Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: They meet each other again, a year after the fire that tore so many lives apart, in the waiting area of the small office, struggling to find some sort of semblance of peace. Sandor Clegane just wants to forget the memories of the flames. Sansa Stark just wants to forget the memories of her past. In between, the Elder Brother reminds them what it means to live.
A/N: This one is for bestrafemich21. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed/kudos'd/bookmarked/followed/favorited, shoutouts are at the bottom. Hope you all enjoy! Reviews are always appreciated and any mistakes are mine and mine alone!
Warning: relevant for all chapters. There is mentions and discussions of violence against women (Sansa) as well as the other warnings in the tags. In case these are triggers.
WARNINGS: AU, PTSD, very coarse language, violence, violence against women (memories), bullying, mentions of blood, killing, arson, intimidation, political stuff (though let's be real, it's a backdrop), past abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, self-esteem issues, healing, kissing, sex, there are others that I'm missing but I will add them when I remember them. PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS.
The lights weren't that bright (but our eyes were tired)
Part 3
Oh what a day to choose
Torn by the hours
All that I say to you
Is like fuel to fire
Fuel to fire – Agnes Obel
It's only when he takes the seat across from her, his form hulking in the too small chair and even smaller table, his knees bumping into hers and sees the instant blush and shy smile flit across her face, that he realizes he's filthy.
She's prim and proper, light pink with fire for hair and bright blue eyes and he's rough, dust and dirt covering his jeans and work boots, his shirt stained with sweat marks, half of his face burnt and she's smiling like they're on some sort of first fucking date.
Jesus, he's not only physically filthy but he's mentally disgusting as well. He's seen her beaten, bruised and bloodied and all he can think about, all that rushes through his head is the way her teeth gnaw at her bottom lip and how she is so incredibly tiny in comparison to him. I could crush her, he thinks to himself, she's fragile and delicate and breakable (but he never broke her. He never hit her. Except for the time he did put his hands on her, pushing her out and away from the life she had no business getting involved in and he remembers the way she flinches, he remembers the way her thin arms felt in his bone crushing grip and he can remember seeing the bruises already form as soon as he let go.)
His black coffee is burning his hands from its heat and he looks at her, her hair curling with the heat and he sees her cup, full of something red and slushy, condensation leaving a puddle in the shape of the bottom rim.
"So," she says, breaking the silence between them, "how have you been?" It's softly asked and with real interest.
It infuriates him.
"You want to know how the Dog has been?" Sandor scoffs, his voice snarling, face twisting in an even uglier state than it's usually in. Do you want to know about fire? About how I feel it every single fucking day? Do you want to know that I replay that night every single fucking day? (He doesn't think about which night he means, the night he was burned and the night he watched Stannis Baratheon's house burn haunt him both equally, triggering something vicious and stifling in himself that he thought had long since been smothered out.)
Her fingers spread the dew from her cup around, making inane shapes with the water. "The Elder Brother says talking-"
"Fuck the Elder Brother." He snaps, his voice rising and he refuses to be ashamed at the sudden looks he's getting from the other patrons. He refuses to meet their eyes as they finally see his face and gasp, looking away and then back at him again, as if reassuring themselves he's real. That his burnt face is real.
"Then why are you seeing him?" Sansa snaps back, her eyes filled with fury and he oddly feels proud of her in that moment and he can see the long way she's come and he wonders if the north did her as good as he believes it did.
He runs a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair and watches her as she keeps eye contact with him (since when did his little bird start look him in the face without flinching?) He owes no one an explanation. He's gone his entire life doing things his way, not letting anyone close enough to see everything he hides. He's been twice cursed by fire, the first destroying his life, morphing him into the beast he is and the second destroying what was left of his sanity. No, he thinks, I've given enough, I owe no one anything.
Except, that's not entirely true, is it? His eyes never stray away from Sansa's. They're still the bright blue he remembers (and he thinks if he looks at them enough, he'll drown, she'll be the death him, this little bird who has suffered and gone through so much and still manages to reach out to one of her past tormentors. He never did anything to her, never raised a hand to her physically, and somehow, he thinks that's worse), her eyes are still silently defiant and still looking at him, awaiting his answer.
(In the back of his mind, he hears the cackling of fire and he hears the hiss as everything burns to the ground and he feels the heat and he hears something keen and wail and with a shock, he recognizes it as her voice as Blount and Trant's feet connect with her stomach.)
He never should have waited for her.
When he left the waiting area, unable to handle the receptionist's stare and curious glances, he should have kept walking down the hall, down the stairs and out the front doors, blending into the mass of people. He should not have waited outside the door like a lost dog (but that's all he is, a dog, waiting for his new master), but he did and nothing could stop the clenching of his stomach and chest at her radiant smile and breathy, "you stayed," mind going in a dozen directions that it shouldn't be going in.
"Why do you care, girl?" He leans forward, his face twisting in anger. He's close enough to smell her drink on her breath, it smells of lemons and strawberries and it's intoxicating. "Do you expect me to bare my soul so that it can make you feel better about staying with that little shit when you should have been smart and left? Do you want to feel vindicated? Or are you pretending to actually give a flying fuck about an old dog like me, just to make yourself seem righteous?"
It's instinctive, he thinks, as he watches her eyes pool with unshed tears and the way her body deflates and the way her bottom lip trembles and how she tries to stop it by clenching down on it hard with her teeth, to be such a fucking asshole.
(She's a fragile little thing and he's hardened by his years that surpass hers. And it's all he knows what to do, be an asshole and shatter the breakable.)
"You're being cruel." She states the obvious, her hands in her lap and even away from his eyes, he knows she's wringing them.
He is being cruel, he concedes, but it's for her own good. He's not a good man. A good man would have put a stop to her beatings before they even started. A good man would have swept her away in the middle of the night, making sure that she never returned. A good man would not have set fire to a man's house with him and his daughter still inside of it. No, Sandor Clegane is many things, a murderer, a victim, an enforcer, but he is not a good man.
"That's life. It's a cruel bitch, taking everything away from you and then leaving you for dead. You of all people should know that."
She sucks in a deep breath, stands up, scraping the legs of her chair against the floor and grabbing her bag, slinging it over her shoulders. She doesn't say anything, but he sees the way she shakes and the way she's clenching her jaw, that she's minutes (seconds) from breaking down.
She doesn't say anything, just walks by him and then pauses when she's directly next to him, "I never once thought of you that way. As a dog or hound, or anything else they called you." Sansa confesses. "You were crude and mean but always truthful and never cruel." She shakes her head and shrugs and suddenly, she looks so much older than her twenty-one years, "you helped me and…I just…" she falters and Sandor wants to snarl at everyone who can't take their eyes off of them, "thank you."
And then she walks away from him, out the front door and down the street, until he can't see her anymore and she's just another body amongst the masses, struggling to find their way home.
He brings her ice and bandages one night, when the house is dark and silent and he knows she's still up. She's in the kitchen (she's always in the kitchen) staring into nothing, just holding on to her ribs and attempting to hide the pain. He sighs and helps her that night, telling her to keep quiet and sets to work silently, mending his broken little bird. His anger grows when he sees the dark marks and welts on her body and he tries to be as gentle as he can be.
She grabs one of his hands when he's done, gripping it in her small ones and she looks up at him, blue eyes filled with unshed tears. "You won't hurt me." It's not a question, it's a statement.
"No, little bird," he says after a moment of silence lapses between them, "I won't hurt you."
"Are you done with that?" An irritating voice asks him.
He looks up at a barista, hands on her hips and chewing her gum obnoxiously. "No." He snaps, when she moves to throw out Sansa's drink.
The barista holds her hands up in mock surrender and turns around. "Okay."
Instead, Sandor makes himself stare at the red slushy beverage as condensation leaves a puddle around the bottom rim of the cup and he makes himself stare at the seat she just vacated.
He owes no one anything.
(But that's not entirely true, is it?)
"You're crankier than usual." Bronn states as he lounges in his chair.
"It's fucking hot out." Sandor replies, his voice gravelly.
Bronn frowns, "it's summer. Of course it's fucking hot." He shakes his head, "but that's not it. You're from here…no, this is more," he leans forward and a lewd grin crosses his face, "Sandor, are you sexually frustrated?"
"If you don't shut the fuck up, I will kill you."
"I'll let him do it too." Jorah says as he walks in from the heat, a handful of blueprints under his arms.
Bronn rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, you always liked him better than me."
"It's because you're annoying as shit." Sandor flatly tells him.
"And you're such a ray of sunshine." Bronn retorts.
"Are you two ladies finished? Because we have work to do."
After their done, they leave pack up the papers, roll up the blueprints and Bronn gives them a slight wave as he leaves. Sandor, is at the door when Jorah calls his name. When he turns around, he finds Jorah staring at him, eyes furrowed, a small crease of worry lining his face.
"Everything good?"
Sandor nods. "Everything's good."
Jorah knows it's a lie but he doesn't push it and Sandor finds himself grateful.
(It's been exactly a week since he last saw Sansa Stark and he can't get her tear-filled stricken face out of his mind.)
"I should have saved her." Sandor admits to the Elder Brother after fifteen minutes of silence.
"Who should you have saved?" The Elder Brother asks, even though Sandor has a feeling he knows the answer.
He doesn't answer him; instead, he leans back against the leather couch and sinks into it, hoping to disappear. "It doesn't matter. I should have saved her."
"But you didn't."
"No. I didn't."
"How do you know that?" The Elder Brother asks him carefully.
"What?"
"I said, how do you know that you didn't save her? Whoever she is, whatever happened, how do you know that you didn't save her?"
"Because she's fucking broken." Sandor snaps. "He fucking broke her and I watched and didn't do a damned thing until it was too late."
"Language, Sandor." The Elder Brother chides. He falls silent and levels him with a stare. "You say that you should have saved her, indicating that you didn't. You say that she is broken, indicating present tense. You say that you didn't do anything, whatever it was, until it was too late, indicating that you did, indeed, do something."
"What's your point?" He sometimes gets so fucking sick of the riddles the Elder Brother likes to spin.
"You didn't save her." The Elder Brother repeats quietly, "whoever she might be, but you did keep her alive, Sandor and quite possibly, you may be the only thing keeping her alive. Isn't that more important?"
Sandor waits out the rest of his session in silence and the Elder Brother doesn't make to talk again.
He should feel surprised when he walks back into the waiting area, where the receptionist perks up at the sound of the door opening, and sees her, legs crossed at the ankles and a long skirt covering her legs, a plain white t-shirt covering her upper body. She doesn't slouch, doesn't sink into the chair like he often does and not for the first time, he recognizes her for the woman she's become and it makes his heart beat faster and it makes him stop in his place.
Do you want to feel vindicated? Or are you pretending to actually give a flying fuck about an old dog like me, just to make yourself seem righteous?
God, he feels ashamed when he thinks back on that day, one week ago. He recognized what she wanted the moment she saw him. Companionship. Maybe a silent shoulder to cry on, or maybe someone to help her remember that she's still alive and Joffrey didn't kill her, he came close, but he didn't. At least not really. (No, instead, Sandor can take that pleasure.)
He knows Sansa, he's watched over her, he's helped her and he knows her. Probably better than she thinks he does. He never once hurt her (until the day he actually did.)
Maybe it's better this way. Maybe it's better that this happened and that she realizes, he didn't push her out the door and back to her own life out of goodness of his heart (because he doesn't have a heart, it was burned with the flames) but rather because he just…could. Because he knew that if someone didn't, she wouldn't have saved herself and that Joffrey would have just gone from bad to worse to vicious and where would she be then? Dead, most likely, and instead of mourning a lost little bird stuck in the shadows of who she used to be and grappling with who she should become, he'd be mourning a dead little bird.
(He thinks he's okay if she goes the rest of their lives ignoring him. He deserves it and he's content with knowing that she's alive. Broken and empty, but alive.)
You didn't save her. Whoever she might be, but you kept her alive, Sandor and quite possibly, you may be the only thing keeping her alive. Isn't that more important?
Sandor makes his way to the receptionist, looking at Sansa as he walks by her. Her eyes are open and wide as she's stares back at him, waiting for him to say something, anything and he feels the words get stuck in his throat. He snaps his mouth shut and clenches his jaw. It's better off if he says nothing.
"Sansa." The Elder Brother says gently, "You can come in, now."
She scurries away, shooting him one last look as she slinks behind the door and he's left staring at the wooden door.
"You're a fucking idiot." The receptionist mutters as she writes down his next appointment and hands him a card.
"Did I ask for your fucking opinion?" Sandor snaps.
"No." She shoots back, her eyes blazing, "but I'm going to give it to you anyways. You are a fucking idiot."
If he weren't in the Elder Brother's building and if he were anything like his brother, she'd be dead right now. And he tells her that. The receptionist laughs at him and it's a hollow laugh, a bitter laugh, "go ahead, I dare you."
He stomps out of the room, down the hall, down the stairs and out the front door, the sun blazing overhead.
He walks by the coffee shop Sansa took him to and he stops, staring at the table where he once sat, spewing hateful things to someone, who didn't deserve his hatred, his bitterness, his fear and distress.
I never once thought of you that way. As a dog or hound, or anything else they called you. You were crude and mean but always truthful and never cruel. You helped me and…I just…thank you.
He shakes his head and whips around, glaring at a woman who bumped into him, talking loudly into her phone. He catches sight of his reflection in the glass, mangled and burnt face staring back at him and he looks away and continues to walk down the sidewalk, hoping to disappear into the crowded street.
(He's always been good at standing out.)
Bronn is hogging the stand-up fan and Jorah and Sandor exchange exasperated looks. "You hired him." Sandor mumbles.
"It's because I'm a genius." Bronn instantly replies.
Sandor barks out a laugh. "If you're a genius, then I'm Steven Hawking."
Bronn turns around in his chair and raises an eyebrow. "Do you even know who Steven Hawking is?"
Before Sandor can reply that yes, I do fucking know who Steven Hawking is, you fucking twat, the door to their trailer opens and Daenerys walks in.
"Dany." Jorah says, standing up.
Bronn's eyebrows rise into his hairline as he looks at Sandor and mouths Dany?
Sandor shrugs. Of course. Of course, Jorah would fall for their fucking boss. Because that won't end in anything other than a clusterfuck and quite possibly the loss of both their jobs, because Sandor knows that if Jorah goes, so does he. For the main reason that he is not staying alone with Bronn. He'd likely kill the other man than get along with him.
"This is a pleasant surprise. You didn't say you were coming by."
Bronn's mouth hangs open and Sandor closes his eyes and leans against his chair, letting out a silent groan.
"I wanted to see you three personally and let you know about our next project." She looks around her eyes land on the small window, smiling at the finished building in front of them. "Congratulations on another job well done."
"Thank you." Jorah replies for the three of them.
Sandor grunts and Bronn still doesn't say anything, instead his eyes continue to flit between Jorah and Daenerys.
"Stannis Baratheon asked us to build a number of building complexes in Dragonstone."
Sandor leans forward, his feet planted roughly to the floor, his hands clenching tightly by his sides. He's breathing heavily through his nose and he finds that he can't concentrate, the world becoming static around him. He can barely see Jorah throw him a worried glance.
"When do we start?" Jorah asks sighing.
"Don't act so excited." Daenerys teases and then the smile falls off her face as she stares at them. "I know it's controversial and this will likely not win us any partners but Stannis Baratheon is a good man." She brushes hair from her face, "we start in two weeks."
Jesus Christ. He should have kept walking until this fucking place was long behind him, the night of the fire. But he didn't, he stayed. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and he looks up, noticing Jorah's eyes on him.
"Dany?" Bronn erupts when Daenerys leaves. "Dany? Since when the fuck is she Dany?"
"I've known her for a long time." Jorah tells him.
"Yeah?" A slick grin crosses Bronn's lips, "how long have you been in love with her?"
"She left me." Jorah slurred as he opened the door and fell into the hallway.
"She's a whore and you're better off."
"She said she couldn't be with someone who was in love with someone else."
Sandor stops and looks at him. "Who the fuck are you in love with?"
"She has a kind eyes. They're enchanting."
"Just go to fucking sleep and don't puke on my couch."
"Shut-up Bronn." Sandor hisses, his fist clenching atop his desk.
Bronn looks between them and an uneasy look passes over him. "There's something else going on." He states. "Don't particularly give a fuck, but if you two besties decide to let me in, you know where to find me." He grabs his things and leaves, the trailer door slamming behind him.
"You good?" Jorah asks him.
Sandor takes a deep breath, anxiety clawing at him. He's never regretted anything he's done in his life (except for a few things here and there and half of those things involve Sansa fucking Stark) but the thought of seeing Stannis Baratheon after he lit the switch and set fire to his home while he and his daughter were still in it, makes his skin crawl and dread settles in the pit of his stomach.
"That," Sandor says, "is a very stupid fucking question."
"I know." Jorah is silent and then he runs a hand through his hair. "We'll figure it out. We'll…fuck. I don't know, but we'll figure something out."
(He always knew that night was going to come back to haunt him.)
He doesn't know why he's here. He looks out of place amongst the students and they stare at him uncomfortably. A few frat boys attempt to come up to him and Sandor snarls at them until they scurry back, tripping on their feet.
It's late in the afternoon and thankfully the sun has abated to a bearable heat and not for the first time as he waits, Sandor thinks he should leave. He towers over most of the people and he looks around, trying to spot a certain head of fiery red hair. He lets out a puff of air and crosses his arms.
He's lucky campus security hasn't bounded up to him yet, leaning against his truck, waiting like the creep he is.
(Oddly, ever since learning that he would be working for Stannis Baratheon, all he can think about, all that crosses his mind is Sansa.)
"Sansa, please!" He hears a female voice, an irritatingly familiar one and he cranes his head, watching as Sansa hurries down the steps, with Margaery Tyrell trailing after her. God, he hates her and there is a fierce pride when he sees that Sansa doesn't particularly care for her either anymore.
Maybe it's seeing her in this setting, books clutched tightly to her chest, bag strapped around her shoulder and hair pinned up in a messy bun that snaps him out of his thoughts and he grimaces as he looks down at his worn and faded jeans, work boats and black t-shirt.
She's still prim and proper, even when she's scurrying away, bouncing on the heels of her feet and for a moment, just a moment, it looks like she's flying. (Flying high, high, high and then away, away from everyone, away from him.) He feels like an even bigger creep and he's disgusted with himself, he leans away from his truck, with the intent of going around and getting into the driver's seat, intent on driving away and never looking back, because it's better this way, isn't it? Not seeing her. Her not seeing him. They'll both be able to keep whatever is left of their sanity this way and maybe, just maybe, she'll stop haunting him (though that's unlikely to happen.)
Except, it's in that exact moment she lifts her head and spots him, stopping dead in the courtyard, Margaery Tyrell bumping into her back. Sansa cocks her head, eyes widening and a blush spreading across her cheeks. She shrugs off Margaery's hands and gives her a forced smile and even from this distance he can read her lips as she says to the other girl, "it's alright. It's in the past now, isn't it?" But he can tell that she's become guarded and hardened by everything that's happened and he feels a little remorse at her lost wide-eyed belief that there are good people in the world.
That's life. It's a cruel bitch, taking everything away from you and then leaving you for dead. You of all people should know that.
She makes her way through, bumping and apologizing to people as she walks towards him and she breaks from the crowd, and walks by the group of frat boys who call her name and she ignores them and they fall silent when they see where she's stopped and who she's stopped in front of.
He's gets roaring drunk when he gets home, after he showers and throws away the clothes that smell like fire and as he lies in bed, head spinning, he thinks he could go to her, "I could take you away from here." He practices to an empty room and empty walls, "no one would hurt or I'd kill them. Everyone is terrified of me anyway. I could keep you safe, little bird."
In his mind and in his drunken state, she says yes, placing her trust and life in his hands and that's enough to make him bend over to the side of his bed and vomit.
"Sandor?" She asks hesitantly, her voice wary but her body inching closer towards him, fingers clenching her books. He ignores the shiver that runs up and down his spine when his name spills from her lips.
He runs a hand through his hair, fingertips grazing the mangled side of his face. "Do you want to get coffee?" He blurts out and then clamps his mouth shut and feels like he's fucking fifteen years old again.
"No." She says. He shouldn't be surprised, he should have expected it. In fact, he did expect it, but he hoped against all hope that she would- "but I am hungry, so you can buy me dinner."
It takes him a couple seconds for his mind to catch up to what she's said and he barks out a laugh that resonates across the courtyard and draws curious eyes towards them.
She smiles brilliantly and the blush on her cheeks deepens and it makes his stomach flutter. He reaches behind him and opens the passenger door for her, grasping her hand, and putting an arm around her waist, helping her into his truck. She's soft, tucked against him like this and he's loathe to let go of her. "Whatever the lady wants."
She bites her lip, looks at him and gives him another smile.
(And maybe, just maybe, there's a little redemption in his life yet.)
HOLY MOLY! You guys are awesome. Just so fucking spectacular and awesome! All your comments have literally just made my heart swoon!
HUGE SHOUTOUT: Jillypups, TeresaTrav, AngelApple70x7 and everyone over at AO3. I've hopefully responded to you all individually, but please let me know if I've missed anyone! MAJOR THANKS to all who have read/bookmarked/kudos'd/favorited/followed this story and just many many thanks for the support.
Again, any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone. I apologize if they offend anyone. Reviews make my heart sing.
MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,
BB