We're getting close to the end now, so I hope you won't be disappointed with the way it turns out. This chapter is a bit longer and lots fluffier than the last few – but since it's me, still angst-ridden! There should be lots for you PeterSusan freaks in there too – but no ruderies! Enjoy. (PS I don't own the Pevensies – Duh!)
It was around one 'o' clock in the afternoon when Peter woke up, and for a moment or two he lay still, unsure of where he was. Then remembering, he sat up, and looked about the room. The curtains had been drawn, but he could make out Lucy and Edmund sleeping peacefully together under a thin quilt on Edmund's mattress, which was positioned at the end of Susan's bed.
From his spot on the floor, Peter could see nothing of his eldest sister except her injured left foot, which lay exposed but for a stark, white bandage. Levering himself up on the knuckles of his unhurt hand, Peter stood and moved towards the bed – he didn't know why, but it suddenly seemed very important that he tuck that foot in under the blankets. As he drew near, he tenderly scanned his sister's face and was stopped short: Susan was awake.
The blackout paper lay on the floor; Lucy had torn it down mere hours before to light Peter's way as he had carried a bleeding Susan to her bed. She lay quietly on her side, staring up at the pale square of window which shone through the thin drapes. As Peter moved towards his sister, her gaze shifted and came to rest upon his face, but the vacant expression remained unchanged, as if she were barely aware of him.
"Susan?" he murmured, kneeling down so that his face drew level with hers, and trying to smile. "Hey… how are you feeling?"
Susan closed her eyes, and for a brief moment Peter thought she was trying to feign sleep. Then her lips moved and she croaked:
"Tired… Sore."
Scrunching her eyes even more tightly shut, she attempted to shift herself into a sitting position, and in so doing was unable to conceal a slight hiss of pain. Gently, Peter took hold of his sister's uppermost arm and bore some of her weight, while reaching behind to rearrange the pillows
"Better?" he asked as he lowered her gently back onto them, and Susan nodded her thanks.
Peter took a seat on the edge of the bed and sat quietly trying to find some words of comfort, but none came readily to hand. Susan's eyes were downcast; her skin and hair seemed to have lost some of their lustre, and her brother felt a lump in his throat at the sight of his sister's vibrant beauty so veiled in suffering.
"Isn't there anything I can do, Susan?" he asked, searching her face. "Is there anything you need?"
Susan considered this a moment, then took a breath and said: "I want to have a bath."
Peter furrowed his brow, "Are you sure that's a good idea, what with the stitches and everything?"
"Please," she looked up at him with imploring eyes, and he knew he couldn't refuse her.
"Alright… I'm sure it couldn't do too much harm, as long as you're careful. I'll get Lucy up," and he moved to stand. Susan caught hold of his arm and murmured:
"No, don't… She looks so peaceful; I don't want to wake her. She's been so good to me, and so brave… I can wait."
Peter thought soberly for a moment then made a tentative suggestion:
"I could always help you…"
Susan looked up at him in surprise, and it hurt him to recognise a tiny glimmer of fear. He flushed, but battled bravely on:
"I mean… I don't mind, if you don't. I… I'd like to help you, Su."
Susan seemed to be unconvinced; she sat unmoving and cold for several long moments, but eventually it seemed her reluctance was overcome by her need to feel clean again.
"Alright. If you're sure you don't mind…"
"I've course I don't," he protested, feeling slightly more cheerful now that he had a clear objective. "Come on, let's get you up." Gently, Peter slid his arm around his sister and helped her to her feet. "I could carry you," he offered.
"No, it's alright, I can walk. I'm fine…"
Now it was Peter's turn to be doubtful, but he let it pass. Together, they hobbled out of the room and across the landing to the bathroom. Peter was suddenly assailed with the absurd recollection of a school sports day, many lifetimes ago, when the two eldest Pevensies had come first in the three-legged race; the innocent, faraway memory of it almost brought a smile to his lips. Sitting Susan carefully upon the closed lavatory seat, he knelt by the bath to put in the plug and turn on the taps.
"I want it to be really hot… can you just use the hot tap?" she requested, in a small voice.
"Alright, but you're not having any bubbles…" he countered, perfectly serious, but to his amazement, Susan gave a wheezy little giggle. His heart leapt at the sound, then plunged as his sister pressed a white hand to her stomach and winced.
"Does it hurt?" he cried, and made to move towards her.
"Only when I laugh," and she rewarded him with a rueful, sad-eyed smile.
Peter was prepared to disregard the War Effort, just for one day and only for Susan; he filled the bathtub almost to the top with steaming hot water. When it was full, he turned to his sister and asked, trying to keep his voice light:
"Now, how are we going to do this?"
"You turn around," she directed, and Peter did so. He stood facing the perspiring plaster of the bathroom wall, alert to the mysterious rustlings as Susan attempted to get undressed. After some moments, she gave a frustrated little grunt.
"What is it?" he asked anxiously, fighting the urge to spin round.
"It's no good… I can't get my nighty off. I can't get it over my head…" Even with his back turned, Peter could tell his sister was close to tears; Anything but that.
"Su, look… I'm going to have to turn round alright? But I promise I'll keep my eyes closed. We'll sort it out together, okay?"
"No, don't…" there was a note of panic in her voice.
"Look, Su… It's just me. I'm your brother, I'm not going to hurt you; you can trust me. Just calm down, will you?"
Before she could protest further, Peter squeezed his eyes shut and turned around. Feeling his way across the room, he moved forwards until he could sense Susan nearby then stuck out his hand.
"Where are you?" He felt a small, clammy palm touch his. "Right, now stay still," and Peter reached forwards in what he hoped was the right direction. His fingers grasped hold of a swathe of fabric, whereupon he gathered the folds together and pulled the nightdress smoothly upwards until it came away in his hand.
"Done?" he asked. There was no reply. "Susan? Are you ready to get in the water?"
"I'm nodding," came the sullen reply.
"Right, now you guide me towards the bath and I'll help you in."
Eventually, the torturous task was achieved and Peter, eyes still closed, fumbled his way to the end of the bath and sat down on the damp floor with his back to his sister. At last, he could open his eyes. It was chilly in the bathroom with the door off, and he made a mental note to get Edmund to help him re-hang it later on when Susan was asleep.
For five long minutes, the two siblings sat in silence; the only sound the soft drip of the tap and the gentle plish of the water as Susan washed. After a time, even these noises stopped:
"Are you ready to get out?" Peter called.
"Not yet." Susan wanted to stay in the bathtub forever. Though it made her wounds itch and her stitches burn, she felt as though the scalding water was both chastising and forgiving her weary body.
"Alright, well let me know if you need anything."
"I want to wash my hair. Can you get me my shampoo? I think it's by the sink."
Peter rose and moved the few paces towards the basin; locating the bottle, he unthinkingly glanced up at the mirrored medicine cabinet then promptly dropped the shampoo with a clatter. The room was a little steamy, but he could see well enough.
"Oh my god; Susan, you're a mess!" he yelped, unable to prevent himself. Turning round now, he gaped aghast at his sister's body, now blue with bruises. Peter could feel the tears crawling up behind his eyes, and blinked them fiercely away.
"Don't look at me!" she shrieked, and disregarding the pain, Susan reached an arm out of the bath to the rail and grabbed frantically at a towel. She flung it hastily over herself, not caring that it would get soaked.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to look…" Peter gabbled. "I didn't mean to… Oh, Su. I'm so sorry."
Now his sister's nudity was concealed from view he could approach her. Perceiving that she was shivering despite the radiating heat of the bathwater, Peter knelt down in a puddle and, shaking slightly himself, prised her hands gently from her face. She was crying, tears leaking silently down her cheeks.
"Oh Susan, sweetheart," he croaked miserably, holding her tightly clenched fists in his own. "I'm so, so sorry…"
"Don't…" she moaned, but he couldn't help it.
"I mean it, Susan; I really do. I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you. I'm sorry I haven't been there for you for a long time…"
"Peter, please! Please, don't do this… don't blame yourself. I can't bear it. This isn't your fault! Why do you always have to…?"
"Whose fault is it then?" Peter demanded, angrily. Susan looked up at him with fearful eyes, her breathing jerky and spasmodic; she bit her lip, and whispered:
"If you must blame anyone, blame me. Everyone else will."
"What? What do you mean?" Peter was genuinely confused; his mind racing.
"You don't know the whole story, Pete… I was drinking, I was flirting… I let that man kiss me! How stupid am I? How conceited? He said he was in love with me, and I believed him!"
"But that doesn't mean…"
"It might as well! No-one will believe I wasn't asking for it, no-one! My reputation would be in tatters if anyone knew… which is why I need you to promise me that you're not going to tell anybody about this. Ever." Susan gripped Peter's hand in an iron fist. "Promise me."
Peter blinked back his tears and looked intently at his sister's streaked and puffy face.
"But Susan, we can't just let that monster get away with what he's done…"
"I know what you think, and I know you must despise me. Don't think it hasn't occurred to me that if he did this to me, he will probably do it again to some other poor fool… but I just can't face it, Peter. I can't, please don't ask me to. I'm not strong enough; I've never been brave, not like the rest of you..."
Peter had never wanted to scream more than he did in that moment; not since that terrible second that he had turned in battle to see his little brother fall.
"Don't you see, Peter? You, Edmund and Lucy… you're all so much more courageous than me. But, I've always been a coward… it's so much simpler for me to pretend it never happened!"
And in a moment of stony realisation, Peter knew that his sister wasn't just talking about the last few hours. He looked into Susan's eyes, now glossy with tears, and at last, he understood.
"God knows, I've tried all my life to be like you Peter," she was pleading with him to forgive her. "I've tried to be good, and strong, and noble, but the fact remains that when it comes down to it, there will always be an important difference between you and me: You will always choose what is right, but I know that I'm always going to opt for what is easy. I'm just too afraid…"
"Shh…" Peter soothed, and reached for his sister, wanting nothing more than to hold her in his arms. At his touch, she knew that he would always be strong enough for both of them.
"I know… I know. It's alright, Susan. I won't tell. I love you; I'm never going to leave you."
She sniffed and straightened up. "I love you too. I really do. All of you; you Edmund, Lucy..."
He smiled, a tearful little smile, and squeezed Susan's hand, then moved to stand up.
"Let me help you wash your hair," he said.