If I keep rolling, I might just never stop
Susan is personally of the opinion that her father would have approved of Caspian, provided they had ever had the chance to meet.
“Are you sure?” Ed queries, cutting his apple into eighths. “Dad wouldn’t have, dunno, castrated the poor boy for inappropriately seducing his eldest daughter?”
The Look Susan cuts him with implies a certain lack of regard for his droll remarks. “Edmund Pevensie, you are being unhelpful again.”
“Sorry,” says Ed languidly, rolling his shoulders-his shirt is getting tight across his chest again, Susan notes in the back of her mind, she’ll have to get one of the maids to let out the seams or make him new ones, although at the rate he’s growing she thinks new ones aren’t worth the trouble-and sliding the apple slice off of the knife onto his tongue. “I’m providing some much-needed perspective.”
“You’re being difficult,” reproves Pete.
“You still agree with me,” says Ed, pointing the knife at his brother over the breakfast table. “You wanted to castrate Caspian for a few seconds there, when you first found out.”
“You did look terribly disapproving,” adds Lucy, who is dipping berries into the clotted cream that Susan is fairly certain she forbade the cook from giving her. “All horrifying and glowering.” Lucy makes a face representative of Peter being horrifying and glowering. It makes her look vaguely like a turkey.
“You look like a turkey,” Ed replies.
“You all sound like children,” Susan tells them at large.
“That’s because you sound like a mother,” says Pete, leaning back in his chair to ruffle her hair in an affectionate manner; Susan bats his hand away because it is covered in sticky juice from the orange he has just devoured.
“Yes, well, someone has to keep track of all of you,” says Susan with a scowl.
“Of course, mother,” they chorus dutifully, and Susan swipes a strawberry and the bowl of clotted cream from under Lucy’s nose in vengeance.
“Hey!” cries Lucy. “My cream!”
“Your ill-gotten gains,” corrects Susan. She dips a finger into the cream, eyes it speculatively, and then flings it at Ed’s shirt (he really is getting too broad in the shoulders for it, anyway).
“Su-san!” he squawks, and by then they’ve descended into a full-out battle, and off in the corner the maid sighs and decides that she is never again agreeing to clean up after a Pevensie family breakfast.
(A jar of pomegranate marmalade shatters on the tiles of the balcony and Lucy pauses in her siege of Ed long enough to scoop up a handful and drop it down the front of Pete’s shirt, which prompts him to shiver and screech like a little girl.)
Never.
~
So. How went my voyage into fluff-landia?
“Are you sure?” Ed queries, cutting his apple into eighths. “Dad wouldn’t have, dunno, castrated the poor boy for inappropriately seducing his eldest daughter?”
The Look Susan cuts him with implies a certain lack of regard for his droll remarks. “Edmund Pevensie, you are being unhelpful again.”
“Sorry,” says Ed languidly, rolling his shoulders-his shirt is getting tight across his chest again, Susan notes in the back of her mind, she’ll have to get one of the maids to let out the seams or make him new ones, although at the rate he’s growing she thinks new ones aren’t worth the trouble-and sliding the apple slice off of the knife onto his tongue. “I’m providing some much-needed perspective.”
“You’re being difficult,” reproves Pete.
“You still agree with me,” says Ed, pointing the knife at his brother over the breakfast table. “You wanted to castrate Caspian for a few seconds there, when you first found out.”
“You did look terribly disapproving,” adds Lucy, who is dipping berries into the clotted cream that Susan is fairly certain she forbade the cook from giving her. “All horrifying and glowering.” Lucy makes a face representative of Peter being horrifying and glowering. It makes her look vaguely like a turkey.
“You look like a turkey,” Ed replies.
“You all sound like children,” Susan tells them at large.
“That’s because you sound like a mother,” says Pete, leaning back in his chair to ruffle her hair in an affectionate manner; Susan bats his hand away because it is covered in sticky juice from the orange he has just devoured.
“Yes, well, someone has to keep track of all of you,” says Susan with a scowl.
“Of course, mother,” they chorus dutifully, and Susan swipes a strawberry and the bowl of clotted cream from under Lucy’s nose in vengeance.
“Hey!” cries Lucy. “My cream!”
“Your ill-gotten gains,” corrects Susan. She dips a finger into the cream, eyes it speculatively, and then flings it at Ed’s shirt (he really is getting too broad in the shoulders for it, anyway).
“Su-san!” he squawks, and by then they’ve descended into a full-out battle, and off in the corner the maid sighs and decides that she is never again agreeing to clean up after a Pevensie family breakfast.
(A jar of pomegranate marmalade shatters on the tiles of the balcony and Lucy pauses in her siege of Ed long enough to scoop up a handful and drop it down the front of Pete’s shirt, which prompts him to shiver and screech like a little girl.)
Never.
~
So. How went my voyage into fluff-landia?