A/N: Sorry for leaving this fallow for such a long time. The next chapter's mostly ready, so that at least shouldn't be such a long time coming.
I pause in the corridor to catch my breath and collect myself, trying by sheer force of will to make my heart slow to something approaching its normal rate.
It doesn't work.
Why am I feeling so nervous? There isn't going to be anyone here I haven't met before. I *know* they're all nice people. Some of them have even been to my house. I've cleared up their take-away cartons! It's ridiculous to feel shy. Utterly and completely ridiculous.
I guess I'm just ridiculous, then.
Alright. Never mind. I'll count to five and then I'll knock. Right. Deep breath. One. Two. Thr-
"Hello, Sansa. You're here early."
The voice comes from the corridor behind me. I turn to smile at Daenerys, a little taken aback to see her dressed, not in one of her usual smart skirts and blouses, but in motorcycle leathers.
They suit her surprisingly well.
(*Really* well, actually.)
"Um, hi Daenerys. Yeah, Shae came in a little early, so she said I could go." It helped that Asha wasn't in to say otherwise. I think she's working on her boat today. (It's probably for the best, considering.) "Uh, do you need any help setting up?"
"That would be great, thanks. Let me just get this door open. Can you hold this box for a moment? And my helmet?"
"Sure."
"Thanks." I brace myself, but despite being a large, heavy-duty plastic affair — I'm impressed that she managed to fit it on the back of her bike — the box is actually quite light. In a few moments, she has the door unlocked and wedged open, retrieving her helmet from its precarious perch on top of the box. "Could you set the box down on that table over there? Thanks."
I can't help feeling relieved when I manage to do as she asks without dropping the box, or tripping over something, or causing any other mishap. I would have been totally mortified if I'd messed it up. In fact, I can feel my face starting to warm just from the thought of it. To distract myself, I turn to Daenerys.
"What do you need me to do?"
She looks around the room.
"Let's start by pushing these tables together."
"Okay."
Between the two of us, it doesn't take long. I keep thinking that I should say something; initiate a conversation, but I find myself feeling strangely shy, oddly tongue-tied. Daenerys also doesn't seem to be in much of a mood for conversation, only speaking to give the occasional direction. I sneak glances as we work, noting the faraway stare, the frown that creeps over her face. She seems distracted, maybe even worried.
I wonder what's wrong.
I wonder if she'll tell me if I ask.
(I wonder if she'll think I'm prying.)
(If it would be annoying)
A friend would ask, wouldn't they?
(The crack of a hand against my face rocking my head back, making me bite my tongue. "I thought you knew better than to embarrass me by questioning me, you little *bitch*!")
We are friends, aren't we?
(I don't want to drive her away.)
(I don't want her to be *angry* with me.)
I take a moment to gather my courage - what little there is of it - and then, hardly believing that I'm doing this, I make myself ask the question.
"Are you... Is everything alright?"
Daenerys jerks around to face me, looking startled. She doesn't answer right way, the silence lasting long enough for me to second, third and fourth-guess myself; for an apology to make its way onto the tip of my tongue.
Okay, she probably hesitates for no longer than a couple of breaths at most, but it feels like forever.
Eventually, though, she gives me a rueful smile. The knot in my stomach starts to untwist.
"Is it that obvious?" she asks, softly.
I start to nod, then stop, not wanting to admit to watching her, to learning her expressions and body language.
For my story.
(And because I've never met anyone so compelling, not in my whole life.)
(Not even Loras.)
(I couldn't keep my eyes off her if I tried.)
(And... I don't think I want to try.)
"You look worried?" I say, cautiously, not intending it to be a question, but turning it into one nonetheless.
Daenerys lets out a sigh, her usually perfect posture sagging a little. All of a sudden, she looks tired.
"I had a fight with Doreah last night. A bad one."
"Oh." I study Daenerys covertly, looking for clues; for guidance. I know what I want to say, but… Oh, heck. "Do you want to talk about it?" I ask quietly.
"Yes. No. I don't know." She sighs again, and then looks over her shoulder at me, her lips twisted in a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "It hardly seems fair to drag you into my relationship drama."
My heart thumps painfully in my chest, but I can't for the life of me think why. Maybe it's just the thought of being right in the middle of someone else's argument. Anyway, it doesn't matter.
"It's alright," I say. "You're not dragging me into anything. I'm offering." I shrug, hoping I don't seem as timid as I feel. "Sometimes it can help to talk things over with…" A stranger? No, that's not true anymore, is it? An outsider? No, not quite right. "With someone who isn't involved," I finish.
Daenerys looks torn.
"You really don't mind?"
"I don't mind," I confirm.
"Alright then." She crosses the room to kick the wedge out from under the door, giving me a rueful shrug as she closes it. "Paranoia, sorry," she says. "I just don't want anyone to overhear me."
"I understand, and it's fine." And it is, but my pulse speeds up anyway, the room suddenly feeling so much smaller than it did with the door open. Which is just ridiculous. Anyway, why *should* I be feeling nervous?
There are only the two of us here, after all.
"I feel a little disloyal talking about Doreah behind her back," Daenerys mutters. "But I think I do need to talk to someone." She sighs heavily, and then squares her shoulders, reaching forward to unclip and open the plastic box. "The fight last night… I just can't stop going over it in my mind." As she talks, she pulls out packets of needles, spools of thread, twists of ribbon and neatly folded stretches of material from the box, arranging them on the table. I think about offering to help, but I'm not sure there's anything I could do without getting in her way.
Besides, I don't want to interrupt her.
I sit down in a nearby chair.
"It was stupid, really," she continues. "We were discussing what to do for our semi-anniversary next week. A normal, supposedly happy couple's conversation, you know?"
"Yes," I say, more to acknowledge that I'm listening than anything else.
(She and Doreah have been together six months? Wow. I'm… unsure how to feel about that.)
"Well, first of all, we couldn't agree on what to do. She wanted to go out clubbing, I wanted to stay in. We… ran into difficulties trying to reach a compromise. But then I realised that I'd accidentally made plans for the date itself." She grimaces. "That was entirely my fault, I admit. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. But it really didn't go down well."
"I can imagine," I murmur.
I know I'd be disappointed if my significant other forgot our semi-anniversary. But I'm sure Daenerys had a good reason. And, anyway, no doubt she's planning on making it up to Doreah.
Or, well, was planning to, before this fight.
Daenerys abandons her task to sink into a chair, turning her head to look directly at me.
"The next thing I know, we're *screaming* at each other. She's accusing me of being selfish and not wanting to commit to our relationship, and I…" She pulls a face. "I said some quite unpleasant things in return."
"Oh."
That doesn't really sound like the Daenerys I know, but I guess people do say things in the heat of the moment; things they wouldn't normally say.
"Anyway, it ended up with her storming off in a huff and we haven't spoken since." She glances down, restlessly fiddling with the zipper of her jacket. "We haven't even so much as texted each other. And I know I should probably apologise, but I just can't seem to bring myself to do it." She shakes her head. "Sometimes I just feel so *tired* of it all," she murmurs.
I fold my hands together to stop myself giving into the totally bizarre and uncharacteristic urge to give Daenerys a hug. (It *is* bizarre. I'm just not normally a huggy type of person.) She just looks so sad. I struggle to find some words of wisdom, something I can tell her that will bring the sparkle back to her eyes.
"Well, people can say all kinds of things they don't mean when they're angry," I say, somewhat lamely. "Maybe you both just need a little space to cool down."
"That's just it," she says seriously. "I think I *did* mean the things I said."
"Have… Were the two of you been having problems before?" I ask hesitantly. "Or is this something new?"
"I think it's been building for a while." Daenerys' eyes are shadowed and distant, her expression unreadable. "We just don't seem have all that much in common sometimes. And I think…" She sighs, propping one elbow on the table and resting her chin on her hand. "We want different things. I never intended… I never thought we would become something serious."
"So, Doreah wants… serious?"
I feel like I'm groping blindly around in the dark, like I'm out of my depth in strange waters. What do I know about relationships? What advice can I possibly offer? And yet she seems to be considering my question like it actually deserves an answer.
She gives a lopsided shrug. "I think so," she says slowly.
"And you don't?"
"I don't know what I want."
The words sit there between us, heavy and heartfelt and hurt. Daenerys looks almost surprised that they came out of her mouth, like she didn't know they were waiting there inside her.
"Maybe you should try and figure that out first," I say.
Instinctively, I reach out and touch her hand, trying to convey my support through the light physical contact. But she looks at it like it's an alien creature or something, so I snatch it back as gracefully as I can, folding both of my hands together in my lap.
"Maybe I should," she agrees, and her voice sounds tight and unhappy. I'm still trying to figure out how to apologise for whatever I did wrong, when she springs to her feet so suddenly that it makes me jump a little. (At least I didn't squeak, I suppose. Thank heaven for small mercies.) "Anyway," she says, briskly. "I think that's enough about my problems for now. I need to get changed out of my leathers before I roast." She smiles at me, and I find myself smiling back. "Thank you for listening, Sansa."
"A- Anytime," I manage to stutter.
I mean it, too.
Even if I don't think I was any help whatsoever.
(The story of my life.)
(But maybe… Maybe it doesn't have to be?)
Asha looks at me like she's never seen me before.
"You're really coming back next week?"
I shrug, focusing my attention on packing up my training gear so I don't have to see her inevitable scorn at the thought that I'm maybe not completely horrible at the whole 'swinging a sword around' thing.
"It's more fun than I was expecting." Asha snorts loudly, making me twitch a little, but I continue gamely on. "Loras seems to think I'm doing okay with the basics, and I think I'd like to learn a little more at least. I mean," I add hurriedly. "I'm not saying I'm going to continue indefinitely, and even if I do stick with it I may never actually spar properly with anyone, but I'm definitely going to come along next week."
I glance up tentatively, startled beyond belief to see a broad smile spreading across her face.
"Good for you, Stark!" she bellows, clapping me firmly on the shoulder. I yelp a little, but find myself smiling back at her, feeling surprisingly good about the prospect of more swordplay.
"Careful, Viking!" Renly calls out. "You'll knock the poor lass over." He levels what's probably supposed to be a stern look at her, but the effect is somewhat spoiled by the smirk on his lips. And by the way he winks at me as he draws near.
"Fuck off, Frenchy," Asha tells him, the cheerfulness of her tone belying the words. "Nobody asked you."
"Next time she does that, just dodge out of her way," he mock-whispers to me. "If we're really lucky, she'll overbalance and fall on her arse."
"I'll knock *you* on your arse if you're not careful," Asha retorts.
He laughs. "I'd like to see you-" Loras catches his eye. "Actually *not* set a bad example for the new recruits with any extra-curricular rough-housing, if you don't mind," he continues, as if that was what he was planning to say all along.
I don't think anyone's fooled, least of all Loras.
"Nice save," Asha says, sarcastically.
"I thought so," Renly smirks back.
Loras just shakes his head and says nothing.
"Why are you in such boisterous high spirits, anyway?" Renly wants to know.
"Sansa's decided she's going to stick with the training." It's funny, Asha sounds almost proud. I guess she did technically recruit me, so maybe it reflects well on her if I stick around? I don't know.
"Good for you, Sansa." Renly beams at me like he's actually pleased. "I'm glad the barbarian here hasn't driven you off with her uncouth ways." Asha makes an exceptionally vulgar gesture in his direction, which he pointedly ignores. "Of course, you know what this means…"
"Um, no…?" I wonder if I should be worried.
"It means the time has come." He cups his hands together and bellows loud enough to be heard right over at the other end of the field, where the last few stragglers are still standing around and chatting. "Gather round, everybody! We're doing a naming ceremony."
There's a ragged cheer from some of the older members, but most of this year's newbies seem just as confused as I am. Loras takes pity on me, coming over to murmur softly in my ear.
"It's just a silly tradition. Nothing to worry about, honestly." He smiles kindly at me, and my cheeks flood with warmth.
"Thank you," I whisper. He nods to me, and then goes to stand next to Renly.
"So, you've probably noticed that we old hands all have nicknames," Renly says, somehow seeming to make eye contact with every single one of the newbies, myself included. "Well, these don't just arise by accident. Over the years, it's become something of a tradition for standing members of the society to choose a suitable sobriquet for each new recruit who actually decides to commit. A nom de guerre, if you will."
"No prizes for guessing why we call *him* Frenchy," Asha calls.
"And I'm sure you can all guess how Little Miss Brute-Force-and-Ignorance over here came to be known as Viking," he retorts.
She grins. "Damn right."
"*Anyway*," he says. "Interruptions aside, those of this year's recruits who are still showing up: congratulations. Your turn has come. So, without further ado, let the naming ceremony commence. You!" He points at Andy, a grinning man who's built like the proverbial brick outhouse. I seem to remember something about him being a rugby player. "Come over here and let everyone get a look at you. Suggestions please, ladies and gents — what comes to mind when you see Andy?"
As far as I can tell, this 'naming ceremony' mainly consists of people calling out suggestions for nicknames until one finds general favour. Or until someone can outshout everyone else. When one's been selected, Renly congratulates the lucky recipient of their new moniker and calls up the next candidate.
It doesn't seem so bad, I guess. At least I don't have to actually *do* anything.
(I try to ignore the little voice whispering at the back of my mind, telling me that I'm a fraud for going along with this when I haven't actually decided once and for all to commit to the Living History society. I did *tell* Asha that I was only committing to one more week.)
(But, what can I do? I can't say anything now.)
(I guess I'll just have to go along with it, and hope everyone doesn't think too badly of me if I end up quitting after all.)
To no one's great surprise, Andy ends up being dubbed 'Brick.' It actually kind of suits him. Certainly, he seems pretty pleased by it.
One by one, Renly calls the new recruits forward to receive their new names. None of them are *utterly* horrible, I suppose. Notwithstanding the poor guy who gets landed with 'Pod' for no reason at all that I can see. Apparently there are restrictions — no obscenities, no slurs, nothing you couldn't call out in a crowded place without getting death glares from all and sundry. But apart from that, anything goes.
"And now, last but most definitely not least, is the lovely Sansa Stark."
Suddenly all eyes are on me. I swallow nervously and try to stand up straight. Alanna Stone wouldn't hunch in on herself to try to make herself small and unnoticeable, I tell myself. She'd stand here like a queen; like the limelight was her natural habitat.
Taking a deep breath, I lift my head and do my best to channel my inner high mage.
I think it helps, a little.
Although my cheeks still feel like they're on fire.
"Any suggestions?" asks Renly.
"How about Pippin?" says Asha. I'm confused. "Pink Lady?" she continues. Nope, still none the wiser. "Honeycrisp?" Wait, I know that one. It's variety of apple, right? Actually, they're all apples.
Red apples.
Oh. Right. Very funny.
I'm sure anyone looking at my face right now can easily deduce her train of thought. Sure enough, a couple of wags in the crowd follow up with their own suggestions of things known for their carmine hue.
Actually, Scarlet wouldn't be too bad. I could live with that.
The rest of the suggestions seem to be split between references to my height — as if I didn't already know I'm considered unusually tall for a woman — and some variation on a princess theme. Princess Peach, Princess Buttercup — neither of those are too horrible, I guess, if a bit of a mouthful to yell across a field — just plain Princess, and…. Who the heck is Princess Bubblegum?
However, none of my putative 'nommes des guerre' seem to gain overall favour among the crowd.
"How about Rose?" Loras suggests.
Asha rolls her eyes. "Should've expected that from you, *Flowers*."
"You're just jealous because he smells better than you do," Renly says, elbowing her in the side. She elbows him back, staggering him a little.
I'm glad it's not just me she nearly knocks over sometimes.
I wonder idly how Loras came by his nickname, but no one seems inclined to explain. Maybe I can ask him in the pub afterwards.
"Anyway, Rose sounds a bit soft." Asha says dismissively.
"Roses do have thorns," Loras points out. He gives me a small smile, and I just about melt inside. "Anyway, I think it suits her."
I smile back at him.
"Sounds good to me," Renly says. "What about the rest of you?"
They seem to approve. Or, at least, no one seems to have any objections. Even Asha subsides with only a token mutter of:
"I still like Pippin."
"Okay, then. The people have spoken. Congratulations, Rose." Renly grins at me, then turns back to the crowd. "I now pronounce this naming ceremony complete. Now let's get to the pub before we all die of thirst!"
Now *that* meets with unanimous approval.
"Hey Sansa." Reza smiles at me, and I smile back as I finish making the drink I'm working on and hand it to the waiting customer.
"Hi Reza." I glance up at the list of upcoming orders, and then look back to him again, faintly puzzled when the only latte on there isn't marked 'to go'. "Drinking in today?"
"Yeah. I don't have to rush off anywhere for once, so I thought I'd actually sit and drink my coffee like a civilised person." He shifts from foot to foot, looking a little self-conscious. "I thought maybe we could chat for a bit. If that's alright with you." I start to reply, but he interrupts, words tumbling out in a rush. "As friends, I mean. I'm not going to ask you out again, don't worry."
"I'm not worried," I reassure him.
Much to my surprise, I realise that it's actually true. I always used to be a tiny little on edge around him, like maybe my subconscious was picking up on subtle cues that he liked me. Cues that the rest of me was apparently oblivious to. But our talk the other day seems to have cleared the air. We know where we stand now. I know where I stand.
(I know — well, I'm pretty sure — he won't get angry with me, even if I tell him something he doesn't want to hear.)
"And yes," I continue. "It would be nice to chat. I've actually got a break coming up just as soon as I've finished this batch of orders. If you don't mind waiting a couple of minutes, we can *both* sit down like civilised people." I smile at him, and he smiles back.
"Great!" he says enthusiastically. "You can leave my drink until last, then. And, uh, can I get one for you?"
I take a deep breath, trying to inhale confidence with it.
(I'm sure he won't react badly, really, but instinct can be a hard thing to fight.)
"No, that's alright, thank you," I say. "Anyway, you paid for my mocha last time, so I should probably be buying *you* coffee."
He laughs. "You don't have to do that. Anyway, I've paid for it already, so it's a moot point."
He nods like that settles the matter and, bizarrely, I find myself wanting to say something along the lines of: 'We'll see about that.'
(But I don't, of course I don't, because that isn't me at all. I don't challenge people, or argue with them, or state my opinions like they actually *matter*. I just don't. That's not who I am.)
Instead, I say: "Why don't you take a seat? I've only got a couple of orders to go, so I'll be done shortly."
"Is that a 'go away and stop distracting me from my work, Reza'?"
I freeze.
"No! No, I wasn't saying that at all. I wouldn't! I-"
"Whoa, whoa, okay, Sansa." Reza makes placating gestures, like he's trying to calm a spooked horse or something. "I was just joking around. I wasn't offended or anything."
"Oh. Okay. Sorry." My cheeks burn, and I focus on making blended coffee drinks as if they're they only thing in the world.
I am *so* embarrassed right now.
(I guess maybe my subconscious really hasn't got the message yet.)
(Why does it sometimes feel like I manage to one step forwards, only to then take two steps back again?)
"I'll just go and sit down over here." Reza sounds about as awkward as I feel right now. Weirdly, that actually makes me feel a little better.
I nod without quite looking at him, and then turn my attention back to the task at hand.
Maybe by the time I'm done, I'll have stopped blushing.
I can always hope!
"There you go," I say, setting the drink and pastry down in front of Reza.
He glances down at it and then looks back to me, raising his eyebrows. "What's this?"
"A cinnamon roll." I try to keep a straight face, but can't help grinning at his confusion.
(Something inside me unclenches when he grins back at me, clearly amused — rather than annoyed — at my accurate but unhelpful answer.)
"I meant, *why* is there a cinnamon roll there? I didn't order one."
"I got it for you. My treat. I know you like them and, as I said, you did buy me a mocha last time."
I don't know why it's so important to me that I return the gesture, but it is. Maybe it would still feel a little too much like a date if I let him buy things for me without getting him anything in return. Who knows?
"You didn't have to do that," he says.
"I know, but I wanted to. Anyway, I've paid for it already, so it's a moot point."
He laughs as I parrot his own words back to him. "Fair enough," he says. "Thank you, Sansa.
"You're welcome. Back in a moment." I head over the counter and retrieve my own drink — plus a Belgian chocolate muffin, because ohmygod, those things are *heavenly* — and take a seat across for him. "So, how was your weekend?"
"Pretty good, thanks. Some friends and I had a Lord of the Rings marathon. It was a lot of fun, even if we did have to talk Anguy out of trying to imitate some of Legolas' more ridiculous shots." He lowers his voice mock-confidingly. "Just between you and me, I think he might have been a little inebriated."
"It's probably a good job you talked him out of it, then," I observe. "Does that kind of thing happen often?"
"Sometimes," he replies, cagily.
There's something about his tone, something that makes me wonder…
"Have *you* ever tried to imitate any ridiculous movie archery?"
He occupies himself with unravelling his cinnamon roll, avoiding my eyes. "Not that anyone will ever prove," he mutters. I'm kind of intrigued and want to know more, but he doesn't give me the chance. "How was *your* weekend?" he asks quickly, like he can tell what I'm thinking.
Pity.
I'll just have to ask him another time.
"It was good, thank you." I start to tell him about the costume-making workshop, then have to back up and explain about the LARP. I'm a little self-conscious at first, but then my enthusiasm overcomes it and it isn't long before I'm babbling away happily.
(I just hope I don't sound like a complete fool.)
"LARP *and* re-enactment? Wow, Sansa, you're hard-core!" There's something… admiring? In his voice and gaze, and I cover my embarrassment by taking a sip of my mocha.
"Not really," I protest. And really, never has a word been so far from the truth. (Might as well call me graceful, or pretty, or clever.) "Anyway, I've only been going for a couple of weeks. And I'm more interested in the roleplaying and historical stuff than in the running around with weapons part of it."
Even though that part hasn't been anywhere near as horrible as I was expecting. Loras even said that I was doing well, and that I was a fast learner. (He was probably just being polite, but still. It was nice.)
"Well, I'm still impressed." I don't really know what to say to that, so I just smile and duck my head. "I used to do some table top roleplaying in secondary school, but then I got distracted by archery. And fencing."
"You fence, too?" I look up, interest pushing my embarrassment aside. "Which weapon?"
"Mostly foil, but I've just started leaning epee. It's a little different to what I'm used to, but it's still fun."
"My sister fences sabre," I tell him.
"Heh. I might have known a sister of yours would be hard-core too. The sabreurs are the crazy ones! Um, no offence."
"None taken." I can't help grinning. "Arya would take that as a compliment." I make a mental note to pass it on to her later.
We chat about our respective families for a little while (Reza has two older brothers; identical twins), and the time just seems to disappear. Before I know it, my break is over.
"It's time for me to get back to work, I'm afraid," I sigh, getting to my feet and starting to stack our plates and cups together. "But this was fun."
"It was," Reza agrees, beaming. "We'll have to do it again. Um, if you want to, that is."
"I'd like that."
I'd almost forgotten what is was like to have friends, and now I seem to be making new ones all the time.
(And it all started with Daenerys.)
(I'm so very glad I met her.)
(I'm so happy that she's my friend.)