Author's Note: This little one-shot was inspired by Taylor Swift's song "Never Grow Up." Additionally, Kittie Darkhart's story "The Man Called Husband" was very influential in the tone of this fic.
Never Grow Up
All children, except one, grow up.
The boy's ridiculous, selfish claim that he would remain a child forever had always troubled him. Impossibility aside—for he had seen many things he would have once deemed impossible on the island—it was the sheer self-centeredness of the boy's proud declaration that he would remain a child forever that got underneath his skin. Time was never meant to stand still. Life was never meant to be static. To tear a mother's child from her breast, to take away her chance of ever getting to see him grow and change and become his own person…. Peter had always believed that his mother had forgotten him. James Hook—though he had spilled the blood of countless children—thought it more likely the selfish brat had broken his mother's heart.
Foolish boy, he thought. How many mothers have wept for their lost children because you spirited them away in the night to be a part of your little band of renegades? And for what? For FUN?
Another voice, fainter yet firm in its conviction, whispered back, And you, James Hook…how many mothers have wept because of what YOU have done? And for what? Revenge? How very GROWN UP of you….
He shook the thought away.
In the dim glow of a solitary candle, he could scarcely make out the silhouette of the sleeping child in the bed, the silver curve of the iron claw resting just beneath her jaw. He tipped her head up slightly so that he might better see her face. As he did so, her eyelids fluttered, and she let out a contented sigh.
Perhaps she is dreaming of the island, he thought.
A single dark curl fell across her face, and he moved to brush it aside, his fingers trailing softly over her cheek, half expecting her to wake. But instead, her lips tilted upwards, parting just enough to reveal a little row of pearls. Her hand, which had been resting on the pillow, twitched and readjusted its position, her fingers curling gently around the hook, and a smile crept its way onto his countenance.
He shifted the implement ever so slightly, careful to point the sharp tip away from her throat. The girl was in no danger, for the child sleeping in the bed was his.
MY child.
The thought struck him suddenly and was so overwhelming that his vision blurred, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. He hurriedly blinked them back, but one managed to escape, snaking its way down his face until it reached his jawline and, trembling, dripped onto the sheets.
He had never viewed himself as the sort of man who would become a husband and father, and if anyone had made such a ludicrous remark years ago, he would have promptly laughed in their face and shown them exactly how hilarious he thought they were by giving them the hook…in a very literal sense of the term. He glared at the prosthetic appendage with an expression of shame and disgust.
Dear, sweet girl…so innocent…so naïve of the world and its evils…. Would you cling to me so if you knew of the things that I have done, the lives that I have taken? Would you dare to touch the darkness of my soul with such boldness? To wrap your hand around this wretched claw, forged in the fires of my hatred and gorged on the blood of children, without fear or contempt?
The soft rustle of silk and the slight creak of the door on its hinges drew his gaze away from the metallic gleam of the hook shining in the candlelight to the shadowy figure of a woman at the threshold. He quietly raised a finger to his lips, smiling, then tilted it downward, gesturing to the sleeping child. The shadow joined him, taking a seat at the foot of the bed and slipping its arm around his shoulders.
"You should come to bed, darling. It's late."
"I know." He paused for moment. "She is so beautiful…like her mother."
"And brave…like her father."
He frowned. "I am not brave."
One day, you will have to tell her everything, he thought. And she will hate you for it. I am not brave. I am a coward.
The conversation had drifted in this direction many times before. It always ended the same, and so the woman chose not to argue the point but instead placed a light kiss on his cheek. "She will understand when she is older."
"Perhaps…."
His eyes betrayed a tiredness that ran deeper than the need for sleep, as though the hundreds of years he had spent on the island had suddenly caught up to him in a single night.
The figure cloaked in darkness stood, tugging gently at his damaged arm. "Come. You need rest."
Slowly, he drew himself up to his full height and began the process of delicately disentangling the claw from the child's grasp, careful not to prick a finger. He glanced briefly at the open window, a warm sea breeze causing the curtains to flutter like ghosts in the night.
Perhaps you had it right after all, Pan. If I could keep her like this forever, if I could shield her from the world and all its cruelties….
He leaned over the bed, pressing his lips tenderly to the child's forehead.
Someday, you will have to grow up. Someday, you will see me for what I am and have to choose for yourself whether you can forgive me. Someday, you will fight your own battles and face your own crocodiles…and I may not be able to help you. Someday…someday…. But not tonight.