called_lioness | (no subject)

Some days Lucy can't deal with her husband.

It's not a fault on either of their parts, and it's not to imply that she's angry with him, because she's certainly not.

There are just certain times when she doesn't want to be with Caspian because she doesn't know how to voice what's bothering her. Where she aches and wants to cry and doesn't want to explain to him, because Caspian's life and worries and fears and pains aren't quite hers in some ways.

And sometimes it's worth explaining because of that, and sometimes she can't bring herself to try to make sense of the mess of things she feels and translate them into words for her husband who she loves and doesn't always understand herself.

After talking with Archibald Craven, it became one of those days.

She has to go home, of course. She knows that, and that he'll be in their room, and that it will be better when she curls up next to him simple because she is next to him, and she also knows she's not quite ready to yet.

So she curls up in the corner of one of the living rooms, teacup held tightly, and keeps the lights mostly off.

It makes it a good place to be alone, and right now, as she's trying not to cry

(If she cares for you, and you are leaving, you shall.)

and let herself be lost in her thoughts.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Edmund acknowledges his bias with a faint smile, but no more. (He admits he's biased; he also considers himself correct.)

"What else is it?"

Not clearly phrased, but his tone helps that.

"I--Milliways. All the in-betweens. Selfishness and taking care of self and where the difference lies. Why I'm sad and why I want. I don't know," Lucy shrugs, lifting a hand to absently bite at the thumbnail.

"I don't want to hurt anyone, and I will anyway when I leave."

Edmund considers that in silence.

There were times not so very long ago when he wished he'd never met Kitty, never loved her -- and yet.

In the past few months he's been surprised, just a little, to realize that that's not true any more. He still loves her, still misses her, but the sharp misery has faded gradually away.

"It hurt us to leave Narnia," he says finally, and quietly. "And all our dear friends there. Every time, it was miserable to leave."

"But I'll never wish we'd not lived in Narnia and loved it so, no matter how much that hurt."

"I should think the same is true here at Milliways."

"But here I'll choose to leave where there I never could."

She's quiet for a minute before saying, "I miss home."

"It's still true," Edmund says softly.

He's thinking of many things.

And then he breathes out, closing his eyes for a moment, and rests his head against his sister's.

"I know."

Then, much softer, "Me too."

Lucy doesn't answer that.

There's really not much to say.

She just holds his hand and closes her eyes and tries not to think of home, because she can't go there just yet.

"You're a good brother."

He wasn't, for a while, this year. He remembers, with some guilt, but tonight's not a night to brood or harp on it. Only to remember, and to kiss his little sister's hair after a moment.

"Buck up, Lu," he says softly. "It'll turn out all right in the end."

"Whatever blighter quarreled with you's an idiot anyway."

"Archibald Craven. I think I rather upset him."

Lucy is gifted in understatement.

"He asked me--oh, it doesn't matter, it was all rot anyway." She shrugs and tilts her head to look up at him with a half smile.

Do you ever think the end is almost here, and all you can be is grateful for it? she thinks and doesn't ask.

"I'm fine."

Archibald Craven, then, is a name Edmund will remember.

Did we mention that he's protective?

He studies Lucy's forced smile. After a moment, his own mouth quirks slightly, and he breathes out in a sigh.

"You don't need to be," he says quietly, and it means, no you're not, and we both know it.

"...Let me pretend," she says after a pause, "that I am for a little while longer, please?"

"'Course," Edmund says, with an internal sigh but only a crooked ghost of a smile for Lucy, and tightens his arm around her for a moment.

"But I know," she whispers after biting her lip, "that it's pretend."

Because she'll admit that much, before closing her eyes and pulling her legs up as she leans into her brother's shoulder.

"Thank you."

Edmund cradles his half-forgotten teacup against his knee with one hand, leaving the other arm around his sister.

"You're welcome, silly." His tone is only affectionate, and just a little sad.

Softer, "Any time."