AN: Hello all. Sorry this took so long for me to post. I had a bit of trouble figuring out how this chapter would go. Hopefully, the next one will be coming soon.
My CP warning still remains, and for those of you that think Hook is a little too harsh, you should read Capt. Hook: Adventures of a Nortorious Youth. The caning scene in that makes everything I write seem very tame.
Disclaimer: I don't own, or make any money.
Tell me what you think. I've started taking people's ideas into consideration when writing, which has been a great exercise. Anything you'd like to see happen? Review and tell me.
Thanks!
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Facing his crew without his usual clothes or his hook was not something Hook liked to do. He preferred to wear his stylish captain's clothes, adorned with the rich, vibrant colors that told of his prestige and power. But he needed to call Smee to help him get the hook contraption on. If he really needed to, Hook knew he could position the contraption over his shoulder and tighten the straps with only one hand, but Smee could do it so quickly, accomplishing in matter of seconds what would take Hook several awkward minutes.
The sun was shining as he stepped on the deck, but Hook ignored it, glaring down at his crew.
They were standing about in huddled bunches, murmuring among each other quietly. Hook knew what that kind of grouping belied – every few months they would get like that, sullen and bunching together to talk in low whispers. They were planning mutiny.
On a regular day, this would not have bothered him so greatly. Usually, their mutiny went one of three ways. The first was an all out-and-out rebelling – swords drawn, pistols waving in the air, daggers gleaming. They would rush at Hook's cabin, yelling and shouting and swearing, and a brawl would commence. It usually meant a broken chair or two, and everyone got punched or elbowed in the tussle. Hook would snarl at them, threaten to slice them into tiny pieces and hang their innards from the main mast, and they would yell that they were going to feed him to the crocodile – all sorts of lovely things shouted out. Finally, Hook would plunge his hook in someone, whoever was standing the closest. It wasn't ever a deep plunge, sometimes just enough to scrap the skin. But seeing blood was enough to put an end to all the mutinying. The pirate unfortunate enough to get cut would start bellowing that he was bleeding, and all the crew would sober right up, staring at whatever wound Hook had inflicted. Then came the punishment. Sometimes it was extra work, sometimes it was rationed privileges, and sometimes he took out his leather whip and gave them all a cut of it and sent them to their hammocks whimpering.
The second way of mutiny involved two or three pirates setting off on their own without telling anyone. They would wander the island, determined to make a new colony for themselves. By the next day, or often that same night, they would return to the ship, tired and hungry, ready to slink back to their old jobs. Hook varied between ignoring them or making examples of them so no man would ever dare abandon his post again.
The third way wasn't even really mutinying, but it was far more annoying. It was lots of grumbling, petty whispers and pouts that went on and on, downing everyone's spirits until Hook threatened to cut the tongue out of the next pirate to complain.
So only three ways of mutinying, but Hook did not have time to deal with any of them. He had a stroppy brat in his cabin whom he knew would rebel sooner or later, eventually. Peter's quiet behavior did not fool Hook for a second. He was sure that the boy would return to his old, arrogant, rude little self – Peter was just biding his time. And until then Hook did not have time to play mutiny with the pirates.
"Listen, all of you," he bellowed, his voice cracking over the ship and catching every pirate's attention. "I have something to say, and I will only say it once. I have the brat, aye, but what's to be done with him is my choice and mine alone. As you stand there, challenging my authority, I am concocting a plan to get us off this cursed island."
A cheer rose from the men, but Hook held up his hand, ordering silence.
"I plan to use everything I can to get him to tell us the way out of here, but I will brook no interference from any of you. You get in my way – I will rip out your throat with my hook."
He must have looked fierce as he said, though he was wearing only a loose shirt, trousers, and boots.
"Aye, aye, sir," the pirates murmured, none of them daring to meet his flashing eyes.
"I have spoken," Hook glanced over all of them one last scathing time before returning to his cabin.
------
"No," Peter shook his head stubbornly, "I won't."
Hook raised an eyebrow at the boy. "I did not give you a choice. Sit down at the table right now."
The boy crossed his arms, his whole stance saying "Make me!"
"Let me put it this way," Hook told him. "You can sit down now or you can sit down in five minutes with a very sore bottom. It's your choice."
"I don't want to learn to read," Peter protested, but he edged closer to the chair.
"I don't believe I asked if you wanted to," Hook mused, straightening a pile of book resting on the small table where Peter would received his first lesson. "As a matter of fact, I really don't care about anything you ever want. My sole existence now is to make you as miserable as I possibly can. How am I doing thus far?"
Peter glared at Hook with more animosity than Hook had ever seen in a child. "You wait, you old codfish, you wait until Tink comes back. Then I can fly again, up, up to the stars! And I'll fly around so many times you'll get dizzy and fall over. I can talk to the stars and the moon and I'm the greatest, bestest –ow!"
Hook drew his hand back from where he had just smacked the boy on the rear. "'Bestest' is not a word. Now, sit down before you cause me to lose my temper completely."
Rubbing a little and defiantly pouting, that impish mouth tugged down at the edges, Peter sat and glared at the books in front of him.
Hook tried not to look too pleased. He knew that before the lesson was over dear Peter would be getting a full spanking – Hook knew the boy couldn't control himself, not once Hook presented him with the alphabet and had him start writing his letters on paper.
Sure enough, Peter could barely sit still as Hook wrote out the alphabet in large cursive letters. Hook was rarely modest about his own talents, but the matter of his writing his high esteem of his penmanship was accurate. He could flourish the pen in graceful swoops and curves, making the R dangle its foot out precariously and the S lean forward while tilting its top loop back. Alivia had admired his writing.
"Oh, Jamie," she had exclaimed one afternoon while they were sharing tea under a large elm, just the two of them, "your writing!"
She had snatched up the sheet of poetry which he had accidentally dropped from a satchel of books. Gazing down at it, she had smiled. "So beautiful, so wonderfully done."
"Really?" he had turned towards her with eager, yet shy fascination. "You like it?"
"I adore it," she had looked at him, long lashes over soft eyes, all under that wonderful mane of black hair that made his hands itch to touch it. "It is simply divine, so wonderfully lovely."
"You think my poetry is good?" he had leaned towards her, hoping for a kiss from those full, luscious lips.
"Poetry?" she had glanced back at the page. "Oh, it is poetry. I'm certain it's all very well, but the penmanship! Jamie, your penmanship is nearly perfectly. Look at it, every line, every curve. I have never seen anything so gorgeous in my entire life as this beautiful writing."
He had wanted her to pay attention to the poem, inspired by her, written in her honor, but she had been fascinated by the penmanship, not the actual words. He had wanted to read her the poem, but her father came home early, and he was forced to make a run for it, climbing a high stone wall to escape being seen.
"I don't know!" Peter protested, jerking Hook back to the present, away from the memory and beautiful Alivia. "And I don't want to know."
"Look," Hook growled, glancing back down at the paper. "Twenty-six letters in the alphabet, twenty-one consonants, five vowels. You're going to learn to say them and write them today."
As he wrote out the last of the letters, Hook tried to remember how his old schoolmaster had taught him to read. He couldn't picture the man's face, but he could remember the man's cold voice, barking out questions to the nervous students. Hook had never really been scared like the other boys had; Hook made it a point of knowing his lessons so when called he could swagger up to the front and answer perfectly. Other students would stumble up to recite, their bodies quivering as they stammered out answers to the master's questions. Hook had always felt a sort of satisfaction when they got caned or slapped with the ruler. He half-hoped they would learn to study instead of playing or idling their time away, but part of him relished being the brightest in the class, the one the master always looked upon with approval.
Now the master himself, Hook dragged the morning lesson out as long as he could. He thought the boy should also learn arithmetic and some history, just to flesh out his education, but there would be time for that later. Right now, he focused on getting the brat to learn his letters. After writing and saying them for a hour, he told Peter to stand up and to recite them.
"Shan't," Peter said obstinately, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.
"Beg your pardon?" Hook raised his eyebrow.
"Beg all you want," Peter smirked. "I'm not getting up."
A second later, he found himself jerked up and then tossed over Hook's lap.
"Well?" Hook challenged, giving Peter a slight shake. "Should I continue what you know I'm about to do, or are you going to say them on your own?"
"Are you going to spank me for everything?" Peter cried out in frustration. "Anything I don't do, I get spanked?"
"Why not?" Hook asked with a smile. "After all these years, I deserve to have a bit of fun with you. If that means tanning your hide every hour, so be it."
Peter began sniffing. "Not fair," he whimpered. "Not fair at all."
"Life is not fair," Hook told him bluntly. "I should have married a woman who left me. I should have stayed in England, but I came here. I should have both hands, but you cut one off. Is that fair?"
He shook Peter once. "Is it?"
Peter shook his head, whispering, "No."
"Are you going to stand up and do what I say, or do you want me to give you something to cry about?"
"Stand up," Peter opted pitifully.
Hook pushed him up, but made Peter stand within arms' reach to recite. It took twelve times before Peter could say it all the way through without messing up. He kept tripping over M, N ,O, P, but Hook kept him at it.
". . . V, W, X, Y, Z," Peter finished. He hesitated, then smiled at little. "I said it. I said it all the way through without stopping! Oh, I'm so clever! The cleverness of me. Forever me, me, me! I'm the greatest in the whole –"
"You said the alphabet," Hook interrupted dryly. "Any child of five can do that, and you're much older that that."
"I am not," Peter protested, his eyes flashing. "I'm very young."
"In years, you're very not young at all. In appearance, I'd put you at ten or eleven, maybe a little more or less. You're growing up."
Peter began to pale and he backed away in horror. "Am not," he whispered.
"Yes, you are," Hook grinned as he stood up. "You keep visiting earth, and the days have started to add up. You'll keep going there and getting a little older with every visit. In the end, you'll be as old as I am."
"Stop it," Peter protested.
"You'll get taller," Hook continued, relishing the boy's torment. "You'll grow hair on your face. Your voice will get deeper. But worst of all, worst than anything else –" Hook paused for dramatic effect.
"Yes?" Peter squeaked anxiously.
"You'll want to stop playing," Hook smiled cruelly as Peter's eyes widened with unspeakable terror. "You'll start thinking about working and serious things like money and having a family and telling children to be quiet and . . . " Hook tried to think of anything else that might scare the boy. What else did adults do that children would hate?
"No, stop it!" he ordered.
"That's really too bad," Hook told him. "You will grow up whether you like it or not."
"No, no, no!"
"Argue all you like," Hook crossed his arms easily. "You can't stop it not matter how hard you try."
But Peter was already too upset. He began breathing shortly, panting with his dread of growing up. He started backing up, making little noise of distress. "No, no," he begged. "Please, no, I don't want to . . . but everyone left. They're all gone. I have to go back if I ever want to see anyone else. I can't . . just can't . . ."
He was wheezing now, and though his face was pale, his cheeks turned red as he struggled to breathe in air.
"I can't breathe," he gasped, looking up at Hook. "What's happening – to – me? I can't . . ."
Hook watched him, feeling the least bit worried. This was not the result he had wanted; he wanted the boy on edge, to be sure, wanted him nervous and miserable. Hook did not want Peter to faint away and he most certainly did not want the child in the middle of a full-fledged panic attack.
"Hook, please," Peter cried. The wheezing noises grew louder, air rasping in his throat.
"Good grief, boy," Hook stepped towards him. "Breathe! Calm down, and just breathe!"
Peter clutched at his throat, eyes filled with terror as he struggled to draw in air. His face was very red, and he looked on the verge of losing consciousness.
"Stupid boy," Hook growled, but he picked Peter up by the waist and carried him towards a chair. Peter didn't even try to fight back. Hook sat down and then sat Peter on his lap, turning Peter's back to rest against Hook's chest.
"Breathe," Hook ordered firmly. He grabbed Peter's hands and held them both in his one hand. With his hooked arm, he pressed the boy against his chest tightly. He could feel the child's heart hammering in his chest.
"Feel me breathe," Hook told Peter. "Now, you breathe like I do, in and out. Come on. No, no squirming. You're not going anywhere until you breathe right."
Peter felt tense, but he began to breathe along with Hook. His breaths felt labored and short at first, but eventually Hook felt him begin to relax as his lungs resumed their usual in-and-out activity. Peter's heart began to slow, but Hook did not release him, afraid the boy might resume his panic once let go.
Peter shifted the least bit, not comfortable being so close to his archenemy. Hook took the opportunity to say in a gentle, admonishing tone,
"Now, now, what was all that about?"
"I don't know," Peter confessed, blushing slightly.
"Quite naughty," Hook tsked, shaking his head. "Throwing a tantrum in the middle of your lesson."
"You scared me," Peter objected softly. Hook's grip on his hands has loosened, and Peter absentmindedly played with the fringe of Hook's coat, running his fingers over the gold weave.
"I was telling you the truth," Hook scolded. "I didn't expect you to throw such a fit."
"Sorry," Peter turned his head away, leaning into Hook's shoulder. He couldn't seem to make himself look at Hook as he continued to fiddle with the coat edge.
For some very strange reason, Hook felt an urge to pat the boy on the shoulder and tell him that everything would be all right. Hook ignored the feeling and released the boy, nudging Peter off his lap.
"No more of that nonsense," Hook objected, "or you'll find yourself over my lap again, but the wrong way, face-down."
Peter nodded glumly. He seemed more scared of his panic attack and what it had felt like than Hook's threats to spank him. He stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do.
"Let's have some dinner," Hook opted. "Then we can start on the rest of our lessons."
Peter's face fell, but he made no comment.
------
The day past quickly for Hook, but he was sure it dragged by for his sulky charge. Peter did not like sounding out each letter anymore than he liked writing them or reciting them. But he did as he was told, quiet but sullen. Towards the end of the day, Hook put him to work shining his boots.
"Will not!" Peter exclaimed when Hook showed him the boots and greasy blackening powder.
"It's a simple chore," Hook told him. "Any cabin boy would do it for the captain."
"I'm not a cabin boy!" Peter protested. "Not, not, not ever!"
"You'll do this or – or," Hook cast about for a good threat, "or I'll skin that bunny in front of you."
"You wouldn't hurt Minty?" Peter was aghast.
"And make you eat him for supper," Hook continued.
Peter's lip quivered, but he nodded reluctantly. "All right, I'll do your stupid work. Can Minty sit beside me while I do it?"
Hook thought about refusing, but he saw no reason the bunny couldn't stay beside the boy while he was working. Peter might have more cause to work quietly, and Hook needed a break from him. Bullying the brat was more exhaustive than Hook ever imagined.
So Peter sat down on the bare floor with the pairs of boots, blackening powder, and bunny beside him. Hook showed him how to rub the powder onto the shoes and to buff the leather to a shiny black.
"Your fingers will get black, but we can wash them later," Hook told him. "I'm going outside to check on my crew. You better keep working or it will be trouble."
Peter stuck his lip out, but said nothing as he started working.
Hook went outside where the crew was lolling about. As soon as they saw him, they pretended to be working, moving about quickly, careful not to look at him.
He knew what they were up to, but he made no comment. For the thousandth time, he considered killing them all. Maybe pulling out far to sea and having them walk the plank with iron balls chained to their feet to pull them down to the bottom of the ocean . . . Ah, one could dream.
He called out some orders about trimming the sails and repairing a rail that really didn't need repairing, but Hook thought it looked a bit crooked.
He walked back and forth on the upper deck, surveying his crew who was really doing anything, just moving around and carrying ropes. As he passed the closed door to his cabin, he heard Peter crying out,
"No, no, Minty! Don't knock that bottle over. Oh, look what you did! Bad bunny! Stop – you're getting it everywhere. Stupid bunny!"
Hook unlocked the door and barged in. He saw the blackening bottle rolling on the floor, the thick greasy powder all over the place. Peter was chasing the bunny who had the black powder all over his furry paws and who was trampling it into Hook's fine rug under his desk.
The rabbit scooted under the desk, and Peter followed him. But the boy bumped into the desk, and papers went flying.
"Peter!" Hook bellowed.
Immediately, Peter came out from under the desk, clutching the bunny to his chest. But the rabbit was squirming, and Hook could see that Peter had black smears all over his white shirt.
With a growl, Hook stepped forward and reached his one hand out towards the frightening boy and wriggling bunny.