A/N: This story is a modern day AU, where everyone is human and there is no magic. The Lost Boys and the Redskins are street gangs, the Mermaids' Lagoon is a Hooters-like establishment, and Hook runs a shipment business which masks his criminal activities. Rated T for mature language and themes, though there is nothing explicit.

CHAPTER 1

Gravel crunched under the tyres as Tink brought her Harley into a stop before the tall granite walls of the prison. She took off her helmet and looked up, eyes going over the barbed wire coiled on top like a nest of black snakes. What a depressing place. A glance down at her wristwatch told her she was just on time — it was 4:28. And yet, the gates remained shut. What were those bastards waiting for? Were they really gonna release him on the dot?

Tinkerbell got off the bike and leaned against it, waiting impatiently. At 4:28:52 she thought that if her best friend was not out those gates in sixty-eight seconds, she'd break in to get him. At 4:29:27 she was mentally going over the escape route and trying to remember the number of that one guy with the fake passports. At 4:30:08 a sharp horn cut through the air, and a crack appeared between the the big prison gates. As the gray slabs gave way, a grinning Peter Pan took his first steps towards freedom.

They had released him in the clothes he was arrested in, which was to say a too-tight-for-him-now green shirt and jeans ending a few inches above his ankles.

Tink almost doubled over but managed to keep the laughter bubbling inside her to a snort. "Peter Pan, the free man," she teased when he was close enough. "You shrink your clothes in the washing machine? Or did you decide to take up ballet?"

He took the last few strides at a run. "I'll show you ballet!" he said playfully and scooped her up, spinning her around as she laughed. "Oh, it feels good to be outside!" he said when he put her down, stretching his arms. Looking her over, he added with a grin, "You've put on weight, Tink. You're heavier than I remember."

"That's because I was fifteen the last time you tried to lift me," she replied, smiling at his teasing and handing him the spare helmet. "Now get on. We're going for doughnuts."

"Aaaand now we know why you're heavy," Peter quipped.

Tink swung her leg over the seat. "Do you want to run behind the bike, Pan? Some exercise will help you fit into those clothes."

"Nah, exercise reminds me too much of prison," Peter returned lightly, getting on behind her and putting on the spare helmet. "When did you even get this?"

Tink stepped on the pedal and the engine roared beneath them. "Dunno," she said thoughtfully. "When I was seventeen, I think, so two years ago? It was after you got in the slammer."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Peter asked, his arms encircling her waist.

"You never asked," Tink replied with a grin. The bike spat gravel behind them as she took off, hitting 100 mph in less than three seconds.

Peter crowed loudly when they finally cleared the prison grounds.

o

After about half an hour's journey back into town, Tinkerbell parked her Harley Davidson outside The Dough Nut, her favourite fast-food joint.

The bald man behind the counter greeted them with a smile when they entered. "Hey, Pete! Good to see ya again, my boy!"

Peter shook hands with him and grinned. "Good to see you too, Murry. Lost the beard, I see. Did it finally gain sentience and crawl away?"

Murry's smile grew. "Nah, the missus got me to shave it off; you know how women folk are."

Peter's jaw fell. "You got married? Give my deepest condolences to the poor soul you've tricked into having you."

Murry's laugh thundered in the almost empty diner. "You're still the same cheeky little brat, ain't ya. Glad you're back." Then he turned to Tinkerbell. "The old usual, then, Tink?"

"You know it," she said, heading towards their old booth.

Shortly after, a tired-looking waitress brought them the usual — two cheeseburgers, fries and milkshakes, and a dozen chocolate-glazed doughnuts. It was what they used to have before Peter got caught, though nowadays Tink only passed by for the doughnuts.

The next few hours were spent in sweet, sweet indulgence, even if the burgers were on the greasy side. Tink didn't care; she loved this place.

"I can't believe you're still making me come to this shithole," Peter said playfully, watching Tink take an enormous bite from her chocolate doughnut. "Go to a Dunkin' Doughnuts; they at least have some sort of sanitation standards."

"Shut your face," she mumbled, mouth still full. Then she swallowed. "It might be garbage, but it's my garbage. You don't see me getting on your case about the stuff you eat."

His smile turned bitter for second. "That's because I've been eating prison food for the last five years."

Tink reached over, took some of his fries and flung them at his head. "Drama queen. I brought you plenty of food."

"Yeah, cold food," he muttered.

Tink rolled her eyes, sinking back into the booth. "Well excuuuuse me, Princess. You weren't complaining the ice cream was cold."

"You've brought me ice cream a total of two times!" Peter protested, throwing some fries right back at her. One got stuck in her bun, but she didn't bother to remove it.

"Fiiiine. I'll treat you to ice cream after this next job I have lined up for us. Heck, I'll treat all the Lost Boys if we can pull it off." Tink took a sip from her milkshake. "They're very excited to see you again. The Twins have been practising a new knife trick; they can't wait to show you."

Peter's face grew uncharacteristically serious. "Listen, Tink... I'm not going back to The Lost Boys."

Tink gaped at him in shock. The fry slipped from her hair. "What do you mean you're not going back? You can't just quit your own gang!"

He played with the straw of his drink, avoiding her eyes. "You've been doing just fine without me."

"We've been waiting for you," she countered. "I've just been keeping things together until you get out."

"That's just the thing, Tink," Peter said. "I don't want to go back in again. You know I passed my GED in there, and I started studying..."

Tink huffed and crossed her arms. "Law? Seriously? You're going to leave the life to become a lawyer? You want to be like the assholes that put you in there in the first place?"

"That's prosecutors," Peter corrected her, pointing with a fry. "I want to be a public defender. Help kids like me so their options aren't just jail or a life of crime." He popped the fry in his mouth. "I want to go clean."

Tink stared at him intently for a second, not saying a word. Then she sat up straight again, leaned over the table and stole a fry. "Alright," she said, biting off half of it. "Clean. Does that mean a legit job, then? I can pull some strings."

Peter shook his head. "I want to make it on my own."

"Are you sure?" Tink asked, raising an eyebrow. "It won't be easy."

Peter grinned. "Just the way I like it."

Tink laughed but simply shrugged. "Whatever you say." Then she downed the rest of her milkshake and stood up. "It's getting late. We should get you home."

Peter got up too, following her out the door. "And where is that, exactly?"

She threw him another smirk over her shoulder. "You'll see."

They got on the bike and drove, through the grimy, litter-covered streets of the city, past the fancy private villas and run-down ghettos, following the coastline as the setting sun coloured the sky in pink and orange.

Tinkerbell brought the bike to a stop right where the sidewalk turned into sand, and the engine quieted.

Peter took off his helmet. "You didn't build me a sand castle, did you?"

The headlight went dark. "Don't act like you wouldn't love it," Tink teased, getting off.

"That didn't answer my question, Tink!" Peter called after her, but she just laughed.

They made their way through the sand dunes to a wooden surf shack by the beach. Tinkerbell reached into the pocket of her black leather jacket and fished out a key ring. The lock clicked easily and they walked in, Tink flicking the lights on. The first floor had obviously been a shop at one point, but they didn't linger, and Tinkerbell led the way upstairs into the living space.

"It's not fancy, but it'll do," she said, letting him look around. She could have gotten him an apartment somewhere in the city, but Peter had always loved the beach, and she thought he'd appreciate the open space after so much time behind stone walls (not to mention that it would make it harder for his old enemies to find him).

"This is way better than a sandcastle," Peter said, tracing his fingers over the surfboards lined up against the wall. Then he turned to Tink, just in time to catch the keys she tossed at him.

"It's yours," she said. "Clothes," she said with a nod to the closet. "Ones that actually fit. Food," another nod to the fridge, "in case you get hungry. And money," she added, throwing him a brown leather wallet, "in case you need anything else."

Peter opened the wallet and counted the couple of hundreds in there.

Tink stepped closer and gave him a shiny new iPhone. "Use this if you need to reach me; it's untraceable. My number's already in there, and my address is programmed into the GPS. The password is 'Neverland'. And yes, it has games. Go nuts."

Peter grinned like a child on Christmas and ruffled her blonde bangs. "Good job, First Mate Tink! You've thought of everything."

She laughed. "Had a lot of time to prepare, Captain Pan." Tink glanced at her watch. "Gotta go now, I have to stop by the Crocodile at nine." Yeah, okay, she was supposed to stop by at eight, but Peter was a priority. "I'll check on you later."

Peter's face instantly turned serious, and he grabbed her arm as she turned away. "Wait. Don't tell me you're still working with that psycho?"

Tink raised an eyebrow. "Peter, you established a working relationship with him. I've just been keeping it going. He's a lucrative partner."

"He's out for himself," Peter said. "The only reason I was working with him was because I thought he'd help me bring down Hook, and look where that landed me. He's unpredictable, loyal to the highest bidder. He'd be just as likely to help you as he is to turn on you."

Tink rolled her eyes. "As are most thieves. Don't worry, I've only been working with him occasionally."

"That stops," Peter said firmly. "Tonight. Try to keep it cordial, but this is the last job you're doing for him. He's too dangerous."

Tink thought that he was overreacting but nodded anyway. "Last one."

Peter's features relaxed as he let go of her, and something like guilt flashed over them. "And Tink... Tell the Boys—"

"I'll handle the Boys," she said, zipping up the jacket. "They won't bother you unless you go to them."

His smile was still guilty but a little relieved. "The doughnuts will be on me next time," he called as she started down the stairs.

Her laughter echoed from below.

o

The Crocodile was a big man. Not big as in fat, big as in enormous. Six feet tall, bald, always dressed in leather, the middle-aged loan shark was as wide as a barn, and all of it was pure muscle. Rumour was that he used to be a boxer when he was younger, and the tall grandfather clock in his office reminded him of the rhythm of hitting a punching bag. Tink had sometimes wondered if maybe that was why people said he was crazy — this loud ticking would drive anyone insane.

The office itself was spacious enough, but it felt cluttered thanks to his knack for collecting and displaying rare and shiny things, like some sort of demented magpie. His other habit — expensive cigars — did nothing to help with the claustrophobic atmosphere of the room, and Tink had to wave her hand to disperse the smoke when she entered.

"You're late, little fairy," the Crocodile said from the big leather chair behind his desk, smiling unpleasantly.

"Traffic," Tink lied smoothly, reaching into an inside pocket of her jacket. "I'm here, aren't I?" She tossed a small paper package to him.

He put out the cigar and opened it. "And how is the traffic doing after five years behind bars?" The Crocodile poured the diamonds out of the package and onto the desk, then took one and held it up against the lamp light. His mouth stretched into a satisfied grin. "You should have brought him with you; I'd love to catch up."

Tink shrugged casually. "He just got out. Wants to settle in first, get used to not looking over his shoulder."

The Crocodile snickered. "Well, that won't happen any time soon. I'm sure certain people will want to seek him out once the word spreads. I myself have something particularly well-suited for his skillset."

Tink approached. "I'm sure a lot of people do, but he's not about to jump into high-level jobs before he works off the rust." Then she casually perched herself on the desk, crossing her legs. Voice dripping with suggestion, she added, "Is there anything I can do with my skillset?"

The loan shark's eyes moved away from the diamond pile, slowly crawling up her thigh. His toothy grin grew even more unpleasant. "There might be, little fairy." He stood up. "There might be."

Tink plastered a seductive smile onto her face, and her boot travelled lightly up his leg. "But first," she said softly, "there's something you owe me." She held up a hand.

The Crocodile chuckled low in his throat. He reached down and opened a drawer of his desk, giving her a manilla envelope.

She opened it on the spot, counting the banknotes inside. His giant paw fell on the other side of her thigh, trapping her. "Need to make sure you're not ripping me off," she muttered, more to herself than to him, as his heavy weight shifted so hard it made the desk creak when he leaned over her. "Well, they don't look fake at least," Tink said, flashing him a grin, then deftly slipped under his arm and headed to the door. "Nice doing business with ya," she called over her shoulder.

"Let me know when you're ready for a new job," the Crocodile called after her, his voice more amused than frustrated.

Tink waved vaguely, not even bothering to turn around.

The street outside the car wash the Crocodile used as a front was empty and littered with everything from discarded beer bottles to used needles. It wasn't a very prestigious location, but then again, the Crocodile wasn't anyone's first choice.

Tink made her way over to where her bike was parked and drove off, carelessly exceeding the speed limit. Headlights and street lamps passed her by in a blur as she made her way through the familiar roads, taking sharp turns down dark alleys, between run-down buildings and more city trash.

The bike came to a stop under the broken, flickering street light in front of the Lost Boys' hideout. Music thumped from inside as Tink walked up to the green door and pressed down on the handle. The security system—her own design—kicked in, cutting off the music and activating the metal grate, which slammed shut on the inside. Feet shuffled behind the door, and a voice asked,

"What's the password?"

Tink looked straight at the hidden camera above and said, "Eat shit, Slightly."

A snicker sounded from the other side, accompanied by the various clicks and clanks of the locks coming undone. The door opened and Tink walked in, taking off the leather jacket and swinging it over her shoulder.

The hideout used to be a club or a lounge of some kind before they took it over. When the gang grew to more than eight members the old place became too stuffy, so Peter had bought this off from a guy named Georgie. In typical Peter fashion, the place looked more like a playroom then a gang headquarters — pool tables, arcade machines, skee-ball, darts, all manner of video games, score boards—all topped by Peter—and an open bar (always stocked).

"Tink!" the Lost Boys exclaimed when they saw her. A quick glance around the room told her they were all here.

"Tink!" Curly called over the crowd. "Where is Peter? Is he coming?"

Looking at all these happy, excited faces made a heavy ball form at the pit of her stomach. "Gather 'round, Boys," she said, making her way through the room.

Way at the bottom, on a podium that might have served some purpose once upon a time, was Peter's Seat — a big brown massage chair they had found on the street years ago that Tink had been able to make functional again. It had been the first bit of furniture they brought when they moved in, and absolutely no one but Peter was allowed to even think of using it before he got in jail.

Tink sat down, running her hands over the armrests. Even after five years of sitting in it, she still thought of it as 'Peter's Seat'. She had never considered herself the leader of the Lost Boys; it had always been Peter, even if he wasn't there, and she had only been keeping things going in his name, waiting for him to return. And now... he didn't want to.

"What's up, Tink?" Second Twin asked as the Boys crowded in front of the chair, sitting down on the ground.

"When is Pete gonna come?" First Twin echoed.

Tinkerbell sighed and leaned forward, elbows propped on her knees. "Listen, Boys. Peter isn't coming back."

A wave of shock rippled through the gang.

"Those bastards didn't let him go?!" Slightly exclaimed angrily, slamming a fist on the podium. "We're breaking him out, right?"

"Of course we are," Nibs added. "We're not gonna let them keep him there! Right, Tink?"

All twenty-three angry faces turned towards her expectantly.

Tink sighed. "That's not it. He's free... but he doesn't want to lead the gang anymore."

The reactions fluctuated. Some still showed anger, some shock. Tootles looked on the verge of tears.

"Get a grip, Tootles," Tink threw towards him with a frown. "You're twenty years old, for fuck's sake."

"Why is he not coming back?" Nibs cut in. "He's our leader! He's supposed to lead!"

"He wants to go clean," Tink said.

"So he's abandoning us," Slightly said angrily.

"Watch your tone, Slightly," Tink warned. "And he's not abandoning us. He's choosing to do something better with his life, to help street urchins like us have a better future."

One of the newer kids snorted. "And you believed that? Puh-lease, that asshole is clearly out for himself! He probably wants to go solo so he doesn't have to look after the rest of us and fed you that lie so you wouldn't pulverize him on the spot, Tink."

Instantly, the air in the room changed.

Curly sprang up, overturning a nearby table. The beer bottles on top of it shattered loudly as they hit the floor. "You wanna repeat that?" he growled threateningly, face contorted in anger.

Others followed, rising from the ground. The Twins cracked their knuckles, Nibs bared his teeth in a snarl, and Slightly fingered the knife at his hip. Even Tootles, a guy everyone had repeatedly told was too sweet to be a gangster, was on his feet, bouncing a baseball bat in his hand. The Twins threw glances at Tink, just waiting for her nod.

Tink's face, however, was blank.

She stood up, slowly, and stepped down the podium. The Boys parted before her like the Red Sea. As she passed Tootles her fingers brushed over the bat lightly, and it came away from his hands easily.

"Those are some words, Greenie," Tink said, swinging the bat over her shoulder. "You sound like you speak from experience. You and Peter tight?" The kid shook his head, his face pale. The danger in the air was almost palpable. "I'm guessing," Tink continued casually, examining her green nail polish for chips, "he saved you from the gutter, like he did with most of us? Did he take you in when you had nowhere to go?" Her voice was deceptively sweet. "Did he steal a scrap of bread for you when you were dying of starvation on the streets?"

Without warning, the bat swung through the air, colliding into the kid's jaw with enough force to break it.

He fell to the floor with a bloody thwack, and Tink slammed her boot onto his face. "Because if he hasn't, keep that flapper shut." She ground her boot into his cheek. "Never. Insult. Peter Pan. In front of me. Again." The boot came off, and the bat swung into his stomach, making him curl up with another pathetic whine. "Anyone else have a problem with Peter?" Tink said loudly, looking around the room. A few heads shook, but no one made a sound. "Good," she said, swinging the bloodied bat over her shoulder again. "His return is not up for debate. He said he's not going to, and if any one of you bothers him, I will do more than break your face." She glanced down towards the newbie, still writhing in pain on the floor. "Got that?"

Everyone nodded.

Tink spared one last disgusted look at the whimpering creature at her feet, then turned around and walked back to Tootles. Shoving the bat in his hands, she said, "Someone get that green fucker out of my sight." Then she continued towards the bar and added, "He's on cleaning duty for the rest of the year."

The Twins picked him up and carried him away. Curly and Nibs set the table right, Slightly put the music back on and everyone resumed whatever it was they were doing before Tink came in. She took down a bottle of rum from behind the bar and poured herself a glass.

"So he's really not coming back?" Tootles said, perching on a bar stool on the opposite side.

"He's really not coming back," Tink said, taking a big gulp.

"Then… what do we do?"

"What we've always done, Tootles," she replied. "We pick up orphans. We rob places. We defend our territory. We keep trying to take down Hook. We party with the Mermaids and get in fights with the Redskins. We do our thing. We survived five years without Peter, we can do it again."

"And we really aren't allowed to see him?" he asked, heartbroken.

Tink looked away. "It could create problems for him. He wants something more than… this." She waved around the room vaguely. "He wants to grow up." Tootles looked down. Tink poured him a glass and slid it over. "If he has need of us, he knows where to look. And when he does, we'll be here."

Tootles glanced at her, smiled faintly and downed the whole drink in one breath.