Disclaimer: Any character or places from Peter Pan belong to J.M. Barrie and his heirs. However we do own our Ocs, please do not take them.
Author's Note: Welcome to chapter two! Things can now begin to get rolling, with the dreams over and done reality is going to prove to be far more complicated. Enjoy!
Sunset was brilliant in Neverland, the orange glow would combine into a splendid purple as night overcame one half of the sky. Day and evening would share the the celestial canvas by means of a magic unknown to the Mainland. He had been contemplating the setting sun just before his world had turned upside down. It had been on the nocturnal side of the sea that his troubles had arrived. He turned his discerning eye to them now. The women sat, shivering in his cabin, huddled together on his chaise, and Hook was left reeling with the realization that they were real and that they were before his very eyes. He was at a loss for what to do. He knew what he wanted to do. He knew what his body was telling him to do as he looked upon their damp curls and nipples peaked through their flimsy dresses which clung to their curves. But his mind was thrown into chaos, cluttered with questions that needed answers.
After their sudden gasp validating the reality of his existence, he had swept them from the deck as quick as he could to spare them from the leering of his crew who had been creeping closer to the women the longer they stood clinging to each other. He had brought them to his cabin, out of the breeze chilling their skin, and into a more private setting where he could begin to make sense of what he was seeing.
Some part of him was telling him that this was just another dream - albeit much more detailed and realistic than any before. But they were there dripping onto his rug to he was forced to concede the possibility that they were, indeed, very real. He was half tempted to reach out and touch them, to verify that their warm flesh was corporal and not some figment of his sleep-deprived mind. They looked up at him, still with those expressions of shock and awe on their faces and he cleared his throat, reminding himself that he was captain of the ship and that they were going to answer for what had happened.
"What are you?"
"Cold," the auburn-haired one snapped at once. The one with shoulder length dark curls was busy trying to cover her nipples with her hand to agree but James remembered some semblance of his manners. He reached for a thick blanket and handed it off to the woman with the chestnut tresses. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and around the frame of the woman shivering beside her and they cuddled together under the blanket.
"I'll ask again," he said, leaning his hip back against the edge of his desk and looking down at them, "What are you?"
"Women," the dark-haired one said with a sharp bite to her voice, "Surely you've seen one before?"
Taken aback by the cheek she gave him so easily, even when he was attempting to be his most imposing, James managed a scowl. "Are you succubi? Nymphs? Sirens? Demons? Faeries?"
"Certainly not!" the hazel-eyed one said as though affronted. The shorter of the two, she was resting her auburn head against the shoulder of the pale, dark-haired woman beside her. Their arms were entwined under the blanket and their skin was beginning to dry.
"Enchantresses?" He tried again, "Sorceresses? Witches?"
"That's more like it." The blue eyes of the dark-haired witch sparkled a bit with amusement at how he was floundering even as she held her companion to her breast.
"Witches, then," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "Sorceresses who send dreams to torment mortal men…"
"Wait, wait, wait," the auburn-haired witch sat up, "Are you accusing us of the dreams?"
"You also had dreams?" James questioned, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
"Yes," the dark-haired witch said, pulling the blanket over her breasts, unable to quite hide the way her cheeks had darkened at the mention of the dreams. "We've had them for three weeks."
"Both of you?"
"Yes. And I assure you, it was not our doing."
"If anything we've been trying to find the source of the dreams."
The whole situation confounded him, and he began to pace. On the surface, it would seem he was the luckiest man who ever lived. Two beautiful women had, literally, fallen into his lap. Women he knew well, intimately, had known in the Biblical sense. What had been ephemeral and sweet, though a tortuous kind of sweet, was now very much in the world of reality. What did one do in an event such as this?
"We were conducting a spell to give us answers," he turned to find hazel eyes staring back at him as she tried to explain. "A vision of the sea had just come forward when suddenly there was darkness and cold. And then we were falling."
"One long drop into the sea and then there are perverted pirates everywhere," the blue eyed witch grumbled.
"Then how would you explain all three of us sharing the same...provocative dreams?"
"I'm pretty sure we already made it clear that we don't know that," cold, pale eyes glared at him and he clenched his fist.
"All we want right now is to go home."
Leave? Not a chance in any of the seven levels of hell.
"And give up the best chance you have to find the answers you seek?"
The witches looked at one another.
"Oh he's exactly the same as in the dreams," the taller one chuckled.
"Silver tongued and slick," the other shook her head.
Hook ignored the quip and finally ceased his pacing. Seated close, clasping their hands, running fingers gently over slender wrists in comfort, they never broke physical contact. They were smirking at each other, but spoke not a word, speaking only with their eyes in the manner of lovers. In their dreams he had watched them tease and please each other, that alone was enough to heat his blood. But their bond obviously went far deeper than merely satisfying the need for carnal pleasure. He was no stranger to such affairs, and certainly was never one to judge another for indulging their desires, but never had he found himself…..caught between such a couple.
They were squirming on the chaise, trying to better cover themselves with the blanket. It had fallen from the shoulders of the long haired witch, revealing the low cut neckline of her indecently thin dress. The swell of her bosom threatened to tumble from the bodice, as she moved the ties at the back of her neck slipped to reveal the side of one breast. His breath caught in his throat upon seeing the pale flesh interrupted with dark purple bruises that formed in the shape of fingers.
Without thinking, he found himself moving forward. His hand fit perfectly to the bruises, as right they should as he was the one who left them there.
A sharp pain shot up his arm. He hissed, pulled his hand back against his chest and glared at the women. They actually had the audacity to slap him!
"Excuse you!" the long haired wench spat. "No one said you could start pawing at me!"
"Hands off, this isn't dreamland anymore!"
"No," Hook murmured, "Indeed, it isn't. Why do you have bruises, then?"
"I...don't know," the marked woman said hesitantly, glancing at the cautious face of her lover, "We were trying to find our answers when…"
"When we landed in the ocean and, hence, are still wet," the dark-haired vixen snapped. Her riotous mane, as it dripped slowly dry, was curling to rival his and his forget-me-not eyes raked over her damp body. She drew away from his gaze, both of them remembering how his touch had felt on her breast, how his mouth felt upon her nipple as they had joined together in their dreams. "Where even are we?"
"You do not know?" Hook's brow raised, bemused.
"Did you hear the bit earlier about falling through the abyss?" Blue eyes clashed with blue eyes. This one was fierce and vocal with her saucy tongue. The other was also fiery but it was a slower, smouldering kind of burn. More patient than the sharp sparks of the first.
"I did," he said, his smooth voice elongating his words with exaggerated patience. "But, my dears, you are in Neverland."
"Neverland," the auburn-haired woman gaped. "Neverland?"
"Specifically, The Jolly Roger afloat on the Never Sea," Hook clarified unessesarily, toying idly with his hook as he surveyed them.
"But the Neverland is just a myth," the long-haired witch said. Something had shifted in her eyes, something analytical and intelligent. She wore the face of a scholar being presented with a new tome of information. "Only used in fairy-tales and old wives' tales to explain away the disappearances of children and sailors at sea…"
She trailed off, an odd expression on her face as she looked up at him again. This time when she looked over his body, it was not with lust or with interest, but with careful examination. Her hazel eyes took in every detail of his face, his clothing, his hair, his stance. Nothing escaped her notice and it was only because he was returning her determined stare that he saw the first signs of shock in her eyes. They widened, her face paled ever so slightly, and her mouth fell open as she gasped, "James Matthew Eliott! Baron Heathfield! Boatswain to Blackbeard! Oh gods…."
His handsome face instantly seemed carved of stone. He froze, masking his surprise and panic. How did she know? They had never even learned one another's names in their dreams, so how the hell did she know his family name let alone his long abandoned title?
"Honey?" the other witch appeared to be just as confounded as he. "This isn't the time to present your thesis."
"I know this ship, I've been studying it for years! The Jolly Roger wasn't just a generic symbol, but a brig that vanished along with its famous captain. And I know his face," she pointed at him almost accusingly. "It was always somewhat dark in the dreams, and the missing hand threw me off but I know him. I've been looking at his portrait since I started grad school. James Eliott was the wayward noble who commanded a pirate ship only to disappear suddenly while escaping the law in the northern Caribbean. If I'm wrong tell me so." Her bright eyes stared into his own, not a trace of fear or uncertainty to be found in her determined gaze. He had to admit to himself that he was impressed, few could manage such a feat and usually fell into pitiful pleas for mercy with a single glare from him.
"Even if you were, that is hardly the matter at hand. How would any of your supposed studies help us in discovering the whys and hows of these shared dreams?"
"As much as I hate to say it, he has a point."
"Abigail! Don't side with him! Any information is better than none."
Finally, he had a name to put to one of faces which haunted him.
"You just gave him my name!"
"Oh like he wasn't going to find out anyway!"
They were oddly endearing as they argued.
"Damn it, Rose!"
Ah, and now the second, such a stroke of luck he was having. Abigail and Rose, lovely names to be sure, they matched well with the beauties who bore them.
"Ladies, please, we have much to talk about and who knows how much time to do so." Perhaps another tactic was necessary, to both calm their feud and draw them away from digging too deep into his past. "You are not quite completely dry, it would not take long to light a brazier so that you can warm yourselves." Both women looked up at him suspiciously. Good. It would be a shame if they turned out too gullible or naive.
"Sudden change of atmosphere," Abigail muttered but did not turn down his gracious offer. Rose said nothing, still glaring at him defiantly though she did give a quick nod and he called for Smee. The loyal bosun scurried in, curiosity clear on his aged face.
"Aye, captain?"
"Fetch hot coals for the brazier, and bring something hot to eat for our guests as well."
"Right away, sir." After the door has shut behind the Irishman, Hook returned his attention to the women.
"I do apologize for not having something, more appropriate, for you to change in to. Those wet clothes cannot be comfortable."
"Somehow I doubt removing our clothes around you is the wisest course of action right now," Rose said, a little coyly. There was the spark that drew him in like a moth to the flame. The argument over his true identity was successfully pushed to the wayside, leaving in its place something more akin to the temptresses he had known in his nightly fantasies.
"Oh I wouldn't say that," the look she sent him was positively smoldering. Meanwhile Abigail was staring at them both as though they both had sprouted a third arm.
"Really?" Abigail's brows were lifted with incredulity, "You're flirting now? There is a time and place! Preferably once we have a better understanding of what the fuck is happening!"
James was slightly uncomfortable with how arousing the profanity was as it fell from her pretty lips.
Rose took her lover's hand in her own and whispered something he could not detect in her ear. Abigail settled somewhat and the two shared another knowing glance. A soft knock at the door echoed throughout the cabin, he called for the person to enter. Smee hurried in with a warming tray of piping hot coals. Two small copper braziers were filled and the sorceresses happily partook of their warmth.
"You said we have much to speak of," Abigail looked up from under long curling lashes.
"Indeed." He turned to the dining table, uncorking a bottle of madeira and pouring a liberal serving into a nautilus cup. The sweet burn brought him back to earth, as it were. Perhaps alcohol was the last thing he should have been imbibing after neigh a month of turning to the bottle rather than risk falling asleep. But the sources of his sleepless nights were not ten feet from him now, so he could indulge without a guilty conscious. Not that he would have ever felt so to begin with but that was neither here nor there.
"I would say we should begin with introductions but that seems to have already happened," Rose said, looking at him over the frames of her spectacles. Impertinent little thing. He found he liked the spunk though.
"Never let it be said that I have forgotten my manners," he chided and set the empty chalice down. "Captain James Hook, at your service." It was with great and barely contained relish that he bowed and took the hand of the russet haired beauty and kissed her soft skin. The flush that flooded her cheeks made her namesake oh so appropriate. He gave the same sweet greeting to the other, though her pale face did not turn pink. However her bright eyes did darken ever so slightly, much to his delight.
"Rose Belchere."
"Abigail Ó Rinn-Sheehy."
"A French maid and an Irish wench," the fallen Englishman growled. "The Fates have surely been cruel to me."
"Cruel, sir?" The Irish witch fairly sparkled with innocence, "We have yet to do anything untoward."
"And there are only two of us, Captain," the Frenchwoman smiled.
"Heaven forbid there be three." He filled and drained his goblet again. His eyes narrowed as they flicked between the women, contemplating. "Your surnames are foreign and yet you do not speak with any base accents of your countries. How?"
"Our family lines may be from France and Ireland," Rose began, plaiting her drying hair over her shoulder. "But we ourselves are from America."
"As in…" he paused, a furrow of concentration appearing between his brows. "The Colonies?"
"We haven't been colonies for over 200 years." Abigail said, trying in vain to control the dark curls falling into her eyes, "We've been independent since 1776."
"I beg your pardon?" he put his goblet down a little too hard on the table.
"Technically, the War of American Independence was over in 1781 at the Battle of Yorktown," Rose said before gripping Abigail's arm, "Don't."
"But-" Abigail began, blue alight with excitement, "The world turned upside down!"
"No singing," Rose said sternly, "No musicals."
Abigail wilted slightly. James was utterly nonplussed.
"1781," he said softly, looking a little pale.
"Fifty-six years after your disappearance," Rose said knowingly. He eased himself into the chair.
"What year is it now, where you're from?" He asked, though his face and tone said that he did not want to know.
"2016," Abigail whispered.
He reached for the bottle.
"Rose, I think he's trying to drown himself."
Rose was busy doing arithmetic in her head, counting on her fingers. "Since you were born in October of 1685….and we're now in 2016….that would make you...well let's see here….Three hundred and thirty-one?" She looked up, "Is that right?"
The mighty and fearsome Captain James Hook, overcome with exhaustion, shock, and inebriation, fainted.
He hit the floor with a thump and the women looked at each other, completely taken aback.
"Was it something I said?" Rose asked in concern. Abigail shrugged carelessly.
"And they say women are sensitive about their age."