peter pan fic: the little ones still wonder
the little ones still wonder. peter pan. peter pan/wendy darling. pg. There is talk of stars and playing and growing up but never enough of love.
i don't even know you guys. written for the lovely teenage ficathon
“Wait,” Peter says.
“What do you want to do, Wendy?”
It’s nighttime in Neverland. The stars shine twice as bright and Wendy has forgotten what the London skyline looks like. The only thing she remembers is the clock, the huge shining face of it, and the way Peter smiled at her and she laughed and they flew away from all of it together.
Some sort of bird sings a lullaby. She wonders if Michael will sleep well tonight.
Peter walks next to her, glowing in that way he does, lighting the way as she steps over gnarled vines and blooming flowers.
“Oh, Peter,” she sighs, and his wrist twists to catch hers.
The fairies are dancing again.
Somewhere out there, in the dark twists of the jungle and deep blue depths of the ocean, Hook searches for her. Tinkerbell stomps her foot.
Peter takes her hand and dips her low in the sky, her hair brushing against tree brushes as they soar higher and higher and knotting in a rather unlady-like manner. Wendy doesn’t think to ask for a comb.
(he is called husband, Hook said.
Peter’s heart dropped into his feet and it felt like he swallowed his tongue.
Wendy Darling, he thought, and tried to take pleasure in the notes of her name.
Wendy Darling, he thought again, and wished for her, wished for a story, wished for a thimble.
Hook smiled, mean and crooked as the silver curve of his glistening, grotesque hand.)
The sun threatens to come up one morning.
The boys are playing spies and require the cover of darkness.
Wendy smiles and continues patching Michael’s shorts.
“It can’t be light yet!” Nibs laments, the tail of his hat bouncing up and down on his shoulder. John pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the tip of his wooden sword.
Goodness, John, she thinks as she looks at him. His hair is wild and long, his skin browned from the never ending sunshine. There is so much boy in him but Wendy see the beginnings of a man hiding in the set of his shoulders. She tries to remember her father but there is nothing there - just the deep timbre of his voice and her own lonely quiet room.
The sun breathes pink into the sky.
Peter appears out of nowhere behind Wendy; she catches her breath.
“Watch this,” he whispers into her ear.
Peter soars into the sky. Wendy’s heart stammers against her rib cage loudly and blood rushes into her ears. She misses a stitch on Michael’s shorts and sighs.
“I didn’t say you could come back yet,” Peter scolds the sky, his arms spread wide, doing his best Father impression.
The sun sinks back down into the sky. Peter sits next to her, his knees crossed Indian style and rubbing against the fabric of her dress, until Toodles cries you cheated! and then there is chaos.
“Do you have,” Wendy asks, cautious, “a drawer full of dreams anywhere?”
The boys are tucked into bed and sleeping soundly. Someone’s snores drag through the room and Wendy wonders if they have any tea.
Peter is curled at her side, his eyes wide and bright in the dark. His foot touches hers underneath the blanket and it is hot, so hot, in the small room that she bunches her nightgown around her waist. Tinkerbell rolls her eyes.
“Dreams should not be kept in drawers, Wendy Darling,” Peter tells her, halfway asleep.
Wendy remembers the barest outline of her mother, the lovely sweep of her neck, the elegant set of her hair. She remembers the quiet sort of way she spoke, but very few of her actual words.
There is an odd sort of feeling settled in the bottom of her stomach. Peter touches her elbow, softly, and tugs her towards him. Wendy rolls over to face him and presses a kiss to his cheek. Her nightgown tangles in between her legs, the thin cotton heavy on her skin.
He says, let’s sleep, think of the adventures we’ll get into tomorrow whisper soft against the curve of her shoulder.
Wendy shivers.
Peter always smiles in his sleep.
“Wait,” Peter says.
The window is open, the wind whooshing into the warm house, the smell of velvet and cinnamon wafting towards them.
Michael giggles into Nana’s fur. John hugs her father.
Her mother sits, watching, from her place near the fireplace. Her hands fold carefully into her lap and Wendy squints, searching for her kiss. There is a thimble in her pocket.
“Come back with me,” Peter says, his young face laid bare before her. The sky behind him is deep blue and dotted with silent stars. The skyline isn't as great as she believed it would be. There is so much grey here, in the city.
Wendy’s toes curl against the carpet but her fingers are still wrapped around Peter’s small arm.
She is about to grow up. This is never more apparent than when she looks at his face.
Her mother’s kiss is still there, at the corner of her mouth, for the whole world to see but Wendy’s is gone.
Wendy has given away her kiss and she does not regret it one bit.
Her mother smiles at her.
We can’t both have her, lady, Peter thought.
This is the most selfish thing he has ever done.
He will never know any other way.
Wendy smells like fresh grass and something sweet and he finds that he would do anything for her.
Wendy says, ok.
i don't even know you guys. written for the lovely teenage ficathon
“Wait,” Peter says.
“What do you want to do, Wendy?”
It’s nighttime in Neverland. The stars shine twice as bright and Wendy has forgotten what the London skyline looks like. The only thing she remembers is the clock, the huge shining face of it, and the way Peter smiled at her and she laughed and they flew away from all of it together.
Some sort of bird sings a lullaby. She wonders if Michael will sleep well tonight.
Peter walks next to her, glowing in that way he does, lighting the way as she steps over gnarled vines and blooming flowers.
“Oh, Peter,” she sighs, and his wrist twists to catch hers.
The fairies are dancing again.
Somewhere out there, in the dark twists of the jungle and deep blue depths of the ocean, Hook searches for her. Tinkerbell stomps her foot.
Peter takes her hand and dips her low in the sky, her hair brushing against tree brushes as they soar higher and higher and knotting in a rather unlady-like manner. Wendy doesn’t think to ask for a comb.
(he is called husband, Hook said.
Peter’s heart dropped into his feet and it felt like he swallowed his tongue.
Wendy Darling, he thought, and tried to take pleasure in the notes of her name.
Wendy Darling, he thought again, and wished for her, wished for a story, wished for a thimble.
Hook smiled, mean and crooked as the silver curve of his glistening, grotesque hand.)
The sun threatens to come up one morning.
The boys are playing spies and require the cover of darkness.
Wendy smiles and continues patching Michael’s shorts.
“It can’t be light yet!” Nibs laments, the tail of his hat bouncing up and down on his shoulder. John pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the tip of his wooden sword.
Goodness, John, she thinks as she looks at him. His hair is wild and long, his skin browned from the never ending sunshine. There is so much boy in him but Wendy see the beginnings of a man hiding in the set of his shoulders. She tries to remember her father but there is nothing there - just the deep timbre of his voice and her own lonely quiet room.
The sun breathes pink into the sky.
Peter appears out of nowhere behind Wendy; she catches her breath.
“Watch this,” he whispers into her ear.
Peter soars into the sky. Wendy’s heart stammers against her rib cage loudly and blood rushes into her ears. She misses a stitch on Michael’s shorts and sighs.
“I didn’t say you could come back yet,” Peter scolds the sky, his arms spread wide, doing his best Father impression.
The sun sinks back down into the sky. Peter sits next to her, his knees crossed Indian style and rubbing against the fabric of her dress, until Toodles cries you cheated! and then there is chaos.
“Do you have,” Wendy asks, cautious, “a drawer full of dreams anywhere?”
The boys are tucked into bed and sleeping soundly. Someone’s snores drag through the room and Wendy wonders if they have any tea.
Peter is curled at her side, his eyes wide and bright in the dark. His foot touches hers underneath the blanket and it is hot, so hot, in the small room that she bunches her nightgown around her waist. Tinkerbell rolls her eyes.
“Dreams should not be kept in drawers, Wendy Darling,” Peter tells her, halfway asleep.
Wendy remembers the barest outline of her mother, the lovely sweep of her neck, the elegant set of her hair. She remembers the quiet sort of way she spoke, but very few of her actual words.
There is an odd sort of feeling settled in the bottom of her stomach. Peter touches her elbow, softly, and tugs her towards him. Wendy rolls over to face him and presses a kiss to his cheek. Her nightgown tangles in between her legs, the thin cotton heavy on her skin.
He says, let’s sleep, think of the adventures we’ll get into tomorrow whisper soft against the curve of her shoulder.
Wendy shivers.
Peter always smiles in his sleep.
“Wait,” Peter says.
The window is open, the wind whooshing into the warm house, the smell of velvet and cinnamon wafting towards them.
Michael giggles into Nana’s fur. John hugs her father.
Her mother sits, watching, from her place near the fireplace. Her hands fold carefully into her lap and Wendy squints, searching for her kiss. There is a thimble in her pocket.
“Come back with me,” Peter says, his young face laid bare before her. The sky behind him is deep blue and dotted with silent stars. The skyline isn't as great as she believed it would be. There is so much grey here, in the city.
Wendy’s toes curl against the carpet but her fingers are still wrapped around Peter’s small arm.
She is about to grow up. This is never more apparent than when she looks at his face.
Her mother’s kiss is still there, at the corner of her mouth, for the whole world to see but Wendy’s is gone.
Wendy has given away her kiss and she does not regret it one bit.
Her mother smiles at her.
We can’t both have her, lady, Peter thought.
This is the most selfish thing he has ever done.
He will never know any other way.
Wendy smells like fresh grass and something sweet and he finds that he would do anything for her.
Wendy says, ok.