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"In the Waiting Line." Narnia/Skins. Edmund/Effy. R.
YOU GUYS. I MUST KNOW.
What Merlin character am I most like?
MY THREAD
But enough about me! Is it that my subconscious resentment at missing the Crossover Exchange is making me crossoverically productive? Or is it that it is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
marycontraire's birthday? The latter! Happy birthday, Mary! I am, uh. I am a bit late with this. I meant to post this yesterday, but then got distracted, you know. Anyway, the title is from this Zero 7 song of the same name, 'cos Zero 7 is Edmund/Effy music in my head. This fic is a direct continuation of this.
In the Waiting Line
Narnia/Skins. Edmund/Effy. R.
She takes Edmund far from the world without engulfing him in her own.
Effy takes him to a club, which he doesn’t like for the noise, but does like for the anonymity. You can’t talk, you can’t hear anything because there’s too much to hear, but nobody ever thinks twice to look at you. They just bump you out of the way.
“Have one?” she says before they go inside. Effy holds out her hand to him, on which there are two pills. Edmund shakes his head, and she eats them both. “Suit yourself,” she says.
“Where’s your ID?” the bouncer demands of Edmund.
“It’s all right, Steve,” Effy says, taking Edmund’s hand. “He’s with me.”
+
There are moments when Effy reminds him of Susan, closed off and beautiful. Other times she is Lucy, perceptive and unafraid. Most times, though, Effy is just Effy, which suits Edmund just fine. She doesn’t ask much from him. She takes Edmund far from the world without engulfing him in her own.
The first time Effy taught Edmund how to dance, she pulls him close and leaves no space between them, and positions his arms around her waist. She said, “Now pretend we’re fucking.”
Then Edmund tried to teach her how to dance the dances that he knows, but they only left her bemused and amused. “Somehow this explains so much,” she remarked as he twirled her.
“My sisters and I often used to dance with each other,” he said.
“That explains a lot too.”
In the club, they wrap themselves around each other as they bob and sway to the music; the thrash of drum ‘n bass, the euphoric strains of trance. Sometimes they kiss each other - kisses that they don’t seek out but neither feel inclined to stop - and Edmund can smell the cigarette smoke on her, can taste the whiskey on her tongue. Effy tangles her hand in his hair and her fingers are cool against his scalp, like she retains no heat, like she retains nothing.
Later that night, they share a cigarette outside, blowing smoke rings at each other and giggling as much as people like them allow themselves to giggle, and she tells him, “You’re a strange one, Edmund.”
He takes another drag of the cigarette. “Why do you say that?”
“You’re always somewhere else.”
Maybe that’s why we get along so well, he thinks. That is why we are similar. He says, “I can’t help where I am.”
Effy just raises an eyebrow at him. “Of course you can.”
And that is why they are different.
+
When they have sex, it is a slow and lazy thing. Effy is a languid creature, and he is a cautious one. She slides her hand down his trousers and he slides his hand up her top, and then it’s unhurried kisses to the neck and collarbone, sighs into each other’s mouths. He pushes in and Effy lifts her hips to meet him, gasps and closes her eyes. She mouths something that may or may not be his name.
Their touches are well-practiced and familiar, though their manner is clumsy with youthful desire. He will remember the bitter taste of her perfume where he kisses her pulse points, and how silent she is when she comes, her mouth parted in a wordless cry.
Afterward they share a cigarette, as has become their habit. Edmund doesn’t buy his own packs; he just bums from Effy. “I’m not a smoker,” he had told her, “I just smoke occasionally.”
“Yeah, right,” she had replied, and gave him cigarettes anyway.
It’s that point of the night where late is becoming early, and Edmund is slipping into the state of being where the disconnected exuberance of the night gives way to exhaustion. He is not unaccustomed to keeping late hours, but the circumstances are strange and they nudge him off-balance. This girl beside him, she nudges him off-balance without even trying and Edmund finds himself loathe to leave her side.
Effy says, “Your brother earlier. He hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” says Edmund. “He’s just… He has a lot on his mind.”
“I don’t care if he hates me.”
“Good. Not that he does.” When she doesn’t reply, he continues, “Are you close with your brother?”
“I suppose.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.” Effy takes the last drag and drops the butt into a can of Coke on the night-stand. “I should sleep soon.”
“Yeah,” says Edmund. “I should go.”
She watches him while he dresses, her make-up smudged and her hair a mess, and doesn’t smile back when he smiles at her. He asks her what she’s thinking as he buttons his shirt, and she says, “Nothing.” Of course. Her silence was one of the things that drew him to her, a novel respite after being surrounded by the clamor and clatter of his siblings’ reconciliation with the new old world.
Effy walks him to the door and, after a perfunctory kiss and a bye, the door is closed once more, and he is left standing on her steps in the chilly pre-dawn mist. He should’ve worn a thicker coat. Edmund looks one way and then the other, but he’s the only thing alive on the street, except-
There is a fluid movement at the corner of his eye and Edmund instinctively tenses, and reaches for a weapon that isn’t there.
“Mraow?”
A cat, of all things. A stray by the looks of it, gazing at him curiously, and Edmund immediately feels foolish. The shadows are different in this world. The way things move, the light things cast. It’s easy to get confused.
“You scared me,” Edmund says accusingly.
It doesn’t talk back, of course. That would be absurd.
Its tail swishes from side to side and it blinks its large green eyes, unimpressed. Edmund knows that look on cats, so he just rolls his eyes and says, “Typical.”
The cat meows again.
Edmund heads for home.
MY THREAD
But enough about me! Is it that my subconscious resentment at missing the Crossover Exchange is making me crossoverically productive? Or is it that it is
marycontraire's birthday? The latter! Happy birthday, Mary! I am, uh. I am a bit late with this. I meant to post this yesterday, but then got distracted, you know. Anyway, the title is from this Zero 7 song of the same name, 'cos Zero 7 is Edmund/Effy music in my head. This fic is a direct continuation of this.In the Waiting Line
Narnia/Skins. Edmund/Effy. R.
She takes Edmund far from the world without engulfing him in her own.
Effy takes him to a club, which he doesn’t like for the noise, but does like for the anonymity. You can’t talk, you can’t hear anything because there’s too much to hear, but nobody ever thinks twice to look at you. They just bump you out of the way.
“Have one?” she says before they go inside. Effy holds out her hand to him, on which there are two pills. Edmund shakes his head, and she eats them both. “Suit yourself,” she says.
“Where’s your ID?” the bouncer demands of Edmund.
“It’s all right, Steve,” Effy says, taking Edmund’s hand. “He’s with me.”
+
There are moments when Effy reminds him of Susan, closed off and beautiful. Other times she is Lucy, perceptive and unafraid. Most times, though, Effy is just Effy, which suits Edmund just fine. She doesn’t ask much from him. She takes Edmund far from the world without engulfing him in her own.
The first time Effy taught Edmund how to dance, she pulls him close and leaves no space between them, and positions his arms around her waist. She said, “Now pretend we’re fucking.”
Then Edmund tried to teach her how to dance the dances that he knows, but they only left her bemused and amused. “Somehow this explains so much,” she remarked as he twirled her.
“My sisters and I often used to dance with each other,” he said.
“That explains a lot too.”
In the club, they wrap themselves around each other as they bob and sway to the music; the thrash of drum ‘n bass, the euphoric strains of trance. Sometimes they kiss each other - kisses that they don’t seek out but neither feel inclined to stop - and Edmund can smell the cigarette smoke on her, can taste the whiskey on her tongue. Effy tangles her hand in his hair and her fingers are cool against his scalp, like she retains no heat, like she retains nothing.
Later that night, they share a cigarette outside, blowing smoke rings at each other and giggling as much as people like them allow themselves to giggle, and she tells him, “You’re a strange one, Edmund.”
He takes another drag of the cigarette. “Why do you say that?”
“You’re always somewhere else.”
Maybe that’s why we get along so well, he thinks. That is why we are similar. He says, “I can’t help where I am.”
Effy just raises an eyebrow at him. “Of course you can.”
And that is why they are different.
+
When they have sex, it is a slow and lazy thing. Effy is a languid creature, and he is a cautious one. She slides her hand down his trousers and he slides his hand up her top, and then it’s unhurried kisses to the neck and collarbone, sighs into each other’s mouths. He pushes in and Effy lifts her hips to meet him, gasps and closes her eyes. She mouths something that may or may not be his name.
Their touches are well-practiced and familiar, though their manner is clumsy with youthful desire. He will remember the bitter taste of her perfume where he kisses her pulse points, and how silent she is when she comes, her mouth parted in a wordless cry.
Afterward they share a cigarette, as has become their habit. Edmund doesn’t buy his own packs; he just bums from Effy. “I’m not a smoker,” he had told her, “I just smoke occasionally.”
“Yeah, right,” she had replied, and gave him cigarettes anyway.
It’s that point of the night where late is becoming early, and Edmund is slipping into the state of being where the disconnected exuberance of the night gives way to exhaustion. He is not unaccustomed to keeping late hours, but the circumstances are strange and they nudge him off-balance. This girl beside him, she nudges him off-balance without even trying and Edmund finds himself loathe to leave her side.
Effy says, “Your brother earlier. He hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” says Edmund. “He’s just… He has a lot on his mind.”
“I don’t care if he hates me.”
“Good. Not that he does.” When she doesn’t reply, he continues, “Are you close with your brother?”
“I suppose.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.” Effy takes the last drag and drops the butt into a can of Coke on the night-stand. “I should sleep soon.”
“Yeah,” says Edmund. “I should go.”
She watches him while he dresses, her make-up smudged and her hair a mess, and doesn’t smile back when he smiles at her. He asks her what she’s thinking as he buttons his shirt, and she says, “Nothing.” Of course. Her silence was one of the things that drew him to her, a novel respite after being surrounded by the clamor and clatter of his siblings’ reconciliation with the new old world.
Effy walks him to the door and, after a perfunctory kiss and a bye, the door is closed once more, and he is left standing on her steps in the chilly pre-dawn mist. He should’ve worn a thicker coat. Edmund looks one way and then the other, but he’s the only thing alive on the street, except-
There is a fluid movement at the corner of his eye and Edmund instinctively tenses, and reaches for a weapon that isn’t there.
“Mraow?”
A cat, of all things. A stray by the looks of it, gazing at him curiously, and Edmund immediately feels foolish. The shadows are different in this world. The way things move, the light things cast. It’s easy to get confused.
“You scared me,” Edmund says accusingly.
It doesn’t talk back, of course. That would be absurd.
Its tail swishes from side to side and it blinks its large green eyes, unimpressed. Edmund knows that look on cats, so he just rolls his eyes and says, “Typical.”
The cat meows again.
Edmund heads for home.
< yes, i still have an icon for them.
I like that you set this in a period of the Pevensies re-adjusting to England-- it makes sense that Edmund would be drawn to her then. She's so mysterious that she's almost magical, and I think Edmund likes that (and Peter hates it). I also like that your Effy is closer to her series 1 & 2 self than her series 3 self. (Those were the days, man.) The dancing was sweet. It's sort of interesting to see where they get each other and where there are these huge gaps in their communication.
Anyway, I KNOW I AM THE ONLY PERSON IN THE WORLD WHO LIKES THIS PAIRING, BUT THIS IS LOVELY.
no subject
Hooray! I hope you had a good birthday, girl. I guess it would also be fun to transport Effy to Narnia via a drug trip or something, but I make no secret that post-Narnia England is my favorite Pevensie period to play in. Caught me on S1/2!Effy, but yeah, I'm pretty underwhelmed by S3.
I like it too, in the way I like all flavors of ice cream. XD
Re: < yes, i still have an icon for them.
no subject
There are moments when Effy reminds him of Susan, closed off and beautiful. Other times she is Lucy, perceptive and unafraid. Most times, though, Effy is just Effy, which suits Edmund just fine.
I really love him comparing her to Susan and Lucy, and them teaching each other how to dance, and her being all "you're a strange one" and "that explains a lot", and just everything. I love how they fit together, like this is really weird, but I like that they're high enough for each other. That's not the right word. It's just, I can't see them with just anyone, well that's not true, I could see either of them with just about anyone, and maybe that's how it started, they were just anyone, but I like that they both stick around, and that they're both like lucky to have each other, or something. IDK, I'm not making any sense, but I am drawing little hearts around this whole thing.
no subject