Ghost of the Past
DISCLAIMER: I don't own a thing, everything is with their rightful owners, no money is made of this.
This one-shot is a follow-up to "Liar, Liar", "The Mockingbird's Song" and "Players and Pieces". If you haven't yet, you should probably read those first.
*Author's Note*
Hi there ;) I really wanted to continue this series. I'm not satisfied with this piece, but I've had it in my head for ages and I decided I won't manage to make it any better at the moment, so here it is ^^ I hope you'll like it!
The sound that woke him was very faint, and for a moment he wondered if he'd only dreamt it. It wouldn't be surprising, he thought with a bitter smile, if he was starting to dream about his abnormally loud printer.
We're fighting with bullets, Littlefinger wages his wars with charts and debits and credits. Jaime Lannister's voice had been full sneer. People like the Kingslayer had always looked down on him with unconcealed disdain; quite literally looked down since somehow all those arrogant bastards were taller than him. But Petyr didn't see how shooting a crackpot corrupt Police Commissioner like Aerys Targaryen in the back was a more impressive accomplishment than raising the Lannister's income to twice their usual sum (even though he'd put a good five percent into his own pocket every month).
But then he heard the whirring sound again and Petyr groaned and stumbled to the door. Perhaps it had been a mistake to make the damn thing print out every e-mail he got.
But it was the only pragmatic thing to do, really - he just couldn't work with digital copies. That probably meant he was too old for technological progress, he concluded with a sigh.
He turned on the light in his study, squinted against the sudden brightness and slowly walked over to his desk, wondering who in God's name would write him an e-mail at this time of night. He stifled a yawn and picked up the sheet.
Happy anniversary, it said, and underneath it were two photographs.
For a moment, he didn't realise what he was looking at. Then something fell into place, he dropped the print-out to the floor and staggered a couple of steps backwards.
"Jesus Christ." He couldn't quite relate the croaky murmur that came out of his mouth to himself. He felt sick and something seemed to be stuck in his throat. "Fucking hell, you little-"
His knees were wobbly and he hastily groped for support with a shaking hand. "You fucked-up little bastard."
His knees gave way and his resolve right with it. His sight was blurred with tears, but he still saw the two photographs that had slipped underneath the desk. He couldn't avert his eyes.
Dear God, what's wrong with you? It's not like you'd never seen anything like this before, Petyr, get a grip-
No use. He couldn't look away, he was physically unable to take his eyes off the horrible images. His stomach clenched and he felt too weak to even try to fight the sudden nausea rising in his throat. The vomit that ran through his finger seemed to consist of nothing but wine and gastric acid and it burned like fire on his lips.
His head was spinning violently.
"Sadistic little fucker," he whispered, staring blindly at the pictures, and ran his fingers through his hair again and again, until he remembered there was still vomit all over his hands.
He couldn't tell how long he'd been sitting there before he found the strength to move.
Put yourself together. Nothing you haven't seen before. You're a cold-hearted ruthless egoist and you're not bloody losing it over an e-mail from a dumb little kid, he told himself firmly and forced himself to look at the print-outs.
Nothing you haven't seen before. You don't care, of course you don't, why would you? You knew all along what happened to her, seeing it doesn't change a thing. She's just as dead as she was before.
His throat was still tight, but on the plus side, he had his breathing under control again.
He got to his feet, still with slightly wobbly knees, and slowly backed away from the pictures until he bumped backwards into the door where he turned and fled.
When she opened her door, the living room was brightly illuminated. Sansa grimaced and shielded her eyes with one hand, pulling her jacket tighter around herself with the other.
She was used to seeing a little ray of light underneath the door of his study at the most ungodly hours, but he never put the lights on anywhere else. With a frown, she padded into the kitchen and picked an apple out of the fruit bowl. A bottle of Petyr's ridiculously expensive scotch stood on the counter. It was almost empty.
Sansa's frown deepened. Just last night, she'd secretly poured herself a glass while he was at work, and the golden liquid had filled the bottle just to the upper edge of the label then.
Petyr would never drink that much in one night. And she doubted he'd have a visitor at ten to four in the morning.
Tentatively, she made her way into the living room.
He was kneeling in front of the fireplace, slowly feeding printing paper to the flames. He was wearing a white shirt, but hadn't closed a single button of it, and the shoulders were drenched. His hair was almost black and slightly dishevelled; he'd clearly just come out of the shower. Water was still dripping onto the shirt.
It was a somewhat alarming sight; she was used to him in suit and tie, always neat and neither a stain nor an open button in the wrong place.
"Petyr?" she asked softly, stepping a little closer.
At first, he didn't react at all, then a bitter little smile tugged at his lips. "Sorry, did I wake you?"
His voice was a touch too husky, and a little slurred. So he had emptied the bottle himself.
"No," she lied, and glanced at the paper crumbling in the fireplace. "What is that?"
"Nothing," he muttered and threw the last sheet into the flames, but she pulled it out before it caught fire.
It was a photograph of something floating in the water. For a blissful second, she didn't understand what it was. Then she clenched a hand over her hand in shock, her eyes watering.
It was a woman's body, bloated and pale, with a huge, ugly cut across her throat. The skin around it was softened up and frayed. Her skirt was torn; but the worst were her eyes.
They were open.
She felt sick.
"Don't look." His voice was sharp despite the slur in it, and he ripped the sheet out of her hand and threw it into the fire.
"What was that?" Sansa stammered after a moment of stunned silence, her voice shaking.
He grimaced and got to his feet. "Joffrey sent it to me. Suppose I did something to insult him and he wanted to get back at me. Or he just thought it was funny," he said, his voice giving away far more than usually. He sounded… angry, and more than a little shaken.
"Funny?" she repeated in disgust.
"He's a sadist, you ought to know that much, sweetling," he replied and held out his glass to her. "It helps."
"Apparently not in small amounts," she gave back with slight sarcasm, but took the glass. "Thanks." It was halfway to her lips when the meaning of his words sunk in. "You knew that woman, didn't-" The glass slipped from her fingers when she finally understood. "No."
"It wasn't her, Sansa," he said softly, not sparing the shards on the ground a single glance. "Joffrey wasn't even there. There are no pictures of her, they would've been all over the papers if there had been any."
For a moment, she believed him, but then she shook her head. "Then why would you react like that?"
"Sit down, Sansa."
She was still shaking her head. "Why would you get drunk if it wasn't her?"
"Sit down, Sansa," he repeated softly, gently shoving her towards the sofa. "Please."
He looked very pale, she thought dazedly as she sat down on the couch, and so young. Maybe it was the way the water made his hair look almost black, the streaks of silver in it hardly visible now; maybe it was the look in his eyes.
There was such warmth in them.
He was crouched in front of her, a hand on her knee. "Sweetling, do me a favour. Try to believe it. There's no point in the truth if it only hurts you. 's a good lie, you can believe it. Okay?"
He threw her a very strange smile, got to his feet, swaying slightly, and disappeared. When he returned, he carried two glasses.
"Didn't you have enough yet?" she asked quietly, and he grinned.
"Probably. Never tell a drunk to stop drinking, sweetling. Some get very angry. Remember Robert?"
She almost smiled. "I didn't… I didn't think it would… that it would hurt you," she murmured.
"Hurt me?"
"To see her. Mum. I didn't think you'd care," she whispered, staring at her glass.
He gave a dead little laugh. "Nor did I." He took a sip from his glass and looked at her. Somehow, his eyes seemed to have far more green in them now; the steel in them was gone. She wondered if it was the alcohol; he'd had too much wine before, but she'd never seen him this way.
"Do you hate me, Sansa?" he asked slowly. "I've often wondered."
She leaned back and studied his face, the sharp features, the thin lips. She had never seen such a strange smile on them – well, no, in fact it wasn't a strange smile at all. It was the most real smile she'd ever seen on his face, a little sad, a little bitter, but real. And that smile on the face of Petyr Baelish, it confused her to no end. She had grown so used to believing that everything he ever said or did was nothing but a lie...
"Why would I hate you?"
His smile turned cynic. "Well, because I saved you from your kidnappers only to lock you up myself. I kissed you because I knew you'd let me, I fuck you because I know you're too goddamn scared of me to tell me to stop. So, d'you hate me?"
She waited for a moment, then asked quietly: "You wouldn't stop if I tell you that, right?"
Still with his bitter smile, he ran a hand through her hair. "You know me too well, sweetling."
She eyed him and considered her answer. He was right, of course, on every single point. He was holding her captive. He had slept with her, knowing she was only doing it to not make him angry.
And a week ago, she would have said yes, without a second of hesitation.
But now, she shook her head. "No."
"No?" He raised an eyebrow at her, looking almost confused.
"No, I don't hate you."
For a long time, he didn't say anything. Lacking a better word, Sansa would have said he seemed lost for words. "That's called the Stockholm syndrome," he replied then, a forced grin on his face.
"You saved me, Petyr. I'd be dead without you. How could I hate you?"
"Because I saved you for my own purposes. There was nothing noble about this and you know it."
Sansa shrugged. "I would still be dead without you. I don't care why you saved me."
His green eyes bore into hers like only his could, and as always, he saw right through her. "That's a lie."
"Yeah. You taught me well, Petyr," she replied with a grin and got to her feet.
"Oh, I did." He smiled a little and stared into his glass. "Sleep well."
That made Sansa freeze. Everytime he said that to her, it had an insinuating ring to it, but this time it wasn't there. His voice just sounded slurred and a little tired.
She turned around and eyed him closely. "Are you alright?"
He looked up from his scotch and threw her a smile that was almost up to his usual standards. "Of course." He got to his feet, swaying a little and added with a frown: "Maybe a little drunk."
Sansa felt herself smile against her will. "Good night."
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