Like We Used To
Title: Like We Used To
Fandom: Narnia RPF
Pairing: Anna Popplewell/William Moseley
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,200
Summary: “Susan,” he says, eyes glinting. He calls her this as a joke, but the name hits so close to her heart it nearly bowls her over with the full force of its power.
Author's Notes: Written for favorite_song at the Anything Goes multifandom RPF/RPS comment fic meme, who wanted Anna/Will - First time together in a long time. Of course, I'm a freak, so this is too long for a comment. I miss the Narnia kids. This takes place a couple years in the future, I guess. I also feel like they always call him William, not Will, hence my abuse of his full name. Eep. D:
Like We Used To
We should meet up. You, Georgie, Skandar, me. What do you think?
The text comes from another world. At least, this is what it feels like: words reaching out to her from across a barrier, from across a time she remembers best now in flashes of dreams. (Something like what a character in a book or a film might experience; she remembers that feeling, and it pulls at her and leaves an ache of longing.)
Anna pulls out her mobile - old, black, practical; she hasn’t had a new one in a long time because she worries she will lose the catalogue of people she has stored inside. There are so many things she wants to say, but her fingers hover above the keys, uncertain. She wants to apologize for not keeping in touch after University, or yell at him for not trying when she didn’t. She wants to thank him for trying now, to explain to him exactly what this means, and how her heart hasn’t stopped racing since she flipped open her mobile to find a message from him, but she’s worried it won’t sound right and maybe he won’t understand. She isn’t sure she understands, herself. She has forgotten about this, the complicated knot of affection she feels for him, for all of them. But she doesn’t know how to explain this when she can’t watch his face for his reaction, for the subtle, telling changes in his expression she hopes he hasn’t lost.
So with an impossible giddiness to her smile she half wishes he could see, she only writes: When?
Only after she’s hit Send does she wonder if he talked to Skandar and Georgie first, or if, like he used to, he is still waiting for her affirmation before telling the others of their plans. They were the elders of their quartet, the ones who unconsciously fell head over heels into their roles, who made decisions and organized and protected. Perhaps this dynamic still stands. Even Georgie has grown up - already - but Anna still sees her - sees them all - as they were. Perhaps even herself. (But she wonders, she worries, that she’s the only one. That she has the sentimentality of a mother, even among old friends.)
His reply is almost instant. He tells her he was hoping for this weekend, if it’s all right, though he should probably ask the others, too, before they make interfering plans.
Anna’s smile widens.
With William as the go-between, they settle on a park equidistant (so Skandar says) from them all. Coincidence, perhaps, has them already close by, and nothing but luck and miracles keep their schedules free. Anna still spends more time than she should looking up maps and biting her lip, checking and rechecking, trying to keep everything fair and convenient.
Even though she’s busy, it gives her something more to do. Something productive, to distract her from the fact that she’s suddenly nervous.
Days tick by, counted off and counted down on her calendar and fingertips, and she feels herself thrum with worry and nerves and energy. There are so many what ifs in her mind that can only be quelled by the familiar ritual of planning. (If she could ever learn the art of spontaneity, she thinks wryly, it would probably come with a bulleted list.
William might have told her something to that effect, once, but she can’t remember. Maybe it was Georgie.)
It’s late September and the grass is green. It isn’t raining, not today, but it did the day before, and so the ground is still damp when she arrives. The air is cool but without bite. Anna adjusts her cardigan, combs her fingers quickly through her dark hair, and tucks it behind her ears. Then untucks it, frowns, and resists the urge to tuck it again. Instead, she stands squinting in the sunlight. She’s early.
Her eyes drift across the park, scanning the grass, taking in its uneven curve, until she spots a bench shaded by a large poplar tree. It takes her only a moment to realize that it is occupied, and a half a moment more to recognize the sweep of blonde hair and the figure who is suddenly standing and waving at her.
William cups his hands around his mouth, shouts something she still can’t hear, and then starts toward her.
Anna feels a rush in her head, in her heart. She feels she should be dignified, because she’s older now, they’re both so much older, but she can sense, at least temporarily, that her adulthood is being stripped away. And so she bounds toward him, almost flailing her arms like a lunatic; she can see his grin, and it’s the only thing, really, until they stop, three feet apart, facing each other. Surveying each other. He’s wearing a scarf that she remembers giving him, and she suddenly wishes she had worn some token, too, something to show from what used to be.
“Susan,” he says, eyes glinting.
He calls her this as a joke, but the name hits so close to her heart it nearly bowls her over with the full force of its power. It is as if everything comes rushing back to her at once, this past life that she remembers living. On this unfamiliar lawn, it is as if she’s returning home for the first time in a very long while.
After only the briefest of falters, she recovers. She is Susan, she is Anna, and she puts her hands to her hips with a comically exaggerated frown.
“Peter,” she replies, trying to sound as disapproving as possible. Then she breaks. “But really, William,” she says in a tone she can’t quite identify, and wraps her arms tightly around him. He doesn’t hesitate to do the same, and she breathes in, and he smells the same, too posh and too wonderful for his own good.
When they pull apart (a bit too late), and he kisses her cheek (a bit too close to her lips), she feels a swoop of familiarity and comfort, and she catches it by the tail, never wanting to let go.
“I’ve missed you!” They say it at the same time; it sounds right, their voices blended together like delighted children.
William links his arm with hers, and it’s amazing that they still fit together so well, so perfectly, so effortless.
“You’re early,” Anna says, leaning against him. “That’s unexpected.”
“Ah,” he replies. “But you, of course, are always early to anything and everything. I thought I’d head you off for once.”
“For the first time!” she laughs.
He knocks his shoulders against her lightly. “I thought we could talk, you know? Just us.”
Anna nods, pleased. “Like we used to.”
It isn’t as if she can hardly believe it; she believes in this, in them, the way they are together, with all of her being. It makes sense this way; what she can’t believe is that she’d ever forgotten and doubted.
“We’ll probably have a while,” he remarks, steering her back toward the bench. Their feet squish into the soft ground. “I expect Skandar and Georgie will be late.”
“As usual.”
“Kids,” he jokes.
Anna laughs. She understands.
Fandom: Narnia RPF
Pairing: Anna Popplewell/William Moseley
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,200
Summary: “Susan,” he says, eyes glinting. He calls her this as a joke, but the name hits so close to her heart it nearly bowls her over with the full force of its power.
Author's Notes: Written for favorite_song at the Anything Goes multifandom RPF/RPS comment fic meme, who wanted Anna/Will - First time together in a long time. Of course, I'm a freak, so this is too long for a comment. I miss the Narnia kids. This takes place a couple years in the future, I guess. I also feel like they always call him William, not Will, hence my abuse of his full name. Eep. D:
Like We Used To
We should meet up. You, Georgie, Skandar, me. What do you think?
The text comes from another world. At least, this is what it feels like: words reaching out to her from across a barrier, from across a time she remembers best now in flashes of dreams. (Something like what a character in a book or a film might experience; she remembers that feeling, and it pulls at her and leaves an ache of longing.)
Anna pulls out her mobile - old, black, practical; she hasn’t had a new one in a long time because she worries she will lose the catalogue of people she has stored inside. There are so many things she wants to say, but her fingers hover above the keys, uncertain. She wants to apologize for not keeping in touch after University, or yell at him for not trying when she didn’t. She wants to thank him for trying now, to explain to him exactly what this means, and how her heart hasn’t stopped racing since she flipped open her mobile to find a message from him, but she’s worried it won’t sound right and maybe he won’t understand. She isn’t sure she understands, herself. She has forgotten about this, the complicated knot of affection she feels for him, for all of them. But she doesn’t know how to explain this when she can’t watch his face for his reaction, for the subtle, telling changes in his expression she hopes he hasn’t lost.
So with an impossible giddiness to her smile she half wishes he could see, she only writes: When?
Only after she’s hit Send does she wonder if he talked to Skandar and Georgie first, or if, like he used to, he is still waiting for her affirmation before telling the others of their plans. They were the elders of their quartet, the ones who unconsciously fell head over heels into their roles, who made decisions and organized and protected. Perhaps this dynamic still stands. Even Georgie has grown up - already - but Anna still sees her - sees them all - as they were. Perhaps even herself. (But she wonders, she worries, that she’s the only one. That she has the sentimentality of a mother, even among old friends.)
His reply is almost instant. He tells her he was hoping for this weekend, if it’s all right, though he should probably ask the others, too, before they make interfering plans.
Anna’s smile widens.
With William as the go-between, they settle on a park equidistant (so Skandar says) from them all. Coincidence, perhaps, has them already close by, and nothing but luck and miracles keep their schedules free. Anna still spends more time than she should looking up maps and biting her lip, checking and rechecking, trying to keep everything fair and convenient.
Even though she’s busy, it gives her something more to do. Something productive, to distract her from the fact that she’s suddenly nervous.
Days tick by, counted off and counted down on her calendar and fingertips, and she feels herself thrum with worry and nerves and energy. There are so many what ifs in her mind that can only be quelled by the familiar ritual of planning. (If she could ever learn the art of spontaneity, she thinks wryly, it would probably come with a bulleted list.
William might have told her something to that effect, once, but she can’t remember. Maybe it was Georgie.)
It’s late September and the grass is green. It isn’t raining, not today, but it did the day before, and so the ground is still damp when she arrives. The air is cool but without bite. Anna adjusts her cardigan, combs her fingers quickly through her dark hair, and tucks it behind her ears. Then untucks it, frowns, and resists the urge to tuck it again. Instead, she stands squinting in the sunlight. She’s early.
Her eyes drift across the park, scanning the grass, taking in its uneven curve, until she spots a bench shaded by a large poplar tree. It takes her only a moment to realize that it is occupied, and a half a moment more to recognize the sweep of blonde hair and the figure who is suddenly standing and waving at her.
William cups his hands around his mouth, shouts something she still can’t hear, and then starts toward her.
Anna feels a rush in her head, in her heart. She feels she should be dignified, because she’s older now, they’re both so much older, but she can sense, at least temporarily, that her adulthood is being stripped away. And so she bounds toward him, almost flailing her arms like a lunatic; she can see his grin, and it’s the only thing, really, until they stop, three feet apart, facing each other. Surveying each other. He’s wearing a scarf that she remembers giving him, and she suddenly wishes she had worn some token, too, something to show from what used to be.
“Susan,” he says, eyes glinting.
He calls her this as a joke, but the name hits so close to her heart it nearly bowls her over with the full force of its power. It is as if everything comes rushing back to her at once, this past life that she remembers living. On this unfamiliar lawn, it is as if she’s returning home for the first time in a very long while.
After only the briefest of falters, she recovers. She is Susan, she is Anna, and she puts her hands to her hips with a comically exaggerated frown.
“Peter,” she replies, trying to sound as disapproving as possible. Then she breaks. “But really, William,” she says in a tone she can’t quite identify, and wraps her arms tightly around him. He doesn’t hesitate to do the same, and she breathes in, and he smells the same, too posh and too wonderful for his own good.
When they pull apart (a bit too late), and he kisses her cheek (a bit too close to her lips), she feels a swoop of familiarity and comfort, and she catches it by the tail, never wanting to let go.
“I’ve missed you!” They say it at the same time; it sounds right, their voices blended together like delighted children.
William links his arm with hers, and it’s amazing that they still fit together so well, so perfectly, so effortless.
“You’re early,” Anna says, leaning against him. “That’s unexpected.”
“Ah,” he replies. “But you, of course, are always early to anything and everything. I thought I’d head you off for once.”
“For the first time!” she laughs.
He knocks his shoulders against her lightly. “I thought we could talk, you know? Just us.”
Anna nods, pleased. “Like we used to.”
It isn’t as if she can hardly believe it; she believes in this, in them, the way they are together, with all of her being. It makes sense this way; what she can’t believe is that she’d ever forgotten and doubted.
“We’ll probably have a while,” he remarks, steering her back toward the bench. Their feet squish into the soft ground. “I expect Skandar and Georgie will be late.”
“As usual.”
“Kids,” he jokes.
Anna laughs. She understands.