Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.
AN: A prequel of sorts to Neverland, because the story itself is being difficult. Sorry to anyone who's waiting for the next chapter of Neverland; this ficlet is for you.
Daydream.
Wendy was lying on her bed again, middle of the day brief respite. Sunlight streaming through the long window, scent of lavender sheets and rose water, Pride and Prejudice lying open on her stomach. She may be fifteen and grown unloved on this warm summer bed, but through her half-lidded eyes she knew such beautiful pictures.
***
She saw herself slim and dark eyed in a high-waisted gown, her bedroom fallen away behind crowds of Georgian gentles. The ballroom glittered in cream and the rich yellow lamplight all around her. She looked about, her fan fluttering elegantly before her tasteful décolleté, as the band struck up a new dance. Suddenly there he was: six feet and more of dark, brooding Darcy, his hand outstretched as he begged the honour of this dance.
At this point Wendy did not care what the book might say; she was Elizabeth on this enchanted evening and certainly knew her own mind much better than Miss. Austen could.
Of course, Mr. Darcy, she caused herself to say. I should be delighted.
The sun was warm on her face, as the lamps were warm on Elizabeth, now promenading in a stately fashion with lovely Darcy. Wendy's eyelids slowly closed, the better to see her daydream.
***
The ballroom a whirl of champagne light and Darcy's dark eyes, the light pressure of his hand on hers as they met chastely in the dance, the chatter of the guests and the ripple of a spinet below the strings all vibrant, all hollow, all fading, all faded . . .
No! she cried, as the ballroom receded and her hair spilled down and her wonderful gown became white cotton against her skin. And the darkness was without form, and void, and she was twelve.
Hello, he said, smiling not as if he'd just performed a particularly clever trick, but as if she were the trick and the entirety. Her feet were bare but the void was not cold. Peter Pan, ageless as he must be, familiar and loved, was before her.
Where did it go?
Where did what go?
Everything.
His eyes were as green as leaves, and a chaplet of leaves crowned him. He smiled at her. We are everything, he said, and then he was moving towards her and her face was tilting up to him, and then
No, she said. This is wrong. This is all wrong!
Isn't this what you wanted? Wasn't it me who was afraid? But he was smiling still, that mischievous never fading smile, circling behind her. She turned, and there was nothing there but blackness and the void.
Turning back she turned herself fifteen, and he must have been at least seventeen now because he was looking down again at her upturned face. She said, Peter.
And he was kissing her. Kissing her and kissing her in the dizzying spinning void, and it was odd because although her eyes were closed she could see the void spin around them, and she could feel the slither and cinch of a brown leather belt around her waist. Peter's arms were warm around her and she felt the tickle tremble of a creeping ivy on her nightgown and a chaplet of leaves on her head.
All around them came soft lights that shimmered and coalesced into human forms, trees, vines and grass and a blue sky above. John and Michael and Tiger Lily and every Lost Boy were there, and Tinkerbell flitted jingling overhead, and safe in one another they watched as the very last of the darkness spun away.
***
Mrs. Darling let her daughter sleep until the sun shifted and the bedroom cooled.
Before Wendy woke, the fresh green leaf in her hand had been thrown away.