Well that went well... he thought sullenly, draping himself with a groan over the steering wheel. Every possible way he could have made an ass of himself, he'd done it: shoving her hand away from his face, mistaking what she meant when she'd said he was "kind of the immediate danger here," bringing up the boardroom when she asked him to be her swimming buddy. "Her swimming buddy..." he scoffed, shaking his head. She was always testing him, the little bird. He hadn't been in a pool since before he burned...

Guilt and shame clung to him like second-hand smoke to second-hand clothes for how he'd snapped at her, sneered at her, mocked her as he always had, but even still she'd been patient, kind, sweet with him, even. And that moment (swollen in his chest and throat, trying to choke his heart to a stop) when she'd tucked his hair behind his ear, the same way he'd always wanted to do to her...and the delicate scent of her perfume—or was it her skin that smelled so clean and sweet?—stuck in his head like a line in a song, the sort that hooked you, threatened to tear you open and spill you, verify you in the eyes of some high power. That was how she smelled: like truth, and kindness and beauty and forgiveness, like all those good and virtuous things that his life sorely lacked...Christ but he wanted her for himself, not her body so much as her being, nor her heart so much as her smile. I need a drink...just one, a single fucking drink. "SHUT UP!" he shouted at himself, slamming his fist into the dashboard and, upon hearing a little creak from where his fist hit, froze and made sure he did not, in fact, put a hole through his Cadillac. Fuck me, he thought with a sigh of ashamed relief. If I can't have a drink, I can have another fucking milkshake, at least.

And so Sandor Clegane paid his second visit to Dairy Queen in as many hours, and earned an entirely new sort of funny look from the drive-through staff.

"Suck my dick, judgemental bastards," he snarled into his milkshake as he pulled away from the restaurant, wishing he'd found himself in the Montana of yore, devoid of speed limits on the state highways. What he wouldn't give to put Stranger's pedal to the floor and watch the world fly by him in a blur. But hadn't he just promised the little bird he wouldn't drive recklessly anymore? Well, he'd promised not to drive drunk, but wasn't it the same principle?

Obeying traffic laws, Sandor drove broodingly to Target, nursing his milkshake and thinking about the inevitabilities of tomorrow that he now, with loathing, sought to outfit himself for. As if I could deny you anything, he had said. How awfully true that was.

Thoughts of swimming took him back, a certain cold bitterness filling him up as was its custom. The community pool in their suburban development had been squarely sub-par, a relic from the affluence of the 1950's, now grimy, cracked and faded, the pool itself an unnatural turquoise, neon-bright in sharp contrast to the dull gray chain-link fence and the red clay waste beyond that stood for some poor bastard's back yard. Meatsmoke hung over the place like smog from the snack shop that sold store-brand hot dogs and greasy hamburgers, charred black and served with watery ketchup. Visits to the pool had been a treat for him those few summers, before, getting to escape the lonely play of his house and go splash around in the water with the other kids. But he wasn't allowed in the water, that first summer of the rest of his life—the doctor was still worried about infection, and his babysitter watched him like a hawk—but because he could tell how miserable it made him, sitting there exposed for the whole neighbourhood to stop and stare at, Greg insisted on going every day, and nobody ever denied the boy anything, lest they should tempt one of his moods. How many hours had he spent brooding under those faded umbrellas, looking out past the gray chain-link fence with a quiet rage so powerful it scared him, wishing everyone would look away, wishing every day he could just go home, wishing the babysitter would get distracted by something so she wouldn't notice if he wandered off...he could find his way back home, he knew, and didn't imagine it would matter if he couldn't.

He'd refused to go near pools ever since, his skin crawling at the thought of so many eyes combing over him, inspecting him, never looking at him but at his burns, like he was some sort of scientific specimen. He was, he guessed—an exhibit of a boy who'd been wronged, on whom the whole structure of justice had been inverted, whose idea of family had been turned inside-out. And so young, too...but nobody looked long enough to see that. All they saw was a freak.

Sure, the burning itself had been a terrible pain that his brother inflicted on him, but it was the years of solitary humiliation Greg had gotten out of it afterward that had scarred him the deepest, and the pool had been the first of many trials Greg would put him through. The pool was Greg's territory...

...But now it was the little bird's, and he had an attitude adjustment to make.

Eyes were flickering to him and away, to him and away as he strode through the Target, making for the swimwear section, where racks of synthetic shorts in bright colors and patterns awaited his scrutiny. He cast his eyes over the lot, scowling, dismayed to find that the only pair likely to fit him was bright yellow with black panelling on the sides, before stalking off towards the fitting rooms and letting himself into a stall, dimly hopeful that they would serve. It was a cramped fit within, his head bumping against the wall as he pulled his jeans off and bent to step into the swim trunks, tight around his hips but hanging more loosely to about six inches above his knee. He could see the tail end of his ugly pink knife-scar peeking out from underneath one leg, and a cold weight like dread settled in his stomach when he realized that whatever he was about to buy would be the only article of clothing he'd be wearing in the little bird's presence tomorrow. The rest of him would be bared to her, whatever the swim trunks didn't cover, knotted scars and burns, hairy chest and all.

Look at me, I always told her...be careful what you wish for, eh dog?

But he'd promised her he would be there, and Sandor was a man of his word.

That wasn't the only thing she made you promise, he reminded himself, drawing up to the register and paying for the swim trunks. How fucking stupid do you have to be to just forget to ask the Elder Brother how he found her? For Chrissake, dog...He knew that wasn't all of it, though. Because truth be told, it didn't matter to him how he'd come to find her, or who else knew she was here; she was back in his life, and nobody, nobody, would take her away from him now.

But he'd fetch back his answers for her, because he was an obedient Hound, after all.

'You ain't no hound-dog; you a man, same as me.'

Am I, Brother? he asked himself now, and found himself hoping the Elder Brother had been wrong. I could never be her man, but maybe, if I could be her dog, I could follow her around forever. I could be happy with that...That was all he wanted, really—to be her shadow, ever trailing after her beauty, her grace, secretly hoping that some of it would rub off on him, make him better. Make him worthy.

You're pathetic.

He wanted to argue with himself, he did. He just couldn't, was all, and that only made him feel worse.

He was back at his house soon enough, Spartan little establishment as it was. In the entirety of the house, all six rooms of it, there were five total pieces of furniture, all rescued from the street or hauled in from the Salvation Army. He had a little square table and two vinyl folding chairs, a soggy, low-slung, moth-eaten couch and a bed, replete with a mismatching and mysteriously stained quilt and pillow set. The venetian blinds in all the windows were all dented and dinged in some way or another, and had probably been drawn for quite some time, he deduced from the thick carpet of dust on them. The showerhead bled rust down the yellow plastic shower interior and the wallpaper in the bathroom bubbled away from the wall at its seams and near the dark wood crown molding that, like the blinds, was also pockmarked with dents and nicks. It was all more than he'd asked for, though, and more than he'd ever had.

He picked up his phone and dialled the Louisiana number, and it rang twice before a gravelly, soulful voice greeted him. "Brother Sandor! I was startin' to wonder whether you'd gone and died on me, son! Been nigh-on six days since I hear from you last."

"Hey Brother," he rasped, smiling into the phone. "Sorry, I've been a bit distracted."

"I'll say so! Have you found her yet, my man?"

"Yeah, just last night."

"Mmm," the Elder Brother intoned. "And? How is she?"

"Fuckin'...great. I mean...shit, it's just so good to see her."

"Mm-hmm. I know the sound 'o that voice. Know what it means fo' a man..." he heard the Brother sigh on the other end. "Did she come a-rushin' into yo' arms, then, brother Sandor?"

He winced, the burned side of his mouth twitching. "No...I mean, that's never how it was between us, anyway."

"That's good, then. It ain't no fun when they throw theyselves atcha. Every brother knows that if a lady gone an' thrown herself at yo' sorry ass, she can go an' throw herself at any other brother who goes walkin' by. She sounds like she got integrity—that ain't no common thing, nowadays."

Sandor felt like he'd been hit in the gut, even though he knew the brother didn't mean anything by it. "She's nineteen, brother," he sighed, speaking as much to himself as the man on the phone. "It's not like that. I'm not...after her, like that."

The Elder Brother was chuckling on the other end of the phone. "And you says you not a lyin' man." He heard him sigh. Sandor was getting tired of this conversation, though he should have seen it coming, really. "Well, I been prayin' fo' you, brother Sandor. How you been gettin' on?"

"Uhh, fine, I guess. It's actually about Sansa, that I called," he rushed. "How was did you get that envelope? Who gave it to you? How did he find her?"

The man hummed on the other end. "Well," the Elder Brother began. "I'm glad you aksed, son, but I'm 'fraid I can't say right now."

Sandor hit his fist against the wall—not so hard, he thought, but the drywall still creaked in protest. "Brother, please, she's—"

"She hidin' from a bunch o' dangerous people n' she worried about her safety. An' that's fair. Fact o' the matter is, ain't nobody jus' gon' happen upon them pictures o' her, an' ain't no other way nobody gon' find her out there. If she needed t' be brought some other place t' be safe, brother, I'da told you where to take her. But y'all safe out west, so y'all stay put 'till I call on you an' tell you otherwise."

Sandor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Is there nothing you can tell me that I can pass along to her to assure her?"

"You can tell her the people who gone an' found her were very skilled, an' they gone and erased all they found 'bout her. Tell her she got God lookin' out for her, ain't nobody tryin' to hurt her."

Sandor still thought that was weak, though—if he were in her position, he'd be disappointed with that.

"After all, brother Sandor, if we meant t' be preyin' on the likes of her, we ain't like to send her a protector, now is we?"

He didn't have an argument for that—it brooked none. It was too true.

The fire dreams came for him again that night, but waking offered little relief. He was off to make a fool of himself, in front of her, of all people. A Hound playing in a birdbath, he thought to himself, scowling. That's exactly what it'll look like. Though he'd bought the biggest swim trunks they'd carried, they still looked like boy's clothes on him, big hairy oaf that he was. What woman, especially one as delusively idealistic as the little bird was, would subject herself to his half-naked body, so sprent with scars and burns that the hideousness of his face just blended in? He shook his head—then again, she had been married to the only man in the world uglier than him, and so maybe...but that only made him angrier, returning to his guilt on that count with a cold vengeance. Why couldn't she have asked him to hurt that whoring bastard dwarf for her, for all the twisted, perverted things he must have done to her? (Sandor shuddered to think of them, having stomached more than enough of her torture in his lifetime at Joffrey's hands alone.) That would be more fitting, he figured—make his amends in a realm in which he'd wronged her, avenge some of the hurt his neglect had caused her—more fitting than this, he thought, pulling a clean shirt over his body as if to hide it from her.

That shouldn't matter, another voice inside him pleaded, it isn't about how it will look, about letting her look at you, it isn't about her at all—you're making amends to her for yourself—because you know what it feels like to live knowing you haven't. And he was sick of that. He really was.

Her brown-gray Mercedes was already parked by the time he arrived, pulling into the cracked parking space beside her. He snatched his towel off of the passenger's seat and wadded it up in his big hand, trying not to limp on his stiff leg and hoping that the bathing suit wouldn't go out of its way to embarrass him. He signed in, ignoring the staring of the woman behind the desk, and found his way to the pool.

The little bird was already filling the room with the sounds of her splashing, her dark shape trailing down one of the lanes with a smooth and effortless speed. In no rush to disrobe and expose himself to her he sat himself down on a long plastic bench, watching her part the water with her hands, kicking a furious stream of white bubbles behind her. A hopeful thought seized him that this might just be enough for her, his quiet company on the bench, the fact of him being in the room. But if it's not, you know you'll do it. Anything to get closer to her. He grit his teeth and told himself it wasn't worth his dread.

She made another lap down and back before she stopped to rest, pulling herself halfway out of the water, resting her arms on the edge of the pool facing the big black windows, her little chest heaving with her ragged breaths, her black hair in a straight wet braid down her back.

"Who knew the little bird could fly so fast under water?"

He saw her jump, whip around and sigh with relief. Only me, little bird, he wanted to say, but she could see that. It had relieved her. Don't get too excited, dog; remember who she's running from. She pulled her little blue goggles down off her forehead and disappeared under the water, surfacing again not far from where he sat, and pulled herself out of the water again.

This was a sight his self-restraint could have done without, the little bird all wet and flushed, dark blue swimsuit clinging tight to her body and all her little curves, the thin rivulets of water trickling over them adding further emphasis, further torture to her beauty. And the way she was smiling at him, her blue eyes bright in her pink little face...if there was a God, he'd have cursed him for making things so perfect and unattainable.

"Good morning sir!" she chirped happily, a spring in her step as she made her way towards him. It's a better morning than you know, little bird. "Are you ready to swim?"

His heart sank a little. "I was kind of just hoping I could watch, actually."

She folded her arms across her chest, pushing her tits up and closer together. He forced himself not to look. "You're wearing swim trunks and you brought a towel with you. Seriously, Sandor, I wasn't born yesterday."

Groping for a retort he stuttered, but she quirked an eyebrow at him, daring him for the response he didn't have, and he swallowed, assenting, and stood. It was easier to look at her chest now, towering over her, without making it obvious. He must have lingered there, though, making an ass of himself as he gazed at her wet and beautiful little form, because she spoke again.

"...Are you gonna get changed?"

"Hm?"

"Is everything alright, Sandor? You're being weird..." she said, furrowing her brow at him.

"What? Oh, uhh...yeah, just...didn't sleep well, is all. That, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to drown this morning, so..."

She rolled her eyes and, to his dismay, dropped her arms. "Oh come on. You're not going to drown. The water in the shallow end will barely come up to your ribs. And even if you did somehow manage to start drowning yourself, I'm a lifeguard. So you've got nothing to worry about." He let the image of the pretty bird giving him mouth-to-mouth flood his mind for a second, feeling the blood in his neck warm. Cut it out, dog, you're going to embarrass yourself. "Now go get changed and wet your hair—the chlorine's bad for it."

When he didn't move, she urged "go on," with a little shove, her cool, wet fingertips sending shocks of heat through his shirt from where they landed. "I'll wait."

As soon as he was safe in the locker room he let himself shudder. Fucking hell. He peeled his shirt off over his shoulders and stepped carefully out of his shoes. There was a mirror, fogged and cracked with age, but still it reminded him of just how monstrous he looked, between the burn scars on his face and arm, all the other little knots of pale pink flesh that stood testament to other times he'd been breached, and the silhouette of his form itself, all bulky, bulging hard muscle, dusted with black hair that rendered him animalistic and hideous. If I were a little bird, I'd be intimidated too, he sighed, defeated. But even amid his shyness and shame his body reacted boldly to hers, the flush in his face and the bulge in his swim trunks threatening to betray any air of indifference he might have still retained after moving hundreds of miles just to be near enough to "make amends" to her. The water that belched from the showerhead was frigid and shocking, just what he needed to cool his heating blood.

When he emerged, dripping in his own right, it was his shyness that possessed him. He could feel her eyes on him, coming to understand his ugliness anew, and he wanted to run, to dash back into the locker room and reclaim his shirt...but it was too late, she'd seen. What good would it do now? He swallowed, and took a quick glance at her face—she was looking alright, but that certainly wasn't the expression he was expecting her to wear, mouth slack but for a hint of a smile at the corners, eyes wide and...dark.

He wasn't so shy anymore, he found.

"Sit," she ordered, clearing her throat and snapping herself from the daze he'd caught her in, a bottle of something in her hand. She pointed at the bench he had been watching her from, and like the good dog he was, he sat before her. She squeezed a bit of whatever was in the bottle into her hand, hitting him with a rush of the smell of her shampoo.

"What are you doing?" he questioned, right before the little bird pushed her hands into his hair and worked the stuff through it deftly, her little bird-claws scratching gently against his scalp and the nape of his neck. He had to tense himself rigid to keep himself from shivering in delight. There goes my cold shower...

"It's just conditioner. It's going to put another barrier between your hair and the chemicals in the water. Bring some of your own tomorrow, 'kay?"

"Conditioner?" he asked, tipping his head back to look at her.

"Yeah. You know. The stuff you use after you shampoo?"

"I've only ever used shampoo, little bird, I don't know what you're talking about."

She rolled her eyes. "Boys," she groaned to herself, unable to keep the hint of a smile off her lips. "I guess I can bring extra for you, if you don't have any."

"Thanks," he choked. For a single quiet moment he indulged himself, floating on the scent of her shampoo and the feeling of her fingers in his hair before he rasped, "so I went ahead and asked the director of my program about how he found you," he swallowed. "But I don't think you're going to like what he told me."

She furrowed her brow. "Why not?"

"He didn't tell me much."

She gave a snort of humourless laughter. "You're probably right, then. What did he say?"

"Just that the people who found you were 'very skilled' and erased any trace of you they found...the things that led them here, I guess." The little bird was frowning, but still working her hands over his scalp. "He said you were safe here, and if that ever came to pass, he would let me know so I could get you out. It sounded like he had a plan."

"I'm so sick of being part of other people's plans..." she muttered sourly, pulling lightly on his hair. "He didn't tell you anything about this plan, did he?"

"Only that he'll let us know when we're needed, and that he's trying to keep us safe until then," he sighed. "I know this all sounds really cryptic and suspicious, and it seems he isn't quite the humble preacher he appears to be, but I trust him, little bird, like I've never trusted anyone before." Anyone but you, he hadn't the courage to say. "He told me God was watching over you," he almost whispered, debating whether or not to tell her the next part, deciding he was feeling bold. "He said if he had been trying to hurt you he wouldn't have sent you a protector."

Her hands froze and she drifted before his face, then, her eyes meeting his, wide and serious and intent, as if to sort out some unspoken truth that could only be conveyed through the eyes. She lingered there for a moment, her thumb stroking his temple absently, before she pursed her lips and nodded. It was a good enough explanation for her.

"Well, if that's all we've got, no use crying over it. Come on," she said, pulling her fingers out of his hair and making for the pool. Sandor let his eyes roam once over her body before he forced himself to follow her, down a rickety metal ladder into the warmth of the water.

She was right—the water came to just under his chest, and he had to bend his knees to immerse himself to the shoulders.

"You can't swim at all?" she ascertained.

"Not at all."

"Not even a little bit?"

"If I picked up my legs right now I would drown, little bird."

"Well, give it a try. We'll see how your instincts fare for you," she insisted. "Lean forward and let the water hold you up. Put out your arms. That's ri—no, come on!" He rocked back onto his feet, feeling uncertain and off-balance in the water, stupidly, desperately not wanting to make a fool of himself. "Here, I'll spot you," she said, holding her arms out before him. "You can't fall in. I won't let you."

"Oh, and you're going to catch me, are you?" he snarled, trying to conceal his fear. "All that would do is drag you down with me." She quirked an eyebrow at him, giving him a wicked little smile.

"Wanna bet?" and then there was a splash, and suddenly he was on his back, one tiny little bird arm under his shoulders, the other tucked under his knees, all but his face and feet submerged in the water. It was all he could do not to shriek like a girl, opting to struggle and shout expletives instead, but the little bird held him fast, pushing out towards the deep end of the water, bouncing up and down as the water got closer to his face.

"Put me down, little bird."

"Nope. I've got to prove a point," she said, but dropped him anyway, letting him splash into the water with a jolt of dread before her little arm came up, crossing over his right shoulder and tucking under his left armpit, hauling him up against her with a strength she shouldn't have, stroking with her free arm to carry them further out into the pool despite his struggles. "I've got you, don't worry," she said, sounding so calm in contrast to his panic, which would have ruled his thoughts had it not been herpressed up against his back, her arm braced across his chest, if it hadn't been her murmuring comforts into his ear, so close he could almost feel her lips on his neck. Goddamn I hope these swim trunks are loose enough. "You're not going to fall in."

"Alright! Alright, I'm not going to fall in," he repeated grudgingly, wanting the exercise to end only for the sake of his dignity, "can we go back to the shallow end now?"

"Oh, what, is the Hound afraid of a little water?"

"Not afraid," he growled, exasperated. "I just don't feel like dying, is all."

She gave a chirp of laughter, a little bird-song amplified in the cavity of the room, and said "put your feet down, Sandor." And sure enough, he could still stand here, water lapping against his collarbone when he stood up straight. She left her arm draped over his shoulder, though, clinging to him now, and let him drag her back to the shallow end, giggling as he muttered curses. He resisted thoughts of all the other places he'd like to drag her, with her arms braced across his chest, dimly aware of his lack of embarrassment through the fog of his bliss.

"Okay. Fine. You win. I'm not going to drown," he rasped, shrugging her arm from his shoulders, the cold air shocking his skin when she was gone. She floated out before him again, nymph-like, her wicked smile resuming its thought-clouding possession of her expression for a moment before she turned more serious and started to talk (presumably about swimming) but he found he couldn't listen yet, and paid back her stunt with a quick splash in the face. She gasped, trying to keep the smile off her face and gloriously, brilliantly failing.

He was awestruck by the irony of it—in trying to get clean he'd ended up high on the headiest drug of all: her smile. She was the only person in this world important enough to need forgiveness from, but of all the things she could have asked him to do to make it up to her, this was what she'd asked of him. To play with her in the water, race her down the pool, let her put her arms around him and her fingers in his hair. Let him look at her. Let her look at him. What did I ever do to deserve such a gentle pardon as hers? He wondered to himself, as she gave the water a good slap and sent it flying into his face, returning the splash he'd just given her. When did my luck decide to change?

Maybe it had been when the Elder Brother found him nearly dead in his car, or the day he'd been sent off to find her. Maybe it had been after she realized he wouldn't hurt her. Or maybe it had been today, the first time he got back in the water since he burned.

He didn't know—she flashed him another wicked smile and darted her leg out, knocking him off balance back into the water, but not before he could loop an arm around her waist and drag her with him, squealing—

He didn't care.