The light from the windows of Casterly drive spills out over the lawn. My mother is in there, with my sister, and the other respectable women of Winterfell, worrying over things that I could care less about. I think about honking, but I realize that would draw their attention…and that wouldn't be good for Gendry, or for me.
I've told my mother that I have too much homework to attend the DAR meeting tonight. Instead, I'm twenty yards away, about to sneak Gendry Waters out of his house so that he can pick up his possibly criminal best friend. I try to think about how I would justify any of this to my mother, and come up empty. I just pray to the gods that my dad won't mention any of this to her.
Another yellow light pierces the darkness as the side door of the stone house opens, and I see Gendry's long shadow on the ground before he closes it.
As he walks towards me in the dim light of the street, I realize that I'll never really get over the fact that Gendry looks like a different person in the clothes the Lannisters buy for him. Gone are the ripped jeans and old leather jacket, and part of me misses them. He was stubborn about it for a long time, freezing out of his skin for two weeks before he gave in and tore the tags off the black, pristine winter coat he now wears. I'd decided immediately not to tell Gendry that Sansa was able to identify the brand of the coat on sight, because I'd been fairly certain that if he'd known that Jaime Lannister had dropped a thousand dollars on a single item of clothing, he wouldn't have worn it on principle. In my opinion, Gendry is being completely impractical by not taking advantage of the Lannister's bottomless bank account, but his bullheaded pride is inseparable from all the other things I like about him.
And to be honest, he looks good in it, the dark, heavy material of the coat framing his broad shoulders and bringing out the blue in his eyes. As he walks the twenty feet from the Lannister's side door to my car, I try not to think about the fact that he's not wearing a shirt beneath it. I think about making a laundry day joke as he opens the door, but my throat is too dry.
"Thanks," he says, ducking his head as he climbs into the car and shaking snow from his hair. "Really, you didn't have to come and get me-"
"I wanted to," I tell him, without hesitating. But part of me feels guilty, because I know that this is all just an excuse-
An excuse for what?
I stop by Mott's Auto Service everyday. The excuse then is coffee.
An excuse for what?
Gendry calls and I answer. The excuse tonight is that he needs to get from point A to point B.
An excuse for what?
-and I try to ignore the smell of him, the scent of oil and rust. I convince myself that I don't notice the black under his nails, the wetness of his eyelashes, the chapped skin of his lips. I keep my hands on the wheel, clenched tight. The road stretches out before us, and in the quietness I can hear his soft, controlled breathing. There's a flash of whiteness at his neck, illuminated by the otherworldly light of the street lamps, and his dark hair clings to the bare skin there. I have to force words out of my raw throat.
"So. What's Sandor in for?"
"I don't know."
"Oh, come on. I won't tell anyone."
"No, really. I've got no idea."
"You didn't ask?" I say skeptically.
"I didn't need to," he replies simply. I am suddenly overwhelmed by the simplicity of his statement, by his loyalty to his friend. I realize that Gendry is, in many ways, a very straightforward person. He'll stand by the people he cares about, even when they might not deserve it.
I want to know what it's like to be on the receiving end of that kind of loyalty.
Gendry holds the door of the station open for me, and I don't tell him not to. Because it's not done out of obligation, or because he thinks I'm incapable. He does it as if its the most natural thing in the world, for him to wait for me, for me to lead and for him to let me.
This time, at least.
My throat is still dry when I ask the Amy, the receptionist, if my Dad's there. The station is dead…it's well past midnight now, and the only other person in the waiting area is a sixty-something year old woman with silver hair in a severe bun, and fancy, expensive clothing. She's trying to fall asleep in her chair, and shoots us a dirty look when our conversation with Amy continues.
"He's in his office, but he's with someone. You can wait in the back with the guys-" she starts to offer. She knows as well as I do that this place is like a second home to me. It's where I go when the house is too crowded. When I was little, my dad would take me here whenever my mother had social obligations, and Winterfell's finest would teach me to play blackjack and make me late-night mac and cheese. I'm practically an honorary member of the police department; everyone here has known me since I was eleven. They've attended my school plays and dance recitals, made me soup when I'm sick, given me hell whenever I slack on my homework and bring home subpar grades.
But tonight, we're here for Sandor.
"No, that's okay," I say. "Better do this like regular citizens."
Amy laughs. "Alright. Well, if you're hot, you can leave your coats on the rack. We've cranked the heat up out here, per the request of…well…" Her eyes flicker to the crochety old lady. "Apparently she's the Clegane's lawyer? She hasn't done much except complain and refuse to pay his bail, to be honest."
"It is a little warm in here," I say, slipping out of my coat and hanging it up. I look at Gendry expectantly, knowing full well that his shirt is in the Lannister's drying machine back at Casterly, and then I ask with no small amount of amusement, "Want me to hang yours up for you?"
He smiles a little, clearing his throat. "That's all right. I'm fine."
"You sure?" I ask, having to bite my tongue to keep myself from laughing. He gives me a dirty look, but I decide that tonight I'm going to push him a little. "Might be a while. My dad's got to fill out the paperwork and all."
"I'm really fine," he insists uncomfortably, his eyes flickering to the sign behind Amy's head: Shirt and shoes required in all Winterfell Police Department facilities.
He shakes his head at me as we sit down, and I try to stifle a laugh behind my hand.
"You're mean," he whispers, but his lips quirk up a little at the edges and I know he's not actually mad.
"Why aren't you at the DAR meeting?" Gendry asks me. The short hand of the clock is slowly inching towards the roman numeral one on it's face, and I hear the faint tick of the second hand. My head rests against his thigh as I stretch out over the station's hard benches. It's impossible to get comfortable, but I'm so tired. My eyelids are heavy, and my voice is going soft.
"Sansa's the one who's being presented to society, not me," I reply, frowning. I'll have to deal with all of that next year, when I graduate. It's an unpleasant thought, but I know I'll go through with it. For my parents, for my brothers. To make them happy.
"But you'll be there, right?" he presses.
"Yeah. I mean, I have to be in attendance. For Sansa. It's…you know…expected." Sansa. Right now she's with my mother at Casterly Rock…no. It's almost one in the morning. They're probably on their way home by now.
I look up at him, and I catch a faint smile on his lips. "I suppose you do," he says. I wonder if he's somehow disappointed that I'll be there.
"You're just lucky you don't have to go to that sort of thing," I mutter grudgingly, elbowing him gently in the ribs.
"Wrong," he says, and I look back up, surprised.
"What in the name of the old gods did you do to deserve that?" I ask.
"Apparently your mother invited me." He shrugs.
"I'm sorry. God, I'm really so, so sorry," I laugh.
"It can't be that bad," he says, as if he's trying to convince himself.
"It really can," I deadpan. There's a moment where my mind wanders, back to Sansa. I think about how she's immersed herself in planning this debutante ball, how she and Margaery are consumed by dresses and shoes and perfume and hairstyles. I think about how it's all a masquerade, a cover-up for how her deteriorating relationship with Joffrey, and there's nothing I can do about it.
A few quiet moments pass between us. His large, scarred hand rests on my stomach, as if to reassure himself that I'm still there, even though his blue eyes are somewhere else. He looks as lost in thought as I am. I want to follow him, but at the same time I selfishly want to bring him back to me.
"Can I ask you something?" I say quietly, trying to think about how I can get some of this off my chest without betraying my own sister's confidence.
"Anything," he murmurs.
"Do you think it's possible to help someone if they don't want help?"
Gendry goes still. Then, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, his fingers of his right hand brush across my forehead, his thumb sweeping over my hair thoughtfully. His eyes continue to stare at the wall, considering. "No," he says finally. "No, I don't think so."
Maybe it's because I'm tired, or maybe it's because the deep cadence of his voice makes me feel small and out of control, but suddenly there is a heat behind my eyes and I realize that I'm close to tears. Fortunately, he's not looking at me, and he keeps going.
"I thought, for a long time, that I could help him. My father. He'd make promises…that he'd get sober, get a job, pay the bills…It was a long time before I realized that he had a sickness. Maybe it was grief. Or regret. He'd drink to forget, even though it only made everything worse. But even though it hurt him, he'd always go back. Again and again and-"
He stops suddenly. "I don't know why I said that."
"It's okay," I whisper.
"I only meant that…" He bring his hand to his eyes, putting pressure on them. "I only meant that people have a tendency to go back to precisely the things that are bad for them. To love the things that hurt them?"
"Or the people…" I say, thinking of Sansa and Joffrey.
"Yes. But people are even more difficult. You can give up things easier than you can give up on people."
He's talking about Robert again.
"People can change," I tell him.
"Not unless they want to. Like I said…they have to want to help themselves." He smiles sadly. "Are you tired?"
"No," I half-lie, because the tick of the clock on the wall and the unnatural florescent lights have magnified the heaviness of my eyelids. "I'm awake."
Because the other half of me is alive with the feeling of his calloused hand in my hair, with the rough material of his jeans against the back of my neck, with the hum of his voice that I feel in my bones. I tell myself that the thrill I feel when he speaks doesn't mean anything. That I trust him because we're friends, and not because I know more about him from fifteen minute conversations in a dirty auto shop than I do about any other person in my life. That the deep ache in my stomach is loneliness, not love, and that the rawness in my throat is from the cold, not craving.
But I know that it's all just an excuse.
An excuse for what? I think to myself. Why am I doing any of this?
He runs his thumb over the crease in my forehead, and I know the answer.
For this. For fifteen minutes of being with him.
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AN: I'm starting to frustrate myself with this slow burn romance. All I'm gonna say is: the. next. chapter.
This is where I need an editor, because I just don't have the time to do it myself. Sorry for any mistakes, and for the experimental writing in section one. Not sure if people like that kind of harsh break in the narrative? I'm reading "S" at the moment and I thought I'd try something new.