Fic! In which Susan Pevensie joins SHIELD
Fic! Set post The Last Battle. This is a bit of a Screw You, CS Lewis fic that wouldn't leave me alone. Susan Pevensie, James Montgomery Falsworth, Margaret Carter and Howard Stark. Warning for brief violence.
She is 21 when she loses another world. A well-meaning second cousin tells her how lucky she is, her survival hinging on a change of plan, all lace-gloved solicitude. She used to be a queen, and now they expect her to stand and endure the pitying looks, the sandwiches that were scrimped and saved for (rationing has no patience for funerals) the accepting of kisses to the cheek and avuncular advice, the endless commiseration and mawkish sentimentality and the growing sense that, beneath the tears and the handkerchiefs, some people relish death.
*
When she leaves Narnia, she misses many things. It is odd, of course, to go from womanhood to girlhood, and beastly to go to girlhood in a time of such strife. One of the things she misses in confusing ways is the sensation that powerful men desire nothing other than her to make their lives complete. The dance of courtly flattery is intricate, and a significant part of Narnia’s diplomacy (which Lucy, poor child, never understood) was the possibility, the hint, that a daughter of Eve would at some point…well, yield to that flattery. Edmund understood it the best of all of the others when they were there. She must relearn the ways of a child: it is a hard lesson.
*
“Oh, darling girl,” he murmurs. They are in a busy street, and it is the closest she has come to losing her composure. She has been steadfast as a queen, but he has always been one of her favourite men and his smile is as familiar as an old coat. “I am so very sorry-oh, but you have probably been hearing that so often, love.” She looks up at him from under her umbrella.
“It’s rather nicer, hearing it from you, Monty,” she says. He hears all the things she can’t say, too. They walk together, arm in arm, to the nearest pub.
*
“This is the third time this term, Miss Pevensie.”
She looks down at her clasped hands, then up at the woman from the secretarial agency. She has a face like a buzzard, a sharp gleam of humour lightening an otherwise oppressive countenance. “What was it this time?”
“I believe it was a sonnet. The time before that, it was a mathematical proof, and before that, a legal document bequeathing you all his worldly goods and chattels. It grieves me to say this, but the agency has decided to take you off its books. Our professors keep falling madly in love with you, and it’s rather bad for business.”
She signs her dismissal form. They shake hands and she steps out into the autumnal sunshine. The sonnet, she keeps. My love, with star-crown’d radiance of a queen doth walk in shadows, gentle as the night. He would have made a fine courtier.
*
Peter gives her the bow and arrows, for her eighteenth birthday. They share the feeling that they are getting to the age to rule, with no kingdom to rule over. It is a little easier for him: a man can be kingly in this world. She has her dances, her coterie, stolen kisses and love letters but she cannot issue decrees or settle disputes, she cannot hunt or swim in the moonlight. She can shoot her bow, though, and shoot it well. This skill, she holds close to her heart.
*
She is ridiculously wealthy. After the death duties, the legal quagmires and probates and other beastly things, she has property, money, more possessions than she will ever want or need. She is methodical, meticulous. She cuts off all contact with the more persistent of the indigent distant cousins who never showed her any interest when she had family. She wonders, sometimes, if her mercy died with her co-rulers. She will become like Jadis, hard as marble with a core of fire running through her, throwing out lures of sweet temptation and wielding a dagger with the strength to kill a lion.
After she has put Holland covers on the furniture she is keeping, after she has locked houses and sold what does not bring pangs of regret to her heart, she goes to London once more.
*
Monty has a friend named Margaret. She is trim, brisk. There is something of the head girl about her, but more of the warrior. She has come to recognise grief in others. One day, when she has courage, she will ask her what she grieves for. Monty has other friends, too, who come and stay with him on a whim. They all wander about the place for flimsily fabricated reasons and she feels indulgent as she pretends to believe them but wishes them luck anyway. Margaret sees through her, she knows.
She goes to a small party with Monty. The week after, she has high tea with Margaret and before she realises it is happening, has given her a fairly thorough report of the factions of the parties, who went into secluded corners, undercurrents and tensions in the room. It is a habit she has kept from her reign. Useful, to know the deals being brokered before the ostensible start of negotiations. Her book learning has always caused her teachers despair, but she knows people.
*
She and Monty become lovers once more. It is warm, easy and intimate. She loves him more than she should, and he looks at her with his heart in his eyes. He has nightmares, sometimes. He never talks about the war, only about his comrades. She can never tell him why she sometimes wakes up crying. He calls her his love, his dear one, his darling girl and she cries more because she can never truly be his, but this could all be enough one day, and she doesn’t know if that scares her.
*
Margaret teaches her how to shoot a gun. She tells her she prefers her bow and arrows, and startles a laugh out of her. She doesn’t laugh, when she sees her hit the target dead centre, over and over. “At some point, we are going to drink vast quantities of brandy and be very honest with one another,” Margaret says. Susan smiles. She has no idea where to start.
“What are you training me for?” she asks instead. “Will I like it?”
“You won’t be bored,” Margaret says, a light in her eyes. That isn’t the same as liking it, but she smiles at her again anyway.
*
They are at a party in Vienna. She gathers secrets like breadcrumbs. A man offers to write her a sonnet, and she tells him she has one already.
They are in Russia, chasing shadows.
They are in a forest in France, watching a man thrash and foam at the mouth. She shoots him in the head, a mercy shot, because that is as gentle as she can be.
They are in America, in the desert. Margaret argues with grizzled men, Monty drinks with his comrades. Susan sits in the sun and basks, waiting for Margaret’s patience to snap.
They are in Poland, chasing dead men.
In Italy, they start to share a bed, the three of them. The rest of the men pass no comment. She might be happy, but she can’t remember how to tell.
*
Howard Stark tells her he’ll build her a flying car, show her what the future looks like. She smiles. “What I would really like you to build is a decent bow, a quiver and a set of arrows.”
He shakes his head with a rueful grin. “First a shield, now a bow. If you people want a sword or a lance next, ask someone else. I’m a futurist, thought you all knew that.”
She has seen dryads, naiads, centaurs, deep magic and high magic, the flying towers of Cair Paravel, talking animals and dust demons, statues brought to life. She has shot arrows that never miss their mark, has blown a horn that echoes through time. She has ruled a realm and ruled it well. She has lost more than she thought possible, and is winning it back, step by step. The future can wait its turn.
She is 21 when she loses another world. A well-meaning second cousin tells her how lucky she is, her survival hinging on a change of plan, all lace-gloved solicitude. She used to be a queen, and now they expect her to stand and endure the pitying looks, the sandwiches that were scrimped and saved for (rationing has no patience for funerals) the accepting of kisses to the cheek and avuncular advice, the endless commiseration and mawkish sentimentality and the growing sense that, beneath the tears and the handkerchiefs, some people relish death.
*
When she leaves Narnia, she misses many things. It is odd, of course, to go from womanhood to girlhood, and beastly to go to girlhood in a time of such strife. One of the things she misses in confusing ways is the sensation that powerful men desire nothing other than her to make their lives complete. The dance of courtly flattery is intricate, and a significant part of Narnia’s diplomacy (which Lucy, poor child, never understood) was the possibility, the hint, that a daughter of Eve would at some point…well, yield to that flattery. Edmund understood it the best of all of the others when they were there. She must relearn the ways of a child: it is a hard lesson.
*
“Oh, darling girl,” he murmurs. They are in a busy street, and it is the closest she has come to losing her composure. She has been steadfast as a queen, but he has always been one of her favourite men and his smile is as familiar as an old coat. “I am so very sorry-oh, but you have probably been hearing that so often, love.” She looks up at him from under her umbrella.
“It’s rather nicer, hearing it from you, Monty,” she says. He hears all the things she can’t say, too. They walk together, arm in arm, to the nearest pub.
*
“This is the third time this term, Miss Pevensie.”
She looks down at her clasped hands, then up at the woman from the secretarial agency. She has a face like a buzzard, a sharp gleam of humour lightening an otherwise oppressive countenance. “What was it this time?”
“I believe it was a sonnet. The time before that, it was a mathematical proof, and before that, a legal document bequeathing you all his worldly goods and chattels. It grieves me to say this, but the agency has decided to take you off its books. Our professors keep falling madly in love with you, and it’s rather bad for business.”
She signs her dismissal form. They shake hands and she steps out into the autumnal sunshine. The sonnet, she keeps. My love, with star-crown’d radiance of a queen doth walk in shadows, gentle as the night. He would have made a fine courtier.
*
Peter gives her the bow and arrows, for her eighteenth birthday. They share the feeling that they are getting to the age to rule, with no kingdom to rule over. It is a little easier for him: a man can be kingly in this world. She has her dances, her coterie, stolen kisses and love letters but she cannot issue decrees or settle disputes, she cannot hunt or swim in the moonlight. She can shoot her bow, though, and shoot it well. This skill, she holds close to her heart.
*
She is ridiculously wealthy. After the death duties, the legal quagmires and probates and other beastly things, she has property, money, more possessions than she will ever want or need. She is methodical, meticulous. She cuts off all contact with the more persistent of the indigent distant cousins who never showed her any interest when she had family. She wonders, sometimes, if her mercy died with her co-rulers. She will become like Jadis, hard as marble with a core of fire running through her, throwing out lures of sweet temptation and wielding a dagger with the strength to kill a lion.
After she has put Holland covers on the furniture she is keeping, after she has locked houses and sold what does not bring pangs of regret to her heart, she goes to London once more.
*
Monty has a friend named Margaret. She is trim, brisk. There is something of the head girl about her, but more of the warrior. She has come to recognise grief in others. One day, when she has courage, she will ask her what she grieves for. Monty has other friends, too, who come and stay with him on a whim. They all wander about the place for flimsily fabricated reasons and she feels indulgent as she pretends to believe them but wishes them luck anyway. Margaret sees through her, she knows.
She goes to a small party with Monty. The week after, she has high tea with Margaret and before she realises it is happening, has given her a fairly thorough report of the factions of the parties, who went into secluded corners, undercurrents and tensions in the room. It is a habit she has kept from her reign. Useful, to know the deals being brokered before the ostensible start of negotiations. Her book learning has always caused her teachers despair, but she knows people.
*
She and Monty become lovers once more. It is warm, easy and intimate. She loves him more than she should, and he looks at her with his heart in his eyes. He has nightmares, sometimes. He never talks about the war, only about his comrades. She can never tell him why she sometimes wakes up crying. He calls her his love, his dear one, his darling girl and she cries more because she can never truly be his, but this could all be enough one day, and she doesn’t know if that scares her.
*
Margaret teaches her how to shoot a gun. She tells her she prefers her bow and arrows, and startles a laugh out of her. She doesn’t laugh, when she sees her hit the target dead centre, over and over. “At some point, we are going to drink vast quantities of brandy and be very honest with one another,” Margaret says. Susan smiles. She has no idea where to start.
“What are you training me for?” she asks instead. “Will I like it?”
“You won’t be bored,” Margaret says, a light in her eyes. That isn’t the same as liking it, but she smiles at her again anyway.
*
They are at a party in Vienna. She gathers secrets like breadcrumbs. A man offers to write her a sonnet, and she tells him she has one already.
They are in Russia, chasing shadows.
They are in a forest in France, watching a man thrash and foam at the mouth. She shoots him in the head, a mercy shot, because that is as gentle as she can be.
They are in America, in the desert. Margaret argues with grizzled men, Monty drinks with his comrades. Susan sits in the sun and basks, waiting for Margaret’s patience to snap.
They are in Poland, chasing dead men.
In Italy, they start to share a bed, the three of them. The rest of the men pass no comment. She might be happy, but she can’t remember how to tell.
*
Howard Stark tells her he’ll build her a flying car, show her what the future looks like. She smiles. “What I would really like you to build is a decent bow, a quiver and a set of arrows.”
He shakes his head with a rueful grin. “First a shield, now a bow. If you people want a sword or a lance next, ask someone else. I’m a futurist, thought you all knew that.”
She has seen dryads, naiads, centaurs, deep magic and high magic, the flying towers of Cair Paravel, talking animals and dust demons, statues brought to life. She has shot arrows that never miss their mark, has blown a horn that echoes through time. She has ruled a realm and ruled it well. She has lost more than she thought possible, and is winning it back, step by step. The future can wait its turn.