Author's Note: This little drabble is based primarily upon SyFy's Neverland, but there are a few elements of other versions of Peter Pan in it as well as a few elements of my own upcoming full-length story including my theory of what happened to Jenny (Peter's mother). I don't want to give too much away about my upcoming story, but let's just say that it has a happy ending for everyone involved. :) If all goes as planned, it should be posted by July or August at the very latest. Hope you enjoy the story! Please R&R if you get the chance!
~CaptainHooksGirl~
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, Neverland, or any of the associated characters.
"Lest he should be taken alive, Hook always carried upon his person a dreadful poison distilled when he was weeping from the red of his eye. A mixture of malice, jealousy, and disappointment, it was instantly fatal and without antidote."
~Peter Pan, 2003~
Memories in Red
He's always had a thing for the color red. Red hair, red lips, red roses on the doorstep. Red cheeks flushed with color as she takes his hand—it's gone now. Red sunsets from the rooftops of London. Red wine in her glass. Red shoes and a red dress. She took the shoes off so she could dance. Red nails and red carpet. She takes a bow and the red curtain closes. Red sign on the door of her dressing room. He knocks and is greeted with a kiss—his cheek is probably stained red, but he doesn't care. Red heart pendant on a silver chain—he can't afford a diamond now but someday he promises he will.
Red hot anger in his veins. How could she do this to me? Caught red-handed. Red blood on the pavement in the red glow of the streetlamps. Her eyes are red with tears but not for him. Red fingers rubbed raw from working all day. Red ribbons on a bouquet of red flowers for her grave. It's empty but everyone assumes she's dead. Red blanket around the shoulders of a boy. He looks so much like her.
Years come and years go. Neverland is red, too. Red men, red mud, red fires on the horizon. Red splash as two men go overboard. He tries not to think about the crocs. Red jealousy, red glares. When he goes through Starkey's clothing he chooses the red coat. Red passion, red power—but it isn't really love and he knows it. White lies with red lips. Red flames and she's gone. Red rage, seeing red. If you look closely, you might notice the red spark in his eyes. Red pool on the ground, red soaking into his sleeve—it all happened so fast! He can feel his lifeblood slipping away, but somehow he survives.
Red rouge on a girl much too young to be so grown up. She reminds him of someone else. Red Riding Hood, Rose Red. She tells stories to the boys—his boys!—and somehow he can't help but envy her. Oh, what he wouldn't give for the red brick walls of London! Red stain on his shirt—it's deep but not a mortal wound. Red on the boy's blade, red on his hands. Peter looks torn. Red mouth snapping at his feet, red death waiting to swallow him up. But he slashes and scratches and rips and retaliates until he is free from the mighty beast's womb, a veritable rebirthing if ever there was one. There is red in his eyes and red on his face and red in his mouth, soaked in blood from head to toe. He's never seen so much red!
The clock in the crock stopped long ago, but the red second hand keeps ticking away. Has it been days or years since they arrived? He honestly doesn't know. And then one red-sky morning when the red men are out hunting he sees a sight he that nearly takes his breath away, for among the red-skinned, dark haired beauties is a lily-white girl with soft red curls, and though it can't be her, it is. And it comes rushing back—red hair, red lips, red roses on a doorstep with peeling red paint and a rusty red knocker—and he feels a little piece of his red heart crack. Red faces as they shout at each other. Red throats gone hoarse from screaming. The crew parts like the Red Sea as she leaves while he cradles his red cheek where she slapped him.
Red pours from her chest. Red splatters on the red ground. Red runs through his fingers as he tries to stop the bleeding. Red stone in a red locket tucked beneath the red leather of her dress—he's surprised she's still wearing it. Red drains from her cheeks, and it kills him to know that it's his fault—his bullet. It wasn't meant for her! Red flags, red warnings. Not much time left now. Red glares from the red men and red eyes bright with tears on the boy he once found wearing a red blanket. Everyone is watching, but it doesn't matter now. None of it matters. He kisses her soft, less-than-red lips and buries his face in her red-stained clothing. The red shoulders of his coat tremble. He hopes no one notices the red liquid rolling down his cheek.