A/N: So, I'm going to kind of gloss over most of the visit to the immigration office, simply because I want the rest of the story to get going. Hope you enjoy!

The rest of the day dragged by slowly. Sansa had no clue how everyone had managed to find out about her fake engagement, but she blamed Robert Baratheon and his booming voice. The man wasn't exactly subtle.

Fellow employees passed by her desk with crude remarks, and she was even cornered in the break-room by some of the women, demanding details while they tapped their manicured nails against their hips impatiently and pouted their lipstick-covered mouths when she gave them an unsatisfactory answer. It hadn't even occurred to Sansa that the other women in the office might be jealous of her situation; were they insane? Maybe they were just desperate. Not that they had any right to complain. As far as Sansa knew, Mr. Clegane had never given any of them time of day, much less shown any interest that could be conveyed as flirting. She snorted. Mr. Clegane, flirting? It was unthinkable. She wondered when he had last been on a date. Sansa couldn't recall him ever mentioning one, but then, he was secretive, closed off individual.

And it wasn't like she cared, anyways.

At five o'clock, she and her boss took a cab to the immigration office downtown. Sansa tried to rehearse her "script" in her head. She wasn't a good liar, especially when she was nervous, and this meeting with the immigration officer had her biting her nails in dread. Mr. Clegane, or Sandor, as she now needed to think of him, seemed relatively calm, albeit irritated, like this was just some mindless errand that was a complete waste of time. For once, Sansa envied his ability to have no conscious.

"You know what to say, right?" he asked suddenly, breaking her out of her miserable thoughts. Sansa squirmed, gripping her hands together in her lap. "Yes. But it might be best if you do most of the talking. This is your idea, after all." Sandor rolled his eyes and went back to texting some client. "I will, but it will be strange if you don't say much. Just relax." It was Sansa's turn to roll her eyes. Relax. Right.

They reached the office and Sansa followed her boss into the building. He was carrying a folder filled with his documentation and handed it to the front desk agent. "Mr. Clegane, right this way." The agent led them to a tiny room that contained a desk and two chairs, and gestured for them to sit. Sansa accepted a seat gratefully. She felt like she was going to throw up. "Mr. Baelish will be with you shortly," the agent said, then left them, shutting the door. The room felt instantly crowded, and Sansa was very aware of Sandor's intimidating form reluctantly taking a seat next to her, his eyes running over the office with boredom. "How can you not be nervous?" Sansa whispered, though no one else could hear them. Or could they? Maybe there was a microphone hidden somewhere in the room, to catch criminals like they were about to be.

Sandor eyed her in annoyance. "Look, it's not my fault there's a loop-hole in the system. I'm merely taking advantage of it. If anything, it's their fault for having such an option. Now, act casual and quit biting your nails." Sansa scowled at him, wishing she could pout like a five year old. He frowned back at her. "Don't look so unhappy, we are supposed to act like we're madly in love." Sansa plastered a fake smile on her face and batted her eyelashes at him. "Well, sweetheart, it's hard to pretend that I'm in love with you when you're BLACKMAILING me." Sandor gave her smirk, baring his teeth slightly. "Don't forget what happens to you if I'm deported, babe."

The door opened suddenly, making Sansa jump, and they both turned to see a short man with graying brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache enter the room. "Good afternoon," he greeted pleasantly, though something about his voice made Sansa uncomfortable. "Mr. Clegane?" They shook hands, then Mr. Baelish turned to her. His grey eyes ran over her in a way that made her skin crawl, but Sansa forced a smile and shook his hand too. The man sat down behind his desk, opening the folder he took from Sandor, and buttoned his coat. "Shall we begin?"

He asked some questions about how they met and fell in love, and Sansa let Sandor talk about that, while she kept a happy smile on her face and even patted his hand when he reached over to take hers. His palm was large and warm and rough, and Sansa was torn between feeling intrigued and wanting to push it away from her in disgust. "Now, is your family aware of this engagement, Miss Stark?" Mr. Baelish inquired. Sansa panicked for a moment. Her family. She hadn't even thought of them! "Oh…well, no, they aren't. Not yet. I was…we were…" "Going to tell them this weekend, at Gammie's birthday party," Sandor interrupted smoothly. Sansa froze, barely managing a nod in agreement. "I see," Baelish answered, glancing between them. "And where is this party?" Sandor hesitated, then turned to Sansa. "Where is it again, babe?" To an outsider, his gravelly voice would sound apologetic for forgetting something so important, but Sansa had worked for him long enough to know it was really dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? It's in Sitka." "Sitka," Sandor repeated. Sansa nodded, then unleashed the next word with a bit of gratification. "Alaska." She felt Sandor tense for a split second, before he relaxed again, as if this wasn't new information to him, yet she felt him grip her hand harder. She only felt a morbid smugness over catching him off-guard.

The feeling had long gone by the time they left the office and the stifling presence of Mr. Baelish, Sansa walking in a daze while irritation rolled off of Sandor in waves. "This is just great," he growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm so dead," Sansa whispered, wondering what she had done to deserve this. Sandor glanced at her, sighed, and loosened his tie. "Ok. Fine. We'll go do this birthday party thing in Alaska, come back, prove to that creeper in there that we know each other, bla bla bla, and…" "I'm sorry," Sansa interrupted, staring at him incredulously. "Were you not in that office?" Sandor arched a brow at her.

"I am facing a fine of $250,000 and five years in prison, Sandor, for helping you. Prison!" Her nerves were fried. "And now, thanks to your genius idea, I have to bring you home to meet my entire family as proof that we are getting married for real." Sandor continued to look unimpressed with her outburst. "We aren't going to get caught," he replied, folding his arms. "People do this all the time. They're just trying to scare you." "Yea? Well, it's working!" Sansa ran a hand through her tousled curls, exhaling. Then she turned to him, straightening her shoulders.

"If I'm going to do this, then I want more in return. Besides keeping my job." Sandor eyed her suspiciously, then shrugged. "What do you want?" Sansa licked her lips, gathering courage. She had never stood up to him like this before, and the opportunity was frightening as well as exhilarating. "I want my manuscript to be published." Sandor nodded. "Done."

"And…I want to become Editor. And not in two years. As soon as we get married." Sandor scoffed and shook his head. "No way. That is not happening." Sansa glared at him. "Fine. Then I quit, and you're screwed. Bye bye, Sandor." She started to walk away when his hand reached out and grabbed her elbow. "Okay! You'll be Editor. And your stupid book will get published. You happy now?" Sansa looked up into his frustrated, scarred face, and read the slight desperation in his dark eyes, and she couldn't resist making him suffer a bit more. It was only fitting, since he had elected to ruin her life. "There's one more thing," she answered sweetly. "You have to propose to me." Surprise flashed over his face, settling into a scowl.

"Right now?" "Yes. Right now."

Sandor's mouth twitched angrily, and he sighed. "Sansa, will you marry me?" He couldn't have sounded less enthusiastic if he tried. Sansa shook her head, enjoying the small bit of control she now had in this situation. "No."

Sandor threw up his hands. "What do you mean, "no"?" Sansa folded her hands and smiled. "You have to do it properly, on one knee." He stared at her like she was crazy, but Sansa remained unflinching. With pure detest, he slowly sank to one knee in front of her, on a busy sidewalk in New York City. "Sansa," he spoke through gritted teeth. "Lovely, sweet Sansa, will you marry me?" It was killing him to say this; she could practically taste the fury oozing from him. Sansa tapped one finger against her chin in consideration.

"Okay. See you tomorrow at the airport!" She spun away quickly, leaving him there on one knee while passerby gave them curious glances.

This weekend was going to be hell.

Sansa sat in the waiting area by the gate, tapping her foot against the ground nervously while she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. She had spent a good portion of the evening talking to her parents, explaining to them that she was now, indeed, coming home for the weekend, and bringing her boyfriend, who also happened to be her boss, whom she had also painted as the image of Satan for the past three years. Her father had remained suspicious and disbelieving, while her mother eventually accepted the excuse that Sansa and Sandor had been dating for the past six months but Sansa had been too afraid to mention the change to her family after she had so thoroughly convinced them that he was like a slave master.

"I promise I'll explain everything more when we arrive," Sansa had said, eager to get off the phone and pack. And think of how they were going to pull this weekend off. She had refrained from telling them that they were engaged, hoping to be able to slip by that little detail. Sansa knew, however, it was more likely that that would be brought to light soon enough. How could she hide a marriage, even a fake one, from her family? They would figure it out eventually.

Sansa had pulled out her leather weekender bag from the closet and meticulously folded and unfolded clothes for the trip. She still had some clothes at home in Sitka, clothes that she had decided she would never wear in the city, that she could resort to should her packed wardrobe fail her. After she was sure everything was ready, she texted Sandor to let him know what time their flight was and what gate it should be. He was going to buy the ticket when he got to the airport, while Sansa chose to buy hers online.

She had tossed and turned all night, dreading the weekend, wishing for it to be over, but morning came and she dragged herself to the airport, and now here she sat, waiting for Sandor to show up. She fiddled with the strap of her bag anxiously. She had spent good chunks of time together with Sandor before, but it was always about business. They never discussed personal things. Unless it was little insignificant facts, like how he hated too much starch on his collars, how he liked his coffee, that he ate his steak rare, etc. They had each been given a packet full of questions from Mr. Baelish, questions that a couple in love and about to be married should know about each other. Sansa had only peeked at them so far, but it was enough to sink her heart. How were they going to memorize all of those in one short weekend?

A group of laughing exchange students passed by her, causing her to look up, and she saw Sandor walking towards her. The sight made Sansa's mouth drop a little.

She had never seen him without a suit or dress clothes. He didn't wear anything fancy, keeping to the simple white shirt and black jacket and pants with dark-colored ties, and it wasn't unusual to see him on a particularly late night peeling off the jacket and rolling up his sleeves, giving a more disheveled appearance. But today, he wore a pair of dark-wash jeans and a grey t-shirt, which hugged his frame and accentuated his muscles. Sansa knew he was built, that was obvious enough from his size. Plus, she had snuck a look at his clothing when she picked up his dry cleaning. But to see him looking like this, casually walking through the airport, carrying a black Nike duffel bag over his shoulder so she could see the muscles in his arm flexing slightly from the angle…it made her swallow hard.

Her boss spotted her and walked over, and she squirmed when she realized that he, too, was studying her appearance. Sansa liked to be comfortable when traveling, so she had chosen her favorite skinny jeans, a striped tee from J-Crew (which she had discovered in a thrift store, thank you very much), and a navy blue cardigan. She hadn't even given her choices a second thought, but now, seeing him scrutinize her, she felt like she should be dressed in a blouse and pencil skirt again.

Sandor paused in front of her. "Hi," she said, feeling foolish. His mouth twitched as he nodded to her, and took a seat, plopping his bag next to him. "Ready to meet everyone?" Sansa asked, wondering why she was even bothering with conversation. Sandor crossed his arms. "I guess. You told them?" "Yes…they…were very surprised, so we can expect a lot of questions." He grunted in response and continued to stare off into the distance. Sansa took a deep breath, remembering what she had rehearsed the night before.

"Sandor…you know, if you want this to work and sound convincing, you're going to have to be…sociable. As in, friendly. As in…not acting like you're about to kill everyone in sight." Her boss's head swiveled to look at her, and she cringed. He seemed to contemplate her words for a moment before shrugging. "I can do that."

Sansa gave a noise of disbelief. "What? You don't think I can do that? That I can be…friendly, as you say?" It was her turn to shrug. "I think you can, but it's going to require you to stop snacking on children while they dream." He glowered at her, and she resisted the urge to cringe again. It was her favorite line from a book they had recently edited, and she knew he had picked up on her reference.

"Hmph…well, maybe friendly is pushing it, but I can be civil," he muttered. With a twinge, Sansa briefly wondered if she had hurt his feelings, but brushed it aside. It was his fault she was in this mess, she shouldn't feel any sort of remorse for making sure he knew how much she resented this. "You're the one that needs work," Sandor continued. "I think you barely convinced that Mr. Baelish. If he hadn't been so busy leering at you, I doubt he would've bought the story." Sansa started and looked at him, aghast. "Leering? What?" Sandor chuckled dryly. "You didn't notice? He was practically undressing you with his eyes, the creep." Sansa shuddered slightly. She had noticed, but had tried to forget it. What surprised her was that Sandor had noticed it as well, and he seemed…well, disgusted? Protective? "Why do you care?" she blurted, and instantly regretted the question.

Sandor pulled out his phone. "Don't mistake my comment for fondness," he rasped as he checked his emails. "I was merely pointing out the fellow is a creep. But he's smart. You'll have to do better this weekend with your family." Sansa felt deflated for some reason.

They boarded the plane, and after take-off, Sandor pulled out the packet of questions, "We might as well look at these," he said, waving them at her. Sansa groaned, wishing she could just put her earphones in and sleep, but she knew this needed to be done. "Fine." She took out her own packet so she could follow along. "These are some stupid ass questions. What am I allergic to?" Sandor questioned. "Pine nuts, and the full spectrum of human emotion," Sansa answered dully. Sandor's lips curled back as he grimaced at her.

"Why don't you stop being a bitchy little bird and take this seriously?" he fired back with a threatening growl. Sansa gaped at him, flushing with anger. "A bitchy little bird?" He nodded, looking satisfied that he had hit her buttons. "Yes. You're always chirping like a bird, and now you're being bitchy. So you're a bitchy little bird." Sansa clenched her fists as they stared at each other with loathing. Finally she sighed, closing her eyes and counting to ten. "Alright. Fine. That was unnecessary. I apologize." When she looked at him again she managed to see a quick flash of surprise cross his face before he settled back into his usual countenance.

"Hmph…well…" Sandor sighed, picking at the staple that held the papers together. Sansa rolled her eyes. I guess that's his version of accepting an apology.

A/N: I hope you liked that I made Baelish the immigration officer. I tried to pick a character that annoys me the most lol