Pan and Darling

Bloomsbury London

Windows are strange things.

They're designed to keep out cold drafts, ill weather, burglars, insects, as well as abrasive afternoon light when the curtains are pulled. But one particular window of interest in Britain couldn't even keep out a shadow.

Silly little thing, outwitted by a shape.

This specific shadow belonged to an unjustly clever boy, so perhaps it is unfair to blame the casement for any deficiency. It was only a temporary obstacle in the grand scheme of things anyway.
Outside lurked Peter Pan. Having lean, exceptional balance, he was accustomed to being able to perch on anything he wanted. However, his feet had grown with the years, and he underestimated the narrow space of the ledge, the backs of his heels slipping off a few times. He swore and muttered to himself that the window should have been left open for him in the first place. She locked it. The daft girl locked it. No matter. Using his tool of choice, a dagger, he noisily fumbled with the catch until it loosened. The wind masked his dreadful carelessness. Had it only mercifully seized the next moment, the frames wouldn't have blown out of his reach and clanged against its hinges.

Wendy was not entirely asleep at the time. She got up instinctually, folding back her fine covers and neatly pulling herself out of bed. No one in the community was matched in her poise, even at this hour, with her hair unfixed and her clothing a simple white nightgown.
At the window, instinct tugged at her, and her hand lingered on the glass for a hopeful moment. It was brief. When Wendy made her mind up about anything, there was little room for self-doubt. Even though her childhood heart still called for her childhood best friend. She labeled it a weak moment of hesitation, and proudly flipped the lock back into place with an air of finalization.

Michael started, turning sleepily towards the noise. But Peter careened to his bedside, waving his arms and silently begging Michael to stay asleep. If he woke up, Wendy would be inclined to stay awake with him, and Peter would quickly run out of hiding places.
Peter raked a hand through his tawny ginger hair, then snatched a stuffed bear from the floor and tucked it beneath Michaels arm in an attempt to still him. Moving through the room, he ducked into a dark nook as Wendy turned around. He knew the advantage of presentation, and wasn't quite ready for her to see him. At least not until he had checked his appearance first.

Wendy surveyed the room, taking a moment to check on the boys. Michael lay snuggly, mouth open and drooling. While John's was dignifiedly pinched in a tight line, his round-framed glasses resting on the nightstand beside his bed.

Wendy collapsed back onto her own bed, a tension melting from her back. Her imagination kept her awake a few moments longer. That must have been good, for had she been in a deep sleep, she might not have felt the gaze of curious eyes.
She tried to ignore it. Tried to imagine instead what her parents might be doing at that moment.

Raised glasses, boastful toasts, the clink of bubbly champagne, silk gloves in dance partners' hands, and the swirl of skirts on a polished ballroom floor.

Ever since the Darling parents heard their children's stories of the boy who had come in through their window at night, they'd become more reluctant to leave for an evening. But that was three years ago, and Wendy was now sixteen. Mr. and Mrs. Darling believed it was surely a recollection of dreams the children shared with one another; like the kind of fairy tales spoken before bed, and there was no harm in that.

Wendy's shoulders squirmed against her pillow with a sudden shiver.

The nursery was as it should be, in its tidy, meticulous form. She had just seen it. The silhouettes of bedroom furniture painted on the walls. And something else.
It was a shadow, to be sure. Familiar and foreign. It belonged amongst the others, but was somehow defective and displaced.

Wendy opened her eyes to steal another glance, but was met instead by a pair of green eyes aligned with hers.

She screamed, as did the boy. From levitating over her, he landed on the bed as Wendy twisted upwards and scooted to the back. Grace be doomed, he fell over the edge and tumbled to the floor. Wendy sat dangerously still before daring to lean over the edge. A head of messy, curly hair popped up to meet her at the same time. Peter stared at her fervently before jumping to his feet, hands on his waist.

"Fine thing to do, scaring me like that. Stand up, then. I need to get a better look at you."

She rose to her feet somewhat automatically. The instinct to please him was still a strongly rooted one. Peter took her jaw in his hand and examined both sides of her face. He pulled one of her honey blonde curls straight, mentally measuring how long her hair had gotten.

"Ow-!"

Before she had a chance to fume at him, he pushed her shoulders, spinning her around for a 360 degree perspective. Wendy grabbed his arms to stop herself, and to get a better look at him to satisfy her own curiosity. "Peter?"

"Hullo Wendy." He grinned confidently, but his usual impish eyes softened a degree.

Those eyes were familiar, but this boy was different than before. He was still shorter than most Wendy's age, but in the last three years he had trumped her height noticeably. The strangest part was perhaps his voice. It was still his. Still honeyed and boyish. But more deliberate.

He leaned towards her, and she unsurely leaned away.

"Wendy?"

"Yes Peter?" She asked.

He was so close now that one would only imagine he meant to kiss her. And what would she do? She certainly had more pride than to accept it. Fortunately, she never had to find out.

"Have you a mirror?"

"...pardon?"

His eyes flickered to her vanity, full of brushes, pins, ribbons, and hair accessories. He was over there in an instant, picking up random objects and discarding them over his shoulder.

Wendy's focus was pulled back when he dropped a comb on the dressers surface, resulting in a loud clang.

"That is rubbish!" He held a mirror, poking and prodding at his face, "You see? This is why I don't age. Puberty doesn't suit me."

He pressed a finger to the tip of his nose, evidently trying to get a better look up it, and Wendy watched on, scoffing at the sight. There was no denying he had grown more handsome with the years. His fiery hair had darkened a little, but it still had an definite auburn tint to it. And his features were sharpened. Wendy wouldn't praise any of these traits. She would not rise to the bait.

"Still conceited, I see."

He tutted. "Still thoughtless. Why did you lock the window?"

"Habit." She said simply.

He waved a hand. "Nevermind. We've already lost time. Come."

With that he took her by the wrist and started back to the window, assuming she would now go with him. Assuming she always would.

"Now, wait just a moment!"

She slipped out of his grip neatly, and almost preened under his bewildered expression. See Peter, I've gotten bigger and stronger too.

"What's the matter?" He asked. Then, "No, I remember. Last time you wanted to give me a kiss. Well today's your lucky day, Darling."

He folded his hands behind his back, angling forwards and offering her his cheek. To his dismay, the only thing he received was a smack across it. It wasn't a horribly forceful or painful one, it surprised him more than anything.

"Still haven't found out what a kiss is?"

"I know what a slap is!" Peter replied, rubbing his jaw.