Author's Note: It looks like this story won the poll on my profile! Keep voting, though. For those of you that don't know, said poll is a poll to determine which story I will next update.

I also know that this isn't the longest of chapters -- but I felt it was a good place to leave off.

Author's Self Promotion: Read and review my other stories NOW!

Author's Plea: Please review this story, then read and review all my other ones... pweese? Michael's puppy face

Author's Second Plea: If you love this story, YOU WILL FAVORITE IT!

Author's Disclaimer: I did not create, nor do I own, Peter Pan, Mission: Impossible, or BBC.

Author's Second Disclaimer: Thomas the Tank Engine does not belong to me, it belongs to someone else.

Author's Thank You to Memorare: I would like to thank Memorare for the inspiration for part of this chapter. If you read her review for chapter two, you will understand. Thanks, Memorare! I owe you a crumpet this time! What kind of jam do you favor?

xxx

John isn't curious, per se, he just... inspects things. So when I woke up in the morning I wasn't surprised to see him rubbing the not-glitter between the index finger and thumb of his right hand. I got out of bed and began rotating my neck in vain attempts to stretch out a crick in it as I walked over to him.

John, who hadn't forgot to don is round glasses, didn't even look over at me before he spoke. "Obviously Aunt Jane's attempts to hide it from me were futile," he began, his voice an intelligent almost-drawl. "I overheard her conversation with you and Michael yesterday. Do you think she is making drugs?"

I snorted. "Yeah, Aunt Jane goes down to the red light district so she can deal crack to gangsters in baggy pants," I said. Imitating John's most refined way of speaking, I said "That is not highly plausible, but I suppose we cannot rule out the possibility entirely."

John rolled his eyes. "She doesn't have to sell it on the street. She may just make it, and sell it to someone else who sells it to the people on the street. Have fun explaining to Michael what crack is," he said, nodding his head towards something behind me.

Turns out it was Michael, standing behind me in his favorite pair of Thomas the Tank Engine footie pajamas. Michael opened his mouth, most likely to ask what crack was. "Just look at a sidewalk, Michael. They're all over the place. I call first shower," I said, and darted down the hall into the bathroom after grabbing my clothes for the day.

xxx

Alas, Aunt Jane had never added a shower to the bathroom. Instead, there was a really old bathtub, the kind with the claw feet. At least plumbing was installed so I didn't have to boil the friggin' water myself, too. After I was done with my bath, and had changed, brushed my teeth and completed the rest of my morning routine, I left the bathroom, only to be caught by Aunt Jane.

"Wendy, is it really necessary to spend twenty minutes in the bathroom?"

"Um, three of those was that insane bathtub filling up, ten were bathing, the other seven changing, brushing my teeth, washing my face and brushing my hair, so, yeah, it is. Would you rather I ran around dirty, naked, with ratty hair and halotosis?"

Aunt Jane glared at me. "Wendy Moira Angela Darling, has no one ever taught you to respect your elders?"

I gave her an angelic smile. "Nope. But Mother sure tried her best," I said before walking away.

I heard Aunt Jane mutter something that sounded sort of like "little bitch" before she hobbled away.

I snorted. The feeling's mutual, Aunt Jane, I thought.

xxx

"Wendy," Michael whined, "I'm hungry!"

I sighed. "Michael, lunch was thirty minutes ago."

He wrinkled his freckled nose. "It was yucky!"

I couldn't help but agree. If there was one thing that John, Michael and I had in common, it was that we absolutly detested spinach and any sort of leafy green vegetable that could be turned into the main component of a salad. Carrots, fine. Cauliflower and broccoli, sure. Brussels sprouts we can stand. Spinach? Nuh-uh.

Can you guess what we had for lunch that day?

Yup, spinach! Well, there was chicken noodle soup, too, but mainly spinach. And since we weren't allowed seconds until all the spinach was gone, and we couldn't even bear to look at our spinach, we didn't get a lot to eat.

"Is it time for a kitchen raid, Wendy?" John asked.

I grinned. "So, what's for lunch today, lads?" I inquired.

Michael whooped. John smiled and sat at the dest. Sitting next to him on my own chair, Michael to my left on his tiptoes, I opened a notebook and began drawing a layout of the house so we could plan our raid.

xxx

Our mother had mealtime rules not unlike Aunt Jane's, and our mother was rather fond of cooking food less than appetizing. As a result, us lovely Darling children were not untried kitchen raiders.

"I only see one difficulty," John said. "We don't know where everything is located within the target area."

"True. But, if we wait until Aunt Wendy's nap, we should have plenty of time to just dig through the cupboards and search. She must have something good... she does sell crack, after all."

Michael frowned. "Why would anybody buy a crack for their sidewalk?" he asked.

John and I exchanged a look. "Forget it, Michael," I said. "Let's focus on getting cookies from the kitchen."

"Cookies!" he said happily, crawling onto my lap.

"Shh, Michael," I said. "That's one of the most important things to remember. We have to be absolutely quiet... especially since the heating vent in the kitchen may lead to Aunt Jane's room."

"Okay," Michael whispered.

"Okay, lads, so at 10:23 we go downstairs and turn on the television. There's some historical BBC special or whatever Aunt Jane was talking about -- we'll have to wait through a few of those nasty commercials, though. We'll say John wanted to watch it. We'll until Aunt Jane is five minutes into her nap, then go into the kitchen and eat, leaving the television on so she won't suspect anything."

"Wecan't use the microwave, though," John added. "She'll hear it. Remember, Aunt Jane is a light sleeper."

"Right. So we'll go for cookies, bananas, celery and applesauce. We'll have to slurp the applesauce, though -- we can't leave any dishes behind. Deal?"

"Deal!" My brothers chorused.

I grinned. "It's 10:23. Operation Awkward Turtle is officially in motion."

We headed downstairs, John humming what faintly sounded like the Mission: Impossible theme song.