Peter Darling

by Austin Chant

  By the time the wound was closed, powdered with fairy dust and stitched shut with silver thread, Peter had foraged up a collection of berries and roots. He watched the fairies buzz curiously over the still-bandaged wound in Hook's ribs, giving it a sprinkle of dust for good measure.

  "Thank you," he called.

  The fairies made a sound like spitting and flew off, leaving Hook splayed beside the lake.

  Peter was relieved to see that the color of his skin was normal again, his breathing even. Pixie dust had gathered in the hollow of his collar and was sprinkling slowly down his chest as the breeze disturbed it. Unobserved, Peter stared at the strong lines of Hook's shoulders, the hard slope of his chest, the black hair that wound its way down his belly and beneath his trousers. He made himself look up, but seeing Hook's face calmed by sleep was no better. He looked peaceful and handsome, his beard overgrown after all their time underground. Peter wanted to reach out and feel how it curled against his cheeks.

  Hook's eyes opened. Peter leapt up, berries spilling out of his shirt. His face was hot, and he couldn't think of anything to say.

  Hook stretched out a hand, snatched a wild strawberry from Peter's collection, and dropped it into his mouth.

  "How do you feel?" Peter asked.

  Hook hummed and pulled himself into a sitting position, reaching for another berry. Peter crouched and offered him the rest of his forage. "Remarkably less like a dead man," Hook reported, after eating a little more. "I never knew you were the sort to threaten fairies."

  "Only if it's important," Peter said, finishing the berries and brushing out his shirt.

  Hook frowned at him, but it did not reach into his eyes; it was almost a smile. He spent a few minutes inspecting the closed wound on his shoulder, running a finger over the stitches. "Remarkable work," he said. "Thank you."

  Peter shrugged. Hook leaned over to splash cold, fresh water over himself, washing away the sweat. Peter caught himself watching a trail of water snake down Hook's chest and cleared his throat. "I owed you," he said. "Now we're even."

  His own words took a moment to sink in. They were outside the cave. Peter had received the antidote, and Hook the fairy stitches. Their truce, at least in theory, was at an end. Whatever rules had allowed them to be friendly in the caves no longer applied.

  He saw the realization sink into Hook's shoulders even as he was turned away, running wet hands across his cheeks. They both grew still.

  Then Hook moved first, spinning around and driving Peter to the ground beneath his weight. Before Peter could react, Hook planted his forearm across his throat and bore down on it. Peter wriggled like a fish, but Hook outweighed him and no amount of flailing his legs or yanking at Hook's arm would budge him.

  "So," Hook said, "the fight is back on."

  Peter could not draw enough breath to say that he hadn't intended to hurt Hook. He looked up into Hook's eyes and saw them gleaming, as they always did when he closed on a kill. But time seemed frozen; Peter saw him clearer, and closer, then he ever had before. He was caged under Hook's broad shoulders, his wide back. He tasted the heady, musky scent of Hook's body and flinched, shivered, as one of Hook's long black ringlets fell and traced across his cheek.

  It was impossible to breathe, and not because of the pressure on his throat—because there was a frightening heat racing through his veins, a flush crawling through his cheeks, a sensation he didn't recognize that made him gasp for something to slake his thirst.

  Hook saw it. He saw it, and paused.

  His gaze traced over Peter's face, taking him in, cataloging him, and Peter could not remember ever in his life feeling so stripped bare. He didn't know what Hook ascertained, only that it made him laugh in what seemed like raw astonishment.

  "Let me go," Peter stammered, his words coming out throaty and choked under the weight of Hook's arm.

  There was a knowing in Hook's eyes that Peter couldn't fathom. "Far be it from me to hold a man down if he's unwilling," he said, and released Peter suddenly, climbing to his feet and leaving him on the ground.

  Peter could not move, the shock of Hook's words racing through him, making his heartbeat ring in his ears. It seemed unfair that Hook had realized it an instant before he did, had given it a description.

  If he's unwilling. The mocking ring in Hook's voice made it clear that he knew Peter had not been unwilling. That for a moment the weight of his body had been welcome, exciting.

  Hook was backing away from him now, warmth and curiosity in his voice. "A truce, Pan," he called. "Let us call it a truce for now."

  He snatched up his coat and disappeared into the trees.

  *~*~*

  Hunger eventually convinced Peter to move. The berries and nuts had been barely satisfying, and after all the fighting and his near death by the poison, his body was aching for something to sustain it. He dragged himself up and went hunting until he stumbled on a rabbit, which he roasted on a spit and devoured.

  Though it had been an exceedingly pretty day when he and Hook had emerged from the cave, sun high in the sky and puffy clouds overhead, the heat intensified until it was muggy and suffocating. Soon Peter was sweating and grimy, his shirt sticking to him. He smothered the fire he had made and sat in a tree above it, nibbling at the last of the greasy meat and licking his fingers.

  He was in a strange mood. The thought of Hook, which he had crammed to the back of his mind, was not staying as far back as he wanted. Even when he managed not to think about it, an uneasy awareness of the thing he was forgetting trickled along the back of his neck.

  He cast around for a distraction until he remembered the very real need to find where Ernest and the other Lost Boys had gone. He made his way back to the hideout, finding it by the smell of smoke. It was as empty as before. Peter ventured a short way into the underground, but it was nothing but soot and dirt. There was no sign of the boys.

  They had to have made it out of the caves. Ernest had been with them; he would have taken care of them. Except Ernest was wounded, Peter remembered with a twinge of concern. Where could they have gone? Where would they have hidden?

  The rain started as he emerged from the hideout. It was a thick, clogging rain that turned the earth to muck and made Peter feel as if he were drowning standing up. He flew above the forest, circling out in a spiral from the hideout and finding nothing but beasts. When he was soaked through, he retreated to shelter under a tree, where a cluster of fairies spun a web above him to keep out the rain. He sat there in damp misery, alone with his thoughts. He tried to think about the Lost Boys, about Ernest, but his mind kept circling back to Hook.

  It had been so instant and obvious, the full-body yearning he had felt when Hook's weight crashed down on him. The way it had shifted from the threat of violence to the threat of pleasure.

  What did it mean? Peter ran his hands down his legs, shivering absently at the memory of his skin prickling, pulse pounding. He had never felt that way before about anyone or anything. But it had been happening all along with Hook, he realized, from the very first moment they had reunited in Neverland.

  You liked it when Hook was trying to hurt you, Ernest had said.

  That wasn't quite right, because he had liked it when Hook wasn't trying to hurt him too. It wasn't the threat that had captured Peter's attention. It was the way Hook had leapt in to meet him when he started telling stories of war and violence, as eager as Peter was to fight and scheme. It was the way he had given Peter his full attention, the full force of his ruthlessness, without ever worrying if Peter could handle it.

  That was it. Everyone else had followed him at best, at worst tried to stop him or change him. Hook had matched him, and had never tried to protect Peter, had always done his worst. That was what felt so good.

  Peter pressed his palms into his eyes. That had to be wrong, he thought. It sounded wrong. But it was far too powerful a feeling to ignore.

  And when he had been really hurting, when he had been mourning Tink, Hook had softened so s
uddenly he had been like another man entirely—he had relinquished the game at once, grieved with Peter, been kind to him. Peter hugged his knees, trying to decide what it all meant.

  Eventually he slept, and woke to dew beading on the ends of his hair and dripping down his cheeks. The fairies had left him in a circle of pixie dust, and although Peter could see the tracks of snakes and other wild beasts outside it, nothing had crossed the circle.

  The sky was still gray and sweaty, an uncertain fog hanging over the forest. Peter drew breath, deciding to follow his nose into whatever adventure first presented itself. Maybe if he spent the rest of his life dreaming, like Hook, eventually he'd forget it was a dream and be content again. Maybe it wouldn't matter why something felt good as long as it did.

  But before he could choose a path, a fairy sprang down from the tree above him on a silk cord, glittering and flaking dust. In one of its many limbs was curled a slip of paper. "A message," the fairy chimed in a tone which made it clear that it did not appreciate being made a messenger. Peter thanked it and unrolled the paper.

  The hand was instantly familiar, flowing over the paper in a ponderous and elegant script. It read:

  My dear Peter Pan,

  You are hereby invited to dinner aboard the Jolly Roger to discuss the conditions of a ceasefire between yours truly and the Lost Boys. At this dinner, both parties shall agree to do each other no harm. Should you accept, the Jolly Roger will be anchored in Jewelbox Bay until tomorrow, and dinner shall be held at six p.m. sharp.

  Yours sincerely,

  Jas. Hook.

  Peter crumpled the note. He shouldn't go. There was no reason for him to go. Hook wouldn't attack the Lost Boys anyway if Peter left them alone.

  Seeing Hook would be dangerous.

  He shouldn't go.

  Sunlight darted through the clouds above as he tore up the note and scattered it. He caught the fairy who had delivered the note by one of its long limbs and held it up as it wriggled and cursed at him.

  "Take a message to Hook," he said. "Tell him I'll be there."

  Thirteen

  Jewelbox Bay was near the shallows outside Death's Head Cavern, but it couldn't have been a more different location. It was a pretty sapphire bay ringed with hills, above which there were flowering orchards that gave fruit in three seasons. Peter could distinctly recall a time when he and the Lost Boys had let fly a deadly hail of arrows from those trees and given the Jolly Roger and its crew the appearance of pincushions below.

  A proper meeting between captains, Peter knew, should begin precisely on time, with all parties dressed in their finest and accompanied by a grand entourage. Accordingly, he descended onto the deck of the Jolly Roger fifteen minutes late and all alone.

  He expected some kind of bristling hostility from the remains of Hook's crew—they could at least have clutched their weapons and menaced him as he walked between them. But the pirates were all in poor shape and shrank from him. Peter felt a little guilty for scaring them.

  He knocked at the captain's cabin. From within, Hook called, "Come in."

  Peter went inside, his stomach growling before he could even take in the dinner that had been laid in the center of the cabin. It was a feast: an enormous stuffed fish in the center was surrounded by dishes of wild roasted chicken, platters of greased and steaming vegetables, butter and bread. Peter swallowed, willing himself not to be distracted, and looked to the captain himself.

  That was even more distracting. Hook sat like a china teacup in its saucer, dressed for dinner in a sea-green silk waistcoat. His curls were gleaming, pulled back into a knot at the base of his neck. His beard looked freshly trimmed, and even his nails looked neat beneath the lacy cuff of his shirt. His hook rested in his lap, out of sight.

  Peter was conscious of his dirty clothes. He hadn't been able to do much to improve them aside from washing in the stream, and the bloodstains had been too stubborn to remove. But Hook didn't seem to notice any of that; he was gazing at Poseidon's circlet where it rested on Peter's head, startled into wondering silence.

  "Hello, Captain," Peter said, and gave a cautious bow. The crown threatened to fall off his head if he leaned too far in any direction.

  Hook cleared his throat, some color in his face, and gestured to the remaining seat. "Please, sit."

  Peter took a step forward, but stopped behind the chair. "I'm not here for the Lost Boys," he said. "I don't even know where they are."

  "Oh well." Hook did not look sorry, or even surprised. "No sense in wasting a good meal. Sit."

  Peter sat. This close, the fragrance of the food made his mouth water. Hook leaned across the table and picked up a jug of wine. "Something to drink?" he asked.

  "How do I know it isn't poisoned?"

  "You have my word as a gentleman," Hook said. "I did say no harm would come to you at this meeting."

  "As if I'd trust you." But he took the jug from Hook's hand and poured himself a cup, wine sloshing over the sides and staining his fingertips.

  He wondered if Hook would mention their last encounter. This seemed a world away from Hook shirtless and wounded, pinning him down in the grass. Instead of saying anything, he smiled at Peter, his eyes darting from Peter's face to the crown as if the sight of it gave him pleasure.

  Peter looked away, his skin prickling. He filled his plate with all the meat and bread within reach and began chewing on chunks of each.

  "Are you and the Lost Boys to continue fighting together?" Hook asked idly. He ate too, albeit more slowly, with a knife and fork.

  "I don't know," Peter said. "You'll have to ask them." He swallowed a hunk of bread with a gulp of wine. It was sweet and dark, fruity and soft on his tongue.

  "Do you like the wine?" Hook asked. "I stole it from Blackbeard years ago. He said it was worth fighting a war over. I've been saving it for a special occasion."

  Peter took another swig to avoid answering him. It went straight to his cheeks; he felt them heating as he set down his goblet.

  Worth fighting a war over, he thought.

  "To our fallen companions." Hook offered his glass to Peter for a toast. "May we see more of them in their next lives."

  Peter took a deep breath and raised his glass. "To Tink." It still stung to say her name. It was strange to think she had been here, in Hook's cabin, apparently enjoying his company just the way–

  Just the way Peter did.

  Hook hummed his approval. "To Tinker Bell. A dear friend, and as fine a woman as ever resembled an insect."

  They drank.

  "If you're not here for the Lost Boys," Hook said, "then you must be here for me."

  Peter sucked in a breath. He couldn't speak, because to say anything would be to admit the truth: that he had always been there for Hook, he simply hadn't known it. The thought filled him with butterflies, with tingling nerves that weren't all unpleasant but still made him want to bolt away.

  He cast around the cabin instead, taking in its extravagance, studying the tapestries on the walls and pretending to be absorbed.

  Hook went on talking cordially. Peter ignored him, and only looked back when Hook said, "Don't you agree?"

  "What?"

  "That it wasn't really the Lost Boys and the pirates who needed to make peace anyway." Hook set down his knife and fork and wiped a smidgen of grease from his lip. He leaned back in his chair and picked up his goblet of wine, surveying Peter as he might survey a treasure map. "It was always you and I. Those boys, my crew—they don't really care what becomes of the island or the sea or any other battleground. It's our war."

  "That's right," Peter said.

  "Do we need them anymore?" Hook asked. "Do we need these unwilling soldiers to fight our battles? Or should we keep it between us?"

  Peter looked at him across the table. "What do you mean?" This was it, he thought. Ready or not, this was what he had come here for.

  "I mean," Hook began, "that perhaps we should consider a different spin on our engagements."

  H
e leaned forward. That was when the blow fell.

  As a matter of fact, it came from below. The impact struck the Jolly Roger in the keel with such force as to lift them both from their seats and send them flying across the cabin.

  Peter crashed into the door, stunned. The door burst open beneath his weight and sent him tumbling out onto the deck amidst Hook's frantic crew. All of them went sliding down the deck as the boat tipped stern-up and listed dangerously to one side, timbers squealing in protest.

  Peter bounced and slid into the port-side railing and clung to it. With an ominous groan, the Jolly Roger's prow dipped lower still, plunging into the sapphire bay. A pair of enormous tentacles slid from the water, wrapped around the figurehead, and snapped it off.

  A moment later, the kraken dragged its head over the prow. It stretched open its enormous mouth and shrieked, so high and piercing that Peter instinctively pressed his ear into his shoulder, tears springing into his eyes. The kraken's tentacles unwound across the deck, snarling around the masts for grip, its suckers tearing holes in the railings and ripping cannons and men from the ship. The Jolly Roger gave a shudder and a crunch as the kraken's full weight unfurled across her prow. The beast dropped a screaming pirate into its mouth, and a dripping tentacle covered in seaweed and suckers reached for Peter.

  Peter got his feet up against the railing and pushed off. He made it into the air only to get caught in the sail of a falling mast and crash bruisingly to the deck, tangled in ropes and heavy cloth. Panting, he struggled over on his stomach and crawled for what he fervently hoped was the edge of the sail. The deck was tipping and squealing as it cracked apart. Peter stuck his head out from under the sail, but couldn't free himself quickly enough to avoid the tentacle that rolled over him, snarling around his stomach and lifting him toward the kraken's mouth.

  Pounding at the tentacle with his fists did nothing. Its scaly skin was too thick to feel the blows. Peter yelled and kicked, fear making him dizzy, his vision blurring as the coil around his stomach tightened. The kraken brought him to dangle above its maw. Its blank square pupils fixed on him, and Peter stared back at it, wheezing, petrified.