As soon as she's shut the door to Arya's room Sansa strips off the rest of her wet clothes and tosses them onto the floor even as shivers run up and down her arms and legs and her teeth can't seem to stop chattering. Sansa clenches them hard enough to ache as she grabs dry clothes from her bag and pulls them on without bothering to look at them.
You begged. Actually begged. Bile rises in Sansa's throat, shame and disgust threatening to gag her. She wants a drink in that moment more than she's ever wanted anything in her life, the harsh warmth down her throat and the fuzzy and tingling distance it will bring, but getting to the kitchen means passing back through the living room and seeing Jon again.
Sansa pushes back the wet hair sticking to her forehead. She can't think about that. With luck Jon will still be in the garage and she can make it to the kitchen without seeing him. She opens the door before she has a chance to lose her nerve, forces herself to step out into the hallway.
The living room is empty and she hurries through to the kitchen. The bottle of wine her mother opened the night before is still on the counter next to the spice rack. It won't be as good as the peach schnapps she usually gets from Margaery, but relief blooms all the same through Sansa's chest. Her hands tremble as she pulls a glass from the dishrack, but before she can reach for the bottle the jangle of keys comes from the door.
No, no, no. Sansa stares desperately at the bottle, but there isn't time, and it might as well be miles away for all the good it can do her. She forces herself to put the glass back in the dishrack as the door swings open and her mother steps through. "Sansa, honey," she says with a smile, and leans back out the door to stow away her umbrella so it doesn't drip over the floor. "I'm sorry I'm late. Did you get everything ok?" Her eyebrows meet in a slightly puzzled expression. "You look nice."
Sansa blinks and glances down. The clothes she'd packed yesterday are closer to what she used to wear back in the old house before her skinny jeans and tank tops: a red loose knit sweater and A-line skirt with black leggings beneath, as if by wearing them she can pretend she's the girl she used to be, the one who knew nothing about how hard the world could be, the good little girl who had been so pathetically in love with her perfect little boyfriend she took it meekly when he spat in her face. Jon will know, a voice in her sneers. He'll see right through it. He knows what you now. You made sure of that.
The garage door creaks open, and Arya steps in. "Hey mom," she says, and her next words cause Sansa's stomach to drop. "Can Jon stay for lunch?"
Catelyn purses her lips. "I'm sure he needs to get back home, honey. And it's a… family meal."
"So?" Arya's face turns stormy. "What do you want to do, throw him out on Christmas? The highway's closed again."
The way Catelyn's lip thin show that's exactly what she'd like to do, but before she can say anything the garage door opens again and Jon steps inside dressed in khakis and a thin blue cardigan. He looks nothing like Robb: not really, slim and dark where Robb was broad and autumn, but Sansa's heart still skips a beat at how Robb the clothes are, how effortlessly she can picture him in them, the grin that'd light his face when he'd hug her hello.
Jon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fiddling with his rolled up sleeves, eyes on her. Sansa rips her gaze away to where her mother is staring at Jon, face white as though she's looking at a ghost. Her lips twist, but before she can speak Arya moves between them. "Jon and Sansa's clothes were soaked," she says, staring up at their mother evenly. "And Bran's stuff won't fit him."
A muscle clenches in Catelyn's jaw. Wordlessly, she turns and crosses to the kitchen, followed a moment later by the crackle of grocery bags being rifled through. Jon takes a step from the garage. "Sansa…"
But she can't, not with him, not ever, not after what she's done, and definitely not with him dressed as a brother she can never have again. Just as wordlessly as Catelyn Sansa turns and flees into the kitchen.
They cook for the next hour, the itch in Sansa's throat growing worse, nerves grating each time she forgets a step or has to brush past her mother. Her mother is silent for her part but for a clipped yes or no that Sansa barely hears. Her heart won't stop hitting her ribcage, blood chugging in her ears.
They're nearly done when a knock comes from the door and Catelyn goes to answer it. Sansa glances at the door, bites her lip, and is across the kitchen in a single stride. She doesn't bother with a glass this time; just grabs the wine bottle, unscrews it, and takes a long sip, the tart sweetness tingling on her tongue.
"Sansa," says a voice, and she nearly jumps out of her skin. Sansa whips around to find it's Jon, because of course it fucking is. He eyes the bottle and Sansa glares at him, daring him to say something about it, anything. But all he does is meet her gaze, eyes careful. "Can we talk?"
"About what?" Her voice is tight. Her mother will notice of she drinks too much of the wine, but Sansa can't help the long swallow she follows the words with. "There's nothing to talk about. Everything's fine."
"It isn't, Sansa. I shouldn't have-"
"Shouldn't have what?" A laugh bubbles out of Sansa. She can't be here. She can't. But there isn't anywhere else to go, nowhere else she can run, so she plunges ahead before Jon can say anything else, turns her voice callous. "I'm sorry you had to listen to me beg to throat your dick, Jon, really I am. Don't worry, it won't happen again. I just felt bad for you. I've always felt bad for you, the way you had to follow around Robb because you didn't have a life of your own. Is it easier now he's gone? Now that you can just slip into his?"
"Don't do that." Jon's face has gone still but for a muscle clenched in the dimple of his jaw. "That's not fair."
Fair. The word makes Sansa want to laugh, to cry and shout and even with the wine finally beginning to trickle a fuzzy warmth into her veins she knows that if she looks at Jon another second something in her will crack. And so as desperately as she wants to drain the bottle Sansa sets it on the counter and shoves past Jon.
Edmure and Brynden are in the doorway shedding their coats. Edmure grins as he catches sight of her, but the expression dies on his face as Jon follows her out of the kitchen a moment later. Beside him Brynden stiffens.
"You both remember Jon." Catelyn's voice is clipped, tart as the wine in the bottle. "He was Robb's friend."
"Of course," Brynden says, but his face is cold and closed as he offers his hand. "It's good to see you, Jon."
Jon's body is a live wire of tension as he shakes Brynden's hand, shoulders hunched like a cornered animal ready to explode in any direction. Edmure shakes his head as if to clear it and tries to grin at Sansa. "Have you grown since the last time I saw you? You look taller."
Sansa force herself to curve her lips in a smile, but she's saved from having to answer by Bran wheeling out of the hallway. Edmure goes to fist bump him, Bryden hangs their coats in the closet, and Catelyn moves back to the kitchen, leaving Sansa and Jon alone. Sansa clenches her teeth, braces herself for whatever he's going to say, but it never comes. After a moment she glances at him to find his face closed and unreadable, the same face he'd wear when they were children and someone would make fun of his mother.
You've always been so good at hurting people. Is it really so surprising you could hurt him? For a moment Sansa is nearly reaching over, an apology on the tip of her tongue, but she swore after Joffrey she'd never be that girl again: the one that let guys make her feel weak, the one that they could walk all over. And all the girl Sansa has hollowed herself into can do is turn on her heel and follow her mother into the kitchen again.
One by one everyone finds their way to the table as Sansa and Catelyn bring out the food: Edmure and Brynden first, then Bran and Rickon, and finally Arya and Jon. A sinking fills Sansa's stomach as she realizes that the only two open seats will be her mother's at the head of the table and the one next to Jon. She can't say anything though, not without causing a scene or asking someone to move. She fiddles with the last dish while her mother takes her seat and pours herself a glass of wine, but is eventually forced to set the dish on the table. She smooths her skirt under her and takes the seat next to Jon without looking at him.
The meal that follows could not be more different from the one the night before. Where then conversation had hummed back and forth now the table is largely silent but for the clink of forks and spoons on plates. At the head of the table Catelyn sips her glass silently, eyes half lidded on Jon. Edmure tries to strike up a conversation with her, but her answer are clipped and monosyllabic and he eventually gives up, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and turning back to his food. Arya glares down at her plate, stabbing her fork harder than she needs to and Rickon keeps frowning up at everyone. And Jon… Sansa doesn't let herself look at him.
The meal drags on, Catelyn's glass slowly draining, cold eyes never wavering from Jon. Sansa eats mechanically, all the food she spent the last hour cooking tasteless. The wine's fuzzy warmth has long since fled and no matter how much she tries to ignore it the sense of Jon next to her won't go away, the unavoidable prickle of another person so close, and when Sansa can't stand it any longer she risks a glance, hides the movement under a sip of cider.
He's hunched in his chair, eyes trained on his plate, but where Sansa expected his face to be closed and unreadable like before she's startled to find it pale and strangely young: the same face he'd worn as they lowered Robb and her father into the ground, as Arya clung to him with his sling and he'd looked as though he were about to buckle under her mother's cold, judging gaze, the one that asked why he'd been the one to survive the accident that claimed her son and husband.
Sansa tears her eyes from Jon, stares down at her plate, suddenly ashamed. How much would it really have cost you, a voice in her whispers, an echo from the day before, to smile at him now and then without turning up your nose?
Sansa swallows down the lump in her throat and, eyes still on her plate, reaches under the table. She doesn't look at Jon as she finds his hand and slips hers into it. He goes still, a moment that seems to stretch for an eternity, the thump of Sansa's heart against her rib cage painful, and then his fingers lace through hers and he squeezes her hand, tight as though he were drowning, and relief blooms so sharp through Sansa that she feels as though she could sob.
No one at the table notices. It's unimaginably strange sitting with Jon's hand in hers in the middle of her family, and Sansa's heart leaps into her throat every time someone glances their way, but she refuses to let go, refuses to abandon Jon. Only when his phone buzzes in his pocket and he squeezes her fingers does she relinquish his hand. Immediately she misses the warmth of it, the tight clasp of his fingers between hers.
Jon slips his phone from his pocket, glances at the screen, and stands suddenly, chair squealing as he pushes it back. "Thank you for lunch, Mrs. Stark." He says stiffly. "I should be getting back though, the highway's open again."
Sansa stands up next to him, nearly banging the table she rises so fast. "I'll go with you."
Jon glances at her sharply, but she doesn't meet his gaze. She gives her mother a strained smile as Catelyn frowns. "We're not done with lunch, Sansa," she says. "And there's still presents to do."
"You can give me mine next time I'm down. It's fine."
"It's not. It's a tradition."
"Mom, let her go," Arya says, and Sansa has never been more surprised to hear her voice. "If she has to take the train it'll be dark by the time she gets back. If she goes with Jon-"
"She isn't going with Jon." Catelyn swallows the rest of her glass and takes a long, steadying breath. "Sansa, honey, sit down."
Sansa doesn't. She can feel everyone looking at her: Bran frowning, Rickon confused, Edmure with his eyebrows raised. If she looks at them she knows she will sit, that the tangle of embarrassment in her gut will be too much: so she doesn't look at them, just raises her chin and trains her gaze on Catelyn. She wishes she knew what to say. But the words aren't there like they used to be, haven't been for a long time, and she doubts her mother could hear them right now even if they were. "I'm gonna go, mom," she says quietly. "We'll do presents next time I'm down."
Her mother's mouth twists, but she nods curtly and refills her glass. "Say hello to your aunt for us."
Together Sansa and Jon leave the table. She waits until they're in the family room before turning to him. "I'll be just a minute."
He nods, and Sansa makes her way to Arya's room. The wet clothes she'd stripped off earlier are still on the floor. She scoops them up and stuffs them into her bag, slips the strap over her shoulder, turns for the door, and nearly bumps into Arya. Of course. Sansa steps back and blows out a breath. "What is it?"
Arya opens her mouth, stops, then closes it. "Jon's good," she says slowly. "Like, he's really good."
"I know that." Sansa's chest aches. She doesn't need this right now, doesn't need to hear just how little Arya has always thought of her. "I don't need you to tell me. I know you don't think I'm good enough for him. He's good, I'm not, and you don't need to worry about it, after today he knows that too."
"No, idiot," Arya snaps. "Just listen for once, ok? Jon was there for me after the crash, after Robb and dad died. He was always there. If you need him… just talk to him. He'll listen."
Sansa stares at her blankly. She doesn't know what to do with that: not here, not now, so she shoulders past Arya without saying anything and leaves down the hall.
AN: As always you can check out a preview of the next chapter at my tumblr tacitwhisky