Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mary Darling teases her husband as he sits on the edge of their bed, tongue sticking out in concentration, totalling their expenses. It is something George does more than ever these days, especially now that two is on its way to becoming three. One can add, subtract, multiply, or divide numbers, but it is when they slowly become that George is addled and must start again.

Really, it is the state of becoming that confuses him. Everything becomes something else. Yesterday's debate in Parliament becomes an article in today's paper. This afternoon's lunch becomes tonight's indigestion. A moment of love becomes another mouth to feed.

It is not that George minds having another mouth to feed (and he tells himself this again when three becomes four and four becomes five), but George is practical, a realist. And George doesn't remember becoming anything. He was a boy. He is now a man. There was never an in-between.

As George scratches his pencil against the paper, an image flashes across his mind of a boy scratching numbers in the dirt. When George looks down at his figures, he sees that his four has suddenly become a pirate flag, and he must start again.

George spends long hours in his office. Most nights, he does not arrive home until long after dinner. He is afraid he is going to lose his job, and if he had his way, he would stay at the office even longer just to show them what a hard worker he is. But then he worries they will get sick of him if he stays too long, and so he goes home finally, unhappy. He goes home unhappy every night, come to think of it. (He tries not to.)

Sometimes, on his way up to bed, he hears Mary telling their children bedtime stories. But there is no happily ever after in these stories. Princesses and dragons have been forsaken for mermaids and crocodiles.

"You shouldn't fill their heads with such tales," he tells his wife once they are in bed. "Wendy will be leaving the nursery soon. If she is to be a proper young lady, she should keep her feet on the ground."

"Oh, George." Mary curves an arm around her husband and closes her eyes. "The children love them. What's the harm in letting them dream a little while longer, hm?"

George feels an uncomfortable twinge in his chest. He is suddenly and painfully aware that these might be more than just stories, and the thought that a story can become a memory disturbs him more than he thought possible. It is some time before George falls asleep, and when he does, he dreams of pow wows and young boys playing swords and climbing trees.

The next morning, George wakes with a recollection of scavenger hunts, and the taste of acorn paste is in his mouth. It is not so much the idea of tasting acorn paste that scares him nearly so much as his certainty of having tasted it before.

George comes home one night with a story of his own: he was passed over for a promotion yet again. It hurts, of course, but it stings even more when he discovers that his friend was chosen over him.

Mary hugs her husband. "And you've been there much longer than he has. I'm sorry, George. That really wasn't fair of them."

George snorts. Fair. What is fair, really? Is it fair when the price of tea goes up? Is it fair when someone takes the last biscuit from the tin just as you decide you want it for yourself?

Is it fair when you've been at a company for over a decade and don't get the recognition you deserve?

Is it fair when your best friend decides he doesn't like it when you talk about wanting a real family? Is it fair when he says he doesn't care if you never come back and the last thing you see before growing up is the image of a pirate ship winking into existence? Is it fair that he won't remember you except as a buccaneer who can't ever grow young?

Mary and the children stare at him. Only then does he realize he is yelling. "Well?" he shouts. "Is it?" As if to emphasize his point--if there is indeed a point to his raving at all, which even George himself is not sure about--he bangs his fist on the table. He misjudges his reach, and the corner of the table cuts his arm.

A bruise forms, and he wears a large bandage around his right wrist for several days.

Every story has a hero and a villain, and this time the villain is George. He has had enough, and it is time for Wendy to leave the nursery. The ultimate act of treachery, though, according to his family, is when George takes Nana outside. It is the only way George knows how to handle the situation, but Nana forgives him because she can sense that George never had a governess of his own.

And when Nana interrupts their party, flinging her paws up in helplessness, George wonders if it is possible for a villain to become a hero. Standing in the street, they find the children's room ablaze with light, and shadows race past the window, one by one. George's heart soars at the sight, and he nearly feels his own feet leave the ground. For he must tread lightly if he is to catch sight of that elusive fourth shadow, but by the time he and Mary reach the nursery, the window is open. The children are gone.

George rushes back outside. The entire street is silent save for a small ticking noise. It is only the grandfather clock in their parlor, which he hears because their front door is still open. George wishes he could shut out the sound. It only serves as a reminder that time no longer stands still for him, and George feels his age now more than ever as he stands alone in the dark.

"You didn't even say hello," George whispers to the night sky. In the distance, off to the right, a star twinkles. "Bad form, Peter."

Mary refuses to leave the nursery until the children return. Her lips quiver with worry--all except the corner, of course. George has long since given up trying to catch that hidden kiss, but he can't help noticing it as she collapses into the rocking chair.

He wonders if it is this kiss that allowed her to find Neverland within the drawers of Wendy's dreams. Is it the key to a door he is no longer allowed access? Or the memory of an adventure from a long time ago?

George does not regret choosing family over flying, work over wonder. And the idea that Mary might have made the same decision makes sense in a certain way. But Mary's legacy is a kiss never given while his is a pirate forever bent on destroying childhood. It just doesn't seem fair.

For the first time in a long time, George no longer feels jealous--just sad--as he crawls into Nana's kennel.

Just before sunrise, the children return and three has suddenly become nine. He rushes around the house, trying to find corners for them all, and he wonders when the house became so tiny.

When he arrives back in the nursery, the hidden kiss is gone and so too is Peter. But that is okay because George finds it just might be possible for him to become okay too. He will always miss Neverland, but he discovers that resentment can sometimes become pity just as anger can sometimes become forgiveness. George knows he can be difficult to live with at times but he loves his family. He also knows what kind of sacrifice these children have made, and this time, he will make sure that the Lost Boys become adults when they are ready and not before.

He gathers his children around him, old and new, and offers them a hug. They do not all fit at once and so he must give turns, taking in several at a time. It is not until he has given more hugs than children that he realizes some are coming back for more. And that is okay too.

George takes his youngest into his lap and the others gather at his feet. Michael pulls a handful of acorns out of his pocket which he proudly shows his father. "Peter gave them to me!" he says. "Wendy's was bigger but I have more." George smiles as he pictures his son scratching an acorn tally in the dirt under the shade of a Never tree.

"So," he says to the children, "I hear you have had some adventures."

The children erupt into a chorus of voices, all shouting and sharing their stories at once. George listens eagerly and is not surprised to hear that Captain Hook is gone.