Disclaimer: it is my full intention to own Narnia, but it's also my full intention to own my own house without a mortgage, and I should probably work on that goal first.

Beta'd by trustingHim17, who is also entirely responsible for this plot bunny. She suggested it, floppy ears and all. She even said it might bite me!

OOOOO

Mrs. Pevensie sat in her chair. Not her hard wooden chair at work, with its creaks and sharp angles. No, this was her chair at home, her rocking chair, and that meant comfort.

And now it meant beauty. For Mrs. Pevensie had two daughters and two sons, and several days ago they'd given her a great gift.

She lifted her hand to cover half her face, closing her eyes. It felt hard to take a breath. Even with her eyes closed, she remembered the light, covering the room in blue, red, green, and yellow. The girls had made everything beautiful here. With the glass around the lantern, the ceiling covered with stars and star-shaped shadows, and red ribbons looped like visible laughs along the mantle, all of it gleamed with warmth and merriment.

And all of it hurt to see.

It hurt the way breathing in ice-chilled air hurt, a sharp stab of unexpected pain, merely from breathing. But oh, how her husband would have loved to see this. She felt a drop of warm water make its slow way down her hand, and she let the hand fall from her face, though she kept her eyes closed. She couldn't bear to see the beauty when her heart was hurting so much, even on this Christmas Eve.

She'd gotten her children back, all four of them. That was a blessing half their neighbours would never receive. She clung to the thought of each one, knowing an air raid could have flown over on their way out of London, despite it being day; knowing the train could have collided with a station; knowing that even in the country, accidents happen. If she'd lost Lucy, the youngest, the child she could still hold in her lap, though it didn't seem to happen now—only before, during the air raids—if she'd lost Lucy, the world would have been black.

Or Edmund. Edmund, who came back with eyes she could never hide from. He was the first to see, in the mornings, that she'd given in to tears the night before, the one who never said much but knew, somehow, that being alone on those mornings was hard. He never left her alone, and losing him—

She forced her fingers to unclench from the chair. Susan's sweet voice, beautiful face, her gentle hands and tongue, everything a mother could wish for in a daughter and more—all that had come safely back.

So had Peter. Her oldest, stronger than she was, she knew, undisputed king of his younger siblings—and what had happened to cause that while they were gone? They might listen now, but Edmund especially used to fight him—Peter brought them home. Peter was here. Peter was upstairs asleep, too young to go fight, but old enough to be their home's defence and leader. For all that he was her son, he'd become the one they all turned to, including her, and they still had him.

She'd been given all four, and had been forced to give them away, to watch them leave and know it might be the last time. But it hadn't been. She'd gotten them all back, all safe, they were home—

She bent over, shoulders shuddering and both hands covering her face. She could feel the tears dripping, running down her fingers and onto her wrists. She tried to hold them back. She'd been given so much, so much, but her heart was begging for more. Just one more, just one. Just for John.

It begged for him to come home. She wanted him home. She wanted him to sleep beside her, to hold her when she cried. She wanted to hear him say, "Steady, old girl," in that calm voice of his, and for him to go on and on about some obscure Greek writer whose work had just been translated anew, while his eyes lit up. All of her wanted him to be here.

But they'd heard nothing. And she'd come home and discovered just how great a gift her children were, how much they could do—and how much they loved her.

It should be enough to tide her over, to help her wait, but somehow it wasn't. It just hurt more. On these nights, it proved she had everything she wanted but just one thing. This night bore down harder than most, for today at work Mary had come in beaming, having gotten a telegram saying Henry was coming home. Then Elisabeth could talk of nothing but William arriving in two days, the day after Christmas, and the joy on her face made it beautiful. Then came the steps of the man they all dreaded, dressed from the war office, his hat in his hand and pity on his face. And he walked past her on the way to Jane. Jane's Charles wasn't coming home. And that could have been John.

She didn't know if he was coming home, and she tried to tell herself she had enough. She had so much. If she just opened her eyes she'd see it all, feel it, the comfort of her chair and the beauty of the room. The proof of how much she was loved. She had so many good things.

The good things shouldn't hurt, but they did. They made her ache for the one who should be sharing them, for her children's father, for her husband, for her professor who went to war and might not be coming back.

She heard a sound upstairs, small footsteps. She forced the sounds she'd been making back down her throat, holding her breath to keep them in, going still. The footsteps paused, and she listened for them to come down the stairs—how she hoped they wouldn't. She didn't want to be found crying like this, not when the girls had tried so hard—and she heard them again, going back to bed. The bedroom door opened and shut so quietly she couldn't even hear it.

She let that breath out, wiping the tears away with her sleeves and pulling out her handkerchief. She couldn't break down now, not so close to Christmas. She blew her nose. Christmas was a time of cheer. Her children loved it, as children do, and she'd be a good mother and be merry with them.

She opened her eyes and saw the light glowing gently. She should put out the lantern and go to bed. If she didn't cry much, sometimes Edmund didn't notice, and didn't worry. But—

She held the handkerchief tighter, clutching the thin fabric. She closed her eyes again. She didn't know if she could do this.

She sat there, rocking the chair slowly back and forth, trying to find the courage to get up, to go do what she knew she should be doing. But she couldn't seem to get out of the chair.

She heard the steps, heavier this time, just outside the door—perhaps the first was Lucy, and she'd gone to Peter, and she hadn't heard him come down while blowing her nose. She tried to steady her breathing. The steps paused outside the closed door—of course, the light would shine under the doorway—and she called quietly, "I'm in here, Peter." She checked her lap quickly for evidence of tear stains, brushing off a bit of lint, and then quickly folded her thin white handkerchief. "I was just about to put out the light," she said as briskly as she could, standing to go to the mantle. If she blew it out, he wouldn't be able to see her face.

"Leave it, please," a deep, dear, familiar voice said behind her, and her fingers froze, outstretched towards the lantern. She spun, hand still out, and he stood in the doorway. He stood in the doorway, ragged green coat, mud-caked boots, and suddenly she was running, running, burying her face in his shoulder and clinging to the cold, cold coat with both arms.

"John!" she cried into his coat, words muffled in the rough fabric under her face, and oh, he was holding her again, arms around her own shoulders, stronger than the timbers of their house. "John, John, John!" She heard other noises, thumps upstairs, the door behind John hitting the wall, but all of it was lost in the sound of his voice.

"Steady, old-" and the catch in his voice wouldn't let him finish, but she laughed through her tears anyway, lifting her head up. She let go of his waist to reach up and cradle his face, so much older looking with the beginnings of a beard and the wrinkled, sun-scorched skin, with the two small scars on one cheek. She traced them with his fingers, his face still cold, but oh, it was John! His face blurred till she blinked, and hands she remembered came up to wipe her tears away.

"Merry Christmas," he murmured, eyes fixed on her, and she laughed again.

"Merry—Merry Christmas? Is that what you planned? To come home for Christmas?"

"I thought about it a hundred different ways." His hands enclosed her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. "I'd walk up and Lucy would answer the door, and all of you would hear her laugh and come running, and I'd kiss you in the street as our children clung to us. Ron would get here ahead of me and you would all be waiting at the station, and we'd barely be able to walk home, holding on to the four kids and each other so tightly. I even thought of a mischievous one. I'd get a large box from somewhere and put myself under the tree, and hear all the questions from the kids on Christmas morning, hear your own surprise, and grin like Edmund after he caught the mouse, once you all opened it." He still hadn't taken his eyes off her face. "You are the most beautiful thing I have seen in years," he murmured, and lowered his head to kiss her.

"Get back, we shouldn't be watching this!" she heard hissed from the top of the stairs, and John broke off, touching his forehead to hers, and she could feel him smiling.

"But it's Dad!"

"And Mum's crying! Give them a moment!"

"Just because you're as romantic as a Faun doesn't mean I have to be, and it's Dad-"

"Edmund, be kind to your sister," John called out in that deep, laughing voice. "Won't the four of you come down and welcome me home?"

"YES!" came the chorus from the stairs, and in moments a flood of hugs came around her and John. She knew each by its touch: the gentle tightness of Susan's, the strong circle of Peter's arm, the firm fierceness of Edmund's grasp, and the way Lucy's fingers clutched her waist so tightly. All the words they'd been keeping back as they watched spilled out, and in the madness Peter and John both began drawing them into the room still lit by the lantern. Lucy's face shown in the red light, Edmund whirled through the green to pull up a chair, and Susan knelt in the yellow to take off John's boots. Peter stood above them all, his father's hand still in both of his, looking at him with welcome and question.

"Welcome home, sir," he said quietly, and his siblings paused. John withdrew his hand from hers, and she let him, watching with blinking eyes as he put his other hand over Peter's.

"You kept them safe, son."

"I had help," and Peter smiled.

John's eyes went to the girl—the woman, who knelt at his feet. She looked up at him with that clear, hospitable, graceful gaze, and Mrs. Pevensie brought her hand to her mouth. She knew he saw what she had seen, the lady, nay, almost the Queen, who dwelt in that spirit. She pressed her fingers hard against her lips, and suddenly a hand was on her elbow, holding her. She knew without looking that it would be Edmund. John's eyes caught the movement, turning to see his younger son standing guard over his mother, and turned at last to Lucy, his coat in her hands, smiling from the door with that deep, astonishing joy, too solemn for a little child and yet just right for her.

"And Mother brought us all home," Peter said quietly, as if he'd read everything his father took in without looking away. As if he knew his siblings that well. John stretched out his hand to his wife, and she took it, tumbling into his lap at his insistent pull. And that set their children to laughing again, to hurrying to their tasks and then gathering round. Edmund sat on the arm of the chair across from her, Peter on a chair nearby, and the girls at her feet. Their family, all together. All home. She rested her head on his shoulder and watched as the smiles grew brighter than the lights, more joyful than the ribbons, and their hearts soared higher than the stars.

"Welcome home," she whispered in the found one's ear, and his arm tightened around her.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered back.