you go for the comfort foods. he just got out of prison, after all. again. peter orders chocolate chip pancakes and doesn't care that susan rolls her eyes or when edmund and lucy exchange grins. lucy has the stuffed french toast and edmund gets regular golden brown pancakes. susan sticks with coffee.
"that's just gonna make you wanna piss in the middle of the journey," edmund says.
susan tells him, "eat your pancakes."
+
the only free room at the days' inn is the one with the king-sized bed, and they all say, almost in unison, "yeah that's fine."
"we're used to sharing a bed," says peter as they charge it to edmund's credit card.
the receptionist raises an eyebrow. "all of you?"
lucy says, "we're very close."
the receptionist says, "mmhmm. do you want us to bring in an extra cot?"
"nah," says lucy.
susan adds, "it'll only take up room," and smiles. "we'll be fine."
the receptionist drops the keys into edmund's waiting palm. "room 217. enjoy."
the bed is impossibly huge, and it recalls vegas days, specific memories of seeing her reflection on burnished elevator doors and tasting chlorinated water in her mouth after she swims her 20 laps. but this is no luxury is, it is just a days' inn. no miraz or his goons or the benign faces of housekeeping -- only her brothers, her sister.
peter crawls into bed with all his clothes and shoes still on and collapses face-first into the pillow. "open the jack," he orders, voice muffled.
lucy is already swigging out of the bottle, swatting edmund's hands away when he tries to take it from her. "you lush!" he accuses.
"there's no need for name-calling," she says.
susan slips off her heels and arranges them by the wall. removes her earrings and her bracelets and places them on the dresser. she sits on the edge of the bed and rolls off her stockings, and she feels peter's shoe nudging the small of her back.
"stop that," susan murmurs. "you'll get my skirt dirty."
no subject
you go for the comfort foods. he just got out of prison, after all. again. peter orders chocolate chip pancakes and doesn't care that susan rolls her eyes or when edmund and lucy exchange grins. lucy has the stuffed french toast and edmund gets regular golden brown pancakes. susan sticks with coffee.
"that's just gonna make you wanna piss in the middle of the journey," edmund says.
susan tells him, "eat your pancakes."
+
the only free room at the days' inn is the one with the king-sized bed, and they all say, almost in unison, "yeah that's fine."
"we're used to sharing a bed," says peter as they charge it to edmund's credit card.
the receptionist raises an eyebrow. "all of you?"
lucy says, "we're very close."
the receptionist says, "mmhmm. do you want us to bring in an extra cot?"
"nah," says lucy.
susan adds, "it'll only take up room," and smiles. "we'll be fine."
the receptionist drops the keys into edmund's waiting palm. "room 217. enjoy."
the bed is impossibly huge, and it recalls vegas days, specific memories of seeing her reflection on burnished elevator doors and tasting chlorinated water in her mouth after she swims her 20 laps. but this is no luxury is, it is just a days' inn. no miraz or his goons or the benign faces of housekeeping -- only her brothers, her sister.
peter crawls into bed with all his clothes and shoes still on and collapses face-first into the pillow. "open the jack," he orders, voice muffled.
lucy is already swigging out of the bottle, swatting edmund's hands away when he tries to take it from her. "you lush!" he accuses.
"there's no need for name-calling," she says.
susan slips off her heels and arranges them by the wall. removes her earrings and her bracelets and places them on the dresser. she sits on the edge of the bed and rolls off her stockings, and she feels peter's shoe nudging the small of her back.
"stop that," susan murmurs. "you'll get my skirt dirty."
"come here," he says, not moving an inch.