Author's note:
All the characters belong to George R. R. Martin.
This fic is a gift for my dear friend, Underthenorthernlights (happy birthday, girl!). It was meant to be a one-shot, but as it turns out, there will be two more chapters. At least.
The title and some details of the story were inspired by the Arctic Monkeys' last album, AM.
The automatic sliding glass door opened with a faint noise and he stepped in with a grunt, reluctant as always. In front of him, the entrance of Quiet Isle General Hospital buzzed with patients asking their way and busy nurses snaking in and out of small groups.
Sandor Clegane had never understood why people felt the urge to go to the hospital with their family; in his mind, one couldn't fight injuries or diseases by being surrounded by his relations, his kin. The day you're ill or fucking wounded, you just fight alone against something you can't see. And you're on your own when facing death. The presence of friends or family just made it worse. Because leaving this fucking life is one thing but leaving behind the ones you loved rips up your heart. If you have a heart, that is to say. Years ago, the mere notion of death appalled him; he saw illness and death as proofs that God didn't exist. His former self had disappeared however, and now he considered the prospect of his own death with indifference. Now and then with something akin to serenity.
"Please, my nephew is in pediatrics," a woman in her forties told a nurse, her voice quavering. "Where can we find him?"
She had just come in, bringing in her wake a paunchy man and an old woman – her husband and her mother, most likely – and she stood beside him. Only the glossy foliage of a plastic plant separated them. The young, brown-haired nurse she was talking to had been stopped in her tracks and she blinked at the sun coming from outside through the glass facade, then stared at the woman for a second, before fully regaining her composure.
"Third floor, Ma'am. But please be careful, they've just repainted the hallway. The elevator is on your right."
With a smile, she turned around and walked away. The family beside him headed to the elevator – the old woman doing her best to match her daughter and son-in-law's long strides – and Sandor followed suit. He didn't need to ask his way, after a long stay here – much longer than he first thought – and numerous medical consultations since the day he had left Quiet Isle. He even knew, inside out, the convalescent home hidden behind the large buildings of the hospital, for he had spent months out there.
"Just a courtesy call," the Elder Brother had chuckled, the last time they had met. "You need to come back here from time to time, so that I can have a look at your leg and see if everything is alright."
Although it wasn't his real name but a moniker the surgeon had earned after long years in the department of orthopedics, Sandor couldn't think of the man who had performed surgery on his injured leg and who had probably saved his life without calling him 'Elder Brother'. As a matter of fact, Sandor always hesitated when he had to call the hospital, fearing a slip of the tongue and the medical secretary's reaction if he asked for an appointment with the Elder Brother. The man had kept a close eye on him during Sandor's long recovery, eventually visiting him in the convalescent home and talking with him for hours, and for that, Sandor was grateful.
There was already an old couple in the elevator when they all stepped in, Sandor ruing the slight limp that drew the couple's attention to his leg before their eyes went up and widened at the sight of his ruined face. Screw you. The panicked woman with her husband and mother pressed a button on the operating panel, then Sandor extended his hand to reach the one with a fluorescent number five ringed with blue.
They were only six and the elevator car was rather large; Sandor nonetheless felt hemmed in. Such things often happened when he was in the elevator of Quiet Isle General Hospital, because he hated hospitals in the first place and also because the couple's insistent look was a reminder of his scars.
On the evidence of the old couple's murmur, he could tell the woman already imagined he was a war veteran, coming back from Iraq or Afghanistan. If only they knew the truth. He clenched his teeth and let out a sigh of relief when the old couple moved past him to leave. The second floor. Damn it. A teenage girl who was a perfect example of Gothic fashion with her black lace dress, ridiculously long gloves and heavy make-up, came in and pressed the button of the first floor. Oh no. Don't fucking tell me that-
The elevator went down as Sandor half-opened his mouth to exhale his frustration. Squaring his shoulders and glaring at the teenage girl who avoided his eyes with great care and stared at her Gothic platform boots, his right hand tightened on the bag where he had put copies of the x-rays and a gift for the Elder Brother – a bottle of Scotch whisky. Twelve years of age. He will like it, I'm sure, even if nine o'clock is a bit early to start drinking. The Elder Brother would also lecture him about the abuse of alcohol, but they both knew Sandor had left behind his years of heavy drinker.
The artificial ding of the elevator warned them they were on the first floor and the Gothic girl left without a single look in their direction. He heard the woman who worried about her nephew talking to her mother in an undertone and he assumed they had finally noticed his burns.
That was one of the reasons why, after so many years, he loathed public space, especially elevators and waiting rooms: the people he knew and he worked with were accustomed to his burns. Those he cared for were able to be counted on the fingers of one hand – the Elder Brother being one of them – but at least they didn't pay much attention to his scars. Whenever he found himself in a crowd, there was always a moron who had to look hard at him, but most people didn't dare stare at him, impressed – and slightly frightened – by his uncommon build. It was much harder to avoid their stares in the confined space of the elevator car: they simply couldn't miss his burns.
Sandor was about to press the button again to get to the fifth floor faster when a gasp coming from the buzzing entrance hall drew his attention. A girl rushed in the elevator car just before the doors closed and she put her bag down with a chuckle of relief once the elevator went up. Sandor's heart skipped a beat; he knew that girl, despite the brownish dye that hid her natural color's hair.
Absorbed by her thoughts and visibly satisfied now that she was inside the elevator car, she had not seen him. The quick rise and fall of her chest told him she had been running before and he thought she was, just like him, in a hurry for some appointment; at the same time, the rapid motions of her upper body reminded him how this girl's curves haunted his nights, years after he had last seen her. Sansa Stark. The Little Bird.
Seven years after their last encounter – an event which details he badly wanted to forget, without much success so far – she had changed but what he cherished in her was still there. Except that damned brown hair. Why did she dye her hair? Long eyelashes hid deep blue eyes as she kept looking at her crimson ballet flats; he recognized her high cheekbones, her full lips he craved to kiss. Her hair bun she had most likely done in a rush brought out the delicate line of her neck; her breasts seemed bigger than he remembered in the white blouse she wore – but she was only fifteen when I last saw her. Apart from this change he wouldn't complain, she had the same long legs than in his memories. She used to prefer skirts, he mused, looking at her pair of skinny jeans.
All of a sudden, she raised her head and he realized his stare had been so heavy, so insistent she had finally noticed him, even if, because of the comings and goings of the other people, he was leaning back the wall of the elevator. The three who had asked their way to the pediatrics department were still between them when she first locked eyes with him and oddly enough, their presence comforted Sandor as much as it bothered him.
A part of him wanted to be alone with her and to bombard her with questions; on the other hand, he dreaded the confrontation with a girl who had brought chaos to his life and whose curves were etched in his memory. He had come to enjoy – eventually – the quiet life he now had. His enjoyed his job at the boxing gym, his small house at the edge of the town was enough for him and whenever he wanted to fuck someone, he knew where to go. He was free and nobody annoyed him. He didn't need some ghost from his past – so alluring as it might be – to question his new habits. He didn't need Sansa Stark.
They stared at each other for a long while, until the grand-mother gave them a suspicious look, before Sansa managed to say: "Good morning, Sandor."
The three intruders – for that was exactly what those people had become at that moment – seemed surprised and the old lady slightly shook her head in disapproval.
"'Morning," he finally replied, gruff as ever.
If he had now and then imagined their reunion, when sleeplessness gave him plenty of time to turn things over in his head, their first exchange was always warmer and less awkward. Fuck me! I'm a grown man and I'm still speechless when I'm before her.
The unpleasant ding echoed in the elevator car and the doors soon opened to free the three passengers who had witnessed their encounter with a furrowed brow. Sansa stepped aside so that they could leave and she leaned back against the metallic wall, mirroring his attitude. The doors slowly closed and suddenly they were face to face.
"Where- where are you going to?" he growled, his fingers hovering over the luminescent figures. The notion he was closer to the elevator buttons somewhat satisfied him, like a derisory proof that he was in control of something, despite the awkwardness of the situation.
"Fifth floor," she replied curtly.
He pressed the button again and the elevator went up. At last. Her back stiffened and she tilted her head back until it rested against the wall; she stared at him, her big blue eyes shining. Sandor wondered if she was just astonished by his presence in this place or if she was cursing at him. Because, let's face it, I was a part of all that happened to her at that time. When Joffrey beat her, I stood there and I watched. Holding her stare became harder with each passing second. I'll never forgive myself for what I did... or what I didn't do. I don't expect her to forgive me either.
"What are you doing here?" Her tone had nothing to do with the demure, polite girl he had known, years before: there was something bitter in her voice. Uncomfortable, he glanced at his feet before locking eyes with her again. She's on her back foot. She looks like she had been hunted down. Her brown hair... Is this why she dyed it? Because someone's after her?
"Visiting someone," he replied, evasive. For some reason, he didn't want her to know about his gimpy leg. The moment she would understand he had been shot and was now weakened, would feel like someone was reopening his wound. He just wished she could ignore his limp.
"I didn't picture you visiting patients," she commented.
The elevator stopped and the doors opened, yet nobody stepped in; it often happened here and Sandor guessed someone had lost patience while waiting for the elevator and had decided to take the stairs instead. Trying to hide his discomfiture but failing miserably, he pressed the button a bit too forcefully. The elevator's doors closed and reopened at once, then he pressed the button again, irritated and eager to leave the girl who blamed him for her misfortunes, if her previous remark was any indication.
When the doors closed for good this time, he let out a deep sigh and avoided her gaze. The irksome ding echoed inside the car, rousing a sensation he thought he had forgotten. Uncontrollable anger. Need to crush something. The girl didn't only bring back bad memories: habits he believed gone forever and his old reflexes returned in her wake. His jaw tense, he tried to focus on the idea he would soon get upstairs and walk away. I'll limp away, he told himself sourly, imagining the disgust on her face, when she'd watch him leave.
The elevator stopped again, the doors didn't open. A quick glance at the position indicator, right behind him, made him frown: numbers four and five blinked on the screen, as if they were stuck between two floors.
"What's wrong?" she asked suddenly. Nervously, she took her purse – a red little thing matching the color of her shoes – and she clutched to the strap before taking a step forward.
"Don't know," he mumbled, pressing again the button with a luminescent number five ringed with blue.
"You shouldn't do that. The more you press the button-"
He turned to her so briskly she stopped short of saying more. Her blue eyes widened in apprehension and that was how he understood he had been glaring at her. You're a brute. You keep drumming in you've changed, but you didn't. You still frighten her.
"Very well," he said coldly. "If you want to give a try..." A cruel smile plastered on his lips, he gestured at the operating panel. "Be my guest."
Hesitating, she took one more step; Sandor moved aside so that she could access the control buttons and he watched her slender fingers hovering over them. The elevator car still didn't move. Sansa gave him a quizzical look before carefully pressing the button with a number five on it. Of course. You think you'll do better than me by being patient and treating everything with the utmost respect. She pressed the button again, but nothing happened and Sandor repressed a chuckle.
Defeated, she chewed her lip thus reminding Sandor of how badly he wanted to kiss her whenever she did this, when she was fifteen. When she chewed her lip, she became again the young, fragile girl he had watched wither away without lifting his little finger.
"What's going on?" she asked. "Is the elevator car stuck?"
He snorted. "I guess it is." He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket then he shook her head vehemently. "Shit! It's useless. Cell phones don't fucking work in the hospital. Policy."
Avoiding his gaze, she exhaled a deep sigh. After a while, she stared at the operating panel again and she pressed the button showing a bell. "It's how we ask for help, right?" she muttered.
It was less a question than an attempt to reassure herself. Maybe she didn't change that much. Sandor nodded, put his bag down on the car floor and folded his arms.
They heard interference, then a nasal voice broke the silence inside the elevator car. "Regent elevators, what can I do for you?"
"We- The elevator we're in just stopped," she explained, visibly relieved to hear someone else's voice. "We're in Quiet Isle General Hospital. It seems that we're stuck between two different floors."
"Can you give me the number of the elevator, Miss?" the nasal voice went on. "It's written near the position indicator, on the left." Sansa complied obediently. "When did you say the elevator stopped?"
"A few minutes ago. How long does it take to send someone here?"
They heard the man shuffling papers. "Well, I don't know... Quiet Isle is forty miles from our nearest office, so I'd say... one hour at the very least. Are you alone in there, Miss?"
"No, I'm not." There was something akin to exasperation in her voice: Sandor snorted.
"Grin and bear it, then!" the man replied.
Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, as a heavy silence filled the elevator car. "This is all I need," she finally mumbled.
Sandor shook his head slowly, surprised to see how the Little Bird had grown talons during the last few years. "Say it, girl. It couldn't be worse. Stuck with me in this fucking elevator." Anger laced his words with bitterness and he suddenly wondered what had happened to the taciturn yet serene man he had become. Leaning against the handrail, Sansa looked up at him with horror.
"I'm going to be late!" she explained. "Your- presence here has nothing to do with my-" She looked for words. "My annoyance."
"Spare me."
Visibly hurt by his disbelief, she sat down on the car floor, clutching to her purse. Sandor began to feel the familiar ache in his thigh; it was something he was accustomed to since he had got injured, six years ago. I shouldn't stand like this for a long time. He clenched his teeth. Only the notion she would inevitably notice his stiff leg the moment he would lower himself prevented him from sitting down. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to find a less uncomfortable position.
"You won't sit down?" she asked. She had always been more observant than most people thought.
"I'm fine," he rasped, braggart despite the pain. Her eyes narrowed slightly, suggesting she didn't believe him. "I already bother you by just being here, I don't want to force you to look at my ugly face."
From where he stood, she looked tiny and vulnerable.
"Oh, come on! What did you expect me to do? You thought I would fly into your arms? Did you forget the night I last saw you?"
Here we are. His drunkenness and his bad manners, that was all the girl remembered and when something reminded her of the Hound – by accident – she probably thought of this smell of booze and those innuendos that were his trademark at the time. I guess I asked for it.
"You said 'good morning'," he observed, trying not to wince in pain lest she understood he wasn't there to visit a patient. "I expected you to do that. Always the proper little lady."
Sansa gasped in shock. She now had that 'Why-are-you-so rude' look he found both unbearable and enticing. He let his eyes roam over her, just to see if she was going to blush – like she usually did when she was a teenager – or to protest. She's got backbone, now. He died to know what had changed her yet he refused to ask the question, fearing the answer would made him feel terribly old and lonely.
Her perfect lips, her throat, her breasts... Under the white, loose shirt she wore that morning, they looked bigger than in his memories, he was sure about that, and he had trouble chasing away the visions of Sansa that still haunted his nights.
She must be married. Rumors had it that she had married the Imp but it was a long time ago. Girls like her didn't stay with runts like the Imp – nor with monsters like him. She's twenty-three, he told himself. She probably got divorced and she married someone else. She-
Frowning, he tried to remember what was written on the sign of the fifth floor. Orthopedics... that was on his right, when he left the elevator car. On the left... He squeezed his eyes shut for a second and he remembered what was written below. Gynecology. Obstetrics. Consultations. She's pregnant. His heart skipped a beat. She's pregnant. That's why she's going to the fifth floor.
Sandor had never suspected the notion his Little Bird bore someone else's child could hurt so badly. Hence the loose shirt to hide her stomach. She's got an appointment with some fucking obstetrician. It explains what she says about being late. He felt like his legs were going to give out and he lowered himself to the floor, careless of her reaction. Imagining the swell of her belly under the blouse was like rubbing salt into the wound. She's pregnant.
I don't have any right to complain, she's not my plaything. She never was. She certainly deserves to be happy. All those words that would normally soothe him filled his mind with their lulling wisdom, yet they seemed useless. No matter how time had flied, no matter the changes he had experienced, the realization she was pregnant stung, and his hands began to shake.
"Sandor, what happened to your leg?"
As if it wasn't enough, she had noticed. From now on, she would never see him again as the strong, fearless man she had once met.
"Got shot at." Always stingy with words, the Elder Brother would have commented with a smirk.
"When?" she now sounded concerned. "What happened?"
He shrugged, tilting his head against the metallic wall of the elevator car. "Six years ago. A shootout, when I was on the lame." Sansa's eyes encouraged him to go on, so he did. "I was banged up when I arrived here. A surgeon took care of me and here I am, limping along."
Quite a tirade, right? Sandor easily imagined the Elder Brother taunting him. The first times the two men had met in the convalescent home, it had mostly been the surgeon talking. Sandor needed time to trust the man and to share his memories with him. But the Elder Brother isn't Sansa Stark. It had always been easier with her. Talking was easier but being honest was more difficult, I guess. I always sounded more rude than I intended. Wincing, he crossed his long legs so that the wounded one rested on the floor. His foot brushed Sansa's, who was sitting cross-legged.
"So it's an appointment with your surgeon?" she said.
He nodded, then mindlessly combed his dark hair so that it concealed a part of his burns. An old reflex that came back, once in front of her. This is so stupid. As if she cared about me now that- The words were stuck in his throat. He imagined her lifting the blouse so that an unknown man could look at her swollen belly and touch her smooth skin. He imagined her grin as two male hands caressed her stomach and the acid taste of bile hit the back of his throat. I don't want to know anything else. If she tells me the details of her fucking wedding day or asks me what color is best for a nursery, I swear I'm going to puke.
"You live nearby?" she asked again. The chirping of the Little Bird – or rather her inability to stay silent when she was nervous – forced a wan smile out of him. He nodded.
"And- what do you do for a living?" She had met a tough guy, a henchman who worked for the Lannisters and he had previously mentioned he had been on the run: in all likelihood, imagining he could have given up his former illegal activities was difficult for her. Brow knitted, she waited for his answer.
"I manage a boxing gym. I'm my own boss, now." He squared his shoulders and peeked at her, curious to see her reaction. He didn't think 'own' was a jaw-dropping word, yet the girl was speechless. "Alright, I didn't exactly buy it. It's Barristan Selmy's, but as he's too old to keep training kids and ruling the place... Besides, he has no children. So I manage it and it'll be mine someday."
Oddly enough, he felt proud to tell her he was his own boss and he would eventually own a small business when Barristan Selmy would go west. The boxing gym was an old one, crowded with boys who looked like youthful offenders more than athletes, but nobody commanded him out there.
"I think I have a business card, somewhere..." he trailed off, retrieving his billfold from the back pocket of his jeans and holding it out to her on an impulse. "Some girls train at the gym, you know... But I guess in your condition..."
Sansa's eyes widened. "In my condition?" she repeated.
Sandor briefly smiled and gestured at her middle, invisible under the loose shirt. Her eyes followed his stare then she looked up at him, brow furrowed. "In my condition?"
Her hands rested on her knees and Sandor immediately noticed the absence of wedding ring. Does it mean I was wrong?
"What- What did you imagine, Sandor? You thought- you thought I was pregnant?" A deep blush tinted her cheeks, forehead and throat as he mentally palm-faced. "What made you think I was pregnant?" she insisted.
Oh no. She thinks I find her fat or something. Could he tell her why he had imagined she was carrying a child?
"You're perfect the way you are," he said, before she could react. "Slender and pretty and everything. I thought you were pregnant because you're going to the fifth floor. Orthopedics, gynecology, obstetrics," he recited.
"Oh my God, this is so embarrassing." The Little Bird was all flustered and he would be a liar if he said he didn't enjoy the situation. Unease had given place to amusement.
"Besides..." A devilish grin pulled the corners of his lips. "Your breasts are bigger than I remembered. Women have bigger tits when they're pregnant and-"
"No need to go on, I got your point," she cut him off angrily, crossing her arms about her chest in a self-protective gesture. She clearly wished to make herself inconspicuous, yet in the confined space where they were stuck, she would have to bear his gaze on her until someone fixed the elevator.
Sandor kept observing her, relishing her embarrassment. Beyond the the strange relief he experienced now that he knew she wasn't pregnant, there was something he couldn't quite place, something that budded inside him, making him feel awkward and very strong at the same time. He thought he had lost this sensation forever and all of a sudden, the last years spent between the hospital, the boxing gym and the quiet little house he lived in, seemed dull in comparison. That's what I feel when I'm with her. She makes me feel alive.
"You still loathe my bad manners, girl." In order to narrow the space between them, he leaned forward, smiling and forgetting about the pain in his leg.
"You've changed, though," she stated timidly and he could only nod at this.
"But you still hate my bad manners, don't you?"
"I don't know."
Silence stretched in the elevator car, giving him plenty of time to ponder what was going on and what could be the consequences. There were only two questions that mattered: did he want her back in his life? And if so, was she ready to welcome him?
A quick glance at her reddened cheeks confirmed what he feared and anticipated at the same time. Sansa Stark was like hard liquor for a former alcoholic: a sip was enough to get intoxicated and to relapse. Meeting her in this place, years after he left her during that dreadful night, destroyed his efforts to forget her. Not that I truly wanted to forget about a girl like her. Her shyness, her blue gaze half-hidden under long eyelashes were his gin, his whiskey. They set his pulse racing and they made every sensation more intense. Sandor licked his lips.
"So why are you here?" he asked, swallowing the lump in his throat. He regretted his question instantly. "I'm a fucking moron. I shouldn't ask, you don't owe me an explanation."
"It's alright," she replied, smiling, hands folded in her lap. "I work here. Yesterday was my first day, that's why I didn't want to arrive late this morning. I guess we only have to wait now and I hope they won't be mad at me..."
Sandor shook his head reassuringly. "I'm sure they won't. Do you work in obstetrics?"
Her eyes widened in surprise and her lips formed a little 'O'. "What's the matter with obstetrics? I work in orthopedics, as a nurse. There was a time when I thought I could become a surgeon or something, but I guess being a nurse isn't that bad for a girl whose school years have been a bit... complicated."
How did she manage to study with all the shit that happened? Though the girl didn't say much about her past so far, she made him feel like the last few years had been rough on her. How could it be otherwise between the Lannisters and Baelish? What happened to him, by the way? As far as he knew, the Lannisters had lost their influence, now that Joffrey, Tywin and Kevan were dead. Besides, with Cersei in jail, the golden family's depravity had been revealed to the world. Petyr Baelish's fate remained more mysterious.
"What- what happened after I... left?" he asked. After I deserted, after I abandoned you.
Eyes downcast, Sansa watched the floor covering. A tiny smile pulled the corners of her lips and disappeared quickly. "It's a long story, Sandor."
He shrugged. "It looks as if we have plenty of time, girl."
Sandor saw her swallowing painfully; as her unease was tangible, he shifted and sat beside her, so that she wouldn't feel his stare directed at her. The Little Bird still hesitated, wringing her hands nervously, but in the end, she began to talk about the aftermath of the confrontation between the Lannisters and Stannis Baratheon. Words didn't come easily; there were silences between her revelations about her last months with the Lannisters.
Joffrey was supposed to marry Sansa when she was old enough, but he had changed his mind and got engaged to a Tyrell girl instead. After that, Sansa had been married to the Imp, then she had escaped with Littlefinger after Joffrey's death. With Baelish, things didn't get any better; in veiled terms, she told Sandor the man wanted her for himself. He had married her to another man, though, a guy she called Harry. One day, she had found the strength to escape their stylish villa and she had lived on her own.
"My father's friends helped me," she added, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. "I was lucky enough to find them and they protected me ever since. Jon Umber even paid my tuition fees, when I told him I wanted to become a nurse."
There was gratefulness in her tone, yet it stung: she would never feel that gratefulness towards him since he had done nothing to deserve it, leaving her alone in the lion's den.
"So you went back North?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes, but as much as I love the North, I feel like it's time for me to move on and to stand on my own two feet. Finding a job here, rather far from the North was a good opportunity. I took it as the sign I had to leave things behind."
"I can't believe you live here." He was thinking out loud and he instantly wished he could take back his words, for the enthusiasm they conveyed could only scare the girl away.
"I don't live here yet. I took a room in a motel and I finally found a small apartment by the lake. I'll move next weekend. Quite an adventure but I'm very excited."
"Need some help, to make your move?"
Unbidden, his words surprised him as much as they surprised her. She swiveled her head, looking up at him. There was this lock of hair he wanted to tuck behind her ear; he couldn't help staring at it, thinking all he had to do was extend his hand and gently replace it. Since when have we been so close? The answer was quite obvious: since he had sneaked in her bedroom at the Lannisters' and waited for her in the dark before scaring the crap out of her. I was a brute and a fool. I spoiled everything. She'll never understand I've changed.
"Forget it. Forget what I've said-" he spat.
A tiny hand landed on his forearm, making him gasp. "No, no, you don't get it, Sandor. It's just that I'm surprised and- I didn't expect you to offer your help. Besides, with your leg-"
"You think I'm disabled? I'm not a cripple!" He sounded like an angry child, now. Better and better. "I can't run the fucking one hundred meters, but I'm in better shape than most men you know."
"Of course, you're not a cripple! Tell me you know I didn't mean it," she nearly begged him, tightening her grip on him.
Maybe he was just taking his dreams for reality, but the Little Bird gave him a long look and he wondered if she wasn't ogling the old, lonely man he felt he was. Once more, an old reflex came back and he squared his shoulders: even if it was an illusion in all likelihood, it was good to be observed by Sansa Stark.
"I don't know, girl." You're a bastard. She didn't mean it and you're torturing her. "Alright. I guess you didn't mean it," he sighed.
There was a silence, then her voice surprised him by the bashfulness it exuded. "I'd be very happy if you came and helped me next Saturday. I don't know anyone here. Basically, it was what I wanted, but... it's good to know there's someone in this town I can rely on."
Pathetic as ever, he mumbled it was nothing and she frowned so deeply at that he wondered if she had understood his words. She says she can rely on me. Can't be true... Before he convinced himself he was harboring illusions, she shifted and her bare shoulder brushed his. They were sitting side by side, the Little Bird chirping and him nodding silently, although he didn't pay much attention to what she said; he focused on the contact of her arm against his, experiencing a sensation he never had before and he didn't think he deserved.
Her pale, smooth skin was silky yes, but sometimes it was covered with goosebumps tickling his own skin. He told himself it was a minor detail, something so ordinary he was a fool to focus on it, yet the touch of her skin and the warmth emanating from the Little Bird seemed to ignite a fire extinguished long ago. The embers weren't completely cold, he guessed, for a mere contact had relighted them.
Looking up at the CCTV camera, he asked himself if whoever was watching them could see how embarrassed he was. And how intoxicated. He was intoxicated by her contact, her smell, her sight.
All too soon, a voice coming from outside the elevator's shaft interrupted Sansa: the repairman was there. From that moment on, he did his best to regain his composure and the Little Bird went silent. At some point, he realized she was biting her lip again and he read it as a tell-tale sign of anxiousness.
He nudged her. "What's going on? A few more minutes and you'll be free to go. No more face to face with an old dog."
"Don't talk like that... I never understood why you let Joffrey call you 'Dog'."
"What's going on?" he insisted, locking eyes with her.
"I'm afraid the people I work with won't believe my story. I mean... I was already in a hurry when I took this elevator."
Sandor shrugged. "Do you know the Elder Brother?"
"You mean Doctor Knight? The head doctor? I didn't meet him yet, but I'm afraid-"
"I know the Elder Brother," he cut her off. "He performed surgery on me and as I spent more time here than I thought, he became a friend of mine."
She was impressed, on the evidence of her gasp of surprise and her hesitating smile. "Could you... Do you think you could ask him not to... banish me or something?" She was chuckling a bit nervously, but behind her smiles, her apprehension was palpable. "This job is very important for me, Sandor."
Her expression at that moment, as she bit her bottom lip and furrowed her brow, waiting for his answer, mesmerized him. The grating noise of metal roused himself from his thoughts.
"Guess I can do that for you," he rasped.
When the elevator finally went up, she was beaming at him; surprised by the sudden upward movement of the elevator, Sansa lost her balance and he needed to catch hold of her. Although his hand hardly lingered on her shoulder, he noticed the deep blush tinting her cheeks. On the position indicator, the number five shone and the elevator stopped, breaking the spell.
The very moment before the doors opened, while Sansa collected her things and got on her feet, Sandor could have sworn she was sighing and not with relief. Leaning on the handrail, he pushed himself from the floor, under her watchful gaze. As he raised to his full height, she probably didn't notice the half-smile his long dark hair hid.
"I can't believe the Elder Brother is your friend," she muttered thoughtfully, forcing a chuckle out of him.
They stepped out of the elevator, looking for the repairman who had seemingly vanished; around them, people came and went, some, wearing scrubs, hurrying in the hallway and other walking at a slow pace. By an unspoken consent, they stopped by the sign indicating the orthopedics and they stared silently at each other. Once in the orthopedics department, they would be a patient and a nurse again. She would focus on this new job that seemed so precious for her and Sandor would walk to the Elder Brother's office. He wouldn't be very attentive this morning and he guessed the Elder Brother would have to ask the same question twice before he gave the man a correct answer.
"Well, Sansa," he said, shrugging. "This is it."
Again, she bit her lip and he wished he could kiss her on the spot. On his right, he spotted their reflection in the glass facade; the rather tall, slender Little Bird looking so fragile in front of his hulking frame. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. We've both lost and gained things during these years. We're different and yet-
"Were you serious when you said you would help me moving my things here?" she asked all a sudden.
"Of course, I was." Uncomfortable, he shoved one hand in his pocket while the other one clutched to the handle of his bag.
"I'm going to give you my number. Have you got some paper please?"
Too embarrassed to utter a proper response, he looked for a piece of paper in his bag and only found the paper envelope containing his x-rays. Sheepish, he retrieved it from his bag and handed it out to her. She smiled, then wrote down her phone number on it before giving it back to him with a pen, so that he could write his. In the end, she tore down the part where Sandor had scribbled his number and placed it in her purse. Always well-organized.
Sansa said she would call to give him the details about next Saturday then he suggested he could walk her to the Elder Brother's office: she didn't dare refuse his help.
As they headed to his friend's office, at the other end of the hallway, Sandor felt strange. No matter how hard he tried to keep a straight face, something inside him wanted to explode and to gloat. Unintendedly, his mouth curved in a twisted smile, while he felt a knot in his stomach. For once, he rued the Elder Brother's judgment, understanding his unusual behavior wouldn't go unnoticed.
He's going to see I'm bloody nervous. That, and something else he couldn't quite place, especially when Sansa's arm brushed his by accident, as they walked side by side, the girl adjusting her pace to his slight limp. Fuck it! He'll notice that I'm...happy.