… I’m going to hell. I am. Blame this on sullensiren . In her journal I read this “No matter whether you're an unknown writer toiling in the tiny Barty the Bunny fandom, spinning grand tales of Barty's bittersweet love affair with Farmer Bob…” and it gave me a plot, um,  bunny.

Title: Through the Garden Gate

By: Mouse

Rating: G

Paring: Peter Rabbit/Mr. McGregor

Summary: Every day Mrs. Rabbit told her children not to go into Mr. McGregor’s garden, but Peter just can’t stay away.

If you’ve never read Beaitrix Potter’s “The Tale of Peter Rabbit” go here

 
Peter lay in his sandy burrow, his mouth still coated in castor oil tea. He kicked at the sand idly, licking the taste of the rank tea off his lips. Mother told him that he’d have to have a teaspoon full every night before bed to settle his stomach. Try as he might, he couldn’t taste any of the French beans or lettuces that he had eaten, and just a hint of the radishes remained under the tea.
 
Mother had scolded him gently for losing his new coat, and his new little shoes, but she hadn’t been very cross. Mother never got very cross at anything. The day that Mrs. McGregor had baked Father into a pie, she just sighed and reminded them not to go into the garden.
 
She reminded them every day.
 
And every day Peter put on his little coat, slipped on his little shoes, and ran off down the lane to Mr. McGregor’s garden.
 
Peter rolled onto his back, remembering the look on Mr. McGregor’s face when he spotted Peter among his parsley. Peter had run, but every time the farmer seemed to have lost him, he darted into view again, leading chase with quick turns and bone-jarring jumps. He remembered how one little shoe and then the other had come loose from his feet and had fallen, flop-plop, into the garden, and how much better it had been to run with on all fours, dirt flying between his toes.
 
The net that tangled him came out of nowhere, and he was caught fast before he could think about what to do. His jacket, with its beautiful buttons that he had been so proud of, would now sentence him to the same fate as his father; baked in a pie to be eaten by Mr. McGregor.
 
His heart thumped, heavy, boom, boom, and his eyes thickened with tears. He didn’t want to die like this. The sparrows who told him to run, run, run! didn't see his tears, or made no comment on them. Renewing his struggles, he managed to get out of his new coat and leave it behind, running bare and free for the garden gate. But things were very confusing in the garden, and he just knew that Mr. McGregor was right behind him.
 
The turn into the garden shed was both the best and the worst thing he could have done. With nowhere to hide, he had jumped into the watering can, only to find it half full of water.
 
The water in the water can was cold, and he held his breath as he felt in sinking into his fur. It was dark in the can, small rays of light poking at him where the top of the can had rusted. He risked one shortsharp breath, his hear hammering in his chest very fast. He heard the heavy thud, thud of the farmer’s feet, and the long, slow scrape of the door opening.  Peter made himself stop breathing again, holding his front paws tight against his back toes as to be as still and small and quiet as possible. His ears trembled with excitement.
 
He heard a scritch, scrape noise, and forced himself to move, wishing the water would stay quiet. He placed one paw on the wall of the water can, leaning up, placing one eye to the rusted patch of metal. Mr. McGregor was only a few feet from him, turning over flowerpots.
 
Peter’s nose wriggled and his feet splashed a bit of the water. He could see the Farmer, but the Farmer couldn’t see him! This was perfect.
 
Mr. McGregor’s face was beautiful, wrinkled and pitted like a late fall apple, with dark blue eyes and hair the color of the rocks in the bottom of the stream. Peter stared at the face until he couldn’t any more, until his heart was beating fit to burst in his breast. He looked instead at Mr. McGregor’s hands, stained and faded, as they turned over the pots. His fingers looked like dried carrots, pulled from the ground and forgotten, bumpy and lined, but still strong if you tried to bite them.
 
Peter wanted to sink his teeth into those fingers. He wanted to sniff and lick and rub that lined face. His nose twitched faster and faster, and the water sloshed in the can. He felt a great building …. thing  in his chest, and pawed at his nose to make it go away.
 
But the thing wouldn’t go away, and he sneezed, - Kerchoo!- and Mr. McGregor made a pleased little noise, and Peter knew he had to go, to get out and away before the Farmer touched him.
 
He scrambled out the window and ran around the corner, and, to his disappointment, Mr. McGregor did not follow.

That’s all for now. I may do a  part two tomorrow...