Title: Island

Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.

Notes: In comes the second symbol in this facking story. Also, all of the terrible mess starts in this chapter, sorry if you're not an excessive angst fan. Well, it's not too excessive, and Wendy being who she is NEVER shows ANYTHING, especially now that she's older. Maybe that makes it more angsty. Oh, hahaha I ramble. I've been reading Barrie's notes. Bonus points to any who discover where they've wheedled themselves in.

Chapter Ten: The Feather

Wendy thought to reserve her first waking thought for Rufio, for the boy had occupied her fitful nighttime notions until sleep wiped them away. Upon waking, however, she found this quite impossible.

Peter Pan was kneeling beside his bed, fast asleep. His arm was slung upward, and his lovely browned hand was covering hers. Wendy felt warmth that spread quickly from that touch to the rest of her, but she had sense enough not to sigh or gasp.

She sat up, looking at their hands, her subconscious idly inventing reasons why he grew so tender, even in sleep. It dismissed any rational explanations and cultivated only the romantic ones, but Wendy was too busy deciding what to do about the matter to notice.

Peter looked so very young, and his smile was so clean and close-lipped and sweet. Wendy leaned forward, and with her free hand thumbed away a smudge of dirt upon his brow. Peter did not stir. It seemed impossible that he was still taller than her. Then her eyes stumbled upon his hand again and yes, yes it was quite possible.

Wendy withdrew her hand and stood. She thought for a moment, then turned and bent and pressed a kiss to the back of his empty hand. Thankfully, the brush of her hair did not tickle him awake, and the kiss remained on his skin, pale and loving.

Wendy could think of nothing but Peter until she left the home and the entrance rolled shut behind her. Then came the dusty creak of sealing wood, and Wendy imagined herself a very silly girl. The things she promised to think of first now strolled into her mind belatedly.

The previous night had not fallen out properly. Empathy had bubbled within her from the start, from the first slow, sad word out of Rufio's mouth. Wendy had floundered to show him this, but she found that as she grew older her consciousness of manners made it more and more difficult to express a consciousness of others. Self-conscious people are always in prison.

Perhaps he had grasped it briefly, but it had seemed shallow. How could she have empathy when she was not stranded? When she could go home? She was a very selfish girl, certainly. No, last night had no fallen out properly at all.

Words were becoming a constant failing, and now even her lovely, expressive face was hardly expressive at all. She wandered aimlessly through the wood, by Neverland's grace avoiding the traps that grew more frequent as she drew nearer to Indian Territory. Her brow was darkened by the awful conundrum of telling Rufio that she understood as much as he had let her understand, and something unspoken beneath that. How can one say something that must remain unspoken, after all?

The Indians had had a raid the night before, for Wendy had heard their whooping cries at the latest hours of the night, just before she slept. She thought perhaps she had imagined them, but her ears had been quite honest. The fragments of Indian dress and the tattered remains of their yells were scattered in some places on the ground, surely on purpose, for the twigs and grasses were unbroken and undisturbed. Such was the Indian way.

Just when Wendy began to resign herself to a clumsy and insufficient verbal explanation, the softest something brushed her foot. She bent and scooped it into her hands with a relief so palpable that it rustled the object like soft wind. What had seemed a purposeless Indian raid had a very great purpose indeed: to give Wendy her answer. She held the thing carefully and strode with much conviction toward the thinner part of the wood.

Finding Rufio was not as difficult a matter as she had feared it might be. She spent some obligatory minutes searching in the wrong places, before finding the sense to search the right one. It happened much quicker than it would have when she were smaller, for sense was now terribly obedient and close. Wendy trod through the thinnest trees to the shoreline.

Rufio sat in the dry sand, his back to her. He was watching the waves, or something on the waves that she could not see. Wendy was thinking that perhaps another time would be better when she heard her own voice, soft and almost scared. 'Good morning, Rufio.'

Was it morning? It may have been afternoon before she spoke, but it certainly was morning now. In Neverland, time is only what you make of it.

Rufio knew the voice, but he looked over his shoulder anyway. He stood, awkwardly, and noticed that Wendy's hands were behind her back. He said nothing.

Wendy drew in a discreet breath for bravery. There was something childish about her hiding hands and her dirty shift, but the trappings of woman could not be diminished completely, even here. She placed a careful hold on his eyes before she tried speech.

'Rufio, I do not believe we quite understood each other. I do believe I understood, but the manner of conveyance of that understanding is terribly difficult, and you must know that I understood, and I do hope that you -,' Rufio was regarding her quizzically. Wendy sighed, and tried again. 'Here,' she said, simply, holding out her hand.

In her palm was a feather. It was neither too long nor too short, and without a fiber out of place. It was colored a brilliant scarlet, made more brilliant against her pallid hand. Rufio took it carefully, and spent a very long time looking down at his palms.

His reaction was twofold what it had been for the star. When the awe fluttered away, there was something wonderfully real and sad beneath. His smile trembled, and there was a wounded light in his black eyes. He turned these eyes to Wendy. Her smile was oddly mournful.

They spent a great moment like that, looking at each other. And at the same time, they both saw it quite plainly in the other's eyes: a soft, pulsing hope.

Rufio looked down. With meticulous fingers, he looped a bit of leather chord around the narrowed tip of the feather. He tied the ends of the chord and slipped it round his neck. The feather nestled decorously between a shell and an animal tooth, and for a fleeting moment one could hear it whisper with the rest of them. The silence that followed was warm.

After a long moment, Wendy's smile excused her, and she turned back to the wood.

Peter Pan was standing at its edge.