Reparation
By Azul Bloom
A/N Dribble…like a drabble….but longer? Written for cathartic purposes after a dastardly performance on an exam. Post book and although not intentional, I suppose subtle traces of the 2003 movie as well. PWP…unless you count the abstract and defused scheme of things throughout as a plot. Pairing implied but not truly sufficient to be deemed one. Spelling/grammar blunders inevitable...no beta.
It became infinitely difficult to keep his mind off events, for as everyone very well knows, Peter's usually quite good at keeping away from memories. But these memories were stubborn and persistent, and latched on to him like needy pups, straggling behind him every which way he went, yelping and nipping at his heels for attention.
It was just so very hard not to think about them.
He'd waited for the boys to return on their own, expecting to hear their hollering upon a morning, opening his eyes to see the lot back in flank. But it didn't happen. So, he decided that perhaps they had forgotten how to fly, or the way back home, so he set out to retrieve them on his own. But each and every time he'd make it to the nursery window of number 14, he'd only see smiles on lips widely flapping about, exchanging anecdotes of their small adventures during the day, no doubt. So he never ventured to tap on the window, and only appeased himself with lurking outside, his shadow hidden from sight by chiding drapes. Sometimes though, Tootles or Michael would turn in his direction, staring at the window ever so oddly, as if a distant voice called out to them, but that was all and nothing else.
They would simply shrug it off and turn away again.
So Peter did this every now and then. He'd leave Neverland - sometimes with Tink, sometimes without - and fly down to London town, to the right of the clock and straight above the gardens. Down the familiar streets and to his perch near the window, simply watching and waiting; hoping that on one of those occasions when one of the boys would turn, they'd follow their sight with their feet, coming close to the window and allowing him back in.
But sight was never followed by hands upon the window's latch.
Time went by - how much Peter was unsure of - but it was time in deed, for he saw the smallest get as tall as the oldest and the oldest as stern Mr. Darling. And in all his nightly visits, he never did once see Wendy, for she had long ago left that room for one of her own, at the far end of the house where her window faced the open street, where there were no shadows or trees to cloak him and protect him from wandering eyes. And she never didstroll into the nursery, or at least, not while he was there to see.
Perhaps it was best for Wendy to keep away lest she should insult his young eyes.
John, Nibs, and Slightly were the first to leave, being the tallest of the group. They simply disappeared one night and Peter only saw them once in awhile, when they'd return for a talk or a visit. Tootles and Curly were next, so then it was only Michael and the twins. They never left the nursery, but the nursery left them. The toy chests, play clothes and building blocks gone, replaced by stacks of book in wooden shelves, proper clothing hung and folded so very neatly, and 3 separate desks, each facing their own wall, right next to each tidily kept bed.
Peter saw all of this, and never flinched. It was after all, what they had left to do, wasn't it?
Seasons changed and moons did pass, but Peter remained Peter, the silent watcher of the Darling home. He remained, even when the others didn't. He remained, even when other creatures of flight roamed the skies, and men wore uniformed clothing and marched down the streets. He remained when sirens wailed and the world around exploded like fire from the pirates' canons.
Peter remained throughout it all, and after it was done and there was peace again in London town. He thought perhaps they had left to return when things settled down, but none did so and the nursery was barren for years unknown.
On one such night, during his eternal vigil, he saw a sparrow roam the house and land so softly on the rooftop. He didn't speak to it, or ask it for its business at the Darling home, for the bird left him well enough alone as well. On his next visit, the bird was gone, but the light was once again lit in the nursery, and being a warm summer night, the window was left slightly open.
He drifted in, mostly pushed by the thieving winds and saw a lonely crib in the middle of the room, new paint and carpet set out, and tiny little clothing laid out some nicely in the armoire. He reached over, the tip of his toes barely touching the plush rug and saw a sight that nearly broke his heart from an odd concoction of sorrow and joy.
Sleeping so peacefully and warm, was a golden haired babe; pink roses for cheeks and smelling of sweet milk and honey. He reached one gentle but rather dirty finger over, tracing the curve of the chin and the tip of the nose.
A new one.
So after this, Peter's eternal vigil became scarcer, never letting off, but simply farther apart in between visits. He took note of the babe's growth every time, guessing at the proper time to return, finding himself slightly disappointed every time he'd been presumptuous about his guesstimate. Finally, one quiet little night, Peter flew in through the open window, and the girl laid sleep in her bed. Not knowing how to wake her without giving her a fright, he acted as history and scrounged his face, eliciting salty tears from his eyes and sat down by the bed's side to pout.
"Boy?" a tiny voice said from above the bed. "Why are you crying?"
Peter shot up, placing his hands on waists, feet spread out and as tall as he could manage. "I do not cry. I am Peter Pan."
The girl's eyes went wide and she jumped to her feet on her mattress, bouncing around a bit until she gained her composure. "Peter Pan! Oh dear! Oh my! Mama will be so happy to know you have finally returned!" she cried out, with her hands on her thin chest.
She made to jump off the bed and run to her mother's room, but Peter swiftly jumped over it and placed himself between the girl and the door, his feet never touching the ground.
The little one was taken aback by this and opened her mouth to question him, but Peter quickly placed one hand over her mouth and one finger over his lips, silently requesting for her voice to grow softer. The girl winced but relented.
"But, Peter, wouldn't you like to see mama again?" She asked confused at first, but then her face softened and her mouth dropped open in a simple 'oh'.
"Oh, Peter, perhaps you do not realize who mama is!"
"No, I do not know that mother, but that is not needed, for I remember my own." His words had an air of longing and grief, but he quickly pushed the thoughts out of his mind. "What is your name girl?"
"Jane Josephine Begal Darling." She pronounced proudly.
"Too long." He said with a roll of his eyes. "You are Jane."
Jane squealed and bit down on her lower lip, the corners of her mouth growing farther up and away from each other. "Am I to see Neverland, Peter Pan?"
"If you wish it." He said, one eyebrow cocked high, and a demanding look upon the girl.
"I wish it. Oh how I do wish it!"
Peter smiled and reached for a pouch hanging to the side of his holster. Tink had been long gone and never did he wish for another fairy to insist on being his, so he shunned at them all each and every time they sought to do so. But to appease their favorite boy, they kept him supplied with plenty of fairy dust to use as he fancied.
It had been half a lifetime since children in London greeted the breakfast table with a tale of a dream they had; that of a boy in greenest leaves playing his pipes and laughing mischievously throughout the night; that of fairies dancing about the gardens late into the evening just after lock down of the main iron gates; that of children just like themselves following out into dark silent nights after a winded melody up the heavens and to the stars.
It had been so very long since they felt their very hearts flutter like the wings of the butterfly at the sound of a crow.
It had been so very long.