Peter found himself outside of a cramped tavern. He wasn't sure how he had gotten there or why he had chosen this spot, but he let himself in the door. He sat down heavily at a table in the back corner. It was the late afternoon when he arrived so the barkeep gave him a questioning look when he ordered five shots, but didn't say anything after he paid for the drinks up front with silver coins.

He threw back drinks and gagged as they went down. They were bitter and harsh running down his throat. The alcohol flowed through him, burning down into his stomach and then warming him right down to his toes. And then, blessedly, the numbness started to seep in. His feelings dulled and he began to slip into drunken bliss, the world growing hazy and his thoughts becoming indistinct and blurry.

He figured he must have dozed in the corner because when he opened his eyes next, the tavern was filled with people. He twisted his neck to look at the window at the far end of the room. It was darkened and he could see the glow of oil lamps outside.

He realized then that he had just had his first few hours of sleep without any nightmares. He breathed a sigh of relief and order several more shots in celebration. He gulped down cheap vodka and gin. He caught parts of hazy conversations and his mind was able to push the day's, or rather month's, events out and away. He sat back, sipping his drink, able to ignore the acrid taste of the alcohol now that he was good and drunk.

He was just some random, drunk traveller. No one would ask him any difficult questions and for that he was grateful.

He drifted in and out of a delicious sleep, warm from the fire in the tavern and from the alcohol. He was rather enjoying himself when a rough hand shook him awake.

"King!" His eyes snapped open and he found his few remaining followers looking down at him. He narrowed his eyes at them. They were misty in the dimness of the tavern.

"Fuck me," he said. He put his hands in his head, slumping forward agains the table.

He had forgotten about these wretches. He distantly remembered that it had been seven months since he had last seen them and had instructed him to meet him here at this precise time. He groaned. Worst luck in the fucking world.

The Lost Boys all took seats at his table and crowded around him. They looked at him eagerly, faces were grubby, greedy, ready to sink their teeth into chaos. They buzzed with excitement and it made him want to throw off.

What they wanted revolted him now. They revolted him.

I want Wendy, slipped through his mind.

"So, did you get it?" one asked. He didn't even know their names. He didn't care to learn them.

"No, I haven't gotten it," he slurred.

"But you said-"

"I said I would meet up with you now. I didn't say I would have it by now," he told them. Why was he even correcting them? It no longer mattered. He was about to completely ruin their night.

"Have you gotten the other thing?" asked another.

"What… Oh. No, I haven't gotten that either," he said. It was incredibly difficult to string words together. He swallowed and tried to shake the fog out of his mind.

"It's taking longer to get her to believe in you?" asked a voice from across the table. His vision was swimming and he couldn't match the face to the voice.

"No…" he trailed off. He belatedly realized that he never really had to get Wendy to believe in him again, believe in his humanity. She evidently always had and had never stopped. Another gift that he did not deserve.

"So she believes in you?" they asked.

His head felt as if it were too heavy for his shoulder. "Yes… I mean…" He blinked a couple of times and tried to focus in on their faces. "Stop." They stared at him, hanging off his every word. "I'm not doing this."

"Doing what, my king?"

He waved his hands around haphazardly. "This. Any of this. I'm done with it all."

"I don't understand."

"I'm not… I don't want to go back to Neverland," he finally managed. His words slipped and slid into each other, but he knew that they had understood him because they all erupted into shouts, standing from their seats. He could smell the old alcohol and sweat rolling off of them as they moved. He suppressed a gag. "Shut up," he bit out. "Sit down."

They sat with a heavy thud.

"But… why? Do you mean you're going to try to bring Neverland to the Enchanted Forest?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Then what is your plan?"

"I don't have one. I'm done. I'm done with Neverland, done being your King," he said. It felt good to get the words out.

"But… we've done all you asked. We've been loyal to you," one said. There was a whine in the voice that made his head ring.

"Yes. But I don't want that," he told them. "You're free to do what you want with your lives now. You don't have to listen to me anymore." He waved away their confused looks. "Go be kids. Have fun. Grow up. Leave me alone."

"You're leaving us? Abandoning us?"

"No. I'm giving you your lives."

"But we want to follow you. You're our King."

"No, I'm not," he said through gritted teeth. He was getting tired of this. "Now, would you leave me the fuck alone?"

"How could you?" one asked, incredulous. "We thought you cared about your followers."

He let out a short, brittle laugh. "What have I ever done that made you think that?" He laughed again. "Fucking idiots."

They all just stared at him, dumbfounded. A sober part of his brain, however small, told him that he was gravely mishandling this situation. They were furious. But he didn't care. He wanted to be drunk and have his head filled with nothing.

He waved them away. "Leave me alone. Go have fun with your lives."

They stood up from the table, grumbling, muttering what he thought were idle threats. He waved them away as he called over to the barkeep to bring him another round. He downed his next drinks and allowed his mind to melt into the din of the tavern.

XXX

Wendy knew not to follow Pan after he left the mansion. He clearly did not want anything from her and, as she reminded herself, she shouldn't want to give anything to him. So, she made her way back to town, noting that Pan had taken his horse.

The town they were staying in was not made for tourists. It wasn't like the village in the mountains. There were no merchants around every corner selling their fine wares. The marketplace was sparse with only a few stalls selling anything of use. It was set in the middle of a courtyard, squished in between some buildings. In the middle was a seating area, decorated with a few shrubs barely hanging onto their leaves. She knew farther south, where her brothers were, it would have been warmer.

She drifted through the stalls in the courtyard, enjoying her free time. She pretended she was interested in what was being sold, trying to keep her mind off Pan. She perused some gloves, and considered a scarf, but ultimately decided against them. It was mild enough for her to read outside so she lingered in the courtyard, sipping on a hot cider she had bought.

After a couple of hours, she drifted into a small restaurant and took dinner by herself. Resting her head on her palm, she read and to her surprise, finished her book. She hadn't expected to finish her book so quickly and she found herself wanting to talk to someone… to Pan. She wanted to tell him her thoughts on the book and discuss them. If he had been there, she would have unceremoniously shoved the book into his hands, insisting he read it next. He would have retorted that she didn't get to tell him what to do, but by the main course he would have begun the first chapter. She would have suppressed a smile.

With dinner done, she headed back to the inn, lingering by shop windows, trying to find something to occupy her mind. Entering their room, she was mildly surprised to find it empty and untouched. Both beds were still made, their warm sheets folded neatly. She changed into her pyjamas and began rummaging through her bag for her next novel. She would never say it, but she was grateful that Pan had charmed a bag to hold infinite amounts of books.

The room at the inn seemed to be made of the same dark wood as the mansion, but it wasn't nearly as ornately decorated. There were dark beams holding up the low ceiling with a small fireplace near the door, connected to the larger chimney. It could have been called cozy. The chair by the window was old and worn and she sunk into it when she sat down, but it was comfortable. It was not as good as the chairs she had at home, though.

She woke up what felt like a moment later, but she knew must have been a couple of hours. The candle she had placed beside her had melted down into just a nub of white wax, the flame flickering the the dark room. Her book was at her feet, the pages folded in on each other.

Stretching, she tried to rub away a crick in her neck. All her muscles ached these days and it had been silly to sit in that chair when she knew she was likely to fall asleep. She stretched out her arms before standing and making her way to the bathroom to get changed, but as she made her way to the door, she noticed that she was alone.

She wasn't supposed to be alone.

Both beds were still made and no one had slept in them. Pan's cloak wasn't hung by the door and his boots weren't by the small fireplace. She tilted her head, considering. Inns normally didn't keep clocks in all their rooms, so Pan kept a small, charmed pocket-watch in his things so they could set alarms and not lose track of time. She dug through his bag before retrieving it.

One o'clock.

She frowned.

Pan had left in the mansion in the early afternoon. He'd been gone nearly twelve hours.

She sat down on the bed, watch in her hand, eyebrows furrowed.

Wendy often didn't contemplate Pan abandoning her. They both knew that he had no other friends in this realm or the next. If he stumbled upon someone who might recognize him, he was in big trouble. His powers were dwindling and the only thing that could restore him to his former glory was in her possession. It would have been stupid for him to abandon her and their deal. So, the idea of Pan leaving wasn't something she needed to think about.

But… She had never seen him that way before. He had looked as if he wanted to tear off his own skin.

He looked like he didn't want to be Peter Pan at all.

Perhaps, he had just escaped into the night, with only Philipe and the clothes on his back, just to get away from whatever he saw. But he couldn't outrun his thoughts.

He could drown them, though.

Standing up, she rummaged back through Pan's bag again, this time taking out a pair of his riding pants, a warm shirt and an even warmer sweater. She quickly changed out of her dress and pulled on the outfit. The clothes were baggy on her, hiding her curves. She tied her hair back and tugged a knit cap over her head and then swung on her cloak.

Stepping out of the inn, a cold wind whipped through her, carrying the smell of fallen leaves and rain that was on the way. She hadn't been travelling by herself in a long, long time; it felt like another life when she considered the little while she had been on the road by herself. But she remembered the leers and the comments, the sly hands. If she was going to go find Pan, she didn't want to have to deal with any of that.

She went to the stables and untied Ash, leading him out into the night. The horse's breath puffed up before her in a cloud as she swung up onto him. She moved quickly and efficiently, trying very hard not to think about what it meant that she was headed out on what was essentially a rescue mission for Pan.

Teeth chattering and gloved hands gripped around her reins, she made her way towards the centre of town. She had seen a row of pubs and taverns as she had meandered around that day. There were few towns around and it seemed unlikely Pan would want to wait so long before he began drinking.

Ash's hoofbeats were soon muffled as she approached the pubs, drowned out by music, the clink of glasses and the familiar din of voices. There were several of them stretching out from the courtyard she had been in earlier, lining the street with golden light spilling out, only separated by small alleys.

She tied Ash up next to a few other horses; a horse parking lot, Michael would have called it. She patted the horse on the nose before slipping into the first bar, hoping she looked like a young boy.

The first one was warm and crowded with a man in the back playing on a fiddle. The music was cheery and welcoming as Wendy made her way towards one of the serving women coming back with an empty tray. She slid up beside her and in her best teenaged boy voice asked, "I'm looking for someone."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "There've been a lot of people in tonight."

That's what Wendy had figured, too. But she hoped that people noticed Pan the same way she did. "He'd have been really noticeable. Dark hair, blue eyes, pale, tall, big ears, all dark clothes. He would have stuck out."

The woman tilted her head and considered. "No," she said.

That was the same answer she got for the next three pubs as she neared the end of the street. She had two more left and as she approached the bartender, something sharp and sickly coiled in the pit of her stomach.

"I'm looking for someone."

"I can't keep track of everyone, boy."

"You would have noticed him. Dark hair, blue eyes, pale, tall, big ears, all dark clothes. He would have stuck out. And he would have gotten really, really drunk." She had added this tidbit hoping it might have also sparked some sort of memory.

The bartender looked her up and down for a moment, eyes narrowing. "He's got magic in him."

She nodded excitedly. "Yes, yes, that's him," she said.

"I kicked him out two hours ago," he said, clearly pissed. "He kept picking fights."

"Oh." She considered. "Do you know where he went?"

"Fuck if I know," the man huffed. "You act like I'm all-knowing."

"I'm sorry," she said, trying to appease him, "I'm just worried about him."

"You should be. He could barely walk when I tossed him out."

Wendy chewed on her lip. Pan, drunk, out in the cold, distressed. That wasn't a good combination of events. She nodded quickly to the bartender and rushed out of the pub, bursting back into the crisp night air. The street stretched out before her, up and down, and beyond that were other streets, criss-crossing and twining around themselves, filled with alleys and alcoves and stoops. A seemingly infinite number of places that Pan could be.

Her eyes darted quickly around before she spotted an alley a few paces ahead. She slipped into its shadows before reaching into the pocket of her cloak and drawing out the small, velvet bag. Reaching inside, the star prickled her fingers even through her gloves, but she grasped it firmly and took it out. She waited for a moment before releasing the star. It hovered for a moment, just as reluctant as her about her decision, but after another breath, flew off out into the street.

Clenching her teeth, she ran after it, hoping anyone who saw her was either too tired or too drunk to realize what she was chasing after. Wind cut through her, slapping her skin. The air felt thick and weighty, warning of rain. Her breath puffed out in front of her in clouds as she careened around corners and ducked through side streets following the star.

Darkened buildings and shadowy stoops flew by her as she raced after the star that didn't seem to care at all whether she kept up or not. The pants were too big, her belt loose and soon she had to hold it with one hand to keep them upright. But the star didn't slow, not for one moment.

Her chest was tight and despite the cold, she sweating under her layers of clothes. She didn't know how much longer she could keep sprinting after the star, with her pants falling down and her clothes suffocating her and her lungs tightening.

The star flickered ahead of her and without so much as a warning, as if it were just on a random course, darted into an alley up ahead of her. She skidded into it, almost missing it and found the alley glowing with the star's silvery light.

At the far end of the alley, slumped over in the corner, was Peter Pan.

XXX

Someone was hurting him.

Knuckles were pressed to his sternum, painful and irritating. He pushed the hands away and instead of leaving him the fuck alone, they came to his face, cupping his cheeks. One of them patted him, lightly, but still irritating.

"Wake up," a voice said, clear and concerned.

Why would he wake up? He was perfectly fine, asleep. He was comfortable and cool and perfectly happy to be left alone, thank you very much.

"Pan, open your eyes," the voice said again, more demanding this time.

He wiggled a bit, trying to shake the hands off, but they stayed, persistent and stubborn.

The hand patted his cheek again, slightly harder this time and he allowed his eyes to flutter open. A silver light seared through him and he gasped, shutting his eyes tightly.

"The fuck is that?" The words slipped and slid together, his tongue slow.

"It's the star," the voice said again.

"S'too bright," he said.

There was a huff and some shuffling before he heard an irritated, "I put it away. Open your eyes." He opened one eye carefully to find a cloaked figure, dark against the deep blue shadows of the alley. He opened his other eye and blinked blearily.

"Wh—"

"It's me," Wendy said, irritated still. "I'm just wearing pants. You drunk ass."

Wendy.

He had… he had left for a reason before. He leaned his head back against the wall and let his mind wander back to reason. He had seen the Lost Boys and had renounced Neverland and had drunk away any thought. Yes. He remembered why he had left now.

"Go 'way," he slurred, closing his eyes to her.

"Fuck you," she bit immediately. "I've come to take you back. Now, get up and don't complain." He almost wanted to laugh. He could have guessed she would say those exact words in that high-and-mighty tone if he had thought about it for more than a second.

"M'fine here," he breathed. He wondered whose will would win out. He didn't want to be soothed and patched, full of agony, but she was cold and tired and annoyed. A true battle of the wills.

Her hands slid under his arms and she heaved him with a grunt upwards, but he imagined he was a piece of granite, unmovable and burdensome. Wendy managed to pull him forward, but didn't even get him off the ground. She tried several more times, straining in the cold, her hands so insistent, pulling harshly on his skin.

"Are you going to help me at all?" she demanded.

"No."

"For fuck's sake," she cursed.

He didn't respond. He was heavy and didn't feel like he could move even if he wanted to, but at the same time his skin felt tight and suffocating. He was roiling in his skin, head swimming. He wanted to tear at himself, tear up Peter Pan the King into shreds.

"Where has your cape gone?"

He shrugged. All the alcohol he had drunk still swirled in him. His limbs were warm and the only thing that was really bothering him was that his ass was going numb on the hard stone street. He could have easily fallen back asleep if she would just leave him alone.

He heard shuffling again and suddenly, something warm, that smelled of honey and flowers was draped over him. On instinct, he balled the fabric up into his fists and inhaled deeply. If there was a sober part of him in existence in that moment, he might have keeled over from embarrassment once he realized it was Wendy's cloak he was smelling. But he was good and drunk, far past embarrassment.

"Where's Phillipe?"

"Stable," he murmured into the cloak.

"Which one?"

He shrugged.

"You're useless," she bit out. Finally, the first correct thing she had said all night.

Her footsteps clacked on the cobblestone, becoming fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear them. He buried his face deeper into her cloak. She had left him. Good. It was what both of them deserved.

He curled into himself, sliding against the wall until he was lying down curled in her cloak and scent. The ground wasn't nearly so annoying now that he was wrapped up tight. His limbs were warm and heavy. As he lay there, it became harder and harder to remember who he was. He couldn't quite recall why he was so upset. He could recall that he was supposed to be alone, he deserved to be alone. There was no need to ponder anything else, to try and remember who he was or what he had done.

XXX

This time Peter was not awoken by a sharp pain, but instead the heavy fall of hooves. He could sense a large hulking figure near him and the smell of hay and horse overwhelmed the scent of Wendy.

"G'way," he muttered.

Footsteps approached him and stopped right in front of his face. "I didn't give you that cloak so you could fall asleep," came a voice. He hummed in appreciation of it. It was soft but strong, music to his ears, even if it sounded irritated. "Get up."

He pulled the cloak over his head. "No."

He had come to this alley for a reason, curled in on himself for a reason. He had known where the inn was earlier, but he had chosen not to go back there for a reason. He just couldn't recall it at this very moment.

Suddenly, the cloak was ripped away. The chill sliced through him and he let out a shout. "Fuck!"

"Get up," the voice commanded.

"No."

Hands slid under his arms and before he could protest, Peter was being unceremoniously hoisted up into a sitting position. And then the same hands wrapped around his wrists with vice-like strength and he was hauled onto his feet. He had no intention of standing up right at all. So he gave himself over to gravity and fell forward into—

"Y'smell s'good," he slurred into the bend between Wendy's neck and shoulder. He knew underneath the scratchy wool of her sweater, there was soft, creamy skin that he wanted to smell, to touch, to kiss. His hands found their place at her waist and he breathed her in, deeply.

"Get on the damn horse."

She sounded even more irritated. Perhaps, a kiss might calm her down. Peter turned his head and brushed his lips against her jaw, luxuriating in the silkiness of her skin, the warmth of it against his mouth.

"Oh, God," she breathed. There. Much less irritated.

She let out another breath and all he could think was that he wanted more. One of his hands left her waist and he tilted her chin towards him. He kissed her cheek, and then her nose, and then beside her mouth, and then—

A gloved hand shoved at his head, pushing him away abruptly.

"Get on the horse!"

Shit, even more irritated than before.

She practically dragged him over to the horse. She pushed at his back and then pulled at his clothes all while clucking at the horse to bend lower until he was hoisted up unceremoniously to lie across the horse on his belly.

Swiftly, Wendy mounted the horse and turned it. She cantered out of the alley. With each step of the horse, Peter's stomach jolted. He tried to get up, to readjust himself, but Wendy kept a firm hand on him. The world rocked and swayed. He looked frantically around, trying to make sense of his bearings but all he saw was the underbelly of the horse and the cobblestone and the night that pressed in on them.

"Le' me up," he complained.

"We're almost there."

He struggled against Wendy, but she kept him in place. He flailed his arms backwards, trying to get her to move, to understand the urgency but she remained obstinate. The world swirled around him and soon, something else began to swirl inside of him, threatening to burst out of him with every jolt of the horse. He was going to die. He was going to explode. He was going to—

—vomit.

He tried to keep his face perpendicular to the ground as he threw up, but the world was jolting around him. Vomit dribbled down his face and the acid of it stung his nose and eyes. He coughed and spluttered as the horse moved on, completely unaware of his plight.

Finally, the world stopped moving. Wendy shifted next to him and soon she was helping him slide off the horse. When he finally got off the horse, he realized he had never been so happy to have his feet on the ground before.

"Oh, God," Wendy said next to him. That didn't sound like the melodic "Oh, God" from before. He looked at her blearily. "Did you throw up?"

"Tol' you t'lemme up."

"Well, hopefully, you'll sober up quicker now."

She stared at him, her mouth twisting into a frown. She was easier to see now that they stood in front of the stable, warm light spilling out into the night. Her hair was still shoved under her cap, her impressive attempt to pass as a young boy, but it was clear that in her effort to get him up onto the horse that her hair was waiting to escape. A blonde ringlet hung by her ear and reached out and wrapped it around his fingers.

She slapped his hand away.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she said.

XXX

Hauling Pan through the foyer, up the stairs and down the hall was no small feat. Wendy stumbled through the doorway with him, breathless and irritated. He allowed all of his weight to fall onto her and was no help when she had to put the key in the lock. It was hard to remember that she had been almost desperate to find him only an hour before.

As soon as she shut the door behind them, she shoved him into the bathroom and ordered him to remove his clothes and wash off. He stood in the middle of the bathroom, wide-eyed, drunk and stupid, not moving a muscle.

"Wash up," she repeated.

"I'm not supposed to be here."

"You can wallow in existential dread later," she said. "Get washed up." She pointed to the towels that hung from the side of the tub, the soap and the tub itself. "You have vomit in your hair."

"I'm not supposed to be here," he repeated.

She stared at him, all the irritation draining out of her. Something was wrong. It was terrifying to see Peter so… lost. She had seen him drunk before, flirty and charming and silly. But he had never been like this before, so despondent and miserable. He was a sorry sight, in crumpled clothes with vomit on his face and in his hair, bruises blooming across his cheek and along his knuckles, with a gash across his forehead. This wasn't the Pan she knew.

She couldn't leave him alone. Not now. Perhaps, not—

No. She did not need to finish that thought.

She walked over to the tub, turned the handles and put her hand under the faucet, waiting until it was warm. She plugged it and let the tub begin to fill, the steam filling the room. Pan decided he no longer needed to stand and instead, sat down, slumping against the side of the tub, his head resting on the edge. She pretended all the while that her hands weren't shaking, that she was going to be completely clinical about getting Pan into the bath, and that she wasn't thinking about how his mouth had felt on her.

Oh, God. When he had put her hands on her, his weight pressing in on her, she had wanted to drag his mouth down to hers. Heat had flooded through her and pleasure made her mind go blank. She hadn't imagined that his mouth would be so warm and so soft against her neck and her jaw and her cheek and—

She didn't have time to think about this.

"I'm going to turn around now," she said, after she had readied everything. "Take off your clothes and get in the bath."

His eyes had drooped down and he turned and stared at her blearily.

"I'm going to turn around and you're going to take off your clothes and get in the bath."

He blinked once more and in that moment, a solidness returned to his eyes, familiar and almost comforting. He raised his eyebrows and said, "I wan' you t'watch me."

It took all of Wendy's self-control not to let her jaw hit the floor. Heat rushed to her cheeks and her hands grew slick and sweaty at her side. This wasn't the normal banter he used to rile her up. He was just being… honest.

"I…" she croaked. Her mouth was dry and her throat scratched as she spoke. She shook herself. "You're drunk. You'll regret saying that in the morning."

He looked at her seriously. "I know wha' I regret and is not tha'." There was still a slur in his voice, but the sharpness in his eyes and the certainty in his voice told her that he was sobering up.

"I'm not going to be watching you," she told him sharply.

He just stared at her.

"Will you be able to bathe yourself without my help?"

"I'm not even that dirty."

"You have vomit in your hair."

He rolled his eyes and stood. His movements were slow and clunky and she knew he wouldn't get through washing himself without her supervision. His hands went to the bottom of his sweater and he began to pull it up. She whipped around immediately, determined to not look, but the image of the pale skin of his stomach was going to be forever seared into her brain.

She stood for several excruciating moments before she heard water sloshing as he got into the bath. Once the movement stopped, he said, "I'm in."

She turned back to have him staring back at her just like before. She couldn't help but let her eyes rove over his shoulders and back and upper arms as he sat in the tub. She realized belatedly that it didn't really matter that she had turned around. She was going to see everything as soon as she sat at the head of the tub to help him wash his hair out.

She sat at the chair she had set out. She filled a pitcher with water from the tub and then set it aside. "Wash yourself and then I'll wash your hair," she told him.

"You won't wash it first?" he asked.

"No, because then you'll be washing yourself in water with your vomit in it."

He humphed in response before setting about washing his body. She made very certain to look at the door to the bathroom, tracing its lines up and down. Next, she counted the tiles in the bathroom floor. Then she counted the tiles along the walls. Then she went back to the door and began to retrace—

"I'm done."

She turned stiffly and said, "Lean back."

He obeyed. For once in his life.

Gently, she poured the water from the pitcher over his head, making sure it didn't get in his eyes. She then took the shampoo and lathered it into his hair, running her fingers through his dark locks. She tried to ignore how much she had thought about this in the last several months. How much she had wanted to run her hands through his hair in the alley. How much she wanted to slip her hands down his neck and onto his chest.

"This is very sensual," Pan slurred, eyes closed, head leaning against the tub. She could see his Adam's apple bob as he spoke and she took the time to admire the lines of his shoulders and neck and jaw, trying hard not to imagine what his stubble might feel like under his hands.

"I'm washing vomit from your hair," she said tightly.

"This's wha' lovers do."

"Shut up."

She rinsed his hair and then checked it over to make sure that she had washed all the chunks out. When she was pleased with her work, she stood and told him to put on the robe she had laid out for him and then to come into the bedroom.

"Not gonna watch me get out?" he asked as she turned away.

"No."

Going into the bedroom, she rummaged around for her meagre supply of first aid items. She found her suture kit along with some alcohol to clean Pan's cuts and some bandages. Then she took Pan's night clothes from his bag and laid them out on his bed.

After a few moments, Pan came out and sat down heavily on her bed before flopping backwards onto it, sprawling out like a starfish. His robe opened slightly and she could see the hard planes of his chest. She swallowed.

"Sit up," she said. "I've got to take a look at your face."

He groaned and pulled himself into a sitting position.

She tilted his head to the light and began to clean out the gash on his face. He flinched out of her hands, but she pulled him back, one hand on his jaw, the other dabbing at the cut.

"This is going to need stitches," she said.

"Don' wan' stitches," he grumbled.

"Too bad. You're getting them." She turned and set up her suture kit. She tilted his head back further, needle in hand. "Now hold still."

"You gonna ask me what happened?" he slurred.

She continued her work without stopping. "Do you want me to?"

She tried to concentrate on her work. This was what she had done for decades on Neverland, but her hands were shaking. He watched her with hooded eyes and the silence pressed on her. She was never lost for words around Pan, but whatever he had seen at the mansion had shaken him and she did not know Pan to be a shakeable person.

But she knew he was… different these days. She didn't know how to describe it, but something was different. He had been changing long before that day. Perhaps, ever since he had been pulled back from death.

He considered this and after a long pause said, "You wanted to know back at the mansion."

"Yes, well, that was scary to see," she explained as she pulled her needle towards her.

"You were scared?"

"Mhm," she hummed absently, her focus on the sutures.

"For me?"

Her hands immediately stilled. She hadn't even realized that was what she had been saying, but with horror, she realized she had been. Seeing Pan like that, terrified and weak, it had scared her. She had been scared for him. She had wanted to comfort him. Just like she had when she had found him in the alley or looked at him from across the bathroom.

She shouldn't have felt that way. This was Peter Pan. Her enemy. But looking down at him just then, she couldn't muster any of that old hatred she felt. She spent most days waiting for those waves of hatred to roll over her. She had waited for them to come the past few weeks and they just… hadn't been there.

She had even missed him at dinner. She had wanted to tell him about her book. She looked forward to his conversations. He had comforted her…

She shook herself. He was callous and arrogant and distant and still wanted a new Neverland. It shouldn't matter that he had held her gently in the mountains and soothed her. Nor should it matter that she had nearly melted when he touched her earlier.

Shame pressed down on her. If her brothers had seen her, they would have lost their minds.

"Could you stop talking? It's hard to concentrate."

After a couple minutes, she finished on the cut. She put balm on the other smaller cuts on his face. This was comfortable. This was normal. This didn't bring up any hard questions.

"Okay," she said. "Go change, drink some water, and then get into bed."

"Killjoy," he pouted.

"What about this situation is fun to you?" she bit out. "Hm? Was it this, getting blackout drunk, picking fights, falling asleep in an alley or throwing up on the horse?"

He looked up at her again with that same honest look. "Kissing you."

She swallowed.

His eyes had her locked into place, blue and heartbreakingly gorgeous. He was so beautiful it made her chest hurt. She loved the sharp angles of his face, the broadness of his shoulders, the flat planes of his chest, the milky colour of his skin. A beautiful, miserable creature, he was.

"You also left Philipe in some random stable overnight. God knows where that poor horse is."

He rolled his eyes and she was finally able to move again, to breathe. "Again with the horses."

"Most people take good care of their horses. They'd feel bad in they had lost one," she told him. "I know you feel no remorse, but you could at least pretend to feel bad about it." She hauled him up by his elbow, putting his sleep clothes into his hands. She tried to shove him into the bathroom.

He turned around suddenly and leaned in closer to her. He was mere inches from her face, she could feel his breath on her cheeks. He held her gaze and she was unable to look away, locked in place again. "I do feel remorse," he told her seriously, his words sliding into one another.

She swallowed. She didn't know how to respond.

"I feel remorse about Neverland… about Gavin… about you." His voice was low. That something was on his face again, filling his words and voice.

"What? What do you mean?" she breathed.

He didn't answer the question. "Philipe's a horse. He doesn't know one stable from another."

"Peter, I…" she began. She didn't know what she wanted to say. She didn't even know where to begin.

"I like how my name sounds in your mouth," he slurred. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. He quickly dipped his head and brushed his lips across the side of her mouth. She was too stunned to move, to say anything. She stood there, still as a statue, as he turned on his heel and went into the washroom.

She was left standing in front of the bathroom. Her hand drifted up to touch where he had kissed her. His mouth had been so soft and had tasted sweet. She should have been furious, should have yelled at him, should have pushed him away. But instead, she was left again, wanting more.

She drifted back to her bed, almost in a trance. She pulled back the sheets and got in. She opened up her book and tried to read, but just ended up staring at the page. This was not normal. This was not how things should have been going. This was not how she should have felt.

She tried desperately to remind herself that this was Pan. He had ruined her life and countless others. He was her… she couldn't do it. Not then. The wind had been taken right out of her sails. She couldn't accuse him of being callous and distant, not just then.

Perhaps, in the morning, her argument would be more convincing. She might be able to convince herself that he hadn't said he felt remorse for what he'd done. She might be able to convince herself that Peter hadn't brushed his mouth across hers. She might even be able to convince herself that she hadn't liked it.

Pan came out of the bathroom a few minutes later. He stood in the doorway for a couple of moments, staring. She held his gaze, not quite sure what to say. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it, obviously thinking better of it. He got into bed and sat still for a while. She had never been so tongue-tied.

"Do you want to talk about what you saw?" she asked, finally breaking the silence.

"I…I saw what I did." He still slurred his words. She wondered if he would even remember this conversation in the morning. "All the lives I've touched." He let out a harsh laugh. "Ruined is probably a better word."

She couldn't disagree with him there.

He turned and faced her. His eyes were wide and blue. They were no longer that unnerving icy colour, but warm, like the sky in the summer. "Sorry doesn't even begin to cover it for you," he said softly. It wasn't an apology. It was the barest beginnings of one.

She nodded. "It doesn't."

"I'm a monster, aren't I?" he asked her after a couple moments.

She tilted her head and considered him. He looked so young then. The centuries he had lived weren't in his eyes in that moment. He was just a young man grappling with guilt and remorse. She could not bring herself to call him a monster in that moment, even though she knew the answer was yes. Yes, you're a monster, but you look so human. Feel so human.

"You should go to bed," she said after a long pause. She avoided his look of disappointment when she leaned over the bedside and blew out the candle. She shifted over, closing her eyes tightly, convincing herself that she at least needed to pretend to go to sleep.

From the darkness, came a voice, "Bird?"

"Yes?"

"Would you—I mean—Can I—" His words were clumsy and his speech was slurred. "Can you hold me? Like you did before?" She knew exactly what he meant by before. Before… when Gavin died.

She could recite all the reasons why she should have said no. She knew them off by heart, but they were unconvincing in that moment. She wanted to comfort him; one human comforting another.

"Yes," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Come here."

The bed was small, but she shifted over and made room. His feet pattered across the floor and then the bed creaked under his added weight. It was cramped, but comfortable. He lay his head on her chest and wrapped his arm around her waist.

His body curved into her. She was warm and comfortable with him by her side. Her hands ghosted over his forearms, his muscles taut. Perhaps, in the morning, she could pretend that she didn't feel this way.

He began to weep. Softly, silently. She shushed him. She rubbed circles on his back as his tears soaked into her night shirt. His hands curled into her shirt as he clung to her.

Peter fell apart in her arms.

This was as she remembered it.

She brushed his hair back and wiped tears from his face. She had no words of comfort to offer. Nothing would make him feel better. She wouldn't pretend to know just what he had seen, what he had felt. All she could do was hold him as he faced them.

Eventually, he stilled. She continued to trace circles on his back, absently. His warmth seeped into her. She was right on the edge of sleep, about to fall into it.

She closed her eyes and began to drift off before Peter's words pulled her back.

"I don't want the star," he said quietly.

"What?"

"I don't want Neverland back," he whispered. His voice was thin.

"Then what do you want?" she asked. She was surprised she was even finding words.

"I don't know… Something else."

Again, she wondered just what that something might be