Chapter Text
Running was something Wendy used to enjoy. Running through the countryside during holidays with her family, the tall grass tangling around her ankles. Running to the nearest library or sweets shop when her parents gave her coin. Running from her brothers as her sides ached from giggling.
And now she loathed it. Running meant something was chasing her. The boys howled and clambered behind her through the brush of the jungle. Tearing through the foliage with the ferocity of animals, their delightful chorus of hooting surrounding her. The humid slickness of sweat and fear clung to her as her legs began to falter beneath her.
The dress had already torn when she had fallen and caught the rough side of a log. It kept the thin, stained fabric and left her with a jagged cut lengthwise across her calf. The unevenly tightened laces on the corset were coming undone by the time she had reached the rocky coastline. The water lapped enticingly at her feet as the bellowing laughter of Pan’s lost boys became increasingly louder and louder.
Swimming meant drowning. Or finding her limbs in between a creature’s teeth. It would end the same, with scavengers picking at her waterlogged corpse.
She faced the tree line. She could see the glow of their torches through the understory of the forest.
Being caught would be decidedly worse. Slower. Drawn out until every boy grew bored of her.
At least this would be her choice.
Wendy charged the water, plunging into its fridged, unforgiving waves. The salt found her wound immediately, sending a burn that traveled the length of her leg. It nearly shocked her enough to stop kicking.
She hadn’t turned back, lapping against the current, but she could hear the cackles and shouts where they watched from the shoreline. They listened to her gag on the haunted water, hollering for sea serpents and mermaids to fetch her.
Eventually the waves were so loud and surrounding that Wendy could no longer see or hear the lost boys. It was a blessing, she thought in her hysteria, at least in death she’d be spared from their company.
This was it. She coughed, gasping for air as she continued to swim, her limbs growing heavy with fatigue. She didn’t want to die on that island.
Not for the first time since Peter Pan lured them to Neverland, Wendy pictured home. The slobbery dog. The bedroom she shared with Michael and John, where stories would come to life against the backdrop of a smog filled London. Her mother’s lulling voice. Her father’s reassuring smile.
Darkness spotted Wendy’s vision until it was all consuming. This was merciful. After everything, Wendy could gratefully welcome a merciful death.
She stopped fighting the waves. And sank.
“Behold!” Pan cheered, gesturing with his arms towards a vacant Wendy. “Our bride!”
She was presented in an old, white dress taken from a faraway land. The pink laces were only half done in the back as some were missing. It made the bodice hang loosely on her narrow shoulders. The skirt was cut roughly to her ankles.
It sickenly reminded her of the dress kept in the trunk in her bedroom. The one she’d wear over her pajamas if her and her brothers were playing knights and princesses. (“Why am I always the princess,” she complained. “You’re the girl!” John had reminded, pointedly. “Besides, we only have two swords.”)
The lost boys had picked flowers to tuck in her mousy hair and painted her lips with berry juice.
From where she stood, she could see John and Michael’s heads on spikes, their tattered clothes tied around the supporting stick.
Before Wendy had fully disappeared into the darkness of the sea, a net snagged against her limbs and pulled her limp body from the depths. The crew yanked her over port side, grunting as they let her figure plop onto the baseboards of the Jolly Roger.
“It’s a girl!” Mr. Smee gawked, backing up two spaces from the unconscious Wendy, as if some unidentifiable, hellish creature would’ve been preferred.
Hook raised an eyebrow. The moonlight cast a sheen over the pale, wiry human-shaped thing they had fished. He’s been around these waters long enough to harbor a healthy amount of skepticism. “Alive?”
“I don’t want to touch it! Cap’n, it’s bad luck to have a woman ‘board,” Smee reminded. A few numbskulls nodded beside him, inching back.
Hook rolled his eyes. Yes, true. Having Milah aboard did bring about some misfortune, but Killian tried not to let superstition dictate too many of his decisions.
Instead, Killian groaned and assessed the catch himself. He kneeled down, picking off the netting with his hook. She must’ve been one of Pan’s kids, although he’s been here a while and never crossed paths with a girl.
She was small. And barefoot. Her light brownish hair tangled in front of her face. Dressed in adult clothing that didn’t fit. Much of the ripped dress was stained in red and upon further inspection, he noticed the steadily bleeding gash running from knee to ankle.
He only joustled her a bit to free the net—he didn’t need all that blood seeping through the rope and attracting larger creatures on its next use—when the girl sprang up, vomiting a stomach full of salt water. She coughed choppily, tears and snot bubbling out of her eyes and nose respectfully.
“There, there, lass.” Killian gave her a few hearty thwaps on her back, forcing her to expel more.
It took Wendy a moment to get her wherewithal. Even with Neverland’s perpetual darkness, her eyes still needed to adjust. When she had, she suddenly shrunk away from Killian’s reach, giving him an unsure, feral sort of look with her back pressed into the side of the ship.
“She lives after all,” Killian commented, coming to his feet. “Perhaps some lessons are in order before your next swim.” He teased, garnering some snickers from the crew.
Her eyes, Killian noticed, were a startling bluish gray, and fearful. She shivered and said nothing, tucking her arms into her chest. It was then Killian noticed the angry skin around her wrists, then more around her ankles.
He swallowed at the thought that passed through his mind. “Fetch her something more fitting,” he said suddenly. When no one moved he barked, “sometime this century! Make sure they’re small. And I’ll need the medical bag.”
The crew scrambled into movement, which Wendy watched intently. Killian hovered above her, debating on whether he wanted to engage in whatever involvement she came with.
He had encountered Peter Pan only a few times, although that had been enough to make him wary of the child shaped demon.
“What do they call you, lass?” Killian ventured, narrowing his eyes when Wendy didn’t answer. Killian waited. Impatiently. “Generally when someone asks for your name the polite response is to give it.”
“Medical bag, Captain,” one bullishly built deckhand said, his arms covered in sun blotched tattoos. He glanced in Wendy’s direction once before briskly walking away.
Killian bent down again, opening the bag before gesturing towards her leg. “That will need to be tended to.” He dug out a small bottle of rum and a sewing needle with thread already tied around it.
“Let me,” Wendy said—more demanded—in a coarse voice, holding out her trembling hand towards him.
“She speaks.” He tilted his head, trying and failing to get a read on her. She hadn’t seemed entirely thankful to be rescued. “You’re unsteady, but if it pleases her highness, be my guest.” Killian handed her the small glass bottle and the slightly bent needle. He didn’t notice her grimace at the nickname.
She held the items in her hands, willing herself to stop shaking. The soaked clothes clung heavily to her but the cold had seeped to her bones. Wendy’s bottom lip quivered, numb finger tips barely holding the needle.
“Wendy Darling,” she responded. When Killian offered his hand again, she obliged, returning the items.
“Killian Jones,” he found himself saying. Then thought better of it, “There’s a ‘Captain’ in front of that.”
“I’ve heard of you,” she admitted, her teeth clattering against each other. Hook wondered what was taking them so long with the clothes. “Pan told us you hunted lost boys for fun.”
His frown deepened but he quickly shook it off with a scoff. “Who says I don’t?” They briefly held eye contact when Wendy glanced up. He was surprised by her expression. Something akin to amusement buried beneath a wall of exhaustion. “This will sting.”
He poured the rum over her wound, then the needle. Wendy only clenched her fists, muffling a whimper with a closed mouth.
Again, the frail little thing surprised him by barely acknowledging when the needle crossed from side to side in her skin. She only pinched her eyes closed and let it happen.
“I wanna go home,” Michael cried, clinging to Wendy.
“We should’ve never come here,” John grimaced, pushing his glasses up. One of the lenses was cracked.
Wendy schooled her expression, trying not to tear up herself as she draped her arm over Michael. “We stick to the plan. No matter what.” When she looked John in the eyes, she could swear he looked much older. He resolved her uneasiness with a reassuring nod.
“Done, Darling.” Hook announced, taking a swig of rum before tucking away into the bag. “It will probably scar regardless of my perfect stitching.”
She peered at the mended flesh, black threaded through her skin like she was made of linen. “Thank you,” she muttered quietly.
Before Killian could respond, Smee had returned with a stack of clothes. “Best we could find, Cap’n Hook. She’ll probably have to roll the pants up. And we found some burlap scraps to shove in the boots to make ‘em fit better.” The red capped deckhand peeked at Wendy once before directing his attention solely on Hook.
“Good—“
“We, uhm…” Smee interrupted, half gesturing with his head towards the living quarters. “Made a pot of tea, too. On account of the chill.”
“Trying to make friends, Smee? Still think we should toss her back?”
Smee removed his hat in a shocked state, fiddling with it. “Never said that, Cap’n, sir! Swear it. Only that women bring bad luck. But she’s,” Smee gave her another panicked look, “hardly old enough to bring any bad luck just yet, right sir?”
Killian came to his feet with the medical bag neatly packed again. “We’ll see what kind’ve luck the lass brings.”
—
After weeks bleed into years on Neverland, sleep evades you. Hunger is hollow but no amount of food will sasiate you. Wendy learned this later, when Michael admitted to forgetting mama’s voice and Peter was becoming tired of Wendy’s stories.
Wendy was led by Mr. Smee to a room with stacked beds and gently swaying hammocks. They kept books on the mattresses, scribbled drawings were tacked to the walls. Resting on a barrel on the far side of the room was a chipped mug, steam swirling from the top.
Mr. Smee was incredibly fidgety, stammering something as he thrusted the clothes and well worn boots into Wendy’s hand and fled the room. She surveyed her surroundings in the light of the oil lamps and melted candles. Besides the odd book, which she’d examine later, there didn't seem much she could use. That was until she found a small knife embedded in one of the pillars.
Pan was adamant that the pirates weren’t to be trusted. Guileful, was the word he used. He often liked using words the children were too young to understand. When lost boys began to turn up dead, he cried, cradling their limp forms. Through his tears, he told everyone how the pirates—that treacherous Captain Hook—scoured the island for boys who had wandered away from camp.
“We’re a family,” Peter said, crocodile tears dribbling down his chin. “He’s jealous. He wants it for himself. We mustn't let him have it. We have to always stick together.”
Then, Wendy had been inclined to believe him. He so easily cultivated belief, charming them until they clung to every word. She thought about this as she retrieved the small, rusted knife, keeping it close to her person while she changed.
The dress fell off her shoulders with a wet splat on the warped wood flooring. She made quick work getting the rough pants over her sore, aching legs. Smee had been right, she had to roll the ankles twice and the waistband once before she was sure it wouldn’t slip off. The black blouse was loose but certainly a better fit than the dress had been.
The boots were at least two sizes too big but stuffing the burlap in the toes had helped. She had gone long enough without shoes that the soles of her feet were calloused and scarred.
Eventually Wendy’s tired eyes found the gentle rolls of steam from the cup again and slowly her newly covered feet carried her towards it. Something warm. Her hands wrapped around the wide base, letting the heat seep into her.
She let the liquid burn her tongue, scorching her salt stained throat. It wasn't sweet like she used to like her tea, with far too many spoonfuls of sugar that even her mother questioned her, but bitter. Small herbs floated at the bottom of the mug.
For the first time in ages, Wendy thought she might actually sleep. She looked for a bed that looked mostly unoccupied. No books or blankets or pillows with head imprints. Leaving the water logged dress to decompose on the floor, she climbed to the top bunk and collapsed on the thin mattress, letting unconsciousness take her again.