peter pan. peter/wendy. pg-13. 1/1.
loving you was like going to war; I never came back the same
Being lost cannot be everything, being lost is only the beginning of being found.
And she, she cannot end at the beginning itself. She does not know how, nobody taught her that.
There are no lost girls.
It is a m-y-s-t-e-r-y. Wendy spells out words in her head, rolls them over around her tongue, like mama used to when Wendy was very little and Michael wasn't even old enough to have been born.
She does not ask Peter why. Somehow, she does not want Peter to think of other lost girls.
This is a mystery too.
There is blood on her underthings and Wendy does not remember cutting herself anywhere. But she keeps bleeding and maybe she will die. Nobody ever dies in Neverland, though, that would be blasphemy. But there are no gods in Neverland, so there can be no blasphemy. Her stomach hurts a lot.
Peter looks at her, worried, and she is inexplicably coloring up, there is still blood enough in her body for that, "Wendy Darling, are you going to die? Please don't die."
Wendy, darling, please don't die.
Mama taught her grammar too.
She does not die.
I am glad, Peter says, simply.
(There is blood on the stone ledge she used to sit on) (and blood on her bed) (and blood on her clothes) (and blood rushes to her face, too fast, much too fast when Peter gets her a wildflower to pin to her hair) (it is a bloodless white.)
"You must be a god", Peter says, when he is wounded. Hook's iron hand leaves deep scars and there is no salve, not the kind papa buys from the market. There are leaves, but Wendy doesn't know how to read the instructions on the leaves. The forest is dark at night, and she is afraid.
"Just tell me where it hurts," she snaps.
She is bleeding too, again, Peter knows this, she knows, Peter knows everything, Peter watches her with careful eyes. But Peter lies on the bed, drained, and she can walk, and when she stops bleeding, there are no scars.
She presses a cloth to his side, and he slowly undoes her braid with one hand. Only to give his hands something to do, only so he doesn't have to cry.
When she looks up, her hair falls over her face, and Peter pushes it back with the hand he undid it with, tucks a strand behind her ear, and she wants to lean over again, so it will shadow his face like before.
She does not. She does not now do everything she used to, at the moment she wants to. She lets moments pass.
She doesn't die (again). (Peter doesn't die either.) (She cries when she's alone.)
Peter's hand between her knees, moving up, "You must let me heal you."
She has closed her legs before she's thought it out, his hand captured in between. She can feel every line of his fingers pressing into her skin, and she is terribly, terribly afraid and she doesn't know why. Her heart races and she may die from that, even if she doesn't die from all the blood-loss. She has hidden battle scars without ever having been to war. She is a mystery.
He leaves his hand between her legs, his thumb sweeping across the small square inch of skin it can circle without moving, and Wendy knows this is comfort.
Her heart still beats (inside her chest) (at the curve of her throat) (at the base of her wrist) (in the middle of her elbow) (between her legs.) (madly.)
She doesn't die (yet) (again) (still).
She really must be a god.
Peter doesn't ask to heal her the next time, or the time after, but he watches, he always does. Tinkerbell doesn't like it, Wendy can tell, and it thrills something in her that is dark, and hidden, and maybe ugly.
"You are most beautiful right now," he tells her, and reaches a hand out that stops just short of her.
She feels swollen. (And angry.) (And untouchable) (And untouched.)
Heal me, she says, in her head, and the girl she is in her head is not afraid. The girl she is in her head does not blush. The girl she is in her head lets Peter touch her, lets Peter heal her. The girl she is in her head does not close her legs.
It is back at home that Wendy understands: there are no lost girls in Neverland because they leave traces of blood everywhere, like breadcrumbs, like a trail, and they are the easiest to follow.
And, eventually, they have to be found. You cannot keep bleeding and be allowed to live; there are no gods in Neverland, she knows.
(All boys, except one, grow up.) (All girls grow up.)
There is a love affair lost just outside her latched window.
She never opens it, though.
(it's been a while since i was shamelessly appropriating styles)
and everywhere the ceremony
ginny; ginny/harry(/hermione). pg. oneshot.
things fall apart.
Sometime, some day, some year, he will come home late. He will come home late, and you will wait. You will wait near the fireplace, and your hair will be liquid fire in the dim light. It reminds him of his mother. You're not his mother, but shh, don't tell him that, and anyway, you take what you get. And sometimes you ask for more, you always ask for more, but you can't always get what you want. The Rolling Stones fought for that sort of shit being public knowledge. You know muggle bands now. You know the sound of a bass guitar and the name of the guy they call the fifth Beatle. You know his silence and the heavy thrum of static in a nearly dead phone.
You know his homecoming, and you will wait. Penelope waited, and she speaks in a greek tongue, but you understand the language of being faithful, call it love, or whatever.
So yes, consider this: you are in love. You are eleven and you are in love. Imagine you know what love is. Imagine it's a boy with round glasses and his father's hair and his mother's eyes and when you lean against him, you're someone else. You don't have his mother's eyes, but you do have his mother's hair, you're twenty-two and you're forty-five and you're both people long dead, you're both refractions of the wrong end of a wand and green light and you came through on the other side because they didn't.
You want to tell him your hair is your own, it's yours and it's your mum's and it's your dad's and it belongs to all of you and no one else and you belong to yourself and no one else, but you don't want him to realize that, so you lean against him and the mirror forms a photograph he keeps in the table beside his bed. The photograph moves, you stay still.
Listen to your mother when she tells you about marriage because she knows better, listen to her when she uses the word compromise again and again and again and if you forget the meaning, you can always look it up online later and listen to her when she tells you that love is enough and that the Bible says that love is patient and all you really have to do is love him and that's easy because you have since you were eleven. Love him like a habit. Love him because you don’t know how not to and it’s easy this way. Don't change the difficulty level, you're not that good at the game yet. Don't try to be a hero, god, what are you, stupid?
Sometime, some day, some year, he will not come home. Wait near the fireplace anyway, it's warm there.
Call it an affair in your head when he looks too long at a girl with brown hair and sad eyes. Call it an affair because that is what they call it in books and she reads books and she keeps reading and your husband spends too much time at bookstores now. Her mother doesn't remember her name but she still gets him. She still gets your brother and she still gets your husband and it's kind of funny that you thought love was supposed to be stronger than this. You thought love was supposed to be. But mostly, it's late-night calls through fancy, ugly muggle equipment and there's no magic anywhere, there's no magic. You want to be fifteen and kiss the boy other girls want to kiss. You want to be fifteen and strong. You want to flip your hair out of your eyes and smile too wide and say you know what they say about girls with red hair. Don't say it to him because then you will be the whore, that's the rule. You're the madonna or you're the whore and you're the madonna, you're the girl with the red hair and he's got his mum's eyes.
Maybe someday you'll scream that you fought the war too, goddammit. You did and every single person you know did, like, big deal, they have no fucking right to pretend to be the saviors, to be golden and be the only ones caught up in the middle of the blinding green of a winter in the middle of a year long gone. He looks at you and forgets he is looking and he wakes up in a cold sweat and it's water and salt and far, far away, the sea is cold.
You fought the war too and the war won.
When he lingers in bookshops too long and smells of parchment and smells like this girl who once slept in your room and smelled of parchment, just stay with him. Let your perfume mingle with the paper and tell him he belongs to you. Don't say it out loud. Don't admit to anything because they can use it against you in a court of law. Play the game fair, don't cheat. When he stares too long at a bent brown head, don't cheat. Don't kiss the boy you once kissed at fifteen, even when he asks, even when he begs. You knew love at eleven and the story doesn't end like that. You know because you wrote it in your diary, and you read your diary yesterday, and it doesn't end like that.
Try to understand him because he needs understanding, he needs love, he needs to be the hero. Don't be the hero for him. Don't steal his damage. Love him because all you need is love. Listen to muggle songs, and talk to him like you understand stairs and you understand a cupboard and you understand being seven and alone. Talk to him through plastic and a wire and don't call them excuses when he makes them. Don't look at the clock too much and too long and forget you're looking.
kiss that other boy you once kissed at fifteen. Buy a different dictionary. Fall in love at eleven and fall out of love and fall in love because it's worth falling sometimes, even though your knee is scraped raw and the rug burns don't form a map of London, which would be useful. Choose your own adventure and turn to page sixty three and reach a different ending. He won't wait, you know, don't wait for him to.
Some day, some year you will not be the girl in his photograph, you will be the second coming, be the falcon and the falconer because you spent too goddamned long being two-dimensional in a two by four frame. Let him cut his finger open on the sharp end of the paper and don't bandage it for him, don't let him bleed on your skin, don't let him bleed into your red hair and turn it green. This is a different story. But don't tell him that yet. Let him turn the page.
This is how you break a habit: sometime, some day, some year, you will not come home.