Peter Pan fic
May. 19th, 2007 09:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosa_cottonTitle: A Bit of Salve and Soul Bonding
Rating: PG (K+)
Disclaimer: Peter Pan, all characters, places, and related terms belong to J.M. Barrie. Running Deer and the plot is mine.
Summary: One very hot day an unanticipated friendship began, and for the first time Peter turned a cold shoulder towards Wendy... Chapter 2: Reaching Out, Withdrawing
~~~
Chapter 2: Reaching Out, Withdrawing
Peter floated restlessly about the house, at times darting about, a tingling sensation tickling his tummy. Once in a while he felt he would explode because of the many feelings inside him raging like a great storm. And no matter where he turned his gaze, somehow Wendy stole into his sight; her appearance did not calm him. She went about cooking supper. He pretended as well as he could not to notice her when she turned puzzled, hurt-filled eyes toward him on occasion.
He drifted onto his back and placed his hands behind his head, rising toward the ceiling, allowing his mind to play over the events of the day…
Peter had followed Wendy from a distance, taking cover among the treetops when she went out with a bucket in each hand. He had observed her in secret many times before, spying on her curiously, usually when he had become bored with the boys’ playing and flown about the island aimlessly. Yet today had been one of the rare times when he purposely, unnoticed, spent the day with Wendy. Sometimes he intentionally would put things he knew she would delight in – such as flowers, a mermaid’s comb, a juicy pear – in a place along her path and excitedly watch to see how pleased she was with his surprise. And then, filled with pride, he would whisper to himself, “Oh the cleverness of me!” He was not sure just why he did not make his presence known when he followed her; he simply did not.
As he had watched from above Wendy struggle to carry the water-filled buckets, he momentarily felt respect toward her as he realized how hard Wendy worked to care for him and the boys. A thought then tugged at his ear: he should help her, for it was what a gentleman should do. And she would be very happy with him. The image of Wendy smiling thankfully up at him had caused Peter to grin cockily and glow with pleasure that he could perhaps make her cheerful. But before he could descend to help her, the Indian boy appeared.
Peter had laid a hand on the hilt of his dagger, prepared to jump to Wendy’s defense. The redskins were now their friends, but Wendy had never come upon one all alone in the jungle. He discovered he would not need his weapon, for the boy offered his services to Wendy. Peter watched the two with great interest. He had been startled by how bruised Wendy’s hands were and the pain they gave her. It was the first Peter became aware of the pain Wendy could suffer from her work. It was a new revelation to Peter, for Wendy had never been troubled by bruises – unlike him and the others – or become ill.
His gaze had become intense when the boy, Running Deer he claimed to be called, took Wendy’s hands into his own; he had stroked them slowly and gently, at times pressing down softly on her upturned palms; and she had winced. Peter had frowned, troubled by what he saw; no one ever done such a gesture to her before. And the boy was hurting her… He was stirred by a tide of emotions washing upon him time and time again, each new wave more powerful and intense than the last, as the minutes slipped by and the scene before him continued to unfold. He wanted to swoop down on the two and put the Indian in his place – for he had no right to hurt Peter’s mother, to touch her like that… But he remained still and hidden against his will. Maybe it was his curiosity, or not wanting Wendy to know he was concerned about her, that kept him where he was. His chest had tightened with an unfamiliar feeling when he saw the relief and ease which replaced the pain on Wendy’s face, and then she turned that smile, that smile when her eyes sparkled onto the boy; that smile that belonged only to Peter. He had gasped silently, and the emotions elevated even more at the look of admiration Wendy gave the boy when he had healed both her hands. In the throes of the new, unknown feelings racing through him, Peter gazed unfavorably down on the Indian boy at the unfamiliar looks the boy sent Wendy who skipped ahead of him. Peter did not understand them, but he could tell they were strange…it was not a look that a son turned to his mother, or an enemy bent on an enemy, or a friend gave a friend. It was something else… What, he did not know.
A fit of possessiveness toward Wendy seized Peter as he trailed the two. And pure hatred formed in his heart toward the Indian who was receiving attentions which rightfully belonged to him; he did not like this strange bond he witnessed between the two: the lingering glances they shared or the way the boy touched her cheek and said her name. The boy should not be permitted to do such things to her, for she was not his Wendy, oh, no! The thought was almost too much for Peter. He would not share his Wendy… The boy did not leave soon enough in Peter’s opinion. He had glared fiery daggers after the boy; but his anger was replaced by distress at seeing the almost dreamy expression on Wendy’s face as the boy disappeared. He felt a sense of betrayal; why did she look so? What was so interesting about this Indian boy? He could not compare to him, Peter Pan, who had taken on the fearsome Hook! He was not wonderful or clever, just a mere Indian boy. But those thoughts did not lighten his mood. He had absolutely no desire to see the Indian boy again, but he was not sure about Wendy…
He had lingered outside, sitting dejectedly on a rock. In the silence and isolation which covered him like a blanket, the feelings swam faster, fighting for dominion in Peter. By the time the boys returned and happily greeted their father, he felt exhausted as he did after a long day of fighting. Jealously burned in his chest toward the Indian boy; and toward Wendy he felt bitter, hurt, angry, uncaring. He grew more upset toward her, for she was the cause of all these feelings, which he rarely experienced, to come upon him all at once.
He had been cold to Wendy since he came inside; it was a wall of protection. He did want to reveal just how much she had broken him. He was strong, carefree, and, after all, captain. Yet he truly was not sure what to do with her. To admit he had seen everything and try to put into words how he felt about the Indian boy and –
With amazing swiftness Peter spun in the air to face Wendy’s back when he heard her gasp, snatching him out of his thoughts. Even with her back to him, he could tell she was cradling one of her hands. Peter landed beside her and reached for the injured hand. Wendy was not aware of him until they touched, and she nearly yelped in surprise. She looked at him startled, but he was concentrating on her hand. Her forefinger was glowing red and swollen, the result of a burn from the pot boiling over the fire. He studied it intently. The hand which had once been smooth, soft, and pink was now red and slightly rough from her many chores she performed day to day. Gently, Peter caressed Wendy’s small hand. On closer inspection, he could see the faint shadows of what was left of her blisters. A small wave of envy quickly passed through him regarding the boy who could make Wendy well. But he shook it off.
He also brought into his grasp Wendy’s other hand and looked it over; it was just like the first. Peter softly ran his thumbs over her palms, massaging the hard skin. A chill ran down his spine, and he shivered.
“Do your hands still hurt?” the words escaped his mouth before he could stop them; his voice sounded strange in his ears. He was not sure how to describe it, but it made him frown in puzzlement. For a moment he had not sounded like a boy.
“No, Peter,” Wendy answered in a soft voice. She secretly was thrilled; it was the first he spoke to her since his return.
The way his name floated down to his ears made Peter tremble once more; it was a pleasant sound. He raised his head and gazed at her wordlessly. Their faces were close together, allowing each to feel the other’s warm breath on their cheeks. Peter tilted his head to one side, searching her face. Wendy was completely still, not wanting to destroy the moment. Her breath caught in her throat when Peter raised a hand and brought it against her cheek. She gazed at him with large eyes and smiled.
Peter blinked once, twice, perhaps feeling a little dazed. It seemed as though Wendy’s face came closer and closer… And when her eyes sparkled at him, his heart leaped in some strange excitement in his chest. Both children stared at each other from lowered lids. The air in the room seemed to become stuffy and warm. Some force drew them nearer to each other.
“Wendy…” Peter sighed softly.
“Goodbye, Wendy…”
Peter froze. It was not the same; how the boy had said her name was different from how he did. Why did Wendy ask him to call her so? She had not done so with the other Indians. Those questions allowed the forgotten emotions to roar up once more, and Peter abruptly ended the moment of reconciliation between him and Wendy.
He pulled back quickly from her and took his hand away. He turned away from her and floated into the air. Immediately he reached for his pipes and proceeded to play a soft tune on them. His music filled the air for several long minutes. Suddenly he halted; now the only sound was the crackling of the fire. He listened hard. Then he heard it again: a tiny sniff. Peter turned his head, sneaking a glance at Wendy. She stood before the boiling kettle, stirring its contents with a wooden spoon slowly. She stood straight with her head held high. Then she rubbed her face on the sleeve of her nightgown and sniffed a third time.
Peter whipped his head around and resumed playing. Now the tune did not sound merry to him; and he was more upset than ever: at himself as well as her and Running Deer. The music danced about him, chanting:
You made her cry! You made her cry! You made her cry! The music mocked him.
It was truly a horrible realization to Peter; for never was he the cause of her tears before. Peter shook violently, heavy guilt another emotion added to the large load he already bore.
Sensing the house was starting to close in on him, Peter bolted out, going so fast he seemed like a shooting star. As he flew, his resentment gained the upper hand. And he wished that Wendy had never laid eyes on that Running Deer.
~~~
Chapter 1
Rating: PG (K+)
Disclaimer: Peter Pan, all characters, places, and related terms belong to J.M. Barrie. Running Deer and the plot is mine.
Summary: One very hot day an unanticipated friendship began, and for the first time Peter turned a cold shoulder towards Wendy... Chapter 2: Reaching Out, Withdrawing
~~~
Chapter 2: Reaching Out, Withdrawing
Peter floated restlessly about the house, at times darting about, a tingling sensation tickling his tummy. Once in a while he felt he would explode because of the many feelings inside him raging like a great storm. And no matter where he turned his gaze, somehow Wendy stole into his sight; her appearance did not calm him. She went about cooking supper. He pretended as well as he could not to notice her when she turned puzzled, hurt-filled eyes toward him on occasion.
He drifted onto his back and placed his hands behind his head, rising toward the ceiling, allowing his mind to play over the events of the day…
Peter had followed Wendy from a distance, taking cover among the treetops when she went out with a bucket in each hand. He had observed her in secret many times before, spying on her curiously, usually when he had become bored with the boys’ playing and flown about the island aimlessly. Yet today had been one of the rare times when he purposely, unnoticed, spent the day with Wendy. Sometimes he intentionally would put things he knew she would delight in – such as flowers, a mermaid’s comb, a juicy pear – in a place along her path and excitedly watch to see how pleased she was with his surprise. And then, filled with pride, he would whisper to himself, “Oh the cleverness of me!” He was not sure just why he did not make his presence known when he followed her; he simply did not.
As he had watched from above Wendy struggle to carry the water-filled buckets, he momentarily felt respect toward her as he realized how hard Wendy worked to care for him and the boys. A thought then tugged at his ear: he should help her, for it was what a gentleman should do. And she would be very happy with him. The image of Wendy smiling thankfully up at him had caused Peter to grin cockily and glow with pleasure that he could perhaps make her cheerful. But before he could descend to help her, the Indian boy appeared.
Peter had laid a hand on the hilt of his dagger, prepared to jump to Wendy’s defense. The redskins were now their friends, but Wendy had never come upon one all alone in the jungle. He discovered he would not need his weapon, for the boy offered his services to Wendy. Peter watched the two with great interest. He had been startled by how bruised Wendy’s hands were and the pain they gave her. It was the first Peter became aware of the pain Wendy could suffer from her work. It was a new revelation to Peter, for Wendy had never been troubled by bruises – unlike him and the others – or become ill.
His gaze had become intense when the boy, Running Deer he claimed to be called, took Wendy’s hands into his own; he had stroked them slowly and gently, at times pressing down softly on her upturned palms; and she had winced. Peter had frowned, troubled by what he saw; no one ever done such a gesture to her before. And the boy was hurting her… He was stirred by a tide of emotions washing upon him time and time again, each new wave more powerful and intense than the last, as the minutes slipped by and the scene before him continued to unfold. He wanted to swoop down on the two and put the Indian in his place – for he had no right to hurt Peter’s mother, to touch her like that… But he remained still and hidden against his will. Maybe it was his curiosity, or not wanting Wendy to know he was concerned about her, that kept him where he was. His chest had tightened with an unfamiliar feeling when he saw the relief and ease which replaced the pain on Wendy’s face, and then she turned that smile, that smile when her eyes sparkled onto the boy; that smile that belonged only to Peter. He had gasped silently, and the emotions elevated even more at the look of admiration Wendy gave the boy when he had healed both her hands. In the throes of the new, unknown feelings racing through him, Peter gazed unfavorably down on the Indian boy at the unfamiliar looks the boy sent Wendy who skipped ahead of him. Peter did not understand them, but he could tell they were strange…it was not a look that a son turned to his mother, or an enemy bent on an enemy, or a friend gave a friend. It was something else… What, he did not know.
A fit of possessiveness toward Wendy seized Peter as he trailed the two. And pure hatred formed in his heart toward the Indian who was receiving attentions which rightfully belonged to him; he did not like this strange bond he witnessed between the two: the lingering glances they shared or the way the boy touched her cheek and said her name. The boy should not be permitted to do such things to her, for she was not his Wendy, oh, no! The thought was almost too much for Peter. He would not share his Wendy… The boy did not leave soon enough in Peter’s opinion. He had glared fiery daggers after the boy; but his anger was replaced by distress at seeing the almost dreamy expression on Wendy’s face as the boy disappeared. He felt a sense of betrayal; why did she look so? What was so interesting about this Indian boy? He could not compare to him, Peter Pan, who had taken on the fearsome Hook! He was not wonderful or clever, just a mere Indian boy. But those thoughts did not lighten his mood. He had absolutely no desire to see the Indian boy again, but he was not sure about Wendy…
He had lingered outside, sitting dejectedly on a rock. In the silence and isolation which covered him like a blanket, the feelings swam faster, fighting for dominion in Peter. By the time the boys returned and happily greeted their father, he felt exhausted as he did after a long day of fighting. Jealously burned in his chest toward the Indian boy; and toward Wendy he felt bitter, hurt, angry, uncaring. He grew more upset toward her, for she was the cause of all these feelings, which he rarely experienced, to come upon him all at once.
He had been cold to Wendy since he came inside; it was a wall of protection. He did want to reveal just how much she had broken him. He was strong, carefree, and, after all, captain. Yet he truly was not sure what to do with her. To admit he had seen everything and try to put into words how he felt about the Indian boy and –
With amazing swiftness Peter spun in the air to face Wendy’s back when he heard her gasp, snatching him out of his thoughts. Even with her back to him, he could tell she was cradling one of her hands. Peter landed beside her and reached for the injured hand. Wendy was not aware of him until they touched, and she nearly yelped in surprise. She looked at him startled, but he was concentrating on her hand. Her forefinger was glowing red and swollen, the result of a burn from the pot boiling over the fire. He studied it intently. The hand which had once been smooth, soft, and pink was now red and slightly rough from her many chores she performed day to day. Gently, Peter caressed Wendy’s small hand. On closer inspection, he could see the faint shadows of what was left of her blisters. A small wave of envy quickly passed through him regarding the boy who could make Wendy well. But he shook it off.
He also brought into his grasp Wendy’s other hand and looked it over; it was just like the first. Peter softly ran his thumbs over her palms, massaging the hard skin. A chill ran down his spine, and he shivered.
“Do your hands still hurt?” the words escaped his mouth before he could stop them; his voice sounded strange in his ears. He was not sure how to describe it, but it made him frown in puzzlement. For a moment he had not sounded like a boy.
“No, Peter,” Wendy answered in a soft voice. She secretly was thrilled; it was the first he spoke to her since his return.
The way his name floated down to his ears made Peter tremble once more; it was a pleasant sound. He raised his head and gazed at her wordlessly. Their faces were close together, allowing each to feel the other’s warm breath on their cheeks. Peter tilted his head to one side, searching her face. Wendy was completely still, not wanting to destroy the moment. Her breath caught in her throat when Peter raised a hand and brought it against her cheek. She gazed at him with large eyes and smiled.
Peter blinked once, twice, perhaps feeling a little dazed. It seemed as though Wendy’s face came closer and closer… And when her eyes sparkled at him, his heart leaped in some strange excitement in his chest. Both children stared at each other from lowered lids. The air in the room seemed to become stuffy and warm. Some force drew them nearer to each other.
“Wendy…” Peter sighed softly.
“Goodbye, Wendy…”
Peter froze. It was not the same; how the boy had said her name was different from how he did. Why did Wendy ask him to call her so? She had not done so with the other Indians. Those questions allowed the forgotten emotions to roar up once more, and Peter abruptly ended the moment of reconciliation between him and Wendy.
He pulled back quickly from her and took his hand away. He turned away from her and floated into the air. Immediately he reached for his pipes and proceeded to play a soft tune on them. His music filled the air for several long minutes. Suddenly he halted; now the only sound was the crackling of the fire. He listened hard. Then he heard it again: a tiny sniff. Peter turned his head, sneaking a glance at Wendy. She stood before the boiling kettle, stirring its contents with a wooden spoon slowly. She stood straight with her head held high. Then she rubbed her face on the sleeve of her nightgown and sniffed a third time.
Peter whipped his head around and resumed playing. Now the tune did not sound merry to him; and he was more upset than ever: at himself as well as her and Running Deer. The music danced about him, chanting:
You made her cry! You made her cry! You made her cry! The music mocked him.
It was truly a horrible realization to Peter; for never was he the cause of her tears before. Peter shook violently, heavy guilt another emotion added to the large load he already bore.
Sensing the house was starting to close in on him, Peter bolted out, going so fast he seemed like a shooting star. As he flew, his resentment gained the upper hand. And he wished that Wendy had never laid eyes on that Running Deer.
~~~
Chapter 1
no subject
Date: 2007-09-11 10:55 pm (UTC)Anyways, this is brilliant, just like everything else you've written so far and I look forward to your update!