27. Bedrooms

"Peter Lake."

He stood up, left the bed behind. Remembered where he was, what time it was, who he had chosen to follow, to escort, all the way out here. The darkness of the walls converged around the open doorframe, and Beverly was there, in her periwinkle blue dress, her hair unkempt. She was leaning against the frame, the edge of the door, where the room started, likewise where it ended. She laughed when he jumped.

"Sorry if I startled you."

"You- No, you didn't. I was just lost in… Well, I was lost, heh." She chuckled again, shook her head. Then, stupidly, Peter waved a hand and said: "Hello."

He hadn't expected her to mimic the motion, waving one hand in return, mouthing the word he had spoken. He chuckled, grinned. Relaxed.

"So… I see my father hasn't thrown you out."

"No. Not just yet, no."

"I told you there was no need to be scared. He's intimidating at first glance, but he's sweeter than what meets the eye. I've known him all my life and I still sometimes forget."

"He… He let me have a room," said Peter.

"So I see," she said. She leaned away from the doorframe, took a step inside. "I'm glad he did."

Her eyes traveled around the room, across the wallpaper and the glass and the curtains. There was a subtle longing in her observations.

"I'm sorry if I kept you waiting," he said.

"What?" she asked, returning her gaze to his.

"For lunch, I mean. I just... I sat here for so long, I lost track of time. I didn't mean to."

"You didn't make me wait," she said, shaking her head. "You did nothing wrong. I'm not really hungry anyways. And, I suppose, you aren't either."

"No, heh. To be frank, I'm not, really." He felt the smile creeping up his lips, despite himself. "I had a good breakfast."

Beverly chuckled. "Eggs and tea. I'm not even that great a cook, I'm actually quite bad at it."

"Eggs and tea," he echoed, a soft laugh bouncing up his throat. "The best kind of breakfast there is."

She giggled again, a creamy flush blooming in her cheeks. And he felt a swell of endearment and joy at the knowledge that he had caused it. Peter then hesitated for a moment, but he had to verbalize his gratitude in some way or another. He needed to let them know, let her know, just how much this meant to him.

"I've never had a room before."

"You haven't?"

"No. I… Well, first, at John's cottage, there was barely any space for the two of us, and back then I was small. Afterwards, the orphanages. Lots of us. Later…" He pursed his lips. "Pearly Soames's place. So, similar to the orphanages. Lots of us. One room."

"I can imagine," Beverly murmured, pensive.

"And for some time, until last night… Grand Central Station."

She raised her eyebrows. "Grand Central Station?"

"Yeah. The, uh, the attic, to be specific."

"You were in the attic of Grand Central Station the whole time?"

"Yeah. I have a friend, he works at the stables. Knows his way around, places to hide. And he showed me how to get up there."

Beverly nodded, took further steps into the room. The dim winter light entered through the window, drenching the curtains, and spread on the floor like the hem of a veil. She eyed the bed, went to it, and sat down, on the same spot he had seated before. She looked up at Peter.

"What's it like up there?" she asked. "On the other side of that ceiling? It must get cold... And loud. I mean, with all those people going in and out, right underneath you… I haven't been to Grand Central Station in a long time, but I remember the ceiling. It's beautiful."

"It is, yeah."

The painted stars. A fake night, forever intact. Complete and eternal and breathtaking. Peter had lived among those stars. He had hidden in the canvas that webbed them together. Just last night he had been in that attic. Less than a full day had passed since he hid his banner and his blanket and bid farewell to his hideout. It felt like decades separated him from those days.

"To be completely honest," said Peter Lake, "I remember being scared senseless the first nights. For that very reason, the people underneath me."

Beverly's blue eyes lingered on him. Her gaze was one of hunger and curiosity. It was the same look she'd given him during breakfast. Only some hours before. Hours. Peter had known her for hours. And maybe days. And maybe months. And maybe thousands of years.

She was ready for a story. Ready to listen. And so he continued.

"It wasn't that the noise bothered me, it was quite the opposite, in fact… I was so high up, the noise was often muffled. And… that was what scared me. Realizing just how far away I was from the ground. I wasn't used to being so high up."

Fly on down and fight, Peter Pan!

Peter Pan had trembled when he'd been asked to jump from those rooftops. The thought of it alone shook him. Just… the thought.

"I just wasn't used to it," he murmured. "And… I don't know why, I knew it was never going to happen, but I always dreamed that the floor would suddenly open up underneath me, like a big mouth, you know. That I would crash through the ceiling like a meteorite and land in the middle of the Station. That the people would scream at the sight of me and I would not hear them, or see them, or be able to move at all."

He peeked a glance at Beverly, worried that his words were in some way upsetting her, but she didn't look bothered. She simply stared on from where she sat, at the edge of the bed. Listened. Beckoned him wordlessly. Keep going.

"I imagined falling from up there," he said. "I've always been afraid of falling. Jumping. Being shoved off bridges or rooftops or… Well, gravity, as a whole, heh. And… mhm. It never happened, of course, but I had nightmares about it in the beginning."

Beverly rested her elbows on her thighs and lay her chin upon her knuckles. She looked down at the tip of her shoes.

"I understand." Her eyes found his once more. "In a way, I mean… On windy days. Stormy nights. When it snows or rains. I have feared to be whisked off the roof like a leaf."

"I can imagine," Peter said quietly, raising his eyebrows.

She smiled. "Yes." Then Beverly said, "But I fear other things than falling from the roof, most of the time. When I watch the frost crawl down the fabric of the tent. And the water puddling over my head. Dripping. It often doesn't enter my space, the fabric is quite thick, but there have been times when I lay there in the darkness and think that the tent may cave in and collapse on top of me. I tend to keep the top open wide, to watch the sky, but on days like these I can't, so I just lie there, watching the fabric as it grows fatter and damper. Expecting to be crushed at any second."

Peter looked at her in silence. His back was to the window and a thin, molten heat rested now upon his shoulders. It felt nice.

"I'm lucky to have a room," he told her, finally. "I cannot express how lucky I feel for having one. Even if it's temporary, it just… I feel like I didn't thank your father enough."

"You can thank him later, Peter," she said, smiling, her brow creasing just a touch. "I'm sure he knows already." After a beat, she whispered: "I wish I could have a bedroom as well. The tent is alright most nights. I'm fine with it… but…"

She didn't finish. Peter nodded. And, one more time, he said: "I can imagine."

If there's anyone here today, thank you so much for reading. Writing this fanfiction brings me joy, to be honest. I genuinely love working on it.