Author's Note: A lengthy story in which I explore the history and implications of Felix and his relationship with Peter Pan.
This story is also available on A03.
Warnings: Language. Implied non-con. Sex. Masochism. BDSM. Eventual spoilers for season 3 through episode 11.
Reader's discretion is advised.
Fidus Achates
A Panlix story in seven parts
Part 1
Chapter 1
An Old Promise
The first time I went to Neverland, I was about six. I'd gone to bed with a black eye and no supper for fighting another boy in the orphanage. I was hardly upset over it, and when I fell asleep I opened my eyes I was on a beach surrounded by a swath of trees.
The air was heavy in humidity, tepid. I felt like there was something different about this place. Something strange and magical in a way I was unfamiliar with.
There was something dangerous, something wonderful in the air of this place. I knew it in a second.
Something caught my eye in the water, and as I came toward it I noticed a school of reasonably sized fish gerrymandering around, jetstreams following them. I thought for a moment about taking one, and before I knew what was going on, there was a small harpoon in my hands.
With a smile on my face I gleefully stuck one through. I pulled it to the surface, admiring the way the scales glistened and mingled with the water dripping off its body and the blood replacing it.
Immediately I set to work. Using the harpoon as a makeshift knife I began scaling and gutting it, slicing up its stomach and removing its guts.
That's when a voice sounded behind me. "You can't eat those. "
"Wasn't planning on it," I replied, looking up to the voice.
There he was. For the first time ever, I saw Peter Pan. He looked so tall at the time, so old too, eighteen. He had a mischievous gleam in his eye as he stood with his hands knit across his chest. "Have at it then."
He waited while I finished with the fish, until everything was expelled from the little aquatic creature, before smiling charismatically and saying, "Welcome to Neverland."
"Where?"
"Neverland," Peter explained, "A place for lonely children to escape to in their dreams. A place where anything is possible - imagine it and you can have it."
And so the spiel went. Later I'd become very well acquainted with it. For the rest of that day, however, we ran around in the jungle, climbing trees, and harassing animals. We laughed and played, and I felt as though the real world was so far behind me that it almost seemed like the dream, or rather, the nightmare.
Eventually, however, we stopped our games and came to rest at the campfire.
And that's when I asked it. "Peter, can I stay?"
He laughed, a dash of bitterness hidden behind the exterior. "No, no. You'll wake up eventually."
"What if I don't?"
"Then I imagine you'd go someplace a bit different than Neverland, Felix."
I pouted.
"Tell you what," Pan said, "Give it a while, and perhaps we can extend your stay a bit. "
"Can you really do that?" I asked incredulously.
"Of course," He said with a raise of his brow. "Peter Pan never fails."
Ever since then, I returned to Neverland almost every night. I remember all the times we ran and climbed around in the trees. We threw apples into the air and shot at them with poison arrows. He'd remind me that target practice was target practice, even in my dreams, and I could always use my skills in reality if I wanted to.
When I grew older, we'd go hunting and raise hell as often as we could. It was hard to do much in my eight-hour increments, and I always wished I could've stayed longer. Pan had an air of purpose, of intention; it seemed as though he was plotting something. I wanted to know what it was, more than anything. I wanted him to trust me.
I think one of the reasons I was so taken with him was that I was used to people having two opinions of me. They were either utterly terrified or they seemed to hate me for simply existing.
Typically I didn't care either way. People aren't exactly something I'm comfortable with, so it was nice that others allowed me a wide berth.
As for the other half, well it was an excuse to get bloody.
I can't really explain what it is about fighting that attracts me so much. Something about dominating another boy, the risk of being dominated yourself. The bruises you walk away with. The cuts, the scars.
Whenever presented with the opportunity, I'd gladly put my fist in somebody's face. Not because I particularly cared about what they said or thought, but because I wanted the adrenaline, the testosterone, the masochism.
Of course, sometimes the other boys at the orphanage crossed lines.
And when they did, I'd stick my fists out and we'd tumble. The result of which was always blood, concussions, and a look of disappointment from our caretaker.
We were all in the charge of a rotund old woman we all called the Missus. She was a painfully optimistic woman who tried to reach out to each and every one of us "help."
With over twenty boys and girls in her charge, you can imagine how many of us she actually helped. (If you guessed none, you are correct.) I don't care that she "tried her best," she should have just left well enough alone.
She didn't need to offer us schooling, with etiquette books and outdated perceptions on the uses fairy dust. She pressed education on us - education we would never use. I had no interest in social climbing, and everybody else was too dim to even attempt it.
She didn't need to do any of it. All she needed to do was give us a place to eat and sleep.
And she sure as all hell didn't need to pull the Family card.
She always said, "For right now, we're a family. And you're all my children. So let's try to act like the big, happy family we are."
I think that's the part I hated the most.
I didn't need her help. I didn't want her help. More specifically; I didn't need her maternity.
I can still remember one specific time, I can still hear her tutting at me and the other boy - oh what was his name? I guess it doesn't matter - after she pulled us apart. Shame too. I was about to win.
She wanted to know why we were fighting, and there wasn't a satisfactory reason. The other boy pointed his stubby little finger at me, and I had nothing to defend. So, of course, she excused him from the room and sat across from me at the mahogany table and sighed.
"Felix," She said, her voice quivering from nothing more than age. "That's the fourth time this week."
I considered the statement. It appeared as though I was falling behind that week.
The Missus continued to tut. "I was speaking with a doctor in the village recently about all the fighting that goes on, and he told me that there's a tendency for boys - especially orphan boys- who are prone to night-terrors - "
"I'm not prone to night-terrors."
"They tend not to know the difference between dream and reality, so they don't know when to lash out and defend themselves," She ignored me, "So, what I want you to do Felix, is next time you get the urge to hit or make a fuss, look at the back of your hand. If it has too many fingers, is translucent, or otherwise looks or feels strange, you know you're in a dream. If it looks normal, you should abstain and be the bigger person. Can you do that for me, Felix dear?"
I shrugged. "Maybe I just like fighting."
"No," She said adamantly. "You just need a better outlet."
I didn't respond. There wasn't much I needed to let out in the first place. I didn't care that my birth-mother and birth-father didn't want me. I didn't have to compensate for feeling unloved - I just liked the feeling of smashing another guy's face in. I was perfectly fine with my current "outlet," thank you very much.
"How about literature?"
I stared at her.
"We could find you a few books, rehearse you in how to act properly, and just put all this behind us." She clapped her hands as though I had agreed. "Let's start soon. You can join us in our etiquette lessons. And soon you'll be a functioning member of society."
Mere words could not express my antipathy for functioning in Society.
Although I hoped she was bluffing, from that moment on the Missus used to stuff me and a few others into the den. She tried to tutor us and teach us how to be civilized. We learned all sorts of pointless words in flowery languages, to the point where if I really wanted to I could describe anything I wanted to with rolling letters and sounds foreign to me.
The thing was, I never really wanted to. And even if I had, I was never good enough for her anyway.
"Felix," She said one day when I was about fourteen. "I do think you need to talk more, enhance your amour-propre."
I'd pretend I didn't know what she said. Of course I knew - she drilled it into my head on a daily basis. But what she never understood was I had plenty of self-respect. It was to everyone around me that I couldn't extend the same feelings.
Actually giving a damn about yourself doesn't mean you'll talk about it all the time.
The old wench was persistent though. "I'm serious, Felix! You're getting older, and if you don't start to speak up or start to act like a gentlemen girls will start to think you're boring. Or…" She paused, fumbling over words, "Even dangerous."
Good, I thought. More incentive.
I never did have the nerve to tell her the extent to which girls disinterested me.
If I had, the other boys probably would have beaten me for admitting it anyway.
Not that they needed a reason. They already assumed that my quietness indicated any assortment of unsavory possibilities.
And they wondered why I spent so much time alone. Why my feet dragged in the dirt on my way back home. Why I never thought I owed them an ounce of loyalty - I wasn't in their family, never was and never would be.
I lived like that for nineteen years, drilled in boxing, bullying, and foreign words that meant nothing and would continue to mean nothing for the rest of my life
I didn't smile much. I didn't laugh much. I'd just fight. All the things that matter to me now were hardly even options in that life.
I lived in resentment of them. They acted like I owed them something. I was never able to tell what.
To make it brief, by the time I stopped growing I was more than tired of it; I was driven mad by it.
It was my nineteenth birthday, I remember. A day like any other at first. I sat in my lessons, learning which fork to use and when, trying to ignore it. It was a foggy, cold morning and I watched the clouds shiver on the ground, moving to and fro completely aimlessly. Kind of like myself, I thought bitterly.
I had lunch on my own, as was usual. The Missus offered to give me money to go to the tavern for a special meal, but I'd declined.
After everything, I stalked up and down the halls, wondering how long it would be until I could go back to sleep. I'd feigned narcolepsy so often that the Missus forced me to take a stimulant with breakfast every day to "cure" me. It didn't help much, as I spent my waking hours trying to get tired again.
Once the halls became passe, I decided to return to my own room and look out the window until I was tired.
When I returned to the dormitory, a bleak brown room with rows upon rows of four-poster beds, I was loathe to discover that I wasn't alone.
A small gang of boys, a few years younger than me, sat on a set of four beds laughing and downing bottles of whiskey. I rolled my eyes and made for the window.
These boys were usually the kind who ignored me. Not when they were drunk, apparently. A fat boy with a sweaty upper lip stood from his place on the mattress and called to me, "You talk in your sleep you know."
I ignored him.
He grew cocky then, with the rest of his friends following suit. He put on a fake high-pitched moan. "Peter," He laughed horridly. "Peter your boyfriend then, Felix?"
The others laughed as though it was the funniest thing ever.
"What's the matter Felix? Got nothing to say you little fa-"
"You have two seconds to take that back," I said slowly enough so it could get through their skulls.
"Take it back? Why? You might as well know. A year from today the Missus'll kick you out - you'll be on your own. Somebody'll kill you in an alleyway for it. Nobody wants people like you. Unnatural freaks of nature."
I lurched for him, ready to rip out his throat. Unfortunately, there was still a bed between us, and I tripped on a quilt that had been half on the floor.
They continued their drunken laughing. The fat boy mocked me again. "What's the matter, nancy boy? Overcompensating?"
That was the last straw, I jumped up over the bed and pinned the fleshy cretin to the wall. Grabbing a knife from my pocket I pressed it slightly over his throat.
"You know what?" I growled. "Maybe I am. I don't really know. But if you think it makes me weak - or that I won't fucking slit your throat you're mistaken."
I honestly wanted to kill him then, but back then I lacked the gumption to aid my natural tendencies. And so I stomped away, vowing that if they ever said anything again, I wouldn't be so gracious.
Thankfully, the mocking of stupid boys was never a deterrent to me, and as such I went to Neverland that night.
As usual I arrived on the beach. I was used to Neverland enough that I knew exactly where to head in the jungle. I think Pan knew when people arrived on the island, but I'd been seeking him out for a few years by that point, and old habits were hard to break.
I wandered through the jungle, skirting by the Dreamshade to make sure I didn't accidentally puncture myself with it. The humidity and green leaves were welcome to me. I let the insults from earlier fade slightly, because as far as I was concerned, I was home. Nothing that happened there - in the orphanage - really mattered.
Everyone was an idiot. I didn't need their opinions.
Pan lived in a treehouse, Hangman's Tree he called it. He typically didn't keep a ladder there, but I knew how to get in from a hole in the protruding roots.
I climbed up, smelling the same things I have for years - sweat, leather, various spices from around the island, and a telltale hint of blood.
My eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness and as I reached out for the door, I caught a glimpse of my hand. Eight fingers. I sighed. Neverland felt more real than the orphanage, sometimes I wished I could forget it was only a dream.
I came through the door, and found Peter sitting in the center of the treehouse, scooping coconut oil into a jar. Even though his back was to me, he straightened and I could tell he was smiling.
"You're back," He said, turning around to face me. "It's been a few days."
"Sorry about that," I said, although I knew I had a harder time of it than he did. "Couldn't get here yesterday for some reason."
Pan stood silently for a moment. After a beat, he cocked his brow. "How old are you now?"
"Nineteen," I said. "Why does it matter?"
Pan frowned. By this point he was almost a head shorter than me, so as he looked down, I wasn't able to quite make out his expression. "But you're still coming."
"Of course I am. Where else could I-"
"No, you don't get it. Neverland is only for children. And you," He paused, looking me up and down. "Aren't."
I felt my heart almost stop. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that it might not be long before you can't come here anymore."
"What? No. No. No!"
He was quiet.
I was panicking. How could I stay in that world? How could I live in the orphanage for another year without a respite? How could I brave the life assigned to me there? How could I brave a life without Peter Pan?
He sighed, turning back around to finishing bottling the coconut oil.
I don't like to admit it, but at the time I foolishly felt betrayed. I know Pan can do no wrong, but at the time I couldn't believe it. I was going to be alone. It felt as though somebody was squeezing my heart apart. And I dared to think, "How could he do this to me?"
Of course, all those feelings were ill-conceived and wrong.
I didn't know it at the time, but he was about to cash in on an old promise.
