Disclaimer: I still don't own it. Never will. Sorry.

"Best if I start now, I think."

She'd cleaned the nursery more times than she cared to count, but this was infinitely worse. Nearly everything was broken, shattered, or in various states of disrepair. "James Hook, you'd better not get used to this," she sighed.

For hours she alternated between caring for Hook and returning his cabin to order. Mr. Smee, the kind fellow, even thought to bring her supper. It was dark when she stepped back to admire her handiwork. In Wendy's fanciful mind, the room sparkled in the light of the candles. She was startled out of her sense of accomplishment when she heard a groan. Turning to face the captain, she hoped he was still sleeping. Of course, her eyes met with his menacing blue.

Wait... Blue? It was true; his eyes were the familiar forget-me-not that had entranced her even as a child. She moved to place her hand upon his forehead to check his temperature, but he dodged and batted her hand away.

"What the deuce are you doing, woman? Lay your hands on my person again and I'll gut you."

"I'm sorry. I wanted to check your fever. You've been asleep all day."

The Captain's gaze swept over her, making her feel slightly uncomfortable. "I know you..." he murmured.

"Yes, you do."

His head tilted slightly to the side as he searched his infinite memory. Recognition flashed across his features. "Red Handed Jill..."

She smiled wistfully. "It's Wendy now. Though the passion for stories hasn't changed."

"I'm sure it hasn't," he looked about his cabin before turning his attention back to her, "What brings you to Neverland, my beauty? And to my ship of all places?" Despite his polite words was an anger that took her breath from her. Tears threatened to fall from her delicate lashes. She had been just a child when she'd helped to banish him to the crocodile which had always hungered for his flesh and blood. Surely she didn't deserve this anger.

"Or perhaps you've come to ease your own guilt? Did precious Wendy lose sleep knowing that she, in part, killed a man? For all you knew, I was dead. Eaten by that blasted crocodile!"

"I did, but-"

"But what? You wanted to 'make things right'? It's too late for that. You'll have to live with the fact that you attempted murder. You're no better than I."

Wendy escape those angry eyes. All that he said was true. Except she hadn't wanted to come at all. She'd gone to sleep in her own bed and had woken in his. She idly wondered whether she'd ever be able to get home. What would she do until she could return? What would she do if she couldn't?

The Captain was quiet for a long while. Wendy, curious, brushed away stray tears and looked up at him. His eyes were traveling around his quarters. "You fixed everything..." his words startled her.

"Y-yes. It was such a must have been in horrible temper."

He nodded, but said no more on the subject. "It was you, then. You got me from the floor and brought me to my bed," his brows furrowed, "Why would you do that?"

"I wasn't about to leave you on the floor suffering. You could have died had your fever gone up any higher. Believe what you want about me, Captain," she emphasized his title as if it were no more than a curse, "I'm not cruel."

He stared at her, his face impassive, before he burst out laughing. "Indeed you're not, my beauty. Haven't lost your spirit, I see."

Rather than answer, she asked, "Do you need anything? Food? Water?"

He shook his head slightly, sending curls dancing. The bed creaked as the pirate lay down. However, he kept his eyes on her.

"If I wanted to hurt you, I could have left you on the floor. You can trust me."

An eyebrow lifted, "Can I really?"

"Or not. I'm not the one recovering from a fever. I'm not leaving and you're tired. You might as well sleep."

Arms crossed across his chest stubbornly. "I think it is you who are tired, storyteller. You've been quite busy this day, as I see it. You're leaning against that bedpost as if it's the only thing keeping you standing."

She pushed herself away from said bedpost. Wendy hadn't realized she'd been using it as a support. "Then what do you propose we do, Captain?"

He pat the bed next to him. "Sit and tell me a story, if you please."

Wendy situated herself a little ways away from him, debating if she should tell him a story. It was almost surreal, her sitting next to him in his cabin, on his bed, with a request that she tell him a story. She felt herself lean back into the headboard. She was very tired.

She wasn't sure which of them drifted off first, but the next thing she knew, her eyes were open and she was surrounded by warmth and the smell of cigars and a scent she didn't recognize. Realizing at last where and who she was with, Wendy tried to pull away. Her nightdress caught on something sharp.

"Don't move, lass, or it's likely you'll regret it." She looked up at his tired face with its uneven beard and smirking mouth. He slowly unhooked himself, literally, from her. He winced slightly as he did so.

"What's wrong?"

"Damn contraption," he muttered, rubbing at his chest through his clothes.

Wendy admitted to herself that it probably wasn't a good idea to let him sleep with whatever held his hook to his arm still attached. It was odd that she'd never thought about how he kept the hook on. It was as if it were actually part of the man and not some tool. She reached for the remaining buttons on his jacket, wondering how the garment was still in one piece with all the gashes and abuse it had taken. He smacked her arm away with his hand.

"What do you think-"

"Let me see," she interrupted him before he could rant.

"No."

"Quit being so stubborn. You're acting just as Micheal used to when bath-time came about."

"Bring Smee, he'll do it."

She rolled her eyes at his childishness. "Mr. Smee is busy keeping your crew in order. I, on the other hand, am available right now."

He relented, but only after taking a long enough pause to let her know he was not following her orders, but was doing so because he wanted to. The jacket was easy to discard. It practically fell off in pieces. It was his stark white shirt that gave her problems. She had to unbutton the cuffs at his wrists before attempting to pull it over his head. Of course, the captain made no move to help her; making her feel like she was helping Mother undress baby Micheal once more.

When she finally threw his shirt on the floor with the remains of his coat, she gasped at the angry blister forming around and under what looked to be new leather strapped tightly across his chest.

"See something you like?" he asked with a smirk.