Neverland! Chapter Ten...*s/x*

[tabaqui]

Yes, finally, more. Sorry my schedule for this got all wonky. And...wow, i have like - *nothing* to report. Just...very dull, me. And really - i don't think you all want to hear about the weather and fuzzy socks *again*. Heh.

I might be getting a cold. *sniffle*

I'm sure many, many of you have seen this, but it bears reposting - opt-out lj feed and syndication info. Thanks to darkhavens and a few others for all the links and instructions.

reremouse gave this the once-over, as always. Thank you thank you! She also posted part four of 'Small Imperfections' which, really - i cannot recommend highly enough.
Food, drink, dead guy. Good times.

Previous 'Neverland' parts here.






The Jolly Roger was anchored half a mile inland up a river. Sheltered by a turn of the banks, the prow nosed in among old, stately willows, it was a cozy berth. Spike leaned against a tree-trunk and watched it for a while. The ship was old, the boards weathered and silvery where the paint had come away. Here and there were clumsy repairs and the furled canvas looked stained and tatty. The high, old-fashioned poop-deck was gilded in gaudy red and gold paint but the figurehead that loomed out from the bow was piebald and flaking.

"How many men's he got aboard?" Spike asked and Xander, who was leaning opposite shrugged, pushing his hair back out of his eyes.

"It varies. Usually around sixty. They don't all fight, but on board…"

"Yeah. Don't see your mates, though."

"They're below-decks. There's a…cage."

Spike glanced over at Xander, who was staring at the ship with a kind of sick, fascinated gaze. "Ever been on board?"

"Just – just once. We attacked when they were in town. Drunk and…" Xander made a little gesture with his hands that could mean about anything. "Hook had something Peter wanted. We…killed the ones that were left behind and raided Hook's cabin."

"Huh." Spike fiddled with his Zippo, wanting a smoke. But not wanting to attract attention in the gloom by firing up his lighter. It was past the noon hour but the sky was still thick with clouds and the light that got through was a dense, still green – more like twilight than afternoon. "So, what'd Pan want from him?"

"Huh? Oh…" Xander seemed to come back to himself from somewhere...not good. "He wouldn't say. He took a box away – never showed us. I don't know where he hid it."

Spike shook his head – tucked his lighter away into his pocket again. He could see at least ten pirates moving around the deck, tending to whatever it is pirates…tended to. "All right. You boys lay low; I'm going to go have a talk with the Captain." Spike pushed away from the tree and started walking and Xander scrambled after him, getting in front of him and putting a hand flat to Spike's chest.

"What? No! They'll kill you if you just – walk in there!"

"Think so?" Spike leaned into Xander's palm and Xander let his elbow buckle – let Spike get in close, his expression confused. "You've never seen William the Bloody in a fight, Xander. You don't know what I can do. And these sorry excuses for pirates…" Spike let the demon out, grinning, and Xander flinched back. "They're no match for me. Don't even know I exist."

"You – you don't know that! What if Tootles or Tony said what you are?"

"Would your fellow lost boys give up a comrade to the enemy?" Spike sneered, and Xander's expression went from frantic to furious.

"Tootles would. He's been here the longest - he's been here since Marion was the Tiger Lily. He likes it here." Xander's mouth twisted in disgust. He looked over his shoulder at the ship, unconsciously moving closer to Spike. "He'd do about anything to keep everything the same. Including selling out to Hook."

Spike considered that, but even forewarned… It didn't matter. Not the way he was feeling. Like he wanted to rip out the throat of the bloody world. "Never you mind, mate. They don't trouble me." Spike grinned again, this time letting the demon go – slipping his hand up Xander's neck to curl in the thick, heavy hair at the nape of his neck. "Weren't worried about me, were you?" he murmured, tugging Xander a little closer. Inhaling the musk and salt of him, and Xander frowned.

"No. I don't…care."

"I think you do," Spike said, rubbing his fingers against Xander's scalp – leaning in, just a little. Enough to feel it when Xander took in a sharp, shaky breath.

"I just don't want you going in there and screwing up and getting Roxy killed," Xander muttered, but his lids were half-shut over his eyes – his mouth was soft and wet with rain and Spike kissed him. Xander let him, for a moment, and then he twisted away. "Don't, okay?"

"Already breaking your promise?" Spike said, more amused than irritated. For the moment.

"What? No! It's just…Roxy and them... They come first. Okay?" Xander's eyes were wide – so dark – but his jaw was tense, his fingers curled tightly into Spike's shirt. "Okay?"

"Oh, all right. Bloody hell." Spike sighed and reached for his cigarettes. Hook was supposed to have cigars, he'd nick a few. Right now, he needed a smoke.


There was a poorly-contrived boardwalk under the willows that led over marshy ground to a rickety gang-plank. Spike stood at the foot of it and looked up – shrugged. Ship's etiquette said you were supposed to ask permission to come aboard, but he had no intention of announcing his presence.

He swaggered up the gang-plank and hopped down onto the deck. It was greasy-looking and littered with willow leaves and bits of trash – even a bone or two, although from the size they looked like chicken bones. There was a long, low box made of iron strips in the middle of the deck, and something blinked at him from inside. Blinked and stank like carrion and Spike puffed out a cloud of smoke to try and cover it.

"Here! Who in the name o' Mary are you?" It was a high, thin voice with a God damned Irish accent and Spike turned on it with a snarl.

"I want the Captain. Tell him it's William the Bloody."

The speaker was a fat little man with round glasses and wisps of white hair sticking up from a half-bald head. He was standing with one hand on the body of an old-fashioned treadle sewing machine, the other on the hilt of a cutlass. There was nothing even remotely frightening about him, from his cracked boots to his filthy neckerchief. But his eyes were hidden behind the lenses of the glasses, whited out with reflected light and Spike repressed a small shudder.

"I'm sure and I don't know any William the Bloody. What business with the Captain?"

"Pan business," Spike said, and the man flinched back, his rough hand tightening on the cutlass.

"If you're a mate o'that Pan, you're no friend o' the Captain's."

Spike lifted his cigarette to his lips and smoked the last quarter inch down in one long drag. He flicked the butt at the man, who ducked a little. "I'm no friend of Pan's. Just want to talk to the Captain about him."

"Smee? Do we have company?"

*The man himself.* Spike watched Hook come a step or two forward from the deep shadows of under the poop-deck stairs. The doors to his private quarters were there. A light smoldered somewhere inside, behind him, throwing Hook into silhouette.

"He says he's here on Pan business, Cap'n," Smee said, turning around fast. His hand didn't leave the hilt of his cutlass. "Says he no friend o' Pan's."

"No friend of Pan's is…a friend indeed. Mister…?"

"William th' Bloody," Smee muttered, and Hook made a bowing motion.

"William the Bloody. Do come in." Spike stopped himself from bowing back and sauntered forward. Close up, Hook stank of rum and sweat and something sweet. The overripe sweetness of decaying roses – half-rotten fruit. An underlying tang of metal, and Spike saw the dull gleam of the steel hook that had replaced his right hand. His eyes had a strange, reddish glow in them as he watched Spike walk by.

*Something…off, here. Not quite right…* Hook seemed human. As human as anything in Neverland had, so far. But Spike remembered the pirate's blood in his mouth – remembered that the chip hadn't once shocked him here. "My pleasure, Captain," Spike said, and walked to the center of the room beyond.

It was the lushness of a garden gone to seed, inside. Rugs and velvet throws draped over everything, showing worn spots and raveling tassels. A bed heaped with pillows spilling their innards, anchored to keep it from moving by heavy cables attached to hooks set in the floor. There were little cabinets and boxes tucked everywhere, draped in cobwebs and furred with dust. The table placed under the stern windows was scattered with a dozen or more dishes of sweets and pastries, cooked meats and candied fruits and jellies of blood-red and gooseberry green. All of it had the same too-ripe stink and Spike eyed it with disgust.

"Please – sit down," Hook said, gliding past Spike and gesturing to a pillow-padded chair. He himself settled into one that was draped with a worn tiger hide, fussily arranging the lace cuff of his right sleeve before looking up at Spike. "A drink, Mister –"

"Just call me Spike, mate. Most do. A drink's exactly what I need."

"Spike. Of course." Hook lifted a cut-crystal decanter and poured a generous measure of amber rum into a glass – held it out to Spike. Spike took it and drank it down while Hook poured his own glass. Then they both simply sat for a moment. Watching.

Hook was as pale as Spike, with livid circles under his eyes and an unhealthy tinge of blue to his lips and fingernails. His elaborately curled hair fell past his shoulders, but it was greasy and lank – in need of a wash. The lace at his throat and around his wrists was delicate, expensive…ragged. Every bone in his face and hands was pressed up against his skin and his eyes… They were blue, in the light of the hanging lamp, but sunk so far back into their sockets that Hook looked skeletal. He looked, in fact, quite dead, even though Spike could clearly hear his heartbeat.

*Said he died, but Marion said he didn't. Brought him back, but…he's not right. If he didn't die – what happened to him? Fuck, he looks mad as a hatter and stinks like a crypt. This had bloody well better get me something.* "So…Captain James Hook. Peter Pan told me he killed you," Spike said. Fuck diplomacy – he wanted answers.

Hook shuddered – tossed back the last mouthful of rum in his glass and poured himself more. "He did, Spike. In a way. Put a blade…right through me." Hook rubbed at his chest with the curve of iron, his eyes far away for a moment. "But then…" Hook shrugged – grinned at Spike, a death's-head gaping. "Then he wanted me back. So…back I came."

"What's that mean, back you came? Were you dead or not?" Spike snapped. He reached over and poured himself more rum, filling the glass to the rim.

"Oh, I was very much dead, yes. Cold in my coffin, you might say. If I'd had a coffin. Burial at sea, don’t you know," Hook said, and laughed. It had a grating quality, as if Hook's throat was a little damaged. He poured his own glass full – reached into a little silver-chased box on the table and took out a slim, black cigar. "Smoke, my good man?"

"Don't mind if I do." Spike took the cigar – lit it with his Zippo and then lit Hook's. Watched the flower-blue eyes slide over the metal case and slip away, uninterested. "So you died and came back. I know a little something about that, myself." The cigar tasted of honey and green and, faintly, of earth.

"Do you?" Hook murmured. He shifted his cigar to the corner of his mouth and plucked a candied cherry from a dish, eating it awkwardly. The confection stained his lips to a deep plum, and the cigar waggled up and down, dropping ash unnoticed down his shirt front. "Did they weight you with chain and slide you over…did you sink down and down, fathoms deep…the water all about you going from pearl to sapphire to ink…?" Hook found Spike's gaze with his own but then looked away, his hand curling around the glass of rum but not picking it up. "Did you feel the pressure of it – the incredible pressure, squeezing your very bones – crushing your organs and your brains…?" Hook's gaze was far-off and shuttered, the coal-red glow winking far back in his eyes. He seemed to have stopped breathing, even though the steady thum-thump of his heart went on and on.

It was actually kind of irritating. "I dug my way up out of the mud and filth with my bare hands," Spike snapped, and finished off his glass. "Look, I don't actually give a fuck about your burial at sea. What I came here about is getting off this bloody island. Marion says –"

"Marion? Oh, the native woman…" Hook brightened at that – lifted his glass finally and swirled the drink around and around, a hint of a smile quirking his lips. A little rum slopped over, spattering his thigh. "She's rather…interesting, wouldn't you say?"

"Doesn't hold a patch to my Dru, if you ask me. Did you get off the island?"

Hook stopped swirling the glass – took a slow drag off his cigar, watching Spike through the smoke. "Of course I did, my good man. I died, after all. Went…down to Davy Jones. To his kingdom under the sea…"

"Oh, bloody hell." Spike made to rise and Hook held out his hand.

"No, no. Please. I'm so sorry, Spike. Sometimes I find myself in a most melancholy mood. My apologies." Hook's little smile was back, and he took the cigar from his mouth, holding it and the glass in his left hand. His right arm came up, the hook glinting dully. He pressed it to his lips and Spike saw the tip of his tongue flicker out and touch it. "After I died, I learned a secret. A secret about me…about –" He gestured around them with the hook. "About this whole place. About how to get away from here."

"You want to tell me what that secret is, then? Captain?" Spike said, and Hook leaned back in his chair, crossing one booted leg over his velvet-trousered thigh.

"I'd be happy to, Spike. Sir William the Bloody. For a price, of course."

"Of course." Spike took a draw on his cigar, letting the smoke drift slowly from his lips.

"I want the lost boys. Want them here, on this ship. Want them to be mine. And I want Pan…dead."

"Of course you do." *Bloody fool. There's five times over the boys on this ship – doesn't need me to get them…* "The boys are just out on the shore, there, waiting for me. The ones you don't have down below," Spike said, and Hook grinned.

"Yes, the estimable Tootles and…a twin, he said. And the Wendy. She's a feisty one." Hook pulled the neck of his shirt aside with the hook, revealing a bruise and deep scratch-marks, dry and livid on his pale skin.

"A regular wildcat," Spike said dryly. "What do you mean, yours? Don't you just want to kill them?"

"Oh, God no. Killing them would be too simple." Hook sipped his rum – puffed the cigar, rubbing the hook slowly up and down the scuffed shank of his boot. "I want them to swear loyalty to me. I want them to…to look to me as they look to Pan. To…feel…" Hook stopped, looking away, and Spike felt a surge of amusement rise up in him.

"They don't love him, you know. They rather despise Pan, these days."

Hook flinched ever so slightly, but his eyes tracked back to Spike, just blue now, and so tired. "Yes, I know they don't. They hate him. But they hate with passion. They believe… I want that. I want their belief. I…need it."

"And if I get you the boys – kill Pan? You'll tell me how to get off this sodding island?"

"Oh, yes. Absolutely. I don't want you here, you know. Your kind." Spike raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I know you, vampire. I know Pan thinks you'll be my doom. He thought the crocodile would be, too." Hook stood up and paced to the door – called softly through it. Called to Smee. "I want you gone, Spike. You're…upsetting things. Too much is already wrong… Pan, he doesn't know what he's doing, anymore."

"You don't seem quite all here yourself, mate," Spike observed, and Hook laughed that croaking laugh again.

"No, I suppose I don't." The door creaked open an inch or two and Hook whispered to Smee, who whispered back. A moment or two later there was the sound of many feet – rattling weapons. The pirates going to capture the last of the lost boys. "Well, that's well in hand, then," Hook said with a dry little laugh. He walked back to the table – set glass and cigar aside and picked up a blood-red coat from the back of the chair. He swung it on, careful of his hook, and then smoothed the raveling gold braid that adorned the cuffs and collar.

"I must dress the part, mustn't I? To greet the boys. And when they're mine…you'll kill Pan. You'll kill…Peter Pan."

"And you'll tell me how to get back." Spike stood up, and Hook made another little bow.

"Yes, I will. On my word as a gentleman."

Spike grinned. "On mine then, as no such thing."

Comments

[samifidler.livejournal.com]

*ook flinched ever so slightly, but his eyes tracked back to Spike, just blue now, and so tired. "Yes, I know they don't. They hate him. But they hate with passion. They believe… I want that. I want their belief. I…need it."*

Should we be getting ready to clap and cheer? The description of Hook himself and his quarters is incredibly evocative and yukky. And I don't know - can you poison a vampire? I don't know if I'd drink anything anyone offered him if I were Spike. The whole thing is falling apart as if it was being kept alive in Neverland intensive care long past it's time.

I'm so enjoying this.

Sami

[tabaqui]

Thank you thank you, so much! I'm so glad Hook was *not* particularly attractive - i really wanted to make him ooky.
:)