Info: Peter Pan, Hook/Wendy, R. Written for alixtii’s Incest/Cross-gen Battle. Also, for an_atomic_sky. This is movie-verse, because that’s all I really know.
She grips the dagger. She’s not sure what she is afraid of. He hasn’t tried to touch her, but his eyes. There is something about his eyes, something that makes her fingers tighten around the hilt, her thumb brushing slightly against the silver blade. She holds it tucked just behind her skirts, breathing heavy with the waiting. Waiting for him to move, speak, do something, anything, that might cause her to spring into action. She is ready.
But he merely sits at his captain’s desk, glancing between her and the maps, brushing his fingertips over the parchment. His mustache twitches, and he watches her breath quicken, the movement noticeable through the bodice of her dress. He smiles slightly, impressed with his young guest.
“He’ll come for me, you know. Peter will save me.” She feels compelled to say something, gripping the weapon tighter, ready now for him to respond, ready now for violence.
He rises from his chair, the smile broadening. “Ah, yes. I’ve no doubt that the boy will come. But save you? Of that I’m not nearly so certain.” One step forward, another. His boots sound heavy on the wooden floor of the cabin. He knocks his hook upon the desk sharply, causing her to jump. “Wendy.” He says her name. He says her name like one holds a flower, delicate and soft, like the wind blowing over a sandy beach, like the scent of the air after a storm. “Wendy,” he whispers it now, taking another step closer.
She waits, heart pounding thickly in her chest. She tries to force his voice over her body instead of through it, slicing and melting her the way she finds it doing. Her muscles tighten. She whips out the dagger with a stiff arm, shaking a little. “I’m afraid, Captain Hook, that you mistake me for a helpless little girl.” Her voice catches at the end, and she wants to cry.
Hook advances, heedless of the weapon, and caresses her cheek with the flat of his hook, weakening her knees. “My dear Wendy. I could never-” She has to stop his voice, cutting through, churning her insides like a giant motor, and the only way she can think to do it, is a quick slice of the dagger across his stomach, barely cutting the fabric. But he stops speaking.
They stare at the wound, a small smile remaining on the captain’s face. After a moment, blood begins to seep from the cut, and Wendy gasps, the dagger dropping from her shuddering hand. “You see, Wendy. You are far from helpless. It would do you good to remember that.”
He presses her small hand to his side, wincing at the pressure. Her hands stop shaking, feeling the pulse of him so close against her. She looks up to his face, and finally sees his eyes. When she pulls her hand away, it is red, bloodied.