All Things Bittersweet and Imaginary
Chapter 1
The Playwright

Disclaimer: I own nothing which Miramax owns, but only my ideas for the characters to get scrambled up in. I do not own J.M. Barrie either, or his history or life stories.

THE FOLLOWING IS VERY IMPORTANT!

Author's Note: I'm back, you're back, we're all back! I hope that a sequel isn't much of a burden to you, but I really do think you'll enjoy this one as well, if not, more. Only 3 people have known my title until now, when I have released it. Those people are my parents and my hopefully soon-to-be illustrator! That's right, Playwright gets an illustrator. If she accepts, illustrations will be posted on my LiveJournal Community which is located at The username of the community is jamesmbarrie. You will need this community address for this story! I won't be rambling on in Author's Notes like this, and I won't be giving review replies within chapters! My favorite questions and replies will be posted in the community, and all others (including favorites) will be emailed to the questioner if email is provided. So I do ask of you to please provide an email with your anonymous reviews, or email me so I know your email and can contact you. And please feel free to join the community if you have an LJ username! I would like more members! So now that the technical stuff is over with, you may now go on to the story! Enjoy!
Love always, MJ xox

BARRIEFACT: James did indeed meet the Davies boys in Kensington Gardens, but only Jack and George, yet he did not meet Sylvia there. He had met her instead at a dinner party, and when the two got to talking, Sylvia discovered that this was the man who she had heard so much about from the boys' nanny, Mary. He was the man who wiggled his ears, did "magic tricks with his eyebrows" and told stories of fairies, murders, pirates, and treasure to her boys.

Inside: Two stories

OoOoO

May 3rd, 1905 - Tuesday

"A button."

"He thinks a kiss is a button?"

"Is he some sort of fool?"

"No, no," James replied patiently, "he believes it to be a kiss - it's symbolic of a kiss. Anything is true if you believe in it faithfully."

"What about Tinkerbell?"

"Tinkerbell is a fairy," Charles said, triumphantly. He put an arm around James, who also smiled. The gaggle of reporters before them scratched away on their pads and whispered and muttered among themselves, comparing notes at a wasp-like speed. The scratching of pens and the hurried din combined made them all, indeed, sound very much like a swarm of anxious bees.

The Easter performance of Peter Pan had been an enormous success. So much that Charles and James, the pair of theater rats, had decided to keep the play running. Charles took a lease on another theater on the opposite end of the city to move it to, though, as they would be starting rehearsals soon for The Man With Music On His Face at the Duke of York's. The letters for the new members had only just been sent out and already people had begun to approach James and Charles requesting tickets.

James had gotten a phone call the day prior to "feeding hour at the city zoo" (as Charles had called the present promotional at the Duke of York's during a recent chat between the two) from Mary, who stuttered her way through a thank you for his casting choice. James merely offered an unceremonious (but half-polite) "you're welcome" and worked soon afterwards to end the conversation. He then spent the remainder of the day cursing, rather than praising himself like Mary had.

Charles, on the other hand, had been spending more and more time in his office waiting for telephone calls. He stared across the room at the large bulky contraption that was the era's "hi-technology" communication device, sitting on a table against the wall opposite to him for most of the day. Once it rang, he'd rise from his comfortable desk chair, shake his head, each time muttering the word: "amateurs," and answer the phone, only to hear another complaint from someone who had received his script and had found upon the pages of it that their part only consisted of ten words, or less; in which case resulted on about a dozen pleading telephone calls from Charles's end.

James had remained in contact with Mrs. Elisa Babcock, and had asked her once (politely, of course, for he wasn't that kind of man) for his housekeepers (Sarah Deardren and Emma Padell) to be back in his "possession," if you will, and offered her a way of going about getting her own. She accepted, and Sarah and Emma moved out the very next day and returned to Emma duMaurier's house. It was very nice to have them back, as James had already had an incident with a turkey once and since then had given up on cooking dinner for the boys. The five had eaten out every night, which had caused much chaos every night come supper time.

Presently, the playwright kicked his feet so that his heels thumped on the side of the stage. He felt that his smile would soon imprint itself into his face so that he was permanently stuck in such a way. Charles didn't feel the same way, though. He was a man for show. He made it look like he was having the time of his life sitting on the Duke of York's stage in front of a house teeming with newspaper reporters. And, honestly, he was. Any advertising for his partner's hit play that would end in a full pocket on his part was the best way in the world to spend a morning.

"...And this little devil here, by george - small build, big imagination, eh, fellas?" James gave an uncomfortable smile and Charles squeezed his shoulders once more as the camera near the front of the group went off for a fourth time.

"I'm not that small, Charles," James said thickly, putting on his hat, as the two left the theater at last. The playwright had had to hear every pun and tease about his height for his entire life, and Charles wasn't one to leave it alone.

"Quiet, James, you're five feet tall. It was only a friendly joke."

James gave up. There was no convincing Charles of anything without an argument, and he didn't want one at the moment - he was far too tired. "Alright, Charles, where do you want to go for lunch? I'm treating today."

"Aw, that's very sweet, but I've put you through enough nonsense. I owe you." Charles checked his watch. "There isn't much else open..."

"Lixon's, then."

"Lixon's it is. Hey, listen, James, I want you to remind me why I thought an open casting call would be a good thing for us at this time in our game."

"Lack of talent," James supplied sardonically.

"Well, I'll tell you, there is a lack of talent in this city. London has been stripped of all creativity save for you and Arthur Doyle."

"And you, of course," the playwright said. Charles didn't catch the sarcasm.

"And me, yes. I wish you would have convinced me that it was a bad idea. The phone has been ringing off the hook for days."

"Complaints?"

"Complaints, concerns, requests for different roles. It's a racket. Disturbing the peace. Infringing upon my rights to privacy. Disquieting my everyday goings-on."

"I'm sure." James smiled to himself, and caught Charles's gaze out of the corner of his eye. The producer frowned and looked away from his friend.

"You make me sad, James."

"Why do I make you sad?"

"You could care less about all of this, couldn't you?"

James sighed and looked around his surroundings, watching the town go about its activities. "There are only more important things in the world, Charles. It's not that I don't care. If they're unhappy with their part, then it's their problem. We've offered them a chance to be on the London stage. Are we all casted?"

"All but the shopkeeper. No one in the whole of London feels that they're important enough to the performance if they utter the words: "Good morning, Mr. Barber." It sickens me."

"We'll find someone who will."

It was Charles's turn to sigh. "You're a good man, James."

The playwright smirked. "One minute I make you sad, and the next minute I'm a good man."

Lixon's was as busy as it usually was, but the little table in the corner of the cafe at which James and Charles sat regularly, was vacant. The heavy smells of coffee that had wound itself around the chair legs and had seeped into every thread of the couches that sat near the windows leaked out into the air that filled the restaurant. Customers filled nearly every seat, each having a drink on his table. Most were seated with friends, except for a man in the darkest part of the room, who had two tall stacks of paper with him and a pen, and looked very busy, like he did not want to be bothered. Charles and James took their seats at their table, and got comfortable.

As James looked around the room, he noticed that the restaurant wasn't packed, like the last time he had been there to meet with Charles back in December, before they had started rehearsals for Peter Pan at Easter. There wasn't a sea of people that snaked through every free aisle and space. It was just...pleasantly busy. And James, who loved people where ever he went, was indeed pleased with this additional company.

Charles removed his hat and set it next to his and James's canes, which were left leaning behind James, in the corner. The playwright then removed his own, and left it in his lap. The two proceeded to order drinks (Charles, a scotch, and James, a glass of ice water) and then the producer rubbed his hands together, initiating conversation.

"I've decided not to go back to New York for a while. I returned my train tickets and I returned my tickets for the ship yesterday, and I'm here to stay."

"Cheers," James offered, raising his newly arrived water glass and allowing it to collide with Charles's one of scotch.

"Yes, things are good here, there's not much reason to go back just yet; and what with Peter Pan being a success again, and your new play starting soon, there really isn't any at all." Charles went off into a reverie for a moment, and James nodded, looking up at the black ceiling above his head. He looked over at the counter next and watched someone spill out their entire change purse on the counter and slowly, but surely, count up each penny and shilling to pay for his cup of coffee. The man gathered up his things and shoved past the line at the counter and out the door. The bell that swung against the glass when the door was disturbed seemed to wake Charles. He looked at James, who turned back to his friend, took a sip of water, and smirked.

"How did you like those reporters today - asking me every question that would have been answered if they'd seen the show?"

"Pitiful," Charles retorted immediately. "Absolutely pitiful. They'll go tonight or tomorrow night to put a review in with their article, either praise it or bash it, and await the next play. Then, they'll be blown away by Mary and Gerald, and...we'll see what happens then." The producer took a drink and thought aloud. "Gerald certainly is going to be busy with rehearsals every day and performances three times a week..."

"I do hope we did the right thing casting Mary as Harriet. Gerald will be a wonderful George, I'm sure of it, and that Barty fellow seems to be keen on Zinschiel's role, but I'm still not positive about Mary," James said, watching the ice cubes float around his flass.

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Charles said. "She's a wonderful actress, I remember going to one of her plays with you before the two of you were married. I wouldn't be worried too much."

"How do you know she'll be fine? This is a different play - it's my play! How do you know?"

Charles grinned and chuckled. "Easy enough question to answer. You trust me, James."

OoOoO

"Shh - quiet, everybody!"

"Quiet, he'll hear us!"

"Michael, move your foot."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean t - "

"Shh!"

James opened the door to Emma's old home and complete darkness met his eyes. When he reached for the switch, though, a hand grabbed his firmly, then thrusted it away from the wall, making him jump. A candle alighted in front of his nose, and George appeared standing before him, his face set in a serious way, holding the candle still in front of him. The playwright glanced around at all four of the boys, who were dressed in old brown colored bed sheets and feathers, and realized what all of this was: a game; a sort of ceremony. He set his face the same way, and allowed Peter to adorn him with a broad flowered hat which was topped with a feathery stuffed bird between two rather large purple silk flowers. Michael and Jack both stifled giggles, but George, James, and Peter remained in a state of all seriousness.

George lit Jack's candle, and Jack, in turn, lit Peter's. Then, the party proceeded into the equally dark parlor, where Sarah and Emma were holding candles and standing on either side of the piano, on top of which a single couch pillow sat. Sarah and Emma promptly set their candles down on the piano and helped George and Jack to lift the stone-still James up and to place him atop the ugly pillow. Peter then moved in front of James, handed him his candle, and drew his journal. When the playwright looked into the boy's eyes, he could tell that he wanted him to take it from him. And so, carefully, he did. Peter smiled and waited for James to flip the cover open to see the contents, and then left the room at the head of a straight line consisting of Michael, Jack, George, Emma, and Sarah.

James removed the hat from his head, and held the candle closer to the words that appeared to be printed so carefully onto the page. The Playwright: The Escapades of Mr. James Matthew Barrie. He smiled and began to flip through the book, and saw that this story was indeed very carefully constructed. Clearly this was not the first the first draft. The words had been edited very many times for the sake of perfection. For every time someone re-copies a set of prose, it is changed, and this handwriting was the neatest; and each letter was displayed in its most intricate design, so that the ink from the standard fountain pen had been used in such a way that the words looked as if in reality they had been printed professionally by machine.

James closed the leather volume gently and stared for a long time at its cover, lost in thought, about this gesture, and about the fact that the boy who had given him inspiration, had been inspired by him.

Author's Note: I am now praying for and awaiting reviews - let me know you love me, and I'll post chapter 2! I'm going with 5 reviews for a new chapter again. Thanks, guys! You have no idea how much I love you all!

And as another note, you have read in the summary that light angst will be present as well as romances. There will be others, as well as a very, very light James/OC. Do not let this lose your attention, I won't write it out of character, you can all trust me there.