((Continues on from here. Contains material of an adult nature!))
After the show, the tall, dark stranger with the vibrant blue eyes was waiting, as promised, down the street at The Eagle, sipping a glass of bourbon that he kept refilling from the bottle on the table. Who needed rum when one had bourbon' He was looking particularly thoughtful and grim as he sat there contemplating the glass and the bottle and the play, and the woman he'd just met whom he was not entirely sure would actually make an appearance, as promised.
He needn't have worried that he was going to be stood up. Ashlyn did her bit in the show with Daisy, let her brother hug her until she couldn't breathe, and promised Elle details the next time they met up, before leaving them at the theater to make her way toward The Eagle. She didn't even know if he was going to still be there, but it was worth a shot, wasn't it' She spotted him where he sat as she entered the room, moving over to his table. "Begging yer pardon, cap'n," she teased, leaning one hand on the empty chair. "Would this seat be taken?"
"'Tis now, lass, if you don't mind spending your time with a half-drunken sailor, who, by the way, is no captain any longer. Can't be a captain without a ship or a crew, can I, now?" he asked, though the question was somewhat rhetorical.
Laughing, Ash settled herself in the seat, leaning her arms on the table comfortably. "Okay, so ....spill," she told him. "You're Hook, but I don't see any hook. Start there and see where it takes you."
"Have you ever heard the saying, 'by Hook or by Crook'?" he asked, waving a waitress over to take the lady's order, assuming she didn't want to partake of his bourbon. "It means by all means necessary. That is, in part, where the hook comes from. As far as this is concerned," he said, lifting his left hand as if to demonstrate. "It's true the boy took my hand and threw it to the croc, but that was a long time ago."
She glanced up as the waitress came over, ordering a whisky for herself with a faint smile, but her attention was mostly riveted on James. "So ....he really did cut your hand off and feed it to a crocodile?" she asked, horrified. "How is he still alive at this point' I'd have beaten the little sh*t until he begged for mercy." As she spoke, she reached toward James' left hand, running her fingers curiously over his palm, his fingers, his wrist. "How did you get this back?"
"He's a demon, lass. A demon straight from hell. That is how he's still alive." It was unclear whether the man was speaking figuratively or not, but he seemed insistent on this point. He couldn't help but smile a little at her lack of sympathy for the boy who had become the hero of the story. He fell silent a moment as he watched her examine the hand that had once been replaced by a hideous metal hook. "A hook for a hand does not make one evil, you know, but it does make one hungry for vengeance."
Ash was absolutely fascinated by the fact that he had a full, working hand where there had once been a hook, trusting him to be telling her the truth. Of course, she was also enjoying the freedom he'd allowed her to touch him - yes, she had a type, and so far, Captain Hook seemed to be ticking all the boxes. "But in the end, he wasn't worth it?" she asked softly, barely even glancing up as her whisky was delivered to the table, utterly entranced by the way his fingers twitched as she traced her fingertips over his palm.
He watched, almost as if enchanted, as she moved her fingers over the palm of a hand that had once been replaced by a hook, something twisting inside him - some feeling he had long since given up hope of ever feeling again. "In the end, he was just a boy, after all, and what kind of man would I be if I slew a child in cold blood?" He closed his fingers around hers, entranced for a moment by the movement of fingers and sight of their clasped hands.
As his fingers closed about hers, Ash felt her breath catch in her throat. Now that was something she hadn't felt in a long time, that heated rush of desire that flowed over her skin and lit her face with a flush that was far from embarrassed. Raising her eyes to his, she smiled faintly. "I never liked Peter Pan," she admitted in a low voice. "I always preferred the pirates."
"Did you, now?" he asked, arching a dark brow. "And why is that?" It seemed it was his turn to ask the questions. He was certainly fascinated by her, and it wasn't just the fact that she was beautiful, though there was that. He found her strangely intriguing - brave and beautiful and just a little bit reckless. Enough to put herself in the company of a man with a bad, if over-inflated, reputation. "Ah, let me guess ....You're bored with your life and would welcome adventure."
She snorted with laughter, shaking her head. "I happen to like my life, thank you very much," she told him in amusement, her fingertips still tracing circles on his inner wrist. "Pan always reminded me of my sister. Smug and entitled, and always needing to be right. He's just a spoiled brat of a child who not only wants to stay a child, but wants every other child to do that as well. Like a girl really wants to get stuck right on the cusp of puberty' Wendy's a drip, but she makes the right decision."
"Wendy, now, she was a brave girl. Do you know why she really went home?" he asked, encouraged by her obvious dislike of Pan, as well as the bourbon, which was loosening his tongue. "She didn't want to be his mother. She wanted something else from him. I understood, but he did not. How could he" He has never loved anyone in his whole life. Not even his precious fairy. She would have sacrificed her life for him, and what did he care" He would have forgotten her, like he forgets everyone eventually. Wendy went home because she wanted to grow up and fall in love and have children of her own. That was something Pan could never give her. He has sold his soul for eternal youth, and it is both a blessing and a curse."
"He sold his soul?" That was something Ash had never considered. That a child would do something like that was almost inconceivable, and yet it was plausible, too. "That's such a stupid thing to do." Shaking her head, she lifted her glass to her lips to take a sip of her whisky, enjoying the burn as she swallowed. "I have a question for you. You obviously know the story, the way Barrie told it, and you obviously hate it. So why did you go to the show?"
He drained the contents of his own glass before picking up the bottle to refill it. He wasn't yet drunk enough to be a danger to himself or anyone else, and clearly not drunk enough to be free of the pain that haunted him. "I don't know," he replied as honestly as he could. "I saw that boy's blasted name on the marquee and I felt myself compelled to buy a ticket. I should stop hoping that someone will one day set the tale straight. It's too late for that, I suppose."
"Well ....this is Rhy'Din," she pointed out, tucking her hair back behind her ear. "There are ways to tell your story. You could sell it to a magazine or a newspaper, or get an interview on the radio - oh! The woman who was playing Peter Pan' She's a DJ on the radio ..." She trailed off, realising something. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"
"I'm afraid not," he replied, though he was smiling a little in amusement. "But do go on. You are rather lovely to look at and I like the sound of your voice, so please ....Do not stop on my account." He lifted his glass as if in toast to her before taking another swig.
She bit her lip, charmed by the compliment even if it was fueled by alcohol. "Are you asking me to tell you my life story, or letting me know it's okay if I start going into acute detail about just what touching your hand is doing to me?" she asked him with an arch smile of her own, more than comfortable in a game of sexual tennis.
After the show, the tall, dark stranger with the vibrant blue eyes was waiting, as promised, down the street at The Eagle, sipping a glass of bourbon that he kept refilling from the bottle on the table. Who needed rum when one had bourbon' He was looking particularly thoughtful and grim as he sat there contemplating the glass and the bottle and the play, and the woman he'd just met whom he was not entirely sure would actually make an appearance, as promised.
He needn't have worried that he was going to be stood up. Ashlyn did her bit in the show with Daisy, let her brother hug her until she couldn't breathe, and promised Elle details the next time they met up, before leaving them at the theater to make her way toward The Eagle. She didn't even know if he was going to still be there, but it was worth a shot, wasn't it' She spotted him where he sat as she entered the room, moving over to his table. "Begging yer pardon, cap'n," she teased, leaning one hand on the empty chair. "Would this seat be taken?"
"'Tis now, lass, if you don't mind spending your time with a half-drunken sailor, who, by the way, is no captain any longer. Can't be a captain without a ship or a crew, can I, now?" he asked, though the question was somewhat rhetorical.
Laughing, Ash settled herself in the seat, leaning her arms on the table comfortably. "Okay, so ....spill," she told him. "You're Hook, but I don't see any hook. Start there and see where it takes you."
"Have you ever heard the saying, 'by Hook or by Crook'?" he asked, waving a waitress over to take the lady's order, assuming she didn't want to partake of his bourbon. "It means by all means necessary. That is, in part, where the hook comes from. As far as this is concerned," he said, lifting his left hand as if to demonstrate. "It's true the boy took my hand and threw it to the croc, but that was a long time ago."
She glanced up as the waitress came over, ordering a whisky for herself with a faint smile, but her attention was mostly riveted on James. "So ....he really did cut your hand off and feed it to a crocodile?" she asked, horrified. "How is he still alive at this point' I'd have beaten the little sh*t until he begged for mercy." As she spoke, she reached toward James' left hand, running her fingers curiously over his palm, his fingers, his wrist. "How did you get this back?"
"He's a demon, lass. A demon straight from hell. That is how he's still alive." It was unclear whether the man was speaking figuratively or not, but he seemed insistent on this point. He couldn't help but smile a little at her lack of sympathy for the boy who had become the hero of the story. He fell silent a moment as he watched her examine the hand that had once been replaced by a hideous metal hook. "A hook for a hand does not make one evil, you know, but it does make one hungry for vengeance."
Ash was absolutely fascinated by the fact that he had a full, working hand where there had once been a hook, trusting him to be telling her the truth. Of course, she was also enjoying the freedom he'd allowed her to touch him - yes, she had a type, and so far, Captain Hook seemed to be ticking all the boxes. "But in the end, he wasn't worth it?" she asked softly, barely even glancing up as her whisky was delivered to the table, utterly entranced by the way his fingers twitched as she traced her fingertips over his palm.
He watched, almost as if enchanted, as she moved her fingers over the palm of a hand that had once been replaced by a hook, something twisting inside him - some feeling he had long since given up hope of ever feeling again. "In the end, he was just a boy, after all, and what kind of man would I be if I slew a child in cold blood?" He closed his fingers around hers, entranced for a moment by the movement of fingers and sight of their clasped hands.
As his fingers closed about hers, Ash felt her breath catch in her throat. Now that was something she hadn't felt in a long time, that heated rush of desire that flowed over her skin and lit her face with a flush that was far from embarrassed. Raising her eyes to his, she smiled faintly. "I never liked Peter Pan," she admitted in a low voice. "I always preferred the pirates."
"Did you, now?" he asked, arching a dark brow. "And why is that?" It seemed it was his turn to ask the questions. He was certainly fascinated by her, and it wasn't just the fact that she was beautiful, though there was that. He found her strangely intriguing - brave and beautiful and just a little bit reckless. Enough to put herself in the company of a man with a bad, if over-inflated, reputation. "Ah, let me guess ....You're bored with your life and would welcome adventure."
She snorted with laughter, shaking her head. "I happen to like my life, thank you very much," she told him in amusement, her fingertips still tracing circles on his inner wrist. "Pan always reminded me of my sister. Smug and entitled, and always needing to be right. He's just a spoiled brat of a child who not only wants to stay a child, but wants every other child to do that as well. Like a girl really wants to get stuck right on the cusp of puberty' Wendy's a drip, but she makes the right decision."
"Wendy, now, she was a brave girl. Do you know why she really went home?" he asked, encouraged by her obvious dislike of Pan, as well as the bourbon, which was loosening his tongue. "She didn't want to be his mother. She wanted something else from him. I understood, but he did not. How could he" He has never loved anyone in his whole life. Not even his precious fairy. She would have sacrificed her life for him, and what did he care" He would have forgotten her, like he forgets everyone eventually. Wendy went home because she wanted to grow up and fall in love and have children of her own. That was something Pan could never give her. He has sold his soul for eternal youth, and it is both a blessing and a curse."
"He sold his soul?" That was something Ash had never considered. That a child would do something like that was almost inconceivable, and yet it was plausible, too. "That's such a stupid thing to do." Shaking her head, she lifted her glass to her lips to take a sip of her whisky, enjoying the burn as she swallowed. "I have a question for you. You obviously know the story, the way Barrie told it, and you obviously hate it. So why did you go to the show?"
He drained the contents of his own glass before picking up the bottle to refill it. He wasn't yet drunk enough to be a danger to himself or anyone else, and clearly not drunk enough to be free of the pain that haunted him. "I don't know," he replied as honestly as he could. "I saw that boy's blasted name on the marquee and I felt myself compelled to buy a ticket. I should stop hoping that someone will one day set the tale straight. It's too late for that, I suppose."
"Well ....this is Rhy'Din," she pointed out, tucking her hair back behind her ear. "There are ways to tell your story. You could sell it to a magazine or a newspaper, or get an interview on the radio - oh! The woman who was playing Peter Pan' She's a DJ on the radio ..." She trailed off, realising something. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"
"I'm afraid not," he replied, though he was smiling a little in amusement. "But do go on. You are rather lovely to look at and I like the sound of your voice, so please ....Do not stop on my account." He lifted his glass as if in toast to her before taking another swig.
She bit her lip, charmed by the compliment even if it was fueled by alcohol. "Are you asking me to tell you my life story, or letting me know it's okay if I start going into acute detail about just what touching your hand is doing to me?" she asked him with an arch smile of her own, more than comfortable in a game of sexual tennis.