whynot | (no subject)

Entry tags:

.recs,
.remix

(no subject)

I bring you a list of awesome.

1.

capslock_merlin. When I talk about this show it's mostly in capslock anyway, so, perfect. If you don't care about being spoiled for Episode 11, please click here omg.

2.

reel_merlin. A list of suggested movies for claiming. Back to the Future AU? Hitchhiker's Guide AU? JURASSIC PARK AU? OCEAN'S 11 AU?!? OMFG. I DON'T KNOW WHICH TO FLAIL ABOUT MORE AND THEY HAVEN'T BEEN WRITTEN YETfalskdf';slgk;dfk'g';dal;sfdlk

2a. Ages ago I fiddled with the idea of a Boondock Saints AU where Peter and Edmund destroy shit and kill people in the name of god ~~andthentheyhavesex~~. It's not like they'd be completely out of their element. Aslan is totally Il Duce, but damned if I know who Smecker would be. Caspian is Greenly.

3. Speaking of Boondock Saints, In God's Country is greenapple's drabble-remix of my Boondock Saints fic Big Sky Country and it (the remix) is AMAZING. AMAZING. Connor/Murphy (warning: incest etc), rated R. Big ups to her for condensing 5000 words down to 400. Oh my gosh you guys, BOONDOCK SAINTS. GOOD TIMES. (Also, what is it about a canon with religious themes that makes it so prone to incest?)

4.

amory_vain remixed my Y Tu Mama Tambien fic here, and it is HOT. I, um... didn't do my drabble remix because I never got my assignment, and then I forgot about it. I FAIL REMIXTHEDRABBLE. But I talked to the mods and they say I can get in on it anyway, late as I am. If I do, I'll apparently be drabbling Heroes!

5. I like to go on TV Tropes' Merlin page and see new stuff get added to it after every episode. Is it just me or are the examples for HoYay/FoeYay extremely skimpy. It is not just me. Camelot is totally crawling with STDs. ETA: Was it one of you guys that added that last bit to Hoyay??

BACK TO THESIS.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

miraz goes on, "i suppose you think i didn't know who and what you were when i first got involved with you. to tell the truth, i knew exactly who you were: susan pevensie, con artist, member of the infamous pevensie family, sister to peter pevensie, at the time doing five years in fox river penitentiary for grand larceny. i know your rap sheet, susan, or perhaps i should say, your lack thereof. i've spoken to some of your associates, to other men and women you've robbed. i even spoke to the detectives who investigated your case when you and your siblings went missing from finchley all those years ago."

susan goes very still. no one knows that. no one knows that; they've never spoken about it to anyone else, not in the decade and a half since peter woke her in her bed and said, "we have to go."

she hears the sound of footsteps from behind as miraz moves closer to her. "i even," he continues, "spoke to your parents. they miss you, you know. they wonder where you've gone. where you've all gone."

he pauses, maybe waiting for some reaction from her, but susan has given her parents for lost a long time ago -- maybe she'd even given them up long before they left finchley.

"i am going to take the gag out," he announces. "do try not to scream."

unlike some people, susan knows when and when not scream. miraz's hands are familiar on her face and susan doesn't flinch away.

someone strikes a light. she's in a parking garage, and the man holding the light is the head of miraz's personal bodyguard, glozelle. he looks tired, she notes.

miraz crouches down in front of her. "susan, susan, susan," he says. "why are you here?"

"my ruby earrings," she says blandly. "i think i left them in new york the last time we were here, and i wanted them back. my brother gave them to me when i was sixteen."

"oh, yes," miraz says. "when you started sleeping together."

susan blanches, because how the hell -- and then she says, "do you have them, then? i'd hate to have to tell peter i lost them."

"i can't see how he'd notice," miraz says, "given that he's out of the country right now. what has he done?"

"well, if you're so well-informed," susan says, "why don't you tell me?"

-
-

caspian had spent his childhood shuttled around between skyscraper to skyscraper, between las vegas and new york and los angeles and miami and boston and seattle. he knows these buildings like he knows his own crappy chicago apartment. it's not hard to follow the maintenance tunnels to the parking garage and the hollow echo of voices, lucy pevensie close behind him.

he lifts the grate up carefully, suddenly eye to eye with the back of one of miraz's guard's boots. his uncle's back is to him, but susan is looking straight at him. she makes no sign she's seen him.

miraz says, "i am a busy man, susan, and i have no time for games."

susan replies, "only one of those things is true."

but he goes on as if she hadn't spoken. "i know what you know, so i'll try not to waste both our times."

"because knocking me out and tying me up is such an effective use of your time, is it?" she snaps.

miraz chuckles and reaches out to stroke her cheek. she tries to turn her face away but she can't really move much. "doesn't it remind you of old times?" he says.

out of the corner of her eyes, susan sees glozelle roll his eyes.

she sees caspian's head poking through the grate.

"i can tell you that the patrisos don't have connections in the philippines," says miraz, "but it won't be long until they find some. i hope your brothers work fast. i can also tell you that they have been remiss in repaying their debt to me. don patriso is not currently on the best of footings with me, especially since i know they have not been completely honest about their bookkeeping."

caspian grins and makes the a-ok sign at her. oh god.

"what do they say?" miraz muses. "the enemy of my enemy is my friend?"

"so," susan hesitates, "does that make you my enemy or my friend?"

and suddenly glozelle yelps and goes down hard, caspian on top of him. the both of them roll around and curse and try to restrain each other, not that much attention is paid to them, since at the moment lucy and miraz both have a gun trained at each other's heads.

susan groans inwardly. timing: lucy and caspian never really had a sense for it.

the adages never did mention what happens when the enemy's enemy's (friend's?) family get involved.

the good news is that miraz has tied her with silk scarves, and while he's been talking -- and may god help her, how does he know the things he knows? money can buy most things, but surely it can't buy everything -- she's been working at the knots.

glozelle finally gets caspian down, sitting on his back, his gun out of its holster now and pressed against the back of caspian's skull.

"caspian, caspian, caspian," miraz says, never looking away from lucy. "still alive, are you?"

"i could say the same for you," caspian says, voice muffled where glozelle has his head pushed into the concrete. "all those people who hate you. how do you manage it?"

susan gets one knot undone, shoves the scarves aside and bends over to work at her ankles.

"well, if they're all as incompetent as you, it's hardly any kind of exertion," miraz says.

"shut up," lucy snaps.

"my dear miss pevensie, you hardly in a position to dictate terms," miraz says. "is she, darling?"

prunaprisma steps out of the stairwell with a gun in her hands. this is getting ridiculous.

"caspian?" she says, and caspian squawks, "aunt pru? you and miraz got back together?"

"for the sake of the baby," prunaprisma says soothingly.

susan gets the last of the knots undone and stands up. the barrel of prunaprisma's gun wavers a little as she tries to decide whether to aim at lucy or susan.

"maybe we could try this again, miraz," she says, coming up behind him. "this time without the use of weapons, breaking and entering, or knocking me out and tying me up."

"especially that last one," lucy adds.

the meal lasts for three hours. lune and corin eat slowly, laugh liberally, and tell anecdotes with contemplative gusto. edmund and peter, who are used to eating on the run (all forms of 'on the run'), who are happy with fast food and take-out, finish their plates before lune is even halfway through his.

"order something else," lune commands. "it's on me, remember."

"i can't possibly," says edmund, smiling affably. "i am stuffed."

"have more wine," corin offers. "you should get a dessert. this place makes a good halo-halo."

"a what?" peter reads the description on the menu, and makes a face. "beans? in a dessert?"

peter and edmund stick to the wine.

their table is right by the window, and through the glass they can see freighters, yachts, catamarans. they should go to the beach, edmund thinks. they are closer to the equator than he's ever been in his life and being on a tropical island so far has been nothing like he expected. except for the heat. edmund finds himself disappointed by the grayness of the city, suffocated by its inhabitants' tolerance of its ordered chaos, and even outside, the sky and the bay are only bluish gray. he thinks of ads and discovery channel documentaries -- blue blue water and white white sand. he wants to live a little before he's killed.

i'm not going to be killed, he reminds himself. i'm not going to die for a long time.

edmund finishes his glass, doesn't protest when it is refilled.

+

lune vanishes into the back an air-conditioned benz with a smile and a promise to see them soon. "i regret i cannot stay, but i am a busy man," he says.

"he keeps saying that," peter comments, as the three of them watch the benz roll down the road. "but has anyone yet informed him that he just spent the past three hours eating lunch?"

"it's what he does," says corin.

"what, wining and dining?"

"not just wining and dining. it's all business, you realize. and by business i mean putting people in his pocket. and by putting people in his pocket,i mean, you know," corin shrugs, "business."

they amble for a bit down the pier, slow with food and wine. getting some air, one might call it, but 'getting some air' for peter and corin means smoking a cigarette so it's a little bit of a misnomer. edmund doesn't smoke as much as peter, and finds that smoking on a full stomach makes him nauseous, so he is content to wander in the trail of their secondhand smoke, squinting in the sun and listening to the rhythm of corin's babblings.

the pier is lined with restaurants and bars and a few clubs, and corin points out the ones that suck, the ones that rock, the ones where he met this hot babe, the ones he and cor got kicked out of, back when cor could still cajoled into doing those sorts of things, etc.

"you often help your father out with his stuff?" peter asks, without preamble.

"sometimes. when it's needed."

"you wanna help us out with ours?"

corin laughs. "look, i know you guys are worried. totally understandable. but sit tight, man. you want my father in on this, and he already is, which is more than what most people can say who want my father in on something. but you just have to let things happen, you know?"

"we tried that," edmund deadpans. "turned out badly."

"look at you guys!" corin crows. "eating your crab and blue marlin in twenty minutes. did you even taste it? so quick to settle for small fry when you think my father isn't holding up his end of whatever deal you think he's in with you."

"you're far from small fry, corin," sighs peter.

"what i'm saying," corin intones seriously, "is: you wanna go to the beach for a few days? or something?"

edmund and peter blink. then they say, "what?"

"the beach. we've got a beach house in negros oriental. you guys need to like, chill the fuck out."

"OH MY GOD," says edmund, conveying the capslock more in emotion and sharp hand movements rather than volume. "AS SOMEONE ON THE MAFIA HITLIST, I RESENT BEING TOLD TO CHILL THE FUCK OUT."

peter says, annoyed, "corin, we have no time for this. look, i'd rather we stay here and accessible to lune."

"okay okay," says corin, taking another cigarette from his pack. he holds the pack out to them -- peter declines, edmund takes one. "item one: my father can find us anywhere, especially so if we're not trying to hide from him. which we won't be. item two." corin lights his cigarette. "it's probably best if you get out of the city anyway. item three: when time is running out, that's the best time to take it."

"take what?"

"time! to take time."

the pevensies frown at him like maybe all the weed corin said he smoked in sagada killed most of his brain cells. but knowing corin, edmund thinks that's probably true. peter and edmund exchange glances, and finally after a couple silent drags of his cigarette, edmund says -- in a grim sort of tone like he's invested too much in anger to let it all go at once -- "i didn't bring my trunks or anything."

corin grins. "we'll stop at the mall on the way home."

"you would not believe my day," susan says as soon as they've got the webcam hooked up, dispensing of any pleasantries.

"oh?" edmund says archly. "did you get corin telling you to chill the fuck out?"

"no," susan says, "i spent several hours knocked out and tied up when i followed your advice and broke into miraz's office."

"WHAT?" peter exclaims. "are you all right? i'll kill him."

"yes, peter, because that's exactly what got us into this mess in the first place," susan sighs. "i have a headache, caspian has two black eyes and a broken nose, and lucy's pride is hurt, but otherwise we're all right."

peter is silent for a long minute while edmund works through the implications of this. peter gets it faster. "where are you?" he asks.

susan sighs, hesitates, sighs again. "telmar towers," she admits, and then, "peter, sit down! don't be such a child about this. he's not going to touch me, he's back together with his wife."

"and that's going to stop him how?" peter growls.

"well, for one thing," susan says, "prunaprisma carries a very large gun."

beloved, after this comment is posted, this post will be 3 comments away from the being the LONGEST THREAD ON MY LIVEJOURNAL. omg.

the airport at negros oriental is one small field and one small building. there are no walkways to waiting lounges -- they descend the steps of the plane and follow the crowd across the tarmac like slightly disoriented wildebeest during migration season. in t-shirt and jeans and sunglasses, they look like backpackers seeking paradise 'off the beaten path', waves more merciless and beaches more golden, and they look very little like they've got mafia problems half a world away. from looks alone they could be from anywhere, australia, canada, germany, with a glint in their eyes that the locals recognize: youth whose restlessness feeds their strength, whose strangeness in the landscape imbues them with certain pretensions of invulnerability.

a car is waiting for them outside the airport, and the driver piles their bags in the back while edmund and peter climb in and corin gives him instructions in a mix of english and tagalog.

"i think i'm getting sunburnt," peter mutters, gingerly touching the back of his neck.

"i told you to put on sunscreen, man."

"god, you sound just like susan."

edmund rolls his eyes. "you wish."

peter does, a little, and he knows edmund knows it so he doesn't say anything.

edmund says, "she'd love it here."

"she'd hate it." pause. "lucy would love it though."

"yeah," edmund muses. "lucy would."

corin gets in the front seat and tells them lune will drop in in a few days, or else will send someone. "and," says corin with a pointed look, "we got out of manila just in time. people have begun asking questions about the pevensie brothers. we don't know who yet exactly, but we're working on it."

"oh christ," edmund concludes, and as the car pulls through the little town, he grills corin about exactly what kind of questions, who when what, what the hell is lune up to anyway, etc. peter falls to staring at the window, at the worn little buildings that drift by, shop signs that say things like "bongbong's sari-sari store" and "erminda's traditional buko pie", the audacious jeepneys and the serious-faced men who drive them. he sees a woman selling cigarettes wearing a 'hard rock cafe dubai', and wonders if she knows someone in dubai, or if the factory that made those shirts is around here somewhere.

"dad's got contacts all over the northeast," corin is saying. "there's gotta be at least a couple who got ins with any one of the five families, and more than that who know miraz. you say your sisters are shacked up with him right now?"

"yes," peter says flatly.

"hmm," says corin, like he's maybe not sure it's a good idea. well, peter can agree with that.

the beach house is in a secluded part of the island, and by 'secluded' it means the compound is gated and patrolled by armed guards. the air smells like the sea here, and the susurrus of the waves is always within earshot, even inside the beach house, which is a more modest affair than lune's dasmarinas monstrosity.

"we've got no maids here," says corin as they settle into the living room, "so we've got to like, fend for ourselves."

peter and edmund exchange glances. "well," says edmund. "we'll try."

"but the good thing about that," says corin, and reaches into his duffel and takes out a little baggie, tosses it onto the coffee table. it is half full of small bunched green leaves.

edmund says, "corin. is that marijuana?"

"yeah."

"corin," edmund says again. "were you carrying that ON THE PLANE?"

"naw, of course not," corin shrugs. "i'm not stupid, though i think you like, think that. i called ahead and told the driver to get some for us before we got here. hey pete." he tosses something at peter and peter catches it in one hand. rolling papers. "if i remember correctly, you roll the ill j."

peter says, "i haven't gotten high in ages." he won't vouch for lucy, though.

"oh shit," corin grins disarmingly. "you're gonna get blazed."

what? is this already longer than ot3? OH SNAP. (i am, uh, in a mood.)

caspian sits on the couch holding an icepack to his face. susan regards him grimly. from the bathroom, lucy splashes around in a bubblebath.

there are two bedrooms in the suite, and a living room, and susan is trying to decide if she wants to sleep with lucy or make caspian take the couch. she's leaning towards the latter.

"so, uh," caspian says after a few minutes. "i'm not dead."

pity. "you noticed," susan says. she jerks her head up towards the ceiling. there are cameras in the room, of course. she's debating whether sweeping it for bugs or not is a good idea or a bad one.

"uh," caspian says. "so that went...well."

susan raises her eyebrows.

"well, my aunt likes me," caspian says after a minute. "i think. so maybe --"

"caspian," susan says, "i hardly give a damn about your familial relationships, not when my family's lives are on the line."

caspian coughs, switches his grip on the icepack to the other hand so he can dig in his pocket. "lucy and i were looking for you all over the towers," he says. "i heard what you said to my uncle. i know it wasn't what you came here for, but i thought you might want these." he leans forward, and susan puts out her palm to see her ruby and silver earrings fall into her hand.

she smoothes her thumb over them carefully. the silver is a little tarnished -- it's been a while since she cleaned them -- but the rubies are still bright in the overhead light, and they make her smile. she remembers peter's quick pickpocket's fingers light on her skin, the way she'd looked in the mirror, the way they'd bth<>/i> looked, young and carefree and unblemished. except that hadn't been true at all; they've always been older than they should be.

"thank you," she says. then, "how did you know?"

caspian offers her a faint smile, then winces as it pulls at a cut on the side of his jaw. "i didn't," he says, "i just thought they were pretty, and they were right there, and well, they'd probably go for a decent price at a fence."

abruptly, the phone rings. they both jump and look at it, and then when it rings again susan leans over and picks it up. she doesn't say anything.

"mr. miraz would like to invite you to dinner in the restaurant downstairs," someone's smooth voice says. "the dress is black tie."

susan puts the phone down, then gets up and goes to the closet. she opens the doors.

she isn't sure whether or not to be flattered that miraz remembers her size, and has guessed lucy's and caspian's.

"this should go very well with your black eyes," she says to caspian, tossing him a tuxedo jacket.

the last time peter smoked was with lucy on a job in san francisco. he had been napping one afternoon in the hostel, only to be shaken awake by lucy who shook a little baggie of weed in his face and asked if he wanted to smoke. he said no in a gruff tone, then she asked if he wanted roll one for her instead then. he still said no, but then lucy was lucy and was sweet and warm and she slid beside him under the covers, casually telling him how she procured the weed from the hostel manager blah blah blah, peter couldn't remember. because in-between, lucy kissed him and touched him into compliance and suddenly peter was rolling her a joint and, well, he was putting all this effort in so he might as well smoke it now. fuck it. which was probably what lucy planned all along.

he has never been able to deny his sisters anything.

"because," corin is saying, on the verge of losing his brain-to-mouth filter, "why 34? why 34 degrees? doesn't that seem like an arbitrary number?"

"32," edmund squeaks, trying to speak and hold his breath at the same time. he passes the joint to peter. "it's 32 degrees, freezing point."

"yeah whatever," corin cries out. "water freezes at 0 degrees, boils at 100, tell me why this isn't good enough for the americans. what is with the american grudge against the metric system?"

"corin, my man," says edmund, "i hate to break it to you, but you're american."

"i mean," he says helplessly, shrugging. "i guess."

the weed has a sweet smell in the philippines, a little bit like cloves. peter's windpipe burns with every inhale and he chases it with beer just for the psychosomatic effect. "it's done," he croaks, and edmund and corin look at him with bloodshot half-lidded eyes, and peter holds up the roach for proof.

"yoooouuuu," says corin, "wanna smoke another?"

"corin, i suspect i am physically unable to do anything except drink my beer."

"yeah," corin replies, "but. do you wanna smoke another?"

peter considers this. then he says, "yeah okay."

+

when susan finally emerges from the bathroom, caspian looks her up and down and concludes, "you look hot."

"i know," susan says simply.

"but, uh." he gestures vaguely at her ears and the silver & ruby earrings that adorn them. "you sure you wanna wear those? tonight?"

her gaze is as unflinching as her voice. "yes. i'm sure."

susan wears skin-tight red silk with big black flowers on it, the ankle-length skirt slit up to here, high-collared and sleeveless. her hair is twisted back from her face to show off her earrings.

lucy comes out of one of the bedrooms a few minutes later. she's wearing something strapless and green, and caspian makes a strangled sound like he's never expected to be so lucky in his life.

it's not that he looks bad -- if her brothers' lives weren't on the line, susan would be quite willing to play around with caspian a little -- but the black eyes and his bruised nose don't really go with his tux.

they take the elevator to the ground floor, where the concierge says, "mr. miraz is waiting for you in the private room," which turns out to be on the second floor. but the private room is empty except for one big table near the wide bank of windows, and susan finds her steps slowing as they emerge from the elevator.

it's not just miraz and prunaprisma sitting at the table.

but susan is susan fucking pevensie, grifter, con artist, and thief extraordinaire, so she takes one step and then another in her three inch heels and strides forward, vaguely wishing she'd worn a lower-cut dress. "why," she says sweetly, bending over the table, "you must be don patriso. i've heard so much about you."

caspian starts to squawk, but the sound is cut off abruptly, probably by lucy grinding one of her four-inch heels into his foot.

the don smiles at her. "likewise, my dear. you must be susan pevensie. my friend marco has told me so much about you and your siblings."

"i'm sure," susan says, and takes the seat next to him. "i don't think you've met my sister lucy, and this is caspian, miraz's nephew, and an associate of my family's."

"caspian the ninth's son?" asks patriso as caspian leans over to shake his hand. "why, i heard you'd gone missing. kidnapped, some of the stories said. i offered to help your uncle, but he said he had it well in hand."

susan sneaks a look at miraz out of the corner of her eye. he's nearly red with fury.

"he just ran off," miraz says through clenched teeth. "you know how boys are."

"as i remember," caspian says, smiling through his teeth, "you tried to have me killed, and then when that failed, settled for wrecking my reputation instead. do you know, don patriso, that i was expelled from harvard business school for cheating? not that i'd managed to attend any of my classes for a week, what with the whole, 'my uncle has hired assassins to try and kill me' thing. that wasn't doing much for my grades."

"so you became a thief," patriso notes, sounding amused.

"well, it's a lot like business," caspian says, still smiling, and susan supposes that there's a reason peter hired him after all. something other than his looks, and peter's usually not that shallow.

"and i had a knack for it," he adds.

to marco abruzzi, who's glowering, lucy says sweetly, "you must be the son of a bitch who's trying to kill my brothers. i'm peter's youngest sister, lucy. i'm wearing stiletto heels and i'm sitting next to you."

corin wakes up the next morning with his tongue and eyes feeling too big for his head, and his head probably in some sort of vise, his stomach in a blender. the only thing that made him get up was the sneaking suspicion that if he didn't, he would throw up on his bed, and that was not something he wanted to deal with if alma was around. squinting, he made his way to the bathroom, spent 15 minutes throwing up into the toilet, a few seconds rinsing out his mouth while pointedly not looking at the mirror, and then remembered that the last thing he remembered from last night was being half-dressed in the ocean, singing at the moon.

that would explain was he fell asleep with his shoes on, but shirtless.

shuffling back to his bed, corin saw that someone had put a bucket next to his bed, and that he didn't need to have gone all the way to the bathroom at all, but in retrospect, at least he wouldn't have to deal with disposing it later.

he stripped to his boxers, crawled under the covers, and fell back asleep.

+

"if i was your father," edmund had been saying to him last night, as they all three stepped into the ocean, "i would just live here all the time."

"i miss the beach when i'm in the city," corin slurred. "i miss the city when i'm here."

"do you ever miss america?" peter asked.

"of course. and when i am there, i miss the philippines." this was when corin, in a fit of energetic inspiration, whipped of his shirt and threw it to the night sky. the stars were endlessly bright, shivering with their own light or maybe he was just drunk, and the sand beneath his feet gave way distractingly, softly, like whispers. "i am always home and away from it."

"yeah," said edmund, "i know the feeling."

+

corin wakes in the late afternoon, still fuzzy, but at least he isn't in so much pain. he rolls out of his bed in just his boxers and shuffles down the hall to the disaster of the living room, and catalogs the overflowing ashtrays, the half-hearted empties pyramid, and half-empty bottles. a vision of an angry aravis floats through his head, giving him hell for being a pig as his father stood behind her not saying anything, but his facial expression clearly expressing that he agreed and was glad he found someone else to say it for him.

whatever. they're not here.

he turns down the hall to where the guest rooms are.

within a 20 minute walk from the compound, there is a lean-to that sells the bomb-ass adobo and fresh coconut juice from the shell, and seeing as he threw up the contents of his stomach (and probably some of the lining) earlier, he is famished.

the door to peter's room is wide open, and it is empty. the bed is neat and untouched.

corin frowns.

this is when he realizes that the sounds he's hearing is not his brain being fuzzy, and not part of the auditory collage of daily life going on outside the house. it's coming from--

he turns around.

the door to edmund's room is open just a crack. corin knows those kinds of sounds, and instead of turning around and maybe watching some tv until the business is done, he softly steps closer, and he peeks.

okay so. corin's not gay or anything, but his throat goes dry when he sees edmund breathless against the headboard, one hand clutching the sheets and the other on peter's head between his legs. and edmund's head rolls back, and he makes these keening noises that make his (edmund's, not corin's) adam's apple bob up and down, sounding like he's trying not to make any noise at all but it's difficult, it's really difficult.

and peter, with his hair scruffed up and his naked body relaxed except for his shoulders, which are tensed. and his head, going up and down, leisurely, up and down in this almost lazy way. and edmund, trying not to make a sound.

and corin, getting a hard-on. he doesn't step away.

edmund is lankier than peter, and in his best and worst times gives off the impression of being a shadow -- not really in the sense of following peter (though there's a bit of truth in that) but in the sense that he keeps his own mysteries and is impossible to catch. the golden light of late afternoon pours in through the windows and emphasizes the lines of their muscles, highlights peter's hair and tints edmund's dark hair a dark bronze shade. and when edmund's mouth parts in a gasp, corin notices that his lips look soft, and that when edmund's eyes flutter close, it's... it's kind of hot.

not that corin is gay or anything.

and then peter picks up the pace and corin's heartbeat quickens like it's him that peter's sucking off and not edmund, and, god, corin should go take a cold shower or something, but. but edmund suddenly changes from short shallow breaths to deep long breaths, and his body goes taut and his pretty mouth parts (what? did corin just think that?), and he groans softly in the back of his throat, defeat and victory, as all tension goes out of his body.

"oh fuck," edmund mumbles, sinking backwards. "jesus. pete."

peter snaps his fingers and points sharply at something on the nightstand. edmund reaches for the plastic cup they had been using as an ashtray last night -- corin recognizes the pattern of cigarette burns he deliberate burned along the rim -- and hands it to peter, who spits in it and hands it back to edmund.

"oh thanks," says edmund, still a little out of breath. "how kind."

"shut up," says peter thickly, and reaches for his pants and starts rummaging through the pockets, "and turn around."

jesus fucking h christ on a motherfucking pogo stick is what corin thinks. face red and cock hard, he quietly slips away to take a shower, and possibly jack off.

HAPPY LONGEST THREAD DAY, BELOVED

argh bastard computer

the thing is that edmund's always been the good one. peter was always out being a juvenile delinquent and barely passing high school -- not that he's not smart, more that he doesn't give a damn -- and susan seemed to embrace the opportunity to be crazyass peter pevensie's sister and was out at parties and with boys and, like, stealing cars or whatever -- there came a point when susan seemed in danger of sliding into peter's line of work.

that was before she actually did, of course.

but edmund keeps his head down, does well in school, plays varsity sports, doesn't get into fights or drink or do drugs or any of that -- well, he drinks a little bit, but not that much. it's high school, after all. he has a plan that involves yale and a jd and taking over the known universe.

but he's still peter pevensie's younger brother, and that has certain connotations within the school system. he's on the cross-country team, not the football team, but they're both out on the field at the same time, and some of the football boys are talking about their nights.

"and i was going to get some tail, man, you know how great susan pevensie's tits are and i bet her cunt's just as --"

edmund stops stretching, stands up.

"-- and that asshole brother of hers, you know, crazyass peter pevensie comes over and you'd think he'd snapped his fingers and said, like, fucking come or something, because the next thing you know susan's getting up and i'm holding her panties in my fucking hand --"

"edmund!" eustace hisses from next to him.

"-- anyway, whatever, there are plenty of other chicks at the party, so whatever. and later i go out to throw up and what do i see? peter fucking susan on the hood of my goddamn car, which is where i wanted to be. but he's got that short skirt of hers, you know the one i mean, up and his jeans down around his ankles and they're actually fucking, you know? i mean, i knew she was easy, but her goddamn brother, man, that's some serious kind of fucked up --"

"hey," edmund says, "asshole." and punches him in the face. "shut the fuck up about my sister!" he yells, right before the entire football team descends on him.

which is how starting a riot between the football team and the cross-country team is all peter's fault, even though peter wasn't even in school that day.

but the thing is that edmund spends a lot of time watching his brother and his sister, and he knows when things change. he knows that it doesn't have a damn thing to do with the fact that peter's spending less time in school and more time with dino falcone's gang, which is going to get him in jail if it doesn't get him killed. he doesn't know what changes, but something does, somehow, which is why when cross-country practice is cancelled a couple weeks later and edmund comes home early, he stays quiet instead of calling out after he unlocks the door.

lucy is still at cheer practice, their mother is at her does-it-never-end book club, their father is at work. and there are noises coming from upstairs.

edmund puts down his backpack and his cross-country bag, toes off his shoes, and pads upstairs on sock feet. his and peter's bedroom door is open, just a crack, and edmund peers in.

peter's on his back, susan straddling him, and his hands are big and certain on her hips as he thrusts up into her. they're familiar with each other -- there's no other way to put it. susan puts her head back, gasping, and edmund wants to look away, because this is his brother and his sister, and he shouldn't be -- they shouldn't be --

but he can't look away. he bites down on his knuckle to keep from making any sound, and almost draws blood when peter says something softly, smirking, and susan's distracted enough to gasp and punch him in the shoulder. peter flips them over, and jesus, susan's breasts -- the smooth line of peter's back edmund knows, but he's never seen it like this, beaded with sweat, and jesus christ --

he sees peter's shoulders tense and hears the sound he makes, half a keen and a half a curse, and susan catches his head in both her hands and pulls him down to kiss her. peter slips free of her, kisses his way down the side of her neck, between her breasts, and then his head is between her legs and the noises she's making --

edmund sneaks away down the hall, his cheeks hot and his dick hard, and goes back downstairs. ten minutes later he opens the front door loudly and yells, "hey, i'm home! is there anything to eat?" and peter yells back down, "god, shut up!" and susan adds, "i'm trying to study, ed!"

but edmund knows.

so what they say is true, about the pevensies.

corin remembers back to encounters and favors with them: a handful of times in the USA, a few times in various parts of southeast asia, and that one time with susan and peter in the south of france. okay so they keep it in the family, corin thinks to himself as hot water sluices down his body, and he tries to juxtapose this new knowledge with his memories, but he doesn't really remember anything out of the ordinary. except maybe susan's cleavage.

and lucy's smile -- he had a raging crush on lucy and flirted wildly with her, and while she flirted back and giggled readily and didn't rebuff his casual touches, corin also got the impression of being held at arm's length. but whatever, they were both having fun. you take what you can, you know? and one time, when they were drunk in bangkok, lucy even kissed him back.

+

to no one's surprise, lune is too busy to come down to negros oriental himself. to everyone's delight, the person he sent in his stead is aravis.

"vissy!" corin gurgles, holding out his arms, and aravis rolls her eyes as she sinks into his embrace.

"i told you never to call me that," she says, and kisses them all on both cheeks, smiling. and later, after the pleasantries ("oh corin, i don't smoke weed anymore." "yeah... so do you wanna smoke some weed?" insert a confused pause here, and then a sigh: "...oh fine.") and the updates of whereabouts ("cor wanted to come but the government inspector is bearing down on the project again." peter says sulkily, "miraz," and leaves it at that.), they are all at the lean-to not far from the compound, eating the bomb-ass adobo and coconut juice from the shell.

corin loves this place (as 'place'-ish a roadside shack by the woods can be), has a soft spot for the people who run it and their easy manner: benny, an fearless old man with a paunch, and marga, his gentle wife. benny calls him 'pare' ('buddy') and marga calls him 'hijo' ('boy'), and corin calls them 'tito' (uncle) and 'tita' (aunt) and sometimes gets extra helpings for free.

"how is your papa, hijo?" marga asks when she brings them beers.

"busy as always," corin replies. he looks at aravis. "apparently he's in jakarta?"

"taipei," aravis corrects. "he was in jakarta yesterday."

"you become more beautiful every time, hija," marga smiles at aravis, who blushes and thanks her. "you tell your husband, don't work too hard. you tell him, don't forget his beautiful wife, ha?" and marga bustles back to the kitchen area, smiling contentedly to herself.

"is my brother taking care of you, aravis?" corin drawls, and she punches his arm.

"stop. and yes he is. but we've got more important things to talk about."

"excellent," says edmund. "tell me, how are pete and i not to die at the hands of the mafia?"

aravis smiles. "the grace of god."

edmund stares at her. then he scowls and jabs his cigarette in the air in her direction. "don't fuck with me."

"i'm not!" she crows. "think about it, edmund. the italian mafia, right? staunchly catholic, right? the mafia has connections with the catholic church. and lune, he was raised catholic and he has connections with the clergy still." aravis pauses. "weren't you guys raised catholic?"

peter and edmund exchange glances. peter exhales cigarette smoke and says, "i mean, like you said: the mafia are catholic."

"so," edmund hesitates, "what? susan and lucy find some priests?"

"no," aravis replies. "a bishop. one bishop in particular."

peter and edmund stare at her expectantly.

she says, "his name aslan."

randomly: VATICAN MAFIA (http://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/vatican/vatican_mafia.htm)

YOU GET A DOUBLE FEATURE, 'cos i feel like it (OMG FINALS ADD). okay, the following is a REMIX, of your porn. the guy on the football team that edmund punched out? his name is greg flaherty, and these are the events of greg's story through peter's eyes.

when peter asks, "are you fucking greg flaherty?" susan answers, "yes."

(her tone says "i'm not afraid of you" and his tone says "i know you're not, that's why i'm asking.")

peter says, "he's an asshole, su."

"so are you," she says simply, and walks away.

+

it didn't change anything, not really, sleeping with susan. it's not like they can lay claim to each other, not like regular lovers, and in a way they already have more claim to each other than any declaration can guarantee.

they are siblings: susan stumbles along in peter's footprints, drunk after half a glass of whiskey, or coughing so hard halfway through a bowl that she almost throws up. he knows she adores him, and he adores that she does, that she tries to be both hard and fabulous to one-up him, to rule as a queen does, and peter being the only one who knows how soft she can be.

the boys of finchley fall at her feet and they eye her tits and her ass, they touch her when she lets them. and, for peter, there are always girls who love bad boys -- they see his soft blond hair and his cool blue eyes and they linger around his presence, hoping to be shown more of the world. they want peter to simultaneously take them apart and make them stronger, and he does not know how to do this. these girls frustrate him and that's when he finds himself thinking of susan, how she has never wanted anything from him but a place at his side, as an equal, an ally.

+

sleeping with susan didn't change anything but sometimes he kind of wished it did.

but just a little.

not that much.

+

peter hates house music but lombardi loves it, and the steady thud-thud-thud of it resonates in his ears as he makes his way through the house, solo cup of beer in one hand and his head full of greg's hand on susan's ass (and everywhere else) and susan looking vaguely annoyed by it, greg looking smug, between classes. but on his way to smoke a cigarette in the woods behind the gym after-school, peter saw them making out in greg's car anyway.

people at the party see him as he walks by and they go "pete!" "peter!" "pevensie!" and sometimes he'll stop and shoot the shit, sometimes he won't, and by the time he finds susan and greg dry-humping in the bathroom, his cup is empty. he tosses it into the trash.

"dude, there's another bathroom upstairs," says greg, but it's not like peter is listening and he doesn't need to use the bathroom anyway. peter's eyes are on susan, and hers on his, and there's a look to her like she maybe got caught doing something she shouldn't, which is strangely satisfying because susan makes this deal about making her own "shoulds" and "shouldn'ts".

so he says, in the tone he knows she recognizes, "su."

peter reads the moment of conflict in her eyes, then she seems to decide something. turns back to greg and kisses him one last time, untangles herself from him, and trots to her brother, adjusting her skirt. "i'll see you later," she lies to greg, who is looking vaguely gobsmacked.

"i can't believe you fucked greg flaherty," says peter.

"oh, fuck off," susan mutters, rolling her eyes. "get me a drink."

susan raises her eyebrows when peter returns with the johnny walker he found in the parlor. "what, they didn't have any beer?"

"the keg's tapped."

and this is how they get very careless. they sit on the back porch and share cigarettes and stolen booze, and when kids come out to smoke cigarettes, they see peter and susan with their johnny walker and they wander over and start small talk, trying subtly (some less than others) to get into the booze circle. but it's not a booze circle, it's just a booze duo, and when someone actually does have the audacity to ask for a slug of johnny walker directly, peter and susan say no without explanation and let the situation get awkward for the poor soul, just because they can.

sometime around midnight, susan looks at him with unfocused eyes and says, "let's go home," and he mumbles okay and doesn't realize how drunk he is until he stands up. susan puts the johnny walker, still half-full, in her bag, then hooks arms with her brother and they stumble off into the night.

"greg disappeared," peter points out. "didn't come to find you."

"i disappeared," susan corrects.

"maybe it's for the best."

"yeah probably."

"he is a huge douchetard."

"i know," says susan, "but in case you haven't noticed, i kind of have a weakness for huge douchetards."

"uhhhhh," says peter, because in his state he can't figure out if he's being insulted or, like, complimented, or something. or if susan is talking about something else entirely. except, probably not, because oh shit she's suddenly in front of him now and she's kind of leaning in and she's like--

she's kissing him, one second, two seconds, and then steps back. then he's kissing her, and it's a little deeper, a little sloppier, and susan's hands are on his shoulder and he's not sure who she's steadying.

peter says, "are you saying i'm a douchetard?"

susan laughs, and kisses him again, and she is soft and warm and familiar and her mouth tastes of johnny walker, just like his.

+

"get the FUCK off my car!"

peter doesn't realize the instruction is directed at him until susan squeaks, "shit!" in his ear and pushes him away. he stumbles backwards, bewildered, and susan slides off the car in an awkward sort of way.

greg flaherty's fury cuts through the night: "you little shits! you fucked-up sons of bitches, if you fuck up my car you're paying for it, you motherfucking sluts!"

peter has never had to run away and pull his pants up at the same time, and it is a tricky process. there is a first time for everything though and, who knows, he might have to do this again someday. susan maybe has it a little easier, just having to pull her skirt down -- peter still can't believe she wasn't wearing underwear that whole time -- and they weave and stumble into the night as fast as they can, feeling both mortified and guiltily amused, but mostly tipsy.

a block and a half away, peter gasps, "i can't believe that just happened!" adrenalin still pumping.

"do you think he saw us?" asks susan. "i mean, our faces. does he know it's us?"

"did he say our names?"

"maybe. i thought i heard him say pevensie," says susan, "but it also could've been..." and then she just trails off, and peter doesn't blame her, because nothing in the world sounds like 'pevensie'.

"shit," peter mutters. "shit shit shit SHIT. fuck." and he just lets loose with a long stream of curses and invectives, but it's not like it's going to change anything if greg flaherty did see them fucking on his car. "we're going to be lynched. they're going to, like, hang us."

"don't be ridiculous," says susan, but there is a note of uncertainty in her voice. "greg is wasted and it's not like he's gonna be a reliable witness."

"i mean," says peter, running his hand through his hair: a nervous tic. "i guess. i mean, now what?"

susan says, "now you walk me to the 7-11. i'm out of cigarettes."

and peter sees the wisdom of her suggestion -- he is out of cigarettes himself. "alright," he sighs. "let's go."

they do.

peter skips school to hang out in the back room of the falcone garage, going over the plans of what will be the heist that nearly gets him killed. peter and dino are the youngest guys here; the rest of them are all sons and brothers of victor falcone's mobsters, mobbed up guys. peter's the only natural blond in the room and he has to admit that he's kind of thrilled to be here, because these are all guys that have done this kind of shit before and peter's new to it. so's dino, to be fair, but dino's victor falcone's youngest son; that gets him points.

what he's not expecting is for leo falcone to open the door to the back room and say, "hey, pevensie, there's a phone call for you."

"what?" peter says blankly.

"he says he's your brother."

"fuck," peter swears, and gets up, because he's going to kill edmund, and how the hell does edmund even know he's here, anyway.

he takes the phone from leo and closes the door behind him. "what the hell, ed," he says for a greeting, and then regrets it immediately when he hears edmund's voice, high and a little pained.

"hey," edmund says, "pete."

"what is it?" peter says, softening his voice.

"can you, um, can you come pick me up? i'm, um."

"yeah, sure," peter says, and goes back into the room to pick up his jacket. "i'll be back in a couple minutes," he says to dino, digging his keys out of his pocket.

"i'm not at the school," edmund adds in his ear. "i'm, um, i'm at the hospital."

peter almost keys his car. "what the hell, ed?" he spits, and then, "wait, no, i'm coming, i'll be there in a sec, hold on, are you all right?"

"yeah," edmund says, "i'm just, i -- no, not really."

peter possibly breaks two or three speed limits on his way to the hospital, but no one pulls him over, so whatever. he tears inside to see edmund sitting forlornly on one of the hospital chairs, holding an ice pack to his face with his left hand. he can't use the right one because it's in a cast up to his elbow.

"what the hell," peter spits out, bearing down on him, and crouches down in front of his brother. he tilts edmund's chin up carefully with two fingers, pushing the icepack away, and gets a good look at edmund's face. "who the fuck did this to you? i'll fucking kill them."

"yeah, um," edmund says awkwardly, and then looks to his left.

peter looks over too, because he can't not, and sees greg flaherty with his face beat all to hell and a cheerleader in his lap. "i'm going to kill him," he says again, and stands up.

edmund drops the ice pack to grab his arm. "peter!"

greg looks up. "hey, pevensie," he says. "your brother doesn't have your arm, although to be fair --" he makes a rude gesture, and only the fact that edmund's hanging onto him with all his strength keeps peter from ending it right then and there.

"i'll take care of you later," he spits. "you don't fucking touch my brother."

"peter," edmund begs, and peter says, "come on, ed, let's get out of here."

he's limping on his way out to the car and peter digs his keys out and very deliberately keys a long ugly scratch across the driver's side door of greg's convertible. edmund doesn't say anything even after they've pulled out onto the street.

"so i can't take you home," peter says after a moment.

"so leave me at the library," edmund says.

"so we're going back to the garage."

"falcone's garage?" edmund says, and then, "okay."

they're quiet for a few more minutes, and then, at a red light, peter says, "so why did greg go after you?"

edmund studies his hands. "i kind of punched him in the face," he says.

"what?" because edmund's the good son, the one who doesn't do stuff like, well, stuff like this.

"and then i may have started a riot. between the football team and the cross-country team."

he pauses. "please say something."

"i don't know whether to tell you i'm proud or to tell you off."

"i think that's what we'd call hypocrisy."

"this is true," peter allows, and pulls into the parking lot of falcone's garage. "look, do you have your books or something? because i have to bring you in with me, and i can't --"

"yeah, i've got homework," edmund says, picking up his backpack, and then, in a rush, "pete what are you doing here?"

peter doesn't answer.

bringing in his kid brother raises some eyebrows, but he installs edmund in the corner with a coke and his schoolbooks and goes back to the plans.

"so i'm thinking the ventilation shafts," gino says.

"no one's ever going to fit through there, idiot," dino points out.

"none of us," gino says, and then looks over peter's shoulder.

"you are not bringing my brother into this, ventucchio," peter spits out. "there's a fucking back door and a roof entrance, don't make it any more complicated than it already is."

"there's a goddamned security system."

"so disconnect it, asshole."

"you disconnect it."

"cut the power," edmund says from behind peter.

"what?"

"edmund," peter points out. "go back to your homework. or machiavelli, whatever."

"no, i want to hear what the kid has to say," gino says.

"look, he's just --"

"well," edmund says, sounding nervous, "if you -- i mean -- for the entire block. so no one's going to notice that it's just at the jewelry store."

"there's a backup generator," peter points out.

edmund deflates. "oh."

"i like it, though," dino declares. "we can hit the rest of the street too!"

"yeah, i'm just -- going to take my brother home," peter says.

"pete, i'm fine," edmund protests. "i thought you were all eager to get back here!"

"you've got a broken arm!"

"wrist!"

"shut up or get out, pevensie," barty rossi barks.

peter turns on his brother. "edmund," he warns. "don't say anything else. just sit down and do your homework."

"you really suck at being a responsible older brother," edmund says, but he goes back to his corner anyway.

OH BACKSTORY

when they get home, susan is shuffling around the house in pajama pants and one of their father's frayed college hoodies. fuzzy slippers. her hair in a careless bun. she's eating doritos and there are orange crumbs on her lips.

"did you go to school like that?" peter asks.

"whatever," says susan rolling her eyes. "at least i went to school. how was dino's?"

"same old."

"what happened to you, ed?" susan asks him, like she's asking him which shirt looks better or how the weather is, like his wrist isn't in a cast. she shuffles over to him and edmund automatically holds out his hand for her inspection.

"he got into a fight," says peter.

"well, you don't have to sound so smug about it," susan frowns at him. she looks back at edmund and her expression softens a little, and suddenly her eyes seem conspicuously blue and luminous, her skin pale, and the doritos crumbs on her lips easy to brush off with a touch of his fingers. susan says, "was it worth it?"

edmund looks at the floor. "yeah," he says quietly.

+

jurassic park is on tv, and while edmund goes upstairs to do his homework ("i'm a little old for dinosaurs." "no one's ever too old for dinosaurs!") peter and susan do paper-rock-scissors to see who microwaves the popcorn, and peter wins. he lounges on the couch watching jeff goldblum deadpan at the camera when the smell of butter fills the room, and susan settles next to him with the popcorn bowl on her lap.

"did you pour in extra butter?" peter asks, grabbing a handful.

"of course," susan replies, turning up the volume. "what do you take me for?"

and by the time the brachiosaurus sneezes all over the girl who screams all the time, the popcorn bowl is empty and peter takes to tugging at her hoodie and saying things like, "how do you not get lost in there?" while susan just smiles and pushes his hands away and pretends dinosaurs are more interesting. and the more she pushes his hands away, the more he comes at her, and then they are wrestling on the couch, and she is winning. so peter pushes susan's knee out from under her and she yelps as she falls on top of him, and he has his arms around her and isn't letting go.

"i can't even feel you in there," he says through laughter. "it feels like i'm hugging a pile of laundry."

"get a room, you guys," lucy calls out sing-song as she walks through the living room to the kitchen.

UMMMMM totally inspired by that behind the scene photo where anna was wearing the giant hoodie, YOU KNOW WHICH I MEAN?? (and she was hugging will who was in armor, eeeeeeeee.) HOODIE!SUSAN. MMMMM.

i. had. a. scene. and then my ie abruptly shut. DAMN YOU COMPUTER. (and then the fire alarm went off, which didn't do much for my temper either.)

they are in atlantic city when they meet professor digory kirke.

"get up," peter coaxes, shaking her awake, and susan hits him in the face with her pillow and rolls over, trying to get back to sleep. "su, come on, get up."

"fuck off, peter," she mumbles. "i was driving today. i want --"

"we're going dancing," peter adds, and he sounds ridiculously hopeful.

"oh, all right," susan says, and lets peter drag her out of bed. she also lets him dress her, since it's obvious that he has a plan (may god help him). when he steps away from her, she's wearing one of the two little black dresses she's accumulated over the past year. this is the one cut up to here and so tight that she can't actually wear anything under it. when peter bends down to do up the straps on her four-inch heels, he stays on his knees, pressing soft kisses up the insides of her thighs as susan clutches at his hair, breathing hard and trying not to make too much noise.

"ed and lu --" she gasps as he pushes up the skirt.

"right," peter says, head pressed against her hip for a moment before he straightens.

he's in slacks and a white dress shirt, bowtie undone around his neck, and he looks so fucking good that susan's more than inclined to push him back down on the bed and crawl onto of him right there. except the same argument that she already made still applies, so she restrains herself.

they do in fact go dancing. they also go pickpocketing, and after they've stripped the wallets of all cash, they deposit them in the lost and found, and go on to no less than seven different clubs. by the time they finally manage to find their way to an all-night diner, susan is swaying in her heels and even peter is looking frayed around the edges, but they do have upwards of a thousand dollars in cash.

peter is stealing fries off susan's plate when the old man pulls up a chair to their table.

"your technique is admirable, my dears," he says.

"who the hell are you?" peter demands, his eyes wide with alarm.

"especially for ones so young," he continues. "i've been following your work since the job you pulled in new orleans. you could, of course, use some tutelage. where are your brother and sister just now?"

"who the hell are you?" peter spits again.

the man puts a business card on the table and then stands up. "you should try the milk shakes here," he recommends, and then he's gone.

"what did you do with her panties?"
greg makes a face. "dude. i threw them away."

+

the day after aravis arrives in negros oriental, it rains, and it rains hard. they sit on the porch eating lychee and smoking cigarettes for hours, watching the rain, talking about everything and nothing, buoyant and comfortable. corin is telling some anecdote about him and cor at a club in hong kong, but it sounds kind of just like the one where he and cor were in a club in kuala lumpur, so edmund zones out and thinks about how lucy would chide him for smoking as many cigarettes as he has been (corin and peter smoke like chimneys, and edmund finds it increasingly easy to cave under peer pressure, especially when it's not really pressure, just corin passing his pack around whenever he has one, a gesture of affection and familiarity). lucy, who smokes weed but doesn't smoke cigarettes, who ran out into lune's dasmarinas garden in the middle of a typhoon, the last time they were here, calling over her shoulder, "the water's fine!"

"you're going to get struck by lightning!" susan called back.

cor had crossed his arms with an uncomfortable look on his face and said something like, "there are probably whole shanty towns being washed away right now."

and lucy's dress had stuck to her skin and edmund could see the outlines of her body, and then he ran out into the garden and into the rain, grabbed her hand and danced with her. she shrieked in delight and he twirled her, he tugged her closer and dipped her and loved her.

"god, foreigners," he heard cor comment, and susan replying, "but aren't you one?"

it rained so hard he could barely keep his eyes open, felt like maybe the raindrops would bruise his skin. through squinted eyes and a film of water, lucy danced, a blur of laughter, and later as they warmed up in the bath, she would tell him he was an awful dancer but that she appreciated his effort. so he splashed her, and she splashed him back, but they stopped before they made a complete mess of the bathroom.

I DON'T KNOW WHY OR WHERE I AM PICKING UP THIS EDMUND/LUCY SUDDENLY. it is very strange. peter/lucy, also. but peter/lucy i have always kind of liked.

the last thing peter is expecting is the phone call from susan.

"we have a job," she tells him.

"is this job in hong kong?" he inquires. "i thought we were trying to avoid being killed."

"miraz set up a meeting with don patriso --"

"what?"

"-- and he'll call off the dogs for exactly one week."

"which accomplishes what exactly?"

"one week in order to rob the smithsonian."

peter has a bad feeling about this. "rob the smithsonian of what?"

"the hope diamond."

-
-

"oh my god," edmund says when peter breaks the news to him. "we're going to get shot by the secret service."

"i don't think the secret service actually patrols the smithsonian. or that the smithsonian has any connection with the government. wait, i thought you were the smart one."

"i'm on strike."

-
-

"it could be worse," lucy confides to peter over the phone. "i heard that he was also considering the crown jewels of england."

"what --"

"but he thought it might be a little hard to explain to the foreign assassins he's sent after you that they need to take a week off."

"i need a drink," peter says.

"it's two in the afternoon!"

"not here."

EH WHAT. 'kay i'll just sit here, with my popcorn, huddling under a pile of backstory.

susan finds the gun on the top shelf of peter's closet when she goes looking for cigarettes, and there is both panic and rage at a) the gun itself, and b) how unsurprised she is. she wants to be more surprised, she wants to, but she's staring at it now in her hands unable to pretend anymore. that when peter goes with dino, there's more going on than petty thieving and, what, making fake IDs and shit. susan sees red and she feels so graceless with this thing in her hands, holding it at an awkward angle at a distance from her body like it might, what. like it might kill her.

when peter comes home that night, susan is sitting on the steps of the front porch with her fourth cigarette, and in the middle of his cheeky grin and his "aw, you waiting for me?" susan crushes the rest of her cigarette underfoot and lunges at him, shoving him backwards so hard he nearly topples. and how could you, she is saying, how could you, i know what you have in your room peter and you're the biggest fucking idiot that i know

and all these words, she doesn't even know what she's saying anymore. peter, with some difficulty, grabs her forearms and goes, "susan. susan. susan." like by saying her name three times he might bend her to his will like in those old fairy tales.

"--and i bet you don't even have a license for it, i mean of course you don't, because you're a child, peter, you're a child and you're only pretending you're not that thing in your closet proves it, it proves it oh peter--"

"susan." he shakes her. "listen to me!"

"you're going to get arrested," she hisses. "this isn't games anymore!"

and eyes boring into her he says, "i know."

"get rid of it. throw it away, i don't want that thing in my house. i don't want you touching it."

and then they just look at each other, each with different shades of caution, susan with challenge and peter as if trying to solve a puzzle. and peter says, "all right."

"promise."

peter hesitates. then, "i promise."

she narrows his eyes at his hesitation. susan wrenches herself from his arms and goes back inside the house, slams the door. edmund from the den yells, "jesus, su, you're gonna break that thing!" but she ignores him and goes to her room. from her window she can she the plume of peter's cigarette smoke rising into the air, from where she had been sitting waiting for him, not long ago.

OH NOES everyone's spiral into criminality and debauchery is kinda making me like this: :-(
it's like, "oh susan IF ONLY YOU KNEW"

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KEEPING WITH THEME 1/2

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keeping with theme THE REMIX 1/2

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backstory of LOVE

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still on backstory! just a little ways down the line

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