High above the sleeping neighborhood street, a figure paces the shingled roof of a two-story brownstone. In the light of the full moon, he's bright against the sky, the early fall breeze teasing his hair into messy waves, raising a crust of goosebumps along his bare torso and arms. His jeans ride low on his hips, as if he hadn't taken the time to thread a belt through the loops before he'd climbed out of his bedroom window to pad silently onto the cool tile.
To be fair, he'd rationalized, it had been a bit of an emergency.
An emergency by the name of Emma Goodfellow-Grimm, four months young, oppressively colicky and with an astounding set of lungs, especially at two hours past midnight.
Mrs. Goodfellow-Grimm had had it - after five nights of an encore performance of shrieking and unsleeping, she'd thrown in the towel - practically hurled it, to be precise - with understandable violence.
"Alison was never like this!" She'd accused, as if all babies born to the same parents should be so kind as to behave in conveniently identical fashion. "She was an angel! She slept through the night at six weeks!"
Then she'd glared at her husband, like it'd been entirely his fault that something had gone this wrong with the gene pool between their fairytale induction into parenthood and this nightmare of unpredictable wailing fits and insomnia that was their second child. Her implication was abundantly clear: any obnoxiousness in their children's otherwise model babyness must most definitely be his doing, not hers. After all, Mr. Goodfellow was a legend, and not for the best reasons: for centuries, he'd prided himself in his penchant for tricks and misadventures, for being the bane of many an emperor's existence and a thorn in the side of any and every one naive enough to entertain his presence for more than the few seconds it took to unleash his unconscionable wickedness upon them.
His victims had all sworn that his retribution would come someday, and when - not if - that happened, it'd be utterly commensurate with the misery he'd inflicted upon them; the laws of karma surely required it.
And it seems the time for that payback is nigh, because here he is, gratifyingly disgruntled, rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand and cradling a wriggling infant against his chest with the other.
"Work with me, Emma, you little megalomaniac," he grumbles. "You've stolen your sister's thunder and you've taken over Mommy's body as your own personal food pantry and I can't remember the last time I slept for more than three hours at a stretch. The only things left on your To-Do list are to start a war and enslave the world. How hard is it to just fall asleep already? For Pete's sake!"
In the darkness, he thinks he hears a chuckle from the trees, but Emma wails on, and he decides he must've imagined it. Even so, he reins in his muttering, his bare feet continuing to pace the rows of tile, up and down, hitching his daughter higher against his shoulder, wincing as she turns her head and screams right into his ear.
He grits his teeth, rolling his eyes to the stars, but the heavens are as brass and he suspects the angels are smirking at him in his tribulation anyway, just as he himself had done unto so many others before. He can't fathom how he could've ever thought babies - even babies he shares with Sabrina - were tolerable, let alone wonderful; all his experience with them has led him to one conclusion: parenthood is the special punishment reserved for those too wicked even to be allowed in hell.
"Fine, you little stinker, let's fly," he resolves humorlessly. "Mom'll probably have a fit if she knew I took you up high when it's ten degrees out, but desperate times call for desperate measures."
He bundles her more tightly in her blankets, unfurls his wings and lightly jogs off the edge of the roof.
Immediately, Emma silences, whether from shock or the thrill of the ride, he'll never know, but he welcomes the sudden peace that gives way to the sound of the wind in his ears and the rustle of the leaves as he skims the treetops. Suddenly, he is eleven again, wild and carefree, once more the innocent, invincible boy before he'd embraced time and love and the gravity of fatherhood.
He wonders if he misses those years now that they are forever lost to him. And on nights like these, when he sheds the present for the tenuous sensations of his youth, he thinks that perhaps he does, until he remembers whom it is he holds in his metaphorical arms - first their mother, and then each of his daughters - and he fears his heart will burst from trying to contain it all.
No, he decides, he does not regret leaving his childhood behind. Not even when painting spirals in the sky to get a baby to sleep.
Especially when painting spirals in the sky to get a baby to sleep.
He grins triumphantly as he feels Emma relax into the slump of unconsciousness and allows himself one more corkscrew through the stars, more for himself than for his daughter, before angling toward their house once more.
To his surprise, a shadow moves on the roof, darkness undulating along the waves of shingles.
"Sabrina?" He calls out softly.
Again, he hears the chuckle, and the shadow shifts from where it's been leaning against the chimney stack.
"As risky and dangerous as ever, Trickster."
Puck lands, instinctively tightening his arm around Emma. In the silver light, he easily recognizes the visitor, but he's thrown all the same. He feels his defenses rise like a battering ram that explodes through his words: "You saying flying with a baby is risky and dangerous?"
The newcomer snorts. "Oh, no; I did it, didn't I? Drifted across the moon, night after night, without a care in the world. And I didn't just fly with them, I taught them to fly. True, Michael was a little older than your munchkin, but still."
Puck bristles. "All in good time. This one will fly when she's good and ready."
There is no retort, and each sizes the other up, curious in spite of the hostility the years have bred between them.
"Thief." When the visitor finally breaks the silence, the single word is as dark as the surrounding night, utterly incongruous with the boyish voice that warbles in an unsteady tenor.
"Excuse me?"
"All this time, you've schemed to plagiarize my life."
Puck's own tone is pure mirth. "Well, listen to you, spitting out big boy words like you actually know what they mean. You're an awful long way from Neverland, aren't you? And by the way. . . schemed to plagiarize your life? Newsflash! You can't prove intent. I married a lawyer. I know my legal terms."
"Married." A huff, condensing and evanescing in the space separating them as they continue to watch each other. "There's that, too."
A tired sigh precedes Puck's response. "Why are you here, Pan?"
Peter Pan, king of Neverland and leader of lost boys, his cheeks still round and full, almost pouts. "I go where I please. And if that means checking in with a friend from time to time. . . well, then."
"I don't think so. And sure, friends have been known to drop in on each other unannounced from time to time, but me and you, loser boy, are not friends. Not by a long shot."
Peter crosses his arms. "I was watching you."
Puck laughs, but quietly, because Emma is still (blissfully) asleep, "You and the whole world."
Peter doesn't respond, merely shifts his weight between his feet. His hands find his hips in his trademark pose, but Puck notices that he doesn't quite have his usual jauntiness and swagger.
"You stole my life," Peter repeats his accusation. "You grew up."
"If you're here to gloat, Pan, save it. I have more important things to do tonight than listen to you rub it in. And for the record, why would I steal your life? I don't even want your pathetic life."
Peter's eyes widen unexpectedly. "I'm not here to gloat."
"Well you sure as heck aren't here on my roof for tea and crumpets at two freaking a.m."
"I . . . was curious."
Puck's eyebrow lifts. "About. . .?"
"What it looks like."
"What what looks like? The view from a blooming roof? This coming from the one who used to land on them so as to steal children from their beds?"
Peter stiffens. "No. I meant . . . what it looks like to let it go. . . "
"Let what go? For the love of Hypnos, make some sense, Pan! I don't have all night."
"Childhood."
"So you have come to gloat." Puck spits out, then hurriedly pats Emma, as if he's afraid the noise might've startled her. She's still out cold, one plump cheek deformed against his shoulder, her mouth forced open in a tiny breathy triangle, so he feels brave enough to continue. "Well, let me share some of its highlights. Zits, which I didn't have because my body is perfect. Body odor, which I already patented even before puberty existed in the universe. Ravenous hunger, which could also well be a symptom of a thousand other diseases like malnutrition and . . . and . . . war. And hair in places you wouldn't believe. Or maybe you would, because you're such a starry-eyed snot. Not to mention mood swings, stupid girls hitting on you, and let's not even get started on the birds and the bees. Don't tell me this is all news to you or . . . wait, let me guess: you slept through Health Science 101 and you're here for the Cliff Notes version."
Peter's mouth is set in a grim line and Puck wonders if he's possibly overdone the sarcasm, not that he cares.
"But don't worry," he ploughs on, "it's not all doom and gloom. There are a couple perks. Like you're this much taller and bigger, which is an excuse to eat even more food than before. Which is all kinds of awesome. Then there's this one - " he gestures to his sleeping daughter and grins suddenly, "-when she's not screaming blue murder, that is."
Peter follows his gaze, and stares at Emma with an unfathomable expression.
"Hey - didn't you have three kids?" Puck asks suddenly. "Um, not your own, I mean, but . . ."
"Michael, Christopher and . . . Wendy," Peter replies quietly. "Yeah."
"What happened to them?"
"They grew up."
Puck whistles softly. "And you didn't."
Peter's eyes darken to flint, and he swallows before bitterly agreeing. "No, I didn't."
"And now you're having second thoughts." Puck relentlessly continues his psychoanalysis, feeling the tables turn as he entertains the first stirrings of smugness. "So you're here to ask me for advice. Well, well. Frankly, I'm beat. I doubt I could help a dog find its own tail, let alone help you find . . . whatever it is you want to find. Howzabout you check back during normal office hours?"
"I'm not here for advice, either!" Peter flushes hotly. "I just thought . . . you and I had something in common, that's all."
"Yeah, right. What could we possibly have in common? I'm the boy that didn't want to grow up; you're the one that never did."
Well that was especially witty, even for me, Puck virtually high-fives himself. Unfortunately, that especially witty observation doesn't get any more out of Peter than a frown, and Puck blinks, confused. On any other day, he would've loved nothing more than to run Peter Puking Pan off his property but there's something about the boy appearing tonight, on his roof, at this ungodly hour, that whets his curiosity. He decides he's willing to play along, if only until he falls asleep on his feet.
"We're both kings," he prompts indulgently. "I'm King of Faerie; you're King of Neverland."
"That's not the same. You rule a kingdom. I just babysit children."
Puck exhales, frustrated. "Well aren't we having a pity party tonight? Help me out here, Pan. Weepy backstory: years ago, I'd have loved to go to Neverland, far away from the court and its restrictions and rules."
"Why didn't you? What stopped you?" Peter's fascination is completely genuine and it strikes Puck that he sounds more like the boy he is in that moment than any other thus far in their bizarre conversation.
"You, duh." Puck snorts. "I was sick of being mistaken for you. So why on earth would I want to actually meet you?"
"But we did meet. I remember - when I turned up at the dock of that little town years ago. And you lied to me. You said there was no such place as Ferryport Landing."
"Took you this long, huh? Sucker. That really wasn't a lie, FYI; you just had lousy timing. Look, you turned up right after the war and the place was leveled. Technically, there was no Ferryport Landing left."
"If I'd stayed, if you hadn't tricked me into leaving, maybe things might've turned out different."
Puck hefts Emma to the crook of his arm and waits till she's settled into her new position. "Let's pretend for a moment that I care. How different?"
"For one, I might've found a reason to grow up."
Puck casts him a bewildered look.
"Like you," Peter explains.
"You don't need to be in Ferryport Landing to find a reason to grow up," Puck retorts, incredulous at how narrow-minded Peter's being. Then again, he reminds himself, Peter's a child; he can't be expected to reason any better than one. "Next, you'll be saying we'd have become BFFs. Go live your own life, Pan. Stop living mine. We were never meant to be each other."
With that, Puck turns to head back into the house, the past week's fatigue a deep ache in his bones; he'd been feeling that a lot lately, skimping on sleep and working overtime at the castle, trying to be everything to everyone. He thinks longingly of his bed, of falling asleep next to Sabrina, of floating away in dreamless, uninterrupted coma.
"She died today."
Puck pauses, not so much at the words as Peter's voice itself: haunted, hollow.
"Wendy?" He whispers.
Peter laughs bitterly. "No - the wicked witch of the west. Yes, Wendy."
Puck's mouth is agape as he swivels back, counting the years, trying to remember how old, what the real story was, whether there'd been a happily ever after.
"I'm sorry," he finally says, and means it.
Peter is a statue but for a spasm along his jaw, and Puck casts about for more to say. Something about the Math that doesn't quite add up find its way out of his mouth before he can think of how stupid and pointless it is. "She must've been real old. Uh, that was a long time ago when you . . ."
"She was a long-liver, yes. Longer than most mortals, I think. I . . . I've never really paid attention to how long they . . . Why. . . why did it work out for your mortal and not mine?" Peter's voice, initially soft and distant, swells into a roar as he turns on Puck in sudden fury.
"I . . . I don't know." Puck stammers out, so taken aback by Peter's ferocity that he forgets to take offense on Emma's behalf.
Peter glares at him, but Puck notices that his eyes are rimmed with silver. "You're very lucky," the angry boy chokes out, fighting to hold himself together; his hands clench and unclench, over and over again.
"It's not luck." Puck's own eyes narrow. "I chose this. I sacrificed for this."
Peter shakes his head violently. "I meant that she gets to live forever, too. Your mortal . . . became immortal."
"It makes no difference. Even if she didn't, I'd still have aged. Fact is I already was - way before I knew she was gonna live forever, my body was already headed downhill. Apparently, it had a mind of its own, so to speak. So yeah, moot point; I would've grown up for her, regardless."
"And watched her die?"
Puck swallows. "Yes."
"You only say that because it's safe to. Because she won't ever die. And so there's no danger."
Puck guffaws, a loud, crude outburst in the stillness of the night. "Oh, there is. All the time, Pan. She goes running after death all. The. Time."
"Be flippant, Puck, why don't you -"
"-Oh, I will, thanks for the offer -"
"- but you can't deny that it's still the luck of the draw. Your story just happens to have a happy ending. Mine just ends. Gosh, I don't know why I even bothered to come- there's no point talking about it, is there? Wendy's not coming back, not ever. She's gone."
Peter falls silent and they stand together, an unlikely duo of boy and man who, had it not been for their choices years ago, would've looked much like each other still, child-kings of their respective domains, casting their cares to the wind and their spells upon the world. Instead, they're disparate silhouettes backlit by the autumn moon, one slight and bowed, the other almost two heads taller and cradling new life in his sinewy arms, travelers on divergent paths through life and time.
"If you're looking for a pep talk, Pan," Puck sighs, and his voice husks with uncommon compassion, "look elsewhere. I'm not known for my empathy. Plus, I'm exhausted, I can't do anything for you, and I've got to put this little stinker down before she wakes up and undoes all my work in the last hour. You have eternity to figure this out. Grieve, and move on. Keep doing what you do best: find those lost children and give them a family, because at the end of the day, that's what really matters, isn't it? Come on, you're Peter Pan; all this misery isn't a good look on you."
Much as it is hugely entertaining to me, he almost adds, but bites back as he looks at Peter's lined face.
Peter shrugs and turns away, then hesitates.
"If your Sabrina died - " he throws over his shoulder like an afterthought, "- grew old and died - even though she could've stopped it, could've chosen not to, would you grieve and move on? Could you?"
Puck tries to answer, wants to scoff and remind the young upstart that he, Sultan of Satire and Emperor of the Impudent, can do anything, doesn't care for anyone, but Emma chooses that moment to shift in her sleep and instinctively, he looks down - to see her mother in her elegant nose, her rounded ears, the fleeting smile that could as well have been gas as contentment.
And his words stick in his throat and he can't.
Peter tries for a triumphant smile, but it falls flat. "Thank you. I'll be leaving now."
"She almost did," Puck recovers enough to call after him. "Choose to grow old, I mean. She was going to marry a mortal."
Peter still doesn't turn. "Why didn't she?"
"Because I crashed the wedding. It was very dramatic. Everyone fainted, as I knew they would." The Trickster King's voice, ringing with merriment, now dips, and all its lightness becomes steel. "The point is, I fought for her. Did you, Pan? Fight for Wendy? Or did you just wait around hoping she'd stay young forever?"
It takes Peter a long time to answer. "Like I said, it doesn't matter. She's dead."
"Someday someone will turn up who isn't," Puck says. "Don't blow it then."
"Are you saying Wendy was my fault?"
"I'm saying you're a coward to blame fate for your life."
"And I say you're a fool for thinking you couldn't lose it all in an instant."
Puck freezes, memories hitting him like a sledgehammer: an angry father, gilded doors slamming shut, endless nights starving in the bitter cold, the shame of nakedness . . . and then the warmth of a brick kitchen, silver-haired kindness, the soaring surprise of a first kiss, the feeling of being wanted, of being unconditionally loved.
You have no idea, he wants to tell the disillusioned boy before him, what someone can lose before they get it all back. But Peter is in no place to understand that tonight, not when he's trapped in the past, adrift on his own grief as the wind picks up around them both, nudging them on.
As if he senses that he's finally overstayed his welcome, Peter walks to where the tiles end, toward the sheer drop below.
"Maybe I will," he says at last. "Try again, I mean."
"Maybe this time pick an immortal," Puck suggests. "You know, if you want it to really last."
Peter finally turns around. "And maybe I'll take your munchkin for a fly sometime," he offers, balancing tauntingly on the edge of the roof.
Puck's eyes fill his face. "Over my dead body!"
Peter smiles, wan, and Puck realizes he's been had.
"You need to loosen up, Trickster," Peter says airily. "Or people will start saying fatherhood's turned you into a chump."
Puck's mouth is still open when Peter takes off into the stars, and he watches the boy until the night swallows even his shadow, before floating off the roof himself and stealing through the nursery window. Emma doesn't even stir as her father tucks her into her crib and bends to kiss her forehead.
His own bedroom is silver with moonlight as he slides back into bed behind Sabrina. She turns slightly as she feels him under the sheets, and he frowns at how easily she wakes now, conditioned by the girls' unquenchable need for her at all hours of the day - and night.
"I heard voices. Who were you talking to?"
"Old friend," Puck whispers, wrapping his arm around her and pulling their bodies together.
"And you didn't invite him in? Who stands visiting on roofs in the middle of the night?"
"Oh, he was just stopping by. Didn't think it was worth waking anyone for. Especially after getting everyone to finally fall asleep."
"Still, you could've shown some manners. Oh wait, you're Puck." Even slurred from slumber, the sarcasm in her voice is clear. "Speaking of falling asleep, you made sure Emma was wrapped well, right?"
Puck smiles. "Duh. And she was out like a light in seconds."
"Fantastic. You can put her to bed every night from now on."
"Happy to." Puck nuzzles her neck, and then he's silent, simply enjoying where he is and whom he's with. "I love you, by the way."
Sabrina snorts indistinctly. "Okay, what did you do this time?"
"Nothing!"
"No, seriously," Sabrina turns in his arms, suddenly lucid. "What was it? Did you drop Emma in a puddle of mud? Ram a dirty diaper down someone's chimney?"
"Hey- now there's a new idea for a prank! Hahaha. Neh. Look, I swear, I didn't do anything. I just . . . figured something out tonight, that's all."
"Which is -?"
"That growing up totally stinks. But I'd choose it again in a heartbeat. And you, too. A hundred times over."
"And you got this from your rooftop chitchat?"
"Well . . . sorta."
"So let me guess: Sigmund Freud. That's who stopped by our roof at 2 a.m. for an impromptu couch session. You have the weirdest friends."
Puck laughs.
"I don't need a shrink, if that's what you're implying, Nuthead. I'm quite capable of a rational thought oh, every few centuries or so. Not that I'd admit it, mind you - I have a reputation to uphold, after all."
"Which went straight down the toilet once Alison turned up and made you all soft and goofy-eyed," Sabrina reminds him gleefully. "You know, some days I wonder if you're even the same boy who -"
"I love you," Puck repeats seriously, suddenly gripped with panic, relief and gratitude for what he has, for what he could've lost, for whom he'd sworn never to be but is so, so glad he's become. And then he kisses her, hard, with a determination that takes her completely by surprise, so that for a split second, she simply lies limp in his arms. But as she breathes him in, feels his skin on hers, that split second is all she needs to come gloriously alive, to bury her fingers in his hair and kiss him back. For a moment, they're nineteen again, desperate and yearning, and not two exhausted parents counting the minutes before daybreak sweeps them away in a tsunami of diapers and sippy cups and being needed in one million directions all at once.
Sabrina finally pulls away, breathless. "And I must love you too, because apparently, I'm choosing you over sleep tonight," she tells him, and he chuckles, because he knows how much it means for her to say that.
"I'll make it worth it," he promises huskily, and her heart races as his lips find hers again.
Outside the window, the night is still, and no shadow darkens the stars. But somewhere in the distance, another boy drifts across the moon while his silhouette dances on the treetops below, pulling away until he feels it rip from his soul. He isn't quite up for a smile, but he allows himself a memory of another time, and a girl with a thimble who'd stitched him back to life.
Grieve and move on, he turns the words over in his mind. Start over. Make a difference. You have eternity to get this right.
He whistles to his shadow, drops onto the roof of the city orphanage and waits for the sun to rise.
A/N: Hello! Hope everyone's summer (or winter, if you're in the southern hemisphere) is going well! Short one-shot today about something that's been in my head awhile- growing up and leaving people behind. Also, someone requested an Age Series story about P+S as parents, which is always a fascinating life stage to write about, except I didn't feel like doing the ultrasound-and-puking parts of it. The other bits - letting go and having zero control because babies are life-changing-crazy, not to mention losing who you used to be once you become a parent of a young kid - is way more fun to explore. And of course there's the Peter-Pan-Puck dynamic that's so rich and full of nuances. I've always wondered if maybe Mr. Buckley wrote Puck as the happy ending to Peter Pan's story because Peter's was just so, so sad. Anyway, hope you enjoyed. It's good to be writing again!