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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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Preparations for the planned voyage ahead took days. There was much work to be done, so that even Peter was recruited to do the less taxing jobs of laundry and dishes. The boy ended up enjoying most of the chores, especially as they were done in Smee’s company. The old man never failed to entertain with stories, and even began teaching the boy arithmetic orally. Besides this, Peter’s only other duty was to eat what Smee cooked for him, on captain’s orders, as Hook had no intentions of setting out to sea with the child still malnourished. Alf had been ordered to construct a bed for Peter from a few spare wooden boards stored in the hull, and this was placed in Hook’s cabin where a metal ring in the wall was used to secure Peter’s wrist with a chain. Boredom was now rare, and the days flew by with Peter Pan inadvertently regaining some of his previous zest for life despite his captivity.

On the day the hull was to be scraped of barnacles, they careened the ship on its side onto the bank. Peter sat chained to a palm tree by the waist, peeling wild sweet potatoes for pickling, tossing them up into a large barrel set beside him. Smee was frying fish on a makeshift campfire nearby. The crew was hungrier these days to the point of doubling each man’s portions, Smee explained to Peter in that soothing voice that made the boy almost believe he was sitting on the sand and doing domestic services voluntarily.

“What in the bloody hell is he doing wielding a knife?” Hook’s voice was suddenly heard, directed towards the pair. Peter did not care to look up, his heart, as well as his hands, quickening in their respective tasks.

Smee sprang to his feet. “He’s just peeling taters, Cap’n. No harm in it-- he won’t hurt anyone. It’s a wee, tiny thing.”

“A tiny thing that he could easily slip into his clothes for later use,” Hook said, both men turning when they heard a loud gasp. Blood was quickly trickling down his hand, and soon past the wrist from a deep gash on his finger. Without warning Hook’s mouth wrapped around the injured digit, sucking on it forcefully. Smee tried to get in with a bandanna to clean the rest of the arm, but the captain did not desist. The lips caressed his finger with undue sensuality, Peter realized in dismay. He had just begun entertaining hopes that Hook’s lust was on the wane and that the man would eventually release him.

“Be careful with him, Smee. And don’t let the brat hurt himself, either,” Hook said, tying his own silk handkerchief around the injury. “You too, boy. I don’t ever want to see your blood again, you hear?” Peter nodded timidly, trying to comprehend the full meaning of the phrase, especially when it was coming from the captain’s mouth. Hook stood up and left for the ship to supervise his men.

“He’s afraid I want to kill myself, isn’t he?” Peter said, watching Hook in the distance, smiling in satisfaction that at least someone else believed he had control over his destiny.

“I wouldn’t be in the know, lad. You must understand something, though-- the Cap’n loves you very much. ‘Twould break his heart if you ever did something so foul.”

“I’m not desperate.” Peter smiled. “Although breaking his heart would only be a reason to go through with it.”

“You shouldn’t be so heartless, ya know,” Smee said rather sharply. “And it never serves to talk about them things so casual-like.”

“I wouldn’t do it, Smee. Just for you... Wouldn’t want to hassle you with disposing of me, and all that,” Peter said, grinning.

Smee raised his eyes from his work, and finally resigned himself to a chuckle, shaking his head. “Only the young’uns can be so cheery about kicking the bucket.”

***

Scrubbing the deck was one chore Peter did not care for. Smee did not work alongside him, his knees would begin aching shortly after he began, and the job seemed limitless in scope. The wood itself seemed a bit grimy, so that Peter could never be sure when to stop his efforts on a particular area. It was getting later in the day, and the sun was beginning to beat down on his head and back. The water in the bucket was already filthy and he still had more than half of the upper deck ahead of him. He stood up for a moment to relieve the pressure on his knees and stretch, when he saw something familiar nearing the ship. Peter had to stifle a yelp of excitement.

The ball of light flew to the other side of the ship, and Peter felt worry rise that she might be noticed by the crew who were all busy doing something or other elsewhere on the ship. She finally appeared on the top deck.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re back!” Peter said as loudly as he dared. The fairy giggled as she watched the corners of his mouth stray outwards.

“I told you I’d come visit you,” she said, coming to rest on some coiled rope.

Never mind that this promise was made nearly two weeks ago, and that the ship had stayed in the area almost purely by chance, Peter thought, smirking.

“I brought you something too…” She unrolled a leaf she had flown with from the shore.

Peter recognized it. Tinker Bell had told him its name many times, but he could never remember. It was good for healing wounds.

“Thank you,” he said, surprised that he felt tears coming on, taking the leaf from her outstretched hands.

“My friends were too afraid to come meet you,” she said, obviously proud of her own pluck, swinging her legs back and forth as she watched Peter rub and squeeze the oil out of the leaf to smear it on the cut on his stomach. There was another place he would have applied it, had he been alone. While Hook grew calm when the visible effects of rape had mostly healed, the boy still often felt discomfort further inside. Now was not the time to remember such things, he told himself, turning his attentions back to the fairy.

“You must have told them some awful things about me, then.” Peter winked.

“I only told them you were a human who speaks our language. And that you were very pretty, even though you’re so big.” She flew in closer, trying to touch one of his eyes, but he kept pulling back.

“Stop flying into my eyes,” he laughed, waving his hand between them, careful to not to really swat her away. The fairy settled for another part of the face. She reached out and touched his lips. Almost on instinct he stuck his tongue out, catching her completely by surprise. She flew back, giggling hysterically, her hand now damp.

“Do it again!” she pleaded, waiting expectantly. Peter obliged. He could vaguely remember playing this game with Tinker Bell, long ago, when he was still very new to Neverland. Only the soft, pink tip showed itself and promptly hid back into his mouth, so that the game soon transformed into the fairy trying to catch his tongue. She darted from side to side before his mouth, the tongue slipping in and out of sight, becoming quite abstracted from its owner, in her mind, and taking on a life of its own.

She finally caught it, and Peter pushed it out to its full length, prompting the fairy to squeal and glow brighter in excitement. He moved his tongue around, delighting in this grotesque play that had had no place in his present condition. Despite the fairy’s laughter, he heard a soft creak on the stairs. His tongue receded and he froze. It was either nothing at all, or else somebody who had been standing there, watching them.

“Get out of here,” he said, still quietly, but very sternly. “Right now. Go. Go back home.”

The fairy was still in high spirits however, and flew about erratically asking to play again. Her glee ended when she alighted on the rope already cast in shadow by a figure that had appeared from the corner. Peter's mouth opened, but Alf’s hands already came down harshly on her body. Peter winced and closed his eyes. He reopened them reluctantly, half-expecting to see the pirate’s hand covered in gore, but the fairy was still alive in his grip-- her wings beating frantically, constrained by the fingers. Tinker Bell would never have gotten caught so easily, the boy thought in dismay.

“You’re a dirty, dirty boy, Peter,” Cecco’s voice came from the other side. The gravity of the situation was only slowly sinking in, as Peter tried to avoid his most horrible thoughts. “Consorting with those fairies? Don’t you know that if you stare at them long enough, you’ll be crazy for pleasure?”

“I grew up staring at them,” Peter said morosely, his heart beating faster and faster.

“That’s right,” Cecco smirked. “You must be one lonely little whore lately.”

“Yeah.” Alf’s laugh betrayed his dimness. “The cap’n’s not enough for ya, is he?”

Cecco went down to the lower decks and soon all five men were gathered around Peter, taking advantage of the early hour during which Smee was still busy making breakfast for Hook.

“It wasn’t very nice of you-- what you did to me and Alf not so long ago,” Robert said with mock sweetness.

“Not very nice at all,” Starkey said, shaking his head, attempting yet again to be subtly humorous.

“But you know what is nice?” Cecco’s hand reached out to tough Peter’s chin, but the boy leaned away, glaring at them all. “That nice, long tongue of yours. Let’s put it to some nice use, then. But if you don’t feel up for it, we can always entertain ourselves with the little one.”

Peter could feel himself shaking, to his dismay. He was playing into their hands perfectly so far.

“He’s a real swell sucker, I bet, with all the practice he gets,” Alf laughed, the fist containing the fairy shaking. Peter was intently watching, trying to suppress visible distress, if only to increase her chances of survival.

“Yeah, but let’s not take any chances, mates,” Cecco declared, his grin betraying an inspiration. “Let him warm up on his friend there.”

Peter whimpered in spite of himself as the fairy was brought down in front of his face. It took only a few threats for him to open his mouth and take her in from feet to waist, Alf moving her in and out of his mouth with rapid motions. Peter felt tears welling up, less at the derisive comments than from catching glimpses the fairy’s horrified expression whenever she was pulled out. The fairy dust turned to a wet powder in his mouth, and he was almost choking on it, unable to sneeze or cough without risking damage to his friend. The ordeal finally ended when his audience grew bored.

“So… who’s he going to start on?” Alf asked hesitantly.

“Let’s see him push some fingers into himself first,” Cecco said, his asymmetrical grin transforming into a veritable sneer.

“Ya hear, Peter? Go on, give us a good show,” Robert said. Peter stopped coughing, wiping his eyes and runny nose, and glowered at all five men around him, any courage he had left shriveling fast, especially when he saw the fairy still partially protruding from Alf’s fist.

“Let her go-- you’re ruining her wings already!” Peter tried to speak calmly, but his voice shook violently.

“We won’t be letting her go until we see some ass.” Starkey was laughing with a hysteria that was particularly disgusting to the boy.

“Better yet, there’ll be no wings to ruin very soon if we don’t,” Robert said, grinning. “Go on, then.”

Peter felt his knees knock into each other. He lowered his pants to his chained ankles, enduring taunting references to paradise with a wooden expression. He took his index finger and inserted it into his mouth to wet it.

“Just look at him!” Cecco exclaimed. “Why, he’s an out-and-out expert.”

“Of course. What do you think he does when the Cap’n’s not around?” Robert said, an awfully yellow mouthful of teeth slowly revealing itself between his lips. “He’s a lecherous whore, that’s what he is. I don’t know how the Cap’n stands him.”

“I could stand to keep a lecherous whore.” Bill laughed good-naturedly. Peter prayed Smee or Hook would show up, but he could not stall for time any longer. The boy brought his hand back, cursing his existence and wishing this could all be a nightmare that would leave no traces once he woke up.

“No, idiot. We can’t see like that!” Alf said and tightened his grip on the fairy. Peter promptly turned around.

“And bend over. In fact, get on all fours,” Cecco said, snickering.

“And two fingers, at least!” Starkey shouted, laughing. Peter felt himself going numb from disgust as his knees, then hand, came down onto the floor.

Bill was beginning to glance nervously over to the lower deck where Hook could appear. “Hey, mates, might wanna be careful-- we don’t want any signs left on him.”

“Two of those skinny fingers of his won’t hurt him,” Robert said, licking his lips. “And if you count on tattlin’ on us later, princess, we’ll throw you overboard with that lovely ball and chain for a grave-mate.”

Cecco and Alf broke into some shanty about Davy Jones’ locker, as Peter slowly wet two fingers in his mouth, determined not to start crying again despite the unmistakable feeling of tears coming on.

“Hey, keep it down, mates,” Bill was still glancing over to the other side of the deck nervously.

Starkey did not lower his voice in the least. “Are we going to have a show, or what?”

Peter looked up at the fairy in Alf’s hands. Her wings-- what he could see of them-- were already bent completely out of shape, and most of her body was hidden in that massive fist.

“Come on then, on with it, or we pluck her wings off,” Cecco said. Peter’s head bowed in resignation, thankful for the length of his hair, which now very handily cascaded down the sides of his face to obscured it. His hand traveled back, pressing against his own opening.

“Shove it in, will ya?” Starkey was about to approach him, but Bill grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt.

“We don’t want him to show signs, do we, mate? Calm down.”

Peter felt his muscles relax somewhat, just enough to push in his two digits. He slid into himself as far as possible quite fast, surprised at how much less it hurt when he performed the action himself. The cheers around him were loud, which immediately wiped out any relief he had felt.

“What a sight, what a sight,” Cecco repeated, shaking his head. Starkey was laughing hysterically, and Peter sincerely wished someone would beat the man’s mouth to a bloody pulp.

“Now comes the real game, sweetie,” Alf said, taking off his belt with one hand, the other, occupied with fairy, swinging erratically. “Come on, girlie, raise up your head and start sucking.” Peter felt a knot in his stomach for both of their fates. He was beginning to feel the pixie would not survive despite all his degrading efforts.

“Hey, hey, don’t take your fingers out!” Starkey shouted, as Peter began to exit himself.

“Yeah, let’s see if you can’t reach his fingers, Alf,” Cecco snickered, as the large man positioned himself in front of Peter.

Peter felt nausea wash over him at what he was about to do. The fairy was beginning to seem less and less worthy a cause of such humiliation. Alf must have sensed Peter’s sentiments, and brought the fairy down in front of Peter’s face. Her terrified expression was enough. Peter breathed deeply and parted his lips when, to his utter delight, Hook’s familiar footsteps were heard mounting the stairs.

Alf did not have time to button up and opted to pull down his shirt instead. The others pulled Peter up, and just managed to bring him into relative order before the captain appeared on the deck. Peter was almost in tears from the roughness with which his fingers had been yanked out, and Hook frowned at the suspicious gathering. “What exactly is going on here?” The captain’s eyes narrowed into slits, scanning his crew, and coming to rest on Peter.

“Nothing,” Peter mumbled. Alf had the fairy hidden behind his back, and Peter hoped she had not been crushed in the commotion. “They just caught a fairy.” Hook looked incredulous, but Peter said nothing else.

“He’s consorting with fairies here, behind your back,” Robert quickly offered. “We caught the thing. I’d reckon more come here to have their nasty little orgies.”

“Bring them both into my cabin,” Hook said tersely, turning on his heel.

***

Peter stared at the boots in front of him, not daring to look up at their owner. He felt even more powerless than usual in this new situation. Hook, despite his boast, had had no way to make him perform any acts of his own volition. Threats were ineffective because Peter had grown fairly sure that the man would not gratuitously mangle him. Here the threat was not physical hurt, however. He felt his body grow numb as various unpleasant scenarios of what he would be doing in a few moments played themselves out in his mind.

Hook stood towering over the kneeling boy, contemplating what course of action to take. He was not certain whether Peter’s visible agitation was something savory or cringe-worthy. He had a wicked craving to test the extent to which this new weapon in his arsenal extended his dominion over the boy.

“You like this fairy, I take it?” Peter’s eyes wandered up, directing a plaintive gaze at Hook’s face but no response. “There’s no need to be clever. Just a simple yes or no will suffice perfectly.”

"Yes," Peter mumbled, lowering his head so that his eyes dodged back out of Hook’s view. "And everything they said was true... so, I’ll do whatever you want-- just let her go."

This full submission was disconcertingly sudden, and there was nothing satisfying about it. It did not do to have the boy readily degrade himself this way, if he was to be taught to behave like a proper human being. Hook crouched down, leaning in close to the boy's face, his blue eyes animated with sudden inspiration for what to do with the fairy. "Don't beg, lad, it doesn’t become you."

“It’s all that’s left to me,” the boy said, still avoiding eye contact with the captain, but catching a glimpse of the fairy in the lantern-- shaking with trepidation, looking to him for succor he did not feel capable of providing.

“Just let her go!” Peter finally broke down into tears, surmising that his pleas were falling on deaf ears. “I’ll pleasure you all you want, just don’t make her keep suffering too.”

Hook had to shake his head in amazement at this selflessness. Never would he have guessed Peter Pan was capable of such irrationally self-sacrificing attachment to a silly humanoid insect. “Don’t get flustered just yet, Pan, I’m a man of my word, as you have unfairly failed to notice, so there’ll be no need to be pleasuring anyone any time soon.”

The wretched look on Peter’s face did not leave. The boy was more wary than grateful. Hook continued, wallowing in his own words, proud to be doing something so magnanimous without asking for reciprocation. “I know you’re tired of exclusively pirate company on this ship. You can keep her as a diversion on our long voyage,” Hook said, casting one last glance at the trapped creature before handing the lantern over into the astonished boy’s hands.

Peter’s fingers quickly unfastened the latch, but the fairy did not fly out. He took her into his hands, casting her prison aside. The pixie was still in mild shock, and did not budge, prompting Peter to finally speak to her. Hook had heard nothing like it before-- the boy’s words hardly sounded human, and their cadence was rather musical, albeit with a desultory, unresolved tune. This was the true fairy tongue-- eerie, complex, and hypnotic in its rhythm. Hook could not help but feel somewhat enchanted by the image of this ethereal bonding. His captive, still in the rather abject kneeling position, was practically cooing something softly and privately to the miniscule creature in his hands. He was speaking an octave or two higher than his custom, his fingers deftly stroking her fragile, crumpled wings to straighten them out. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and the fairy’s tiny hand would attempt to catch the droplets, as if to stop the original cause of their flow.

So much attention paid to one so undeserving, Hook thought, feeling envy creeping up at the intensity of the union he was witnessing. He was tormented by a sudden urge to do something… to the boy? With the boy? Something even more intimate than what he had solemnly swore not to do. Yet it was impossible to pinpoint this intangible desire, and Hook settled on the rather depressing notion that it was not in his realm to be able to truly please his detainee.

“Could you bring me closer to window, please?” Peter’s voice snapped Hook out of his meditation. This was doable. He could only offer the mundane, apparently. Hook obligingly moved the restraining ball and chain closer to the porthole, the large window having been nailed shut long ago. Standing on tiptoe, Peter stuck his thin arm through easily, releasing the fairy outside to fly back to her home on land. He took one moment to inhale the fresh breeze and to verify that the tiny window was indeed too small to fit his head through before returning to the floor, and to his usual resigned melancholy.

“You speak fairy, then?” Hook finally asked.

“Yes,” Peter said quietly. “It’s the language I still dream in. I’m sorry-- I tried to be quiet. I know how you hate them and anything to do with them.”

Hook was amused when he could suddenly discern the slightest hint of the fairy lilt creeping in on Peter’s words, something that must have been ever-present, but that he had not cared enough to notice before. “No, on the contrary, I rather enjoyed your fey banter. And I’m much intrigued-- they have, at the very least, raised a singularly wonderful boy.”

Peter continued staring at the floor, slightly irritating Hook. “What’s the matter, lad? I gave her to you in the hopes of seeing you finally smile again. You shouldn’t have let her go if you didn’t want to be left forlorn.”

“I let her go,” Peter said with a rather deliberate air, “Because I have no right to keep her here for my own amusement, no matter how lonely I feel. Fairies don’t do well in captivity.”

"Oh?” Hook said with mock curiosity for lack of a better retort, scrambling to decide whether he was more angered or shamed by the boy’s unsubtle insinuation.

“They waste away and die before you expect it.”

“They damn well do,” Hook muttered under his breath.

“What?” Peter asked rather sharply and suspiciously, but received no answer.

“Don’t think you can teach me morality with your childish simplifications, boy. Not all of us can afford to let loved things go so easily-- especially when we know our days are numbered.”

Peter finally looked up and met Hook’s gaze, his expression showing the smallest hint of a smile of pity. “Your days are as numbered as mine, you know.”

“What are talking about? Don’t you remember how long I’ve been here? You haven’t changed a smidgen since I first saw you, you ungodly immortal.”

“Neither have you,” Peter said, his mouth almost turning into a light smirk. “It’s you who doesn’t remember how long you’ve been here.”

Hook’s hand tensed into a fist. “I have lost track some time ago, when I would forget to mark dates and my calendar kept getting thrown off. But I would guess it’s been six or seven years that I was chasing you around like a miserable fool.”

Peter was definitely smiling now, albeit wistfully. The captain hated this expression-- how dare Peter know something more about Hook’s own condition, and put on this smile full of pity?

“You’ve been here hundreds of years, Hook.”

The words were somehow dreaded beforehand. The captain grabbed Peter up from the floor by his shirt.

“Don’t toy with me, Pan. I know your vicious sense of humor.”

Peter shook his head slowly, his face melancholic, and Hook’s hand released his clothing. The idea was paralyzing-- exciting and terrifying him with its implications. The man stood in silence for some time.

“We are both orphaned children then?” he said, his voice trembling. “Adrift, not abiding by the laws of time, and condemned to live apart from the world, immersed in our merry little game?”

"I guess so.” Peter sighed and looked toward the horizon through the window.

“Well, it all ends very soon. We’re setting off tomorrow morning. Have... have things changed much in all that time?” Hook asked, curiosity getting the best of him.

“Some.” The boy was often unhelpful like this, especially when he was petulant about some trifle.

“In any event, nothing is worse than remaining near this godforsaken island for eternity.” Hook’s heart quaked, fearing the unknown, but he dared not show signs of it to the boy still staring listlessly out the window.

***

That evening was the first time Hook deigned to have Peter dine with him at the table. Smee had given the boy only a quick drill on using the utensils properly, but Hook did not appear to be in a reproachful mood in any case. He ate wordlessly, stealing a glance at the boy now and then, but only to check the progress of the disappearance of food on his plate. It was an awkward silence.

Hook finished off his dinner, and sat back in his chair, watching Peter at his side as the latter’s thin arms moved back and forth ineptly in his attempts to use a knife and fork. Elbows bent, and emaciated arms at awkward angles, the boy looked a perfectly grotesque creature composed of all joints. He finished everything off as quickly as possible, eager to leave the table, but Hook remained seated, lost in contemplation, and Peter did not feel up to saying anything, unwilling to risk a cascade into full-fledged conversation. He swung his legs back and forth, hoping the sound of the chain would remind Hook that it was time to detach him from the table leg. The man remained oblivious, however.

“I haven’t read today,” Peter finally offered, hating the inactivity he had to endure so often on the ship.

“Be my guest, then,” Hook said, getting up and retrieving one of the voyage logs from a shelf. The volume was not so thick as it was long and wide, and it seemed even larger in Peter’s hands. The boy leafed through to the last passage he read, careful not to tear the desiccated yellow paper. Finding his place, his eyes began moving slowly across the page, mouth tensing with effort.

“Read aloud, Pan. I’d like to hear your progress.”

Peter glanced up out of the book somewhat nervously, coughing lightly before beginning.

“From hence putting off to the West Indies, we were not many days at sea but there began among our people such mor... mortality as in a few days there were dead above twenty men. And until some--” His voice was perfectly melodious, despite his rather labored rate at pronouncing the words. Hook had to smile at the brows furrowing in such concentration.

“-- seven or eight days after our coming from Santiago, there had not died any one man of sickness in all the fleet. The sickness showed not his infection, wherewith so many were stricken, until we were departed thence...” Watching that smooth chin clap back and forth, and the lips grinding torturously one against the other between the more difficult words, Hook was beginning to be overwhelmed with desire. His mind strayed into wonderful reverie, lulled by the monotony of the text and the boy’s rather unvaried tone. Only the full stops were accompanied by a sighing breath before plunging back into the reading.

“What is ahgwess?” Peter’s voice was suddenly animated, back to normal speech. Hook was forced to abandon his fantasies.

“Ahgwess?” The man repeated, contemplating how much he wanted to engulf that mouth with his own, and stop its chatter for the night.

“It says ‘and then seized our people with continual ahgwess.’” Peter looked at him questioningly.

“Agues!” Hook laughed. “Those are chills and sweats you get when you’re very ill.”

Peter was ready to return to the book, but Hook continued. “Is this what I’ve made you read all this while? Frankly, I’m amazed you’re trying to delve into this drone of a text.”

“Well, I do want to understand what you wrote,” Peter said and quickly looked down, suddenly embarrassed. Hook’s breath hitched.

“I must say that’s rather complimentary, on your part. Never thought Peter Pan would be voluntarily interested in anything to do with me.” Hook grinned, his white teeth bright against the candlelight. Peter looked like he was trying to suppress a smile.

“Not completely voluntarily. But I do respect you… ‘as you have unfairly failed to notice.’” The concealed smile finally revealed itself. Then and there-- Hook pleaded in agony from no one in particular-- just then and there he wanted to ravish the boy, and forever hold his peace. Hook’s hand clenched around the fork.

“I’m truly flattered. But even I’m bored to death of that account of pestilence and losing men. Go on to something else.”

Peter had a slightly confused look, batting his eyelashes with irresistible innocence. The metal fork’s handle was beginning to bend under the pressure of Hook’s grip. The man’s voice did not quaver, however. “Anything else. Pictures, perhaps. Look through the pages-- I’m sure I had some pasted in now and then.”

Peter came across several small maps, Hook explaining details for each one that were completely lost on the boy, except for the fact that they were often bought cheap in a place called Jamaica. Suddenly, a portrait of a young girl revealed itself on one of the last pages.

“Who is she?” Peter asked with genuine curiosity.

Hook sat silent for a long time, contemplating the slight likeness of the doll-eyed, delicate girl to the boy who was now holding her picture up for Hook’s scrutiny.

“She was a girl from Carolina,” Hook said wistfully, leaning into his chair’s back and lighting the two cigars and in his holder. “There was a rather reputable brothel in Charles Town, and I dropped by every time I happened to be in the neighborhood. The whores there were clean for the most part, but what I prized most was that they were willing to have their virgin daughters used for a price. Now sometimes I’d show up and there were none over ten years old that hadn’t been used, but I always forked up good money to have a first go. First go is usually most delicious, even if the poor girls don’t know what to do. First go with you, for example, was the tightest, most agonizingly pleasurable fit I’d ever had.” Hook looked over at Peter, whose agitation at the memory, and moreover the man’s mentioning of it now, was plain on his face.

“This girl was the child of one of my favorite prostitutes, and I took her when she was all of eleven years old. She was frightened but obedient, and after some cursory instruction, pleased me like no one else, before or since. I’d paid her mother good money, but doubled the expense on the morning after, buying her off and sending her to school in a nunnery.”

“What’s a nunnery?” Peter asked apprehensively, not at all enjoying this story, fixing his gaze on Hook’s embroidered cuffs, or the lace shirt visible under the heavy coat. Anything but the captain’s penetrating eyes.

“A place where she’d be safe from other men,” Hook took another drag from his cigar. “I came to visit her every few years, to spend a week or two together. Yet she always seemed prettiest that first night-- that earnest expression, and the fear of having been betrayed by her own mother. So I’m right glad I took her to the center of town on the first day of my ownership, and had her drawn by some sorry old street-painter. He didn’t do justice to her beauty, but did manage to capture her innocence… Most amusing of all is the fact that I might well have been her father.” Hook laughed heartily, Peter not entirely sure he understood the humor.

He scrutinized the picture, tracing the girl’s fine features with his fingers. Her expression was melancholy but not without hope. She was prettier than Wendy, Peter decided in wonder, and felt some strange excitement he had not experienced for a long time suddenly return.

“Where is she now?” he finally asked, in spite of himself, hesitant to goad Hook to continue his story.

Hook puffed out a cloud of smoke that lingered above the mostly empty plates on the table. “Dead and buried, my friend, if it has indeed been as long as you say it has. It’s one of the things that pain me deeply.”

“I know the feeling well,” Peter said, sighing. Hook raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. It was rather pretentious of the boy, never having felt love, to make such claims.

“Thank you, by the way.” Peter’s voice was quiet and suddenly shy. “I never did thank you earlier for not… using the fairy against me.” The boy nervously looked away towards the door, the cords of his neck coming into stark contrast in the candlelight, and Hook felt heated desire again, cursing himself for devising this unending self-torture with his oath. He had to start gently convincing the boy to come around, or else keep away from him. James Hook, devoid of religiosity or any austere sense of morality, still sought to adhere to his own promises with the unquestioning fervency of a child.
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Peter Captured