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Honeydew	By : Panymede Category: M through R > Peter Pan > Slash Views: 4161 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter 3

The clouds are thick and gloomy, the skies brooding and dark, despite it being past midday. I’m not sure if the weather is reflecting Pan or me, but given the boy’s persistent unconscious state I think Neverland is hearkening more to me at the moment. I really, honestly, have no idea of what I am going to do. Yesterday I was filled with righteous anger and arrogant in my purpose. It was clear to me then, my course in what to with the boy. His allies had betrayed him, so therefore I would save him. Simple, yes? I would take him away, keep him safe until he was well and clear-headed once more, and then let him choose his own destiny.

I’m a fool, and as I stare down at Peter’s sleeping face, I curse myself for my idiocy. What in the blazing pits of hell do I know about caring for a child, much less this eldritch child? He’s sick, sick in body and in soul, and I quake at the awful responsibility I have shouldered by taking him. All in the name of love, if you can call what I feel ‘love’. I’m a fool. He’s a child, an eternal child, and capable of neither comprehending nor returning my ardor. The part of me that burns for him whispers that I could teach him, and I shudder in agony and delight at the thought.

Brimstone and gall! What have I done, bringing the object of my desire to my bedroom?

I’ve been sitting here for the past hour, watching him sleep and monitoring his fever. His temperature is high, his face flushed and his pulse rapid, and it is becoming progressively worse. He should be waking soon. Indeed, for the past several minutes his sleep has shown signs of agitation – flinching and tossing instead of the heavy, dead slumber he’s been under since he fell unconscious last night.

“Awake yet, Cap’n?” Smee asks as he brings a bowl of fresh water. The bosun’s tone is hopeful yet cautious. He thinks he knows why I’ve brought the boy here. He thinks I intend to nurse the child back to health so that he’ll be strong enough to endure whatever tortures I intend for him. Once upon a time I would have done exactly that… I’d still do something as cruel as that if this were some other prisoner. My feelings for this boy may have become tender, but I have not. I am still Captain James Hook, and Smee knows it well.

“Not yet, Smee,” I answer, watching as the bosun dips the cloth into the fresh water and dabbing it across Peter’s throat. “I think his fever is rising. We may have to put him in a cool bath if it gets much higher. Can you…”

A whimper gives me pause, and I look down at Peter, hoping against hope. He’s becoming more animated, his eyelashes are fluttering, and I feel a surge of relief when I see those heavy lids open. “No,” he whispers, his voice hoarse as his eyes try to focus upon me. “Where…” his eyes close briefly, and it seems he’s struggling to remain awake. “James?”

He’s still calling me James, then. I had wondered about that before, after the first Revel. He’s always called me Captain or Hook, sometimes Codfish, but never before had he called me James. Then again, never before had he ever kissed me or said he loved me, so obviously he’s still in the throes of whatever delusion he entertained under the honeydew. On the one hand, it will make it much easier for Smee to tend to him, if he doesn’t feel threatened. If he were to awaken and see me as his enemy, there would certainly be a fight to get him to let us help. On the other hand, if things are to ever go back to the way they were before, for him to become his old, cocky self again, I cannot allow him to believe I care for him.

“You’re aboard my ship, Pan,” I tell him, making sure my voice is calm and soft. “Do you remember last night, at the Revel? I asked you if you wanted to come home with me, if you wanted to stay here. You said you did, so I carried you here. Remember?”

Peter’s pale forehead creases in a small frown, but soon it relaxes and he gives me a wan smile. “Home… with you. Yes, you promised not to leave me alone.” His whole body follows suit, relaxing into the bed with a soft sigh. “I don’t feel good.”

“You’re sick, Pan,” I tell him, and it takes every ounce of self control not to launch into a tirade and berate him for doing what he knows is forbidden, for joining in the Revels and partaking of the honeydew. I know what grief does to a man, and I’m no stranger to the allure of finding forgetfulness in drink. After losing my hand, I spent a solid month in an inebriated stupor, and there were countless times after that when I would feel the despair and depression take hold of me again and I would seek to drown the pain. It was that which drove me to the Revel myself, and I understand all too well how easy it is to fall to the temptation. It’s all the more reason to make him regret what he’s done, so that he’ll never be tempted again by the fairies’ deadly brew. Perhaps I’ll punish him for attending the Revels just to ensure he’s learned his lesson, but not now. He’s too ill, and if he lives through this I’ll make sure he never touches that poison again.

“I was supposed to die,” he mumbles, and I blink in surprise, wondering if I’d misheard him. “They made me throw it up.”

“Throw what up?” I ask him, feeling my worry heighten.

“I ate something bad,” he answers, trying unsuccessfully to sit up in the bed. His arms are too weak and he falls back upon the pillows. “Bad berries… bellamamma I think. Something like that. They were awfully mad at me.”

“Belladonna?” I press and he nods his head, wincing at the ache I know is pounding in his skull. Perhaps the pixies have earned my forbearance after all. If they saved his life yesterday, then perhaps I won’t torture the beastly little insects before I kill them. “Did you know they were poisonous when you ate them?” He nods his head again and I feel my anger at him rise. “You little fool! Why would you try to kill yourself?”

“Because you left me,” he whispers, the sound accompanied by a soft sob. His eyes squeeze shut, his mouth trembling as he struggles not to cry. “You didn’t want me… no one wants me.” His eyes open once more, and I can’t help but frown at the fever-shine in them. Or perhaps I’m frowning at the hesitant hopefulness I suddenly see in his expression. “But you came back. You came back for me.”

“I wasn’t very well going to let you drink your life away, boy,” I snap, surprising myself with my vehemence. It isn’t just that I’m angry at him for letting himself get to this state; it’s that I can’t tell him the truth, that the thought of doing so fills me with fear. Because I think I love you, and I want nothing more than to take you in my arms and never let go. I don’t say that, I can’t. He’s too young to understand, and it will only make things worse later on. Better to continue my role as his enemy, its safer that way, and simpler. “I still want my revenge, Pan,” I lie, my voice carrying its customary haughty sneer. God, I hate myself, I hate this island, and I wish I could hate that boy for turning my life upside down and making me love him. “I swore to you long ago that I’d kill you, and kill you I shall.”

I see the hopeful expression leave his eyes, replaced by a look of deep hurt and… betrayal? I haven’t betrayed him! I’m keeping up his game for him; I’m playing the role he set me long ago. I’m the only one that has. The way he’s staring at me is painful, but I harden my resolve and fight away the urge to take him in my arms and kiss away his pain. It’s for his own good.

“Then why don’t you do it?” Peter asks, looking away, and I can’t tell if he’s daring me or begging me. “Why didn’t you finish me when…” he trails off, his hand gingerly touching his bruised face. I won’t apologize for hitting him. It was the only way to save him, and myself.

“There’s no satisfaction in killing a worthy opponent when he’s too drunk to stand,” I tell him. “Really, Pan, I never expected you to become a lush. I thought you were better than that.” Peter doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me, and I shake my head. I don’t have to fake my disapproval. “Once you’re past your need for the pixies’ honeydew and recovered your strength, we’ll continue our little game of Hook versus Pan. Until then, I offer you a truce. As my guest, you’ll rest in my bed and Smee will tend to you. When you’re fit, our truce will end; we will fight and I will kill you.”

“I thought you loved me,” he murmurs as he turns his attention to the chain attached to his left wrist. “You said you did.” I can’t respond to that; I find myself unable to deny my feelings any more than I can tell the truth, so I remain silent. He gives the chain a few, halfhearted tugs, and I can see tears filling his eyes as he steadfastly refuses to look at me. “You lied,” he continues, his voice steady, belying his evident distress. “You’re Captain Hook; you don’t love anything… especially not me.”

I turn away from him then, knowing I have to get away before I capitulate to my need to comfort him. It’s taking every ounce of willpower I possess not to apologize to him, not to reassure him that he is indeed loved. I look to Smee, feeling my self-possession return at his pitying expression. He can save his pity for Pan; the boy’s going to need it. “Feed him, Smee, and keep him comfortable. I want him well.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Smee acknowledges, taking my place by the boy’s side. I watch a moment as Smee begins to tend the boy, noting that Peter still refuses to look at me. Fat tears roll down his bruised cheeks

“Get well, soon, Pan,” I tell him as I leave, meaning the sentiment with all my heart. I want to see him rosy with health. I want to see him smile like he owns the world and I want to hear him laugh like he hasn’t a care in the world. I want my Peter Pan back.

*********************************

“It won’t be much longer, Cap’n Hook, sir,” Smee says softly. “He wants ta see ya.”

Of course he does, I think bitterly. He’s only been screaming for me for the past five days.

For five days I have avoided him, spending the hours stalking the deck, harassing and abusing the unkempt louts whom I have the misfortune to call my crew. I’ve learned that if I shout loudly enough at some hapless idiot to perform some meaningless chore, I won’t hear the boy’s desperate cries. If I can keep my rage at a simmering boil, finding fault with even the most properly executed bit of seamanship the lackeys’ perform, I won’t have room in my heart to care that he’s locked away in my cabin, screaming, begging, crying for me and whatever mercy he thinks I can bring him.

For five nights I have forsaken my cabin, drinking below decks with the brutes and playing cards. I’ve lately discovered I quite enjoy the game, and once I convinced the men that I wouldn’t necessarily kill them if they won a hand or two, it became a bit more of a challenge. The deck lies nearly abandoned in the night, Pan’s incessant cries are too unnerving for any of us to stomach anymore, and the raucous noise of drunken, bickering sailors calms me in a way only the finest of music could before. And late in the night when the boy has finally passed into fitful slumber, I stumble into my cabin to find my hammock and my own blessed rest. Smee never fails to have the dressing screen set up beside the bed, hiding the boy from my sight. Despite my drunken exhaustion, I never fail to feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards the bosun for that consideration… for everything the old man has done for the boy in these five days.

I’d almost come to hope that once Pan’s addiction to the honeydew had been broken, Smee would be able to send the brat back home without me ever having to have laid eyes on him again. It would have been best if this could have been so. Pan would be restored to health once more, filled with the cockiness and pride that I loved to despise in him. He’d go home and resume his carefree existence, forgetting the ones he’d lost and finding new companionship among the fairies, a new magical friend that would be his closest confidant and most loyal supporter. He’d go back to the mainland and return with a new legion of snot-nosed urchins to worship at his feet and swoon over his every conceited declaration. He’d come to challenge me again, his eyes flashing with excitement and delight as he’d taunt me and spread his old chaos among my ranks. And I would feel comfortable rage in my heart, perhaps even the old hatred that I’d not felt in so long, and I would become his arch-nemesis once more, meeting his challenge and finding simple, unadulterated joy in the bright red blood I would draw on the rare occasions when he’d allow me to get close enough to wound him.

I’d almost come to hope this dream would become reality, that he and I could return to what we were before. Things had been simpler then, and I miss those days terribly. I miss the days when I would have delighted in hearing him cry, in hearing him scream, pleading to be freed. I would have been at his side in those days, gloating over his wan, fevered body – perhaps teasing him and making him beg for the relief of cool water to drink. I would have taunted him about the ones who left him behind - his fairy friend, his lost boys, his Wendy. I would have insulted him over his illness, deriding him for how weak he’s become, for how pathetically stupid he was to seek out the fairy Revels. In those days, I would have let him go. I would have let him return to the pixies he trusted so that he could damn himself further with his childish inability to cope with the reality of death.

Instead I’ve hidden from him, afraid to see how sick he is. The first morning after I brought him to my ship I realized how much of a mistake I’d made in carrying him away from the Revel. It wrenched something inside me I’d thought long dead when I gazed upon his pale, bruised face, and saw his fevered desperate eyes staring at me with needy hope. The overwhelming urge to take him in my arms and give him comfort terrified me more than the crocodile ever managed, and when I heard him call for me, pleading for my help and declaring what he in his delirium thinks is his love for me… I could do nothing except flee. I can not indulge him or myself, it would change things irrevocably between us. I want my old hatred back. I want my old Pan back. I don’t want to love him anymore, and I don’t want him to love me.

Liar, a voice whispers in my mind, and I can’t suppress the shame I feel when I recall the dreams I continue to have, dreams in which Peter is grown and we are together in ways God never meant men to be.

Now it is the sixth day, and I realize now that none of my dreams will ever come true. I suspected it when I went to my cabin last night and heard his wheezing, labored breath. This morning I’d awakened to silence instead of the boy’s customary whimpers, and I’d seen the look of despair on Smee’s face as he’d prepared the boy’s morning round of wet cloths and warm broth. I should have left him with the fairies. He was too far gone for me to hope to save him, and instead of allowing him to fade into blissful, eternal sleep I’ve made his last days a burning agony of fever and withdrawal.

If I still hated him, I would have rejoiced. But I love him and all I feel is the need to weep for the dying child and for myself.

“He’s awake, Cap’n,” Smee continues. “But I don’t think he’ll wake again. He’s not even trying anymore, th’ poor lad’s given up. It’s his dyin’ wish to see ya, Cap’n, and it’s a horrible thing to ignore a death-bed summons.”

I nod in reply, accepting that I am bound to go to the boy. I can hear the collective sigh of relief from the crew… the superstitious idiots probably think the ship would be cursed if I’d ignored the summons. There’s no harm in seeing him now. He’s going to die. He’ll never go home and he’ll never be what he was before… I’ll never be what I was before, without him. There’s no reason to hide anymore.

The room is stale and dim, reeking of sickness and sweat. The windows have been thrown open, but the weather outside is slate grey and still, offering no improvement to the cabin’s atmosphere. I wonder vaguely what the skies will be like after he dies and I hope that I will find the strength somehow to hold the weather at bay and keep my ship from becoming icebound forever. My eyes go to the bed and I see that the screen is gone, exposing the small form lying upon the sheets to my sight. My stomach drops at what I behold and I rush to his side, kneeling beside the bed while I silently curse myself for my stubborn stupidity. I never should have brought him here. I never should have stayed away.

“Peter?” I call softly, reaching out to lay my hand upon his pale, gaunt face. I expected to feel his skin burning with fever but instead I find that he is cool to the touch… too cool. I just begin to fear that he’s died all here all alone when his eyes flutter open and he sighs. My heart lurches with relief and I begin to dread the aftermath of his passing even more.

“James,” he whispers, his bleary eyes fixing upon me as his lips turn up into a faint smile. “You came back. Finally…”

“Smee said you wanted me, so I came,” I reply softly.

The boy’s wan smile collapses into a weak frown, and I’m alarmed to see tears gathering in his eyes. “I don’t want you here… not anymore. You lied to me… you left me just like everyone else left me. You only came to watch me die!” his voice grows stronger as his anger rises, and I can hear the tones of bitter betrayal in the sound. Guilt coils in my gut and I desperately try to think of something I can say to assuage it.

“That’s not true,” I insist, resting my hand upon his shoulder. “I only wanted you to get well, so I left you to Smee’s care. I didn’t want to interfere with your recovery, Peter.”

“Liar,” the boy hisses. “You don’t care… I thought you loved me…you promised me you’d never leave me but you did! I called and called for you… Mr. Smee said you were gone to find me medicine but he lied too. I could hear you out on deck yelling at your men. Why did you leave me all alone?”

“I did what I thought best,” I insist, my guilt rising higher. A tear spills from his eye and his chin trembles as he tries and fails to suppress his emotion. I brush the wetness away with my fingertips and the boy squeezes his eyes shut as if in pain. “Are you hurt?” I ask, alarmed at the thought of him suffering.

“Go away,” he answers, his voice shaking. “Just go away. Don’t pretend you care… its too cruel, even for you.”

“No.” I won’t leave him, not at this point. He’s standing on the threshold of death’s door, and I refuse to make him take that last step alone. I have no patience for the children or the sick and I have no doubt that had I tried to attend him during his illness, things would have not gone well. But I do wish that I had tried, that I had offered him what comfort I could while there was time. I didn’t expect him to die… I didn’t realize I only had these few precious days with him before I would lose him for all eternity. I won’t waste these last few hours, too. “I want to stay with you Peter, and I want you to stay with me too.”

“Cruel,” the boy moans, turning his face away as he pulls the sheet tighter around his body. I can see his entire frame shaking beneath the covers, and a moment later he loses his fragile control and begins to cry.

I act according to an instinct I never knew I possessed, reaching out in response to his alarmingly weak sobs. I gather him in my arms and lift him up, carrying him to a seat beside the window. I sit carefully, arranging him across my lap like a lanky, slightly emaciated infant and cradle him close. He fights me, but he’s too weak to make even a halfhearted effort, and all too soon he gives up.

Peter presses his face against my chest and continues to cry, clutching at my shirt desperately. “I’ve got you, Pan,” I try to reassure him, unsettled by his tears. “I’m not being cruel. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m here now; I’m here and I promise I won’t leave you again.” My reassurance only makes things worse at first as the boy’s sobs seem to intensify, but I hold him firmly and continue to speak to him softly, telling him over and over that I’ll stay for as long as he wants. Eventually he tires and his cries fade away to silence as his body slips into an exhausted sleep.

I briefly consider carrying him back to the bed and leaving him to go have a drink, but I immediately crush that thought. The child is dying, his body lacks the strength and his spirit lacks the will to survive, and there’s every likelihood that he’ll never awaken again. But I gave my word to him and this time I will keep it. I will remain with him and I won’t let him go, not until his soul has taken flight and left his mortal coil to cool in my arms. I pray that he will awaken again; I don’t want the last waking moments of his life to have been wasted in tears. I’m going to remain here and hold him, so that if he wakes he’ll know that he’s not alone; so that he’ll know I do care for him and that, in the end, I remained true.
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Honeydew