Author's Note: The first of the significantly revised chapters. Let me know what you think, whether you've read the previous version or not!

Thanks: Thanks again to my husband and Mara Trinity Scully for their beta-reading. And thanks again, also, to those who have taken the time to review!

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 8:
On the Subject of Neverland
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"The mermaids went first," Peter explained, once he had calmed enough to speak and had embarrassedly dashed the tears from his face. Wendy sat beside him, on the edge of the bed, for he seemed to find her nearness a comfort.

"One day I went to call them with my pipes, and they didn't come. I thought they were only teasing, but ... then ... the waterfall stopped. One day it was just ... gone. I can't explain it. And then the Black Castle ... and then the volcano ... and then one day the Jolly Roger was gone. I didn't see it set sail ... it was just ... gone."

Wendy listened with confusion and horror to Peter's halting tale. How could Neverland have been destroyed? What could possibly have the power to kill Neverland?

"Then the fairies went," Peter continued, and tears were welling in his eyes once more. "One day, Tink was just gone. All of the rest of the fairies, too. They left no sign that they had ever been there. Tink didn't even say good-bye." Peter sniffed, embarrassed to let Wendy see him cry, but still hurt at the loss of his closest friend.

"The Indians were gone, too. I'm not sure when they disappeared. They just weren't there when I went looking for them. I was all alone. And then ... one day ... I fell asleep in my tree ... and I woke up ... in Kensington Gardens. I couldn't remember anything, and I didn't know what to do."

Wendy stroked a hand through Peter's hair, wanting to give him comfort somehow, now that he had remembered such distressing events, even while she herself was yet trying to catch her own racing thoughts.

"I didn't know what to do, Wendy. I didn't know how to get food, or where to live, or anything. I was so scared!" Peter shook his head with shame at the memory.

"Of course you didn't know, Peter!" Wendy reassured him. "You had no way to know. You had been in Neverland so very long that you had forgotten."

"I did not forget!" insisted Peter, though he knew that he had. Admitting such a thing hurt his pride, and so he found himself lying instinctively. He wished he hadn't said that he was scared, either.

Hearing the defensiveness in his voice, Wendy soothed, "Of course not, Peter. But it wasn't your fault." She tried to think of something that might make him feel better, wondering how she might appeal to his arrogance, how appease his injured pride. "Most boys would not have survived the night!"

Peter lifted his chin slightly, his cheeks still subtly marked by tears. "It was an awfully great adventure," he said tentatively. In truth, it had not felt great at all, but it sounded far better than admitting how cold and frightened and lonely he had been.

"I'm sure it was, Peter," Wendy stroked his hair once more, finally understanding in some small way how Peter had come to be in the state in which she had found him on Oxford Street. Poor Peter! Stranded in London with no understanding of how to live there!

"When did all this happen, Peter?" Wendy found herself quite determined to learn as much as possible, so that perhaps together they might comprehend how such a disaster might have been caused to occur.

Unfortunately, Peter's sense of time was not particularly accurate. In Neverland, time had been entirely irrelevant to his life, and so he found no use for the concept. Since his banishment to the streets of London, Peter had developed some vague understanding of time, but he still had not fully grasped its complexities.

"Very long ago," he replied, certain that this was accurate, for it seemed he had been in London nearly forever.

Frustrated, Wendy thought how to get more precise information out of the boy, and then she had an idea. "When did you start growing, Peter? Was it right away when you found yourself in London?"

Peter nodded. "It seemed to go on and on," he explained as if deeply offended. "And hairs grew in very wrong places. Look at my legs!" And, at this, Peter pulled back the blankets to show his legs beneath his nightshirt, though it must be admitted that one of the aforementioned legs was encased in plaster, and therefore illustrated Peter's point not at all. "Look!" Peter pointed, affronted, at his one bare shin. "Hairs!"

And then, pulling the blankets back up with uncharacteristic modesty and glancing away from Wendy in embarrassment, he muttered, "And they are elsewhere, too. Hairs nearly everywhere."

Biting her lip to keep in the laughter that begged to be released from her lips, Wendy nonetheless simultaneously blushed slightly at this mention of the effects of growing up. She had experienced similar effects, herself, after all.

"Was anything strange before Neverland began changing?"

Peter shook his head. "Things were a little dull, maybe. Not so many fights with the pirates, though that was probably just because Hook was dead. Not very much to do, I suppose."

Why would Neverland grow dull? The place was by its very nature a wonderful adventure, and so what could cause it to grow boring? Wendy's head was growing quite achy from trying to solve this puzzle, and so she rubbed her forehead, and then suddenly found herself coughing again. This wretched cold was a nuisance.

"Wendy?" Peter's voice was quiet and tentative, his cockiness seeming to have quite fled in the face of this terrible memory. "I don't want to talk about this any more today. Would you just tell me some stories instead? Not stories about Neverland, just stories about something else. Like the man who looked for the lady with the glass slippers." Truth be told, Peter sounded quite like a lost little boy again, and not at all like a young man, and this was of course because in his heart Peter Pan had never grown. He was still the same lost boy he had always been, only rather taller.

"You remember Cinderella?" Wendy was surprised, for it seemed so very long ago that Peter had listened at the nursery window.

"I tried to remember," admitted Peter. "But now I can just have you tell it to me again, and I don't have to try."

Laughing a very welcome small laugh after so many tears and worries, Wendy proceeded to tell stories, sitting ever on the side of Peter's bed, with his hand sometimes in hers.

She told of Cinderella and her battle with the beautiful pirate queen, Red Maggie, who wore a patch over her left eye and had long flaming red hair that flew about her when she fought, so that she looked as if she were on fire. The battles between the two women were fierce and thrilling!

Wendy also told Peter of Sleeping Beauty, left slumbering in a dank cave, through which ran a dark and mysterious river, teeming thickly with pale blind fish which had never been touched by the rays of the sun, but which could devour a person's flesh entirely in three minutes, leaving nothing but a clean white skeleton, which would then sink to join many others at the bottom of the river.

She also told of Snow White, and of her pet wolf which had been forsaken by its parents, and which cleaved to her side and protected her always against any danger. For it may be noticed that Wendy's imagination, once stimulated again, had taken over, quite as it had done when she was a child. It flowed through her like a magical river. And, through her, into Peter.

That evening, Aunt Millicent did not emerge for dinner, which was most unlike her, for she believed strongly in the importance of keeping a strict routine. Wendy wondered after her aunt's well-being, but did not wish to intrude by knocking upon her door. Instead, Wendy quietly took dinner to the guest room upon a tray, and she and Peter dined sitting together upon the bed, as if it were a picnic. And as they picnicked, since she had little appetite, Wendy continued her stories, and Peter listened with eager ears.

* * *

That night, Wendy dreamt of Neverland again, but it was not at all as Peter had described it. Instead, it was as lovely and thrilling as ever, with the sound of cannon fire echoing from the distant Jolly Roger, scores of fairies flying through the air in their graceful dance, lush exotic flowers perfuming the air with their sweet musky scent, and the Indians' fires visible through the trees, the braves' shadows long and eerie as they danced round and round the flames.

And in the center of the dream was Wendy herself, laughing with joy, her eyes wide and innocent, her small feet bare against the mossy ground, her body once again healthy and youthful, untouched by corsets or dieting, unbothered by propriety or elegant manners.

In her dream, Peter Pan -- young and rash as ever -- was holding her hand and pulling her along to the next wonderful thing he wished for her to see, smiling his familiar, mischievous smile, his sea-blue eyes shining delightfully in Neverland's bright moonlight.

When she woke in her woefully familiar bed, Wendy's first thought was a sharp stab of intense longing, a desperate wish that she could remain in that marvelous world with Peter Pan for always.

But her second thought, following immediately after, was resignation and grief, the acceptance that if what Peter had said was true, then Neverland was forever gone and she might never return.

And, anyway, Wendy knew all too well that she had grown too old and could never be that wide-eyed young girl again. Even if Neverland lived, it would not live for her. She was forever banished ... by her own childhood choice to return and grow up.

Curling up on her side, Wendy closed her eyes and willed herself to dream again of Neverland, to return to that world where all had been beautiful and exciting, that magical world where she had been most truly happy.

And, while Wendy slept, while Wendy dreamt, the exotic flowers in a faraway land suddenly began to bloom once more.

* * *

Over the next several days, Wendy spent most of her time in Peter's room, except while she slept. Aunt Millicent was quiet and introspective, not interested in talking or sewing together as they had wont to do in the past. Instead, she urged Wendy to do as she liked with her time.

Occasionally, Wendy would come downstairs to find her aunt upon the divan with a novel in her hand, her eyes looking elsewhere as she sat motionless and quite clearly heartbroken. But whenever Wendy attempted to offer any sort of comfort, Aunt Millicent merely waved her away with vague thanks, and returned to her melancholy.

Wendy hated Dr. Carew even more for what he had done to poor Aunt Millicent, who now seemed quite broken by the experience of having known him. To have developed hopes, after such a very long time, only to see them dashed and -- even worse -- proven ridiculous was a terrible blow to the poor woman.

Unfortunately, the following week Thursday at length did arrive, and along with it arrived Dr. Carew, ostensibly to examine Wendy regarding her cough. Aunt Millicent stayed in her bedchamber with the door closed, and instructed Lottie to answer the door and accompany the doctor to Wendy's room.

"The lovely Miss Darling," greeted Dr. Carew with a carefully charming smile as he entered her room. "How are you feeling?"

"I am quite well, doctor. I have no need of your attentions." Wendy was rather impolite in the curtness of her reply, if truth be known, but she felt quite justified in speaking so. She had, in actuality, been feeling rather unwell, but she did not wish to keep herself in this man's company any longer than was absolutely necessary. He caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. There was something vaguely menacing about him, but she had not yet been able to pinpoint what it was.

"No cough?" inquired Dr. Carew with a disbelieving arch of one eyebrow.

Unfortunately, Wendy's cough chose that exact moment to emerge, making it impossible for her to lie.

"Sit upon the bed, my dear, and let us have a listen." Dr. Carew drew out a strange instrument, placing cords into his ears and then pressing a cold disk to Wendy's back. "Breathe deeply, my dear. That's it."

After looking down Wendy's throat, making her stick out her tongue, and pressing the cold thing against her back more than once, the doctor at length stood before her with a very serious expression. "You, young lady," he began somberly, pausing for dramatic emphasis before concluding, "have nothing but a simple cold." And then he smiled, as if this were some great joke.

Wendy did not laugh. "I know," she replied coldly. "I have been saying so from the first." In truth, Wendy had been growing increasingly worried that something more serious was wrong, for she slept very ill and had lost all her appetite. She felt only slightly relieved by Dr. Carew's pronouncement, for she trusted his judgment not at all.

"But," Dr. Carew interrupted her thoughts, "your cough is quite bothersome and has been irritating your throat. We would not want to allow that beautiful singing voice to be damaged." Wendy scowled. Without Aunt Millicent to rebuke her by word or look, Wendy remained only barely civil to the odious Dr. Carew.

"I am prescribing for you a dose of morphine each evening before bed," the doctor explained with a solicitousness that seemed rather studied. "It will quiet the cough. Continue the treatment until the cough has bettered. And I shall visit again in two weeks' time to check on your progress."

"I am certain that will not be necessary, Dr. Carew."

"No, no, I insist, my dear. It would not do to allow yourself to become seriously ill!"

Before departing, Dr. Carew also spoke to Lottie a moment, recommending that the delicate Wendy be protected from outside germs and contagion by staying as much as possible inside the house, and keeping the windows always shut.

And so when Dr. Carew departed with his small discreet bundle of payment which had been left politely upon the table in the entryway, he craftily promised to return in two weeks, little though any member of the household wished his presence among them.

Politeness, unfortunately, did not permit Aunt Millicent to enlist the help of a different doctor and dismiss the services of Dr. Carew. For to do so would only draw attention to her own previous foolish behavior and hopes. And so she simply drew courage to face him upon future occasions if Wendy's health so required, for she would not hide within her room to avoid his company again. This was her own house, and she would not be driven into hiding.

In the meantime, Aunt Millicent dutifully latched all windows in the house and pulled all of the thick curtains securely closed against any potential drafts, determined to do everything possible to ensure her niece's health. She would not allow her judgment to be clouded against the doctor's advice, just because her hopes had been so sorely disappointed.

* * *

In fact, it was not only Aunt Millicent who had been suffering melancholy. The tone of the entire house had been quite low, as even Peter had been rather subdued.

Since he had told Wendy of the dreadful fate of Neverland, Peter had been less animated than before, seeming often almost to brood, little though this suited him.

Now that he had begun to remember himself, he knew very well where he belonged, but it now seemed that he could not return there. It appeared that Neverland was gone, and he would be ever confined to this dreary world of rules and expectations, soot-caked chimneys and noisy motor cars, and everywhere nothing but grown-ups. Remembering the children he had encountered upon the streets of Whitechapel, Peter despaired even of the youth in this place, battered and hungry and not at all merry.

How he longed for Neverland! How he longed to be once again a boy, young and healthy and free of all care!

But no. He was here. Forever. It seemed a most horribly dreadful prospect.

His only gladness was that Wendy was with him. As his memories had begun to return, his attachment to her had grown ever stronger. He remembered now how he had wished for her to stay with him in Neverland, to be with him always. He remembered, too, when she had left, and how he had missed her.

As she continued to regale him with stories, Wendy watched Peter's changes with curious, wondering eyes. Was it possible that her stories somehow healed him? She had thought perhaps that he was simply healing quickly for some other reason, perhaps the inherent magic of his being, but she could not deny the sight of Peter's bruises fading before her eyes, ceasing in their change when she paused in her story. Some strange magic was happening, of that she was sure.

As the days went by, and many stories were told, Peter's health improved such that, in time, all of his injuries seemed entirely healed. He was excessively frustrated with the plaster upon his left leg. It was no longer necessary, but it inhibited his movement and itched abominably. He loathed the thing most passionately, and knocked upon it often with his fist, as if to break it open.

Checking Peter's head injury one morning only to find it quite healed, Wendy whispered to herself, "It is as I suspected!"

"What is as you suspected?" demanded Peter. He was feeling particularly fractious, for he was simply aching to be up and racing about, but the plaster upon his leg hindered him most provokingly.

"You shan't believe me if I tell you," Wendy sighed.

"I always believe you," countered Peter truthfully. "So tell me."

Wendy sat on the edge of the bed and gazed wonderingly at Peter's forehead, where once such a horrible wound had been. It was now smooth and clean, as if nothing had ever been the matter at all. "I think my stories have been healing you," she explained hesitantly, expecting laughter.

But Peter only perked up curiously. He shifted slightly in the bed, so that he was sitting up slightly more. "How?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Wendy replied, but something in her voice told Peter that she was not telling the full truth.

"I think you do," he challenged bluntly. "Tell me!"

Wendy shook her head slightly in apology. "I ... I know what I believe ... but it makes little sense."

Shrugging, Peter insisted, "So? Tell me."

"I think," began Wendy, hesitating before continuing, "I think when I tell stories about you, you ... become more like the you in my stories. But I don't know how that could be possible."

"So if you told a story that I had green hair, then I might suddenly have green hair?" Peter seemed intrigued by this possibility.

Wendy made a face. "I suppose so. Perhaps. All I know is that I tell stories of you being young and healthy and arrogant, and you grow more so with every story I tell."

Peter asked quickly, "I grow younger, as well?" He did not seem at all surprised or offended to hear that he grew more arrogant. In fact, he barely noticed that Wendy had said so at all. But the idea of growing younger did immediately catch his attention.

Reluctantly, Wendy nodded. "Yes, Peter. You are younger now than when I first spoke with you on Oxford Street. You then seemed somewhat older than me, but you now look perhaps my own age. It is clear in your face, and you have grown shorter as well."

Quite accustomed to magic and unexplainable mysteries, Peter merely nodded and smiled with satisfaction, pleased that he should soon be quite himself again. He apparently needed only ensure that Wendy continued to tell stories. Well, that was easy enough.

"Tell me a story," Peter demanded abruptly, squirming in his bed in a vain effort to find a comfortable position. A plaster cast, as anyone who has ever broken a limb knows frightfully well, simply cannot be made comfortable by any contortion of the body.

Surprised by this sudden command, Wendy blinked a moment before replying patiently, "What story would you like to hear, Peter?" She knew that her stories made his convalescence more tolerable, and she could see that the plaster cast was plaguing him today, so she was disposed to be particularly kind.

Thinking about what Wendy had said about her stories making things happen, Peter contemplated quickly. What changes would he like to see occur? What would he like to have happen?

"Tell me about when Hook nearly defeated me on the Jolly Roger," Peter commanded. "When you kissed me." He grinned mischievously.

A faint pink flush rose on Wendy's pale cheeks, but she returned Peter's smile and began her story. She started when Peter had saved her from walking the plank and described the Lost Boys tied up together, Hook sending all of the pirates into the rigging, Peter and Hook engaging in their flying battle, etc. She once again could not explain how Hook had succeeded in bringing Peter down, but she did describe with heart-breaking poignancy her own horrified, disbelieving reaction when Peter came crashing to the deck of the pirate ship.

When at last she came to describing the kiss she had pressed to Peter's lips, the faint blush stained her pale cheeks again, and she kept her description perfunctory.

"But what was it like?" asked Peter boldly.

"What was what like?" countered Wendy.

"The kiss. What was it like? I don't remember it, you know." This was not precisely accurate, for Peter had in fact remembered the kiss, but he wanted to hear Wendy tell about it anyway.

Wendy's blush deepened, but when she began to talk it was as if she quite forgot herself. "It was ... very soft. Your lips were warm, and when I pulled away your eyes opened and you looked up at me ... and at that moment I knew how you felt about me, and I did not need to hear the words."

"What words?"

Wendy started. She had nearly forgotten that Peter was there, lost as she was in her memories, and she now felt rather embarrassed at having shown so much of her own feelings.

"What words?" Peter repeated.

Coughing weakly into her handkerchief for a long moment, Wendy then looked at Peter and bit her lip nervously. "You said you had never loved, that even the sound of it offended you," she explained.

Peter nodded, waiting for more.

Wendy took a deep breath and admitted softly, "After I kissed you ... I thought I saw ... love ... in your eyes." She looked down, not wanting to see Peter's expression in reaction to her words.

A long silence stretched between them. Wendy eventually looked up at Peter's face, only to find him watching her expectantly. Puzzled, Wendy asked, "What is it, Peter?"

His brow furrowing slightly, Peter sulked, "You said that when you tell me stories, then what you tell in the stories happens to me. Right?"

Confused by this strange change of subject, Wendy nodded bemusedly.

"I think you're wrong." Peter's sounded sorely disappointed.

"What makes you think that, Peter?"

"Well, you didn't kiss me," Peter replied simply, sounding, if truth be told, rather disgruntled. "You kissed me in the story, but you didn't kiss me now."

Wendy's eyes were wide and round with shock at Peter's words. "What?" Her voice emerged as a rather undignified squeak.

If he was going to be stuck in this horrible place, Peter was grateful that he would at least have Wendy. And, anyway, he'd been becoming rather fond of kisses, loathe though he would have been to admit it aloud. But this storytelling hadn't worked at all as he had expected, and his plan to make Wendy kiss him again had failed. And so, at that moment, losing patience, Peter leaned forward, placing one hand flat upon her cheek as she had done to him so long ago, and kissed Wendy himself.

Wendy's eyes remained open for a moment, so surprised was she by this unexpected move, but her lashes then fluttered closed and she simply enjoyed the warmth and softness of Peter's lips against hers.

When at last he pulled away from her, Wendy's eyes stayed closed a few moments, but when she opened them she saw Peter looking at her, and he had that same expression in his eyes, the expression she remembered from Neverland.

"I think you were right, Wendy," he said quietly, his voice grown more solemn now.

"Right about what?" Her voice, too, was hushed.

"About my eyes. About what you saw."

Peter still had not said the words, but Wendy knew what he meant, and she forgot all about the death of Neverland and Peter's mysterious healing and the odious Dr. Cardew who looked so familiar. Everything else seemed suddenly less important than this wonderful boy, and so she smiled at him and her heart beat joyously within her breast.