by J. M. Page
Peter sighed. "I'm just trying to do what I promised your sister and look out for you, okay? That place is bad news. I don't know how, but I know it is and you have to trust me."
"We do," John said, speaking for both of them, sending a meaningful look at his brother.
Michael groaned and sighed, finally nodding. "Yeah, okay. We trust you, we won't go in there."
"Good lads," Peter said, clapping them both on the shoulder. "Speaking of your sister, where did she run off to?"
Peter scanned the crowds walking up and down the sidewalks, patrons from various casinos and theaters filtering in and out of venues. Finally, he spotted her, huddled up against a building, hugging herself, her teeth chattering.
As the three of them approached, Wendy looked up, her eyes so pitiful and needy that Peter wanted to wrap her up in his arms. "C-can I g-g-go get w-w-warmer clothesss?" Wendy chattered, shivering so hard it was a wonder all her joints didn't fall apart from it.
Peter cracked a tiny smile and nodded. They needed to get back to the theater anyway. "Sure thing, love. Let's get you back home and you can dry off."
As they walked back the way they came, Peter saw both the boys' eyes lingering on the huge glittering tower of the Jolly Roger.
He just hoped they'd heed his warning.
Chapter Thirteen
Wendy
Her brain was practically numb from the cold when Peter took his coat off and draped it over her shoulders.
"There," he said, still frowning. "You're turning blue," he added, rubbing her upper arms quickly, the friction creating a slow warmth that spread down her arms and into her chest until the chattering finally stopped.
"Better?" Peter asked.
Wendy nodded. "Still very wet," she said, pulling his coat tight around her. The next time she inhaled, her nostrils were filled with the scents of the theater — hot metal, electricity, the faintest hint of fuel and smoke. Rising above all those, making her sigh contentedly, was the sweet, almost floral scent of old upholstery. It reminded her of books from the attic or her grandmother's armchair. Comforting and warm, it went straight into her soul and Wendy had to force her eyes open.
When she did, she realized her brothers were watching her expectantly, lines of worry wrinkling their foreheads. "Are you okay?" John asked.
Wendy took a deep breath to steady herself — getting another hit of Peter's too-familiar scent — and nodded. She had to put on a brave face for the boys, even if it felt like her organs were all icicles. "Yep, much better," she said brightly. "Just want to—"
The musical tinkling of bells silenced her. Wendy snapped her jaw shut, pressing her lips together, looking up at the air.
She didn't even have to look at Peter to sense the change in his demeanor. He stiffened, his face paling and eyes wide.
Wendy thought the sound was quite nice, not unlike silver bells at Christmas... Or maybe that wind chime John got her three birthdays ago. But this was no faint bubbly chime. It was projected throughout the whole city, so everyone was certain to hear it. There had to be a reason for it.
"Come on," Peter said, grabbing her by the wrist and herding the boys. "We have to get inside."
"What?" Wendy still looked up at the sky — a brilliant ultramarine bisected by the wide band of the glittering gold ring that circled the planet — trying to determine where the sound came from and what it meant.
"Wendy," Peter hissed, yanking on her arm hard enough it made her shoulder hurt. She rubbed it, frowning, as he pulled her through a glass door, her brothers standing awkwardly on the other side.
"What's going on?" she asked, still grimacing as she rolled her shoulder.
"Didn't you hear the warning?" Peter snapped.
"The jingle bells?" Michael asked.
Wendy looked past their little group to the cafe-style seating, a glass display case full of sweets and sandwiches, and a very old — very green — man behind the register, drumming his fingers on the counter. His wrinkled forehead drooped, pushing his brow down to shadow his eyes, but even with that, Wendy was pretty sure he was scowling at them.
"Those 'jingle bells' are Neverland's warning system," Peter said. Then, to the green man, "Didn't you hear the bells? Put your screen down, man."
"Peter, what is going on?" Wendy asked.
"You guys buyin' somethin'?" the old man asked.
Peter groaned and rolled his eyes. "If I buy a sandwich will you put your screen down?"
Old green guy licked his lips, smacking them as he did. "Hard to feed four people with one sandwich," he said.
Peter shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Unbelievable." He approached the counter, pulling out his wallet and slapping a bill down. "Four sandwiches then."
A big yellow grin split the proprietor's face. "Sure thing," he said, reaching under the counter. There was a beep and then the sound of machinery coming to life as a fine mesh screen lowered from the ceiling all the way to the floor, blocking out the door and windows.
Wendy could still see through it if she peered closely enough, and the streets were oddly deserted, no sign of activity as the merry little bells tinkled on.
Peter dropped four wrapped subs on the table with a huff. "Guess we're having lunch," he said.
Wendy frowned, her hands going to her hips. Her wet clothes were drying from her body heat, but now they were stiff and itchy from the salt of the mermaid's tank. "Are you going to explain what's happening?"
Peter took a gargantuan bite of his sandwich, and with his mouth full said, "Dust."
Wendy shook her head, her eyebrows pushed together in a scowl. "I'm sorry, what did you say? Did you say 'dust'? Has no one on Neverland heard of allergy medication?"
Peter took his time chewing and swallowing before he stood from the table. The twins were already half-way through inhaling their sandwiches and seemed to have lost interest in the bells.
"Come here," Peter gestured, steering Wendy toward the window again. "Look up."
She did, craning her neck back to gaze toward the sky. As always, the vibrant ultramarine took her breath away, and the glittering gold ring looked even wider than she remembered. But there was something different about it... It was... snowing?
No, that wasn't the right word, even though that's what it looked like. Little puffs of shimmering gold wafted down towards the city, sparkling on the ground.
"That's the dust," Peter said. "It comes from the ring. It's not safe to be out when it's dusting."
It was so pretty though. Wendy wanted to reach out and touch it.
"Hands off the screen," the old man behind the counter shouted. Wendy snatched her hand back from the window like it had burned her. "Those things ain't cheap."
She muttered an apology, not looking at the green alien as she joined her brothers and Peter at the table, slowly nibbling at her sandwich.
"What makes the dust so dangerous?" John asked. She should have known he'd be paying attention even if he seemed oblivious. John was always trying to learn new things.
Peter sucked his teeth before sighing. "It's potent stuff. Like a drug. Exposure can turn you into an empty vessel, complicit with any commands, without any thought of your own."
"The dust makes you a zombie?" Michael said, laughing.
Peter gave him a dubious look. "I don't know what that is," he said. "But if a zombie is an unthinking willing drone, then yes. The dust turns you into a zombie."
Wendy was appalled that such a thing existed. That they'd build their shining city-state under a band of zombie dust and then just not tell anyone about it. "They should really have warnings about something that terrifying," she said.
Peter looked down at the table, his fingertip drawing lazy circles on its surface. "Right, about that... The warnings were all on those visa applications you didn't do. But it doesn't matter. You're with me and I know what to do. You hear the bells, you get inside as fast as you can and wait it out."
Wendy frowned. "How will we know when it's safe
again?"
"They'll send out sweepers to clear the streets and then there are different bells," he said.
"You really should have paid more attention to the visa form, Wen," Michael teased.
She nudged him with her elbow. "Don't get smart with me, boy."
John, after finishing his sandwich, folded his hands on top of the table. "How long can we expect the storm to last?" he asked.
Peter shrugged, his eyes drifting toward the window. "No telling really. Sometimes a few minutes, sometimes hours."
John and Michael exchanged a glance before nodding. "We're going to go work on our act," Michael said, standing and moving to another table on the other side of the small cafe. John followed, and soon they were putting their heads together, whispering in excited tones, and scribbling doodles and plans on napkins. Wendy smiled. She was glad they had each other and their twin language. After all they'd been through, she didn't know if either one of them would have turned out the way they did without the other.
Sure, they were exasperating and had already caused her more than a couple gray hairs, but they were still her baby brothers.
Now that the twins were gone, Wendy and Peter were alone again. Neither one of them spoke and the silence stretched out until it felt awkward and itchy. Finally, Wendy cleared her throat. If they were going to be trapped here for a while, they could at least learn a little bit about each other.
"So," she said, her voice squeaking with the syllable. She cleared her throat again and tried a more reasonable octave. "Why did you come to Neverland?"
Chapter Fourteen
Peter
Peter looked up from his hands to see Wendy wringing a napkin in her fingers. Twisting it into a tight rope without even looking. She watched him, while her fingers twirled the helpless napkin, specks of lint breaking off from the paper to leave a little dusting on the table. She always seemed to be doing something with her hands, especially when she was nervous.
Did he make her nervous?
Or was it the question?
Why did he come to Neverland? He couldn't remember a time before this planet, no matter how hard he tried to find a memory tucked away.
"I wish I could tell you," he said, watching her nervous fingers instead of her eyes. He didn't want to see any pity in those pretty green eyes. Not when being with her made him feel so far removed from pitiful. "It feels like I've always been here. I'm sure I must've come from somewhere else, but it was so long ago I don't remember."
Her hands stilled and Peter dared himself to look up for her reaction. The tiniest frown pulled at the edges of her lips and though he expected to see pity in her eyes, he hadn't expected such... sadness.
"But, what about your family? Surely you remember them?" she asked, smoothing out the napkin on the table top like she'd only just realized how she'd mangled it.
Peter thought about it, pushing as far back into his memories as he could. There were flashes, a woman's smile, a man's laugh, her eyes glittering...
He shook his head. "I don't. I don't know what happened to them," he said, his hands balling into fists in his lap. "I don't even know why I left them, or even if they're still there," he said, an unfamiliar lump forming in his chest. He'd never really tried to think about his past or the life he left behind before. It had always been a fuzzy area and he never cared enough to push very hard. But he wanted to explain it to Wendy. He knew how important her family was, and he knew how hard it would be for her to conceive of any reason to abandon hers, let alone a reason he couldn't even remember.
"I guess I just stopped thinking about it when I got here... 'Your worries are a thing of the past,' and all those other Neverland sayings... They're not just marketing slogans. This place... if you stay long enough, you just start to... forget," he frowned.
"That must be awful, to lose such a big part of yourself," Wendy said, her voice softer.
A single droplet of water dripped onto the table's surface. It was only when she reached across to take his hand in hers, that Peter realized it was his own tear shining in the light. Could that really be? He couldn't remember the last time he'd shed a tear. He couldn't remember it ever.
"I understand," Wendy said gently, her voice soft and soothing. A heavy weight had settled in Peter's chest, one unlike anything he could remember feeling before. But her hand over his made the weight feel less unbearable. Like she was somehow taking a portion of it for herself. "I lost my parents too," she said.
Peter frowned, his heart constricting, the air squeezed from his lungs. He didn't say it out loud, but he wasn't so sure if he lost his parents, or if his parents lost him. He didn't want to think about it, but it was persistent, burrowing deep in his brain. What if, somewhere in the Universe, they were missing him? He shook his head, trying to push back the idea, trying to shove aside the gnawing ache that had awoken deep inside of him. For years, it lay dormant. He'd forgotten how much loneliness hurt. He'd been careful not to let himself feel it, but now, with Wendy's hand on his, it was impossible to deny that he'd been... lacking.
The way a simple touch from her made him feel — like he could tackle any obstacle put in his path — was alarming to say the least. But what would it be like to have a family that cared about him the way she did her brothers? To have someone who'd always be there for him and have his best interest at heart.
He was deep into this thought process when he realized Wendy was still talking. That she'd been talking this whole time.
"It gets better you know. I mean, not like really totally better. The pain never goes away completely, but it gets better," she said, looking down at their hands, drawing her lip between her teeth.
If it was this hard to face for Peter — who couldn't even remember his family or the circumstances that led to him losing them — how hard must it be for Wendy?
She sighed, pulling her hand back a fraction. He instantly felt its absence and the weight in his chest pressed down harder.
"Some days it's a constant ache and it's hard to think about anything else, but other times, I can get through a whole day without remembering or being sad. It takes time, but eventually, it stops feeling so raw," she said, swallowing. He watched the muscles in her delicate throat move, saw her holding back tears of her own and his throat closed up, a thick painful lump pressing against his windpipe.
"I never realized," he said, reaching across the table to take her hand back. Maybe, just maybe, if she could lessen the weight of his problems, he could do the same for her. The thought was a foreign one for Peter — he'd never really concerned himself with other people's problems. Only when they made their problems his problems. But even so, he was still only in it to help until he fixed his own situation.
But Wendy was different. He wanted to help her feel better, just because. Because she deserved it and he wanted to see her smile again.
He squeezed her hand and she looked up, surprised to see the tables turned. "I didn't know you'd been through so much," he said, his voice strained. He hated to think of Wendy sad and alone without her parents, taking care of those rambunctious twins all on her own. No wonder she was so tightly wound. She'd had to grow up fast, and Peter... well, he'd never had to grow up at all.
Wendy blew out a breath that was a lot like a laugh, but it didn't sound at all joyful. "There's a lot you don't know."
Peter stiffened, drawing his hand back. "Yeah, I guess there is," he said. He'd never considered it before now, but he didn't know much about her at all, despite all the time they'd spent together. He had lots of assumptions about Wendy, but nothing concrete. Nothing except her love for her brothers, and a woman could hardly be defined by that alone.
He also knew that Wendy made him feel... different. Like he'd suddenly woken up from a long nap. For years, he'd been struggling so much, especially lately, trying to keep the theater afloat, wondering where his friends and fellow cast mates had disappeared to, and knowing that Hook was just biding his time, waiting for the moment to strike and take away ever
ything Peter held dear.
He'd been so consumed with all of it that he never had time to think of much else. Like the future. Or his family. Or even love... His hand started to drift back toward her. She was doing something to him, he didn't know what, but he didn't hate it.
The tinny ring of his phone startled Peter and made him snatch his hand back to answer it. Tink.
"Peter! Where are you? They're... oh man... it's awful," she rattled, too fast for him to catch all the words.
"Tink, Tink, slow down, what are you saying?" He could hear the panic and distress in her voice, but with Tink that could be from a broken nail. It didn't mean it was serious just because she was upset.
"They came for the money, Peter," Tink's voice trembled now. "I told them you weren't here and they..." She sucked in a breath. "Those monsters," she growled.
Peter groaned, his grip tightening on the phone until his knuckles ached. "Tink, will you just tell me what's going on?"
"They trashed the whole place!" she huffed. "But why the hell did they have to bring my wardrobe into this?" He couldn't tell anymore if she was angry or on the verge of sobbing. Maybe it was both. Miss Bell was serious about her costumes.
"This wouldn't have happened if you were here. Where are you?" she wailed, definitely angry beyond consolation now.
Wendy looked at him from across the table, an eyebrow raised in question. He shook his head, turning toward the wall to try to talk sense into Tinker Bell.
"We got stuck in a dust storm for who knows how long," he said. Tink growled and he rolled his eyes. She was always so dramatic.
"Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"
Tink sighed. "No, just my beautiful clothes," she said with another howl. He could just picture her rummaging through the tatters, trying to find some salvageable scrap of an outfit and coming up empty. But he wondered how bad the rest of the place was. Surely they wouldn't destroy his only means of making back the money he owed them, would they?
