#aodtsb

"What's going on--Felix?"

"Reverend Jones is on the way with the rest of them."

"So soon? Well, that's unfair -- he didn't even give me time to at least attempt to look innocent."

"Peter."

Anyone else dare to call him by his first name would have been slashed and butchered to pieces. But not Felix--never Felix. He was loyal, and clever. He balances Peter on all the faults he knows he's worth. Whilst the brunette with his shaking hands and thirst for the killing, was irrational, spontaneous and outrageously unprepared, Felix planned with a calm mind and made sure nothing ever went wrong.

"Okay, let's go."

All boys nod, and with no one to oppose him, Peter flies off into the dark, hiding behind the shadow lands and it's luminous moon. Everyone else follow after, jumping up high buildings and tall trees, scattered across the city like tiny little ants on the way back to their nest, thirteen dead bodies left in their wake.

Moments after, men in black cloaks and white vests arrive, breathless. Eyes go wide at the horrific scene of blood spilled and death before their very eyes. A man, forehead damp with sweat and cheeks stained with tears, kneels down before the fallen bodies, shaking hands on a small crucifix.

"By Gods." He whispers into the night, strands of black locks fall over his eyes. "It's them again."

"Well, who else would it be?!" Long haired old Father Gold with burning amber eyes shouts--screams--fisting the black haired man's collar. "You see what your little group of savages do?! Do you see this bloody chaos?!"

"I am not responsible for this!"

"No, of course you're not." He let's him go, breathing hard with lidded eyes. "But you are responsible for them."

"I know."

"Get this sorted, Jones."

The other man does not speak, only a small bat of the eye in acknowledgement. He moves towards the bodies, touching them, blessing them.

Across the other side of town, the savages cheer with spilled beer and nicotine. Their king on his throne, a crown of blood that glows under dimming yellow lights, and the smile on his face as dreadful as the whiskey glow of his evergreen eyes.

"Wasn't that a bloody wonderful game, boys?" He snickers with curved lips, blinking at the dirty faces before him. "A very special gift, to Father Gold for all the wonderful things he's done for us. And there's more to come."

"Storybrooke is a big place. The Holy lands is just one of them. If we strike again on that famed street, we'll get our message across soon enough."

"And then we move on. From one place to another, we'll kill off everything and everyone who dares get in our way. We'll attack and--"

"No, not yet."

Peter stands tall above all, cutting off brown eyed and black haired Ruffio. He still smiles, devilishly handsome with his elvish gaze.

"Why do we need to stop now? It's our time--we can strike and strike, they'll never get a hold of us!"

"Except they will."

"And how do you know this?"

"Because what do you think will happen if we continually strike the same place repetitively? Wouldn't they catch on, wouldn't we be more predictable, and wouldn't they have stronger evidence to use against us?"

"Yes but--"

Peter steps down, moving closer towards the boy, lips still turned up, eyes raw with killing intent. Ruffio takes a step back, and another one--until he's tightly pressed against the wall. And Peter towers over him.

"Yes, Ruffio -- I can get away. But I wouldn't let you drag me down." That said, he pulls away and turns to face the other boys. "We're done with this business, for now. I'll call you all when we strike again. Until then, leave the reverends and the clergy to me."

He leaves the crowded room, whispering eyes follow after him. Felix stands in the corner, hood up and eyes closed. He pushes himself off the wall, before taking his leave as well, out the back door. The rest of the boys are left standing and confused, but they don't speak one word. They all disperse, out the door, to the kitchen, up the stairs. They leave the room in silence.

Peter stands on top of the fire escape, phone in hand, and Felix emerges from under it.

"You wouldn't take Ruffio with you, yeah?"

"Well--."

"You'd take the rest of the boys though, we know you'd never leave them behind."

"What a loyal servant you are."

Peter looks down, and Felix kneels, bowing his head. The image is picture perfect of a king and his knight, but there really is more than meets the eye. Peter rules this side of Storybrooke, the dark alleyways and gaps between skyscraper buildings.

Lighting up a stick he blows white toxic into the cold air. His phone lights with a new message and he smirks at the name flashing at him. Wendy Moira it says.

Tempt me, I need to get away.

He grabs the railing on the balcony, and jumps off it. Gracefully landing beside Felix, he taps his shoulder as the blonde looks up. There's a subtle glint in his eyes, an all too-knowing smile Felix gets, and the brown haired boy leaves before anything can be said.

If you wish it.

                                                (page breaks here)

"Where do you live?"

"The Holy lands."

Wendy whispers into the phone, struggling to put her boots on and tie her hair up. Cosmetics lay scattered on the ground, foundation dusted over the carpet and her bed is a mess of mismatched clothing. She's breathless and panting but there's a thrill in her heart that she can't suppress.

It takes awhile before Peter responds. His enigmatic silence causes her to stop and call his name out again. She bites her lip and sits on her bed, anticipating for him to talk. And when she's just about to give up, he finally speaks.

"Yeah, I'll be there soon."

"Okay."

They end the phone call and she runs out the door, hair in a messy ponytail streaked with blonde and brown. She's panting her way to the nearest park but a hand is on her wrist before she can go any further.

"Lass, what are you doing?"

Turning to face brown eyes and ebony black hair, Wendy jerks her hand away from the man.

"Hook." She hisses the name like venom on her tongue. "What are you doing here."

"It's dead in the night and you're a little girl running around like some madman out here. I should be asking you that."

"Leave me alone."

"Go back home. Your father--"

"Does not care so go away."

"Now listen here--"

"No I won't. You're not anything to me Killian, so you go on and go about with your night but don't get in my bloody way."

"Why are you out here?"

He challenges her with authority written clear in his eyes. The air is thick with it's frosty bite and the ice that suffocates her lungs, but she's a fireball of frustration with the taste for a rebel's lips. And she wants nothing more than to get away and see Peter.

"You know what happened. There's been a murder. You need to go home."

"No I don't. I know where I'm going."

"Oh really?"

"I'll be safe in it."

She doesn't say anymore, just backs away before running off. He doesn't follow after her like she expects, but he breathes in deeply the night and it's fading stars.

Wendy continues to run away, musty winter burning her skin and the scent of metal all around. She runs as fast as her legs can take her, to the park, to their meeting place, fear in her head and excitement pounding against her chest. And when she gets there, he stands, cancer stick between fingers and preyed eyes like glass beneath the nicotine filled smoke.

"Chasing the bird, huh."

"Peter."

She sounds breathless and he takes so much pride in that.

"What got you changing your mind? Couldn't wait for Friday night?"

"There's been killings in the Holy lands."

"I heard."

"They're all anti-Christ movements, my father said."

"Your point?"

"Do you know anyone that could possibly be the culprit?"

He almost breaks into a grin, but he takes control of that aching desire and takes a calm step forward.

It was coming Christmas with frostbites and the pressure of exams, and though familiar with each other's existence, they never shared a moment of true recognition. So Wendy Moira does not know what changed. Whether it's the nature of that boy who craves the attention--every nerve of his soul begging for it--or if she did something to catch his volatile stare, it changed the course of their relationship, becoming an imbalance in the stability of her faith.

"You should just write Jesus in these exam papers--I'm sure you'll ace it. After all, doesn't he have the right answer to everything."

He teases her, one day, standing by her locker and grinning like a Cheshire cat. She ignores him--of course--busying herself with taking out the much needed books. But he doesn't let her slip away so easily.

"Is it against your religion to talk to me or something?"

"No."

"Then why don't you answer?"

"Because all you are is being a dick."

He snickers, feeling as if he's the first to ever hear her curse. Because this is Wendy Moira Angela Darling, infamous for her good girl faith and the grace of her presence. He never really thought that she would be one to use such sinful words.

"So you can curse?"

"I can also talk, yes."

"That's nice to hear -- I always thought it was something forbidden to you."

"Why would you think that?"

"You're the school's church girl, you know? I expected...less."

"As in?"

"Someone boring, and a goody-two-shoes who's too afraid to ever say fuck. Why don't you say it for me?"

"Fuck."

"Beautiful."

"Am I amusing you?"

"Definitely."

When she finally gets to look at him, something in her eyes changes. It's not the glassy blue that stares blankly into the inanimate events of her life. No; there’s a curiosity sparked, and a smirk that's almost taunting.

"Who are you?"

"Oh, did I forget to introduce myself?" He scoffs, a hand running through shaded brown curls. "I'm Peter--Peter Pan."

"I'm Wendy."

"Nice to meet you Wendy."

"Uh-huh, what do you want?"

"Ever so feisty?"

"No, just in a hurry."

He gives her another smirk, and she does so too. She's half in love with him already. Because his sharp cheekbones and evergreen eyes is some kind of hypnotizing and though her reputation calls for the obedient girl who goes to masses and reads the bible, there's something different in the feelings she harbors and the rose colored glass she stares through.

"If you're free some other time, we can discuss important matters outside of school."

"Are you asking me out on a date?"

"Date, two classmates with contrasting views having lunch--whatever you want to call it."

"Can I just ask one thing?"

"Of course, darling."

"Why?"

"Because you interest me -- if that's not obvious enough." He sort of chuckles, but with lidded eyes and long lashes. "And I like girls that interest me."

"And?"

"And you turn me on."

She should feel scandalized, but she's not really. It's a crude comment, but she feels used to it. And the tattoo that forever scars her pale skin makes it difficult to deny.

"Oh, how sweet."

"That's the first time I've ever been called sweet."

"I can see why."

She looks as if she's about to turn and walk away. But she scribbles numbers on a scrapped piece of paper and he knows he's won her over. With a tuck of her hair, she hands it to him, written in messy blue ink.

"I'll be free this Friday. Is that okay?"

"More than okay, darling."

Curt nods were exchanged before she runs off to catch her bus, almond and honey hair tangled in winter's breath. He spares her a small glance, hands fisted in his pocket and throws his head back, before a pack of boys arrive with their wolfish grins and loud mouths. They talk of smoking in the toilets and drinking liquor, marks on their neck and calloused hands stained with the smell of blood.

"Ready for tonight, leader?" A blonde boy, just a little bit older and a face scarred in the name of his sins, speaks. "We've got everything set up."

"Yeah, we'll do it tonight--that's a promise."

"If we don't get finished there's always Fr--"

"No. It's either tonight or never. I need Friday free."

"Why?"

"Just some business to attend to."

"Oh?"

"Important business."