A/N: Heh, first Peter Pan fic. I'm oddly proud of it, even though it's kind of uncomfortably dark and arthouse (i'm not trying to sound pretentious, I honestly don't like those characteristics that slipped in :D). My main idea was actually like 'bring on the fluff' because I hated that staying as true as possible to the original text meant that Peter could never grow up, and therefore never share some legal action with our Miss Darling. I know I couldn't write it the grown-up way without slipping into cliche, so I tried it this way, and since the concept depresses me so terribly (you call that a happy ending? I don't!) the fic ended up being depressing. Hopefully, in the spirit of my past fic, I will be able to fit a big plot and big angst in a small space without succumbing to vagueness. Also, there is a bit of a POV change in between, but I couldn't help it. hopefully it isn't too jolting for you. ('' indicates mermaid speak)
A/N2: Also, the mini-chaps are song names from various Elliott Smith albums, but it is in no way a songfic. That is all. Enjoy and review:D:D:D
Catch Me
1. needle in the hay
She stayed. Of course she stayed, Peter never expected her to leave. Except for that time when he did. He can't remember what convinced her, when she changed her mind. It was so long ago, all he can remember is damp linen pressed atop him, like a weight that almost wasn't, and softly, softly, swapping thimbles with her.
He preferred thimbles infinitely over kisses, despite their awfully protective powers.
Wendy stayed, so the other two boys who came with her for some reason stayed also. The tallest of the pair did not remain with them long, deciding he preferred to sing and dance and hunt and exchange kisses with Princess Tigerlily. He left to join the Indians, and was welcomed with abnormally open arms.
The littlest Darling seemed forlorn thereafter, clutching his small furred warrior more closely and more often. But he was as important and unimportant as the rest of his lost boys, and Peter did nothing to quicken him.
No, it was Wendy he cared for, whom he loved. They shared a bed like a truly true husband and wife should. She objected, at first, declaring it improper. The only improper thing he could so far see about it was that occasionally he would awake, choking on her hair. He did like to hold her, though, as she was always warmer than he, her skin always softer, and she never smelled.
He could feel her weeping after the Indian left, and mistaking it for laughter he tickled her. They often wrestled and fought so, and he loved to tickle her, she would squirm and giggle, clutching at him weakly and pulling him close. She didn't do it that time, she dug her elbow into his ribs and turned to him furiously, her eyes wide and lips trembling.
"Oh, Peter!" she cried. "Why did you let him go?"
"Who, dear?" he said patiently, trying out the nickname of affection for the first time. The loved, it meant, beloved. He liked that. He liked the word love in any incarnation.
"John!" she said in a rush of air and almost a scream.
"The savage?" he asked, stroking the skin of her inner arms. Fairy wings.
She cried in a horrible wet rush, like a dam being overcome, "He-He was not a savage, he was a gentleman! He was an English gentleman!"
It seemed important that he know this, so he kept his platitudes to himself and listened to her say it over and over.
2. memory lane
Wendy complained of an ache in her stomach until she realised her complaints were as good as unheard. She remembers, vaguely, a ritual that she performed whenever this sort of thing occurred, something that was ease the pain enough so it would give up hope and disappear. Someone she could go to, who would help her…
…other, her mind whispered faintly.
Other? Her other? Peter was her only other, besides her sons whom she cared for dearly. Not as she did for Peter. Carnally was the word, she believed. She went to him and he took great delight in massaging her stomach for her. It felt lovely, easing her pain some but making her ache in some other, unnameable way. She would reward him with kisses for his efforts.
But the relief never lasted, and soon she was struck immobile by the pain, pinned under the weight of it. She became delirious from it and could feel lights and water all about her. She heard Peter's voice, and it tickled her unnaturally amongst the ache. She would giggle and weep, but all she could feel was the lasso of pain about her middle tightening…
…She was upright. Peter's nose brushing hers, his eyes bright and red and concerned. The pain ended with his embrace.
"Oh, Peter," she gasped through parched lips, "I—"
She did not finish her sentence. A horribly, horribly large amount of blood gushed out from between her legs, which buckled and crackled beneath her own weight.
He clutched at her in blind confusion as she fell, seeing only her blood and thinking only how beautiful it was, just like the rest of her.
3. sweet adeline
Peter soared over the forest, pipes clutched in his trembling fingers and tears cooling at his temples. His legs were still stained with her blood.
He shouted in agony at the memory, as he swerved down towards the lagoon. His music was poorer than usual, but the mermaids still congregated about him. Their faces wore smirks as their eyes slid over his face.
'He is crying,' one pointed out flatly.
'His beloved will be shark fodder by dawn,' sang another, sounding incredibly happy.
'Silence!' he shouted, 'Tell me what is wrong with her so that I might mend it!'
'Short of temper, short of brains.'
'Silly meat thing.' They seemed to giggle, but in a way mermaids do, loud and disgusting and wet, like many bones being pulled out of sockets in quick succession. Another shot of agony ripped through him and his hand whipped out, seizing the closest mermaid by her hair. She hissed and squealed, while the others clawed at his arm. He remained steadfast as blood welled up in his wounds and bits of skin fell away.
'Stop, sisters,' the grasped one said calmly, hollow eyes appraising Peter for what seemed like the first time. The others stopped instantly, but swam in defensive circles around their captured friend.
'You are a fool,' she spat, 'Neverland is not, and never has been, a place for ladies.'
'What would you know of ladies?' he said weakly, pitifully.
'Their bodies falls to the bottom of the water and we wait until their flesh rots off and we eat their tasty bones,' said she, 'We drown them when they come. Pirates hurt them in ways you, nor any boy, will ever know. Neverland does not want the ladies because they must grow up, they cannot live in fantasy always, or it will eat them from the inside out.'
'Why ladies?' he asked hoarsely.
'That is the way of things,' she replied impatiently, 'Now unhand me, Pan, or you will never reach your beloved by dawn, nor any other time again.'
'Will she live,' he demanded in a voice that cracked, 'If I return her home, will she live?'
The mermaid broke out in a grin that reminded him of an autumn leaf, 'Tis not long until dawn, precious.'
The writhed away simultaneously, disappearing under the black surface with nary a ripple.
4. bye
Michael grabbed at her skirts as they flew away. He remembers that, and surprises himself by remembering the boy's name. His furred warrior dropped yards away, tiny freckled face screwed up as he lunged and leapt for a steady grip on his mother. The others did so, but without the same fervour, and damn him if he can't remember a single one of the other's names.
Sister, he thinks, remembering the mermaid's words. Brother, he thinks, remembering something long forgotten.
Brother, sister, sibling. Love. Real love. Love that isn't forced, forced like…
I must grow up.
No.
I'm sorry but I must, I can… I can feel it, inside, I must…
No.
Oh, Peter…
Wendy, if you leave, if you leave… I will do something dreadful!
Do not say these things, Peter! It is undignified and ungallant! Please, please just let us go…
Your mother.
…What?
Your mother, she… she will not see dawn. Not if you leave.
She looked then how she did now. Pale, without life, like someone had sucked it out of her. But her eyes were open wide then, just-stabbed wide, he'd held her still for three days until she'd forgotten. He had nearly forgotten himself, or perhaps he had forced the memory away. Peter Pan would not threaten a gentle lady, especially not one connected with the girl he loved. Peter Pan would not—
He choked midair, body curling around the frail figure of his dear. Of his wife.
The stars that had entranced her so, once, her eyes were alight and… they rushed by like too much space between him and Wendy's salvation.
"Wendy!" he screamed, not allowing himself to lower his eyes to her face, not until the nursery windows were in clear sight, "Wendy, I know you can hear me! You-You seem to know everything right, everything that is right, not like m-me." He swallowed angrily, "Me, the hero, but you, everything that's good…."
He was supposed to say… something. Something he'd be honoured to say to her, something that would make her smile at him proudly like she used to. He wanted to redeem himself. But the sky lightened into a dark purple, and he tore through the night, Wendy's head flopping lifelessly into his neck. He could feel her skin, no longer warm. Cold, clammy, like… him.
"No…" he said slowly, the sky burning a dark red, the window was too far, too far…
A dull orange.
Blue. Like her eyes.
FIN.
A/N: Please review! It... feeds me.