A/N: This story is beginning to wind down, I'm sorry to say. I've taken some liberties with the time switches—bear with me. My beta and I have been working it out as best we can. I do apologize if it's too confusing. This is a "fantasy" piece! :) That's our story, at least. Enjoy, please!

VI
My Sweetest Friend

Lucy woke quietly, eyes adjusting to the light in the room. At first, she did not realize where she was. Beside her, Tumnus sighed in his sleep, and she recalled herself. Gently, so as not to wake him, she shifted on her arms, propping herself on her elbow to look at him. Hesitantly, she pushed a loose curl away from Tumnus' eye. Her lower lip trembled.

What more had she ever wanted? Here in her bed, the only man she had ever loved. His eyelids were thin; Lucy could clearly make out thin blue veins. He looked awfully worn out, she thought with distress. Along his chin, a thin film of stubble. His dark eyelashes made slender crescents above freckled cheeks.

"Have I seen anyone more handsome?" she asked aloud. Tumnus snorted in response, tossing his head away. In sleep, his pajama top had come unbuttoned. Lucy made out a faint blonde fuzz over his sternum; freckles across his clavicle. She flushed at his pale nipples and his abdomen, muscles clear beneath soft skin. Gently she placed her fingertip against his bellybutton. He twitched slightly. He was too tired, Lucy told herself, and she felt dreadful for being the cause. A slow smile crept across her face. She could do or say anything she liked, she realized, and he would have no idea.

Her nimble fingers plucked at his curls and she began tiny braids through his hair. Her nightgown slipped from one shoulder, her green eyes concentrated. The clock chimed three p.m. downstairs.

"Do you know," she murmured, tousling Tumnus' curls, "that you are my dearest friend? I care for no one more than I do you." She tucked a braid behind the curve of his pale ear. "And do you know," she whispered, her lips brushing his forehead, "that I was made for you? I have been waiting all this time," she smoothed the worried lines around his closed eyes, "to simply be with you. And here you are. What more could I ask for? It is true, what they say about Aslan—and it is true that the White Stag brings all answers. For you must have been looking for me. Though I do wish you were still a Faun, just as I met you." She pushed back his hair again, touching the freckles on the bridge of his nose. His eyelashes fluttered. "I knew someday it'd be you and I again." She brushed her fingertips along his cheek and his skin shivered, much as a goat's might. She nearly laughed aloud at how endearing he was.

The door swung open and Peter walked in, his eyes cheerful. He could do this, he told himself. Ed's right. You can be happy for them. And, amazingly, he believed himself. How odd! I never imagined it would be so easy! Peter felt like the world was beautiful again. "Wake up now, you lot—" he stopped. Lucy jerked up from the sleeping Tumnus, eyes wide, and suddenly she realized how this looked: Her long red hair spread over the pillow, Tumnus' disheveled appearance, her askew nightgown, fingers on his face. Peter turned red.

"I said he could sleep on the couch!" he bellowed, more shocked than angry and, a small part of him wondered in relief, there was no symptom of loss, no sudden shriveling of his heart. He would have laughed, had his sister's strap been upon her shoulders. Suddenly, he was all too aware of her full breasts and her slender waist, and his stomach twisted in nausea. When had Lucy grown up? When had she turned into this beautiful creature? Where had his mind been, to let her take a man into her bed? He squinted at her, at her gauzy white nightgown, with growing horror. Is that her nipple? Peter jerked away in horror. His little sister. The Pevensie baby. Oh, Aslan. Susan would kill him if she ever found out.

His face was the exact color of a tomato, Lucy thought, crossing her arms over her chest in the thin nightgown. She had seen Peter's wide, alarmed eyes.

"Shit," she whispered hopelessly. Tumnus jerked awake.

"Lucy!" Peter couldn't believe it. Had she really just—just sworn? He stared at Tumnus, shifting nervously at Lucy's side. He couldn't say anything. The only thing burning in him was a protective feeling for Lucy. He didn't feel his heart flaring for an entirely different reason, as it had in the past days. If he had, he might have laughed. Because he didn't, he almost screamed.

"Er," Tumnus muttered, color creeping into his cheeks. Lucy dropped her hands. "It's not what it looks like, Peter—" Peter stood seething, and Edmund hurried to his side, pulling his bathrobe around himself.

"What's going—? Oh." and he smiled, clapping a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Why, whatever's the matter, brother?" Edmund looked quietly at Peter, wondering how he'd react. He saw no traces of jealously, however—he saw a shielding older brother horrified with the reality of a man in his little sister's bed. Edmund would be horrified himself, but he knew Lucy and he knew Tumnus. And Peter's face was really too priceless. Edmund longed for a camera.

"I can't deal with this," Peter declared, throwing up his hands in a rather dramatic fashion (Quite like Susan, Edmund chuckled to himself), and stormed from the room. Tumnus smiled sheepishly at Edmund. Edmund waved his hand.

"It all right," he explained, "you'd understand if you had a little sister." Lucy laughed nervously.

"It is time to get up, though," he looked at Tumnus. "The Professor wants to talk to you."

"Be there soon." Edmund left them alone. Tumnus blushed deeply and Lucy laughed.

"You look so queer," she said with mirth, and Tumnus put his hands up to feel his head.

"Is this what you do to everyone while they sleep?" he teased her, unraveling one of the braids with his fingers.

"Just you," she assured him. He sighed, looking at her, and dropped his hands. He leaned in, despite his inner voice's scolding, and kissed her on the crown of her red hair. She pushed against his mouth. "Won't you ever kiss me properly?"

He looked embarrassed. "I don't think Peter would like that," he made excuse.

"I don't really care what Peter thinks," she said plainly, and her eyebrow arched at him. She got up and gestured for him to turn his head, pulled her nightgown off without ceremony once he did. Yanking open the curtains, Lucy squinted in the sudden assault of sunlight. She pulled on a thin skirt and a green cotton sweater, turned around, and stood for a moment, watching him watching her.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked him, her eyebrow arched.

Tumnus blushed.

The door slid shut with a dry squeak. The day was bright as Lucy and Tumnus made their way down the stairs to breakfast. Or is it dinner? Lucy wondered. She smelled eggs and tea brewing. Tumnus was quiet at her side.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he replied softly. "Can we…can we go somewhere? To talk?"

"About what?"

"Just talk," Tumnus shrugged. He felt near to bursting. It wasn't fair, he reasoned with himself, to keep her going like this. She needed to know. He was stern with himself. It's wrong of you to keep acting like you have a chance. Stop it and be a—a man. Admit it; let her laugh, move on.

"Of course, Mr. Tumnus," she said kindly. She could tell something was bothering him. They slipped out the back door, unnoticed by her brothers. The Professor caught them out of the corner of his eye, but he remained silent.

Lucy and Tumnus hurried across the yard to the low stone wall, separating forest from grass. He helped Lucy over the slippery, moss-covered stones. Both were barefoot. Her skirt caught on a low branch of a tree and he stopped to untangle it. He was quiet, moving branches out of her face. He didn't know where she was leading him.

To be honest, Lucy had no idea where she was going, either. A soft carpet of dead leaves and pine needles cushioned her tender feet. She felt safe, with Tumnus at her back. She stumbled upon a small, busy creek, noisily making its way through the wood. She sat on a large log jutting over the bank, and patted the damp wood at her side. Tumnus lowered himself next to her.

"Lucy," he blurted, "I have not been completely honest with you."

"Oh?" she looked surprised, her eyes finding his. "Do tell me."

"I've been acting…well, as a friend."

"Should you not be?" her eyes were round. "Do you not wish to be my friend?"

"No, no, that's not it at all," he said hurriedly. Stupid Faun, he growled to himself, not even thinking how your words come out! "It's only…well. I suppose you ought to know it plainly. I feel stronger for you than I ought to." He hung his head. He watched their bubbling reflections in the moving water. Red crept over his cheeks. He nearly cried from how frustrated he felt. Beside him, Lucy glowed like the water, sun bouncing off her. She is so bright, he thought with wonder, that the sun pales compared to her.

"I don't believe you," Lucy said simply, eyes gazing across the creek.

"But—I'm telling you, Lucy." He furrowed narrow eyebrows. "I'm telling you that I feel too much."

"You can never feel too much, my sweetest friend." She looked to his profile, studying his long, thin nose. "You're being silly, Tumnus. What could possibly make me feel differently for you?"

"I love you," he blurted. "I love you, Lucy Pevensie. I have since the day you first frightened me at the lamp-post. Do you remember? I've thought of you each night, of you and I, and I've waited so long for us to be closer in age—I've waited through everything. I've waited for you. But I know it's foolish. There's no way that…" his voice cracked and he stopped, lost for words.

Lucy said nothing. She looked at him still: the curl of his ear, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. Long, black eyelashes framed those eyes, so like the sky. She had always wanted blue eyes, but she would never have his be anything else.

"I should go," Tumnus said, beginning to rise.

"Where will you go?" she asked him, quietly.

"I'll return to Narnia and you can forget me."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Why—why would you not?" Tumnus' voice wavered, looking at those piercing green eyes then. He felt frozen, paralyzed; he could not move if his life depended on it.

"Why would I stay away from what I've been longing to hear for so long?" Tumnus' mouth dropped open, and Lucy met him suddenly, lips soft against his.

It was the first kiss Tumnus had ever received that mattered, and he would never forget it. I have heard it once said there are only a few kisses the world remembers. This was one of them.

Tumnus pulled her chin in, hand cupping her jaw. Her hands found his curls and tangled in them, long fingers tugging gently. Their mouths moved tentatively against each other's. How tender! How pure! Lucy tilted her head, and Tumnus felt the ghost of teeth against his lower lip. It deepened. It softened. The creek below them babbled, moving ever on, their reflections swirling into one smear of green and golden-red.

Neither knew how long it lasted. An eternity; not long enough. One of those moments time stands still for.

"We really ought to be getting back," Tumnus said breathlessly. Lucy regarded him with eyes the color of oak leaves.

"Yes," she agreed, "but I don't want to just yet." She leaned her head upon his shoulder. They sighed in tandem, content.

"Lucy," he murmured.

"Hm?" she asked. Her brown lashes glowed gold in the filtered sunlight.

"You could have so much more than me," he ventured. She shushed him, waving her hand.

"I don't want anything else. I only want everything you are." He shook slightly. It was sweeter than all he'd imagined, in his million far-away daydreams. He felt as though he were melting.

"You could have it all," he protested, smiling, simply to hear her say she wanted him again. It felt fresh and exciting and he knew, now, he would die without this feeling.

"I'm not so picky. Just you."

He gathered up his courage and then he kissed her, showing her what he could not say with mere words.

Perhaps that is the best thing about kisses. Mouths say more when they are silent, for you can feel the meaning.

Peter was not eating his breakfast—or dinner?—, Edmund noticed. Edmund finished chewing his toast and jam, and swallowed.

"What's wrong?"

"They ought to be here by now," he muttered darkly. Edmund smiled around a forkful of eggs. Peter was fine, Edmund could tell. He understood everything perfectly. Edmund recalled how peaceful Peter had looked when he woke, curled next to Edmund. Edmund was cheered. Everything would work out all right, after all.

"Missing your sister?" the Professor asked, as he took his seat at the table. "I expect they'll be in presently. The door was closed; I didn't think I should knock. Doors remain closed for reasons, you know." Edmund looked over at the wise old man. His face said everything. He presented the opportunity to tease. Doors can be closed easily. Edmund choked on his tea, laughing. What boy hasn't found glee in torturing his elder brother? The Professor hid a chuckle into his own breakfast—or dinner.

Peter dropped his head onto the table. Edmund and the Professor roared with laughter.

"What's so funny?" Eustace wanted to know, coming down. The professor was going to take him to the train station, to be retrieved by his worried mother. Peter had phoned to tell her that he and Lucy had dropped in (quite unexpectedly).

"Nothing," Edmund said quickly. "Just a joke." The Professor nodded and the two left, to get in the car and head Eustace home.

"Must have been quite a good one," Caspian said, settling down to eat. "I could hear you all the way upstairs."

"It was," Edmund assured him, and the two ate in silence. Peter couldn't bear to pick his head up. "Peter's feeling a little ill," Edmund explained kindly to Caspian.

"More than a little," Peter croaked. Not long after they'd finished and begun the dishes, the Professor returned. The four men had retired to the sun room, sitting pleasantly on wicker furniture, when Lucy and Tumnus made their awkward arrival. Their hands were firmly gripped together. Their hair was wind-blown. Edmund shook his head, with a smile. Sometimes doors hide no skeletons. Sometimes they're closed just because. It's what can't be closed that hides the most. The world is large and it keeps its secrets closer than doors ever can. Edmund knew.

"Good afternoon, you lie-a-beds," the Professor chortled. "Now that you're here, we can get down to business."

"What business?" Lucy asked, seating herself. Tumnus nearly sat in her lap, the closeness so impenetrable.

"Why, sorting out what's happened to dear Mr. Tumnus." The Professor sounded surprised. Tumnus turned red.

"Nothing's happened," he protested.

"I was talking about your strange transformation, lad," the Professor said kindly.

"Oh," was all he could say. Lucy squeezed his hand gently. Peter moaned miserably, covering his eyes with his palms.

"Are you alright, Peter?" Lucy asked.

"Ngh," he muttered to Lucy. She curled her lip. Tumnus looked at the Professor.

"I've never known any inhabitant of Narnia survive for long in this world," the Professor said plainly. "There has only been one—and she was a witch. Yes, that Witch," he told Edmund's startled look. "It's strange, but it's how these worlds work. Nor," he added, his face blank, "have I met a citizen of Earth who could live long in Narnia."

"What are you saying?" Edmund asked quickly, his dark eyes concerned. The Professor cleared his throat.

"I mean to say that Mr. Tumnus' days here are limited. Don't you wonder why that Stag you were searching for has not returned?"

"A little," Tumnus admitted. "Not lately."

"It's died," the Professor said blandly. "Either that, or stayed in Narnia when you all came back through the hole. It sensed that it could not survive here."

"Why?" Lucy cried. She was distressed, face paling beneath fair cheeks.

"It is a matter of time and magic," the Professor looked straight at her in answering. There was a deathly silence that threatened to swallow the room. "In the case of the Stag: well, that is an entirely magical being. In the case of Mr. Tumnus—and, it must be said, in the case of your Prince here—it's a matter of time. Do you realize how long creatures of Narnia live? How old your Mr. Tumnus will live to be?"

"I believe it's about eight or nine hundred years," he replied shyly. The Professor nodded.

"On average, yes, that's the lifespan for most citizens of Narnia. But here?"

"Wouldn't that make it millions of years?" Edmund asked. The Professor shook his head.

"You'd think so," the Professor said grimly, "but don't you recall your second trip to Narnia? How long a time was it between?"

"Only a year," Peter said. There was a chill silence. Tumnus sat squirming, feeling under much scrutiny.

"And how old are you, dear Mr. Tumnus?" the Professor asked.

"I am two-hundred and forty," Tumnus replied quietly.

"Twenty-four," the Professor said to everyone in the room. "I reckon—though time runs queerly between here and there."

"So each year here is as ten for him," Peter said slowly. "That's not such a problem. That's short, yes. But it's not so terribly short that we can't figure out a solution."

"Ah, that would be how it was," he said grimly, "if Tumnus wasn't a creature of Narnia."

"But his body is human," Edmund argued.

"His being is not."

"So, then," Edmund pieced it out. "It is more like…each year is a hundred?"

The Professor nodded.

"Hundreds or more. You're not certain, are you, exactly how long had passed in Narnia between your first adventure and your second?"

"Long enough for Cair Paravel to be ruins; enough time had passed for everything we knew to be destroyed or made unfamiliar." Peter's voice was steady.

"Can you see the problem here?" He glanced at the conceited Prince. "And how old are you?"

"I am almost one-hundred and eighty," he replied haughtily.

"Same goes for this young man." Lucy was trembling next to Tumnus. He pulled her closer. Her chin quivered and he prayed she would not cry. He did not think he could bear it. He tried not to think about what the Professor was saying.

"So, you see," the Professor concluded, "we must return them to Narnia. Or…well. We can all do math here."

"But how?" Peter's brow furrowed in distress.

"How else?" the Professor shook his head. "We must, somehow, open the wardrobe again."