Title: The Clock Keeps Ticking
Summary: the days grow more frequent where he's sure he'll never see her again
Rating: K+
Words: 905
Notes: short and sweet Tumblr prompt
She shook his shoulder, gently at first. When he didn't stir, she tugged at his hair and tapped his cheeks. It was a routine she developed after she had found him again; when she'd wake up sweaty and convinced someone was following them and that they had to make camp somewhere else. Gendry never questioned it, he allowed her to fret and move for as long as she like so long as she didn't kill herself in the process. Shaking his shoulder never woke him, it was only when she'd poke and prod at him that he'd wake up like an angry bull be tempted by his master.
Gendry's eyes were slow to open. His hand comes around her backside though, rubbing soothing circles in one of the habits he developed when she was too upset to vocalize her troubles. Arya didn't wait for his eyes to open completely before she leans over him, pressing a kiss to his cheek and whispering her promise. "I have to go, but I'll be back. Wait for me."
When she pulled away, Gendry was nodding and rolling over to her side of the bed.
He heard by word of mouth.
He'd taken care to bury the old Blacksmith deep in the forest so he can rest undisturbed. Gendry could never say his name, and only referred to him as Old Man. Old Man didn't care, just appreciated a young set of hands to bare majority of the load. Gendry had found him on the floor beside his cot, face blue and skin puffy. He wrapped him in his finest clothing and loaded him into the wheel barrow alongside his shovel. Shop was closed the first part of the day now that there was no need to burn the bodies.
The housewives had been washing the linens. Through one's hiccuping sobs and the others coddling, Gendry was able to gather that the battle had gone south. Many of the men – and women, in his case – will return with the Silent Sisters. He did not worry; killing Arya Stark was like meeting the Old Gods and the New. Impossible.
He stopped hammering at the breast plate when he heard the shouts. Women and children ran past, each and every one of them tripping over the person before in an effort to greet their loved ones. Gendry waits in the opening of the shop, leaning against the pillar. His height gives him an advantage, but the setting sun and the faces of all the mounted and grounded men blur. Arya will come to him when she can, he tells himself, and turns back to the task at hand.
She doesn't come.
He doesn't sleep.
It brings him comfort to hear – three days after their return – that this was only the beginning of the caravan. Others were to arrive at their own pace now that they had regained their territory. Gendry tried to milk more out of the man, but all he got was bread chunks and ale staining his boots.
When he was scrubbing at the leather, he tried to ignore the thought of Arya, drunk off of ale and victory being attacked by vengeful soldiers.
The next part of the caravan arrived in the wee hours of the morning two weeks after the first arrived. Gendry had heard of soldiers returning on foot, battle scarred and alone, but alive nonetheless. He'd never see them – it was always while he was failing at fending off sleep – but he heard the tales as he'd hammer out the dents in swords and breastplates alike. He'd never tell anyone, but he was afraid to learn of their business in the woods.
Loved ones gather and cheer. Women throw rice and reveal their bosoms. Cheers grew louder as the sound of their return woke more and more. Gendry waited to hear her tiptoe up the steps, but it never came.
She doesn't come.
He doesn't sleep.
The hollows under his eyes were bruised and deep. His stubble had grown in and his hair had begun to tangle. Her side of the bed is crushed under his massive weight, her pillow squished under his arm and his face buried into the side of it. She wonders if he had fallen asleep smelling it.
She thinks about surprising him downstairs. Sitting beside his hammer, or perhaps moving the hammer elsewhere to send him searching for it and her. It would be fun in her mind, to see his eyes scan over her as if she had always been there, and take his hammer away from her before he comes to his senses. Being called M'lady wouldn't, but he'll do it regardless, just to see her face flush and her fist curl.
He's tired, though. She can see it by the craters under his eyes and the way his body rises and falls with his breathing. He snores louder, too. Gendry doesn't believe her when she tells him so, but she reminds him of his nickname and it shuts him up quick enough.
Arya moves to her side of the bed. It's small for him, and smaller for the two of them together, but they make it work. She kicks off her boots and then kicks him in the arm. Gendry jumps, as if she's woken him from a nightmare. "M'lady," he yawns.
She punches him when he wraps his arm around her.