Peter watched Wendy with narrowed eyes as they climbed up a steep mountain path towards the next estate. She held herself regally as she always did, back straight and head high with her hands tightly gripping the rains, but he could see the tremors running underneath the three layers of clothing she had tugged on that morning. She was a drowned rat with the posture of a Victorian heiress.

Slick, grey rock surrounded them for miles, jutting out of the earth at sharp, unkind angles. Underfoot, their path was more full of cracks than it was stone. Far below them were withering trees, twisting into grey twigs in the thin mountain air. From the desolate, cloudy sky poured sheets of ice and sleet. Peter reminded himself to remember that when he saw his brother next, he would throttle him for his choice of landscape. Did that fool need to have mansions in such remote places? Did he really think so many people cared for him that he needed such ridiculous isolation? Truly? And did he need so many? Could he have not been satisfied with one, like Peter had been? Yes, that dolt would get a severe verbal lashing when Peter saw him next.

Peter spent a lot of time coming up with reasons to be angry with his brother these days, imagining arguments that may never happen. It was all he could do to fight the tense silence that had settled over him and Wendy since Margaret.

Wendy had spoken close to a dozen words to him in the last week after they left behind the small village still mourning Olly's death. The rest day had not been as he had imagined: he had sulked by the fire most of the day, occupying himself by leafing through Wendy's novels while Wendy had helped with funeral arrangements. He didn't know the details of what she had done and he had decided that he shouldn't care. He hadn't asked her what she had done with her day when she returned late and drenched the next night and she hadn't offered up any details.

Over the next few days, Wendy was close to silent. She sat across from him at meal times with tense shoulders and a clenched jaw, eyes downcast always on a book or simply on the cutlery. When she had to meet his gaze, her eyes were narrowed. She had forgone her strict manners and snatched the salt and pepper from the across the table instead of asking politely. Like an idiot, he realized on the third day that she was angry with him, still.

Of course, this wasn't an uncommon occurrence. On Neverland, Wendy was furious with him the vast majority of the time; when he threw loud parties, when he bothered her when she went swimming, his disregard for nearly everything she held in high regard, any number of things. He had come to almost expect her fury. It had been his constant companion for nearly a hundred and twenty years. It was fiery, clear and temporary. The fires she built her anger into were made entirely kindling, no large logs to keep it blazing permanently. It came in bursts, sparking up as she lectured him almost endlessly on whatever topic she had picked and then as quickly as it had come, it was over.

This, however, was new.

She was cold and rigid, holding herself at a distance from him. Wendy was no longer bright and clear. A cloud had passed over her, she spoke in clipped, tight words and for the first time perhaps ever, Peter was only left to wonder what she was thinking. She no longer monologued at him, chastising him for most things.

If he was an honest person, which he generally was not, he would have said that he missed the idle chatter they had shared and the easy silences that they dwelt in. But Peter was not silent. Nor did he need anyone to keep him company or chase away loneliness. No, all he was missing was attention. Surely.

Wendy urged Ash forward up the path and Peter considered telling her to slow down, that they would get to the town eventually. It was only an hour away and once they got there, they would be able to luxuriate in all the riches it had to offer. It was the last town before the wilderness of the jagged cliffs, more of a mountain resort town than anything else. He had already told her this and she had responded with a sour glare. He didn't feel like reliving that so he kept his mouth shut even as she leaned into the horse, pushing him closer to a canter.

As they rounded a bend, the ground gave way under Ash's foot, the rock splintering under his weight. He reared back, whinnying, and threw Wendy and all her things off. She hit the ground with a thud.

XXX

She had just been trying to keep her eyes forward and get to the town as soon as possible. She wanted to be out of the cold and the rain and wrapped in whatever threadbare sheets the next inn had to offer. She sat straight backed on Ash, her eyes unfocused on the road ahead, trying to convince herself she was in her beautiful house with Michael, John and Neal in the south. She imagined the sun on her face, the sound of a soft summer breeze rustling through the tall, sweet smelling grasses. She even allowed herself to imagine she was back home in mild England with her parents. She pretended she was in their country home, wandering through lush fields with a heavy picnic basket, the sun warm on the back of her white blouse. Up ahead, her brothers laughed and shouted and a distance behind her, her parents walked arm in arm. When a particularly sharp gust of wind ripped through her cloak, she mind slipped into Neverland and its cloying heat and golden days. The sand on the beach shifted underneath her bare feet as—

—the ground crumbled and Ash reared back, throwing her backwards, tearing her out of her imaginings. She hit the ground with a thud. All the wind was knocked out of her. For a few seconds, she lay there, dazed. She forgot it was cold, forgot it was wet, forgot even where she was.

As she blinked, the world took shape around her and she remembered. Jagged rocks materialized underneath her and dug into her back, the mud seeped through every single layer she had on and the pain of being tossed from a horse seized her. Her chest was painfully tight and her bones felt brittle. She lay on the ground, blinking back tears, as if she was a child crying over a cut. Her heart was in her mouth and she squeezed her eyes shut, wishing for her mother. She wanted someone to sooth her bumps and bruises, to coo over her, to take care of her.

Instead, she could hear a distant murmuring, incessant and most certainly not Mary Darling. Blearily, she opened her eyes and Pan's face came into focus. His mouth was moving, but all she could hear was a buzzing. She just stared at him.

Pan paused before he slowly began to pull her up, coaxing her into a sitting position. But before she was even fully upright, she got enough of her sense together to push him off. "Don't touch me! I'm fine!"

A lie.

He flinched away. She almost felt bad.

"You just got thrown from a horse," he retorted. He reached out again to help her up, but she pushed away his hand. She would be taking no comfort from him, not even a helping hand.

She imagined to stand with great difficulty and tried to remember the poise she had been taught as a little girl. She straightened her back and held her chin up high, wobbly and in pain underneath it all.

With narrowed eyes, Pan circled her, inspecting her and her soaked dress and cloak. She wondered if he could tell that she was putting all her willpower into standing upright. His words were fuzzy and confusing when he said, "I'm surprised you didn't crack your head on a rock."

Ignoring him, she turned towards Ash but caught herself almost immediately. She found her chestnut coloured horse skittish and stamping his hooves.

Pan was beside her. "You're not going to be able to ride him the rest of the way," he told her. She closed her eyes and tears prickled her eyes again. Ash was the only creature who showed her any warmth these days. Her only comfort. It was cruel to be ripped away from him. She desperately wanted to fling her arms around his neck and sob into his soft skin, inhale the scent of earth and hay he carried with him. Without him, she was sure she would freeze.

"Can we fly?" She felt like a child for asking.

"I can't take us and the horses. It would be too much." Pan's voice could have been described as comforting (if she were to allow herself to accept comfort from Pan, which she didn't). "You'll have to come up onto Philipe."

She wanted to stamp her feet and cry like a child. She wanted to demand that he use up every ounce of magic he had to take them to the inn. She would not be separated from Ash, not now when she needed him most. But she swallowed her tantrum and went to Philipe. Pan tied Ash's reigns to the back of Philipe and then came beside her as she stared at Philpe, who had been turned into a hulking mountain by the sharp pain in her back.

"Do you need help getting up?" he asked.

"No." She reached up to grab onto Philipe's saddle and pain seared through her spine all the way up to her arm. It was almost like she had been thrown off of Ash again. She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore it. She sucked in a sharp breath and closed her eyes and she tied to bring her leg up to the stirrup, but let out a strangled cry.

"You're so goddamn stubborn." She had expected him to lift her up, perhaps, or toss her up into the saddle, but suddenly, she was weightless and for a moment, nothing hurt. Without anymore hassle, she was up on Philipe. She looked down at Pan, surprised. He looked up at her with that ever-present blank stare, his hair plastered to his head in the rain, droplets running down his face.

A voice in the back of her mind told her she should say thank you, but she ignored it.

He held her gaze for a moment more before swinging himself up onto Philipe. His chest was pressed against her back and with a hiss, she felt his warmth seep into her. Damn him and damn his powers, she sulked silently. Over the din of the rain and the sleet, she could hear the constant thump of his heart, but it was no comfort. She knew better now. Just because he had a beating heart did not mean he cared for anyone or anything.

XXX

Under sheets of icy rain, they passed through the gates of the town. A cobblestone path lined with chalets made of dark wood with windows filled with buttery light led them up towards the inn. It was a large Tudor-style manor, it's light spilling out into the sleet.

Wendy sat stiff and silent in front of Peter as they twisted and turned through the town. If the weather weren't so miserable and Wendy wasn't so angry with him, he might have suggested they peruse the shops, sift through the fine clothes and jewelry and trinkets that the merchants brought for the wealthy tourists.

When they reached the stables of the inn, Peter swung off Philipe and held out his hands to help Wendy down. She looked at him with dark eyes, eyebrows furrowed. He was no mindreader, but he knew her well enough to know she was contemplating smacking his hands away. Wendy on a day when she hadn't been flung from a horse was too stubborn to take any of his help. After glaring for a couple of moments, she allowed him to help her down from Philipe, immediately recoiling from his touch when her feet touched the ground.

He felt like telling her that she couldn't give him the silent treatment forever. He couldn't stand the strained silences anymore, her cold looks. He wanted their easy conversations back, quick and heated debates over spells and definitions of words. He wanted to demand it from her like he demanded loyalty and praise from the Lost Boys for four hundred years. But looking at her then, her golden hair drench and dark, wincing with every moment, he couldn't. It would have been… cruel.

You're cruel, he reminded himself. This should not give you pause.

When the staff greeted them at the stables, he explained to one of them that Wendy had taken a nasty fall from her horse and would need tending. She need to be warmed and dried, her wounds needed to be bandaged and she needed to be tucked somewhere soft. She needed to be cared for.

Idiot, he scolded himself. You're losing it.

He followed Wendy and a parade of attendants through the cozy hallways of the inn, lit by candlelight. The place smelled thickly of firewood and pine, old leather and rain. Thick, red carpets lined the floors, intricate patterns twirling out from under their feet. Their room was even more richly decorated than the halls. The door opened into a large, spacious room, outfitted with the same carpet as before, full of plush leather chairs draped with furs, surrounding a blazing fire place. Towards the back of the room was a dark wooden table with two chairs, overlooking a large window that faced out onto the grey sky and jagged mountains. Peaking around, he found two adjoining rooms, each with large beds stacked with expensive pillows and blankets, adorned with expensive fabrics and detailed designs in burgundy and gold hues.

Pan's footsteps were muffled by the carpet as he circled the room. The attendants had drawn a bath in the opulently decorated bathroom for Wendy as soon as they had entered the room. The smells of lavender and rosemary wafted out from the bathroom and he could her the soft murmuring of voices and the splash of water. He waited at the door, tapping his foot, for nearly fifteen minutes before he realized that Wendy wouldn't be coming out any time soon. Stalking across the room, he flung himself into one of the chairs and propped his chin up on his hand.

He wanted— What did he want?

Did he want Wendy to accept his help? Did he want to tend to her scrapes and bruises, dabbing ointment on them gently? On a good day, she probably wouldn't have accepted his help anyway, but he couldn't stop thinking about the way she had looked at him after he helped her up onto Philipe. He would never have described Wendy as cold, but that look couldn't have been described as anything else.

I just want attention, he reminded himself. I'm just bored.

Yes. Bored. She had been near silent the past two weeks and he had barely anything to keep him entertained during the monotony of riding and eating and sleeping and studying. Boredom.

Shifting in his seat, now fully dry and warm, he should have stretched out and enjoyed a cat nap. This room cost a pretty penny and he should have been able to enjoy it. Instead, his mind kept turning back to the way Wendy looked at him or how she had swatted his hands away. The way she had brushed past him on the dock with Margaret. He tried desperately to think of anything else, focus on anything else that didn't dredge up memories of Gavin. He crossed the room and rummaged through the book bag before he found one of the novels Wendy was always reading. He returned to his seat and opened the book and tried to read through it.

He walked a fine line with memories of Gavin. Although, the memories of the child— his child— were tinged in gold and warmed him, filled his chest so much that he felt he might burst, they were inextricably tied to his death. Just thinking about Gavin tugged him closer to the edge of a great canyon, its maw opening up into a dark, cold pit. He knew if he wasn't careful, if he dwelled too much on the pain, he would fall over into it, tumbling through the grief endlessly, clawing at the air to control himself, his emotions.

He was very careful not to think about Gavin, but Wendy clearly expected him, too. She was furious that he hadn't seen the parallels between the couple and themselves, but what did it matter to her, really? She couldn't expect him to see the world the same way she did. Perhaps, she thought he dishonoured Gavin's memory.

But with the way she was acting, he very much doubted that Wendy would just come out right and say it. This was a different kind of anger. Unfamiliar territory.

He was broken out of his thoughts at the bathroom door creaking open. In front of him, Wendy stood in a fluffy white robe, her hair damp and dark. She looked at him with a coolness that he decided he hated. He was a snake, slithering on the ground, and Wendy was looking upon him with disgust. But there was something else in her golden eyes that he hadn't seen in many, many years: fear.

"I've informed the maids that they should call a doctor for me. To take care of the wounds," she told him, brusquely. In the blink of an eye, that fear was gone. She had transformed into the self-righteous Wendy he knew, the one who chastised him about everything under the sun. For a moment, he wondered if he had even seen the fear at all.

Peter almost stood up. "I could—"

She cut him off. "No."

Despite her refusal, he decided that should she change her mind, he would still use whatever magic he had left to heal her. She should be cared for was the only thought that crossed his mind when he decided this. He didn't feel like arguing with himself about it just then.

"You can go downstairs and have dinner on your own." He was sure that Wendy had mastered her social graces at an early age, but it was hard to say I don't want you near me so get out of my sight in a polite way. Not even she was that good.

He didn't miss the bewildered look that passed between the attendants. What husband and wife pair spoke like this to each other? Who dismissed their spouse with such a frigid voice? He hoped they would chalk up to an ill conceived arranged marriage.

If he had had all his powers or Neverland or even more than half a dozen Lost Boys at his command, he probably would have stood his ground. He would never have allowed himself to be dismissed like that, but his life was empty and Wendy was all that was in it. Upsetting her even more seemed like a stupid thing to do… a cruel thing to do.

So, he nodded curtly and turned on his heel quickly, not bothering to look behind him as he went out the door.

XXX

The doctor ordered another bath.

This time, instead of expensive oils and perfumes being dumped into the scalding water, the doctor tossed in a few handfuls of a white powder that fizzed as it hit the water. Standing in her bathrobe, Wendy looked at the foaming bath with a raised eyebrow and skeptical look.

"It'll clean out the wounds and help with the pain," the doctor explained. "Soak in it for an hour and then go to sleep." The doctor paused. "You've eaten, right? You can't have this treatment on an empty stomach."

Wendy nodded. The doctor, who introduced herself as Nina, had taken a full hour to arrive after she had been sent for by the maids. Wendy had eaten a silent dinner with a book in hand, worried that Pan would arrive before the doctor even got there. But blessedly, Nina stepped in just as she had had the tray sent away and had pushed Wendy into the bath. After looking at Wendy's scrapes, she explained that she'd prescribe her a salve for the wounds that she would need to apply twice a day for three days.

Wendy had protested that she didn't have three days. Nina had told her that it was either three days or the injuries would get worse and bother her for weeks. The months were dragging on now and every day that past was another day that Baelfire languished in agony. She didn't want to be dragged down by her stupid cuts. She wanted to find her brother.

As Nina explained instructions about the bath, Wendy wondered if perhaps she could convince Pan to heal her. She could reason with him that it was the most logical thing to do. She was no use if she was wounded.

But asking anything from Pan was too much, let him too close. She had been stupid enough to allow him a place in her life. She had swapped theories and ideas, debated over meanings of words and interpretations of spells, their minds meeting in the middle. She hadn't even realized how dangerous, how foolish it had been until he ripped it all away from her.

No, asking Pan for any help was absolutely not an option.

"Are you listening?" Nina asked her.

"Huh?"

"Don't rinse off after the bath. Pat dry and don't rub or wipe," Nina instructed.

Wendy nodded dumbly, her mind still on Pan.

"And the salve." Nina produced a small glass jar with a honey-coloured cream in it. "Twice daily for three days. Do you have someone here with you to help you with it?"

"I can do it on my own," Wendy answered automatically.

"You should take the help you can get if you want to heal properly," Nina told her seriously. Nina reminded Wendy of her governesses growing up, strict, no-nonsense and infinitely practical.

Wendy nodded. She had learned from her governess that it was easiest just not to argue. She could struggle for three days. She had lived through much worse.

Nina left her with strict, written instructions, the salve and a few pain pills for the night. Once Wendy heard the door click, she took off her robe and lowered herself into the bath, hissing as the piping hot water enveloped her. Her skin stung as it met the water, the cuts tingling painfully. She cursed as she sank lower up to her shoulders. She stilled for a few moments, waiting for the pain to ease, but it seemed like it wasn't going to. She grabbed for the book she had left by the bath and opened it. At least she now had an excuse to lounge without feeling incredibly guilty; bringing a three hundred year old spell book into the bath was a recipe for disaster.

Opening the book, she felt the tension leave her body, ready to dive into a richly crafted fantasy. Earth books were few and far between and she didn't have many, but she wasn't about to complain. The Enchanted Forest had a good selection of authors and she quite enjoyed the rich stories they weaved, became entranced in the worlds they created.

She got through a whole paragraph before her mind was slipping back to Margaret.

Wendy was still in the tiny chapel, with the rain and the sleet hammering down on the roof, as the town priest recited hymns and songs that could never capture the beauty that was a child. She sat a few rows behind Margaret, barely paying attention to the service as she watched Margaret and Tom. They sat shoulder to shoulder in their mourning clothes, heads bowed. Squinting, she could see Tom's shoulder moving every so slightly, almost imperceptibly and she knew he was rubbing circles on the back of Margaret's hand with his thumb. A small comfort, an act of love.

Gavin had never gotten a funeral. Just small words said over his small grave with no one to hear but her and Pan. No one had celebrated his life or recounted his beautiful adventures. No one had been there to hear how his laugh sounded like bells ringing out into a world blanketed in soft, sparkling snow. How his eyes sparkled when he made silly knock-knock jokes. How smart he was. How much he loved stories to be read to him.

Tears slipped down her face as she listened to the eulogy. She cried for Olly, but also for Margaret and Tom. She knew the heartache that was ahead of them. Now there were faced with weeks of loneliness, their only companion would be their grief. They would have to try and move forward with their lives that were now empty. Wendy had hated those weeks, alone, trying to hobble together a new life without her reason for living.

Cheeks wet, she twisted her kerchief in her hands. She was crying for Gavin too, she knew.

After the service, she had made the short walk with the mass of people back to the inn. She floated through the crowd full of black clothes and low murmurs. With a small plate of sandwiches that tasted like sawdust, she watched people fall into easy conversation about mundane things. They respected Margaret's wishes and left her and Tom be at a table near the far end of the dining hall. They could go home after this and forget. But Margaret wouldn't. Tom wouldn't. She wouldn't.

She stayed a long time and didn't leave as the food dwindled and then the tea and coffee and then the people. Soon, there were barely a dozen people in the large dining hall. Margaret and Tom sat at a table by the window, both staring into the middle distance, neither of them speaking, but Tom's hand was still on Margaret's, her fingers twined with his.

Drifting over to their table, they didn't notice her until she was only a few steps from them. Tom was the first to look up and he offered her a smile that didn't reach his eyes. She gave one back and knew it was just as poor an excuse for a smile as his was.

"Your husband couldn't make it?" he asked.

Yes. Her husband. She twisted her ring and tried to think of an excuse other than My fake husband is a cold hearted bastard and never actually loved his child, so expecting him to attend a funeral for another child is simply ridiculous. "Um, Pa—Peter isn't good with these types of things," she managed.

Margaret nodded. "He's the one who cries like a baby then." It took Wendy a moment to realize that Margaret was making a joke. She started at the woman, now dry and properly clothed, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun. Wendy would never have guessed she had been ready to fling herself into a frigid river just the day before.

Wendy smiled, but her lips cracked as her mouth widened. "I won't tell him that you guessed that," she returned back. One corner of Margaret's mouth pulled up and Wendy's heart soared.

"Tom's the crier, if you hadn't already guessed," Margaret continued. "Big babies, our husbands." Wendy let out a breath of a laugh, but all she could think about was Pan's face in the dimness, twisted up in agony, his cheeks and pillows and her hands drenched in the salt of his tears. It had felt so real.

After a moment's pause, Wendy floundered for something to say. "The tuna salad was very good," she commented. The dining hall was suddenly too quiet and she glanced around at the near empty room. "Not dry at all. And the addition of the celery was nice."

"Small talk is not your forte," Margaret observed, leaning back in the chair. Crestfallen, Wendy realized that Margaret was funny. If she had been in different circumstances, they might have been friends. They might have laughed over Margaret's dry, abrasive humour in a small coffee shop or even Margaret's living room. "Couldn't come up with something about the service?"

Wendy shrugged. "Funeral's suck. But I did like hearing more about Olly."

Tom nodded. "He was the best."

"Sounded like it," Wendy agreed.

"You know, there was actually more to that story about the frog than Father Lahey said," Margaret informed her.

Taking the chance, wanting to hear more about that gorgeous child, Wendy pulled up a chair and sat rapt as Margaret explained that Olly's fascination with frogs had led to a plague of them when he figured out the best place for the frogs to lay their eggs and had moved with all. By the end of it, her sides were splitting from laughter and tears were in her eyes. Her breath felt light as she giggled from Tom's input, Margaret's dry commentary.

"Gavin had this affinity for these crows," she began. "I told him once about how they like shiny objects so he'd leave cutlery outside his window sill. It took me a week to realize he was the reason we had no more forks, but after that he'd take anything he could get his hands on. After about a month, he had an entire posse of crows following him around, bringing him nuts and berries wherever he went. It was ridiculous."

The three of them sat there for nearly two more hours, talking endless, joyfully, about their children. The dining hall was soon empty with no one but them in it. The lights had dimmed and the patter of rain had slowed to a small din. The ache that had been in Wendy's heart felt a little bit less as they swapped stories and anecdotes, reminisced on things that had once been so annoying that now seemed like little miracles.

Smiling, really smiling, Wendy said, "It's been so long since I've talked about Gavin like this."

Margaret nodded. "It feels good."

"It feels healing," Tom agreed. Wendy smiled again. She could see that the weeks ahead for Tom and Margaret would not be nearly as lonely as hers had been. They would have someone to mourn with, to laugh with, to simply just be with. They wouldn't be by themselves with their grief, battling it all alone. Suddenly, Wendy's throat constricted and she felt a sob blocking the air.

Pan had never been with her in her grief. She had been alone in it all this time.

Gavin had no one but her laughing about his odd quirks, the funny things he'd said. No one but her to remember how he smiled or laughed, the shape of his small hands and his lopsided smirk.

"We're leaving tomorrow," she blurted. "But would it be okay if I sent you a letter?" Margaret and Tom exchanged looks. "It's been so nice talking to you both."

"You and Peter don't talk like this?" Tom asked. She knew that look on his face well enough to know it was pity. Margaret shot him a look and quickly squeezed his hand. Wendy didn't need to be a mindreader to know that Margaret wasn't pleased he had asked that.

Her chest felt tight as she shrugged and lied, "We don't grieve the same way." I grieve and he doesn't grieve at all.

Margaret nodded, her face neutral and Wendy was so thankful that at least she didn't have that awful look of pity on her face. "I think being pen pals is a good idea. For both of us," she agreed. She quickly grabbed a piece of paper and scratched down her address. Wendy took it and quickly folded it and placed it in her pocket, a treasure.

Standing from the table, she said, "Thank you. For this and for sharing Olly's life with me."

Margaret stood and grasped her hand in hers. It was almost unbearably cold, but was comforting in a strange way. She squeezed it and for a moment, Wendy didn't feel so hopelessly alone in her mourning. "Thank you for sharing Gavin's with us," she said and her eyes glimmered. Tom stood and she shook it once, firmly. She quickly turned to Margaret, desperate to hug her, but she knew somehow that Margaret was not a hugger. Instead, she gave her hand another quick squeeze and said, "All the best. Keep each other close," and turned on her heel out of the dining hall.

She didn't look back at what she knew was Tom and Margaret, standing side by side, watching her go, together. She couldn't bare the thought of the sight. She knew it would have toppled her over to know she didn't have that, not even symbolically.

When she had come back to the room and saw just the outline of Pan by the fire, her throat constricted and her chest pressed in on itself. She shut her eyes tightly to banish the image of him, to pretend it wasn't that painful, but it was. And it had been like this for weeks.

It was why she had tossed him out of the room and now why she threw herself into a book, trying her very hardest not to think of him, of Margaret and Tom, of what she didn't have.

She shook herself and turned back to the book. This time she read aloud, hoping that would focus her better and it did for the most part. Her mind only slipped every few pages instead of every paragraph.

Soon, the water cooled. With her muscles loosened and her aches numbed, she clambered out of the tub with red cheeks and shrivelled toes and fingers. She dried herself off quickly and changed into her soft nightgown. She nearly sprinted through the shared living space before she realized that Pan hadn't returned yet. She scurried into one of the bedrooms and shut the door. The room was soft and quiet, the sound of her movements muffled amongst the heavy drapes and carpet.

She clambered into the bed, the mattress sinking underneath her and the blankets heavy and warm on top of her. She quickly swallowed the meds that Nina had given her and settled in amongst the downy pillows with her book and continued to read, murmuring softly until her murmurs turned to whispers and whispers into a soft, sleepy silence.

XXX

Peter announced to Wendy over breakfast that he had paid for an extra few nights at the resort. "For you to heal fully before we head out," he told her.

Hardly looking up from her oatmeal she nodded. "The doctor said three days." He humphed. He had come in late last night from a solitary dinner in the restaurant on the first floor of the inn. He had lounged in a plush chair by the fire at a table with an expensive white table cloth and expensive silverware. He had sipped smoky scotch and had scarfed down a meal of filet mignon. It had been exorbitant and luxurious and awful. He had found the silence draining and he wished for Wendy across from him. He wanted her scoldings or musings or even just her presence.

Turning into a weak human, he had cursed at himself. Furious with himself and with Wendy, he had sulked at the table for a few more hours, trying to pretend he was having a very fun time on his own throwing back expensive alcohol. He stumbled upstairs just after midnight. The room was dim when he entered, filled with shadowy lumps of furniture. Quickly lighting a candle, he made his way to his room silently, but not before gently peaking into Wendy's room. He couldn't make her out, just a lump in the bed.

When she joined him the next morning for at their breakfast table, she had been silent. Wendy was normally one to inform him about whatever she felt was important and a lot of the time, that was most things. But evidently, this morning, she had decided that her health was not something she was in a hurry to share.

He considered her over the small dining table they had in their room. The rain still beat against the window and the clouds were dark grey. One wouldn't normally guess that it was mid-morning. He contemplated asking her if she was planning on giving him the silent treatment for the rest of their time together. He refrained, however. She either wouldn't respond or would answer with such a self-righteous air, "I'm not here to entertain you. I'm here to find my brother."

"Doctor say anything else?" he asked. He had never had to prompt Wendy into sharing. She just did it. She shook her head, eyes still focused intently on her oatmeal. "Did she say anything about your sleep?" At this she glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow. He continued, "You've been tired lately. The climate hasn't been treating you well."

She made a non-committal noise. "Not much she could do about the weather." This time her gaze rested on her cup of steaming tea.

"You'd think someone from England would be more well adapted to this weather." He found these days he was having to fill the silence himself. It was more tedious than it used to be.

Her eyes flickered over to the window. "England is milder than this," she said.

That didn't leave much room for him to respond. Scrambling to keep the conversation going, he decided on, "It's because you acclimated so well to Neverland." She gave him a black look and he wanted to shrink into nothing.

Stupid and cruel, he chastised himself, but then he paused. Does it matter if I say cruel things things? Does it matter if I am cruel? he thought back to himself. He stared at her for a couple moments, her angry gaze still on him, her posture rigid. Perhaps this might get a rise out of her, he reasoned and waited, expectantly. Another long moment passed before she stood and took her teacup to sit by the fire.

He found himself again floundering for words, for anything. "I'm going to go into town to buy some things," he said, watching her as golden light from the fire danced over her silhouette. She turned to look at him from her chair. She probably wouldn't have even come if she wasn't cross with him, with the weather being what it was, but he said it anyway, half-hoping she might quip something out or give him a haughty order about a specific pair of gloves she needed. "I'll be back eventually."

Her eyes quickly flicked over his face before she settled back into the chair, sipping her tea and staring into the fire. He waited a moment more, hoping she might say something before standing and crossing the room. He tossed on his coat, still damp from the day before. Gritting his teeth, he tugged on his boots, cold water squelching as he pulled them on; they hadn't fully dried from the night before. He shut the door behind him quickly, not before casting a long glance at Wendy sitting still and silent by the fire, and marched through the inn and out into the cold, irritated that she still didn't deign to speak to him. It was much easier to think he was irritated than to admit that he couldn't stop thinking about the look of fear that was on her face yesterday.

He made quick work of the things he needed to buy. New coats for the horses, extra blankets, new coats for him and Wendy, extra gloves and socks. He moved through the merchants quickly and effectively. He didn't feel the need to haggle unlike usual. These were the nicest items he was going to find and he didn't feel the need to expend energy charming merchants into giving him a better price. And if he was being honest, Wendy was far better at bartering than he was. No one expected a pretty young woman to drive such a hard bargain.

A few hours later, heavy with bags and boxes, he found himself in a small cramped pub. Shoved into a tight, warm corner, he ordered a stew and a beer and peered out the window, watching people pass by on the street.

His favourite past time was people-watching. It was a skill he had honed on Neverland and one that was particularly useful wherever he went. But stirring his stew idly, it was like watching paint dry. It might have been entertaining with Wendy across from him. He would make a passing observation. She would turn sharply, eyes immediately find who he was talking about. After a moment's pause she might agree or sharply disagree with him. But the chair across from him was empty and there was no easy flow of idle chatter.

The world felt hollow now. With Felix gone and Gold hobbled up in some deep, dark hole somewhere, there were few options for him. The few Lost Boys that were left were repulsive (juvenile might have been a word he would use to describe him if he wasn't set on being a boy king forever, but that was neither here nor there). On Neverland, when things got out of control and he had to make bloody decisions, the world had felt follow then. But Wendy had been there. Of course, she had been there with a wagging finger and an admonishment that he had gotten when he was in her presence, but she had been there all the same. She was unafraid to tell him how she felt and to really chew him out.

He thought back to the look of fear on her face the night before. Her golden brown eyes wide, lips parted and face pale. She had looked at him with terror and it had sent a chill down his spine that had remained there. They were adversaries, but she didn't need to be afraid of him.

For a stupid moment, he would have given anything for an admonishment from Wendy. He wanted her to drag him down beside her, pretend he was human.

Without realizing, he had paid for his meal and drifted to a bookstore he had passed on the way from the inn. The windows had glowed in the grey rain. Entering, the store was musty and warm, with books lining the shelves and then overflowing from the shelves into piles on the floor. There were candles haphazardly strewn across the store, giving a golden light. He thought briefly of Wendy. Perhaps, he would tell her about the store when he got back.

"Welcome! Welcome!" the shopkeeper exclaimed. She hurried over to Peter. "Here, you can leave your coat here while you shop." She pointed at a rusting coat rack. "Is there something you're particularly interested in?"

His mouth moved without his brain. "Yes, fantasy. Fables. Anything like that."

The shopkeeper busily went about pulling out books for him, piling them up in his arms. She muttered comments about how this one had a nice binding, this one had beautiful pictures and so on. Putting them down on a table beside him, he leafed through them. Eventually, she slowed down and waited for him to choose.

He held up a light blue book, embossed with gold. "I'll take this one."

XXX

She was sitting by the fire when he came in in the late afternoon. She found his hair was dark and wet, plastered to his head. His coat dripped rain onto the ornate carpet. The cold had made him thin and wiry. But she decided he looked more human looking like a drenched cat.

He held her gaze for a moment before she dropped it. Turning back to her book, Wendy tried to ignore him. It was easier to deal with the ache inside her heart if she pretended he wasn't there. She wondered absently if he was going to pester her like he did this morning. She hadn't cared for his comment about Neverland one bit.

Pan came and sat in the chair next to her, now in dry clothes. He sat quietly for a moment.

"You're not done that book yet?" It seemed he was going to pester her.

She looked at him. She was clearly still reading her book.

"Guess not." He paused. "I got you another for when you're done." He placed the book on the side table that they shared. She eyed it warily before putting her own book in her lap and picking up his. It was an expensive book, bound in light blue with gold filigree on the cover and the back. She opened it, leafing through the pages. The printing was just as fine as the cover. Flipping back to the table of contents, she skimmed it and her heart stuttered.

They were all the stories she used to read to Gavin. All of them in a list, tales of adventure and magic. She hadn't touched stories like these in decades.

A sob bubbled up in her throat and she forced it back down.

She wanted to toss the book into the fire.

She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes. He stared at her with that blank expression, looking like he was miles away. Unreachable. Untouchable. She wondered if he knew, if he was making some sort of cruel joke. Rubbing salt in the wound. Would he even have remembered Gavin's stories?

Wendy placed the book back on the table, trying to conceal how her hands recoiled from it. "You didn't need to get that for me," she told him. She paused. "Why did you?"

He stared at her, holding her gaze, but she knew him well enough to know that he was unsure.