I wake up slowly in the morning, pulling myself from a comfortable sleep. I stretch out in bed, feeling content and pleased for a reason I can't seem to recall. Then it hits me. I remember now, Peter's story, the tweezers, the damages downstairs, him crying in my lap.
I massage my forehead, trying to rub away the memories. I've lost the contented feeling and now all I'm left with is… shame. I'm ashamed I let myself comfort him, ashamed I empathized with him, ashamed I felt for him, ashamed I took care of him. I groan. He's been a great pain in my life, the wedge between me and my family. I can't let him play me. He won't trick me into being kind to him because that's simply what I am, even in spite of all he's done to me. I won't. I can't. I won't let myself even try to be good to him. I've come too far to be drawn back.
I push myself up in bed and look over at Peter. He's sprawled in his bed, his face buried in the pillows, sheets wrapped around his long legs. The white of the sheets makes his dark hair stand out. He snores softly, his mouth open a slight bit. He doesn't look like an evil mastermind from here. I shake myself. "Don't do that, Wendy," I scold. I slip out of bed and into the washroom to begin washing up for the day. "Don't be good, for once in your life. Don't." I nod to myself in the mirror, agreeing. I mean, what would Michael, Neal and John say if I told them about last night? They'd be so disappointed in me, so scared, so confused.
"But, Wendy," they'd say. "After all he's done? You just… held him, comforted him? Why would you do such a thing?"
I wouldn't have an answer for them, I'd just stand before the family that had been ripped apart, flung across realms and centuries all for Pan's childish whims and tell them that I had somehow found it in my heart to feel for him. They'd look disappointed, their faces dropping.
"All these years, and she's still too kind, too naive, too childish," they'd say to each other behind my back. They'd shake their heads and cluck their tongues, both disappointed and worried for me. "See how she falls into the same old routine? Pan offers to help her find her brother but with some ulterior motive that will once again end up hurting her. What a silly, silly girl." I look up into the mirror and meet my own eyes, large and brown.
"Silly, silly girl," I tell my refection. My reflection stares back at me, eyes wide and kind, wild curly hair that won't decide if it's brown or blond, a firm mouth, a dusting of freckles across my nose and cheeks. I push my hair back to reveal the scar just under my hairline, from when just after Neal left and I feel down the stairs while sleep walking. "He caused this," I tell my reflection. "He caused this and he wasn't even there. You can't let yourself be kind. He never is and never will be to you." I nod fiercely at the mirror. My reflection seems to agree. "Don't be good," I say, pointing a finger at my reflection. Then I turn and begin to finish washing up, quickly washing my face, brushing my teeth, struggling to comb through my tangles before slipping on a light blue dress and placing my hair in a braid, giving up with the knots. Before exiting the washroom, I look back in the mirror and nod at my reflection, determined to stand firm.
I pack up quickly while Peter sleeps. He's going to be miserable the whole ride. He chose possibly one of the worst days to have a hangover. It's begun to rain, steadily now, coming in from the north. Our ride is a sold ten hours of riding. We'll be getting to the mansion the next day. It's going to be hell. I pick up the map on the table that has our journey sketched out, folding it neatly into the large pockets of my dress. I put on my cloak and new riding gloves, marvelling at the detail, the embroidery as well as the fact that they are fur-lined.
After checking that everything is set, I go over to Peter's bed and shake his sleeping form. He grumbles and waves off my hand. I shake him more forcefully and this time he rolls over, revealing the nasty black eye that's formed overnight. It pains me just to look at it. Peter opens his eyes and stares at me, blearily. "Get up, Pan. We've got to leave," I tell him.
He raises an eyebrow and grins. "Good morning to you too, bird, but I'd like you to know I prefer the afternoon." He yawns and begins to turn over but I grab him by the shoulder.
"Oh no, you don't," I tell him. "We are leaving in half an hour. Get up and get dressed. We've got a long day of riding."
Peter blinks a few times before shaking his head. "I don't think you quite understand. I've got a terrible headache today," he says. He pulls the covers over his head and lies still for a few moments.
I let out a huff. "Are you still drunk?" Peter lets out a muffle 'no'. "Well, then, get up. I haven't got time for this. The innkeeper is already upset with you for the damages you made last night. I'm going to go pay him and when I come back, you better be up and ready to go," I tell the lumpy form under the sheets. I feel like smacking him. He caused me all this inconvenience last night and now this morning, too. I shake my head and quickly leave the room.
I pay the innkeeper 's wife handsomely for their troubles, which become apparent as soon as I come down the stairs. The large candelabra, which looked sturdy with its iron arms, is not lying off to side of the lobby. I can see the dent in the hardwood floor that its impact must have made. I can't begin to even imagine how Peter, so completely drunk, would have managed to do that.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am," I tell her as she counts the cash.
"Oh, it's not your fault, dearie. It's that wild thing you call a husband." She looks up from her papers and smiles. "He best be counting his lucky stars to have you," she says reaching to pat my hand. Her touch is warm and motherly, comforting almost. Her face is crinkled in all the right places and her brown hair is streaked with silver. "You know, I once heard of a man who was so disliked by everyone, no one would even speak with him. But he had a wife who was just so wonderful. She helped him to find his way, helped him to be good and likeable." She nods at me knowingly. "It happens to those irredeemable men, you know," she tells me, nodding as if she knows exactly what my situation is. "They just find that one person who helps to bring out the good, to make them worthy of redemption. They find their redemption in that person. Not so much as to say that that person's responsible for making them good, but that they get the ball rolling, you know?" I shake my head. For some reason, her words make me angry, indignant even that she could even try and extrapolate what little she knows about me, about Peter and turn it into this love story about redemption and goodness. Why would she ever think this an appropriate thing to say to anyone?
"No, I don't know," I tell her harshly. "People make their own good, on their own. No one's responsible for making them good." I know it's rude, but her words have shaken me.
"I'm sorry for offending you, miss," the woman says. "But I think you misunderstand. Nothing is that black and white. Some need help, you see. being good doesn't always come natural to people. For others, it does though, and they should try and look past the faults to see the potential." She smiles. "You obviously have, with your husband." I take a deep breath, trying to control myself enough not to shout at her, not to scream at the top of my lungs that that would never, ever happen with me and Pan. He's bad to the core, he's evil and mean and emotionless. There is not potential there, for me to see. Not even after last night. His wish to be his mother's perfect son doesn't change anything. It can't. And I refuse to believe that Pan can be good, ever. It's impossible.
I'm about to open my mouth to retort this back to her, having given up control over myself when Peter interrupts us, placing his hand on the small of my back. I turn around, surprised to see him down here, loaded up with all our bags, looking perfectly normal, save the black eye and the cuts all along his face. I feel like screaming at both of them. Peter for just being Peter and this lady for insinuating that I can see any small amount of good in him. He smiles down at me with fake sweetness. "Don't look so surprised, bird," he says, kindly. "I can be useful." He cracks a grin at the innkeeper's wife and she smiles back at him, apparently forgetting that he brought down an entire chandelier last night. "Sorry again about this whole mess. I hope I haven't caused too much trouble." It takes all my self-control not to roll my eyes at this. "Anyway, we're off. Thank you for the stay." I give her a tight smile before Peter turns me around and walks me out the door.
Once we get to the stables, he grins at me almost appreciatively. "You looked as if you were about to climb over that counter and start pummelling the woman," he laughs. "What in the world was she talking to you about?"
"Nothing," I say shortly. "I'm not upset about it." I finishing strapping down the bag onto Ash and swing myself up onto him. He whinnies at me, almost as if he is calling me out on my lie. I run my hand through his dark mane, calming him. I flip my hood up and take him out of the stables into the rain that's pouring down in sheets. I wait impatiently for Peter. I'm anxious to just keep moving and putting more distance between myself, the innkeeper's wife and last night.
Finally, he emerges. Even with his hood up, I can tell that his mock kindness inside took a lot of effort and its drained him. Today is going to be a tough day for him. "Are you going to be able to navigate today?" I ask.
He shrugs and doesn't answer me, trotting Samson in front of me. I leave the question hanging. For the first few miles, I actually begin to believe that he is possibly well enough to navigate, until he practically jumps off Samson and vomits on the side of the road. I restrain myself from helping him. Don't be good, Wendy, I think to myself. It's almost painful, not hopping down to help him. I manage to stay still long enough for him to finish. He stands up, looking almost green. He wipes his hand on the back of his mouth and swings himself up onto Samson.
"Thanks for the help, bird," Peter says over his shoulder. I can hardly make it out over the din of the rain.
"It's not my responsibility to be taking care of you," I grind out. All we are is travelling companions, this is a business deal. I'm angry with myself for even letting the beginnings of a thaw in our relationship start. He's done this before with the pleasantries and the kindness. And this time I know how bad he is and yet I continue to help him. There's nothing to redeem in him, no goodness at all. I must have been delusional last night to think otherwise.
Peter whips his head around, a look of surprise evident on his face which is quickly swallowed up by anger. He turns Samson around so that both horses are facing each other in the middle of the road, the rain falling down in sheets around us. He raises his eyebrows at me, tauntingly, though the effect is somewhat diminished by the paleness of his skin and his black eye.
"I hope you didn't get that impression last night," I tell him coldly. The words come out harsh and have the desired effect on Peter, making him stone-cold and rigid, but somehow it doesn't feel right, as if I don't mean it.
"No, I didn't at all," Peter says. "I was drunk. I hardly remember last night." His words too come out harsh and cold, but I have a sneaking suspicion he doesn't believe them either.
I straighten. "Good, I don't think you would have been impressed with the Peter, who cried, drunk on the bathroom floor in a puddle of water from the sink," I grind out. Peter's jaw clenches and his eyes dart quickly away, looking almost embarrassed, ashamed. He abruptly turns Samson around, trots forward a few paces and then turns him around again, Peter's hood falling off in the process.
"Fuck it," he barks out. "I do remember and I may have been the one to cry drunk on the floor, but you were the one who held me!" He looks wildly appalled with himself for a second, having said those words, but seems too angry to stop. "Just because you feel conflicted about that doesn't mean you can't take it out on me!"
"Yes, it does!" I yell back. "I can do whatever the hell I want. You've never shown me any kindness, never helped me-"
"What the hell do you think this is?" Peter asks, waving his hand wildly around. His hair is now plastered to his forehead, rain streaming down his face.
"This is a means to an end for you, Pan," I retort. "Don't lie to me. This has never been anything other than a business deal. I'm not your friend. I never will be. We're both trying to get something from the other. That's it!"
Peter sputters for a moment. "You really think that?" he asks, his voice losing its anger.
"What else would it ever be? We yell and we fight all the time. You hardly think anything of me and I think you're irredeemable," I explain furiously.
"Last night-"
"I don't know what happened last night," I interrupt. "All I know is it won't happen again."
Peter's jaw hardens. His eyes become steely and his face loses all its expression. In Neverland, that was a sure sign that Peter was done with any argument. This was his losing face. He turns Samson around once again and begins to gallop on ahead of me, picking up his pace until he's racing away from me. He only comes to an abrupt stop when an arrow strikes him in the shoulder, knocking him off the horse.
I scream.
