I own nothing but OC's. Enjoy.

Tori's POV

Commonly known as Peter Pan Syndrome, the adult body maintains the mentality of a child; a curse given to the most unfortunate in my opinion. Why be ridiculed or diagnosed as sick for never wanting to grow up? None of us ever do really. There will always be this resistance within, this fire that only subsides as our doubts and social needs grow. The real question lies in what's worth losing your flames.

My eyes snapped away from my laptop screen and to the large window. Nervously scratching my mahogany desk with my fingernail, I stood. That was the fourth or fifth time I heard a noise coming from the window. There view wasn't blocked by any trees and the cool October air didn't carry much of a draft. It was as if a young handsome suitor had been throwing pebbles and I didn't realize it. Ha, yeah right. I laughed to myself and tiredly shuffled over to the windowsill.

Looking below, all I could see was my dark backyard slightly lighted by the full moon. My eyes traveled upward, then side-to-side. Still nothing. Shrugging, I reached forward to bring the double doors of the window towards me, latching the lock for the night and drawing the grape colored curtains. The small desk lamp next to my laptop even seemed too bright for my tired eyes. It was past midnight and I still didn't have this stupid report done. If Grandmother knew how late I've been staying up, she'd kill me. Besides, it was a long day tomorrow.

I'd been attending Brickford High School in London, living with my grandmother Wendy in her childhood home. I slept in her old room. She's lived here all her life, she said. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to live in the same house for the rest of your days. Where would you find excitement? Mystery? Thought excitement would broil up in a matter of hours now.

Because my mother was coming to visit.

Don't be fooled by the enthusiasm. My mom isn't exactly the most caring human being in the world, another good reason why I'm living with Grandmother. She's been attending rehabilitation for the past sixth months. As far as I know, her unmentionable addictions have become a tad more manageable. My father died when I was very young. I hardly remembered him. The real adult figure I had in my life was Wendy.

I shook my head quickly, hoping to kick the dwelling thoughts of my mother out of my head. I rubbed my hands over my eyes a couple times to wake up and began typing furiously. I was pretty good at telling stories from the top of my head, so writing a stupid psychology report wasn't too difficult. Storytelling (also known as bullshitting) runs in the family, especially on my mother's side.

Wrapping up the last few sentences, I let out a sigh of relief and saved my completed report. Piece of cake, right? Sometimes, I find my mind wandering while I'm trying to do something important. I guess I've always been a daydreamer that way, just like Grandmother. I really looked up to her. She was commonly known as "the woman with wings". She used to tell the story of "Peter Pan", how he whisked her away in mid-air and brought her to a world of romance and adventure. That's probably why I chose the syndrome as my report; to defend her honor. I laughed to myself again closed my laptop, leaving me with the overbearing light of my desk lamp.

"Tori?" the small, mousy voice came through my closed door muffled. I gasped and shut off my desk lamp, running across the large room into one of the three beds. I tangled myself into the sheets right as Grandmother opened the door. Pretending (well, half pretending) to have been asleep, I slowly sit up and peer through the dim light creaking around the doorway. Grandmother's silhouette leans over to spot me "sleeping".

"Yes, Gram?" I fake-yawn.

"Hmm, strange," she sighs in relief, "I thought I heard something."

"Nothing here," I smiled sleepily. Pretending to be tired isn't that hard past midnight, "Just sleeping."

"Well, okay," she replied doubtfully, "Goodnight, love."

"Goodnight," I conclude. As she shut the door, my eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Grandmother always got this way at night. On multiple occasions, I'd catch her peeking into my room in the middle of the night, making sure I was still there… like I could just disappear.

Gosh, that damn window again!

Peter's POV

Sixty-five… that's how long it's been. Sixty-five years of watching through that blasted window and the girl finally decides to get a decent pair of curtains. It wasn't her fault. Her grandmother never even bothered to tell her the truth behind her story-telling.

Wendy knew I was here. I could feel it in my bones. I would watch through the window of her room, waiting for her to check on her granddaughter. She was protecting her from me, knowing more than I did that something was coming.

Something was coming for the girl that now sleeps in her bed, shares her blood and skin, and has the same green eyes that dance like moths to a flame. It was like another Wendy in that bed. If the real one didn't want the bad things to creep on her, she'd have to let me first.

The same jingle of bells ringed through my ears. Another warning from Tink. It used to be a lot easier to drown out. Either I lost my touch or I was getting into a lot more trouble nowadays.

Peter, no. This isn't right.

"Be careful, Tink," I laughed, trying to see through the curtains, "You're caring side is showing again."

I'm serious!

"So am I," I replied.

Please, Peter. The girl will be fine. Nothing in London is going to touch her.

"I'm not worried about that."

There was a pause. Hook hasn't been seen since Wendy, Pan. Let's just go home. I'm weak, and you're growing.

Despite the fact that Tinkerbell was extremely obnoxious and bossy, she had a point. Being in London this often wasn't good for a small thing like her. It was cold, impure. She wouldn't last a week. Though I always offered for her to stay home, she insisted on coming. Mostly because she doesn't trust me a lick.

Another though lingered in the back of my head but stifled it. It wasn't worth the worry. But as I looked down at my hands, my fears had been confirmed. My arms were much more muscular, hairier. The Indians back at home had to sew me bigger clothing. Yes, it was true.

I was growing.

"Tink," I swallowed, "If she's in danger…"

Just tonight, Peter. Please. I'll even let you return on your own next time.

Looking beside myself, I laid my eyes on the orb of golden light known as Tinkerbell and smiled. "Okay," I gave in, "Let's get out of here."