Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Note: Hi all! Yeah I know I shouldn't start another story before I finish one, but that's just how my mind works :-p This story comes from some amazing SanSan modern A/U I've been reading on the forum. Really really great stuff, that I will not be able to compare myself too. However, it did inspire me to come up with this story. In the end I hope to capture here what I feel the SanSan pairing is always about, no matter what time or place it is set. That is, two unlikely people finding love and friendship - and saving themselves from one another. He saving her from the people or things that seek to take away her honor and what is rightfully hers. She saving him from himself.

This story is really just a light, fun-loving, funny kind of story. I've made Sansa more modern and flirty, Sandor kind of stays the same as he is usually portrayed. I hope you like it, and if not...at least I tried. Lemons later on...much later on.

Chapter 1: In the Middle of Fuck All

Sandor Clegane breathed in the fresh northern air as he pressed his Harley onward. He loved the feeling of the warm sun on his face and the wind blowing through his long hair, it gave a man a sense of freedom, even if he knew deep down he was anything but free. He was on the run, not staying in any one place too long, trying to shake his brother Gregor off his trail. It had been a year, most normal men would have given up, taken the losses and moved on. Not his brother though, Gregor wouldn't stop until he beat the shit out of his younger brother and got his money back, none of which would happen easily if Sandor had anything to do with it.

Despite their colorful and contentious past, the two brothers had run an import and trade business in Houston together. Sandor keeping the books going and the workers happy, while Gregor worked as the enforcer. His talents lying more in making sure customers paid up for importing whatever they wanted to bring to the harbor. In the many years they were in business together Sandor had seen just about everything, ten tonnes of Zippers, three containers of rubber chickens, lobsters - if you had a market for it, the Cleganes could get it through customs and to its destination on time. They always worked on the edge of what was legal, that made it fun and profitable. It was when he discovered that Gregor had begun to traffic women and boys, some as young as ten years old, that they had words.

Fists flew, words were said and in the end Sandor left, but not before taking two million of the company's capital he'd worked so hard for. He had control of the books after all, which meant he took the money, got on his bike and drove as far as he could from Gregor and his thugs. Sandor would have no part in human trafficking, but he also wouldn't snitch on his brother either. Things like that got around in their business, he'd never find work again if he were to be known as a snitch, but the guilt of what Gregor was doing to these people ate him up inside. He carried that guilt with him, and it weighed him down, suffocating him in the night.

The sound of clanging metal, a loud pop and something flying from his bike were enough to draw his attention from his own pain. His Harley came to a rolling stop, leaving a trail of motor oil and smoke behind it.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" He cursed as put the kickstand down and got off his bike to see what was going on. He didn't have to be a mechanic to know it wasn't good, and that he wasn't going anywhere until it was fixed. He punched the dash, leaving a dent and screamed, his voice echoing in the nothingness of nature that surrounded him. It had been hours since he passed a town with a service shop, so better to move forward.

Then a sign a few yards down the forest road caught his eye, "Winterfell 3 Miles" he mouthed to himself. He unhooked his black leather side bags from his large bike and flung them over his shoulder. They carried what little possessions he had, and he'd be damned if some fucking bear ate them while he sorted this mess. Sandor's cowboy boots dragged across the gravel of the road's shoulder as he made his way in the direction of the town. He prayed to whatever gods might listen that the town would have a mechanic, because he was in the middle of fuck all.

Winterfell was a small place of 300 people, nestled in a beautiful forest with some mountains in the background. As pretty as a picture and about as remote as one could get. Remote was good, it meant Gregor's thugs wouldn't find him, it meant that perhaps he could rest for the first while in a long while. He didn't have to cross the city limits to see a service station right there on the side of the road. It was a cute place, in a kind of 1950's style that would have been out of place anywhere else but here.

Despite the open door and the desk fan blowing on the chair, there was nobody at the main entrance. Anybody or thing could have walked up, grabbed all the money in the register and the motor oil in the shelves and walked out. But this was a small town, shit like that didn't happen here. Big bad men like him didn't come to these places, they would breeze through on to bigger and better things. Sandor snorted to himself and made his way back to the garage area of the service station hoping to find somebody around.

As the smell of motor oil filled his nostrils and country music filled his ears, Sandor couldn't help but grin a bit at the place. There were car parts strewn all over, some old some new and some junk. It was a mishmash of things that you found in a little shop that had to service anything that came its way. Orderly but messy all at the same time, he liked it. He made his way to the sound of ratcheting, drawing him deeper into the working space. Once there he found an old Buick station wagon with a pair of slender feminine legs poking out from under it. Her boots were black, her jeans tight around her supple thighs, her white shirt riding up, exposing her creamy belly to his eyes.

'Probably a lesbian.' He thought to himself. All female mechanics he had met had either been gay, ugly or both.

Sandor didn't have too much time to admire her body before she spoke, sticking her hand out from the car, "Well don't just stand there. Hand me that 3 and ¼ inch wrench before you go wandering off again."

Smirking slightly, Sandor moved to take the wrench from the bench it was on and passing it to the impatient hand motioning him to bring it to her. She clearly didn't know who she was talking to, but she had a cute voice and Sandor wasn't much for words. No need to disturb her while she was working.

He heard her strain a bit to tighten some final bolts on the car's chassis, "You know Bran, you can't just keep wandering off anytime you want to sit under that big oak tree and daydream. I know mom is buried there and all, but it's just not…."

The woman stopped mid sentence once she'd wheeled herself out from under the car and finally laid eyes on the man towering over her. Sandor watched her expression turn from surprise to curiosity as she sat up, grabbing a towel to wipe off her greasy hands. She was certainly not what he had imagined would be under the engine of that car, her eyes a piercing blue, skin creamy white, nice perky tits barely contained in her dirty white tank top and red hair. Long swirling beautiful red hair. It left Sandor dumbstruck and leaning more toward his lesbian theory than before.

"I thought you were my brother." She began, a slight flush creeping into her cheeks. "My name is Sansa, Sansa Stark. I own this place. I'm the mechanic, the accountant, do the bodywork - you name it." She grinned widely and extended him a clean hand. "And you?"

She wasn't looking at his scars, and this surprised Sandor. Usually pretty women didn't give him the time of day. If they did, usually they were either trying not to look at his burned face or staring far too much for anyone's comfort. He knew he was a freak show, it just hurt more when a gal he fancied couldn't take her eyes off him for all the wrong reasons. This girl was different, she was sizing him up, eyeing him and with a smile that made him think she kind of liked him.

Clearly he had waited far too long to answer her as she bridged the gap between them, hand still extended and took a closer look at the name sewn into his leather vest. "So you are Hound, oh wait The Hound." She said reading the words verbatim. "Is that the name your momma gave you?" She looked teasingly apprehensive.

The Hound weighed his options and decided just his first name would be fine. If word got out, he might be in for some trouble. "I'm Sandor." He settled on, taking her small hand into his and giving it a firm shake.

The redhead smiled and nodded. "You aren't from around these parts, are ya?"

"What gave that away?" Sandor asked in his typical cocky fashion, "My accent?" He did still have a slight accent from the UK, kept enough to make himself stand out but not too much so that the Americans couldn't understand him.

"No." She answered with an appraising look, which started at his feet, lingered at his waistline and ended on his face, "They don't make tall drinks of water like you up here." With that she turned and walked toward one of her workbenches, keen to put some of her tools away. "What can I help you with Sandor? Or did you come to answer your true calling of handing me tools all day?"

With her back turned Sandor stifled a laugh. He liked his women firey and this Sansa certainly was all that and more. 'She's got to be a fucking psycho.' he thought to himself. Normal women didn't flirt with him and certainly beautiful women avoided him at all costs. As if his ugliness was contagious. Yeah, something wasn't right with this girl.

Stifling the urge to make an off hand comment on handing her the tool he had between his legs, he began, "My bike broke down about 3 miles outside of town. I need to get it fixed as soon as possible."

"Let me guess," she said without turning her head from her work, "A Harley Dyna Wide Glide, red flames painted on and some custom work." She turned to see what his response would be.

"How the fuck did you know that?"

"Clearly you aren't from around these parts." She said again with a smile. "I love bikes and you have good taste."

Sansa finished cleaning up her workbench and turned to Sandor, her blue eyes dancing with the prospect of fixing his bike. "So, how bad is bad?"

"Uh well dead you know. Ejected something from the engine, motor oil leaking, smoke …" he trailed off.

She raised an eyebrow, "So really bad." Then she looked around the garage as if searching for something in particular, but Sandor wasn't sure what.

She didn't let the silence settle too long, "Alright then, take these," she threw him some workers gloves and grabbed a pair for herself, "Let's pick it up and take a look at it then. Lucky for you I'm also the tow truck driver."

Sandor dropped his side bags on the floor in the garage and followed his sexy new companion out to her little flatbed tow truck. No matter which way he cut it, he couldn't help but feel like something wasn't quite right. Not that she wasn't genuine or had a prostitution business on the side kind of strange, it was something else. She didn't ask him many questions about his personal life, didn't pry on their short ride outside of the city. People who didn't pry usually have something to hide themselves. Sandor mulled over these thoughts in his head as they drove.

'This is going to be a few interesting days in fuck all Colorado.' He grinned to himself.