Peter Pan. Peter/Wendy. 002. Middles.
Title: Things of the Past
Fandom: Peter Pan
Characters: Peter Pan/Wendy Darling
Prompt:002. Middles
Word Count: 1,059
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Drunk=no fun
Author's Notes: So here's the second chapter of my story. I find this one less introspective and more humorous for what it is but that's ok.
“You don’t got no coin I ain’t feeding you now GET OUT!”
The burly man yanked along a gangly teenage boy by the collar and tossed him into the dank ally behind his pub. The youth landed in a puddle and cracked his head against the dirty brick wall of the next building over.
“And stay out!” With that final furious howl, the door slammed shut in the boys face.
“Ain’t got no respect.” The proud youth sneered drunkenly, swaying as he stood again. His forest green eyes peered into the clear night air unseeingly. His vision was clouded and blurry but he knew his way around well enough. Fumbling with his hat, the half-hearted attempt to jam it on his head went by unnoticed by everyone but a tiny ball of light that was sitting inside an unlit street lamp. The soft glow didn’t faze the lad as he raked his dirty fingers through his shaggy brown hair. “Now,” he slurred, looking cross-eyed up and down the street. “Which waysh did I come from?”
He stood there in the freezing January air indecisively. If one were to happen upon him they would immediately make the correct assumption that he was homeless. A beggar child most likely abandoned as a child to fend for himself. That poor passerby would also make a wide berth around him, pinching their nose shut, for the rank smell that came off him would be enough to kill any sense of scent a person had. Luckily, there were no people out and about in the cold January night to have the pleasure of meeting with the youth.
The light seemed to be mocking him, the boy noted idly. He tried to narrow his gaze to see better into the street lamp but it was futile. He staggered forward towards the lamppost, wrapping his arms around it to keep himself upright.
“Whatcha doin’ boy?” A haggard voice hissed in his ear.
The youth glared insolently at whoever had enough bravado to come close to him. “’Uggin’ this here lamppost what’s it to yoush,” he slurred. He squinted at the amorphous person in front of him entirely sure if it was a man or woman.
“Oh shit,” he muttered, finally getting a good look at the man beside him. A bobby. He groaned, knocking his head against the metal lamppost. He was in trouble now and running wasn’t an option. What he would give to be able to soar above this situation, but that was impossible and thinking of the impossible was not the smart thing to do in this situation.
“You got a name boy?”
The lad smiled cheekily, “Sure, I got a name. Don’t seem like I’m bout to tell you now do it?”
“Disrespectful thing aren’t you?” The bigger man towered over the youth but the boy didn’t budge an inch. He stayed steadfast with his arms around his nice cold metal pole.
“Ain’t no one round here needs respecting,” the boy muttered petulantly. His fingerless gloves barley kept the encroaching coldness out of his skin. The brown threadbare jacket did nothing to buffer the wind that was picking up.
“All right son, you’re coming with me.”
“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, thanks,” The boy said, his green eyes glittering with defiance. “I’m goin’ ta stay right here.”
“Storms brewin’ lad,” The police officer said, staring up at the night sky. The purple and blue toned sky was thickening with clouds sweeping in from the east. “Best get home.”
The brown-haired boy stared at the bobby indescribably for a moment, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “Mother says to drink your medicine.”
The man took this chance to get the boy away from the lamppost. The night air bit at his skin, making him yearn for the comfort of his home where his wife and children were waiting for him. He sighed in irritation when he noticed the boy had passed out. Scooping the slight boy up into his arms, he carried him at a brisk jog down the street. The clock tolled the midnight hour, just as the first flakes began to fall.
*****
“George, who is he?” a woman said, her voice soft and concerned, the voice of a mother.
The youth groaned as he tried to put himself into a sitting position. His muscles tightened in protest of the motion forcing him to recalculate his odds and determine it would just be easier if he stayed still.
“Where am I?” he asked. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton and his throat was drier than he could ever remember. He felt pathetically weak a state he was unused to. He opened his eyes and marveled at the room he was in. There was a fire roaring in the pit, hanging over it was a large family portrait, showing six boys and one girl, all of them looking proper and orderly not a shirt untucked or ribbon out of place. The settee he was sitting on was plush and a deep burgundy color that went with the dark hardwood floors. A baby grand piano sat in the corner, music littering the top of it. Lamps were lit and the room was bathed in the dim glow.
“In my home lad.”
He jerked his head to look at the owner of the voice. He gulped realizing exactly who’s home he was in.
“I’m sorry sir,” he babbled, struggling to sit up. “I didn’t steal nothin’ honest. I don’ steal nothin!”
“Sit still boy,” the man thundered, pushing him back down with a gentleness that belied the words.
The woman the boy had heard earlier walked around to her husband’s side and with a tender hand stroked the man’s arm. She sat down on the edge of the divan, brushing the youth’s brown hair out of his eyes. “Who are you child?”
“Peter, ma’am,” Peter found himself blurting out. His face flushed crimson and green eyes darted nervously around the inviting room.
“You do not know your last name?” The woman coaxed soothingly.
Peter shook his head. “No ma’am.” He eyed both adults warily. “You’re not a bobby then?” he asked of the man.
“No son,” The man said good-humouredly. “Names Darling, George Darling, this is my wife Mary.”
Peter nodded dumbly. The name resonated deep within him sparking at a memory long dead.
Fandom: Peter Pan
Characters: Peter Pan/Wendy Darling
Prompt:002. Middles
Word Count: 1,059
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Drunk=no fun
Author's Notes: So here's the second chapter of my story. I find this one less introspective and more humorous for what it is but that's ok.
“You don’t got no coin I ain’t feeding you now GET OUT!”
The burly man yanked along a gangly teenage boy by the collar and tossed him into the dank ally behind his pub. The youth landed in a puddle and cracked his head against the dirty brick wall of the next building over.
“And stay out!” With that final furious howl, the door slammed shut in the boys face.
“Ain’t got no respect.” The proud youth sneered drunkenly, swaying as he stood again. His forest green eyes peered into the clear night air unseeingly. His vision was clouded and blurry but he knew his way around well enough. Fumbling with his hat, the half-hearted attempt to jam it on his head went by unnoticed by everyone but a tiny ball of light that was sitting inside an unlit street lamp. The soft glow didn’t faze the lad as he raked his dirty fingers through his shaggy brown hair. “Now,” he slurred, looking cross-eyed up and down the street. “Which waysh did I come from?”
He stood there in the freezing January air indecisively. If one were to happen upon him they would immediately make the correct assumption that he was homeless. A beggar child most likely abandoned as a child to fend for himself. That poor passerby would also make a wide berth around him, pinching their nose shut, for the rank smell that came off him would be enough to kill any sense of scent a person had. Luckily, there were no people out and about in the cold January night to have the pleasure of meeting with the youth.
The light seemed to be mocking him, the boy noted idly. He tried to narrow his gaze to see better into the street lamp but it was futile. He staggered forward towards the lamppost, wrapping his arms around it to keep himself upright.
“Whatcha doin’ boy?” A haggard voice hissed in his ear.
The youth glared insolently at whoever had enough bravado to come close to him. “’Uggin’ this here lamppost what’s it to yoush,” he slurred. He squinted at the amorphous person in front of him entirely sure if it was a man or woman.
“Oh shit,” he muttered, finally getting a good look at the man beside him. A bobby. He groaned, knocking his head against the metal lamppost. He was in trouble now and running wasn’t an option. What he would give to be able to soar above this situation, but that was impossible and thinking of the impossible was not the smart thing to do in this situation.
“You got a name boy?”
The lad smiled cheekily, “Sure, I got a name. Don’t seem like I’m bout to tell you now do it?”
“Disrespectful thing aren’t you?” The bigger man towered over the youth but the boy didn’t budge an inch. He stayed steadfast with his arms around his nice cold metal pole.
“Ain’t no one round here needs respecting,” the boy muttered petulantly. His fingerless gloves barley kept the encroaching coldness out of his skin. The brown threadbare jacket did nothing to buffer the wind that was picking up.
“All right son, you’re coming with me.”
“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, thanks,” The boy said, his green eyes glittering with defiance. “I’m goin’ ta stay right here.”
“Storms brewin’ lad,” The police officer said, staring up at the night sky. The purple and blue toned sky was thickening with clouds sweeping in from the east. “Best get home.”
The brown-haired boy stared at the bobby indescribably for a moment, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “Mother says to drink your medicine.”
The man took this chance to get the boy away from the lamppost. The night air bit at his skin, making him yearn for the comfort of his home where his wife and children were waiting for him. He sighed in irritation when he noticed the boy had passed out. Scooping the slight boy up into his arms, he carried him at a brisk jog down the street. The clock tolled the midnight hour, just as the first flakes began to fall.
*****
“George, who is he?” a woman said, her voice soft and concerned, the voice of a mother.
The youth groaned as he tried to put himself into a sitting position. His muscles tightened in protest of the motion forcing him to recalculate his odds and determine it would just be easier if he stayed still.
“Where am I?” he asked. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton and his throat was drier than he could ever remember. He felt pathetically weak a state he was unused to. He opened his eyes and marveled at the room he was in. There was a fire roaring in the pit, hanging over it was a large family portrait, showing six boys and one girl, all of them looking proper and orderly not a shirt untucked or ribbon out of place. The settee he was sitting on was plush and a deep burgundy color that went with the dark hardwood floors. A baby grand piano sat in the corner, music littering the top of it. Lamps were lit and the room was bathed in the dim glow.
“In my home lad.”
He jerked his head to look at the owner of the voice. He gulped realizing exactly who’s home he was in.
“I’m sorry sir,” he babbled, struggling to sit up. “I didn’t steal nothin’ honest. I don’ steal nothin!”
“Sit still boy,” the man thundered, pushing him back down with a gentleness that belied the words.
The woman the boy had heard earlier walked around to her husband’s side and with a tender hand stroked the man’s arm. She sat down on the edge of the divan, brushing the youth’s brown hair out of his eyes. “Who are you child?”
“Peter, ma’am,” Peter found himself blurting out. His face flushed crimson and green eyes darted nervously around the inviting room.
“You do not know your last name?” The woman coaxed soothingly.
Peter shook his head. “No ma’am.” He eyed both adults warily. “You’re not a bobby then?” he asked of the man.
“No son,” The man said good-humouredly. “Names Darling, George Darling, this is my wife Mary.”
Peter nodded dumbly. The name resonated deep within him sparking at a memory long dead.