"Wells Darling, how would you feel about going to Neverland?"

A few things raced through Wells' mind. Number one was the sanity of this boy—or lack thereof. Number two was dumbfound curiosity. Number three was that Neverland, wherever the fuck that turned out to be, sounded a lot better than being in her bedroom when her father came in.

The thought of fighting with him again was overwhelming. Explaining the broken lamp on the floor made her light headed. Anywhere, anywhere sounded better than being in the same room as her father.

Perhaps she should have given her reply more thought. Perhaps Wells should have swallowed a little bit of responsibility and taken her beating.

Perhaps Mr. Darling shouldn't have pushed her limits to the point where she felt that she had no other choice but to reply: "Yeah, whatever, just get me out of here."

Peter Pan loosened his grip on her wrist as his chest sank. Wells noticed that the muscles in his jaw had been tightly wound in anticipation of her answer, but he let his teeth fall open in his mouth.

"Tink, pixie dust?" He asked, motioning for the fairy. Wells was confused, glancing between the mythical creature, and, well, the mystical boy.

The fairy shared a few pinches of the gold sparkles that flowed so freely from her figure, into Peter's open palm. It was like salt out of a shaker. As if Wells had not come across enough flabbergasting content that night.

What was the purpose of pixie dust?

"Wells," her father's voiced seethed, from closer this time. His footsteps were heavier. Nearer.

"Wells Darling, you are about to fly," Peter said, brown eyes animated. The gold sparkles seemed to waltz in them, or maybe the Wells was still more partially asleep than she thought.

This boy was just uttering one absurd thing after the other. Like they just rolled off his tongue as easily as 'good morning' or 'good night' would.

"I'm sorry, I'm about to what?" Wells began, but there was hardly any time for her to get the words out.

Peter showered her in gold sparkles. They were weightless. They made her feel weightless. They made her chest swell and a tingling feeling flourish over her body.

"We're gonna fly. Don't freak out," he casually exclaimed, flashing a cursory grin. He pulled her towards the open window by her wrist and Wells suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that she was only wearing pajama shorts and an oversized hoodie.

The door nob jangled. The broken lock would buy them a few seconds. Her farther only had to apply a little force before it would swing open.

"Don't freak out?!" Wells repeated, her voice much sharper than his had been.

Peter Pan was already halfway out the window.

"Exactly," he flashed her that grin again, tugging Wells.

"Wait, I need my phone!" She exclaimed, pulling him back for a second and using the hand that was not caught in his grasp to snatch her phone off her desk.

"Your what? Never mind, we don't have time," Peter shook his head and gave a harsh tug on Wells' arm.

She was now crouched on the sill, looking down the three story drop from her apartment to the floor of a cold London street.

Flying was not possible.

Then how did she suddenly find herself leaning out her window to do so?

Shakily, the frostbitten air swayed in and out of her lips. Peter Pan was flying. He floated effortlessly in the murky, midnight air beyond her window. His hand was still curled around her wrist and he wasn't about to let go, in fear she would run away. It was almost as if this was some kind of majestic, wonderful trick.

Despite the fact that Wells couldn't quite believe her eyes, she couldn't help feeling intrigued. And the likelihood that she would run in the direction of her enraged father was slimmer than the hair on Tinkerbell's head.

So she leaped our the window, just as her bedroom door swung open.

And then, she was gone.

One second, Wells was free-falling towards what would most likely be certain death—or a hundred broken bones—the next she was pressed up against the wall of the shadowed side of the apartment block.

Just around the corner Well's father leaned out her window. She could imagine that his face had flushed a red color close to blood. The growl that slithered out of his jaw was one she had heard many times but had never become less chilling.

Wells tried to make her breaths less heavy but the mixture adrenaline, fear and fact that she was suspended in midair due to pixie dust was making that task rather difficult. Oh yes, and the boy that was pressing her against the apartment block with a forearm that was almost choking her. There was that too.

She could feel Peter Pan's hot breath on her collar bone, where the worn-out neckline of her hoodie had slid over her right shoulder. Peter didn't seem to be paying attention to her; he was much more interested in her father.

"Where have you gone, girl!" Wells heard her father's gruff voice call out into the night. Tinkerbell giggled beside her head.

They were waiting for her father to leave.

After what felt like an immeasurable passage of time, Wells heard the window lock click. Relief lightened the air that had previously seemed thick. Peter released his grip and Wells floated off the wall. Now he only held her wrist again, making sure she didn't fly off somewhere.

"Come on, lets go," he exclaimed, his voice calm, collected and smooth like marble.

"To Neverland?" Wells asked, just in case she had made it up.

"Yes, to Neverland," Peter nodded and flashed her another one of those grins. That boy was comfortable wearing a grin.

"Where is Neverland?" She questioned as Peter took her up towards the apartment block roof, Tinkerbell following them like a dog on a lead.

"The second star to the right," he replied.

"Uh? Do you always have to talk in riddles?" Wells asked. What was the 'second star to the right' meant to mean? Instinctively, she looked at the sky. There were rarely many stars over London. Today was no different. She could barely distinguish three.

"I'm not talking in riddles," Peter responded, looking back at Wells with an equity of confusion.

"It sounds an awful lot like one."

"Riddles must be pretty straight forward nowadays."

Wells shook her head, not sure how to reply. Besides, she couldn't help being distracted by her very surroundings. Peter guided them higher and soon her apartment block became lost amidst the labyrinth of London. From there she could see the whole skeleton of the city. The ribs, the spine and the Thames that snaked through it like a vein.

"Wow," she breathed.

"I do like London. From here the best," Peter said. Wells could feel his brown eyes on her for a few seconds.

"Were really flying. I'm really flying!" She laughed, sucking in the cold air. It was encompassing her skin, penetrating her shortage of cloths already. She was a little uncomfortable but far more entranced with the situation to pay much mind.

Peter laughed. He must of thought she was slightly strange. His laughter was carried downstream by the wind but Wells liked the way it felt as it passed her ears.

He was strange.

The strangest boy she'd ever met. To be fair, there weren't many boys who could fly and had relationship issues with their own shadows.

"I don't know how people here live without flying," Peter said. Just to exaggerate his point he took them in a loop, swooping up and then letting them free fall for a second. Wells felt her lungs lift and balloon, pressing against her ribcage.

She was weightless. Lighter than a feather, lighter than air.

"You must not be from here," Wells said once they were flying in a leveled direction again. What an odd question to ask. Cause she knew that she didn't just mean that he wasn't from London. Peter wasn't from this world.

He looked down at her again, still wearing that grin, eyes shadowed but wide. "No, I'm not."

"Does everyone fly in Neverland?"

"Not exactly."

Couldn't he ever just give her a straight answer? Wells shook her head. She wanted to ask more questions, delve a little deeper, but she caught her tongue. Peter Pan was a stranger, an alien, even, and she wasn't quite sure if she was really awake. There was a greater probability that she was still fast asleep at her desk, only dreaming.

But oh Lord, nothing had felt more real in her life. She had never been more hyper aware of every cold air partial that brushed past her skin.

"How long would you say it takes to get to Neverland?" She asked after a moment of gawking at the city a hundred meters beneath them. Peter pursed his lips.

"I couldn't tell you. I've never been particularly good with telling time," he responded. Her face scrunched up in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

Peter laughed. "Sorry, time is different in Neverland. Time doesn't work the same way as it does here. It doesn't exist. But at the same time, it still does."

If Wells was confused before, she was even more so now. This boy was absurd. Everything about him was utterly and irrefutably absurd and Wells found it intriguing as much as she did infuriating.

"That's. . .thats impossible," she gasped. It was hard to wrap her head around it. How could time possibly not exist but still be there at the same time?

A wide, wonderful and wicked smile consumed Peter's face. "Nothing is impossible."