Disclaimer: I think the only things I own in here are the candles. And maybe the tree that will show up later.
Author's Note: This is totally unrelated to WillowDryad's "If Only In My Dreams" (which, by the way, is worth reading). Though I will say I made a wee reference to her story "Socks" and if you haven't read it yet, you really need to.
"'… This war will end soon and I'll be home when it does. Until then, I'm with you in spirit. Be strong. My love and God's blessings upon you all. Dad.'"
Peter picked at the carpet absently. He should have known. He had known. Of course he had. He should have believed it. Lucy curled closer to him, pinning his arm to his side. "Be strong." That's what Dad had said. He freed his arm and wrapped it around Lucy's shoulders. He looked up at Susan, sitting in a chair close to Mum, her eyes barely focused on her knitting. He swiveled his head in the other direction toward the bay window where Edmund hugged his knees and stared at the falling snow. Peter turned back to Mum just in time to see her scratch at the corner of her eye – her way of disguising the wiping away of a tear. The letter trembled in her hand as she folded it and tucked it back into its envelope.
Lucy's arm curled tighter around her stuffed dog. "He promised."
Susan's knitting needles finally began to click audibly. "He didn't actually," she answered quietly.
Didn't he promise? Peter was sure he had. Maybe he just remembered it wrong. Edmund shifted in the window seat and Mum rubbed at her other eye. So maybe it was Susan who didn't remember it right. Peter hugged Lucy closer and silence fell again, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock and the subsiding click of the knitting needles. Peter watched as the needles wove red yarn around the grey sock in Susan's lap and he wondered if Dad was somewhere warm. Did he have enough to eat? Was he still safe? What was Christmas Eve like for him? And more importantly, would he someday come home for another Christmas?
"Don't worry about me, Peter. You're the man of the family now, so keep a stiff upper lip, there's a good lad, and take care of them for me." That's what Dad had said. Peter shook himself and looked at the clock. Mum hadn't moved except to finger the envelope and pretend not to cry. Susan's knitting had nearly come to a stop. Edmund had at some point leaned against the window. Peter looked back down at Lucy, still tucked under his arm, crushing her stuffed dog against her chest. Finally, Peter stirred and shook Lucy a little. "Come on, time for bed." He used the couch to help himself up. Lucy's blue eyes followed him up as he did so, then the rest of her followed suit and she took his hand. "The sooner we go to bed, the sooner Father Christmas will come."
Lucy offered a little smile at his insincere brightness, though the smile didn't reach her eyes. Susan wrapped up her knitting and seemed about to answer, but then thought better of it. Edmund didn't. "There's no such person as Father Christmas," he said, but he showed no resistance to the idea of heading off to bed.
Each of them, even Edmund, kissed Mum goodnight and crept upstairs, so absorbed in their own thoughts that they merely mumbled their goodnights to each other. Edmund didn't even protest when Peter turned out the light. Though relieved by the change, Peter decided to light the candle anyway. At least for tonight. Not that Edmund thanked him for it, of course. In fact, he didn't fall asleep as quickly as he normally did; he sighed and turned every few minutes. Peter considered telling him to stop, but he bit his tongue, turned his back to Edmund, and drifted off to sleep.
*.*.*
The picture was hazy at first, but it slowly came into focus. He didn't know what army barracks looked like, but he did know what a room at Hendon House looked like. This room was like that, but bigger, easily the size of the living room downstairs. Of course, the décor was less than Spartan and the bunks less inviting than anything Peter had ever seen, but the men occupying that room – seven, Peter counted – didn't seem to notice. They were grouped together in the middle of the room, laughing and telling stories Peter couldn't hear. A cheery glow filled the room, but Peter couldn't tell where it came from.
He began to hear the men, as though someone had turned up the volume on the radio. They noticed him and waved him over, offering him a spot on a bunk. One of them produced a tin cup brimming with weak tea – from where, Peter didn't know – and offered it to him. Just as he took it in his hands, the door opened and a cheer erupted from the group. "Hey, Pevensie!"
The man who entered was maybe a little greyer than Peter remembered, but unmistakably Dad. He held up a Red Cross package jovially, bringing another cheer from his comrades, and took his seat beside Peter. Dad didn't seem at all surprised to see him; if anything, he seemed to have expected his presence. He handed the Red Cross package to Peter as though it was a gift meant for him. Peter opened it and his eyes widened, for there at the top of the package, were two bars of chocolate. He pulled them out, eliciting yet another cheer from the men, and handed them to Dad.
From there, the events blended into one another – passing the chocolate, telling more stories, replenishing his cup with strong Red Cross tea – until the men bundled into their bunks and blew out candles Peter was very sure weren't there before.
Only one candle still burned, and that was Dad's. Dad reached behind Peter and pulled back the covers. "Into bed now, there's a good lad," Dad said. "Tomorrow's Christmas and we all know what that means." Peter handed him his empty cup and crawled into the bunk, which he noticed had grown larger and softer.
"Dad?" Peter asked drowsily. "When are you coming home?"
The yellow glow of the candle lit up a gentle smile. "Remember what I said? I'm with you in spirit."
Peter could barely keep his eyes cracked open at the figure hunched over him. "Dad?"
Blankets were pulled up to his chin. "It's me, Peter, I'm here. Go back to sleep."
That sounded more like Mum, but Peter didn't argue.
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