An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
i have finally managed to log back in here, and just in time for my edmund muse to go through the roof. so this is a rather specific au that's been rattling about my head , which i may or may not attempt to write a multi-chapter fic for if people like the concept.
introducing a slice of life , casmund one shot ( only 1.3k words ) , set in my edmund pevensie spiderverse , snow!spider au . a03 link above if you'd rather read it on there.
A soft, breathless “hey” brushing against his ear, is a nice way to wake up, even when his eyes are too heavy, pressing down like concrete. And he might be worried, might have felt the sharp spark of panic wilting his way through his lungs at the thought, an echo of dust, and cracks, and the weight of half a building crushing against his bones. Might, if not for the thumb brushing over the edge of his jaw, smoothing along his cheek to rub the edge of his eyebrow.
The rich depth of warmth, like stars sinking into the dark, fizzles along his skin just enough to bring him to the surface. Not the sharp, jagged edges, clawing for the surface, (ice ice ice) tearing at the water hoping for air, no. It’s the soft, dazzling surface of heat pressing against his back, and the faint scent of honey lingering in the peck against the corner of his mouth.
“Hey,” he murmurs, mouth dry, throat scratchy, eyes fluttering into the blissfully low-lit room, deep embers of the lamplight shaded and soothing. “What time is it?”
“Just gone midnight,” Caspian’s voice is tender, apologetic as a noise reverberates from his throat - not a whine, but discomfort creasing along the lines of his forehead, eyebrows knitting together hazily. “I know, but you should take another dose.”
“I’ll live without it.” He breathes, as much as he can between the cotton stuffed in his head, which grows more apparent the longer he’s awake, fighting for his focus with the faint buzzing in his head.
“You would, miserably.” Caspian sighs softly, air slipping over his neck, “Take it, for me?”
His chest swells, like hot butter seeping into his skin, traces of cinnamon where his ribs should be, held up by a sponge rising in his chest. Sponge indeed, as a deep cough lurches up his throat, like moss clinging to his lungs, spelling out in a harsh, wet jag. A warm hand rubs over his back soothingly as his muscles tremble, and he sags backwards into the propped-up pillows with a reluctant groan.
“Mmmh.”
“Thank you.”
There’s a teasing edge to Caspian’s voice that he wants to rebuke, but his chest aches, and he settles for pressing his palm into his breastbone. The thumb returns, lightly stroking the side of his face, as a shiver fumbles through his spine.
“Open your eyes, love.”
When had he closed them?
Edmund drags his gaze up from the soft grey covers of the duvet bunched over his stomach, to Caspian, in matching loose sweatpants, propped up on one elbow with that gentle, all-knowing smile, an ember where the earth joins the roots of the tree’s, basking in a golden dawn.
“Hey.” He repeats, half a smile, and Caspian rolls his eyes fondly.
Sometimes it was like everything he did was fond. Not like Peter, who watched him like the ground would fall away, and he was too far away to reach, those bright blazing blues drowning in themselves. But more like, even when they were fighting, Caspian’s face marred with deep, weary lines, knitted in frustration and lips pressed tightly together, even then, he’d push a sweater towards him because somehow he always knows when Edmund has forgotten one.
“Take them.”
It’s firm, dipped in amusement, and Edmund searches for the glass of water on the bedside table, as Caspian leaves the little pastel red capsules on his lap and climbs up off the bed. He swallows with difficulty he doesn’t want to admit, ( and a silent prayer of thanks to Aslan , because lord knows , his metabolism burnt anything mundane up like it was a melting spec of snow ) a choking cough into his wrist, a steady thumping rattling around his head and a frown that was definitely not a pout.
“Here,” Caspian returns, padding into the room in bright red socks that Edmund knows are pulled high up on his shins underneath his joggers, holding two mugs. “Tea for you, sire.”
Edmund snorts, and groans, taking the mug between his hands with a grateful glance, a shiver rippling along his shoulders as the hot edges pulse through his skin, and Caspian finally climbs in properly, shifting under the sheets until their shoulders are pressed together.
“How was work?” He sniffs, steam rolling up off the tea, watering his eyes, and he sniffs again, as it aggravates the buzzing in the back of his head.
“Not horrible,” Caspian hums, “I would have been back sooner - bless you - but Jill almost blew up a lab.”
Dark eyes that seem to swallow him whole, down to the jewels of his soul, as he jerks forward with a second sneeze, smothered into the crook of his elbow, just managing not to spill his tea.
“Blew up a lab?” Edmund blinks, rubbing a hand down his face. “Which lab?”
“Almost,” Caspian corrects, passing him a tissue, palm smoothing over his thigh for a moment with a gentle squeeze. “She was trying to replicate your webbing in the intern lab.”
He thinks that should probably be a bigger cause for concern, but it’s Jill Pole, and his head was thumping too loudly to make room for any fleeting panic.
“Rather Jill than-” He swallows hard, name pressing like shards into his throat and he breaks off with a shudder, coughing thickly into his elbow.
“Drink your tea.” Caspian says quietly, lips grazing the side of his head once more, hand coming up, pressing into his curls, and his skin tingles at the contact. For once, he does as asked, pressing the faded blue mug to his lips and barely holding back a moan of pleasure as honey soothes, caught in the tang of lemon that beats away any notion of it being too sickly. A soft chuckle muffled into his hair, and he suspects he hadn’t held that back as well as he thought.
It was easier than he thought it would be, draining the cup until his eyes flutter hazily with tiredness, and his throat isn’t as nearly as dry as before. But it’s not until his cheek is pressing into sturdy warmth and soft fingers brush against his hair that he realises he’s drifting off, head resting on Caspian’s shoulder.
Edmund shifts, guilt stirring in his stomach as a soft murmur rolls over his head, chatter he had not heard, like a listless bird in the wind, just as cold as winter roams outside.
The irony, a bitter aftertaste swirling through his stomach, that he should be in his element and yet, one night too many between falling snow drenching his suit and harsh cold winds, or rain dowsing his hair in early morning starts towards the History block if he ever wanted to become a Professor, somehow it was snow that had taken him down.
Perpetually damp, that’s how it felt, no matter how warm the suit was, and desperately cold. It was too reminiscent, too close, like painful shards of memories tugging at his hair until it stings his scalp and blurs into his head. He never wanted to be that cold again.
“Ed,” a flush of warmth as Caspian’s chin rests on the crown of his head. “I can hear you thinking.”
“Sorry.” He mumbles, closing his eyes, pressing closer until he was in the warmth of Caspian’s neck, and that musky cologne, faint glimmers of nutmeg and the rose petals of his hair. An arm wraps around his side, solid, stable, a faded kiss.
“Go to sleep, love.” A shiver of a different kind, chest warming, fingers curling into Caspian’s shirt. “I’ve got you.”
He sniffs, pressing his feet against Caspian’s sock, clad ankles, and tries to push the chill from his skin.
( “Did she manage to-“
“Ed.”
“Sorry.” )
fin .
