At first he is only aware of bright lights in his face and tubes in his throat and body and pain, pain, pain. Someone slips a cold needle into the vein of his arm and his body relaxes but his mind is thinking of Sansa.

Is she alive? Is she hurt? Is she safe? Where is she?

With a depthless sadness and regret, worse than any grief he has ever known, he realizes that he has failed her. He has failed her terribly because he wanted her more than he wanted to protect her. If he had wanted to protect her, he would have sent for her great-uncle Blackfish Tully from the first and damn both the consequences and his own selfish desires. But he didn't, he didn't because she pulled up her skirt in the back of his Buick and he gave in to his want, not just that time but again and again. So he deserves this: this overwhelming, all-encompassing pain and this agonizing not-knowing because he has brought it on himself…and on her.

Then there are faces, some with white masks and some without and their words are far away and distorted and jumbled but it doesn't matter because none of them say what he wants and needs to hear: that Sansa is alive and safe. He needs to hear it so he can die in peace; until he does he will hang on through this wretched pain and agonizing emptiness as long as he possibly can, even if it's fucking forever and this is his own personal hell...multiplied times seven.

He doesn't know how many days and nights have passed but when he can finally open his eyes and see clearly, he swears that it is Elder brother next to him, his lips moving in what he assumes is prayer. He glances over and sees Sandor is awake.

"Sandor? Can you hear me?"

His voice is so feeble he cannot hear himself but what is asks is this: is Sansa dead?

"No, you're not dead," the man nearly chuckles in relief, "but you should rest."

Sandor wants to rage at him like he once did when he first met him in the vet's hospital, to tell him he's a stupid old man who knows nothing and is worth even less, even though he knows in his heart that this is wrong. Instead he slips again into unconsciousness, still not knowing.

He dreams of an unfamiliar beach, with the tide rolling in and high grass bending in the wind. There are patches of purple wildflowers beneath the grass. It's cloudy and cool. He hears Sansa's laughter but when he turns, there is no one there but him.

The next time he opens his eyes he thinks he must be dead because there she is, sitting next to him, her eyes closed and her hands clasped in prayer on his bed, like a serenely beautiful angel. Her lips are moving silently like Elder brother. He manages to jerk his wrist and she turns to him with a slight gasp.

"Sandor," she breathes a sigh of relief and excitement. She's different somehow but it doesn't matter: she's alive and he can let go now.

"Miss: it's time," a voice calls from the doorway. "Visiting hours are over."

"Oh," she exclaims. "I have to go, Sandor. But I'll be back, I promise. Thank goodness-" Her voice breaks and she leans to kiss his cheek before hurrying out and glancing back at him longingly and now he has to keep living until she comes back. So he sleeps again.

He's not sure if it is the next day or the next year but a nurse is bustling around his bed and opening the blind and he squints and grunts at the glare.

"Oh, good: you're awake, Officer Clegane. The doctor will come and see you today, to tell you everything you need to know. I brought the papers in case you want to read about yourself," she says inanely and indicates a pile of newspapers on his bedside tray.

But he nods and so she places them before him, along with a glass of water that has a straw sticking from it. She ratchets up his bed so he is not flat but not quite sitting up and he wonders what the fuck he is supposed to do like that. She leaves him there, giving him a cheery wave.

Glancing down he can see the headline halfway down the page of the L.A. Times:

Ex-Navy Cook Saves Police Officer and Waitress from AWOL Marine

And beneath:

Dead assailant had record of fights, contraband, alleged theft and insubordination.

Police officer is former Marine: in intensive care after surgery for stab wounds.

Waitress treated for shock, cut to face. Police question girl and cook.

Sandor remembered now: she had a bandage on her cheek, high up under her eye facing away from him. Feebly, he pushes the paper off the top of the pile. The next paper underneath is from a few days later and has a headline farther up the page than the first.

Waitress in Sunnyside Stabbing Case Is Missing Heiress

Miss Sansa Stark found after 2-year search and reunited with family.

There was a photo of Sansa between a uniformed officer and a dignified older man with grey hair and the same eyes and nose as his great-niece. The caption read Brynden Tully of Riverrun Mining, Colorado. He was guiding Sansa by the elbow through a crowd; the girl had her head down. The story said that she had given testimony at the inquest regarding the attack on herself and Los Angeles police officer Sandor Clegane. She had said the Marine was a big, strong and dangerous man, armed with a knife, and that excessive force would have been required to stop him. He had threatened to kill both her and Officer Clegane. The night cook had broken the Marine's neck when he'd pulled him off her. Neither police nor hospital staff would confirm rumours that her clothing was torn and it was not mentioned at the inquiry. The Chief of police was quoted as saying the cook who saved her and Officer Clegane was a hero and merited a citation because one of the city's best and most upstanding officers may have died without his swift and decisive intervention.

Sandor snorted weakly. One of the city's best and most upstanding officers stabbed by a cheap punk who snuck up behind him; he wondered if anyone else would see how ridiculous that sounded. He hoped to thank the man Hodor personally for saving Sansa when he couldn't. He pushed the paper off the pile slowly and paused to close his eyes and rest.

When he opens his eyes again there is a doctor in a white coat explaining his injuries and the convalescence in store for him. He informs him that the police department has put him on indefinite leave and that he will not be returning for some time; and even then possibly at a desk job. His leg was badly injured and they cannot say yet how well he will walk again but there have been great strides made in working with severe injuries because of the war and so there is still reason to be optimistic.

Sandor listens and nods and wishes for Sansa to return. When he is too tired to read newspapers, which is most or the time, he simply watches the door. The next day's paper brings more news.

Stark Heiress Questioned in Hawaii Murder Case

Miss Sansa Stark feared for her life, lived under assumed identity

Sandor had been right that she had never been a suspect. She had been thought to have been abducted and perhaps the victim of foul play or both. Well, they had that partly right, he thought, though the foulness came later. She seemed to have told them more or less what Sandor had suspected about Ilyn Payne and now Hawaiian authorities were seeking him for questioning in the beating of Sansa Stark, the murder of Petyr Baelish and the re-opened case of the shooting death of Eddard Stark.

There was a headline beneath: "Stark Family Tragedies" it read and the article listed their many losses and speculated about their lives and business. Some were saying they were cursed, that no family could suffer so much loss and anguish without it being the act of some sort of vengeful god or merited for being so wealthy and attractive, a sick way of nature evening the score on them. Sandor wondered at respectable newspapers printing such shit.

The shit from scandal sheets he expected. The cheerily irritating nurse brought them when he had read the others. STARK SCANDALS, the lurid headline blared. FAMILY DOWNFALL read another and included the Lannisters and Baratheons in their photos and stories. Some played up Sansa's bravery: living in a boardinghouse and working in a diner like any poor young girl on her own but always looking over her shoulder for a murderer who wanted her dead and silenced. But there were inevitably those who smelled sex and scandal and called her a young temptress, a teen-aged vixen who left a trail of dead men wherever she went: her father, Robert and Joffrey Baratheon, Petyr Baelish and Harold Harding, Private Karl Tormund and almost Officer Sandor Clegane who, according to their copy, was still "fighting for his life". They darkened their photos of her, making her lips and hair even more dark and sultry, and speculated on her life as Alayne Stone: on her own when only sixteen in sunny, permissive Los Angeles. Fortunately, all they had was speculation: whoever they were and however many one-time lovers the girl had, none had come forward to talk. At least chivalry wasn't completely dead, Sandor jeered to himself.

The next day, or at least he thinks it is the next day, she is there. She is sitting by his bed as though she had never left and when she sees he is awake her beautiful face comes alive with a quiet joy and what looks like it may even be love to his jaded eyes. He tries to raise his hand to touch her face but she takes it in both of her slender hands and kisses it and presses it to her cheek with a smile.

"Oh, Sandor," she whispers now, "I was so scared for you, scared that I would lose you too. But you're alive, and you'll be well: I promise I'll help you, Sandor. I'll never leave you."

He shakes his head. No. Her smile falters a fraction but she leans forward.

"Of course we can't leave together anytime soon, so I'll have to stay here in Los Angeles while you recover. I'll have to tell my great-uncle but I was waiting to see you first-"

He struggles to speak and at first only manages a grunt. Then he speaks shakily.

"N-no."

The effort exhausts him but he has to say it: now, before she does something stupid.

Sansa keeps his hand in both of hers and squeezes harder. "Sandor, please: nothing has changed. I-"

"N-no. Every- everything ch- change," he forces out. "Fam'ly. Go."

She stares at him and he sees the changes already. Her hair has been cut to her shoulders and no longer falls in sensuous starlet waves. Her face is clean of makeup but for a little powder and pale lipstick. She has stitches in her cheek beneath her eye and he can just make out the faded bruises but he knows that they will fade and the cut will heal and she will be just as beautiful as she ever was. He notices the high-necked blouse: white with black trim and a matching grey coat on the back of her chair that probably matches the skirt he can't see; and through her blouse the faint outline of a brassiere and proper slip. She is dressed as a rich, young heiress and a lady. He knows she has white kid gloves tucked inside an expensive handbag at her feet; he knows without even looking.

She sees him looking her over and she knows.

"I- I had to go to court, Sandor; and they put my picture in the paper. I needed to look…well, very respectable next to my great-uncle." She smiled encouragingly now. "I've told him about you, Sandor; he's very grateful that you helped me-" She stops when she sees his eyes widen. "Oh! Goodness, not everything Sandor," she whispers now. "He knows that you saw me and recognized me and tried to help me, and that you told me about Mr. P-payne in Hawaii. I told the police, and they are looking for him now…thanks to you."

"N-no thanks t-to me," he rasps bitterly.

"I don't understand, Sandor. What do you mean?"

He jerks his chin toward the newspaper on his tray and Sansa picks it up and reads the page he left.

"Hero cook in Sunnyside stabbing case trains as sous-chef at Hollywood Brown Derby," she reads out loud and smiles. "Hodor is very popular; I'm so glad for him, though they kept making him pose for photographs surrounded by pretty girls," she giggled. "Did they tell you he tied a tourniquet around your leg to stop you from bleedings, and pressed his apron to the wound in your back until the ambulance arrived? I was so frightened: all I could do was cry and hold your hand."

"He save you, n-n-not me. I pro-promise…keep you safe."

"You never saw…saw him coming, Sandor; neither did I until it was too late. Hodor heard us. You can't blame yourself, Sandor, please," she insisted.

"C-can. Do. M-my fault."

"No. I'll never believe that. You were good to me; you are good to me, and would never hurt me. Let me help you now, Sandor: it's all I want," she pleaded with him, her deep blue eyes on his.

"No," he shook his head again.

Sansa dropped her eyes and then looked at him again, her face now sad and forlorn but determined.

"You say you didn't save me, Sandor; but you're wrong. You're so wrong. You made me myself again, and even told me how I was always myself, deep down: you said that I had stayed kind, that I worked hard and didn't complain, that…that I had a- a passionate nature. You said none of the bad things were my fault." She reached to caress his scarred cheek now. "None of the bad things that happened to you were your fault," she whispered softly, "not your family, not Hawaii, and not here. You told me nothing that happens to us is because we deserve it; and now I'm telling you the same," she finished softly.

He just looked at her. She was still beautiful, she would always be beautiful; but she could not be his anymore. He could not keep her safe, not with a long convalescence and a gimpy leg and no future that he could see for a very long time. He had to make her go.

"S-s-stupid lil' b-bird," he spat out.

Tears welled up in her eyes and she pulled back her hand. "Don't," she begged, "please don't say that. You don't mean it, Sandor; I know you don't," her voice quavered and she sniffled once.

"Y-yes."

"No. You were going to come with me…to Oregon. We were going to have a life together. We can still do that, Sandor; I want a life with you. There's nothing to worry about, I have my trust and so we'll be fine-"

He sneered angrily. "Fuck your m-m-money," he rasped hoarsely.

"Oh, I forgot," she looked embarrassed, "you said that you only wanted me," she murmured.

That stopped him cold. He stared at her speechless. She was all he could remembered having wanted for so very long and she had been his so briefly and it had all been so terribly wonderful and so terribly, terribly wrong, he knew it had to have been wrong or why would it have turned out like this? He wished that he had died now because living with this was too much to bear.

"F-free now. Fly 'way, li'l bird," he managed to say.

She shook her head slowly now and her tears finally ran down her cheeks. He shook his head back at her, mirroring her movement.

"No tears: n-no good," he reminded her.

She dropped her head in her hands and began to sob anyway. "Please, Sandor-"

"Sansa? Is everything alright?"

She started and turned to the doorway at the sound of a distinctive smokey voice. A man stepped in and Sandor recognized her great-uncle. He was tall and had a quiet strength that was unmistakable. Sandor knew right away the girl would be better protected with him. She would have the life she was meant to have: the life of Sansa Stark.

Sansa leaned to pick up her handbag: fine leather as he had guessed, in a deep, dark red like the wine from the Italian restaurant. She rummaged inside it until she found a lace-trimmed hankie and dabbed at her eyes. Her great-uncle came closer and looked at her concernedly.

"Poor child," he said to Sandor. "Forgive her: the last couple of weeks have been rather fraught for her. First the hospital, then the police questioning and all the wretched publicity; though you have it far worse of course, haven't you? Forgive me; I'm Brynden Tully." He offered Sandor his hand.

Sansa sniffled. "He's still too weak to talk much, great-uncle Brynden," she explained and looked sadly at Sandor, "and I fear that I have burdened him far too much already."

Her double meaning hurt but he knew that he could not blame her for feeling that way; not after the way he had just behaved. But it couldn't be helped: he'd tell her she was a four-star pain in the ass if he thought it would make her leave with her great-uncle. But the man took her words at face value.

"Well," he pronounced firmly, "then we should leave you to rest. But I wanted to speak to you myself: we are very grateful for your help with Sansa, both here and in Hawaii. She has the very highest praise for you and so I know you did everything you could. We won't forget either. When you've recovered, there will be a place for you at Riverrun Mining if you are interested. We'll even send for you."

Sandor saw Sansa, who was pulling on her grey coat, look hopefully from her great-uncle to Sandor and knew he could never accept.

"Be f-fine," he managed to rasp with finality.

"Well, please do think about it. I always need good men that I can trust. I wish you a speedy recovery, Clegane, and all the best. Say your goodbyes now, Sansa. We need to leave tonight. There's a sleeper-car train to Boulder, and then a car and driver will meet us there to take us to the ranch." He turned back to Sandor. "Her brothers wanted to come to Los Angeles but I didn't want to interrupt their schoolwork; they had missed so much with all that has happened," he remarked sadly. "But they're beside themselves to know they will see her again."

Sandor nodded approvingly. "G-good," he said simply, looking past the man to Sansa.

Her great-uncle turned to look at her now as well and so she set her shoulders and mouth bravely and stepped up to the railing of his hospital bed.

She took a deep breath. "Thank you…for everything, Sandor. I- I won't forget you…ever." Her voice was thick now but she held her tears with a sharp intake of breath to stifle her sob. Her soft hands gripped the bedrail tightly. "Good-bye, Sandor," her voice faded to a whisper.

Sandor nodded, holding her gaze levelly. He wondered vaguely what he would have said if he had the ability to speak properly and freely. He couldn't think of anything now.

"'Bye, g-girl," he rasped weakly.

Sansa looked up to the Blackfish and he took her by the elbow and guided her from the room. Sandor saw her hesitate at the door and look back but he nodded again and she dropped her eyes and left.

He stared at the doorway for a long time after.

She'll be fine, she'll be better than fine. She's with her family now.

I did the right thing.

I'll never see her again.

He had not even kissed her goodbye, he realized now.

He remembered the night she sang to him, and how he had wanted to cry…for both of them.

He lay his head back on his pillow now, and waited for tears but they did not come.

He slept instead.