Author's Notes: Shorter, but finally we have a crisis! Oooooh Tinkerbell. Such an instigator.

I hope you all like it. It's not perfect but I felt like I had to post something Peter Pan.

Also, I just saw The Holiday and ohmygodsogood. Jude Law's Napkin Man made me want to write something childishly amusing.


It's a Fine Day for It

For Dean Winchester

P.S. I love you

Chapter Three: Practically a Gentleman

Tinkerbell hissed quietly to herself, unable to contain the simmering frenzy that began to build in her stomach. Her mind rapidly shifted through the various ways that she could eliminate the "Wendy-problem" altogether. Neverland was full of tall cliffs cushioned by pointed rocks, and unnamed waterholes that were easy to disappear into . . .

Not, of course, that she actually planned to go through with any of these deliciously satisfying fantasies. She simply needed something to calm her down, and the image of Wendy tumbling into an immeasurably deep abyss usually did the trick.

Tinkerbell shook her head, clearing her thoughts. There had to be something. Some loophole, some quirk, some issue that she could prod into inflammation. Some reason that could convince Peter that marrying Wendy was a monstrously stupid idea.

A little giggle dragged the fairy back into the present. Wendy had launched herself at Peter, shamelessly planting kisses/thimbles/whatever on his cheeks. "Thank you!" She breathed, her voice trembling with tears and rapture. "Oh, Peter, thank you thank you thank you!"

He laughed, clearly enjoying the harlot's—er, that is, girl's attention. "You're welcome, Wendy."

Wendy pulled away from him, rocking back onto her heels and clasping her hands in front of her. Tinkerbell sneered at the feminine pose, thinking, If I were that size I'd look pretty all the time, too. "The cleverness of you, Peter! How on Earth did you find all these wonderful clothes? You know, I'm going to have plenty of dresses now—I had thought that I would need to return to London to get some more, but with these I'll be set forever!"

Peter seemed alarmed by Wendy's mention of her home, and took a quick step towards her as though to keep her from flying off at that very moment. She continued blithely, "I never had very many nice things in London, although of course that didn't much bother me. Mother always said that there's a difference between a real, classy lady and a rich lady and that men could always tell. What do you think, Peter?"

He blinked. "I don't have any idea," he admitted slowly, as though Wendy were completely mad (which, Tinkerbell thought nastily, she probably was).

"Oh. Well, I suppose you haven't seen enough ladies." That seemed to settle the matter to Wendy, and she happily returned to gazing at her dress. Not looking at Peter, she suddenly asked, "Do you think I'm a real lady, Peter?"

Upon closer inspection, Tinkerbell discerned that Wendy's cheeks were bright red. Peter coughed, suddenly turning his back and strolling over to inspect Hook's desk, prodding at the different items as though he cared what they were or meant. "Sure I do," he managed, and soon his face matched the shade of Wendy's. "Sure."

She beamed, giggling a little to herself. "Thank you."

Peter turned and they just stood in silence, grinning at one another. Tinkerbell curled her lip. She didn't need stupid Peter Pan, anyway. Who did he think he was, to pick and choose when he would be her friend? Tinkerbell turned up her nose. She had other placed to be, other friends to hang out with. Friends like …

Like …

She made a face. All right, so, maybe not many other friends, but that was okay because who said she needed any friends at all?

Tinkerbell deflated, glowing miserably at Wendy. Why did she have to leave the nursery window open? Why, why did she have to tell such spectacularly interesting stories? And above all, why wouldn't she just go home?

But of course Peter would never let her. Peter would rather die than see his Wendy-lady leave, an emotion entirely too grown up, in Tinkerbell's opinion.

She paused, eyes flitting from Wendy back to Peter. Too grown up.

A tiny, feral little smile curled onto the fairy's lips. Welcome to existence, Plan B.


Smee frowned, scratching his head in befuddlement. He tried to order his thoughts in his brain so that he could correctly understand them, but the excitable fairy spoke so fast that he couldn't catch up. "Wait!" He cried desperately. "Hold on a second there, matey. Yeh lost me at wha' I think might'a been 'Peter's ferried blenders'."

Tinkerbell growled, rolling her eyes. "No! Haven't you been listening? I said: 'Peter's marrying Wendy'! How in the name of Hook did you hear 'blenders'?" He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. "Nevermind. The point is that I have a job for you, Smee, and if you do it for me I'll give you whatever you want."

He furrowed his brow, considering. But Tinkerbell wasn't worried; at heart, Smee was a pirate and always would be a pirate, no matter how fond he'd become of Peter and the Lost Boys. "The price'd be the Jolly Roger," he declared then, firmly. "I wanna be captain o' me own ship."

Tinkerbell struck out her hand. "Deal," she declared instantly. "Now this is what we do…"


"Aye! Peter, m'lad!" Peter raised his eyebrows as Smee trundled into Hook's old quarters. The pirate's eyes darted around the room greedily, taking in the jeweled trinkets and silk fabric curtains. "Preparin' for the weddin', are yeh?" Peter smiled, flying over to accept Smee's outstretched hand. He then perched on the edge of the desk, cheerfully tossing grapes into the air and catching them in his mouth. He purposefully didn't answer—he knew too much about pirates to ever really trust one, and even though the Lost Boys all adored the bumbling idiot, Peter would never quite forget the sight of him tying Wendy to the mast of the Jolly Roger.

"Well," Smee floundered for something to say. "Good lad. Very mature choice, gettin' married. When I was a boy, I never thought about commitment. But you … almost a man, eh?"

Peter froze. The word tasted foul as he spluttered, "A man? Me? No!"

Smee seemed not to hear him. "Aye, and Wendy here livin' with yeh, too. You're practically a gen'lman!"

Horror seized through Peter. Visions of office buildings and tailored suits and worried wrinkles weighing down his face flashed before his eyes; he saw himself and Wendy in a nice parlor, too tall and too serious and too…old. Without another word to Smee, Peter lifted into the air and sped from the Jolly Roger, avoiding the Indian Encampment and the Fairy's Tree and even Dead Man's Cove.

He landed in front of the house and went in without hesitation. Wendy sat in her chair, sewing the dress she'd found in Hook's closet—altering was the word she'd used.

He put his hands on his hips, looking her sternly in the eyes as she greeted, "Oh, hello, Peter!"

Peter stepped back as she stood and ignored her puzzled frown. "We're not getting married anymore," he stated firmly.

Wendy's jaw dropped, and for a moment Peter thought she was going to faint. Then she asked, very softly, "Why not?"

"You didn't tell me that marriage is what grown-up men do and I am not a man, so I will not marry you!" His voice was a bit harsher than he'd intended; after all, he didn't think that she'd meant to trick him. Sometimes Wendy forgot how important childhood was to him. But she had to learn, and Fathers were all about discipline.

Her eyes filled with tears, and Peter looked away. "Well, if that's how you feel about it," she murmured. "Then we won't get married." There was a long pause, in which Peter was certain she was going to start crying. Then she tilted her head upwards, eyes narrowed and jaw set. "I didn't really want to marry you, anyways," she declared. "And you have to tell Tiger Lily and the Tinkerbell and the boys that you decided to take away all their fun."

Peter winced. "Awww, Wendee."

"No," she snapped, and he straightened on instinct. Then she strode right up in front of him and roughly shoved the white dress into his arms. "And take this. I don't want the stupid thing, or anything else!"

In a huff, she crossed her arms over her chest. Peter stared, wondering why on earth she'd gotten so angry, and not enjoying the quiet discomfort that began to grow in his belly (like it always did when Wendy felt upset). "Wendy—" he ventured, and she spun until her back was facing him.

"Go away, Peter. I have a lot of work to do."

"I can help," he offered eagerly.

"I don't want your help!" She nearly-yelled at him, and when she faced him he could see tears swimming in her eyes again. "Just leave me alone!"

And with a little sigh, Peter did.

Sitting on a bottle top in her house, Tinkerbell watched Wendy's lip start to tremble and fists clench at her sides as she stared at the spot Peter's form had previously occupied. A few rivulets of water tumbled onto her cheeks and stained her dress; but then Wendy straightened her shoulders, muttering, "Buck up, girl."

Guilt is a foreign feeling to a fairy, so Tinkerbell couldn't quite place the odd displacement in her chest as she watched Wendy struggle with her tears.


Wendy squeezed her eyes closed, trying to gain control over the liquid pressure building there. But her head was spinning so fast that she couldn't quite get her bearings; suddenly it seemed like the whole world was upside-down and she didn't know which way was straight.

What had happened?

One moment Peter was giving her dresses and jewelry and saying that she was lovely and the next . . . the next he'd called the whole thing off because—because it was too grown up? How dare he treat her like she'd tricked him, like the whole thing was her idea!

Wendy felt a horrible blush cover her cheeks rapidly. Oh, she'd forgotten the origins of this whole debacle. Mothers and fathers ought to be married. Wendy tried to imagine what her mother would think now. Not only had she slain pirates, but Wendy was also a—a—

She tried not to pay any attention to the image that popped into her head as she thought the words scarlet woman. But she couldn't help it; immediately she envisioned herself in the darker alleys of London, dress tattered and hair askew. Wendy wasn't sure what women like that did, exactly, but Mother used to say that cousin Sarah was one and no one liked cousin Sarah so it must be awful.

Wendy shook her head, straightening her skirt as she tried to wipe the water off of her cheeks. Above all, Wendy was a respectable lady—and she wasn't about to cast aside all rules just because she lived under a tree and could fly without wings. Peter's awful delivery of the bad news settled the matter: she wouldn't be the boys' mother anymore. It simply went beyond all stretches of propriety.

Of course she couldn't tell the boys . . . . they'd be so upset, poor dears. No Wendy decided a little vindictively as she shifted through her things for a piece of paper and something to write with, best let Peter handle that.

She scribbled a hasty note and then took a deep breath, tying her hair back into a neat little ribbon. "Serves you right," she told the emptiness as she climbed out of Hangman's Hollow and into the forest.

In the room that Wendy had left, Tinkerbell flew from her post to read the neatly written words: My dear boys, I'm sorry that I can't be your mother anymore. I had to go. Ask your father. Love, Wendy.

Tinkerbell tried to think, "Good riddance." She even attempted a smug, "Finally."

But she realized that Wendy's absence meant that the boys had no one to cook them dinner, or fix their clothes, or teach them games, or tell them stories, or comfort them when they had cried, or make sure they took their medicine, or sing them to sleep, or show them what it meant to have someone's undivided attention. Wendy's absence meant that Peter wouldn't sleep right because of the nightmares, that he'd have trouble flying for a few days, that he wouldn't be up to chasing Indians or playing tag, and that he'd get grumpy and take it out on Tinkerbell 'till she felt even worse than he did.

With this thought in mind, the best that poor, miserable, guilty Tinkerbell could muster was: "Oh . . . poo."