Title: Island

Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook.

Summary: A story that bridges the gap of time between the events of Peter Pan and Hook. However, I have kept Wendy. Moira would not do.

'O, Peter, don't waste your fairy dust on me.'

Wendy's voice was different. There were weights on the edges of her words, a somber dust that clung to a once laughing tongue. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, but the room was cold.

Peter could not see her face. Her back was to him, her seated form lit by a muted halo of firelight. The fickle glow softened her edges, but doubt had stolen Peter's heart the moment he heard her voice. He stood - frozen - time pressing her rigid fingers against his ribcage.

The scene had played in his head as he flew, and his heart had jigged in rehearsal. His smile was dauntless, and he could hear the chorus of 'It is time, Wendy!' in his own voice. The girl would rise, and he would take her hand and take her back where all was one great day and night.

But the room was quiet, and the beds were empty, and she was seated before the flame, with soft edges and a tired voice. Peter did not smile and did not speak, and Wendy did not rise. She turned to him now, her features hidden by the dark. Perhaps he squinted, in spite of himself, for her hand reached for the gaslight.

Peter went cold. Terror gripped him then, creeping through his limbs and onto his face. He did not know what was happening, why he could not move and could not breathe and could not feel anything but ice. For Peter Pan had never been afraid, and all at once he thought he might be dying. He cried out.

'Don't turn up the light!'

A Lost Boy sat up, blinking drowsily. His mouth opened to issue a tangled protest, but a hand pushed him back down into the blankets and into sleep. There was one pair of waking eyes, watching the source of the Lost Boy's disturbance.

Peter Pan was writhing in his kingly bed, his legs caught in a serpent's coil of furs and blankets. Drenched in a combination of sweat and tears, he yelled only once. It startled even his watcher, who had grown accustomed to incoherent mumbles. The boy pawed at his pillow, clutching it to his chest, murmuring what sounded like 'Wendy, Wendy,' into the soft fur.

Rufio turned from the sight and exited the tree. If a Lost Boy woke, he would not be there to prevent them from seeing. But Pan would not remember the dream tomorrow.

The air was still, and even the stars slept. In the distance music bled from the hull of the Jolly Roger, a one handed playing punctuated by metallic trills. Rufio was sitting on the beach when he heard the melancholy baritone that sang to its own accompaniment. Hook had taken back his ship some time ago, but nights that had been silent with plotting were now steeped in his mournful songs. Peter would dream again tomorrow, and Hook would play and Rufio would not sleep. A name would taint the wind of Neverland, and the cold would be loath to fade in a morning it used to run from.

They say that Neverland can be very frightening indeed. But as the contents of Peter's nightmares began to leak into his waking thought, the horror of the sprawling jungles crept past the bounds of a child's tolerance.

Neverland was teetering.

Worlds away, Wendy Darling's fingers curled around the acorn at her throat.