As promised, a new Hook story. Hook - refreshes parts other men cannot reach.

I have set the story, a little erroneously based on Barrie's time frame perhaps, around 1911-1912. I wanted it to be pre-war, otherwise there are so many other issues to deal with. Not that I wouldn't want to explore them at another time, but not in this story. It will be around ten chapters long, probably more.

Wendy is roughly 27. And Hook looks just like he did when Jason Isaacs played him. ;-) Naturally.

Don't forget to keep up-to-date with updates, news and chat on my facebook page - Laurielove. It is a great place to have a dialogue with you all.

With love and best wishes from LL. Enjoy. x

The wind, whispering enticingly in the high trees of Hyde Park that April morning, reminded Wendy of Neverland.

She glanced up and slowed her pace while pushing the perambulator, allowing the light spring breeze to prance over her skin. Her eyes closed, Wendy allowed herself a nostalgic smile. It was all so long ago now, yet every day would indulge her with a little memory. Only a little one, but it was enough.

Peter had not been back for many years. She hoped his need for her had diminished. It had seemed to. As she had grown older, she noticed his interest waning, his visits becoming less frequent. It sat happily with her.

She was, after all, a respectable lady now, a wife and mother of three: two boys (currently hopping excitedly around her) and a girl (currently surveying her older brothers quizzically from the elevated safety of her pram).

'May we go down to sail our boats, Mama?' inquired her elder boy as they turned into a broader expanse of green stretching down to a pond.

'Of course, Peter, and take your brother. But always stay within sight of me.' She watched fondly as the boys scampered down the slope with their toy yachts, presents from their Uncle John. Her eldest boy was nothing like as flighty or hot-headed as his namesake, and he was already growing up with a maturity far beyond his seven years. Wendy was not sure she was entirely pleased by this, but the boy's father certainly was. Jeremy Montgomery was, after all, mature beyond his years.

She had met Jeremy through her brother, Michael, who worked with him at Coutts & Co. Michael had thrown a midsummer party and Jeremy had attended. Wendy sensed his interest in her immediately. Many men showed interest in her, she noticed, but this one was rather more beguiling than the others. Then, at least. In the dappled light of a summer evening, after two glasses of champagne, his easy smile and twinkling eyes had reminded her of times past, of people long gone. He stood, tall and elegant, his dark blond hair sleek. They had danced several times, and Wendy found herself enjoying it more than she had since a time buried deep in her drawer of dreams.

After that he wooed her, and their courtship followed all the convention it properly and rather ponderously should. Tea at the Ritz, walks after the 11 o'clock service, escorted home from the opera. Wendy felt, perhaps for the first time, a normality and predictability to her life which she always assumed she should pursue. Others pursued it, did they not? Presumably, she should too. And Jeremy Montgomery seemed the person to provide her with normality and predictability. Her parents, after all, were shining examples of how to thrive under such a scheme. And she loved and respected her parents.

She and Jeremy had become betrothed after four months and one week, and Wendy was married by twenty.

It was only after their wedding night that she realised Jeremy's eyes did not twinkle quite how she remembered from their first meeting. He still smiled, he still treated her with love and devotion, but now that she was ensconced in their fine house in Belgravia, her husband did not quite seem the man she had taken him to be. But he was a good man and provided for her material needs in ways she had not even experienced in her own privileged upbringing. He worked too hard, that was her explanation. But that was a good thing, was it not?

It was true. He was rarely seen during the week, and even on Sundays was often distracted by paperwork and exhaustion.

But soon enough their first son came along. The eyes of her boy twinkled enough to outshine the stars themselves. And Wendy was happy. A second boy followed eighteen months later and, eventually, a little girl, Jane, five years after that.

Today she had managed to sneak her children out alone, a rare treat. Families of her kind rarely left the home without Nanny. Wendy glanced down to the pond as she walked along, seeing the two boys growing progressively muddier. Nanny would not be pleased; her heart sank at the thought of another ticking off from Miss Stockton.

There came a tinkling crack followed by a whimper. Jane had thrown her rattle from her pram once again. Instead of leaning precariously out for it as the boys had tended to do, she simply stared up at her mother with a look approaching disdain, expecting her to bend down and retrieve it instantly.

'Oh, Janey, you do test me sometimes. If you insist on throwing your toys out of the pram, at least have the decency to do so when there is a gentleman around to assist me in picking them up.'

Wendy sighed and moved to pick up the silver object. She had lost track of how often she had done so on this walk, and her infernal corset dug into her ribs each and every time she attempted it. Tutting loudly, she gave at the knee, but just as she reached out for the rattle it was removed from before her. A large, olive-skinned hand held it in long fingers before it was whisked up out of her sight as the person stood.

Wendy remained kneeling, but her eyes moved upwards, following long legs clad in dark trousers, up, to a coat and dark red waistcoat out of which glinted a yellow gold watch chain, up further past a neat collar and tie, up past a smattering of beard and moustache, up to eyes of the deepest blue. Eyes of the blue of the forget-me-not.

The man brought up the hand clutching the rattle and touched the smooth bowler perched on his head. 'Permit me.'

Russet lips twitched into a brief smile and the strong fingers held the rattle out to Wendy.

But she could not take it. She was in turmoil. She had been grabbed, shaken and dragged brutally back through time and space. Her world was upended and spun around in one instant. She stared into those eyes, her breath dragging painfully through her lungs.

Wendy searched his features hard, looking to his hair which appeared from the front to be as neat as any other gentleman she knew, but it was dark, she could see that, dark and smooth, like black candle wax.

Jane emitted a fretful sob, and her hand came out, grabbing for the rattle. 'Mama, give! Give rattle!' At last Wendy came to her senses and took the toy. As she did her fingers brushed briefly against those of the man. Warm. Real.

'Thank you, sir,' she muttered, her head down. Gripping the pram handle so fiercely her knuckles blanched, she hurried on, determined, denying what her eyes and soul had thrown at her.

'Wendy Darling.'

That voice. She had heard those exact words all those years ago spoken in that same rich baritone. Not now. Not again.

She had not intended to stop. If she kept going she could pretend it hadn't happened, that she hadn't seen him, that he wasn't real, no more real than before.

But her feet no longer moved. She paused on the path, holding onto the pram as her only means of support. If she let go she feared she would tumble to the ground.

She heard footsteps behind her, slow, yet at the same time ominously heavy and determined, walking ever closer.

'Do you not know me ... Wendy Darling?' The voice was almost slipped into her ear, it was so close. She inhaled sharply and closed her eyes.

'Wendy ... I asked: do you not know me?'

'You are mistaken, sir.'

'No, I am not, madam.'

'My name is not Wendy Darling.'

'Ah. A slight legal anomaly due to ... changing circumstances, I surmise. Fifteen years ago, when you first came to me, you were Wendy Darling.'

She could no longer ignore him. Turning her head, she met once again with those piercing blue eyes.

Wendy instinctively glanced down to his left hand. It was not what she was expecting, and at first she thought perhaps this was a trick, this wasn't who she had thought, but some imposter who had heard her stories and was deceiving her. But on closer inspection she noticed the hand was rigid, unmoving, concealed in a black glove.

The man followed her stare and brought it up. The fingers did not flex or bend in anyway, simply remained in their fixed position. 'Yes, Wendy. An appendage for every occasion. After all, I would not want to frighten the good folk of Kensington, would I?' And reaching up, he grabbed the hand in his other and pulled sharply. It twisted around and he unscrewed it. Soon it came away completely, and, after a wry grin across to her, he held it up and inspected it with considered aplomb. 'Useful this one. Allows me to ... blend in.'

Wendy's breathing was still rapid and deep. She stared into him, almost surprised to hear her own voice functioning. 'Hook.'

'The very same.'

For a moment they simply stood, eyes fixed into the other, and all at once there came to Wendy that same whispering, tickling, pulling excitement that had flown her to Neverland all those years ago. But now it came to her as an adult, as a woman, fully grown and full of life and responsibility. She clenched her eyes tightly closed, fighting it, shutting out this relic of her past.

'You are dead.'

'No, Wendy.'

'You are dead, you are dead. I saw you die.'

'Do you allow your eyes to fool your mind? What did you see? Tell me what you saw.'

Still she tried to fight it, not to permit herself to admit what she could scarcely believe, but she spoke nonetheless. 'I saw you falling into the jaws of that beast.'

'But what purpose is a claw of steel on the end of one's arm if you are not prepared to use it? I cut myself out and left the beast dead.'

She glanced at him again before forcing herself to look away. He smirked. 'Your eyes do not deceive you now, do they?'

Just then her younger son ran screaming in front of their path, brandishing a large stick and chasing after his older brother. 'Peter, don't let your brother chase you so!"

The man cocked an eyebrow. 'Are they your children?'

She nodded.

'An uninspired name.'

Wendy turned on him venomously, 'You are not to pass judgment on my choices.'

'And when did Pan last come back for you, Wendy Darling?'

'Do not call me that. Montgomery. That is my name. I am Wendy Montgomery.'

The man grimaced. 'I prefer Darling.'

'I must go.'

'You have not asked me why I am here.'

'I do not wish to nor do I care. You are not real to me. You are dead to me. Leave me. Return and leave me. I have a new life. I have a good life. Leave me.'

She turned and started to pace away from him, pushing the pram hard. The steady footsteps kept a discreet pace behind her. Wendy tutted, realising her boys were far off.

'Peter! Come back now. We must go home. Cook will be fretting over supper. Tell your brother to come immediately.'

'Yes, Mama!' called her son. She carried on pushing but had to slow to wait for the boys. She was aware of the man still close by.

Her older boy panted up the hill. 'He will not come, Mama. I have tried but he won't listen to me.'

'Oh, really, we must go!' She looked to see her second son leaning across the muddy bank to retrieve his boat from the pond. She called out to him, her voice sharp and insistent, 'James!'

Instantly she wished she could pull the word back into her mouth. She glanced over her shoulder. The man was still there. The blue of his eyes was alight, burning with revelation and delight.

She could say nothing. His mouth curled up at the corners.

All at once both her boys were upon her, clamouring for attention, protesting their hunger. She barely registered it.

Before backing off and at last leaving her, Hook touched his hat and inclined his head. 'Good day, Wendy Darling. Until we meet again.'

Don't be long, James.

Don't worry, he won't be.

LL x