Wendy's face spread into a wide, toothy grin, far from the shy, coy smiles Aunt Millicent had deemed ladylike and proper for a girl of Wendy's blossoming age. Wendy could not help it, though, as she threw a glance over her shoulder to the frosted panes of the nursery window before smoothing her skirts and sitting down on Michael's bed. He climbed into her lap; his teddy bear gathered up in his arms, the Indian tribe's savage thread still showing around its worn neck. Wendy cleared her throat dramatically before diving into her version of Cinderella, Peter's favourite, with each and every one of her brothers' eager eyes shining up towards her as she described the swordfights and the way Cinderella ran from the ball only to meet up with now angered gang of pirates. Her voice made a crescendo to the perfect volume as she grabbed Nibs' now-wooden sword, brandishing it to mimic with her description of Cinderella's brave swordplay, describing with glistening eyes how Cinderella ran the pirates through with such grace she only lost one petite glass slipper. Wendy would, every now and then, glance towards the frozen windowpanes, hoping to see a glimpse of tousled blond hair or a cocky grin.
When her story was finished and she had turned down the lamps in the nursery, Wendy resumed her spot at the window in her room. She couldn't see the stars, no matter how hard she tried to see through the thickness of the London clouds. Not a single one permeated through the gray, and that scared her more than she thought it should have. He hadn't shown for two days, no matter how much Wendy glanced at the sky during her stories, or how long she sat at her window with her hands wringing in her lap.
Peter Pan did not come to her window, and Wendy had never been more worried.
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When he woke up, Peter found himself on a dark, cold wooden floor that held that sort of old musty smell that belonged to only one thing in the whole of Neverland: the Jolly Roger. Peter squirmed against the rough ropes that still encased him, finding it easy to slip out, as he had more times than his fragile memory could recall.
He sighed, standing on legs made shaky by being curled up for so long. Peter stretched, rubbing his hands on his raw arms, his eyes scanning his surroundings as he tried to ignore the horrid thrumming against his skull where his head had connected with the deck of the pirate ship.
Suddenly, the cabin door opened with a loud click and Peter nearly jumped in surprise. He quickly composed himself, reaching for the hilt of his sword but found the sheath to be empty, his hand grasping for nothing but air. He kept his hand in place, squinting menacingly toward the shadow that stood in the doorway, attempting to look ready for whoever was there and trying to stop the fluttering pulse of his heart. After all, Peter Pan did not get frightened.
A hand reached to light the lamp, and as a flickering glow spread throughout the room, Smee's face came into view. He wore a smug grin on his face that Peter interpreted as pride for catching him when Captain Hook could not.
"'Ello, Pan," he said, in his Cockney accent, blending with something Peter couldn't place.
Peter's eyes squinted around the cabin, the candle on the wall somehow producing a dirty, dank light that barely cast away the shadows. He searched for any sort of weapon in the cabin that he now recognized in the light as Hook's old one. He walls had been stripped of their normal sword collections, cases full of daggers, vials of poisons. In fact, the whole cabin had been gutted of anything potentially dangerous, including the Captain's metal hooks and prized skull collections from past triumphs.
The crew of the Jolly Roger had been planning for him.
"I've got a proposition for you, Peter Pan."
