Save Me (And I Will Save You)
By Myriddin

Chapter One: Familiar Stranger

I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire. A Song of Ice and Fire is the property of George R.R. Martin and Bantam Books, and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

King's Landing, 2014

Sansa Stark sat on the living room couch in the apartment she lived in, a cup of tea held tightly in her hands. Outside, a storm raged, full of howling winds and rain pelting against the windows. She pressed her fingers against her temples, letting out a weary sigh. She had barely managed to get her sick four-year-old, Brynden, to sleep a half-hour before. The boy had come down with a bad chest cold, but thank the Seven, he was in the final stages and according to the doctor, would recover fine with plenty of rest.

Pulling the quilt she was wrapped in tighter around her, she allowed her head to fall back against the couch cushion, her eyes closing in the aftermath of a very long day. Outside, the storm continued on. She had to admit, when she was younger thinking about life a few years down the road, single motherhood hadn't been the first expectation on her list. But now, she wouldn't trade her precious baby boy for anything.

A sharp rapping at the front door broke through her reflections, and she reluctantly left the warmth of her couch cocoon. Mumbling under her breath with irritation, she undid the lower lock and eased open the door with the upper chain still in place. Her annoyed expression changed, and she immediately moved to unlatch the door completely.

Hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, the figure shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot as he cautiously looked up to gauge her reaction. His dark curls were plastered to his head, water running in rivulets down his rugged face as he looked at her pleadingly.

Though she tried her best to look reprimanding, something about a twenty-eight-year-old man being able to pull off puppy dog eyes was too much and she sighed, leaning back to let him in. His face filled with relief and he smiled at her, dripping on the floor as he stepped inside.

She motioned for him not to move from his spot, and he watched her disappear down the hallway, shifting to toe off his hiking boots and carefully set them aside. He stretched and let his gaze thoughtfully trail over the room.

His surroundings were more than familiar. He was far from a stranger to this home, but there was something especially inviting about the atmosphere that night that had the tension in him disappearing, easing into a contentment he could rarely muster anywhere else. Perhaps it was that sense of familiarity. Perhaps it was the welcoming warmth enveloping the small apartment. Whatever it was, he found himself too tired to feel guilty about the feelings that welled up inside him. Being here felt like coming home.

A towel tossed at his head alerted him to Sansa's returned presence, as the cloth caught him in the face. He lifted the towel to give her a annoyed look, though he obediently stepped onto the one she tossed at his feet. She smirked at him, shaking her head with fond exasperation.

"Your impersonation of a drowned rat is going to ruin my carpet, Snow."

"If it's that much of a problem, I'll call the cleaners in the morning, Stark," he replied, both honestly and with a trace of sarcasm. He shrugged out the old bomber jacket he was so fond of, one that had belonged to his Uncle Benjen, and placed it to hang on the coat rack.

Shedding the coat revealed his wet henley and jeans clinging as close as a second skin, emphasizing the physique shaped by years of swimming competitively in high school and university. Sansa bit her lip as she thought of the lean, sinewy muscle she knew was under those clothes, and allowed herself only a cursory side-glance before looking away. "If you want, there's some clothes you can change into in my room. Third drawer down in the bureau."

The jealousy he felt at her words startled Jon, both in the suddenness and the intensity of the feeling. He swallowed back the sharp, biting bitterness and managed to say in a casual tone. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm a bit too tall for Willas' things."

She shot him a baffled look. "It's your stuff, not Will's. Have you honestly never noticed how often you leave things behind when you stay over?"

Jon nodded silently, shamefaced as the same envious feelings lingered at the thought of Sansa's ex-boyfriend. He muttered an ascent and shuffled down the hallway to her bedroom, stepping carefully so not to disturb the sleeping child next door. He walked into the room- neat and tidy, done in a color scheme of subtle blues and greens- and smiled softly at being surrounded by something so completely Sansa.

He stripped out of his wet clothes, dropping them into an empty laundry basket nearby. He bent over to pull open the drawer Sansa had directed him to, pausing with surprise at what he found. The drawer was filled to brim- several of his t-shirts, a pair of jeans, a couple sweaters, a random assortment of socks, even the scarf he thought he lost last winter. He grinned when he came across an unopened package of underwear in his size.

That woman really does think of everything.

As if summoned by his thoughts, there was a brief knock at the door. Jon knew the routine by now; he ripped open the package and donned a pair of black boxer-briefs, opening the door to hand off the basket with his wet clothes to a waiting Sansa. He whispered his thanks, amused and miffed when his words were met with yet another fresh towel to the face. He huffed, thanked her again and shut the door.

He dressed, slipping into the jeans and a faded Night's Watch ROTC long-sleeve from his college days, and returned to the living room, toweling off his hair as he went. He found Sansa occupied on the sofa, hovering over paperwork spread out on the coffee table. He plopped down beside her.

Without taking her eyes off her work, she closed the few inches between them until they were hip-to-hip, her leg pressing against his. Jon draped his arm along the back of the couch, brushing against her shoulders as he moved. She absently acknowledged the touch, reaching up to touch her hand to his, their fingertips grazing in a lingering touch.

Sansa leaned against his side, settling into the circle of his arm. He sighed contently, closing his eyes and relaxing back against the cushions. He cracked one eye open to regard her, and with a light smirk, he shifted to fold his legs beneath him, sliding his ankles under the blanket she was using.

She yelped and jumped with surprise as his bare feet curled around her calves, cold as ice. She pulled the quilt up to reveal the source of her discomfort and she glared. "Ever hear of socks?" she hissed at him, slapping his arm when he only grinned at her.

"But you're just so warm," he countered cheekishly, catching her arm as she tried to smack him again and gently tugged her into his lap. He wrapped his arms around her, propping his knees up to playfully trap her in an encasement of limbs.

She huffed with annoyance, glowering at him but she did not protest his hold. He gave her a downtrodden look, complete with a pouting frown and imploring eyes. Sansa was not impressed.

"Now I know where Bryn gets it. I thought maybe it was Robb that taught him that look, but no, it was all you." She poked him in the chest pointedly. "Freeloaders like you are a bad influence."

"C'mon, Freckles," he lightly teased, "Bryn loves me."

That was an understatement. Brynden practically worshiped the ground Jon walked on. The thought of that, combined with his familiar endearment, was enough to dispel her ire. And redirect her attention as she picked up on the undertone to his last words. "You're right," she said softly, "He does. There are some days where all he talks about is his Uncle Jon."

There was a look of wistful, longing hope in his eyes that had her heart aching, hesitating as she contemplated the lines between what she could do…and what she longed to do. To kiss him…to really embrace him…it was just hopeless fantasy, she knew, as she settled for taking his hand, the larger palm enveloping hers warm and calloused. "Really?" he asked her tentatively, his voice just barely above a whisper.

"Really. Trust me. He adores you, Jon."

He smiled softly, pressing his lips to her temple as he leaned his head against hers, "By the way…"

"Hmm?"

"It's not freeloading if you open your door to me each time."

She twisted around to face him, arching an eyebrow. "Still freeloading," she said airily, mimicking his earlier singsong tone as she teased him.

Jon narrowed his eyes. "I might have to take offense to that, and take revenge."

"You wouldn't dare, Snow."

"Wouldn't I?"

Sansa squealed with surprise as he suddenly whirled her around, digging his fingers into her ribs as he tickled her. His body leaned over her, his face animated with boyish glee as she collapsed in helpless laughter, begging him to stop with bated breath between giggles.

Jon didn't let up, pressing her back against the couch as he continued. She writhed and squirmed beneath him. She dragged her nails down his neck, tugged at his hair, threatening him between bouts of laughter, but still he did not let her go.

Slender legs locked around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back as she used her new hold on him as leverage, arching up against him in an attempt to throw him off. He barely budged, but he did pause, a strangled sound escaping his throat, his hands dropping to either side of them. As he adjusted to the new position, his body pressed intimately close to hers. They stared each other, smiles gone, the room quiet but for the sound of their ragged breathing.

"You play dirty," he muttered, the husky whisper carrying through the quiet room despite the softness of his tone, the intensity underlying the simple statement unmistakable.

She swallowed hard, his proximity intoxicating as he rested his head against the crook of her neck, breathing hard, his lips just barely brushing against her clavicle with every exhalation. Feeling foolishly brave, she ran her hands down his back, feeling the heat radiating off of him beneath the material of his shirt, the muscles quivering with tension beneath her touch.

They couldn't…they couldn't…they couldn't…but temptation was at its highest pinnacle, and it was so damn hard to resist. In the end, though, there was something worth fighting for. Both their honor.

She linked her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers through his hair as she pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, smoothing her cheek against his, feeling the light scratch of five o'clock shadow against her skin. She spoke quietly in his ear, a simple whisper of his name, "Jon."

Jon let out a heavy sigh and then relaxed against her, embracing her as he shifted his position. He turned over onto his back and Sansa settled against him, pressing her head to his chest. She listened to his heartbeat for a few moments before she chose to speak. "Jon, what happened with Margaery?"

He tensed, but her reassuring caress of his arm had him slowly relaxing again. He blew out a long, frustrated breath. "We fought. "

She rested her hand over his and when Jon entwined their fingers, she found herself uncomfortably aware of cold metal of his wedding ring. "What about?"

"About the only thing we have to even talk about anymore. Daeron."

Sansa froze, a sense of unease building at the mention of his son. She raised her head to look down at him, taking in the way his frown deepened the premature stress lines around his mouth and eyes, and sighed. Twenty years she had known this man, and those lines hadn't been there five years ago when he first got that ring on his finger.

"I'm listening."