A/N: Thank you to my one reviewer so far, I hope to see more reviews creeping through soon. I'm going to try to update the story fortnightly, working around my university commitments- I hope you understand.
On with the story!
Vivienne
. . . . . . . . .
Peter rolled in the buttery soft sheets, moaning lightly under his breath. Light streamed in through the lead-lined windows of the ship's cabin, slowly illuminating the space. His body was swallowed entirely by the bed, a single green leaf resting on a forest floor. His breast rose and fell softly with each breath, hands holding the sheets comfortably; a gentle smile spread across his face, reaching the corners of his mouth quickly. Stirred by the sunlight, Peter began to wake, and as he rose realised he hadn't ever seen the Jolly Roger this intimately before. His head was pounding, a regretful reminder of the vast quantity of whiskey and rum he had ingested the night before.
What did I even do last night…?
Light moans and whimpers found their way to his ear; a girl was in the bed beside him. The boy froze in panic. Who is she? And then it all came flooding back.
The drink.
The flying.
The crying.
And Wendy.
Fucking Wendy.
He groaned, and brought a hand to his head, shaking it slowly. What DID I do? How did I get in here? Who is she?
He couldn't quite recall that detail; the girl's name escaped him, though her raven curls gave him a heavy hint. Hook. The girl mumbled in her slumber, rolling over to face him, and sleepily grabbed at his arm. The room began to grow warmer, a slight flush growing across Pan's face. The girl looked so gentle, so peaceful. Slowly the details of the night before came to him; she was Hook's daughter, and she knew that he had come to fight the Captain one last time, Peter felt a growing sense of guilt in his stomach. A guilt that rose to his throat, catching his breath.
Jumping to his feet quickly, and walking unsteadily over to the window, Peter opened a window just enough to allow his head to hang out and proceeded to bring up bile until his throat felt dry. Fuck… The thought of having embarrassed himself in front of a total stranger, of showing his weaknesses, especially that of Wendy, was almost too much to bear. He steadied his hands against the window frame, and breathed deeply, bathing in the sea air, the salt stinging his nostrils. He wasn't sure what he should do. If he stayed she'd likely try to talk to him (what was it with girls and their incessant talking?) or possibly fight him herself; Peter smiled inwardly, a brief memory of his fight with 'Red-Handed Jill', Wendy's alter-ego. But then that crushing, suffocating hand of hurt found its way around his heart once more. They had only fought due to Peter's ignorance and overt male bravado; Hook had provided Wendy with an even more fulfilling escape, a role, a name, even. He had allowed her to become a woman, the woman she was inside.
Hook was the source of Wendy's maturation, the one who drove the wedge between the two of them.
''You're awake?''
He spun on his toes quickly, arm reaching for his sword, only to be grasping at air.
''My sword… What the fuck have you done with my sword?!'' Peter roared, charging at the bed; the girl cowered a little, before bracing herself against the head of the bed, and folded her arms, attempting to be authoritative.
''Your sword? Well, if you ever want to get it back and find yourself still alive, I'd start by asking politely and being quieter. Don't forget my cabin has a guard…'' She said calmly, eyes fixed on his chest. Francesca dared not look him in the eye; Peter was volatile, and understandably confused and angry. She had to try to remain civil, and calm, and most of all, ladylike. She was the adult in the situation. Just keep him talking, keep him away from the door, but most importantly, keep him away from his sword, she repeated to herself in her head, kneading the bedsheets in her hands to remain calm.
Peter's eyebrow twitched, his knuckles white with repressed rage as he stalked over to the bed, trapping the girl with his sight. She appeared not to be afraid of him, but he knew how intimidating he could be. On several occasions, one of the Boys had wet themselves with fear when he had lost his temper with them. So long as he could maintain his presence and his intimidation tactics, he knew he could win.
Get the sword, and just fly on until you're back to the tree, Peter, he told himself. Mission set, his feet took eleven strides to the side of the bed, and quickly took hold of Francesca's wrist, prompting a pained whimper. ''Where. Is. My. Sword?'' he asked again, looking her straight in the eye. Blue Ocean swirled around the girl's dark, dark irises, drowning her in mild terror.
''I… I told you, ask politely…'' She replied, instantly regretting her decision. ''I was told never to tolerate r-rudeness…'' Hooke hissed, trying not to cave into the pain her wrist was being subjected to.
''I'm not being rude, I just want my fucking sword!''
A knock came at the door, muffled enquiries as to Francesca's wellbeing following. She whimpered again softly, pressing herself back into the bed, attempting to bring her breathing back into check. ''Y-Yes, I just woke up from a bad dream, that's all. I'll be out soon for breakfast'' she replied, waiting for the gruff grunt which confirmed her status. Peter was now looming over her small frame, still swaddled in her sheets and bedclothes. I won't do it… I won't… He won't get to me! She steeled herself, determined not to let Peter win.
''For the last time, where is my sword?'' He snarled under his breath, now holding both of Francesca's wrists tightly, his tan hands as gold bracelets about her untainted milky flesh. His eyes darted around the room, searching for any trace of weaponry. Given the quarters were formally the Captain's, he imagined there would be any number of swords to lay his hands on; but he had eyes for only one, his first, stolen from a sailor who had dared question his authority on Neverland, and met his end at his own sword. Terrified, Francesca looked quickly over to the window seat, the cushion of which was laying strangely, as though a long, thin object were under it. She bit her lip, desperately hoping the boy above her wouldn't notice. Chest rising and falling heavily, the mistress Hooke began to cry silently. ''Y-You're hurting me… ''
Peter's eyes came back to meet hers fully for the first time; in an instant he had flown from the bed, retrieved his sword, and taken a valiant stance atop of the barrel-chest at the foot of the bed.
''Oh, the cleverness of me!'' he proclaimed. ''I knew you hadn't hidden it that well!'' The boy chuckled once more, then his face hardened his entire disposition more horrific than before. Slowly, he walked back over to the bed, his arsenal once more complete. ''Now, why did you put me to bed last night? Did you try to poison me with medicine? Is that why I was sick?'' His sword was drawn from its sheath, the steel ringing with the action. The figure in the bed trembled, stuck fast to the bedhead. She was lost for words, she was going to die, she was-
She was Francesca Hooke, and took no nonsense from any man, or man-child. ''I-I..' I cared for you, last night. I didn't have to!'' she retaliated, trying to appear not as concerned for her life as she was. If he's going to be this rude, you shouldn't give him an answer! Her logic screamed, but for some reason Francesca could not quite explain, she lowered her guard to the boy, giving up the fort. Bringing her legs up to her chest, and arms around those, her voice quietened, barely a murmur.
''You seemed broken… Like you needed a mother…'' She looked up at him and looked him square in the eye. ''A mother''.
