Warning for internalised homophobia and slut-shaming.

I'm late for my lecture.

I think it's the first time I've *ever* been late. (Although I suppose it's fitting that one first time should follow another.) Even after the Radford Lights meeting when I didn't get home until ridiculous o' clock in the morning (okay, that's pretty much any of the ones held at Daenerys' house), I still made it into the lecture theatre with a good ten or so minutes to spare.

And today I'm more than ten minutes in the other direction.

This is so embarrassing.

Rather than taking my usual seat near the front, I have to sneak in through the back doors, wincing at the way they creak. It seems loud enough to echo though the whole of the lecture theatre. In my mind's eye, I see a roomful of people turning towards me, staring at me, *judging* me (and not just for my tardiness). But when I do risk a quick glance upwards, no one seems to be paying me any attention whatsoever.

I don't think I've ever been so thankful to be invisible.

I collect a hand-out from the pile and slink into a seat, pulling out my notebook and pen mostly on autopilot. Despite the evidence of my eyes, I'm still unable to shake the irrational conviction that everyone's looking at me; that they all know *exactly* what I was doing (Margaery's eyes gaze holding mine as she trails her fingertips over my stomach, and then lower) last night. I don't think my face has stopped flushing since I first woke up and realised (the shock of her bare skin against mine) that she was there in my bed.

I bite my lip hard, letting the small pain ground myself in the here and now, an anchor against being dragged away by the tide of memory.

(It's a bad habit I used to have, once upon a time. I broke myself of it when I broke free of Joffrey. But maybe…)

(Maybe it has its uses.)

I must look so guilty right now.

So very, very guilty.

With a start, I realise that I'm just staring vacantly at the projector screen without really seeing it. I don't think I've taken in a single word the lecturer's saying. This is ridiculous. If I can't make myself pay attention, there's no point in me even being here. I might as well have just stayed (in bed) at home!

I need to focus. No more (memories) distractions. I can do this. I can.

(I don't know if I can.)

I bite my lip and make myself start writing, even if the most I can manage at first is to scribble down disjointed words that I know aren't going to make any sense to me in a week's time. It gets easier, though, and I soon graduate onto what I flatter myself are reasonably coherent sentences. I start to think that maybe I can do this after all, which is obviously just tempting fate, because I pause to shake out a cramp from my hand after a particularly intense bout of scribbling and (her hands on mine, guiding them over her body, showing me how she wants me to touch her) completely lose my train of thought.

("Sansa, darling." Margaery's voice is a low purr, the sound of it making my breath catch in my throat, making me shiver in anticipation. "You're thinking too much. Let me help with that…")

I bite my lip again.

This is going to be a long, long day…

I feel distinctly frazzled by the time the lecturer dismisses us. I'm just glad his hand-outs tend to be fairly comprehensive, with a helpful list of references at the back. God knows I wouldn't want to try to reconstruct the information from my notes alone. (And yet every detail from last night seems to be imprinted indelibly on my memory.) Unfortunately, the next lecture is one I *will* have to get my head in the game for. Prof Emmett doesn't believe in hand-outs, and I don't think he's updated his slides since the nineteen-seventies. I can't imagine he's going to go easy on us because it's the last week of term, so if I don't manage to take half-decent notes there, I'm (sinking down her body, trailing kisses on her skin, looking up to see her watching me hungrily) sunk.

Maybe checking my e-mail will help. (Maybe a cold shower would help more, but that isn't really an option right now.) I glance at my watch. I have just under twenty minutes — plenty of time to get to the computer centre and back. I'll probably even have some time left over to look at some pictures of fuzzy kittens and clumsy puppies. Maybe that'll help get my mind (off the fact that I had sex with Margaery last night!) back down out of the clouds.

(I just can't let the memories go.)

I can only hope.

This is… not helping.

I stare at the screen as if the display is going to change itself the instant I look away. Maybe that would be for the best. At least then I wouldn't have to figure out what it means, and what I'm going to do about it. Alas, real life doesn't work that way. I take a deep breath and read the notification again, carefully. Like I could have missed or misread something. (I haven't, but then I already knew that.)

It's a Facebook friend request. From Margaery. It's time-stamped this morning, so that means she sent it after… after we… after I left for my lecture.

Okay. Okay. It's just Facebook friends. It doesn't mean anything. I know it's just something that normal people do. People who aren't cripplingly shy, that is. But I can't help wondering… *Does* it mean something more? Does she want…? Are we…? What is she expecting from me? What does she *want*?

The accompanying message — barely a message at all, really — is no help whatsoever. It's just six characters: ':-x ;-).' A kiss and a winking smiley. That's it.

What on earth happened to expressing yourself with words?

I just don't *understand*. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

(Why did everything seem to simple last night?)

If I wasn't in public, I'd be very tempted to scream out loud (a little shocked by the raw, animal cries bubbling up in my throat, but I couldn't keep them back if I tried) in frustration. But I am, so I can't, and I have to content myself with taking deep, slow, even breaths and chewing on my lip until the urge to scream recedes a little.

Okay. Calm. I'm calm. I can handle this.

It's just a friend request. It means she wants to be Facebook friends. That's all. It doesn't have to mean anything else.

But…

(But shouldn't it? I mean, after what we did, *shouldn't* there be something more? Because, if there isn't, if it didn't mean anything, then it's just… It's just sex. And that means I'm a… that I'm one of *those* girls. And I can't be one of *those* girls because I'm a *good* girl, and good girls don't…)

(They don't…)

(I don't…)

(But… But I *did*.)

But we slept together.

(I…)

(Oh my god. I had sex with someone I only just met. I was flirting with her practically all evening. I encouraged her! I *kissed* her.)

(I… I *wanted* her.)

(And I *still* want her, even now, even though I know I shouldn't. Even though I know it's wrong.)

And if that's *all* it was, then…

(So that means… That means I'm… I'm…)

(I'm a slut.)

I'm a slut.

No, it's worse than that. Because Margaery's a *girl*. (And it isn't *normal* for girls to have sex with other girls.) So I'm a…

("You used to hang around with that Jeyne chick, didn't you? Does that mean you're a dyke too?")

I'm a *dyke* slut.

("Is that why you won't let me fuck you? Because you're a freak? Or are you just a frigid bitch?")

The word sticks in my thoughts like a stone, and I immediately feel guilty for even thinking it. (Like I need any more guilt right now.) Being a l… It isn't wrong for girls to like girls. I know it isn't. I know that, and I'd never think badly of anyone else for it. (I'd never think badly of Daenerys.) But it feels…

(I thought I was *normal*.)

It's different when it's me.

(Mum and Dad would be so disappointed if they knew.)

But it was probably just the alcohol. Because I'm *not* like that, not really, and booze *can* make you do things you wouldn't normally do. (Even though I wasn't all that drunk.)

So I'm not… I don't really like girls that way.

(I'm not a freak.)

I'm just a slut.

The screen in front of me blurs, and I realise that tears are starting to well up in my eyes. I rub them away with my hand, willing them to stop. I am *not* going to cry in the middle of the computer centre, and I don't have time to duck into the loos for a private breakdown. It's… Oh god. It's almost time for me to head back upstairs. I take a few deep breaths, trying to push away all these distressing thoughts, to shove them to the back of my mind and bury them deep where they can't bother me.

It's what I'm good at, after all.

I bite my lip.

Okay. Alright. I can do this. I can keep it together. I *will* keep my mind on the lecture this time, and I'm going to take excellent notes.

I'm *fine*.

Right.

Time to get going.

I go to log out of the computer, but hesitate for a moment. It's just a friend request, when all's said and done. I shouldn't overthink it. There's no point tying myself in knots over something that's almost certainly innocuous. Before I can think too hard about what I'm doing, I click on 'accept'.

There. That wasn't so hard. And now I am, most emphatically, *not* going to think about it anymore. At least not for the next few hours.

Afterwards…

Well, I'll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it.

"Sansa, are you alright?"

I jump a mile, startled out of my daze (Margaery pushing me down on the bed/I'm *not* like that; I can't be) by Shae's words.

"You scared me," I say, my voice a little breathless (and not just from the shock). I try to compose myself as Shae studies me, frowning. "Sorry, I was miles away." (Miles, and a day in the past.) The silent scrutiny is making me nervous, driving me to babble. "I guess I'm a little distracted at the moment. End of term, you know. Lots of stuff to do." I attempt a smile, but I'm not sure how convincing it is.

"You were staring at nothing," she says softly.

I flush, embarrassed beyond measure at being caught (remembering/spiralling) wool-gathering.

"Sorry," I mutter. "I'll… It won't happen again." I close the half-open cupboard door, unable for the life of me to remember what I'd opened it for in the first place. Oh well. If it's important, I'm sure it'll come back to me.

Shae makes a small, exasperated noise.

"Sansa, I'm not complaining about your productivity. I'm not Asha. *I* don't run this place." Her voice softens, and I can see the frown is one of concern, rather than annoyance. "I'm just worried about you. You looked… upset."

"Oh. Um." Not knowing what to do with my hands (skin so soft to my touch/scrubbing my hands raw and still not being able to scour away the feel of her), I start lining up the syrups so all the labels face the same way. "I'm fine," I tell the bottles, carefully avoiding eye contact with Shae. "Really."

I suppress a wince at the flatness of my tone. I doubt I'd even convince a rock right now, let alone someone as perceptive as Shae. Sure enough, when I do risk a glance in her direction, she's eyeing me with obvious scepticism.

"Is that so?" she says.

"Mmm." I can't quite bring myself to actually say the word 'yes.'

Shae watches me, letting the silence stretch out awkwardly, perhaps giving me the chance to expand upon my response. Maybe even to rethink it entirely. If that's the case, I think she must be onto something because I suddenly have the bizarre, irrational urge to fill the silence by confessing all of my sins. As if unburdening myself of the secret would also cleanse me of its taint.

I'm not naive enough to believe that's actually how it works.

There's a sudden flare of pain from my mouth, and I realise I'm chewing on my lip as if it's bubble-gum, even though I didn't actually intend to bite it. (I guess some bad habits are frighteningly easy to fall back into.) I make myself stop.

Just as well I won't be kissing anyone (else) any time soon.

Oh. Oh god.

Shae steps in close and puts a hand on my arm, her eyes searching my face.

"Sansa, what's wrong?"

I'm relieved beyond measure that we've both been speaking quietly enough that I doubt anyone can hear us over the ambient noise. Anyway, Ygritte's busy flirting with customers under the guise of taking their orders, Missandei's making drinks, Asha's in the back and the customers are busy with their own concerns. No one's paying attention to us.

(Even though I still have the horrible, creepy-crawly sensation of being watched, of judgemental gazes following me around like spotlights of shame.)

(I know I'm being stupid again, but I can't shake the feeling.)

Shae's supposed to be going on her break. I feel guilty for keeping her from it (even though she's the one who approached me) and for neglecting my own tasks. I'm allegedly on clearing up and restocking duty. Which I should really get back to, like pretty much now, so I should probably try to cut this conversation short.

Irrational urges aside, I'm not intending to give Shae anything other than excuses. But when I open my mouth to voice some vague (face-saving lie) denial that anything's wrong, the truth just slips out.

"I slept with Margaery Tyrell last night." At Shae's blank look, I clarify: "She's Loras Tyrell's sister. From re-enactment. She came to visit him this weekend."

"Oh. Okay." Looking (not disgusted, thank god; not like she despises me) somewhat enlightened, she pats my arm comfortingly. Delicately, she continues: "I, ah, take it that's not the kind of thing you normally do?"

"No!" I yelp. "No, of course not. I don't… I've never…" I can't even finish that sentence. "I've *never*!"

She arches an eyebrow. "Never with a girl?"

"Never at *all*." My eyes start to prickle, and I turn away from her, blindly sweeping up the tray of dirty crockery and bending to load it into the dishwasher. Directing my next words to the appliance — it's easier that way — I mutter: "I… I don't even like girls."

Silence.

I finish loading the dishwasher. (I remember last night; an intense flood of images and sensations that I can only banish by catching the ragged part of my lip between my teeth.) I fill the washing tablet and rinse-aid dispensers, and then close the dishwasher door, automatically checking to make sure it's sealed properly. We really don't want another flood, especially in the week before the Christmas break. (I remember the look on Jeyne's face as the stars in her eyes turned to ashes.) Finally, when I can't stretch it out any longer, I press the buttons to start the programme. (Guilt burns inside me like acid.)

I turn to face Shae, waiting for her to speak. (I dread what she's going to say.)

She sighs softly, and shakes her head. "This is not the place for such a conversation. You're coming with me."

I blink.

"But the place is busy! And we're not supposed to…"

"I'll handle it. Go and get your things, then meet me outside."

When she uses that tone of voice, it's hard *not* to obey her. She might not have Asha's bark, but when she wants to be, she can still be commanding in her own way. Anyway, I can't say I wouldn't be thankful for a few minutes to pull myself together. I take a deep breath, and resist the urge to bite my lip.

"Okay."

"Here," Shae says, handing me a to-go cup. I take it automatically.

"What is it?"

I sniff the steam curling out of the opening, and my nostrils are instantly filled with the rich, delicious scent of caramel and chocolate. (The smell makes me think of Daenerys, of the passion in her eyes when she said all those wonderful things about me. I wonder what she's going to think of me now.)

"Caramel mocha," she says. "If we're going to be hanging around in the cold, we're going to need *something* to keep us warm." She hefts her own cup, most likely containing a herbal tea of some kind. Probably jasmine.

"Um, thank you," I say, smiling gratefully. "You didn't have to do that, though."

She rolls her eyes. "I know I didn't have to. I wanted to. Besides, you look like you need it. You're very pale at the moment." She looks me over, frowning a little. "Paler than usual, I mean. And you look worn out."

I'm sure I must look a fright. Lack of sleep (arching against Margaery as pressure builds inside me) followed by a day spent in a constant, continual state of (arousal/distress) shock hasn't exactly left me feeling at my best. Normally that would bother me, but today it barely even makes a dent.

I give myself a mental shake.

"At least let me give you the money," I say, starting to fumble with the zip of my handbag.

"No," she says, firmly. "It's my treat. I dragged you out here, after all." I open my mouth to try one last time, mainly out of a vague sense that I should than because I really feel strongly about it, but she cuts me off before I can speak. "If you ask me whether I'm sure," she says, tartly. "I am going to be offended."

I close my mouth again. I know she's joking, that she's not really annoyed at me, but I still can't help scrutinising her face for any signs of real offence. Her expression softens into an almost-smile, and I wonder if I'm really that predictable.

"Let's find somewhere to sit down," she says, and heads briskly down the street. I trail after her like a lost puppy.

We end up sitting on the same bench where I had the 'let's be friends' talk with Reza. I hope this isn't turning into a trend. Last time actually worked out alright in the end, but getting to that point was pretty cringe-worthy and this talk with Shae isn't likely to be any less so.

I make a mental note to try not to make a habit of this. Even though I will now forever think of this bench as 'the awkward conversation bench.'

Huh. On a completely random note, I bet there's a story idea in that.

I take a sip of my caramel mocha, savouring its silky sweetness.

"So," Shae says. The sound of her voice almost makes me flinch, but I just about manage to suppress the reaction. Something of it must have shown on my face, though, because she adds: "Don't look so worried, Sansa. I won't bite."

Margaery does.

For one horrible, awful moment, I worry that I've actually spoken that thought out loud, but Shae's reaction — or, rather, lack of one — suggests that I managed to keep it within the privacy of my own head. Somewhat self-consciously, I fiddle with my collar, making sure the (love bite) bruise is still safely hidden underneath my blouse.

"I know," I say, belatedly, feeling that I really should say something. "I'm just a little rattled today, I guess."

The look Shae gives me says 'no kidding' as loudly as if she'd actually spoken the words.

"Because you had sex for the first time, or because you had sex with a girl?"

I choke on my drink. Hearing her say it out loud like that makes it sound so… real. Like this isn't just something I can bury under layers of denial and never think of again by choice. Like it's something I'm actually going to have to deal with, one way or another.

When the coughing fit subsides, I take a deep breath and — despite an overwhelming urge to flee for the hills — make myself think about her question.

"Um, both, I think." There's a quaver in my voice that makes it sound like I'm on the edge of bursting into tears. I think maybe I am. I almost bite my lip, but manage to stop myself. I take a sip of my drink instead, and I think it actually does help. (Empty calories aside, it's got to be healthier than hurting myself.)

"Why?" Shae asks, like it's that easy; like I can just examine my emotions and know exactly what's driving them. I think about it for a moment, and then realise that I'm overthinking it. (As usual.) Instead, I try to clear my thoughts and just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

"I barely even know Margaery. I only met her this weekend."

"But you like her?"

"Of course I like her!" My words tumble over each other, bursting out almost before Shae finishes the question, jagged with panic at the thought that she might think I'm the kind of person who'd sleep with someone they didn't even *like*. (Even if I am apparently the kind of person who'd sleep with someone I barely know.) She gives me an odd look, and I try to push the panic down. "I… yes, I do," I continue, more calmly. "She's smart and funny and kind and… and…"

"Pretty?"

I remember looking down at her as she sprawled out on the bed, loose-limbed and languorous. Utterly unselfconscious, deliciously decadent; a drowsy, satisfied smile on her lips. The soft waves of her hair spreading out around her head like a halo, and her eyes glittering like jewels. I couldn't tear my own eyes away.

My cheeks are burning like the surface of the sun. I cough and take another sip of my coffee in a (probably) futile attempt to cover my discomfiture.

"Yes," I mutter.

Shae opens her mouth to speak, then apparently changes her mind, sipping thoughtfully at her tea instead.

"Do you think you'll see her again?" she asks after a moment.

I freeze.

("Maybe we'll do it again sometime.")

"I don't know! I just… I don't know. We haven't really talked about it." We didn't really talk about much of anything afterwards, but I find myself oddly reluctant to actually say that. I don't know why. Apropos of nothing, I find myself blurting out: "She friended me on Facebook this morning."

"I see," Shae says, sounding thoughtful.

"I accepted," I say.

"Hmmm," she murmurs quietly, inscrutably; apparently to herself. Curiosity immediately flares up inside me and I want — no, *need* — to know what's going through her head right now. What does *she* think it means? I'm trying to think of a way to ask her when she continues speaking. "So you've never been attracted to any other girls?" she asks carefully.

(An image flashes into my mind, but I push it away before I can decipher it.)

"No!" My voice cracks a little on the word. I clear my throat and try again. "No, I haven't," I continue, in a more level tone. "And it wasn't attraction, not really. I'm just not attracted to girls." Shae's expression turns distinctly sceptical, and my eyes start to prickle again. "I'm not," I insist hurriedly. "Last night was… It just wasn't me. It wasn't the kind of thing I normally do. None of it was. But I was drunk, and Margaery was so nice, and I was angry, and-"

"You were angry?" Shae interrupts, sounding puzzled. "With who? Margaery?"

"No. No, of course not. With someone else." I wave a hand, dismissing that whole conversational cul-de-sac. I really don't want to talk to Shae about the voice in my head. Not now, not ever. "It doesn't matter," I say firmly. "The point is… I was drunk, and in a heightened state of emotion, and she was *there* and I just… I got confused. That's all."

(Yes, confused. Because that's totally a thing that happens. Isn't it? I mean, you read about it all the time; people being confused about who they like, or don't like, or whatever.)

"How drunk were you?" Shae asks, her frown deepening. "Did this Margaery person take advantage of you?"

She looks so *fierce* all of a sudden. I hasten to reassure her, uncomfortably aware that this is how rumours get started.

"No, nothing like that. We were both as drunk as each other. And it was more tipsy, really. We hadn't been bingeing or anything. We'd been pacing ourselves, and we'd had food, so…" I suddenly realise what I'm saying: I wasn't *that* drunk, my judgement wasn't *really* impaired. That maybe I wasn't really 'confused' after all. Except I clearly was, so I'm obviously just not expressing myself well enough. I hurry onwards before Shae can say respond, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. "Anyway, Margaery's younger than me by a good few months. If anyone was taking advantage of anyone it was probably me."

That thought hits me like a lorry, knocking the breath right out of me.

*Did* I take advantage of Margaery? She certainly doesn't act young. Quite the opposite, really. She comes across as so sophisticated and worldly compared to me that, if anything, she seems older than me.

But she isn't. So maybe… Maybe I…

Oh god.

I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat, part-way between a sob and a whimper, but Shae is there before I really start to lose it, scooting along the bench to put her arm around my shoulders.

"Shhh, Sansa. It's okay. It's alright." Her voice is soothing, and although I'm not generally one for hugs, the physical contact helps to keep me here, keep me grounded. Even if it can't ease the slightly sick feeling in my stomach, or loosen the bands clamped tightly around my chest. "I know you. You wouldn't take advantage of anyone, and certainly not like that."

"You weren't there, though," I whisper. "You don't know for sure."

"That's true," she agrees easily. "But what I do know is that she sent you a friend request the very next morning. That doesn't sound like someone who feels like she's been taken advantage of."

I blink, processing that.

"Oh." It's like a weight's been lifted off me, the pressure on my chest easing so I can actually take a full breath. "I guess you're right."

"I'm always right," Shae says dryly, startling a laugh out of me. She squeezes my shoulders tightly and then pulls away a little, turning so she can see me.

"Thanks," I say. I try for a smile, but it's probably fairly sickly-looking. I feel *exhausted*, like weariness has seeped into my very bones. I drink my mocha, hoping the sugar and caffeine combination will perk me up a little. It hasn't so far, but I can always hope. I just wish… "I just wish I knew what it all *means*."

Oh *poot*. I didn't mean to say that out loud. It must be the exhaustion talking.

"What?" asks Shae. "The sex?" I cringe and nod. She shrugs nonchalantly. "It means what you want it to mean. Both of you."

My eyebrows shoot up.

"It isn't that simple!" I protest. It *can't* be that simple. Can it?

"Of course it is," she says, like it's self-evident. "If it was just a night of no-strings fun, or if it could become something more. If you like girls, or if you just like Margaery."

"But-"

"*Or*, if you're really not attracted to girls at all and last night was just…"

"A mistake," I say, firmly, and then feel horribly guilty. I make a mental note never to say anything of the sort to Margaery. I wouldn't… I don't want to hurt her feelings.

Shae gives me a look I can't decipher, studying me until I flush and start to fidget.

"What is it?" I ask.

She sighs. "I want to ask you something, but it's a little personal."

"Um, okay." I take a breath. "You can go ahead and ask. I might not answer, though. If it turns out to be too personal."

"Fair enough." She meets my gaze squarely. "Did you enjoy it?"

I thought I was blushing already, but now it feels like my face is on fire. The only reason I'm not squirming uncomfortably is because I'm completely and utterly paralysed by the question.

Did (like every single nerve ending is alight with pleasure, and I absolutely can't keep quiet) I (Margaery arches her back, writhing and panting, and it's absolutely *awe-inspiring* to know that I'm the one doing that to her) enjoy it?

"Um…" I want to say no. (But it wouldn't be true). I *can't* say yes. (Because if I acknowledge that, if I *accept* that, what else will I have to admit about myself?) And I don't think Shae is going accept an evasive non-answer like 'I don't know.'

After what feels like an eternity of dithering, I close my eyes and nod.

(Maybe it doesn't count if I don't actually say it out loud.)

I hear Shae sigh. I open my eyes again but I can't bring myself to look at her. I look down at the ground instead, drinking my caramel mocha as if that's the only thing on my mind right now. As if I'm alone with the thoughts I'm very determinedly not thinking.

It doesn't work.

My mind is a jumbled mess of memories right now. Last night, of course, but also, apropos of nothing, some of my conversations with Daenerys. (I really hope she isn't disappointed in me.) I even find my thoughts drifting all the way back to school, and Jeyne…

("Sansa, wait. Just let me… We need to talk about this. I-")

("We don't need to talk about it. We just need to forget it ever happened.")

I wonder what she's doing now. Maybe I should try to get in touch with her. Although I'm not sure she'd necessarily be pleased to hear from me.

I'm almost painfully aware of Shae's silent presence at my side, anxiously waiting for her to speak, yet so terribly afraid of what she's going to say.

It's almost a relief when she finally does break the silence.

"Do you regret it?"

Her matter-of-fact tone is actually reassuring. I focus on that, clinging to it like a promise of stability.

"I don't know," I say at last. Not an evasion: I genuinely *don't* know. Earlier today, I would probably have said yes right away; no hesitation, no uncertainty. But now I find that the whole thing seems far less black and white and I feel… conflicted.

"If," Shae begins, then stops and sighs deeply. "Sansa, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not sure I'm the best person to help you right now." It feels like the ground suddenly drops away beneath me. I must look stricken, or something, because Shae puts her arm around me again, stroking soothing circles between my shoulder blades with her hand. "If this is a sexual identity crisis you're going through-"

"It's not!" I practically squeak, staring at her in horror. Because a crisis would imply uncertainty, and I'm *not* uncertain. (Even though I just admitted to myself that I am.) Last night was just a glitch, an anomaly; nothing that's going to make me seriously question what I know to be true.

(But if it was just a glitch, then that really does make me a slut. Whereas if it wasn't, if it's more than that, if it actually *means* something, then maybe… Maybe…)

"I'm not saying it definitely is," Shae says, disrupting whatever fragmentary thoughts were starting to coalesce inside the maelstrom of my mind. "But you definitely seem troubled right now, and I don't think I really have the experience to help you though it." Almost under her breath, she adds. "Not being certain where my affections lie has never been one of my problems."

Huh. Well, that's… intriguing. I really want to ask her what she means, but she doesn't really sound like she wants to talk about it. Not right now, anyway. Maybe another time.

In the meantime, I try to muster up a smile.

"It's okay," I say, aiming for positive and upbeat and *better*, but hitting rather closer to wound-too-tightly. "You've helped me a lot already. Thanks for bringing me out here — I think I did need to clear my head a little. But I'm feeling better now. I just… I guess I have some thinking to do, that's all. Thank you."

"You're welcome, of course, but you don't need to thank me. I don't know that I've really done all that much." She sighs, looking at me pensively. "Maybe you should talk to someone who might be more helpful."

"Maybe," I mutter. "I don't know who, though."

"Asha?" Shae suggests, and then immediately changes her mind. "No, not Asha," she mutters, shaking her head vehemently. "But how about… Have you thought about talking to… Perhaps Daenerys?"

I stare at her. "Daenerys?" In my mind, I see a pair of intense sapphire eyes, looking at me like they see all the way into my very soul. And then they morph into Margaery eyes, also blue (if not *quite* as blue), looking at me in a way that makes me flush all the way to my hairline.

I shake my head to clear it, which Shae takes to mean a refusal.

"Don't dismiss it out of hand," she tells me. "The two of you are… close, after all." She stops, looking at me a little uncertainly. "Aren't you?"

"I… I suppose so." I think she's actually my closest friend right now. (I just hope she still wants to *be* my friend, when she finds out.)

"Well, then. And she probably has a much better understanding of where you're coming from." Shae nods, like that settles things in her mind. "It's up to you, of course, but I think you should talk to her."

"Maybe," I hedge. I'm… conflicted. Deeply conflicted.

While I dither, Shae checks her watch and sighs.

"Time for us to head back, I'm afraid. Are you feeling alright now?"

"I'll be fine," I say. I mean, I'm not exactly one hundred percent, but I think I can make it through the rest of my shift without incident. After that…

Well, I suppose I'll just have to wait and see.

I really do have some thinking to do.