Narnia - Five Days in December
Title: Five Days in December
Pairing: Peter/Susan
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
Warnings: Incest. Slight AU.
Summary: They were friends, once.
Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars
for you? That I would take you there? The splash
of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? We’ve read
the back of the book, we know what’s going to happen.
-Snow and Dirty Rain, Richard Siken
1.
(Cair Paravel)
“I want to be a good Queen,” Susan murmurs one night, one night far far away and a long long time ago, a long time before it happened, before they even knew to expect it. She could not say it to Lucy, because Lucy does not worry about wantings and yearnings and nonsense of that sort. Lucy simply is. She could not say it to Edmund, because Edmund would stare or perhaps merely laugh, depending on his mood and the weather. And so she says it to Peter, Peter, all golden hair and armored-up skin and warm, calloused hands, already too big for his body. His eyes smile and the stars glisten. A sea-salt breeze, bitter and clean, glides up the face of the castle and into her cloak; his arm curls around her shoulders and hers wraps around his waist. Light. Cool. Sturdy. A good arm to lean upon, both his and hers. A comfortable fit, like an old woolen glove, like two spoons in a drawer.
“You are a good Queen.” He doesn’t sound surprised. His eyes trace the stars above and then sweep down to her face. His eyes are so dark: darker even than the night sky. Drownable eyes. Her brother’s eyes. She thinks it is a good thing that she is an excellent swimmer. “And you will be a great one. The greatest in History.” She looks up suddenly, searching, but he only nods. He says it like that, too, as if History is attainable and as if the future is really at their feet, as Tumnus always likes to say. He says it as he says everything: confidently. She thinks that maybe he is just saying what she wants to hear-or whatever he thinks she does. She buries her face in his neck and breathes in his scent, his innocent deepsharpdeep boy-man scent, like the sea-wind twisting her skirt tight about her legs, like the sour metal smell of the armory. It is a scent like truth, like he means what he says.
Is that a fact, she murmurs. It is not a question. He says yes anyway.
2.
(Finchley)
"It's not going to get easier."
Peter sounds so angry that she almost wants to laugh. She looks up at the clock: ten to seven. It's still raining. She thumbs to a new page--from bronchitis to brown. She's nearly through the B's.
"Then why do you make a point of being so difficult?" Her voice is calm and cool. The color of his cheeks rises high, a crushed-strawberry tinge, dangerous, like fever or frostbite. He moves in closer, attempting to intimidate her or persuade her or--something. He's still bigger and taller, even if his fingers are stubbier and his skin paler than what she'd like.
"I'm not the difficult one. I'm not the one trying to pretend as if . . . as if nothing ever happened!" He tries for bossy and only succeeds in making his voice crack and tremble over the higher vowels. She licks her finger and marks her page. His hand closes suddenly around her arm and he presses her slowly into the cushions. There is a thunderclap; it rattles in her bones. The dictionary slides to the floor, makes a carpeted thump. She arches up; her hair fans out over the armrest, static-y on the fabric.
"Careful," she whispers. The futon is old and creaky and there is already a spring digging into her spine, hard and sharp. Peter feels like he doesn't weigh anything at all, even on top of her like this, arms propped up on either side of her face. Vomit rises in her throat, mixes with want. She doesn't swallow.
His breath is hot and wet in her ear, his palm flat and tense and light against her cheekbone--a childish caress trying to grow up. She smells innocence on his skin, tastes fear on his tongue, clumsy and messy. His eyes are very very blue and not dark at all. She thinks of turning away. She thinks of all the things that she doesn't remember, thinks of all the things that she won't.
The clock strikes, a rumbling beginning low in its belly and reverberating in hers. She yanks on his rumpled shoulder, pushes him up and away, smoothing her skirt down flat over her bony hips. He groans, face in his hands. She averts her eyes.
"You go fix Lucy's tea. I'll tidy up in here."
He obeys after a moment--she hears the door to the kitchen click on its hinges, feels his feet slow and dragging on the floorboards. She busies herself with the cushions and the rug, making a point of avoiding any and all possible eye contact. She doesn't want to see him cry.
The doorbell chimes, and Susan smiles like she means it. She stands, runs her hands deliberately through her hair, and nudges the dictionary neatly beneath the side table with the tip of her polished dress shoe before going to say Hello.
3.
(London)
They meet in a bar, years later. Like strangers, almost. One moment she is gazing into the eyes of her ordinarily sweet and sweetly ordinary boy friend over a gin and the next she is looking at Peter, Peter across the room in a corner booth nursing a glass of something dark. He looks up and she smiles on a calculated whim, pretending not to know him. His returning grin does not come for a long grim moment, but when it does it is crooked and only a little bit mean. He begins to saunter his way across the floor and she cuts James off mid-boast. She has to powder her nose.
She meets Peter halfway across the room, stops him with a hand on his forearm. He looks and smells faintly inebriated--looking at him like this is something that feels familiar although it shouldn't be. His eyes are wet and his mouth is loose and his tie is all askew. She is possessed by a sudden and unreasonable urge to fix it.
"Su," he says.
She sighs. "I'm disappointed." His arm is heavy on her shoulder. The floorboards creak beneath their joint weight as she begins to steer him towards the exit. She knows that he could get out on his own--he's not that intoxicated, not that stupid. But she likes to pretend.
"I had it sorted," he murmurs. She resists the urge to roll her eyes or smile.
"Susan!" That's James, low and bewildered and indignant. "What in the devil's name--"
She doesn't look back.
"It's all right, he's my brother."
4.
(Waterloo Station)
The train is late. The trains are always late these days, it seems.
"You're nervous."
She knows Peter, knows him well, knows him because he is her brother and they used to be friends, a long long time ago. He shakes his head and is silent.
"You're a fool if you aren't." She clips her voice, buries her hands deeper in her coat. He shakes his head and looks down at his boots, polished, true to form.
"Who exactly are you trying to impress, Peter?" The acid in her lungs burns her throat. He turns to face her then, Adam's apple bobbing.
"This is not about you. This is about my country. This is about being a man."
She laughs, too loudly; the crowd grows quieter around her for a moment. "It's no such thing. This is about being a soldier. You're old enough to know the difference." He glares and bites down on his lip. She takes pleasure in the thought that it'll leave a mark. "God, Peter. Do you have any idea who you were?" The righteous indignation feels good, like swallowing a pill too sweet to call a medicine. It fizzes pleasantly in her stomach.
"Who I was?" He looks truly angry for the first time in months. It's better than the disinterest, better than the bland lack of concern that she's grown used to. It's better than her. "Su, who were you?"
There's a rumbling and a pounding bellow of steam and the train clicks slowly into place. She blinks and wraps her arms around his neck before she can rethink the decision. His hands slide slowly up her back, resting just beneath her shoulderblades. She can feel his heart beating like a drum through his woolen winter coat, burning a hole on her collar. His neck smells like three layers of soap (wasteful) and coffee and nothing at all like truth.
"Good luck, Peter." She presses her lips together and up. He smiles bravely and nods a few times, extraneously. Nervously--and not at all.
"Tell Ed and Lu I love them." He squeezes her fingers so hard that she can almost feel the bones bending. The whistle screams and they swallow at the same instant. Susan is very nearly trampled in the tide of young men rushing up, racing, running, eager to be the first to arrive at Death's shores. The sour metal smell is overwhelming.
His hand is the last part of him to leave her.
5.
(Somewhere)
It is Christmas and Susan can't see for the white. White light, everywhere, with darkness curling in the corners, white light made of snow and stardust and all the sunny days she never lived. Edmund and Lucy are laughing and Peter is smiling and holding her hand, pulling her up, and she is tired, as tired as she has ever been and ever will be.
It's all right. Shhh, someone whispers. She squints against the light and falls to sleep, fast, actually falls, her skirt billowing in the wind and the cool cool snow air smooth against her skin.
Sleep. She doesn't even remember what that word means.
She dreams of waking up in another world.
Pairing: Peter/Susan
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.
Warnings: Incest. Slight AU.
Summary: They were friends, once.
Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars
for you? That I would take you there? The splash
of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? We’ve read
the back of the book, we know what’s going to happen.
-Snow and Dirty Rain, Richard Siken
1.
(Cair Paravel)
“I want to be a good Queen,” Susan murmurs one night, one night far far away and a long long time ago, a long time before it happened, before they even knew to expect it. She could not say it to Lucy, because Lucy does not worry about wantings and yearnings and nonsense of that sort. Lucy simply is. She could not say it to Edmund, because Edmund would stare or perhaps merely laugh, depending on his mood and the weather. And so she says it to Peter, Peter, all golden hair and armored-up skin and warm, calloused hands, already too big for his body. His eyes smile and the stars glisten. A sea-salt breeze, bitter and clean, glides up the face of the castle and into her cloak; his arm curls around her shoulders and hers wraps around his waist. Light. Cool. Sturdy. A good arm to lean upon, both his and hers. A comfortable fit, like an old woolen glove, like two spoons in a drawer.
“You are a good Queen.” He doesn’t sound surprised. His eyes trace the stars above and then sweep down to her face. His eyes are so dark: darker even than the night sky. Drownable eyes. Her brother’s eyes. She thinks it is a good thing that she is an excellent swimmer. “And you will be a great one. The greatest in History.” She looks up suddenly, searching, but he only nods. He says it like that, too, as if History is attainable and as if the future is really at their feet, as Tumnus always likes to say. He says it as he says everything: confidently. She thinks that maybe he is just saying what she wants to hear-or whatever he thinks she does. She buries her face in his neck and breathes in his scent, his innocent deepsharpdeep boy-man scent, like the sea-wind twisting her skirt tight about her legs, like the sour metal smell of the armory. It is a scent like truth, like he means what he says.
Is that a fact, she murmurs. It is not a question. He says yes anyway.
2.
(Finchley)
"It's not going to get easier."
Peter sounds so angry that she almost wants to laugh. She looks up at the clock: ten to seven. It's still raining. She thumbs to a new page--from bronchitis to brown. She's nearly through the B's.
"Then why do you make a point of being so difficult?" Her voice is calm and cool. The color of his cheeks rises high, a crushed-strawberry tinge, dangerous, like fever or frostbite. He moves in closer, attempting to intimidate her or persuade her or--something. He's still bigger and taller, even if his fingers are stubbier and his skin paler than what she'd like.
"I'm not the difficult one. I'm not the one trying to pretend as if . . . as if nothing ever happened!" He tries for bossy and only succeeds in making his voice crack and tremble over the higher vowels. She licks her finger and marks her page. His hand closes suddenly around her arm and he presses her slowly into the cushions. There is a thunderclap; it rattles in her bones. The dictionary slides to the floor, makes a carpeted thump. She arches up; her hair fans out over the armrest, static-y on the fabric.
"Careful," she whispers. The futon is old and creaky and there is already a spring digging into her spine, hard and sharp. Peter feels like he doesn't weigh anything at all, even on top of her like this, arms propped up on either side of her face. Vomit rises in her throat, mixes with want. She doesn't swallow.
His breath is hot and wet in her ear, his palm flat and tense and light against her cheekbone--a childish caress trying to grow up. She smells innocence on his skin, tastes fear on his tongue, clumsy and messy. His eyes are very very blue and not dark at all. She thinks of turning away. She thinks of all the things that she doesn't remember, thinks of all the things that she won't.
The clock strikes, a rumbling beginning low in its belly and reverberating in hers. She yanks on his rumpled shoulder, pushes him up and away, smoothing her skirt down flat over her bony hips. He groans, face in his hands. She averts her eyes.
"You go fix Lucy's tea. I'll tidy up in here."
He obeys after a moment--she hears the door to the kitchen click on its hinges, feels his feet slow and dragging on the floorboards. She busies herself with the cushions and the rug, making a point of avoiding any and all possible eye contact. She doesn't want to see him cry.
The doorbell chimes, and Susan smiles like she means it. She stands, runs her hands deliberately through her hair, and nudges the dictionary neatly beneath the side table with the tip of her polished dress shoe before going to say Hello.
3.
(London)
They meet in a bar, years later. Like strangers, almost. One moment she is gazing into the eyes of her ordinarily sweet and sweetly ordinary boy friend over a gin and the next she is looking at Peter, Peter across the room in a corner booth nursing a glass of something dark. He looks up and she smiles on a calculated whim, pretending not to know him. His returning grin does not come for a long grim moment, but when it does it is crooked and only a little bit mean. He begins to saunter his way across the floor and she cuts James off mid-boast. She has to powder her nose.
She meets Peter halfway across the room, stops him with a hand on his forearm. He looks and smells faintly inebriated--looking at him like this is something that feels familiar although it shouldn't be. His eyes are wet and his mouth is loose and his tie is all askew. She is possessed by a sudden and unreasonable urge to fix it.
"Su," he says.
She sighs. "I'm disappointed." His arm is heavy on her shoulder. The floorboards creak beneath their joint weight as she begins to steer him towards the exit. She knows that he could get out on his own--he's not that intoxicated, not that stupid. But she likes to pretend.
"I had it sorted," he murmurs. She resists the urge to roll her eyes or smile.
"Susan!" That's James, low and bewildered and indignant. "What in the devil's name--"
She doesn't look back.
"It's all right, he's my brother."
4.
(Waterloo Station)
The train is late. The trains are always late these days, it seems.
"You're nervous."
She knows Peter, knows him well, knows him because he is her brother and they used to be friends, a long long time ago. He shakes his head and is silent.
"You're a fool if you aren't." She clips her voice, buries her hands deeper in her coat. He shakes his head and looks down at his boots, polished, true to form.
"Who exactly are you trying to impress, Peter?" The acid in her lungs burns her throat. He turns to face her then, Adam's apple bobbing.
"This is not about you. This is about my country. This is about being a man."
She laughs, too loudly; the crowd grows quieter around her for a moment. "It's no such thing. This is about being a soldier. You're old enough to know the difference." He glares and bites down on his lip. She takes pleasure in the thought that it'll leave a mark. "God, Peter. Do you have any idea who you were?" The righteous indignation feels good, like swallowing a pill too sweet to call a medicine. It fizzes pleasantly in her stomach.
"Who I was?" He looks truly angry for the first time in months. It's better than the disinterest, better than the bland lack of concern that she's grown used to. It's better than her. "Su, who were you?"
There's a rumbling and a pounding bellow of steam and the train clicks slowly into place. She blinks and wraps her arms around his neck before she can rethink the decision. His hands slide slowly up her back, resting just beneath her shoulderblades. She can feel his heart beating like a drum through his woolen winter coat, burning a hole on her collar. His neck smells like three layers of soap (wasteful) and coffee and nothing at all like truth.
"Good luck, Peter." She presses her lips together and up. He smiles bravely and nods a few times, extraneously. Nervously--and not at all.
"Tell Ed and Lu I love them." He squeezes her fingers so hard that she can almost feel the bones bending. The whistle screams and they swallow at the same instant. Susan is very nearly trampled in the tide of young men rushing up, racing, running, eager to be the first to arrive at Death's shores. The sour metal smell is overwhelming.
His hand is the last part of him to leave her.
5.
(Somewhere)
It is Christmas and Susan can't see for the white. White light, everywhere, with darkness curling in the corners, white light made of snow and stardust and all the sunny days she never lived. Edmund and Lucy are laughing and Peter is smiling and holding her hand, pulling her up, and she is tired, as tired as she has ever been and ever will be.
It's all right. Shhh, someone whispers. She squints against the light and falls to sleep, fast, actually falls, her skirt billowing in the wind and the cool cool snow air smooth against her skin.
Sleep. She doesn't even remember what that word means.
She dreams of waking up in another world.