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.
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James Matthew Hook was a clever man. Quite the cleverest on the island, he liked to think. There was nothing that could puzzle him and no one that he could not out-think. So when his thoughts turned to the women currently in each other's arms in the First Mate's cabin and his mind presented him with a slew of curses and little else, he understandably turned to drink. He of course had not learned any sort of lesson with his spill earlier and the atrocious draught Rose had forced into his hand.
He kicked the door of his cabin closed and reached for a bottle of Tokay. Uncorking it with his hook, he took a long swig. The fortified wine burned his throat and he scowled, sinking down onto the chaise by the window. He hissed out an exhale, his head bowed as he forced himself to think.
What was he doing? What was his plan? He needed a plan. When he woke in the morning, he would need a strategy. They were on his ship, they would be flaunting their shoulders and their legs, they would be seducing him with every glance even if they did not consciously try. He would need to be prepared to face them and stand strong as captain of his ship and their host. He was doomed.
They were real. They were sleeping together in a cabin not far from his. They were living and breathing and beautiful. Their dreams had always had a vague sense of mystery around them, an aura of the unknown, and it had almost been easier to leave the dreams in Dreamland. Of course, the thoughts had lingered, but it had been easier to force himself to leave them behind in his waking thoughts. Then they had appeared on his ship and his fingers had ached to touch them. He had. He had found the bruises he had left on Rose. But it was not enough. After their dreams, he would not be satisfied until they were his again.
He wanted them. He wanted them desperately. They had turned his thoughts from the Boy. They held his attention, all of his attention. He had taken them so many times in his dreams that he had their bodies memorized. They were so bright. Their eyes sparkled, their intelligence glowed, and he had been taken aback. He knew them Biblically, knew how they writhed beneath him, screamed his name. Then Abigail had recited Shakespeare and Rose's eyes had lit up with the wisdom of a scholar. They thrived on experiences and they had landed on a magical island - the most perfect place to explore and learn. They had stroked his books with the same love he did. They were filled with intelligence and gentleness, as was appropriate of the fairer sex.
Then he remembered how Rose had thrown George Scourie backward with naught but a gesture and the way lightning had arced from Abigail's fingers. Fairer sex indeed. His bullies were frightened of them and well they should be. He also should be wary. To an extent, he was, but his fear was tempered with dream-memories of them whimpering his name. But the gust of wind swirling through Rose's long hair and the electricity crackling through Abigail's aura were marks of a power that he would never have. They brought one of his fearsome crew to his knees with barely a thought.
They were witches. He had thought perhaps their powers had their limits in Dreamland but something was different here. Their magic was real and he was exhilarated by it. The magic of Neverland was undeniable and surely it was having an effect upon the sorceresses. They had mentioned working spells in their Otherworld, spells that had brought them to the Neverland. They must be very powerful. He was sure that lightning and wind were only the least of what they could accomplish if their powers were fully strengthened by remaining near the magic of the Neverland. He would keep them on his ship and watch their powers grow.
He could benefit from them. As their powers grew, he could convince them to use their abilities to help him finally earn his victory over the wretched Boy. Controlling the wind to stop him from flying away, lightning to bring him down. Pan was no match against the fearsome Jas Hook and his sorceresses. With Rose and Abigail by his side, he could finally have peace from Peter Pan and the Never Sea would be his for the taking. Neverland would be his. At last, he would know satisfaction.
He took another swig of Tokay. He was Captain James Hook, Blackbeard's bo'sun and betrayer, the only man that Barbecue ever feared, the villain nemesis of the Boy Peter Pan. Two witches were no threat to him. He took another gulp, idly wondering how lightning would feel striking his skin. Perhaps they were some threat. But Jas Hook was nothing if not charming and he would win them to his side. He had already won them to his bed in their dreams, surely he could charm their intelligence and gentleness as well. Though that Irish one had a tongue as sharp as his, there was little gentleness in that one. The French belle was kinder than her companion, she had cared for him in his alcohol sickness. But he was not afraid of them. They were women and no women had yet resisted the chivalrous seduction of his very being.
At last, he dropped off to sleep and for the first time in three weeks, it was dreamless.
"Try again!"
Abigail blew her dark curls out of her face and tossed the apple to her left hand. Rose stood by the mainmast on the main-deck, looking nervous but determined. Abigail inhaled and threw the apple toward her girlfriend. Rose threw her hands out but the apple did not stop and Rose ducked with a yelp. The apple thumped to the deck, bouncing and rolling to bump against the wheels of the cannon-mount. The bruises on the fruit spoke to the amount of failed attempts. Abigail sighed and crossed the deck to pick up the poor apple.
"Why won't it work?" Rose complained, balling her hands into fists. "Ugh, try it again!"
"Rose, if it hasn't worked yet," Abigail began.
"No!" Rose insisted, "I can do it! I did it before!"
"In a moment of duress!" Abigail argued, "We were going to be thrown over the side of a ship to drown!"
"So our lives have to be in danger for our powers to work?" Rose shot back, "I don't think so! Throw it again!"
Abigail threw it. Harder than perhaps she needed to, but it didn't matter because once again the apple bounced across the deck. Rose cursed loudly and the pirates, who had been doing a marvellous job of ignoring the witches, looked up. Abigail wearily picked up the apple and started to take a bite out of it.
"Don't you dare!"
"Rose," Abigail complained, "Please, be sensible! Take a break."
"I have to get it to work again!"
"Rose," Abigail said gently, "It will work again. It worked once. We just need to figure out what triggers it."
"So try again!"
Abigail snarled out her own curse. She readied to throw the apple again and the door to the captain's cabin flew open. The apple flew through the air and a man's voice roared, "What the devil is going on?"
Rose yelped in surprise and a blast of wind caught the apple in the air before it hit her and it hovered, held by the current of air from the witch's hand. Abigail gasped, Rose flashed a stunned smile, and James stomped to the balustrade at the edge of the quarter-deck to look down at the witches standing below him.
"It worked!" Rose exclaimed, "It worked!"
The apple thumped to the ground and Abigail laughed at the sour look on Rose's face.
"It was working!" Rose insisted.
"I know, love," Abigail said, picking up the poor bruised apple, "I saw it. We'll figure it out, I promise."
Rose pouted and Abigail tossed her the apple. Rose took a bite out of it and glanced up to where the captain was glowering down at them.
"Did we disturb you?" He did not look amused but she was not in an amused kind of mood. "We were only practicing."
"And causing a damn ruckus on my ship," obviously he was not a morning person. But neither were they and they still had managed to get up none the less. It had been an almost surreal experience, waking up to find that yesterday had not been a figment of their imaginations. The cries of seabirds and the gentle rocking of the ship had been their chiming clock, alerting them to the fantastic place in which they found themselves. For a little while they refused to even leave the bed, somewhere in the world between sleep and awake they simply clung to each other and shared sleepy kisses, as they did every morning. Then the gulls and waves brought reality crashing down and the wide eyes and sharp shriek of her lover brought Rose fully into the land of the waking.
"It's real!"
Rose nodded, startled and half falling from the bed.
"He's real!"
Again, her wordless reply was repeated.
"Where is he?"
She pointed to the wall, in the general direction of the captain's cabin.
It has been quite a start to the day. With nothing else in their possession, they had dressed in their clothing from the previous day. Their dresses smelled of sea water and had a coarse feel to them, but there was naught to do about it. At the moment they had finished dressing, a knock came from the door. Abigail called for the guest to enter. In came the elder man, Mr. Smee, carrying a tray of fruit, bread, oats and tea.
"Breakfast, ladies," the old man smiled. For a pirate he was surprisingly jolly and polite.
"Thank you," they said in chorus.
"I'm sure the cap'n would have wanted to dine with you but he's indisposed at the moment," he sat the tray down on the little desk. "Enjoy." They tucked into their meal, not bothering to ask why the captain could not join them. It was a little obvious, the man clearly had a weakness for drink. Breakfast was finished rather fast, neither had realized how hungry they were. And then they began to converse. Not about the man in the room next door, but rather about the strange display of power that affected them both the day before. Which was how they found themselves in the current situation, attempting to replicate the strange event.
"We are trying to reproduce the magic from yesterday," Rose told him, munching on her apple.
"And giving me a pounding headache in the process," he growled.
"How can you hear that all the way back there?" Abigail raised a brow. "Or was your head already sore from turning that bottle on its head?"
"Might we continue this conversation in a more private setting?" His words were polite, but his tone was positively radiating barely restrained….something. It was hard to tell. True, they had just laid a fair amount of sarcasm on him, but the way he was looking at them spoke of another emotion entirely.
"We'd be delighted," Abigail said, threading her arm through Rose's. "Come, my love, we've been invited to a private audience with the captain and we mustn't keep him waiting." They walked together, as though they were on a Sunday stroll in the park, across the deck and up the stairs where Hook was stationed.
"Good morning, Captain," Rose smiled. "I hope you slept well."
"Indeed," he smiled devilishly, "I rested completely free of dreams. It was quite the relief."
"Well I slept in the arms of a beautiful, naked woman," Abigail preened, "it was glorious. Really, you should try it sometime." James swallowed hard, his hand gripping the balustrade until his knuckles turned white.
"This way," he growled and lead them to his cabin.
Rose noticed the ornate plaque upon the door, it had been too dark and far too chaotic to have seen it last night. Brilliant gold letters in winding letters proclaimed the name and rank of the man who dwelled within. It truly was a magnificent room, she felt as though she could look a hundred time and always find something new. But what most caught her eye was the work of art that sat in the far corner. A harpsichord of such fine craftsmanship that any curator would weep just looking at it. Her fingers twitched, longing to touch the antique ivory and ebony keys. She had been playing the since she was a little girl, her historian father giving in to her childhood dream of learning the notoriously difficult instrument. Perhaps, when he was in a better mood, Captain Hook might let her play it. Abigail must have seen her longing glances and gently stroked her arm, smiling warmly at her.
"You said you were practicing your magic?" He sat down at his desk, the very picture of refinement.
"In the attempt to use it again without being scared out of our wits," Rose grumbled.
"As you could no doubt see," Abigail began, the sharp glint in her eye that James was beginning to recognize meant sharp words as well, "We were less than successful."
"That is, until you scared me out of my wits," Rose added.
"I am also intrigued at how your powers manifested themselves," Hook said, rubbing his claw as he was wont to do while deep in thought or while plotting. "Between the two of you, Scourie is half-dead and refuses to speak to anyone."
Abigail smirked her cold amusement and Rose straightened with a firm, "As well he should."
"In any case," Hook continued politely, "magic brought you here to me, and your magic continues to grow. I am interested in your conjury, dear witches."
"Interested in how you can benefit from it," Abigail said at once, eyes like chips of ice.
"Perhaps," Hook confessed with a smile, "But I have an intellectual curiosity in you as well, my interest does not purely lie in the physical chemistry. I am a man of many interests, as you can surely see. When confronted with enchantresses filled with magic, any man would be curious."
"Of course, you are not simply a man, are you?" Rose inquired, the picture of innocence.
"Certainly not," he agreed with a good-natured smile.
"Then ask you questions, captain, and we shall answer them to the best of our ability," one would think they were seated at a salon for all the cordiality passing between them.
"How does your magic manifest in the Otherworld? Your demonstration yesterday was entirely new, was it not?"
"Yesterday was nothing like we've ever experienced before," Abigail walked around the cabin, looking over trinkets and eyeing them in the bright light of day. "Magic never just shoots out our fingertips, that's the stuff of fiction."
"Witches are often known for controlling the weather though," he said pointedly.
"And we supposedly fly on broomsticks too but that isn't true either," the younger woman cocked her head to the side. "However it could be worth a try now."
"Isn't there some vile potion made of infant's blood one needs to make said broomstick fly?"
"That, sir, is the product of an overly active imagination in an age without reason and far too much paranoia from the church," Rose said bitterly. "If anyone tried make those potions, minus the blood of an infant for goodness sake, they would be ingesting a powerful hallucinogenic."
"Such as the herbal concoction that if you inhale it you'll turn into a werewolf," Abigail chuckled. "Or die in the process, either way you're still not a shapeshifter by the end." James seemed to turn a little green at that.
"And what of black masses conducted by Lucifer? Does he not appear as a goat or black cat for high rituals?"
"May I be frank?" Rose asked and he nodded. "Satan has nothing to do with witchcraft, or at least the vast majority of it, and we do not deal with him at all. While spellcraft is something both Abigail and I are quite good in, it's only one aspect of our faith."
"Faith? What faith is required to call lightning from the sky? Witches ought to be the antithesis of faith." He sat back, seemingly to look them over once again.
"Certainly not in the sense you're thinking. Do you own a copy of Hesiod's Theogony?" The look he gave her made Abigail chortle. "Well it's polite to ask rather than assume," Rose pouted a little.
"Forgive my manners, you were only upholding yours." But he was still smirking at her and both women soon found themselves grinning back a little. Had he just teased them? "And yes, I do have the book in question."
"Then you are familiar with the gods I worship. Darling?" She turned to her girlfriend who was currently searching the bookshelf once again. "What were the Irish mythologies called?"
"Cycles," she was closely examining the third shelf on the left, where a marble bust of Pallas Athena sat. "There are four of them; The Mythological Cycle, with the Tuatha Dé Dannan, then the Ulster Cycle about Cú Chulainn, followed by the Fenian Cycle and finally the Historical Cycle. And there isn't a single book here about any of them," she stood up with hands on her hips. "You have everything from Ovid to Aeneas but nothing from Ireland!"
"Irish myth is primarily recorded in monastic texts in a dialect of Gaelic that is archaic at best. Even if I had the inclination to read them I would not be able to." He seemed to be ignoring the elephant in the room, not yet ready to tackle the subject of polytheistic sorceresses.
"Now if they were in Latin it would be a different story," Rose quipped. "That was your specialty at Oxford, or so I've read, and you were top of your class to boot."
"You read correctly," he looked at her from the corner of his eye. "And the fictional history of the Irish was far from the accepted curriculum." They turned their gaze on him, a mixture of amusement and offense, he stilled in his chair.
"Fictional? Says the man who lives with mermaids for neighbors," Abigail huffed. "And luckily for you we are here now, you'll get a comprehensive education on world religion."
Rose leaned in, elbows resting on the edge of his mahogany desk, chin cradled in her hands. "You were never a man of faith, it just doesn't set well with you to put your life in the hands of a god you cannot see or justify the wrongs committed on earth with no sign of divine retribution. The most religious actions you ever performed were the mandatory services in school and those attended by your family. And I respect that, what's good for the goose is not always good for the gander. But to many people from our time, the ancient gods are very real and we have our own modern interpretation of worshiping them."
"And which gods...are you devoted to?" He did not comment on Rose's assessment of his stance on religion, even for the reaffirmation of them she gave and certainly made no comment on her knowledge of his family. They could not tell exactly what was going through his mind but it seemed to them that he was attempting to hear out them out.
"Hecate and Minerva," Rose answered with a smile.
"The Morrigan and Thor," Abigail abandoned the shelf with a smirk.
"The former two I am well aware of, but you will hardly be surprised that I am woefully unknowledgable of the later. Beyond the basic profile of a thunder god with a hammer." It must have taken no small amount of effort for him to admit ignorance.
"At some point she will have to conduct a class, as it were," the elder witch said in a gentle voice. "Abigail is quite the storyteller, you shall have no shortage of entertainment while we are here."
"I shudder to think about what constitutes dinner conversation amongst you two," there was that teasing note again. Was he actually enjoying himself? Rose thought he actually was, watching another round of double edged banter continue between the captain and her lover. If the history books were correct, James was man with a thirst for knowledge that was never satiated. It gave her a feeling of pride, that they were the source of that thirst.
"But the magic on the Mainland?" He pressed again. Such an odd term, the Mainland, to use in regards to the mundane world.
"Never so dramatic," Abigail said dismissively. "Magic there is based more in ritual."
"Lighting the candles, drawing the circle, calling down the deities," Rose chimed in, "That is part of creating magic. It's not an instant gratification. Once the energy of the spell is put out into the universe, it takes its time to manifest. For example, a spell for love doesn't cause the next person you see to fall in love with you. It draws love to you when you're ready for it."
"And curses? Witches are famous for casting those."
"Oh curses are very real," there was a strange gleam in Abigail's pale eyes. "If you have been wronged you have every right to avenge yourself with magic."
"You have done this," it was more of a statement than a question, the witch nodded. "To whom was your vengeance directed?"
"Perhaps when we're a little better acquainted I'll tell you," she answered, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. "It's rather personal."
"And you?" James turned to Rose who smiled that sweet smile of hers, she nearly looked innocent.
"A little graveyard dirt, an open flame and imagination will go a long way." He almost regretted ever asking but then he might have been caught off guard had he not begun the conversation himself. Ancient gods, hexes, women from the future, it all came crashing down upon him. Last night he had the good fortune to be drunk when confronting what little truth was known to him, taking all this in while sober was simply too much to ask of him.
"Pray excuse me, ladies," he shot up from his chair to stand on unsteady feet. "I need to see to something on deck, I should return shortly." He needed air, open space. They made to speak but he was already halfway across the cabin, the door slowly coming into his reach. Salt air and a strong wind blew his hair back as he left the confines of his cabin. It was a beautiful spring day, hardly a cloud in the sky. Yes, he needed to concentrate on the smell of the sea, the heat of the sun. Not the bright eyes and sharp minds of the women he escaped. A flock of gulls cried out close to shore. Powerful and beautiful, the witches were far more than he had bargained for. Off in the distance a pair of dolphins splashed and played. For all their cheek which might have earned another a handshake with his hook, he was amused and challenged. What was he to make of this?
From the beautiful blue sky came an echoing crow and James froze. His eyes widened, every muscle in his body stiffening. No. Not him. Not now.
"Oh, Captain Hoooooooook!"
A Boy dressed in leaves came soaring down from the clouds and the pirate responded at once.
"PAN!"
The cannons fired at his command and, in the captain's cabin, the women looked up. The cannon fire echoed through the ship and the women reached for each other's hands. They heard pistol fire, the bellowing of the pirates, and what sounded like a crow.
Abigail leapt to her feet, staring at the door. "Rose, did you hear that?"
"The rooster?"
Abigail turned back to look at her girlfriend, blue eyes wide, "No, it's Pan. He's real."
"Abigail, we should stay here, it's dangerous out there!"
But Abigail did not hear her, she was already out the door. She took the steps to the main-deck two at a time, leaping down onto the deck in time to see the small boy cartwheeling through the air as the pirates tried to shoot at him. James stood in the middle of the melee, curls tossing as he aimed his musket. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Abigail, her eyes wide and breast heaving with amazement. He grunted to one of his pirates and the brute seized the witch by the arms, hauling her out of the way.
She yelped in surprise but couldn't tear her eyes away from the Boy. The pirate held her perhaps too tightly but she was too involved with the very thought that Peter Pan, the Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up, was real. He was hovering in the air above the ship and mocking the pirates, flaunting his crow. It was one thing to see an actress onstage or read the books, but confronted once again with the reality of the situation, the situation which should be only a fairy-tale, the woman was understandably overcome.
"Oh, gods," Abigail breathed, "He's real. Neverland is real. Hook is real. It's all real."
"Abigail!" Rose leapt up the stairs and was seized by another pirate, pulled out of the way of Cookson's pistol before it fired at the boy.
The shot got Pan's attention and as he twisted out of the way, he caught sight of the women. Wide-eyed and gasping, they were held cruelly tight by Hook's crew. The Boy knew about captives; his Boys had been held captive by the Indians many a time in their play-fights. These women were clearly held hostage by the pirates. Where had he found them? What did the old codfish want with them? Female companionship? Surely nothing good. But they would make good mothers for him and his Lost Boys.
"The codfish has company!" Pan exclaimed, "They're far too pretty to be trapped with you stinking grown-ups!"
"Peter Pan," Rose gasped. Abigail nodded.
The flying Boy went cartwheeling over the heads of the pirates, hovering over the seawater and flashed his baby-toothed grin to the captain with the hook.
"This isn't over, Pan!" Hook fired another shot from his musket and Pan flipped to avoid it.
"Come and get me, codfish!" And the boy spiralled away towards the jungle, followed by the captain's scream of rage.
"Prepare the boats!" Hook bellowed, swiping at his crew with his hook, "Move, you scum! We follow him!"
The pirates raced to obey. Abigail and Rose shrunk to the side, whispering to each other. James pointed to them with his hook, "You two! You are to remain in my cabin until such a time as I return. No discussion, no arguing. Get in the cabin. Go!"
Clutching each other's hand, they raced up the steps to the quarterdeck and fled into the captain's cabin.