Sansa wakes before the rest of the house, though she's not sure why. The room is still dark, and she's snug and warm curled beneath the blanket, rain pattering against the roof. Across from her Jon lies on his back, eyes closed, chest slowly rising and falling. They'd talked late into the night, words drifting in the dark, but Sansa remembers little of it, mostly just remembers the soft lilt and rasp of Jon's voice as she drifted off to sleep.
As warm as she is under the blanket, and as tempted as she is to simply burrow deeper under it, Sansa has always been an early riser, and eventually she gets up and folds the blanket, places it back where she found it the night before. It'll be simpler for everyone if it seems like she slept in Arya's room and just got up early.
It's a good plan; one that's immediately foiled as Sansa slips into the kitchen to find Arya still in her ratty t-shirt and pajama pants munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "What were you and Jon talking about last night?" She asks without preamble as Sansa crosses to the pantry.
Sansa shrugs as she grabs a tin of coffee and busies herself with filling the coffee pot with water. "How do you know we were talking about anything?"
Arya doesn't answer, and when Sansa's done putting the pot on and setting the coffee machine she glances over to find Arya giving her a half lidded look. "Jon's really good," she says flatly, "and you never even liked him."
Sansa leans against the counter and crosses her arms. "So?" She answers, voice pricklier than she'd meant it. It's always easy to forget how difficult living with Arya is until she has to do it again no matter how short term. "What do you care if I talk with Jon?"
As though summoned by his name Jon walks into the kitchen. "Hey," he says with a yawn, and circles around the counter to muss Arya's hair. "Why are you two up so early on Christmas?"
"Breakfast." Sansa flashes him a smile, and pulls a bowl from under the counter. "Hold this."
Jon makes for a good assistant as Sansa whisks up a bowl of french toast, flicks on one of the burners, and starts dipping and frying slices as one yawning kid after another stumbles into the kitchen. After everyone's been fed Sansa slides the last of the toast unto a pair of plates and offers one to Jon. He smiles and leans a hip against the counter and begins to cut the toast with the side of his fork.
Sansa hops unto the counter next to him. "It's probably fine to drive," she says as he passes her the syrup, though her chest gives a twinge as she says it. "I know you got work, and I can just grab the train."
"Highway's still closed." Arya finishes swallowing down what must be her fifth slice of toast. "Saw it this morning."
"It's fine. I got Val to cover my shift. She says I'll have to repay her in sexual favors, but I'm like ninety percent sure she's kidding."
Arya frowns. "Is Val the cool one or the one that hit on you that one time?"
Jon laughs. "Both?"
Jon's an adult. You're still in highschool. At that moment Catelyn steps into the kitchen dressed in a black blazer. "I've got to go the office, there's a problem with one of the accounts." She leans her head to the side to fit an earing. "Sansa honey, can you run to the store and grab a couple things I forgot? Edmure and Brynden will be here by one or so, but I should be back before then to help you get everything together."
"I can take you," Jon offers, glancing at Sansa. He sets his plate in the sink with the other dishes. "We'll use my car."
Catelyn's lips purse, but she nods. "Thank you."
"I call shotgun." Arya pushes back her chair without bothering to pick up her plate, but Catelyn shakes her head. "I need you here to make sure the Reeds get off ok."
Arya scowls like she wants to say something else, but Meera and Jojen are still eating and even she's not rude enough to say anything with them in the room. Sansa hops off the counter and sets her own plate in the sink. She almost bumps into Jon's chest, and uses the opportunity to smile at him. "I'll get dressed and we can go."
Arya follows her with a suspicious look as she slips out of the kitchen, but Sansa ignores her. She can prove to Jon she's an adult. She can.
It's sprinkling by the time they reach the grocery store, a Kneeling Man Inn stuffed between a pet and dollar store. They park, manage to make it inside without getting too wet, and Jon grabs a cart. It's been a long time since Sansa's been in a grocery store longer than the time it takes to scoop up an armful of ramen and she and Jon are forced to drift through the aisles as they try to track down the stuff on her mother's list. They find most of it, but the last item on the list is fresh cranberries and try as Sansa might she can't seem to find them.
"You're some serious wife material right now," Jon drawls, leaning forward over the cart as they start down the fifth aisle in a row. "How has no one snapped you up?"
"Oh shut up." Sansa narrows her eyes and sticks out her tongue as she rolls up the sleeves of his flannel. "I'm so wife material right now. You have no idea."
"Sansa," purrs a voice that is not Jon's, and a cold fist clenches in Sansa's chest. She whirls to find Cersei, Joffrey's golden haired mother, giving her a sweet smile. "Strange to meet you here."
"Mrs. Lannister," Sansa replies automatically, words stilted. Even just going to the store Cersei is flawless in red coat and heels, crimson lipstick somehow perfect, and Sansa has never felt more skinny and badly dressed as Cersei's eyes tick up from her black flats to her scuffed jeans and finally settle on the loose fit of Jon's faded flannel. Cersei tilts her head to the side. "How is your mother, dear? I wish I could've done more after you father passed. I heard she switched houses again last year, and Joff told me you had to move out?"
"For school." Sansa wraps her arms around herself. So desperately she'd wanted to be like Cersei when she was younger: to throw the same kinds of fancy parties where people would sip wine and talk art and politics, but even back then Cersei had let Sansa know she'd never be good enough for her golden son in a hundred different ways, half lidded glances and backhanded compliments that told Sansa just how small and worthless she really was. It makes her want to shrink into herself, to shrivel and die, that Cersei is seeing her like this in some shabby podunk grocery store. "It's just for school."
"Of course." Cersei smiles, the expression not reaching her eyes. "I'm sorry we haven't kept in touch since you and Joff… He felt so bad about how upset you were by that."
Sansa opens her mouth, but no sound comes from it. Say something, a part of her hisses. Anything. Don't let her see you like this. But there is a weight on Sansa's chest that makes drawing a full breathe hard, a vice that's crushing her between it's arms, and she's just as small and dumb as she was back then, the pathetic doe eyed creature that had followed Joffrey around and flinched when kicked.
Jon noses the cart forward. "Hey," he says extending a hand towards Cersei. "I'm Jon. Cersei, right?"
"Yes." Cersei's lip twitches at Jon's extended hand, but it would be rude not to take it, and so she she slips her own slim one in his. "I'm Joff's mother."
"Was that one of the kids Sansa use to babysit?"
Cersei scowls, the expression sudden as a storm. "She and my son dated."
"Oh yeah. I remember that." Jon frowns at Sansa, for all the world like he really is curious. "Didn't you dump that guy?"
Sansa draws a breath through the clench of her chest and forces herself to nod. She had. She'd been the one to break up with him, to leave him, and nothing Cersei says can take that from her. "Yeah, I did. Awhile ago."
Cersei smiles, the expression again not reaching her eyes. She steps past Jon and lays a hand on Sansa's forearm that makes her whole arm shiver. "We'll have to not let it go so long again, dear."
Sansa manages a stiff smile as Cersei slips around the other side of the aisle. She stays gazing at the empty aisle for a long moment until Jon touches her arm. She turns to find him looking at her, eyes apprehensive. "Are you ok?" He starts. "I didn't mean to-"
Sansa doesn't give him a chance to finish. A single step and she's burying her face into his chest, not caring that they're in the middle of the grocery store, not caring that Cersei is not yet twenty feet away. Jon goes rigid, then almost immediately softens and raises his arms, wraps them around her and squeezes her tight, presses his mouth to the crown of her head.
They stay like that a long time, Jon's arms folded around her, the thumb of his right hand slowly stroking her upper arm, the hum of freezers three aisles over and the PA system crackling overhead the only sound. Finally, Sansa steps back. She answers his questioning look with a shy smile, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and tilts her head to the checkout line. "We have enough from the list."
It's pouring as they leave the store, the drizzle from earlier replaced by a downpour. They're soaked in seconds as they sprint for the car, but Sansa doesn't care, something in her giddy even as the cold hits like a slap to the face. She tosses the plastic bags in the trunk and jumps into the front seat as on the opposite side of the Chevy Jon does the same. "Jesus," he says from between chattering teeth, but he's grinning as he fumbles to turn the key in the ignition. "I thought the rain was supposed to be done."
Sansa flicks on the heater as Jon pulls out from the parking lot, teeth chattering and fingers prickling. The air that rattles from it is lukewarm at best, and Sansa wraps her arms around herself, skin twitching and shivering. The rain doesn't let up as they drive, but the air gusting from the heater quickly warms the car and Sansa closes her eye, luxuriating in its oven warmth thawing her hands and fingers as Jon drives. The giddy feeling from earlier fades as the heat leaches into what feels like every one of Sansa muscles, leaves in its wake a bone-deep languidness.
In what feels like far too little time Jon is pulling into her family's driveway, though it's almost impossible to see through the condensation on the windows and the rain still pouring down outside. He switches off the wipers and lights, but doesn't pull the keys from the ignition. He turns and looks at her, eyes dark and unreadable. "You sure you're ok?" He asks eventually.
Sansa doesn't answer. Say something. While not panicked like in the grocery store, Sansa finds it just as hard to think as as she stares back at him, at the hair slicked to his forehead, the part of his lips, the way a fine layer of sweat sheens his skin. He reaches over, fingertips brushing her cheek as he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "Sansa? I'm here."
And he is, is in a way that Sansa doesn't understand, a way that makes something well deep inside her that she doesn't know what to do with. It's too hot, the car suffocating, and Sansa has the overwhelming urge to strip off the flannel, to lean forwards and open his mouth with hers, to press her soaked body to his to try and let out the heat that's threatening to burn through her. If she tries he'll stop her, Sansa knows. Gently, because Jon is always gentle, but he will, and it will break something in her, snap in two a part of herself that she swore she'd never let anyone touch after Joffrey, a part of herself she'd buried so deep no one could ever find it as she watched Robb and her father lowered into the ground.
All of it flits across Sansa's mind in an instant. But an instant is also all it takes for her to lean across the front seat and press her mouth to Jon's.
He doesn't go stiff like in the store. No sooner are her lips touching his than his hand is cupping her cheek and he's leaning forward, drawing her to him and deepening the kiss with a fierceness Sansa didn't know he had in him. It's good, better than Sansa thought it could be, a tingle shivering up her spine and down her arms and legs. Jon makes a noise, low and husky, and until that moment Sansa never knew how desperate a sound could make her to hear it again. Blindly, she reaches down and fumbles for the zipper of his jeans.
Against her lips she feels Jon frown and pull back. "Sansa-"
"It's ok, Jon." Sansa squirms, unable to let out the heat under her skin. She trails a line of kisses down his throat to his collarbone, nips at his bare skin before falling further down his chest. "Let me do this for you."
Jon cups both of her cheeks, pulls her back up so he can peer in her eyes, pupils pools of black. "You don't have to."
"No, you don't understand." Sansa shakes her and sweeps back her hair with her free hand, mind fuzzy. She pushes past his hands, sucks at the side of his neck and presses as much of herself as she can against him as if by doing it it'll push what she she's trying to say into him. Her fingers scrabble, unable to find the tab of his zipper despite how desperate she is to pull out what she knows is within, to wrap her fingers around the hard warmth of him. "I don't mind, Jon. I promise I don't."
"Sansa-"
"Just let me try." It comes out a whine, but Sansa can't stop herself, the shame she's shoved down for so long spilling out. She needs Jon: needs him to understand, needs to feel him beneath her hand, needs to let out whatever frantic thing is rising in her chest. She gives up on the zipper, plunges her hand beneath the waist of his jeans. He's just as hard as she thought he'd be, and she wraps her fingers around the length of him, skin sliding smooth beneath her fingers as she tugs at it, gloriously warm. "Please, Jon. I know I won't be as good as Val or some college girl, but I can still make it feel good. I can. You can shove my head down and blow your load in my mouth if that's what you want. I hated when Joffrey did it, but I won't mind if it's you. I won't. Just let me do this. Let me make you feel good."
She tugs on Jon. Once, twice, but before she can a third time he's reaching down and catching her wrist. "Sansa, stop."
The word hits Sansa like a slap, leave her ears ringing. She pulls back to her seat, jerks her hand free, all the warmth inside her snuffed out in an instant. What did you expect, sneers the voice inside her, what did you think would happen? That he wouldn't see the broken and pathetic thing Joffrey left you? That he would actually want you? Jon is looking at her, like he can see right into her, and if Sansa stays in the car for even a second longer the panic bubbling in her chest will consume her. She whirls and wrenches the door open, throws herself into the downpour outside.
The cold is like a punch to the gut. Jon calls something from inside the car, but Sansa can't hear him. She runs for the door, rain pelting her shoulders, and pounds on it with her open palm until Arya opens it.
"Jeez, Sansa," Arya starts, but Sansa pushes past her before she can say anything else, not caring how much water she's tracking in. A moment later she hears the slap of feet as Jon sprints through the rain, shopping bags in hand. He skids to a stop just inside as he catches sight of Arya.
Arya's head swivels back and forth between them, brow furrowed. "What happened to you two?"
"Nothing." Sansa wraps her arms around herself, wet flannel clinging to her skin, refuses to meet Jon's gaze as he tries to catch her eye. She can't: not here, not now, not ever. "Nothing happened."
Arya's frown deepens, but she seems to shrug it away. "You both need to change. Mom'll freak when she gets back if she sees you tracked water in."
Jon sets the groceries by the front door. "I didn't bring a change of clothes." She hears him tell Arya.
"Yeah, and the dryer's broken." Arya shakes her head. "There's some of Robb's old stuff in the garage I think. It should fit."
Jon goes still. "I don't know if your mom-"
"Jesus Christ." Sansa's finger fumble at the buttons of the flannel as she strips it off, not caring that she's in the middle of the living room and Jon and Arya are both looking at her like she's gone crazy, Arya's eyebrows so high they've nearly disappeared into her hairline. She looks down and realizes she's still wearing the push up bra: scarlet against the pale of her torso, chest shoved up and together like she's some kind of cheap barbie doll. A laugh bubbles in her throat but she chokes it down, wads the flannel into a ball and shoves it at Jon as she shoulders past him on her way to Arya's room. "Wear whatever the fuck you want, Jon."
AN: I've just posted a sneak peak of the next chapter on my tumblr tacitwhisky (link in bio) so go check it out if you like. And as always, I appreciate reviews.