Work Text:
It had been ten years since Wendy's adventures in Neverland. She had grown into a beautiful young lady prominent in society. Though for her, the adventure she lived through ten years ago was now just a very wild dream—one she had written three books based on. Of course, she couldn't publish them under her own name without ruining her reputation, but her initials, W.M., were good enough for her.
Even though Aunt Millicent had her own son now, it hadn't stopped her from giving Wendy lessons when she was younger, nor from finding her a husband. His name was John Howard, and Wendy... quite liked him. He was smart, came from a high-society family, and had a well-paying job as a doctor. He also didn't disapprove of her writing, even giving her suggestions from time to time, though Wendy believed it was only because her work brought in a nice sum of money. They didn't have any children yet, and they didn't plan on any for now because of the war that had just started.
Every morning, a newsboy would deliver the paper to the Howards' doorstep, and every day Wendy tried racing her husband to the front door to get it first. Yet, every day she failed. And right now, it had happened again.
"For goodness' sake, John, you can't protect me forever! I hear people talk! Do you know how many funeral invitations I have received this week?" Wendy raised her voice at her husband.
"My dear, you know I always read you the most important parts of the paper. I just don't want you to worry too much," John said, looking down at the pages.
Thirty minutes later, John left for work as he always did, and Wendy was left alone with her thoughts. In all honesty, she was scared... really scared. She didn't know exactly what was happening because of John. He only told her about the positive news, or things that directly impacted their day-to-day life, like food shortages or which roads were closed off. It made her so mad; she felt that even though John treated her as an intellectual equal, he did not treat her as an adult.
Yet, for Wendy, that wasn't the worst part. Nor was the war, the food shortages, or the fact that getting new dresses had become nearly impossible as fabric was being diverted to the army. For Wendy, the worst part was that she couldn't write. She had no more adventures to write about, no more stories to tell, and no more worlds to create. She was stuck in the worst time imaginable. At a time when everyone desperately needed an escape from reality, her mind simply refused to provide one. It was driving her crazy, day by day. Of course, Dr. Howard tried to help. He tried giving her ideas for characters and even new worlds, but nothing was satisfying enough for Wendy. Nothing was ever as good as her first book.
As the hours of that uneventful day dragged on, daytime became a blur of empty pages and distant war talk. It wasn't until the evening that Dr. Howard finally came home.
By eleven o'clock, the thick black curtains were drawn tightly across the bedroom windows to hide their lamps from the night sky. Mr. John sat in his usual armchair by the fireplace, a medical text open on his lap, while Wendy sat at her desk, staring down at the pristine, untouched paper.
"Still nothing, my dear?" Mr. John asked softly, his voice full of genuine empathy. He looked across the room at her, completely respectful of her space.
Wendy sighed, dropping her quill. "Nothing. It’s as if the stories have completely flown from my head."
Mr. John closed his book and offered a warm, comforting smile. "Do not force it. Your mind is tired, Wendy. Perhaps tomorrow—"
He never finished his sentence.
A sudden, blinding flash of light ripped through the edges of the blackout curtains, illuminating the bedroom for a split second. A heartbeat later, the house shook violently, and the sound of people screaming and crying echoed from outside. The windows imploded into the bedroom, and Mr. John quickly covered Wendy with his body. A couple of seconds later, the whole ordeal was over.
Of course, people were still screaming and crying outside, and Wendy was mortified. Her hands were shaking just as the building had been seconds ago. Even though she wanted to speak—to ask Mr. John something, or at least scream in terror—she couldn't. It was as if someone had squeezed her vocal cords tight and refused to let go. A single tear streamed down her left cheek, but still, she couldn't speak. After making sure she was fine, John grabbed his coat and quickly ran outside to help the injured.
Hours later, the chaos on the street had finally begun to quiet down, but the silence inside the house felt heavier than the screams. Mr. John had returned from helping the neighbors, his coat smelling of smoke and dust, his face lined with the grim exhaustion of a doctor who had seen too much. They didn’t talk about it. There were no mindful conversations tonight; the reality of the twentieth century was too loud for words.
Before climbing into his own bed, Mr. John walked over to Wendy. He leaned down, his presence safe and familiar, and gently pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Try to sleep, my dear," he whispered softly. "We are safe now."
But Wendy was not safe.
As the bedroom fell completely dark, Wendy lay wide awake, staring blankly at the ceiling. The silence of the night was an illusion. Every time she closed her eyes, her imagination—the brilliant, untamed mind that used to create beautiful kingdoms—betrayed her. Instead of fairy tales, she saw bodies. She imagined the broken, bleeding people just a block away. She saw the injured, the crying children, and the cold finality of the dead. Her mind was trapped in a horrific loop, and for the first time in her life, she hated her own imagination.
Then, through the heavy quiet of the room, she heard a sound.
A sharp, distinct scrape rattled against the frame of the broken window.
Wendy froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Terror, cold and sharp, seized her entire body. She stared at the window, too frightened to draw breath, convinced that the war had somehow come back for her—that another bomb, or a soldier, or death itself was crawling into her sanctuary. The wood creaked loudly as the window frame was slowly pushed open.
Through the shattered glass and the cold night air, a silhouette stepped onto the floorboards.
It wasn't a soldier. It wasn't a Grim.
The dim moonlight caught the wild, untamed mess of reddish-blonde hair and the familiar, boyish tilt of a head she hadn't seen in ten long years. He looked exactly the same as he had in the nursery in 1904, completely untouched by time, completely ignorant of the world's blood and sorrow.
In an instant, the tight knot in Wendy's throat snapped. The terror vanished, replaced by an overwhelming, suffocating tidal wave of emotion. The sheer shock of his presence, the relief, the memory of innocence, and the crushing weight of her adult grief collided within her all at once, leaving her utterly breathless as she stared at the boy who refused to grow up.
"P-Peter?" She asked surprised at hearing her own voice.
"Hello Wendy."