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Peter had to hurry because the moon was all the way out – the full moon. It was meeting night. And Hook was never late.
That, of course, was because Hook was a grownup. Even the word made Peter’s lip curl a little; he hated to look at grownups and hated to treat with them and above all he hated the thought that he might inadvertently happen to act like one. But here he was, being on time, on purpose.
Ugh.
He had to though; having a good meeting with Hooky this time was worth it. Back at the treehouse Percy was moaning and tossing with fever, sick with a festering wound, and if they didn’t get some grownup medicine for him he was like to die of it.
Peter had been worried enough – not that he ever worried, exactly, but still, he had felt the sick and uneasy stomach flutters about it – worried enough to corner Hook during a brawl on the pirate ship, corner him and get a blade to his throat and make his demand. I need some of that stinky poultice, he’d growled. The one you put on my last Wendy. Percy’s sick.
“Sick with what?” Hook had tried to growl back. “Medicines aren’t all interchangeable, you silly little urchin, you can’t just-”
“Quiet!” Peter’s hand had jerked so that a little blood sprang up. “He’s sick from a cut. Just bring it to next meeting. Um. When’s next meeting?”
Hook had sighed – patient and long-suffering as only a grownup could be – and rolled his eyes. “The full moon is two nights from now,” he’d said. “I’ll bring it. Now get off my ship.”
So here Peter was, on time, and even having washed, a little. Grownups didn’t like you to smell bad. Didn’t want competition for their poultices, maybe.
He alighted on the bow of the rowboat, crosslegged, just barely grazing the wood with his rear. Almost still in flight, really, all ready to shoot upwards if he needed to. “Hey there, Hooky!”
“Don’t call me that,” Hook rasped. Cranky, hoarse. He always got this way in the winter. He turned and held out a wrapped parcel – a stinking wrapped parcel. “What happened?”
Peter took it. Shrugged. “Percy slipped on rocks and cut his foot. We spat on it and wrapped it in leaves, but it’s started to-...” He wrinkled his nose, and showed bubbling and icky with his hands as best he could.
And of course what he got for being truthful was a lecture. “How many times have I told you not to spit in open wounds!”
Peter leaned over and spat right down into the boat. “I do what I want, Hooky.”
Hook ignored that. “Honey. If you don’t have medicines you use honey.”
Honey. Ugh. He knew there was something. He couldn’t for the life of him remember it all week though, and surely, by tomorrow it would be gone again.
Anyway it wasn’t a very good answer. “We can’t. Bear’ll eat us if we use honey.”
“There aren’t any more bears on the island,” Hook snarled.
Peter smirked. “Not bear the animal – Bear the Lost Boy,” he said. “You know he loves honey. He’s the one made off with it last time we got into your cabin.”
Hook reached out to cuff him but, as usual, was a hair too slow. Peter hovered a little ways above him, just out of reach. He was suddenly feeling a little cranky himself. Antsy and unhappy.
Because the thought had bubbled up: Hook was too slow with his left hand. Once upon a time, with his right, he might not have been.
The End?
One morning I woke up from a weird Peter Pan fanfic dream and this is the only scene I really remember. I believe the premise was going to be that Hook and Peter had had some sort of friendly (?) relationship prior to the Hand Incident, which wasn’t exactly a fight but more of an argument about how to solve a problem. I cannot for the life of me remember more than that though. If I ever do – or if any of you guys can somehow clue me in – I’ll post more. Otherwise this is it. Let me know what you thought!
Also: I know that most adaptations have the hook on the left. For some reason though my imagination will not cooperate, and I see him as right-hooked, so that's what he is in this story.