Wendy never said goodbye because saying goodbye meant that he would leave and if he left then there was a chance that he would forget.

Now she wished that she had, if she had known that final time would have been the last time.

Their final talk, their final dance, their final song, everything using the word final. It had become despised despite itself, and she entertained the possibility that if she could use a word other than final but similar, it would be finally.

They finally talked.

They finally danced.

They finally sang a song.

At the start of his initial visits—in true Peter Pan fashion—their talks had been full of childish wonder; his usual banter filled with that raging confidence and childlike excitement.

His visits had always been brief; a few minutes and then to an hour and only because of her own selfish desires did he stay any longer than that. A day, sometimes two, if just so that they could talk longer; so that she could breathe him in and indulge all of her curiosities about him and Neverland.

And he was always so eager to talk about himself, answer all of her questions, and reveled in how curious she was about him–about his world. As time passed and through enough talks that made her heart threaten to soar out of her chest, she realized that there was more to Peter Pan than a mere child who had a justifiable reason for not wanting to grow older.

Yet he had done just that.

He filled into his awkward frame flawlessly. On several occasions, she had cut his hair—an argument that ultimately she had won—and on even more occasions she'd noticed that he had gained a bit of muscle tone, taller; much taller than her now, his dark brown hair a scruffy mess and his eyes glinting with something much older and wiser than they had before; the transition of someone who had been a child for so long finally growing into his experience.

Other than that, he remained exactly the same, if not quieter than he normally would be—thoughtful almost. Then one day, after several hours of sitting around and occupying the same space, barely any words spoken between them, he'd left through her window and she never saw him again.

At first, she'd worried; had cried and shouted an expletive amount of derivatives at whoever would take the time to listen to them—the wind, her shadow, whoever walked by her bedroom window on London's streets.

Wendy never forgot, but she wondered if by some strange and sudden change of heart, he had. If he'd stopped caring, if she had grown boring to him, or if—horrifying a thought as it was—something had happened to Neverland.

At eighteen years, Wendy ran out of stories to give to him to tell the Lost Boys. There were no more books in the Darling house to offer, no enchanted castles or ferocious dragons or heroes who would save the day in the end. Her taste matured with age and surely the young boys of Neverland did not want to hear about the hardships of life.

They wanted happily ever after. Peaceful endings.

She wondered if those even happened in Neverland anymore. Not that she'd ever be able to visit again without him to actually know. So in the meantime, she was left with not knowing. Wondering.

That still didn't stop her from sitting on the windowsill in her room and looking out over the night sky waiting for his shadow to loom over her window, to hear Tinkerbell's quiet jingling as she whispered in the boy's ear. Their quiet laughter in the moment when she'd open the window for him, he would come landing in as if he'd lived there his entire life.

Wendy waited there now, her knees tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped around them tight, eyes upturned to the sky while she breathed in a sigh. Her breath billowed in the cold air with the oncoming winter, and like many other nights she didn't have John or Michael there to calm her growing anxiety anymore.

No, she had moved from the nursery years ago and since then, her conversations with Peter had grown to be much more personal.

There had been a time when Wendy could talk about herself too, and he would actually listen.

The memory alone was enough to usher a smile, reminiscing of the times when they had sat inside of her room and he babbled on about one thing or another while she merely listened with attentive ears, a dreamy smile on her face at his innocence—before, that'd been enough until he had succumbed to some sort of quiet solace the last few nights that they had spent together.

The adventures of Peter Pan were an exciting pastime for her.

That would never change.

"Where are you, Peter?" She found herself whispering to no one in particular—except him if he were listening—eyes fixated with longing on a constellation in the sky, one point connected with several others to form a pattern stretching much farther above her head than she would ever be able to reach.

He was out there, somewhere. Wendy was determined to figure out why he had just gone, if the universe would grant her some sort of sign rather than leaving her in the dark to anticipate something bad.

"Just help me understand." She went on to plead, beg. "Why did you have to go?"

As if on cue, a glint in the sky caught her attention on one particular part of it. She straightened, her fingertips pressed against the glass and her breath enveloping it in fog, leaning in an effort to see it better.

In one abrupt motion, she threw the window open, bracing her hands against the sill so that she could lean out of it and call his name into the air.

Nothing.

Her heart thrummed in anticipation, a spark of hope igniting in her chest that he was here; that he had come back just as she was beginning to lose hope.

A blinding flash obscured her vision, sending her sailing back into her bedroom window. Her spine hit the soft carpet, knocking the breath from her, the base of her skull banging against an old toy chest. She winced, rubbing the agitated area only to come back into focus and see the shadows looming across her bedroom floor.

At first it was just one, and then those shadows blurred together and multiplied into two, six, eight, and she'd stopped counting after that. Her lips parted but no sound came out, hands closing around one wrist, and then the other, something thrown over her head, forcing her to stumble along until her feet no longer touched ground.

Years after Wendy had first set foot on Neverland with Michael and John, she'd promised never to speak of the place in fear of being called mad or to be dismissed as having mere delusions. Of course, who would believe in such a paradise? An island hidden in the stars, its prince a young boy who never aged?

Of course, that didn't stop the young girl from a mere nursery in London from seeing the boy who took her there on the very first night. As she grew older, so did Peter, and while at first they meant no harm, he was becoming less of a boy.

Like Wendy, who grew to be a young woman, Peter grew to be a young man.

Eventually, those nights grew to be non-existent, even if Wendy always kept the window open, and still yet: Nothing.

No Peter.

No Neverland.

People claimed her to be mad when she told them tales of pirates, fairies, mermaids and a crocodile that had swallowed a clock. Mere nonsense. They would laugh and crack jokes and tell her that she would grow out of such tales.

Wendy had shuttered herself away from it all, even if her brothers who tried to believe that Neverland never happened, she never could.

She missed Peter.

She missed him a lot.

Underneath her white nightgown, her knees pressed against the cold, wet timber of her wooden cage. She'd been captured by Captain Hook before, so being held captive did not phase her as much as it likely should. There was nothing to fear, and she knew him all too well to be capable of finding reason to be.

It became apparent very quickly that it was not in fact Captain Hook.

He remained the tallest person strolling across the main deck—now a man in his mid-twenties and filling into his facial scruff that now suited his sharp jawline well enough—approaching where he had placed Wendy in her caged prison as opposed to letting her stroll freely as he had before.

But the crew reacted very differently to his arrival—a tell-tale sign that his reputation never dwindled. If anything, it only grew stronger through the passage of time—as ironic a concept as that was in Neverland.

He was adorned in an assortment of rings and piercings on one ear, having dismissed his hat to show his hair in its familiar organized mess of brown glory. He stood out amongst his much more simple crew, as if he had needed to label himself as their leader if such a label was needed. However obvious that answer would prove to be.

Parts of him looked different, more tired, more experienced and yet other parts remained exactly the same, features and attributes that had become stronger in some harsh technical way.

The tension that wove around the ship was thick—fresh and clear air from the ocean's breeze heavy and suffocating. Killian only furthered everyone's already unsteady breathing by placing himself at the foot of her cage, resting his hands at the very top and peering through the sturdy bars to look at her, except just like before, he struggled.

Only with enough contemplation did he allow his eyes to meet her own, albeit with a heavy reluctance.

His voice maintained a tone of control, borderline empathetic. "I hope you don't mind that I decided to stop in for a visit. Reminisce about old times and the like." The dark timber of his voice remained startlingly familiar, musing aloud and downright ironic if she had decided that she did in fact mind.

He made no attempt to straighten up to her, instead bending his head to look down on her instead—threatening and generally aggressive in nature, demanding whoever took notice of it to fall in line; obey. "But there is a reason that we keep finding ourselves back here, Love."

Wendy scoffed.

"If I had known you were going to drop by, I would have taken extra care in locking my windows." She shot back, looking up and meeting his indignant stare with a pointed look of her own. "For what reason do I owe the utmost pleasure of being your prisoner? I thought that order normally fell to Captain Hook."

A touch of loathing marred his face, her eyes finding his and upon contact, her heart twisted in her chest. Rage—and something jagged with cruelty and a decimating spark of recognition. In them revealed her utter frustration, and her suddenly hardened state.

Five years had passed and she had given up hope of ever returning to Neverland. It felt surreal as if fate was dangling the humility of it being a dream in front of her eyes and begging her to play its game. She'd rounded twenty for God's sake.

Every part of her the last few years had revolved around finding Neverland again.

Finding Peter.

And her heart did oh so ache at his name, collapsing the inside of her chest as it always had when she thought of him. In her dreams, he would stand before her with a look of terrible indifference. She closed her eyes on a wince, as if suddenly cut up by the anger in her—a misplaced feeling—inhaled, opened her mouth then closed it.

She could have yelled, thrown something, anything.

Albeit, seeing him left her with an odd feeling of comfort as well; relief. It shouldn't have. She wanted to ask him about Peter, but also warded herself against it.

Not yet.

Killian betrayed her, that much she knew. Their undefined nameless bond and all of its intensity.

No, she had betrayed herself believing there to be such a thing between them in the first place. Her own delusions angered her beyond cohesive measure and while she shouldn't have expected anything from him, she'd known who he was over top of it all.

A pirate.

She glowered at him.

Killian dipped his chin, scrutinizing her expression even if his own gave nothing away. Nothing but some sort of misplaced satisfaction—not at her capture she assumed, rather seeing her. Completely absent of that curious indifference that she had regarded him with before, she looked on with a hurt expression instead.

Despite how long the two had known each other, he was fully aware of how well Wendy Darling knew him, and that made him more determined to lock her out of the chaos that raged on the inside of his head, throwing him in his own wave of morals that he couldn't and wouldn't decipher if just to squash it completely.

His eyes followed the waves that cascaded down her chest before they flickered up to her eyes again. He inhaled softly, a tick working itself underneath a rigid jawline. "It does, but I'll be so bold as to say Tick and Tock finally finished him off."

"It's been a long time, Killian."

"I've spent years trying to figure out how to kill two bloody crocodiles." He scoffed. "I could take a few more to plan an appropriate reunion for the two of us." He straightened upward and hummed thoughtfully, bobbing his head as if coming to terms with something within himself. His hands pushed off of the cage making it rattle. "But you'll be glad to know that I didn't bring you here for the sake of killing Pan."

Wendy rolled her eyes at the familiarity of this back and forth. "You are here to offer me freedom in exchange for selling out Peter. Is that it?" She cocked an eyebrow. How glorious was it to be graced with such an offer from an equally prestigious captain? Anyone would be leaping to accept, but Wendy wasn't just anyone. She remained stoic; disinterested.

She would sooner leap over the boat to be fed to Tick and Tock. "You would like to hear him scream first before you cut out his heart. Cry?" Her features pinched into a scowl. "Beg?"

She smirked instead standing against the bars, grasping the wooden posts in her hands. "I already entertained you asking that one."

"Aye, that you did." Killian cocked a smile, leaned forward, the two standing eye level, only the bars standing between them, their gazes equally matched. "You know me that well, do you?" And she did, but not in the way that he wanted her to, as a person rather than a pirate.

He pushed the flaps of his jacket aside and braced his hands against his hips. "I imagined that you would be leaping at the chance to return." He spoke with a false sense of grandeur, doing one full spin that brought him to face her again. "It has been a long time since you have been to Neverland. We don't see our dear friend come and go much these days."

"Why did you bring me here?" Wendy demanded, a look of concern flitting across her features at the mention of Peter, brows pinching together in worry, but his face revealed nothing to the true emotions that lingered under his appearance.

Was he in danger? Had she still been at the tender age of fifteen, she would have yelled at him for letting her sit in this cage and treat her in such a way, for not elaborating about Peter's whereabouts. However, her twenty-year-old self was so furious she could barely speak.

What are you hiding? She wondered silently. What is this foul illusion you wish for me to see?

Her jaw tightened. She hated him, did she not? People often spoke of hate as a passionate emotion, easily confused with something else. She did hate him, and yet she found no satisfaction in the thought of letting him go. The very idea of him disappearing again made her nauseous.

But none of it should have mattered as much as it did to her. A pirate, a man like him cared for nothing and no one. She was only a tragic pawn on his elaborate chessboard of intrigue. She was sure of that. Where was Peter? Why had he stopped visiting her? Those questions were of much greater importance.

He looked unfazed as ever, composed. That wasn't fair. She had always been able to mirror him in a way. Not this time, with that lump in her throat, her skin suddenly pallid. What would an appropriate reunion between the two of them look like? She had a few quite impulsive ideas that she helplessly attempted to ignore.

"I've brought you here to extend an offer." He leaned down, peered into her more broken demeanor with a dismissive one of his own-though clearly struggling to maintain that facade. He crouched down to her height; arms draped over his knees with a curious tilt of his head. Her words had struck a chord in some aspects, a quick flitter of his gaze sideways entertaining the possibility that he was reminiscing of that fateful night on his ship underneath a full moon when there was no sort of judgment unless bestowed by the other.

Wendy gawked at the pirate as he crouched before her cage, a fierce rigidity to her jaw. She lowered her hands to her lap, letting them rest on the folds of her gown. Her desire to figure him out could never be quenched. She did not understand him or his motives as they looked at one another, but she wanted to, desperately.

"An offer?" She echoed.

"Neverland is not the same way that you've left it. A lot has changed, your Pan included." And himself, but that was an unspoken obvious between them that he didn't need to voice. Not to her. Nor did he need to point out that Wendy was not his, if he ever needed to admit that to himself, or remind her of where their relationship exactly stood.

"What happened to him?" She asked again. "Where is he?"

"You'll be relieved to know that I've no idea where he is," He scoffed. "That addled dog deserves far worse than a quick death at my hand. After he crawls out from whatever he has decided to hide under." And it was spat with such hate, such spite. A seething hatred that burned much harsher, beyond whatever past history they had shared before, beyond his previous indifference—stronger than how Hook had thought of him.

She didn't think that was possible.

"He doesn't remember you." Killian went on, willing her to listen if just to believe in what he was telling her, enough to entertain, even if to consider whatever offer he had to present to her. "If you look into his eyes, you will not see recognition. He is a man–no longer a boy, the shadow of a monster that has taken hold of him and refused to let go. Look around." He waved a hand across the ship, the ocean, the silhouette of the island in the distance. "If you have not seen the impact it has had on the island, then you've felt it."

The eerie darkness that settled over the island was unmistakable. It left the island enveloped in something much more unsettling, casting a chill between the group. Neverland was different, no longer a bright and vibrant paradise, but quiet and almost dead. An absence of color, an absence of lively sounds as if everything had retreated and gone to hide.

From what, one couldn't be too sure, not at a mere first glance.

The last sentence had barely left his lips when her forehead wrinkled. She suddenly determined that all the oxygen around her had been depleted. Her throat called for a breath, one soft inhale of air, but she could not seem to will herself to it. Her stomach twisted around itself—that, or one of her lungs had fallen on top of it and was most surely squashing it. Her heart must have still been in its place, for it was pounding against the inside of her. She worked her brain to repeat his words though she knew exactly what he had said.

She just didn't want to believe it.

"Wh–what do you mean? Of course he remembers me." She whispered, almost horrified.

Peter left her. But if he had done so in good conscience or was merely ignorant of the knowledge the action would generate, she didn't know. Wendy wrapped her fingers around the bars of her cage. The one child who abhorred the idea of growing up and becoming a man–he'd grown up anyway, in her world, visiting her but he'd been a young adult during his disappearance. Surely that hadn't changed him that much. The same boyish, curious bold heroes she spoke so fondly of in her adolescent years. As the waves rocked the ship with their gentle, oceanic lull, she looked up to the darkened sky. Neverland really had changed, had lost its all-encompassing brightness.

Something wasn't right.

The idea of dancing fairies, mermaids, even cutthroat pirates challenged reason as the isle itself stood as a jeering testament to what men of logic and reason actually knew. Its eerie transformation came with more questions than it answered, gathering like shadows at the back of her head.

The sheer confidence of him confounded her. There he was, interesting, handsome and insufferable. During the five years since she had been to Neverland, she imagined that he did not care enough to try and see her again. The notion had made her sad and there were other times she imagined he had found someone else to dance with. The thought that she was nothing to him stung her deeply. She believed at some point that he would return to her and they could again share something brief, but beautiful.

Wendy lowered her gaze. That old familiar guilt gnawed at her. She didn't fear him half as much as she feared the itching and scratching feeling for him.

"He doesn't." Killian replied, and something in his eyes promised that it was the truth.

But in his eyes, Wendy was supposed to become so much more than a kneeling figure mumbling her heartache and incredulity about losing Peter Pan.

The same girl that he had taken aboard his ship and shared a dance with, shared company, opened a part of himself without it needing to be repaid, without it being classified as a deal and without the expectation that somehow at some point in the future it would undoubtedly be used against him as soon as it was best suited. Now she was some strange combination of the two.

And that look in her eyes was nothing compared to how he had seen her the first time. He'd seen the eyes of a curious girl who wanted nothing more than to explore Neverland in all of its newfound mysteries with Peter Pan's company being a circumstance that was thrust carelessly upon her. Now she was a woman trying to find her way in one large confusing world.

He seemed to recognize her now, but not in the same way that she wanted him to see her.

Regardless he extended his hand to her, while not proud of the change that she'd been made to witness, she was still hopeful that if fate so willed itself to his side–if it were not going to be a cruel mistress that beat her down and fled at a moment's notice–then she could put a foot forward to meet it too.

And hope for the best. But Wendy decided then, making a demand to fate and destiny and whoever had decided that this was the way things should be that she would not be a part of it–if things were not actually set in stone and she was actually given that choice. Misguided steps would be taken, rather than what was advised, if only to assure that she didn't get pulled farther away.

"I want you to join me." He said at last.

Let Wendy–the woman who had unknowingly pulled a piece of him apart and kept it with her that he didn't even know he had–fight back with the ferocity that she knew she could have. Their relationship hadn't been privileged enough to have begun on traditional courtship; an exchanging of letters, shy conversations or an awkward exchange of glances from a distance.

No, that was a life of luxury that while promised to everyone, couldn't afford to be spared and not a second time around–not for him.

His fingertips gently brushed across her hand, tracing the ridges of her knuckles through the bars, an oddly intimate touch, one that held a much more gentle nature than what was expected. "Stand at my side, Love. Don't let yourself succumb to regret because you didn't. Help me end Pan's reign and undo the damage that he has done before the island is dragged under with him."

And she could think of only one other thing for him to do that would demonstrate his desperation, to convey how important it was that they be united rather than divided.

Beg.

The mere thought was appalling to even her, the fact that after spending so much of his life being who he was seeking acceptance only to finally be free from subjection just to be abject and inadequate again. Even to her who had somehow and someway stirred an ember inside of him too. Who he thought before had believed in him. Rather than seeking out her acceptance, he'd secretly hoped that he'd already had it.

Surprisingly, he pushed the revolting word past his lips, forced himself to look her in the eye despite how much it pierced him in the very deepest part of his being. "Please."

Wendy's brows slowly arched the more he spoke. She looked up at him through her lashes, shivering at the sensation, a tingling sensation left behind by his touch. There was a nervous thrumming that soared in her veins, twisting and weaving through her blood. It crackled between them, all anticipation and potential. A misplaced sense of pride and victory surged through her, swelled in her chest, causing her nerves to stand on attention.

He wanted her to join him.

She didn't move–not at first. She watched. Wondrous excitement similar to that of a time when she'd learned how to fly using pixie dust. It lit up her eyes momentarily replacing her distress.

But she didn't understand. How was Peter a danger to this world? She felt something desperate clawing at her chest, felt it press upon her lungs and threaten to drown her more excitable emotions. Could she trust this pirate?

No. She could not. She couldn't allow herself to.

But he sounded so earnest, so sincere. She hated the idea of what Peter was capable of, what he might be–ill-intentioned–and she despised the possibility more than the thought of walking the plank of the Jolly Roger to become an afternoon snack for crocodiles.

Yes, Peter had remained carelessly and childishly free albeit not as quick to burst out nonsense anymore. Sometimes she thought there was a thoughtless cruelty in the set of his mouth that forced into the curve of a grin, but that didn't make him a villain.

She had to wait it out. Strategize. Killian's plea hung in the air and she briefly averted her gaze before giving him an oddly contemplative look.

"Okay."