Love of a Father:

The loss of his hand enrages him. The idea that his Peter would turn against him in so violent a way, it leaves him incensed in such a manner that he hardly recognizes himself. As they cauterize his bleeding stump, and fasten the mount of the hook to his hand, he screams obscenities at the ne'er present boy, gnashing his tea stained teeth. When they've gone, and he sits alone in the cabin, now his with Bonny's death, he says nothing; there is only silence.

He stands, walks slowly over to the mirror, devouring his newly haggard appearance. His eyes are darker than ever they were, their usually cold blue turned stormy as the raging sea. But he's tired, so, so tired, and the pain in his stump of an arm has numbed to a dull throb, timed to the beat of his heart.

No matter how he might try to convince himself, the storm in his eyes fades with the pain, and the anger, the boy's bewildered face imprinted in his mind. The boy who had everything that he ever could want in the world. Jenny, his dead lover, flight, and the wood sprites powers. Hook reverts with the image of that face, despite his jealously, his greed. Peter means Jimmy. Always Jimmy. That was how Peter …his Peter…had always referred to him as. Jimmy the Gentleman Thief, and small time crime lord.

Jimmy who knew better than he said. Jimmy who fed lies to Peter to cover other lies. Dead mother, dead father.

Not by his hand, either of them, though he'd like to have gotten that prig. Gotten him for stealing away his Jenny.

And his Peter.

What a lie. Always the worst, and the hardest.

Was Peter his? Was he?

The answer, was yes.

Jimmy ends his examination of his visage, and turns away from the mirror, falling into the chair closest, deadweight like his fury, dissipated with the unavoidable acknowledgement of his affection for the boy.

The boy he knew to be his son. The one truth he'd never tell now. The one truth that would hurt more than his singular acceptance of it. Long ago Jimmy Hook had learned that 'if only' occurred far too often for his liking, and that it was better to simply continue onwards as if nothing had ever disappointed you in the first place. He did so love to think of himself as a realist.

One hand reaches up to his chin, rubbing the growth there from the many days spent without a good shave. Perhaps life here wasn't eternal, but merely slowed to within seconds for years, and years for millennia.

A millennia stuck in this world, with his child son as his mortal enemy.

Hand and hook to the forehead then, before he was leaning back in the chair, good hand dangling to a grasp of his sheathed sword. Always, he'd called it his third arm, his extra hand; his fourth had been his boys. His Peter more specifically.

But greed had always compelled him. Peter was simply confronted with the prospect at too young an age. Older, and more hardened to the trials in life, then perhaps, would Peter have shared his ideals, his plan. Then perhaps, they'd still be on the same side.

But any older and the boy would no longer had idealized him, looked up to him, loved him even, as a mentor, and - dare he hope – as a father?

Jimmy swallows, and sighs, glazed over eyes not taking in any of the rich decadence of the trinketed cabin. It's the rum in his system, he justifies to himself, that's making him so vacant. And as Peter's young face swims in his vision once more, Jimmy swears the boy to damnation halfheartedly, a single drunken tear leaking from the corner of his eye as they grow glassy with pent up emotions, rage, and hate and love, and anger, oh, anger.

Because now his son will never love him. And he can never love his son.

Because now, he must kill him.

As he brings his hand to his face to strike away the infernal tear, he doesn't' see the shadow at his window before it swoops away in flight.

Love of a Son:

He soars high above in the air, scouting, and thinking. They need a place to stay, a camp, safe and hidden. Still they are encamped with the Indians, and he knows that remaining there too long will only endanger their friends. But it's so hard to concentrate when he keep remembering and forgetting. Back and forth, knowing everything and nothing at the same time.

As per the usual, he hovers a safe distance overlooking the Pirate Ship. Hook's ship now.

Hook. That's how Peter thinks on the man whose hand he cut off.

Jimmy is just another man whom Hook has killed. Like his father.

Peter hovers, Tinkerbell nearby him, the memories passing through his head, all jumbled from the chants of the elder wood sprites. For Peter, the word 'Father' has become abstracted. Even when hoping for partnership with Jimmy, he understand now that what he had always truly desired was a father, a family, a home, and Jimmy's love. He'd thought it to come in the form of respect and equality.

Now, he never wanted to grow up again.

Funny how one little adventure changed his whole outlook.

He swoops down lower on the ship under the cover of the fast coming night, and secrets his face up against the glass of Hook's cabin, watching.

He does this often, trying to remember the man that is as the man he knew.

Now, as he looks upon the Captain, hooked ended arm dangling limply off the arm of the chair in which he sits, Peter can see Jimmy quite clearly. His face is tired, worn, and his eyes sad, but intelligent, sharp. Peter wonders often now, what Jimmy thinks of Hook. Because, Peter knows that Jimmy's still in there, somewhere. There is a little voice in Peter's head that tells him that Jimmy never existed. That all there ever was, was Hook. That he'd been fed lies his whole life, and memory, which consisted of mainly Jimmy. He could barely envision his mother before he'd seen the watch, now lost to the depths, as far as he knew.

He watched Jimmy run his one good hand over his face tiredly, and Peter remembers the warm and familiar embrace, tender and caring. Jimmy had always been in a constant state of agitation and concern over him, if her were honest with himself. Peter had always been aware of the favouritism bestowed upon him.

But no matter how much he yearned to return to that state, where he had a father who loved him, the knowledge of what Hook had done had forever tainted Peter's heart, poisoned it black against the man he'd once looked up to.

Lies were all he'd know his life through.

Now, Peter thinks, he must live in the truth. He steals himself to it, no matter how much it hurts to imagine it.

There is no more Jimmy.

Jimmy is dead, and so must be Hook.

He looks down in defeat of the knowledge before he poses to fly away, and in that moment, he misses the sight of a tear run down Hook's cheek.