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: Another day another chapter. Be sure to review, fav or whatever floats your boat and most of all enjoy!
It had been a disaster of Titanic proportions. Yet another humiliating defeat at the hands of the Boy. Five men dead, a formerly secret stash of gunpowder lay at the bottom of the sea, and he was left hanging upside down from a tree by his ankle thanks to the truce between the feral children and the Savages. The short trip back in the long boat was utterly silent. None of the surviving men dared to make so much as a peep, as at least one of their casualties had been his doing. Fury had a way of taking over him and murder made in cold blood seemed to be the best manner to calm the inferno. When they pulled aside the Jolly Roger he barely allowed the rope ladder to completely unfurl before he was climbing it. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and that accursed isle. The crew scattered like frightened animals as he stalked across the deck. Hook paid them no mind, they were all as insignificant as flies to him. All he could even think of now was locking himself into his cabin, uncorking a bottle of the nearest spirit and ruminating over all the ways he might enact his imminent vengeance. So consumed was he by those dark thoughts that he already had his hand on the doorknob when he finally heard the music.
Beautiful music it was, and coming from within his cabin.
He paused at the threshold, suddenly unsure how to feel or knowing just what exactly was going on. So he simply stood there, and listened.
Twas his harpsichord, that much he could tell instantly. Who the devil would be brave or foolish enough to even breathe on his prized instrument?
The longer he stood there the more the tune began to take the form of memory in his mind. Chambers lit with the orange glow of pure white candles, the flutter of fans, silks rustling and a hush falling over the crowd as the musician finally took their seat. Concerts in private salons, he had never turned down an invitation when it came to music and had once been on good terms with several composers during his time in the capitol. This music...he knew it from a lifetime ago. An Allemande by Rameau, he recalled how it felt to play such fine works. The longer he listened, the more subdued his rage became. Who could be playing? Carefully, he entered his room, closing the door quietly behind him. On silent feet he moved, not even bothering to remove his hat or weapons, so entranced was he by the sight which finally gave him his answer.
Rose sat before the instrument, her eyes closed, graceful fingers leaping across the ivory keys. Through the stained and clear glass came beams of late afternoon sunlight, illuminating the red tint in her hair and giving her fair skin a golden glow. Abigail lay upon the chaise, her eyes too were shut to the world, though one hand flew through the air as though she were conducting the concert herself. Both of them remained still, fully captured by the notes floating through the room. Hook dare not announce himself, else the spell would be broken. And such a spell it was, he was ensnared totally without a care of ever being released. To hear his sanctuary filled once more with the sweet refrains of music, complete music, not the poor imitation he had been cursed with by the loss of his hand, was little more than a dream until this day.
She played so beautifully. He blatantly stared as her body swayed with the tempo, his sharp gaze catching the shadow of a smile as she easily maneuvered through a difficult passage. All the heavenly choirs could not compare to the earthly angel of music before him.
The melody faded as she reached the end of the piece and Abigail shifted to sit up. He drew back into the shadows, some idea of good form stopping him from interrupting the scene before him. He had long forgotten music and beauty, had long forsaken the thought that he deserved either. He was loath to disturb them.
"Rose," Abigail said with a flash of a bright smile, "Play me something I can sing to, please? Something fun?"
Rose winked at her lover and her fingers danced on the ivories of the harpsichord, a lively tune rippling up from the strings. Abigail beamed and jumped to her feet, curls tossing and skirt swaying.
"As I came down through Dublin City at the hour of twelve at night, who should I see but the Spanish lady washing her feet by candlelight?" Abigail sang, eyes glittering with fun as she wrapped her arms around the waist of her love, her hips swaying with the rhythm of the song, "First she washed them, then she dried them over a fire of amber coal. In all my life I ne'er did see a maid so sweet about the sole!"
Rose laughed, the seriousness of the first piece melting away in light of the way Abigail was giggling and singing at once. Rose's voice joined Abigail's and they sang together, "Whack for the toora loora laddy, whack for the toora loora lay! Whack for the toora loora laddy, whack for the toora loora lay!"
He listened to them sing. This lively song was one unfamiliar to him but he found a small smile on his lips as he watched the ladies have their fun. Abigail spun away from the harpsichord, dancing and twirling jig, laughing. Rose giggled and focused back on the harpsichord. Something in his heart prompted him to take a step closer to them, wanting to join in their revelry but knowing it was no place for him. He took another step closer. Abigail's curls tossed through the air, her movements graceful as she spun, laughing. He took another step closer. Abigail laughed. He took another step.
Abigail collided with James' chest with a gasp of surprise. His hand shot out to grip her shoulder lest she fall. Rose looked up at the sound and she jerked her hands away from the harpsichord. Abigail looked up at the captain and her rosy cheeks paled. She jerked away from him, stumbling backwards on the rug. Rose reached for her and clasped her hand to her breast, hazel eyes wide as she looked up at the captain.
The joy was gone from their faces, the light and laughter had been stifled by his mere presence. As it always was. He was the villain of the story, no one loved him. And he played his part well.
"Were you given permission to touch my harpsichord, woman?" His voice was loud and filled with misplaced anger. His ire had been invoked by the Boy and the failed attempt on Pan's life, not by his muses. But he could not stop himself. "No one is permitted to touch my harpsichord. No one!"
They held each other, hazel and blue eyes staring up at him from pale, frightened faces. He knew he must look fearsome. Shirt ripped, hair wild, gleaming hook, forget-me-not eyes still flickering with fading pinpricks of scarlet. He inhaled sharply through his nose and abruptly turned on his heel, stalking to his liquor chest. He pulled a bottle of muscat from the chest, uncorked it with his teeth, and took a long gulp.
"Shall I take it you were unsuccessful today, then?" Rose asked cautiously.
"Whatever would give you that idea?" He growled, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Go ahead, woman, play the damn harpsichord if you want to."
Rose glanced up at Abigail who offered a helpless gesture. Slowly, she returned her fingers to the keys and started a soft, gentle melody. Hook forced himself to exhale, taking the bottle with him as he sank down onto the chaise. Rose kept playing nervously, her fingers shaking ever so slightly. Abigail squeezed her shoulder comfortingly and glanced over at the captain. He sat hunched over, elbows resting against his thighs as he took another swig from the bottle. Abigail took a hesitant step towards him and Rose fumbled a key as she looked sharply up at her lover with a warning in her eyes. As usual, the younger witch discarded it and Rose forced herself to focus on her music, not looking away from the ivories.
Abigail moved hesitantly toward the captain. She eased onto her knees behind him on the chaise, unconsciously nibbling on her lip as she slowly reached around to the front of his coat. He stiffened in surprise but Abigail continued with the careful motion of pulling his velvet coat from his shoulders. He permitted the coat to be removed from his body, setting the bottle of rum by his feet, and Abigail laid it carefully over the back of the chaise. His hat soon followed. Her pale hands slowly moved next to where the hem of his dirtied shirt was tucked into the waist of his breeches. His hand gripped her wrist and he turned narrowed forget-me-not eyes to pierce hers.
"What do you think you are doing, lass?"
"Hopefully making you comfortable," she breathed in response, fighting to keep her pulse from hammering too hard under his fingers. "And easing your tension?"
His eyes dropped to her parted lips where he could hear her breathing quickening, then down to her breasts and waist, then her knees where she knelt behind him, then trailed his gaze back up to her face. He released her wrist and she slowly pulled the hem of his shirt up, coaxing his shirt from his torso, revealing lean muscle.
He had a tattoo on his left shoulder, a crest which Abigail recognized from some of Rose's research as the crest of Eton. But what immediately caught her attention were the whip scars crossing his back. She heard the harpsichord falter and knew that Rose had seen them too. Her fingertips reached hesitantly out to brush against one of the scars with a feather-light touch that James still felt. He took another swig of muscat, shoulders tense. He felt more than heard the witch's soft exhale at the sight. He knew what came next. She would pull away, she would take her lover and leave. No woman liked his scars. They spoke of pain and ugliness and what lady liked such things?
He nearly dropped the bottle in shock when he felt the light press of her lips against his scars.
"Poor James," he heard her whisper, "You have lived through such pain."
He raised the bottle to his lips again.
Her cool hands pressed against his shoulders, working at the knots of tension in his muscles. She massaged his shoulders and upper back, easing his stress away. He groaned in his chest in spite of himself and was met with matching giggles from both witches. The harpsichord music continued in the background, lulling him into a kind of trance. Perhaps they were weaving a spell around him, but he found he did not care. He allowed himself to enjoy the music and the tender touch of a woman for the first time in a long while. Rose began to hum and Abigail's fingers moved from his shoulders to his hair, threading through his curls and massaging his scalp. His head leaned back against her slender shoulder. He could almost get used to this.
Moments like these reminded him of the dreams which had brought them together. It felt like a dream. It felt too perfect to be real. They were too perfect to be his.
His blue eyes fluttered open to look up at the pretty face above him. He offered her the bottle. It was as much a kindness as any he could offer. She took it with a smile and took a long drink. As she leaned down to set the bottle on the floor, he smelled the sweet perfume of her skin mixed with salt and liquor. She was braced against his shoulder to keep her balance and his hand wrapped around her arm to hold her steady. She blinked up at him with a twinkle in her eye and he pulled her against him, arm wrapping around her waist.
"Are you real?" He asked hoarsely, looking up at her. Her brow furrowed.
"Captain?"
"Are you real?" He asked again, blue eyes searching her face. "You're not some figment of my dreams haunting me still?"
"I'm real, James," Abigail said softly, "We're both real."
"I don't believe you."
She pressed her lips to his, her arms winding around his neck, hands cupping his weathered cheeks. His arm tightened around her waist and he cautiously let his guard down for just a moment. He clutched her to him and she kissed him fiercely, each press of her lips an assurance that she was real and not about to vanish, that he was not alone. Her kisses were like a lifeline, a wash of reality among his muddled thoughts. He kissed her like he was dying and in a way he was.
He didn't register the music stopping until another set of arms were wrapping around his torso and another set of lips pressed against his neck. He pulled away from Abigail to wrap his other arm around Rose, ever mindful of the hook. Her hazel eyes looked up at him and he closed the distance between their mouths. She clung to his chest, kissing him lovingly. Abigail's head rested against his shoulder. He held them tight.
"This feels familiar," Rose smiled.
"Just like one of our dreams," Abigail said.
"We're wearing too many clothes for it to be a dream," James noted wryly. It was the first time he had kissed the women outside of Dreamland and he held them too tightly, convincing himself that they were really there with him. It was easy for him to be lulled into happiness. But happiness was false. He was not allowed happiness. He was Villain.
"No little children love me," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.
"We are not little children," Abigail said, her breasts at perfect eye level.
"We have more discerning taste," Rose grinned, her hand stroking the planes of his stomach and lower.
"Wicked woman…" he growled with a smirk. Abigail's lips pressed against a sensitive spot on his neck and he hissed, his hand gripping her arse.
"Women, plural," Abigail corrected him.
"Aye," he grinned, "Women. Two of them, in my arms. And very soon to be in my bed."
"In your bed, sir?" Rose blinked up at him with false innocence. "Why, what's wrong with right here?"
His eyes turned red. His hand left Abigail's arse to twist into Rose's auburn hair, "You make a good point, little one. What is wrong with right here?"
Abigail laughed at the way Rose's eyes widened. She pulled away, watching amusedly as James shoved Rose down onto the chaise. Rose gasped as James freed himself from his breeches - an impressive feat considering his one hand - and pushed her skirt up. Abigail stole his bottle of muscat and settled on top of his desk with it, taking a long drink as she curiously watched the pirate slide himself into her beloved.
Rose moaned in surprise and delight. Abigail's eyes narrowed as she nibbled on her lip. James grunted low in his chest, his hook finding a purchase on the back of the chaise as his hips rolled against Rose, who arched under him. Her nails dug into his back, pulling him closer.
It was like one of their dreams, watching the other being taken by the handsome pirate captain. It was like one of their dreams, the late sunlight filtering through the panes of the cabin's windows. It was like one of their dreams and it seemed wonderful.
Rose's beautiful eyes were glazed with pleasure, lashes fluttering. Cries fell from her mouth and Abigail smirked. She liked hearing those sounds. James tossed his hair out of his face, his hand delving between Rose's legs to press against the sweet bundle of nerves which sent her toes curling and her hips twitching. He leaned down to kiss her neck, followed by a sharp bite which sent Rose crying out and clutching herself to him. He filled her, thrusting himself deep within her and her legs wrapped around his hips. Abigail shifted on the desk, taking another long drink from the bottle.
His lean muscles worked as he thrust into Rose and her moans changed pitch, coming higher and faster as he pressed against that special place inside her. He grunted out a curse as she tightened around him and caught the wicked smile she flashed up at him. Another couple of strokes and he was climaxing, groaning into her shoulder as he filled her. Another couple of caresses of her clit brought her own orgasm tearing through her and she cried out in ecstasy. Abigail took another swig of muscat.
"So," she said after a moment to let them recover. "Did it work?"
"Pardon?" James grunted, sitting up from Rose. He slipped out from inside her and Rose whimpered at the sudden emptiness but the pirate was focused on the witch staring coldly across at him. "Did what work?"
"Fucking your loneliness away?"
It took a moment for Hook to comprehend what she had said, but when he did he lurched to his feet, an insult upon his curled lip.
"No, go ahead," Abigail sneered, "Hurl your insults and spit your curses. Hide behind your words again, like you always do, I bet. Your words are your bravado and, yes, you use them well. But you won't fool me. I see right through you, James Hook. You know why? Because in this we are the same. We are very similar, Captain, too similar for me to fall for any of your shit."
"I have defeated men far stronger and smarter than you, girl," he snarled.
"You have defeated men, James," she pushed herself off the table, "When have you emerged victorious with a woman?"
He cast a careless gesture to where Rose lay trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. "Your lover might disagree."
"Men have been physically dominating women since the dawn of time," Abigail said dismissively, "But words? Words are the woman's weapon. As is poison, incidentally. And you never go anywhere without poison. Now, what does that say about you?"
His lip curled and his teeth bared in a snarl as he stepped dangerously close to her, "Have a care, witch, or I might come to hate you."
"Oh, no," she smiled up at him, "You don't hate me. The things that you hate about me are also the things that you hate about yourself."
His hand lifted but she held up a finger before he could strike her.
"Ah, ah, ah," she chided, "A gentleman doesn't hit a lady. It's bad form."
"You are no lady, wench."
"But you are a gentleman." She smirked, "Or so you claim."
She gave him a little bow, "Now, if you will excuse me. I need to take some air."
She pressed the bottle of muscat into his hand and brushed by him, the cabin door closing behind her. He sucked in a long breath and turned to Rose.
"What was that?" He demanded.
"She wants you to open up to us more," Rose translated, reaching for his dressing gown to wrap around her shoulders. "She wants you to admit your feelings for us."
"Feelings?" He nearly spat the word in disgust. "Why?"
Rose shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes.
"Why couldn't she just say that?"
"She's dramatic." Rose pushed herself to her feet. Plucking the bottle from his hand, she took a swig and handed it back. "I'm going to clean myself up."
He watched her move towards the washbasin and wet a rag to wipe between her legs. Silence filled the cabin. Finally, Rose looked up.
"What are you waiting for?"
"What?" He said, nonplussed.
"Go after her and talk to her."
"Why?" He responded, "So I can be insulted again?"
"That's just her way," Rose said, reaching for the brush and pulling it through her long hair. "She also doesn't like to let people in. She was right when she said the two of you are similar. Go talk to her."
He scowled, "I don't think I want to."
"Coward."
He flushed in anger. Downing the rest of the muscat, he looked up at the woman seated on his bed. Being inside her had been beautiful and wonderful and just looking at her he wanted her again. He took half a step towards her but she caught his eye.
"James, go. Find her and just tell her that you have feelings."
His lip curled again at the word.
"You have them, I know you do."
"Woman, you know nothing about me."
She looked up at him and there was something tight in her lips and bright in her eye. She got to her feet and took a deep breath. "I have studied you for years, James Matthew Eliott. I know your entire life-story backwards and forwards. I remember details about your life that you've forgotten. I can recite eight generations of your family line. But you're right. I don't know you at all."
And she too brushed past him, leaving him alone in his cabin with an empty bottle and an empty heart.