Hello! So this is my first Winnie the Pooh fanfic. I got some inpirtation after I found out there's a new movie coming out in Augest. I've never written a stiory for this before so please bear with me. This is set in the 50/60s I guess and will center around Emily (my OC) and Christopher Robin at the start for a bit but then of course Pooh and the others will come into play. Christopher Robin will be referred to a Chris unless in flashback or something. This will be slow moving but completely worth the read. Enjoy!

Christopher Robin laid on the shiny green grass with Pooh. His arms were behind his head and he let out a sigh of contentment. Watching the clouds with Pooh was always his favorite thing to do.

"Christopher Robin?"

Glancing over at his beloved bear, he asked, "Yes Pooh?"

"Why are clouds white?"

Christopher Robin frowned. "Well, I don't know. Perhaps because the sky's blue and white goes with any color. That's what mother says."

"Or maybe they got all the honey sucked out of them," the bear said thoughtfully, rubbing his head as he thought.

Christopher chuckled. "Silly old bear," he brought Pooh closer to him, resting his cheek on the bear's head.

"Christopher Robin, are you ever going to leave me?" Pooh asked him.

"I have to leave for school, but I'll never you, Pooh or anyone in the Hundred Acre Wood."

"Promise?"

"I promise," Christopher gave him a sweet smile.

Four years later

"Happy birthday, Christopher," his mother gushed, removing her hands from his eyes.

Christopher Robin gasped at the beautiful sight; a delicious cake was set on the table with ten candles in the middle. The room had been decorated with balloons, streamers and his father's old record player was humming a tune softly in the background.

"Oh, is it all for me?" he was afraid if he spoke any louder, it would all disappear.

"Yes, sweetie," his mother smiled. "Go on, blow out your candles and make a wish."

Before he did so, he gave his parents a hug, thanking them profusely. Then he sat in his favorite chair, one finger on his chin as he thoughtfully contemplated on what to wish for. His face lit up when something came to mind He blew out the candles in one breath.

His parents cheered. "What did you wish for, Christopher?" his father asked.

Christopher laughed. "I can't tell you. It's a secret, silly. If I tell you, it won't come true."

His father pretended to be surprised. "Oh, that's right! Silly me." He ruffled his son's hair, making the ten year old giggle again.

"I can give you a hint, though," Christopher Robin's eyes danced with happiness. He leaned in, whispering, "It has to do with Pooh."

His father faltered for a moment but recovered his composure quickly. "Your stuffed bear, Pooh?"

"Who else is named Pooh, father?" Christopher thanked his mother when she gave him a generous helping of cake. He didn't notice his parents sharing a look of concern.

"I just didn't know you still played with him, that's all," his father said carefully.

"Of course I do! I could never stop playing with Pooh Bear," Christopher said incredulously. "He's my best friend, just like the others in the Hundred Acre Wood are."

"What about Theodore, Christopher? Isn't he your best friend?" his mother frowned.

Christopher shrugged, prompting his father to nudge him. Shrugging was not allowed in their household. "Theodore is dreadfully boring, mother. He doesn't like to play pretend or go to the Hundred Acre Wood. All he likes is shooting games or baseball."

"What's wrong with baseball?" his father was a huge sports fan. Christopher was not. "It's an American favorite."

"But we're not even American, father," Christopher Robin reminded him. "What's so great about it anyway?"

"Well it's uh, it's a good thing for boys your age to be interested in. Builds character and shows you how to be a good leader," his father explained with his mother nodding in agreement.

"It will teach you sportsmanship and I bet you would have a lot more friends if you found other boys who like it too."

"All from throwing a ball?' Christopher said skeptically.

"Indeed," his father said. "You need to broaden your horizons. You can't do that by spending so much time by yourself. And you certainly can't do it by playing with your stuffed animals anymore. You're ten years old, Christopher. You need to grow up."

"Grow up?" Christopher said horrified. "I can't do that!"

"Of course you can," his mother reassured him. "Growing up is fun. You get to learn and do special things only grown ups can do. And you'll meet a lovely lady one day to marry."

"But I don't want to marry a lovely lady," Christopher protested. "I want to spend time with Pooh and Tigger and Rabbit and everyone else in the Hundred Acre Wood."

"That's quite enough," his father said sternly. "I have had enough of this Hundred Acre Wood nonsense. If you cannot separate yourself they will have to go."

'Go?" Christopher cried, standing up abruptly and pushing his chair away. "Go where?"

"Away," his father said gruffly. "Where all the old stuffed animals go."

"But father!"

"Alan," his wife laid a hand on his shoulder. "Is there really a need for this? Those toys were given to Christopher when he was a baby. I'd hate to see them go."

"Dorothy, you can't possibly insist they stay. Look at all the trouble they're causing. They need to go and that's that."

"Father please," tears were beginning to leak out of the ten year old's eyes. "I'll stop playing with them, anything. Please don't make me get rid of them. I beg of you, sir!"

"You see," his mother pointed. "He's willing to stop playing with them. Isn't that enough? We'll put them in the attic until he's older. Then he give them to his children. How's that sound?"

His father thought for a while, finally saying, "All right. He can keep them. But I don't want to hear you even breathe in that attic unless your mother and I say it's okay. Do you hear me, Christopher Robin Milne?"

"Yes sir," the child said obediently.

From then on, Christopher Robin's beloved toys were laid to rest in the attic. The boy was distraught without them. He missed everyone, especially during thunderstorms when he would typically hug Pooh close for comfort. Eventually he learned to just hug his pillow, but it wasn't the same.

He was also not allowed in the woods anymore for pleasure. His parents forced him to use his time for productivity, like reading or literature. His father tried to make him a sports fan but listening on the radio but Christopher had no interest in ball games.

His middle school and high school years were dull. He had no friends to hangout with so he was often alone. No one wanted to be friends with the boy who used to talk to his stuffed animals. His parents usually tried to arrange a playdate with one of the neighborhood children in hopes he would find a friend that was human. Alas, the only thing it did was make him long for Pooh and his other friends. He didn't care what his parents said. They were his real friends; they understood him better than anyone else. Eventually, his parents sat him down and tried to explain to him that Pooh was just a stuffed bear; he couldn't talk nor could his other stuffed toys. He'd imagined the whole thing. There were no daily adventures or rescue missions. Pooh hadn't tried to search for him after he went to school for the first time. None of it was real.

But Christopher wasn't having it. He kept insisting to them that they were wrong; it had been real; as real as he and they were. After weeks of going back and forth in arguments, something that Christopher Robin never did, he was always such a polite, obedient boy, his mother saw no choice but to suggest therapy.

"Therapy?" Christopher Robin had wrinkled his nose.

"Yes, therapy," his mother nodded sternly. "Perhaps it will help us understand you better."

The sessions lasted an hour each visit. Christopher sat in a small office with a kind lady. She often made him talk but occasionally added tidbits about her herself as well. She said the same thing his parents said to him; that none of what he thought had happened had truly happened. Poor Christopher Robin was so confused. It all started to make sense when she further explained that his lack of friends as a child caused him to have imaginary friends who just happened to be his stuffed animals. Because of that, they 'came to life' whenever he felt like talking or playing with them and would 'go back to sleep' when he had to leave, such as for dinner.

He resisted at first; claiming that she didn't know him or Pooh well enough. It wasn't like that at all. But slowly, after a month or so of sessions, he began to see that maybe, just maybe, she was right. He felt a bit mortified too, being nearly a teenager and still playing with his stuffed toys. No wonder no one wanted to be friends with him!

After two months of therapy, his therapist declared him to be 'cured' and his parents were overjoyed. It was all wonderful. Christopher didn't speak about Pooh or the Hundred Acre Wood ever again; and he'd even tried making friends at school. It never worked, everyone still thought he was a baby and teased him for it, but it wa a start.

Despite this, no one seemed to notice the change in Christopher. His energetic, playful, imaginative tendencies ceased and he became moody, more serious and a lost teenager who really didn't know where he belonged in the world. This was only worsened by his father's death when he was fifteen. His mother tried to raise him the best she knew how, but she was a complete loss with this new Christopher Robin.

A few years later

"Christopher," his mother called. No answer. She repeated her words. "Christopher!" Still no answer. With a huff, she went up the stairs that led to her son's room. There she found her son lying diagonally on his bed with a blank look on his face., "Christopher Robin, what on earth are you doing? You have to leave soon. Stop lollygagging around and move these boxes downstairs."

The young adult, now twenty, lifted his head up to meet his mother's eyes. "Do you have to call me that, mother? I've told you to call me Chris." He'd grown to hate being referred to by his full first and middle name. He really couldn't explain why he hated it, but he did. It seemed to bring back fuzzy memories of someone's distant voice, a very familiar voice that he couldn't name.

"I'm sorry," his mother smiled slightly. "Old habit. You used to tell everyone to call you Christopher Robin."

"Yeah, when I was six," he rolled his eyes. Glancing up, he asked, "Is Emily here yet? She's picking me up so we can leave." He saw his mother stiffen up at the mention of his best friend but pretended not to notice.

"Not yet," she replied tersely. "Darling, are you sure you want to share an apartment with her? It's rather improper, don't you think?"

"If it were any other girl you wouldn't care," he grumbled. His mother hadn't taken a liking to his new found friend and future roommate. Emily Warren was someone he'd met at his new apartment complex that he planned to stay at. Turns out she was from America and was having a tour of the place the same day as he was. Even though their personalities were vastly different, they hit it off immediately and decided to rent the apartment together, something that hadn't pleased his mother in the slightest. "Why do you hate Emily so much?"

His mother gasped. "I don't hate her. I just...she's so.. She's just so improper, Chris," she fumbled with her words.

"There's that word again.."

"Honey," his mother sat on the edge of his bed after maneuvering through the boxes that littered his room. "You can't deny that she's a bit...eccentric." Eccentric was an understatement in describing Emily Warren. She was of average height but exceptionally pretty, he had to admit. Her hair was long and dark blonde in color. Her eyes were almond green and she wore thick framed glasses. Her fashion sense was what drew attention to her, not in the most positive way either.

"I know," he replied patiently. "It's one of the things I like about her." His mother looked like she swallowed a lemon.

"You like her?"

"Not like that," he said quickly to her relief. "Boys and girls can be friends, Ma."

"Mmm," she said with a pinched face. "Well, are you all packed?"

"I think so," he shrugged. "Boy, I can't believe I'm moving out. I'll miss you, Ma," he sideways hugged her, showing a rare touch of emotion. She hugged him back, hurting her chin on his hair.

"I'll miss you too, Chris. Please behave while you're away."

"Ma," he groaned. "Please don't start-"

"And call every once and awhile. You can't make your dear old mom wait to hear your voice. Every night would be sufficient."

"MA!"

"Oh alright," she let go of him but kept a hand in his hair, creasing it. "Every sunday, you hear?"

"Yes Ma," he rolled his eyes again but with no annoyance this time.

"Good," she smiled lovingly at him.

A knock on the door downstairs alerted them that someone was there and Christopher knew right away who it was; Emily had a way of pounding on doors, a trait, she claimed, she inherited. This made him weary of meeting any family members.

"That's Emily!" he jumped off the bed and rushed down the stairs to greet her at the front door. "Hello Emily."

"Hello Christopher Robin," Emily beamed, using that blasted nickname even after he'd told her numerous times not to do.

"Emily," he scolded her. "I thought I've told you not to call me that."

"You have," she grinned mischievously. "I just don't listen." The girl's head bobbed, making her ponytail woosh. "Might I come in?" without waiting for permission, she slid right past Chris and into the house.

"Sure, make yourself at home," Chris said dryly.

"Thanks doll," Emily winked. "Now, where's your room at?"

"This way," Chris directed her. "Now be careful what you say, Ma hasn't totally become fond of you yet." His mother had her own opinions about what was a man and woman's place while Emily completely had her own different views and opinions. For one, Emily tended to dress rather strange for a girl her age. Chris had convinced her to tone it down and dress more traditional for today.

"She's going to have to get over it sometime, Chris. She's going to see me at the apartament so she'll have to get used to it," Emily tugged on the plaid skirt that was just above her knees. She typically wore overalls or, if she dared to get a rise out of the public, jeans that she'd borrowed from Chris, usually with a tie dye shirt or something mismatched that no one would even think about wearing. He was most relieved to see her hair was not in some ridiculous style with dozens of bareets or those 'space buns' she'd made up.

"I know," he sighed. "I know, but you know how she is." A raised eyebrow from Emily prompted him to say, "Oh, you know what I mean."

They'd made it to his room, his mother was still seated on his bed, legs crossed. Her smile became rather fixed at the sight of Emily. "Oh, hello. You must be Emily."

"Oh yes! Emily-with-a-y T. Warren at your service!" Emily grinned, shaking his mother's hand roughly.

His mother rubbed her arm afterwards, glancing at Chris. "And what does the T stand for?"

"Nothing! My parents couldn't decide so they went with T. Isn't that nifty? I got a letter for a middle name!"

"Yes, it's very nice," his mother didn't sound completely sincere. Changing the subject, she asked, "Are you helping Chris move his things?"

This snapped Emily into remembering why she was there. "Oh yeah! I'll get right on that." She began to grab the nearest boxes, taping them shut, after peeking inside of course. Chris shook his head, rolling his eyes. Emily had a knack for being the most nicest person he'd ever come to know.

Chris took down his memorabilia from the shelves close to his bed. He noticed his mother standing stiffly in the middle of the room, watching Emily with critical eyes.

"So, Chris tells me you two are going to be roommates," she feigned a neutral tone.

Emily nodded eagerly. "It's better than living by yourself that's for sure. I would die of boredom, wouldn't you? Now we can do all sorts of fun stuff together like play pretend and make forts and-"

"Excuse me?" his mother interrupted. "Did you say play pretend? And...forts?"

"Of course," Emily's tongue was at the corner of her mouth as she fumbled with the tape. He had to smile at that. She was at her most concentrated when she looked like that. "You'd like that, wouldn't you Christopher Robin?"

Chris flinched under his mother's gaze and his friend's question. No, he most certainly would not like that. Emily was more imaginative than he was, in fact, she was enough for the both of them. "Not really, Em. It's a bit childish, don't you think?"

Emily stopped what she was doing to blink at him confusedly. He sent her a pleading glance not to say anything. He didn't think he could handle it if his mother let it all out on her for her opinions. He could already feel the disapproval in the air. Forunitely, Emily was distracted by an airplane model she'd found; unfortunately, she further pushed her luck by pretending it was flying while making noises.

His mother was at his side in an instant. "What on earth is she doing?" she whispered furiously.

"Uh," he tried to find the right words. "Playing?"

"I can see that," she said. "But more importantly, why is she playing? She's twenty years old for pete's sake!"

"I know," he rubbed the back of his neck.

"How about I go make you kids some lemonade and cookies?" without waiting for a response, his mother left the room, slamming the door behind her. Chris sighed. His parents had become intolerant of imagination and despised it. He knew at the moment his mother was feeling less than hospitable.

"Is everything you own in here?" Emily had abandoned the airplane and was now back in business mode.

"No," he cleared his throat. "I have some stuff in the attic." If she noticed the change in his voice or body language, she gave no indication.

"Great," she jumped up. "Let's go."

"Yeah," he muttered, "let's go."

They made their way to the hallway, going up another flight of stairs until they reached a dead end. Chris pulled down the rope that hung down and out came a small ladder to climb. "Ladies first," he motioned.

Emily gave him an eye roll but went anyway. "Whoa, it's so cool up here!" she said excitedly. "Come on Chris! Come on!"

Chris climbed up, poking his head inside the attic. He was surprised not to see his friend insight. "Emily?" he called tentatively, crawling all the way in. There was no answer. "Em?" he turned around and about jumped a foot in the air. "Emily, don't do that!" he clenched his chest as his heart was beating erratically.

"Sorry," she bounced around him, taking everything in. "Wow, a real attic! This is so cool!"

"You've seen an attic before," he reminded her. "You had one in your barn."

She stopped bouncing to glance at him flatly. "Barn attics aren't the same, Christopher."

"Well excuse me, Emily," he mocked.

She cracked a grin. This was one of the rare times she was able to get him to relax and tease her. He was way too serious. Maybe living with her would loosen him up.

He cleared his throat. "Can we hurry up and get this done? I want to get back to the apartment before the sun goes down."

Emily saluted to him. "Yes sir!" she said sarcastically. Turning around, she ooed and awed at everything she saw. Chris stood there, watching her as she squealed happily over his old train set she'd found. Emily was just a big kid, he thought. For some reason it bothered him and he hated himself for feeling that way about his first friend.

"I think we're done here," Chris said suddenly, feeling uncomfortable after five minutes passed by. "I don't see anything I need in here. Let's go." He was nearly to the ladder when Emily's excited voice made him reconsider.

"Look what I found!" Chris figured he would humor her. It was probably nothing. He whirled around to find her holding something he hadn't seen in years.

Winnie the Pooh.