On the twelfth day of Christmas a present I did give...
...a Peter Pan fic for hintofawhisper, rolletti and emeraldwendy.
~~~
Dream Sharing
It is late when Peter soundlessly steps out of his tree into the house under the ground. He glances about quickly to see all the boys are in bed. His lips tug upwards ever so slightly, the stars come out in his blue eyes, and the boy moves toward the occupied rocker before the fire.
Standing behind it, he looks down on the girl intent on her work. His smile widens a little as he leans forward, looking over her shoulder. Tonight she is making another pocket. Her small hands move steadily and knowingly, pushing and pulling the threaded needle through the fabric, creating neat stitches. Peter watches her movements with a bit of admiration.
Slowly, his gaze moves from her hands to the white sleeves of her nightgown. The color is no longer pure white like snow when Wendy first arrived. Now flakes of dirt and grass stains mar the cloth. The boy’s eyes continue to travel upward, coming to rest on the girl’s head. He can never firmly decide the color of her hair. When he first introduced himself to her when he was searching for his shadow, her hair seemed almost brown in the dark nursery. Under the bright Neverland sun, it is orange like carrots. And tonight, in the firelight and dancing shadows of the house, her hair seems auburn.
Peter’s smile slips away when a thought tugs on his ear. He brushes it away, annoyed. But the thought comes back, as it has done all day. And so, impulsively, he puts the question to his mother.
“What kind of dreams do you have?” his voice is soft near her ear, shattering the quiet.
He pulls back slightly when the girl gasps and quickly turns to face him, her eyes startled, his bemused. Her cheeks warm, and she places a hand over her chest.
“Peter! You scared me,” she scolds lightly.
“I did not mean to, Wendy,” he says, moving from behind her rocker to sit on the ground next to her.
He watches her shake her head and rescue her sewing from where it fell on the floor. Now looking calm, she turns her attention to him fully. “What did you ask me?”
“What kind of dreams do you have?” he repeats the question, folding his legs Indian style.
The girl bends over her work, her hair falling over her shoulders, hiding her face from view. Peter leans toward her, slightly irritated at the hair that acts as a curtain, separating them.
“What dreams I have?”
“Yes.”
The boy’s eyes move to her hands which resume their previous task. “I dream of many things,” she replies.
“Good, bad?” the boy presses, curious.
“Both,” is the quiet answer.
“What about?” Peter slowly touches the arm of the rocker.
“I dream of the mermaids, the Indians, the fairies…”
“Is that all?” the boy asks, an unhappy pout settling on his face as he listens.
The girl shakes her head, her face still hidden behind her hair. “No,” her voice wavers slightly.
“Your pet wolf, the boys, the pirates…?” he says when she does not go on.
“Hook,” Wendy speaks quietly, shivering.
The name hangs heavily in the air. A slight chill fills the house, and the flames in the fireplace dim for a moment. A dark frown descends on the boy’s brow; his eyes flash like lightning; and he grows still as a rock.
“Hook…,” Peter darkly repeats. His eyes narrow. “That he will defeat me and be Captain of Neverland.”
Wendy nods. “Yes,” the word is spoken without emotion.
“How often?”
She shrugs.
Peter’s feelings of annoyance and of threat at Wendy’s confession lessen a little as he stares at the hair that distances him from her. He does not like being unable to tell her moods or thoughts. The boy suddenly moves, reaching forward to tuck those locks of irritating hair behind Wendy’s ear. He is rewarded with her swiftly facing him, surprised, her hazel eyes sparkling.
“Wendy,” her name comes out as a demand, a plea, a warning, a question, an endearment.
“A number of times, Peter,” she admits reluctantly.
He frowns, becoming lost in thought, the stars in his eyes fading.
“Do you ever have bad dreams?”
Wendy’s quiet question shatters the boy’s musings into millions of pieces. His eyes find hers. He gives her a cocky smile. “No.” At her disbelieving look, he says, “I never have bad dreams.” He shrugs lightly.
“You are fortunate, Peter.”
“Yes, I know!”
The girl’s lips curve up a little, “And what are your good dreams about?”
“You’ve never had such dreams,” he replies, his face brightening. “I can visit the mermaids’ kingdom in the sea. The Neverbird guides me to the tallest star in the sky. The boys and I follow the rainbows in the bubbles of the lagoon to other islands. We defeat the pirates and Hook, and I captain the Jolly Roger.” Peter animates with his hands.
“They sound wonderful,” Wendy says with a dreamy sigh.
“Yes, they are,” he nods, looking at the fire. “But the dreams I like the best are ones you are in, Wendy,” he adds after a moment. When he looks up, he discovers her staring at him, stunned.
“Really?” she asks in a low tone.
“Of course.” He grows puzzled at her silence. “Is it a bad thing I dream about you?” He peers at her anxiously.
“Oh, oh, no, it is not,” she stutters. “Many times I dream of things or people I thought about during the day.”
Peter tilts his head, a new thought tugging on his ear. “Do you dream about me?”
“Aye, sometimes,” the girl answers shyly.
The boy grins and something in his chest flutters. He rises into the air, almost hitting the ceiling. “Oh the cleverness of me!”
Wendy’s light laughter reaches him as he slowly descends back to earth. For a long moment the two children gaze at each other. Peter steps closer and bends down to her level.
“Goodnight, Wendy-lady,” he says, offering her his cheek.
“Goodnight, Peter,” she returns and kisses his cheek.
There are roses in her cheeks and her eyes twinkle. The boy smiles before going to his bed. Lying down on the wool cover, he closes his eyes to the sight of his Wendy sewing before the fire. She will always be there. And always will accept his hand and fly off with him on another adventure in the world of dreams.
THE END
~~~
Dream Sharing
It is late when Peter soundlessly steps out of his tree into the house under the ground. He glances about quickly to see all the boys are in bed. His lips tug upwards ever so slightly, the stars come out in his blue eyes, and the boy moves toward the occupied rocker before the fire.
Standing behind it, he looks down on the girl intent on her work. His smile widens a little as he leans forward, looking over her shoulder. Tonight she is making another pocket. Her small hands move steadily and knowingly, pushing and pulling the threaded needle through the fabric, creating neat stitches. Peter watches her movements with a bit of admiration.
Slowly, his gaze moves from her hands to the white sleeves of her nightgown. The color is no longer pure white like snow when Wendy first arrived. Now flakes of dirt and grass stains mar the cloth. The boy’s eyes continue to travel upward, coming to rest on the girl’s head. He can never firmly decide the color of her hair. When he first introduced himself to her when he was searching for his shadow, her hair seemed almost brown in the dark nursery. Under the bright Neverland sun, it is orange like carrots. And tonight, in the firelight and dancing shadows of the house, her hair seems auburn.
Peter’s smile slips away when a thought tugs on his ear. He brushes it away, annoyed. But the thought comes back, as it has done all day. And so, impulsively, he puts the question to his mother.
“What kind of dreams do you have?” his voice is soft near her ear, shattering the quiet.
He pulls back slightly when the girl gasps and quickly turns to face him, her eyes startled, his bemused. Her cheeks warm, and she places a hand over her chest.
“Peter! You scared me,” she scolds lightly.
“I did not mean to, Wendy,” he says, moving from behind her rocker to sit on the ground next to her.
He watches her shake her head and rescue her sewing from where it fell on the floor. Now looking calm, she turns her attention to him fully. “What did you ask me?”
“What kind of dreams do you have?” he repeats the question, folding his legs Indian style.
The girl bends over her work, her hair falling over her shoulders, hiding her face from view. Peter leans toward her, slightly irritated at the hair that acts as a curtain, separating them.
“What dreams I have?”
“Yes.”
The boy’s eyes move to her hands which resume their previous task. “I dream of many things,” she replies.
“Good, bad?” the boy presses, curious.
“Both,” is the quiet answer.
“What about?” Peter slowly touches the arm of the rocker.
“I dream of the mermaids, the Indians, the fairies…”
“Is that all?” the boy asks, an unhappy pout settling on his face as he listens.
The girl shakes her head, her face still hidden behind her hair. “No,” her voice wavers slightly.
“Your pet wolf, the boys, the pirates…?” he says when she does not go on.
“Hook,” Wendy speaks quietly, shivering.
The name hangs heavily in the air. A slight chill fills the house, and the flames in the fireplace dim for a moment. A dark frown descends on the boy’s brow; his eyes flash like lightning; and he grows still as a rock.
“Hook…,” Peter darkly repeats. His eyes narrow. “That he will defeat me and be Captain of Neverland.”
Wendy nods. “Yes,” the word is spoken without emotion.
“How often?”
She shrugs.
Peter’s feelings of annoyance and of threat at Wendy’s confession lessen a little as he stares at the hair that distances him from her. He does not like being unable to tell her moods or thoughts. The boy suddenly moves, reaching forward to tuck those locks of irritating hair behind Wendy’s ear. He is rewarded with her swiftly facing him, surprised, her hazel eyes sparkling.
“Wendy,” her name comes out as a demand, a plea, a warning, a question, an endearment.
“A number of times, Peter,” she admits reluctantly.
He frowns, becoming lost in thought, the stars in his eyes fading.
“Do you ever have bad dreams?”
Wendy’s quiet question shatters the boy’s musings into millions of pieces. His eyes find hers. He gives her a cocky smile. “No.” At her disbelieving look, he says, “I never have bad dreams.” He shrugs lightly.
“You are fortunate, Peter.”
“Yes, I know!”
The girl’s lips curve up a little, “And what are your good dreams about?”
“You’ve never had such dreams,” he replies, his face brightening. “I can visit the mermaids’ kingdom in the sea. The Neverbird guides me to the tallest star in the sky. The boys and I follow the rainbows in the bubbles of the lagoon to other islands. We defeat the pirates and Hook, and I captain the Jolly Roger.” Peter animates with his hands.
“They sound wonderful,” Wendy says with a dreamy sigh.
“Yes, they are,” he nods, looking at the fire. “But the dreams I like the best are ones you are in, Wendy,” he adds after a moment. When he looks up, he discovers her staring at him, stunned.
“Really?” she asks in a low tone.
“Of course.” He grows puzzled at her silence. “Is it a bad thing I dream about you?” He peers at her anxiously.
“Oh, oh, no, it is not,” she stutters. “Many times I dream of things or people I thought about during the day.”
Peter tilts his head, a new thought tugging on his ear. “Do you dream about me?”
“Aye, sometimes,” the girl answers shyly.
The boy grins and something in his chest flutters. He rises into the air, almost hitting the ceiling. “Oh the cleverness of me!”
Wendy’s light laughter reaches him as he slowly descends back to earth. For a long moment the two children gaze at each other. Peter steps closer and bends down to her level.
“Goodnight, Wendy-lady,” he says, offering her his cheek.
“Goodnight, Peter,” she returns and kisses his cheek.
There are roses in her cheeks and her eyes twinkle. The boy smiles before going to his bed. Lying down on the wool cover, he closes his eyes to the sight of his Wendy sewing before the fire. She will always be there. And always will accept his hand and fly off with him on another adventure in the world of dreams.
THE END