Disclaimer: Peter Pan, all characters, places, and related terms belong to J.M. Barrie.

Of Apologies, Strawberries, and Thimbles

The playful music drifting through the Neverland cuts off abruptly on a shrill note when Peter Pan tosses away his panpipes with a hard throw. Clouds threaten to block out the blue sky and bright sun, with distant rumbles of thunder rolling through the gathering clouds; the weather reflects the magical boy's mood as the aggravation he's attempted to keep at bay by ambushing the pirates, visiting the mermaids, and filling the Neverland with his music, comes back with a vengeance. His expression settling into one of part anger, part distress, he runs a tanned hand through his wild curls.

It is not the first time he has bickered with Mother. No indeed, for all fathers and mothers argue. In the past their quarrels brought out her rare temper or his frequent stubbornness. Sometimes the rows ended with her, offended and angry, marching back to finish preparing the meal, or he, frustrated and uncomprehending, flying out of the house almost as fast as a shooting star. Later that evening – or once in a while the following morning – she would give him a bigger portion than usual at the meal and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, or he would help her clean up after the meal and offer to teach her how to play his pipes. And their smiles would be carefree, and their eyes clear once more, the argument a fading memory.

But this time… It has been five days since their fight. And Mother has not spoken a word other than "yes" and "no" to him, her nod gravely polite, dim eyes directed to the floor, hurt and sadness evident in her every movement. The uncomfortable feeling hanging over him, the knowledge he is responsible for her being so, has grown and shifted, changing to a queer, heavy ache (what did John call it? guilt?), as the dishes were quietly taken from his hands after each meal and his offered pipes met with a wordless shake of her pretty little head.

Peter swallows thickly. The buzzing in his ears taunts him: You made her cry! You made her cry! He had not meant to hurt Wendy. Truly he had not. Often he said things he did not mean when he could not have his way and became put out. Her refusal of his help and offered panpipes has stirred a strange fear in the boy that has added hollowness to his laugh and caused his crow to be less proud and confident the last few days.

You may never again be on amiable terms with her, a dark voice warns in his head.

Clumsily brushing his hand over his eyes, the boy shakes his head jerkily, pushing away the thought. No. He rises into the air with difficulty, searching for happy thoughts, flying slowly and uncertainly. His eyes shine strangely, his lips in a tight line, and his hands ball into uneasy fists.

Somehow…, the word gently brushes his mind, a ghost of a possibility.

The other voice, sounding eerily like Hook, interrupts, Or perhaps she –

"No!" Peter cries aloud. It cannot have come to that. "Somehow," he murmurs, reaching for the faint hope offered in the word. "Somehow."

Peter Pan steps soundlessly into the house under the ground. Raindrops slide down his body, causing him to shiver. Thunder sounds lightly outside. His eyes focus on the girl across the room with her back to him, intent on the soup she is making in the large kettle, humming a tune that drifts aimlessly, sadly, about the home. Slowly, cautiously, the boy moves farther into the house.

"Mother…," he calls.

Wendy turns around quickly, startled. The surprise on her face swiftly fades away, leaving behind that now familiar sad, pale look. She drops her head and begins to turn away.

"I am sorry, Wendy," he apologies, voice low, his eyes watching her anxiously.

The girl looks up sharply, and their gazes hold. Puzzlement creases her brow as she silently regards him.

"I did not mean, you know…to, to hurt you." He blinks his eyes rapidly. "I did not mean what I said." He takes another step towards her.

Wendy sighs deeply. "There was some truth to it," she admits to the ground in a trembling tone. "It would be better if—"

He shakes his head fervently, cutting her off. "No! No!" Peter leans forward, his tone softening, "It would not be the same, not as wonderful. Who would I tell about my adventures? Who would mend my pockets?"

Wendy raises her gaze up to him once more, unsure-ness still swimming in her eyes.

Carefully he holds out to her the basket he's held this whole time, almost overflowing with strawberries.

"Oh," she breathes, growing still, not having noticed the basket and its contents until now.

Peter fishes for words when the basket is not taken. "You-you said you wished to make a strawberry cake…."

"But there are no strawberries in the berry patches," she says.

"On the mountain there is."

For the first time in five days a small light enters Wendy's eyes, and pleasure tugs on the corners of her mouth, touched by this unexpected gesture. "Peter!" And she takes the basket. "You did— Thank you, Father."

A glimmer of hope rises in the boy as she sets the basket on the tree stump, yet uncertainty clings to him. She comes to stand before him, nervously clasping her hands together.

"I am most sorry, Wendy," Peter repeats, searching her face. "Truly."

Something subtly changes in her expression, and she steps closer. Carefully she lays a hand on his chest, warming his cool skin. "I forgive you, Peter," she says softly, seriously, before her gaze slips to his shoulder.

Her breath catches when Peter brings up his thumb to trace the curve of her jaw before gently lifting her chin with his fingers until her blue eyes meet his hazel ones again. There are no stars in them, but two hot sparks that kindle brightly at her.

"You are my Mother," he says in a low, intense tone. Heat spreads over the girl's cheeks and a small believing smile lights her face, the last of her doubts swept away. And the unfamiliar pangs of guilt and fear slide away from the boy's shoulders.

And, as though he has done so many times before, though in truth it is the first, Peter leans down to place a soft thimble on the girl's upturned mouth. A moment later he pulls away, a new blush in his face, and unusual but pleasant warmth flowing through him as he takes in Wendy's surprised, shy face. "Only you, Wendy-lady," he affirms before closing the distance between them once more.

THE END