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Narnia: too old for lullabyes
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katakokk.
too old for lullabyes
Narnia. PG, Peter/Susan. 627 words. Warning: incestuous.
"That's all the whiskey we have left to drink." Post-Narnia.
And by the end of it, Edmund and Lucy are passed out on the sofa and the armchair respectively. They haven't moved in a while, and Susan is quite sure that they will both wake up with terrible headaches in the morning.
"That's all of it," Peter says. "That's all the whiskey we have left to drink."
Technically there is, of course, the whiskey in their father's study, but Susan thinks to herself, Yes, this is fine. This is quite fine indeed.
They bring blankets from the linen closet to drape over Lucy and Edmund, and Susan - in a fit of sentimentality - kisses their foreheads and both their cheeks.
"Sing them a lullaby, why don't you," Peter says.
"Oh Peter, they are too old for lullabies." She takes his hand.
It is an impulsive thing.
She means to lead him out to the garden, where they can look at the moon, but she finds that Peter refuses to move with her, only tightens his grip on her hand and pulls her close, and she doesn't find herself inclined to fight him.
"What are you doing?" Susan murmurs as she folds into his embrace.
"Would you do me the honor of a dance, your majesty?" Peter asks.
And to her utter lack of surprise, she says, "I would like nothing more."
He puts his hand on her waist, she puts her hand on his shoulder: they hold each other. They remember the strains of a half-forgotten melody, and they dance one-two-three, two-two-three, three, four. The steps are familiar to her still, as familiar and misplaced as the entire night feels. Lucy is too young to drink alcohol now, and although Edmund once could outdrink all of them, now it is only her and Peter who are awake. They are the last ones standing, the last ones waltzing across the living room, dancing into the corridor, twirling through the kitchen, one, two, one-two-three, four.
Peter dips her and she is light-headed when she comes back up, and in her disorientation she says: "Oh, my love, I fear I no longer have the head for dancing."
"Su, you know I hate dancing myself," he replies.
And when he kisses her (almost kisses her), she is seized with simultaneous feelings of euphoria and dread. Peter kisses only her cheek, near the corner of her mouth, and this watered down imitation of things past stabs at Susan, fills her with relief that he didn't do more than that, and with a sinking feeling that they might never do anything more.
"Then why are we dancing?" Susan whispers.
"Well, you've always loved it."
"Peter," she chides. "For all that you are the oldest of us, you are often the silliest."
"Me?"
Susan slips her arms around him, holds him close. He does likewise. Words fall away in the presence of touch. She thought she had lost this long ago, but she looks up at him now and feels the same warmth, the same comfort and assurance.
She wonders, softly, "What are we to do with ourselves?"
He says, "I don't know."
The whiskey blurs the edge of things, so it is easy for Susan to imagine that the boundaries are blurring between her and Peter, that they are closer than they have ever been before, at least in this world. It is only the whiskey, she has to remind herself, and hopes it isn't true. He kisses the edge of her mouth and she thinks dazedly, He is kissing me, right now, and then she kisses the spot where his chin curves into his bottom lip.
"Su," he finally breathes.
So she says, "I know."
They both know. They hold each other and sink into possibilities that can no longer exist.
katakokk.too old for lullabyes
Narnia. PG, Peter/Susan. 627 words. Warning: incestuous.
"That's all the whiskey we have left to drink." Post-Narnia.
And by the end of it, Edmund and Lucy are passed out on the sofa and the armchair respectively. They haven't moved in a while, and Susan is quite sure that they will both wake up with terrible headaches in the morning.
"That's all of it," Peter says. "That's all the whiskey we have left to drink."
Technically there is, of course, the whiskey in their father's study, but Susan thinks to herself, Yes, this is fine. This is quite fine indeed.
They bring blankets from the linen closet to drape over Lucy and Edmund, and Susan - in a fit of sentimentality - kisses their foreheads and both their cheeks.
"Sing them a lullaby, why don't you," Peter says.
"Oh Peter, they are too old for lullabies." She takes his hand.
It is an impulsive thing.
She means to lead him out to the garden, where they can look at the moon, but she finds that Peter refuses to move with her, only tightens his grip on her hand and pulls her close, and she doesn't find herself inclined to fight him.
"What are you doing?" Susan murmurs as she folds into his embrace.
"Would you do me the honor of a dance, your majesty?" Peter asks.
And to her utter lack of surprise, she says, "I would like nothing more."
He puts his hand on her waist, she puts her hand on his shoulder: they hold each other. They remember the strains of a half-forgotten melody, and they dance one-two-three, two-two-three, three, four. The steps are familiar to her still, as familiar and misplaced as the entire night feels. Lucy is too young to drink alcohol now, and although Edmund once could outdrink all of them, now it is only her and Peter who are awake. They are the last ones standing, the last ones waltzing across the living room, dancing into the corridor, twirling through the kitchen, one, two, one-two-three, four.
Peter dips her and she is light-headed when she comes back up, and in her disorientation she says: "Oh, my love, I fear I no longer have the head for dancing."
"Su, you know I hate dancing myself," he replies.
And when he kisses her (almost kisses her), she is seized with simultaneous feelings of euphoria and dread. Peter kisses only her cheek, near the corner of her mouth, and this watered down imitation of things past stabs at Susan, fills her with relief that he didn't do more than that, and with a sinking feeling that they might never do anything more.
"Then why are we dancing?" Susan whispers.
"Well, you've always loved it."
"Peter," she chides. "For all that you are the oldest of us, you are often the silliest."
"Me?"
Susan slips her arms around him, holds him close. He does likewise. Words fall away in the presence of touch. She thought she had lost this long ago, but she looks up at him now and feels the same warmth, the same comfort and assurance.
She wonders, softly, "What are we to do with ourselves?"
He says, "I don't know."
The whiskey blurs the edge of things, so it is easy for Susan to imagine that the boundaries are blurring between her and Peter, that they are closer than they have ever been before, at least in this world. It is only the whiskey, she has to remind herself, and hopes it isn't true. He kisses the edge of her mouth and she thinks dazedly, He is kissing me, right now, and then she kisses the spot where his chin curves into his bottom lip.
"Su," he finally breathes.
So she says, "I know."
They both know. They hold each other and sink into possibilities that can no longer exist.