Small Crimes
DISCLAIMER: I hold no rights to the characters used or referenced nor the novel mentioned, nor the song this was based on.
This text picks up where "Please Don't (Stand So Close To Me)" left off, it might not be understandable if you haven't read the first part.
I
It was torture, there was no other word for it. He clasped the steering wheel, held on for dear life, and by the time he had to shift up a gear, his fingers were so cramped he had trouble getting them to move at all.
The motor was wailing. The sweaty fingers of his left hand finally released the safety of the steering wheel. His throat felt very dry, to the point he was almost choking. He was scared, scared to extend his hand even remotely into her direction, terrified he wouldn't have the strength to stop it in time – she was so close, he wouldn't even have to stretch out very much to reach her.
Her skirt had wandered up her thigh, not very far, but far enough. He fought to keep his eyes on the road.
The girl was watching him from the side. Her blue eyes looked even brighter than usual in her pale face, and her hair lank and dark from the rain. With a shaking hand, he turned up the heating and went back to gripping the steering wheel as if his life depended on it.
"Left here, Mr Baelish."
He nodded, not trusting his voice enough to speak. Normally he sort of liked the way the girls addressed him, sir and all, but right now, he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from correcting her.
(It's Petyr.)
It wasn't normal, was it, the way he yearned to hear that soft voice speak his name. He dug his fingers into his leg, hoping the pain would numb everything… else that was burning through his veins, but it didn't help very much.
She was still looking at him, and he wondered how she could look at him so greedily and yet appear so innocent, and he wondered how anyone could blame him if he gave in to what she wanted-
It wasn't forcing her into anything, obviously, she was the driving force, he was an innocent victim-
"What were you doing out there?" His voice was hoarse, Jesus, he sounded like a chain smoker.
"I was at Dany's, for a school project. It's just a couple of blocks from the bus stop."
"What subject?" He wasn't sure yet whether it was a good idea to keep her talking, but he couldn't just do nothing, after all, could he?
"English. Mr Lannister seems to think we have too much time on our hands, we're supposed to hold a presentation about the main characters tomorrow and we've only just started the book a week ago."
"Lannister always reads," he muttered, staring out onto the road without seeing a thing. "He doesn't understand other people don't have the time." Breathe, Petyr. Breathe. "What are you reading?"
Was it really this hot in the car?
"Lolita. Nabokov," she replied softly, her eyes still on him.
"Well, he always thought he was funny," he said bitterly, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the leather even firmer.
"Why would that be funny?"
Fuck, had he said that out loud? "Never mind."
"Turn right at the traffic light," she instructed, then, almost as if she'd forgotten, "sir."
All he wanted was to pull over and have her there on that seat, and he didn't know for how long he could stop himself from doing just that. It couldn't be much further, he thought desperately, they were almost out of town, it couldn't be much further…
The rain was still streaming down the windshield, blurring his sight.
"So, are you taking driving lessons yet?" he asked stupidly, finding nothing else to say.
"Not yet. I turn eighteen in June," she replied.
Half your age, he thought. Goodness, she's half your age, you're sick. You're a sick old man and she's reading Nabokov-
He fought down a hysterical laugh. There it was again, life's fucked-up sense of humour that he was still learning to laugh about.
He wanted to say something, fill the hot air in the car, the ridiculously small space between them with a handful of meaningless words, but sadly he'd lost the thread of the conversation completely.
He turned the corner, rather inelegantly really (wherever had his driving skills gone to?), hit the second gear instead of the fourth. The motor gave an ear-splitting wail, Petyr swallowed a curse.
She was still looking at him, and his brain found nothing better to do than to imagine the feeling of her damp, thick hair between his fingers, his hand up her-
No. For fuck's sake, you're her teacher. Stopstopstopstopstop. You'd go to prison for that, stupid, brainless, pathetic idiot. Stop it.
When it had all started, he'd told himself he really needed a girlfriend.
By now, he was starting to think what he really needed was a good psychiatrist.
Why the bloody hell had he stopped in the first place? How could he have been stupid and masochistic and reckless enough to offer her a drive, how? Him of all people, Petyr the ever-careful, with all his plans and his schemes, Petyr who never did anything without a motive and a good reason?
Because this is your plan. Stop telling yourself you acted on impulse, you never do that, said a little voice in his head quietly, and somehow he felt a little calmer. That's the spirit, keep telling yourself that. You're not lost. You can take control back anytime you want.
Belatedly, he realised they'd left town. He almost never came this way, it wasn't one of the main roads, it was narrow and led through the forest.
"Did I take the wrong turn somewhere?"
"No," she said, a little too quickly. When he cast her a questioning sideward glance, she blushed and added: "Well, we could've taken a different road, but I thought this was…" She broke off completely, her cheeks glowing. His hands were starting to sweat again. He liked this look on her far too much.
"Yes?" he said softly when she didn't go on, his voice too low, too husky; Christ, was he really so obvious?
"…shorter," she replied breathlessly, casting her eyes down. He flexed his cramped fingers and slowed down a little, trying to calm his breath. It wouldn't work, though, and he had a feeling the delicious flush of her cheeks had something to do with it. Or the fact she had deliberately led them on a dark and lonely road…
"You're a dreadful liar, Sansa."
Something about what he'd said made her smile, and when he realised he'd called her by her first name, it was already too late.
"I'm sorry." She bit her lip in a pointless attempt to wipe the smile off her face and he quickly forced his eyes back on the road, wondering if she could drive him any crazier if she was doing it deliberately.
Then again, he supposed to a certain extent it was deliberate.
"That's a good thing, don't be sorry," he replied, staring stonily ahead.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her push a strand of red hair behind her ear. It had almost dried. "You don't strike me as the kind of person who… likes that." Her little bird-like voice had something bold to it. Oh, he bet she felt daring now, the sweet innocent little thing…
"Likes what?"
"People who can't lie."
So that's your image of me, darling, is it? Well, you're even brighter than I thought.
He smiled a little. Fine, if she wanted to play games with him… his turn. "Don't worry, I like you nonetheless."
Given the effect she had on his body functions, that was the understatement of the year.
Despite the blush on her cheeks, she was trying to act like she'd expected to hear that. Her flirting clearly lacked practice, but, bloody hell, it served its purpose...
"Besides, as your teacher… I shouldn't encourage you," he paused for breath, "to lie, I think."
They were in the forest now, where the rain couldn't reach them, and suddenly the car was so painfully silent he could hear her quivering breath-
"It wouldn't be right," she replied softly, then added, with a strange look in her blue eyes: "But people don't always want what's right."
There was nobody on the road, he hadn't seen a car for ages. It felt like they were alone in the world.
"Do you?" He had a feeling neither of them was talking about dishonesty anymore.
She made a long pause and for a split second he hoped she would stop him. His restraint was faltering, and if she didn't do something to bring him to terms, he didn't know what might happen.
"I did once," she finally said, looking him straight in the eye, and then added softly, sounding almost apologetic: "But I don't think I still do."
He was a mess. This was too much. Exhaling slowly, he pulled over, hit the brakes and shut the motor off. Nobody could expect him to drive in this state. He was only being responsible, really. There was another person in the car, and he was putting her in danger…
Well, that's the most ridiculous excuse you've ever come up with.
"Listen, I'll just assume I got you completely wrong and we'll forget about this," he said, but it came out so breathless and choked he couldn't blame her for not buying it. And he was pretty sure that, innocent as she was, she knew that someone who rejected her wouldn't stare at her the way he did.
"You didn't get me wrong, though."
"Sansa…" It was more of a groan than anything else and so his plea didn't quite match his intentions… or maybe it did. He couldn't think straight. His head was getting ahead of events in a lot of ways, and he was so tired of refusing her, and he couldn't breathe-
"You mustn't – I can't," he whispered, his voice without resolve. He had no idea what he was saying, but it sounded like an invitation. She just looked at him as if she'd been hypnotised, completely still, her breath going ragged. She looked fragile, beautiful, all wide blue eyes and full lips and she was so close, far too close, and Jesus, she was gorgeous, how was he supposed to resist-
The next thing he knew, there were silky, thick curls underneath his fingers, damp, cheap fabric and smooth skin; soft lips on his and slender fingers tangled in his hair.
Oh God, he was kissing his student. Or she was kissing him – was there even a difference?
His heart raced, both with panic and desire, he could feel the pulse all the way to his fingertips and throbbing somewhere in his throat. His hands wandered down her waist, up her knee – fucking hell, she's your student, get your hands off-
She pulled him closer with shaking fingers, a soft moan escaping her lips, and fuck, he wanted her more than ever, more than anything-
But no. Not here, not like this.
He was nothing if not careful and it couldn't exactly be called smart to fuck an underage girl from his history class in his car, in the middle of the night, on a lonely road somewhere in the forest. That sounded sick even to him.
Patience.
He pulled away gently, still caught in her blue eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, in shock, perhaps – she had just kissed her history teacher, he couldn't blame her.
He took a long time to catch his breath, calm his nerves, get his head straight.
"Enough," he murmured then, relieved his lying seemed to be up to his usual standards again.
"I didn't have that impression," she replied hoarsely, her eyes hazy.
Of course it wasn't enough, I'm not bloody fourteen, I'm not out for kisses –
"Didn't you, now." He sighed and tightened his grip around her shoulder. "Look at me. Sansa. Listen."
"I'm listening," she replied softly, visibly shaken by the sudden edge his voice.
"You will tell no one. It's better for you, sweetling. Nobody would believe you, and you'd be in an awful lot of trouble."
"I won't tell anyone," she said sincerely. "Why would I?"
He raised a brow at her. "Well, I imagine it's the kind of thing young girls tell each other."
"Just because I can't lie doesn't mean I don't know how to keep a secret. I'm not stupid," Sansa gave back, a faint trace of cheek in her voice this time. He liked that as well, as it turned out. Far too much. In an act of slight desperation, he rolled down his window slightly, hoping the cold October air would clear his head.
Taking a deep breath, he let go of her, started the motor again and continued down the road. It looked like he was back to clutching the steering wheel, then.
"I know you're not stupid. I corrected your test today," he replied without looking at her.
"Really? Will you tell me my grade?" There it was again, that hint of boldness in her soft voice.
"No, Miss Stark, I won't. You'll see it when you get the test back," he gave back, hiding a smile.
"Shame. Next street to the left," she instructed.
As soon as they'd left the forest, the rain drummed down on the windshield again and he hastily closed the window again. The air seemed to grow hotter again immediately, dense and sedating like a heavy perfume, and again, he felt like he wouldn't survive another minute in this car anymore.
They entered a small housing estate, fancy, freshly painted houses. Yes, this was just how he'd imagined. This was exactly how he'd pictured Sansa's life.
"Okay. You can stop here," she muttered and he hit the brakes a little too abruptly. She had to think him a terrible driver.
"Well then. Good night, Miss Stark." He didn't dare to look at her for longer than a few seconds, not trusting his resolve enough for anything else. The air in the car was too warm and seemed to be sizzling with unstruck lighting. He wanted to reach out and pull her back, tear that cheap unflattering uniform off her slender body-
Stop it. Stop.
She threw him a sharp, pensive look out of her gorgeous blue eyes, then smiled and said, nearly back to her usual, almost meek tone: "Thank you for driving me. Sir."
All he managed was a shaky smile in her direction.
It was almost relieving to have the car back to himself. He ran his hands over his face and took a few deep breaths.
Well, he'd got himself into a fine mess there. Jesus, he shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have, it was too risky, and besides, the frustration was tormenting him worse than ever.
Right. He needed to calm down now, he needed to drive back home, take a long, cold shower, and then he needed to make a plan. A foolproof, watertight, flawless plan.
After all, he wasn't himself without his plans.
II
Somehow, he got through the night, in a mixture of nightmares and the welcome numb haze of intoxication.
When his alarm clock blared at half past six, his flat looked a mess and he did as well, he found a considerable amount of empty bottles on his floor and was on the brink of a full-fledged panic attack.
What the fucking hell had he done?
And, the infinitely more important question, what in God's name was he supposed to do next?
Today. Third period. There was no escaping it. He couldn't hide at home forever, after all. Nor could he just quit, though that would probably be the safest solution – but he needed the money. He had never learned to play on the safe side when it came to financials, ever the juggler, he was always balancing debts and his salary and a little heritage.
Losing his job was not an option.
Changing classes. He'd made that a halfway impossible task as well. To everybody else's eyes, all there was were empty accusations and they would expect him to shrug them off, him especially. Petyr had had to deal with a wide and imaginative range of criticism, hostility and bullying all his life, and he had not let that kind of thing phase him for years. It would be utterly out of character for him to react to such a petty thing now. People would get suspicious. They would start prying.
He couldn't let that happen.
Nobody could find out, ever.
He sighed and sat down near the window with a coffee and an Aspirin, staring out on the rain splashing on the concrete. He had no choice but to carry on the way he had before. The thing was, how was he supposed to do that, now that temptation had turned into something so deliciously, terribly real? How was he supposed to resist now?
He faintly remembered an instruction he had had to sit through during his time at university. As it turned out, the only things that had stuck were abuse of position of trust and liable to imprisonment from three months to five years. It was enough to fuel his panic, though.
It wasn't the law he cared about, or prison for that matter, it was the idea of the government turning his entire life upside-down and forcing him to live how they saw fit, whether for three months or for five years. It was the loss of control that he wasn't prepared to suffer.
But he had no choice. And besides, he had the feeling he was about to get tangled up in an even bigger mess – and though that prospect frightened him to no end, he couldn't help a surge of dirty, bad, wrong excitement that he couldn't bring himself to feel guilty about.
Perhaps that meant he was somehow psychologically disturbed, but it could not be denied that the memory of her skin underneath his fingertips had infested his dreams and thoughts and he would have been lying if he'd said he didn't like that.
.
An hour later, he sat in the staff room, hungover, clutching a monstrous cup of coffee, and wished for stronger drugs. Or possibly death.
Oh God, in two periods' time he would be standing in front of the twelfth graders and hold his lesson about – fuck, what was today's topic? He'd had a lesson prepared, he was certain of it…
"You look awful."
He glanced up at the small man standing at the coffee machine and grimaced. "If you want to hear that seeing you made me feel all better, I'll have to disappoint you, Lannister."
Tyrion just grinned and took a seat next to him, unasked of course. "Sorry, mate. I tried."
Petyr took a sip from his coffee and tried to forget about his splitting headache. "Heard you torture your students with Nabokov."
The literature teacher raised a brow and unsuccessfully tried to fight back a wide grin. "You're not supposed to chat to them about Lolita, you're supposed to teach them history, Baelish."
"Half the girls had the book lying on their table when I came in. It wasn't hard to guess," he replied, slight aggressiveness in his voice. He blamed the hangover for the slip-up. "Point is, if you read such books with them, they never shut up in my lessons. It's like trying to teach a swarm of bees."
"D'you have the same problems, or is that just Baelish?" Tyrion asked, turning to the geography teacher sitting in the corner over a small stack of tests. Jorah Mormont hardly ever said anything and Petyr always had the feeling that everybody around him seemed to annoy him a little.
"I don't know if it's your books or if it's just the class," he answered with a shrug, not looking up from his tests. "They can be exhausting, you'll have to admit that, Tyrion."
"To some more than others, I guess," Tyrion gave back, smirking.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Mormont bit back, finally raising his eyes from the tests. There was a badly concealed edge of aggressiveness in his voice now.
"Well, just saying that you both have a… weakness sitting in this class. I don't, that makes it easier."
"A weakness?" Petyr repeated, concealing his nervousness with mock. "I don't seem to remember either of us fainting in class."
"Sure. And Sansa Stark is just another student."
"A pretty hot student, but yes," he replied with a shrug, his voice level and bored. Good, the caffeine had finally kicked in, then.
"How did I get dragged into all this?" Mormont interrupted impatiently.
"Please. We all know you've been pining over pretty Miss Targaryen for years." Lannister scoffed; Mormont looked rather speechless. It was true, everyone in the staff room knew, even Petyr who'd only been there for a little more than three months, but clearly he'd thought that none of them would dare to actually say it out loud.
"Trust me, I don't blame you. Either of you, really. They are exquisite-" Lannister had a more than insinuating ring to his voice now. Mormont looked about ready to throw something, and while Petyr definitely shared his feelings, he decided it was time to deescalate the situation a little.
"Sorry, but-" he raised his hands and forced a laugh into his voice, "we're the paedophiles? That's not fair. You read porn with them."
"In intellectual circles, we call that classic literature, Baelish."
He wanted to bury his face in his hands, but resisted the urge. Mormont did not.
"Christ, Lannister, don't you have a lesson to go to?" Petyr groaned and got up to refill his coffee cup.
"Sorry, did I hit a nerve?" Lannister gave back, grinning, took up his bag and left the room. Jorah Mormont sighed in relief.
"You shouldn't do that."
"Do what?"
"Talk back to Lannister. You'll lose," Mormont said darkly and took up his red pen again.
Petyr laughed. "Oh no. I can handle him."
"Don't judge him by his size," the geography teacher muttered. "He's the devil if he wants to be."
"You clearly don't know me very well," Petyr replied nonchalantly and rummaged through his briefcase. "You haven't seen a sheet with a lot of messy notes on it, by any chance?"
Mormont laughed and vigorously crossed out a passage on the sheet in front of him. "Yeah, around two thousand. Pycelle hasn't discovered the wonderful invention of files yet."
Petyr glanced over at Pycelle's place at the desk that was an utter mess and groaned.
"Well, the upside is, I've still got over an hour left to find the damn thing," he muttered and emptied his coffee cup.
Almost two hours until the lesson. Two hours. You'll live.
It's a sixty minute lessons. You'll live.
That makes three thousand and six-hundred seconds.
Oh God, I'll die of a heart attack.
.
When he gripped the door handle, he was shivering with cold, his head hurt and he felt sick. He didn't quite understand what had happened to his self-control. It should have been the easiest thing in the world, push down the handle, open the door, put down his briefcase and talk about –
God damn, he'd forgotten the bloody topic again. Right. The end of the Roman Empire.
He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Thankfully, Margaery Tyrell and her two best friends had decided to sit in the second rang this time. She and Daenerys were chatting to each other. For a moment, Petyr watched the Targaryen girl, took in her platinum blond waves, almost white, and her eyes of such a dark blue that it was bordering on violet. She was very pretty, no doubt, he could see what Mormont probably liked about her, but to him, she looked a little like one of those dolls that little girls liked to play with.
"Well then, ladies." Deep breaths. You got this. He rearranged his notes. "I, um… well, we covered the, uh, the Republic. So far. And we did Augustus, you remember that one, right?"
They all looked at him in a slightly confused way. Margaery raised a brow at him, almost as if to ask if he was okay.
"Well, I'm just asking 'cause… going by your tests, I can't say I had that impression."
That transition sounded almost normal, he thought and felt weirdly proud. "Fine, I'll give them back to you now and then we'll continue with the… the, the Empire and its end."
He got to his feet slowly – no sudden movements, his head was still spinning – and started to hand out the tests, then thought better of it and put the stacks down onto the table of one of the girls. He would get too close to her. Stupid.
"Miss Poole, hand them out if you would, please."
He returned to the welcome stability of his uncomfortable seat. As anticipated, the class erupted in excited chatter as soon as the first tests found their way into the hands of their owners, and he massaged his temples, trying to get rid of the excruciating headache.
"Ladies. Please. Keep the volume down, have some mercy on me."
For a split second, his resolve slipped and he glanced at Sansa. Her bright blue eyes caught his gaze and she smiled a little, a faint blush on her cheeks. He forced himself to look away.
"Alright then, we'll carry one. Miss Targaryen?"
Daenerys looked up, startled. "Yes, sir?"
"Mormont says you're quite good at geography."
"Um… suppose so, Mr Baelish?" she replied slowly, frowning at him.
"Well, in that case, would you mind drawing us a map of Europe on the board? Just a sketch."
"Sure." While she got up and walked up the aisle between the desk rows, Margaery and Sansa started to talk in whispers. He sighed.
"Miss Tyrell, Miss Stark-" Once again, she caught his gaze, her eyes locked with his, wouldn't let him go. That was certainly no remorse in her eyes, he thought, supressing a smirk. He cleared his throat and added, his voice a little low: "Silence, please."
"Sorry, sir," Margaery muttered; Sansa just cast her eyes down, her blush deepening a little.
"Mr Baelish? Sir?"
He flinched a little and turned around to Daenerys. "Yes?"
"Is that detailed enough?" she asked, nodding towards the sketch on the blackboard.
"What, yes. Yes, sure. Thank you." He glanced down at the notes again. "Ah, Miss Stokeworth. Would you mark all the parts of Europe that belonged to Rome at the time of Augustus?"
Lollys looked at him with her dull eyes and he sighed. "Fine then. Miss Tyrell, maybe you could add something to my lesson for a change."
He felt Sansa's eyes on him, and the memory of her kiss hot on his lips. He gripped the table top very firmly, until it hurt, tried to get his breathing under control and decided that unless he wanted the most embarrassing experience of his teaching career he'd better not get up any time soon.
Margaery had finished her sketch. He looked up to find Europe almost entirely white. Margaery's hands were as well.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" His voice was oddly croaky. "Thank you, Miss Tyrell, have a seat."
Oh God, he felt so hot. There was something seriously wrong with his body temperature. He loosened his shirt collar with shaky fingers and forced himself to get back on track.
"Who can tell me something about what happened after Augustus?"
Sansa's hand went up, Margaery's as well. After a while, Daenerys raised hers too.
"Ladies, really. You were supposed to read about that."
A few more hands went up slowly. Sansa was still looking at him, a tentative little smile tugging at her soft lips. He pinched his leg, trying to rid himself of those inappropriate feelings, at least for the time being. No use.
Look away. Look away.
He ran his fingers through his hair wearily and cast a helpless glance around the room: "Um… Miss Poole?" He had even forgotten what the question had been. Hopefully Jeyne wouldn't need him to ask again.
There was something like pride gleaming in Sansa's ice-blue eyes and his mind was immediately full of inappropriate and oh-so-sweet memories and even worse – even better – fantasies.
Fucking hell, this lesson was going to take forever.
III
"Excuse me, sir." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, steeling himself.
"Can I have a word with you, about my test?"
"Of course," he murmured and looked up at her. Her shirt collar was undone and her red hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wore make-up, very little, but still more than usual.
She stood very close to him, her hip inches from his shoulder. He could almost feel her warmth… all he would have to do was to accidentally-
Stop that, there are students in here.
"Sansa? Are you coming?"
"No, no. Go without me," she muttered and threw Daenerys a smile. "I'll catch up with you later."
Her friend shrugged and left the room. The door fell shut behind her with a thud; they were alone.
She sat down on the edge of his desk and looked at him with her bright eyes, almost bashfully.
"You look dreadful," she said very softly after a while.
"That's… deliberate," he replied and grimaced. "It's a new concept of drug prevention. The teacher serves as a negative example to scare his students off."
Sansa laughed. "Congratulations. It's working."
"You don't really want to talk about your test, do you?" he asked softly, but she smiled.
"I do. I don't quite understand why I got a-"
"A B?" He almost laughed. Christ, really, he couldn't believe her – he was seconds away from a heart attack and she asked about her bloody grade.
"Yes. I don't think there's anything missing."
"No, but I think you didn't exactly try very hard. You could have done far better," he replied, his voice a little husky. "I am giving you an incentive."
She was gnawing at her lower lip again, holding his gaze, and had quite clearly understood all the subtext and everything else he didn't dare to put into words-
Jesus, put yourself together. Focus. "Did you tell anyone?"
She shook her head.
"Daenerys? Margaery?"
An almost angry spark lit up in her blue eyes. "No. I'm not stupid." She turned her test over in her hands and asked tentatively: "Would they fire you? If they found out?"
He couldn't help a little laugh. "Before or after my prison sentence?"
She looked surprised by that. "Really, you go to prison for that kind of thing? I'm almost of age."
No, you don't go to prison for what I've done yet.
Flexing his fingers to keep his hands steady, he took a deep breath and said, very softly and hating every word of it: "Listen, Sansa, if… if I scared you or if-"
"No," she cut him off quietly.
"Let me finish," he said testily, but she just shook her head.
"The only thing that scares me is… what it does, that it's not…" She slid off the table, walked over to the window and stared out into the grey sky, then added so softly he almost couldn't hear: "That it's not enough."
He gave a little laugh that sounded hysterical even to his ears and buried his face in his hands for a moment. "Yes, that… that is pretty scary."
When she turned around and looked at him, her blue eyes were full of insecurity… and longing. He got to his feet and slowly walked over to her, somehow managing to ignore the fact that they were in school, that someone could come in any moment, that he was risking everything-
"Tell me…," he muttered, catching himself staring at her lips. "What is it that you want?"
She just looked up at him, Tully blue eyes big and sharp as ever. "I think you know that, sir."
He cringed. "Please don't call me that, it makes me feel old."
A smile twitched around her lips and something shorted out in his brain, he gripped her shoulders and kissed her. It was an innocent enough kiss compared to last night, but hell, it was still madness. What if someone came in, if someone saw…? He would never get out of this.
I don't want to get out of this, he thought dazedly and pulled her closer, buried his fingers in her soft red hair. His head was spinning, but at least the headache was gone…
When he let her go, she looked flushed and a little dishevelled. After a moment of hesitation – why did he even hesitate, a second ago he'd been all over her, there was no bloody point in personal space anymore – he reached out and straightened her hair.
"Go," he muttered then, forcing himself to take a step away from her. "Please, just go. I don't know what I'd," he broke off and shook his head. "Go, please, and don't-"
"Don't tell anyone," she gave back with a smile. "I won't."
"Good," he said, a little breathless, desperately trying to at least convey some confidence and self-assurance if the authority would not do his bidding.
She turned to leave, then froze, her hand on the door handle. "Um, sir… no, sorry, I shouldn't call you-"
He leaned against the cold window pane, feeling exhausted and dizzy. "Petyr," he cut her off softly.
A small smile played around her lips. "Petyr."
He could hardly remember people ever actually using that name. No, as a kid the others had called him by that idiotic nickname, the one he'd secretly hated so much (but it would have only given them satisfaction to see that the name hurt, so he'd adopted it anyway). And later, at university, at work, he'd been Baelish. In fact, he doubted the other teachers even remembered his first name.
Still, none of that justified how much he relished in that sound, her soft bird voice saying those two familiar syllables.
"What do we do?" she asked, avoiding his eyes.
Sighing, he ran his hands through his hair and shrugged. "I'll think of something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, I haven't thought of anything yet," he replied irritably and turned away from her for a moment, wiping Daenerys's sketch off the blackboard with a lot more care than strictly called for.
"…I'll see you on Monday, then," she said quietly and he cringed. Yes, four days, ninety-two hours, and then he'd see her. In class.
Great.
"Yes. Have a nice weekend."
Jesus, you're just the height of embarrassing. What happened to you, Petyr Baelish? Angrily, he stuffed the sponge back into its place and wiped his chalky hands on his jeans, deciding he would not – could not – leave it like that.
"Sansa."
Once again, she stopped halfway through leaving the room. "Yes?"
For some reason, he felt braver now, or maybe it had all just stopped to matter – after all, he'd corrupted her far enough to come to him after lessons, kiss him, beg for more; Christ, how much worse could he still do? So what if she was seventeen, to hell with the bloody law, he'd reached the infamous point of no return anyway, hadn't he?
So he crossed the distance between them with a few brisk steps and kissed her, the way he'd wanted to for months, ignoring all the reasons why this was wrongwrongwrong-
No, he didn't care anymore. This was what he wanted, and he would take it, end of story.
She responded with surprising intensity even for a schoolgirl trying to seduce her teacher, pulled him closer, stumbling backwards against the door.
Not that he'd needed encouragement. This time, he didn't stop his hands from going wherever they wanted.
Didn't stop himself at any point, really.
He'd forgotten why he should have, somewhere between spotting her in the front row in his history class and hearing her breathe his name against his lips.
A wicked kind of triumph glittered in her gorgeous blue eyes and he knew he'd never bring himself to regret this.
.
Now I'd go to prison, he thought, but as long as she was inches away from him, he didn't even feel the panic that should have consumed his every thought by now.
"I'll find a way," he said softly. She just replied, with a faint smirk playing around her red lips:
"Well, now you'll have to."
He threw her a dark look, fighting back a grin. "You cheeky little-"
She was still smiling back at him, then cut him off with a kiss. She was surprisingly gentle with him now, given what had just happened, but he was fine with that. He wondered if she could see how vulnerable she'd made him, and ninety percent of the time he hated that, but right now, he wasn't going to complain.
The bell struck. With an insecure little smile she let go and wound out of his arms. That blush glowing on her cheeks again, she adjusted her crumpled school uniform and disappeared through the door before he could say anything else.
He stared after her for a moment, then straightened his shirt and took a deep breath, trying to wipe the grin off his face.
Well. There are worse crimes.
*A/N* First of all, I can't really tell why he swears so much, I know he doesn't in the novels, but I kind of felt like it was in character for him in this situation. Secondly, I initially planned to end it with the first scene, but then I remembered the kissing scene in the Eyrie. I always kind of had the feeling he expected her to push him away. He could have done anything with her, but he didn't. I wanted that reluctance in, so I added the other scenes. Something else that influenced the ending of this (you might laugh at that...) was a clip from "Queer as Folk" I stumbled across on YouTube. You know, the UK version. With Aidan Gillen. As far as inspirations go, I think that's pretty strange, but I still like how it turned out ;)
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