A/N - Hi, everyone! Welcome to my first Peter Pan fic - I hope you enjoy what I've done with it. Feel free to leave comments with constructive criticism (and hey, I'm not above it, flattery is appreciated as well grin ); I'll love you forever!

--Adusiriel

A Man of Feeling and a Storyteller - Chapter One

Wendy woke up quite often, either because her alarm clock went off, or for no reason at all, or because she thought hopefully that she had heard someone in the room. Tonight, though, she was sure that someone had entered her room.

Instead of the usual fright felt by a woman with an unknown intruder in her room, Wendy felt only excitement. Her eyes closed as she listened to the patter of a boy's feet crossing the wooden floor and the pad as they walked on the rag rug she had made from an old dress of her mother's.

"Wendy?" came a boy's voice from above the bed.

A hesitant smile curved her lips as she opened her eyes and gazed at the boy hovering above her, for it was Peter Pan. He had (finally) come for her, and her only fear now lay in the fact that she had grown old in his absence.

Oh, she wasn't really old – Wendy had just had her eighteenth birthday a few months ago. On that day, she had moved away from her parents and come to a very modern university which accepted women into its ranks. She studied writing and story telling, and had gotten top marks in her first term.

"Peter," she said, smiling as his name passed her lips. "I knew you would come."

"Of course I did," Peter replied, looking scandalized that she could have thought anything else. "What did you expect?"

"Your memory isn't always the best, dear," Wendy said with a grin. "The number of times I had to remind you to change your socks can't be counted."

Peter glared at her. "Socks aren't important right now," he said. "I need to see you. Did you keep up your end of the bargain?"

Now came the part Wendy had dreaded for many years. What would Peter say once he saw her face, her clothes, her body, her eyes? "As well as I could," she murmured, leaning out of bed and striking a match so she could light the lamp.

She climbed out of bed without facing Peter. Once her feet touched the cold floor, she eased herself around apprehensively and screwed her eyes shut so that he might at least be spared the sight of her aged eyes, at least at first.

Peter's gasp and screech would echo in her mind for years to come: "Urgh! Wendy, what have you done? You . . . you lied to me!"

"No," she pleaded. "Let me explain, please -"

But Peter's face had gone stony and his shoulders straightened. A closed look came into his eyes, and his mouth tightened as he tried to hide the betrayal. "It doesn't matter," he stated. "I don't need you. I don't need anyone. I am Peter Pan."

"Exactly," Wendy sighed. She thought: Little do you know . . . I believe you felt love, even if you denied it.

Peter turned to leave, the rough soles of his feet rasping against the windowsill as he climbed up. "Good-bye, Wendy," he said.

"Do you still like stories?" Wendy asked on impulse. Somehow, she couldn't bear to see him leave her, even though she knew it as good as useless to try to make him stay.

His foot slipped slightly, or maybe Wendy simply imagined it, but she pressed onwards. "I know some great ones," she said coaxingly. "Since I saw you last, I have gone to school for the sole purpose of learning stories. Did I ever tell you about Beauty and the Beast?"

"Noo," Peter said unwillingly.

"Would you like to hear?" Wendy asked.

Peter paused to consider carefully, his head cocked to one side thoughtfully. "Perhaps I could take you with me, just this once," he said.

"I don't know if I could go," Wendy said, trying not to smile. "I wouldn't want people to worry . . ." she trailed into silence, waiting for his reaction.

"Then I will leave."

"Then you will never learn the story," Wendy pointed out.

"I don't care!" Peter said petulantly. "I can find someone else to tell me."

"Let's face it," Wendy said. "Anybody who acknowledges the fact that a small, arrogant, flying boy has come into their rooms, asking to be told a story, would have him carted off to school straight away. No, that simply won't work."

Peter rose into the air, crossed his arms, and sulked for a few minutes. After deciding to speak to Wendy again, he decided, "I suppose I could come back in a few days,"

"But Peter," Wendy pressed, "You said before that you would come see me every Spring, and it has been many years. Who knows? You might do the same thing again."

"Never!" Peter crowed. "I have an impeccable memory; you know that."

"Right," Wendy said dryly. "I would feel a lot better if you could stay here with me, just until tomorrow night. Then we can both go to Neverland."

"Wendy," Peter said. "You are still old."

"Only on the outside. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to sleep. Unlike some people," she said with a tinge of jealousy. He had no idea how his inexplicable constant wakefulness would have helped her during exam time. "Make yourself at home," she said, waving a hand at the window seat.

As she drifted off into happy sleep, she saw Peter lift the lid of the window box and pull all the contents onto the floor: blocks, bears, trains, and a very battered doll in a faded pink dress.

---

Once Wendy woke up in the morning, she fed Peter and herself breakfast and then made arrangements so that her sudden disappearance wouldn't trouble anybody. She spent the rest of the day telling Peter story after story: she read most of the time, but sometimes, she improvised a story while Peter acted it out.

Night fell around 7:00, and Wendy fixed dinner for the two of them. Peter ate energetically while Wendy shoved a few last-minute items into a sack she planned to take with her. A few minutes later, Peter had shaken faerie-dust over Wendy and they left for Neverland, flying at top speed through the sky.

Peter seemed particularly anxious to return home, though Wendy could not figure out why. Perhaps he was worried about the Lost Boys, but since when did Peter care about the well-being of others? Maybe he just wanted to take another swing at killing Captain Hook, but that being an every-day event, she doubted it.

Wendy couldn't tell how long it took for them to arrive, but when she saw the brilliant colors of the flowers in Neverland, she felt completely at home. "Oh, this is even more beautiful then I remember it!" she exclaimed happily.

Peter shrieked with laughter and dived through the forest and through a hole in the ground. Wendy, a slightly more cautious individual, drifted slowly through the trees, drinking everything in, before gliding smoothly through the hole in the ground.

She found herself in the Underground Home where she had presided all those years ago, complete with a dozen grimy boys brawling on the floor. Peter had joined in excitedly, she noticed, and was currently squashed underneath two kicking bodies.

"Who are you?" came a curious voice from behind her.

Wendy jumped, surprised that anybody had chosen to sit out the fight. "The same might be asked of you," she said, grinning. "I never expected Peter to actually allow a boy here who didn't feel the need to fight with your friends at the slightest chance."

"I'm Sophie," the girl said informatively. She looked to be about six years old, with brown hair and eyes and a studious expression.

"I'm Wendy," said Wendy.

"I have heard all about you," she said accusingly.

"Oh?" Wendy replied.

"You're the story teller," Sophie said as though nothing could be worse.

That's all? Wendy thought. "That would be me, yes. Is that such a bad thing?"

"No," she said hotly. "That would be me." Sophie stood up, crossed the room, and flew out of the hole in the roof, glaring at her the entire time.

Wendy sat in the newly vacated seat and wondered exactly what that had been all about. After several minutes, she heard Slightly's voice rise above the noise of brawling. "Hey! It's Wendy!"

A few hours later, after the Lost Boys had all thoughtfully punched her in welcome and clamored to be told the story of Cinderella, Peter had called for bed. Slightly, informative as always, gave Wendy directions to her house.

Unfortunately, due to either Slightly's bad directions ("Go that-a-way at the tree . . . you can't miss it, miss!" or the rather annoying tendency the island had of rearranging itself, Wendy found herself completely lost not five minutes after she left the Underground Home.

"Blast," she muttered, stomping through the marshy grass. Her hair got caught on a particularly thorny bush, and she stopped, attempting to eradicate herself.

Before she could achieve her goal, however, something hard connected with her skull and Wendy slipped into a painful unconsciousness.

Words: 1522