Chapter Twelve: Pan's Promised Plans

"Why do you have to spoil everything? We have fun, don't we? I taught you to fly and to fight. What more could there be? " -Peter Pan (2003)

"This is our plan of action," Peter began, indicating to the dirt at his single bent knee which he crouched upon. He held a sturdy stick in his fist, its point upward to the rafters of the thatched roof. The rest of the Boys and Henry and Co. were positioned around Pan as he pointed the sharpened end of the stick to the war tactics cut in the packed dirt. He aimed the stick at the marking of Os in the middle of a clearing. "These are our enemies, alright? Have we got that? That's me," Peter said, making a mark through a P he'd named as himself; it was surrounded by the Os, setting itself between two lowercase Ts with minature Os atop their outstreched arms. "Between the girls, like I said. Once I'm between them, they'll run and all of you," Peter made a swipe across the boundaries he'd proclaimed the Forest, "will go and nab them before the lot can."

Nibs raised his hand and Peter glanced to him. "Yes?"

"Well ... What if they're in the Forest, too?" He asked and Peter arched a brow, hearing the rest of Boys agree with Nibs. "What do we do then?"

"You'll have to result to whichever extra plan goes with the situation," Peter said, shrugging. "I would suggest Plan M or Plan D."

"And, those would be ... ?" Regina began, her arms crossed, trying to see over the heads of the Boys in front of her.

"Oh, right, you lot haven't done this before," Peter began, muttering as his brow furrowed. "Whichever," He said, blinking, "Plan D's Direct Approach and Plan M's Magic."

"Magic? You know, I'm actually on a tight-no-magic-leash," Regina said, giving Emma a look from over the Lost Boys. "I can't do any magic."

"Why, of course you can!" Peter said, causing Regina to turn her head back in his direction. "War conditions change everything, Queeny, especially the game. We'll need all the help we can get, rescuing those two. Benny isn't going to let us just walk off with them; and then there's the matter of what he wants with me."

Charming shared a look with his daughter and his wife; Emma, who'd had a hand on Henry's shoulder, tightened her grip on her son. "Who's this Benny?" Charming asked, causing Peter's eyes to fall.

"Doesn't matter," Peter put off, looking hard at the war tactics drawn in the dirt. "Any other questions?"

"Yeah," Coop began, "What're you going to do about this exchange?"

"Yeah," Coon continued, looking to his brother, "What're you going to do, Peter?"

"I'll figure something out," Peter said, shrugging, "I'm pretty good on my feet."

"So, you haven't a plan at all?" Rumple spoke up from the behind everyone; he'd been listening to his old friend's plans in silence. Peter pushed himself from the dirt, standing; the Boys crowding around Peter backed away, giving him room to stand to his full height. Peter looked Rumple head-on and laughed, his face cracking into a smile.

"I do have a plan," Peter said, grinning at his old friend, not seeing the withered husk of the man he'd become but of the youthful boy still inside, trapped within the Dark One's eyes, "as hard as it is to believe, I do have a plan. You just have to trust me, all of you. Just trust me."

...

"Come on, Rumple," Peter said, walking with his friend past another open window, wafting the smell of baking bread. Peter looked to the window curtly and licked his lips, his eyes showing the same hunger as Rumple's; he turned those eyes to the young hungry boy's, saying with a little more coaxing than he'd used earlier, "It'll be easy, I promise. I've nicked things plenty of times; you're starving. Do you honestly believe your father'll have enough money from his bloody sport to feed you - or that he'll even remember?"

"Peter, I'm not going to steal," Rumple whispered sharply, glancing about the square nervously. Boys talking to themselves were presumably mad - especially when they spoke to themselves aloud about plans to thieve fresh bread.

Peter rolled his eyes, catching Rumple's nervous looks. "Well, you can't with you looking so damn guilty," He accused. "They'd hear your stomach miles away, anyways." Peter softened his gaze as Rumple's stomach let out a jarring snarl and Rumple clutched his abdomen tightly. "Look, I'll teach you. Just follow me, okay? When I get in, keep some distance."

Peter cut a look to the building and grabbed a hold of Rumple's tiny wrist, leading him through the crowd. They wove through the people, ignoring passer-bys as they ignored in return. They'd all seen that Cheat's son out here for a while now and were accustomed to his odd bumbling and mumbles to himself; it wasn't especially abnormal any longer and they typically just ignored him as he was too young to be much of a trouble. So they thought.

Peter led Rumple part-way to the door, the savoury scent of the bread filling their lungs. Rumple made a pained noise from the back of his throat and Peter chewed his lip, letting go of Rumple's small hand. "Don't get lost while I'm gone," Peter advised, about to go, "and don't you go and talk to any grown-ups, okay? If anything happens, you run. Alright? We'll meet back at your house if anything happens."

"Right," Rumple said, his lip trembling for a split second; he bit down on his nether lip, trying to cover it up but Peter caught the movement and ducked quickly, placing his thumb against Rumple's small chin, his fingers holding Rumple's face up so the two met each other's eyes.

"There isn't any reason to be afraid, Rumple," Peter said. "I'm not leaving you; soon as I get some bread, I'll be back. Just trust me, okay?"

Rumple nodded, Peter's hand leaving Rumple's chin as Peter turned, squaring his shoulders through the beggar scraps he'd grown accustomed to wearing. Peter's dusty boots scuffed at the dirt as he weaved through the adults, keeping his expression apathetic, his eyes set on the bread cooling in window sills and from out of the glowing mouths of ovens.

Rumple stood in the middle of the street, trying to stay invisible; he had no clue how Peter could do it so well. Rumple tried to find a wall to stand near but each time he tried, a person or a horse carriage blocked his path.

Fairly soon, Rumple lost sight of Peter when a jeering circle of young boys came from the right of him; they surrounded Rumple, each of them getting a good spot to glare at him. Rumple tried to see past them to where Peter was and how close he must've been to getting bread, when taller adults crossed his line of vision; one of the boys, the leader, took his spot in front of Rumple, blocking his view completely.

"Well, well," The boy spoke. "Isn't it wittle Wumple, all awone."

Rumple sighed, turning his tired gaze up to his main tormentor, Donovan. "What is it this time?"

"A couple of my lads have a bone to pick with you and your cheat daddy," Donovan began, his voice a cruel snarl, though his eyebrows had furrowed at Rumple's lack of response. "We ought to teach you and him a lesson, haven't we?"

Two of the lads rolled up their sleeves, revealing thick arms and chubby fists. Rumple didn't even glance at them, just closed his eyes and braced himself.

No fists went flying, though. No punches left purple bruising over Rumple's thin bony arms. There was merely an amused laugh and an aloft voice, Peter's, as if he'd just happened upon Rumple's usual beat-up. "Now, now, lads," Peter said, "shouldn't you all be kicking balls instead of heads?"

Rumple opened his eyes, seeing Peter - he'd never been so happy to see Peter in all his life - standing with his head towering feet over Donovan's, looking as if curiously to the small boy in the center of the group.

Donovan had gone rigid at the thought of being caught in the act and he kept his face away from the unfamilar adultish voice behind him, glancing to the faces of his friends, seeing looks of confusion and wide-eyed fear. Donovan turned then, looking at the older boy and the loaf of bread he held in his hand. "Who're you?" He asked, instead of answering to the boy's inquiry.

"Well, aren't I glad you asked," Peter said, placing a hand on Donovan's shoulder to push him aside; Peter strode ahead, wrapping an arm around Rumple's small shoulders, "I'm Rumple's brother. So, if you have a bone to pick with him, you can come pick it with me instead. Now, we've got places to be and bread to eat so we better get on our way then. Mind if you three step aside?"

The boys in question did as they were told, though not on their own accord. They would've listened to the older boy's authoritive voice anyhow but their voices had been taken, their limbs gone numb at the sight of this taller figure. They moved aside - as if by magic! - and the lot of them watched Rumple and his older brother go, his arm still slung around the younger's shoulders as Rumple bit a large bite from his half of the bread loaf, looking up at Peter's face.

"So, I reckon you didn't see me get it, then," Peter said, smirking.

"No," Rumple said, swallowing thickly, the staleness of the bread scratching at his throat as it struggled to go down; even so, the bread was heavenly, still somehow warm, even though it hadn't been in an oven in days and it seemed to be coated in butter from cows that wouldn't of surprised Rumple had they been of the King's own pick.

"We'll try again another time," Peter promised, glancing to Rumple's small impish face, eyes full of childish mirth as he gnawed on the bread. "Now, how about we get you some jam to go with that bread, yeah?"

...

"Boys, arms up," Peter commanded, his hands folded behind his back as he surveyed his line like a general does a set of soliders. Each Boy held out their weapons; Thomas, a knife, with his lucky rabbit's foot hanging from the handle; the Twins, two slingshots; Ted, a club of knotted wood; Harold, a spear; Fabian and Nibs, bows; Curly, a stone dagger; Darren, a crossbow and an irritated expression; Judas, a discarded spear tip; Tootles, a knife smaller and shorter than the rest to match his small fist.

Peter surveyed his line of Boys with eyes that were trying not to smile fore he had to be a general and generals do not smile when leading their kids to war. Instead, Peter looked to the group of adults and his Truest Believer, all of them watching idly from the sidelines. Peter raised an eyebrow. "What are all of you doing? Get in line!"

Emma's eyebrows jolted at the authority in Peter's voice; she couldn't believe that this kid was bossing her around. Neither could the rest of the adults. Charming and Killian shared a look of disbelief. Regina looked personally affronted. Neal rolled his eyes and looked to his son, the two sharing a slight smile. Rumple sighed and was the first to take his place beside Harold.

Peter struggled to keep character, looking down his nose at Rumple as he lifted his chin. He watched Henry step up beside his grandfather and Peter's gaze softened and he lowered his chin, not looking nearly as much as a general as he would've wanted. Neal took his place beside his son next and Peter looked the three over, catching the resemblance in their eyes and the childish mirth that glittered in each of them.

Snow and Charming glanced to each other, walking to the side to take a stand beside the youngest of the Boys, Tootles. Emma and Regina stood last, the two of them looking to the Boys and Peter, whom looked back to them expectantly. Peter watched the two patiently though he shouldn't have been so patient fore he was irritated with their indecision as there wasn't time to stand around and ponder one's thoughts; even so, Peter stayed apathetic, a general with a gun to the chin, a Captain with a ship about to go down, a Leader leading his followers in the wrong direction.

Emma went to side with Neal, Regina following her in a moment of pressing confusion. Now, apart from the group, only stood Hook.

"Well, come on, pirate, aren't you going to join in?" Peter asked, breaking character for a moment to allow his annoyance to show through.

Killian sighed, looking to Peter. "Do I really have to?"

"Boys," Peter began, mirroring realistic offence, "is that ... a codfish talking back? Do you all hear it, too?"

"No, Peter, of course we don't," Thomas spoke up. "Codfish don't speak; how can they possibly talk back?"

Peter narrowed his eyes to Killian, nodding. "Exactly. Now, pirates, they sure talk - even the irrititating one-handed ones - though they shouldn't. Least not to the General."

"Right, Peter," the Boys answered in reply.

"And this codfish's got two feet," Peter continued, "and no fins. How does he swim?"

"He doesn't," Nibs began. "He sinks."

"Right," Peter said, stepping forward until he was close to Hook's face, looking to his eyes, into his eyes, looking for that little boy somewhere, drowing in the vast ocean of blue. "He sinks because he doesn't listen to the Leader, to the Captain. Isn't that right, Killy?" Peter arched an eyebrow before he grinned, catching Hook's suppressed smirk, catching the sparkle of the sunlight catching the curling waves. "Now, get in line, pirate, before I have to say it again."

Killian obeyed, finding a spot between Ted and the Twins. He held his hook aloft when Peter ordered them to hold up their arms. Emma, her cutlass; Charming, his sword; Snow, her bow; Regina, her proud stature and her scarred lip; Rumple, his cane; Neal, his knife. Henry didn't move to outstretch anything and this, Peter noticed, his eyes narrowing.

"Henry," Peter said, his tone not as harsh as it had been with Killian, "why haven't you armed yourself?"

" ... I don't have anything," Henry said, staring at his feet, refusing to look up to Peter, to see the disappointment he expected.

"Of course you have something," Peter said, crossing to Henry in two wide strides, grabbing his hands with his own. "You've got these. Your hands, your strength, your heart. The fight's inside of you, Henry, you just got to find an outlet for it. I'd start here," Peter said, his fingers twisting with Henry's own so that Henry's palms were open and aimed outward.

For a long moment, Peter forgot about why he was doing this, why he was interwining his fingers with Henry's, why he was talking in such soft tones, why he had all his Boys in a line with Henry's family, why they all had weapons, and why he had battle tactics drawn near his feet - all he knew was he was close to Henry and he could see his eyes and they were so big and full of hope, full of belief - in Peter, he believed in Peter, and Peter himself couldn't believe it but here he was, seeing it, and that seemed to be enough - and Peter lost himself, moreso in the caramel warmth of Henry's lit eyes and the coolness of Peter's hands against Henry's that he lingered too long into his touch and when he was back, he had to blink several times and shake himself from out of Henry's grasp, from out of his fuzzy head, feeling the eyes of his Boys and Henry's family staring at him, one half expectant, another accusatory.

Peter cleared his throat, nodding. "Arms up," He said again, an afterthought, an echo. "Let's get started, then."

...

"No, no, no, Rumple," Peter sighed. "Haven't I taught you anything?"

"Actually, you haven't," Rumple huffed. "Yet you still expect me to go out there and steal just as you have plenty of times before - with plenty of experience, as you've said a dozen times, too."

"Have I been saying that?" Peter asked.

"Yes, you have," Rumple continued, glaring at Peter. "And I've been trying, Peter, but I can't do it, not like you. You go out there and it's as if they can't see you - and I've started to think ... " Rumple's voice trailed away and he looked back to his shoes, his lip pinching together.

"What? You've started to think what?" Peter inquired, knowing rightly what Rumple was thinking and that Rumple, as usual, was right; he always was when it came to Peter.

"Nothing," Rumple said, his voice missing its former strength behind it, the fight that fueled it.

Peter stared hard at Rumple, irritated that he was seeing himself in the hopelessness of the boy's lowered eyes. "You know, thinking's a weapon," Peter said after a moment of silence, watching Rumple closely. He saw the boy's eyes flick up to Peter and Peter caught the motion, held it with his own gaze, matched it. "It's a valuable weapon, surely. You could use it whenever, even if you've no punch to throw and no knife to thrust - anyone can take those away from you, Rumple, but the one they can't touch is the most precious and powerful of them all: your mind. They can't take your thoughts from you, never. Do you understand that?"

Rumple looked up and blinked, meeting Peter's suddenly hard gaze. It seemed cold, foreign, hurt, broken, lost - all the feelings that toiled in the storm of Peter's iris, all crashing together, crammed about the one looking glass to the outside world; though Rumple wasn't exactly sure what any of those feelings were seeing or if they even could see out at all. "Yes," Rumple said, lying smoothly, as Peter had taught him; the one thing he could do best, lying, like his father, his Cheat of a father.

"Now, let's try again," Peter said, looking across the milling courtyard to a stand of fruit in the midst of a crowd. "I want you to steal one of those apples."

Rumple looked to the fruit stand, to the huge crowd, to the set of polished apples of ruby-red hide that glistened like rubies; delectable, sweet rubies with cool juicy flesh that Rumble hadn't tasted in far too long. "I can't," Rumple said, shaking his head. "There's too many people. It's impossible."

"Nothing's impossible, Rumple," Peter said, looking out at the apples with the same expression of longing as his friend. "Nothing at all, long as you - "

" - Believe, I know," Rumple said, "but I don't believe. I don't believe I can come back here without getting caught."

"Well, that's no way to look at things," Peter said, turning his gaze to Rumple. "There's too many ifs in the world, Rumple; you've got to take a few of them."

"And risk getting my hand chopped at the wrist? No thank you."

"You'll regret it if you don't," Peter said, not looking out to the apples any longer but to the boy beside him, his head now a little taller than Peter's midriff. Peter felt a pang at the boy's height, at his growth in only a little while.

Rumple did go out and get the apple and ate it, core and all, spitting the seeds into the ground outside his father's house to regrow the fruits for him to eat the next summer so that he wouldn't have to steal again; he didn't like to steal and he figured this way he wouldn't have to and then he could show Peter he could care for himself without having to thieve his way through life.

Rumple hadn't a clue Peter hadn't really been speaking of apples though Peter never told him otherwise fore there was no one to tell Peter or to remind him. Peter was going by mere gut feeling - and that gut feeling was a horrible mortal thing: hunger.

...

Even The Devil felt hunger at such desperate times though he didn't feel the a hunger for food, more a desire for blood, a trickle of red from the corner of a smiling lip, images he'd seen painted on cave walls covered in chalk scratches and crosshatched slashes of days upon days, stuck in a cave, lost in a war where men were slewed by their own side of the calvary just for giving another man dishonour to his name.

War was like that; Benedict knew and now Felix knew, too, from their minds crammed together. War had killed a part of Benedict, tainted his name until it dripped with blood and spite and greed, until his swordarm was covered in scar tissue that glowed black against Felix's own arm in the shadows of torch fire. They weren't one, not by a long shot, but they knew one another's emotions - their conjoined love for Peter, the strongest, beside Benedict's desire to keep his promise.

...

"When you come back," Peter said, watching his brother scrape the dirt clods from his boots, "are we going to play? Like we used to?"

Peter watched his elder brother's face, the shadows cast by his nose and his hollowed cheeks and the tight line of his lips twitched as he ceased in his scraping of his boots, his fingers tightening along the hilt of his knife. "Play?" The word sounded foreign and childish, a capsule of poison leaking on his tongue and he wished to spit it out onto the dirt but refrained, for Peter's sake.

"Yeah," Peter said, grabbing a wooden sword from its discarded spot against the wall, ignoring the thick layer of dust his fingers slid through, disturbed. "Knights."

"Being a knight's not all fun and games, Peter," Peter grimanced at his elder brother's knowing, belitting tone.

"I just want to learn," Peter said in earnest, afraid his brother would stop talking to him again, leave him alone in that house, that empty house, where his only friends were the shadows upon the walls and the ghosts of his father's words, his stories, adventures never played out, merely left to collect dust and fallen promises of a happy family ripped at the seams.

"You can learn when you join," His brother replied, going back to flicking a clod of dried muck on the floor. Peter watched him, his shoulders sagging, the wooden blade of his sword hitting the floor.

Peter steeled his fist around the wood hilt, allowing it to bite into the soft flesh of his skin. He bit down his jaw and his brother looked up at the sound, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

"Mum says I'm too young to join," Peter said, scraping his sword in the dust.

"Well, you are."

"I am not," Peter huffed. "You were my age when you went - "

" - We needed the help," His brother interrupted.

" - We don't need it anymore," Peter said, angry; he pulled his sword up and aimed the tip at his brother accusingly. "You and I both know how Dad'd feel if he knew you were a part of the King's calvary."

Peter's brother flicked his knife out from his boot, a sixth finger upon his hand. "Well, dead men don't know things, do they, Peter? If he hadn't gone out and died and left us, then I wouldn't of had to join the King's forces for extra rations, would I of?"

"Don't even pretend like you don't absolutely love kissing the King's arse!" Peter shouted, raising his voice as his brother shot to his feet. "You don't even care about us anymore! What happened to your promise, Benny? The one you made Dad before he left?"

"That promise," Benny snarled, not looking anything like Captain Pan's son in that moment, "it died with him, out at sea; I can't keep a family happy that never was."

...

Benedict looked about the camp that wasn't rightfully his, one he'd stolen along with its people. He didn't feel guilt - Devils weren't accustomed to such things - but he could feel Felix's emotions and that was enough for them to somewhat bother Benedict into the knowledge that guilt was a horrible feeling and he wanted it gone. So, he decided, he wanted Felix gone, too.

He wouldn't do it yet - Felix might be useable as leverage further in the game and he still needed his body to serve as replacement until his was no longer Lost - but he was getting irritated, surely, with Felix's feelings cramming in on his thoughts.

Benedict had wanted to plan everything thoroughly in his head, map out his next move and the moves after that, how to react if Peter did something unexpected. Benedict wanted to slice his forehead to force Felix out but it wasn't going to work that way and Benedict knew that. Latching onto Felix's shadow all that time ago, he should've been aware of the Boy's loyalty to Peter. Even if Benedict had managed to lead him astray, the loyalty was still there and ... something more than undying faith and devotion.

Love. Even the sound of it sickened Benedict.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever felt love or at least a healthy dose of it. He could faintly remember silken ebony curls to match the word, a pink smile that would say it, bright eyes that would twinkle it. The face was gone the next moment he'd blink, the smile as red as blood, the eyes bleeding pools down pale freckled cheeks, the ringlets curled and burnt black like smoke from a fire of toxins.

Benedict pushed the thought away, killed it, replaced it with another face: Peter's face. An impish nose, a quirked mouth set in a smirk, fully-lashed eyes alight with a mischievous glow, a single arched eyebrow. He wanted Peter more than Benedict thought he'd ever wanted a thing; though he supposed that was just Peter rubbing off on him, turning his mind innocent and naive and weak.

Love was weakness. He knew that. He'd learned that.

He'd seen it in Peter last time, in his hesitiation to kill Benedict even after his betrayal. When he'd held the knife, poised over Benedict's heart, how his eyes had welled with pain and how he'd shaken his head, lowered the dagger, looked to Felix. "I can't."

Benedict had goaded Peter on, told him where to stab. Peter hadn't done a thing, had just shaken his head again and handed Felix the knife. "You promised and you ... You failed, Benny. I don't tolerate cheaters and you're plenty aware."

Peter had left, entrusted Felix with the knife, with the cutting of Benedict's heart. Felix would've, too, had Benedict not turned the tables.

Had you not cheated, Felix managed to get through to Benedict.

Benedict ignored him, his mind setting the scene; he chould see it all again, himself on the Forest floor, alight torches stabbed in the dirt, Felix over him with the knife in his hand. "Why won't he just kill me himself?" He had asked and Felix had replied, albeit with a moment of hesitiation, deeming Benedict dead as soon as his words left his lips, "He ... He loves you. And he can't possibly kill what he loves."

Felix watched this, as well, seeing the memory as a bitter pang in his gut, one the both of them felt. Benedict's past self continued speaking, his voice nothing but an echo, "Yet he lets you take the fall meant for him. I'd say that's worser form than a simple stab to the back, don't you think, Felix? If your loyalty - your love - were enough, why would he be foolish enough to let you take his place here?"

"No," Felix had said, shaking his head, holding out the dagger, its edge glinting in the torchlight. "No, he isn't like - I don't love him, I mean - shut up!"

"I thought dead men didn't speak," Benedict had chuckled. "Yet here I am, speaking freely. Now, Felix, what if I could propose a ... deal, of sorts. You and I work together and we can both get what we desire."

Felix had looked down at Benedict, unaware that his shadow was being stretched along the floor, closer and closer to Benedict's sprawled form. "And what's that?"

"My little brother."

Yeah, guys, I have no clue what I'm doing anymore.

And the cat's offically out of the bag with Benedict and Peter. I'll go over it more in later chapters so that it doesn't seem completely incestual because it really isn't. Benedict loved (and still loves) a woman and Peter's pansexual (because the Greek god Pan and all of those mythology references that have cropped up both in the show and the fandom).

You all also get a bunch of Peter and young!Rumple fluff because that shit's adorable. In this version and how I see it, they were only close friends - enough to be confused as family and the two, after a while, did adopt one another as the other's brother and there was some confusion on Rumple's part on what really happened to his father. Or that's the way I'm going about this.

Happy holidays, stay safe, and let's try and survive this massive bullshit from the writers for leaving us for months on end after unruly slaying three main characters and bringing the Blue Bitch back!