Blood.
He wanted blood.
He wanted to smear it on his walls. On his skin.
He wanted her blood.
Pan slammed the door of the police station as he barged through the street, the icy night air barely affecting him. His blood was boiling, threatening to ooze through his pores, to spill on the ground.
This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to fail. Peter Pan never fails.
Yet he had been dethroned in a matter of seconds, and all he had left was a dark, gnawing rage swimming through his bloodstream.
The pavement seemed to crumble under his feet as he stalked yet the exaggerated force did not ease his hatred.
Just ahead, town psychiatrist Archie Hopper was walking his Dalmatian, Pongo. The dog instantly sensed the approaching danger and forced his owner out of the way, the man fumbling for control as Pan stormed past them.
He would have thrown them through a shop window if they hadn't moved.
"This wasn't supposed to have happened! This shouldn't have happened!"
But it did.
"It's not my fault."
Of course it's not.
"It's hers!"
Of course, of course…
"Everything would have been fine if she had just let me handle it!"
She won't accept the truth.
He almost ripped the door off the hinges when he reached his apartment, but the quiet that greeted him when he entered caused him to stop in his tracks.
Not the quiet not the quiet not the quiet…
Like a savior, Pan's cat rounded out of the kitchen, his heavy purring clearing away the darkness that threatened to swallow him.
Pan knelt and petted the cat with a shaky hand, his fingers grazing over the scars from years of trauma the animal sustained during his life on the street. If it weren't for his blind eye and patches of missing fur, no one would ever suspect he had ever been abused. He was a whore for attention and would purr for anyone who would touch him. An absolute slut. Hardly the vicious creature Pan thought he was taking in.
Fluffy. Soft.
His neck is probably extremely breakable.
Pan paused as the thought went through his mind, his fingers digging into the cat's neck to the point where he yowled in discomfort.
As adrenaline coursed through his veins, he calmly picked up the cat, the heavy creature squirming in his arms, and carried him into the bathroom, closing him in as he stared up in confusion.
As soon as he stepped away from the door, he grabbed a lamp from the side table—a gift, he recalled, from Felix when he first moved in—and hurled it across the room. The force of the plug being wretched from the wall nearly tore the socket from the wiring. The sound of the glass splattering on the wall sounded like a gunshot, and it smoked as it settled to the floor.
It wasn't enough.
It was too quiet here.
Call August?
"I want to be alone!"
No you don't.
He swerved into the kitchen and grabbed a frying pan hanging over the sink. Gripping it firmly, he began swinging it and hitting anything in sight.
His bookshelf was soon a pile of woodchips, his few trinkets broken plaster and glass on his living room floor.
When there was nothing left to destroy in the living room, he headed to the kitchen, throwing plates and glasses where ever he could. Then to his bedroom where he nearly put a whole in his wall flipping the mattress over. The corner knocked over a series of pictures he had on his dresser, a group photo of him, Felix and Tink crashing into the floor. Their smiling faces stared up at him, daring him to justify what he had done.
"It's not my fault. I was trying to help you!" he screamed into the destruction.
Were you really?
He fell back against the wall as the light above him flickered, struggling not to blow out.
Sound familiar?
He stared at the light as the adrenaline slowly leaked from his veins, the pounding of a pissed off neighbor beating into his shoulder blades.
From the bathroom he could hear Fuzz freaking out, yowling in fear from the violence.
Pan's hand fell to the floor, his skin breaking as his fingers swam through the layer of broken glass and dust, pausing only when they felt the familiar softness of inked paper.
He glared at the smudged headline and Wendy's crinkled photo under the author's section, his blood pressure rising as he glared at her candid smiling face.
Somehow he remembered that her eyes were green despite the gray photo.
This isn't her fault, something much kinder him said.
But the voice was too quiet, and he crumbled up the photo between his oozing fingers.
He blinked and held his eyes close for only a moment, but when he opened the door the room was flooded with late morning light.
His back was throbbing and his fingertips were burning, the newspaper still clutched in his hand.
He pulled the dried blood-stained newspaper from his skin and grimaced at the stinging.
With a pacified huff he picked himself off the floor, tearing yesterday's shirt off as he opened the bathroom door so that his cat could make a beeline for his food bowl.
Pan paid him no mind as he tossed his shirt in the bathtub and turned on the sink, letting the weak drops of water clot on his fingertips, the pinkish blood staining the sink.
He didn't bother to give his reflection a look-over; he knew good and well that a bruised, bloodshot-eyed creature would be waiting for him in the glass.
Instead he went through his morning routine in an automatic daze, brushing his teeth and running a comb through his hair all without the reflective aid.
The only step away from his routine was the bandages he had to wrap around his fingers, the sticky strips of plastic squeezing his flesh too tight.
He stepped over his broken living room to get to his closet and chose an outfit without concern for corresponding colors.
Finally, he addressed his howling cat and dumped a heap into his now-slightly damaged bowl. A wide gap ran down the side, nearly splitting the dish in two. The feline cared little to none as long as it would still hold food.
Pushing aside a heap of broken dishes with his shoe, he pulled half a gallon of milk out of his sparse refrigerator, blindly taking a large swig until the sour taste hit his senses. He nearly choked getting the curdles out through his nose, gasping for breath as the clumps oozed down the drain.
Eyes burning and throat constricting, he started gagging until a long trail of saliva joined the milk, punctuated by a weak shout from him. He slammed his bawled fist on the counter over and over again, wondering only for a moment if it would shatter if he continued.
But it didn't, and as with all things, Pan had to move on.
He ran the water in the sink but didn't bother to clean the mess.
After all, he needed something to look forward to during his week of fucking suspension.
Pan scoffed at the reminder, but kept his thoughts at bay to keep the hatred from boiling over again. He wouldn't have an apartment left if he did.
After giving his mouth a good rinse, he began gathering his things and his helmet. He had no idea where he was going or even what he would do, but he knew after years of these meltdowns that the best thing to do is to keep moving. Eventually something would capture his attention, and he would be able to handle his current issue when he was a bit calmer.
The cool morning air bit at his cheeks as he trudged down the awakening Storybrooke streets. He frowned when he remembered how loud the streets of Scotland were during all hours of the day. Yelling at rude neighbors at night, shouting at the same ones at the crack of dawn. It was invigorating.
Now he wished there was a daily disaster or a fight between lovers spilling out of the windows, anything to fill in the nauseating peace around him. Even the birds were refusing to sing their songs, just to annoy him of course!
He glanced around his usual haunts, giving fiery glares at anyone who dared looked up at him. Word had probably gotten out about his suspension he was sure. He could feel it in the air, and see it at the way the townspeople were sneering at him.
That boy is finally getting what he deserves.
He always was a little troublemaker.
Things are going to be real quiet around here for a while.
Splinters of ice swam through Pan's veins but he refused to show how anxious he was on the outside. He still ran this town no matter what happened. It was only a matter before things fell back into place.
Until then he was piss and needed a distraction.
He entered Granny's without any real intention of getting anything, and it was far too early in the morning to pick a fight.
The townsfolk became recognizably quiet as he strolled up to the counter. Pan scoffed. Sheep.
Granny was staring at him over her crescent-shape glasses, one of her eyebrows arched in amusement.
"Heard you got into more trouble than usual," she teased as she wiped a glass dry.
"Shut it," Pan growled, the older woman taking very little offense to Pan's gruffness.
"Heard that Wendy girl was right beside you," Granny continued with a half smirk.
"Is there anything you haven't heard?" Pan snarked. "Do you want to update me on the recipe on your latest batch of frozen lasagna?"
Granny's smirk dropped in an instant. "Hey! We agreed that was a secret!"
"And I won't hesitate to forget that promise if you don't zip it, now may I please have some coffee?"
Granny didn't stop glaring at him as she made his request. Feeling a bit more back in control, Pan gave her a plastic angel smile as she slid the sloshing mug to him before he frowned again.
The brew was tasteless but hot enough that it kept his nerves screaming, distracting him and keeping his thoughts steady.
Granny began a new task and the diner residents picked up their conversations once more.
"How's Wendy?" Granny asked suddenly.
Pan spat into his cup, the bitter liquid coating his inner nostrils.
"The fuck…what?" he coughed, taking a wad of napkins across his mouth. "Why?"
Granny shrugged. "I saw you two walking together the other night," she said. "Before…everything."
"And?" Pan growled.
"I talked to Tink," the restaurant owner said, her eyes not quite meeting his. "Wendy's name came up a lot. She's still very upset, but she said she messed up about something. "
"Damn right she did," Pan muttered. She wasn't supposed to get hurt over this.
"I thought it was a bit strange that Wendy would write a story like that," Granny said, giving him an all-knowing look. "She hardly seems like the type of person to drag someone through the dirt like that."
Pan clenched his mug. "You don't know her."
"And you do?"
Pan locked his jaw to keep from answering. He didn't need this old bat analyzing whatever he had with Wendy. And he sure as hell wasn't about to lay out his entire life with more than a dozen ears listening in.
He wordlessly pulled out some crumpled money—much less than was due for his barely touched cup of coffee—and exited the restaurant before he rammed the older woman's head into the counter.
His whole body felt tight, his joints stiffening with each step he took until he hardened to a stop in front of the diner alley.
He hadn't answered Granny's question, he realized. How was Wendy?
Pissed, he thought with a weak scoff. He had done drug her into all of this for her benefit, yet she hadn't seen that. Why couldn't she see that?
Pan shook his head as leaned against the wall. Had this all gone according to plan—if Mother Superior hadn't offed herself that is—Wendy might have seen it. She would have been acclaimed for her work and quickly figured out his role in it. Though there would have immediate consequences for the story, they wouldn't have been nearly as intense. Tink could finally give the head nun the chewing out she deserved, and Wendy would be her hero.
In return for putting her on the spotlight, Wendy would be grateful to him, but it would have also established his sense of power. It would have kept her at a distance but also kept her close. A perfect balance. Just what he wanted.
But it hadn't turned out that way, and now he had her, Tink, and the majority of the town glaring at him. It was starting to make him feel small. Powerless.
He had felt this way only once in his life, and once he was on top he swore he would never go back down.
But he felt unsure where to start clawing and now he had no one he could stand on to get back up.
He glanced off into the alley, the dark, small space seeming to stretch on forever. A nice place for monsters to live.
A better place for monsters to flee from.
And then in flash of a moment, he remembered the monster that had been creeping there.
Jekyll. Slinking in the dark looking for his blue-eyed victim.
His Belle.
The name made the air in his lungs shrivel up. Where was she now? Pan looked around as if she would still be there, curled up in the corner the same way she had been when Wendy found her. God he had barely thought of her since her rescue. What had happened to her?
His adrenaline began to soar as he thought of her, tried to pinpoint where she had been taken. Was she safe? Was she healthy? How the hell could he just push her aside?!
His flicker of light.
Belle.
I'm sorry Belle.
He shot from the alley and made a mad dash to the hospital where she surely must be. She had to be. She was waiting for him, right?
She wouldn't abandon him. She swore that. She would help him untangle this web of darkness settled in his soul.
She had to. He was out of places to turn.
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The hospital staff stared at him like he had just pulled himself from an accident, and it wasn't until he caught sight of himself in a window that he saw why.
His hair was standing in multiple ends, having been unbrushed for several days. His eyes were dark and sunken in, bloodshot. He even had sprigs of facial hair threatening break through the surface of his face.
He looked like a freshly realized serial killer.
Belle would be scared to death if she saw him.
With a growl he moved to find the nearest restroom, easing close enough to a supply cart that he could snag a comb and a razor.
Locking himself in, he set to work to make himself somewhat presentable. He scrubbed his face until it stung, taking the razor to the fuzz sprouting on his features without care of how much it would burn later. He then set to work with his hair, wetting it and combing it over. Maybe Belle would recognize him better if he wore it the way he had years ago.
But he quickly discovered how absolutely ridiculous he looked with the comb-over. He looked like a choir boy! Like a boyish little prick!
He ruffled his hair furiously, his heart pounded. What if she was still terrified of him? What if she didn't want to see him at all?
The light above the sink flickered, seeming to want to go out thanks to his indecisiveness. He could easily walk away, and Belle could continue to heal without ever knowing that he had attempted to darken her doorway.
But then what? He'd be back to filling his mind with nothingness. At least Belle could distract him, and possibly help him feel whole once more. She always had a way of doing so.
Glaring at his reflection, he combed his hair back into the boyish look. Better safe than sorry.
Now his clothes. They were clean enough, but more like something he'd wear during a night out. Frowning, he buttoned his shirt all the way up, and spent five minutes tucking it into his jeans in a way that looked decent.
His face was burning when he finally emerged from the bathroom. He felt tight, completely unlike himself. Hopefully it wouldn't be for nothing.
Just as he was about to ask a nurse at the desk where Belle's room was, a cart of flowers was pushed past him, making Pan realize that of course he should get Belle flowers.
He recalled how much she loved roses. Gold had a half-maintained garden at his home once, which—Pan recalled—suddenly became a full-time project shortly after Belle came into their lives.
Pan gritted his teeth as he snagged as small bouquet off the cart while the nurse was busy, hiding it as he got Belle's information.
God, he'd been so stupid back then, to think Belle would ever had a relationship with a boy young enough to be her little brother. He wondered if she and Gold ever laughed about it, at his desperation for the love he had desperately needed.
That same boyish hope pulsed in the very back of his mind. Maybe things could be different now.
He scoffed as he got into the elevator. Like hell. Belle didn't need his filth in her life. She deserved freedom, and open spaces and fresh air after all she went through.
Because of you.
Before the thought could sink in, he caught site of a very familiar irritating nest of blond curls.
"Wendy!" Pan gasped, not realizing that he had said her name out loud until she shot around, her wild eyes softening at the site of him .
Peter Pan—who just last night had nearly framed Wendy for murder, knocked out Dr. Whale, and betrayed a slew of people—was standing in his Sunday best with a bouquet of freshly pruned flowers clutched in his hand and utterly vulnerable before his female opponent.
"Hey." Wendy greeted with a snort.
"Hi…" Pan returned, his skin prickling from being so exposed.
They stared at each other for a moment—each curious as to why they were both at he hospital in the first place—before Wendy sputtered and released a melodically laugh.
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Just a heads up, updating might be much slower than usual. I'm a journalist trying to get a job and once I do my focus is going to be primarily on that and working as many hours as possible so that I can afford my own place. I have a good idea of what's next for this story but my mind's been so clouded lately I'm having trouble concentrating. I don't want writing to be a chore so I'm putting it to rest for a little.
However, I don't know what the future's going to be like, so I might have more time than I realize, so we'll see.