Later, the two sat in the shade of the mainsail, cooling off. Peter winced as he flexed his arm, suspecting he'd have a nice bruise later on from where Hook had hit him. He smiled at his father happily. He loved to match skills with his father, and sparring had been his favorite past-time for as long as he could remember. "I'd hate to ever face you in a real battle, sir," he commented. "If you'd pull those tricks on your own flesh and blood, I'd hate to see what you'd do to your enemy."
Hook smiled, "Yes, you would hate to see it. Just as I would hate to be someone you were out to kill."
"I don't try to kill," Peter replied.
"To your disadvantage. I've seen you in real fights. You play too much. You could dispatch three men for every one you don't kill."
"No, Father, I can't kill unnecessarily. Not even for you."
Hook remained silent. This was an old argument, and it wasn't going to be settled right now. He remembered the first time Peter had killed a man in his father's service. Hook had been ecstatic. Peter had been with them for a little over a year, and had joined them in his first battle, eager to prove his worth. When he'd found the boy standing over his kill, blood on his sword and his hands, he had praised Peter to no end, delighting in an act that took away some of his innocence. Then he'd felt the horror the boy held and realized something was wrong. Beside the dead man lay an equally dead boy, not much younger than Peter. Later, Hook had learned then when Peter had killed the man, the grief-stricken cabin-boy (the man's son) had attacked Peter. When Peter tried to disarm the boy to take him prisoner, the child ran himself through on Peter's sword.
Peter didn't speak a word for a month afterwards, and had nightmares every single night. He'd worked with Peter all that time, finding ways to assuage the boy's guilt and convince him he'd done it in self-defense, until finally the boy again spoke. Hook had banned Peter from combat for the next two years, making the child sit out the battles below decks or in the cabin. The trauma never truly left the boy, and the ghost of the child Peter had killed tempered his sword even now.
Now, when Peter fought in a battle or a bar brawl, the boy took extraordinary pains to spare his opponent. He would goad the man, hoping to humiliate him and make him realize he didn't stand a chance. That actually worked often, the other man running away with a few cuts or non-lethal stab wounds. If he couldn't make the other man yield, he'd try to knock him unconscious or otherwise incapacitate him. But even with his efforts, there had been a few times the other man wouldn't stop and Peter had been alone. Those had been the few times Peter had killed – when he had no other choice.
Peter will never truly be a pirate, Hook finally admitted to himself. He'd thought this before, but he'd never allowed himself to accept it. Making Pan a pirate had been his truest goal, to make him into Hook's image. But he knew deep down it could not now happen. Once long ago he might have twisted the child so. But he'd come to love the precocious boy even before he'd taken away Peter's memories and adopted him as his own son. Once he'd begun to care for Peter, he could not do the things to him that would have made him cruel and hard like Hook.
"Peter, what do you dream of?" the man asked, looking at Peter critically.
"I don't remember my dreams, sir," Peter answered, as if by rote. Once, the men would often ask him what he'd dreamt of, when they heard him screaming in his sleep. His answer was always the same, "I don't remember", and it was true.
"No, Peter, I mean what do you want to do with the rest of your life?"
"I'm a pirate," Peter replied, but his voice sounded uncertain.
"No," Hook sighed and leaned closer to the boy. "You're not a pirate. You're not mean enough. You're not a killer. You only fight with us because you stand by your crew. You only want to be a pirate because you don't know anything else to be."
"I've never thought about it," he said hesitantly. "I just figured I'd stay with you, sir."
"Son, I won't be pirating forever," Hook said. He chuckled at the look of disbelief on Peter's face and nodded. "One day I may retire. I have enough of a stash to retire and be very comfortable, but I like what I do and retirement would be boring. I'll retire when I am unable to keep my crew in line and hold my own in a fight. Or I may die in a battle or be captured and hung."
"They've caught you before and I came for you. Let them try it again, and I'll have no problem killing, then," Peter growled, remembering a previous run-in with the law.
"I know, lad. I have no fear of hanging as long as you are with me. But the fact of the matter is that you are young and I am old. Between what I can leave you as an inheritance and what you've gotten as your own share, you could live comfortably for quite awhile. If invested properly, you could make a fortune to last a lifetime. But what would you like to do? Don't answer to make me happy. What I've always envisioned for you isn't what's best."
Peter didn't reply. Inside, he was in turmoil. He'd never thought much about the future, nothing much beyond the next port. The ship and its crew were all he had ever known. It was inconceivable that it should ever change.
Hook smiled, seeing that his son was (for once) taking things seriously and giving his words considerable thought. "You don't have to decide now. You've got a few years yet. But I want to make sure you consider your possibilities. If something happens to me, I want you to make it on your own." God, I don't know what my death will do to you. We are bound together by the spell I used on you, and I pray that when I die it doesn't kill you too. "I know you don't want to grow up, Peter. You never did. Even as a small child you resisted fate. But you can't stop time, so you have to face the future and prepare."
"Ay, sir," Peter said, giving his father a grin.
Hook ruffled the youth's hair, one of the rare affectionate gestures he could give the boy. "You know, if you get a mind for it, I will send you to a university. I myself am an educated man, and it would benefit you greatly. You'd have a hard time fitting in, but people generally take a liking to you once they get the chance. You're intelligent, you have a perfect memory…" Peter snorted at that. "You do," Hook continued, "and you learn quickly. You can do anything you want. Whatever you decide to do, I will support you."
"Ay, sir. Thank you," Peter said softly. He was genuinely amazed at his father's uncharacteristic openness and honesty. He knew he had a lot to think about later.
Hook stood and offered Peter his hook. "Come on. It will be sunset soon, and some of the men will begin returning shortly after that. Let's get some supper before they raid the larder. Cookson's bringing more supplies aboard in the morning, so no rations tonight."
Peter grinned and took the hook. "Supper it is, father," he said, "shall you cook or shall I?"
"You cook, dear boy. Cookson's fare is better than the sludge I turn out," Hook said wryly.
Fairly dancing on the way to the galley, Peter turned and winked at the captain. "Oh, Dad, it's not that bad. You didn't know that the berries were poisonous."
"Peter, don't patronize me," Hook growled, but his grin showed he was playing. "Those were blackberries."
"Well, they were poisonous by time you got done with them," Peter laughed and leapt out of the way of the man's swipe. Together they went to scrounge up their supper.
Later that evening, man and youth sat in their cabin, battling this time with their wits as they maneuvered the chess pieces across the board. Since Peter was the cabin-boy, he shared a room with his Captain. This had been the arrangement for as long as he could remember, and it gave the two their only opportunities to be informal around one another. On deck was on duty, and his father was Captain while on duty, while Peter was Mr. Hook.
Peter considered the board for awhile before he moved his bishop. He loved chess. He loved matching wits with opponents, and his favorite opponent was his father. Hook employed both cunning and brute strength, and you never knew which you were going to encounter. He is a very unpredictable man. He is a good father and he loves me. But he is a stern Captain, and as much as I love him, I know he can be cruel even to those he likes. He is a great strategist and a careful planner, but I've seen him enraged beyond rational thought. Then he uses his strength and anger to destroy what he fights. Peter smiled to himself. That's his greatest weakness; he's most deadly when he's calm.
Peter loved to tease his opponents, evoking that anger and frustration within them. Then they were most likely to make a mistake he could exploit. His father was no exception. Peter knew which buttons to push to get him upset. But he watched himself more with his father. He knew there was a point he couldn't cross. He could frustrate his father more easily than anyone else could, and provoke him to anger quickly. In that state, his father seemed to forget who Peter was, and looked at him with a strange light in his eyes. In that instance, a play session could become a true fight for his life. It had happened occasionally, and the crew would have to intervene. Peter absently rubbed his left shoulder, just above his tattoo, remembering the near deadly wound he had received from his father when he had pushed the man way too far.
Three years ago? Wow, time flies. Peter had been practicing with Hook and he had been doing well. He had gotten cocky, and he and the captain were hurling insults at each other. Somehow he had managed a move that even he couldn't believe he had done – it had seemed for an instant he had floated – and he knocked the sword from the man's grasp. He was so pleased, he had crowed like a rooster. He didn't know where the idea to do that had come from, it just seemed natural. But the effect on Hook had been instantaneous.
Hook had lunged for Peter, snarling and swearing death to "that damned brat". He'd caught Peter by the throat and buried his hook in Peter's shoulder, the claw piercing him just behind the collarbone and hooking around it. Mason and Mullins both had had to pry the Captain off. It wasn't until Mullins shouted "He's your son!" that Hook came back to himself. Peter didn't remember much about the time shortly after that. He remembered the pain, but he also remembered his father caring for him. Hook, Smee and Jukes – the three people that he cared for the most – were always there when he needed them. He'd bled a lot from the wound, and some thought he would lose the use of his left arm. But he had healed amazingly fast, and Hook and Jukes had helped him exercise enough to recover his full mobility quickly.
Hook moved his rook. Almost got him, he thought. "Your move," he said aloud and looked up to see Peter rubbing his shoulder. "Are you alright? It's not bothering you is it?" Every regret he had in his life but one revolved around the things he'd done to Peter. Twice he'd scarred Peter's shoulder when he'd almost killed the boy. The scar Peter was rubbing was from when he'd nearly crippled his son, but the "tattoo" Peter had was the evidence of the worst thing he'd ever done to the boy (and the worst thing he'd ever done to another human being).
"Hmm? … umm, no. It hasn't bothered me in a long time. I was just thinking," Peter glanced at the board and moved a knight. "Checkmate," he said with a cocky grin.
"What?" Hook stared at the board, trying to disprove Peter. After a few moments, he conceded and knocked his king on its side.
"One to one. Best two out of three?" Peter asked. Hook nodded and they began resetting the pieces.
"Father," Peter began tentatively, "the men wanted to give me my belated birthday present today."
Hook nodded as he picked up his glass of brandy.
"They… wanted to buy me a whore," Peter blurted, turning very red.
Captain Hook nearly choked on his drink. He sputtered and coughed for a few seconds. His coughs turned to laughter, which only intensified when he saw the blush on the boy's face.
"It's not funny!" Peter cried indignantly. "Did you know?"
"I wish I had. I'd have tossed in some gold of my own to get you two lasses."
"WHAT?"
Hook grinned evilly. "Well, a boy's first time should be memorable."
Peter looked away sullenly, "I wish I hadn't brought it up."
"Then why did you?"
Peter sighed, "I don't know. I guess I wanted some advice. Today Starkey asked me if I was a fairy."
Hook felt white hot anger well up inside. What the man had suggested was bad enough, his choice of words was inexcusable. "That was exceptionally stupid of him," he replied in a very tight voice.
Peter looked up in alarm as he felt his father's anger. He must be upset, I haven't sensed him in a long time. "Please, father, don't be angry with him. He was only teasing me. I thought I was going to kill him though. Billy stopped me. Am I unnatural, Father? Is there something wrong with me?"
Hook wrenched his mind away from thoughts of flaying Mr. Starkey alive and looked at Peter. He wants so badly to fit in. He's tried so hard, he's had a lot of catching up to do. For the most part, Peter had done a wonderful job. It was just his quirks – his aversion to sex (though he was a fabulous flirt, and the girls fought over his attention) and killing (though he was a master of the blade and not yet grown), his nightmares which came less frequently now but as intensely as ever, and his yearly illness which came without fail on the same day every year and never failed to almost kill him. He doesn't belong here.
Aloud, he said, "You're not unnatural, Peter. Any man that says that will answer to me. You are different. You don't remember most of your childhood, so you want to hold on to the remnants for as long as you can. I'd like to see you become a man. I've pushed you to grow up for a long time. I've seen the man you will be, and I can't wait to meet him." He sighed, "I'd like you to find a lady one day and get married. Give me some grandchildren and a reason to retire. But you shouldn't do it until you're ready. I had to grow up too soon, and it's made me a hard, bitter man. I envy you your youth because I miss my own. I don't want you to be like me, I want you to be happy."
"I am happy. I love my shipmates and this ship. I can't think of any place I'd rather be."
Hook frowned, picturing the laughing, eternal child that once flew through the skies of Neverland. "You were happier once, long ago," he murmured. "I took that away from you."
"What do you mean?" Peter asked suspiciously. As much as he loved and respected his father, he still felt resentment for the secrets the man kept from him. He was insatiably curious about his past, and collected the tidbits of information Hook or a crewman would leak out occasionally. It was rare, and even after six years he had no answers.
Hook shook his head, realizing his mistake. "No, I've said too much."
"Why do you keep the truth from me?" Peter snapped, his anger overriding his caution.
"I'll not speak on it any longer, boy," Hook growled warningly. "You know better than to ask. It's too painful for you to hear. It's not your fault I slipped, but do not press me!"
Peter stood angrily, "You want me to be a man, yet you treat me like a child! I have a right to know!" He suddenly looked at the man, a whisper in his mind feeding him a suspicion. "What is so horrible that you would keep ten years of my life from me? What did you do? Are you afraid I'll remember and hate you?"
That was too close to the mark. Hook leaped to his feet and backhanded Peter. Peter dropped to the floor like a rock, stunned. He gingerly pressed his hand to his cheek and stared at his father stupidly. Tears burned in his eyes and his face stung.
Hook loomed over the boy, forcing himself to breathe deeply and calm. "Go. Now. Before I do something we both regret."
Slowly Peter got to his feet, and backed away from the large man cautiously. Hook watched as the boy stumbled to the door and fumbled with the handle. I rang his bell harder than I intended. Damn it! How do I always manage to hurt him so much? After several tries, Peter finally got the door opened.
"Peter," Hook called. The youth froze, and he continued, "Goodnight, son."
Peter stood a second longer, shaking in anger, then continued out the door without a word or a glance back.
Hook snarled and knocked the chess board to the floor. He went to his bed and sat. What will I do if he remembers. What will he do? Idiot, I know what he'll do: he'll try to kill me. Will I be able to kill him first? Should I? These were questions Hook had asked himself a thousand times since he adopted Peter Pan as Peter Hook. He suddenly felt very old and very tired. I never should have taken him. I would do it again, because I'm selfish. But then, I've always taken what I wanted, regardless of right or wrong. Damn that boy, for making me feel guilty for something I'm glad I've done!
Peter strode across the deck angrily. He was glad it was dark and the few men on night-watch couldn't see the tears he couldn't stop. There was only one place he could go and be alone. He climbed the rigging to the crow's-nest, which he knew would be empty now that they were in port. He wanted privacy right now, and didn't want to put up with the jeers of the crew when they saw his swollen face.
He'll never tell me. Peter had known better than ask. Hook had told him long ago that he would never tell Peter anything, that he'd have to remember on his own. But lately he'd begun to feel like it was more and more urgent that he remember. He felt like time was running out. If I don't know soon, it will be too late. Too late for what, he didn't know, but he knew it was important. Once he made it into the crow's nest, he began to feel calmer.
This was his favorite place on the entire ship. He felt free up here, away from the damp and the smells. He hated being below deck. The dank, cramped quarters and lack of privacy gave him an acute sense of claustrophobia. Too long down there and he became irritable and mean tempered – more like the captain. Up here, he could breathe and feel like himself. Here he could think more clearly. Sometimes, he could almost remember things. He wondered if he stayed up here long enough, would he remember his past, but to stay that long would be impossible. Captain Hook let him have duty up here because he had the best eyes and head for heights, but he'd didn't like the cabin-boy to stay up for long periods.
He's angry, so he won't look for me tonight. He knows I'll only antagonize him more. He'll expect me to sleep in the crew quarters, but he didn't say I had to. I'll stay up here till morning. Peter looked at the city lights before him. Beyond it was a darkness Peter knew to be a forest – a very beautiful, old forest. He loved walking among trees and climbing in their limbs. Shore leave for him meant more that getting off the ship: he had to get away from people and into the wild for a little while. Staring at the forest so close yet so out of reach, he felt a pang in his chest. He knew from experience that he couldn't stay at sea for long. Without shore leave, his nightmares would get worse and he would eventually become ill. I hope the Captain's not still angry tomorrow. If he keeps me aboard, I won't make it through the next voyage.
The throbbing in his head intensified and he began to feel dizzy. He sat down, but that didn't help so he laid down and closed his eyes. The vertigo lessened, so he remained still, shivering a bit in the cool night air. I should have brought a blanket. I hate being cold. Despite the chill, in a few minutes Peter was fast asleep.
Hook was sleeping soundly when a loud noise brought him awake. Someone was pounding on his door and calling for him. He got out of bed, pulled on his pants, and strode to the door. The ship had better be sinking or that man is dead, he thought irritably.
Mr. Simmons, a man who had been with them for nearly a year, was standing outside the door. He looked frightened, but he stood his ground before the very angry, very large Captain. "Cap'n sir! I sorry ta wake ya, but Meester Hook is havin one o' is dreams. I try ta wake 'im, but 'e won't. 'Es got 'is knife an' 'e cut me when I try ta get 'im down."
Hook frowned and noticed the wounded arm the man was clutching. Blood seeped from the man's fingers and dripped onto the deck. "Down?" Hook asked in confusion, but then he heard a cry from above. "Peter is up there?"
"Ay, sir."
I'm going to flay that boy alive! "Go tend your arm and have someone bring me rope."
Simmons bent down and picked up a short coil of rope. "I gots some 'ere, sir. I think'd if'n I could get 'im down, I should 'ave some rope in case I drops 'im."
"Good man," Hook took the rope from him and strode to the mast. I should make sure I keep this man, he's brighter than he sounds. He began to climb to the crow's nest, wondering what he was going to do with his son.
He could hear Peter moaning and crying out. Every once in awhile, he would say something, but Hook couldn't make out the words. What's he dreaming of? Neverland? His mother? The monster that killed her? Me? Hook knew there were many things that had happened to Peter that were nightmare-worthy. Some of that knowledge he had gotten from listening to Peter. The rest he'd gotten from his accomplice in Neverland. He knew much of Peter's history, and it was pretty harrowing. He knew the name of Peter's mother, and Peter's real name as well. He knew the boy had been born in Neverland, and that his father had been half-elven. He had seen the evil creature that had murdered the boy's mother and the dozens of other children she had adopted and brought to the island. He knew all the many reasons Peter Morgan had tried to kill himself, before he had become Peter Pan.
Finally, he was at the crow's nest and climbed in. He took a moment to catch his breath and assess the situation. Peter was curled on his side, clutching a dagger tightly in his hand. He was muttering and crying, and every once in awhile he would flail his arms, dagger darting out at his dream-enemy. Much of his speech sounded like gibberish, but Hook recognized and understood the fey words the boy spoke.
"Codfish… stop… let me go… NO!" Peter screamed. "I hate you!" he struck out with his dagger again.
Hook frowned in concern. He's dreaming of me. Great. Getting that knife away will be a lot more interesting now. He felt an acute sense of déjà vu, and the world twisted. For an instant, he saw a ten-year-old Peter Pan curled up in the same way, in the same place, nearly naked and almost frozen to death, having the same nightmare. Mullins would say this is a day for bad omens. Peter hasn't mentioned his amnesia for weeks, and it's been nearly a month since his last nightmare. I don't remember the last time I've hit him. It's the strain, we were too long at sea. First thing in the morning he's off the ship, for as long as he wants.
"Peter," Hook called softly.
Peter growled – actually growled – and made a quick swipe with his dagger.
"Peter. It's your father. Wake up," Hook said a bit louder. He knew Peter couldn't be awakened from his nightmares; the boy was locked in them until they were done. But it never hurt to try.
"You're not… you're a liar," Peter's dagger flashed again.
Hook's claw struck out and knocked the blade from his hand. He grabbed the struggling teen and pulled him close. "Pan," he purred in the boy's ear, "you'll never give up, will you? Go back, it's not your day yet." Within a few moments, Peter's arms and hands were tied. A few more moments and his feet were also bound. Hook couldn't deal with Peter up here and he needed to get the boy down. But he couldn't carry him down if he was kicking and pushing. He picked up Peter's dagger and tucked it in his boot, then slung the boy over his shoulder. As he climbed down he murmured to Peter, "I'm your father. I won't hurt you. You're my son. Everything is fine." At first Peter struggled, but soon he calmed enough that Hook could climb down easily.
"Whiskey, Cap'n?" Simmons asked when Hook was on deck. "Meester Smee tole me if'n 'e were gone an this 'appen, ye'd need this." He carried a bottle and a cup.
"Put it on my nightstand," Hook replied as he carried Peter back to their room and laid him on his bed.
Simmons set the items down and hurried out, closing the door behind him softly.
Hook removed the dagger from his boot, then checked Peter for other weapons. When he found none, he got himself and the boy comfortable, removing Peter's boots and untying his bonds. He worked quickly because his son was becoming more animated. When he was done, he sat on the bed and pulled the youth into his lap.
Peter's nightmare had apparently moved on to new subject matter. Peter whimpered and moaned, "Kaylee… no… come back…"
His mother. This will be easier. Peter had two areas of memory loss. The first was induced by fey magic, after Peter had tried to kill himself. The trauma of seeing his mother and the others killed had been too much, so they fey cast a spell to make him forget. It had apparently not worked quite right, and afterwards he was an exceptionally forgetful boy. The second loss had happened after Peter Pan had been removed from Neverland. The magic Hook had used had gone awry, causing unforeseen problems. Pan and Hook had had one last battle, and the pirate had used the spell again in a way it wasn't intended, and Pan had been "disposed" of. When the boy had awakened, he'd remembered nothing about his past or who he was. Thus Hook claimed the boy as his own, naming him Peter Hook.
Since Peter's nightmares of his mother predated Hook, it was easier for him to comfort the boy. The ones where he was the villain were more difficult, but he'd managed. He didn't have a choice. When he'd first taken Peter away, he'd allowed the boy to suffer through his bad dreams. Peter eventually had had them all night, every night. He became surly and mean-spirited, disrespectful and difficult, likely due to his intense headaches. As Peter continued to have them, his behavior and headaches became more intolerable for everyone on the ship. This cycle continued until the boy couldn't see straight and he had nosebleeds. Finally, the boy screamed for the duration of his nightmare, and only Hook could touch him. When Hook intervened and took the boy in his arms, the screaming stopped and he calmed. He kept Peter with him all that night, and when the boy awoke he was better, and the frequency of his bad dreams lessened. From then on, Hook held Peter while he was caught in a nightmare.
So Hook held him. Occasionally he softly sang a sea chanty or recited a bit of Shakespeare, but that was mainly to amuse himself. After nearly an hour, Peter stirred and opened his eyes.
He jumped a bit, disoriented, but soon realized where he was. He moaned, "Not again." He tried to sit up, but his father stopped him.
"Not yet. Lie still," and Hook laid the youth on the bed. He reached for the tray and poured a shot of whiskey. "Sit up and drink this."
Peter hated whiskey, and always associated it with being sick or hurt, but he knew it would help him sleep without dreams. He tossed the shot down, shuddered, and grimaced at the taste. Still, the warm feeling in his stomach was nice. He handed the glass back to his father. He raised his eyebrows when Hook handed him a second shot.
"That bad?" he asked.
Hook nodded. "You were in the crow's nest with a knife. It took awhile to get you down. You injured Mr. Simmons."
"Oh," and Peter drank the second shot. He handed the glass back and leaned back against the headboard. "Is he ok?"
"He's given himself worse."
"I'm sorry, I should have gone to the crew quarters," Peter said quietly, hoping his father wasn't angry with him still.
"Yes, you should have. You know I don't like you being up there. That's why I got so upset when you "fell" from the nest today." He gave Peter his hand and helped the boy to his own bed. While Peter got himself settled in, Hook put out the light and lay down in his bed again. "Goodnight, son," he called.
Peter didn't reply, and Hook was beginning to wonder if the boy had already dropped off again. Then, in a very small voice, Peter said again, "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I give you too much trouble. I'm weak. No one else on this ship needs their daddy to hold their hands when they have a bad dream," Peter relied bitterly.
Hook sat up and looked at the boy in the dim light. "Who said that?" he nearly shouted.
"Jefferies did once and I overheard. Starkey punched him for it, but I'm sure most of the others think so, too. I think it myself."
"Jefferies was a fool. He died a fool's death. You know how those superstitious luggards are. Your nightmares are a bad omen. If you are ill the next morning, they think it'll be a bad day for us. If you are recovered then we'll pull through."
"I know," Peter sighed, "it's poppycock. I'm tired of pretending I feel fine the next day just to keep them happy."
"Actually, you are an accurate barometer for our fortunes. I've checked my logs," Hook replied. He had checked, and he attributed the correlation to Peter's innate magic. "Which is why I want you rested and fit tomorrow. You're going ashore first thing."
Peter couldn't keep the happiness out of his voice, "Then you're not angry at me, sir?"
"No, boy. Now hush and go to sleep."
"Ay, sir. Goodnight," and Peter closed his eyes to go to sleep.
Hook followed suit soon afterward.
