“Terrible ones I shouldn’t like to bore you with,” I tell him politely.
“Are they about blood and guts?”
“Nothing so thrilling.” I give him a quick smile. “Just grown-up things.”
He pulls a revolted face.* “Yeah, let’s get rid of those then.”
“Please.” I nod, eager, and he offers me his hand. He can be sweet, I tell myself. Beg myself, actually, to remember that. “I’m desperate to.”
He pulls me to my feet and watches me with a curious face. Mindlessly, he pushes some hair behind my ear. “I’ll protect you from grown-up things.”
I swallow as I let myself be swallowed by his eyes.
“Thank you,” I tell him quietly as he takes my hand and floats me into the air.
That is a lovely feeling, the floating with him, up and high and away; it feels in these moments how I imagine it’s always meant to when you’re here. When you aren’t bogged down with thoughts about where a certain Lost Boy might be or whether that bird will really be okay in the end or pirates with warm hands and bad intentions.
Peter drops me to the shack in the sky and tells me he’ll be back soon—that he’d heard of a star coming loose in the sky and he has to go and convince it to tighten up.
I walk over to baggage claim a bit gingerly and flash the old man a smile—John, was it? He stands, setting down his fishing rod.
“Was wondering when I’d see you again.”
I nod at his bucket. “Do you ever catch anything up here?”
“Flying fish, mostly.” He shrugs. “Sometimes a meteor.”
“Oh.” I nod, impressed even though I don’t sound it.
“Dropping off some thoughts?” He nods his head towards the shack.
“Yes please.”
“You’ve been here awhile.” He gives me a look.
“Have I?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He nods a bit. “A couple of months.”
“Right.” I frown, thinking back, trying to puzzle out where all the time went.
“Have you enjoyed it?” he asks pleasantly, and I wish it didn’t roll over my face, the briefest of pauses, but it does.
Have I enjoyed it? Maybe? Time’s flown, and they do say that about fun. I suppose I just always imagined Neverland to be a wistful, mindless experience with long days and warm nights and swashbuckling adventures with an adoring, me-focused Peter Pan, but so far, it’s been a rather heady, multi-seasonal marathon of the heart where Peter adores everyone with breasts, and until （I think, possibly） yesterday （was it?）， my attention was the tiniest bit divided between him and the other one.
But still, I answer with, “Yes. Very much so.”
He gives me a small smile, but I feel as though he mightn’t believe me all the way. I don’t think that bothers me though, because I don’t know if I believe me all the way either.
I stare over at him, and while I don’t mean to, I do find myself frowning at him.
“You do really look ever so familiar,” I tell him.
He gives me a fond smile and a shrug. “One of those faces.”
I nod and point to the door as I step towards it, then I spin on my heel, hands behind my back.
“No one can see these, can they?”
“Just me,” he says, and I must look affronted because he quickly adds, “When I take them out to polish them.”
“Oh.” I purse my lips, thinking about anyone but me seeing what I put in there.
“You have to polish your thoughts. Otherwise, they get messy.”
“Of course.” I nod as though I knew that already.
“It’s a sacred honour. I don’t take it lightly.” His eyebrows lift. “I don’t pry or judge. Just polish.”
I reach for the door handle, then pause again, looking back. “Do many people bring their thoughts up here?”
He nods and I nod back, working my way around to what I’m really asking.
“Lots of people?”
“Yes.” He scratches his neck, waiting for me to just spit it out.
“Pirates, even?”
He nods again. “Yes.”
I purse my lips, thinking. “And if he wanted to, could he—I mean, they!” I clear my throat and flash him a quick smile. “Could they—or anyone, really, if they wanted to—could they ransack my thoughts? Or someone else’s?” I add at the end as though the caveat makes it less obvious.
He sniffs an amused little laugh. “They’d have to get past me first.”