Thanks: Once again, many thanks to my husband and Mara Trinity Scully for their excellent beta-reading advice which helped me tremendously in revising this story. I also want to thank Peter James, squeezynz, bamaslamma29, JustDuck, and peterandwendy4ever, all of whom kindly took the time to review the first chapter of this revision within the first 24 hours after it had been posted. I love you guys!

A Note on the Revision: I thought I should let you know what to expect from this revision, since many of you no doubt read the first version of this story and may be wondering where the big changes are. This chapter, like Chapter 1, is not hugely different from its first-draft version. I've made some (to my mind) important changes to the dialogue, characterization, and descriptions, as well as making some judicious cuts, but there aren't any major scene or plot changes. The more significant revisions start around Chapter 6, and the major reorganization and new scenes begin with Chapter 8. I hope you won't skip these earlier chapters, though, since I did make many careful (though smaller) changes and additions to them, as well.

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me. This fic, however, is mine. Please don't take it without my permission.

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Chapter 2
Tell Me A Story
~

The next day, when Wendy left school, she did not return to Aunt Millicent's home as usual. Instead, she went to the section of Oxford Street where she had seen the young man who looked so much like Peter. The sidewalks were dirty, running with substances Wendy could not even begin to identify, nor did she wish to. The smell was unpleasant in the extreme.

Wendy could not stay long, lest her aunt notice her absence, but she walked briskly for a few minutes, looking about her with urgent interest. She saw many men with dirtied faces, but none had sea-blue eyes.

Disappointed, Wendy climbed once more into Aunt Millicent's carriage and returned to the house.

* * *

After dinner, Wendy and Aunt Millicent sat quietly in the darkly oppressive sitting room, each working on tapestry designs for pillows. How many tapestried pillows one could possibly need, Wendy had no idea. But apparently she and her aunt were going to make a brave attempt to find out.

They spoke little during such evenings, the clock on the mantle most often ticking loudly in the silence, but Aunt Millicent did expect to hear some small bits of news about Wendy's day.

"Kitty Eliot has been having great problems with her embroidery," lied Wendy hesitantly, staring intently at her needlework while telling her first story in more than two years' time. "I ... I thought I might help her with it, as you have taught me so very well, Aunt."

Aunt Millicent, always susceptible to flattery, smiled magnanimously and nodded. "If you want to help Miss Kitty Eliot with her embroidery, I think it a fine idea." Feeling content that her charge was showing such interest in the homely arts, as well as forming a potentially advantageous friendship, Aunt Millicent generously suggested, "Spend as much time with her as you like, dear."

Wendy smiled a secret smile as she worked the tapestry in her lap. Let Aunt Millicent think what she would ... Wendy had just obtained for herself some small amount of freedom. Freedom to search for Peter.

* * *

And so Wendy returned to Oxford Street after school the following day. And then the day after that. And then every day after school for four more days, asking questions of everyone she met, but none knew of the boy she was seeking. Or they were afraid to speak to such a well-dressed young lady.

It was after more than a week's searching that Wendy at long last saw the face that had been haunting her dreams since she'd seen him on the night of her birthday. But she did not see the young man as she had expected to. Instead, she saw a figure huddled in a heap against a wall, his shirtless neck and shoulders visible through the tears in his thin jacket. He wore neither shoes nor stockings, and on his head was a threadbare cloth cap.

Wendy gathered her skirts in her hands and knelt near the young man who looked so like Peter Pan, though grown pale and gaunt with hunger. His eyes were large as he looked at her, but then suddenly he flinched in recognition.

"Get away from me, you!" he insisted bitterly. "I'm not getting beaten by those damn police because of you again!"

Wendy raised her hands in placation, her skirts thereby trailing in the dirt upon the ground. "I mean you no harm," she insisted firmly. "I want only to help you, Peter."

Sitting up in a rather defensive posture, the young fellow asked, "Why do you call me that?"

Wendy bit her lip and tilted her head to look more closely at his face. It was Peter! She was sure it was! She would never forget that dear, dear face. She put all of her certainty into her voice when she replied, "I call you 'Peter' because it is your name."

Frowning in distrustful curiosity, the young man offered, "People here call me 'Jack'."

Wendy frowned in turn, then asked with a slight raising of her chin, "Do you mind if I continue to call you 'Peter'?"

Shaking his head with a bit of a smile, impressed with the lady's gumption, the young man said, "If you wish it."

Wendy's eyes grew very wide at the familiar words and a grin spread across her face. "Oh, Peter!" she exclaimed, reaching forward to take his hands in hers. "I knew it was you!"

But Jack pulled quickly away from her, watching her now through narrowed eyes. "What are you talking about? Do I know you?"

Wendy realized that she had behaved perhaps somewhat too impulsively, for something very strange was still afoot. Why did Peter not remember her? And what was he doing here? These were questions she had asked herself previously, but when faced with the subject of her musings, they became only more urgent.

Perhaps she had been going about this the wrong way. Perhaps she should instead ask questions, so that she might try to puzzle out what terrible turn of events had brought Peter to the streets of London in such a state.

"Where are you from, Peter?"

"Here."

"Here in London?"

Jack nodded. "Oxford Street. I live here."

"Where before here?"

Once again, Jack was peering at her suspiciously. "Why do you want to know so much?"

Wendy sat upon the ground before this JackPeter or PeterJack, her skirts surely being sullied beyond cleaning, and looked frankly into his face. "Because I know you, Peter. I knew you before."

Shaking his head with disbelief, Jack insisted, "I've never met you before, except the night I got my head bashed in because you grabbed me." And, at this, Jack fingered a spot on his head, where some lasting injury perhaps lay hidden beneath his cap. With a remembering wince, Peter said stubbornly, "You should probably go now. I don't want any trouble."

"Will you be here tomorrow?" Wendy asked, just as stubborn in her turn.

With a grudging nod, Jack admitted, "I'm always here."

And so Wendy allowed herself to be shooed away, secure in the knowledge that she could find this PeterJack or JackPeter again after school the following day, and dearly hoping that Lottie could lift the stains from her dress before Aunt Millicent saw them.

* * *

The next day, Wendy arrived on Oxford Street again, this time carrying a small bag that contained some bread and cheese. She'd used her pocket money to buy it, because Peter had looked so very hungry when she'd last seen him. She simply could not bear to see him suffer so.

When she found him again, he lay in the same place, still huddled against the wall as if trying to escape the brisk spring wind.

"Peter?" she called gently, unsure if he was asleep or awake. He turned to look at her, and she smiled. He seemed sleepily surprised to see a smile for him upon such a clean and beautiful face, but then he woke up further he suddenly remembered her and warily struggled to a sitting position.

Holding out the bag which contained the food she'd brought, Wendy explained, "I brought you something to eat," hopefully watching his face for some indication of softening toward her.

He snatched the bag from her hands and began voraciously gobbling down the bread and cheese she'd bought with her pocket money. If she had realized he was truly this hungry, she would have brought more.

When the food was gone, he looked up at her once again, now somewhat embarrassed. "I was very hungry," he explained belatedly, still not thanking her. But, then, he had never thanked her for sewing on his shadow, either, and so she could not be truly surprised. Peter Pan, in Wendy's experience had never been prone to expressions of gratitude or politeness, happy instead to accept the good life sent his way as if it were his due. And, if she were honest with herself, she needs must admit that this carelessness was rather charming, in its own way. And so this lack of thanks made her only more certain in her own mind that this was, indeed, Peter Pan.

Once again taking a seated position beside him, Wendy replied, "I dare say you still are hungry, Peter."

With a shrug, Jack admitted, "I always am. But even a little food is a good thing." And then he gave a tentative smile.

Wendy couldn't help gazing intently at his face as he smiled. Yes, it was all the same. His face was the same. His eyes, his nose, his smile. He was a few years older, just as she was, but this was definitely Peter Pan. But why didn't he know it? And why had he grown older? And ... oh there were just too many questions!

"Why are you staring at me?" he asked, glancing away uncomfortably.

Wendy blushed lightly. "I'm sorry, Peter. I was just ... you look just the same as when I knew you before, only a little older."

"How would a lady like you know a scalawag like me?"

"You weren't always a scalawag, Peter." Then, realizing what she had said, Wendy could not stop herself from grinning. "Well ... actually, yes, you were, but you were a different sort of scalawag when I knew you before."

Jack was quiet a long moment, and then admitted softly, as if he were revealing a great secret, "I don't remember much before living here." Then he looked up to meet her eyes, and in his there seemed to be shining a dim light of hope. "Do you think you might really have known me?"

Wendy nodded with serious eyes gazing directly into his own. "Yes, Peter. I did. And you were my hero."

* * *

When Wendy arrived the next day, young PeterJack sat once more in his same location upon the sidewalk, though this time he looked rather as if he had been expecting her. She thought his face looked even as if he had perhaps attempted to wipe it, though it was quite clear that water had not been involved, let alone soap.

A wooden apple crate sat beside him. When he saw her, he gestured to the crate with an embarrassed shrug. "You shouldn't have to sit on the ground," he mumbled self-consciously.

Wendy sat upon the crate as if it were the finest chair in Aunt Millicent's well-appointed home, for she was pleased and honored that Peter had thought about her comfort. "Thank you," she said with real pleasure in both her eyes and her voice, and PeterJack blushed.

"I told Old Maddie and Big George this morning that they should call me 'Peter' now," he said hesitantly, his shoulders hunching further as if to protect him from a blow. "I told them it's my real name." For, in truth, though he was still dubious about the truth of all this, the young man had come to believe that even if he was not the person this lovely lady sought, he would like to be the man who was her hero, and so he simply chose to believe her tale. It was certainly far better than believing he was a worthless piece of garbage, in any case.

His words made Wendy smile even more broadly, and she clasped her hands together in her lap to keep herself from throwing her arms around him, certain that he would not appreciate the gesture. At her movement, she remembered that she held another bag of food for Peter -- and indeed we shall call him "Peter" now, since he himself had accepted the name.

"I have brought more food for you," she explained, offering him the bag.

This time, however, Peter smiled and took the bag without snatching it from her hands, before proceeding to open the bag and eagerly begin eating the bread, cheese, and apple contained therein.

"Who are 'Old Maddie' and 'Big George'?" she asked curiously.

With his mouth still rather rudely full, Peter obliviously replied, "Just people who live here."

With a bit of a puzzled frown, Wendy asked, "'Here' where?"

"Just ... around. Nearby. I never asked. They just talk to me sometimes."

"Are they friends of yours, then, Peter?" This was the first she had heard of anyone who had known Peter in London, and she was terribly curious.

But Peter only shrugged carelessly, still more interested in the food Wendy had brought, munching the apple greedily. "I guess they're friends. I'm not fond of grown-ups, but Old Maddie and Big George are nice to me."

"Not fond of grown-ups? But, Peter, you have grown up, yourself! Just look how tall you are!"

"I am not grown up! And I do not ever wish to be grown up, either."

He sounded so very like his old self that Wendy felt quite breathless with excitement. "Peter, what do you remember before you came to live on Oxford Street?"

Shaking his head as he chewed, Peter mumbled, "Not much."

Wendy found herself quite uncertain where to begin, for talk of flying children and fairies and mermaids and pirates seemed likely to convince Peter once more that he should not listen to her. And so she considered carefully what she might say that he might actually believe.

"You had six brothers," Wendy began with determination, "Nibs, Slightly, Tootles, Curly, and the twins. You were the eldest, and you took care of the others, almost like a father."

"I don't remember that," admitted Peter with curious eyes.

"They were quite excitable boys, really, always racing off to fun and adventure, and you were the most adventurous of them all." Peter seemed to be listening closely to what she said, but he offered no response.

"You lived ... er ... in the country," continued Wendy, once again put into the situation of telling a story, this time even more so. She found herself quite dismayed, for the storytelling skill had utterly left her. The sensation was nearly painful. But it was important for Peter, and so she would not surrender to her own weakness.

"There were many trees, and lakes, and rivers," she continued, "and you all played among them every day."

Nodding slowly, as if trying to take all of this information in, Peter urged Wendy, "Tell me more."

* * *

Wendy had been visiting Peter on Oxford Street every day for nearly a week -- telling him more and more about the less fantastical elements of his life in Neverland and their previous times together -- when he interrupted her story for the first time to ask a question.

"Was there a man?" asked Peter uncertainly. "A man with ... long dark hair ... and blue eyes ... and he ... he hated me?"

Her heart suddenly in her throat, Wendy nodded without making a sound.

"He was very unpleasant," mused Peter slowly, as if searching his memory for each word. "I think ... I think he may have even tried to kill me," Peter hazarded, glancing nervously at Wendy's face to see if she now thought him insane to have thought this outlandish thing.

This time, Wendy could not restrain herself, and she clasped Peter's hands in hers, crying gladly, "Yes, Peter! He did! That was Hook!"

Peter frowned in confusion, embarrassedly pulling his dirty hands from her pale clean ones. "Hook? Was that his name?"

Wendy nodded excitedly, "Yes, Peter! What else do you remember?"

But here Peter shook his head, almost as if in apology. "Only that. Only ... Hook ... and I remember very little about him, anyway. Only ... feelings, really. And some vague images." He looked downcast now, as if certain he had disappointed Wendy.

Wendy continued to grin at him, however, and said, "But you have remembered something, Peter! You have remembered!"

Caught up in her enthusiasm, Peter found himself smiling hesitantly, and marveling, not for the first time, at the beauty and kindness of this young woman who seemed to care about him, even as wretched as he was. He knew it was inappropriate for him to have such thoughts about a fine lady, but he found himself wishing that he were somehow deserving of her. He knew he was not, but he could not stop himself from wishing.

* * *

The next time Wendy came to visit Oxford Street, she had a very determined look to her face, and she walked as if she were going in to battle. Peter watched her warily.

"I have made a decision," Wendy proclaimed before even saying hello or giving Peter any food. This was most irregular.

"You are to come home with me," Wendy said firmly, her chin tilted at a decidedly challenging angle.

Peter looked down at himself in his dirt and rags and shook his head. "You know I can't do that," he replied. "Just look at me." One cannot live long upon the London streets, after all, without learning one's place, particularly if one is excessively poor. If one does not learn quickly enough, one is taught most energetically by a policeman's nightstick, as Peter had seen for himself upon more than one occasion.

Her chin raising even a bit more, Wendy insisted, "You could have a bath. And eat a real meal, with hot food. And sleep in a real bed, where it is warm and soft."

But Peter could be as stubborn as she, and so he replied, "I can't, Wendy." And that was the first time he had used her name. Aunt Millicent would have been horrified at the familiarity, but Wendy found herself strangely thrilled by this additional sign of the forward Peter Pan she had known.

But Wendy had made her decision, and she would not be gainsaid. "Peter, I cannot live in a fine house while you sleep on the hard ground with no food or shelter. That is what is not right. And so if you will not come home with me today, right this instant, then I shall instead sleep on this very ground, just as you do." And at that, Wendy sat upon the sidewalk and crossed her arms.

Their battle of wills lasted quite an extended period of time and included some rather heated arguments during which both their voices were raised and they drew the attention of several passersby, but after a prolonged silent staring contest, Peter finally relented. "If you wish it," he grumbled ungraciously, sending Wendy leaping to her feet with a cry of joy.

Wendy gave him no opportunity to bid good-bye to Old Maddie or Big George or any other friends and acquaintances he might have on Oxford Street, for she was determined to take him with her before he might have a chance to change his mind. Taking Peter's arm, Wendy immediately led him to the street, hailed a hansom cab, and gave the driver Aunt Millicent's address.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Wendy's blue eyes grew steely with determination, for now would come the true test of her resolve.