Francesca checked herself in the mirror for the third time that hour; a long, flowing white nightdress, a blue cloak with a hood, her hair down and loose, coal-tone ringlets falling around her face, dark yet with a slight sheen. Subconsciously she wished to impress the Ageless Boy, going so far as to wet her lips and try to tease in some volume to her hair. Upon her desk, two books lay; a copy of French fairy tales, and a notebook, accompanied with a pencil for note-taking. She was a fastidious writer, preferring to note everything down and work from those scrawls than from memory. The clock that she kept hidden in her wardrobe rang a muffled 'bong'; 23:00. He'd be here any moment. She sat in the window seat, gazing out across the bay, hoping, wishing, that he could answer some questions.
. . .
Looking out at the Jolly Roger, Peter hugged his arms around his body; even with a stolen shirt on (Which looked rather buccaneer on the lad), he was still cold. He took one final moment to assure himself that seeing the pirate girl was what he wanted, and leapt from the cliff, falling into flight. His eyes closed and heart quickened; another adventure?
Shortly before he was to hit the water, Peter threw his arms out before him, and rose back into the air a little, flying mere inches from the water's surface, planning on coming up to the ship quickly, quietly, discreetly.
. . .
Two soft knocks fell against the window. Rebecca was leaning against the corner frame, gazing into the cabin from the stern of the ship, mindful of her bare feet. How it thrilled her to take this step back toward girlhood, to have no regard for her attire for a change (Her footwear, at least), the natural warmth of the timbers contrasting with the soft tingles of the cool night air. Pulling her cloak further around her, she heeded the second set of raps at the window, and opened it as silently as possible, a finger to her lips, cheeks flushed, both with nerves and the slight chill let in through the aperture.
''I'm here, like I promised.'' Peter whispered, kneeling atop her desk.
''I can see that… I realised after you left you probably don't know how to tell the time, I could have given you a watch or something-''
''-you have a watch? I didn't think Hook would let anyone aboard have anything clock-like''.
She sighed, and shuffled her feet against the rug, trying to regain some of the warmth lost to the window. ''I do. Well, I have a watch and a clock. I could have spared the watch, but anyway, it doesn't matter, you're here.'' Smiling anxiously, starting to second-guess her choice to go out with this boy, Francesca collected the basket she'd stowed within one of the trunks in the cabin. ''Shall we?''
''Hmm. Not yet.''
''Why not?'' She panicked. Was he going to try to reprimand her for the incident with the sword? For the thimble-come-kiss?
''It's cold out. Well, you know that, you're shivering – and don't try to deny it.'' Peter's eye twinkled slightly in the low candlelight. ''Why don't we take a blanket?'' Now he looked sheepish; what would she think of his suggestion? It may only be a blanket, but that could lead to cuddles, and cuddles might go… Well… Further. ''We'll take one anyway, just in case. What's in the basket?''
''Well… I thought it might be nice to have something to eat while we're out. I don't know how long we'll be, and if it's cold it's probably best to have something, so I managed to sneak a few fruit and meat pies, an apple each, some bread and cheese…'' Noticing Peter's attention wane, she stopped. ''But anyway, that's only if you want it. Otherwise I'll just bring the book.'' And my notebook, she thought to herself.
''I was thinking it does, actually. It'll be nice to not have to imagine my food for a change''. He smiled; she returned it.
It suddenly occurred to Francesca that she hadn't a clue how the two were going to make it to the island; she couldn't fly, and his fairy friend hadn't been with him on this occasion. Damn. Was he to carry her like some helpless maiden? Well, she was. It was just like being back in England. The endless arms offered to help her in and out of carriages, inability to use stairs unaccompanied, the chaperonage by one of the schoolmistresses whilst she attended events or being courted (unsuccessfully) by some son of a local lord… It was exhilarating. And embarrassing. All for the wrong reasons.
''Peter, wait!'' she hissed as the boy turned to climb back out of the window, blanket in hand. Peering back at her quizzically, he gestured to the open air beside him. ''Are we not going?''
''Yes, of course we are, but I- ''
''Miss? What's that I can hear? Capt'n said to check on you even if you said you're okay.''
Keys fumbled at the door. Smee's typically non-threatening voice now became more frightening than the notion of being caught with Pan. With no time to think, Peter found himself fumbled under the blanket, and behind Francesca's smooth, china-doll legs as she sat upon the desk, blanket draped over her lap. With a gentle kick, Peter knew it was time to remain silent. It really was exciting!
Finally, the door opened. Mistress Hooke looked up from her book. Its cover stared back, silent yet mocking.
''Everything alright, Miss?''
''Yes, thank you, Smee. Why wouldn't it be?''
''Well I… I heard you pacing, or I thought I did, and… What's that hamper of food in here for?''
The pair panicked. Caught. Rumbled.
''I brought it in earlier today. I get hungry sometimes when I stay up reading, or I forget to eat, and I thought this was the most sensible thing to do. I hope that's alright, Smee?''
Scratching the bald patch atop his shiny red head, Smee took a moment to ponder. ''I suppose so… If you ask next time, I'll slip you in some wine or small beer. I know the Capt'n doesn't like you having a nip, but you're a grown woman now… Anyway, I'll get back to… What was I doing?''
He waddled away, mumbling to himself, and locked the door behind him. Sighing softly, the young couple stood again, Peter's hair brushing against Francesca's thigh as he slipped out from between her legs. It had taken much strength not to look up, or to tickle her. It was a dangerous game they were playing this time, one with real consequences (though he knew yet not what they might be). Her voice carried a soft moan as the last curled strand passed over her sensitive skin, and his ears burned.
Fuck… I want to hear that again, his body screamed to him. Francesca whimpered low, trying, barely managing, to restrain her breathing. Waiting until the jolly old pirate's paces had receded, Peter nimbly darted out from under the desk, practically en-pointe as he offered his hand to the waiting lady.
''Well then…'' he smirked boyishly, ''Shall we fly?''
. . .
Francesca found herself being positioned most inelegantly in Peter's arms; one under her knees, the other supporting her… behind, and one of her arms (not too tightly) around his neck. With her free hand she clung desperately to her dignity, clutching the blanket and hamper close to her, as if by some miracle she would preserve either the food or her pride by holding them to her breast. Tucked safely inside said hamper was the copy of French fairy tales she had been mocked by only minutes ago. Within was her favourite version of Beauty and The Beast, as well as what she had heard to be Peter's preferred story, Cinderella. Her heart sank a little; she'd heard this second-hand from the birds and fairies that often flew by her window, who gossiped about When. When Wendy was still Queen, and would regale the Lost Boys, and their Prince, with Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, all the traditional fables.
How would her story-telling compare to Wendy's?
''Something on your mind?''
Oh no… I think he knows.
''N-No, I'm just a little cold is all.'' She mumbled in response, pulling the blanket around her tighter still.
''Hmm… Okay… Well, you just have that face that adults have, when they're thinking. I don't like it'', Peter frowned. ''I can't tell what's going on in their head.''
He was like a complex puzzle, Hooke decided, or a baby animal; curious, timid, and requiring careful handling. Thankfully in the small handful of encounters they had shared, thus far, there had only been one outburst, but nevertheless, the girl felt that wrong phrase or footing would cause no end of problems. Instead, she elected to fall silent until they reached the shore.
Without even realising it, Peter's earthy scent had begun to envelop her, working itself around her eyes, her sensitive little nose, and lulled the girl in his arms into a calm, silent state, allowing him to concentrate on his flight (or so he attempted to convince himself). Rather, Peter was still preoccupied with the memory of Hooke's soft moan under his touch from earlier, her hitched breath and, oh Gods, those eyes when he had been angry with her.
He was equally as curious to learn more about his new potential enemy, though was cautious of becoming involved.
''Hoo- Francesca?''
''Hmm… Peter? Are we there?''
He scoffed, setting her down delicately in a grassy mound near the cliff's edge. They couldn't be seen from the ship here; but they could see it. In the back of his mind, he recalled briefly contemplating taking her to the clouds, and observing the bay from that celestial height, but it didn't sit right with him. He couldn't share that view with another girl.
''I think you fell asleep on the way, silly.'' he continued quickly, crouching opposite her and trying, in vain, to ignore the swell of her chest as it rose and fell with each languid intake of breath.
''I… I rather suppose I did,'' Francesca stifled a yawn, and went to pull her cloak around her before taking stock of the situation. ''You know… You're shivering. Please, don't be stubborn, there's my cloak, and the blanket. I think I may have an urn of tea in there somewhere.'' She offered, hoping it didn't read as an instruction. Taking a moment to consider the offer, Peter surprised her and drew closer, draping the blanket across their laps, positioning himself to face her slightly, enough to engage, and opened the hamper, passing over the French text, the flask of tea, and her notebook.
Smearing some cheese across a chunk of bread (most indelicately, the lady noted), Peter sighed.
''What's wrong?''
''I… I'm not a hundred percent sure this was the right idea, the right thing to do.'' He mumbled, playing with his hands; it had been a long, long time since anyone had read to him. Wendy had been the last, and he wasn't sure he was ready for another narrator so soon. But there was more to it than that; Francesca – Hooke – had fallen asleep in his arms, and he hadn't minded! This woman was infuriatingly confusing. She was the daughter of his sworn enemy, and yet only had the misfortune of sharing some of his looks and his name. But even then… Her vivid blue eyes met his, and he saw that she was questioning herself, too, questioning the propriety and sensibility of this evening encounter.
Gods… Her eyes match that cloak. So deep… I could drown in those eyes. Peter, what the hell are you thinking?!
''To read stories, or to talk to me?'' Francesca responded, seemingly unoffended, though there was an air of sadness tinging her words.
He had to fix this, to convince her that he was still curious, that he did want to know her better. She tucked an errant curl behind her ear, and smiled sadly at him, waiting for her answer.
''Both? I'm a little tired, too, and that makes me cranky.'' Hopefully it would be enough of a reason, though he knew she most likely wouldn't be entirely convinced by it. He tore into the makeshift sandwich, stomach enjoying the tangible sustenance. Inhaling the entire confection with great speed, he sighed again, this time seemingly satiated.
''Food helps, I guess…'' He chewed out.
''True, very true. Might I have a pie, please, and an apple?''
The pair ate quietly, until all that was left was the tea. Pouring a cup for each of them, Francesca warmed her hands around the china, finally daring to take a sip a little too quickly.
Wiping her mouth with decorum, she smiled at her guest (for she was playing pastoral host this evening) who was eyeing the fairy tales. ''Does that one have Cinderella in? I think she was French. Not that I'm anxious for you to read right now, you understand..!'' He added, keen to preserve his bravado. The hostess' smile only widened;
''It does. Would you like me to read to you? I don't mind. Sometimes it's nice to listen to other people's stories…''
And hopefully I'll get to hear yours, she thought, opening the pages to the start of Peter's favourite fairy tale.
