Give A Little

by Sentimental Star

**COMPLETE** With Peter it’s never ‘just’ a fall cold, or a winter cold, or even a spring or summer cold...--Siblingfic. Moviebased.--

Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis.

A/N: All right, I honestly did not expect for this fic to be so long, but then that shows how unpredictable writing can be (and just how much fun)! This is yet another requested fic, and I do believe many of you have heard of ohcEEcho, yes:grins: Well, this fic is dedicated to that brilliant author and the basic plotline belongs her, I just wrote it down and embellished it. Please enjoy!

"Speech"

/Personal Thoughts/

One-Shot. Non-Slash.

.:Give A Little:.

By Sentimental Star (based off the ideas of ohcEEcho)

(Mid-October, Evening, Edmund's P.O.V.)

7:51 pm

I frown at the old grandfather clock across from me where I sit on an antique, bottle-green couch, restlessly tapping my fingers against my thigh.

7:52 pm

Outside, the rain drums against the ancient window panes with their colored glass. A blurred shape (which I can only assume is a bird) alights to a branch, shaking loose a cascade of water droplets which splash against the window.

7:53 pm

My tapping has taken on the same relentless tick-tock, tick-tock rhythm as the grandfather clock. My frown deepens. Where on earth is he?

7:54 pm

Behind me, slightly muffled behind the doors of the Drawing Room, I hear Lucy's and Susan's laughter as they converse with the Professor…

Wait a minute, "converse"?

I sigh softly. It's not so easy to forget that I was an adult only a month and a half ago. That we all were. I'm sure Mum will have a field day trying to figure out what happened to us when next we see her.

And I have to hope we will see her again, for Narnia has taught me not to take hope for granted. And a million other things besides.

Such as the blatant disregard my older brother has for his health.

7:57 pm

If Peter's not back in three minutes, I'm going after him.

Another thing not so easily forgotten.

When we were kings, we fought in wars, participated in combats, and competed in tournaments. I became so accustomed to watching Peter's back and keeping an eye on my sisters that it's all second nature for me now.

Susan was the Gentle one, who fought only when she had to. I saw it as somewhat dangerous, for she was so tender-hearted that she would not fell an enemy if he (or she) lay prone, even if he (or she) would strike her down in a heartbeat (and sometimes nearly did).

Lucy was the Valiant one, who would not hesitate to engage in battle for a good cause. I saw it as somewhat foolish, for she could often be impulsive and unknowingly head straight into danger (which was usually the case).

Peter was the Magnificent one, who proved so strong and so noble that none dared challenge him by the time we exited Narnia. I saw it as somewhat idiotic, for he had absolutely no sense of self-preservation (and still doesn't).

And me? I'm only Edmund, the Just of Heart, who almost always was the rational one and ended up in the healers' ward more often than not because of it.

Paradoxical, I know, but that's how I am.

And there I go with the big words again.

8:00 pm

That's it. I'm going after Peter.

Standing, I briskly walk down the hall and poke my head into the Drawing Room. Lu, Su, and the Professor are all three of them sitting on a furred rug in front of the large fireplace, where flames are crackling in the old iron grate.

Lucy's clapping her hands and grinning as the Professor and Susan laugh heartily. It looks as if she's just won whatever game they were playing.

I give a high-pitched whistle around two of my fingers—a signal the four of us came up with in Narnia if we had to immediately catch each other's attention or warn of some looming danger.

Apparently, it still works.

Instantly, Susan's and Lucy's eyes are on me. The Professor's, too, once he follows their gazes.

I speak quickly, "Su, Lu, I'm going after Peter. He's not back, yet." I glance at the Professor as the girls start to their feet in alarm. "Sir, if it's not too much trouble, could you have a mug of hot soup or tea waiting?" Knowing Peter, he'll be frozen half to the bone by the time I find him, as well as have a pretty nasty cold.

He's always been susceptible to those sorts of things, more than any of us, because his lungs are weakened from the bouts he's had with asthma.

As the Professor gains his feet and gives a short nod of understanding, I swiftly pull my head back into the hall and hurry down it towards the kitchen. Once there, I snap on the lights and make my way to the door which leads out to the back lawn.

There's a wooden coat rack there, with our galoshes and raincoats.

And I curse softly as I notice Peter took neither galoshes or raincoat with him. "…Bloody hell, what does he think he's doing?" I growl.

"Edmund!" Susan scolds as she and Lucy come pattering into the kitchen, both sets of eyes sparkling with concern, with the Professor following them.

As the Professor makes his way over to the sink with the teakettle, I groan and slip on my galoshes. "I know, I know, watch my language. But he's being a complete idiot, wandering outside in this mess without any sort of protection!"

In spite of everything, Lucy manages a small smile, hopping onto a tall stool, "What did you expect?"

"Common sense on his part, for one," I mutter grumpily, throwing on my raincoat. I keep speaking as I rapidly button it up, "Susan, find some blankets and a dry set of clothes. Make sure they're warm, hot even. Lucy, can you please find a couple of Peter's handkerchiefs? The peppermint kind. I know that's mostly what he has, but he has a few new ones, too. Bring a dry towel with you, as well. I'm pretty sure he's going to be sick for the next few days."

My sisters hurry off to comply, Lucy jumping off her stool, and I feel a bit guilty for ordering them around like that, but it's necessary. Like I told Lu, Peter's almost certain to have caught something, and he's never been the best of patients when it comes to injuries or illness.

Grabbing his raincoat off its hook and scooping up an electric torch that is sitting on the end of the counter closest to me after yanking my hood up, I push open both wooden and screen door.

Raindrops splatter against my face as I hastily step outside, flicking on the torch's light, but I'm glad to note that it's not the lashing kind we sometimes got at Cair Paravel because it was so close to the sea. Although…now that I think about it…the rain was only really bad if some sort of trouble lay in the not-too-distant future. It would have been fitting here, too, but I'm actually quite glad that it's not.

Brandishing the torch, I dart across the rain-slick lawn. "Peter?" I shout, my voice ringing through the air.

The only answer I receive are the echoes of my cry.

"Peter!" I shout again, a bit louder, the electric torch's beam slicing through the rapidly darkening grayness.

Still, only echoes answer.

I've reached the spot where we played cricket earlier today, before it started raining. I remember surprising myself when I cracked a swing that sent the ball flying into the trees of the bordering wood just as the first clouds blew up.

As the wind started gusting, lashing at our faces, Peter had hurried us into the house.

After supper had finished (over two hours ago by now), seeing that the wind had abated and the rain had yet to begin, Peter had slipped out of the house, merely replying when we asked that he had forgotten the cricket set, and wanted to get it into the shed before the rain started.

He only wore his fall coat outside. About half an hour after he left, the rain fell and I took to watching the grandfather clock in the parlor, debating whether or not to follow after him.

I should have gone when it first started. He's going to be absolutely miserable now.

"Peter!" I yell a third time, flashing the torch around me in hopes of finding him. The rain has settled into a constant shower—not terribly heavy, but a shower all the same. The sort of shower that can soak you to the skin if you're out in it long enough.

And Peter's been out here ever since he first left the house.

"Hang it all, Peter, answer me!"

I let out a growl of frustration when no response is forthcoming.

My footsteps carry me to the edge of the wood, and gazing into it, I am sorely tempted to start muttering invectives, but refrain—barely.

Why do I have a feeling that Peter's most likely in there somewhere? I understand the value of responsibility, really I do, but it's a cricket ball for goodness sake! A stray cricket ball is certainly not worth the week of misery Peter's going to suffer through.

But then, that's my older brother for you.

Of course, I have to find Peter first, before lighting into him.

"Oh, bother it," I grumble, stepping into the wood. The fallen pine needles crunch under my feet, but I only faintly notice it. "Peter!"

There just has to be no answer, doesn't there?

/I will not lose my temper. I will not lose my temper…/ "Peter, will you answer me already!"

No response.

If he wasn't going to be so miserable, I'd make him miserable myself. He knew full well it was going to rain at any minute. He knew full well that generally, this type of weather wasn't good for him.

So of course, he just had to go out in it anyway. I swear…

I let loose a shrill whistle around my fingers, the same as I did inside the house with Lucy and Susan, and it echoes and rebounds throughout the wood.

From my right there comes a somewhat startled yell, a rather loud crack, and I whirl around to face it, my hand flying to my hip for a sword that isn't there—just as a familiar form comes bounding around the wide trunk of one of the pine trees before skidding to a stop.

"For the love of Aslan, Peter!" I hiss, relaxing my tensed stance.

He blinks, shielding his eyes against the bright light of the electric torch, trying to peer at me through the quickly dwindling twilight. "Ed, what…what're you--?"

I scowl as he dissolves into a fit of harsh coughing. "You bloody imbecile," I snarl, marching over to him and dropping the torch to my side.

He's shivering when I reach him and toss the raincoat over his shoulders. His fall coat, cotton shirt, and long pants are soaked through, and I'm sure the same goes for the rest of his clothing.

I throw back my hood and, turning off the electric torch, clip it to one of my raincoat's pockets. Ignoring my swiftly dampening hair and the rainwater trickling down the sides of my face, I reach out and bodily force him to put on his own raincoat. "You absolute, sodding idiot," I growl, pulling the hood over his head.

He eyes me with weary humor. "Nice to see you, too," Peter croaks, tired smile tugging at his lips as I can just make out in the last remnants of the twilight.

As I go to button up his raincoat, he weakly bats away my hands. "Enough, Edmund. Quit your fussing. I'm fine."

I raise my head to glare at him…and falter, when, by squinting slightly, I notice fever-flushed cheeks against too-pale skin.

My worry, as it often does with Peter, shoots up a several notches.

Frowning, I reach up and press the back of my hand to his forehead and cheeks. "You're burning up and your cheeks are icy cold. You have a nasty cough and you say you're fine. You'll forgive me if I beg to differ."

"Ed!" he laughs, and I wince at its hoarseness. His throat must be killing him.

I scowl again when he dissolves into yet another fit of coughing, his entire body violently shaking.

Whirling, I grab him firmly by the hand once it's through, and start dragging him in the direction of the house.

"Ed, really…" he tries to protest when we reach the kitchen door several minutes later.

I just turn and give him a look—one that he ought to know quite well. I usually use it when he's managed to get himself in some form of trouble or another.

He seems to recognize it. A smile spreads across his face. "Have it your way then."

And he allows me to pull him into the kitchen, the doors falling shut behind us.

Once we're inside I release his hand and, replacing the electric torch on the counter, I hang my raincoat back on the rack and remove my galoshes. Then I turn to him and rid him of his own raincoat and soaking wet fall coat.

He gives me another, smaller smile, and just as he goes to say something, he gives a tremendous sneeze.

"Bless you," comes Lucy's cheerful response from my side, which she's gained without my noticing. She hands Peter one of his peppermint handkerchiefs—I can smell it from here.

"Thank you," he replies, accepting it with a rueful grin, blowing his nose.

As I reach up and brush Peter's wet bangs out of his eyes, Lucy tugs on my sleeve.

When I turn to her and raise an eyebrow, she grins at me and hands over a dry towel, like I asked. "Don't forget this."

I smile at her in return. "Thanks, Lu."

Facing Peter again, as Lucy hops back onto her stool, I toss the towel over his head. It's one of the large, fluffy kind the Professor has around the house, and I frown slightly as it completely covers Peter's face for a moment.

He's surprised. "Umpf! Ed--" he goes to protest.

Tugging it back, I start toweling him dry and turn my frown to him. He subsides, and lowers the handkerchief, smiling at me in amusement.

I ignore that smile and move to dry his torso, keeping up my conversation with Lu. "Where's Susan, Lucy?" I ask, just as our older brother tries once again to protest, "No, shut up, Peter, you're absolutely soaking wet."

The smile's slipped and he's crossed his arms over his chest now, attempting to glower at me. It doesn't work, however. He knows I'm practically immune to it.

Soon enough, another smile's trying to tug at his lips.

Lucy giggles as she watches our interaction, swinging her legs where they hang about a foot or so off the ground. It's still strange to see my sister as a little girl again, just as much as it is to see Susan without her longer hair, and Peter without his beard.

"Susan's in the Drawing Room with the Professor," she informs me. "He says to bring Peter there with us once we've got him somewhat dry. She has the blankets there, and a set of clothes."

Aslan bless the girls, they did exactly as I asked.

I've toweled dry most of Peter's upper body by now, and he's shivering again. Pulling the towel over his head, I take one of his hands between my own two and frown at how cold it is. "I think now's as good a time as any," I tell Lu.

She jumps down from the stool and joins us, taking Peter's hand from me. Her own smile turns into a frown as she, too, notices the iciness of his skin. Raising her eyes, she fixes him with the same look she's given every one of us whenever we've been hurt or otherwise—one glance, and it's enough to make you feel terribly guilty.

Peter rests his free hand on her head, "Sorry, Lu," he murmurs, smiling sheepishly.

And of course, being Lucy, she stands on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. "It's all right, Peter. I just don't like seeing you sick."

Slipping my arm around his shoulders and starting to direct him out of the kitchen (Lucy's still holding his hand as we walk), I mutter, "And he has no one to blame but himself. Honestly, Peter, it's a cricket ball. I can always buy a new one. It's certainly not worth your getting sick over it."

And he has no idea how much I hate it when he is.

We're at the Drawing Room by now and Lucy scampers ahead inside, holding open the door for us to pass through. Once we're in, she shuts the door behind us.

Susan's sitting on the rug before the fire again, and the Professor is in a rocking chair behind her. They both look up as we enter.

On a side table next to one of the couches in front of the fireplace are four cups of tea and a plate of cookies in the center. The Professor has his own cup in his hands.

I smile gratefully at him as I lead Peter to the rug and Lucy plops down beside Susan, smiling herself again.

He nods to me, eyes twinkling in acknowledgement, before turning them to Peter. As they fall on him, they take on an almost mirthful quality, "Young man, much as I am obliged to you for trying to retrieve that cricket ball, I think your siblings would prefer it if you avoided getting sick."

Peter smiles wearily at him. "Yes, sir."

Susan stands as we reach the rug and pushes his clothing into his arms. "Really, Peter," she tuts. "What would Mother say?"

He shoots a mischievous grin at me, tired as it is, and I know what's coming next. "Which 'mother' are you talking about, Su," he rasps, "Mum or Edmund?"

I roll my eyes and lightly jab him in the ribs. "Hush, you."

He just keeps grinning and Susan laughs, "Both of them."

"Thanks, Susan," I reply dryly.

I hear Lu begin to giggle and the Professor begin to chuckle. I turn on her, threatening lightly, "Lu, you just hush."

That only sets her off even more and I heave a sigh.

Peter's snickering now and I whirl on him, starting to smile in spite of myself, "Don't you start, either."

He chokes slightly on his laughter, and once again succeeds in sending himself into a fit of coughing.

My smile drops and I hear the others' laughter vanish as Peter keeps hacking. I gently rub his back as he struggles through it, trying to maintain a soothing tone, "Easy, Peter. Calm down. Deep breaths. Easy."

I'm sure every line of my face must be painted with worry, if Susan's and Lucy's faces are anything to go by.

The fit passes and he shakily draws in air. I continue rubbing his back, murmuring words under my breath that aren't coherent even to me. He's started wheezing.

"Peter?" I ask carefully, hoping he doesn't notice the tightness of my voice.

/I hate this, I hate this, I hate this./

He waves me off, drawing in another lungful of air. "M'fine, Ed. Really."

"No, you're not! Peter, you know full well you're not!" I exclaim.

/I hate this, I hate this, I hate this./

He glances at me curiously, and perhaps with a hint of reprimand in his eyes. I just shake my head at him, trying to calm down myself. "You're not," I repeat sternly. Lightly, I push him towards another set of doors, this one leading into a side room. "Go on, get changed. And if you're not back in five minutes, I'm dragging you back out here."

The tension breaks and he laughs softly, still wheezing somewhat, "All right, Ed, all right."

He startles me by leaning down slightly and kissing my forehead. When he pulls back his eyes sparkle tiredly at me, "Thanks," he murmurs.

And I can't answer because his kiss has reminded me of exactly why I hate this.

As he turns and moves towards the side doors, disappearing behind them, I sink down on the rug next to my sisters and bury my face against my legs.

"I can't stand this," I moan softly.

"Eddy?" Susan prompts quietly.

I raise my head and gaze at her with burning eyes. And she knows. It's the same fear all of us have harbored…oh, for years (Narnian time, anyway).

Without a word, my older sister places her arm around my shoulders and Lu, who has been listening in, crawls over to me. Forcing me to straighten out my legs, she then settles herself comfortably in my lap.

As I wrap my arms around her waist and cast Susan an appreciative smile, I feel myself relax considerably. I know they understand without my having to say anything further, and that's a blessing.

The Professor, however, looks rather out of the loop. He gives me a frankly puzzled expression, "Young man, sickness is never welcome in families, much less in those that appear to be close as your own is. But…may I ask…why this reaction? I'm sure it is nothing more than a fall cold that your brother has come down with."

I shut my eyes tightly for a moment, before turning and gazing unseeingly into the fire. "They didn't warn you of what to expect when you took us? Nothing about health problems or eating habits? Nothing of that sort?"

The Professor shook his head. "They told me your ages, your names, your parents' names, and what numbers to contact in an emergency, but nothing else."

I'm silent a moment before speaking, "Peter…he has asthma."

I open my eyes and glance at the Professor. He utters a soft "Ah," leaning back in his rocking chair, but says nothing further, looking thoughtful.

Which catches me off guard. I worry my lip, wondering if I should continue or not. Does he know what asthma is? What it does? I'd think he would, his being a Professor and all, but…

I swallow. "Because of that, with Peter, it's never 'just' a fall cold, or a winter cold, or even a spring or summer cold. The asthma…it messes up his lungs. And makes his colds so much worse than they ought to be. One time in Narnia, it got so bad that he went unconscious, because he couldn't breathe right. And that…" I swallow again, "…that was terrifying. No one knew what to do, everyone thought he might be dead, and only Lu's cordial brought him back, but he was confined to bed for the next couple of days. Whenever he gets colds…we always have watch him, to make sure that nothing similar happens. Here, at least, he has his inhaler, but that doesn't make it any easier."

The Professor rests his chin on his hand, his eyes twinkling sadly at me. "I think I understand now, young one. Thank you."

I swallow a third time, and shutting my eyes, nod wordlessly. Burying my face in Lu's hair, I feel her hands slip into mine as Su gently rubs my shoulder.

That incident I told the Professor, I remember particularly well—mainly because it was from diving after me into the icy waters of the Great River in the middle of winter that Peter got so sick. And I've never been able to bear it when he gets these colds of his since.

I take in a deep breath and raise my head as I hear the side door creak open, allowing Peter back into the room.

When I turn to face him, I notice he's paused in the doorway and has seen the way we're all sitting. I stare as a delighted smile lights up his face and he starts walking towards us.

My eyebrow raises slightly. "Yes, and why are you smiling?"

His grin merely widens as he plops down happily beside me and quite contentedly rests his head on my shoulder.

My eyebrow goes higher. "What am I, the designated leaning post?"

But I make no move to shrug either him or my sisters off. Funny how so much can change when you've lived for fifteen years in a completely different world. Before, I never would have allowed this.

As Susan stands to fetch the blankets she's had laying near the fire and comes back to us, starting to wrap them snugly around Peter before settling herself on his right side and taking his hand, our older brother lifts his head slightly to smile at me, "So it seems."

I roll my eyes fondly at him. "You're incorrigible." And for more reasons than one.

He simply grins at me again and goes back to using me as a pillow.

The Professor reaches over to the table holding the tea and, after picking up a cup, leans down and presses the warm mug into Peter's hands.

Peter accepts it with a smile, taking a sip, but does not remove his head from my shoulder. "Now I know how you feel," I remark dryly a few moments later.

He snorts softly into his teacup and smirks warmly at me over the rim.

But it's true. Peter's always somehow or another managed to wind up as a pillow or leaning post for all three of us at some point. I can think of at least several excursions when we were caught out-of-doors (both in Narnia and here, when we were much younger) and either Lucy or I, or sometimes even Susan, were so tired and so miserable that we couldn't get to sleep. Peter, big brother that he is, would then leave his own bedroll or cot, and sit with us. His legs always made (and still make) a marvelous pillow.

But if the small twinge growing in my shoulder is any indication, I can guess how his own shoulder or legs must have felt after those excursions.

Therefore, it's an interesting reversal of position for him to be leaning on me instead.

I don't mind, however.

I do mind, though, when he starts coughing again.

Susan quickly relieves him of his teacup so it won't spill on him and I free one of my own arms from around Lucy as he suddenly jerks upright, still coughing wildly. As the fit continues, he grabs his handkerchief and presses it to his mouth.

My own goes dry as I begin rubbing his back again, trying to ignore the fear constricting my chest.

When the fit passes, it leaves him struggling to draw in breath and makes his wheezing that much more apparent. "Peter, are you…?" my voice catches, and I hate myself for it.

He waves me off, still trying to breathe properly.

Thank the Lion for Susan's clear head, "Do you need your inhaler Peter?" she asks matter-of-factly.

Lucy's watching him with wide eyes, and doesn't say anything. I can't, either.

"'M'all right, Su." Another deep breath. "Really. Really, I just need…" He's still fighting to breathe, and Susan looks on the verge of tearing out of the room in search of his inhaler anyway when…

"Slow and easy, son. Slow and easy," comes the Professor's soothing voice from above us. A large hand comes down gently on Peter's head as he struggles through the last bout with his breathing.

Startled, the three of us that can crane our necks up to look at him.

He's focused on Peter. And as he continues repeating "Slow and easy, slow and easy," Peter gradually regains control over his breathing. Soon, it has all but evened out, leaving behind only a slight wheeze.

"Thank you, sir," he manages hoarsely, finally glancing up himself.

The Professor just smiles at him and lightly tousles his hair. "I don't think your siblings would be terribly pleased to have their older brother faint on them again, yes?" This he directs at us, eyes twinkling.

A small smile appears on my face, as well as Lucy's and Susan's, and we nod.

No we certainly would not.

Peter smiles sheepishly at us. "Sorry," he croaks.

I swallow, finally finding my voice, "It's fine, Peter."

He gazes sadly at me, eyes knowing. "No, it's not. But it will be."

I shake my head, banishing the fear. "Yes, it will be. Because you're taking your inhaler before you go to bed."

Just as Peter goes to object, the Professor interjects, "Actually, he might not have to."

The four of us turn quickly to face him, a question in our eyes. "Really?" Peter rasps hopefully. He's never liked taking his inhaler, and in some respects I don't blame him. But it's necessary.

The Professor, who has straightened fully, rubs at a crick in his neck and places a hand on his back, before smiling at us. "I'd expect so. I have a remedy my mother used with me when I had a particularly bad cold that I'd like to try. Best to keep the inhaler close by, though."

He starts for the door that leads out into the hallway. As he reaches it, he suddenly halts and turns back to face us, eyes thoughtful. "I don't claim to know much about being an older sibling, young man, never having been one myself," he advises Peter softly, "but I do believe your siblings count themselves blessed to have you."

Peter blushes, and three of us exchange somewhat bashful smiles over his head. That's truer than he knows.

The Professor pauses, placing his hand on the door knob, still looking contemplative. Abruptly, he smiles. "Although not all angels fly, those that do need a pair of wings. And you're very lucky in that respect, young man. You have three of them."

Without a further word, still smiling, he pushes through the door and out into the corridor.

For some reason, I hide my face against Lucy's hair again as the grandfather clock in the Parlor strikes nine o'clock.

oOoOoOoOoOo

(Peter's and Edmund's Bedroom, an Hour and a Half Later)

"We rely so much on him now, don't we?" Susan murmurs, quietly watching along with me and Lu as Peter finally succumbs to sleep around an hour and a half later, after having protested the entire way back to our room. "Ever since Father left…" She is curled in an armchair she has pulled up to the side of Peter's bed, a spare blanket that has not been piled on top of him wrapped around her shoulders with her slippered feet tucked close.

Lucy lays her head on her arms where she has folded them on the bed, tilting it to watch Peter sleep. "Yes, and since Narnia…" she whispers. She trails off a moment, but Su and I know what she means. "It will be strange when he comes home from the war."

Because like Mum, we have to hope we'll see Dad again.

I adjust the blanket she's wearing (yet another spare) over her shoulders where she kneels beside me on the floor and nod silently in agreement.

Far stranger than any of us can probably guess, I'll bet.

A bit of guilt and quite a lot of unease flickers across her face, young as it was before we first entered Narnia. "Is it wrong that I feel like I love Peter more the Mamma and Daddy right now?"

Susan starts in her chair, and I raise my eyes to hers, finding in them the same question. She drops her gaze a second later to fiddle with her cardigan.

My own falls on Peter. He stirs in his sleep and gives a series of harsh coughs, but does not wake.

I shoot another glance at Susan who wordlessly hands me a cloth soaked in the warm, peppermint-scented water that the Professor supplied us with, claiming that it was the best remedy he had ever been given for a cold. And indeed, it seems to be doing wonders for Peter.

I place the cloth on Peter's chest, thoroughly sponging his torso before handing it back to Susan and pulling up his covers again. I'm terribly grateful to see his breathing ease and his wheezing lessen.

Studying him thoughtfully for a moment, I turn back to the girls, "I don't think so, Lu. I mean, he's been there for us for over twenty-seven years when you count Narnia. And he's been there when Mum and Dad couldn't be." I reach out to smooth a few stray hairs away from his eyes. "Peter's…Peter. It's hard not to love him."

And this I know all too well. Even when I resented him, even when I convinced myself that I hated him and didn't need him, I still loved him. Much as I fought against it.

It's my curse now to know how much my apparent hatred hurt him. And hurt my sisters, too.

Su tugs her blanket more snugly around her shoulders, a small smile on her face as her eyes go distant, "I still remember the first morning after Papa went off to the war. None of us wanted to get up, even though it was beautiful outside, but Peter did. He went around to all our rooms, remember? Opening all the windows and throwing back the curtains like Daddy used to. And he kissed each of us good-morning, and wore a smile all along. He kept doing it at Cair Paravel, too. That first morning in Finchley, seeing him like that, having him kiss me, made Daddy's departure not seem quite so awful, and I was able to get up and help Mum with breakfast."

The three of us fall silent for a few minutes, reflecting on what she said. I remember that day, too. Mostly because that morning I clung to Peter when he woke me, and the next morning, when he did it again, we had the first of our more serious rows.

I thought he was trying to become Dad.

My hand clenches around Peter's as I suddenly realize that I'd gladly and willingly accept that change now. I already have.

Lucy speaks up next, voice soft and considering, "I remember killing for the first time in Narnia, when we were rooting out the last of the White Witch's creatures. Peter was with me then. So were you, Ed, although you had been wounded earlier trying to protect the two of us." In spite of the memory, she smiles. "Peter wasn't too happy with you, if I remember correctly."

And in spite of the memory, I roll my eyes good-naturedly. That's putting it mildly.

She giggles quietly before sobering and going on, "Anyway…you two were so busy arguing that neither of you noticed one of the white tigers that had managed to escape circling back and going in for an attack. I couldn't let it." Her face tightens and I'm obliged to wrap my free arm around her shoulders, blanket and all. She shuts her eyes tightly, and I know it still hurts her to remember. It's the same way for me, too, when I recall my first kill (and this only in the aftermath of our coronation). Like he was for Lucy, Peter was there for me, too.

She continues with slight difficulty. "A-After it was over, I was shaking so hard…crying so badly…that I…I couldn't even pull my dagger out of the body. Didn't even want to. Peter did it for me, cleaned it and everything. Then he laid it on the grass, and kneeling, just hugged me."

"He carried you back to Cair Paravel that day, didn't he?" Su asks wearily from her chair, eyes ever-so-slowly beginning to slip shut.

Lucy nods, opening her eyes and smiling tenderly at Peter's sleeping face. He's still wheezing—if faintly—but otherwise, only gives the occasional cough. "He stayed with me that night, too," she goes on, "and the next morning, sat me down and gently explained the difference between killing in defense and for protection, and killing outright. By the end, I felt almost entirely better and the kiss he gave me sealed it."

We fall silent again. Nothing more is said for a while and soon enough, I'm aware that Susan has drifted off and Lu's struggling to stay awake.

I turn to glance at her, eyes quiet. "Lu, you're sleepy," I murmur.

She shakes her head stubbornly, her eyes drifting shut of their own accord. She yanks them open again, "Nah-unh," just as a large yawn nearly splits her small face in half.

I chuckle softly. "Oh, no. You couldn't possibly be tired."

Lucy pouts at me, but the effect is rather lost as her head slowly sinks back down into her arms. "Well, wha…what about you?" She yawns again.

My lips twitch upwards into an amused smile. "I think I'll stay up for a bit. You know, in case he wakes in the middle of the night needing his inhaler or something."

Actually, I intend to stay up through midnight and into the early morning.

She's shut her eyes. But after I'm done speaking, she opens one to peer up at me in drowsy interest. "You…you know, (yawn) Susan and I shared (yawn) our stories, but you (yawn) you never did."

I smirk slightly at her. "I think you two already covered the two main ones quite nicely, sleepyhead."

"Oh (yawn) go on, Ed. Please?" she prods sleepily.

My smirk widens a bit. "Oh, all right."

I fall silent for a moment, the smirk slipping, as I think. Slowly, I begin, "You and Su weren't there with us, Lu, but you were there for what happened afterwards." I swallow and drop my eyes to Peter's chest, watching it rise and fall as the memory steals over me. "It's the same one I told the Professor about—or at least, a little. It was winter, you remember. And Peter and I had just spent a few days exploring the Western Woods around the Stone Table because of some rumors flying about a renegade tribe of dwarves. It wasn't easy going back to that place, because of what happened to Aslan there. Oh, I know you three tried to prevent me from hearing about it, but what else was I supposed to think when we first received word that Aslan had died, knowing the Witch had been after my blood? Peter was wonderful, you know, talking me through it and easing the nightmares. He was brilliant on the way back, too. That was the second year of our reign and I hadn't quite mastered swimming, yet. Certainly not in mid-winter. About a league from Cair, a stray branch caught me across the face and sent me tumbling headfirst into the Great River. I yelled out in surprise more than fear—that water was freezing—startling Philip and frightening Peter. But I couldn't do much else as the current had gotten a hold of me, and pulled me under. When I surfaced, I was just in time to see Peter dive off his horse into the river after me." I swallow again, forcing back the burning tears in my eyes. "The idiot dove straight off his horse and into a bitterly cold river in the dead of winter, fully aware of what was almost sure to result, because he was afraid I'd drown. About five hundred feet down from where I'd first fallen in, he pulled us up onto a snow-covered bank. You know the story from there."

I finally raise my head again, eyes still stinging, to find Lucy curled up in a ball against the bed, deeply asleep.

In spite of everything, I chuckle to myself. Gently releasing Peter's hand which I've been clutching all throughout my narration, I lean down and wrap her blanket more snugly around her before carefully gathering her into my arms.

Lucy does not wake. Instead, she sighs and turns, putting her own around my neck as I slowly stand with a small grunt. Cautiously, I make my way around to the other side of the bed, closer to Susan. I stop there and lower our little sister onto the mattress beside Peter, delicately extracting myself from her hold before pulling the covers over her as well.

She smiles in her sleep and I smile in return, lightly brushing her hair out of her face. Then, turning, I situate Su's blanket more warmly over her and head back to the opposite side of Peter's bed again.

Carefully sitting on the edge of the mattress, I pick up my own discarded blanket and pull it around my shoulders. As I curl up in the left corner of Peter's bed, leaning against the headboard and gazing down at his face, he turns his head slightly and begins to cough again.

I tense, expecting another fit.

Two seconds later it passes, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

He shifts once more, closer to Lucy.

Lu, sensing this, sighs in her sleep and rolls onto her side, her hand creeping out to grip the sleeve of Peter's nightclothes. She relaxes, and her breathing resumes its previous pattern.

And I have to look down, my hands gripping the edges of my blanket as I feel the heat rush back into my eyes.

My sight blurring, I glance back at Peter, watching him sleep.

"Why do you have to be so bloody good?" I choke, leaning down to press my cheek against his.

Unfailingly, he's been there, whenever and wherever we needed him if at all he possibly could. He'd sooner take a blow aimed for one of us than claim glory, and would rather suffer death than let anything happen to us. In Narnia, yes, but here also.

The thing is, we know that—even in sleep (as Lucy's response shows).

And that's a hard thing to live up to.

I turn and press my forehead to his own—a tear finally squeezes out of my eye and rolls down my cheek onto his. "You've given so much of yourself to us, Peter," I manage thickly, "How can we possibly expect to do the same?"

Because I know we can't. He's given much of himself, yes, but it's at times like this that it seems he's given far too much. He'd run himself into the ground just because we're his younger siblings.

How in Aslan's Name are we supposed to repay that?

"We love you, big brother," I whisper, "and that seems like such a little thing in comparison. But we give it to you nonetheless, and without hesitation."

After all, it's the least we can do. I hope it's enough.

The End!

A/N: It's finished! It's finished :grins: I take what I said in the most recent chapter of Nighttime Demons back, this is assuredly the longest, single piece I've ever written, and it's all ohcEEcho's fault for giving me such a marvelous plot bunny :winks:.

As to Nighttime Demons, I have half the ninth chapter written, and I'm hoping to finish it soon. I'm not going to make any promises for the date, however, because so much has been going on lately. We'll see, keep your eyes peeled!