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Susan doesn't believe in the mansion spirits, but she is being followed by something in a way that makes little sense.

It begins when she wakes up. Opening the drawer to the sideboard in her room to retrieve tea, she finds another gold chess piece wrapped neatly in ribbon. Lancelot didn't put it there - it hadn't been there when she made her pre-sleep cuppa the night before, and she woke up when he did and sleepily saw him off to his training; he hadn't gone near the drawer. She shuts the chess piece firmly away, makes her tea, and dresses blearily for her own archery practice.

There's a new bow in the closet, too. To her pleasure, it's a heavier one that requires a stronger pull - she's quite got used to the draw of the ones the closet first supplied to her.

After her shooting routine, she finds a lipstick in the precise shade Ingrid used to wear on the bathroom vanity. When she's showered and dressed for the rest of her day, she finds her favorite pastry - a sort of breakfast roll she used to get from the shop by the tube station she'd walk past on her way to work, back in London - on a platter in the kitchen.

It's when she opens one of the closets in the hall off the library to return a pile of laundered wash-cloths that she receives both some clarity and a deepening of the mystery: a jumble of assembled balloons tumbles out, made of some queer material and filled with a gas that keeps them afloat. The writing on them reads: HAPPY BIRTHDAY SUSAN PEVENSIE.

She stares at them, perplexed.

Susan's birthday post! Three days (by our reckoning) and eight months (by her reckoning) early! Feel free to have your puppets run into her in any reasonable location at any point during the day; she's just going to be accumulating more Stuff she can't get rid of as the day goes on.

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Lancelot smiles at her, then draws her in for another kiss.

And Susan falls in, clutching at him, pulling him as close as he physically can get. She may have satiated some of her physical hunger with the pie and the berries and the cheese, but she feels ravenous just the same. Ravenous, and buoyantly light. Outside of family exchanges and the clumsy attempts of the odd one-time assignation attempting to make a case for a repeat experience back in London, she's not been on the receiving end of a great many gifts before, and as it turns out, she rather likes the combination of an experience and a physical token. She's so tremendously, tremulously happy in a way she once thought would be impossible forevermore.

And she hadn't realized, back when she was so studiously trying to determine the nature of her feelings for him, that the decision she did, in fact, love him wouldn't be the end of it. She hadn't realized that feeling would grow in intensity, or would age like a fine wine, with new flavors to discover over time. Perhaps she ought to have known, but in truth she's a little overwhelmed by it - by the ferocity of her care for this wonderful, thoughtful, gorgeous man.

The tent and its bedroll is just a few paces away. Susan does not suggest they move to it. She's far too preoccupied with the kiss, and with working her hands under his cardigan so she can feel the bare skin of his back.

Lancelot slides one arm tight around her waist, keeping her close, and sets his other hand lightly at the side of her neck. He is so glad he has gotten this right; he has wished he can somehow show her exactly how much he appreciates all that she does for him, despite the fact that he isn't good with words. He knows how smaller gestures can convey some of the depth of that care, love, gratitude. She has given him so much, has helped him so much -- to understand himself, to begin to heal, to let down his guard a bit and learn how to be close with people.

Since he isn't sure he can say it well enough, he instead pours all of that into the kiss, into his attention and focus on her nearness.

If she knew Lancelot's thoughts in this moment, Susan would laugh, incredulous. He gives her so much every day, and the only times she finds his communication murky is when he doesn't know, himself, what he's feeling.

Still, she does feel particularly treasured today. His hold on her is firm, the way she likes it, but his touch is gentle, like she's something precious. In some of their points of contact, she can feel his racing heartbeat; it's pounding nearly as hard as her own. He tastes like the pies he made her, and he's solid under her hands, the skin of his back warm and soft. The necklace he got her presses between their chests as she draws him closer still. Into the kiss, she smiles.

"So," he murmurs, after quite a long while. He is flushed and smiling and just a little bit mussed. "I believe thou'rt pleased with thy birthday?"

"Oh, thoroughly," she says, breathlessly, still peppering his face with little kisses. "You've truly made me come around on the idea."

He laughs, "Well then, we shall continue to observe thy feast day."

"Right now, for example," suggests Susan. "In that lovely tent you've set up."

He flushes and his smile crooks into a grin. "Aye, lady, that we may."

Susan pulls away just far enough to grab at the open of bottle of wine and drink deeply from it, maintaining eye contact with Lancelot the entire time. "One more for the road?" she says, eyes sparkling, offering him the bottle.

"Of course," accepting it. He takes a healthy pull, then carefully sets it aside. "Shall we?"

For this, she can bear the horrid few moments of separation when she climbs off his lap and into the tent. Once inside, she arrays herself into an appealing position, and then gestures for him to follow. "You have my leave to undress me," she says, faux-prim, as he closes the flap. "But leave the necklace on."

He smiles at her, moving close. "An thou canst be sure to guide me, I shall."

"And if I should like to see your best efforts without my guidance?"

Edited 2025-02-10 05:27 (UTC)

"Lady, as thou knowest I always put in my best efforts for thee."

"Oh, I do know," she says, drawing him to her.

--

After, she climbs off of him and curls up at his side, pressed in close, her head resting on his shoulder. The bedroll is a little uncomfortable, but she doesn't mind, instead focusing on the feeling of his arm around her waist. "We ought to have brought the picnic in with us," she says, unbothered. "Now one of us shall have to get dressed if we want more of it."

"Oh, I am brave enough to manage," he says, lightly.

"My valiant knight," she smiles, but the smile is (admittedly) a little shaky, as the warmth suffusing the tent starts to contend with the chill on the air outside. It's already become quite clear that this is one of their couplings that has resulted in her feeling particularly clingy, loathe to be apart from him. It's a reaction to sex that she would have considered uncharacteristic a year ago, and she's still not entirely certain what to make of the shift toward this sort of response.

Perhaps, in this moment, it's that she's overwhelmed by the counterpoint of the clarity and depth of her feelings for him and the muddled complexity of her feelings about this time of the year. She takes a deep breath and snuggles closer.

Lancelot shifts to wrap both arms around her, kissing her hair. "Brave enough," he says, "for anything thou dost bid me."

She manages an impish smile at that. "Anything, eh?"

"Aye, Susan," kissing her forehead. "Anything. I love thee so well."

"Oh," she says, breath catching, eyelashes fluttering. It's not a surprise, of course; he says such things often. But it still takes her aback sometimes. She tilts her face towards his. "Then perhaps I might bid one more kiss?"

"That, my lady, is simple," pulling her closer yet, kissing her with focused intent.

"I love you," she sighs, when she finally breaks the kiss and settles back against his chest. "You make everything so much better."

Lancelot keeps her close, shamelessly cuddling her. "I am glad. That is my dearest wish."

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