Saving Mr. Darling

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Peter Pan or any related titles, characters, plots, settings, etc. These rights are the propety of J.M. Barrie, the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, and various publishers and distributors. I own only the orginal elements of this story, the writing and publishing of which earn me no money.

Chapter One

1911

"You know, I have the strangest feeling I've seen that ship before. A long time ago, when I was very young," George said, his eyes fixed on the ship slowly dissolving into wisps of cloud that shrouded the full moon.

"Oh, Father!" Wendy cried, hugging him tighter. "I didn't know you knew Peter, too!"

"Perhaps I did, Wendy," George admitted. "But now, I'm afraid he's a stranger to me."

"Tell me of your adventures with him, Father," Wendy asked.

Fighting a feeling almost like nerves, George glanced at his wife, but Mary only smiled and kissed Wendy goodnight before leaving the room to unpack her bags. Nana was no help either, going to neaten up the nursery that had grown untidy in her absence.

George forced his squared shoulders to relax. Wendy was his daughter, his beloved firstborn. He should be capable of speaking with her alone.

Gingerly, he sat on the cushioned window seat and began to speak, reliving his time with Peter even as he explained it to his daughter - an edited, less-harsh version, of course. Wendy was entranced, and George could not help but marvel at the realization that, while they spoke of childish things, her return from Neverland meant that she was ready to begin the long, slow process of growing up.

1861

"Here, now, Georgie," Miss Moore crooned, straightening George's mussed collar. "Not every day your dad wants to speak with you."

That was true. Henry Darling was not an attentive father. He was not an attentive husband, either. George knew his poor mother had lay ill in bed for nearly two months without a visit from him. With Clara as his sickly, low-born wife, Henry had turned his attention to roaming the streets of London where the women were poorer than him and willing to do anything to earn a coin.

Even Miss Moore was not a proper nurse. She was a local woman, low-born as George himself and only a few years older, but she had been a maid in a hotel, so she knew how to conduct herself with a mildly professional nature. She was a fair nurse - even if George was growing too old for such things - and would probably have still been employed as a maid if she had not had a little bastard boy of her own. For all of Miss Moore's faults, she loved her little boy and had taken to George as if he had been born of her as well.

At thirteen, George was unappreciative of her coddling most days, but when he was to see his father, her efforts to improve his appearance were received with thanks.

"George," his father barked from the doorway, stepping away as soon as he had met his son's eyes. They stepped into the room next door, the one that belonged to George's mother. It was the only other enclosed space in the small, run-down house.

His mother was resting more soundly than usual, George noted. Normally, Clara lay pale and feverishly restless, but she seemed almost to be smiling in her slumber today.

"Your mother is dead," Henry told him without preamble.

George huffed out a breath, startled by the harsh revelation. Before he could hold it back, a tear dropped down his cheek. A moment later, the back of Henry's hand connected with the same side of his face.

"Control yourself, boy," Henry commanded. "I'll suffer no weak-willed displays of emotion. I won't support you when you're damn well able to support yourself. I secured a position for you in the coal mines. You leave first thing tomorrow morning."

George struggled to hide his panic and fear, but it left him unable to speak. Henry struck his other cheek.

"What do you say to me, boy?"

"Yessir," George answered quickly. "Thank you, sir."

With a single decisive nod, Henry left the room. A moment later, he left the house altogether and George highly doubted he would ever return.

"Georgie?" Miss Moore asked, stepping into the room behind him. "I heard your dad leave. Are you- Cor!"

With a flurry of motion, she had rushed to Clara's bedside. George watched dispassionately as Miss Moore discovered that his mother was dead. He was just as numb as the nurse arranged Clara's limbs into a more natural position.

Moments later, George was enveloped in Miss Moore's embrace. "I'm sorry, George. You poor thing!"

"I'm to leave for the coal mines tomorrow morning, Miss Moore," George said blandly. "Has father paid you what he owes?"

"Don't you worry about that," she soothed, walking him slowly from the room where his mother's body lay. "You won't go to the mines, will you, Georgie?"

"I must."

Miss Moore stared up at him solemnly. "Boys who go to the mines don't return."

"James Cooper returned," George pointed out, sitting carefully on a much-abused chair.

"James Cooper is missing an arm and an eye!" she replied shrilly. "You cannot go, George. You can go somewhere else. I'll help you find work."

George sighed. "You know I have no choice. Father arranged this position. If I do not take it… He'll kill me, Miss Moore."

There was no possible response to that, so Miss Moore only embraced him and kissed his cheek before going to prepare supper. Just after Clara's body had been removed from the small house, Miss Moore had to leave to care for her own family. She bid George a tearful goodbye, obviously not expecting to see him alive again. George did not expect to see her again, either.

All too soon, he sat alone in the darkening house. Henry had not left much in the way of goods, and did not keep enough coin to spare for things like candles. Overwhelmed with a terrible mixture of emptiness and grief, George went to sit in his mother's bedroom.

In the span of a single day, his life had ended. No, he decided, not his life. His childhood. He was a boy no longer. From dawn tomorrow, he would need to begin his life as a man. He had to grow up.

Eventually, George grew aware of a scratching sound from outside the window. Thoughts of demons or bandits flitted through his head, but now was as good a time as any to practice being a man.

George crossed to the window in half a moment, unlatching the rough shutters to push them flush with the sides of the house.

"We- I have nothing for you to steal and there's nothing you could do to me that matters in the slightest. Come in, if you are determined. If not, stop the infernal scratching and leave me be."

When the figure stepped through the window, George could not bring himself to be terribly surprised. After all, he had issued an invitation. When the shape moved far enough into the room to be illuminated by the weak moonlight, George found himself looking at a boy roughly his own age. That was not so odd. Many boys of thirteen wandered the streets, stealing their livelihood. However, the boy himself was odd.

His face was a lean triangle, his chin sharp. Dark eyes gleamed with a mischievous light and George could have sworn he saw the tip of a pointed ear when the boy turned his head.

"You're a strange boy," he remarked.

"You're a strange boy," the strange boy returned. "From the way you spoke, I thought there was a grown-up in here."

"Not for several more hours," George said heavily, sitting back onto his mother's bed. "I have until dawn, at least."

"Dawn?" the boy asked, floating too-gracefully to sit on the floor.

George nodded, watching a firefly that had sailed into the room behind the would-be thief. "My mother is dead and I'm to go work in the coal mines tomorrow. I have to grow up."

"That's terrible!" the boy said. "You don't look ready to grow up at all."

"I'm not," George answered honestly. "But I must."

The boy leaned his sharp chin on a fist. "What if you did not?"

George laughed darkly. "If I do not go to the coal mines tomorrow, my father will kill me. He's threatened it often enough in the past."

"He would have to find you first," the boy said, the gleam in his eyes growing brighter. "I know a place where he would never find you."

"It is no use," George told him, though a painful bubble of hope was growing inside of his chest. "There is nowhere I can go where he would not find me."

"Neverland."

"Is that part of London?" George asked with a squint.

The boy laughed uproariously. "No! Neverland is an island. There are no adults there. Well, except the pirates. And the natives. But there are no adults in the Lost Boys. Your father would never be able to find you. You wouldn't have to grow up."

George stared at him. "How do I get to Neverland?"

"I can take you there myself," the boy said with a bragging tone in his voice. "But you have to know that it's a very dangerous place. Are you brave enough?"

"I think so," George said.

The boy nodded. "I'm the leader of the Lost Boys. I'm in charge. Can you take orders?"

George considered that for a moment. "I've been taking orders all my life. I don't see why it would be any different in Neverland."

"Good," the boy said firmly. "I'm Peter. This here is Tinkerbell."

Squinting, George saw that the firefly buzzing around the room had landed on Peter's outstretched palm and it was not a firefly at all. A miniature lady stood there, glowing softly as she fiddled with the large wings protruding from behind her shoulders.

Peter seemed to be waiting for something, so George nodded to the tiny lady. "Hello, Tinkerbell."

Peter beamed at that. "Tink is a fairy. Her pixie dust will help us get to Neverland."

"Will she guide us?"

"Nah, I know the way. We just need her to dust you so you can fly."

"Fly?" George asked. "I'll fly to Neverland?"

"Yes, why?" Peter narrowed his eyes. "Have you changed your mind?"

"No," he said quickly. He had not changed his mind and he never would.

"Good! Tink, go ahead."

Tinkerbell flew up and around George, the sound of tiny bells accompanying every movement. Glowing sparks floated down from her path, gilding every inch of George. He had half-expected the lights to burn and sear like sparks from a fire, but he was covered with a feeling of soft warmth.

George closed his eyes to savor the sensation, feeling safe for the first time he could remember.

When George opened his eyes, Peter was watching him. "Now, you just need to think of a wonderful thought."

"A wonderful thought?" George repeated, frowning.

"Yes," Peter said reasonably. "When you're happy, you float easier."

That made sense to George, who tried his best to be happy. He thought of his mother, but she was dead and the thought was not happy enough. He thought of Miss Moore, but he would never see her again and it still was not happy enough.

Peter shook his head. "You keep trying to be grown-up happy. Grown-ups are always a little bit sad, even when they're happy. You need to think of something really wonderful!"

George closed his eyes and summoned his very happiest memory: two Christmases ago, when Clara had been well enough to leave bed and Miss Moore had brought her tiny son. They had smiled and sang together all day, and George had spent the afternoon learning to carve with the little knife his mother had given him. He could still hear their voices, see their smiling faces…

"There you go!" Peter said happily.

George looked down to find that he was floating a short distance from the ground. With a simple motion, he had leaned into the air and began soaring around the room. Somersaults and mid-air flips were easier than breathing and it was only moments before he was laughing as he could not remember doing before.

"Are you ready?" Peter asked, stepping to the windowsill.

George hesitated for only a moment. "Yes. Let's go."

Peter grinned back at him as Tinkerbell tinkled merrily. "Off to Neverland!"

Author's Note - Yes, the title of this story is a reference to Saving Mr. Banks. I've always been inspired by Peter Pan, but the few times I've attempted to write a fic following the story, it has not gone well. I'm actually fairly happy at how this one turned out! It is going to be quite a short story with only three chapters and a lot of time jumps, but I wanted to post it anyway.

Be warned: I haven't seen a version of Peter Pan other than the cartoon in over a decade, so if I accidentally stole something from a recent stage or film version of the story, please know that it truly was accidental. If you have questions, comments, or concerns, please let me know in a review or a PM. I post updates every Wednesday, so I'll see you in a week! Thanks for reading!