A/N: You guys asked for it - a scene with Peter. The continuity goes with the Director's Cut for Chapter 2.

"It's me."

The door shut again and he heard the rattle of unlocking the security chain. It opened up and revealed Peter, sporting striped pyjamas and magnificently mussed hair. He rubbed his eyes sleepily. Half-yawning, he began to mumble something indistinctive, but then he started.

"Great Scott, Ed! What's happened to your face?"

Peter's reaction made him grimace. "It's rather a long story. . . Fancy a walk?" Edmund asked, eyeing behind his brother for a sign of the friend that shared his flat.

"No, it's all right. Come inside. Louis has the late hours tonight."

Edmund breathed a sigh of relief. "Excellent," he said as he stepped inside.

"Tea, Ed?" Peter offered, while he went about turning on the lamps. "Or something stronger?"

It was one of the few benefits of Peter's living on his own that they could enjoy a drink together – how they liked it – without arousing inquiries from the curious friends, or worse, their parents.

"Tea is fine. After the past few days, I'm rather disinclined to have a drink," Edmund said. It was an ominous statement, one which Peter could hardly miss. He saw his brother's shoulders stiffen slightly, and wished that he had come with better tidings.

At the small breakfast table, Edmund took the plusher, more comfortable chair of the mismatched set. He rested his eyes a little while Peter busied himself with the kettle. It was most unlike him to make tea first, and not demand information – but Edmund guessed he was probably feeling a little guilty. He'd turned up here with a pair of matching black eyes, a puffy, bruised face, and a split lip. And Peter wouldn't be Peter if he didn't take up the blame when any of them were hurt or in trouble, even if he were entirely faultless.

"All right, Ed," Peter said, as he settled into the rickety office chair with two steaming cups. "What's up? Who's the nervy git that's beat my brother to a pulp, so I can return the favour?"

Edmund sighed and took the tea. "There's no need. I started it."

The bottom of Peter's cup met the table with a thud. "On what grounds? I know you, you'd never start up a fight if you could help it."

"Well, that depends," said Edmund, blowing steam from the black surface of his tea. He gave his brother a pointed look. "What's the one reason we'd set off trouble, anytime, anywhere?"

"Ah," said Peter. "The girls." Then, once this sank in, he sat up quickly and asked, "They're all right, aren't they? Nothing's happened?"

"They're fine. Wouldn't I have said?" Edmund replied calmly, slightly affronted at this. "I'm the one you should be asking that." Almost to emphasise the fact, he rubbed a sore spot on the back of his neck that had been bothering him since the fight. The mottled bruise also kept him from sleeping peacefully – and was part of the reason he had come out in the dead of night seeking Peter's conversation.

"Of course," said Peter, resuming his normal tone now he had been assured Susan and Lucy's well-being. "My brother the practice bag."

"That's not exactly how it happened," Edmund said. "I held my own quite well, thank you."

Peter smirked. "I'm sure you did," he conceded. "Now, get on with it. Where did all this start?" He sat back in his chair, as if waiting for the story to be delivered into his royal lap. Edmund, however, was reluctant to begin the tale. It was rare that the pair of them were able to simply enjoy each other's company. Time and the demands of everyday life made it difficult for the whole family to be all together at once, let alone for them to have a good jaw just between the two of them.

Peter coughed, his impatient nature finally surfacing. "That black eye is pretty fine. Looks a only day or two fresh," he prompted. Edmund frowned at him. Clever observations weren't quite the same when they came from Peter instead of himself. "In fact," Peter went on, "you'll probably be even more black-and-blue twenty-four hours from now."

Edmund exhaled. "All right. It wasn't so much a few day ago as last night. And you're right about the bruises, too."

"Last night. . ." Peter said, giving him a look.

"Last night, at a party – "

"You hate parties," his brother interjected.

The statement needed no confirmation. Edmund raised his eyebrows, mutely asking permission to continue without interruption.

"Go on with it, Ed. Tell me. What's holding you up? Are you putting it off because you're afraid I'll be angry?" he said.

"No, I'm it putting off because you won't like what you'll hear. And I won't like saying it."

Peter stayed silent, but his brow contracted very slightly. There was no more goading now; the all-too-familiar look worry was beginning to form on his face.

"All right. At the party, I got into it with a bunch of Susan's friends, and it – well, it sort of turned into brawl. Me against the rest of them."

"What!" Peter exclaimed.

"I wasn't alone," he said quickly. "Robert helped a bit."

"That weedy friend of yours? The one that wears glasses?"

Edmund gave a laugh that sounded more like a groan. "Yes," he answered. "Jumped in to help when they got all on me. He lasted all of two minutes, but it was a noble effort."

There was a small moment of pause, in which the protective concern showed quite clearly on Peter's face. Despite his many injuries and the trouble he had dealt with last night, Edmund felt rather undeserving of it. He wasn't even hurt really; at least, not nearly as badly as he had been wounded in the past. Once Peter found out what really happened, it would put everything into larger perspective – his little cuts and bruises would be nothing next to Lucy's part.

"How many were there?" asked Peter.

"About ten," he answered. "The last one pulled his knife on me but I managed to talk him down."

Peter whistled and leaned back in his chair. "Ten? I say, Ed, it's a good thing you've still got it."

Edmund smiled, although with the marks on his face, it probably looked more like a grimace.

"They were drunk. And we've both faced worse," he said, rather unnecessarily.

"Yes. . . indeed," Peter murmured. His fingers moved absently to his left forearm, tracing the spot where an early battle wound had left a scar that ran from wrist to elbow. The mark had been permanent, at least until they had returned to England at their proper ages.

"But wait – you've still not told me what's the reason," he said.

"There it is," said Edmund. "Because once I do, you're going to wish I hadn't."

Unwilling to be further deterred, Peter answered, "All the more reason you should get on with it and tell me. What do the girls have to do with this?"

Edmund rubbed his chin, contemplating how best to broach the subject. "Yesterday evening, Susan was heading off to a party," he began. He wondered if Peter noticed the subtle change in his tone. "She insisted that Lucy come, and you know them both – she's persistent and Lucy's always willing. I didn't want her to, but without you around – " and here Edmund gave Peter a guilty look. He didn't want to blame his brother exactly, but he couldn't lie, either. "Without you around, I couldn't do anything to stop it. They left together, after Mum and Dad were in bed."

"Where was it?" Peter asked.

"An old house in Lower Morden. . ."

He frowned thoughtfully. "I may have been there before with Susan."

"Anyway, half an hour after they were due home, there was a ring from Robert – at the middle of the night – telling me Lucy's gotten herself drunk, and to get down there straightaway."

Across the table Peter opened his mouth to protest, but Edmund kept up, wanting to get most of the story out before his brother could say anything.

"Peter, it was awful. She was totally washed up, a complete mess. I came in and she was toasting Narnia in Aslan's name. Singing songs and telling the old stories. . . When she saw me, she raised her cup and addressed me by title."

Peter's mouth was slowly forming an 'O' of shock.

"I can't even fathom what she talked about before then. All of them were having laughs about fauns and Dryads, wardrobes and animals as courtiers. Even the High King."

Peter winced.

"Oh, God."

"It's worse."

Edmund took a slow, deep breath. "Do you know who she was telling all this? Bunch of blokes she'd just met, who weren't all that interested in what she was saying."

"No. . ." groaned Peter.

He swallowed. "Unfortunately, yes.

"Once I'd arrived she wouldn't agree to come home with me. And one of them – the leader, I think – had his hands on her. And Peter, I couldn't – I couldn't just stand there and watch. So I hit him."

Peter stood up rather quickly from the table and strode across the room. He rummaged around a cupboard for a moment, and came back carrying a bottle of Gordon's. Edmund waited for Peter to pour gin into his empty teacup and take a few calming sips before continuing.

"In all honesty, you'd have probably cracked well before I did," he said.

He could just imagine how everything would have gone over, had Peter been in his place. Likely he would have taken one look at the scene, and charged in with fists blazing. Edmund had at least attempted to come to things verbally – though admittedly, his patience had worn out quickly and he had been the instigator. His brother was not the best negotiator under pressure, and Peter's better judgement usually flew out the window when it came to defending their sisters' honour.

After a moment, Peter said, "They didn't. . . she wasn't. . ."

"No," Edmund replied. "Though they certainly might have if I hadn't arrived in time. She was drinking, Peter. Letting it happen."

"No," declared Peter immediately, as Edmund had been sure he would. "Lucy would never allow it."

He sighed. Why did Peter insist on preserving Lucy as her innocent nine-year-old self, even when she had grown up not once, but twice before their eyes? "Think about it," said Edmund. "Have you ever seen Lucy drunk, really? Not just a cup of wine here or there; I mean completely sozzled – crying, whining, everything."

"No," he admitted.

"Exactly. And you must remember this isn't how it was in Narnia. It wasn't merry toasting with friends and spirits – it was cheap wine and brandy, with the sort that Susan hangs around with. Don't forget that we've got a lot more troubles here than we ever did there, that are likely to come out at the worst times."

It was strange to be sitting there with his brother, talking of these unpleasant things. Only a few years ago, they would have laughed the idea aside – they were so close, there was nothing to fear! – and in Narnia it was even more ludicrous. In the old days, they had had many a nighttime congress dealing with one of Susan's pretentious suitors. Who could have foreseen that the problem plaguing their evenings in the future would be Susan herself?

Edmund fiddled with the handle of his empty cup. "Sometimes I remember her the way we used to be, and. . . I can hardly believe it. That she cares only about parties and boys, clothes, make-up. Not us. Not Narnia. And now not even Lucy."

An image of his younger sister, sprawled out and crying on the parquet, flashed before his eyes. Wordlessly, Edmund reached for the green bottle and poured a drink for himself. The lukewarm gin burned a trail of fire down his throat, almost matching the anger and bitterness aflame in his heart.

They sat in silence for a while, each to his own thoughts. As Edmund rather disliked thinking of what had transpired yesterday evening, his thoughts defaulted to Narnia, like they usually did in the unoccupied quiet. The gin had left a metallic aftertaste in his mouth, and he found himself mourning the days when a nightcap had meant mulled wine in front a fireplace. How far away it seemed.

Peter said, "I know she'll come round. She's got to."

"You can go on saying that until we're were all even older than we used to be, Peter, but you can't ignore the facts. Judging by what happened the other night, things are getting worse, not better."

"Did she apologize, at the very least? Show any remorse at all?" he asked.

"Not to me. To Lucy, maybe," Edmund replied. "I wouldn't count on it."

"And for Lucy, what does she think about Su? Maybe we've got it wrong; they could've got separated, or something. . . ?"

"Lucy doesn't remember anything from that night, Peter. Not even the time she spent in the toilet crying, honking up everything she drank," he answered, more coldly than he'd intended.

A heavy silence hung in the air. Peter leaned forward and took his head in his hands, bracing his elbows on the table's edge. His shoulders hunched in a defeated slump, as if bearing an enormous weight. It was an extremely uncharacteristic posture for the High King, one that Edmund had seen on perhaps five occasions; during the direst times of their reign, and the night they came back through the wardrobe.

Peter spoke from behind his palms. "I don't know what's happening with us, Ed. I'm trying to hold us together – but it's harder than I thought it would be." His tone made Edmund instantly regret his harsh words moments ago.

"Buck up, Pete. You're a fine leader – Lu and I have always thought so."

Peter looked up. "But – "

"You can't make Susan's choices for her," Edmund interrupted, "and that's the problem. She doesn't want to be 'guided' or what have you. She'd rather go off with her parties and invitations and I'm all for letting her. It's only when she does something like this, that we need to step in for."

"She's just – lost sight of her priorities, that's all. We need to give her time, and I know she'll find Him."

Edmund bit the inside of his cheek. "He wouldn't want this, Peter. Not at all." He leaned forward. "Do you know, when she came home – nearly sunrise, I've have it said – she told me off for fighting in front of her friends!"

He sighed, and Edmund could see the weight on his shoulders again.

"But it's Susan," said Peter. "She doesn't mean any harm."

"This is Lucy," replied Edmund emphatically. "And good intentions do not justify poor decisions. Don't you go neglecting your own role, Peter. You've got to focus on the whole picture. Lucy still follows you willingly, as do I. There's no use in chasing after what's already lost."

Peter opened his mouth but did not speak, and Edmund saw that his words were finally having an effect. He seized the opening. "The indirect approach doesn't work for you, Peter. One of us needs to act. Obviously I'd prefer it be you, as she hasn't listened to my advice for years."

The indecision on his face was all the agreement Edmund needed. He had come tonight to make a point, which was to help Peter see that everything was not all right, and to get his support when it came to dealing with Susan. Both had been accomplished, which was more than he had hoped for. And truth be told, now that he'd done so, he didn't really want to dwell on it.

"It doesn't really do much good talking about it. And if you can't talk any sense into her, no one can." Edmund frowned at his watch. "I'd better get the car home," he said, getting slowly to his feet."

Peter rose also, and they went towards the door.

"But half a moment, Ed," he said, halting his hand over the locking chain. "Oughtn't you to stay here tonight? It is rather late, and I can tell you're beat tired. You shouldn't drive home like this."

Edmund was touched, annoyed, and unsurprised at his brother's words. He smiled. "I'm all right, Peter, and there is Lucy to think of. She's still pretty upset about what's happened. She feels guilty. . ." Technically, it wasn't a lie. "You'll not mention I told you all this, right? Lu would probably feel worse if she knew you'd found out."

Peter nodded and uncrossed his arms.

"You're right, of course. Come here," he said, and pulled Edmund into a tight embrace.

"I really could have used you in that fight," he mumbled, and Peter chuckled.

"I'm sure you're buffing it up to be twice as rough as it really was," said Peter as they broke apart, giving him a friendly smack on the shoulder.

Edmund winced. "Forgot about the bruises, Pete?" he asked. Peter gave him a apologetic look. "Remember you've got three years on me. I miss my muscles," he added, looking wistfully at his biceps.

Peter chuckled. Edmund met his eyes, and the two shared a brief moment of reminiscence, back to a time when their nightly discussions happened in state drawing rooms instead of dingy flats, and all their problems could be solved with a clever plan and a pair of swords.

"Drive safely," said Peter softly.

Edmund turned and walked out into the dark.

A/N: This was difficult for me to write. I kept coming up with little bits of random dialogue and desciption - hopefully I managed to fit them all together naturally. It still feels a little disjointed to me. Plus it's mostly dialog, where my stories tend to be more internalized conflict.