A Bunch of Hook/Pan Oneshots

Title: In Vino Veritas
Pairing: Hook/Pan
Rating: R
Warnings: Chan, noncon
Date: 9/22/05


It's become a ritual, this little daily visit I pay my prisoner. He's had the gratingly cheerful recalcitrance seep out of him days ago and by now he just glares at me, preciously forlorn. The chain that binds him to the wall is of a generous length and allows him to lie down comfortably, but I suppose he's spoiled on absolute freedom for so many years that it's torturous. I come in, as per my daily ritual, and see his face only after my eyes adjust to the shocking darkness of the hold. He's not even angry anymore, just ever so sad.

"Will today be the day?" I ask.

He looks at his wrist. There is a thick angry scar there by now, evidence of my generosity and his cowardice.

"I'll lop it off nice and quick this time if you don't cry out like a sissy girl as soon as I break skin."

"And then I'm free to go?" he verifies. He's asked every time, and I have assured him without fail. I nod and smile when I see the tension inside slightly distort his features. I'm a man of my word. I would let him go, much as it would pain me, if he truly agreed to part with his right hand. A suitable revenge, I felt at the time of his capture, and much more tasteful than killing a boy who had after all thought of our battles as nothing more than games.

"It just hurts so much..." he whispers. It's the first admission of fear I've had from him in these several days. "Will it hurt afterwards too?"

"Oh very much. The sharp pain will give place to a dull ache, and finally just occasional disturbances having to do with the weather or your mood. The progression may take a few years, but what's that to an eternal boy like you?"

He bites his lower lip but doesn't cry. It annoyed me at first, his stoicism, and I was tempted to break him down without provocation. Now I see that it's valuable-- the very definition of his being, the identity of my enemy. I'm not sure if I want to see him break down, and the decision remains his own.

"Smee told me..." he trails off, picking up his gaze towards me. "He told me that drinking rum would make it hurt less..."

"Are you asking for an easier way out than I've already provided?"

He doesn't reply, knowing whatever answer he gives will be mocked.

"That's just fine. I'll bring you down some rum tonight and afterwards we can sever this little tie that's grown between us."

***


He drinks the rum like a child, lifting the bottle to his lips with both hands, grimacing after each swig. A flush rises to his cheeks, but his mood hardly improves. In fact, he seems closer to crying than at any other time.

I take it from him and help myself to the rest. He watches me somberly, though I see him having trouble keeping balance, even just sitting on the floor. His body inadvertently shrinks away when I unsheathe my sword. I wish I had the second hand to hold his matchstick of an arm before bringing the sword down, but one must make do. I am unsure with my blade again, however, as if hesitating to really grant the freedom I promise, and he cries out. Blood is dripping thick to the floor, but I did not slice through the bone.

He cries unabashedly this time, tears given free reign by tipsiness, and I realize I feel disappointment. Disappointment that I've broken him even before I could break the appendage. The rum is doing strange things in my head, and I kneel beside him almost without willing it or knowing why, my body moving on instinct. I lick up the blood dripping and running down the smooth skin of his arm, then proceed to do something I had hitherto done only with women, eons ago it seems. He doesn't resist, and keeps crying even as I kiss him, hiccuping sobs into my own mouth.

I press myself against him every which way I can, finally fucking him between the thighs, even as he continues to weep, though obeying my command to squeeze admirably.

Bliss-- downright heavenly bliss if it weren't for the heavy feeling of guilt and disgust that I feel as I walk up the steps, not daring to look back at him to see if he is trying to wipe away the seed I dirtied him with.

***


"Good morning," I say with my usual mock-sweetness, trying to appear nonchalant even as images from the previous night's doings flood my mind on seeing him again. I should have drunk more to knock out disturbing memories, or perhaps less-- to have prevented that obscene act in the first place. In any case, I refuse to feel discomfited, and hope he feels guilty enough for the both of us.

Indeed, he doesn't meet my gaze, and his posture this morning tells me he remembers what happened perhaps even in more detail than I do.

"It's no use," he suddenly proclaims, quietly but with an air of conviction. "You don't have to come down here every day. I'm never going to be able to go through with it."

Sarcasm suddenly deserts me, and I am rendered dumb. Broken, so soon, practically in half. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, and now I regret having been dramatic enough to really throw the manacle key out to sea after telling him I would. Now the wall would have to be ruined.

I approach and hack off the wood to which he is attached fairly easily. He stares and doesn't budge, as if expecting me to do something else. Slowly he rises to his feet, and walks towards the door, awkwardly, still facing me, hesitating to the last before finally taking to the air and speeding away from the ship.

The crew is murmuring around me as I watch him distance himself, the cumbersome remnant of his captivity still around his wrist, swinging to and fro in the wind. He'll probably cast it off sooner or later, somehow, just as he does everything else. It is my lot in this world to remain permanently scarred, and permanently obsessed, one way or another.