Straight on 'til morning
Family was an altogether peculiar business, making grown-ups blubber on at the slightest provocation. The Darling children had only been gone for a few weeks, and their parents were crying and hugging them as though they'd been gone for ages.
Peter was certainly glad not to have a family to cry over him, though it did look rather pleasant to be hugged so tight.
He kicked his foot idly as he perched on the windowsill, watching Mrs. Darling kiss each of her children in turn. She was not quite as pretty as his mother had been (if he could remember what she looked like) but she was alright as mothers went.
Peter tried to ignore the aching in his chest as he watched Wendy throw her arms around her father. If he scrubbed his hand over his eyes, it wasn't because he was crying. Peter Pan never cried. It was only the nasty London fog getting to him.
He didn't care if she wanted to stay here, grow up and become terribly boring. And Peter cared even less about John, Michael and the rest of the Lost Boys. They could go on and be men, while he'd get to have no end of adventures. So what if it meant he didn't have a mother, they weren't good for anything anyway.
Tinkerbell, sitting cozily in the oak next to the house, jingled at him as he watched the cheerful reunion scene. He scowled at her. "Of course I don't wish I was in there. Why'd I want something like that?"
To prove it, he leapt to his feet, ready to go without a backward glance. Goodbyes were never good, and maybe Wendy would come back to see him when she realized how dull grown-ups were.
But his foot caught the molding on the edge of the sill, and with an abrupt jerk he started falling toward the gray stone below. Peter never fell, but he did it now. He knew he should have been soaring, but he was more surprised than worried as the ground kept rushing at him.
He caught the fall on his shoulder, the same way all boys who've taken spills learn to. But he landed on soft soil, not a cracked London sidewalk.
Peter scrambled to his feet, hand already on his sword as he looks around with wide eyes. There were fierce trees all around, jungle of a different sort than he was used to. This wasn't Neverland. It wasn't London.
It wasn't anywhere he'd ever been, and Peter figured he'd been about everywhere. And even worse, Peter didn't know how he had got there.
"Tink!" He called in a loud voice, that was almost free of quavering nerves. "Tinkerbell!"
[Peter's just fallen out of nowhere onto the path leading to the Compound. Come make sure he's alright, or break the bad news that he can't fly anymore.]
Peter was certainly glad not to have a family to cry over him, though it did look rather pleasant to be hugged so tight.
He kicked his foot idly as he perched on the windowsill, watching Mrs. Darling kiss each of her children in turn. She was not quite as pretty as his mother had been (if he could remember what she looked like) but she was alright as mothers went.
Peter tried to ignore the aching in his chest as he watched Wendy throw her arms around her father. If he scrubbed his hand over his eyes, it wasn't because he was crying. Peter Pan never cried. It was only the nasty London fog getting to him.
He didn't care if she wanted to stay here, grow up and become terribly boring. And Peter cared even less about John, Michael and the rest of the Lost Boys. They could go on and be men, while he'd get to have no end of adventures. So what if it meant he didn't have a mother, they weren't good for anything anyway.
Tinkerbell, sitting cozily in the oak next to the house, jingled at him as he watched the cheerful reunion scene. He scowled at her. "Of course I don't wish I was in there. Why'd I want something like that?"
To prove it, he leapt to his feet, ready to go without a backward glance. Goodbyes were never good, and maybe Wendy would come back to see him when she realized how dull grown-ups were.
But his foot caught the molding on the edge of the sill, and with an abrupt jerk he started falling toward the gray stone below. Peter never fell, but he did it now. He knew he should have been soaring, but he was more surprised than worried as the ground kept rushing at him.
He caught the fall on his shoulder, the same way all boys who've taken spills learn to. But he landed on soft soil, not a cracked London sidewalk.
Peter scrambled to his feet, hand already on his sword as he looks around with wide eyes. There were fierce trees all around, jungle of a different sort than he was used to. This wasn't Neverland. It wasn't London.
It wasn't anywhere he'd ever been, and Peter figured he'd been about everywhere. And even worse, Peter didn't know how he had got there.
"Tink!" He called in a loud voice, that was almost free of quavering nerves. "Tinkerbell!"
[Peter's just fallen out of nowhere onto the path leading to the Compound. Come make sure he's alright, or break the bad news that he can't fly anymore.]