agoodyarn | for wheatcakes: post aunter nonsense

for wheatcakes: post aunter nonsense

[ When he walks through the blue door, his thoughts are entirely on Peter. Peter the man. Peter the... Spider-man, of all things. Which is why he's not surprised that he does not end up in his rooms on the Jolly Roger. Oh no, he's much too busy being surprised at the fact that he's on a rooftop in the middle of Midtown, because there's a lot to be surprised about when you're a centuries-old pirate who grew up on an island ~~paradise~~ hellscape.

The first thing is the noise, and he's glad he's nowhere near the edge of the building, because if he was, he's not sure that even he would be able to keep his footing. His hand grasps at some manner of cord of cabling, one that feels as if it is made of nothing short of metal, and he steadies himself, adjusts the the cacopheny as he looks out.

It is mid-day, unsurprising given that that is what it'd looked like when he'd landed on this rooftop. And behind him is some manner of large painting, a great big picture talking of a smiling woman and some manner of food in a cup that she's clearly enjoying. He doesn't know what 'yogurt' is, but he fully intends to try it if it can make a woman that joyful.

His wounds remind him of their existence: the lines on his arm, the bite across his middle, the bruising from Sebastian's last attempt at life and his fall from the glass box onto the pavement. He pushes them aside, however, to start planning.

He knows... one person here. One man. Peter. Spider-man. But even from here, he can see more people than he even knew existed at one time. A veritable sea of human beings. How in the world is he going to find Peter? For that matter, how exactly is he going to make his way down from here?]

...well, at least I have the knife still.

[ It's something, and he tries not to discount advantages when he has them.]

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It's October, which means Peter is wearing a snug hat and a scarf over his spider-suit. He's on patrol, yeah, but he's mostly swinging for the purpose of swinging; it clears his head, especially given that weird dream he had... that he's becoming more and more convinced wasn't a dream. It was a memory. An alternate him.

God, he hates vampires.

He's thinking on this when he jumps, spins in the air, gets smacked in the face with his scarf, and sees a person stranded on a rooftop. That's no good, the Kersh building doesn't have rooftop access. Peter shoots out a line of web, zipping himself to the side of the building, and walks the rest of the way up. He pokes his head over the side.

"You know this is restricted prop- heyyyy." He hefts himself up a little, now sitting on the side of the ledge with a grace he was sorely lacking at a time that feels strangely recent, yet distant. "Do you recognize me? And not from the funny papers."

James, Jamie, has seen all manner of deaths, both peaceful and horrific. He'd seen a couple more not an hour ago, one of them at his own hand (or hook, to be fair) and the other- the other had fallen into the category of the latter rather than the former. Seeing someone come back from death, he has only seen the once: when Peter's- when Peter Pan's body had stitched itself back together, fueled by his injuries and the death of the others.

He shouldn't be surprised, given what the words had said to him about Peter, the Peter in this world. That he is recognized, however, that is-

That is surprising. As is Peter's presence on the edge of the building, something which has him scrambling over to offer his hand to pull him clear onto the rooftop.

"Of course I recognize you," he says gruffly with a huff of breath and there's only a touch of wetness to his voice; he had never been one for outright tears, but his emotions are another matter.

"My... 'friendly neighborhood Spider-man', as you said." And a teasing smile. "After all, 'Peters are jerks'."

He's a little surprised, how fond he sounds as he says the last. And yet, there it is.

Edited 2019-10-21 15:35 (UTC)

Peter pulls Hook into a full-bodied hug, just glad to see he made it out alright. "Man, I thought those memories were, like, dreams, or I was going nuts... you made it out, though!"

Though what that means, the rest of the details... he'll worry about later. "Welcome to New York!" He raises his hands out, walking a step backward to gesture to the glory of it all, just as a news scroll behind him reads SPIDER-MAN: KILLING THE AVOCADO INDUSTRY.

And Jamie, very careful of the actual Hook on his arm and the blood on his arms and torso, hugs him back tight before turning to take a look.

"Alas," he explains, "it appears I was the only one. The others..."

He shakes his head. Alice. Chidi. Sara. Sebastian was... for the best, but the others? The others were, if occasionally silly or difficult, certainly deserving of a chance to escape. Of life.

He pushes it aside, lets Peter's enthusiasm lift him up, lift him through, and he can't help that he examines it, peers at it from side to side. He's felt this kind of thing before, this infectuous joyfulness. And yet, even here, he can't sense the bite of a boy's carelessness. No, he knows already this Peter is different.

He allows it to happen, the smile curling on one side of his lips.

"So I see," he says as he stares out, "though I wonder what they did with the old one, of course." After all, he's a little more savvy than that. But it does bring up something.

"You should know, though," and he leans in a little, to make sure that Peter hears him over the din, "that I am here because of you. Surprised that you remember me, given what I was told, but glad. Very glad."

"Probably a clone," Peter says, scratching his head. "I was wrong about it being a simulation. We all felt real pain. It was probably some kind of freaky cloning experiment. I'm gonna see if my metaphysical... people... experts, see if they know anything."

Time to bug Stephen Strange again.

"Which means the original them are still out there somewhere with freaky memories, but they're alive. That's what counts."

He turns his head to the side. "What d'you mean, because of me?"

Jamie has no idea what that word means, what context he means it in, but he's glad that Peter has some manner of context with which to understand the fact that the people they met are well and fine with only the horrible memory of their experience to scar them in truth. At the insistence that that is what 'counts', he nods. Because it's the truth: as long as one is alive, there is hope. Scars fade. Even the most horrific ones.

But the question makes him chuckle, and it's an alien feeling. He's had little reason to laugh in truth for...

For a very long time.

"Your gift, Peter. A gift to this James, even if another may yet be stuck in Neverland."

He leans in then, pressing his hand gently to the center of Peter's chest.

"Freedom. With your last thoughts, your last spin, you gave me freedom. Not from the games of that place."

He leans back to look around, look at the sky and the buildings, the world around them.

"Freedom from Neverland."

Peter had meant freedom from the game, but he'd also been dying. He remembers that. No reason to rain on the guy's parade. "I'm glad you ended up here, then. No better place to learn how the world works than New York. I mean, maybe we could have a better mayor, but..."

A shrug.

"You know what, whatever. You wanna see the sights?"

"I would like that," he agrees with a chuckle he hardly remembers the feel of, "though..."

He glances down at his blood-spattered shirt, his blood-darkened hook, the mess that is his arm.

"Unless things have changed a great deal, it might be best if I take a moment to wash off." He offers Peter a raise of an eyebrow, but it comes with a smile. "Or they may think you are attempting to kill more than avocados."

"Aw, man, are they still going on about that? I smashed into one avocado stand. I was putting out a fire!" Hands above head, momentarily distracted by the indignance.

But, yeah, the whole covered-in-blood thing is fair. "Whyyy don't we pop down to FEAST first. They always have spare clothes. The nearest shelter isn't far."

James will point to the news scroll and offer a quick, tight grin that turns into a laugh, just a small one. He has no doubt of Peter's good intentions. But, having seen some of the results of them, he can also see that those less patient and understanding might get the wrong idea. Sebastian certainly had a time or two.

For his part, he is too fond of the good intentions to be overly concerned with the results. Or perhaps he's just too used to far more terrible results than an avocado stand being destroyed.

"I will trust your guidance." AKA, he'll follow you. "...especially as I've little understanding of how we're to get down from here."

Wait, he'd been at the edge of the building. What the-

"Did you climb the whole way?"

"I'm Spider-Man, man." He shoots a line of web to a building far from them, over a significant gap between buildings. "I didn't have my abilities there, but there's a reason they call me that, here. C'mon."

He motions for Hook to stand closer. There's really no way to prepare someone for this than to jump right into it.

He's not unfamiliar with the idea of swinging from vines; he's done quite a lot of climbing between trees, swinging into the lagoon, and the memories of those times are still fresh even now.

Now, he sidles closer to Peter, glancing about, unsure of what exactly is going to happen other than that it seems as if it is going to have them jumping off the side of the building. He will have to trust that Peter knows what he's doing. And that he doesn't want to kill him.

He closes his eyes and nods.

"It's more fun with your eyes open," he says, and, "hold on tight-"

And they're swinging from building to building, Peter managing one handed keep Hook securely at his side. He's been through a lot, who knows if he has the strength?

They land behind a building with the letters FEAST printed as though it's an acronym (it is), with special place to the side for 'immediate care'. Peter reaches up to find a backpack stuck to the underside of the awning with his webbing, bothering with freeing that while Hook... acclimates.

Edited 2019-10-21 16:29 (UTC)

He opens his eyes once they're moving, once they're swooping through the air, and there is plenty of strength in the grip of his arm around Peter, the way he clings to one of Peter's legs.

There's something else there, though, a feeling in his chest as he flies through the air-

As he flies.

He needs to stop doing these comparisons, but the comparisons are to all he's ever known, to everything that makes him what he is, what he's been. Peter has no idea what it means to him, to be taken flying, to have that experience shared with him, to be held safely in an arm by another and given such a joy.

By the time they land, his arm is shaking and not from holding onto Peter. His eyes are wet, and not from the speed of their journey. He gives Peter a firm squeeze of thanks for a moment as he steps back and away and shoves his hand at his face to scrub away the tears.

It had been all that he'd dreamed of and so much more.

He's not sure if he's weeping for what was denied to him or what was given to him.

He swallows, what feels like a dozen times, before he shoves the last of it off his face, forces a somewhat shakey smile on, and goes back to Peter. He knows it means so little to Peter, can tell with the ease with which Peter offered it to him that he can hardly realize the meaning of it. But all the same, he can't help a slightly watery and certainly wobbly

"Thank you."

No fear. Just... a depth of gratitude Peter may not understand yet.

Peter looks on with fear, worried he might have hurt or overwhelmed the man (wouldn't be the first time), and then... he remembers the stories. And in a world where Peter Pan is the bad guy, that...

We can fly, we can fly, we can fly.

That has to mean something.

"Any time, man." He gives Hook's shoulder a firm squeeze. From the way he reacted, probably dwelling on those very human tears isn't the best option. Instead, he unzips his backpack and heads into the 'immediate care' area. "Here, there's always some first aid stuff, and I'll toss you some clothes. You're probably a different size from me... are you more of a baseball or a basketball fan?"

He would be surprised. It was Sally who'd been more willing to allow for soft things, for kindnesses, who had encouraged the boys to be more reasonable, more considerate of others. She'd been no less tough than the boys, but she had been one of the first to feel the responsibility and the care for the others the same way he did.

He will mourn that she never got to grow up with him till he dies.

"My wounds are mostly closed," he reports mildly as he starts pulling the clothing from his body. He lays it out at first, then rolls it up into a tight bundle and loops it so that the bundle will stay closed even as he looks himself over to see just how rough his injuries are.

Nothing unexpected, but Peter may be a little alarmed to see just how many scars he has, how much damage he's taken, and how crude his 'hook' apparatus really is.

"Whichever you prefer, Peter."

Which is odd to hear himself say.

So Peter throws a bundle of clothes over the side, some jeans and shirts and sweaters, a hat, a scarf. A Met's logo. "Lemme know if you need help with, uh... zippers?"

Did they have zippers in Neverland? If not, how did Peter Pan fit into those tight pants?

"Oh! And socks!" Some socks fly over the barrier between stalls. "Watch out!" Shoes follow after. "I dunno what your size is, but loafers fit everybody, right?"

Fashion has never really been his aim.

"I lived my life barefoot for much of it," he explains as he starts checking to see how the rest of the clothing fits. The jeans, a t-shirt, a sweater. The hat he pockets, the scarf he slings around his neck, and the socks he knows well enough how to use. He pulls them on, then shoves his feet in the shoes with a nod; a little small but they will wear in. Or he'll find others.

Then he walks out. He looks... a little like a hipster, given the long hair and the stubble, but not in a bad way?

"Less ostentatious," he reports as he looks around for some manner of bag to put his things in. A satchel will be very helpful.

Peter, now in civvies, mostly looks like a loser. "Walk barefoot in New York and lose a toe," he says, and hands Hook his backpack.

...Hook. Um.

"No offense, but if you're gonna blend in... plenty of people are missing limbs, but not a lot of them attach hooks to 'em...?"

It doesn't really matter what he looks like. To James, he is...

He's a guiding star. In any number of ways.

"Yes, well, I've never been able to get off my boat in any harbor but Neverland," he explains as he shifts in his shoes. A little tight, but he can get them loosened up. He hopes.

The question of his hook is another matter.

"...I..."

To be without it. To truly only have one hand.

He considers the knife at the center of the bundle of clothes if there is any way that he can at least be armed if he's not to have his hook, but he can't think of one. He resolves to figure out a solution as soon as possible and, despite his trepidation, reaches over and works the latching mechanism to tug the hook from off his wrist.

He puts it in the backpack as well, clearly uncomfortable, but willing. Then he looks to Peter.

"...it was a choice, you know. To come here. Here specifically."

Peter can feel himself withering under that look. There's some expectation he's falling beneath, and why does it matter so much that he treats this man well? He hardly knows him. But what they went through, it...

"We'll go to Horizon, I promise, they-..." What? "Why here?"

He doesn't know what that means, what that promise entails, but he accepts it with a nod. The question makes him feel...

Foolish. A little foolish. Wasn't that his way, though? He was a hard-shelled creature and yet when something tipped him on his back, there was so much softness beneath. Perhaps he'd been foolish coming here, but with all of Creation layed out before him-

"It was the only world in which I knew that there was at least one good man."

He looks at Peter. "I almost traded away my freedom for your life before the words told me that you would be alive once the 'game' had ended. It told me that the you there and you here were different. It's why I was surprised you remembered."

All the same.

Peter's mouth falls open a little. "But I... failed." He swallows, looks down to his sneakers, folds his arms over his chest. "I'm okay. I could be better. I'm..." Blushing, he's blushing, this is ridiculous, he's a grown man, for the love of-

He takes a deep breath. "I won't fail you again. And don't..." his voice is weak. "You would've done that for me?"

He shakes his head.

"No," he says mildly, "you were tricked. The man who attacked you, Sebastian, was no man at all. The letters told me afterwards.

"He was a demon." And he can't help a glance at the bag where his hook is held. "And I killed him after-" and he swallows, unable to help it himself. To the question, however, he has no problem looking up, looking straight at Peter.

"You did what no other has managed in centuries, including myself." His freedom. He's free, free of Neverland, free of Peter Pan. "But I have seen too many fall. Too much death. For the chance to erase the death of a good man?"

He nods.

Without a doubt.

Peter shrugs a little, bashful. He knows what he is. He'd like to be a good man, he tries to be one, but he knows how short he falls. He feels it every day.

Another breath, and then he's smiling again, distracting himself with a joke. "Yeah, we'll see what you think after a week dealing with me. C'mon, we can walk to Horizon Labs, I'll get you a hotdog or something. We need to acclimate you to non-magical food. Build up your resistance."

Also. One last thing.

"And my aunt knitted that scarf, so look sharp." We winks, puts an arm around Hook's shoulder, and begins sauntering away. "Thank God she's not at this shelter today, I don't think I could slip out unnoticed."

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