Disclaimer: Don't own Narnia. Don't own Peter. I do own the cranky American soldier, however, even if he doesn't really have a name.

AN: I saw a headline for a news story about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder affecting our veterans, and this little fic popped right into my head. It's a little odd for me, and the language isn't my usual style, but it seemed to go with the territory. I apologize for any anachronisms in word or deed, and I am fully aware I really have no idea what I'm writing about.
I am, however, truly and deeply grateful to those who serve and their sufferings on my behalf.

Veteran

"Excuse me, but may I ask you a question?"

I looked up sharply from the sludgy dregs of my coffee cup – why is it these damn Tommies can't make a decent cuppa joe?– and met a solemn, respectful gaze. When I took in just who was talking, I started a bit. He was only a youngster – maybe fifteen, sixteen years at tops, mop of blond hair, startling blue eyes, round face – he almost reminded me of Alma's kid brother back home.

Except there was something about his voice and something about his expression that was miles away from carefree child. I'd seen the look before; in fact, I saw it every time I looked in a mirror. I almost woulda' said haunted, though it seemed wrong to give that word to a kid. Then again, I reminded myself, these Brits had seen more'n their fair share of ugliness. Maybe his mom or dad had been killed in the Blitz or somethin'; maybe he lived in some kind of Home.

"Yeah?" I asked, almost regrettin' the testiness of my challenge. Give the kid credit, though, he didn't flinch or step back.

"Do you dream?"

I blinked. What an damn silly question. I opened my mouth to snap somethin' appropriately rude in response, but in meeting his eyes again, I stopped short. He was completely serious, and the tight, pinched set to his lips and the tense line of his shoulders told me he thought he had a very good reason for askin'.

"Huh?" I said, tryin' for patience and not entirely succeeding. "Whaddya' mean, kid? 'Course I dream."

"No," he said and glanced away, color coming into his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…normal dreams. I meant…"

He looked back at me, and I drew in a breath. Oh.

"I meant…" he paused again and then forged onward, almost as if speaking were causing him physical pain. "I meant, do you dream…of things you saw? On the battlefield? In war?"

I clenched my jaw. "Kid, you're rubbin' me the wrong way. I think you'd better scram."

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he lowered his head, studyin' the scuffed brown walking shoes he wore. And then he said somethin', real low like, that set the hairs on the back of my neck pricklin' and raised genuine gooseflesh on my arms. I don't think it was the words themselves. It was how he said – damn near whispered – it. Like he meant it. And I knew, somehow, that he meant it.

"I do."

"What, you get press ganged or somethin'?" I asked, coverin' my fear, pushin' away my own demons, the ones with bloody faces who swarmed me at night and even sometimes during the wakin' hours.

He raised his head and met my eyes, and I swallowed. That was the look I usually'd gotten from my old Sarge when I'd been smart-mouthed a time or two – a clear reprimand, all authority and pulled rank and whatnot. The gooseflesh pimpled again.

I coughed, reaching into my front pocket for my Lucky Strikes. "Damn it, kid, do you know what you're askin'?"

He nodded. I lit a cigarette, put it to my lips and inhaled, welcoming the steadying heat of the smoke before I released it in a cloud.

"Yeah," I said, "I dream. Sometimes it's not so bad. Most of the time it's real bad."

"Does it ever get better?" he asked, and I felt sympathy hit me right between the shoulder blades. He was just a kid. Too young to have to deal with this kind of shit. Damn war.

"It might," I said softly, studyin' the cherry red end of the Lucky. "Dunno yet. Haven't got the years between it and me."

"Ah," he said, "I see."

When neither of us said anything further, he nodded again and made to move away. "Thank you, sir," he said, "I'm sorry I bothered you."

I waved the cig, not sure if the relief I felt was kosher or not. "'Sall right," I said, "We gotta' do what we can for each other."

He half turned to walk away, and I couldn't help but notice how he carried himself – it was kinda' attention-grabbin' for someone his age: all straight-backed and effortless, like he was aware of the space he took up and how to use his body. I'd seen men like that before – and this was a kid! – and I tried not to piss 'em off. A shiver ran down my spine instead of the gooseflesh this time.

"Hey," I said, the words out of my mouth before I could stop 'em. He stopped and swiveled slightly, a questioning look on his face. "Uh." I waved the Lucky again to encompass the little sidewalk café and the other people sitting there, lost in their own clouds of gloom and doom. "Why'd you pick me, aside from the clown suit I'm wearin'? To ask, I mean?"

He smiled then, and the sincere, understandin' compassion in his expression prickled me in annoyance and salved a bit of the ragged wound in my soul all at once. "You looked as if you might know," he said quietly and gave a tiny shrug. "And it's always good to remember one is not alone."

He smiled one last time and walked away.

I watched him go.