until peter went to jail, they'd never been apart for more than a few days. now there are whole swaths of space that neither one can breach, pieces of time and parts of themselves that are unaccessible to the other. susan doesn't know what happened to him in prison, isn't sure she wants to ask, but there are scars on previously unmarked skin, and the way that peter will never leave his back to entrance if he can help it. he asks lucy to move once when she gets in between him and the door, and she gives him an odd look but obeys anyway.
on their third day in new york, lucy drags them to little italy for lunch. they eat pasta and drink wine and laugh, and then someone comes up behind peter, puts his hand on his shoulder.
"unless you've got something for me, pevensie," the man says, bending his head close to peter's ear as peter goes very still and palms the knife by his plate, "get out of my restaurant."
"who the hell --" edmund begins, starting up.
peter, white-faced, shoves his chair back and rises, grabbing susan's arm. "we're leaving," he says, throwing a handful of crumpled bills onto the table.
he hurries them all out in front of them, and he doesn't look back, but he also doesn't relax until they're crammed into a cab again, and then he puts his head down between his knees and interlocks his fingers on the back of his neck, his breathing short and shallow.
"who was that?" lucy asks, sounding confused, "peter, who was that?"
"drive," edmund tells the driver.
susan puts her hand on peter's shoulders and pulls him against her, and he puts his face into her neck and makes a soft, sobbing noise.
- -
"we can drop this job," edmund says once they're back at the hotel. he's watching peter warily.
peter says, "no. this has nothing to do with him."
- -
peter sleeps late the next morning, and edmund wakes susan and takes her down to the starbucks on the corner for coffee. "his name is marco abruzzi," he says. "he's a consigliere for the patriso family. he was in prison with peter for drug-dealing, but he's fingered for a whole lot more. he got out about six months ago. i'm still pulling the prison files on him."
no subject
on their third day in new york, lucy drags them to little italy for lunch. they eat pasta and drink wine and laugh, and then someone comes up behind peter, puts his hand on his shoulder.
"unless you've got something for me, pevensie," the man says, bending his head close to peter's ear as peter goes very still and palms the knife by his plate, "get out of my restaurant."
"who the hell --" edmund begins, starting up.
peter, white-faced, shoves his chair back and rises, grabbing susan's arm. "we're leaving," he says, throwing a handful of crumpled bills onto the table.
he hurries them all out in front of them, and he doesn't look back, but he also doesn't relax until they're crammed into a cab again, and then he puts his head down between his knees and interlocks his fingers on the back of his neck, his breathing short and shallow.
"who was that?" lucy asks, sounding confused, "peter, who was that?"
"drive," edmund tells the driver.
susan puts her hand on peter's shoulders and pulls him against her, and he puts his face into her neck and makes a soft, sobbing noise.
-
-
"we can drop this job," edmund says once they're back at the hotel. he's watching peter warily.
peter says, "no. this has nothing to do with him."
-
-
peter sleeps late the next morning, and edmund wakes susan and takes her down to the starbucks on the corner for coffee. "his name is marco abruzzi," he says. "he's a consigliere for the patriso family. he was in prison with peter for drug-dealing, but he's fingered for a whole lot more. he got out about six months ago. i'm still pulling the prison files on him."