Turn On The Stars

Howdy

2008-12-17T21:21:17Z

Hello, dear readers! I know it's probably been disappointing with the lack of updates, but I feel now like this is something that happens every year. The winter/summer break is when I seem to do a lot of updating.

This winter, I'm not accepting drabble requests, but I WOULD like your imput about what I write. As well as updating my WIPs, that is. If you'd like to have your say, go to this poll at my personal LJ and let me know!

Thanks for being so awesome. ♥

~ Natalie

More poems, sadly no fic

2008-11-10T15:40:21Z

*sob* I am horrible, horrible updater. I'm so sorry, you guys. I plan to get my fics done someday, it's just going to be awhile. :/

In the meantime, I have poems! Written for my English classes this semester. Some of them are a little rusty, because I was assigned to write them in a specific meter, use certain imagery, etc. But I hope you guys like them anyway. ♥

My Trio
This poem was written with the following requirements; couplets, and the syllable count for both lines in each couplet had to be the same.

Sea-green robed, benched on her baby grand
As chewed fingernailed hands on ivory keys land

“I was there to hear your borning cry” are the words I sing along
Her smile recalls when she birthed me, labor thirty-nine hours long
-
Lays crunch under his white-stringed ink beard
Shirt on a beer belly, oil-smeared

Scent of sweet laundry, smoke from his cigarette
He calls me “kiddo” - I’m not a big girl yet
-
Steel-curled hair, jingle keys, and a kinked forehead
Not a mother or friend, my “Ms. Beth” instead

Oh, but the red-painted panties I did not expect
Caterpillar-butterfly, and I gained her respect
-
How we’ve hated, yells thrown like punches around rooms
How we’ve cried, mascara tracks down red-raw cheeks blooms

How we’ve giggle-laughed, wheezing and whistling for breath
We’ve loved fervently tender, then, now, and till death

Rain
This poem had to be about an abstract idea (love, joy, hate, anger), which we had to express without saying the word. I chose joy, but I think the poem isn't as exuberant or energetic as it is spiritually joyful in love.

Glossed lips stretch into curves, and delicate rain beads through your
hair and you
hold out your
arms to the universe. Your
white teeth gleam as you
dance, cat-like, your
silky arms traversing the metal sky. Rain

shudders down now, faster faster, clapping, stinging and the wind
whistles its approval. Your feet
clip-clop on the pavement – those tongued sneakers are tap dancing shoes. Your skin is slippery when I grab
your face, your milky white face with
baby eyes that lead to a soul as old as the

rain. Trees black in the night,
but their edges
glow from the moon-drops, but I can see
every miniscule movement of your mouth, how you talk
to me, yelling lollipop words through
those perfect lips. You

ask, “Is the rain God’s tears?” and I indent

your hips with my fingertips,
pressing through the tear soaked, paper flower
dress. “I am but a man, but I, too, weep at the sight of you

dancing,” are my velvet words. “Can’t imagine what
God feels.” And your

curved lips curve wider, and I
kiss those glossed
perfect lips, and bead my hands through your
hair, as your
arms hold me, your
universe.

Studying
Had to use as many elements of sound (like POP, WHIZZ, etc.), or words that indicate sound, as possible.

The air conditioner rattles
It’s broken, I think
But I don’t know what to do – I’m not handy like that
But now I’m hot, sticky, but I won’t take off this sweater, because then
I’ll be too cold

Clicking of Dell mice
Taps on computer keys
Zings of zippers on backpacks because people are leaving, they’re done for the day
It’s okay
I’m sick of their trilling laughter anyway

Cool, calm clang of my AMP bottle on the wooden desk
I’m the only one left
My sigh whooshes, and it’s depressed, I know

Books stacked, some cracked
Open, white pages yellowed with a highlighter that I
Swoosh across the page

Dzzzzzzt. Dzzzzzzt.
I jump and my textbook flies from my lap to the floor, thwack
Fingers clench around the vibrating cell phone
Crackling on the other end, I guess the service is bad in here
But that’s okay, I didn’t want to talk to him anyway
Turn on silent. Snap
Shut

Slurp on the Caramel Macchiato next to the AMP,
Suck on the green straw, get nothing but air
Rake hands through my hair and feel the pulse of my headache pounding into my fingerpads, pound, throb, ouch
Then rap nails on the desk
Glare at those books and that stupid computer screen

Woe is me! Woe is me! I wanna go home!
Guttural cry from my throat, which echoes
I hate school, I quit!
The janitor shakes her head, grins, and I glare at her, too

This Light
Italian sonnet using an octave/sestet structure, and an abbaabba/cdecde rhyme scheme.

Fluorescent, it beams down artificially from up there
On your poster of Lennon, above your bed, on the wall,
The same color of his signature, in the token corner, looped scrawl
I can no longer see the top of his head – I blame the glare
But he is obscured no matter what, no matter the ways I twist my chair
The white shining heaven on his face, mixing into a ball
Highlighting the beauty of his grayscaled peace call
Against the black backdrop, and I don’t see the flaws – no dent, no tear
They say he was an enigma, a mystery
That he was God and King and out of reach
That his legend will always live on
Someone who changed history
But the silver glow on your poster draws me like a leech
And I gain insight from this light, I see him, I see John.

Metal Flower Bars
We were supposed to write about a recurring dream we'd had, and include repetition to add a certain kind of fragmentation to the poem. Not sure how fragmented it is, but this was fun to write. It includes the dream itself as well as reflections on the dream. Names changed for protection.

Heaven clouds sky-gloom above
me, feet below me faded grass quivers in the wind
as my twelve-year-old limbs are
melancholy, curled thisway and thatway around
and through metal flower bars.
Spread-eagled, I stare out across
the playground, white gold hair tickling my
face. But my eyes see through
the strands, because I’m looking
at you.

Feet away . . . .
you say goodbye to people you’ve never met, my friends,
in this place you’ve never been, my playground.
My playground,
where I used to chase down Jason Ball, and he’d

let me.
The sun overheated my cheeks as I chased him,
the woodchips poked my feet through my sandals as I chased him –
pass through metal flower bars –
and I’d jump!
grabbing shoulders, an in-the-air piggyback ride, and we’d fall
together to the ground. His red kickball would roll
and we’d roll
together from the woodchips to the chippering grass.
I used to pin his arms to the green grass
and hen-peck him with fervor, as innocently as a seven-year-old could.

He’s not here anymore
and you’re here instead, though not for
long. You’re off to the
War, the second one that I learned about
on Monday in history class.
Back turned to the metal flower bars, you can’t see me,
you never see me.
But I can see you. I always see you.
Your eyes are blue, the way the sky used to be,
but this is a dream and your sky-bright eyes stick out
in this grayscale depression.

You give out hugs, and people press against your brown uniform jacket,
the color of paper towels and dead twigs.
I am on my metal flower bars
in my wedding dress, flowing white like tears over the metal flower bars
waiting for you to notice, waiting for your goodbye,
though we’ve never really had a hello.
My sequins don’t sparkle.

Why are you here? my church boy, you don’t belong on
my playground, where I remember a childhood that you
weren’t a part of.

When my tears fall, they fall onto my sequins
and create tinkling sounds, and you hear it
and turn around.
You hear me, you hear me,
you see me, you see me,
on my metal flower bars.
I quiver.

My legs are gumby, wobbled putty as they
disentangle. You're two steps toward me and I
meet you,
my feet landing on old, wet woodchips.
Sequins drip down my face as tears and this is me bleeding
for you, Jimmy Kirk,
and Jason Ball's kickball appears in my peripheral, red,
and I embrace you.
You kiss my cold cheeks, trace your thumbs on my cold arms,
and whisper, "I love you."

I can almost hear church bells.
I say, "Hello."

Your lips curl up softly (and Jason always groaned as I giggled) and how I'll miss you when you're fighting,
the way I've always missed you,
the way I miss you, even though you're holding me.

"I love you, too," I say
and you say,
"Goodbye," and walk off into the heaven clouds painted with rifles.
I back-turn against you, but my metal flower bars are gone.

I see you
Had to write a poem about a dream, in the surrealistic style of Joyce Mansour. This poem is another version of Metal Flower Bars.

I see through your back
And into blue eyes.
I see the pink skin
Through your uniform.
Will you drink my tears?
Will you free my pink shuttered soul?
Glue your calloused fingers to my blue, rotting lips?
Take these black wings away from me
Take away my virginity
We'll scream anguish to God together.

A Narnia poem & others

2008-09-17T02:48:18Z

Hey, guys! I bring a post - finally! Though, I'm sad to say, it is not an update of either Sleeping Arrangements or What's in a Kiss. However, I wanted to give all of you an update -

The beginning of this month was the start of a new semester for me. I am a junior in college now, and it's my busiest year yet! I am taking six classes (18 credits), four of which are English classes. This means that I have been doing a lot of writing. In addition, I have written a play for my sister to direct, plus started working on a screenplay for one of my classes (for those of you who may not know, I had to write a screenplay for a class this summer, too). So I'm literally writing all the time.

And, in addition to all the classes, I have a job.

This is not to say that I have plans to give up on either fic. Exactly the opposite! I plan to go ahead with both, but particularly What's in a Kiss. It's just that it will take me awhile. Homework and RL comes before fanfiction, I'm afraid. But my muse for both projects is still cooperating fully, so this is a good thing! I will try to have an update for them soon - hopefully before the month is out! But please, continue to leave reviews if you've read the stories - every little bit of encouragement helps. ♥

But now that that's out of the way, I bring you a poem! Yes, a poem! It is about the Pevensie children, so I thought I would post. I have written poems for the fandoms before (Lost and Heroes), but this is a much lighter style than those.

Also have combined some other non-related poems after this one. Enjoy!

Title: Fallen Sister, Fallen Star
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: None. Gen.
Rating: PG
Summary: A poem about the Pevensies, and the one that falls away.

Noble, beautiful, wise, faithful
One heart is of one body is of one mind is of one heart
They stand golden together
Triumph on their thrones
The age of freedom and peace and God
One falls away
Beauty doesn’t last forever
And she faded
Her silver eyes and raven smiles
No longer linger
Noble turns to nobody
Wise turns to lies
Faith turns to doubt, nothing is filled here
Weeping for the beauty they once knew
Metal black and bound carriage
Races along tracks
Like the mascara leaves down her face when she cries
And they are born in blood and trees and fire and God
But the sun doesn’t sparkle like they remember, like she doesn't remember, and they think of the girl who used to look at the stars

--

I debated about posting the rest of these, simply because they're very personal to me. I won't really go into too much detail about the background of these poems, but let's just say that they've all been very real in my life. Some of these poems are about God, which is obviously deeply personal, and the rest are about events in my life/events in the lives of people I know. Like I said, I wondered whether I should post them, but then I looked back at all the other poems I've written and most of them are deeply personal and depict events that have actually occured in my life. So, yeah. Here you go.

Scared

You make me paranoid
(I want to be around you)
Call me 13 times, follow me around
(I want to hear your voice, walk in your footsteps)
And I’m scared
(Happiness)
Scared of our past, scared of my future
Scared of the new knife you have
(I want to tease you)
I didn’t want to hurt you
(You’ve broken me)
I just can’t be around you
(I can’t stand you)
I just want you to know
(I’ll come for you)

I pray we will

Trees rise from dirt
White-green blooms
Tall, proud
A bird's nest
God is showing me how I am blessed
This world is ours
A gift from the Father
Full of life; melodic chirps, the buzzing of bees, the humming of nature
We have destroyed it
The man-made eagle corrupts the sky;
Disturbs the balance with its violent, polluting sounds
Cigarette butts lay on the once strong blades of grass, now wilting from nicotine
Animals die for fashion, for sport, for fun
I pray we will be forgiven.

I Don't Know (But He Doesn't Either)

I don’t know
Know what?
I don’t know, but he
Doesn’t know either
“Lie in the bed you’ve made”
I used to say
To him, but he didn’t make it
Can’t make anything, and
Especially not (up) his mind
His world is indecisiveness
His mind is frozen
Baked
With fake
Words of people with pretty hair and insincere smiles
He wants one thing, but he does another
Paternity test, but she won’t grant it
Does he want to be in ITS life?
It’s hard to know who to trust
Indec~~isive~~eptive. Laughs, dates – she is a monster.
Monsters are everywhere.
Do they hide under my bed, too? Am I lying in it?
Did I make it?
I don’t know.

Every heart will unite

Every heart will unite in my Father's presence
Every knee will bend
Every mouth will sing his praises
My Lord is Everything
He is the sun that wakes me up in the morning,
the moon that tucks me in at night,
the loving embrace of a parent,
flowers blooming before my eyes.
He is Every smile
I can love because he loved me first
The Bible tells me so

He brings his children together
Gives them a home
He is my strength, my courage, my home
He is my life, for He gave me it
I want the world to know
He saves his children, eternal life is theirs
The world, I want to show
When he comes again, it will be with fire and rain
Those who believe will have nothing to lose, but Everything to gain
We will tremble before Him, our souls quenched
Our knees will quake in reverence

I am a child of God
My heart will delight in his presence

Cancer Mom
dedicated to my amazing mother, whom I love more than the moon loves the sky ♥

Dorm-room standing
English stories or whatever writing
Lamp-lit and small
Post-it note reads ‘Nay-Tay, gone to the mall’
She eats cheesecake, yum! there’s a call
Cannon ringtone on the cell she’s had since before
college
“Hey, hon, it’s mom”
Went to the doctor
Bladder’s been bothering her
“I don’t want to say over the phone”
“It’s okay”
“You alone?”
Cigarettes cause cancer and not just in lungs
Can’t believe it, can’t be so
Confused, so confused, yet so
collected and calm
Cheesecake goes sour on an acrid tongue
Offering words of comfort to her mother
she loves
“Millions of people beat it, and mom, you’re a fighter”
Dots behind her eyes and they get brighter and brighter
And there are memories
of coloring pictures with crayons and her curly-Q hair,
crinkling lips cutely when mommy hangs up it up there!
Painting on the fridge, the New Mona Lisa at which to stare.
But this new picture painted hurts, hurts, and
her heart pitter patters with tear splatter and the future funeral clanging bells at church
Smell of smoke, Bic lighter, orange fire.
Nictone-stained smile now nicotine-stained bladder.
“I love you”, “I love you” and “See you soon” – in the dark holes of the mind, “I hope you don’t die”
Click of phone, dial tone, she begins to cry
Collapse to the ground, hiding under the bed away from the monsters,
clutching coarse carpet with open fingers
And she’s cold.
Ocean drops down her cheeks and she’s helpless,
little curly-Q in college girl, helpless,
hopes for a cure ‘cause her mom she can’t lose
So she calls on the One who will know what to do

Apartment-standing
Writing poems about her mother
And the years have passed one two three
And she writes, she writes, and she writes,
“Cancer free and still with me.”

What's In a Kiss, chapter 7

2008-08-20T17:49:02Z

Title: What's In a Kiss
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: Peter/Susan, non-incestuous
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He always leaves her with a kiss. This Chapter - Susan falls ill.
Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6-I, 6-II
A/N: So sorry about the long wait for this chapter! My dear beta was sick and had a lot going on, but she still came through - thanks so much gotrice15278! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, and that it's been worth the wait! ♥

Chapter Seven - Never Get Sick

“Oh, what a fool I am! An utter fool!”

“Lucy,” says Susan weakly, “this isn’t helping.”

“I know,” Lucy moans. “But I am so sorry. You told me that you weren’t feeling well – ”

Susan clutches her chest, resting a hand over her heart. How rapidly it’s beating, as if it is ready to jump out of her body! She opens her mouth to tell Lucy; a wave of nausea rolls over her, preventing her.

Lucy can’t stop talking. “You told me, Su, you told me. But I brought you out here anyway. I so wanted to go on an adventure! You know, the boys go on adventures all the time, but we don’t. I just…I don’t even really know where we are - this is Edmund’s territory. Oh, I suppose I am really bad at this. Peter’s right, I can’t carry a map in my head. I do wish we brought horses. Now I don’t know what to do.”

Susan wants to calm Lucy, who is pacing frantically, but she can’t. Between the nausea and the horrible pain in her abdomen, she can’t really do anything but groan and lean on the tree behind her.

“Susan,” says Lucy worriedly, kneeling next to her on the forest’s floor. “Do you need my cordial?”

Susan mutters that the cordial is to be used for extreme cases, but she is quite sure her words do not come out coherently. Her words are useless anyway, because Lucy has already taken the cordial from her belt. She unscrews the top and gives Susan a look, which Susan understands perfectly; she obliges, opening her mouth.

The drop of fireflower juice hits her tongue and she swallows. The liquid blisters the roof of her mouth. Susan grimaces, hating the sensation. Never before has she had to use the cordial, but she never imagined it would burn. Still, she knows the healing effect will come over her soon, and that is all she cares about. Only, it doesn’t. Another ray of pain shoots through her, and she has to bend over, her face only inches above the ground, in order to stop it.

“Oh, Aslan!” cries Lucy. “Why isn’t it working?”

Susan tries to look into her sister’s face, but her vision is blurry. With as much energy as she can muster, she moves a hand over the ground, touching the leaves, until she finds it, feels the smooth, cool ivory on her fingertips. “Lu,” she rasps.

Lucy takes the horn from her and blows. It rings clear and true throughout the forest, and the trees sway from the severity of its sound. “Help is coming, Su,” whispers Lucy, touching her face, kissing her cheeks. “Please hold on.”

Nausea surges through Susan again, this time accompanied by an even sharper pain in her abdomen. She breathes heavily, looking into Lucy’s eyes to find comfort, and manages a tiny smile.

Ages seem to pass, and then suddenly Lucy squeezes her hands tightly. “Do you hear that Susan? Hooves.”

Susan nods, and then all goes black.

--

When Susan wakes, the darkness of the forest is gone and the sun is hot against her face. The sound of whinnying horses and boots on the ground tells her that she’s home – at Cair Paravel. She’s cradled in someone’s arms, and instantly, she knows they are Peter’s. His scent, his movement up the stone steps of the castle, the way he holds her – tightly, as if she’s about to break – all give him away.

“Fetch a doctor,” he barks at someone.

That someone is Oreius. “A human doctor, my Lord?”

“Anyone with medical experience will do.”

Susan tries to open her eyes, but she is unable. Panic starts to rise in her. Sometimes it is easy to forget that she and her siblings are the only humans in Narnia. There are no doctors here that are familiar with the anatomy of humans.

“Peter, is she all right?” says a tearful voice, Lucy’s voice.

“I told her not to leave the castle today,” he says, frustrated, as they ascend a staircase. “She didn’t eat breakfast, said she was ill, so I told her to rest. And what does she do? She goes gallivanting through the forest.”

They turn a corner, and Susan feels horribly guilty.

“It was my fault,” says Lucy. “I made her go with me.”

“What?”

“Peter, I’m sorry - ”

“You should be.”

A door opens and Susan recognizes the walls of her bedroom, the vanity in the corner. Within seconds, she can feel familiar silk sheets against her back, a soft pillow beneath her head. It feels like heaven until another sharp pain moves through her abdomen.

Peter rounds on Lucy. “How could you have been so stupid?”

“Peter - ” Edmund interrupts.

But Peter ignores him. “Even if Susan hadn’t fallen ill, why would you think it wise to go off into the forest alone, without an escort? Especially in these times… you know the dangers we face with the Giants.”

“I didn’t think we needed an escort. We were just exploring - ”

“You’re a queen, Lucy! Of course you need an escort!”

Susan wishes she could place a hand on his shoulder, to ease the anger and worry teeming from him. She cannot remember a single time Peter had ever raised his voice to Lucy, let alone yelled at her, and hearing it now only makes her feel worse.

“You’re not a little girl anymore, Lucy,” he says, this time in a low voice, “but I swear, sometimes you act as foolish as a five-year-old.”

“Peter, that’s enough,” says Edmund, his tone even quieter, but just as threatening. “I understand that you’re upset, but you don’t need to lash out at Lucy.”

Another person enters the room, his footsteps sure and swift, hooves clicking against the floor.

“How may I be of assistance?” he greets.

“Mr. Tumnus!” Lucy exclaims. “My dear faun, you have medical experience?”

“Very little, but I hope I can help.”

Susan is not comforted by the nervousness in the faun’s voice. He breathes heavily as he leans over her. “Queen Susan,” he says firmly, patting her cheeks. “Queen Susan, are you able to hear me? Open your eyes, Majesty.”

Susan braces herself, the ache behind her eyelids unbearable. Slowly, she opens them; she can hear Lucy sigh with relief.

“Good,” says Tumnus. “Now, what are you feeling? Are you in pain?”

She nods, indicating her abdomen. He feels around the area, causing her to shriek with pain and Edmund to wince and look away.

Lucy speaks shakily, “She didn’t eat this morning… ”

“She barely ate yesterday,” adds Peter, his face white. Susan tilts her head in his direction and gives him a tiny smile, which he doesn’t return.

“She was complaining of nausea earlier. Please, what is wrong with her?” Lucy’s face is panicked, her brown eyes glittering with tears. “Do you know why my cordial isn’t working?”

“Perhaps it is something that can’t be healed,” says Tumnus. “The cordial is used mainly for surface injuries, isn’t it? Sword wounds and the like? I think this is more serious – internal, maybe something in the bloodstream or an organ.”

Tumnus looks back at Susan, his hands still pressed against her, his face grave. Susan wishes he would move away his hands, the sensation is so harsh.

“Has she been poisoned?” asks Lucy.

“Is she pregnant?”

“Edmund!”

Edmund looks at Susan. “Well, are you?”

Susan’s response is a disproving glance thrown in Edmund’s direction. Then she turns her attention back to Tumnus.

“What is it?” she questions weakly.

Tumnus looks at her anxiously. “I honestly do not know. Perhaps Lucy is right, but I can’t really be certain. I don’t have – my only knowledge of human medicine is what I’ve read in fairy tales and fables.”

Before Susan can stop them, tears trail down her face. The terror rises through her, and she begins to wrack with sobs. Soon, Peter and Edmund are on either side of her, the former holding her hand, the latter stroking her hair. Lucy climbs into the bed with her, wiping away her tears.

“Susan,” says Edmund, as she cries. “You have to calm down, you’ll only make it worse.”

“Don’t fret, Su,” says Lucy, giving her a teary smile. “You’re going to be okay. By the Lion, you’ll make it through.”

--

Susan can remember a time, very long ago, when her nights were sleepless. She worried about things like marks in school and Edmund’s too-small trousers; cried over her father being sent off to War and the way her mother shut down after he left. Nightmares plagued her sleep, horrible nightmares of those she loved in peril.

When she was little, she’d crawl into her mother and father’s bed, hoping her parents would make the nightmares go away. When she had grown a little, she realized that her parents couldn’t, and that’s when she went to Peter. Because her big brother, for some reason, was always able to chase away her fears.

Then, she came to Narnia, and worries, tears, and nightmares came less often. She was finally able to sleep – to rest.

Until now.

Now, she dreams of herself, her impending death and the reactions of her siblings. She dreams of a mother and father she had forgotten years ago. Her father features strongly in her dreams, a man with Lucy’s hair and Edmund’s eyes, who taught her to read books and develop her mind; who sometimes brushed her hair and told her stories about his patients.

Patients…what are patients? What was his job? She wonders, teetering between consciousness and unconsciousness. She struggles to recall, tries to force her dreams to remember, and then suddenly she can see…

She’s waiting, sitting on a stool with her back straight the way her mother taught her. The room is white and smells strongly of alcohol. And then she sees her father, wearing a white coat, a metal thing hanging round his neck – a stethoscope, Peter had called it. She’d asked him what that meant, what a stethoscope did; he had shrugged and told her to look it up in the dictionary.

Peter enters the room now, rubbing his chin in a very adult-like way. “Father’s coming,” he says nervously.

She holds out a hand to him, and he takes it. She hops down from the stool and releases her grip. Tears are forming in his eyes.

“Oh, Petey,” she says, “please don’t cry. Father will make him okay, I know it.”

Peter wipes his eyes, nodding. Susan pats his shoulder, and indicates the stool. “Come on,” she encourages. When he’s seated, she spins the stool round and round, and finally elicits a giggle from him.

After a few moments, the door opens. “What is it, Pete? Su? Where’s your mum?”

Peter suddenly jumps down from the stool, his smile gone. “Father, she says come quickly. It’s Edmund.”

“He’s ill. Very ill.”

Her dream changes; it’s a few days later, and Edmund has been quarantined in the upstairs guest room. Father is there with him, sending messages out to Mother every hour about Edmund’s progress, if he needs a cloth or water or food. Lucy, who had been crying nonstop, has finally cried herself to sleep, clutching the teddy bear Edmund gave her when she was two. Mother picks Lucy up from her curled spot on the floor, taking her to bed.

On the couch, Susan picks at the threads of her pleated skirt, her hair falling into her eyes. She glances at Peter, who’s barely spoken a word since Edmund fell ill. He looks so much older than his eight years, and as he stares into the fireplace, she stares at him.

He turns to her, glassy eyed, and then is next to her on the couch. Their knees touch, but he doesn’t look at her. She keeps her gaze on him, though, and places her hand on top of his. Tears fall down his cheeks, and it’s the first time she’s ever seen him really cry. It scares her, but then she remembers all the time she’s cried to him and thinks that it’s not too bad after all.

“Susan?” he asks.

The grandfather clock ticks. “Yes?” she whispers.

And though his face looks so old, he sounds like such a little boy when he says, “Never get sick. Never get sick.”

--

When Susan wakes, she notices that she’s no longer lying on top of her sheets and blankets, but underneath them. She is so tightly tucked in that a brief image of a moth in a cocoon springs to her mind.

Her shoes are gone, she notices. She notices, too, that she’s been undressed; her day dress is gone, replaced with sleepwear. Then, the garish voices of her siblings reach her, and she wonders how long they have stayed with her, and how long she’s been asleep.

Lucy’s voice is almost cold. “Nothing else is working. We must go to Aslan.”

“And just leave her here? Certainly not.”

“Peter, we need to go. Something’s wrong with her and the cordial’s not helping. No one here knows what’s the matter.”

“Did you not say, three minutes ago, that you believe it to be appendicitis?”

“I said ‘I think’, but I could be wrong. Even so, what do you expect to do about it? Operate on her yourself? I hope not, for her sake. Father was the doctor, Peter, not you. You can’t do everything.”

“Lucy - ”

“I’ve had enough of this,” enters Edmund’s voice. Susan can imagine him standing between Peter and Lucy, glaring at them. “The two of you are driving me mad, and none of this is helping Susan.”

“What do we do?” says Lucy, her voice growing timid.

“We find Aslan.”

“Edmund, I’m not leaving Susan - ”

“Peter, shut up,” says Edmund, and though his voice is firm, it is not harsh. “You can stay here with Susan. Lucy and I will go to Aslan.”

Susan forces her eyes open, sees Peter and Edmund staring hardly at one another. Finally, Peter nods his consent and Edmund and Lucy rush out of the room. He stares blankly after them for what seems like ages.

She decides to interrupt his brooding. “I have appendicitis?” she says.

Peter whips around, and sits at the edge of her bed. “Lucy thinks so,” he says, sighing. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“You should apologize to her,” says Susan. “This is not her fault.”

Peter’s face tightens.

“It’s not as if Lucy forced me out of Cair Paravel anyway. I went of my own volition. I wanted to. So if you’re upset about that, you should be upset with me, not her. I directly disobeyed you.”

“Why can’t you just do as you’re told?” laments Peter. “Just like Edmund, you are… perfectly stubborn.”

“Well, if this is appendicitis, it doesn’t really matter if I was in the castle, does it? It would have come anyway,” she points out.

“Always trying to be logical,” mutters Peter, looking away from her.

Susan doesn’t respond, just sighs and leans back against the pillows. Peter almost seems upset with her. She can see it in his tense jaw line, his red cheeks, and the way he avoids her eyes. If it were anyone else, Susan would be upset. However, this is Peter, and she can read him extremely well.

Whenever he’s in a situation that makes him uncomfortable, he becomes defensive, and his worry can sometimes be mistaken for anger. This is one of those times, and Susan knows what he’s feeling, knows how he’s suffering. Seeing those he loves in danger, or in pain, is one of his greatest fears.

Most people see Peter as the High King, a man at the head of the kingdom, at the head of his family. Susan knows this is true – to an extent, but she also knows that Peter does nothing on his own. She, Edmund, and Lucy are always there to hold him up. They balance him, and he would fall if they weren’t by his side.

Susan winces as the hurt swerves through her once more, and leans over, clutching her abdomen. Peter rests a hand on her shoulder, and uses the other hand to tuck her long hair behind her ears. She breathes through the pain, acutely aware of the tears gathering in the corners of her eyelids and the sweat gliding down her skin. When the harsh pangs settle into a strong discomfort, she relaxes somewhat. Peter lets go of her shoulder and reaches for her hand instead. She’s almost afraid to glimpse his expression, but she can’t stop herself.

His face is tense and desperate, and Susan can see the tears beginning to form in his wide, terrified eyes. Her heart aches for him and she wants to tell him not to cry, but she can’t find her voice.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits softly. “I don’t know… I’ve always been the one to help you, Su, but I don’t know what do. Not this time.”

Susan feels her own tears pricking her eyes, and wonders why everyone believes she is the one with the tender heart. That has always been Peter, at least in her eyes. He’d do anything for her, she knows, and the fact that he’s shattered over not being able to do anything right now is enough to break her.

“Just you being here is enough,” she murmurs. “You being there was always enough.”

“You got sick,” he sighs. “Why’d you have to get sick?”

She wants to thread her fingers through his hair comfortingly, to shush him and say, ‘Everything will be all right.’ But she doesn’t know if those words are appropriate for right now, if they are what he needs to hear. She’s never been good with those words – Peter’s always been the one able to convince her of them.

So she reaches out, wipes the tears from his eyes, and says nothing.

--

Hours pass and the night comes, and still Edmund and Lucy have not returned. Peter has taken to pacing around the room and Susan drifts back and forth between consciousnesses. A fever has taken hold of her, and the pain is unbearable now.

“Susan, keep holding on,” says Peter, his breath in her ear. Her only response is a loud groan, as he presses a cool cloth to her head, and moves his hands downwards.

He presses lightly against her stomach, and she shakes beneath him. “Your stomach is rigid,” he informs her. “I think that means your appendix has burst.”

Susan is barely able to hear him, but she finds his hands and squeezes tightly. She can feel the emotions emanating from him; his worry, his frustration, his gentleness. All of it comes off him in waves, and it’s almost as overwhelming as the jarring pangs that sweep over her.

Someone raps on the door. “Who is it?” calls Peter.

“It is Tumnus. Can I do anything, Sir? How is Queen Susan?”

“She’s fine. Just keep watch for my brother and sister. And Aslan,” he adds.

Tumnus’ hooves fade down the corridor, and Peter half-glares at Susan. “You’re not fine. You’re going to have an infection. I swear to Aslan, if you die, I will never forgive you.”

She smiles – it is something she would say.

More footsteps sound against the marble halls, and soon the door is banged open, and someone breathes haggardly. “Aslan is here,” gasps Edmund. “He’s here.”

Susan’s heart lightens considerably, even through the pain. “Bring him here, then,” orders Peter.

Another voice joins them. “Aslan says to bring Susan to the throne room. There is going to be an audience – Aslan has sent Tumnus to gather as many Narnians as he can.”

Susan opens her eyes, puzzled. Though Edmund’s hair is dripping and he’s hunched over, short of breath, Lucy stands tall and gazes at Peter directly.

“What?” Peter blurts. “I say, there isn’t enough time for all of that.”

“Don’t you believe Aslan can save Susan?”

“Of course I do, Lu – ”

“Then who are you to question Him? It’s settled.”

She flounces from the room, bristling, and Peter watches her go, mouth agape. Susan inquires of Edmund, “What’s wrong with Lucy? Is she quite all right?”

“That’s just like you, Su, to be wondering about others when you’re in such a state,” says Peter, as he grasps her hand and rests it on the back of his neck. She clings to him as he sweeps an arm under her shoulder and the other under her knees. He picks her up swiftly, though the sudden movement causes her even more pain. Still, she worries for Lucy.

“I expect she’s upset with me for yelling at her,” Peter consoles.

Edmund holds open the door as they leave the room. “Yes, I believe that is part of it,” he confirms.

--

They stand in the center of the throne room, and Susan can’t stop herself thinking how hot it is. People crowd the room by the dozens, blocking the breezes that normally drift through the corridors. Peter, still holding her, is closer than ever, and while she doesn’t mind too much, his warmth does nothing but add to her discomfort. But as she can’t very well stand, and can’t lie down on the floor, she doesn’t have another choice than to be held by her brother. Her fever is worse than ever, spiked up so high that she’s surprised she is even conscious.

They have been standing at the center of attention for ages now, and Susan can tell Peter is quite tired himself. The effort of holding her for such a long amount of time seems to have strained his muscles, for his arms are stiff against her, and his grip on her has loosened, if only a little. Her twisting in agony certainly does not helping him to maintain her weight, but she cannot control it.

Susan, trembling, finds herself remembering random things. The first time she cooked by herself, when Father had left and Mother was shut up in her room. Braiding Lucy’s hair before their coronation. The look on Edmund’s face after he finally managed to out-duel Peter. Mr. Beaver calling her beautiful, contrasted with a girl at school, Margaret was her name, calling her ugly. Being bitten by her brute of a cousin, Eustace. The day she learned to swim.

The images march around in her mind like in a parade, and Susan wonders if this is what it means to have your life flash before your eyes. And she moans internally that her life is not over, so she must stop remembering, and she tries hard to focus on the present, though everything is blurred. Lucy is in front of her, fanning her face, and she would smile if she could. She tries to focus on the coolness of the air as Lucy wafts it about, the roughness of Peter’s tunic against her thin nightgown, and Edmund’s voice, soothing and clear among the loud whispers of the Narnians.

And then she shivers, for a presence has entered the room, a presence that makes everything and everyone go still. Susan, her heart calmed, ignores the pain she feels, and focuses solely on him.

He stands in all his glory with Tumnus, who carries a folded mat in his hands. It is no ordinary mat, it must be said, but a velvet, bright red one, with gold trim along the edges. Though Susan would ordinarily be taken with its beauty, she is quite entranced with the Lion at the moment, and there is no room for her to be distracted by anything else.

“Lay out the mat you hold,” says the Lion, his voice smooth and strong. Susan shivers again, delighted by the sound of it and what it stirs inside her, and she clutches Peter to her even more tightly.

Tumnus does as he is instructed, laying out the mat before the four thrones, and the Narnians look on in awe and anticipation.

“High King Peter, lay Queen Susan down on the mat.”

And though Susan can feel Peter’s puzzlement, he does what he is told. The feel of the mat on her back is a comfort, so plush underneath her, and she is able to forget about the great audience watching her, about how her state is rather un-queenly, and the raging pain and the writhing she cannot stop.

“High King Peter, I ask now that you leave, along with you, dear one.” The Lion looks straight at Lucy and her chin quivers. “There is to be peace between you.”

“But Aslan – ”

“Go. Your sister will live.” And his words are punctuated with a growl, loving and terrifying all at once, causing Peter to stop speaking.

“Must they leave, Aslan?” says Susan, quaking.

Aslan gives her a fierce look, but Peter kneels down next to her. “We’ll be right here, Su. We’re still here. I’m with you always, dear sister.”

Then he presses a kiss on her forehead, and the crowd of Narnians parts, allowing him through. Lucy follows him.

Aslan roars, which makes the ground vibrate and the thrones shake. He looks upon Susan as the Narnians cry out in jubilation and fear. Their gazes hold for a long moment, and in his eyes, Susan can see nothing but love. He breathes on her, and she can feel his spirit pour into her, revitalizing her. Peace – a peace that is more than happiness and contentment, but rests on knowing the great mercy and love of the Lion – overflows into her heart. The agony is gone, and she is healed.

She laughs and throws herself at him, burying her face in his golden mane. The crowd shouts its praises, cheering and singing. But Susan can only hear Aslan’s heartbeat, gentle and melodic; he purrs and his breath tickles her ear, and so she laughs even more.

Edmund comes to her side and the smile that lights up his face is so beautiful that she seizes him in a great hug, which he eagerly returns. Susan cries freely into his chest, clings to the brother who knows what it feels like to be saved by the Lion. They sink the floor, cushioned by the velvet mat beneath them, as Aslan roars again.

Through her joy, Peter’s kiss still lingers.

--

He kisses her to heal her.

--

If you're new to this journal and wish to read more of my Narnia fic, or fic I've written for other fandoms, you can check out my whole big list of fanfic HERE. Also, I'm slowly starting to update my account at fanfiction.net with all my fanfic, both new and old, so if you'd like to check things out there, my profile is HERE.

Lastly, if you'd like updates on this fic, please feel free to friend this journal! I update here and sometimes it takes me a few days to post the chapter links to all the comms I'm in.

Sleeping Arrangements, chapter 1

2008-08-01T22:15:36Z

Title: Sleeping Arrangements
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: N/A, just general family love
Rating: PG, for Mrs. Macready's implications
Summary: Helen Pevensie visits her children after the events of LWW. She is amazed to see how they have changed, specifically in their bonds with one another.
A/N: Originally, this was slated to be a one-shot, but there's no way that's going to work. This will be seven chapters long - the first one details Mrs. Pevensie's arrival to the Professor's house, and the subsequent chapters will focus on the kid's bonds with each other.

Day One - Letters

Helen Pevensie exhales slowly as she wraps her fingers around the brass doorknocker. Then, she raps it hard against the door, and drops her hand to her side. In her other hand is a letter, crinkled from her repeated readings. Nearly a month ago she had received it, and now she was finally here, able to see why it had been sent.

She waits patiently for someone to answer the door, and stifles a yawn. Her days have been filled with factory work, worry, and not much else. A fierce, pounding ache has taken permanent residence in her right temple, and her feet are sore with blisters from standing all day in worn, too-small shoes. On top of everything, or perhaps because of it, sleep has been foreign.

A bird flies over Helen’s head, sounding a chirp that echoes in her ears, drawing her attention to her surroundings. The Professor’s land is vast and green; his house magnificent even from the outside, and it seems like the perfect place for a holiday. Out here in the country, ten miles away from the railway station, with nothing but fresh air for company, one might even forget there was a War going on.

Suddenly, the door swings open – for a brief second Helen’s heart skips a beat – and she is disappointed. A maid stands before her, not one of her dear children.

“Hello, ma’m, you must be Mrs. Pevensie,” says the maid. “Mrs. Macready has been expecting you.”

“Yes,” nods Helen, her hand tightening on the letter. “But I was wondering, are my children here? I haven’t seen them in a month’s time…”

The maid shuts the door and turns to her, green eyes apologetic. “I know it must be very difficult for you, ma’m, but Mrs. Macready insists you speak with her directly. Please wait here.”

The maid leaves, and Helen can hardly believe she is in a house of such grandeur. To think of the amount of rooms and all of the hidden nooks and crannies is too much – her children must have had many adventures in discovering the house. “Little explorers,” Frank had always called them.

Her lips quirk into a smirk as she recalls her husband’s bright face, but that smirk is soon replaced by a frown. She can’t help but feel awkward in a house like this, and the desire to make a good impression comes upon her. Her eyes search out a mirror – she needs to check her makeup, smooth her hair – but they land on something else entirely.

Near the staircase is a marble statue of some kind, and it looks so unique that curiosity takes over. But just as her fingers creep toward it, an echoing voice makes her think differently - it is shrill, and Irish. “No touchin’ of the historical artifacts!”

“Are you Mrs. Macready? I’m Helen – the children’s mother. I’m here about your letter.” Mrs. Macready’s narrowed eyes dart to the letter she’s holding. “Please, are my children all right?”

Mrs. Macready takes a step toward her, her wrinkled hands held behind her back. “Mrs. Pevensie,” she says, “your children are fine, in a matter of speaking, but something is… off. They’ve been acting,” and here she juts her pointy chin in the air, “a bit mad.”

“Mad, you say?” says Helen, alarmed.

“They speak to each other of an imaginary land, of imaginary creatures, using made-up words. They seem to think themselves Kings and Queens.”

A surge of relief goes through Helen, and she chuckles. “Is that all? Dear, Mrs. Macready, my children have always been dreamers. They have always played games of this kind.”

At Mrs. Macready’s unchanging expression, she feels the need to elaborate.

“When they were very small, they’d play all sorts of things – Pirates, Cowboys and Indians, Mothers and Fathers… but their favorite was Kings and Queens, though they didn’t always call it that. When they were very little, it was just Knights and Princesses, but I suppose they’ve promoted themselves, haven’t they?” She punctuates this last line with a chuckle.

“I am afraid I do not find this humorous,” says Mrs. Macready. “And it’s more than that. Your children do not engage in these games happily… they are dispirited. Sad.”

Helen’s smile fades and she unnecessarily smoothes her dress. “Yes, well, there is a War on. They must miss home very much.”

“Yes,” says Mrs. Macready, “which is why I did not write you earlier. But now I’m afraid their behavior has escalated into something more worrying. They look at their food with disdain, it’s a miracle if they travel out of doors, and they won’t leave each other’s sight, even for an instant.”

“Why wasn’t I made aware of this sooner?”

“The Professor,” says Mrs. Macready, beginning an ascent up the staircase, “seems to think they will be fine. I disagree.”

“Oh, may I please see them? Where are they?”

They reach the top of the stairs when Mrs. Macready turns sharply to her, frowning so severely that tiny dimples form at the creases of her mouth. “I will not stand this cryin’,” she says, shoving a handkerchief at her.

Helen takes the offered cloth and dabs at her eyes, knowing that her mascara is now ruined; it matters little to her at this point. Her children are upset, depressed, and she wants nothing more than to hold them and kiss their cheeks, run her fingers through their hair.

As she sniffles, Mrs. Macready leads her down a hallway, lit only by the morning sun. She treads lightly, though Mrs. Macready walks oppositely, her feet heavy against the creaky floorboards.

“This,” says Mrs. Macready, stopping abruptly to push open a door, “is where your sons share a room. Two boys, two beds. As you can see, they are not in them.”

Helen sighs. “Well, where are they?”

Mrs. Macready has already walked away, continuing down the hall. Helen catches up just as the housekeeper stops in front of another door. “This is where your daughters sleep. Two girls, two beds.”

When Mrs. Macready makes no move open the door, Helen steps forward and twists the doorknob.

Inside, her four children are cuddled on one bed, clad in their day clothes. She presses a hand over her mouth – oh, how wonderful they look! – and then places it over her heart, so overcome with joy at the sight of them. Her eldest, Peter, lies in the middle of the bed. Her youngest, Lucy, seems to have made a place for herself at the head of the bed, lying horizontally across the pillows, her hand close to Peter’s hair. The sunlight that comes through the window hits the face of her sweet Edmund, who is to the left of Peter; he shifts, burying his face in the crook of his brother’s shoulder. Susan is to Peter’s right, half between sleep and consciousness, her fingers playing with his suspender straps.

Mrs. Macready shuts the door, and Helen jumps.

“This is how I have found them every morning for a month. Sometimes it’s all four of them, sometimes they sleep in twos. Surely,” says the housekeeper, her voice pinched, “these sleeping patterns are not normal?”

--

Helen is later escorted to the dining room by another maid (and she wonders how many maids this Professor actually has), and settles herself into a high-backed chair, sighing.

The tinkling sound of silverware causes her to look up. Seated at the far end of the table is a man with white hair all about his face, but he has kind eyes that shine at her even from such a distance. She reckons that this must be the Professor.

“You are Helen Pevensie, I gather,” he says, pointing his fork at her.

“How do you know who I am?”

“You look so like your daughter, Susan, the dear girl – a striking resemblance, I must say.”

“I was to believe you didn’t know I was coming.”

The Professor chuckles. “This is my house, madam, I know everything that happens within these walls.”

“Very well, then,” says Helen, “you know why I am here. I am concerned for my children.”

“Mrs. Macready sent you a letter.”

“Yes.”

“I asked her not to. Your children are just adjusting.”

Yet another maid shows herself, and sets a cup of tea in front of Helen. She nods her thanks and requests sugar, which is quickly brought to her. As she stirs the sugar into her tea, she feels the Professor’s eyes regarding her. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth,” she explains.

“A trait that you share with Edmund, I see,” remarks the Professor with a small smile.

“Yes, well Edmund is quite like me in several ways. Susan, as well. Peter and Lucy are more like Frank, my husband.”

Shakily, she brings the teacup to her lips.

“Helen,” says the Professor, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “your children are fine.”

“Mrs. Macready says - ”

“Mrs. Macready is rather out of touch with children, you should know. She doesn’t like them, finds them a nuisance. I do not think she remembers what it was like to be a child.”

“And you do?”

“Yes, I do. My heart is like that of a child.”

A roguish voice interrupts, “I have just spoken to the children.”

“About what, Mrs. Macready?” inquires the Professor through a bite of egg.

Mrs. Macready looks at Helen, then back at the Professor. “I understand the children are troubled by something, which is why I invited Mrs. Pevensie for a visit, but their sleeping patterns are not something I will tolerate. Under no circumstances should they be sleeping in the same bed. It is improper, shameful! I have just made known to the four of them that they are not to sleep in the same bed.”

“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Macready,” says the Professor, not sounding appreciative at all, “but it was not your place to tell them such a thing. I believe I am the head of this household.”

“Proper or not,” says Helen, “my darlings have not slept in the same bed since they were very young. I wonder if it is healthy, normal – I never slept in the same bed as my brothers.”

“Your children are closer than most siblings,” says the Professor. “The bond they share is not normal at all, but I can assure you it is not improper. The four of them are stronger together than they are apart… for several years, they have done everything together, made every decision as a unit, grown up together… what do you expect of them? What they have is very special and should be treasured, not taken away.”

“Mark my words, Professor, Mrs. Pevensie,” says Mrs. Macready, inclining her head at them in turn, “something’s off with those children. They’re not well.”

The Professor waves a dismissive hand at her. “Oh, would you hush? These children are perfectly well. There is nothing to fuss about.”

Helen sips her tea, not sure who to believe.

--

When the children see her, she does not understand their reactions. She holds out her arms, but they look at her with confused eyes. It is as if they are unable to see that she is real, that she is right before them, and she can see a struggle in their faces.

“Mother,” says Susan, oddly, as if she’s forgotten what it sounds like on her tongue.

“Yes, dear, it’s me.”

When Susan makes no move toward her, she lowers her arms. Perhaps Susan is worried about mussing her shirt and skirt. She looks to her other daughter, who cared not for such things, and was always the first to offer a hug. But Lucy only clings tighter to Susan, as if afraid of an embrace. Next, Helen looks to Peter, hoping that he is willing to be hugged, to have his hair ruffled, that he is not too old. But he, too, stands away from her, stiff and detached.

Helen’s arms twitch at her sides and with much composure, she straightens her shoulders. “Well, my darlings, it’s okay, you don’t have to – ”

“Mum,” comes a strangled voice, and Helen opens her arms again, tears streaking down her face as Edmund seizes her around the middle. He wraps his arms around her tight, and she is on her knees, pressing kisses against his pale face, his messy dark hair.

“Oh, Edmund,” she cries. “How I’ve missed you.” She can feel his small shoulders shake, his heart beating fast against her bosom, his tears on her neck.

“I missed you, too, Mum,” he says, voice muffled against her dress, and she smiles.

“We missed you, too,” says another voice, and then Helen can feel Lucy’s arms around her neck, Susan’s choked laugh next to her ear, Peter’s hand gripping her shoulder as if he never wants to let go.

--

She spends a whole day with her children, smiling so much that the muscles of her cheeks hurt. Helen can’t remember a time when she smiled this much, and indeed, can’t even remember the last time she really smiled. Frank’s departure had robbed her of her smiles, along with her spirit; now, for the first time since her beloved left, she can feel that spirit again.

“So your headaches are gone, Mother?” asks Susan, pressing a hand to Helen’s head. It is a gesture so grown-up that one might think Susan was a mother herself.

“No,” Helen relays, “but they are not as painful. Right now I can barely feel it.”

“How long are you going to be staying with us, Mum?” is Peter’s question, and then he whispers, “You might not want to put your Bishop there. Ed will crush you.”

“I plan to stay for the rest of the week, if I can,” she says. “I wish I could stay longer, but that’s nigh impossible. But I shall relish the next six days, love.”

“Is father all right?” asks Edmund, not looking up from the chessboard.

“He’s fine. The post service is dreadful, but I have received a few letters.”

“What did they say?” puts in Lucy.

Helen’s cheeks flush. They are letters written mainly for her, declaring his love, detailing how he thinks of her and their children every night before he goes to sleep, how he thinks often of their wedding day (and of their wedding night). She cannot think of a decent explanation for Lucy, for she is too young to hear such things.

“Oh, well…” she struggles, “nothing of importance, dear.” But her cheeks remain flushed anyway.

Helen watches as Susan exchanges an embarrassed look with Peter, for they know exactly what ‘nothing of importance’ means. Peter flushes as well, his cheeks nearly as red as Helen’s, and he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

But Helen is most surprised when Lucy grins widely, says, “Oh, I see,” in a knowing voice, and proceeds to let out a most girlish giggle.

Wide-eyed, she looks to Edmund to see if he, too, understands the meaning behind her words, but her boy is staring at the chess pieces before him. His expression is serious and thoughtful, an expression she’s never seen on his face before, and he quickly moves a piece forward.

“Checkmate,” he declares, but there is not a note of pride in his voice, nor the desire to gloat in his eyes. Helen marvels at him, and wonders how he could have changed in such a short amount of time.

--

Helen can remember Lucy’s first birthday. The baby girl started crying a few minutes before midnight, rousing Helen from her slumber. Frank turned to her in the darkness, pressing a finger to his lips, excusing himself from their bed. Helen went to Lucy, holding her, wrapping a blonde curl around her finger, stroking her daughter’s cheeks.

A few seconds later, Frank returned, but with a half asleep Edmund in his arms. Susan was holding his hand, her white nightdress creating a milky glow in the room. A five-year-old Peter held a tiny, round cake in his hands.

They all climbed into bed, whispered the crying Lucy a happy birthday, and ate the cake silently.

They fell asleep in a big, contented heap. It was quite a delightful sleeping arrangement.

--

A/N: Up next - Susan and Lucy's chapter! :)

If you're new to this journal and wish to read more of my Narnia fic, or fic I've written for other fandoms, you can check out my whole big list of fanfic HERE. Also, I'm slowly starting to update my account at fanfiction.net with all my fanfic, both new and old, so if you'd like to check things out there, my profile is HERE.

Lastly, if you'd like updates on this fic, please feel free to friend this journal! I update here and sometimes it takes me a few days to post the chapter links to all the comms I'm in.

Upon a Star

2008-08-01T17:43:28Z

Title: Upon a Star
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Rating: G
Summary: Peter wishes. Drabble.
A/N: Written for the Trouble prompt @ 100foraslan.

The gun is awkward in his hands, the boots make him trip, the weight on his back pulls him down, his helmet digs into his scalp. The soldiers at his side call him Peter.

He looks at the stars, wishing. He needs to remember who he was, so he can change what he is.

He wishes things are different, wish upon a star.

He wields a sword expertly and his brother fights alongside him. His sister is here, too, calming, steadying him. Another sister, younger, lifts his spirits with a smile.

He wears a crown, and they call him Magnificent.

--

A/N: I always thought it would be interesting to tackle the What If? of Peter going off to fight in the War. :)

Thanks to everyone who voted in my Opinions poll! Be on the lookout for a new piece of fic, later today! <333

Opinions?

2008-07-28T18:35:22Z

Hey, guys! Another announcement/etc. post from me.

I'd like to ask you for your opinions! I've been attacked mercilessly by plotbunnies for Narnia fic, and I was hoping you guys could help me decide what to write next. <333

1. What's in a Kiss, chapter 7.

2. Companion piece to What's in a Kiss, centering around Edmund and Lucy. Will fill in some gaps.

3. A Susan-in-trouble piece. What kind of trouble I can't say, for that would ruin the story. But the piece would be dramatic.

4. Mrs. Pevensie reflecting on her children after their first trip to Narnia. Focuses on their bonds with one another.

5. Mr. Pevensie reflecting on the children after he comes home from the war, after their second trip to Narnia. Focuses more on the children individually.

--

I know 4 and 5 sound similar, but I'm approaching them from completely different angles. :)

Please comment and let me know what you think! ♥

What's In a Kiss, chapter 6 - part II

2008-07-22T01:02:44Z

Title: What's In a Kiss
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: Peter/Susan, non-incestuous
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He always leaves her with a kiss. This Chapter - When Narnia celebrates an anniversary for the end of the White Witch's reign, a few of the visitors cause Susan to look at her siblings differently.
Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6-I
A/N: And here is the second part of chapter 6!

Chapter Six - Good Mornings, Part II: The Proposal

She finds Peter in his chambers, snoring. It takes Susan a good five minutes to rouse him, but when she does, he sits up in bed, groaning and holding his head in his hands. Susan pulls the red and gold sheets away from his body and encourages him to walk outside with her. “You could do with some fresh air,” she says, in a voice that is brighter than she feels.

She waits outside the door while Peter changes, and he meets her in the hallway, buttoning his tunic. He gives her a look, one she has come to recognize as his “Do I look presentable?” look. In reply, she smoothes down his blonde hair and tucks some of it behind his ears.

As they leave the castle, Peter greets every servant along the way. One would never guess that he was hungover. They step out into the sun, and Peter finally asks her what’s wrong.

“Why do you think something’s wrong?” asks Susan, wondering if she is always this transparent.

“I’m your brother,” he says. “I know when you’re not right.”

And so Susan tells him the events of the morning. She tells him of her walk with Prince Brin, and of her fight with Edmund – how sorry he had been, how dejectedly he walked away. She tells him of her conversation with Lucy on the beach, and how the words ‘You wouldn’t understand’ bear over and over in her mind.

Peter waits patiently as she speaks, listening intently, the way he always does. He hears of how worried she is about Edmund and Lucy, and how frustrated she is with them as well. He listens to her lament, “Have I not always been there for them? When they were little, did I not comfort them when they cried? Haven’t I always listened?”

She doesn’t understand why Edmund and Lucy won’t confess their troubles to her – why Edmund won’t tell her about Prince Brin, or why Lucy won’t explain why she is so sad.

When she finishes, she breathes deeply, and falls silent. Peter looks out at the expanse of land before them, seemingly lost in his thoughts. After awhile, he turns to her, a look of puzzlement on his face.

“Ed isn’t normally hostile toward your suitors,” he remarks, and Susan nods in agreement.

“I agree – that’s your job.”

Peter smirks. “Someone’s got to do it.”

“Anyway…”

“Right, then. I don’t understand why he wouldn’t just tell you. But Ed can be really emotional when he wants to be, just like a girl. He bottles things up, and then they just kind of…explode. There’s got to be a reason why he doesn’t like this Prince Brin chap, even if he’s being a mule and won’t tell you what it is.”

“What do you think?” asks Susan, biting her lip.

Peter shrugs. “I don’t see anything wrong with him. But Edmund’s our brother – I trust him before strangers. However, this has nothing to do with me. You should do what you believe to be right.”

“Than I shall continue to spend time with Prince Brin.”

Peter looks a bit disappointed in this decision, but nods his head nonetheless. “In the meantime,” he says, “I shall try to talk to Ed. Maybe he’ll tell me why he doesn’t like Prince Brin.”

“What about Lucy?” inquires Susan, and Peter frowns.

“I have no idea. Perhaps I shall talk to her as well.”

Susan sighs. “What about me? What am I to do, if I’m not allowed to talk to Prince Brin, and you’re talking to Edmund and Lucy?”

“Chin up, Su,” he says, smiling at her. “You’re a Queen. I’m sure there are a number of things you can do.”

--

She spends the rest of the day in the company of Lady Anel. The Lady has a request – to witness firsthand Queen’s skill for archery – and Susan is happy to oblige.

As arrows zoom through the air, Lady Anel sits languidly on the grass, fanning herself with a pale, ring covered hand. Her green eyes sparkle, and her wavy brown hair is beautiful against the wind. Her pink cheeks are rosy with excitement, as she speaks of nothing but Edmund. She praises everything about him, from his beautiful hair to his beautiful nose to his beautiful hands. “And, goodness, King Edmund is such a wonderful dancer! One wouldn’t think it to look at him – but he is so poised, so graceful! And his eyes! So intense and serious! I should love to stare into them forever!”

Susan feels rather lightheaded. “And what of King Edmund’s age, Lady? Aren’t you quite a bit older than he?”

Lady Anel chuckles. “Yes, I am, by perhaps four years. But what does age matter when it comes to matters of the heart?”

Susan swallows the lump in her throat. She has no idea how to respond to this statement, so she chooses to ignore it. “Lady Anel,” she says, releasing another arrow. She watches its progress through the air (bullseye), and then lowers her bow. “Now that I know of your thoughts on my royal brother, King Edmund, might you happen to know what your cousin thinks of him?

Lady Anel shrugs dramatically. “I think you should ask him, your majesty. After all, he has taken quite a fancy to you.”

“I would,” lies Susan, “but I do believe he’s with my royal sister, Queen Lucy.”

“Well, it doesn’t much matter. I’ve no idea his feelings about King Edmund. I don’t really see why dear old Brin would feel anything but friendship for him. I would think that Brin would want to look up to him. After all, he’s only a Prince. Edmund is King.” She closes her eyes in delight, smiling.

--

Dinner that night in the great hall is wrought with tension. Peter, unsuccessful in his attempts to talk to Edmund and Lucy, keeps his eyes focused on his food and doesn’t speak. Lucy and Edmund sit next to each other, her hand resting on his as he glares about the room, no doubt waiting for Prince Brin to enter it. Lady Anel throws glances in Edmund’s direction, but he either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore her. Anyone can see that this leaves her confused and hurt, and Lucy keeps giving her sympathetic smiles. Susan holds her hands in her lap, twisting her fingers together.

Other guests at the table don’t seem to notice the tension, however, so engaged are they in their mindless chatter and delicious food.

Prince Brin eventually arrives to the feast, and Susan indicates the empty seat next to her. “Come sit down,” she says warmly.

Edmund shakes his head from side to side, as if he wants to say something but has resolved not to do so. Susan watches him with bated breath, but he just stares at her, his dark eyes intense, freckles paling against his skin. He remains composed throughout the meal, and afterwards, asks if he might walk her to her chambers. Susan accepts.

“I know that I was out of line this morning,” says Edmund as they walk arm in arm. “You told me that I was not being fair, and perhaps you were right. But I am not the only one who hasn’t been fair.”

“What do you mean?” asks Susan, wrinkling her brow.

Edmund clenches his jaw. “I understand why you refuse to listen to me, why you won’t trust my judgment.”

“Why?”

He looks at her sadly. “Because you still see me as a ten-year-old traitor. I betrayed Narnia, abandoned my family, abandoned you. I know you, Susan, and sometimes your heart can be unforgiving.”

Though his words are spoken quietly, Susan feels the brunt of them; it is as if he has slapped her across the face. “My goodness,” she breathes, “is that what you think? That I haven’t forgiven you?”

Edmund inhales deeply, then releases the breath slowly, nodding.

Susan feels as if she might cry. She can feel the tears behind her eyes, waiting to form, but she shakes her head; she will not shed tears in front of her younger brother. She’s cried in front of Lucy, and Peter, but she will never, ever, cry in front of Edmund. He’s been sensitive and emotional all his life, and Susan made a promise to herself when he was very young to always be strong in front of him.

“I don’t believe this, Ed,” she says, and her voice trembles only slightly. “I forgave you such a long time ago. Don’t you remember, that morning you came back to us? I hugged you, Edmund, and that was a hug of forgiveness. And two years ago, when you found out that Aslan sacrificed for you? Do you remember how we all wept together – the four of us – and spent the night with you? Would I have done that if I was uncaring?”

Edmund argues softly, “You said to me earlier that some things were unforgivable.”

“I spoke in anger, Ed. And, yes, you did abandon us, you did abandon me. But I would never abandon you, Edmund. I would never.”

“Do you promise?” he asks, and his eyes are graced with a sincerity that Susan hasn’t seen from him before.

“Of course I do.”

Then Edmund does something that surprised her: he smiles – a great, happy smile that shows his teeth and lightens his eyes, that changes his entire disposition. And Susan hopes he knows that she meant every word.

--

Susan wakes to the sound of chirping birds and the sun streaming through her window, as usual. But instead of looking forward to the upcoming day, she shrinks away from it, filled with dreads. A week has passed, and though Susan and Edmund have reached some semblance of an understanding, he still looks warily at Prince Brin when he is anywhere near her.

As for the Prince himself, Susan finds herself enjoying his company, though he has still not asked to court her. She can’t help but feel relieved by this – for she has decided that her feelings for him are that of friendship and nothing more. Perhaps his silence means that he shares those feelings; she dearly hopes so.

Lucy, however, spends no time with Prince Brin, or anyone. She hasn’t been herself since the night of the Ball, choosing to stay in her room most of the time, not allowing anyone to enter. Only two nights ago, Peter tried to speak with her, but Lucy had the door locked and ignored him as he pounded against it. This alone was unheard of for Lucy, for she never ignored Peter. Peter had been rather fretful that evening.

Susan has no idea what might be bothering her sister (though she wonders if it has something to do with Prince Brin), and this upsets her just as much as it does Peter. She doesn’t see why Lucy has not come to her yet, to cry and confess to her; she’s quite sure she’d be able to understand whatever it is Lucy’s going through, despite Lucy’s opinion to the contrary.

When she has dressed, Susan hurries to her sister’s chambers. This afternoon, Narnia’s visitors are to depart, all going back to their own countries. As Kings and Queens, she and her siblings have the duty to see them off – a duty that sometimes can last for hours. On these days, it has become a tradition for she and Lucy to dress, then walk united with Peter and Edmund into the throne room.

She knocks on the door timidly, not really expecting Lu to answer the door; she is genuinely taken aback when it opens. Lucy stands before her, still wearing a nightgown. A teddy bear is in her hands; Susan recognizes it as the one she gave Lucy when they first became Queens, to help her remember Finchley. She is strangely touched that Lucy has kept it so close to her all this time.

"Might I come in?" Susan asks, and Lucy leaves the door open and walks back into her bedroom. Susan assumes this is an invitation, so she follows Lucy, shutting the door gently behind her.

An assortment of dresses lay sprawled over Lucy's bed, and when Susan goes to seat herself, she makes sure not to sit on any of them. Lucy sets her teddy bear on the dressing table and turns back to bed, waving a hand at the dresses. "I can't decide what to wear," she sighs.

"Shall I help?" offers Susan.

"I don't need your help, Su," says Lucy, a bit exasperated, and Susan doesn't know what she’s done wrong.

Lucy bites her lip, gaze lingering on each of the dresses before picking up a red one, patterned with brown flowers and white trim. She holds it up against her body, glancing at herself in the mirror, then nods in approval.

Susan picks another dress from the bed - a long, yellow dress with flared sleeves - and holds it up. The red dress Lucy holds is suited for autumn, not summer as this one is. It's also more of an evening dress, rather than a daytime dress. Besides, the yellow dress is so fitting to Lucy's normal, bright personality. It would be impossible for her sister not to smile whilst wearing this dress, and there's nothing more that Susan wishes to see than her sister's smile. "This one is much better for you, Lu," she says, holding it up.

Lucy turns around, looking defensive. "You don't think this one would look nice?"

"Of course it would look nice, dear, I just don't think - "

"You just don't think it would look nice on me," interrupts Lucy.

With that, she throws down the red dress and grabs the yellow. As she changes, Susan can only stare at her in bewilderment, not understanding why her sister looks so upset. Lucy tears out of the room soon after, leaving her behind.

--

Susan sits in her throne regally, inclining her head to every bow and curtsy bestowed upon her. Lucy, on her left, grins and waves to each of their guests as they take their leave. Edmund is quiet and still, in his usual manner. Peter is the one who actually speaks, thanking everyone for visiting Narnia and taking part in the celebrations.

The goodbyes seem to last for hours, but then Prince Brin stands before her. He wears a lighthearted expression, but Susan can see the desperation there as well. The Lady Anel stands beside him, looking over at Edmund with hope in her eyes, though Edmund’s eyes are focused on Prince Brin.

Prince Brin steps forward after Peter has thanked him for visiting, and smiles nervously. “May I speak, your majesty?”

“Go on,” says Peter curiously.

When Prince Brin speaks, he has a determined glint in his eyes. “I was wondering if I might have the hand of Queen Susan.”

Gasps echo around the walls, and Peter raises his eyebrows, clearly not expecting these words. Lucy rubs her head, as if it suddenly aches, and stares at the marble floor. Susan places a hand over her heart, faint with surprise. All is silent for a few seconds, but then Edmund stands from his throne, hand on the hilt of his sword, giving the Prince an icy look. “Absolutely not,” he says, his voice strong and final.

Susan looks down in embarrassment, but Peter addresses Edmund calmly. “King Edmund, I think Queen Susan, can speak for herself.”

Edmund looks abashed, but remains standing. “You are right, High King. Please, dear sister, give the Prince his answer.” His voice shakes, but Prince Brin looks happy, as if all his dreams are about to come true. Susan hates that she is about to crush those dreams.

“I cannot marry you, Prince Brin,” she says. “I’ve known you only a month and you’ve not even asked to court me yet.”

“Well, then, might I have that pleasure?” he asks, and his winning smile is almost enough to convince her, but not enough.

“I am sorry,” she says, “but I cannot. I consider you a good friend, but I’m afraid my heart sees you as nothing else. I do thank you for your offer.”

She keeps her gaze on Prince Brin’s face, waiting for him to show some kind of emotion – sadness, confusion, even anger – but this does not happen. Instead, he gives a very curt nod, as if to dismiss her entirely. “Very well, then.” He turns, facing Lucy, who sits dejectedly on her throne. “Queen Lucy, might you be willing to accept an offer of my courtship?”

The gasps that echo throughout the hall are even louder than before. “Absolutely not!” rings out a voice, and this time it is Peter, though he remains seated. “Queen Lucy is far too young to be courted. Her majesty is only eleven!”

“With all due respect,” snaps Prince Brin, “but your grace allowed Queen Susan to speak for herself. Might the same courtesy be extended toward Narnia’s youngest Queen?”

Susan reels from shock at the sharpness in Prince Brin’s tone. In all their time together, he’s never raised his voice, nor spoken harshly. To an outsider, his words might seem fair, but they are far from it; they are patronizing. As she watches his lips twitch in anger, Susan realizes that he had been false all along. This realization renders her confused, and she can do nothing but stare blankly at him.

Edmund, however, draws his sword. “With all due respect, Prince Brin,” he spits out, “but my royal sisters are not prizes. In Narnia, we do not consider it proper to transfer affection from one lady to another so quickly. I will say that I doubt that your display today is marked by any kind of affection at all.”

“I agree, King Edmund,” says Peter, and his following words sound as though they are being forced out of his throat, “but the Prince Brin is right. Queen Lucy has a mind of her own, and we must allow her to speak.”

All eyes turn to Lucy, whose face is impassive. She looks out at her guests, then at Edmund and Peter, then at Prince Brin. One hand plays with the sleeve of her yellow dress, and then she stands; Susan sits.

Lucy draws herself up to her full height. “No.”

The word is simple, but it is enough to cause nearly everyone present to sag in relief (Mrs. Beaver claps her hands, while Mr. Tumnus wipes his forehead shakily with a hanky), but her siblings are especially thankful.

“Is your reason the same as your sister’s?” asks Prince Brin. “You feel only friendship for me?”

“No,” says Lucy again, suddenly looking very old. But her face is set with determination, and Susan can see the fire start to build again in her eyes. “I may be young, but I am not a little girl. I am a Queen. As a Queen, and a self-respecting woman, I will not be second best. I admit that I harbored a mere girl’s fancy for you, but the display you have shown here today, and the displays you have shown privately, have erased that fancy. I will not be courted by you, and it must be said that I do not feel friendship for you either. The sight of you offends me, and my country.”

She sits down, and lays her hands primly in her lap.

The entire room is stunned into silence by Lucy’s speech, and Susan feels a wave of sadness wash over her. Is this why Lucy couldn’t come to her – had she had been jealous of her relationship with Prince Brin? Susan glances at her, sitting stiffly, and sighs.

Edmund breaks her from her thoughts. “I believe you heard my sister,” he says, looking directly at the Prince. “Take your leave from this country.”

Prince Brin glares hatefully about the room. “You have made a mistake,” he growls. “I would have ruled well over this land, made a wonderful King.”

Peter points to his crown. “In case you haven’t noticed, Narnia already has two Kings.”

“Yes,” spat Prince Brin, “but one is not fit to rule. He is a traitor to this country, and to all of you!”

Edmund squares his shoulders angrily, and Peter jumps up from his throne, but it is Susan who speaks. Her heart pounds furiously against her chest, angry and defensive.

“King Edmund’s betrayal was forgiven long ago and it was just. You stand there, so self-righteous, but your heart is that of a hypocrite. I can only hope that before you become a King in your own land, your heart grows to be more like his – honest and caring. As of this moment, you are unfit to shine his shoes.”

Edmund looks over at her, as if seeing her for the first time, and Susan feels her heart swell with love for him. She gives him a small smile.

Prince Brin opens his mouth to say something else, but Lady Anel steps forward and lays a hand on his shoulder. “Cousin,” she whispers, “I think it is time to take our leave.”

Something changes in Edmund’s eyes, and he races toward the Lady. His hand finds hers. “Lady Anel,” he says, brushing his thumb across her knuckles, “Know that you are always welcome in Narnia.”

Lady Anel smiles sadly at him. “Thank you, King Edmund. But I shan’t be returning. I do not see you as the traitor my cousin does, but I am afraid my alliances cannot be divided. Prince Brin is my family, and I must align myself with him.”

Edmund gives Lady Anel a smile that harbors no ill feelings. “I shall be here when you change your mind,” he says cheekily, kissing her hand.

The smile remains on his face until every last guest at Cair Paravel is gone. Then he walks out of the throne room, his shoulders hunched low.

--

They find Edmund in his room, lying in his bed. He looks incredibly depressed, and Susan doesn’t blame him – his first love leaving combined with a reminder of his betrayal must be breaking him inside.

She stands in the doorway with Peter and Lucy, but Edmund doesn’t turn in their direction, though she is sure he has heard them enter. “Edmund?” she says tentatively. “Ed, dear, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says, his back still toward her. His voice is rather choked up.

Lucy goes to him first, wrapping her arms around his neck. Edmund coughs unnecessarily, trying to be strong. When Susan throws her arms around him, too, Edmund shrugs off the two of them. “I’m fine,” he says, disgruntled.

“Ed, darling, I know this must be hard for you, but I assure you everything will work out for the best. Perhaps you can find another young woman who is, well, young. Closer to you in years. Or,” she starts hopefully, “perhaps you’ll wait to find another woman until you’re Lady Anel’s age.”

Edmund buries his face in his hands and moans. “Susan,” he whines, clearly embarrassed.

“Su,” says Peter in an admonishing voice, “don’t you know? Everyone says it’s better for a chap to pursue an older woman.”

“Peter!” groans Ed.

“Oh, do stop making fun of Edmund,” says Lucy, resting her head on his shoulder. “He’s been through enough.”

Edmund lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’m fine!” “She’s just a girl. I have enough of you in my life already.”

“Hey!” says Lucy, swatting his arm.

“That’s no way to talk about our sisters, Ed,” adds Peter.

“Well, then I’ll just stop talking, then,” smirks Edmund.

“Please don’t,” says Susan. “Let us simply turn the conversation to other matters…like why you and Prince Brin quarreled in the first place. I should really like to know.

Edmund sighs, then sits up in bed; Susan and Lucy do the same. Susan looks at her brother intently. He scratches his head, and looks questioningly at Lucy. Whatever he finds in her gaze allows him to begin, and he directs his words at Susan.

“Our quarrel was similar to what happened this morning. He asked to court you, Su, and I said it was your choice. Then I said I planned on courting Lady Anel. But he said no right away, and I asked why. I thought it was because I am only thirteen, but he said it was because he’d have no traitors courting his cousin. I said if he felt that way, perhaps he shouldn’t court you, Su. He said he wanted to court you because you were beautiful and because Narnia deserved two proper Kings. He said I wasn’t fit to sit on the throne because I was traitor. He said that he wanted to marry you, and that it would be your choice. I assured him that once his true colors were known, your answer would be no. Then, he…” and here, he trails off and looks at Lucy again.

Lucy squeezes his hand. “I don’t mind, Edmund.”

Edmund takes a breath, and turns his gaze to Peter. “He said that if Su refused, Lucy would say yes. He said she was just a silly little girl, and that even though she couldn’t compare to Susan, he would ask her anyway. He said she would say yes because she followed him round everywhere, had taken a fancy to him. ‘She’ll be my new puppy,’ he said. And at that point, I was so sick of him that I punched him.”

“Oh, Lu,” cries Susan, as she practically crawls over Edmund to reach her. Edmund moves out of the way, allowing Susan to squeeze between them. Susan holds Lucy close to her, stroking her hair. “That’s why you wouldn’t come to me.”

“I would have told you, Su,” says Edmund. “But Lu didn’t want me to.”

“Of course I didn’t,” mumbles Lucy, her head resting on Susan’s bosom. “You wouldn’t have understood. You don’t know what it’s like to have a sister that everyone compares you to. You’re so beautiful, Susan.”

“Lucy,” says Peter, leaning over to stroke her hair. “You’re beautiful, too. Don’t listen to what anyone says. And, besides, you’re still maturing!”

Susan nods. “In a few years, everyone will be calling you the beautiful one, dear. I have no doubts in my mind.”

“But more importantly,” says Edmund, “is that looks don’t matter. Lu, you could look like a dog for all I care. You’ll still be Lucy. A man should like you for that, for who you are, not for your outward appearance.”

“Not that any man should like you at all,” points out Peter. “Not in that way. You are young. The only men you should be spend time with are me and Ed.”

Lucy chuckles lightly, her eyes watery with happy tears; then her face changes. “What about Mr. Tumnus?”

Peter shakes his head solemnly. “Oh, no. I think you should stop going to his house for tea. He’s way too old.”

Lucy looks morose for a moment before she realizes Peter is joking; then she laughs loudly and breaks her hold on Susan to hug him. Susan giggles and even Edmund lets a chuckle loose, and then soon all four of them are holding each other and laughing.

--

Susan wakes up the next morning with the light of the sun beaming down on her. She lies on her side, on the far left of Edmund’s bed. Edmund sleeps next to her, and Lucy is snuggled up against him, her head nestled in the crook his shoulder. Peter is on the far right of the bed, next to Lucy, lying on his side as well.

When Susan opens her eyes, she finds Peter awake, too, and he is staring at Edmund and Lucy with a soft expression on his face. From that simple expression, Susan knows exactly what he’s feeling, for the past few days have stirred the same feelings inside of her.

When Edmund asked her why she hadn’t listened to his warning about Prince Brin, she knew, deep down, the reason. It wasn’t because she didn’t trust him, it wasn’t because she thought he was being foolish – it was because she didn’t want to rely on him. She was the big sister; she was the one who gave warnings and protection. Similarly, she only received warnings and protection from one person: Peter. Peter was her big brother, the one who she turned to for advice, the one who she would listen to, the one who would protect her honor.

Never in a thousand years did she think that one day, her little brother, who used to steal biscuits from her plate and savagely yank on her pigtails, would brandish his sword for her sake. And never in a thousand years did she ever imagine that Edmund would fancy someone, that he would pursue a woman and run his thumb along her knuckles and be so gentlemanly about it.

She looks at him now, sleeping with mouth slightly open, and accepts it once and for all – Edmund has grown up. Her eyes water with tears as she looks down at Lucy; her younger sister mumbles something unintelligible in her sleep and then turns over, now facing Peter.

Lucy’s grown up, too, reflects Susan sadly. She can still see Lucy as a baby, gurgling and smiling, can remember when Lucy would tug on Peter’s hair and poke Edmund hard on the nose, when she’d spit up food whilst in her high chair. She can see her as a child, gap-toothed, dimpled, and crawling into her bed during thunderstorms, shaking with fright. This image is a direct contrast to the girl before her now, who dances in the rain and who is the bravest person she knows.

When she was a child, Lucy used to bring all of her problems to Susan – silly problems like not being able to find a shoe before school, or not wanting to eat her peas at dinner, or soap getting in her eyes when she bathed. Now, Lucy will sort out a few of her own problems, without help, and bring to her much more complicated ones – feelings of unworthiness, jealousy, and unrequited love.

They have changed, her dear Edmund and Lucy. And she, too, will have to change. She won’t be able to play mother anymore, won’t be able to coddle and protect them from the world. She won’t be able to demand they go to bed at a certain hour, but accept that they are old enough to make their own decisions. Old enough to pave their own lives.

Oh, how her relationships with them will change. Oh, how much they have changed already!

And she will have to adjust.

She smiles and reaches for Peter. Tapping him lightly on the shoulder, Susan watches as Peter lifts his gaze from Edmund and Lucy. His eyes shining with unshed tears, he takes hold of her wrist. He looks at it strangely, and shoots her a confused look – Susan realizes he’s staring at the wrist that Edmund bruised. She shakes her head lightly, dismissing his silent query, and he touches the bruise gently before letting go of her hand.

A few minutes later, Peter rises from the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. He walks over to her part of the bed, standing next to her as she beholds their siblings once more. She sighs softly, and he lets out a sigh of his own, then bends down and kisses the side of her head. “I’ll go see about breakfast in bed.”

She nods and he goes to leave the room, then turns around. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he whispers, grinning. “Good morning.”

Yes, thinks Susan, grinning back at him, it is a good morning indeed.

--

He kisses her because he understands.

--

Read the next chapter here! ♥

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A/N: Thanks for everyone who continues to read this! This chapter was so much FUN for me to write, because there were all sorts of things I wanted to address - how Susan would deal with Ed and Lu growing up (especially if romantic parties were involved), Edmund's betrayal, just the Ed/Su relationship in general, a drunk!Peter, Peter and Susan having a talk about "the talk", and the four Pevensies sleeping in the bed. I am amazed I got it all in there.

I would like to guarantee that the other chapters will not be this long, but all I can guarantee is that they will not be this long.

Also, this story is being updated at Fanfiction.net as well, HERE. I'm aiming to get 100 reviews over there (eventually, not just with this chapter, LOL), and my 100th reviewer will get Narnia fic as a present. So, if you'd like to review over there (or here and there!) that'd be fine. :)

--

I took up the claim for Peter/Susan @ narnia_100 - you can check out some icons HERE.

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Lastly, if you'd like updates on this fic, please feel free to friend this journal! I update here and sometimes it takes me a few days to post the chapter links to all the comms I'm in.

What's In a Kiss, chapter 6 - part I

2008-07-22T00:54:47Z

Title: What's In a Kiss
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: Peter/Susan, non-incestuous
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He always leaves her with a kiss. This Chapter - When Narnia celebrates an anniversary for the end of the White Witch's reign, a few of the visitors cause Susan to look at her siblings differently.
Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
A/N: Hi, guys! I apologize so much for the wait for this one. I rewrote it close to five times and even had it betaed. But hopefully it is worth it, because it is a long chapter. Honestly, I tried to downsize it, but it just wouldn't work that way. Therefore, this chapter must be divided into two parts - the link to the second part will be at the end of this entry. Futher author's notes will be at the end of the part as well.

Chapter Six - Good Mornings, Part I: The Ball

It is a good morning.

Susan wakes up to the sound of birds chirping outside her window and the sun teasing at her through the curtains. She dresses, humming to herself all the while, and is brushing her hair when Lucy and Edmund come to greet her.

Lucy, who had been up since sunrise, babbles on about the events of her own morning, which had included spending time with their visitors. For a week, Narnia had played host to many people from different countries, all having gathered to celebrate the anniversary of the White Witch's defeat, and the end of the Hundred Year's Winter.

So far, Susan had only met a few of their guests - mainly Lords and Ladies, for they were all staying in the castle. There was Lady Anel, who was incredibly beautiful and kind, and Prince Brin, who was Peter's age and quite charming. Susan had only spoken to him once or twice, but he and Lucy got on fairly well. He had her energy and lust for life, and the two of them were often seen in each other’s company.

Lucy speaks now of all the people Prince Brin introduced to her this morning - Mr. Delen, a bear who was quite the juggler; and Miss Ariana and her four children, all of who were tigers.

"And Susan, you should have seen it! Prince Brin brought along his dog, Phillipe, and he was so scared of Miss Ariana! Poor fellow. Of course, Phillipe isn't a smart animal - that is to say, he can't talk - but he is so cute!" Lucy's continues, bashfully proclaiming that Phillipe is the reason why her lovely green dress is so dirty; she hadn't been able to resist rolling around with him in the grass and mud.

"Prince Brin tried to talk her out of it," interjects Edmund, "because he didn't want her to get hurt, I suppose, but she didn't listen. But that's Lu for you." He shakes his head, looking over at Lucy fondly.

Susan smiles at Edmund and chides Lucy gently, but inwardly is thankful for her sister's fun and lively spirit. It's what makes Lucy, well, Lucy, and Susan hopes that it will dwell within her as long as she lived. She never wants her sister to change.

Really, though, this is a naive hope, for all of her siblings are changing. It's hard to believe that once upon a time, they had been in school, frightened of the War and treated like little children. It was a time when Peter was pinned down by taking care of his family, Edmund was bitter and resentful, and Lucy was just a little girl.

Now, Peter doesn't see his family as a burden; his siblings no longer weigh him down, but give him strength. He rules over Narnia confidently, leading all the charges on the battlefield and putting his countrymen before himself. Thankfully, he is more willing to accept help when it is required.

Edmund is no longer bitter or resentful, but feels blessed by all that he has. He places his trust in others easily, willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. He's quieter and more serious now, but he's Edmund, not the scared, insecure boy who used to pick mercilessly on others. He's patient and kind, and has developed roads throughout all of Narnia.

And, of course, there are the physical changes. Peter's round, boyish face is gone, and his hair is much longer, a far cry from the schoolboy cut he'd had in England; Edmund's getting taller and taller, which is a constant source of annoyance for Lucy, who complains that it's becoming more difficult to hug him properly.

But Lucy is changing, too, perhaps more than all of them. Just six months ago, little Lucy had officially become a woman. She had been quite tetchy for several days, which alarmed all of them. Edmund embraced the newer, moodier Lucy, saying that he preferred her to the old Lu. Peter, however, was quite concerned, and came to Susan, moaning that Ed had finally rubbed off on their poor, sweet sister.

When Susan sat back and explained gently to Peter why Lucy was acting this way, the blood drained from her dear brother's face. "Oh, no," he said, burying his face in his hands.

Now, Lucy stands only a few inches shorter than Susan. Her hair, chin length upon arrival in Narnia, stops halfway down her back and its color is a great deal lighter than before. Her cheeks are losing their baby fat, the tiny gaps in her teeth have almost completely disappeared, and her body is starting to develop soft curves.

Despite the new changes in her body, Lucy's heart remains the same - cheery, kind, and childlike in its innocence - but she is wiser now. She had developed a calendar for Narnia, which had been well received by all creatures of the country. Susan joked that a calendar would also help her to remember certain times of the month, a joke that Lucy, nor Peter, had appreciated.

Despite all of these changes - physical and not - the four siblings remain closer than ever. One thing that Susan relishes about their relationship is that they always tell each other everything, and are able to talk through any problem.

Lucy continues to ramble on and on about their visitors, Prince Brin in particular. Suddenly she stops, turning to grin at Edmund. "She's not even listening to a word I'm saying, is she, Ed?"

Edmund shrugs. "Well, you do talk an awful lot. That mouth of yours never stops moving, does it?"

Lucy responds in a very mature fashion - she sticks her tongue out at him.

Susan chuckles at the two of them, and draws her sister into a tender embrace. "Of course I'm listening to you, darling. I do love hearing you talk," she confesses. Susan glances over at her brother. "You, too, Edmund."

"But he doesn't talk!" exclaims Lucy.

"Perhaps not as much as you, dear sister, but I hope the two of you will always come to me."

Edmund rolls his eyes at the emotion in her voice, but Lucy squeezes her around the middle and laughs. "Of course we will, Su, of course."

Yes, Susan reflects, it is a good morning indeed.

--

When the ball comes, it is one of the most glorious Narnia has ever seen. The combined work of Susan and the servants of the castle can be seen in the decorations and the way the floor shines, and in the smiles that light up the faces of Narnia’s guests.

The chatter in the great hall echoes loudly off the walls, and the guests are split between eating and dancing. Susan marvels at the abundance of the food – heavy meats, chilled fruit, cheese, and plenty of faun’s wine.

As she eats, she looks out in front of her at the makeshift dance floor. Lucy is dancing merrily with Peter, whose cheeks are an unnatural rosy red. Susan wonders if he, like quite a few of their guests, has been affected by the faun’s wine. It is very strong, and Susan had learned a year ago that her tolerance for the alcoholic drink does not extend beyond half a glass.

Next to her, there is a glass of water, and she reaches for it. Then, she scoops up a handful of grapes, ready to pop them in her mouth one by one. But she hesitates. The presence of Lady Anel, seated at her right, is intimidating. The woman eats and drinks daintily, tiny bites and small sips. It has taken her forty minutes to eat a full slice of meat, and though Susan knows this is ridiculous, she wonders if she should pace herself in a similar fashion.

On Susan’s left side sits Prince Brin, who eats his food in a way that directly opposes Lady Anel. He tears into his meat with relish, and cares naught for manners; Susan, smiling, discreetly points out the bit of potato that sticks to his thin mustache. He wipes it away, laughing heartily. Then, he offers her a hand. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Queen Susan?”

Susan blushes in spite of herself, and folds her napkin to place it on the table. Just as she is about to accept his invitation, Lucy bounces over to the table and tugs Prince Brin’s ruffled sleeves. “Dear Prince, you simply must stop eating and come dance with me!” she says brightly.

Susan gives her sister a warm smile. Lucy looks simply lovely tonight, wearing a light blue gown that trails all the way down to the floor. Susan had helped her pick out the dress earlier, thinking that it brought out Lucy’s shining eyes. A silver sash is tied around Lucy’s waist to match her crown, and a darling necklace that Peter gave her on her last birthday against her throat. Her hair is in two braids, tied together by white flowers, and Susan thinks she looks nothing less than Queenly.

Susan exchanges a look with Prince Brin, and he nods knowingly. Then he takes Lucy’s hand in his own, says, “I was hoping you would ask me, your majesty!” and next moment, they are dancing.

Susan, chin resting on her hand, watches them for a short while, partly thankful that Lucy is the one dancing with the Prince. He is a lively dancer – the exact opposite of Susan – and Lucy is certainly able to keep up with him; they are in perfect sync, moving with each other as if they’ve been friends for years.

A tap on the shoulder distracts her from her thoughts, and Susan turns to look over her shoulder at Peter, who has plopped down next to her. Susan knows immediately that the faun wine has affected him most definitely – for he sits backwards in his chair, something he would never do sober, as it is not befitting to his status as High King.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” Peter asks her, so loudly that she flinches. Susan debates whether she should dignify his question with a response. How she hates it when he is drunk.

Susan looks him directly in his bloodshot eyes, sighing. His cheeks are red from the wine, and his blonde hair sticks out oddly beneath his crown. Her maternal feelings tell her to smooth down his hair, but her frustrated, sisterly feelings prevent her from doing so. “You are truly magnificent,” she tells him.

The sarcasm oozing from her voice is lost on Peter. “Thanks, Su,” he gushes, rocking his chair in her direction. “You’re magnificent, too.” He grins widely at her, and musses her dark hair, and she has to fight the urge to slap away both of his hands.

Someone giggles, and Susan doesn’t think she’s ever been more embarrassed. Lady Anel looks at her, and all sorts of apologetic words race to the forefront of her mind, then cease, for she notices that Lady Anel is grinning rather widely at Peter. Susan presses a weary hand to her head as Peter tilts his chair closer to the Lady.

“Hullo, there,” he says huskily. Lady Anel blushes; Susan rolls her eyes.

“Hi.” The Lady’s voice is shy and demure, though still rather giddy.

Several seconds pass. Susan, awkward as she sits between her drunken brother and a flirty woman, reaches for her glass of water. She takes a long drink, and then chokes – for it is Lady Anel’s faun wine that she has seized. She expects Peter to take notice, to ask if her if she is okay, but he pays her no mind.

Now he is staring at Lady Anel in a way that is most improper; his eyes bore so fiercely into her that Susan can feel the other woman’s discomfort.

“Pardon me,” says another voice, and Susan closes her eyes in relief. It is Edmund.

The sound of Edmund’s voice seems to bring Peter back to reality. He looks away from Lady Anel, his eyes now glazed over almost completely. Susan offers him a glass of water, and rests a hand on his forearm as a reminder to drink slowly.

“Would you like to dance?” says Edmund, and Susan smiles, happy he has asked her.

“Of course I will,” purrs another voice, and Susan is bewildered. Her brother has asked the Lady Anel to dance, not her. She wonders if Edmund is ill, because never has he asked a female to dance before – unless said female was one of his sisters. She deduces that the faun wine has gotten to him, too, for his cheeks are just as rosy as Peter’s.

Unlike Peter, however, Edmund seems to be handling his alcohol intake very well. He stands before Lady Anel, one arm folded behind him, the other extended toward her. His back is arched in a respectful bow, but his eyes are focused on the object of his affection. Two emotions run through Susan: pride, at the King her brother has become, so mannerly and refined, and utter horror at seeing her baby brother asking a woman to dance.

“I would be honored, your majesty,” says Lady Anel, fluttering her eyelashes at him and placing her hand in his. Susan’s eyes widen as Edmund brushes his thumb along the Lady’s knuckles softly, eyes gazing at her intensely as he does so. They move to the dance floor, and Susan slumps in her chair, popping grapes into her mouth without a care in the world for propriety.

A loud giggle disturbs the air around her, and she can feel Peter’s breath in her ear. “Eddy fancies Lady Anel!” he whispers secretly.

Susan, pouting, throws another grape into her mouth. “Bite your tongue.”

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this day to arrive?” says Peter, squeezing her shoulders.

“Oh, do hush,” says Susan, slapping one of his hands. “Edmund’s young.”

Peter plops back down in his seat and holds out a hand. Susan reaches for another grape, and drops it into his open palm. He doesn’t move his hand, and she gives him another one. He puts them both in his mouth, and while chewing, speaks. “Edmund’s thirteen. He’s not that young. It might be different for girls, Su, but we men start early.”

Susan asks him to keep his voice down. “Has anyone prepared Edmund for this? He was only ten when we came to Narnia. Do you think that father…” and she blushes so much that she can feel it on the back of her neck, “had a talk with him?”

“What sort of talk?”

Susan can’t bring herself to speak of it any further (she feels like she might faint), and Peter points at her face. “Your freckles are gone, your face has reddened so!” he laughs. Of course, this only causes her to redden even more.

“Oh, jolly for me,” she snaps. “I’m so pleased that you find all of this so funny. You know perfectly well which talk I mean. I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation with you. I’d prefer to have this conversation with Peter.”

Peter looks confused. “I am Peter, aren’t I?”

Susan scowls at him. “No. Peter would understand how important this sort of talk is – and how wrong it feels even to be having this conversation because Edmund is still young. But you can’t comprehend this, because you are not the logical, sensible Peter I know. You’re a slobbering mess, you reek of wine, and you’re behaving like a silly, ordinary boy.”

Peter looks highly offended at being called a ‘boy’ and crosses his arms, pouting down at the tablecloth. Susan glares out at the dance floor, waiting for her stare to fall on Edmund and Lady Anel, but Edmund is no longer dancing. Her heart starts to pound and she dearly hopes that he hasn’t taken Lady Anel somewhere to… and then her heart slows as she sees Lady Anel dancing with Oreuis.

Eager to know where Edmund is, she stands and walks away from the table, leaving Peter to mope by himself. Her feet lead her out of the great hall, and she steps outside. Sometimes, when the merriment of the Balls and parties gets to be too much for Edmund, one can find him sitting on the castle steps, lost in his thoughts.

Susan feels a surge of happiness when she sees that he is by the steps as she had suspected, but footsteps falter when she discovers he is not alone. In the moonlight, she can make out the black beard of Prince Brin’s face, and she retraces her steps as she recognizes they are deep in conversation, discussing something in low tones. She fully intends to leave them be, as she is not one to eavesdrop, but then she hears her name.

“I have to say that if you wish to court her, the decision is not mine. It is Susan’s.” Edmund taps the heel of his shoe on the stone steps, a sign of nervousness. He has never been good when it comes to her suitors.

“Queen Susan has a reputation for turning down any man that comes to call on her,” says Prince Brin, sounding troubled. “I should like to think that your majesty would put in a good word for me?” he ventures, patting Edmund on the shoulder.

“Any word I give will not be as convincing as your heart, sir. Treat her the way she deserves to be treated, and I am certain that if she shares your feelings, she shall say yes.”

“I see,” says Prince Brin, and then he falls quiet.

Edmund clears his throat after a long pause. “While we are on the subject of courting, I have something to confess.”

Prince Brin arches an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I – erm, I was entertaining the notion of – well, you see…”

“You plan to ask my cousin, the Lady Anel, the same question I plan to ask your sister, eh?” says the Prince with a light chuckle. “You mean to court her?”

Edmund nods, and Susan feels her chest tighten. Suddenly, she no longer desires to hear another word of this conversation. The very thought of Edmund courting someone is just too much to take.

She walks slowly back to the great hall, lost in memories. She can still remember the first time she laid eyes upon her brother – such a small baby he was, underweight, but even then his head was covered in thick dark hair. She remembers touching that hair, so soft on her fingertips. “Just like yours, Su,” their father had said, and, oh, how she smiled.

“Susan!” says a loud voice, and she jumps in shock. She has reached the great hall, and now Peter is making his way toward her, walking in an off-balance kind of way. She represses the urge to smile when she glimpses the clueless, awkward expression on his face as he attempts to avoid those dancing wildly around him.

He wore the same expression when he met Edmund for the first time. After father had announced that Edmund and Susan shared the same hair, Peter had pouted, thinking he had nothing in common with the baby. Their mother had to pull back Edmund’s cloth diaper and show him exactly how they were similar.

“What is it, Peter?” she asks, folding her arms across her chest.

“I have been searching for you all over,” he announces, slurring his words slightly. “I wanted to talk to you about Eddy – Edmund.”

Susan waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. You were right, after all. He’s just asking Prince Brin permission to court Lady Anel.”

Peter looks at her dazedly. “Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Well,” he grunts, “good for him. Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I certainly didn’t talk to him about…well, you know. And I have no idea if father did, because he didn’t exactly sit us down at the same time. Eddy must have heard about it from someone else, because we simply don’t discuss those things.”

Susan is amazed at how sobered Peter seems to be as he speaks; the only indication of his inebriated state is the old nickname for their brother. He moves closer to her. “Susan?”

“Yes, Peter?”

He places a hand on her forearm, as if to brace himself. His blue eyes are protective and worried when she peers into them. “I…you know, those things? How Eddy and I don’t discuss them? Do you – do you ever talk about them with Lu-lu?”

Susan shakes her head avidly. “Certainly not! I would never - I doubt seriously that Lucy dwells on the subject. By the Lion, Peter! She's still so pure."

Peter puts a hand over his heart. “ Oh, thank Aslan.”

They laugh, though it is short-lived, for at this moment, Edmund enters the great hall. His face is pale, and his jaw clenched, as are the hands at his sides. His eyes look darker than ever, and even his hair seems to spark with anger. Susan exchanges a troubled glance with Peter, and wonders if they should go over and see what’s bothering him. Had Prince Brin denied Edmund his request to court Lady Anel?

The Prince is right behind Edmund, straightening his ruffled sleeves, and makes his way directly over to where Lucy is dancing with Mr. Tumnus. Lucy grins brightly at him, and accepts his proffered hands, but as the next song begins, Edmund swoops in. He grabs Lucy, pulling her across the floor in a most ungentle way. Something inside Susan flares, and decides to intervene, but Peter grips her shoulders, preventing her.

They watch as Edmund releases Lucy, and begins talking with her. The two of them seem to argue, ignoring everyone around them (which is fitting, for no one around them seems to notice their unusual behavior). Edmund crosses his arms, but is not allowed to stand this way for long; Lucy places one of his hands around her waist, taking the other in her own, assuming a dance position.

They begin to move around the floor, but their movements are slow and disenchanting. The entire time, Edmund glowers at Prince Brin over the top of Lucy’s head.

--

The festive party runs well into the next morning, and Susan is overcome with tiredness. Her whole body aches: her feet from dancing, her bosom from corset she’s been wearing for hours on end, and even the crown on her head, heavy upon her imperfect, uncurled hair.

Most of the guests in the hall, no longer dancing, are seated at their tables, fast asleep, having not made it back to their rooms. Susan notes that a few people are engaged in light conversation, not appearing tired in the slightest.

Edmund and Lucy are nowhere to be seen, having left shortly after two unenthusiastic dances. Peter had gone to search for them, but when he did not return, Susan went looking for him, only to find that he had fallen asleep outside Edmund’s locked door. Knowing it would be unsightly for any of their guests to see the High King in such a state, Susan attempted to carry him to his chambers. She half-carried, half-dragged him down an entire corridor before a kind guard offered his assistance.

“If you see King Edmund or Queen Lucy, please inform me,” she had told the guard, returned to the great hall, needing to keep up appearances for the sake of their kingdom.

Now, as the Ball dissipates, she can see that she is no longer needed. She decides to step outside for a few moments, and then take up searching for her younger brother and sister. She wants to find out why Edmund was behaving so strangely, so infuriated.

A voice catches her attention and she recognizes it as belonging to Prince Brin, who is hurrying toward her with a wide smile etched upon his face. Clearly whatever had happened between him and Edmund isn’t affecting him in the slightest. This doesn’t seem odd to Susan – for Prince Brin seems a happy fellow all the time.

“Where are you off to, Queen Susan?” he asks.

“I’m taking a walk.”

“May I join you?”

“Of course,” she says, a little nervously. Susan is aware that he means to court her, but she hopes that he waits a while before asking her. She has always been particular about the men who come to call on her, and though she thinks she could like Prince Brin, she wants to get to know him first.

She also wants to know what happened between himself and her brother, though she really knows it should have no bearing on her relationship with Prince Brin. And if she asks Edmund about it, he would shake a finger, informing her that it is none of her business.

Susan leads the way out of the castle with a small sigh, the Prince not far behind. She lifts her skirts slightly as she descends the steps, smiling at the sight before her – a lone tree stands green and firm a few yards from the castle, and Edmund and Lucy are leant up against it, sleeping soundly.

Looking at the two of them makes her feel so relieved that she suddenly finds herself beaming. The sun on her face is warm and soft, the air so clear. Smiling at the Prince, she crouches down to take off her shoes, and he gives her a look that is most amusing.

Susan smiles up at him, not at all surprised by his expression. She doubts that he often sees Queens running around barefoot, but there are times when she simply cannot help herself, when she has to feel blades of grass against her heels and sand in between her toes. It’s silly, but whenever she is barefoot, something inside of her loosens, and she feels free, closer to Narnia.

She reaches up to take off her crown as well, an action that is decidedly more shocking. It is an action that only her siblings ever see, and it transforms her from Queen Susan into just Susan. She doesn’t know why, but she feels like Prince Brin can understand this.

She stands, shoes in one hand, crown in the other, saying nothing to him. He raises his eyebrows, and then she responds in kind, which makes him laugh. “I thought you had a reputation for following proper etiquette,” he says.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard. No one has ever spoken of you taking off your shoes in front of men, or daring to remove your crown in public.”

“Public?”

Prince Brin points in a direction to Susan’s far left where the fauns are gathered, playing their flutes and dancing merrily around a fire that’s been crackling for hours.

“Well, I am Queen. I shall do whatever I like,” she says airily, only partly believing her words. In truth, Prince Brin is right – normally she prides herself with following the proper etiquette, but something about being around the Prince makes her feel different. He is so carefree, so much like Lucy, that it is contagious. Indeed, he even looks young. His black beard and mustache are marks of a man, but his face is still round. He’s also not particularly tall, standing only an inch taller than her, and his face is still round. His brown eyes are not hardened with age and responsibility, but shine with happiness.

She tells him this and he chuckles. “I am perhaps not as carefree as you might think,” he confesses. “I think I am only this way because I am here in Narnia. It is such a beautiful place.”

Susan nods again, looking up at the sky. The sun is rising, and the sky is a mass of bright pink and orange. The trees dance in the wind, their movements causing a distinct humming sound in the air. Birds flitter about, joyous in the sky, looking black and beautiful against the sun. As she takes her gaze away from the sky in front her, she sees fields of green to her left, their borders marked by vast forests; to her right is the sea, blue and sparkling in the morning light.

“You speak rightly about my country, Prince Brin,” says Susan after a long moment, glancing back at him. “It is beautiful.”

He says then, in a low voice, “As a boy, I heard of Narnia’s beauty, before the long winter, but I didn’t believe it. And just months ago, I heard of your beauty, but I didn’t believe it, either. No woman could be that beautiful, I thought. But I stand before you now, and I see that I was mistaken.”

Though Susan is still not ready for the Prince’s proposal of courtship, she is flattered by his compliment. She blushes in spite of herself and smiles up at him. Then, the smile falls from her face.

“What happened?” she asks, concerned, touching his cheek. She hadn’t noticed earlier, but now she sees the large, blue-purple bruise. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, it is nothing, nothing, just a trifle,” begins Prince Brin, and Susan touches the bruise gingerly – then, someone is tugging hard on her arm.

The firm hand has wrapped itself around her wrist in a strong and unbearably tight grip. Confused, she looks up to find Edmund, who glares fiercely at Prince Brin. Next moment, her brother has dragged her far away from the Prince, and in the direction of the dancing fauns.

Once he releases her, she rubs her arm. “Ouch, Ed, how dare you grab me in such a way! What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” demands Edmund, pointing down at her shoes. “Put those on. And why aren’t you wearing your crown?”

“What are you - ” she says, as Edmund practically shoves the crown on top of her head

“Stay away from Prince Brin,” he warns, his expression dark.

Susan narrows her eyes as she stares up at him; though he towers over her by a foot, Edmund is younger than she, and he will not order her around. She can speak to whomever she pleases.

"King Edmund," she begins, using his title since they are within earshot of several fauns, "I am a free woman and you best to remember that.”

Edmund contemplates her for a long moment, and then says, "I don't like him."

"You hit him last night, didn’t you?” she says angrily. “The bruise on his cheek – that was your doing!”

Edmund’s only response is a leveling glare, which tells Susan all she needs to know. “Why would you do that?” When he still doesn’t answer, Susan adds, “What did you quarrel about last night?”

Edmund kicks up some dirt angrily, but does not break their eye contact. “I will not speak of it. Just believe that my actions were warranted.”

“No, I will not.” She shakes her head. “If you don’t wish to speak of it, that is your choice. Either way, it as nothing to do with me. It is between the two of you.”

Edmund simmers. “Susan,” he says, and she can tell he is struggling to maintain his patience, “I am asking you to stay away from Prince Brin. Grant me this.”

“You are not asking. You are demanding. I will not be demanded.”

“Why won’t you listen to me?” says Edmund.

Susan rolls her eyes. “Because there’s nothing to listen to! If you told me why I should stay away from him, I would consider it. Saying that you don’t like him isn’t good enough – I need a reason.”

“Of course!” bellows Edmund, throwing up his hands in the air. “A reason! I don’t know; let me think – how about the fact that I’m your brother? For goodness’ sake, if it were Peter asking, you’d listen! Why can’t you have faith in my judgment? Everyone else does.”

“I have faith in your judgment, Edmund,” says Susan, “when it is fair and just. You are far from that right now, and I do not wish to discuss this any longer.”

“Susan!” says Edmund desperately, grabbing her wrist again. She flinches, for it still hurts from the first time he grabbed her.

“Let go!” she shouts, and he releases her at once, no doubt shocked by her raised voice.

“Edmund,” she grits out, “I will say this once, so please listen. It would do you well to remember that Prince Brin is a guest in this castle and should be treated accordingly. Secondly, if you want someone to listen to you, or have faith in you, use your words. Only barbarians use force, and it is never warranted. I am your sister, your older sister, and will not be manhandled. You are a King. Act like one.”

Edmund looks properly ashamed, and lowers his eyes to the ground. He kicks up the dirt, more softly this time, and glances back at her. “Susan, I’m sorry.”

“I accept your apology. I understand your temper, for it is the same as mine. Just don’t do it again, and don’t ever do it to Lucy, the way you did last night. That is unforgivable.”

She watches Edmund, waiting for a reaction, but all the fight seems to have left him. Susan ponders whether she was too hard on him. She longs to reach out and comfort him, but she feels this might diminish her words – words that she needs him to understand. Finally, he nods, his expression even more shameful.

“I know,” he says, face pale. Softly, Edmund takes her hand and examines the underside of her wrist. Susan stands quietly, letting him. His fingers tremble as he touches the light purple bruise starting to form, and he gives her a somber look that makes her heart ache. “There are a lot of things I’ve done that are unforgivable,” he adds.

He drops her wrist and walks away, head bowed, and Susan watches as his frame become smaller and smaller against the horizon. Her bare feet are sunk in the grass, and her hair blows in the breeze, but this matters not, for her heart has never felt heavier, and she suddenly feels very, very tired.

--

She tells Prince Brin that she needs to rest, and he nods in understanding and goes on his way. Susan, too tired to walk all the way to her chambers, curls up next to Lucy by the tree.

When she wakes later in the morning, Lucy is gone. Susan straightens, wincing at the pain in her back and her wrist. There is pain in her head, too, a headache shaping near her right temple. The sun’s rays, bright and biting now, are of no help. She blinks, trying to adjust to the light, and then picks out of the bits of bark in her tangled hair.

She stands, leaning against the tree for support. Her legs are shaky, reminiscent of sea legs, and she picks up her shoes. She knows she should go inside and clean up – what a sight she must look – but instead, she chooses to go the beach. The beach is a place where Susan has always been able to clear her mind and gain perspective – and how she needs perspective, for now she has no idea how to go about things with Prince Brin, or how to speak in front of Edmund.

She is surprised to find Lucy on the shore, sitting alone with her feet buried completely in the sand.

"May I join you?" she asks, and Lucy looks up at her. But she says nothing.

Susan next asks her if she knows anything about Edmund’s quarrel with Prince Brin, but Lucy gives an uncaring shrug. Susan frowns.

She sits down next to her sister, asks if something is wrong. Lucy shakes her head, and quietly says that everything could not be more perfect.

But Lucy was not one made for lying, and Susan can see right through her. Lucy is hiding something from her, something distressing. Her bright eyes are sorrowful today, and the glow that normally surrounds her, that lights her up from the inside out, is missing.

"I only wish to help, Lu,” says Susan, her voice nearly breaking. Things are bad enough with Edmund – she cannot have things bad with Lucy, too. “Talk to me, dear one, the way you've always been able to."

Susan gives her hand a light squeeze, but Lucy doesn't squeeze back the way she normally does. Instead, she stares out at the ocean, looking much older than her years, and says, "You wouldn't understand, Susan. Just let it lie."

--

Read the next part here! ♥

Fic Update

2008-07-07T19:11:33Z

Hey, everybody!

This is just a quick note to apologize for the time it's taking me to update What's in a Kiss. This particular chapter is going through lots of rewrites and editing. It's being such a pain in the butt, though I hope all this will make for a better, enjoyable read.

Also, I want to say that I've started my summer class. This will be taking up a lot of my time, so updates won't be as frequent. But I have the entire fic outlined, and resolve to write each night. So, don't forget about this fic, LOL!

Thanks so much to each and every one of you who have read it so far and leave me such lovely reviews. It means so much to me. :)

♥ Natalie

What's In a Kiss, chapter 5

2008-06-24T22:30:09Z

Title: What's In a Kiss
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: Peter/Susan, non-incestuous
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He always leaves her with a kiss. This Chapter - Susan is lost in her insecurities.
Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4
A/N: This chap is longer than some of the earlier ones, but I think the rest of them will probably be this length, or somewhere around it. I've pretty much planned out this fic, so you can expect many more chapters to come! Thanks to everyone who gave feedback last chapter - I really can't stress enough how much I appreciate it. :D

This chapter also spans quite a bit of time. The first section picks up where we left off, with Susan at 12 years old. But later on it is indicated that two years have gone by, so she's 14.

Chapter Five - The Heart of a Queen

She becomes a Queen.

It happens so fast - Lucy discovering Narnia, Edmund's betrayal, Aslan sacrificing himself - that she barely has time to think. Her nerves are on edge the entire time, caught between worrying for her siblings and trying to reason her way through this new world, a world that shouldn't be real.

The night before her coronation, she stands in her chambers (her chambers, she can hardly believe it) examining her appearance. The blue gown she wears is the most gorgeous thing she has ever worn; she runs her hands down the fabric, her fingers delighting in the soft feel. Dark blue robes drape over her small shoulders, held in place by a gold brooch. Her black hair is curled and styled elegantly, and smells of some type of flower that she'd never smelled in Finchley.

She swallows hard, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Queens aren't supposed to be nervous, she thinks, and yet there is a part of her that argues that she is not a Queen, not really. She's twelve-years-old and there's no such thing as twelve-year-old Queens. Perhaps she's really just caught up in some imaginary game, something that Lucy invented to try to escape boredom at the Professor's house.

Susan imagines what her mother would say. She can see the woman in her mind's eye, laughing at this foolishness. "Oh, Susan, you're still such a child," she says, holding her close, amused at her daughter's vivid imagination.

Yet Susan has never had a vivid imagination. Her world is that of books and logic, of things she can touch and see. She can touch this fabric and see her reflection in the mirror, so this cannot all be a fantasy. In her fantasies, her freckles are absent. Now, they stand out on her cheekbones and across her nose.

More than that, if this was her fantasy, Edmund wouldn't have almost died. Susan would never dream of the white pain on his face, or the way his bloody fingers shook. She'd never dream of the hole in his side where he'd been stabbed by a Witch's sword, nor of his ragged, dying breaths. In her dreams, she wouldn't have cried over his body, fearing that his eyes would be closed forever. Her heart was too gentle for those kinds of fantasies.

Yes, she tells herself, smoothing her gown unnecessarily, this is very, very real.

--

She settles into life as a Queen; dinners served on silver plates, guards standing stiffly in the halls, visitors from other lands, and the never-ending, celebratory balls.

She watches her siblings grow, and the transformation Narnia has had on them is extraordinary. All traces of the kids from Finchley is gone from their faces as they stand tall and firm, proving themselves capable of being leaders.

Lucy proves herself to be quite the negotiator, bringing peace between all sorts of creatures and between foreign countries. No one can refuse her infectious smile and spirit. Edmund becomes known for his fair treatment of every person and every problem, and is always the best candidate to give advice. His dueling skills are also established as the stuff of legends.

And Peter is truly in his element. Full of love and compassion for his kingdom, he puts the Narnians before himself. His battle strategies are renowned and his good heart is apparent to anyone who looks upon him.

Susan feels lost among the titles of Valiant, Just, and Magnificent, and wonders what it means to be Gentle. She has no idea why Aslan thought that she, of all people, is worthy of a throne.

--

Edmund and Lucy skip a breakfast that Susan has helped the servants prepare, and walk past her so engrossed in conversation that they forget to say goodbye.

She follows them out to the stables and watches as they pack their horses in a rush. "What on earth is going on?" she asks them, and they turn to her as one, the expressions on their faces telling her that they hadn't even noticed her presence.

"Oh, sorry Susan!" says Lucy, giving her a fleeting hug. "We must go quickly, you see." And she continues to pack her horse.

"I don't see," says Susan, looking next to Edmund. Her brother has always hated feeling left out or ignored, so she hopes that at least he will explain something to her.

Edmund glances at her as he finishes his packing and goes to help Lucy with hers. "There's this horrible argument going on between the beavers and the badgers. The trees came to Lucy and told her it's quite serious and that someone may soon wind up hurt. We weren't told what exactly this is about, but we're going to put an end to it."

Susan picks up the saddle for her own horse and says, "Well, then I'll go with you."

Edmund and Lucy exchange a look, and Lucy turns to Susan while Edmund continues to pack her horse; Susan notices that he is decidedly not looking at her. "I know you want to help," Lucy tells her kindly, patting her hand consolingly, "but Ed and I aren't going to want to stop. We know that you like to rest a lot when you ride, but there really is no time. It's better that we go on without you, dear."

Susan sets her saddle back down and nods acceptingly. "Alright then, go. You're right, another person would probably slow you down."

Lucy kisses her and then goes over to Edmund. He takes her hand and lifts her so she can better get onto her horse (for she still is not quite tall enough to do it on her own), and then he mounts Philip.

"We're truly sorry to miss that breakfast you prepared, Su," he says, and his face surely is regretful. "I'm sure it tastes lovely."

"Well, I can bring out some biscuits for you," Susan offers, desperate to be useful. "I can be back in five minutes."

"Susan, there really is no time," says Lucy.

"Oh." She smiles. "Give my best to both the beavers and the badgers. I do hope whatever disagreement lies between them can be done away with."

They smile back and Ed says, "Sure hope so, Su."

Then they are gone.

--

"Your majesty?" says a voice, and Susan gives a half-smile as she looks down at a familiar face.

"Hello, Mr. Beaver," she says, beckoning for the animal to join her where she sits, on a stone bench in the gardens. In her hands is a half-finished wreath for Lucy. Her sister loves the bright yellow and purple flowers that seem to grow only in Narnia, and had gone on and on about making a wreath for her bedroom a few days ago. Susan has taken it upon herself to make the wreath for the younger girl, simply because she has the patience to make one. Lucy lacks the patience to sit still and weave the flowers together, preferring to choose activities that will allow her to run around and move.

Mr. Beaver climbs up the side of the bench to sit next to Susan, and gives her a furry smile.

"I heard of a disagreement between the beavers and badgers," says Susan. "Is everything quite alright?"

Mr. Beaver gives a tiny huff and then his smile comes back again. "It's all settled now, dear. Your majesties King Edmund and Queen Lucy helped a great deal."

Susan gives a short nod and plucks another flower from its stem to add to the wreath. "That's wonderful news."

"Yes, it is." Mr. Beaver pauses. "Highness, are you feeling well? You seem a bit under the weather."

Susan shakes her head. "I feel fine," she says.

"Yes?" prods Mr. Beaver, keen eyes focused on Susan's face. "I think I know you well enough to know when something's upset you."

Susan's cheeks flare a little at the scrutiny and she suddenly feels defensive. She's gone this long without anyone noticing how upset she's been and it's suited her. Susan has always been one to keep emotions inside, and she's always been fairly good at it. Once, her grandmother told her that emotion shown from a lady should be limited; a lady would never want to call too much attention to herself, or upset others with her troubles.

"Your majesty?" continues Mr. Beaver.

She doesn't answer, but continues to thread flowers onto the wreath. She knows that Mr. Beaver only has good intentions and that he cares very much for what's bothering her, but Susan doesn't really wish to speak with him. She doubts that Mr. Beaver would be able to understand her feelings, as he's never been asked to be a Queen, or a King for that matter.

Susan would much rather wish to talk with Lucy or Edmund or Peter about her insecurities, but she knows they won't understand either. It is perhaps this thought, that she cannot speak to her siblings about what she's going through, that bothers her most.

"Mr. Beaver," she says in what she knows is an artificially sweet tone, "I should think that the matters of a Queen don't concern you."

Mr. Beaver looks flustered for a moment, his tiny mouth open to form an 'o', and then he takes a step back, looking deeply ashamed and a little hurt. "I apologize if I offended you, my Queen," he says in a shaky voice.

He begins to crawl down the bench, defeated tail dragging behind him, and Susan tosses aside the wreath and buries her head in her hands. "Oh, I am simply horrid at this!" she exclaims, and Mr. Beaver turns around and looks up at her, blinking slowly.

She lifts her head after awhile, trying to appear as regal as possible, but this is made difficult by the tearstains on her face. "I apologize, Mr. Beaver. I shouldn't have said such a thing. I am just so bad at this. My remark wasn't very queenly, was it? This is all very much to take in. I don't deserve the crown that sits on my head, treating you that way. I don't deserve it at all, actually."

Mr. Beaver rushes back up the bench and takes Susan's small, delicate hand in his. "Oh, but your majesty. It was all in the prophecy! Two sons of Adam and two daughters of Eve - "

"I know," whispers Susan. "It was destiny, I suppose. I just don't understand why destiny chose me."

Mr. Beaver's padded paw pats her hand. "Why, it's because you're beautiful."

Susan withdraws her hand and sighs.

--

As she brushes her hair, she thinks of her mother. The brush makes slow strokes down her long hair as she tries to picture her mother's face. But she struggles to remember if her mother's hair was dark like Edmund's or fair like Peter's. She tries to hear the sound of her mother's voice, the consoling tone she used whenever one of them was distressed.

Susan spends an hour trying to put together the pieces of her mother, but is unable to finish the puzzle. It makes her quite sad and tears roll down her face. She wipes them away and tries to remember other things about her old world; visits to the cinema, the sound of the radio, school, her friends. They flash before her eyes and she misses them.

Susan misses herself, too. In England, she was useful. In England, she was needed. Here, she is nothing.

Not for the first time, she wishes she could go home.

--

Susan walks across the fields behind the castle, her raven hair flying freely about her face, her bow clutched in her hands. Her gait is quick and determined, and the light dress she wears swishes fiercely around her legs. A brown sack is slung over her shoulder, bouncing against the side of her thigh as she breaks out into a run. Away from the castle, away from the pressure. She needs to be alone, unburdened by servants doing everything for her or the weighty talk of Narnian affairs. She needs to prove to herself that she is worthy.

When Susan reaches the edge of the fields where the wood begins, she stops running. Her eyes rove over the different trees and she settles on a tall oak; a few of its branches are parallel to the grass, four feet above the ground. She approaches the tree, slightly out of breath from her speedy sprint, and opens her brown sack.

Inside is several bright red apples, freshly picked by Peter and Lucy that morning. Peter had asked her if she wouldn't mind taking them down to the kitchens, as he had lots of papers on his desk that needed tending to. Susan requested to use a few of the apples for target practice and Peter shrugged and gave his blessing.

She arranges the apples in row along the jutting branch of the tree, then retreats a few yards, squinting at them in the distance. Satisfied, she reaches for an arrow and holds it against the grip of her bow, training her eyes to the first apple in the row.

As she zeroes in on the fruit, she can't help but think that archery seems to be the only thing she's good at it here. She hasn't had to use her bow and arrow much - just once, on a dwarf that was about to attack Edmund as he lay dying on the battlefield - but she practiced rather a lot. She can remember the first time she shot an arrow, nearly two years ago. It had hit the target, but not perfectly, and she had been a bit disappointed in herself. But over time, she's grown a lot more accurate. It's the one thing she can do that her siblings can't; all three of them have horrible aim.

"Perhaps it's because you won't let me use your bow," Edmund had said grumpily when he had practiced for several hours and missed the target each time. He held up his own bow sadly. "Mine isn't very well magical, now is it?"

At the time, Susan had rolled her eyes, amused. "Well, I don't see why I should let you use it," she said, holding up her own bow, "After all, you don't ask Lucy for her cordial or Peter for his sword, do you?"

Now, the word 'magical' repeats in her mind, and she hears it in Edmund's voice. She knows that he had been right, that the reason her arrows hit targets with such skill is because of its magic. It has nothing to do with her.

This awareness causes her fingers to shake as she pulls back the string and releases the arrow.

She misses.

--

Peter finds Susan in the armory room at 3:00 in the morning, wearing white nightrobes and slippers, her hands ranging over the swords hanging from the walls. She doesn't notice him come in, nor does she see the incredibly confused expression on his face as he glimpses her. Susan has never had a keen interest in weaponry, her own bow excluded; she once said that her heart ached to think of battle and death.

"Susan, what in Aslan's name are you doing?" asks Peter suddenly, and Susan turns around quickly, clutching her chest in fright.

"Goodness, Peter," she says, breathing heavily, "you frightened me."

Peter stands on the opposite side of the room, dressed fully in his royal clothing, his left hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword. He gives her an apologetic glance. "I'm sorry if I frightened you. Why are you here?"

Defensively, she shoots back, "Why are you here?"

Peter chuckles lightly. "I couldn't sleep."

Susan crosses her arms across her chest. "Me neither."

"Do you want to talk - "

"No."

Peter holds up his hands in defense. "A walk then?"

"I'm dressed improperly."

He unbuttons his tunic, hands it to her. She places it on over her robes and kicks off her slippers.

"The beach," says Peter knowingly, kneeling down to unlace his boots.

--

They walk along the shore, bare feet moving in sync through the sand. The beach outside Cair Paravel remains the most beautiful part of the land, in Susan's opinion, and it is a place where she truly feels free.

Peter doesn't speak, doesn't ask her why she was in the armory room or why she's been acting rather queer lately. This is something she's always relied on him for - Edmund would have been commenting on how weird she's behaving and Lucy would beg to know what was wrong. But Peter just lets her be, knowing that she'll reveal her mind to him if she wants to.

Now that he's here with her, that's all she wants to do. Susan doesn't for one second believe that he'll understand what she's going through, but he's her older brother. And she really can't keep these feelings inside of her, not anymore.

"I was in the armory room because I wanted to feel a sword in my hands," she says finally, breaking the silence. "I wanted to feel as you do. That you're here for a reason. That you're worthy."

She continues to talk, the words spilling easily from her lips. She's reminded of how easy it is to talk to Peter about her troubles, about anything, and she resolves never to keep something from him again.

When Susan finishes her monologue, Peter turns and looks at her. She squints at him through the blackness, trying to make out the features on his face, trying to read his expression. The moon in the sky is hidden by clouds, making it hard to see. The only thing that she can make out is the golden crown on his head, which sparkles.

He takes her hand. "Susan," he says, "oh, Susan. You were born to be a Queen, don't you see?"

"No," she replies skeptically, "I don't."

"You're the most logical person I know," he says admirably. "You think through absolutely everything. You're brilliantly smart. You have all the qualities you don't think you have, and more. You would do anything for your people, anything. And they love you - "

"What do they love? My beauty? Even Edmund and Lucy think I'm useless."

"Oh, rubbish! Edmund and Lucy love you and look up to you."

"Mr. Beaver said I was beautiful, as if the way I look is all that matters."

"That's rubbish, too. He said you were beautiful, yes, but I doubt he was referring to just your looks. Though you are beautiful, it's your heart that matters. And you, dear sister, have a beautiful heart. That's what Mr. Beaver meant, I'm sure." He pauses, and her eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough that she can see his bemused expression. "If he was referring to just your outer beauty, why, I'll turn him into a hat. And then offer it to you as a gift."

Susan can't help but smile at that. Peter's thumbs brush across her knuckles as he continues his dialogue. "Even so, it doesn't matter what people say, either. Your heart is beautiful. It's a sacrificial heart, I'm certain."

"Sacrificial?" she says, confused.

"Oh, you know what 'sacrificial' means, you silly," says Peter. "Back home you would give your lunch to anyone without one, no second thoughts. Here, you always accompany Lucy when she needs to use her cordial on someone, even though I know you hate to see others in pain. You run this castle and put up with the maids and the linens while Ed and I (and sometimes Lucy) do things that are sometimes more exciting. And you're the best archer Narnia has seen, everyone knows that. I know that you'd kill in battle, not out of want, but because you care so much for this land and its people. If that isn't the mark of a Queen, I don't know what is."

Susan takes her hand out of his and presses it morosely against her forehead. "But my bow has failed me. My arrows don't strike anymore. I don't know why, for it is magical. Perhaps I'm not really meant to have it."

"You are meant to have it," says Peter sharply. "Father Christmas gave it to you, no one else."

"But I miss. Why do I miss?"

"Do you trust?"

Susan furrows her brow. "What?"

"Do you trust in the bow?"

"Of course I do! It's magical! How could I not?"

"Well, then perhaps you miss because you do not trust in yourself," says Peter sensibly.

The logic of his words leaves Susan momentarily speechless as she realizes that her brother is absolutely right. Peter takes this moment to take hold of her hand again.

"It doesn't matter how many of us believe and trust in you," speaks Peter boldly. "What matters is your belief and trust in yourself. You are a Queen, Susan, and I know that if you accept yourself, you'll be a magnificent one. And the rest of us - Lu, Ed, myself - we wouldn't be anything without you. Please see that."

Susan has never seen Peter look so earnest as he does now, holding her hand with both of his, pressing them against his heart ardently. His blue eyes shine at her with encouragement and devotion, and she believes. Believes in what he's saying and in herself, and she lets out a breath of relief and thanks. A small smile makes its way across her face and Peter's face breaks its seriousness as he smiles, too.

They resume walking, and Susan feels different somehow. She feels worthy, and it's something she's never felt before.

She and Peter continue to talk, but of nothing that she will remember later. All she will remember is Peter's steadfastness in her.

Their walk is interrupted after a few hours have passed, when the sun has risen in the sky and Oreius finds them on the beach. He calls Peter to the castle to discuss the arrangements for a visit from the King of Archenland. Peter reluctantly looks over at Susan and she sees that he doesn't want to leave her, but she shakes her head and sacrifices his company because she knows it is the right thing to do. He has more important things to do than walk along the beach with his sister.

"Always remember what I've said, Queen," he tells her, and she nods, her heart swelling with love at his emphasis of her title.

"I will, High King," she responds softly.

He bows to her then and leaves a kiss on her hand, and then he turns to Oreius. But Susan is sure that his words will stay with her forever.

She watches him walk away, becoming smaller and smaller until he is nothing but a dot against the red sun. She thinks of her mother, and how proud she would be of Peter, of all of them, and she can suddenly see her mother's hair (dark) and hear her mother's consoling tone (a whisper of, "Your brother's right, Susan").

For the first time, she feels royal and Narnia feels like home.

--

She releases the arrow. It rips through the air and strikes the apple, slicing it neatly in two.

--

He kisses her to reassure her.

--

Read the next chapter here! ♥

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What's in a Kiss, chapter 4

2008-06-17T22:19:51Z

Title: What's In a Kiss
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: Peter/Susan, non-incestuous
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He always leaves her with a kiss. This Chapter - Susan enters Narnia.
Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3
A/N: This chapter chronicles a lot of the events in LWW. Because I'm still torn between which version I like better - book or movie - this is a bit of a combination of the two. Some exchanges are straight from the book, others straight from the movie, and others are a mixture between the two. I hope nothing's too confusing. Enjoy! ♥

Chapter Four - Of Wardrobes and Wolves

Susan had never been the brave one. She was always the smart one, the pretty one, the mannerly one, but never had she been called brave.

She can remember the first time she ever heard the word. She was quite young and playing a game of hide and seek with Peter. Determined to win this time, she hid herself in a place where she knew Peter would not look - in their mother's wardrobe. Being as young as she was, her sensibility had not yet developed, and as such she did not know that you should never, never shut yourself in a wardrobe.

Being surrounded by her mother's long, fancy dresses did not give her any comfort when she realized that somehow she had locked herself in. She banged on the wood and was scared in the darkness, crying for Peter.

It took her brother ages to find her and when he did, she spilled out from the wardrobe sobbing. He awkwardly patted her on the head (and as Susan's sensibility had not yet developed, neither had Peter's sensitivity) and asked her please to stop crying.

"Just be brave, Su," he said, and though she had no idea what the word meant, she dried her eyes and resolved to look it up in the dictionary.

The next time she heard the word was when Edmund fell ill at the age of seven. The doctor, and old man with a long black mustache, told them that he might die. His grave face struck an awful note in her heart and Susan thought she might faint from how scared she was. Edmund pressed on through his sickness, though, and when he wasn't pale and shaking anymore, the doctor clapped him on the back and said, "Why, I've never seen such a strong fellow. You're a brave one, lad."

The word was used almost every week when it came to her youngest sibling, Lucy, who had a spirit for adventure and mischief. Always getting herself into something exciting and unknowingly dangerous, she had a habit for surprising them all with her valiance.

Once, mother and father had taken them all to the park, and the second eyes were not on Lucy, the young girl climbed the tallest tree she could find. Susan remembers how wide her smile was when they saw her up in the tree ("Hi!" she proudly said, waving down at them) and how quickly that smile vanished when it dawned on her that she didn't know how to get down. Father had gone to the tree and talked to her soothingly, encouraging her to climb down aways and then jump into his arms. "I'll catch you, darling," he'd said.

Lucy had needed no further convincing and did exactly as she was told, trusting that her father would indeed catch her.

Afterwards, mother went on and on about how brave her little Lucy was, how not a trace of fear had been present in her round eyes. Susan stood back from the circle her family made around her sister, her hands shaking with relief, her heart still pounding with fright.

--

When she enters the wintery wood of Narnia, she feels a bit of fear swelling in her gut. This new world is beautiful and enchanting, but the fact that other worlds even exist unsettles her a bit. She wants to go back into the wardrobe nearly the moment she stumbles out of it.

Nevertheless, she ventures out with her siblings. Lucy decides she wants to go visit her friend, who she says is a faun, and they follow her as she leads the way to his home. As they walk through the thick blanket of snow, Susan can't help the smile that dances across her lips. She has always liked the winter. She giggles as Peter trips himself up and falls down laughing, then drops next to him to make snow angels. Lucy attempts to engage Edmund in the fun by throwing a snowball at him, and he cracks a tiny, barely-there smile.

Laying there, laughing and shivering, all Susan can think about is how happy her family is. She thinks it's the first time she's heard Peter laugh since their father was sent away. For this moment, the four of them are in a world where there is no War, no pain, no suffering. It seems simply perfect.

--

They reach the vandalized home of the faun Tumnus (or was it Thomas?) and Susan thinks she might have been wrong. Lucy's dear new friend has been accused of treason against the Queen of Narnia by fraternizing with humans. Susan bites her lip when Peter reads this last part of the letter - apparently humans aren't welcome in this country. "I don't know that I'm going to like this place after all," she says.

Peter turns to Lucy and asks who this Queen is, and Lucy explains that she's really not a Queen at all, but a horrible witch. Susan opens her mouth to scold her for her language, but then she puts a hand over her heart. Lu means a real witch.

"I - I wonder if there's any point in going on," Susan says, her heart racing. "I mean, it doesn't seem particularly safe here and it looks as if it won't be much fun either. And it's getting colder every minute, and we've brought nothing to eat. What about just going home?"

Lucy implores her that they need to save Mr. Tumnus/Thomas, that it is her fault he's been arrested. Edmund argues that they can do nothing, reiterating Susan's earlier point about the lack of food. Peter angrily tells him to shut up, and turns to her. "What do you think, Susan?" he asks.

She wants to agree with Edmund, to say that they need to go back home, but the look on Lucy's face stops her. Wishing that she could say no to her sister, just once, she sighs. "I've a horrid feeling that Lu is right," she says, and Lucy lips turn slightly upwards. Susan sighs again, more heavily this time. "I don't want to go a step further and wish we'd never come. But I think we must try to do something for Mr. Whatever-his-name is - I mean the faun."

"That's what I feel, too," says Peter.

Susan promises herself to be brave, no matter what they face.

--

There are talking beavers here and a prophecy and apparently a King who happens to be a Lion, and it's too much to wrap her head around. Rescuing Mr. Tumnus is far from her thoughts now. This isn't fun for her anymore - this is plain foolishness - and all she wants to do is get back to the Professor's house and take a warm bath.

"Thanks for your hospitality," she informs the beavers, standing up from the table. She silently hopes that Peter does the same, that he's had enough of this like she has. When he does, she quickly smiles with relief.

And then Edmund goes missing.

--

Her mind is plagued with thoughts of her little brother and she can't help but think that none of this would have happened if they had never come to this place. Her nerves are at their breaking point and in a shaking voice she unfairly accuses Peter, saying it is his fault they are here and he is the reason why Ed's run off. His glare is pained and angry, and he yells back. Then Lucy breaks in, making them see that their fighting isn't going to help Edmund.

Mr. Beaver says that Aslan is the only one who can help their brother now and Susan tries to fight the anxiety she has over meeting the Lion. She's scared of him, but she's even more scared of the White Witch and what will happen to Ed. She wishes for something to calm her, to ease her fears, and her silent prayer is answered the next morning.

Father Christmas finds them and pulls a large bag out of his sleigh, a happy smile on his face. Lucy goes to him first and he looks her directly in the eye, holding up a tiny, crystal bottle. "The juice of the fireflower. One drop will cure any injury. And though I hope you never have to use it..." He gives her a small dagger and Susan fights back the urge to tug such a dangerous item from her sister's hands.

"Thank you, sir," says Lucy. "I think I could be brave enough."

"I'm sure you could, but battles are ugly affairs." He gives her an encouraging smile and pulls other items from his bag, calling to Susan.

She steps forward hesitantly and accepts from him a quiver and arrows. "Trust in this bow and it will not easily miss," he tells her, his voice emphasizing the word 'trust'.

She stares at him, feeling confused and frightened all at once. "What happened to 'battles are ugly affairs'?"

He chuckles heartily. "Though you don't seem to have a problem making yourself heard, blow on this and wherever you are, help will come." He holds out a beautifully crafted horn and Susan looks upon it with awe, and a calming comes over her, a feeling that everything will be okay.

Father Christmas turns to Peter last and hands him a shield and a sword. Susan watches as Peter pulls the sword from its sheath, how his eyes rove down the metal blade with determined acceptance. The expression on his face has never been more brave, more noble, and she no longer feels, but knows that everything will be okay.

--

They stand before the great Lion, and Susan cannot look at him. She trembles at the sight of his fierce face, his great eyes, and she can feel that Peter and Lucy, too, are trembling.

"Go on," whispers Mr. Beaver.

"No," says Peter, just as quietly. "You first."

"No, Sons of Adam before animals," insists Mr. Beaver.

"Susan," Peter whispers. "What about you? Ladies first."

She gives him an anxious stare and shakes her head. "No, you're the eldest."

They go on like this for awhile, awkwardly and stubbornly, neither of them wanting to give in. Finally Peter draws his magnificent sword and raised it to salute, telling them, "Come on. Pull yourselves together." He steps forward toward the Lion and says, "We have come - Aslan."

Just the sound of the Lion's name makes Susan tremble even more, but she feels less awkward now. They all begin to talk and Aslan seeks an explanation for Edmund's betrayal.

They all fall silent until Peter takes it upon himself to do the speaking. "It was my fault," he says, no longer looking brave but sad. "I was angry with him and I think that helped him to go wrong. I was too hard on him."

Susan's heart flutters with guilt at accusing Peter for Edmund's actions, and she wants so badly to apologize, to assure him that the blame is not fully is. But this is not the time or the place for verbal apologies. Instead, she runs a hand up his arm to rest on his shoulder and squeezes it gently. He glances down at her with understanding as she bravely turns to Aslan.

"We all were," she says, looking the Lion directly in the eyes.

--

"You look like Mum," says Lucy in a soft voice, touching the fabric of Susan's green dress.

"Mum hasn't had a dress like this since before the War," Susan remarks, and it's not the first time since being in this new land that she's thought about her mother.

Now she thinks of her all dressed to go out with their father for a night on the town, her black hair hanging in curls around her neck. She sees her working tirelessly to fashion a new pair of mittens for Lucy, even though she's worked all day. She sees her soaking her blistered, tired feet in a tub of hot water while helping Peter with his studies.

She misses her.

"We should bring her one back!" says Lucy excitedly. "A whole trunk full!"

"If we ever get back," says Susan, unable to keep the sadness out of her voice.

If Mum knew what we were doing, is the continuous thought that's run throughout her mind the entire time they've been here. What would her mum say if she knew they had talked to a terrifying and beautiful Lion? What would she say if she knew that they had almost lost Lucy to the river? What would she say if she knew Edmund had been taken by the White Witch?

She resolves to get back home as soon as possible. They'll find Ed and then they'll all go back to the wardrobe, back to the Professor's. Only, she thinks, her mother won't be there either.

She looks down at Lucy, whose eyes are focused on the grass now. Susan feels awful for taking away her excitement and she forces a soft smile. "I'm sorry I'm like that."

Lucy looks back up at her and Susan feels that she understands. Something about this place has given Lucy a certain intuitiveness about others and it amazes Susan how her sister has changed in just a few short days. Or perhaps Lucy had changed a long while ago and she's only noticed it now. She's been so busy worrying for her sister that she hasn't really seen her.

"We used to have fun together, didn't we?" Susan continues. Before I started acting like your mother. Before I started trying to be smart all the time.

"Yes," says Lucy, and then she giggles. "Before you got boring!"

Well, that is certainly another way to put it.

"Oh, really?" she says with a mischievious grin, and she splashes her sister with water from the brook. Lucy squeals and splashes her back, and then they are both laughing and wiping the water from their eyes.

Susan rushes to get a towel, Lucy following behind her. And then there is a wolf, grey and ferocious, its fur sticking out dangerously, it's yellow eyes purging into her soul. He growls and its the ugliest sound Susan's ever heard. She and Lucy give small shrieks of fear as another wolf appears.

"Please don't try to run," says the first wolf, "We're tired and we prefer to kill you quickly." The second wolf circles around them, its teeth bared and dripping with saliva.

Susan looks over at Lucy, full of fear, and her sister's eyes go to the nearby pavilon. Susan's horn hangs there and she quickly nods at Lucy.

With a strangled yell, she throws the towel into the face of the wolf in front of her. "Go, Lucy!" she screams, meaning for her run to the nearest tree and climb, but Lucy runs in completely the opposite direction; Susan runs for her horn.

While the first wolf rolls around to remove the towel from his face, the second wolf looks between Susan and Lucy, torn as to which one he should go after. He advances toward Susan as she blows hard into her horn, and nips at her feet as she runs toward the tree.

Both wolves are chasing after her now, growling ferociously, and when Susan reaches the tree she jumps as high as she can, her arms circling around a large branch. Her hands scrape against the bark clumsily as she tries to get a good grip and pull herself up. She manages to climb up to another, higher, branch in the tree and she holds on for dear life.

She's in an awkward position, one leg wrapped around the second branch, the other dangling down so that her foot is only an inch away from the snapping teeth. She tells herself to go higher, to pull up her other leg, but she can't. She's not strong enough.

Susan struggles to keep clinging to the branch, but she feels as if every part of her body is on fire. Terror throbs through her every muscle, white dots pierce her vision, and her hands sting with cuts and blood.

Help, help, help, she pleads silently, feeling violently sick. She knows her body won't be able to handle this for much longer, that her grip will loosen and she'll fall to her death. Somewhere inside of her, she's comforted by the fact that Lucy is not here, that she's run away.

She closes her eyes and bites down on her lip, hard. One of her hands slips just so...one of the wolves bites her ankle, but she doesn't have the energy to even cry out...

Susan knows she's going to die, and she's glad at least that she'll die bravely.

And then she hears Peter's voice. "Susan! Susan!" he cries, rushing toward her. She wants to yell at him to stay away, but he comes anyway, a small army of creatures behind him. His sword is clasped awkwardly in his hand. The wolves turn to him now, taunting and howling at him, and she knows she's going to faint.

Then she hears another growl, but it is the growl of a Lion, and a horrible squeal comes from one of the wolves. The sound of its pain and defeat gives Susan the strength to finally pull her other leg up. She wraps her arms around the tree's trunk, eyes still closed, tears streaking down her face. Aslan tells the other creatures to slay their weapons, that this is Peter's battle, and Susan chokes on a sob. She doesn't want him to be killed for her.

Over the sounds of her sobbing, she can't hear the wolf attack Peter, nor the sound of her brother's blade going through the brute's heart. She doesn't hear Peter wrestling with the wolf, nor the horrible cracking that sounds when its teeth knock against his forehead. She doesn't hear the wolf's final cry of pain, nor Peter's frantic breathing when he sees that the monster is dead.

"Susan?" says Peter after a few moments, his voice quaking. "Susan, it's alright. I've slayed the wolf."

There is a proud tremor in his voice, and Susan admires him for being so brave. She wants to hug him and thank him for rescuing her, but she finds that she cannot move. How dearly she wants to come down from this tree, but she can't. Her body is stiff and shocked, still paralyzed with fear, and her ankle burns with pain. Her entire body convulses.

"Susan, please," begs Peter. "You have me scared to death. Everything's okay."

Her eyes open. Below her stands Peter, blue eyes bright, his face glistening with sweat. Wordlessly, he beckons for her to come down from the tree, holding out a bloody hand to her. It shakes.

She thinks of Lucy in the tree, of Edmund when he was ill, and she tries to be brave like them.

Slowly, Susan begins to climb down. She is able to reach the first large branch of the tree, but then her ankle weakens and she falls the rest of the way down. Peter catches her, but he too is weak, and they fall backwards onto the grass. The feeling that she is going to pass out is overwhelming, but the relieved look in her brother's eyes is even more overwhelming. She throws her arms wildly around him.

He holds her tightly and buries his face in the crook of her neck. Her heart beats furiously against her chest and she can feel his do the same. They're both shaking from head to toe, relief and adrenaline still pumping through them. Tears flow freely down her cheeks and she can feel his own tears on her skin. Her hands grip at his sweat soaked golden hair. Then she presses kisses on his face as his own lips seek out her forehead, her nose, her cheeks. She's aware that they're both whispering nonsensical things to each other now, voices unnaturally high pitched, and they're making quite a scene. For once she doesn't care about appearances.

"You were so brave, Su," he says against her hair and she cries even harder, holding him closer and kissing his face again.

But in Narnia no one thinks any the worse of you for that.

--

After awhile they pull themselves together, and then she and Lucy watch as Aslan taps Peter's shoulders with the flat of his sword. "Rise up, Sir Peter Wolf's-Bane," he says, and Peter turns to his sisters, smiling.

Susan smiles; her brother is a Knight now.

He'd always been one to her.

--

Susan uses the light of the fire to examine the deep gash on Peter's forehead and the places on his forearms that the wolf had managed to attack. He wraps her cut hands in bandages and winces at the sight of her gnashed ankle.

As they head off to their seperate tents later that night, she kisses his forehead the way her mother used to kiss her bruises and scrapes. He kisses the palm of her hand where her cuts used to be and begins to walk away from her when he stops and turns back.

"Don't wander off alright?" he says. "I can't lose you, too."

It's his indirect way of talking about Edmund, but she knows he doesn't want to press the conversation further. She hopes that they find him soon.

Susan nods and begins to limp away to her tent, but then she stops as well. She calls out his name and he turns around, and his eyes shine at her even in the darkness. When she speaks, her voice is quiet but still carries across the night. "Thank you."

Peter grins.

--

He kisses her so she knows that he'll always keep her safe.

--

Read the next chapter here! ♥

--

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Thanks for all your comments & reviews! They mean a lot to me and really help me out. ♥

What's in a Kiss, chapter 3

2008-06-11T19:24:55Z

Title: What's In a Kiss
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: Peter/Susan, non-incestuous
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He always leaves her with a kiss. This Chapter - Susan deals with her father's absence.
Previous Chapters: 1, 2
A/N: I think at this point I should clarify something. I had my little sister read this fic and she was confused about the ages of the Pevensie siblings, and since movie!Pevensie ages don't quite add up to book!Pevensie ages, I thought I should let you know that I'm following the book ages all the way. During this chapter, Peter is 13, Susan is 12, Edmund is 10, and Lucy is 9. :)

Thanks once again for all of your kind reviews! They make my day!

Chapter Three - Playing Mum and Dad

Three weeks have passed since her father left the family to fight in the war. Susan quickly notices that his absence has left more than just an empty seat at the dinner table, but a void in the entire family.

The first week hadn't been so terrible, as it was easy to pretend that he was away on a business trip. Her mother had been strong and Lucy had held the hope that he would come back very soon, waiting for him by the door for hours on end.

Now, Lucy doesn't wait by the door anymore. Edmund has become nastier than ever, and her mother has completely broken down. She walks around the house as if in a trance and retires to bed early each night. Susan can hear her weep late at night and it breaks her heart.

Peter steps quickly into their father's role, taking to heart his father's parting words: "You are the man of the house now." He gets a newspaper route to help mother with payments and reads to the family each night by the fire. He is the first to wake each morning and the last to go to bed each night. His voice becomes more authoritative and he stands straighter, though the weight of the family is now on his shoulders.

Susan doesn't think she's ever seen someone grow up so quickly, and she takes it upon herself to lessen his burdens. She assigns herself the task of caring for their mother and helping her run the house. She cleans and cooks and kisses the scrapes on Lucy's knees when she falls.

At night, after she and Peter have tucked Lucy and Edmund into bed, they retreat to the living room. It is the only time of the day they have for themselves, and it is a time they relish. Peter sits on the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of them, while Susan sits primly in the armchair by the fireplace. He reads the newspaper and she knits, a scarf for Lucy, a hat for Edmund.

Most nights, the hours pass in silence. But sometimes he tells her about what's going on in America, in Japan, and they speak of their father in hushed tones. Sometimes they speak of mother and the ongoing headache she seems to be suffering from, and if they should call a doctor. They never speak of how they still ache for their father and miss the woman their mother used to be, and how they know their roleplaying routine will eventually fail.

But mostly, they are silent, and it suits them.

When they grow tired and decide to go to bed, they walk next to each other on the stairs, shoulders bumping into each other, slippered feet making scuffled sounds on the wood. They stop walking when they reach their bedrooms, across from each other in the middle of the hallway. They lean in simultaneously, and her hands touch his forearms as they kiss each other on the cheek.

"Goodnight, Susan," he always says, and it's an encouragement that they'll continue this charade tomorrow.

"Goodnight, Peter," she says back, and it's a promise that she'll be by his side.

A realization hits her as she closes her bedroom door - she's grown up, too.

--

Soon, their mother leaves them, too. The air raids have made it impossible for them to stay in Finchley any longer, and they are sent to a Professor's house to stay for an undisclosed amount of time. Mrs. Pevensie hugs them one by one as they wait by the train station. First comes Lucy, whose lower lip trembles as she tries to restrain herself from going in for a second hug; then Edmund, who stiffens at her hug and tries not to grab her hand as it caresses his face. Next comes Susan, who holds her tightly and tries not to cry; then Peter, who promises to take care of all of them.

The Professor's house is huge and vastly different from their small home in Finchley. Mrs. Macready is horrible and the Professor himself is absent, and Susan has never felt so alone.

She and Peter promise Edmund and Lucy that their time spent here will be filled with fun and games, that they will have a marvelous time. But their younger siblings see right through their false smiles, knowing that they, too, are miserable. Somehow, they are unable to uphold their parental roles, and are reduced to sister and brother desperately trying to fill mummy's and daddy's shoes.

--

"How about a game of chess, Edmund?" asks Peter, having found an old, dusty chess set. He sets it on the floor in front of Edmund's feet and begins to set up the pieces, smiling.

Susan, who has been reading to Lucy, looks over at the two of them. She bites her lip, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Though both Peter and Edmund had an affinity for chess, they hadn't played together for quite a long time. They were often too competitive and the game always ended badly. When they used to play, Peter always won and Edmund always played the part of a sore loser. Once, Edmund had ranted about Peter being too good at everything, so perfect, and how he hated him for it. Since then, they had both resolved to only play the game with their father, never with each other.

For a moment, Edmund smiles and Susan thinks that perhaps that the two of them playing would be a good idea. It would certainly help them to bond, she tells herself.

And then, the smile on her younger brother's face changes, and it is a mocking, awful smile. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he asks.

"Yes," says Peter, not picking up on Edmund's tone.

Then Edmund starts to shout, which Peter is quickly able to pick up. "Well, I don't! I hate you! I hate you! You're not dad! You're not!"

And he kicks over the chess set, sending the rooks and bishops flying, and storms out of the room.

Lucy slips out of Susan's lap and gives Peter a hug. He hugs her back, and then the two of them quietly begin to pick up the chess pieces. Susan's eyes stay on Peter, a sadness washing over her.

Peter looks up at her, obviously having felt her gaze on him. "What?" he says.

Susan sighs. "I'm sorry that happened, Peter," she tells him. "Perhaps later the two of you can play a different game. Chess obviously wasn't a good idea."

Peter's eyes flash. "Well," he says, "obviously."

Susan's face flushes. "Did I say something wrong?" she asks, taken aback by the sharpness in his voice.

Peter throws the chess pieces he has collected onto the glass coffee table, and glares down at her. "I'm sorry I don't know everything. I'm sorry I'm not perfect."

Susan shuts the book in her lap and stands up. "I never said you were. I don't expect you to be."

He changes tack. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"When?" Susan doesn't think she's ever been so confused.

"Just now! Why didn't you say anything to Edmund? You could have defended me."

Susan stares up at him. "I...Peter, I don't know what you expect of me. He was upset. I doubt anything I could have said would have changed that. And now you're upset, too." She reaches out a hand to touch his shoulder. "I don't know what to do Peter, any better than you do."

He looks at her, and his glare grows even more intense. "What's that supposed to mean, 'any better than you do?'" He pushes her hand off his shoulder.

"Oh, you're acting like a petulant child!" she yells at him, and her cheeks grow red with anger. "I'm obviously not trying to insult you! Don't lash out at me!"

"There it is again! Obviously! I must be too dense to recongize when something's obvious or not! I suppose I'm not perfect like you!" he yells back.

"STOP IT!" cries a small voice, and they both look down at Lucy. Tears are streaming down her face and her shoulders shake with her tiny sobs.

Susan exchanges a guilty look with Peter, and sweeps Lucy into her arms, holding her until her shoulders stop shaking. "Oh, Lucy, we're so sorry. We don't mean to yell. Are you alright, sweet one?"

Lucy sniffs and nods, then runs into Peter's arms. He reassures her as well. "I was just upset, that's all. Do you forgive me, Lu?" Her small head bobs up and down, and Peter pokes her nose. "Good. Now do you mind if I talk with Susan alone?"

Lucy looks up at Susan worriedly. "It's alright, dear. Go on."

Lucy leaves them, and the air between them becomes awkward and tense. Susan doesn't know what to say and so she says nothing, waiting for Peter to speak. After all, she reasons, it was Peter who started this argument. He should be the one to apologize first.

But Peter doesn't apologize. Instead, he reaches behind him and picks up the chess board. "Play with me?" he pleads softly, and though Susan despises the game, she recognizes this as a peace offering.

--

When he wins, she smiles, though her heart is still heavy with the words from their altercation.

"Peter," she starts timidly. "I'm sorry if you think that I expect you to be perfect. I don't... and that's not an insult," she adds hurriedly. "I think you're wonderful with Ed and Lu. I just think Ed really misses father. It has nothing to do with you."

He smiles, too. "I know," he says, sighing. "He just needs time."

"And Peter?" She reaches across the table and places her hand over his, knowing he won't shrug it away now. "I'm sorry if you expect me to be perfect. I'm not. If you think that way, I'll only disappoint you. I wouldn't want that."

Peter lowers his eyes embarrasedly. "I guess I just got used to leaning on you, Su."

"I got used to it, too," she admits. "Leaning on you, that is. Not myself."

They laugh, and it feels so good to finally laugh at something. In that moment, she feels like a child again, and she treasures the moment, not wanting it to fade away.

--

That night, they tuck in Edmund and Lucy and go to the living room. They speak of plans for tomorrow (cricket if it doesn't rain and hide-and-seek if it does), and tell immature jokes they heard at school, delighting in each other's company and the freedom in knowing they don't have to be adults around each other.

And as they head up to bed, they stop in the middle of the hallway. They lean in, and Susan's hands rest on Peter's forearms as they kiss each other on the cheek.

"Goodnight, Peter," she says, smiling.

"Goodnight, Susan," he says, and he gives her an extra kiss.

--

He kisses her because they're a team.

--

Read the next chapter here! ♥

What's In a Kiss, chapter 2

2008-06-09T17:34:30Z

Title: What's In a Kiss
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: Peter/Susan, non-incestuous
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He always leaves her with a kiss. This Chapter - Makeup and fancy nylons do not hold good results for Susan.
Previous Chapters: 1
A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed last chapter! I'm glad you're enjoying this so far. :D

Chapter Two - Lipstick and Nylons

When Susan turns eleven years old, she doesn't expect much. The War has officially begun and money is not something she often sees. She blows out the candle on her small birthday cake, and makes no wish, because she has told herself that it is selfish to wish for anything in these hard times.

The presents on the table in front of her are simple, but wonderful. Lucy has given her a piece of peppermint candy, Edmund has drawn her a picture of something she can't quite make out, and Peter has given her an old switchblade. She reckons he found it in the attic somewhere. Her father gives her a pair of nylons, which she's never owned before.

Her mother, however, gives her the best gift - makeup. For years she has watched her mother stand in front of the vanity, carefully applying all sorts of powders and creams and lipsticks to her face, and she's always been very intrigued by it all.

"Thank you so much, mum!" she squeals excitedly, going through the rouge and eyeshadow, and looking at herself in the compact mirror. "Oh, it's wonderful!"

--

The next day it is not so wonderful, and she thinks she might be having the worst day of her life.

The girls at school, one day her friends and the next her enemies, had not been pleased by the new, prettier Susan Pevensie. Margaret Lowenstein had glared and spat out the word, "Slut", which Susan knew the meaning of as a result of her dictionary games.

She is outside, surrounded by a crowd of girls who jeer and laugh at her. She cries as they advance, tearing at the nylons they cannot afford, slapping at her made up face. Her tears run hot and angry down her cheeks, but she is paralyzed and unable to stop them.

Susan had heard about bullies before from Edmund, had seen him come home in tears and bruises. She now thinks of how stupid she had been to tell him to "rise above" and "use your words". She sees how useless that advice is now.

--

When she comes home, hours later, she feels as if she has no more tears left to cry. Her body stings where the girls left nail marks, her clothes are ripped and she can't even bear to think of what her makeup looks like.

She reaches her front door and pauses, afraid to go inside. What will her family say? Her hand rests on the doorknob and she stands there, unmoving, for about five minutes.

Then, the door opens and she jumps at the shock. "Susan!" exclaims Peter. "Where have you been?"

And then he takes in her appearance, from her tangled hair to the broken buckle on her shoe. His face pales and he wordlessly takes her hand, pulling her inside and shutting the door behind him. He leads her to the sofa, and pushes her down by the shoulders to sit.

"What happened?"

Susan lowers her eyes to the floor, not wanting to look at him. She's embarrassed enough to be in this state, to have been humiliated and abused by her cruel classmates for no reason at all. To have her brother stand over her, concerned eyes boring into her, and see her this way makes her feel nothing but shame.

"Lucy!" Peter calls, and she bounces into the room. "Get some cloths and a pan of water quickly," he orders her, and she doesn't question him or ask what's wrong. She glances at Susan worriedly, but runs off to do what she has been told.

Susan finds her voice. "Where are mother and father?" she asks softly. She doesn't want anyone else to see her like this.

"They're out at Uncle Harold's and Aunt Alberta's," he says. "But that doesn't matter. Are you alright?"

He takes her face in his hands, examining her the way a doctor would examine a patient, running his fingers softly along the bruise on her cheek and her swollen lip. "Goodness, Susan, you're bleeding."

She brings her hands up to pull his away. "I'm fine," she says, but even she has to admit that she doesn't sound convincing. His hands stay on her face despite her soundless pleading, and she drops her own back down to her lap.

Lucy comes back into the room, her dress swishing around her ankles, and kneels next to them on the ground. She hands Peter a wet cloth, which he uses to dab at Susan's face, washing away the blood and smudged makeup. She tries not to wince, but cannot help herself.

"Oh, Su," says Lucy, touching her sister's ravished nylons. "What happened? Please tell us."

Susan feels like weeping at the thought of having to tell them, to relive what had happened. She shakes her head fiercely and blinks back tears, while Peter continues to mop her face.

"What's going on?" says voice, and Susan looks up to see that Edmund has entered the room. He leans against the doorway frame of the kitchen and crosses his arms. The sour expression on his face darkens, though his eyes soften at the sight of her. He has been through this before, and is perhaps the only one who can understand what she's feeling. Seeing him gives her the courage to speak.

She tells her siblings what happened, though she is careful not to tell Lucy and Edmund that she was called a slut, as they are too young to understand what that word means. Partway through the story, her voice breaks and she begins to sob, not wanting to continue. Lucy pats her knee in a reassuring manner, and Peter brings her even closer to him, allowing her to bury her face in his chest and cry. His other arm wraps around her, too, and he rubs her back gently, whispering, "It'll be okay" in her ear.

When she composes herself, he pushes her away slightly, forcing her to lift her head. "Susan, it doesn't matter what they think. They're just jealous of you. You're so much more beautiful than any of them and they know it. And everybody is upset at the economic status of the country, you know that. They probably thought you were flaunting your new things off to them."

At Susan's look, he hastily adds, "But I know you weren't, Susan, you're not like that. You could never be like that."

"It's just a shame you didn't bring your new switchblade to school," adds Edmund. "You could have really shown them." Susan chokes on a sob at the thought.

"Edmund!" cries Lucy.

"Ed," says Peter in a half annoyed, half amused voice. "That really would not have helped matters. Don't say foolish things like that to Susan."

He turns back to her, wiping away the last of her tears, and leaves a lingering kiss on her nose.

Abruptly he stands and pulls his jacket from the hook by the door. "I'll be back later," he promises. "Lu, go and get Susan cleaned up, okay?"

Lucy nods, and then he is gone. Edmund comes over to the sofa and helps Susan to her room, and she is so touched by this unexpected gesture from her closed off, anti-affection programmed brother that she begins to cry again.

--

Peter returns three hours later, with a black eye and a slightly crooked nose.

--

He kisses her to comfort her.

--

Read the next chapter here! ♥

What's In a Kiss, chapter 1

2008-06-07T06:48:28Z

Title: What's In a Kiss
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Pairing: Peter/Susan, non-incestuous
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He always leaves her with a kiss.
A/N: I've become inspired to write Narnia fanfic again, and this is the result. It's a story about Peter and Susan, non-incestuous, and will be chaptered. I hope you forgive me for any mistakes in the writing, and if it seems a little rusty. It's been awhile. But I hope you enjoy, and I'd love to know what you think!

Chapter One - Dictionary Games

In a person's life, there are several scattered moments when realization comes upon them, when something is finally noticed. Susan Pevensie has had several of these moments over the years, and they all have come upon her suddenly, in dawning, life-defining times.

When she was four years old and Margaret Lowenstein bit her on the arm for hoarding her toy blocks, for example, Susan realized it is better to share. When she was six and her brother Edmund’s lollipop fell into the mud and he started to cry, she realized that the happiness of her siblings comes before her own, and it is for this reason that she gave him her lollipop.

But there is one particular realization that did not come upon her suddenly, but quietly over time, and if you were to ask her when it came to her, she would not be able to tell you.

She realized that she can always tell when her brother Peter is going to leave her. It is never because he says so, or because of a particular expression on his face, but because of a simple act.

He always leaves her with a kiss.

Not a soft smirk like Edmund or a fierce hug like Lucy, but with a kiss. There is a meaning behind each kiss, something that he is trying to tell her, but cannot put into words. Above all, his kisses are a reassurance that even though he is leaving, he will always come back, and he is leaving a part of himself with her until her returns.

--

The large Oxford dictionary her father gave her when she was seven is placed on her lap, open to the letter R. She closes her eyes and flips a few pages, then moves her index finger blindly down the page. Then, once her finger is in place, she opens her eyes and glances down at the word she has landed on.

Susan looks up at Peter, seated in an armchair next to her. “Rudimentary,” she says.

“Rudimentary,” repeats Peter, and she tries to ignore the bored note in his tone.

She nods, looking down at the word again.

“R-u-d-i-m-e-n-t-a-r-r-y?” he guesses.

“Close, but there’s only one ‘r’,” she corrects him.

“Oh.” He pauses. “I hate this game.”

Susan purses her lips. “Well, it’s not as if there is anything else to do,” she points out, trying not to sound snooty.

Money is scarce nowadays, and there is hardly the opportunity to go out and buy things that will entertain. Susan is too old for dolls and Peter is too old for toy soldiers, so the options left to them are bleak. They’ve already solved all the puzzles their father used to bring home, and read all the books in their home library twice. However, she rather fancies the idea of playing a game based on a book, thus her newly invented dictionary game.

“We could play chess,” he reminds her, a smile crossing his face, and there is definitely a singsong quality to his voice.

“I don’t think so.” Susan always loses at the game.

“Oh, come on,” he says. “You know you want to.”

“Do not.”

“Do.”

“Don’t.”

“Peter!” exclaims a small voice, and it is little Lucy. She’s wearing a dress that is too small for her and holds a slice of apple in one hand. The juice dribbles down her pudgy chin.

“Hi, Lu,” says Peter, extending his arms to her. He pulls her onto his lap and takes a tiny bite of her apple, which makes her giggle. “What can I do for you today?”

“You can play with me,” says Lu, holding his large hand against her small one.

“You can play with us, Lucy,” offers Susan, smiling brightly. She lifts up the dictionary so Lucy can look at it. Lucy scrunches up her face, in an annoyingly cute way that only five-year-olds can muster.

Peter grins over at Susan, while Lucy attempts to play patty-cake with him. “Su, she can’t even read yet. She won’t understand any of the words.”

Susan straightens in her chair and peers at him through slightly narrowed eyes. “Well,” she says, “it is never to early to start her education.”

Peter shakes his head, as Lucy scrunches her face up again at the word ‘education’. “Susan Pevensie,” says Peter with mock awe, “ever so logical.”

Lucy has never been a patient girl, and she yanks on Peter’s hand, clearly tired of all this talking. “Peter, please!” she whines, and Susan can see that Peter’s breaking. Their little sister is impossible to say no to, and Susan doesn’t think Peter’s ever used the word around her.

“What do you want to do, Lucy?” he asks.

“I want you to meet my new doll,” she says. “We can name her, and braid her hair like Susan braids mine sometimes, and we can read to her!”

Lucy’s new doll isn’t really new, but Lucy does not know this. Susan, upset at the fact that her sister had hardly any toys to play with due to the country’s money crisis, had gone through the attic to find her old toys, hoping to come across something Lucy would like. She had found one of her old dolls, dirty with tattered clothes, but she had brought it down anyway. It took a day to soak off the dirt and grime that had covered the doll, and three weeks to save enough money to buy fabrics for new doll clothes, but the smile on Lucy’s face had been worth all her trouble.

She looks at the too-small dress Lucy is wearing now, and wonders if she should visit the attic again and find one of her old dresses as well.

“Lu, I’m playing a game with Susan right now and having so much fun,” Peter tells their rosy cheeked sister. “Did you ask Edmund to play with you?”

“Edmund’s mean,” pouts Lucy. “Please, Peter, won’t you play?”

Peter turns toward Susan, his face pleading. Susan smiles in spite of herself. “Oh, alright, go,” she says, waving them off. She looks down solemnly at her underappreciated dictionary as Lucy grabs Peter’s hand and drags him out of the room, practically bouncing with joy.

Susan closes the dictionary with a snap and sighs to herself. Her brother’s bond with Lucy is truly extraordinary. Most boys she knows would never desire to play dolls with their little sisters, but Peter will do anything to see a smile on her round face. Ever since he had locked eyes with her, he had loved her. As a result, Lucy had him wrapped around her tiny finger. Susan recognizes this and finds it endearing, even though it means Peter will always choose dolls over dictionary games.

She opens the dictionary again, shuts her eyes, and flips the pages. She has just opened her eyes, ready to look down at the word her finger has landed on when she hears someone call her name. She looks up to see Peter framed in the doorway. “You’re not coming?”

“No,” she says with a gentle smile. “She wants you. Go on and spend time with her.”

She looks down at the word before her, ‘Relinquish’, and smiles. “What are you still doing here?” she asks Peter, who still has not left the room. “Go on!”

He grins and walks over to her quickly, then seizes her face with his hands, laying an enthusiastic kiss on the top of her head. She laughs at the display of affection, loving her older brother even more.

“You’re truly the best, Susan,” he tells her.

--
He kisses her to say thank you.

--

Read the next chapter here! ♥

Destined update

2007-12-31T17:35:04Z

Attention all Destined readers!!!!

I'm SO SORRY that it's been almost two months since my last update. I could go into a list about how busy I've been with life, but I won't. Just know that I was extremely busy and things were very stressful, not to mention the lovely writer's block that came over me.

However, I'm back on track now. Chapter 17 is almost done! Expect that chapter to be posted within the next week! Hopefully you all won't have deserted me or this story by then, LOL.

Destined, chapter 16

2007-11-02T04:12:55Z

Title: Destined
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire, West/Claire, Zach/Claire friendship
Rating: PG-13
Summary: As Claire continues with life after New York, the reappearance of her uncle in her life is only the beginning of a series of events that will change her life forever. This Chapter: Claire has a memory problem.
Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15
Fic Art: a, b, c, d, e, f. ♥
A/N: See end of chapter.

Chapter Sixteen - Discovery

As Claire rouses from sleep, her eyes open blearily and focus on the ceiling above her, yellow stained and paint chipped. Sunlight trickles in from an overlarge window to her left and she rolls over in bed, pulling the dull tan sheets around herself tightly.

And then she realizes she has no idea where she is.

This isn't her bed, this isn't her house, and she has no idea how she got here. The feeling is reminiscent of when she woke up on an autopsy table, chest flayed open.

Quickly, she kicks off the blankets and climbs out of bed. "Ow!" cries a voice, momentarily breaking through her panic, and she notices that she's stepped on something, or rather, someone.

A wave of relief washes through her as she sees Zach standing up from the floor, where he'd been sleeping beside her bed. "What's going on?" she demaands worriedly as he wipes the sleep from his eyes. "Where are we?"

"We're at a hotel. In California."

"California? Why the hell are we in California?"

Zach pulls himself from off the floor and sits on the edge of her bed. "What's the last thing you remember, Claire?"

"What do you mean?"

"Claire, you live here," says Zach slowly, as if explaining to her that two plus to equals four.

For a moment, all Claire can do is stare back at him, but then it hits her. Laughing nervously, she punches Zach in the arm. "God, sometimes your jokes just aren't funny," she says.

"I'm not lying," says Zach.

"No..." says Claire, pressing a hand to her hip and playing along, "I live in Texas. With you! We go to the same school. Homecoming is tomorrow!"

"Oh God," says Zach, leaning back dramatically onto the bedspread. "You don't remember anything. We thought maybe it was a temporary thing or something... but you really don't."

"Remember what? Who's we?"

"Claire," he says softly, sitting up again to face her, "Homecoming was months ago."

She tries to process what he's saying, hoping to God he's kidding, feeling anger bubble inside of her because this is low, even for Zach. "God, I don't believe you," she spits out, feeling her cheeks redden. "We're supposed to be friends. What, are you still mad at me for shunning you for four years? Is that why you're doing this?"

But Zach just shakes his head back and forth, pity and seriousness clear as day on his face. Claire's seen the expression on his face more than once and she'd learned to memorize it, because it always meant bad news; they were six when he confessed that he'd accidentally run over her pet lizard with his bicycle, ten when he relayed the information that Bobby Reed didn't have a crush on her, fifteen when he said that he'd lost the tape of her killing herself multiple times.

As she stares at him, she realizes that he's not kidding.

The news comes down on her hard and quickly, and Claire has to sit back down on the bed to catch her breath. Zach's hand is on her shoulder and her mind is swirling with thoughts and questions, but she feels an empty blankness at the same time. She doesn't know what to say, what to ask, what to think. Closing her eyes, she tries to breath deeply, remembering techniques her mother had once randomly bestowed upon her - inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth - and then she starts suddenly.

"Where are my parents? Lyle?" she demands.

Zach bites his lip and she knows what this means, too - he's thinking of lying to her.

"Don't," she says sharply.

"Claire, I don't even know where to start. I mean, you don't remember anything? Nothing about Homecoming or Kirby Plaza or anything?"

"No," she whispers. Heck, she doesn't even know what Kirby Plaza is. "I need to talk to my dad. Where is he?"

Zach says quietly, "He's, um, incapacitated."

"Incapacitated? What does that even mean?"

But before Zach can answer, the door opens. In walks a man that Claire doesn't recognize. He's holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a room key in another, and when he sees her, surprise, shock, and relief combine to form the most fascinating facial expression she's ever seen.

"Claire," he says, but when he says her name, it doesn't sound like her name. The soft reverence in his voice is confusing. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, I guess."

"Uh, Nathan wanted me to tell you that he'll be back in a couple days to see you," he says. "He had to be with Monty and Simon, but - "

Claire shakes her head. "Who's Nathan?"

The man sighs and it seems to last an eternity, but finally he confirms, "You don't remember."

"No," she says quietly, wanting to take away this stranger's dejectedness.

"This is Peter," offers Zach, "your uh - "

But the stranger Peter exchanges a look with Zach, shaking his head in a curt kind of way. It's subtle, but Claire picks up on it. Zach goes silent and scratches his nose, pretending that he had never spoken.

The room quickly fills with an awkward tension, which Claire breaks by extending her hand for Peter to shake. "Nice to meet you, Peter," she says when he takes her hand, and his lips form into a lopsided smile as he nods.

When Peter drops her hand, Claire laments slightly at the fact that their hands are no longer pressed together. Her gaze remains on Peter's long slender fingers for a brief moment before he clears his throat. "I brought some bagels."

Claire thanks him and takes the bag, pleasantly surprised when she sees that he's tossed strawberry cream cheese into the bag. Sitting back down on the bed next to Zach, she crosses her legs and faces Peter. There's so much she should ask him - who he is, for one, but suddenly she's fueled by only one desire - to eat. Her apparent amnesia and multitude of questions are put on the backburner as she pulls a bagel out of the bag, spreads to the cream cheese over it hurriedly, and takes a bite.

Her senses seem to go into overdrive; the bagel, soft and hard at once on her tongue, with that bready, totally-carbs-but-you-know-you-still-love-me taste, seems to fill every part of her. The thick sweetness of the cream cheese, perfectly complementing the bagel, tastes better than it's ever tasted in her whole life.

"Claire, you okay?" asks Zach and she opens her eyes, slightly embarrassed at the thought of what she must look like lost in complete bliss. She doesn't respond, just shoves the bag of bagels toward her friend, and suddenly she has no desire to eat a bagel ever again.

Peter starts to pace across the room, lost in his own little world, a million emotions flashing across his face, and Claire purses her lips together, watching him. She's brought back to reality very quickly, reminded that something is seriously wrong right now - she has amnesia, her father is "incapacitated", and Zach's face looks sweaty and nervous.

"Please just tell me what's going on," she begs.

Peter suddenly stops pacing, as if the sound of her voice brought him back to earth, and he looks at her, directly into her eyes in a way that she senses he's done before. His eyes are dark, so dark, but when he speaks, Claire can see them sparkle with a lighter brown, and a kind of anxious passion exudes from every part of him.

"I know what you can do, Claire," he says, and she's confused, not understanding what he means, but then he goes on. "I've seen you heal. I have powers, too."

"What?!" she says, astonished.

"There's lots of people out there like you, Claire," interjects Zach, smiling. "You're not alone."

"But," adds Peter, "there's someone out there who's been killing people like us. He takes their powers. We think," and here his voice gets so gentle that Claire has to lean forward to hear him, "that he might have kidnapped you four days ago."

"Four days ago?" she repeats, her head swimming. "How long was I asleep?"

"You were only missing for a day, but you've been out cold for the other three."

"But I'm okay," she insists. "I feel fine. But what about my family? My dad? Is he okay?"

Zach sits down next to her and Claire leans into him, appreciating his presence. "They weren't kidnapped," he tells her. "But they're, well, not in good shape."

"I want to see them," she says. "I want to see my family."

"Okay," says Peter.

*

Her fingers press against the skin on her father's cheeks, rove around her mother's glassy eyes, feel the glued texture of her brother's hair. The three of them are immobile, sitting on a bed like dolls, their bodies in weird positions. Lyle's clinging to her mother, who's lying in bed, and her father looks out of place, sitting upright, his mouth open, his horn-rimmed glasses perfectly perched on his nose.

"He was downstairs on the couch," Zach tells her. "But we thought it'd be better to move him up here."

Claire nods, silent, feeling her eyes prickle with tears. When they fall, she wipes them away with the back of her hand; she feels awkward and tense at the look Peter is giving her, as if he wants to wipe her tears away. But she's always wiped away her own tears, has always been strong on her own, and being looked at this way by a stranger isn't comforting, it's unsettling.

Standing up, she pastes a small smile on her face. She can't stand to be in this room right now, not with her frozen family and this strange man. Tugging on Zach's sleeve, she leaves Peter alone in the room and goes downstairs. Her heart sinks at the sight of a bunch of people crowded in the living room, people she doesn't know, but undoubtedly know her.

They look at her pityingly and she feels frustration bubble inside of her. She doesn’t want these looks, doesn’t want to be kept in the dark. Her eyes search their faces furiously, trying to remember them, the people that are like her. As she stares, they look away, bow their heads, and shuffle their feet awkwardly, which only makes her feel worse.

Her shoulders slump and she’s about to ask Zach if they can just get the hell out of here when the blonde woman steps forward. Her face is pale and her whole face seems to quiver, but she's pretty and there’s a fierce boldness in her eyes that takes Claire aback. This woman is strong, Claire can tell, and is not afraid of anything, least of all a teenaged girl with amnesia.

She speaks kindly, with a maternal softness behind her words and an affectionate lilt in her smile. Introducing herself as Niki, she steps forward and hugs Claire. It’s a real hug, as if Niki knows Claire won’t break, and it’s this more than anything that makes Claire hug the stranger back. She wonders how she knows Niki, if they were close, if they hugged often.

Niki leads her away from everyone else and they go outside, sitting down on the steps of the porch. Claire wonders how long she's lived in California, if she's sat on this porch a lot. But after a few minutes of silence and asks, “How do I know you? Are – are we friends?”

Niki smiles and shakes her head. “I don’t even know you.”

“Then why are you at my house?” Claire says, perhaps a bit loudly, but she’s too surprised to care.

“I know your father.”

“My father? How?”

Niki looks her directly in the eyes, the same way Peter had before, as if she can see right into Claire’s soul. “Claire, I don’t know if you were told, but I’m like you. I have a power. It’s...complicated, but sometimes I lose track of things. Hours, days...they go by and I won’t remember them. Things I’ve done, people I’ve seen, I don’t remember any of it. I see you and I see myself. I know how you feel.”

Claire sees the older woman’s eyes water with tears, watches how it takes her a moment to compose herself. And then she speaks again, but not before glancing quickly at the front door behind them. “I know your father, Claire. Your biological father. He’s a friend of mine – ”

“What?” breathes Claire.

“He was here earlier, looking for you. I - I don’t know how you met him, but you did. He cares about you.”

Claire swallows hard, looks down at her small hands. “I met my father and I can’t even remember?”

Niki places a hand on her back, rubs softly, and soothes her. She whispers that everything will be okay and that she’ll get her memory back eventually and Claire breathes deeply. “Claire,” Niki says again, “there’s something else that you need to know, too – ”

Before Niki can say what she wants, however, the door swings open wildly. Claire wipes away the lingering tears on her face and looks up to see Peter framed in the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t know where you were. Uh, Niki, could I talk to you for a moment?”

Niki gives Claire’s shoulder a squeeze before getting up and following Peter inside. She’s not lonely for long, though, for soon the two Japanese men come outside to join her.

Claire suddenly feels a wave of exhaustion move over her, though she’s only been up for barely two hours. She's reeling from the information about her father and isn't really in the mood to talk to anyone, let alone two more people she doesn't know.

Nevertheless, the Japanese men sit down on either side of her. She hopes they don't want to talk. Apparently, they didn’t have that in mind, because the man to her right gives her a tiny smile and pulls a deck of cards out of his pocket. “We played poker,” he tells her. “Do you want to play?”

Claire takes the deck from his hands and begins to shuffle.

*

“I agree with Peter,” says Zach, raising his hand.

“You’re kidding, right?” Niki crosses her arms, an edge of disbelief and anger in her voice.

“Look, we’re not going to hide it from her forever,” Peter defends himself. “But she’s dealing with a lot right now – ”

“Did Nathan seriously say this was okay?” demands Niki, her husband stiffening slightly beside her at the mention of the politician’s name.

“Just for a second,” snaps Peter, “imagine that you’re Claire, okay? All she knows right now is that she’s been kidnapped, that her family has been turned to...stone or something, and she’s surrounded by a bunch of strange people in a house that she can’t remember. She doesn’t know anything about her best friend’s death, about her biological parents, about Kirby Plaza or changing time – all the other crap that she’s been through. I think we should...withhold some things from her.”

Niki stares at him with defiance. “Keeping Claire in the dark won’t help her at all and it certainly won’t help her to remember.”

Something flickers in Peter’s eyes, but then it’s gone, and he’s returning her hard stare with gusto.

Niki continues, “I told her about Nathan. She knows she found her father.”

“But Nathan's not here,” says Zach.

“He’ll be back."

“She doesn’t know what he looks like.”

Niki glares; Zach falters.

Peter doesn’t say anything and his silence speaks for itself. Niki throws her arms up into the air. “Fine! Don’t tell her that you’re her uncle, that you’re the only family she has right now. Just let her put the pieces together by herself.”

And, with long, hard steps, Niki stalks away.

*

The next morning Claire wakes up to the smell of pancakes and it takes her a moment to realize that it’s not her mother making them. Her mother is a few doors away, along with her father and brother, playing the part of a mannequin. Claire presses her face morosely into her pillow after remembering this, mentally telling herself that it's too early in the morning to cry, and after a few moments, finally pulls herself out of bed.

She pulls on a pair of shorts, tosses a shirt over her head, and slides her feet into flip-flops, but it’s not until she ties back her hair that she realizes something else – she can hear everything going on downstairs. She can hear Zach chuckling, the sound of breakfast plates clunking down onto the wooden table, the scuffle of shoes on the kitchen tile, and the voice of the Indian man she’d met yesterday.

“If we don’t wake her up now, her food will get cold,” Mohinder is saying, but Claire can hear every accented syllable as if he is speaking directly into her ear.

“I’ll go up in a minute. Or, uh, Zach...did you want to get her? She knows you.”

“Good pancakes,” says Zach, and Claire can actually hear him chew his food.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” says Peter.

“Oh my God,” moans Claire, looking at herself in the mirror, examining her ears closely. “What’s wrong with me now?”

She’s tugging on her ears when she hears Peter's knock, and Claire jolts away from the mirror, even though the closed door is blocking her craziness from view. “Uh, hello?” she says nervously.

“Pancakes are downstairs if you want some,” says Peter, but the sound of his voice is normal now.

“Uh, can you knock on the door again?”

He does, his knock a little softer this time, and Claire frowns. His knock sounds normal, too.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” she says finally, with a last half-hearted tug on her ear, then whispers to herself, “I’m crazy.”

*

They walk along the beach and don’t say anything.

As her feet sink into the sand, Claire can see herself here with two boys – carrying one, holding the hand of the other – but she doesn’t know who they are.

The image goes as soon as it comes and Claire turns to Zach. “I just had a flash!”

“Do you remember something?” he asks eagerly. “I’ll go get Peter – ”

“It was of me and two boys, right here, in this spot. Who are they?”

“Simon and Monty?" guesses Zach. "They were kidnapped, too. Somehow, you guys managed to escape. They were with you when you found your way home.”

“Oh.” Her toes squish in the sand, her eyes squint out at the blue waves, and she asks, “Well, where are they now? Are they okay?”

“Yeah, they’re in New York,” says Zach, and they start to walk again, but she can sense he’s hiding something.

“What is it?”

“They’re in New York,” he repeats, “with your biological father. Simon and Monty are your half-brothers.”

*

She’s reading a science textbook, studying lizards and their ability to regenerate body parts, when Peter knocks on her bedroom door – twice this time. “Come in,” she tells him.

Peter stands by the armoire and she lowers her eyes back to her book, not wanting to look at him. In the past two days, she's noticed that there's something so sincere in his eyes when he looks at her, and it makes her feel guilty. He's nice enough; good looking and compassionate and caring, but when she looks at him, she sees a stranger. How is she supposed to feel about someone that she doesn't know, someone she can't remember?

"What's up?" she asks, trying not to convey her unease.

“Zach told me that you remembered Monty and Simon,” he starts, a bit hesitantly.

Claire doesn't respond, hoping that he'll sense that she doesn't want to talk about them. She's spent the whole day trying not feel bitter that her biological father, whoever he is, has another family. She's been trying to not about her father at all, actually.

"Do you want to meet him? Your father?"

"I've met him before," she responds wryly, picking up a pen and scribbling something nonsensical on the pages of her textbook.

"But you don't remember," says Peter, and Claire is irritated.

"Yeah, I know," she snaps. "Just like I can't remember anything else."

"You don't have to meet him if you don't want to."

"Well, I don't."

Peter sits down on the edge of her bed and she can feel him looking down at her, watching her. Claire tries to read, tries to focus, but he's looking at her and not leaving her bedroom and it's distracting. Finally, she glances up at him, locks her eyes onto his, and tries not to tremble. "What?"

"There's a lot of things I want to say to you, but I don't think you'll want to hear them."

Like what? her mind asks, but she bites down on her lip and says nothing. She's so confused. She doesn't know what the hell she wants to hear or not hear. She doesn't know if she wants to know all the things that have gone unspoken - why she was kidnapped, who Sylar is, what the hell has happened in the past few months, if she had liked her bio dad...

Peter's eyes don't leave hers and she decides that the least she can do is figure out why he keeps looking at her the way he does.

She struggles with herself, looking everywhere but at Peter, and feels a blush rise to her cheeks as she says in a scramble, "What's my relationship with you?"

“We met at Homecoming.”

“Homecoming?”

“We kind of crashed into each other.”

“So...we’re friends?”

A serious nod. “Yeah.”

Claire doesn’t know what to say, so she gives him an awkward half-smile and moves her pen between her fingers.

“I can tell you everything, Claire. I can tell you everything that’s happened in these past few months...the major things. How we met, why you live here in California – ”

Even as he says the words, Claire can sense that he doesn’t really want to tell her anything. Just the tone of his voice says that he doesn’t want to hurt her, doesn’t want her to be overwhelmed with whatever bad things had happened and if she’s honest with herself, she isn’t sure she’s ready to hear those things either. So she holds up her hand, silencing him.

“I don’t know if I want to know,” she says slowly. “I mean, I want to…the way everyone looks at me, the way you look at me...I don’t get it. But I don’t know if I can handle it.” I'm just a cheerleader, she adds silently in her head, and just as she thinks it, something changes in Peter's face.

“The Claire I know can handle anything,” he says. “You’re so strong. It’s not a question of you not being able to handle it. It’s a question of whether or not you want to handle it.”

“Do you think I should?” she asks, and the room somehow echoes with the weight of her question.

Peter stands up and starts to pace, not answering her. Claire waits patiently, tapping her pen gently on the pages of her biology book. Peter finally says that he doesn’t want her to, he doesn’t think that someone so young should have to deal with all the stuff she’s gone through. “When we met,” he continues, “you just looked like you had weight of the world on your shoulders. You had this smile, this unbelievably sad smile...what I’m trying to say is, I don’t want to be the one to put that smile back on your face.”

Claire lowers her head, trying to mask her blush. Peter grins slightly, and she realizes it's the first time he's done since she's known him – or at least, these past two days – and he actually has a really nice one.

It disappears quickly, though, as he becomes serious again. "But I will if you want me to."

“Maybe,” starts Claire, “maybe I don’t have to know everything at once. Maybe you can just tell me one thing and then...later, I can ask you more.”

Peter rubs his chin, considering this, and nods. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

She debates asking about her biological father, because she’s been thinking about him all day. But then she realizes that she’s made it through sixteen years without knowing anything about him – she can go awhile longer.

*

Her best friend is dead. The girl she had looked up to for so long, dead. The girl that she had come to resent, but still cared about, is gone. She can’t believe Jackie is gone, killed by a madman. A madman who had tried to kill her, too.

The tears come quickly and Claire doesn’t have to wipe them away because they’ve soaked into Zach’s t-shirt.

Later, when she pulls away sniffling, she apologizes for the wet patch on his shirt, and he says that he hated the shirt anyway.

*

She’s eating dinner with Niki and Peter when a tall, lean boy strides into the kitchen. He has an interesting nose and an emo hair cut, and his face fills with glee at the sight of her. Confused, Claire looks to Peter, silently asking whom this guy is, but Peter’s only response is to look away, his eyes flashing in the bright light of the kitchen.

“Claire! Oh God, Claire!” says the boy, bending down to hug her where she’s sitting. She pats his back nervously, feeling awkward.

“Hi,” she says.

“I’m so glad you’re back - ”

“Where have you been?” asks Peter quietly, not turning his attention away from the sink.

The boy ignores him. “Are you okay?” he asks Claire, touching her hair gently.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“She doesn’t remember who you are,” remarks Peter blandly, telekinetically summoning Niki’s plate and turning on the water faucet.

“What?”

“I kind of have amnesia,” admits Claire, embarrassed. “Sorry,” she finishes in a mumble, as Niki reaches across the table and covers her hand with her own.

The boy blinks, is silent for a few seconds, and then sits down in the chair beside her. “Hey, it’s okay. You’ll get your memory back eventually, right?” He smiles at her reassuringly at her.

“That’s what I’m hoping,” says Claire, surprised by the amount of warmth in his eyes. She sighs inwardly at knowing that she’s going to have to find out what her relationship is to this guy, too.

He extends his hand. “I’m West.”

She shakes his hand. “Claire.”

Peter rolls his eyes.

*

She thrashes against him, trying to injure him, hurt him. But he’s too tall, too strong for her, and he winds up throwing her to the ground. Her face receives the blunt of the impact and she feels a few of her teeth fly out of her mouth. Running her tongue over the empty spots in her gums, she sits up and spits out the blood that's built up in her mouth.

Horrified, she looks up at the man, feeling her teeth stab their way through her gums, rising again. The man's face twists into an evil smirk. “Who are you?” she chokes, spitting more blood out of her mouth.

He walks up to her quickly, purposefully, and wrenches her forcefully to her feet. She can't stop trembling, her mind racing with what he wants and what he's going to do to her. “We’re going to make you cooperate, Claire."

Before she can argue, he gestures to a man in the corner. The man leaves the room and within seconds, returns, two boys struggling in his grip. “Claire!” whimpers the younger one.

She rushes toward them. “Simon! Monty!”

Her captor grabs her by the hair, pulling her back to him. She squeaks with pain as he grips her shoulders tightly, holding her in place by digging his fingers into her collarbone. She shudders and doesn’t move.

“You’ll cooperate, Claire,” he repeats. “Or we’ll kill your brothers.”

*

It’s 2:00 in the morning and Claire wakes up, shaking and sweating. “Was it a flash?” she wonders aloud.

She gets out of bed makes her way to the bathroom, a feeling of unease rooted in the pit of her stomach. The images had been so real, so vivid, that there’s no way her dream couldn’t have been a flash.

Playing the dream over and over in her mind, she turns on the faucet and closes the bathroom door behind her. In a numb state, she wets her hands, splashes water on her pale face, and stares at herself in the mirror. She takes in her soft green eyes, slightly freckled nose, her frowning lips, and she thinks back to her conversation with Peter earlier. He had said that he didn’t want to be the one to put a sad smile on her face again, but as she stares at herself, she realizes that he’s going to have to, whether he wants to or not. Even a few hours earlier, she had been okay with taking things slowly, with having Peter tell her everything piece by piece, but that’s not going to work. She’s getting flashes and she needs to know why; there’s no way she can get to the bottom of her kidnapping without knowing about her past. Jackie had died, for God’s sake, and she had only found out today. She needs to know what other things have happened – what things make Zach stare at her pityingly and give Peter the urge to protect her.

Cool water trickles down her cheeks and she debates whether she should wake Peter up to tell him about her flash. Finally, she shakes her head, deciding to tell him about her flash tomorrow.

Claire turns the faucet off slowly and pushes back a few wet strands of hair behind her ears. Her hand is on the knob of the bathroom door when she is suddenly seized by the desire to look at herself in the mirror again.

She lifts up her tank top, without really knowing why she’s doing so, and half-turns, examining her back in the mirror. Her gasp echoes throughout the bathroom.

They did this, she thinks. Whoever took me, whoever kidnapped me...they did this.

Panicked, she practically runs down the hall. After only a few loud knocks, the door swings open and a disoriented Peter looks her up and down.

“Claire? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” His face is the epitome of concern.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” she apologizes, “but I just found...I just - ”

“What is it?”

“I need to show you something.”

*

A/N: I do realize it's been forever since I've had an update. I apologize for this, but I've been extremely busy in RL. College has been weird, I've been worried sick about certain family members, I've been having my own boy issues, and I've been trying to get my relationship with God back on track.

So, that being said, I will try to update at least every month. This fic is definitely within the realms of AU right now because of Season 2, so hopefully you guys will still read it! You guys really are the best readers/reviewers and I so appreciate you guys sticking with me through all this stuff. You're the best! :)

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A Red Puddle

2007-10-15T23:54:44Z

Title: A Red Puddle
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Rating: PG
Summary: Just some fun angst. Written for the Reflection challenge @ pairechallenge.

He sits in the dark, away from mirrors and cameras and puddles of water.

He drinks, eyes shut tightly, and shatters the glass. He can’t bear to look at himself.

Blood slides out of the palm of his hand; snaking down his long fingers like a spiderweb, dripping to the floor.

He sees her round face in the red stains, and in her cheerful, innocent eyes he remembers what it was like to have hope -

His skin repairs slowly, like it’s done so many times before,

And he remembers what happens when you fail –

but the cuts leave scars.

Destined, chapter 15

2007-10-03T04:21:29Z

Title: Destined
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire, West/Claire, Zach/Claire friendship
Rating: PG-13
Summary: As Claire continues with life after New York, the reappearance of her uncle in her life is only the beginning of a series of events that will change her life forever. This Chapter: Claire's missing. Uh oh.
Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14
Fic Art: a, b, c, d, e, f. ♥
A/N: Update! I'm sorry that these updates have been taking so long, guys. I know it's irritating, especially when I have cliffhangers, but please bare with me. I'm not giving up this story - it's just that I've been super busy and going through lots of personal stuff, so chalking out chapters quickly is not as easy as it was this summer. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this, and with me. :)

I have two new fic arts. *points to links* Both e and f are new arts; e is for chapter 13, the original manip done by the loffly rtwofan, and f is for chapter 14. :)

And now, on to the chapter!

Chapter Fifteen - Claire's Boys

Zach has always hated flying. He'd been on an airplane once to visit some relatives in Alaska (freaking Alaska, which is a million times colder and even more depressing than Texas), and he'd wound up getting nauseas and throwing up in the aisle.

Now he's going to California, which, in his mind, is probably even worse than Alaska. He's pretty sure he's going to be surrounded by bleach blonde surfer dudes and shallow girls who fawn over them. And he knows he's going to look stupid in his brand new sunglasses and (oh God) flip-flops. The whole situation is disgusting.

He clutches the arm of his plane chair and tries not to look out the window.

Claire Bennet, I'd only do this for you.

*

He arrives at the airport on shaky legs, waiting for any sign of Mr. Bennet. He had planned to visit Claire in another week, but he had decided that surprising her would be better; it'd make her smile and hopefully get her out of the mopey, my-whole-life-is-horrible phase that she'd been going through lately.

Claire's dad had agreed, so Zach doesn't understand why he isn't there at the airport. After twenty minutes of waiting (and being accidentally hit in the back by some idiot with no shirt and a really large suitcase), he calls Mr. Bennet. When he doesn't answer, Zach tries Claire, but she doesn't pick up either.

He thinks this is weird because Claire is normally glued to her cell phone.

It takes him three hours to Mapquest the Bennet residence, find a rental car, and drive to Claire's house and by this point, he's pissed. Sweaty and smelly, he hangs out of the car door, now exhausted, and blinks at the house in front of him. He confirms the street, looking down at what he's scribbed on his hand.

He rings the doorbell, then knocks, but no one answers. "What the hell is going on?" he mutters angrily to the door.

And then he realizes that the door's unlocked, standing an inch ajar, and he pushes it open.

The house is completely quiet and completely dark and Zach rolls his eyes, lets out a, "Well, fuck me," and turns on the lights. There's a figure on the couch, his head hanging back, his horn-rimmed glasses on his face and his mouth slightly open.

"Mr. Bennet?" says Zach, rushing over to the man. "Mr. Bennet!" He doesn't stir and Zach's starting to get really weirded out now. He shakes him, but Claire's dad is perfectly stiff, unmoving, and not waking up.

He rushes from room to room, searching for Claire, afraid that something bad has happened. He thinks of the man that killed Jackie and the man who killed that waitress at Burnt Toast Diner, and screams for his best friend. He finds Mrs. Bennet lying in bed, Lyle clinging to her as if trying to shield her from something; they're just as stiff and unmoving as Mr. Bennet.

"Claire! Claire!" he shouts, feeling sick and panicked. He kicks open a door and recognizes this as Claire's room; sees the copy of Crime and Punishment he had given her for her birthday and the blue-and-white cheerleading uniform she'd sent him pictures of.

The room looks like a tornado ripped through it. CDs and clothes are scattered all over the floor and her bed is broken in half. "Oh God, oh God, oh God," he starts to chant, feeling ready to pass out.

He reaches for Claire's phone, opened and peeking from underneath the bed, and it shakes in his hand. Quickly, he decides not to call 911; they won't know anything about this. Whatever had happened here had something to do with Claire's powers, he knows it. He clicks on the history of Claire's phone and looks down at the number of the person she called last.

"Peter Petrelli," he says, and dials the number.

*

Ten minutes later and Zach's not chanting, "Oh God, oh God, oh God" anymore; he's chanting, "Fuck, fuck, FUCK" now. Peter's not answering his phone either.

He stands in the middle of the room, phone in his hands, and searches through the rest of Claire's contacts. He scrolls past "May" and the names of other people he doesn't know until he reaches the last name.

"West."

*

West arrives in a worried haze, dark hair a mess, wearing swimming trunks and a black t-shirt. California, Zach thinks fleetingly before immediately asking him questions.

"When was the last time you saw Claire?"

"Last night!" he says, throwing a horrified glance around the house. "We went out to dinner."

"Did you notice anyone following you? Anybody acting weird?"

"No!" says West, looking like was about to have a heart attack, the same way Zach felt. "The only crazy thing that happened last night was her uncle. He was drunk, but that was it. Nothing else."

Zach demands, "Did you guys run into anybody else that night?"

"Claire's grandmother showed up, took Peter home, but that was it."

Zach looks at him incredulously. "Her grandmother? Angela Petrelli? No way."

"She was there," insists West.

"She took Peter home? Where does he live?"

"He's staying at a hotel." He snaps his fingers. "We should go there. Peter would know what to do. He has, um," and here West trails off.

Zach's eyes narrow; now is not the time to get skimpy on the details. "Spit it out."

West looks ashamed, like he's revealing something he shouldn't. "He has loads of supernatural powers," confesses West.

Zach blinks, surprised. "How do you know?"

"Claire told me. How do you know?"

"I'm her best friend, West," snaps Zach. "But that doesn't matter right now. We need to get to that hotel."

*

Zach doesn't ask West how he knows which hotel Peter is staying in, doesn't ask how West knows the exact room number. He really couldn't care less, because more than Peter, all he can think of is Claire.

Peter's hotel room looks exactly like a tornado went through it, too, and Zach feels a sickening wave of defeat wash over him. Peter Petrelli is their only hope; he'd know what to do.

Zach is slouching on the messy bedspread, surrounded by pieces of glass and thinking that maybe they should just give up and call 911, when West's shout alerts him. "Over here!" the other boy calls, and Zach finds him in the bathroom, pulling Claire's uncle out of a bathtub.

Supporting Peter awkwardly, West kicks the broken glass on the tiled floor to the corners of the room, leaving an open space on the wet, bloodstained floor, and drops Peter rather unceremoniously. He reaches over and turns off the still running water faucet, then sinks to the floor with Peter, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him so that the man's back rests on his legs.

"Oh, shit," says Zach, feeling sick as he finally sees what caused all the blood on the floor. Sticking out of Peter's chest, arms, and legs are long, silvery shards of glass. The man's black clothes glow dark red and West confirms his suspicions.

"He bled to death," West says shakily, opening Peter's eyelids to reveal no life, just a milky white glaze.

Zach shakes his head. "No. Peter can't die. He's like Claire."

Sinking to the floor next to West, he looks at Peter with renewed determination. "You're not dead," he tells the older man, and with that he rips out the shards of glass stuck in Peter's knee. "You're not dead," he repeats, yanking out another shard in Peter's thigh.

West stares at him with dawning comprehension and begins to help. They both wince as they take out the shards, occasionally swearing when they pull too forcefully and cut their hands. Soon there are no pieces of glass left in Peter's lean body, but still he doesn't wake up.

Sighing, but still determined, Zach takes Peter's head in his hands and runs his hands along the man's forehead, down the back of his skull, and then something sharp slices across the palm of his hand. Pulling back, he exchanges a look with West, who leans closer and twists Peter's head so they can both see something barely peeking out behind his ear. The glass is buried so deep inside Peter's head that barely a centimeter of it is visible and Zach stands up and fumbles around in the medicine chest for a pair of tweezers.

West takes the tweezers and pulls the shard out slowly; there is a gross, wet sound that occurs as the glass sides out of Peter's brain, bits of gray matter stuck to the surface, and then finally it's out and the hole in Peter's head is closing slowly. Zach holds his breath, staring at Peter. "Come on, man," whispers West.

And then, with huge, body-shaking gasps, Peter comes back to life.

"Where is she?" rasps Peter, choking on his own blood. Zach grabs his hands, pulling him into a sitting position. "Where is she?"

"Claire? We don't know," says Zach, and Peter's eyes are darting around the bathroom, then out into the bedroom, as if expecting to see someone.

"You're not talking about Claire, are you?" says West.

"It was my mother," gasps Peter, holding onto both Zach and West as he struggles to stand. "She did this to me. But it wasn't her, it was someone else." He winces, stumbling into the bedroom, looking for something.

"What about Claire?" asks Zach. "Where is she?"

"I don't know," says Peter, rummaging through the messy bedspread. "He got to her, too. We were on the - " and then he holds up his cell phone. "She called me, told me something was wrong."

"How are we going to find her?" asks West. Zach notices the way Peter's eyes narrow slightly, but only slightly, as he takes West in. He senses some tension there, but Zach doesn't care about it. His primary goal is finding Claire, and apparently Peter's is, too, because his face softens.

"I don't know," he says.

Zach watches Peter search through numbers on his cell phone and asks, "Do you think it was Sylar?"

Peter nods, presses speaker phone, and lets the phone ring. "I can't think of anyone else," admits Peter. "But he can't be in two places at once. Someone was with Claire and someone was with me, so if it was Sylar, he's working with someone."

"Who's Sylar?" interjects West.

But then a voice on the other end of the phone speaks. "Peter," it says, sounding scared and angry, "you need to come home right now."

"Nathan," says Peter, "is mom there?"

"What?" snaps Nathan.

"Is mom there? I need to know if she's okay."

"Yes, she's here, she's fine. Peter, something has happened. I really need you right now."

"Nathan, something more important has happened," says Peter. "Claire's gone. She's been kidnapped."

There is a long pause on the phone and then there's a choking sound, as if Nathan is trying to hold back tears. "Peter..."

"We can fix this," says Peter confidently. "We can find her."

"Peter," says Nathan, sniffing in a way Zach has never associated with the politician. "Simon and Monty are gone, too."

*

She's pinned down, lying on a cold matress, some kind of invisible duct tape preventing her from being able to speak. She has no binds, but still she can't move. Trying to open her eyes is useless, because her lids don't budge; it's almost as if they're glued shut.

"Hello, Claire."

She squirms, terrified.

"Don't worry," says an eager, sinister voice, "I'll be done soon."

A few seconds later, and she can't even think.

*

They're still in the hotel room, crowded around the bed. If Zach were in his geek mode, he'd be thinking of how cool it was that Hiro Nakumara can bend time and space, how people from New York and Las Vegas can have arrived in California in just under ten minutes.

Zach recognizes Nathan Petrelli right away, can remember seeing the politician's funeral on TV with Claire nestled beside him on the couch, tears seeping into his shirt. He doesn't recognize anyone else, but can guess that the two Japanese men in the corner are Hiro and Ando. Everyone else is a mystery to him.

Next to Nathan is a blonde woman, stroking his arm comfortingly. They're talking in low tones, and Zach can barely hear them. She's saying she knows what it's like to have a child taken and he's thanking her for coming. A black man stands next to them, his hands on the shoulder of a little boy. Next to the boy is a girl with brown hair and an eager look on her face, like she wants to prove herself and do something useful; she's holding the hand of an Indian man.

Peter finally speaks up. "Thank you all for coming," he says. "I'm Peter Petrelli. This is my brother, Nathan. All three of his children, Claire, Simon, and Monty, have been taken. By who, we don't know. We need to find them, but we need everyone's help. If you want to help, please stay."

No one moves.

"Good," Peter sighs with relief. He asks them to divide into groups, "power" or "no power" groups. Zach feels a bit useless as he stands with the Indian man and one of the Japanese man, and is surprised when West goes to the other side of the room. Peter looks surprised, too, but masks it well and doesn't say anything.

Peter starts to call people over to him; Zach, the blonde woman Niki and her son Micah, and the Indian man, Mohinder. The others huddle around Nathan, except for West and the brown-haired girl, both of whom look put out.

"What?" says Peter to West, noting his discontent but appearing not to really care.

West says, "I think I could help you."

"I don't think so," says Peter, and Zach notices that he's not even looking at West, but some point to West's left.

"Come on," pleads West. "Claire's my friend."

"Then I'm sure she'll appreciate it if you helped find her brothers." His tone is curt and indicates that the conversation is over. West's mouth tightens, he crosses his arms, and he walks over to Nathan, clearly not happy.

Zach's attention turns to the brown-haired girl, who's chewing on her bottom lip nervously. "Peter, I don't understand."

Peter crouches so that he's looking into her eyes. "What don't you understand, Molly?" he asks, and his tone is softer and quieter than it had been with West.

"I'm supposed to find Simon and Monty," says Molly. "Both of them? You want me to find two people?"

Peter gives the girl a lopsided grin and places his hands on his tiny shoulders. "You have more experience than me," he confesses in a whisper. "I think you can handle that more than I can. What do you say?"

Molly smiles. "Okay."

"Thanks." He leans in so that his forehead touches hers, and when he pulls back, Molly's cheeks are flaming red. Zach grins; if Peter had done that to him, he'd probably be blushing, too. Geez.

He looks around the room again and allows himself just one geeky moment - a low whistle of, "Freakin' cool" when he sees that Hiro has teleported everyone else out of the room.

*

Her feet sink into the sand and the sun is horrifyingly bright in her eyes. It brings a stabbing pain to her eyelids and she sinks down to her knees, hands pressed against her face.

The ocean water rolls into her lap and the sound of the waves is too much, too much.

"Ow, it hurts," cries a little boy, someone with dark hair that she doesn't recognize. His hands are over his ears, tears welling in his eyes.

"Shh," she says soothingly.

There's another boy and he's rocking back and forth silently, staring at his arms in horror. She looks down at her own arms, aware that she can hear the blood moving through her veins; the boy must hear the same thing.

"I want to go home," the other one says and she dries his tears.

"Where do you live?" she asks.

"New York."

*

Zach stands next to Mohinder, watching the man inspect Noah Bennet.

"Do you have any idea what's wrong with him?" asks Micah.

Mohinder touches the glasses on the man's face, but they don't move; they are stuck on a waxy, plastic face. "He looks Petrified," Zach voices quietly, but neither Mohinder nor Micah hear him.

"It appears as if he's been...frozen," says Mohinder finally, drawing back but still staring into Mr. Bennet's face. "Or something like it."

"So he's not dead?" Zach asks, relieved. "'Cause Mrs. Bennet and Lyle are like that, too. They're upstairs. It would suck if, you know, when Claire gets back and her whole family is dead."

Mohinder nods curtly. "No, they are not dead." Then, solemnly, "But I don't know how to fix their state."

Zach sighs; as he does so, Peter comes back downstairs with Niki. "Find anything in Claire's room?" Micah inquires.

Peter looks aggrieved. "She definitely put up a struggle," he tells them, and the words come out casual and proud, but Zach can hear the sadness in his voice.

"Do you still think it was Sylar?" asks Zach.

Peter shakes his head. "If only Claire had been taken, then yes. But Simon and Monty were taken, too. They don't have powers."

"That you know of," corrects Mohinder. "Often, powers don't manifest until early adulthood. Your nephews could be special and not know it yet." He smiles slightly.

Peter doesn't return Mohinder's smile, but fixes his face into a serious, determined expression. Zach's whole body tenses in preparation for whatever they're going to do to save Claire. His palms start to sweat in anticipation - will they go flying somewhere? will they lay the smackdown on some bad guys hardcore?

Peter's face is still serious, but he turns to Zach and says, an amused lilt to his voice, "We have to find her first." Zach grins when he realizes that Peter has read his thoughts. Now Peter's pointing at him. "You, come with me."

And he starts walking back up the stairs toward Claire's room, Zach trailing behind.

*

She lives in Texas and the boys live in New York, but she has no idea where they are. They left the beach awhile ago and now she's carrying the younger of the two, holding the hand of the other one. None of them talk, because any kind of sound feels like it'll tear their eardrums apart.

She finds a line of houses near the beach and tells the boys they'll go there, find help, find someone. She's exhausted and weak and sick and every part of her hurts. She doesn't think she's ever experienced such a raw, cleansing sickness, like bacteria is invading every molecule of her being.

"How did we get here?" asks the boy walking alongside her, choking on a sob. "I don't remember how I got here."

She doesn't remember, either.

*

Peter is sitting awkwardly on Claire's broken-in-half bed, an atlas sprawled across his lap, a thumb tack in his hand.

"Do you know what I'm about to do?" asks Peter.

Zach nods, almost a little disappointed. He had been expecting a method that was larger than life; he'd heard about the whole think-about-a-person-and-find-them-likethat thing already.

"Is that why we're in here?" asks Zach, indicating his best friend's torn apart bedroom. "So you can focus on her more?"

Peter lets out a hoarse chuckle. "Uh, focusing on Claire is not hard for me," he says. "I'm in here to be away from the others. It's hard to concentrate when other people are around."

"So why am I here?"

"Because you want her back as much as I do."

Zach doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing, and apparently nothing was the proper thing to say at that moment, because Peter's right hand is soon shaking. His left is hurriedly flipping through pages of the atlas. Beads of sweat appear in a line off his head and his crooked lip quivers almost as furiously as the tack held between his thumb and forefinger.

Finally the thumb stack is brought down and Zach peers at the tack. "What?" says Zach, confused.

The word barely leaves his mouth before two people appear right before their very eyes: Nathan and Hiro. Nathan looks at Peter, hope and anxiety dripping from his chiseled face. "Molly just said - "

"It says the same thing," Peter confirms, throwing the atlas off of him.

Zach is so confused, but follows the Petrelli brothers (and Hiro) downstairs, where Mohinder, Niki, and Micah are still crowded around Mr. Bennet.

"What is it?" says Niki worriedly. "You look so pale."

Peter's whispered, "They're here" is barely out of his mouth when the door behind Niki burts open. Zach feels so nauseaus and relieved and oh God -

"Claire!" he yells, going to move toward her.

"Zach?" she says, looking around blankly, setting down the dark-haired boy. "Are we in Texas?"

"What?" he says, bewildered, as Nathan cries, "Simon! Monty!".

"Claire!" Peter moves toward her, but she shrinks away.

"Who are you?" she demands, fright in her eyes.

There is a moment of complete silence, during which Zach can actually feel the shock that flashes across Peter's face. Claire's hopeless face and Peter's pain seems to fill up the room.

And then Claire's eyes move over to the couch, away from Peter, and roam over Noah Bennet's plastic-like form. "D-dad?"

When she faints, Peter is the one to catch her.

*

A/N: I know, another cliffhanger. Don't kill me. And I know this chapter was, um, unique, but I hope you guys liked it!

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Goodnight, Goodnight & Black Stained

2007-09-30T20:31:04Z

I bring two drabbles! :)

Title: Goodnight, Goodnight
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Rating: G
Summary: Peter can't carry the weight of their relationship. Written for the Picture/Lyric challenge @ pairechallenge.
A/N: It might be good to listen to the song Goodnight, Goodnight by Maroon 5 while you're reading. :) The song can be downloaded HERE.

After months of hiding, of sneaking around, of whispered "I love you"s and soft kisses, it all comes to an end.

Snuggled on the sofa, the credits on the TV screen roll and they're in the dark. She's almost asleep and he's moving his fingers through her hair, slowly savoring the feel of her curls caressing his knuckles.

He knows what has to be said, what he should have said before they started this whole thing.

"Claire?" His voice is quietly broken; she doesn't hear him, asleep against his chest, her blonde hair creating a bright halo in the darkness.

He should shake her awake, tell her why they can't be together, but he can't bring himself to disturb her. Mentally, he calls himself a coward. She'll hate him for this, he knows. She never cared what anyone thought.

But images of his mother and brother swirl through his head, of society's stares and Noah Bennet's horn-rimmed glasses, and he knows that he's doing the right thing.

"I'm leaving," he whispers to her sleeping form. Her response is to shift slightly in his lap, her foot brushing lightly against his, and he breathes deeply. "I love you."

He'll stay with her for a few more hours, hold her a little while longer, and in the morning she'll wake up to find a note.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.

- Peter

He'll be in Las Vegas by then.

Title: Black Stained
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Rating: G
Summary: Claire is broken now that he's gone. Written for the Breakdown challenge @ pairechallenge. Sequel to Goodnight, Goodnight

She can’t believe that he’s gone, that there’s nothing left of him but a note with his untidy scrawl.

She searches for him everywhere, but it’s worthless and she feels sixteen all over again, powerless to find the man who melted the sky and disappeared in a cloud of smoke. She had broken that night, but he’d healed her with his return.

There’s no hope of being mended now.

Clinging to the note, her small fingers trace over the lettering of his name and her tears splotch the ink, leaving her fingers stained.

Black, like the breakdown of her heart.

A/N: I realize that Destined is taking a long time to update. Just know that I am working on it - this chapter is just kicking my ass. It's kind of a different chapter, which you'll understand when I finally post it. Should definitely be up sometime this week. :)

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Journal Updates

2007-09-12T20:22:29Z

Hey, all! Just posting to let everyone know that I have tagged all the fics in this journal. You can find them now by rating, pairing, universe, etc. Took me forever, but I'm glad I did it. <333

Also, I'm thinking of changing the picture in this layout. So, if you guys want, feel free to post your favorite Peter/Claire and Milo/Hayden pictures and I may make a layout out of them.

Love you guys & all your support. *hugs*

Missing You, Missing Myself

2007-09-11T19:19:18Z

Title: Missing You, Myself
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire, mentions of Andy/Claire & Peter/Niki
Rating: R (light)
Summary: Another take on the future in Five Years Gone. Written for the Reunion challenge at pairechallenge.
A/N: I can't stop playing with this universe. Almost all the Paire fics I've written, with the exception of Destined have been in this universe! I thank the writers so much for giving us that episode. It's making a mighty nice sandbox. ;)

Secondly, this piece references The Bourne Identity, but everyone knows the premise of that movie, right? Jason Bourne can't remember who he is, pretty much. :) I think ohsodazzling and I share a mind, 'cause she referenced the movie in her submission for this challenge, too.

Also, I think this take on Peter and Claire is different from anything I've done before, so it'd be awesome to know what everyone thinks! :)

"So," he started awkwardly, the trace of an ironic smile on his crooked mouth, "I guess I'm your uncle."

Claire let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "I guess."

She didn't look at him, but kept her gaze on the TV screen in front of her. "What are you watching?" he said, plopping down next to her on the sofa.

Her eyes narrowed only slightly when he put one arm behind her on the couch and used the other to grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl next to her.

"The Bourne Identity."

He nodded, noticing that she was wearing an old sweatshirt that used to be his. She probably didn't know that, though.

*

It happened, the bomb. Exploded and lit up the sky with neon oranges and hot, peppery reds.

Peter broke into pieces, flesh ripped apart, pain splintering sharply through every part of him. He felt it all.

He didn't think any other kind of pain could come close.

*

They told him his name was Peter Petrelli, that he had been a hospice nurse, that he had always been sensitive and prone to depression.

He nodded warily, not sure whether he could trust these people.

"We love you, Pete," said his brother.

"The memories will come back," said his mother.

*

She called Nathan one day, even though she wasn't supposed to because it could be dangerous.

Nathan didn't answer and Claire nearly dropped the phone when she heard Peter's voice.

"Hello, who is this?"

She didn't know what to say to a ghost, so she hung up.

*

Peter looked through photo albums, trying to find clues to who he was, trying to remember something, but it was no use.

One day his brother's wife helped, and theyfound a small abandoned album in the corner of one of Nathan's large closets. Inside were pictures of a blonde baby girl with happy pink lips.

His sister-in-law froze as though uncovering a secret, but Peter flipped to the back of the album. The baby had turned into a teenaged girl wearing a cheerleading uniform and a sad smile.

"Heidi," choked Peter, gripping her arm. "I remember."

*

He discovered his abilities again, much to the anger and disappointment of Nathan.

His brother began the Linderman Act the next day.

*

She was thinner the next time he saw her, living in Oregon and working as a waitress.

It didn't suit her; the weight or the job. Tired lines had started making a path on her forehead, but the color of her eyes were still bright and pure.

They sparkled when she saw him.

*

They sat on a secluded bench in an old, green park. While Peter explained what had happened in the past three years (the explosion, losing his memory, trying to find her), she leaned back, resting her head against an oak tree.

When she explained her version of the past three years (being hunted for her ability, going into hiding), he shifted toward her so that their knees were touching.

*

"You changed your name," he remarked as they walked back from a diner that she frequents. When she didn't respond, he spoke hesitantly. "Why Jackie?"

Claire looked down at the ground, hands tucked in her grungy denim jacket, and said, "To remember her."

"Just don't forget yourself," said Peter softly.

He squeezed her hand softly and Claire looked down at their intertwined fingers, not knowing when he had pulled her hand out of her pocket to hold it.

*

They went back to her apartment and watched The Bourne Identity, feeling as if the moment belonged in another lifetime.

"You should change your name," she suggested when the credits rolled. "You could be Jason."

"I just became Peter again."

She looked away from him and curled into his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat.

"And you'll always be Claire."

*

She had to leave again, to keep moving, and she left him a note.

I'll miss you.

The note didn't have an address.

*

He lived in Vegas and met a woman named Niki who turned his world upside down. She reminded him of Claire; she was strong and blonde and even wore the same giant hoop earrings his niece had in Oregon.

She had the power to make him feel alive, whether he was kissing her in dark club corners or fucking her against the paint-peeled walls of her apartment.

They had both everything and nothing in common, but being broken was what held them together.

*

She watched her biological father's sneer on the TV screen, hating him, hating that his blood flowed through her veins.

She changed her name again.

*

Peter saved a girl from an unknown villain and she clung to his black trenchcoat tightly for several hours afterward, refusing to let go.

She reminded him of Claire, too, albeit a much younger one, but her eyes were dark and her hair brown-red. She didn't ask him his name, either, or call him a hero, just looked up at him with a wide, awed stare.

It wasn't until later that he learned he had saved Mohinder's adopted daughter.

"Bastard," he spat out, as his former friend walked side by side with his brother on the TV screen.

*

He found her again, this time in Kentucky.

The sky was dark as he pulled her into an alleyway and she smacked, hit, and kicked him until she finally got a good look at his face.

"Peter," she breathed.

"Claire."

"It's Robin," she said hoarsely as he buried his face into her leather jacket.

"No," he whispered against her. "I'm not Peter without Claire."

"A little corny," she said, tears welling in her eyes as she wrapped her arms around him fully, "but sweet."

"Thanks."

*

The silence that passed between them seemed neverending, broken by the sound of her small thumb on a red lighter.

Peter was recalled exploding, saw crimson flames and crisp heat dance in front of his eyelids. He smirked slightly, though nothing was funny. "Didn't anybody ever tell you that kissing a smoker is like licking an ashtray?"

It was a joke, said mainly because he wanted her to smile, to see some kind of shine on her face, but the hope was swept away by a cloud of gray smoke and the lighted tip of her cigarette.

"Well, that's not something you'll have to worry about, is it?" said Claire bitterly.

Right before he kissed her.

*

For some reason, Peter had always imagined this moment to be hard and fast, the way he always was with Niki, so consumed by passion that he wouldn't be able to hold himself back.

He was surprised when it was slow, painfully slow, but he realized that with her, it couldn't have been any other way.

She cried, before and after, her wet tears slipping numbingly down her face and into his skin. He wanted to ask her if she was crying because she was happy or disgusted, but didn't, just brushed away the tears like he always did.

*

They woke up to see a shark's smile in a presidential suit watching them. He looked amused more than anything and Claire filled with such a violent rage at the sight of him that she trembled.

Peter threw Nathan against the wall, freezing him there, and hurriedly handed Claire her shirt.

*

They stopped at a drugstore an hour later, picking up hair dye and scissors, and rested when they reached the next state over.

In the dim light of a motel room, Peter watched as Claire dyed her hair, looking eerily like a Petrelli as she did so.

He reached for the scissors.

The hair fell to the ground in sickening clumping sounds as he cut it unevenly. She stared at him the whole time, not saying a word.

*

"Come with me," she whispered, hands fisted into his trenchcoat, her breath hot in his ear.

"I can't," he whispered back. "I've put you into too much danger already. Nathan..."

Claire stepped away from him and let out a sweeping sigh while he itched to say something, anything, that would comfort her.

You could be Jason and I'd be Marie, she thought, and he smiled.

She stepped back toward him, lifted her small fingers to trail down the length of his scar.

He shivered, and pulled her into a quick hug before she boarded the train.

*

Her father showed up in New Jersey.

"Your mother's left," he said, and Claire pressed her lips together.

*

She lived in Midland and her hair grew back, flowing past her shoulders.

She met a man named Andy who made her smile. He was different from any other man she'd known, carefree and light and dimpled.

She didn't love him.

*

When he showed up at the Burnt Toast Cafe, she felt like she might be dizzy with sickness or happiness or both.

"Sandra, huh?"

"To remember my mother," she explained, pouring him a cup of coffee.

"Forgotten yourself yet?"

"I never knew who I was to begin with." Only who I was when I was with you.

"Forgotten me?"

Never. "Never."

*

The next time they made love, they were in the kitchen of the cafe, Claire sitting on the counter, Peter standing between her parted legs.

Aromas of burnt food and sweet soap circled around them, but the only sensation that filled Claire was Peter. He tasted of coffee and apple pie and her nails scraped hard along his neck as she strove to bring him closer.

Dishes clattered and shattered on the tiled floor, but no one else heard. Even if they had, it wouldn't have mattered.

*

Afterwards, her legs were wobbly and she had to lean against him to stand. He pushed her (brown) hair out of her face as they stepped out of the kitchen doors, whispering in her ear, "So I guess the myth about smoking after sex isn't true."

"I quit," said Claire, licking her lips and placing a kiss beneath his nose.

"You did?"

"Someone once told me that kissing a smoker was like licking an ashtray."

*

He had to leave, but promised he'd be back.

She promised that she'd stay in Midland.

They wanted to say the three words, but knew they weren't needed. They never had been.

*

He knew what it was like to explode literally, but this was worse.

He felt like he could die at any second, tortured by the memory of her smile and the scent of her sex, the ghostly touch of her lips on his, her fingers in his slicked back hair.

They'd never have another reunion.

He placed a note on the grave, wiping away tears that hadn't yet fallen.

I'll miss you.

*

The next day he changed his name to Jason.

A/N: Hope everyone liked it! ♥ Also, if you haven't read the fourteenth chapter of Destined, check it out!

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Destined, chapter 14

2007-09-10T23:08:42Z

Title: Destined
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire, West/Claire, Zach/Claire friendship
Rating: PG-13
Summary: As Claire continues with life after New York, the reappearance of her uncle in her life is only the beginning of a series of events that will change her life forever. This Chapter: Claire keeps getting Peter's phone calls. Etc.
Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13
Fic Art: HERE, HERE, HERE, and HERE. ♥
A/N: Sorry for the long time between updates, but this chapter kicked my ass. I've started college now, am sick, and have had to write this chapter three times. So I really hope everyone likes it, LOL. :)

Chapter Fourteen - Phone Calls For Peter

Claire's examining her reflection, pouting at the way she looks in her new blue and white cheerleading uniform (she definitely liked the Wildcats one better). Lyle is lying on her bed looking bored, and she regrets asking her little brother for fashion advice.

"Hey," she says as he grumbles. "Zach's not here, so you're just going to have to pretend to be him - at least for right now, alright? Now. Do I look better in this one with my hair down or up?" Lyle gives her an are-you-kidding-me look; Claire sighs.

"Claire, I can't even pretend to be interested in this. Why don't you just send Zach pictures of you or something?"

Claire, in the middle of tying her hair into a bun, stops and looks at him. "Hey, you're right! Why didn't I think of that?"

Lyle looks incredibly relieved and starts to creep out of the room unnoticed, until Claire catches him by the arm. "Wait!"

"What?"

"Who do you think has to take the pictures? Come on, please."

She looks down into his face, tries to look as sad as possible, and hopes he says yes. Finally, her brother shrugs her hands off his shoulders and reaches for the camera on her desk.

And then her cell phone rings.

"YES!" cries Lyle, racing out of the room before she can stop him.

Claire rolls her eyes as she picks up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hello, Claire," says a familiar voice. "How are you?"

"Nathan, hi," she answers happily; it's the first call she's received from her bio-dad since he left a week and a half ago. "What's going on?"

"Nothing much. Hiro and Ando are staying with us for awhile until they can find an apartment."

Claire smiles; the image of Hiro and Ando living in the Petrellis upstate mansion is too hilarious.

"Have you talked to Peter lately?" Nathan asks smoothly. Claire shakes her head slightly at the swift change in conversation; only Nathan can be so subtle in his abruptness. "I've been calling him, but he won't answer his phone. How's he doing?"

"He's, um," starts Claire, wondering what on earth to say. 'Your brother's moping because his heart got broken? Your brother's avoiding me? Your brother's drunk off his ass?' She goes for, "He's...sick."

"It's just, I read in the paper about... uh, one of his ex-girlfriends is getting married, that's all." Claire can feel the awkwardness over the phone, of her bio-dad's reluctance to spill personal information about Peter. "He was kind of in love with her and, uh, well, you know Peter. He's so sensitive. Wanted to check up on him."

So they did date, thinks Claire. She had wondered if Peter's love for Simone was unrequited, but apparently it wasn't. She doesn't know if that makes her feel better or worse.

"When I see him, I'll tell him that you called," she promises.

"Thanks, Claire. I'll talk to you later, the kids are - "

"Why did they break up?" she blurts out. When silence meets her on the other end of the phone, she bites her fingernails, hoping she hasn't been too intrusive. At the same time, she feels that if Peter isn't going to tell her anything, she's going to have to get the information from someone else.

"She died. That kind of killed their relationship."

"But before she died and time got changed and everything, they were still together? They were going out when she died?"

"Yeah, I think so. I don't know. Why are you so worried about it?"

"No reason," she says casually, wishing that were true.

*

She stares at the phone in her hands, at the number scribbled on a notepad of paper and the name written in her father's neat handwriting: Peter Petrelli.

She dials the number quickly. Her finger hovers over the 'call' button.

The phone is frustratedly tossed across the room.

*

Claire stands outside the door to her father's study, whispering to herself. She's going over the words in her head, forming them into sentences that will somehow garner his approval. She's asked her father about many things over the years - her birth parents, boys, drugs - and she's asked permission to do lots of things, and his approval has always mattered. Claire is a daddy's girl, through and through, and his opinion means everything to her.

Which is why she's so nervous. She wants him to say yes, but she's so afraid he's going to say no. And even though this isn't about him at all, it's about her, and it's a choice that is up to her to make, she knows that in the end, she'll probably do whatever her dad tells her to do.

The door suddenly swings open and she jumps, startled out of her thoughts. She jumps. "God, you scared me," she says as her father looks down at her curiously through horn rimmed glasses.

"Well, you've been standing outside the door for five minutes now," Noah says, sounding amused. "Did you want to talk about something, Claire-bear?"

She nods and he ushers her into the study.

"What is it?" he asks, a warm expression on his face.

Claire feels calmed by it. "Dad, I was just wondering..."

"Yes?"

"If I find someone, you know, at school or something... if I found someone like me," and she emphasizes those last two words to make sure he knows what she's talking about, "do you think that I could tell them? About me?"

Noah's eyebrows raise. "Have you found someone like you, Claire?"

Claire debates lying; West had told her in confidence about his power, had sworn her not tell anyone. The look on her father's face, however, makes her want to tell him the truth. There's been too many secrets between them in the past and besides, even if she did lie, he'd probably know.

"Yes," she says and he looks interested, but she hastens to add, "but this person didn't want me telling anybody, so - "

" - you don't want to tell me who it is," her father finishes.

"Sorry."

He peers at her across the desk separating them, takes off his glasses and wipes them absentmindedly, then puts them back on.

"So could I tell him - that person - about me?" she asks. Her father smiles, and it's that smile that's always made her feel like she can tell him anything.

"I'm glad you came to me, Claire," he says. "But I think it's up to you. You're aware of the constant danger you're in, that you have to always be careful. If you think this person can be told, I trust your judgement. You're not a little girl anymore."

It takes awhile for the words to really sink in, and then Claire's leapt out of the chair and gone around the desk to get to her father. "I'm not a little girl anymore," she agrees, kissing him on the cheek, "but I'm still your girl."

*

"How are you?"

"Good."

"How's West?"

"He's good, too."

"Your dad, mom?"

"Yep."

"Peter?"

"..."

"Oh God," and she can hear Zach's exaggerated sigh as if he were right next to her, "what did he do to piss you off?"

*

Claire wouldn't necessarily classify herself as angry with Peter. He hasn't technically done anything to make her mad. It's her fault, really. Reading more into a stupid hug than what was there.

It's nauseating to think about and she hates herself a little more each time she thinks about it; the way he had clung to her, the way his lips had grazed her shoulder, how his fingers had felt in her hair. She hates herself because she's not supposed to be having these thoughts about Peter. He's her uncle. Her uncle. It's gross.

She's been trying to push him out of her mind for the most part, throwing herself into cheerleading and school. It's been three days and this has worked for the most part. Most.

It hurts that Peter hasn't come to see her, but she thinks that if he can remember what happened, he's probably embarrased. It had been the second time he'd broken down in front of her, after all. Still, she wishes Peter would just suck it up and visit her so they could put this whole thing behind them and move on. She'd go to his hotel, but, well, considering last time and how doing just that had gotten her into thinking-of-Peter-in-more-than-an-uncle way in the first place, she doesn't think it that is a good idea.

Besides, they'll have to see each other, Claire muses as she paints her tailnails a bright, sparkly pink. He only lives two streets down from her house.

*

Claire takes West to her backyard after school, during a time that she knows that her parents are out and Lyle's at a friend's house.

"What are you doing?" West calls out worriedly as she starts to climb up the side of her house. Her response is simply to smile in return.

She pulls herself up to the roof with great effort, then lets her legs dangle over the sides. "You know how you said you have a secret?" she yells. He nods, and she lowers her voice. "I have a secret, too," she says to him.

"What?" he yells back, clearly having not heard her.

Claire stands on the edge of the roof, takes a breath, and jumps off.

*

Two hours later and they're walking along the beach, with West still repeating, "Oh my God, oh my God."

Claire can do nothing but grin. "I know," she says.

"And it doesn't hurt at all when you...put yourself back together?"

"No," she shakes her head, "just a little awkward."

"I can't believe this!" exclaims West, looking happier than Claire's ever seen him. West is nearly always smiling, but he's grinning so hard that she wonders how his face muscles aren't hurting.

"I know."

"I mean, I - I've never met anyone like me before!" he says. "This is so amazing, so cool. God, I used to think I was such a freak. But now there's you! Oh my God."

Claire feels his excitement practically running through her veins. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. You know, the same day you showed me your power."

"No, that's okay," he says, waving his hand through the air. "It's cool. I just...I can't get over this. I never thought I would meet anyone else..."

"I totally felt the same way," Claire tells him. "Until I met Peter, I felt so alone."

West stops. "Peter? Peter, your uncle, Peter?"

Claire mentally kicks herself, wondering if she should have told him that. She had decided to tell him about her, not about everybody else. But, really, it's not like West is a threat or anything, she tells herself. The guy is practically giddy.

"Yeah, my uncle," she says. "He was the first person I met who was like me...us."

"What can he do?" asks West eagerly.

Claire smiles. "He's sort of like a sponge. He absorbs other people's powers."

"So there's a lot of us..." West's voice trails off in wonderment and Claire can remember how it felt when she had found out the same thing.

She can remember how she had felt like she belonged, how she had finally felt like she was connected to someone and that she didn't have to be on her own. She can see Peter's dark eyes in her head, intense and focused on her, as he told her in a jail cell that he had known he had to save her. She can see his happy, crooked smile as he discovered that she was like him; he had mirrored her own undescribable joy.

Claire stops suddenly, feet buried in the sand as West continues to ramble, and she frowns. Remembering that day makes her realize how alike she and Peter were. They're both stubborn, too stubborn for their own good... what if he didn't come to see her? She still didn't know him that well.

"It's been a week," she whispers to herself. The longest she'd ever been apart from Peter since she'd met him, not counting the months she thought he was dead.

"What did you say?" asks West, eyes sparkling.

Claire finds herself drawn into his eyes the same way she's always been drawn into Peter's. Something about the darkness and sincerity in his eyes makes her feel comfortable with him, safe with him. She doesn't need Peter for that.

She gives West a half-smile. "Nothing."

*

Claire is in math class, staring at the back of West's head and wondering what kind of shampoo he uses, when her cell phone starts to ring. Startled, she jumps, and everyone in the class turns their head to stare at her.

Her teacher, an old woman with a wrinkly, mean face approaches her desk slowly. The classroom is completely silent except for the sound of her phone reverberating throughout the room. Claire mentally smacks herself for forgetting to turn it off. "Aren't you going to answer that, Ms. Bennet?" her teacher says in an icy voice.

Claire mumbles, "Yes," and begins to search desperately through her bag for the phone. She knocks random items onto the floor in the process - lip gloss, half-eaten twinkie, iPod - and they land centimeters from her teacher's loafered feet.

Finally her hands clutch around the phone and Claire stands up. "I - this'll only take - I'll be back."

She rushes out of the room, an embarrased blush gracing her face, as she presses the phone to her ear. "Hello?" she snaps.

"Hello, is this Claire Bennet?" comes a polished voice that she's never heard before.

"Who is this?" she asks.

"My name is Simone Deveaux," the person on the other line says.

Claire can feel her heart drop to her stomach. "Uh, hi?"

"I'm sorry," says Simone, and Claire can almost see the woman shake her head, a slight smile on her face, "I know that you probably don't know who I am - "

"You're Peter's, um, I know who you are," says Claire, fingers raised to her lips nervously. Why on earth is Simone Deveaux calling her?"

"Oh," says Simone, sounding relieved that she doesn't have to explain who she is, "I see."

"How did you get this number?" asks Claire suddenly, confused.

"Your father gave it to me. Um, Nathan."

"Oh."

A long silence stretches between them and Claire wonders if this conversation can get any weirder. She can hear her math teacher through the thin walls, explaining some complicated form of factoring.

"Anyway," continues Simone. "I was wondering if you'd seen Peter at all. I've tried his phone several times and it just keeps ringing. I wanted to know if he'd gotten his invitation to the wedding yet and if he'd be coming."

Claire sighs; why does everyone keep calling her about Peter?

"I'll talk to him about it," she tells Simone. "See if he wants to go or not."

"Thank you," says Simone graciously. "It would mean a lot if he came."

"Yeah," says Claire, secretly thinking that there's no way in hell Peter would show up at this woman's wedding. She'd caused him so much pain, whether she'd intented to or not.

"Oh, and Claire?"

"Yeah?"

"It's good to hear your voice," Simone says, that sophisticated smile seeping through the phone. "It means that Peter saved the world."

Claire answers, "Yeah," and hangs up the phone.

*

"Dude, I've tried calling you like three times."

"Sorry, I turned off my phone."

"Why?"

"Ugh, for so many reasons."

"Well, keep it on next week. That way I can call when I get to California."

"Don't worry, I will."

*

She sees Peter that night. Out to dinner with West, dressed in a black dress that's perhaps too fancy for dinner, she spots him at the bar, only ten feet away from her table. He's slouched over the counter, the collar of his coat popped up around his neck, face buried in a glass of something undoubtedly alcoholic.

"No," she moans, not prepared for this moment. Whatever longing she had had to see him, whatever longing she had had for him to come visit, is gone completely. It's replaced by nerves. Even looking at the back of him is making her tense, nervous, and confused.

She looks at West, who is deeply immersed in the menu, and tries to capture his attention silently. Snapping her fingers in front of his face doesn't work and neither does trying to kick his foot under the table (she kicks the table leg instead), so she grabs the menu and pulls it away from him.

"Hey!" he says, a little indignantly. "What'd you do that for?"

"My uncle's here, let's go," she whispers, leaning as far across the table as she possibly can. "Come on."

"Wait, why don't you say hi?" West asks, thumb pointing in Peter's direction.

"No," Claire snaps. "Come on."

"Claire!" shrieks a high-pitched voice that attracts the attention of everyone in the restaurant. Claire's eyes close as May approaches them. "Hey, girl, how are you? Oh, hey, West!" Her hair swishes as she pats him on the shoulder. "So handsome... O-M-G, are you two, like, on a date?"

Claire wishes she could sink into the floor, especially when she feels Peter's gaze on her, so intense that she can sense it with her eyes still closed.

"No," says West, blushing a little, "we're not."

"Aww, that's so cute! Well, I G-2-G, but it was nice seeing you two! T-T-Y-L!"

May leaves, swinging her tiny hips as she goes, and Claire tries not to glance over to where Peter is sitting, watching them. She picks up her own menu and pretends to study the choices, thankful when a waiter finally shows up to take their orders because at least he blocks Peter's stare.

When the waiter walks away, Claire looks up at the ceiling, biting her lip and avoiding West's confused look. Part of her does want to talk to him, but most of her doesn't, and Claire's always been a big believer in the majority rules philosophy. She hopes to God that Peter just stays at the bar.

Unfortunately, God hates her.

"Hi, Peter," she says as he reaches the table, a wide, false smile on her lips, "I thought that was you."

"And here I thought you were avoiding me," he says, sliding into the booth across from her; West moves over to accomodate him, still looking confused.

"No," lies Claire, "I just didn't want to interrupt you."

Peter's eyes don't leave her face and she is met with the familiar feeling of him being able to see right through her. He doesn't say anything, just sits there looking at her, and she tries to read him.

"Do you want something to drink, Peter?" asks West. At Claire's glare, he amends, "I meant water."

Peter glances at West, smiles his crooked smile, and holds out his hand. "I don't think we've officially met," he slurs. Then he laughs. "In this time, anyway."

West shakes Peter's hand. "Nice to meet you."

Peter suddenly slips out of the booth, almost comically, and grabs at the table to keep from falling over. Claire can't look at him, doesn't want to see him this way again; a drunk Peter is too much for her to handle.

"Well," he says, still grinning though there's nothing funny, "I don't want to date your interrupt. I mean," he says through a wheeze, "interrupt your date. So I'll go, but Claire...uh, don't you think you're too young to date?"

"What?" she asks, but instead of answering, Peter turns back to West, white-knuckled hands still gripping the table.

"How old are you?" he demands.

"I'm 18," offers West in a low voice, glancing at Claire as if asking for help. Claire knows that West doesn't like the sudden harshness in Peter's tone, and she doesn't either. She folds her arms across her chest, wishing he would read her thoughts and just leave.

Peter's voice stays cold, and his hands shake the table. "Are you a virgin?"

Claire's mouth drops open. She can't believe... Her cheeks heat up in embarrasment and righteous anger.

"Excuse me?" West's voice has an edge to it now.

"Are you?" says Peter, and Claire realizes that even though his hands have left the table, it's still shaking. She stands up, shocked that he's able to do anything telekinetically when he's this drunk.

She grabs him by the sleeve and drags him out of the resturant, her heels clicking on the smooth wood floors, and then the pavement as they push their way outside. The light of streetlamps reflects off of Peter's half-confused, completely plastered face, and Claire wants to smack him. "What is wrong with you?"

"What?"

"You can't go around asking West questions like that! It's none of your business!"

Peter doesn't say anything and it appalls her. She expects him to argue back, to show some of the ass-hattery he displayed inside, but he just looks at her. Letting out a half-strangled yell, she goes to move past him, to get back to West.

He grabs her arm and presses her against the brick siding of the resturant. Claire smacks him with her purse and then punches him in the shoulder as she attempts to leave again, fed up with the very sight of him, but he pulls her back, his grip around her wrist tighter this time. "Let go!" she cries.

"I'm sorry," garbles Peter, "so, so sorry Claire. I'm an idiot right now, I know. And at the hotel, I was an idiot, too. You shouldn't be seeing me like this."

She yanks her hand away from him, watches as the bruises disappear into her skin.

"I shouldn't be like this," Peter says, seeing Claire's lip quiver as she recovers from the hard pressure of his fingers around her wrist, hurting her. She can't believe he had actually grabbed her like that, that he had actually hurt her, and it scares her.

When she speaks, her lip is still quivering, making her voice shake even as she tries to sound firm. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself," she says icily. "So Simone's marrying someone else. It happens. Get over it. It's not like she doesn't care about you. She called me today, wanting to know why you weren't answering her calls. You should call her back."

"I should," says Peter, nodding.

"Though maybe you should do it when you're sober," adds Claire.

Peter nods again.

"So get sober."

"Okay."

Claire licks her lips nervously as Peter stares down at the ground. She doesn't know what to say now and is thankful when West comes outside, looking worried. "Is everything okay out here?" he says, his gaze on her.

Claire nods. "We should drive him back to the hotel," she says.

A crisp voice cuts through the tense air. "No need for that, I'll drive him."

Claire spins around, knowing that voice anywhere, but confused as to how the hell it wound up in California. "Hello, Claire," says Angela Petrelli, red lips pressed together. "Hello, Peter."

"Ma?" says Peter, looking as confused as Claire feels.

"What, did you think I wouldn't come looking for you when you didn't answer my calls?" says Angela Petrelli, smacking Peter lightly on the arm with her purse. "I had to hear from Nathan that you decided to live here. And then her father," she quickly nods at Claire, "wouldn't even tell me where you were staying."

Claire stares openmouthed as Angela's eyes sweep disapprovingly over her son. "Look at you, you're filthy. And drunk, I see. Over this Deveaux woman your brother told me about?"

Peter doesn't answer, just stands there like a dog being inspected for fleas.

"For God's sake, Peter, I'll clean you up."

And she links her arm through Peter's and helps her stumbling son to her car, ignoring Claire completely.

West comes closer to Claire and wrapping an arm around her cold shoulders. Peter looks back at them and he's wearing that look that Claire can never place, the one she doesn't think she'll ever understand.

"Who the hell is that?" West asks as Peter gets sick in the bushes, his mother standing stiffly beside him.

Claire sighs. "My grandmother."

*

She comes home, expecting to talk to her father about why he didn't tell her Angela Petrelli was here in California, but her father is asleep on the couch when she gets home, his mouth hanging open as the TV across him blares.

Claire turns it off with the remote and calls out for her mother and Lyle, but they're sleeping as well. She turns off the lights in the house, a slightly eerie feeling settling over her; normally her parents turn off the lights in every room before they fall asleep. Staring back at her father, she finds it odd that he's fallen asleep on the couch; he never does that.

Shrugging away the feeling, Claire climbs into her pajamas, exhausted and wanting this night to be over. She'd never felt more embarassed as she had tonight with Peter. Thankfully West hadn't said anything about it as he drove her home, just suggested that they do dinner another night instead, a hopeful smile on his sweet face.

She crawls into bed, sighing in content at the way the blankets mold around her, and she closes her eyes.

Ten minutes later and she looks at the clock, suddenly awake and restless. The back of her neck prickling, she squints through the darkness of her room, her heart pounding. Something's wrong.

She reaches for the phone next to her and dials Peter's phone number on impulse. Her grandmother answers, but quickly says that she can't talk. "Goodnight, Claire," she says, hanging up the phone before Claire can stop her.

Her heart pounds sickeningly in her chest. It's as if someone's watching her.

She dials the phone number again, fingers trembling, and this time Peter answers. "Claire?"

"Peter!" she whispers into the phone.

"What is it?"

She swears she sees something move by the window.

"Peter!" she sobs into the phone, now so scared she can barely think straight. Claire doesn't know what the hell is going on, only that something isn't right.

Goosebumps stand out coldly on her arms and she gasps as she sees the shadows on the wall move.

"Claire? Claire!" comes Peter's panicked voice.

Claire screams as the figure approaches her and then she's picked up like a rag doll and thrown into her chest of drawers.

She can barely hear Peter's shouts when everything goes black.

*

A/N: This is just a continuing thanks to all my readers & supporters. It really means a lot to me that people follow this story and comment. I know I say that a lot, but it's so true. So thanks, guys. :)

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I Can Only

2007-09-05T16:39:44Z

Title: I Can Only
Fandom: Heroes
Pairing: Peter/Claire
Rating: G
Summary: Oh, fairytales. Written for the Imagine challenge @ pairechallenge.

Her father would read to her while she was snuggled up in pink blankets, blonde curls splaying over her pillow. She’d imagine that she was the damsel in distress saved by the knight in shining armor. A dreamy smile always danced across her face as she fell into slumber.

He liked to read comic books at bedtime, hoping they’d lull him to sleep so he wouldn’t have to hear Nathan’s loud snoring. He’d dream that he was a hero, loved by all.

In a hallway at Union Wells High School, they found each other.

They don’t have to imagine anymore.

FRIEND this journal for updates.
SEE the complete list of all the writing I've done. Includes my own fiction/poems, plus fanfic.

Expect an update of Destined by this weekend! :)

Five Years Later, chapter 4

2007-08-24T06:21:46Z

Title: Five Years Later [Paire Round Robin]
Rating: PG-13
Summary: We've seen the dark future brought on by New York's destruction...but what does the future hold now?
Previous Chapters: Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3
A/N: It was so exciting and nervewracking to write this chapter. :) I really hope that everyone likes it. Thanks so much to the loffly nayden for the beta. :)

Chapter 4 - Seeing in the Dark

Peter glared at Sylar, or at least attempted to do so; having a blindfold over his face didn't let him convey the daggered look he wanted to give his nemesis.

"Care to explain that accusation?" he spat out angrily. Nathan was a lot of things, but he was not a kidnapper. He was definitely a shark, he had admitted it himself, a man too vain and obsessed with his image, but he was still the big brother that always came to Peter's rescue. He would never kidnap him.

Peter couldn't see Sylar's face, but he could almost imagine his eye roll. "The last thing I saw before I was kidnapped was your dear brother's face."

"You don't even know Nathan," said Peter, clawing at the blindfold. It refused to come off.

"I still know what he looks like, Petrelli. That stupid smile all over campaign posters. It disgusted me." Sylar let out a noise of deepest disgust. "God, I hate politicians. They're so obsessed with power."

Peter snorted derisively. "And you're not? Look at the lengths you've gone to get power. You eat people's brains. You don't think that's disgusting?"

Sylar spoke in a low hiss. "You could never even begin to understand it."

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat. The way Sylar spoke of killing people was almost loving; the psycho really believed in what he was doing. Peter decided not to press the issue, rationalizing that even if Sylar explained himself, he probably still wouldn't be able to understand him.

"I don't believe you," he said, getting back to the issue at hand. "It wasn't Nathan."

Sylar snorted this time. "Know anyone else who looks exactly like him?"

"Maybe it was someone with a power," protested Peter. "Someone that we don't know of who can ... turn into other people or something."

Sylar was silent and didn't respond. Peter didn't know if he was simply tired of the conversation or if he didn't want to admit that he was wrong.

It didn't really matter anyway, Peter reasoned. The only thing that mattered right now was getting the hell out of here.

But, of course, he had a fucking blindfold on his face, so that was going to be pretty difficult.

*

Noah Bennet's sigh echoed throughout the entire car. Clearly, he had expected Claire to start off with a less complicated question.

Claire, however, raised her eyebrows at him from the backseat, waiting for an answer.

"Mohinder, would you like to do the honors?" her father said, focusing his attention to the road.

Mohinder turned around in his seat so he could look at Claire directly. Claire felt a little wave of appreciation go through her at this; it had been so long since someone had really talked to her about important, saving-the-world related issues.

"This woman, she is not normal," breathed Mohinder, his eyes lit with passion as he spoke of her, "She has extraordinary abilities, all of them natural."

Claire folded her arms across her chest impatiently. She already knew this.

"People with abilities have waves of power that surround them," he explained. "In the past year or so, I've been developing a system, a scale if you will, to measure the level of power a certain person has."

"Like the Richter scale?" Claire broke in, remembering seventh grade science and learning about earthquakes.

Mohinder smiled, nodding. "Yes, it can be compared to the Richter scale. The person's ability determines the level of power that registers. Take for example, someone who can read another person's thoughts."

"Like Matt Parkman."

"Yes, like him. His ability is extraordinary, but it's not powerful. The level of his power is a one. But someone like Niki Sanders, who has super strength, would probably be a three. Even so, the people who have only one ability have, up until this point, reached up to a five. A five is not a particularly dangerous level, though still very strong."

Claire had the burning desire to ask Mohinder what her power would reach, but she asked instead, "And this woman? What's her level of power?"

The look on Mohinder's face suddenly changed from heated excitement to something more solemn. "She's a thirty-one."

"What? That's insane!"

"Which is why it appears she has more than one natural ability. Even Peter Petrelli is lower than she is on the scale. He's a seventeen, and we know how many abilities he possesses."

Claire couldn't find a response, what with this shocking information. It was amazing that Mohinder had developed such a system, and even if she didn't understand it, it was still downright scary that someone could have such a high frequency of power.

Finally, she gathered her thoughts after a few seconds and asked, "What does this woman have to do with Peter's disappearance?"

Mohinder shared a dark look with Noah, and then faced Claire again. "Peter and I went to visit her in Nevada. We wanted to tell her that she wasn't alone, that there were others like her. She didn't respond well to our visit. She was nasty ... didn't enjoy learning that she wasn't the only one who was special." He looked down at the floor of the car, apparently reliving whatever this woman had put him and Peter though. "Her power got the best of her when Peter showed her what he could do."

Claire could only imagine the scene. "And you think that she took Peter or something because she was jealous of him?" she said slowly.

Mohinder shook his head. "No," and the word was grave, "we think she took Peter because she was afraid of the thought of having someone else out there who was like her. We think she took Peter to kill him."

*

Peter was now banging his head against the wall repeatedly. Part of it was out of frustration, part of it was in an attempt to get the blindfold off. He could feel anger flowing through every particle of his being now; anger at being kidnapped, anger at being defenseless, and anger at being held captive with Sylar of all people.

And though he couldn't see Sylar, he could sense that the man was watching him, enjoying his struggle.

"You're so transparent," the man said in a cold whisper. "You're angry. Heroes are slow to anger, aren't they, but you've gotten there pretty quickly."

"Shut up," grunted Peter roughly. "Anyone would be angry in this situation. You're angry, too, so just shut up."

"I have anger," admitted Sylar, "but I don't let it control me the way you let your anger control you. You get so caught up in your emotions, Peter. They take over you. Haven't you realized that?" He laughed softly, echoing throughout the cell. "And they say I'm the crazy one."

Peter lunged towards Sylar's direction, but wound up hitting a wall instead. This cell was really small. He grabbed his throbbing head while Sylar laughed. "Why don't you stop with your psychology talk and help me with this thing?" yelled Peter.

He didn't know if it was his loud voice that did it, or if Sylar was simply no longer amused by watching him attempt to pull off the blindfold, but in the next moment, he could feel the other's man's presence beside him. The pyscho's hands went to both sides of his head and he tugged hard on the blindfold.

It didn't move.

"AAAGGGGGGHHHHH!" bellowed Peter, thrashing about wildly, looking like a strangled dog in a muzzle.

"Cut it out," said Sylar harshly, and he smacked Peter hard in the face.

There was a long pause. Then -

"Did you just fucking hit me?"

*

Claire was silent for a long time after Mohinder's declaration. Hands fidgeting in her lap, she could feel sharp tears stinging her eyes at the thought of Peter being killed. She didn't think she could handle that; he was her hero, the man who had saved her life on countless occasions. They were bonded, connected forever, and the thought of him dying made her feel like a shell, empty inside and cracked around the edges.

"Dad," she said suddenly, wiping at her cheeks. "Dad, wait. We're going to Peter's last location, right? We don't even know if he's there. Can't we - can't we see if Molly can find him? He found this woman, whatever her name is -”

"Elle," supplied Mohinder. "Her name was Elle."

Claire waved a hand in front of her, no longer caring to know anything more about this woman. The only thing she cared about was finding Peter and finding him quickly. If he died, she wouldn't be able to live with herself.

"Molly," she said again, her hands clutching the back of her father's seat. She was straining against her seatbelt now.

"We're a step ahead of you, Claire-bear," her father said, smiling warmly into the rearview mirror. "Molly's positive that he's there."

"Why would he still be there?"

"I think after our meeting with Elle, Peter went back to her home in an attempt to placate her," said Mohinder. "You know Peter ..."

"Always trying to comfort people," Claire finished quietly, leaning back in her seat. She could remember being comforted by Peter - how he had liked to wipe away her tears when she cried, the way his gentle fingers had felt caressing her cheeks.

She crossed her arms, determined not to cry. "How long is it going to take to get this woman's house?"

"Probably a day or so," sighed her father from the front of the car. "I'm getting there as fast as I can."

One look at the speedometer told Claire differently. "Dad," she said her tone fierce, "let me drive."

*

The sound of heels clicking on the cool, metal floor was probably the only thing that would have stopped Peter and Sylar from wrestling around on the floor, trying to punch every bit of the other they could reach.

Therefore, it was a good thing when that sound commenced; Peter stiffened and shoved Sylar off of him, desperate to see who this person was in their cell. Was it the person who was holding them prisoner? What the hell did they want?

"Hello, Peter. Gabriel," she greeted. "I see you're enjoying each other's company."

"Who are you?" asked Sylar, mimicking the woman's bored tone.

"I'm here to help you," she said. Kneeling down, she reached towards the blindfold on Peter's face and yanked it off, ignoring Peter's yelp of pain. He felt bits of skin tearing off his face with the blindfold and it hurt like hell.

"That doesn't answer my question," said Sylar, while Peter blinked his eyes repeatedly, adjusting to being able to see again.

"My name is Elle," the woman said, and as Peter's vision came back, he could make out her thin, but curly blonde hair, red stretching lips, and wide eyes. She wore what looked like a business suit, which contrasted with her bright green high heels.

"Peter Petrelli," he introduced himself, raising a hand to press against his head. Then he swept his eyes over her again. "Wait, haven't I met you before?"

Elle sighed. "Yes. Apparently my attempt to erase your memory didn't work."

"You tried to erase my memory?"

"You came to visit with me with your Indian friend. I wanted to stop you from coming back. Of course, my mind-erase power is a new power, so it's not fully developed."

Peter wanted to ask why she would try to erase his memory, but Sylar let out a long, bored sigh. "You said you were here to help us?" he said slowly.

"Yes."

"Good," said Peter, struggling to stand up. "How the hell do we get out of here?"

Elle looked up at him and shook her head. "I have no idea. I've never been in this cell before."

Sylar glared at her. "What?"

"Let me explain," said Elle, waving her small hands, "This cell is in my house. My father used to imprison people here ... he was a bit of a mobster. Kidnapping, drugs, money - those were his hobbies."

"Your father's name wouldn't happen to be Linderman, would it?" remarked Peter wryly, pressing his face against the walls of the room in an attempt to see if he could hear anything.

"No," said Elle. "But he was a friend of Linderman's. How do you know that name?" She peered at Peter curiously.

"It's a long story," smirked Peter darkly.

"As fascinating as this is," Sylar snapped, "how is this going to help us escape?"

Elle shrugged her shoulders and her hair swished around her pale, pointed face. "It's not."

Peter looked at her, confused. "You just said you were going to help us."

"I'm here to give you information," said Elle. "You're being studied."

"How do you know?" asked Sylar.

"Oh, Gabriel," laughed Elle, patting him on the shoulder, "does that really matter?"

He looked at the small hand on his shoulder, his expression disdainful. "Yes, it does," he gritted out.

"Because I'm studying you."

"What?" said Peter.

"I have several abilities," she elaborated. "My father and I thought I was the only one, but now there's the two of you. So we're studying you."

"That doesn't explain the kidnapping," said Sylar.

"Well, how would you have felt if someone said they wanted to study you? Would you volunteer to be put under the microscope?" When no response was given, she went on, "I didn't think so. Anyway, it was my father's idea."

"And you're innocent?" Peter's scathing eyes locked with hers, but she matched his gaze with her own.

"Peter Petrelli," it's your own fault that you're here. You came to see me. I threw a fit, destroyed everything around me, hoping that you would think I was crazy and never return. I tried to your erase your memory. I knew that my father would find out about you and your powers somehow. I wanted to make sure you never came back here. But you did."

"And what about me?" Sylar's cheeks were flushed with anger. "I was minding my own business. I was nowhere near here. I was in Los Angeles!"

"My father," she shrugged.

"So it wasn't Nathan," Peter confirmed, throwing a trimphant smirk in Sylar's direction.

"No, I saw Nathan Petrelli."

A sly smile crossed Elle's face. "We have a woman on our side who can create illusions." She lets out an amused chuckle. "She enjoys being a handsome politician."

"I'm sure I'll enjoy eating her brain," came Sylar's soft, venom-filled whisper.

"What matters is that the two of you need to get out of here," Elle continued, clearly not having heard Sylar's pronouncement. "To do that, the two of you have to work together. Do you understand? I can't help you. My father would know if I did."

Peter wants to ask her why she had a change of heart, why she didn't want to treat them as guinea pigs anymore. Instead, his eyes flash with hatred as he looks at Sylar. "I can't work together with him."

Elle stood up and ran a hand through her hair frustratedly. "I was hoping you wouldn't make me do this -”

"Do what?"

"- But if it's the only way you'll help each other -”

"What is she talking about?" Sylar said to Peter.

“- then I have to tell you."

"Tell us what?" Peter folded his arms across his chest, irritated.

Elle smiled nervously. "Well, as we've been studying you, we've been looking at your DNA. Obviously."

She laughed, as if she had just made a particularly funny joke. Peter and Sylar found nothing funny.

"And, um, while we were doing so, we came across quite an interesting revelation. You - the two of you - are related."

She paused, looking at both of them dramatically. "You're brothers."