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Peter Captured	By : lexyhamilton Category: M through R > Peter Pan > Slash Views: 19631 -:- 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
- 5
- 6
- 7
Hook had taken dishearteningly many precautions to prevent any chance of escape for Peter during the excursion. Only Smee had been left to man the ship, the rest piling themselves into two longboats. On the way to shore, Peter’s wrist had been manacled to Alf's, who was charged with restraining the chained boy even further in his thick, workman arms. And now, trudging through a trail overgrown with thick vegetation, following all the other crewmembers, Alf was carrying Peter as little more than cargo or a rifle, branches of trees occasionally snapping into his face and legs. Not to suggest that Peter did not enjoy the softer caresses of leaves, and the residual dew they left on his skin-- the forest, not the sea, was his element, after all, and he savored this return, even if it was to be enjoyed only from the confines of a filthy pirate's grip.

Their destination, however, was far less pleasant. Hook, upon coming to Neverland, had stationed his first treasure hold in a dank cave so deep that only torches provided any illumination. The humidity was high, despite the chill of the unmoving air, and water constantly dripped down every wall and salty stalactite. The torch in each pirate's hand cast strange shadows on the stone, and the faint squeak of bats far away was rather unnerving. Hook pressed on, oblivious to his surroundings, eager to reach the trove as soon as possible. When they finally entered the cavern, Peter heard the pirates' breath hitch in their throats. The grotto was very large, and the floor was strewn so thick with treasure that it was difficult to walk. Most of the articles were gold and silver, and scattered out of wooden chests that probably at some point served as their containers. Peter's eyes happened on an open chest overflowing with silk dresses, the white ruffles of their hems hanging over the edge vaguely recalling Wendy's nightgown to him. There was a gratingly familiar tingle starting in his nose, and the boy had to look away to avoid embarrassing himself needlessly.

"We used to have it grouped by raid, remember, mates?" Robert smirked.

Cecco leered, the sharp shadows on his face making it all the more hideous. "Yeah, until we all got drunk in here one night."

Having reached the approximate center of the cavern, Hook turned to his crewmen. "We're planning to leave this island in a few days, so take as many items as we can carry. I don't think any of us have the patience to go back for seconds, and we can leave the rest here with no worries. No one seems to know of this island, as we haven't had visitors in all our time here."

Peter looked a bit puzzled, but opted to say nothing.

"Am I going to be a nurse and sit with the kid all day?" Alf asked with obvious irritation, as the rest of the crew scattered out, looking for the most compact valuables.

"Chain him up somewhere, for the time being," Hook said, unlocking the manacle around Alf’s wrist while the pirate held Peter tightly to prevent his escape. Peter was chained to a stalactite near one side of the cavern and finally left to himself. Everyone was at a distance and the light from their torches was fairly dim. The pain in his side made it difficult to stand, so Peter sat down on the hard, damp floor, eyeing the treasures that ignited the men’s passions to such frenzy. Even Hook, with his fairly disinterested attitude towards the most pleasurable of things on the ship, was uncharacteristically giddy. The gold glinted beautifully, Peter admitted, but it was hardly as pleasing as the stillness of the mermaid lagoon in the grayness of early dawn, nor as visually exciting as the profusion of lights at a fairy orgy. Pirates were odd, even for human beings, Peter decided, smiling wistfully when he remembered the young fairy's assessment of his species. Nostalgia was hitting him hard as the earlier prospects of escape all but disappeared.

"Hey, mates, I found our store of rum!" Starkey called out, and Peter saw the torches begin to congregate around the source of the voice.

The boredom of the ship that Peter sought to escape came back full force as he continued to sit among the treasures. It was not a boredom of place but of confinement itself, Peter acknowledged reluctantly, and from this he saw no sure way of escape. It was then his eyes settled on the faint glint of something peculiar-- metal, but not gold, surprisingly unassuming amongst the gaudy richness of the other items. It was within his reach, and he pulled at it cautiously. To his utter delight, he saw a beautiful long blade begin emerging from inside the pile. He slid it out slowly, lest he should bring attention to himself from the others, and could hardly contain his happiness to feel a sword so sharp and relatively unrusted in his hand. The sensation awakened feelings that had been dormant in him for quite some time-- feelings of prowess, independence, and an uncompromising vision of the world as a simple place of good things to love and evil things to hate. If only he were not chained and the ache in his side were not so strong, he could probably butcher them all on a whim, Peter contemplated with glee. But he promptly hid the sword amongst the other items when he saw one of the torches begin to approach him.

"Care for some rum, lad?" Hook's gravelly voice spoke-- more easily recognizable than his face in the eerie illumination of the torch. "It might take the edge off your pain." Peter shook his head.

"Suit yourself." Hook shrugged and downed another drought from the bottle in his hand. "Are you enjoying yourself here?"

"I was, until you joined me," Peter answered truthfully.

Hook laughed more heartily than was warranted, and Peter could discern an intoxicated twinkle in the man's eye, even with the poor lighting. "We're sailing back out to undeserted islands, did you hear? No more supernatural pixies and immortal boys flying about. I've spent far too long settling my score with you in this godforsaken place, and though I enjoyed the scenery, I'm ready to go back to looting ships."

Peter said nothing. Hook sat down onto the floor near the boy, his back almost completely turned to him, surveying his treasures as he continued speaking, punctuating his sentences with droughts from the bottle. "Nobody would believe an account of what I saw here. And I'm not about to publicize this island to other sailors, so don't worry-- it serves as a nice hoarding place. I could make a pretty polly showing you around as a freak of nature out there, though."

Hook chuckled again. His words were not slurred, but he sounded uncharacteristically blithe and effusive. He was also not as alert as was his custom, Peter noted. The boy took the opportunity to begin sliding the sword back out, still keeping his eye on the captain’s back.

"But I don’t think I’ll exhibit you either. I don’t rightfully know why the hell I’m keeping you in the first place. You’re really a treasure of no use."

"Like any of these others," Peter said coldly, his heart beating rapidly as he ran his fingers over the blade and stared intently at Hook’s back, which shook slightly when the man laughed again.

"You are pathetically ignorant, Pan. These treasures can give me the world. They can buy anything."

"They look like deadweight to me." The shake in Peter’s voice was betraying his agitation, but Hook took no notice.

"When we reach a port with Europeans, or at least savages that understand the use of money, you will see that I’m richer than the king of England." Peter was contemplating a fatal strike, but there were many deterrents, not the least of which was the fear of what would follow. He was, after all, still chained and relatively immobilized, which might conceivably allow the crew to reacquire him, and this time satisfy their desires without being hampered by Hook’s discipline. The thought was wholly unsavory. Besides this, there was something else that troubled Peter-- and the fact that it troubled him alarmed him in its turn. Before his capture, Peter had always spared Hook when he had the opportunity to kill him, avoiding an end to what he saw as a merry game. He would have expected to have no qualms about killing the man now, after suffering so much pain and indignity at his hands, but the sword was still stayed, now by a different emotion. Though Hook had mostly been, and continued to be, uncaring and even cruel, he had consistently been the closest person to Peter lately, and the few instances of caring since his illness began stood out in Peter’s memory stronger than the more numerous, and less pleasant, episodes.

Hook turned to see the boy still holding the sword, silent tears coursing his cheeks at the hopelessness of his situation, even having been equipped with such a powerful weapon. Despite his drunkenness, the man swiftly jumped back, out of the sword’s reach.

"Now, lad, put it down." The captain's voice was measured to mask his agitation.

Peter shook his head, clutching the hilt to his chest possessively, sucking back his tears, and determined not to give up without a fight.

"Put it down, or we leave you here to rot among the treasures," Hook said.

Peter stood up, clumsily, the pain in his side not letting him completely straighten out his body. He was determined not to surrender, telling himself that Hook would not leave him in the cave. Yet it was even less likely that Hook would set him free-- the only other option in this impasse. Imagining being left in pitch darkness, starving in the dank cold, was a ghastly thought.

The other pirates had by now assembled nearby, attracted by the slight commotion. The boy stood awkwardly, tethered by the chain on his wrist, visibly wracked by pain, so that even the hand in which he held the sword shook considerably. Yet there was also determination, and even a smidgen of self-confidence showing through, and these two things were reminiscent of a far more menacing creature than they presumed they had been dealing with. After all, Peter Pan had been one of the greatest terrors of Neverland for the pirates. He had haunted both their nightmares and their waking lives. Even now, none dared approach him beyond where their captain stood.

Peter was grateful that he could see them at least slightly frightened once more.

"I tell you again, put the sword down." Hook took one more step toward Peter.

Peter shook his head, pursing his lips. "Let me go, first."

Hook snorted. "I don't think anyone's approaching your vicinity while you're waving that about."

"I won't hurt them if they just unchain me." Peter said, trying to straighten out completely.

"And how do we profit from this?" Peter offered no reply. "I'm not joking, Pan. We'll leave you here." Peter still did not move, his face numbing into a blank expression that irritated Hook to no end.

"You're really starting to test me, boy," Hook growled. "Now, throw it away before I have to take it away."

Peter was heartened to see that Hook had no real intentions of leaving him, but he was quickly brought back to worrying when Hook unsheathed his own sword.

"I don't want to fight you, Pan. Not when you're pathetic like this, so just drop your weapon." Hook took another step forward, bringing his sword well into the reach of Peter's. The boy felt little confidence that he could win in this particular situation. Hook took several steps forward, and Peter felt panic rising. He was not ready to face the captain on old terms, and was still holding his sword near his own body in a non-combative stance. Hook's sword tapped Peter's gently, and the boy suddenly lashed out, operating on instinct and memory. He himself was surprised to see blood appear from a nick on Hook's cheekbone. The crew murmured. Hook's entire body seemed to swell with rage, and the ensuing events might have turned unpleasant, had Peter not cast his sword far out of his own reach, and crouched down in surrender. Hook sheathed his own weapon, and wiped the streak of blood off his face away with a handkerchief before undoing the lock keeping the chain around the stone, holding the boy roughly by the waist.

"I see we're feeling better today, and back to our insolent old selves," the captain said with mock sweetness. He turned to Alf and Robert. "Take him back to the ship and engrave my name on his shoulder so he remembers his place better."

***

Peter hissed from the pain of the quill tip being inserted into his skin. He was draped over Alf's legs, half stripped, demoralized by the verbal insults the two pirates had spouted at him the entire length of the journey back to the ship in one of the longboats.

"It's an old art from Borneo," Robert said, as he continued to delve deeper into the skin. "And can you guess how I came to learn it?"

"How?" Alf asked.

"I was captured by them Indians when I was with another ship, and they mark up all their captives. 'Tattoo,' they call it in their language."

"This one?" Alf pointed to Robert's arm.

"No, it's the huge ugly one on my ass." Robert laughed, and finally removed the tip. "Hurt like hell thrice over, too. You should be glad, kid, that I don’t do it so rough as they."

"We should 'tattoo' his ass up," Alf said, beginning to pull down the pants. "Make it extra bonny."

"Hold it," Robert said, pushing another one with refilled ink into the boy. "We don’t wanna be doing stuff with him down there. Cap'n's awful concerned about his precious little bottom. Probably reserves it for himself."

"Just a look!" Alf was almost whining. The quill point left the skin.

"No, it'll only make you excited for nothing, mate. Drop it." Robert pulled the pants back up.

"You mean drop the pants." Alf laughed at his own doltish joke, stroking Peter's bottom longingly. The boy said nothing, trying to contain his indignation. "I still think we should mark him up on his ass. Or maybe here," Alf's finger stroked the skin immediately above the waist of the pants.

"Calm down!" Robert laughed, causing the sharp point inside the boy's skin to quiver painfully. "I'll venture ten doubloons for the Cap'n giving the kid up quick once we reach a port with some more decent company."

"But by then I'll be just as busy with them too," Alf protested.

"Ya hear, kid? All this pampering ends right soon. You'll be doing the lowly chores like the rest of us."

"And not letting us get bored on long voyages, eh?" The two men were sniggering incessantly. In and out the point continued to dip, and Peter could only wish whatever they were inscribing on him had fewer letters.

***

The two tattoos stung, and hot inflammation surrounded them, so that Peter could not prop his back against the bed, and even the light contact from his shirt was painful against his skin. His ankles were bound again to the cannonball, as well as a wrist to the bed, both with very short chains.

They had attached him, whether from a bit of malice or simple carelessness, with the cannonball far from the bed-- in such a way that Peter could really only sit in a very uncomfortable position-- his arm wrenched backwards at a painful angle, while his bound ankles reached as far as the length of his legs could let them. He was desperate to see what words or pictures had amused the pirates so much as they imprinted them on his lower back. Fortunately, Hook had left his shaving mirror on the shelf near the bed, which was low enough for Peter to reach even from his uncomfortable position.

The boy angled the mirror on his lower back, his spine twisted around, mouthing the words he was trying to read backwards. It was during these efforts that Smee entered the cabin to hang up a few dried suits in the closet. Eyes round with alarm, Peter slid the small hand-mirror across the polished floor under the bed.

"Hello, Peter," Smee said calmly, taking out a clothes hanger. Having finished hanging it up, he looked back at the boy. "Were you wanting some help with something over there?"

Peter shook his head, relieved to see it was only the old bo'sun who entered. His anxiety had been unwarranted. “When will Hook be back?"

"Surely before midnight. Have you been here all day? And here I thought he took you with him and the others..."

"No, he did." Peter sighed. "And then he decided to send me back with a couple of them."

"Been making the Cap'n cross again?" Smee asked, his words coming out only between grunts as he tried to push the ball and chain closer to the bed. The old man made very little progress until Peter joined in with pulling. Finally, it was close enough for Peter to sit comfortably.

"My existence makes him cross."

Familiar with Peter's ill-humors by now, Smee sensed it was time to change the conversation. "Did you like the Captain’s treasures? Quite impressive, if I do say so myself." Smee could see Peter was sulking, but he continued. "Got most of them off the Spanish Main. Those were good times. Pillaging on the seas, then stopping over at Barbados to celebrate. That was the Captain’s favorite rest stop. The crew rarely changed over, and he always ran a good ship. Schooled, and everything, you know. Real commanding presence."

Peter was not listening. It bothered him that he could not even properly see the tattoo burning his skin. "Smee-- could you read what's written on my back?"

Smee pulled up the shirt, and Peter wished he could see his reaction.

"'Property of Captain Jas. Hook,' it says on your shoulder, lad."

"No, the other. The one down here." Peter pulled the pants down with his free hand just enough to reveal the text. He heard Smee swallow hard.

"Well... uh... it says..." Smee could see the boy's muscles tense up all over, an anxiety that showed through in his attempt at bitter humor.

"What's the matter Smee? Have you forgotten how to read?"

"It’s no horrible thing, Peter, really. Just says 'This way to paradise.'" Smee sounded less assuring than usual.

"I saw where the arrow points," the boy said dejectedly.

"Don't worry yourself over it, son. They all like you-- us pirates are just a crude bunch."

Peter turned to face Smee with a smirk, but his eyes were noticeably glistening with restrained tears. "I know what they like, Smee. And don't include yourself in with them. You’re the only one who cares about whether I live to see tomorrow."

"Now that can’t be true-- the Cap’n loves you and frets over you like no one else. He’ll come back and put things straight, you’ll see."

Peter sighed impatiently. "Smee, he told them to put the 'property' tattoo on me. That's what he thinks of me. I feel so dirty with these markings-- and the worst of it is, they’re all true. I’m his property, I’m his whore, and before long I'll be his garbage..." The weathered old skin of Smee's hand gently covered the boy’s mouth.

"Shh... Calm down. Let's not have this kind of talk-- it only ruins the spirits. You’re probably tired, and these tattoos must have been hurting a while now. Are we hungry, perhaps?"

"No." Peter brought his legs up to his body as close as the chain would allow, his brows furrowed into a surprisingly adult expression of the eyes, and his legs so gangly that his knee joints were noticeably wider than his thighs.

"Don’t be upset about this-- really it ain't worth it." Smee made his way out of the cabin, but lingered just outside the door. "Are you sure I can’t bring you something or other?"

"Not unless you mean the keys to all these manacles," was the curt reply. Smee sighed and left shaking his head.

"Shut the door, please!" The boy shouted petulantly into the hallway, prompting the old pirate to return and perform at least one kindness for the boy. Peter felt a tear roll out down his cheek as soon as the door clicked into place. He rested his forehead on his knees and shut his eyes, trapping the hot tears in, imagining lying on the ruddy soil of the forest floor. The lacquered smell of the wooden furniture was just pungent rot that perpetually hung in Neverland forest on warm days. The metal biting into his wrist and ankles was gold he had stolen from Hook to annoy him. The burning spots on his skin were nothing but nasty insect bites one was bound to get from sleeping outdoors on warm nights.

Even if the fairy were to come back now, she would not find him on deck, he realized in dismay. He longed for her companionship again, as well as for the feel of the hilt of a sword in his hand.

The sword. Why had he not even considered using it on himself, back in the cave? Especially when Hook threatened to leave him alone in the dark? It would have been so easy and quick-- only a deep slice across the throat. Peter felt a shiver course his body. The idea of running the cold metal into the tender moisture of his gullet was more unnerving than he cared to admit. There was, in fact, a chance even now, Peter realized. He retrieved the hand mirror from under the bed, and stared at his reflection in it. A shard from it would probably do the job almost as well as a sword. Yet even before he could raise the mirror to smash it against something, a thought froze his planned actions. Hook would be angry to find his mirror broken. It was a silly thought, at this juncture, but Peter's hand remained on the floor. He already knew that he lacked the boldness and adequate desire to go through with his desperate plan. The shards might not have been sharp enough, after all, the boy thought, scrambling to justify his cowardly decision to himself.

Hook returned late, his spirits lifted to giddy heights by the sight of his treasures. He was surprised to see the contrast in mood between himself and the boy as he entered the dark cabin. Hook put down the sack full of jewels he had carried in and lit all the candles in the chandelier. He pushed the cannonball even closer to the bed with relative ease, and took Peter up in his arms and onto his lap. The boy winced from the pressure on the tender skin of one shoulder, prompting Hook to take off Peter’s shirt to examine his commissioned work.

"Did those dogs clean the quill tips?"

"I hope so," said Peter quietly.

Hook laughed heartily. "For their sakes, right, lad? They'll be scraping barnacles off the hull with their teeth if this red doesn't disappear in a few days… And would you look at that-- Robert spells as he speaks. 'Proprty.' You probably don't know how to spell it either. Surrounded by illiterates, aren't I? And completely outnumbered to boot."

Peter felt great irritation beginning to rise at Hook's rollicking spirits, which swelled to nauseous disgust when he smelled the rum on the captain’s warm breath near his neck. The sharp odors of gunpowder, tobacco and seasalt had all grown tolerable by familiarity, but the captain did not overindulge in drink often. Peter, who had never cared to get used to odors that were predominantly found only amongst the crew, could only cringe. "All mine..." Hook's voice rasped, full of poorly concealed desire, and his lips grazed Peter's shoulder lightly. "Unless you object to it, my self-important little sprite?"

"I can't very well object when it's written on me," Peter muttered, grating his teeth. He felt far deeper shame about the other phrase branded on his body, but Hook had yet to notice it, as it was mostly hidden underneath the waist of the pants. It was with a perverse passion that Peter wanted Hook to see it. The captain would surely punish his crew for effacing his 'property.' He arched his spine, guessing it would bring his lower back into plainer view.

"And what is this?" Hook asked, his tone a little more sober, but to Peter's dismay this was immediately followed up by a blithe chuckle. Peter realized he was truly alone in the world. Never before had he felt so betrayed and disgusted by his own body.

"You'll have to excuse my crew-- sometimes they lack tact." Hook embraced the boy, avoiding touching the tender spots. Peter felt himself calming down despite his lingering resentment. Oddly, everything seemed better when he was in the captain’s arms, held so tightly that he would forget about the chains, and could pretend he enjoyed being pressed into Hook's chest.

The man leaned down and grabbed a bottle of rum out of the bag as well as a pair of golden earrings. He took a swig, then dipped the open ends of both golden hoops between his lips before swallowing the rum down. Quickly, Hook’s hand pulled the hair back from Peter's ear, and tried to clasp an earring into it. Flashing metal still produced a very reflexive, violent response from Peter, especially when its glint appeared in his peripheral vision. The boy jerked out of Hook's grasp as far as the tethers would allow, his eyes full of wild, animalistic fear. Hook hated this unfathomable, inhuman expression that sometimes manifested itself on Peter Pan's face, especially when the boy's trapped body hovered in the air before him like some supernatural apparition. He hoped years of living in the forest could be corrected by living in more civilized conditions.

"Come down, lad," Hook said, even as he pulled Peter back by simply outstretching his arm, the chains all being very short. "You should learn to trust the people who take care of you." The boy's panic was uncannily gratifying, however, and Hook felt a return of some rather cruel desires. The small heart was hammering away like a trapped bird's-- quick, delicate, and pained-- and Hook could feel the pulse without seeking it out. There was an urge to stamp out this franticness into silence, and Hook might have obeyed it had Peter's body not felt so coy and delectable when nestled against his own.

"Calm yourself," Hook’s hot breath puffed into Peter's ear, before the boy flinched from the sensation of his flesh being pierced. The pain was hardly comparable to other things Peter had endured, so he sat still in silent bitterness as Hook repeated the operation with the other ear, feeling some warm blood ooze out from each wound. The cold metal of the hoops came into contact with the boy’s cheeks, pulling down on the sore ears with their weight. Peter hated how it felt to turn his head-- the gold following his motions with a delay. Hook was either oblivious, or did not care to see the boy’s dark mood, and admired Peter for a while before crossing the room and sitting down to his harpsichord.

"It's quite beautiful, boy. You inspire me to be a better man. I've laid off the heavy smoking while you were lying sick in bed, and even now you continue to make me feel more alive than I've felt in ages." Peter only glared at the floor. Hook was playing one of the less complicated pieces, and would look over at the boy from time to time. Peter dared not cry, but he heartily wished his skin weren’t so tender in places, and that he could rip off the metal that collided with his cheeks whenever he moved his head. The earrings gave off the metallic smell that Peter had come to associate with Hook, and their constant proximity to his face was yet another perpetual reminder of his captivity. Hook finished the piece, making Peter feel exposed with his long, hungry survey of the boy's meager frame. He stepped back across the room and began to adorn Peter with all the gold he brought in his bag. Chain upon chain upon chain went around the neck, rings on all fingers, bracelets by the dozen on each arm and ankle, threatening to fall off the emaciated limbs even when Hook adjusted them to the smallest setting. Peter did not complain as gold was hung over his frame pound upon pound. Thirty chains across his chest were really no worse than one around his wrist or ankle, he reflected sullenly.

With one smooth motion, as if suddenly remembering, Hook lay Peter face down across his lap, pulled the boy's pants off, and spread his buttocks apart gently. The boy's entire body shuddered in fearful anticipation, and he felt a deep hatred for Hook for breaking his promise of only several days ago.

"You're trembling like a leaf in the wind, lad." Peter could hear the smile in Hook’s voice. "I only wanted verify whether those dogs had obeyed me. You, in all your pride, would never tell me, would you?" Peter's slight relief did not mitigate his disgust at being excessively adorned and then handled like this. The metal smell all around him was beginning to sicken the boy.

"Who did this?" Hook’s voice was so abrupt Peter felt the jolt from the knees he was draped over. What could it possibly be? Peter was still somewhat sore from the gang rape, although the ache had been fading fast recently-- faster than the scar that still pulsed at most times of the day. On the other hand, Hook had never, in Peter's memory, checked the bruising that must have been inflicted on that long, fateful night.

"Who?" Hook brought Peter back to a sitting position. Was it only the old injuries that Hook had just now discovered for himself? The pirate's face was turning livid. Peter could not contrive a reply. He felt Hook's hand gripping him jealously, soothingly reassuring, but so possessive that it hurt. The idea blurted itself out almost faster than it entered the boy's head.

"Alf and Robert."

"Both?" Peter nodded, anticipating more pointed questions, and cursing himself for having lied, twice now, while having no real skill in the art to keep up the charade. There were no more questions, however. Hook pressed Peter into his chest, stroking him so fervently that it was almost frightening.

"We'll deal with this shortly," he said, vitriol not intended for Peter spilling out in his words. It was enraging that while he denied himself, his lowly, filthy crewmembers dared to violate his precious object of affection.

***

The skin of two backs was uncomfortably exposed in the glow of the lantern on deck. The hues and sizes of the two differed, but both were trembling identically. Alf's already bore the marks of past transgressions, while Robert's was relatively clean-- the shoulder blades protruding out from the gaunt frame more than from Alf's muscle-bound one.

"We swear, Cap'n, we didn't lay a hand on him today!" Alf practically whimpered, vainly trying to extricate his wrists out of the top of the rack in which they were confined.

Robert had been mostly silent, until he saw Hook take the whip. "Please!… You’re going to believe the brat over us?"

"I'd advise you to refrain from questioning my judgment, unless you want a taste of the cat o'nine," Hook said calmly, cracking the whip against the deck and smiling to see it had lost none of its snap after relatively long disuse. Peter started at the sound. Bill had brought him up to witness the punishment, and now the boy stood a little behind the captain. It did feel strangely satisfying to see two of his persecutors being locked up into the rack, but just the crack of the whip made Peter’s stomach sink with dread and disgust.

"It's all in the delivery, lad," Hook sneered, noticing his guest of honor's discomfiture. The first blow fell with expert precision on both backs. It was a flick, hardly visible in its rapidity, so that the two bloody welts almost appeared to spring up on their own. Another lash, and Peter had to look away, his blood running cold on hearing every snap and the subsequent moans.

"Seven lashes will suffice for this time," Hook said with bewildering composure, having administered that number. "However, be it known that no one is to touch the boy-- don't even speak to him-- without my express permission. The next time something of this nature happens, it won't be the single, but the cat o'nine, with succeeding pickling of your wounds in salt water so that they may heal nice and slow."

Alf and Robert, who had both been unlocked by Bill, fell to their knees, blood streaking down from all seven gashes. There was a soft thump, and the captain swiveled around to see Peter Pan passed out on the deck.

The boy enjoyed unconsciousness for only a few moments. Awakening to the unpleasant sensations of having been slapped on the cheek rather roughly, Peter focused his eyes on Smee and Hook's faces looming above him.

"What in damnation is the matter with you?" The captain's tone was colored by less ire and more compunction than he cared to have his crew hear.

"He hasn't eaten all day, Cap'n. I offered in the early evening, but he refused."

"There's no excuse for hunger faints aboard this ship, boy. Smee, make sure he eats three meals a day from this day forward. And if he gives you any trouble, I'll stuff it down his throat myself. I think he's healed enough to take solid foodstuffs."

As Smee trudged away to the lower quarters to fetch something for the boy, Hook raised him back up to his feet by the scruff of his shirt with almost theatrical roughness. Peter saw the rest of the crew staring at him, the recent victims of Hook's wrath full of visible resentment, the rest cautious. None of it worried him, however. It felt far easier to surrender himself completely into the captain's care, having seen that his own initiative did not help him escape before, and was unlikely to help him now. There was a terribly depressing apathy about his future setting in.
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Peter Captured