I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia and I won't pretend to claim to.

"Get 'im between the ribs, Charlie!"

Life was a funny thing, Peter thought to himself, for what seemed the hundredth time, as he once more easily side-stepped another clumsy swing of the impressively large bloke, who seemed intent on bashing his head across the flat stone of the London railway station. One day, you might be reviewing reports on different regions of your kingdom while sitting upon a golden leaf-wrought throne and, the next, you could find yourself caught in a common, juvenile street fight. The chorusing yells of outrage from the English schoolboys, enclosing around him, echoed down the cool passage of the Underground and rang out perfectly in time with each missed blow. The others would soon discover that they would need to join in before long. The ruddy shade of red upon his opponent's puffing cheeks told Peter just exactly how long this onslaught could keep up. He suspected two minutes, at the very most. Perhaps then, he could give his muscles the proper workout that they had been so longing for. Maybe, for one blessed moment, the memories could become real. He could get swept up into that magical land once more.

"What the 'ell you doin'!" a fellow comrade shouted, disbelief contorting his face and his gesturing wild.

Peter could easily see the problem that had started to develop. Their little posse consisted of four, but it was becoming fairly obvious that none of them had actually been forced into physically aiding their gigantic friend before. The deepening unease on all of their faces wasn't masked. No one else had been expected to be needed.

"Just hit 'im, you barmpot!" their tall, skinny leader urged.

He had showed so much confidence in his step before, when he had been busy informing Peter exactly who they were and the mistake he had made in daring to face up against them. Now, there was a frown growing upon his pale complexion and his fingers had begun to fidget as well. Charlie glanced at him in hurt reproach.

"I can't do it, Simon."

His voice was wavering slightly; confusion was there as well as frustration. He had completely stopped punching thin air and his hands were at his sides, helplessly clenching and unclenching.

"'E's too fast! There be somethin' jus' not right 'bout this!"

His eyes left his target for a split-second as he complained to his mates, his knees slightly bent. His chest was too broad in girth and too cushioned with fat for a quick blow to make much impact. The boy had been foolish not to even attempt to conceal that he favored his left foot. Peter knew both of these things; he aimed lower.

"OW!" the unfortunate boy named Charlie howled as he received a smooth kick to the unguarded pressure point that made his legs snap together, causing him to fall instantly to the grey cement.

The two other boys under Simon's command stumbled immediately to his aid. It almost wasn't fair; it really shouldn't have been this easy. This was like child's play to him. Somehow, he didn't feel too guilty.

"Arsehole," Simon muttered under his breath; things really weren't going to plan.

There was a bit of rage mixed in with one of the boy's expressions as he helped their "Charlie" up. The intensity of it was almost uncommon. Was there sufficient aggression in that stare? Yes, he cared for his friend. Peter doubted that there was any real depth to this affection, but it didn't matter. The fleeting picture of a dark haired sixteen year-old, laying his tired head upon the aged parchment of their charts and maps, covering all corners of the rich mahogany of his desk, passed into his head. "The journey doesn't really matter as long as we reach the destination, brother." They were finally getting somewhere.

"You're asking for it now, you bastard!" he shouted as he rushed forward, barreling into him.

More of a rowdy crowd of school children, bored out of their minds from waiting for their respective trains, was forming on all sides of the fight as they cheered and goaded them on. Peter didn't hear them. He had finally gotten what he wanted. They were all upon him now. Four against one. Judging from their misguided, hasty movements, they obviously hadn't had less than a day of experience in hand-to-hand combat. All of them would have been shot through with an arrow by now, if they had been serving him one of the battlefields back home, purely from the disgrace of being such incompetent, blundering warriors. They were caught in a strange rhythm and Peter could lose himself in the movements.

Left, right. Turn, swipe down. Up and once to the jaw.

A cry of pain met his ears as a bone was fractured. Simon stepped out of the dance or rather staggered backwards out of it as he landed on and was caught by a sympathetic female. Every cell of his body was alive, on fire. He felt the familiar rush of adrenaline and felt right once again.

"Pummel him to pieces, Alfie!" Simon urged from his seat on the sidelines.

The girl was now wiping the blood from his face with a handkerchief. It seemed that he had gained an admirer. Peter saw nothing to admire about the coward, but he didn't need to think about that at the moment. The nostalgic sensation of heavy, dwarven armor upon his back was almost tangible. He just needed to feel.

"I don't believe it; he's shut his eyes, the nutter has!"

The wind whistling past his right ear told him to dodge. It reminded him of a beloved girl's arrow. The hoarse, cracking shouts of pubescents around him could just barely transform into the victorious cries of the cavalry returning home. The damp, sweat filled air was turning sweet. For one moment, he had managed it. There was no such thing as drab, old train stations, uncomfortable uniforms and squeaky, polished shoes, or heavy, loathsome schoolbooks. Valor, constancy, and duty sang within his blood. The only nuisance upon his mind was the mild worry of whether or not his younger king, who had been fairly ill the last week, had overtaxed himself and Oreius with the sword. It was the one of the last of those lazy, sweltering days before summer went away and autumn seized her natural place once again. His two lovely, beloved Queens had just been out riding. The front doors burst open and they were all together, just as they had been for the past fifteen odd years. Melodious laughter filled the halls. He was back. Everything was all right.

Then, it wasn't. The presence of heavy breathing to his right indicated that someone was getting ready to strike, but was too exhausted to be exceptionally speedy about it. That was Charlie, without a doubt. He knew exactly where every boy was. He anticipated every move. He had everything under control, but he couldn't get the picture back into his head.

Damn it all.

Right, left. Duck, arm out, knee in. Once to the neck. Perfect.

The thinner Alfred was on the floor just as Charlie took another shot at his gut. Would the boy ever learn? To be fair, he thought to himself, he had never been really taught. The porker probably didn't even know the simplest of disarming and disabling tactics, like the ones that Peter was even now sorting through in his head and deciding on which one would best take him out. This fact was starting to nag at him. The middle of a fight wasn't a good point to start feeling guilt about it. A groan of frustration rose up in his throat. His eyes snapped open and his hand grasped the thick arm firmly. He twisted. The pig-like squeal of pain roused a tiny smidgeon of sympathy from him. He remembered having seen the same thing happen to his younger king at practice with Oreius. His brother hadn't been able to use a fork for a week. A certain Gentle Queen had, had to aid him with eating. He had hated being so helpless, Peter could recall. They had constantly fought over what he could and could not be expected to do. "I'm not an invalid, you overprotective idiot!" The girls had only laughed at them. The anxiety of watching him ride out into the forest with only one good arm struck him all at once, as if it had been only just yesterday.

"Stop it! It hurts!" the fat boy begged.

Peter withdrew out of mercy, a little shocked himself. He had squeezed unintentionally.

Edmund.

Now, that was a dangerous thought to have. That had definitely been a mistake. Alfred had recovered and had snuck around behind him. He held his arms prisoner.

"What you gonna do now, eh?" he whispered nastily into his eardrum.

His breath smelt of the cinnamon pastry that his mother had probably bought or baked for him that morning, in a farewell gesture for the start of the term in whichever boarding school, of the many scattered across the English countryside, he belonged to. It was an unpleasant reminder of the youth of his opponents. They were of the bullying type and of the most annoying sort, but they were still children. The whole incident that had caused all of this had been rather harmless in itself, as well. Peter hadn't planned for it to happen, although it hadn't been unwished for either.

The group of four, in their black and navy uniforms, had passed him by as he had finished buying the tickets that would send each Pevensie to the schools that would separate them for the coming year. Of course, Susan would be going off with Lucy and Edmund wasn't about to leave his side, but still, without the girls, they would be just as incomplete. Simon, their self-proclaimed leader, as Peter had immediately recognized from the way he strutted at the foremost point of the procession, had bumped his shoulder against the hand holding those same tickets, with every single intention of sending them flying. The year had been long; the year had been painful. Between allowing his mother to take over the duty that he had held most lovingly for fifteen years, realizing that he could no longer treat the individuals that he adored in the way that had become as necessary as breathing to him, and having the roles that were a very part of his being, father, king, and brother, cruelly ripped away from him was more than he could take. Peter had finally had enough; he couldn't and wouldn't let it lie.

The nameless, other boy was unoccupied and chatting with the uncommonly pretty girl, who was nursing Simon back to health. Charlie was ready to finally have what he wanted. It didn't seem like Peter could exactly escape. Indeed, it would have been the end of the entire quarrel, had another fourteen year-old been standing in his place. Their line of thinking disappointed him. Hadn't they seen enough not to underestimate him by now?

He knocked his head backwards, hitting Alfred full in the teeth, and used this surprise attack to ram his body into the wall behind them. He shoved his head up against the wall to keep him in place. There was not a twinge of remorse in him as he saw that blood had begun to drip from his nose. Sure, it wasn't fair that this ruffian had accidentally ended up provoking the disguised High King of Narnia that grey, cloudy morning. When he had first seen Peter, he had probably had no idea how much this seemingly calm, well-behaved student was itching for a physical outlet. But, life hadn't been treating Peter fairly either these days. He couldn't imagine anyone, in all of Britain, who had received a worse deck of cards.

Indignant anger consumed him as he thought further upon all the things that didn't belong to him anymore. It was neither his right to tuck Lucy and Susan into bed anymore nor to kiss their tears away when they were upset or were plagued by the bad dreams that haunted them all. It wasn't the place of a teenage boy to challenge his mother on the modesty and suitability of the clothes that she encouraged a certain, impressionable young lady to wear as it also wasn't for him to set rules or authority over his "siblings". It wasn't normal for a fourteen year-old to share beds with his eleven year-old brother although they had carried on in the same way for fifteen years of their life in Cair Paravel. It certainly wasn't commonplace for a respectable English boy to purely ache with the unexpressed love in his heart. And lastly, it wasn't right; that was a certainty. He had spent so many wonderful, long years earning those rights. They were irrevocably his; every single, last one. The Great Lion had told him so once himself.

Aslan.

"He just broke Alfie's nose!" a girl cried, about to swoon.

More cheers of approval sounded from beside her. The typical, over-used mantra of "fight" had begun.

None of these people knew what that kind of love felt like. He missed the feeling of coming home after a long day of riding and seeing to his loyal subjects with the Just, his "right hand", beside him. He missed the way the girls would kiss his cheek as he took off his crimson cloak and they brought him to the dinner table, Lucy chattering so excitedly about the happenings of the day that she bounced in step with him and Susan gently telling her that their High King was most probably exhausted from his travels. He missed the giggling that followed as he carried Edmund to the infirmary, against protesting of "The arrow didn't even go in that deep, you git!" and insisting that he be allowed to accompany him the very next day of a campaign. He missed it and it hurt.

Charlie caught him off guard, emotion having temporarily blinded him, slamming his head into the tiling of the wall of the London Underground and holding him still. As he struggled to get the boy off of his back, someone caught his eye at the top of the stairwell. His head was throbbing and only one eye was free to see beyond the wall that he was pressed against, but that was far from enough to stop him from recognizing her in the sea of faces. He knew every single freckle and every single shade of radiant blue within those saddened eyes. She shook her head at him, a brunette curl that had come loose from her ponytail bouncing slightly and her gaze hardening. He had disappointed her, Peter knew.

"You have to promise me, Peter, no more fighting. It hurts to see you like that. You know that, don't you?"

He could see Lucy, just beneath the protecting hand that Susan had laid upon her small shoulder. She seemed uneasy for some reason. He didn't see why. His baby already knew that he had faced trolls, giants, and challenges tougher than a bunch of inexperienced, hormonal teenagers. Feeling the eyes of the most important women in his life upon him, he shifted his weight and flipped Charlie onto the cement. The boy groaned where he lay and another leapt on top of him. Wrestling upon the floor, he knew that he was going to have to finish this quickly. He also knew that the small fight that he had started was getting wildly out of hand. He may have been more skilled and experienced than they, but his body didn't recall those battles or those many sunny afternoons of thorough lessons in combat. He possessed only the muscles of a fourteen year-old and he didn't have the stamina that he had once trained to gain. The moment of remembrance was over.

It was when Peter had managed to get Simon on his back and was about to repay a particularly sharp blow to the side that a dark head broke through the crowd.

He stopped breathing.

Time stood still.

His better half, his second self, his best sparring partner, his most steadfast companion, and his loyal idiot had just charged into the fray. He was saddling a writhing boy, ready to smash Peter against whatever surface was closest in order to turn his brains to mush, but he couldn't bring himself to care. All that mattered was that swift, short blur, which was stubbornly fighting its way to his side. After all the battles, all the sieges, all the wars, the sight of Edmund in the midst of a brawling gathering of schoolboys, which was slowly expanding to include even more than the original four, was enough to make his throat close and his heart to seize. After all these years, his little brother was still the center of his existence. The fourth boy, whom he had discovered to be "Ackley", took notice of the direction of the line of his vision and he beckoned for Charlie to join him. He grabbed a strong hold of Edmund and landed a punch to his gut.

Peter let out a strangled cry. He was brave, Peter knew, but he was also small; eleven to be exact. He didn't need to be babied, Edmund constantly reminded him, he was already twenty-five. Perhaps that had been true before, but it wasn't now, not anymore. In Narnia, they had always fought side by side. He would have felt disturbed if his brother wasn't directly next to him on the battlefield. However, this wasn't Narnia and the Just King was nothing more than a weak child. He had no place here; they would crush him.

No one realized that the roar of fury that had erupted stemmed from his chest until Peter had flung Simon aside and begun to lunge forwards onto his feet. Charlie looked terrified and Ackley seemed unsure as he reluctantly held to the eleven year-old's white-collared shirt. Good, Peter thought. They really should have been. These poor boys didn't know it, but they were facing up against Sir Peter, the Magnificent, High King of Narnia and Supreme Ruler, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of Cair Paravel, and they had just dared to lay a hand on the sacred, untouchable flesh of the Just. There was no telling what might happen.

New boys appeared, blocking his path, but he knocked them aside with new urgency and startling power. Edmund wriggled out of their hold, but Alfred still managed to tackle him to the ground while his back turned. He gasped and winced, but continued to fight bravely against the three. Peter's everything was upon that cold, dirty floor. The sight nearly killed him. The Magnificent was just about prepared to murder.

"Edmund!" he screamed.

The older boys turned to him in alarm, thinking that their plan hadn't been a very good one after all, and Peter forcefully shoved aside Ackley, who was beating his only brother to a pulp. Taking Edmund brusquely by the shirt lapel, he slammed him up against the wall. Some of the other boys were still fighting, but the quartet stood silently watching and exchanging confused glances. Had they been mistaken? Did they actually hate each other?

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded fiercely, their faces inches away from each other. "This was my fight, not yours-"

"Why should that even matter, you git!" Edmund fired back just as furiously. "Does everything change just because we aren't in Narnia anymore, huh? Is that how you see it?"

Peter shook him so hard that his teeth rattled.

"It does, idiot! Why can't you get it into your thick head? You're eleven, Edmund! You can't just barge into somebody else's fight and expect that they won't destroy you-"

Edmund pushed violently at his chest and scrambled out of his hold.

"What am I supposed to do then, Peter? Leave you to it?"

His chest was heaving now with the hot air that filled it.

"Yes! That's what you're bloody well supposed to do-"

Their roles reversed and it was Edmund who hurled him against the stone.

"I can't and you know it."

This reminder was grossly unfair and he tried to look at anything, but the small king within his grasp. Edmund refused to let him.

"Don't you remember? I swore fealty to you."

Peter turned his head away, but Edmund pulled him back. His fingers tugged his head to his level so that the blonde was forced to look straight at him.

"I will go where you go, I will fight where you fight, and I will die where you die. Don't you dare deny me that, Peter."

The words were said with the intensity of a passion definitely not belonging to a normal eleven year-old.

"You're still my High King, no matter which bloody world we end up in-"

He caught the slight look of reproach in the other's sky blue eyes.

"-and don't tell me not to swear now. I've got good enough reason and I'm twenty-five, damn it!

His words were more of a choked sob than any kind of clear speech and Peter could see how tired he was in the pools of those dark eyes, which were unreadable to most, but never a closed book to him.

"So, tell me! Why are you starting these stupid fights every single time our backs are turned? If you care about us, why do you do it, huh?"

He shoved at him, but it was a rather feeble, shaky attempt. Edmund's eyes were suspiciously moist and his hoarse, cracking voice kept on rising.

"Explain it to me! Forgive me, my liege, if I'm too stupid to understand! Why are you shunning me? Why are you shunning the girls? Don't you love us anym-"

"I love you, Edmund!"

This bold statement turned quite a few heads, although the crowd was thinning already and the riot had been officially ended with the sighting of a few soldiers nearby, while their former opponents were left standing and staring at them in a stunned stupor. Peter didn't care. He dropped to his knees, bringing Edmund down with him, and knocked their foreheads together.

"How can I not love you? How can you even ask me that?" he questioned, in a strange range of emotions starting with outrage and ending in a fierce tenderness. "I will always love you and the girls."

Coming from Edmund, who had for a time believed that he would never be lovable again, this was a bad shock to Peter. His little brother was on the verge of letting a few angry tears slip now.

"What are you doing to us, then? Why are you acting like this?"

"What do you mean?" he evaded. "I talk to you-"

"Bollocks, you do! We don't talk, Peter, and the worst thing about it is that you know it! You walk out of the room whenever I'm around, you won't let me sleep in your room, which doesn't help with the nightmares, you don't kiss us or hug us like you used to, you avoid touching us like we're the pest-"

"Because, I can't, Edmund!"

The brunette was nearing hysterical now and he was beginning to join him. Edmund gripped firmly at his shoulders, roaring out.

"Why can't you? Tell me, damn it!"

Peter couldn't listen to it anymore.

"Because it hurts! Because it isn't the same anymore! Because it's Mum's and Dad's job to love you that way now! Because you don't need me anymore! You all aren't mine, Ed!"

One of the reasons for his existence watched him in confusion for a moment and then something clicked together in his mind. Anger sparked into flames.

"And that's the stupid, bloody reason why we've all been suffering for months now?"

He stabbed at him with a finger.

"Because you think that Mum or Dad are going to replace you? You're our everything, Peter. You've been our everything for sixteen, bloody years. Do you think anything changes just because they're around?"

Peter shook his head.

"You don't get it, Edmund. Not just as a brother-"

Edmund was incredulous.

"What exactly do you think I mean when I say "everything"?"

Peter stared at him for a moment, unsure of what he was saying.

"But-"

"You don't think I've realized? You aren't just a brother to me, Peter. We're miles beyond that already, don't you think?"

"No-"

Edmund placed both hands firmly on either side of his jaw.

"Listen to me."

Searching Peter's startled eyes, he was satisfied.

"You are there when no one else is. You hold our hands when we get sick. You stay awake when we can't sleep. You find us when we lose our way. You understand when no one else can. You worry yourself to death about us every, single, damn second of every day."

He let out a watery chuckle.

"You didn't even blink when you took an arrow to the chest for me in Narnia. Do you think that just anyone would do that? You've nearly killed yourself a hundred times before for us too. Do you think Dad would do that? What about Mum?"

Edmund sighed and scratched the back of his head.

"I love them too and it's a strange situation that we've gotten ourselves into, but you're home and security and comfort and all the other mushy, sentimental things that children feel when they're around their parents. The girls feel the same way. You're everything."

Peter couldn't speak, having lost the capacity for it, and could only press hard kisses to his forehead, cheeks and hair in answer. Edmund wrinkled it in telltale disgust and his face flushed in embarrassment.

"If you do that in public, they're going to think that we're odd," he muttered with a scowl.

Since they had come back into the habit of physically bestowing affection, Peter was going to enjoy his mortification for all that it was worth.

"We are odd, Ed," he replied, laughing. "I can't begin to think of anyone stranger."

"Are you going to move anytime soon," a voice said from behind them.

They turned around and saw Susan, her hands on her hips and Lucy at her side.

"Come on, you two. Anything else like that and you're going to make a scene."

It was true; people were staring. She was still mad at him, but he spotted the twinkle of humor in her eye. The Gentle was beginning to forgive him. A mischievous idea popped into his head.

"Gee, Su! You could have just told me if you were jealous."

She watched in horror as Peter stood up, taking her cleanly washed face in his partly blood smeared, partly sweat covered hands, and proceeded to lay messy, haphazard kisses from her button nose to the crown of her head.

"Peter!" she complained, stamping her foot. "You're going to muss my hair. Look how positively dirty you are!"

"Sorry, Susan," Edmund told her, smiling from the side. "You asked for it."

She glared at him and Peter paused.

"Your hair is perfect whichever way I might muss it, darling. You're going to be the prettiest girl in your class. No contest."

This won a shy smile from her, but she grimaced as he decided to continue, mumbling many a "How embarrassing!". Edmund couldn't hold in laughter anymore. Lucy jumped eagerly, up and down, beside them.

"Me next! Me next!"

She got her wish before long and soon they were all walking off to their platform, a united family once more. Edmund made sure never to forget, in the future, to remind Peter of his place within it.

I know that it turned out differently from the movie and the book, but this is my version of the scene so I hope you enjoyed it!