AN: Thanks for all the great reviews. This story seems to be writing itself.
This chapter may seem a little angsty and overly emotional, but I promise the next chapter will be nicer.
Thanks a bunch
-------------
Peter looked towards the closed door and made a mad dash for it. His dirty, bare feet shuffled and slipped over the wooden floor as he ran, but Peter reached the door and began pulling at the latch. It was locked fast of course, but Hook could not help putting his hand in his pocket and running his fingers over the edge of the key.
Peter kept tugging at the door, making pathetic little sounds of distress as he yanked his whole body against the latch and then began beating the door with his fists. Hook stood in the middle of the room and watched him. A man might have done some damage to the door if he kicked against it repetitively, but the brat couldn't make a dent in it.
Panicking, Peter ran to the window where Hook had stood to talk to him earlier. Peter rose up a few feet in the air and began pulling at the edge of the window. Hook had taken the precaution of locking the door before he let Peter in the cabin, so there was no need to worry. Peter went to each of the windows, half-running, half-flying. The windows were all locked, but Peter dashed to his last chance of escape, the closed door that led to Hook's bed cabin.
Hook had simply turned the bolt latch above the door, and Peter could have opened it with a quick turn, but in his distress, the boy couldn't figure out how to do it. Not that it really mattered; the bed cabin had a door to only one room, the small chamber that held the iron bathtub. The brat was trapped. But with his usual smart thinking, the brat ran back to the door that he had just tried forty seconds ago. He tried the door again and seemed overly distraught when it did not open.
Before he could go to all the windows and bedchamber door again, Hook decided that it was enough. "Looking for this?' Hook held up the key.
Peter saw it and bared his teeth in a snarl. "Give that to me. Let me out!"
Hook slipped it in his waistcoat pocket where the boy would have trouble pulling it out. "Well, well, well," he smiled coldly, "look who has come into Hook's clutches. Poor boy, all alone and helpless."
Peter's face looked like it was about to crumple, but he pressed his lips together to keep them from trembling. "Let me out, or else!" he yanked his little dagger out of his belt made from vines.
"Oh, a challenge," Hook idly strolled over to his desk. He reached in his top drawer and took out a pistol. It was an old flintlock, and he had no idea whether or not the gunpowder was still dry enough to catch a spark. But he pointed it at the boy and asked casually, "Do you want a bullet in your right leg or your left?"
"Now, wait a minute!" Peter protested, taking a step backwards. "I said earlier . . . we-we-we fight with swords."
"You did," Hook took one menacing step forward. "But I never agreed with you. Left or right? Or I could always put a bullet in your arm if you hold very still."
"Don't shoot me!" Peter cried. "No, don't."
"Then put your dagger on the floor," Hook directed, "and kick it over to me."
"That's not fair!" Peter protested, nearly stomping his foot. "You take my dagger, and then I have nothing."
"You're my prisoner," Hook stated flatly, "but you can decide for yourself whether you'd like to be a wounded prisoner as well. I'm taking that dagger one way or another, but I would like to keep my floor clean. Blood is hard to clean out of the wood-grain."
"You coward!" Peter spat at him.
"Still not helping yourself," Hook took another step forward. "I admit you are not going to have a great deal of choices during the near future – in fact, you're leaving here only when I decide to let you go. This may be the last choice you ever have, so use it wisely. Drop the dagger or get shot? It's your decision."
Peter made that whimpering sound again, but Hook kept the gun on him, waiting. Peter put the dagger on the floor and drew his foot back to kick it over.
"Stop!" Hook ordered. "Just walk backwards away from the dagger."
Peter did so, and Hook advanced. The brat was barefoot, and Hook did not want him to cut himself on the blade. Besides, it might scratch up the floor.
"Very well," Hook slid his gun into his leather belt and motioned for the boy to come closer.
Warily eyeing his hook, Peter shook his head.
"Come here," Hook said in a low, deadly voice.
Peter edged closer, but Hook walked towards him, hand outstretched to grab him.
"No!" Peter jerked back. "No, let me go. I hate you – I hate everyone. You're all mean and ugly, and I hate you!"
Hook clamped a hand on the back of the boy's neck. Peter immediately began to struggle, trying to push Hook off.
"You stop it right now," Hook threatened, "or I'll grab you by your hair again and pull you all over this blasted ship!"
Peter stilled his fighting for the most part, but he kept trying to shake Hook's hand of him with desperate little wiggles. "Please, let me go. I'll go away. I won't bother you. Let me go."
Hook dragged him into the middle of the room, towards the desk. Peter saw the chair that Hook had sat in to discipline him and the small wooden chair used after the punishment. Peter began to fight again, bucking backwards as he pleaded,
"No, please. Just let me go. Don't spank me again. No, I won't let you!"
"You don't really have a choice," Hook growled, dragging his squirming handful forward. He had not thought very much what he would do after this point. His main concern had been to capture the brat and hold him prisoner. But now that Peter was there, Hook wondered if he should try to scare the boy with more threats or just tip him over his knee and have at it.
But the boy was so dirty. Hook had never really thought about how or if any of the children on the island got clean, but he knew that the brat did not usually look so filthy nor smell like an alley full of pigs. And Hook hated to mess up the front of his trousers by having such a dirty creature squirming there.
So Hook kept dragging him forward. Past the chairs, past the desk, into his bed cabin, and finally into the bathing cabin. The room was about eight feet by ten, but the tub took up most the room, and there was all a small table, a chamber pot, and several large cuts of cloths for drying off. There were windows to let in light, but they were narrow panes of glass running down, too small for the brat to get through even if he broke them. Hook pushed Peter into the small room and ordered, "You sit on the floor and don't touch anything. If you break anything, you'll never sit down again."
Hook pulled the door shut and locked it with his key that fit both doors. Peter hit the door once, twice, and Hook was about to barge back in to chastise the boy, but then he fell silent. Hook waited, wondering if the boy had passed out or was just playing dead to get Hook to come back in the room. Then a sad whimpering came from behind the door, like a puppy begging for attention.
Hook smiled to himself, satisfied. He left the door to his bedchamber open as he walked to his cabin. He sat in his captain's chair and lit a cigar, enjoying the strong smell that filled the room. The cigar tasted different from the ones he had smoked on earth – these were made better and had a unique flavor that was enhanced as the faint smoke floated around his desk.
He would have to wait for Smee and the other pirates for the next bit. Yes, Hook was perfectly capable of doing things on his own ship, but he saw no use to dirty his hands. After all this was his ship, and if his crew saw him doing manual labor, they would start clamoring for democracy on the ship. Hook was not about to start that.
About an hour and three precious cigars later, he heard the crew coming back.
They were making enough noise on the beach to wake the dead, cheering about their hunt and the game they had found.
"Captain!" Bones shouted. "Rabbit for tonight. It's been three months, but we got fresh rabbit!"
Hook pressed his lips together to keep from shouting "You blunderbuss! We haven't ever had rabbit on this island! Can you not tell tough beef from rabbit meat? I should cut your tongue out – you wouldn't notice the difference!"
But Hook only strolled to the upper deck and looked down as his crew clamored up the gangplank, cheering and slapping each other on the back.
Starkey was holding a gray bunny in a net. And Hook again wanted to yell at them. One rabbit couldn't feed the crew and captain. It was a good thing that Smee found food somewhere; they would have all starved decades ago if left to the hunting prowess of the crew.
"Silence, you dogs!" Hook yelled, his voice ringing out over the noisy crew.
They all fell silent except for Smee who wormed his way to Starkey and tried to take the rabbit.
"I'll take you, yes, I will," Smee reached out.
"Smee, leave that animal alone!" Hook roared. "Bones, you and Starkey get fresh water heated. Fifteen buckets, all boiling and leave them outside my bed cabin door. Cookson, you and Nibbler bring ten buckets of cold water. The rest of you, get to your regular chores. Either this deck is clean, or you'll be eating off it tonight. Smee, follow me."
His arms full of the rabbit in the net, Smee tottered up the steps and followed Hook into his cabin. "Yes, captain, I'm following."
Halfway to his bed cabin, Hook stopped and turned around. "What are you really going to do with that rabbit?"
"Cook it, sir," Smee blinked from behind his round spectacles. "Cook it up fine with potatoes and parsley, yes, sir, just like last time."
"Don't lie to me!" Hook ordered. "We haven't ever had rabbit. What do you really do with the animals they catch?"
Smee shuffled nervously. "I let them go, captain, back to the woods with the little blighters. Please, captain, don't plunge your hook into me. I just can't skin the little things – an awful mess, sir, and stinks the whole galley up. We have plenty of food – we don't need to kill a bunny who won't make two mouthfuls."
Hook thought briefly about growing angry and scaring Smee half to death with the hook, but Hook decided against it. That was a game they could play another day.
"I have him, Smee," Hook confided in a low voice.
"Have another rabbit?" Smee peered up.
"No, you idiot! I have the brat, that little smart-mouthed urchin who brought us here and plagued us for years."
"Really?" Smee looked around himself as if expecting to see Peter in the room. "Where, sir?"
"In the bathing cabin," Hook smiled. "And I need you to do something for me."
It took nearly ten minutes for him to get Smee to understand, but that was long enough for by the time Hook had finished and the short man nodded in agreement, the water was ready.
Hook took the net hold the rabbit and hung the top loops of the net on a nail in the wall. Leaving the rabbit in the net to hang on the wall and wait, Hook motioned for Smee to come into the bed cabin. Unlocking the door to the bath chamber, Hook opened it slowly, wary that the boy might be waiting on the other side with a trap.
But the room looked empty. Hissing, Hook stepped into the small room. In the far corner, Peter sat huddled in a miserable, filthy ball, arms around his knees. He looked up as Hook entered with Smee. Peter pulled his knees to chest tighter, trying to disappear into the corner.
"Oh, captain," Smee said in wonder. "You do have him. What do you plan to do with him, sir? Gut him with your hook? Let him dangle with a rope around his neck while he kicks and turns red? Or have him dance around with Johnny Corkscrew sticking through his middle?"
Hook glanced uneasily at his bo'sun. Smee did not like to kill animals, but he seemed to have no qualms about hurting boys.
"I told you already," Hook reminded him. "Now, go get the water."
"Oh, aye, aye, captain," Smee saluted smartly and then ran out of the room.
Hook crossed his arms, careful to keep his hook from snagging his nice coat. The boy did not look dangerous at all now. No crowing or laughing or talking back, he seemed very small and pitiful as he huddled in the corner.
Smee carried two buckets of water into the bath cabin and poured them in iron tub, a burst of steam going up as the hot water poured out.
"Three buckets cold, seven bucket hot," Hook directed Smee, and the man nodded as he went out with the empty bucket. Each bucket held three galleons, and Hook was surprised that the short man could carry so much. He would not have reprimanded the bo'sun if he had carried only one, but Smee seemed to handle two buckets fine.
By the time Smee carried in the last two buckets, the tub was very full and a thin steam waved up off the hot warm.
Hook began to unbutton his outer coat. It was time for the big show, and Hook never liked to disappoint an audience. He took his time slipping each button out of its hole, and Peter watched with fearful eyes as he reached the end of the buttons and Smee helped him out of the coat. Savoring Peter's growing terror, Hook began to roll up the sleeve of his right arm, a hard task to do with a hook, but Hook managed. Then he rolled up his other sleeve, showing the metal of his contraption that fit over his stump. Then ever so slowly he unscrewed his hook and handed it to Smee.
Peter seemed to relax the least bit, but Hook ordered Smee, "Go fetch my silver double hook with the blunt ends."
While Smee hurried to comply, Hook began to reach for various items: a bathbrush, several small boxes of soap, and three wash rags.
"Are you going to drown me?" came a whisper from the corner.
"No," Hook could not help smirking, enjoying his role fully, "but when I'm finished with you, you'll wish I had."
It was completely overdone, and had Hook heard such a line in a play or read it in a book, he would have sneered at the speaker's lack of inventiveness. Anyone could make trite threats, the promise of violence without any actual description. But that seemed enough to scare the boy. Peter closed his mouth, and his eyes were huge and frightened.
Smee returned with the double hook, and Hook screwed it in with a vicious relish. The prongs of the hook had been blunted and shaved smooth, something the crew had worked on, melted down from the silver of the treasure that was still sitting in the hold of the ship. Each one of his hooks had been made from that treasure – his gold best one, the three silver ones, and a brass one for when the others were being cleaned. But the doubled, blunted one would serve best here as he did not want to pierce the boy with his other sharp hooks.
"Now, Smee," Hook leered at Peter, "I believe our young guest is about to have a very hard scrubbing. Would Mr. Pan like my bo'sun to stay and help, or should I do the honors alone?"
Peter glanced back and forth between the two men, desperation written all over his face. Finally, the boy choked out, "Not Smee."
"I'm so sorry," Hook turned to the short man. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait outside. But that will give you time to do the other things I told you about."
Smee followed his cue and bowed. "Yes, captain, right away, sir. I'm going."
Smee closed the door behind himself, and Hook turned to Peter.
"All right, get over here."
"What are you doing to do?" Peter whispered, shaking up on shaky feet.
"I'm going to get you a bath, you stupid brat. Haven't you ever had one?"
Peter shook his head, staring at the large iron tub. "No, the mother-girls all had us wash in the river. And when they're not here, Tink sprinkles cleaning dust on me." His bottom lip began to quiver as he remembered that his fairy was missing.
"Touching," Hook sneered. He grabbed Peter by the arm and began pulling the rags and leaves off his. Peter fought, squirming and hammering his fists against Hook, but Hook was much bigger and without his dagger Peter could not do too much. The boy kept struggling though, and after a few minutes, Hook lost his patience.
He sat down in the chair and pulled Peter over his knees. The boy realized what was about to happen, and began to wail, "Nooo! No, no, no!" as he squirmed like an eel out of water.
Hook didn't bother trapping his legs or grabbing at his hands. Instead, Hook brought a hand down hard on the boy's wriggling bottom.
"Stop fighting!" Hook ordered and smacked him again. Five very stern smacks later, Peter quieted enough for Hook to pull him off his lap. As he had feared, Peter had gotten dirt all over Hook's trousers. Hook's eyes flashed, and he considered giving Peter a full spanking just for messing up his clothes. But instead, Hook stood him up and began tearing off his rags and vines with both his hands and his hook. In a matter of seconds, Peter stood naked in the bathing cabin.
Hook ran his eyes over the boy quickly, looking for any scars or cuts that might still be festering. The boy looked normal, like most of the boys had looked when Hook went to school, but still on the childhood side of puberty. The rags had not done a lot to shield him; the rest of Peter was as dirty as his arms and lower legs. Hook even noticed bits of twigs and dirt in his hair, and he hoped the boy did not have lice.
"Get in the tub," Hook commanded.
Peter eyed the water apprehensively. "It's too hot."
Hook plunged his hand in to the water. It was very warm, but not scalding. "Get in," he ordered again. "Do not make tell you again."
Whining under his breath and looking very sad, Peter threw one leg over the high edge and then the other before sinking into the bath. The water was so deep it nearly covered Peter's shoulders, but the boy just sat there, breathing heavily with his bottom lip sticking out tragically.
Hook grabbed a wash rag and scooped up a glob of soap on the prongs on his double hook. "You splash me or fight me or do anything other than sit there quietly," Hook threatened as he thrust the rag into the water, "and I hold you under the water until you choke."
There, that was a good threat. Clear, concise, not vague at all. And Peter understood for he nodded without saying a word. Hook lathered up the wash rag and got to work. As far as he could remember, Hook could not recall ever having bathed anyone. He had an obscure memory of giving a cat a wash in a large bucket sometime before he had gone off to school, and the cat had not liked it at all. But considering that he had never given a person a bath, he felt that he did a rather good job.
Peter sat still for the most part. He did not seem to mind being naked, but he protested when Hook rubbed too hard, and he did not like it when Hook made him close his eyes so he could wash his face or scrub behind his ears. And when Hook went to wash his hair, Peter made his objections known,
"No, you're pulling! Stop! Ow, my eyes hurt!"
"Keep your eyes shut," Hook ordered, lathering the soap through the boy's hair that had turned a very dark blond with the water.
"I don't like this," Peter said woefully. "Please, let me go. I'm sorry about your hand. I really am. I didn't mean to cut it off. We were moving so fast and – uphm!" The boy sputtered as Hook poured a bucket of water over his head.
It was one of the hot water buckets, but Hook thought it had cooled enough to pour it over Peter. The boy kept trying to wipe the water out of his eyes, but Hook was not sure the soap was out. He grabbed another bucket and sloshed it over Peter as well. But this was one of the cold water buckets, and Peter gave a howl and jumped back in the tub. Water splashed all over Hook, and he glared at Peter with angry blue eyes.
"I'm sorry," Peter began, but Hook was adamant.
He grabbed Peter around the throat and pushed him back under the water. Peter began to thrash, but Hook waited four seconds before pulling him up again.
The boy was coughing and spitting out water, but Hook was not worried. He remembered swimming with other boys at Eton, and they had dunked each other under water for much longer than that.
"I told you not to splash me," Hook said sternly.
Peter looked up at with wet green eyes framed by dark lashes all clumped together. Then the boy lowered his head and started to cry. Hook resolutely finished washing him, but Peter did not resist, just sat limply and let Hook scrub as hard as he liked.
The water had turned gray, but once Hook was finished, he reached to pull the out the cloth that was wedged in the hole at the end of the tub. There was a small drain that emptied the water in the tub into the sea, something Hook had designed himself. It was quicker than emptying the tub one bucket at a time, and if the water grew too cold, he could always empty half the tub and refill in with hot water from the waiting buckets.
Peter seemed surprised that the tub had emptied so quickly, but he said nothing. And when Hook dumped the remaining buckets – two hot and the last one cold – on him to wash off the last bit of soap, Peter shivered but said nothing.
"Get out," Hook said shortly.
Peter did so, wrapping his arms around his torso as he shook silently. Hook wrapped a large cut of cloth around him and began to dry briskly, rubbing the cloth over his skin. He left the cloth wrapped around the boy and reached for another to dry his hair. Peter winced as Hook dug into his wet hair and pulled the strands into the cloth to soak up the water, but the boy said nothing.
Satisfied that his hair was dry enough for the moment, Hook put his hand on Peter's shoulder and guided him in the bed cabin. A small, makeshift bed had been put together: two squared crates alligned with large flat pillows on top along with linen and a wool blanket. The crates had been used to carry jugs of whiskey so they were very study, and along both sides of the crates, wooden poles jutted out five or six inches as handles. But Hook steered Peter over to his own huge bed where Smee had laid out a nightshirt that Hook never used.
"Arms up," Hook said. Peter complied, and Hook slipped the nightshirt over his head. The nightshirt would have barely reached Hook's knees, but it fell almost to Peter's ankles, and the sleeves hung about seven inches past Peter's hands. He looked smaller than ever, a little boy lost in a sea of white flannel. They would bother with underwear and other clothes later.
"Time to say good night to everyone," Hook said though it was only five o'clock, and the sun was just beginning to set.
Confused, Peter let Hook lead him into the main cabin where Hook's desk was. There, all the crew was lined up just as Hook had instructed Smee to arrange them. They were all talking among themselves, but they grinned as they saw Peter and a few laughed out loud.
Peter, seeing them all, turned away, trying to run back into the bed cabin. But with a sinister laugh, Hook pulled him into the main cabin room, dragging Peter with his one hand.
"Look who has been kind enough to grace us with his presence," Hook jeered, parading Peter along the line. "Mr. Peter Pan, himself, the king of this cursed island. Doesn't he look just grand to you all?"
The pirate all looked down at the little boy tugging against Hook's grip, and they broke into cruel laughter. The laughter soon evolved into catcalls.
"Look at him all dressed up!"
"Such a bloomin' little blighter. Looking like he's lost his nursemaid."
"Should put him in diapers and give him a bottle of warm milk."
"Aw, look the baby's about to cry."
Hook let the mean teasing go on, feeling that revenge was very sweet and poignant. He kept Peter far enough back that the pirates could not hit or pinch him, but he made sure that Peter faced them and heard every word. The teasing went on until Hook heard Peter sniffing back fresh tears, and then Hook held up his double hook for silence.
"All right, boy," he told Peter, "tell all these good sirs goodnight and thank them for their kindness."
"G-goodnight, sirs," Peter whispered, "and-and thank you for-for-for . . ."
He seemed unable to finish. Hook looked down at his pitiful face as tears began to well up.
"That's enough," Hook cut through the cruel laughter. "Off to the galley with all of you while I put this naughty one here to bed."
The pirates seemed confused that they weren't going to torture or kill the brat, but before they could hurt themselves with thinking, Hook commented, "It is Friday night after all."
A cheer broke out, and they scrambled out of the room, eager for the rum.
"Smee, see that they don't leave glass over the deck like last time," Hook ordered.
The short pirate dashed out of the room, leaving Hook and Peter alone.
"Come on," Hook said gruffly as he pulled Peter back to the bed cabin door. Peter went along, but stopped suddenly.
"Is that a bunny?" he pointed to the rabbit snoring in the hanging net.
"Yes," Hook snapped, "and we're going to skin it, kill it, and eat it tonight."
"O-oh!" Peter's eyes went wide with unspeakable horror.
Hook dragged Peter into the bed cabin and took a minute to collect his thoughts. He planned to go ahead and make sure the boy took a sore bottom to bed, but . . . the boy looked so miserable and tired, rubbing his eyes with one fist.
Hook sat down on the bed made of crates and pulled Peter over his lap, facedown.
"No-o-o," Peter wailed.
"This is to remind you to obey me," Hook said. He brought his hand down four times on that nightshirt-covered bottom and then stopped. Already, Peter had burst into tears and was shaking as he cried.
"Not fair, not fair!" he wailed. "Everyone's gone! Everyone's gooooone!"
Hook had no idea what to say so he simply let Peter get up, and Hook stood and pulled the covers off the bed. Peter crawled up and flopped down on the pillows, still crying. Realizing the boy was not going to do anything else, Hook covered him up with the linen sheet and warm blanket, tucking the covers around his shoulders. Peter's crying slowly turned into sniffles as he began to calm. Hook hesitated. He felt reluctant to do the next part, but he could not risk Peter waking during the night and trying to get free. Hook took a length of rope off the bed and approached the crates.
Peter's eyes had closed to slits, but he tried to rouse himself as Hook came back, staring up blankly.
"I'm not taking any chances with you," Hook told him. "Losing a hand teaches a man to be wary."
He tied one end of the rope to a handle sticking out of the crate. Then he stretched the rope across the bed and the boy and looped it around a handle on the other end. He repeated the process, tying the rope across the bed, zigzagging back and forth, until the rope ran out. Peter was tied down tight, cocooned between the pillows and the covers very snugly.
"That should hold you," Hook nodded, satisfied.
Peter made no reply. His eyelids slid shut, and his face relaxed even though tears were still on his flushed cheeks. Hook watched him, wondering if the boy were faking sleep. But Peter's breathing grew long and slow, and he snuggled down into his pillow in his sleep.
For the next few hours, Hook wandered around his cabins. He could hear the pirates corralling outside, playing instrument and singing off-key. Smee brought him some supper and tried to peek into the bed cabin, but Hook ordered him to leave.
Around midnight, the pirates outside grew quiet, having drunken themselves into a stupor, and Hook finally retired as well. There had not been a peep out of the boy – he was sleeping so soundly that Hook had to check several times that he was still alive.
In his own bed, Hook forced himself to relax. It was very odd to have someone else in his room – after so many years of sleeping alone, it was jarring to hear another person breathing beside himself.
Hook closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. And then he felt the silky cover underneath him – he felt it with both hands. Already smiling, he opened his eyes.
She was standing by the bed, her huge white wings fluttering gently behind her. She was so bright, so beautiful.
His smile grew. "Alivia," he breathed.