Sansa wakes before Jon, while the sky outside is still tinted orange in the dawn light, and for a long time doesn't move. She and Jon have shifted in their sleep: his arm is still looped over her shoulder, but she's turned into him, face pressed to his slowly rising and falling chest. He smells like soap and laundry detergent and a musky male scent that makes her nose tingle. She knows she should get up before he does, avoid the embarrassment of him waking to find her curled against him like some clingy girl after sex, but she doesn't want to pop the quiet bubble of Jon's even breathing and the dawn light peeking through the window.
She does eventually get up though, slips out from under Jon's arm and extricates her phone from the pocket of her skinny jeans. She thumbs it on to find the cracked screen blank. Nothing. No calls from Lysa, no texts from Margaery, not even one of Arya's random memes. Good, Sansa tells herself, but something aches in her throat as she shoves it back in her pocket.
Sansa finds the bathroom and splashes water on her face. The shock of cold wakes her a little, makes her realize how grimy she feels, and she starts the job of scrubbing her face clean of the makeup caking it from the night before. The girl that looks back at her from the mirror after she's finished is thin featured and pale, water dripping from her nose and jaw and dark hair framing her face in clinging strands. Beautiful her mother called her when she was young; gorgeous is what Margaery says when they try on clothes together; hot is was what she gets from guys; but to Sansa her face is only sickly and narrow and as she towels it dry she can't help but wish she could just keep scrubbing, scrub and scrub until there isn't anything left but a hard porcelain shell.
When she slips back into Jon's room he's still sleeping. Now with her face washed Sansa is acutely aware of the fact she slept in her clothes and the sweat dried to them from the night before between dancing and running. She drifts over to Jon's closet. Inside hang a row of t-shirts and button-ups and a pair of jackets in the back. She bites her lip and glances at Jon. Would he care? Borrowing a guy's shirt was one of those after sex girl moves: but it's not like they're dating, not like he'd ever want anything to do with the girly girl he'd never liked. Sansa worms her lip back and forth between her teeth but eventually slips a flannel button-up from its hangar and peels away her tank top.
There's a half cracked mirror hanging off the back of the closet, and Sansa looks at her reflection in it a long minute: torso skinny and pale against the scarlet of her push up bra. She isn't exactly flat normally, but the bra shoves what she has up and together. Every girl needs a good push up bra in her armory, Margaery had told her in a carelessly authoritative tone when she picked it out. It's more sexy than pretty, sleek red silk sans lace, and what had felt daring and adult the night before now just feels trashy. But it'll only be worse without it, be more like she's the dumb high schooler playing at being an adult, and so instead Sansa slips the flannel over it. For a moment she luxuriates in the softness of it, the way Jon's laundry detergent smell clings to it. It reaches mid thigh, low enough that she's safe shimmying out of her jeans and folding them on the bed alongside her tank top.
The kitchenette fridge is partitioned in what is very clearly Jon's semi-neat side and Theon's post apocalyptic one. Sansa pulls out a couple eggs from Jon's side, rolls the sleeves of the flannel to her elbows, and busies herself flicking on the burners and pulling out a pan. It takes only a few minutes for the smell of frying eggs to fill the apartment, and then another few for Jon to come yawning out of his room.
"Good morning," Sansa chirps, though the cheeriness feels forced even to her. It's too late to turn back now though, so she flashes him a smile and turns and fishes out a pair of plates from the cabinet to avoid facing him.
Jon rubs a hand over his face and takes a seat at the kitchen island. "You didn't have to," he says with a yawn, and Sansa's stupidly grateful he doesn't mention she's wearing his shirt even though his eyes graze over it and the way the top buttons strain around her chest. "There's cereal in there."
"Fair is fair." Sansa scoops one of the eggs from the pan, slides it onto one of the plates, and sets it down in front of him. "You saved the maiden, now you get the reward."
A ghost of a grin appears on Jon's lips. "What, no kingdom?"
She sticks her tongue out at him and switches off the burner. "Next time."
Jon chuckles as he grabs a fork and starts on his egg. "Good to know," he mumbles as he takes a bite. "How do you not have a hangover?"
"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." She raises her nose and sniffs. "A lady never drinks."
"Of course not." Jon quirks an eyebrow. "I should've remembered you Starks can hold your liquor."
How would you… Sansa almost shoots back, but then she remember, remembers and the ache is back in her throat. And just as suddenly she feels like an idiot standing here half dressed in Jon's kitchen like it isn't weird, like it doesn't look like she isn't reading too much into him just being decent, like if she wears his shirt they'll both believe she's sexy instead of pathetic, like she isn't the drunk mess of a high schooler he'd had to save the night before. She turns back to the pan so Jon won't notice, pretends to busy herself with sliding the remaining egg onto her plate.
It doesn't work. "Sansa?" Jon asks into the sudden silence, and it's the softness of his voice that makes the ache in Sansa's throat blossom so she has to blink away sudden tears. "I didn't mean..."
"It's ok." She tries for a laugh, but it bubbles out bitter and pathetic. "I'm sorry. I know you don't need some girl being emotional all over your kitchen. I know you have better stuff to be doing, that you're just watching out for me because I'm Robb's little sister. It's ok. I know I'm not Arya and I know I'm not-"
She doesn't really see Jon stand as she babbles, just feels the sudden warmth of his arms as he wraps them around her and pulls her tight to his chest, and then Sansa can't keep back her tears. She sobs, though she doesn't know why, even though it's so fucking stupid, sobs and sobs into Jon's shirt as he holds her through it.
Eventually the tears stop, and Jon gently pushes her to arms length. "Sansa," he says stooping his head to peer into her eyes. "I have nothing better to be doing. Nothing, ok? You're not just Robb's little sister to me. Don't ever think that. You may not be Arya, but you're Sansa Stark: the bossy girl I've known half my life who's never let anything stop her getting what she wants."
"I'm not though." Sansa hiccups a laugh. She's never felt more tired, but if she doesn't force the words out now she doesn't think she ever will. "I don't know what I'm doing Jon. Ever since the crash no matter what I do or where I am I can't stop- it hurts. It hurts so much, and I can't stop it."
Jon rubs her arms, hands gentle over the flannel, and Sansa wishes she could close her eyes and fall into the feeling and never have to open them again. "I can still feel it sometimes," he says softly. "The car swerving and the truck, and stumbling out afterwards. And it feels like- it's like being hit by lightning but no one can see it. I go to school and work but everyone just acts like everything's the same, like nothing's different, like there isn't this giant crack in the world that's going to swallow us up. I don't know why it was him in the front seat. I don't know why it wasn't me. It should've been. It would've been easier."
"Don't say that." Sansa shakes her head sharply. "Just don't, ok?"
Jon's jaw clenches and he blinks rapidly, and Sansa realizes just how much of what she thought was his normal expression must be a mask, how young and lonely and tired he looks without it. She wishes there's something she can say or do to make it better, to take away the hurt, but she knows there isn't (God, does she know that). She reaches up and squeezes his hand, and maybe that's enough because he closes his eyes and nods.
They stand like that a moment, silent and lost in his kitchen, the smell of eggs filling the air and her hand squeezing his. Finally, Jon takes a deep breath and lets it whistle out from between his teeth. "I'm sorry," he says, looking at the floor.
"About what?" Sansa scrunches her nose and reaches out to rub the wet spot on his shirt where she'd pressed her face. "I'm the one that got snot on your shirt."
Jon grins weakly and leans back against the counter, hands slipping from her arms, and she immediately finds herself missing their reassuring pressure. "That's two shirts you owe me, you know."
She's never felt more drained, but Sansa finds herself smiling back. It feels good to smile, something warm kindling in her chest. She laughs and wipes her nose with the heel of her hand. "Sorry. You can have this one back if you want."
A smile tugs at Jon's lips. "Right now?"
Sansa bats her still wet lashes at Jon and arches her back and smoothes the flannel of his shirt against the planes of her ribs and curve of her hips so her chest strains the buttons. "Why not…?"
She hadn't been serious (had she?), but Sansa catches the flicker of Jon's reaction all the same: the way his tongue plays between his teeth, the way when his eyes slide away from the newly smoothed lines of the flannel they flick up to her lips, her eyes, then her lips again in a way that's almost hungry.
And it's that flicker that lingers in Sansa's mind as they finish breakfast side by side on the counter, as Jon scrubs the dishes and she dries them, as Jon hangs back as she fits into her skinny jeans (but she keeps the flannel and Jon doesn't complain), as Theon finally arrives and Jon drives her back to Lysa's, as he has her hand him her phone and saves his number in it, as he walks her to the door and gives her a tight hug, as he whispers in her ear for her to be safe.
And as Sansa watches Jon walk back to the car she thinks maybe Margaery isn't so wrong about the bra after all.
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