"Stop fussing."

"I'm not-" Jon cuts off with a sigh, letting his hands drop back into his lap from where they were tapping against the dash. "I don't like doctors."

Sansa glances over at him, noting the bags under his eyes. He doesn't look like he slept much the night before.

"After all the time you spent in the hospital this will be nothing," she assures him, though she knows from firsthand experience that it isn't strictly true. After a particularly bad incident with Joffrey she'd had to go to physiotherapy to make sure her shoulder healed properly, and that had hurt nearly as much as the initial injury. And then of course, after Ramsey. It was amazing to her how long the recovery could be for so brief a torture.

He grunts.

"Besides, you want to go back to work, don't you?" He's only been staying with her for a few days and he already seems to be climbing the walls. "This will get you there faster."

"I s'pose."

Her lips curl as she turns them into the drive for the medical building. It reminds her so much of when they were children, Jon sulking like this. Whether it was because Ned was making him take riding lessons or Cat forcing a haircut on him, he'd never argue. Just sit silently, like he's doing now, and cast his face down in that perfectly gloomy pout that makes his bottom lip stick out just a little. Sansa's eyes linger a little too long there, on his mouth, and she snaps her attention back to driving just in time to avoid colliding with a car pulling out of their parking spot.

She brakes, hard, and Jon winces beside her.

"Sorry."

Her hand is against his chest. She didn't even realize she had done that, but she pulls it back slowly, stopping the car in front of the building's steps.

"My office is just half a block down. I texted you the address."

"You don't have to drive me home, Sansa."

"Jon," she says, and his eyes narrow slightly at the familiar tone of her voice. Some things haven't changed. They're few and precious, and this is insignificant but it's still one of them. "Don't argue."

The side of his mouth twitches, but he nods. That's familiar too, Jon doing what he's told. Robb was always the bad one; Sansa always suspected that Jon was too afraid of wearing out his welcome to test their parents with outright disobedience.

What a sad way to be, she used to think, before her mother's disinterest became her own. Believing love is conditional like that.

And now that she knows what it's like, the guilt in her stomach grows. There were days when Sansa didn't exist as anything other than a series of decisions that wouldn't anger Joffrey. Weeks.

Did Jon feel like that? She hopes not. He gives her a last, somber smile, then leaves. She watches him go, waiting until he disappears inside to drive away.

"It was Bolton." The words hang like a sentencing over the phone line. "Though I daresay you already knew that." Petyr's voice grates at her, soft and oily. He makes her uncomfortable in a way few can anymore, but he's a necessary evil.

"I had hoped I was wrong," she says with a sigh.

"My dear Sansa," Petyr says, and she can almost hear the smug concern on his face. "Your instincts are sharp, more so than most. Doubting them does you no favours."

"Thank you." She says it because it's what he'd expect. Then, working to keep the accusation out of her voice., "I thought you took care of Ramsey. That he wouldn't be contacting me again."

Honestly, she'd half-wondered if Petyr Baelish's method of "taking care of things" wasn't simply a cinder block and a rowboat in the ocean when Ramsey had stopped contacting her. Not that she'd lost sleep over that possibility. If anything, it gave her peace of mind that he couldn't make good on the threats he'd carved into her along with the scars.

"I did. But there have been…new developments." She doesn't like the sound of that. "It would be best if you could come to my office to discuss this. I doubt that wherever you are currently is as secure as you think. Besides, I have news that is not appropriate to be delivered over the phone."

She really doesn't like the sound of that. But he's right. She's sitting at the desk in her office, and Jon is due to show up at any moment.

"Alright. I'll come by this evening."

He voices his agreement, and Sansa sets her phone down just in time to hear Myrcella knocking at her door.

"Come in," she calls. Her assistant pokes her blonde head into the room, wide blue eyes apologetic.

"I'm sorry, were you on the phone?"

"I was," Sansa waves a hand, gesturing that it's alright to enter. "But I'm finished. What do you need?"

The girl is so sweet that it's bizarre to think she's related to the sociopath that is Joffrey. Sansa hadn't know that they were cousins until after Myrcella had accepted the job, and since it was meant to be a temporary position it hadn't seemed worth it to fire her. But it seems the difference in being raised by Jamie Lannister rather than Cersei is stark, and despite the cousins resembling each other in looks, Myrcella couldn't be less like Joffrey if she tried.

"You have a visitor. Jon?"

"Oh," she gets to her feet, swiping her bag and coat off the back of her chair. "Yes. Come on, I'll introduce you." They make their way back to reception, and Sansa sees Jon standing stiffly off to the side, gazing out the wall of the glass that makes up the buildings exterior. He looks up at the sound of their entrance, and something in his posture relaxes the tiniest amount.

Sansa isn't sure why that pleases her.

"Jon, this is my assistant, Myrcella Lannister. Myrcella, this is my-Jon." Beneath a thin layer of makeup, Sansa feels her cheeks heat as she stumbles over the word brother. Thankfully, they don't seem to notice. "He's staying with me for a few weeks."

The younger girl smiles brightly up at Jon, and holds out a hand.

"It's nice to meet you. Glad to see you're feeling better."

His eyebrows go up at that, for reasons Sansa can't puzzle out, and he takes the offered hand.

"Ah, thanks." Something said earlier seems to occur to him. "Lannister…" His gaze slides over to Sansa, a question in them.

"Cersei is my Aunt." Myrcella tells him.

"Joffrey is her cousin." Sansa adds, knowing what he's really wondering. Something in his expression darkens, but it's gone so quickly she can't be sure it was there at all. Myrcella sees the exchange, the smile on her face dimming.

They don't know, really. Sansa can count the number of people who know the extent of her relationship with Joffrey on one hand. Petyr, her attorney, is one of them. Her trainer is another. But Jon and Myrcella are too close, and as such, have been kept as far in the dark as Sansa could manage.

She could never hide that Joff was an ass, though. It's common knowledge in their circles, and Robb has always hated him. Sansa wasn't aware that Jon had an opinion, though she's beginning to suspect that he does. Myrcella, for her part, has always tried to see the best in her cousin. Their parents are close, even for twins, so Sansa can't fault her for it, though she does pity her assistant, sometimes, for looking for good in someone so thoroughly ruined.

"Ah." Jon says eventually. Then, remembering his manners, "Sorry, it's nice to meet you as well. Physio was a bit rough, I'm a bit out of sorts."

The smile flickers back. How the girl can be so sunny while surrounded by the poison of her family, Sansa wonders daily.

"Oooh, I had to do physio after my base dropped me once, that wasn't fun." Her voice drops with genuine concern, but Jon just looks puzzled.

"Cheerleading," Sansa provides, lips twitching. "Her base is the boy who would throw and catch her."

"Right, sorry. I was a flyer." She strikes a little pose, and Sansa shakes her head, biting down the smile. Then the blonde turns back to her. "But you've been more than me. You should have seen her after the car accident." Her big blue eyes widen as she obviously remembers the way Sansa had looked the first day she'd made it back to the office after Ramsey. She'd already had two weeks to heal at that point, but her appearance had been enough to bring tears to the eyes of her softhearted assistant. It was regrettable that her coworkers had seen her like that, but she'd brushed it off as a car accident. It wouldn't have done to hide out for a month, and even then some of the scars still lingered.

The ones inside her will never go away.

"Car accident?"

Sansa comes back to herself and sees Jon frowning at her.

"Yeah, last spring." When no comprehension dawns, it's Myrcella's turn to frown, and the expression is alien on her face. "Surely you remember, it was pretty bad, she almost-"

"I didn't know," Jon says shortly, and there is no mistaking the accusation in his words. Or his glare.

"We should go," Sansa murmurs. "Myrcella, I'll be back around seven to drop off the financials from the DA event."

"Okay," the younger woman still seems a little confused, but nods. "Should I stay?"

"No, no. Just tell Louis to leave the lights on." The blonde skitters away, and Sansa clears her throat, aware of the way Jon is watching her. "Shall we?"

He follows her silently, not saying a word as they make their way to the elevator, nor when they climb into her car in the garage.

She breaks the silence, hoping to distract him.

"So, how was your appointment?"

"Sore."

Silence falls. It follows them back up to the apartment, and when Ghost appears at the sound of their entrance, Sansa is startled that he steps away from her touch.

He's never done that before.

"Jon." She says. He stops, already halfway to the hallway. "Just ask."

The voice in her head is screaming, the walls she's built around herself straining under the weight of the sudden desire to not be so alone anymore.

She can't let him in.

But she wants to. And the words are already out.

He turns, slowly, face impassive.

"Did you tell Robb not to tell me?" He asks. That takes her by surprise, and a few seconds tick by before she wrap her mind around it enough to respond.

"What? Of course not."

"So he just didn't mention it, then. That our-his sister had nearly been killed in a car accident." His jaw sharpens, like steel. "Because he thought I wouldn't care?"

The implication is obvious. Robb wouldn't have kept it from him unless Sansa asked him to. Why he thinks she'd ask her brother to do that-

"Why did you bring me here?" He wonders, frustration bubbling over. "If you want so badly to keep me out of your life?"

Ah. Now she sees. And the realization hurts in it's nearness to the truth.

"He doesn't know," she says quietly, taking in the sight of Ghost at Jon's heels. She's never felt the loneliness quite so acutely as this moment, when even he has distanced himself from her. Jon scowls.

"Doesn't know what?"

"He doesn't know I was in an accident." Sansa decides she needs a glass of wine, and pulls a bottle and two glass from her cupboard. She fills one, then glances up at Jon. He doesn't shake his head, and it's answer enough. "He doesn't know. None of them do. Myrcella only knows because I had to take some time off, after, and it was…impossible to hide once I'd gone back."

He's staring at her when she offers him the glass, so she just sets it on the counter in front of him, settling in one of the bar stools.

"You-why?" He asks, bafflement stretching his features. "Why on earth would you not tell your family?"

His confusion is justified. The Starks are unusually close, as their presence at his own hospital bed would suggest. For Sansa, the princess, they'd have all but smothered her in support.

And she can't tell him the real reason. Not without the story that goes with it.

"I can take care of myself." She hears herself saying instead. "I didn't want to worry them." Both true statements. He gapes at her.

"Robb would shit himself if he found out now. Catelyn would…"

"I know," Sansa says, "-and I-"

"Don't want me to tell them either," he guesses, finally dropping onto the stool next to her. "Sansa, that's mad."

"Jon, please-"

"I won't tell them," his fingers curl around the stem of his wineglass, and he looks over at her. His brown eyes are dark, with nothing Sansa can read, dark hair tied back in what Joffrey would have disdainfully referred to as a "man bun". It suits him, though, exposing the strong planes of his face, the surprisingly long lashes that frame his eyes.

He's really kind of beautiful, she thinks, and shifts uncomfortably in her chair at how far from objectively she notices that.

"Thank you." If she's breathless, it's with relief. Nothing else. "I know you don't understand. I don't expect you to. But telling them now would only start an argument."

He doesn't disagree with her. Not aloud, anyway.

"I should't have…" He glances over at her again, this time after downing half the drink in front of him. Sansa has never seen him drink wine, but she suspects he cares little about what exactly it is as long as it has alcohol in it. She knows the feeling. "I'm sorry I was cross. I shouldn't have said…"

"It's alright," she says. It isn't, but that's not his fault. "It's…I deserved it, honestly. When we were younger I did try to keep you out of my life. I know it doesn't change anything, but I'm sorry for it. I shouldn't have."

"We were children," he murmurs, and this conversation is beginning to feel familiar. She stares hard at him, wondering why her chest suddenly aches.

"We aren't anymore." And it's not the wine, or the time that's passed that makes the difference. Not really. She's bought her age with blood, Jon with loss.

What a tragic pair they make.

"No," Jon agrees, sounding wistful and a little relieved all at once. "We're not."