Title: Put Aside Childish Things
Warning: General knowledge of The Chronicles of Narnia, particularly The Last Battle, is helpful.
Standard Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. This is for fun.
Author's Notes: Very small spoilers for The Last Battle, and it makes more sense if you have a vague knowledge of the series. For all my talk of Peter, this came out utterly about Susan. Huge thanks and love to my beta readers, the ever-encouraging and insightful King Zoe and the exceptionally speedy and brilliant Alphabet26.
Susan wracked her brain for something to say as she hung up Peter's coat. It pained her to realize how difficult carrying out a conversation with her siblings had become. If it had been any other unexpected guest at her door, she would have been perfectly at ease as hostess. She could have chatted about all manner of things without any awkward pauses. She turned and smiled her best smile at him. "Can I get you anything? I have biscuits," she offered.
Peter smiled and shook his head. "Thank you, but no. I'm not hungry."
"Then may I get you something to drink? Tea, coffee? I may still have—"
He cut her off. "You don't have to entertain me, Su."
She let out a breath, a bit of pressure relieved. "Well, it's not that I don't welcome the company, or that I'm not glad to see you, but if this isn't a social call…" She let it trail off. It was no secret that they rarely saw one another these days.
He frowned, glancing at the floor before looking back at her. His voice was quiet and a bit mournful when he spoke. "I wish you would change your mind and come with us."
She sank into an armchair, letting out a deep breath. She wasn't really surprised. Of course that was it. "Oh, Peter. Not again." She didn't try to mask the exasperation in her voice.
Now Peter let out a breath of his own, crossing the room to stand by the window. He didn't say anything, and she waited, watching him. The light from the window fell across his face and hair in an almost eerie manner; Susan thought vaguely that he looked older and younger at once, and dismissed the thought as ridiculous and brought on by her recent bouts of insomnia.
Peter spoke, sounding weary. "You ought to come, Susan. Everyone will be there and… we'd like you to be there, with us."
Susan rolled her eyes, feeling impatient and guilty. It seemed that no matter how old she grew, her older brother would always be able to make her feel like a child. "Everyone," she said with the slightest hint of derision, "just happens to be everyone who played those games with us. I can't understand it, Peter. What is it you're doing?"
He sighed and when he looked at her, she felt her face begin to warm. He looked so disappointed and sad. "Why won't you let yourself remember?"
"There is nothing wrong with my memory," she snapped, standing and heading towards him. "You can't 'remember' what never happened. You're nearly twenty-four, Peter; why won't you act like it? What is this fascination you and the others have with constantly reliving those old games we played? They were nice, and fun, and lovely, but Peter… they were make-believe. They were not—are not—real." With her last words, she grabbed his arms. It felt important to make him listen to her, just once.
He gripped her elbows in return. "Oh, Susan."
He looked so old and sad in that moment and Susan almost wanted to cry. They'd been close, once. But she couldn't give him what he wanted. She wrenched her arms free and stalked across the room to stand by the chair, arms crossed protectively across her chest, not facing him. "Peter, you're being ridiculous. I can see it with the children, but even Lucy's too old for all this now. I don't understand you. You're the eldest; you're supposed to be setting a good example."
"That's not fair, Susan."
"Well, you're not fair to me!" She snapped, whirling to face him. "You all—all of you—talk of those things as if they really happened, and you refuse to listen to reason. Do you think I like it when Lucy cries because I refuse to play along? If I thought you were just playing, it'd be one thing, but Peter, this is too much. Narnia," she spat the word, "has ruined absolutely everything. I can't have a single conversation with Lucy that doesn't end with her in tears, and Edmund barely talks to me anymore, and you always look at me like that—like you're sorry for me, or I'm causing you pain! And the Professor shakes his head at me, as if I'm some foolish child and Aunt Polly thinks I'm ridiculous—"
Susan hadn't realized that she was rambling, or that she was crying, until Peter had crossed the room and put his arms around her. He interrupted her, saying "Susan, stop. Just stop." She resisted, trying to pull away, but Peter held her firmly, and rested his chin on the top of her head. "Stop fighting, Susan," he told her firmly, and she did.
She was embarrassed, crying like this and losing her composure over a silly thing like a child's game. But Peter was solid and strong, and she felt like she could fall to pieces and he would put her back together again. She clung to him like she hadn't since they were children and their father had gone off to war and the first bombs had fallen on London.
Susan wanted to say so much. She wanted to tell Peter she missed him; she missed Edmund and Lucy, and the way things were. Susan wanted—and was half-tempted, in that moment—to admit that she wanted to believe in Narnia, and Aslan, and being a Queen. She sometimes felt she could, especially when Peter was nearby—she could believe Peter a King, on occasion. But she just couldn't—not the way they wanted her to—and it wasn't right that she was punished for it.
So Susan let Peter hold her and wished that things were different. She wished they hadn't grown apart—she missed her siblings. She wanted to be able to talk to them. And while Peter comforted her, she wanted nothing more than to have her big brother back. She wanted to be able to tell him about the boy she was seeing, and how he was different from the ones before him. She wanted Peter to meet him, and tell her what she thought; Peter had always been such a good judge of character, and no matter what had happened between them, his approval mattered. Somehow, Peter's approval meant more than their fathers'.
Peter stroked her hair, speaking softly to her and as she calmed, his words began to penetrate. He told her they loved her, all of them. Edmund and Lucy just couldn't understand why she didn't believe. He said, "I think I understand. But Susan, what you're doing hurts so much more than believing, even if we can't go back."
She sighed and said into his chest, "If you can't go back, why not just let it go?"
She felt Peter exhale sharply and his shoulders dropped slightly. She'd disappointed him, again. Susan pulled away, turning to wipe her face. There was a tense silence and she considered asking him to leave, but the words wouldn't come. She stood with her back to him and knew he was watching her.
Susan held back the urge to apologize; there was nothing to apologize for, and she refused to feel guilty when there was no reason for feeling so. But the words were there, and she felt that if she opened her mouth they would tumble out, regardless of her intentions. She was sorry, but none of that was her fault, not solely.
She turned when she heard Peter moving towards her. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him.
"Susan, I miss you."
She blinked. That wasn't anything like what she might have expected, and her reply came without thought; "I'm right here."
He touched her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "This isn't you," he said softly, and his voice seemed much too old.
"Stop it, Peter."
He took her face in his hands and kissed each cheek, softly. It was strange, and eerie. Susan could not recall Peter ever doing this, but it felt so familiar. He pulled back, his hands still holding her so that she was forced to look at him. "It's all right, Susan. You don't have to believe right now, but someday you will. I know you—you've convinced yourself it was all a dream, all make-believe, because it hurts to think we can't go back. But you'll change your mind. Until then…" He smiled and dropped his hands to her shoulders. "I'll believe for you. And in you."
She was quiet for a long while, and when she spoke, it was almost a whisper. Her voice shook. "I think you should go."
He kissed her forehead this time, and squeezed her shoulders before turning away. She watched him collect his coat, and move towards the door. He paused there, and looked back at her. "If you change your mind, about coming…"
"I won't."
He nodded and took something from the pocket of his coat—a small, wrapped package. "Here," he said, tossing it to her. She caught it and he added, "Open it… when you're ready. It made me think of you."
"Thank you," she murmured. Susan looked at her brother, and couldn't help saying, "I wish things were different."
Peter smiled that infuriating smile of his, as if he knew something Susan didn't. "They will be; you just need more time." He held up a hand, seeing Susan's temper rise. "Don't be angry. I love you, Su—and so do Edmund and Lucy. We'll come see you when we get back."
Two weeks later, all Susan could remember was that she'd never told Peter that she loved him.