand moving surely and quickly to bring release, another moan and another offering from his body as he jerked in pleasure, his mouth open, eyes squeezed shut his mind giving him a focus for his passion. Spent, his lean frame boneless against the bed covers, his manhood appeased and lax, Peter slept once more, this time with no dreams to disturb his rest, but a name and face more readily on his lips as a sigh. Wendy.

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The instigator of all this frenzied dreaming was herself asleep, as yet undisturbed by such turbulent thoughts, her face pillowed on her hands, her lips relaxed into a suggestion of a smile.

She had spent the week attempting to erase of memory of that heated, and entirely improper kiss on the balcony of Hookham house, and as anyone will tell you, the more you try, the less likely you are to forget. In fact, the more you think about it, the more it starts to fill your every waking thought until you think there is nothing else in the world.

So she slept, and dreamed and woke in the morning with a faint feeling of dissatisfaction, having no memory of them at all.

The first few days after the ball, her aunt had been in a ferment of distress, jumping whenever the doorbell chimed or the maid announced another visitor. So far, Wendy's indiscretion remained unremarked by all of Millicent's wide circle of acquaintances, so much so that by the following Wednesday, she announced that they were to once more go about as usual as if nothing had happened.

And in a way, nothing had. Not in Millicent's world at least. In Wendy's world things were not so settled.

Certainly she told herself nothing had happened, it was only a kiss after all was said and done. Her usually practical nature tried to dismiss it as another incident to file away as experience. But her heart told her otherwise. As she sat and stared at the sheet of paper requiring her to write something upon it, she started to drift, to almost daydream and inevitably her thoughts returned to the kiss.

Only one other time in her life had a kiss taken on such significance, a time that had almost disappeared into the mists of her memory, to remain, forgotten and forlorn in her long ago childhood. Of course she remembered that previous kiss and the boy she had bestowed it upon in her youthful abandon, but some of the details of that time had become blurred, the face of the boy also blurred, only vague impressions of his cheeky grin and wicked eyes remaining to cause a twinge in her heart and a sigh on her lips. Her reminiscences of Peter Pan jogged a memory of something she did at the time, and she jumped up, her finger tapping her lip as she tried to recall where she'd stored her girlhood momentous for safekeeping.

After turning out several drawers and searching the trunk that stored her winter clothes, as well as the top shelf of her cupboard, Wendy sat on the side of her bed. Again she jumped up, but this time she crouched down and felt under her bed, her fingers closing around the handle of a battered brown suitcase, shoved so far back she had to lay on her stomach to reach it. Pulling it out, she dusted off the top and lifted it onto her bed, while she continued to kneel beside it. Slowly she lifted the lid, the contents giving off a strange smell that at first she couldn't identify easily, it being neither mildew or dust, but something else. She lifted out a length of twine, its fibres interwoven with leaves that were now dry and brittle. She vaguely remembered that she had worn this crossed over her nightdress to hold a sword. Placing it on the bed cover she turned to see what other oddities the suitcase held. A sketch pad was the next item, her fingers eagerly lifting the cover to reveal page after page of crude sketches in her childish style, images of boys in ragged, peculiar clothes holding bows and arrows, of Indians dancing around a fire, of her brothers, John and Michael holding, quite incongruously, a Top Hat and a Teddy bear. Other sketches were of Peter, her childish hand trying to capture him as he sat playing his pan flute, or standing ready to fight with a sword in his hand. She smiled at her efforts to capture his spirit, all in vain of course. As she flipped through the pages, she found only one where she'd tried to draw Peter's face in detail and she stopped, staring in fascination at the image, her mind almost refusing to acknowledge the truth staring out of the paper at her.

A niggling thought starting to worm its way into her brain as she put the sketch book to one side. A thought so outrageous that she laughed aloud at her absurdity. But the thought remained.

Sitting back on her heels she leant over to the pile of paper beside her desk and pulled out the sketchbook she'd shoved to the bottom. With trembling fingers she lifted the pages until she reached the one she'd used the night after the musical soiree, the programme slipping out as she gazed at the face she'd worked so hard to capture. Slowly she placed the two pictures side by side, the image of the boy beside the image of the man. As she drew in a trembling breath, her fingers pressed to her lips, she stared at the two images, drawn eight years apart.

The eyes told the truth. Despite her untutored hand, at barely thirteen, Wendy had captured Peter's eyes to the life. In her now more skilful hand, her image of Peter as a man was unmistakable.

Pulling the two pictures down to the floor, Wendy bent over them, her hands coming up to frame her burning cheeks as she looked at the evidence before her. A tear splashed down onto one of the pages, quickly followed by another until she covered her eyes with her hands and gave into the long forgotten grief of her lost first love.

Peter Pan had returned to her, but no longer as Peter, the ruler and defender of Neverland, but as Peter, the foster son of the notoriously bloodthirsty Pirate, Captain Hook, which must make Peter a pirate as well.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, Wendy strove to calm herself, her fingers wiping the tears from her cheeks as she tried to think it all through, without the muddying influence of sentiment. If Peter, now a pirate, was seeking her out, it had to be for some nefarious purpose tied in with James Hook. She had to forget that his kisses set her nerves tingling and her body to liquid fire, that was irrelevant. He was a danger to her sanity and quite possibly her life. She would have to avoid him at all costs. Making up her mind, she closed both sketchbooks and put them into the suitcase, shoving them down hard as she attempted to close the catch. Losing her balance, the suitcase fell off the bed and its contents spilled onto the carpet. A glint drew her attention and she picked up a thin gold chain, on the end of which swung a shrivelled, blackened acorn. She stared at the small momento as it swung from her fingers, the chain catching the light. Balling it up in her hand, she slapped it down on her bedside table before turning to bundle up the other items back into the suitcase and shut the catch firmly. Once more it was consigned to under the bed, Wendy rising to her feet and shaking out her skirts just as a knock came at the door. Hurriedly patting her hair into place and smoothing her cheeks, Wendy answered the knock, the maid requesting her presence which Wendy dutifully acknowledged before shutting the door behind her as she left.

On the bedside table the little acorn button, so brown and withered after so long in the dark, started to swell, its wrinkled skin filling out and becoming smooth, its cracked shell mending and becoming whole, the dead leaf on the remains of its twig changing colour from brown to green as if only picked that morning. In the center of the acorn, the hole created by Tootles arrow appeared freshly made, the flesh of the acorn nut white, like new.

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Chapter: Three - Chance Encounters

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Wendy's attempts to avoid meeting Peter in his guise as Piers Hookham were, for the most part, successful. She pleaded to be released from many of the more public events for that week, her aunt happy to oblige for once, using the excuse that Wendy had a cold and was unable to attend. This worked well, and she breathed easier after five days passed and there was no sign of Peter or any invitations from the Hookham household. Eventually, feeling stifled, Wendy decided to take a walk in a local park, within walking distance of her aunts home, the day conspiring to produce sunshine and warm breezes, but with a hint of autumn in the air.

Encased in a tailored French blue walking dress, a shade darker than her eyes, Wendy set out for her walk with Sarah in attendance. When she reached the park she allowed Sarah to sit on a bench in the sun and chat with another maid, leaving Wendy to pace the small park and enjoy the fresh air alone. She had her head bent, her broad brimmed hat tilted so that she didn't see the man in the middle of the path directly in front of her. That was, until she walked into him.

"Oh...I'm so sorry....I didn't see......you," her voice tailed off as she tipped up her head and saw the man's face. She was instantly thrown into a quandary, did she acknowledge that she knew his identity, or continue to call him by his adopted name. As it was, the choice was taken from her by the man himself.

"Wendy.....I had to see you again."

"This is highly improper sir....I have my maid with me, I'll leave you to your walk."

"Don't run away from me....I need to talk to you."

"I'm not running," Wendy retorted, her eyes snapping as her sapphire-blue clashed with his sea-green. "I just choose not to talk to you.....Mister Hookham."

"Forgive me.....I didn't plan on kissing you.....it just happened."

"Well this conversation isn't happening.....good day to you sir."

As she attempted to leave, Peter's hand wrapped around her upper arm, preventing her from moving.

"I've asked you nicely.....now I'm telling you.....we need to talk."

"Mister Hookham....this is abominable. I will not talk to you, so please let me go."

"No."

Turning on his heel, Peter swung Wendy around with him, his hand on her arm tucking her close to his side so that anyone observing the couple would assume they were lovers enjoying a tryst in a quiet park. Wendy fumed, her arm held securely by a hand that seemed made of steel, his grip so tight she was sure she'd have bruises.

"You're hurting me."

"Then don't struggle....you wouldn't want your little maid running home with tales of your unseemly behaviour with me in a public park."

"You are ridiculous....we are only walking, there is nothing...unseemly about that."

"What if I kiss you again ?"

Wendy shot a startled glance up at him, her eyes wide. Looking down at her, Peter felt something twist in his chest as her lips parted in surprise, making him want nothing more than to kiss her senseless. Something in his expression must have told her he was quite serious because she shut her mouth and stared straight ahead, walking quite sedately by his side, her arm tense and rigid under his fingers.

"What do you want?"

"I want your help......there's a place that you need to re-visit, to put right something that's gone wrong."

"What are you talking about.....what place?"

"It's an island....in a place called Neverland."

Here was her chance, an opening. She chose to ignore it.

"I can't recall ever hearing of such a place?"

Unfortunately for Wendy, her body couldn't lie and Peter felt her arm jerk under his fingers, her response his answer.

"You're a clever girl Wendy Darling....I shouldn't be surprised that you figured it out already."

Too shocked that somehow she'd betrayed herself, Wendy stopped walking, her eyes lifting to his in mute dismay. Peter smiled, his teeth very white in the sunlight, his eyes twinkling.

"Yes Wendy.....I am Peter.....Peter Pan."

"No you're not." She answered angrily, wiping the cocky smile off his face. "You're not Peter Pan......you may have his name, and even his face, but the Peter I knew....he wouldn't have become what you have."

Frowning, Peter tightened his grip on her arm, making her wince as he gave it a little shake.

"What do you think you know......what thoughts are whirling in that pretty head of yours?"

"I know you're not the Peter Pan I knew so long ago......he would never have been so ungallant as to become a....a.....pirate."

Peters face suddenly lightened, his grin back in place.

"Then you'll just have to get to know me all over again......and maybe you'll find that being a pirate isn't such a dreadful choice."

Torn between her conflicting emotions, Wendy chewed on her bottom lip, her hand coming up to touch something below the high neckline of her dress. Peter saw the movement and quickly checked the park before reaching up and stilling her hand, pulling it away to hold in his warm grip. Too surprised to resist, Wendy let him, her eyes flicking to his before turning her head to stare away over the park, apparently indifferent. Slowly, Peter raised her gloved fingers to his lips before lowering it again and turning her hand over. His other hand was no longer gripping her arm, but Wendy didn't seem to have noticed, all her senses focused on Peter's lips and her internal tremors that threatened to split her apart.

"Wendy?"

As she turned her head to face him, he held her hand, palm up, cradled in his while his other hand busied itself with releasing the buttons at her wrist and pulling the soft kid glove off , leaving it naked and vulnerable in his much larger, warm palm.

"What are you doing?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Smiling into her wary blue eyes, Peter bent his head and pressed his lips to her palm, curling her fingers against his cheek, lingering for a second, the tip of his tongue tracing a circle on her soft skin. For a second Wendy closed her eyes, her breath leaving her lips on a sigh. Then, as if stung, Wendy snatched her hand back, shocked that she'd let it go that far.

"I think this has gone quite far enough sir. I suggest you find yourself another young lady to practise your seduction technique upon. I am going home. I would appreciate you not approaching me again."

Backing away, Wendy turned on her heel and walked off, her head high, her back rigid.

Peter watched her leave, his lips curved into a smile. Looking down he realised he still held her glove in his hand. Tucking it into his coat pocket, he left the park, climbing into the waiting carriage, his expression thoughtful.

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Wendy managed to maintain her air of calm until the door of her bedroom closed behind her. As she leant her back against the wood she slumped, head bowed, tears starting to her eyes as she stood frozen with a sense of helplessness. Pressing the back of her knuckles against her lips, she walked to her bed and sat down heavily on the edge. Again she reached up for something concealed by her dress. This time she unbuttoned the collar and pulled the gold chain out into the open, its precious cargo swinging free, warm from the contact with her skin.

She had been very surprised, and a little frightened if truth be told, to find the acorn button that had been wizened and black when she placed it on the bedside table, was now whole and as new as the night Peter presented it to her instead of a kiss. She had worn it for many years before resigning herself to the inescapable truth, that Peter was never going to return. It had then remained in her jewellery box until finally consigned to the battered suitcase, where she stored her treasured memories, of a time in her girlhood that seemed no more substantial than a dream.

Now Peter had returned, and somehow the acorn had been revived and returned to its former glory. It was all very unsettling. It was some comfort that at least one thing had been accomplished with their meeting in the park. She had made her feelings clear, she would be on her guard against him if he was imprudent enough to attempt to contact her again.

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Peter entered Hookham house and shed his outer coat, first lifting the pale blue glove from the pocket before handing it to the waiting servant. With a smile playing around his lips he walked into the morning room, lifting the glove to his nose, a trace of perfume still discernible.

"Where have you been?"

"Out."

Throwing himself into a plush sofa, Peter discreetly tucked the glove into his trouser pocket, his arm extending along the back of the sofa as his father appeared from the shadows.

"Has our bird flown?"

"No.....she is a firmly trapped as ever. Whatever happens now, she will come willingly......where I go......she will follow."

A bark of laughter greeted this piece of supreme arrogance, and Peter scowled as James Hook limped to the chair opposite and sat down, his scarred features twisted into a parody of a grin.

"You still have a lot to learn about the female mind, but for now, it is enough that she hasn't left London. I have made arrangement for us to leave in three days."

"So soon?"

"I think you are getting to like this world Peter.....are you so quick to give up your pirating days?"

"No.......I don't intend to give up anything. I just meant that we haven't exactly been here very long." Peter picked at a thread on the back of the sofa, avoiding Hook's piercing gaze. "I thought you'd want to stay longer...or have we run through our funds already?"

"We have nothing to worry about in that regard. Your plundering has provided the means for us to remain here indefinitely......but this is not our world. Neverland is.......and it needs you to return. Would you leave poor Smee forever frozen in that hell hole?"

Peter smiled in remembrance of the doughty first mate.

"Poor Smee......do you think they know what's happened?"

"It happened so fast, I doubt they knew what was happening until it was too late to do anything about it. What is more important, is whether this witch will be able to reverse what has happened."

Peter scowled at his fathers terminology.

"Don't call her that......she's not a witch.....she's just a girl."

"Just a girl.....I see she has already twisted you into her serpents coils. I thought you'd be stronger Peter.....but it only takes a pair of red lips and a pretty bosom to turn your head!"

"That's not true," Peter jumped to his feet, dragging his fingers through his hair as Hook laughed harshly behind him.

"She's got you on the run.....maybe I should give her a sword so she can make you walk the plank in her stead!"

Pricked by his laughter, Peter flushed an angry red, his eyes stormy.

"She is nothing to me......less than nothing. Wendy Darling is the means to restore Neverland.....nothing more."

"That's right boy.....she is nothing more. Just remember that.....once back, she has to be sacrificed before she has time to do more than breath the air. It is the only way." Hook relaxed back in his chair, his eyes hooded. "Now, if you are ready, we need to discuss how to stage her departure from this world before we take her back, and do the deed for real in ours."

"How do you know this will restore Neverland....what if it fails?"

"It won't....unless you wish to take her place. I'm sure Neverland will be just as happy to accept your blood as its due."

Surprised that after all this time his father could still shock him, Peter swallowed, dropping his eyes as he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, his hand closing over the soft glove inside.

"Your jokes are as tasteless as ever. When do you want me to bring her here?"

"Sit down boy and I'll tell you.......you give me a crick in my neck, you're so tall."

Returning to the sofa, Peter regarded his fathers merciless eyes. He almost pitied Wendy Darling. Ruthlessly he squashed the thought.

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That afternoon, Wendy had another excuse to make sure she was out of the public eye. Her monthly courses started, cramps forcing her to bed with a hot brick and a cup of hot chocolate to sooth her. Her aunt, long past the age of such feminine worries, fussed over her and generally drove her mad before leaving for an engagement later that day. Rather than brood on the mornings unhappy meeting, Wendy drew her paper and pen towards her and attempted to complete the story she'd started, what seemed like years ago, when in fact it was only days. As she stared at the half completed sheet, she found that her story now lacked substance. Where before she had been happy with it, it now needed something to lift it above the banal, but what, she was at a loss to know. Setting her writing aside she picked up a book instead, losing herself in the trials and tribulations of the Bennet family, a favourite of hers and never known to fail to uplift her spirits. As the afternoon drifted into the evening, Wendy took her supper on a tray, her body still making her uncomfortable. Once the lamps were lit, she retreated once more into the lives of the characters that Jane Austen penned so evocatively. In time her eyes closed and she drifted off to sleep, the lamp still alight, her book open beside her.

It was thus that Peter found her upon entering her room, not by the window, as Wendy would have expected of the Peter Pan she once knew, but by the door. As stealthily and with due cunning as only a pirate can.

It had been a simple matter to wait outside the house for the aunt to leave. He had figured that Wendy would immure herself in the house to avoid him, so it was only a case of waiting for the household to settle for the night, one of the maids leaving out the backdoor for an assignation, before entering through an unlocked window and making his way up to her room.

As the door snicked shut behind him, he stood and surveyed the room, noting the books and writing desk, the plain function of the room, with little attention paid to the usual fripperies that cluttered a woman's domain. His soft kid boots made no sound on the carpet, his tread light as he approached the bed. The gas lamp spluttered, the flicker casting strange shadows against the wall as he knelt down beside her bed, a strange emotion gripping him as he gazed at her sleeping countenance. He watched her for long minutes, his hand resting on the coverlet, a scant inch from where her own rested in relaxed repose. He silently marvelled at the difference between them, his tanned skin against her fair, his rough, pirate hands against her soft and pampered, girlish hands. He saw a small callous on her index finger, where her pen rested, tiny compared to his hardened calluses from constant sword practise and other, far more mundane, physical tasks required for the smooth running of a sailing ship. Lastly he compared their size, his own broad palm and strong tapering fingers, hers small, smooth and rounded. As if drawn by an unseen force, he gently ran his finger down the back of her hand, drawing small circles in an echo of what his tongue had done to her palm that morning. His touch was so slight that Wendy didn't stir, her breath coming sweet and even, her eyes closed and untroubled.

He wondered what strange force made the attraction between them so strong. He didn't know her, and what he did know was hardly likely to recommend her to him as a prospective lover. His father had broadly sketched the details of the time before Peter had joined the pirates, mentioning that Wendy had had something to do with the accident that robbed him off his former memories, but that was all. His father hadn't elaborated, only saying that this girl had the power or ability to put right what had gone wrong in his world. That it required her life was unfortunate, but many lives had been taken for one reason or another in his short time on earth and Peter was ever a pragmatist. Getting to his feet, he left Wendy to her slumber and walked over to the desk, picking up some of the papers scattered over its surface. If she was to die, so be it, but he still wanted to know something about this girl that seemed to bring out the worst in his father. He sat down on the chair and started to read, his eyes skimming the neat handwriting, his interest quickly piqued as the story unfolded in front of him. Before he knew it, an hour had passed, the clock in the house chiming ten and reminding him that he still had alot to accomplish. Reluctantly he replaced the papers the way he'd found them. Wendy had only stirred a couple of times, sighing in her sleep and turning over, Peter freezing as she moved, before relaxing as she remained asleep. Her book was slipping off the bed and he leant over to catch it, reading the spine before placing it on her bedside table and returning to his reading. She now lay with her back to him, the long line of her spine and hip curved enticingly, her hair draped over her back and shoulders like a silken cape. Rising once more he picked up the canvass bag he'd brought and emptied its contents onto the carpet. With the now empty bag he went to her dresser and pulled open the drawers, sweet herbs in sachets scenting the air as he rummaged among her clothes, pulling out several items and stuffing them into the bag. He heard a door slam in the house and froze, his eyes darting to the bed before fixing on the door to her room. He heard footsteps and looked around for a hiding place. With barely a hesitation he kicked the items he'd dumped on the carpet under the desk, out of sight, and dived beneath the bed himself, fitting his lean frame with some difficulty underneath and behind the frilled valance, pulling the canvas bag in beside him, just as a soft knock sounded on the door.

"Wendy dear.......are you awake?"

Peter listened, but the sleeper above him didn't stir. He saw the bottom of the door open and a woman's slippered feet appear. From the hem of the dress he deduced it was the aunt checking up on Wendy. The woman tip-toed over to the bed, obviously leaning over to peer at her niece.

"Oh you poor thing.....its such a trial to be a woman....I'm so glad I don't have to go through this every month."

Not understanding what the aunt was whispering about, Peter watched as one of her slippered feet lifted slightly as she bent down to place a kiss on the sleepers brow.

"It'll be all better in a few days."

He watched as the feet departed, closing the bedroom door quietly behind them. He thought about what the aunt had said, was Wendy sick? Was that why she hadn't been out the last week? Maybe she hadn't been deliberately avoiding him. The thought brought a cocky grin to his face, his confidence in his own attractions once more restored. His elbow knocked against something shoved against the wall behind him and he wriggled out from the under the bed, dragging the suitcase with him. It was too battered to be used as ordinary luggage, so he lifted the lid, his insatiable curiosity outweighing any consideration for somebody else's privacy. He found two sketchbooks on the top and promptly opened the first, finding himself looking at images that seemed childish in their execution but also completely inexplicable in their subject matter. He flipped through the pages until he reached one that looked vaguely familiar, a drawing of a boys face. From the quality of the drawings he assumed this was something Wendy had done when she was very young. Putting it aside he opened the other, flipping through the detailed images of landscapes and town life and animals to reach the last page where his own face leapt out at him. He had to admit, she had talent. He stared at his own image, his hand coming up to stroke his jawline as he compared reality with the rendition on paper. He saw that she had drawn him with a small smile, the expression in his eyes soft, but with a hint of laughter as well, it was not a face of a pirate but of a young man with the world at his feet, not a man who had done deeds that would make most civilised men blanch. He couldn't put his finger on the feeling it evoked in him, but he was perspicacious enough to realise this portrait had been drawn with a great deal of emotion and quite possibly love. It was almost humbling. Closing the sketchbook slowly he replaced with its fellow back into the suitcase, careful to latch it and push it back under the bed. He should have left it well enough alone, it only made what he had to do now all the harder.

Quickly he went back to what he'd been doing, rummaging in her clothes drawers and pulling out several items before stuffing them with little ceremony into the bag. That done he pulled out the items he'd kicked under the desk. It was time to get on with the job in hand.

Once more approaching the bed, he leant over the sleeper, his hands placed either side of her body as he balanced himself over her. As he stood, bowed over the bed he became aware of little things, the rise and fall of her body as she breathed, the sound of her breathing, the colour of her hair, loose and unbound, glinting with golden threads in the low gaslight. It tweaked at his memory that he had been in a similar position before, leaning over someone in a bed, the image elusive and fleeting and gone before any detail could be made out. Shaking his head he lifted one hand to brush the strands of hair away from her ear before bringing his lips close and whispering.

"Wendy.....stop dreaming and wake-up.....its time to go,"

Beneath him, she stirred, her lips parting as if to reply. Again he whispered in her ear.

"Wake up Wendy girl.....I want to see those eyes again."

But again Wendy only stirred, her hand clenching in a soft fist, her head shifting slightly on the pillow. Grinning, enjoying himself hugely, Peter leant down and this time closed his lips over her earlobe, sucking the small morsel into his warm mouth and closing his teeth ever-so gently on the soft flesh before releasing it again.

This time Wendy reacted by turning onto her back, her tongue snaking out its tip to wet her lips as she sighed, her head rubbing her ear on the pillow where he'd touched her. Deciding to have some fun, Peter drew a finger down her cheek, as softly as a butterfly's touch, Wendy turning her head to follow his finger, her own flexing against the pillow as she mewed quietly to herself. His finger continued its exploration and traced the curve of her bottom lip, his own pulled into his mouth and under his top teeth as he felt his body start to respond to the allure of the beautiful girl laid out under him. Her loose negligee had fallen open, her nightdress plunging low over her breasts as they rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the thin material revealing the darker colouring of her nipples through the soft folds of pleating. Her warmth rose up and enveloped him, her scent intoxicating as he lowered his head to dart out his tongue and taste the skin between her breasts. He could feel the vibration of her heart under his lips, his own starting to thump in time with hers, his body setting up a series of tremors as his manhood strained against its confinement, aroused to a fever pitch by nothing more than the taste and smell of this woman. Peter moaned, the sound deep in his throat but enough to awaken the sleeper, her eyes opening drowsily, her body still relaxed and unalarmed. Peter sensed the change in her breathing as he raised his head from her chest, his eyes, bright with arousal meeting hers, shadowed and slumberous, still shrouded in sleep. Before she came fully awake Peter gave into his overwhelming desire and lowered his mouth to hers, sealing her lips with a kiss that ravaged her with its savagery but also transported her to a world of unbearable sweetness, her body responding automatically. Completely ruled by his libido and reacting to her body's signals, Peter lowered his lean frame onto hers, fitting his long, muscular legs between her thighs, his hips cradled against her pelvis. His elbows were taking his weight on either side of the pillow as he cupped her head between his hands tilting it to deepen the his kiss, his tongue wrapping and dancing around hers, drawing her deeper into his seduction.

It might be said, at this stage, that one would expect Wendy to at least put up a token struggle, maybe even scream and pummel her seducer, but in her defence, he was only continuing what had been a particularly vivid dream she'd been having about Peter, her body and mind making an easy transition between her dream lover and her real one. She already knew who he was, her lips and body told her, so her mind quite easily ignored all desire to resist as it sunk without trace under the sheer weight of an endorphin overload transporting her to heaven.

Peter was already in heaven, his turgid manhood being ground against her softness by the subtle movements of his hips, aided by Wendy's unconscious mirroring of his actions, heightening his contact until he became almost mindless with no other thought than to bury himself in her heat before he splintered into a thousand pieces. Some of his urgency communicated itself to Wendy and set off alarm bells that finally broke through her thrall like a bucket of ice water, her hammering heart almost deafening her as Peter ground his rigid length against her core in harder and more uncoordinated thrusts, his tongue echoing the movements of his hips. Raising her hands she buried them in his short curls and curled her nails against his scalp. She tore her mouth from his, her lungs gasping as she drew in air to speak.

"Stop......please stop,"

Peter's answer was a growl as his mouth latched on to her neck, Wendy gasping as he bit her before lathing his tongue over the hurt and kissing it. Tugging at his hair, she tried again.

"Peter......please.....stop this!"

At the sound of his name, Peter froze, his body trembling. Raising his head from her neck he stared down at her, his eyes dark with frustrated lust, his lips wet and open as he panted, his heart thumping against hers.

"You don't want me to stop,"

Keeping her yes pinned with his, Peter jerked his hips, his manhood hot and hard against her center, his lips pulling back in a grin as she slammed her eyes shut and hissed through her teeth, her body arching under him.

"Yes....I do want you to stop." Wendy ground out, her eyes opening and glaring up at him.

"Make me,"

For a second she stared wide eyes at him, disbelieving her ears. Then her expression changed to one of anger and she bucked under him, her hands leaving his hair and reaching to rake his face. He easily subdued her hands, his body pressing her further into the mattress as she tried to twist out from under him. His maddening grin still in place, Peter held her easily while she writhed under him, her movements making him grind his teeth as it pressed him more intimately against her and he thought he might just explode if she didn't stop.

"Enough.....stop your thrashing.....you'll hurt yourself before you can dislodge me, so stop fighting."

"Get off me....I can't breath."

He gave her a sardonic look, his eyes dropping to her breasts that heaved as she sucked in air, refuting her statement.

"Get off me or I'll scream!"

Laughing softly, Peter smiled down at her indignant face.

"Scream away....I'll just tell anyone that comes in, that you invited me up here."

"What!?"

"That you were so overcome with lust for me that you snuck me up the back stairs when your aunt went out for the evening so that we could desport ourselves in private."

"Why you.....arrogant, scheming, hateful......deceitful....bastard!"

"Why Wendy Darling.....your little gutter snipe. Has anyone ever told you, you're beautiful when you're angry?"

"Get off me you oaf....and take your pathetic conceit with you."

"tut tut my sweet......such language from a mouth made for kissing."

"Ooohhhhh! I hate you."

"I beg to differ.....but now is not the time to discuss semantics."

With casual grace, and Wendy suspected long practise, Peter rolled off her and sat upright on the side of the bed, adjusting his clothes to ease the painful tightness of his trousers.

Scooting backwards, Wendy drew her legs up and wrapped her negligee more firmly around her body, leaning herself back against the headboard.

"What are you doing here......did you come to steal something?"

"Only you Wendy.....only you."

Wendy stared at him, as if he'd grown two head.

"You can't just go about....stealing people. This is London, not some eastern potentate."

"You'd be surprised.....people are stolen all the time, from their families, from their lives......from the people that love them."

Wendy looked at him, not understanding his suddenly pensive mood.

"But why me, Peter. You don't love me.....you don't even care for me anymore, not like you did.....before."

"I don't remember.....before, Wendy.....I don't remember you. It's all gone, whatever I did, whoever I knew, or was....its all gone."

Responding to his unconsciously anguished tone, Wendy reached out and touch his arm. Peter turned to look at her, his confusion evident.

"Why do you need me to go to Neverland, Peter......what is it you think I can do there?"

As if only just remembering what he was doing in her room and why, Peter rose to his feet, pulling away from her physically and emotionally.

"You are going to put everything right again.....stop what's happened and put it all back to where it was."

As he spoke he reached down for something off the floor. Wendy didn't notice, she was too wrapped up in trying to understand what he was saying.

"I don't understand.......what can I possibly do?"

With his back to her, Peter shook some liquid onto a cloth, screwing the cap on tightly before putting the bottle on the desk and turning around, the cloth hidden behind his back. Wendy looked up at him as he stood beside her bed, his face so different from a moment before.

"You can die Wendy."

Hardly believing what he'd just said, Wendy opened her mouth, inhaling sharply. As she did, Peter pushed a square of cloth over her mouth and nose, holding it there tightly as his other hand came around to hold the back of her head, his fingers clenching in her hair as she fought to free herself. The fumes did their job quickly, Wendy's eyes closing as her body slumped into unconsciousness. His hands catching her as she flopped bonelessly in his arms.

Sitting on the side of the bed, he pulled her onto his lap, his arms holding her lax body against his chest, rocking her as he buried his face in her hair, his eyes squeezed shut.

"I'm sorry.....I'm so sorry....it wasn't supposed to be like this.....I'm not supposed to care."

Unbidden, a tear slid down his face, lost in the silky strands that cris-crossed his skin.

Turning, he laid her down on the bed, pulling the coverlet around her to trap her arms and legs, his hands gentle as he smoothed the hair away from her face and tucked it neatly into the coverlet. Finally he covered her face, pressing a kiss to her closed eyelids before hiding her away. Getting to his feet, he picked up his equipment, stuffing it into the bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Going to the door he listened before opening it. Checking the corridor he left the door open, returned to the bed and lifting Wendy onto his free shoulder, her body completely relaxed and unresisting.

As stealthily as he arrived, Peter left the house, his movements sure and unhurried as he carried his precious burden down the back alley and away into the night.

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Chapter: Four - Neverland

Rated: R for violence this time......sorry, had to happen.

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"Did you have any problems?" Asked Hook, peering into the dimly lit room.

"No.....it was simple."

The two men looked down at the woman lying as if asleep on the narrow bed, the only piece of furniture in the small room. Peter shifted restlessly, his eyes sweeping the chamber, flicking to the small, high window set just below the ceiling. His foster father limped forward, using his curved hook to lift some of Wendy's hair away from her face, the strands running over the metal like water.

"Pretty baggage....no wonder you lusted after her, " Hook cast Peter a shrewd look, "You didn't despoil her.....did you?"

Flushing at Hooks crudity, and also because, given half a chance, Peter would have quite likely pursued his seduction to its logical conclusion. Peter glared at the man, turning on his heel and leaving the small room, his shoulders rigid. Hook only chuckled, his eyes sweeping the length of the young woman on the bed, shaking his head.

"Not long now......I'll be rid of you, and your influence over him. He'll never regret losing what he never had." Hook hissed, his face contorting as he fought to control the rage that flickered at the edges of his sanity.

Turning away, Hook left the room, locking the door behind him.

He found Peter in the library, a decanter already by the young mans elbow as he lifted a glass to his lips and downed it in one gulp.

"That's too fine a vintage for you to drink it like water, slow down boy."

Ignoring him, Peter thumped his glass down on the side table and picked up the decanter, filling his glass to the brim. Hook limped over to the sideboard and filled a small glass of sherry, his hand shaking slightly as he lifted it to his lips. He heard the glass stopper rattle again before he turned around, sipping at his own glass before walking over to a chair by the fire, lowering himself down and extending his feet towards the warmth.

"Why does she have to die.....wouldn't her just being there be enough?"

Hook smiled into his glass, his eyes closing as he tilted it upwards and drained the thick sherry.

"You haven't been paying attention boy.......it clearly states that whoever set the process on its course, must return and offer their life to reverse it."

"Where does it say that....I want to see it?"

"You can't.......you have to take my word for it."

"Not good enough...." said Peter, his voice harsh and slightly slurred. Looking over his shoulder, Hook watched as Peter fumbled the decanter, a surprised look on his face to discover it almost empty.

"My word no longer good enough....I see." Lifting himself out of the chair he moved with a speed that took Peter completely unaware, the hook appearing against his jugular as if by magic. James leered down at his foster son, his eyes like shards of ice as he searched Peter's face for something, his lips curling into a snarl when it didn't appear. "Not afraid?"

"No....if you wanted me dead, you've had ample opportunity these last eight years."

The hook pressed harder against his neck and Peter arched, his head tilting back and pushing into the plush fabric of the sofa. As they stared at each other, Peter kept his expression fearless, not giving into the tremor that lanced through his stomach, his muscles tensing in anticipation of a fight, not that he thought he would have a chance. He had seen his father dispatch more people than he cared to remember, with just this manoeuvre. Slowly James removed his arm, the hook leaving an impression on Peters neck, a tiny bead of blood on his skin, sitting as mute witness to Hook's very real intentions.

"You are right of course....has it been eight years?"

Peter kept silent, his eyes following his father as he returned to the fire, his hook tapping against his cheek as Hook pondered his rhetorical question.

"Do you remember when I took you on your first raid?"

"Of course."

"You were afraid then....I saw it in your eyes. I never thought to see that look again. A pirate can't afford to be afraid...its death to hesitate."

"When was I afraid.......was it before?"

"Oh yes.....before.....you were an impudent youth, full of your own importance, full of arrogance and conceit, the world your oyster, yours to take or leave as your fancy dictated."

"Why was I afraid?"

"You were afraid that she would leave you....alone, unloved....done for." Hook stuck out his bottom lip, his eyes staring into the past.

Peter's brain was rapidly dispelling the fog of the alcohol. His father rarely reminisced about the time before, this was a rare opportunity to fill in the gaps of his missing memories.

"Why would she leave me....what did I do?"

"You wouldn't love her...you couldn't love her, not the way she needed to be loved.....an epic tragedy, as tragedies go."

"When did you see me afraid?"

"When I tried to kill you." Hook turned in his chair, wagging his hook at Peter."We were having one or our interminable battles.....she was aboard the Jolly Roger. You were so sure of yourself and I pricked your ego. You were so easy to trick, so gullible, so vulnerable....she made you that way."

Peter squashed his anger at his fathers words, he needed to find out more, and anger would surely destroy this golden opportunity.

Swallowing hard, his face schooled to hide his unease, Peter spoke.

"Why was I vulnerable.....who made me vulnerable?"

"She did.....it was always her. She was so transparent, so fresh, it was a delight to toy with her, to use her against you."

Feeling a thrill of anticipation, Peter pressed on. "What happened?"

"You believed me....every word.....you were so brittle, so desperate to have it all. I had you in the palm of my hand....you were completely at my mercy," Peter saw Hooks hand close into a white knuckled fist, raising it as if to shake it at the ceiling and the woman in the room two floors above. Recalling himself, Hook grinned, a merciless expression that sent chills down Peter's spine, his hands sweating as he tried to appear nonchalant against the overriding desire to flee the room, to ignore the words spouting with such venom from the man he considered his father.

"Why aren't I dead?"

Laughing out loud, Hook swung around again, his eyes glaring, his hook raised as if to strike.

"Because she had the power of life and death......she gave you life when I wanted to give you death!"

Keeping his countenance with difficulty, Peter rose to his feet unsteadily, the alcohol he'd so rashly imbibed making his limbs shaky and setting his head throbbing.

"Can she really reverse what's happened to Neverland...or is this just some sort of twisted revenge for denying you the pleasure of killing me so long ago?"

As if shutting a door, Hook's face adopted a bland expression, the madness of a second ago disappearing as if snuffed out, like a candle.

"Wendy Darling started the chain of events that lead to the situation we have now.......she is the only one who can change what has happened."

"I don't believe you. I don't believe she has anything to do with this or with Neverland." Peter shouted, his mouth suddenly dry with his audacity. Peter spoke from his heart. "...I don't want her sacrificed just because you say so."

His defiance sent ripples of tension across the room, Peters eyes bright but wary as he stared at his father. Hook looked at his defiant son and sighed inwardly. It had gone far enough, time to put the puppy in his place.

"Then you are no longer my son.....you are my enemy."

Picking up his glass, James Hook made to walk past Peter, as if towards the sideboard to replenish his drink. As he passed close, James whipped his arm out to the side, his hook connecting with Peter's face, gashing his cheek and knocking him so the carpet, blood pouring from the wound. Dazed, Peter tried to get to his feet, blood entering his mouth and choking him. Before he got any further than his knees, Hook slashed again, the blunt edge of his hook hitting Peter above his eye. Peter hit the floor with a cry, blood blinding him as Hook loomed over him, a vicious kick sending spasm of pain through Peter's ribs as he rolled, trying to protect himself. Wherever he turned, Hook was there, his clothes becoming shredded from the hook catching and slashing his back and chest until a kick aimed at his head caught him on the jaw, his teeth clashing together and sending him into the welcoming blackness.

Panting hard, Hook paused in his attack, Peter's stillness registering in his mind and stilling his arm. As he stood, shaking with reaction, Hook took note of the blood. It was everywhere, red and thick on the carpet, in sprays over the sofa and chairs. Peter's face was a red mask, his body covered in wheals of red, his dark clothes slashed to show patches of golden, bloodied flesh in the tears, his blond curls matted and dark.

Straightening up, Hook turned away from the body and limped over to the sideboard, his hand still holding his glass. With exaggerated care he poured himself another drink, his stomach sending a spasm, a warning which he chose to ignore.

"It's for your own good boy.......I can't let you throw your life and mine away on a woman.....they're never worth it."

Wiping his mouth with his hand, Hook turned and limped past Peter's body, reaching the door of the library and flinging it wide. Without a backward glance he walked out, his heels clicking over the marble floor as he crossed the foyer and opened the door directly opposite.

He gestured to the man and woman sitting by the fire, their faces hard and unflinching as Hook sauntered to the fire, blood splattered on his face and clothes.

"Mrs. Winter, there is a girl in a room upstairs, she is in your charge for the next three days. I will give you an opiate to administer to keep her docile. Consider her your patient and see to her needs, whatever form they take. Ask the housekeeper for whatever you need for yourself or the girl, anything at all."

"As you command, my lord." Bobbing a curtsy, Mrs.Winter exchanged a quick glance with her husband before brushing past Hook and leaving the room.

"Mister Winter.....I have two task for you. One is lying in the library. My son has chosen to try my patience, I had to administer a reprimand. Take him to his room and see to his.....needs. I don't expect to see my son until I'm ready to leave in three days time. I don't think you'll have too much trouble with the boy, his....reprimand....will keep him in his bed for that time, without a doubt. His health is your prime concern, but be aware that I want no doctors in the house. If his health deteriorates, I will hold you personally responsible.....is that clear?"

"As crystal, milord'. You said you had two tasks?"

"Ah yes......there is a body of another woman in the room under the stairs. She is to be dressed from the clothes you will find in the bag beside her. Once dressed I need you to arrange to have her body dumped in the river. You're not squeamish are you Winter?"

"Not remotely milord'." Grinned Winter.

"Good, make sure no-one can recognise her face......oh and there's a note to be secured upon her person to be found by the authorities...make sure it isn't lost by mistake."

"Of course not...it will be as you command."

Bowing, Winter backed out of the room, his whole demeanour unctuous and willing to carry out any task James Hook cared to set him.

Suddenly weary, Hook slumped into one of the vacated chairs, his bloody hand coming up to cover his eyes. Outside the door he heard Winter removing his son from the library and carrying him upstairs. Sighing at the injustices meted out by ungrateful and rebellious children, Hook sat brooding in all his bloodied madness, the room growing dark around him as the lamps guttered in their smoky shades.

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There was an outcry, two days later when the body, supposedly of Wendy Moira Angela Darling was found floating in the Thames. Her clothes were identified by her distraught father, the note found in her bodice discreetly kept from the newspapers as its contents spoke of a woman who no longer wanted to live. Her family refuted the note vehemently, her aunt most vocal in denying that Wendy Darling had any such thoughts in her head. In the end it was decided at the coronary, after a suitably thorough investigation, to be death by misadventure, rather than suicide given the evidence against such a possibility. Her family wanted it ruled a murder, but with no evidence other than her ruined face, it was filed as another unsolved case, possibly suicide. In the end her family buried their beloved child without ever having seen her face, George Darling having deemed it to dreadful for his wife and sister to see and not necessary for the children to witness. They mourned long and sincerely for the girl they buried, never once suspecting that the poor soul in the coffin was just another human victim, caught up in the maniacal plot conceived and executed by one pirate, Captain James Hook.

In Hookham house, Wendy lived in a strange world of lucidity and darkness, her body no longer her own as it floated in a world of shadows, her limbs like lead when she tried to lift them, her eyes barely able to stay open, focusing blearily on the woman that remained the only constant in her half-world, the stomach rebelling as the opiate continued to be forced between her resisting lips. Mrs. Winter proved an able and competent nurse, her job more boring than difficult as the days stretched out from the original three, to more than seven. Hook's plans to leave the house with his son had run into a hitch with Peter developing a severe fever from his injuries. As the Darling family mourned their dead daughter, Peter teetered between life and death, his body fighting off an infection that tried to carry him off, only his youth and constitution allowing him to claw his way back. In frustration, Hook refused all contact with society outside Hookham House, his servant finding, more often than not, in the morning room, brooding over the vagaries of missed opportunities.

On the morning of the seventh day after Wendy's arrival at the house, Mrs. Winter presented herself to her employer for an interview.

"What do you have to report, Mrs Winter?"

"I just wanted to know how much longer you wanted me to keep drugging the young lady. I have some knowledge of the effects of long term use of this opiate. Already she had lost weight and she needs to have fresh air and to get out into the sun, as well as food and exercise if you want her to be in any sort of condition when you are ready to leave."

"You are right, of course Mrs Winter.....but you see.....I don't want the young lady to live....her life is already forfeit, so her condition, or otherwise, is of no importance. Just keep her alive, that is all I ask.....your able husband has reported that my son is recovering, we should be but another day or so and then your services will no longer be needed."

"As you wish, I only felt you should be made aware of the situation."

"Quite right....and I thank you for your due diligence. You are dismissed."

As she bobbed a curtsy, Hook rose to his feet and followed the woman out of the room and up the stairs. At the top they parted company, Hook to see his son, Mrs.Winter to sit with her charge.

When he opened the door of Peter's room, he saw Mister Winter with a bowl of water and a towel over his arm, obviously having just finished shaving the boy.

Peter sat propped up against the mound of pillows at the head of the bed. His face was turned away from the door, the bruising around his face starting to fade, his pallor still evident despite his golden tan. Around Peter's bare chest, a bandage covered his ribs and upper torso with more bandaging on the boys arms and a splint on the fingers of his left hand.

"Do you wish something milord'?" Asked Winter, putting the basin down and bowing to Hook.

"Nothing but a few words with my son, you may leave us."

Hook waited for the manservant to leave before walking over to the bed and around it, coming to stand with his back to the window that held Peters undivided attention.

As Peter continued to ignore his presence, Hook spent the long minutes inspecting his son's face. The swelling over his eye had gone down, the lid once more open, despite the black bruising around it. His jaw also sported a fine contusion, the purple and green contrasting luridly with his honey coloured skin. Hook could see several long scratched over his shoulders which disappeared into the bandaging around Peter's chest. In all, he looked as if he'd been in a battle. In defying Hook, Peter had been in a battle, one which he lost without ever having struck a blow.

"Will you not look at me, Peter?"

"No."

"I see. You were ill-advised to defy me like that. It is always rash to think you can simply demand that which you want, it is rarely granted and never given freely."

Peter didn't betray a flicker of interest, his half closed eyes still fixed upon the window.

"You haven't asked about Wendy......don't you want to know how she is?"

Slowly, like someone in a trance, Peter turned his head, his eyes closing for a second, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed on a dry throat, before he raised his eyes to his father and answered him.

"I assumed that you had already done away with her......afterall, that was why you did this," he gestured to his chest, "wasn't it...or did I miss something?"

"Curb your sarcasm, the witch still breathes.....for how much longer depends on you."

Hook noted the flicker of hope that just as quickly died as Peter once more turned his face away.

"I no longer care what happens to her......it is not my concern."

"Oh no Peter....that I will not allow, you lie poorly at the best of times. You care for her, that is evident....how much, will be tested soon enough. I have decided, after due consideration, that I no longer need you.....either in my life or as my son, or in Neverland, for that matter, as the Captain of the Jolly Roger. You will be sacrificed together....fitting don't you think.....a chance to end the tragedy of so long ago.....two young lovers, unsullied and noble, dying together so a world may live.....Neverland will be forever in your debt."

This time he got the reaction he was hoping for.

With a sudden move, Peter launched himself out of the bed, his body hitting Hook and knocking him to the floor, Peter's hands reaching to encircle his foster fathers throat as they rolled on the carpet, the bedclothes entangling them like kelp.

"I'll kill you." Peter cried, his hands managing only a weak clasp before being thrown off, a blow to his wounded chest making him curl up as the breath left his lungs, lights exploding behind his eyes.

Hook pushed himself away, breathing heavily as he clambered to his feet and looked down at Peter still on the floor. The door to the bedroom opened and Winter entered, looking alarmed. Hook waved him over and they lifted Peter between them, the boy half conscious as they dumped him back on the bed.

"Are you alright?" Panted Winter, his eyes wide as he warily watched Hook straighten his clothes and limp to the end of the bed.

"He is still too weak....I want him strong and ready to fight for his life......I'll give him that as my last gift."

"It'll take a few more days for him to be ready."

"He has three more days to recover.....after that, his time, and hers, is up."

Peter watched through half closed eyes as his former parent left his room. His chest hurt where Hook had punched him, but his heart hurt more. His disillusionment was now complete. He'd had several days, once the fever left him, to think about what had taken place, what had been said and, more importantly, what hadn't been said. He had drawn his own conclusions regarding Captain Hook's desire to be avenged on the girl lying drugged above and if it was in Peter's power to save her, he would.

Winter reached over and helped Peter into the pillows, noting the grimace on the boys face as his hand came up to touch his chest.

"I'll change the dressing......don't want another infection setting in."

Peter reached up and gripped the mans arm, pulling him down.

"What had he done with Wendy?"

"The young lady?" Peter nodded. "Why she'd being looked after by my wife.....no trouble at all, from what I hear, as docile as a lamb."

"Is she still drugged?"

"Of course."

"How long?"

"Seven days now.....good bit of work for the missus and me. Only supposed to be three days, now its a week.....keep us tidy for years that will."

"Can you take me to her?"

"To my missus?"

"To Wendy....I want to see her."

"Oh no...can't allow that....his lordship would have a fit. More than my life's worth to allow that."

"I'll pay you.....handsomely."

Winters eyes gleamed, his brain already working out the possible gains to be had.

"Can't be now....have to be later....when the house is asleep."

"What about bringing her here?"

"To your room?"

Peter nodded again, his mind turning over possible escape routes as Winter considered the question.

If Wendy stayed in the room upstairs there was little hope of getting her out. His attack on Hook had told him his strength was returning, he just had to make sure it was back before the deadline in three days.

"Has my father ever visited Wendy in her room?"

"Not that I'm aware of....the missus just reports to him about the girls state of health. Other than that, no-one goes near the room."

"Then it should be easy enough to bring her here....no-one will know."

A leer spread over Winter's face, a look that made the bile rise in Peter's throat. He was well aware of how it looked, but if it got Wendy out of that tiny room, it didn't matter what Winter or anyone else thought of his motives.

"Can you do it?" Peter asked.

Still leering at what he thought Peter wanted to do with the girl, Winter nodded.

"Tonight?"

"Anything you say.....if the price is right." Replied Winter, moving away from the bed and picking up the bed covers strewn over the floor.

Thanking the heavens for greedy mercenaries, Peter relaxed back against the pillows, his strength, for the moment, all gone. With luck and the help of the Winters, Peter would have Wendy safe beside him before too long, a plan for their escape already taking shape in his mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter: Five - Escape

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Peter fretted for the rest of the morning, his body still sore from his futile attack on his former foster father. Winter had changed the dressings on his injuries before leaving to speak to his wife, leaving Peter to sit up in the big bed, bolstered by the many pillows, his head once more turned to stare out of the window. His eyes may have been open, but they were unseeing, his mind in a ferment of activity as he proposed and discarded numerous escape ideas. Only one seemed to offer any hope. He would have to take Wendy back to Neverland and somehow hide there while they figured out what to do next. He considered London, even approaching her family, but knowing Hook, he wouldn't scruple to wipe out everyone associated with the Darling family to achieve his goal, and Peter didn't have access to sufficient funds to hide them both in London indefinitely. In Neverland he knew enough hiding places to keep them out of Hooks hands forever. It was just getting there that was proving the stumbling block.

The door opening drew his attention away from the window and his chaotic thoughts. Mrs.Winter entered first, her hard face breaking into the suggestion of a smile when she spotted Peter, pulling the door wide to allow someone else to come through. Mister Winter entered next, his arms apparently full of laundry. Peter made to get out of the bed, easing himself to the edge before Winter reached him.

"No need to move.....she won't take up much room," said Winter, hefting the bundle in his arms.

Peter winced as Winter's wife giggled, the sound obscene coming from the hatchet faced woman. Winter deposited his bundle on the bed farthest from Peter, the man winking at him.

"We'll leave you to it then......his lordship has left the house, told the missus he wouldn't be back until late."

"Thank you both." Peter threw the husband a small pouch that chinked when it landed in Winters hand. "There'll be more if you leave us alone for a few hours."

"Of course. 'Til later then."

Peter watched the pair leave, the door snicking closed behind them, before he moved towards the bundle of linen lying so still on the side of the bed.

With shaking fingers Peter lifted the corner of the sheet wrapped around the body, his first glimpse of Wendy making the breath still in his chest. Her face was a pale as the finest porcelain, her lashes very dark where they rested on her white skin. As he peeled the layers of material away, her hair fell around her face, its colour dull and flat. As he continued to unwrap her he felt something wet on his cheek, his fingers brushing away a tear as her slender limbs came clear of the sheet. For all his gentleness, the sleeper didn't stir, her lips slightly parted, her chest, rising and falling, the only indication that she wasn't already dead. Wendy was dressed in a simple sleeveless, knee length shift, the cotton material as dry as her skin. She looked as if a breeze would blow her away, her slender fingers like fragile petals as he lifted one hand to his lips and kissed it.

Peter was consumed with guilt, his heart contracting painfully as he took in the results of his actions. With consummate care, ignoring the pain blooming in his arms and back, Peter lifted her off the bed, carrying her slight weight over to the other side, the covers already pulled back, ready to receive her. Arranging her against the pillows, he smoothed the tangled hair from her face, running the back of his fingers down her soft cheek. She felt cool, her hands and feet cold to the touch. Tucking her legs under the covers, Peter left her there, coming back around and sweeping the sheet she'd been brought in off the bed before climbing into the bed himself. Scooting over he settled himself before pulling Wendy's limp body into his embrace, her head flopping onto his shoulder. After pulling up the covers he pulled her body closer, trying to instil his warmth into her, his hands rubbing up and down her back and arms to stimulate her circulation. Through all this she remained unresponsive, her breath puffing against his neck, reassuring him that she still lived.

As he lay with her in his arms, he cursed the man that had brought her to this, cursed himself for bringing her to the house, his eyes squeezing shut as tears threatened and shame engulfed him.

He must have slept, his eyes opening hours later to find the light different, darker, the sun having moved to the other side of the house, his window now in the shade. He felt a small movement as the girl against his side stirred, her previously lax hands curling against his chest. It wasn't much, but it was enough to give him hope.

He slept again, his arms tightening around her slender shoulders tucked securely against his ribs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wendy drifted slowly back to consciousness, her body warm and relaxed. She hoped, as she always did, that this time she'd be allowed to stay awake, her body tensing in readiness to fight the ever present woman with the hateful spoon of oblivion.

As she lay blinking, her eyes adjusting to the darkened room, she became aware that something was thumping under her ear, a steady sound that soothed and almost lulled her back to sleep. Her fingers curled into a small fist, feeling something rough under her fingertips, spreading her fingers she encountered another strip, her brain supplying the information that is was a bandage of some sort covering someone's chest that rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Bemused, but still under the influence of the drug, she merely accepted that she appeared to be clasped against a naked male torso, her head resting on a well muscled shoulder, warm and smooth under her cheek. Absently she rubbed against the skin, her face tilting up, her drowsy eyes taking in the strong chin and jaw that bordered a face turned away from her. The light coming in from the window was too faint to allow her to identify the room, other than the fact she was no longer in the small room with the distant window. Blinking, she tried to keep her eyes open, the effort sapping her small reserve.

"Water...."

The chest under her hand jerked, the head turning towards her.

"Wendy?"

She swallowed, knowing the voice but unable to gather her scattered wits to put a name to it.

"Water.......please..."

The body moved, shifting to the side, Wendy instantly missing his warmth. She found herself held by firm hands, her head lowered to a soft pillow.

"Don't move....I won't be a second."

She wanted to tell him she couldn't move if she wanted to, but he had gone, his bulk a darker shadow in the room as he moved off the bed and out of her sight. She drifted, her eyes closed, until an arm snaked under her shoulders and she found a glass pressed to her lips, a cool liquid begging entrance to her mouth.

Almost greedily, she sucked at the water, her body craving the cool nectar.

"Not too much....you'll only bring it all back up."

She heard the voice but still couldn't place it. The glass was removed and she was lowered back to the pillows. A light flared in the darkness, her eyes squinting to bring the light into focus. The blurry figure that had given her water, now placed a candle beside the bed, the gold light highlighting the blond hair of her nurse.

"Peter?"

"Don't try and talk....save your strength."

"Where am I.....why are you here?"

"You're a prisoner Wendy......same as me. This is Hookham House."

"But....how can you be a prisoner? And why are you all bandaged up like that?"

Peter sat sideways on the edge of the bed, his head turned to look down at her. He winced slightly before getting comfortable, his bottom lip pulled into his mouth.

"Peter?"

"I brought you here Wendy.....I kidnapped you."

Still suffering the after-effects of the drug, Wendy didn't comprehend what he was saying.

"Kidnapped?"

"Look....I brought you here because I thought that you could save Neverland.....I was duped. You can't save Neverland, you never could. It was all a plot for my father.....for Hook to kill you, to get back at you for saving me."

"That seems an awful lot of trouble just to get rid of me. But you haven't explained why you're all bandaged up.....did you have an accident?"

"If you call getting thrashed by a madman an accident...."

Wendy closed her eyes, her strength ebbing.

"I'm sorry Wendy......so sorry you got dragged into this mess."

"Peter Pan apologising? You have changed.....pirates don't give ground, it's in the rules."

Not sure whether she was being serious or teasing, Peter didn't answer, his head bowed. Wendy opened her eyes and reached out a hand, her fingers brushing his arm. Peter turned to look at her and she gasped, seeing his face clearly for the first time.

"Oh Peter.....your face."

"Not pretty, is it.....Winter says it'll heal without a scar, but I don't know.....all pirates should have an impressive scar....it give the ladies something to swoon over." A ghost of a smile tilted his lips.

As he hoped, a faint answering smile curved Wendy's mouth, her eyes a bit brighter than before. Peter rose to his feet, Wendy's hand dropping form his arm to lay loosely on the covers.

"Do you think you can eat something? Winter has left a tray of some stew and soup."

"Soup......please."

Padding over to the fire, he lifted the tray off the side table, carrying it over to the bed. He hadn't heard the manservant enter, but was grateful the man had the foresight to leave something to eat. His own body was growling at the smell of stew, but he curbed his appetite, Wendy needed it more than him.

When he reached the bed Wendy was struggling to sit upright, pushing her hair back and panting with the effort. Setting the tray down, he reached over and put his hands under her arms, lifting her easily despite the pull on his own injuries. Wendy blushed slightly, her eyes averted from the expanse of golden skin a hairs-breadth from her face. Peter had donned a pair of loose, knee-length trousers when he'd got up, more for Wendy's modesty than his own. Once sitting upright she watched as Peter lifted the tray onto her lap, his eyebrow raising in a question as he held up the spoon.

"I think I can manage," Wendy answered him.

Slowly, her hands shaking slightly, Wendy lifted the spoon and took her first real nourishment in days. Peter watched her as she ate, each spoonful an effort. After seeing her struggle, Peter closed his hand over hers and took the spoon from her, his eyes meeting hers.

"Let me."

Wendy lay back, even that small effort exhausting her. She watched Peter as he fed her several more helping of the delicious soup, her mouth opening obediently, her eyes never leaving his face.

Uncomfortable under her scrutiny, Peter avoided her gaze and concentrated on the task at hand. By the time the bowl was half empty Wendy held up a hand.

"Had enough?"

"Thank you....."

"Don't thank me Wendy.....I don't deserve it."

Still avoiding her eyes, Peter lifted the tray off and returned it to the side table, his back to her while he fiddled with the dishes.

"Peter....won't you talk to me?"

"You should curse me...not want to talk to me. I've been everything you said I was.....a pirate through and through. If you knew half the evil I've done in the guise of piracy..... " He swallowed hard, his back still to her. "I can't ask you to forgive me for this piece of villainy, but understand this....I will not let anyone harm you again."

Wendy bit her lip, her eyes closing as a great weakness stole over her, tears welling under her lashes. Turning her head into the pillow she didn't hear Peter return, the bed sinking under his weight the first indication of his presence. She felt the faintest pressure on her cheek, as light as a butterfly and as warm as the sun. Turning her head, she opened her eyes, finding Peter already pulling away, his eyes dark with turbulent emotions.

He sat once more upright on the side of the bed, his face turned away from her.

"I have to get you away from here......in three days, Hook is going to be taking us both to Neverland.... to kill us in some mad attempt to put right what's gone wrong. We have to escape before then."

"But how? You're injured, I'm as weak as a kitten....."

"I don't know....but I have to come up with something."

"Peter....why don't you fly?"

"I can't get hold of the fairy-dust.......Hook carries it on his belt, I don't have a hope of getting it."

"When I knew you....before....you didn't need fairy dust to fly."

Disbelieving, Peter glanced at her, his mouth twisting wryly.

"When you knew me Wendy......I was still a boy..." He indicated his body, "That's a long time ago......without fairy dust, pirates can't lift an inch off the ground."

"You've already proved you're not entirely......a...a pirate....and I don't believe that you can't fly.....you've just forgotten how."

"If you know so much.....how do I fly? What magic do I have to recite to bring it back....because for the last eight years the only way I've flown is on the end of a rope or with a big dose of dust."

Wendy smiled at his angry face, his frustration making his muscles knot in his back. He had that same expression, she remembered, when he couldn't get his shadow to stay on his foot, all those years ago.

Peter saw the smile and scowled even harder, thinking she was laughing at him.

"Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not....I was remembering when you lost your shadow and you were so cross because you couldn't stick it back on....you were trying to use soap, of all things."

Intrigued, Peter turned to face her, his anger fogotten, his face alight with curiosity.

"I know so little about that time.....tell me more."

His earnest expression irresistible, Wendy smiled again, taking a deep breath before launching into her tale.

"Well.....it all started because you were listening outside the nursery to hear the stories I was telling my brothers......"

By the time Wendy finished, Peter was lying on the bed beside her, his head propped up by his hand, his eyes fixed on her face in flattering absorption as she told him of their adventures in Neverland as children. Her soft voice washed over Peter, her words painting wonderful pictures of his life back then, through her eyes. Having heard Hooks version of the final battle he was astonished to hear quite a different account from someone intimately involved. He particular liked the bit where Wendy described how she'd kissed him and he'd turned pink and exploded upwards in a shower of shooting stars. His eyes watched her mouth and the expressions chasing themselves across her face as she recounted the final moments. Wendy paused after telling of the battle, her face no longer animated but sad.

"Then you took me and my brothers and the Lost Boys back to London aboard the Jolly Roger.......it was a beautiful night and you were wearing one of Hooks coats, all lace and braid and dark velvet. You had one of his hats on, too big of course but you looked very grown-up in it. When you went to leave, you said you'd come back...but that was the last time I saw you....before the concert."

"Tell me again how I could fly without fairy dust?"

"Well....I can only tell you what you told me......that all you needed were happy thoughts and they carried you into the air."

"But you needed fairy dust, didn't you?"

"Yes....we all did....and even Hook used TinkerBell to give him the ability to fly. But you.....you could fly without it.."

Wendy turned her head to look at him, her eyes almost black in the faint light from the guttering candle.

"Don't you have any happy thoughts Peter?"

"No....not any more."

"Not even of your time as a pirate? Didn't anything you did make you happy?"

She watched as Peter chewed his lip, his forehead crinkled in thought, his eyes lowered as he focused on a length of her hair he was toying with.

"It's hard to describe what its been like.....exciting, scary, exhilarating...all of those things...but I wouldn't use happy as a description of life aboard a pirate ship."

"What would you describe as happy?"

Looking up he stared at her, his expression open and vulnerable.

"I don't know.....you say I was happy once...so happy I could fly...but I don't think I'll ever be that way again. I'll never fly again."

Responding to the pathos in his whispered words, Wendy held out her arms to him and he almost fell into her embrace, his head buried in her neck, his curls tickling her face. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her cheek resting against his ear as she held him, his arms snaking around her back and chest to wrap them both in shared comfort. Peter raised his head, his eyes bright, his face golden in the flicker of candle light.

"How can you bear to give me so much, when you know what I've been and what I've done."

"You can't change what's gone before Peter....but you can change what happens from here onwards....I knew you when you were just a boy, when being Peter Pan was all you wanted to be, to never grow up or take on grown up responsibility. I had faith in you then.....I have faith in you now....you can be like that boy again.. courageous and brave, fearless and fun-loving....you only have to believe."

"Why don't you hate me Wendy......if I was you.....I'd hate me."

"I couldn't possibly hate you Peter."

"Why?"

Wendy drew in a deep breath, her lips trembling slightly as she prepared to lay her heart at his feet.

"Because I love you Peter.....I've always loved you....I could no more hate you than stop breathing."

She saw Peter's eyes open wide, his expression incredulous.

"You love me?"

"Yes Peter....even as a pirate....even as you are, I love you."

"Wendy?"

She looked into his sea-green eyes shot through with enticing shadows and felt herself falling.

"Yes Peter?"

A hint of the pirate came through as his lips stretched into a grin that that was at once wicked and entirely seductive.

"Would you object if I kissed you.....right now?"

"As long as its only a kiss...."

"Just a kiss......I promise." He whispered, his mouth closing the distance between them and pressing softly against hers.

At that precise moment the candle gave up its struggle and flickered out, plunging the room into darkness. Wendy felt her bones melt as Peter moved his warm lips over hers, his breath teasing her skin, his hands stroking her back as he rolled them onto their side, Wendy's mouth was now pressing down on his as his head sank into the soft pillows. Despite her weakened state she felt secure in his strong arms, her fingers winding through his short curls as the kiss turned from something innocent to something much more. In the darkness Peter felt her hair fall over his face, his lips still moving over hers, his body starting to respond to her slender curves pressed to his. With extraordinary restraint he slowed the kiss down, fighting the clamouring of his body to take this girl and make her his own. Pressing small kisses to the corner of her mouth he finally stopped, his heart thundering in his chest as he pressed his face against hers, breathing heavily.

"See..." he panted, still holding her pressed to the length of his body, "just as kiss...as promised."

Having some difficulty in controlling her own heart and lungs, Wendy could only press herself closer, making Peter groan.

Entangled as they were they didn't notice anything wrong until Wendy lifted her head and looked over Peter's shoulder. A gasp pulled Peter's attention from his attempt to control his rampant libido to find Wendy staring past his head to something behind him.

"What's the matter?"

"Peter," Wendy's whisper sounded more like a squeak, "are you having a happy thought?"

"Happy....more like ecstatic," Peter replied smugly, his teeth gleaming faintly in the gloom. Wendy turned her head to stare at him although Peter had difficulty reading her expression in the darkness.

"I think we've solved the problem of your inability to flying."

Still not understanding, Peter frowned, belatedly noticing that there seemed to be nothing underneath him. Confusion ripped through him, chased with a spurt of fear. Just as suddenly they found themselves falling back to the surface of the bed, landing in a flurry of arms and legs and breathless cries of surprise. Peter had kept his arms around Wendy the whole time so that she landed on top of him b