This is my first try at Peter Pan fanfiction, basing it off the book more than any movie version. This is just an idea I had. If you like it, I want to expand on it - still have lots of ideas. If not, I appreciate the feedback. Enjoy!

Forever Framed

If there was one thing that Moira hated, it was being forgotten.

That had started at an early age when her father had left her and her mother Margaret. Though she had only been five years old, it was a night that would never leave her memory: screaming, pleading, ultimatum, footsteps, slammed door, a taxi driving away. Moira had watched it from the window of her room while her great-grandma had held her close to her chest. The little girl could not know that her father had been severely paranoid, convinced without proof his wife had been having an affair with a co-worker. All she knew was that her father was leaving her, and he hadn't even said good-bye.

Moira never saw or heard from her father again. He'd forgotten her.

Margaret had been heartbroken over the entire situation, and angry too. The memories became too much, so she applied for an overseas job in the States.

Of course, Margaret had been met by a storm of pleas and oppositions by her grandmother from the start, giving every excuse from her age to the fear of starting in a new country before finally revealing her truest fear.

"What will Peter do when he comes back here and finds no one? Little Moira will never get the chance to go to Neverland, like you and I did!"

"Oh, stop this!" Margaret had finally screamed, at her wit's end. "What will that do for her? What has that done for us? That sprite of a boy has done nothing but use us and reject us once we grow up, because he won't! I will not put Moira threw that. She's already experienced her father abandoning us – Peter will only hurt her."

Moira had watched and listened to all of this – it's amazing how adults can forget how good children are at listening when wrapped in their own emotions and problems. She was too young and the argument was too large for her to get the full grasp of everything. All she could understand in the moment was that if they moved across the sea, Peter wouldn't be able to find her, as her great-grandmother had been promising her would happen. And that saddened her, so she started to cry again. Immediately, the two adults remembered her and immediately sought to comfort her for different reasons.

Margaret thought Moira was scared of moving to such a far-off place. The great-grandmother knew it was because Moira might never get to meet Peter. The great-grandmother always understood.

In the end, Margaret had won, and two weeks later the family of three were on a jet plane to the States. Great-grandmother Wendy sat by the window, holding Moira, whispering the familiar stories of her time with Peter, second star to the right and straight on till morning.

Margaret sat in the seat next to them, trying to sleep and trying not to listen.

Little Moira stared out the window, listening to the soothing voice of her great-grandmother. The clouds looked like a land all their own. In the colors of the setting sun, Moira wondered vaguely if that was what Peter's homeland was like. The last thing she imagined before drifting off to sleep was an image of her flying with the most beautiful child ever born.

Moira sat at the window seat of her bedroom, looking out at the cloudy night sky, reflecting the lights of the nearby city, coloring them a dusky rose. She'd never liked that color – that color didn't belong to the night.

She was frustrated for more than that reason. That afternoon, her beloved great-grandmother had taken a fall down the stairs. Only the porch steps, but nevertheless something to worry about at her age. She had yet to get a phone call from her mother at the hospital, so she expected the worst.

When Moira was in the dark about anything, she always expected the worst.

Knowing she could do nothing right now, Moira opened the window to let in the cool summer air, which felt at least a little refreshing. She collapsed dramatically on her bed and picked up one of the many books scattered around it.

Just as she was actually beginning to be distracted by the nonsense of Carroll, a powerful whooshing sound and a gasp filled the room. Turning her head sharply, what Moira saw made her shriek.

A lovely boy, clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that ooze out of trees, hung in midair with an astonished look on his face. Her shriek made him come crashing down on the floor. He landed on his bottom and, luckily, Moira's dirty clothes – which she always neglected to put down the laundry shoot – cushioned his fall.

He may have cried, but he was still too astonished, staring at Moira, who was staring right back at him and just as astonished. She never thought that she would meet him here in the States.

"Peter! How did you find me?" she asked, nearly gasping.

"Who are you?" demanded Peter, for it indeed was the infamous Peter. "You look just like . . ."

"Like who?" asked Moira, confused. She felt very self-conscious now; at the age of twelve, she was no longer comfortable with anyone of the male gender seeing her in only her nightgown.

"I've never seen this house before," said Peter, who had quickly forgotten and had now risen in the air, looking at everything.

"How did you find it, then?" asked Moira, staring in awe as the lovely boy curiously examined her flowered jewelry box. His eyes glittered with delight as he examined her fresh-water pearl necklace.

"I was looking for my new mother," said Peter, now tossing the pearls aside and moving to floor next to her bed. "It's spring cleaning time now, you know. But I ended up flying here instead." He looked up at her, his golden hair gleaming in the light of her bedside lamp. "Are you my new mother?"

"I think so," said Moira, nodding. "That what my great-grandmother told me would happen."

"What's your name?" said Peter, now rising to his feet and making a grand bow as he said. "I am Peter Pan."

Moira couldn't help but giggle. "I know." She herself got up and gave an elegant curtsey. "My name is Moira." She looked around. "Where is Tinkerbell?"

"Who?" asked Peter as he once again stooped down on the floor, beginning to examine the books.

Moira was shocked. "Why, Peter! You must remember! Tinkerbell, the fairy! She drunk the poison for you and nearly died to save your life!"

"Oh! Well, she must have dropped dead ages ago. Fairies never live long, and there are always more just like them."

But Moira was not consoled. How could he have forgotten Tinkerbell. Never mind that the little fairy had hated her great-grandmother; she'd loved Peter so much!

"What are these?" Peter asked distastefully as he tossed another of her books over his shoulder.

Moira was highly offended, and moved to put them away gently. "They're my books, and don't do that!"

"So you can read letters?"

"Can't you?"

"Never!" cried Peter indignantly, flying up in the air. "That's what grown-ups do." He said that word with such disgust that Moira shivered. Instantly, she lost a little of her liking for him; books were her especial pets, and she did not like to see them at all mistreated.

"So, shall we go now to Neverland? The lost boys want to know the story of Cinderella."

"Oh, the lost boys? You have new ones then?" Her great-grandmother had told how the lost boys she had met had come home with her and her brothers and grown up.

"Oh, yes, there are always boys falling out of cradles. Never girls, though – they are too clever to do that." His tone was good-natured again, and he was admiring his reflection in the mirror.

Moira brightened up at the compliment towards girls. "But how will we get there? I see you've brought no fairy with you."

"I can carry you," said Peter unconcernedly, flexing his non-existent muscles.

Moira didn't much like the idea – she wanted to fly without support, like she'd always imagined and dreamed she would. But if this was the only way . . . "Well, I certainly hope this journey is better than the one my mother Margaret had. A seagull nearly pecked her eyes out!"

"Margaret? Who's Margaret?"

Now an ice-cold feeling spread throughout Moira's chest. "You don't remember when she was your mother?" she asked behind gritted teeth.

"All mothers are the same to me," said Peter distractedly, looking and moving with his shadow.

Now she was becoming angry. "So if I go with you to Neverland and be mother to the lost boys and you, after you bring me back you'll just . . . forget my name? Forget me?"

"I'd say so," said Peter unconcernedly.

A volcano exploded in her heart, and her voice became so loud that Peter had to look up. "Then I won't go with you! I hate being forgotten and I'll never let anybody I love forget me again, so I will not love you!" Resolutely, she folded her arms and turned her back on Peter.

Now Peter was angry. Only his true mother had rejected him, and that hatred and hurt came up unbidden. "Well, fine! I don't need you! I don't need any mother! My own real mother didn't need me! She barred up the windows and locked me out!"

Remembering what her great-grandmother had told her on the subject, she turned around. "That's not true! She just didn't want her new baby to fly away like you did!"

Peter's light green eyes became as round as galleons, and he rose into the air angrily. "That's not true! That's not true! Who told you lies like that?"

"My great-grandmother! After you left her behind, she found out about your real mother and baby brother! Remember her at all? Her name was Wendy, and she always stuck up for you! And what thanks does she get? You're just a foolish little boy who's too scared to grow up!"

"I'm never scared, never scared!" Peter yelled, beginning to buzz around the room like an agitated fly. This was his way of throwing a tantrum.

"Then grow up! I dare you!" She felt reckless now, her own anger blinding her. She turned her back on him again. "Just go away! I will not become one of your many mothers whom you use and throw away! Good-bye!"

Peter never said anything in reply, but a very fast and powerful whooshing sound assured her that he'd left in a towering temper.

Moira didn't care if she'd hurt him. In her mind, he'd caused enough damage to the women of her family. Her father had already abandoned her; she wasn't about to let anybody else do that, not even for the sake of flying.

Angry tears streaming down her face, Moira went to the window and slammed it shut, drawing the curtains as well. She would not be like her great-grandmother, who had always been at the window, waiting for a foolish boy who would not grow up.

It was raining sleet, and Moira wrinkled her nose in disgust. Nothing could get worse now.

Over the past few years, her great-grandmother's memory had succumb to dementia, slowly forgetting everything in her life she'd once valued or loved: her bumbling father, her lovely mother, her beloved brothers, her daughter Jane she'd lost in a car crash, grandmother Margaret who used her many-hours job as an excuse to visit less, and finally the great-granddaughter she'd loved so much. The day that her great-grandmother had called her one of the nursing interns had been the saddest of her life. Now, that was all she was in her great-grandmother's eyes.

Yet, she never forgot Peter or her time with him. Constantly she talked of those adventures – the nursing staff were beginning to be very weirded out, but pinned it down to her condition – and a hatred had risen up in Moira for that boy again, that cursed boy. He was pathetic in her nineteen-year-old eyes now, a tragic and pathetic figure. Innocent and heartless forever, she wanted nothing more to do with him.

But fate would not let that happen.

Moira parked her used Ford in the nearest spot of the nursing home, and locked it before running inside. The weather had frozen her to the bone, but that was typical for Minnesota springs. Spring indeed.

It was talent night in the home tonight, and Moira could hear the feeble but enthusiastic voices singing old tunes from the forties on the beaten up baby grand in the lobby. She knew her great-grandmother would not be among them, and proceeded up the stairs two at a time.

But when she let herself in, Moira was surprised to find that her great-grandmother was not alone. Sitting at her bedside, slumped over the withered hand he was clutching, sat a young man about her age with a golden head of hair.

Instantly, Moira became protective. "What are you doing in here? How did you get in here?"

The young man looked up, looking at her with light-green eyes that glowed. In an almost familiar voice, he said in a choked voice, "I just . . . just wanted to hear the story again . . ." He looked lost, completely lost. His eyes stayed on her, looking her over. "It's your hair, that dark red hair, just like hers. The first time I met you, I was so surprised. Because you looked just like her when I first met her."

Moira's breath caught in her throat as the only and impossible explanation came to her mind. "You can't be . . ."

Peter smiled sadly. "You did dare me – had to prove I'm not a coward, didn't I?"

The three lost people found themselves and each other in that small room in the nursing home.

Wendy instantly recognized him, and didn't seem surprised at all, only pleased. Peter had shed many tears as he'd told his story: how this knowledge about his mother had finally made him find the gravity he'd so long been flying away from. He was a student now, just like Moira, living in England. He'd found Moira by chance on Facebook, and by seeing her image, he began to remember. So he'd flown to Minnesota on a whim that he was finding he'd never regret now.

Talking with Wendy and Moira, he'd begun to remember everything again: all of the lost boys, Tinkerbell, Hook, Tiger Lily, Margaret, Jane. All of these people whom he had been such an important figure of in their lives. It humbled him and shamed him how heartless he had been. But that must be forgiven – he'd been a child after all, and an arrogant one at that.

Peter and Moira, too, began to bond, and Wendy was delighted. Both young people found a strong connection with each other that neither had experienced. When not with Wendy, they stayed together, talking and comforting. Both knew that it was only a short amount of time before the inevitable. Wendy was very sick.

Just when the weather had taken on true spring, Wendy Moira Angela Darling passed away, with a smile on her face for her great-granddaughter and beloved boy. The funeral had been somber: Margaret had stood stone-faced, trying to stop her eyes from burning, and Peter and Moira wept silently, never letting go of the others hand.

It would be very hard, the long process of letting go of the woman that had loved them most.

In the early morning hours after the funeral, Wendy woke up alone in her bed, as she'd expected. The previous night, as she and Peter had stood in the dark living room of her apartment, Peter had told her he had an early flight back to England – he'd missed a lot of school and needed to get back.

Even as his hands had slipped beneath her black blouse, he said this. His voice, when he'd been a lovely child, had reminded her of a little silver bell. Now, as a beautiful young man, this bell was deeper, bigger, and it sent a shiver down her spine.

Moira had been touched – he was warning her so she wouldn't feel like he was abandoning her. Any last hesitation she'd harbored had been thrown out the window.

"All right, then," she'd purred, pressing herself against his now bare chest, nearly hairless. He was so warm, she felt like her skin would burn as she pressed her lips over the place his heart was beating at a very fast rate.

Sure enough, as she sat up, she didn't feel abandoned or used. She smiled when she saw his dark-green hoodie at the foot of the bed – no way had he left it there by accident. Rising out of bed, she slipped it on, relishing in how the soft thick fabric felt against her bare skin. It was too big for her, and covered up everything that needed to be covered.

She went into the living room to stand at the large windows that faced north. She opened them to let in the air, and leaned against the window frame. She saw a plane making its way east, looking like a shooting star in the night sky, across the crescent moon. Somehow, she knew that it was his plane.

They would see each other again very soon. Moira knew this with certainty as she twisted her hair around her thin finger.

Moira stood at the window until the plane was out of sight, even after she went to have a shower.

The girl with the dark red hair always waits for him, forever framed in the window.