I think about you When the night is cold and dark ...
"Awkward," Arya droned in the background, followed by her mothers' harsh "shhhh", as Sansa shifted uncomfortably under everyone's scrutiny.
"What?" Joffrey looked as if he'd been punched in the gut, still kneeling before Sansa with his arm outstretched, his diamond ring sparkling as it caught the light of the chandelier hanging overhead. Jon almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. Almost.
"Dinner at the Stark house," Theon tipped his glass in a jovial toast, his goofy smile pulling wider as an amused look danced across his face. "This shit is better than the HBO line-up."
"Theon Greyjoy!" Catelyn scolded him, her hands immediately gravitating towards her hips.
"Apologies, but I'm not nearly drunk enough to be eloquent just yet," Theon set down his goblet and leaned forward in his chair, his palms pressed against the table in anticipation.
"Sansa Snow? You're already married?" Joffrey balked, rising to his full height and snapping the ring box shut with the flick of his wrist. "To him?" His tone incredulous, he raised an accusatory finger and pointed across the table to Jon.
Sansa nodded her head somberly.
"How the fuck could you keep that from me, Sansa? We've been dating for well over a year now!"
"This chicken is delicious," Robb cried enthusiastically. "Has anyone tasted this chicken?"
"It's turkey, you dolt," Arya rolled her eyes.
"Joff, I can explain. Can we ...can we just talk about this in private, please?" Sansa asked, attempting to calm him, she placed a trembling hand on his arm.
"Well you damn well better explain!" Joffrey shouted down at her, slapping her hand away, and waving that same accusatory finger in her face. "You owe me that much, Sansa who-ever-the-fuck-you-are!"
Red. That was all he saw, as Jon lunged across the room and grabbed Joffrey up by the collar of his preppy button down plaid shirt and slammed him up against the dinning room wall, his knuckles digging in against the pompous fools' adams apple while it bobbed convulsively in his fear. Jon's lips pulled back in a feral snarl as he watched the color drain from Joffrey's cowardly face. He wasn't so big and bad now, was he? "Raise your voice at my wife again, and I will kill you myself."
"Jon stop!" He heard Sansa's voice call out to him, but it was Ned's firm hands that pulled him off of the sniveling little coward that Jon had just watch belittle his wife for the last forty-five minutes.
"We settle our differences with words, not our fists son," Ned reminded him, gently squeezing his shoulder, and instantly Jon knew he that may have overreacted —though he regretted nothing.
"How dare you put your hands on me like that, you—you filthy dog!" Joffrey spat, massaging away Jon's handprint from his throat. "Do you have any idea who I am? Who my grandfather is? I'll have you demoted faster than you can—"
"Enough!" Catelyn's voice reverberated through the dinning room, effectively silencing everyone as they all turned their eyes to the commanding matriarch standing at the head of her table. "On my honor as a Stark, on my honor as a Tully, I swear if you all don't stop this nonsense right now, I will throw you out into the snow! It's Christmas Eve, for the Gods sakes! Have you no shame? Any of you?"
"I can personally attest to the fact that I have none," Theon proudly raised his hand, the smile fading from his lips as Catelyn's head snapped in his direction.
"Perhaps you'd like to be the first one out on his arse?" She narrowed her eyes dangerously, wagging her finger at him first, before circling it around the table at all her children, her heated stare following it. "And don't you think for one second that I don't know what you're all up to."
Her words flicking a light switch on in the back of his brain, Jon clenched his fists in anger, as all the Stark children —and Theon, had the good sense to hang their heads once ousted. Oh, Joffrey was an egotistical pompous ass —that was indisputable, and while pummeling his face into minced meat would give him great pleasure, Jon realized he had been dragged into their little game, and played like a Northern fool.
He needed some air. Shoving past Joffrey, who had thrown a possessive arm over Sansa's shoulders —and all for his benefit, Jon excused himself and headed for the back yard.
It was freezing outside, but Jon felt as if he was on fire, pacing the back porch, he swore he could melt the snow around him —he was that damn angry. Why the fuck had he come here? For this? He could be back at the base drowning his misery in a bottle of Jack Daniels right now, but instead he was here, having his failure as a husband thrown in his face by his wife's prospective fiancé. Well, Merry fucking Christmas indeed, Corporal Snow.
Jon dug into his pocket for his iPhone. He couldn't stay here —not under the same roof as Sansa, knowing that another man would sleep with her curled in his arms tonight. Indefinitely, even. Another man touching his wife. No. He'd have to stay at a hotel or something. Surely Robb or Theon could give him a ride? The Starks would understand ...
The back door clicked open, and for a moment Jon allowed himself to be hopeful that it was Sansa —that maybe she cared enough to seek him out ... But, wishful thinking never did shit for him, as Arya joined him on the porch.
"Put your phone away Snow, you're not going anywhere." She knew him so well. "Isn't running away what got you into this whole mess in the first place?"
"Do you enjoy kicking a man when he's down, little sister?" Jon threw over his shoulder as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket.
"Actually, yes. Yes, I do." She answered honestly. "Especially if I love them and think they're about to make another terrible mistake."
"You're not exactly batting a thousand here," Jon tossed back, sarcastically.
Her feet crunched in the snow underfoot, as Arya moved closer to him. "I wanted to tell you about Joffrey, but Robb said you'd never—"
"Well, somebody should have told me!" Jon swung around to face her.
"And would you have come then?" Arya shot back, stuffing her hands in her pockets to ward away the winter chill. "Probably not," She answered for him, as he cast his eyes downward in shame. "When you left, you didn't just leave Sansa ...you left all of us too, Jon."
Jon's heart clenched painfully in his chest as he turned soulful eyes back up at the little girl that he couldn't have loved more if she was his sister by blood —except, she wasn't a little girl anymore. "Arya, I ..." But what could he say? She was right. In erecting a wall to protect himself, he'd left them all on the other side. "It's just ..." Jon turned his face into the wind, as tears threatened to spill from his eyes. "It just got too hard."
"Look, I didn't really come out here to give you advice ... in fact, I'm probably the worst person to do that," Arya snorted, as if she was privy to her own little inside joke. "But only an idiot would give up on something they wanted because it got too hard. And you're not an idiot, Jon. Thick headed and broody as hell maybe, but not an idiot."
Her small, familiar hand clasped him on the shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. "You know, we could just kill him," she suggested nonchalantly with a shrug.
Jon threw his arm around his little sisters' shoulder and laughed, despite himself. "You're right, you are the worst person to get advice from."
No one can move me the way that you do, Nothing erases this feeling between me and you ...
He rolled to the left, then back to the right, punched his pillow twice, and kicked the blankets off himself —yet no matter what he did, Jon could not seem to get comfortable. For someone who had slept on much worse things than the plush sofa in the Stark's den, he was becoming increasingly frustrated. He'd slept on dirt and rocks in the rain, with sadistic Drill Instructors shooting blank rounds at him, for fucks sake —and yet, here he was, wide awake when the entire household was sleeping peacefully.
Releasing a heavy sigh, Jon tossed his blanket aside, his dog tags clanging together against his bare chest, as he pulled himself up from the couch. Perhaps some warm milk might help calm him? But as he crept quietly up the basement stairs, he knew he was headed for the liquor cabinet in the living room, instead. It was shameful, he knew it. But it had been a long time since he'd used alcohol as a crutch, so Jon gave himself a pass.
He could see the glare of the Christmas tree lights from the other room, so he let the colorful glow guide his way, and opted not to disturb anyone by turning on the overhead lights. Rounding the marble island in the kitchen, Jon turned the corner and —oomph— collided with a wall of warm flesh.
A soft squeal split the silence, as Jon's hands shot out blindly, fumbling in the darkness, he caught his would-be victim with lightening-fast reflexes, and pulled them up against the solid wall of his chest. Sansa. The familiar smell of her perfume wafted up into his nostrils, but he'd know her even if the Gods robbed him of all his senses. She was a part of him. Always had been. Always would be.
She gasped as her palms pressed against his naked skin. "Jon," she breathed his name, as if she too knew him by touch alone.
"Are you alright?" He asked, his hands still resting on the soft swell of her hips when he knew damn well they shouldn't be.
"I'm fine. You startled me, is all." She did not immediately remove her hands from his body, either. Instead, she slid her thumb sideways over the jagged scar resting just above his heart. He could just barely make out the outline of her features in the darkened room, but Jon didn't have to see her face to know her brow was furrowed in concern. "What is this?"
"Caught some shrapnel from an IED on my first tour in Astapor," Jon shrugged. "No big deal."
"It certainly doesn't feel like no big deal," She continued her exploration of his battle scar, tracing her finger along its puckered edges. "You might have been killed."
He didn't tell her that he had almost lost his life that day. That if not for the sheer stubbornness of one of his brothers in arms and the refusal to leave him behind, he might have bled out like so many of their fallen comrades, and left her a widow. Perhaps that would have been easier for both of them. "Believe me when I tell you that I was one of the lucky ones."
"You might have told me when it happened," Her tone was stern as she suddenly took a cautious step backwards, disengaging herself from his grasp, as if just now realizing that they'd been locked in a casual embrace.
Jon let his hands fall to his sides, clenching his fists to keep himself from reaching out and dragging her back into his arms. What good would it have done to tell her? He didn't want his wife's charity —he wanted her love. "Why are you slinking around down here in the dark?"
"Why are you?" Sansa sounded defensive.
Jon brushed past her and headed towards the living room, giving her no other choice but to follow after him if she wanted her answer. "I couldn't sleep. Came up for a drink."
"You're going the wrong way then," Sansa replied. "The kitchen is back that way."
"Not that kind of drink," Jon stopped before the serving cart beside the Christmas tree and helped himself to a glass of Ned's top shelf brandy. "Ahhh," he released a ragged breath as the fiery liquid burned its way down his throat and settled into his belly.
The second and third gulps went down easier, and before Jon knew it, he was pouring himself another glass, while Sansa stood by watching with a disapproving look. Even her face pinched in disappointment was pleasant to look upon —the lights from the Christmas tree shining behind her caught the highlights in her glorious red hair, turning it to silken strands of living flame as she tossed it over her shoulder. If anything, the years had only added to her beauty.
"Jon ...do you really think you ought to be drinking at this hour?"
Jon slammed his glass down on the tray and uncapped the decanter to pour himself another refill. "Yes, go on, sound like that Gods awful boyfriend of yours." Lifting the glass to his lips, he paused, "Wait ...isn't it fiancé now? I suppose you'll be wanting a divorce post haste?"
She flinched as if he'd slapped her. "Must you be cruel?"
"Right, I'm the one being cruel!" Jon threw back the glass and drained its contents. "And you're completely blameless, I suppose? Oh yes, well of course you are. Poor, poor Sansa," Jon mocked her, "Is your pretty new ring too heavy for your finger, love?"
"Fuck you, Jon." She hurled back at him with the force of a blow to the stomach. "You can't possibly think I knew he was planning on doing that? That I would ever hurt you intentionally— "
"As you've already hurt me intentionally, Sansa?" He shot back, hating how weak and pathetic he sounded, tossing out accusations, while she stood there with the reserved strength that could move mountains. It was one of the things he'd always loved about her, though.
"We hurt each other, as I remember it," Sansa hugged her stomach as the words spilled quietly from her lips, the venomous tone gone from her voice, now. "The only difference is that I don't blame you. We were kids, Jon. Stupid, impulsive kids. We were too young for the responsibility we tried to take on. It was a mistake, but should we hold that against each other for the rest of our lives?"
"See, that's where we've always diverged Sansa," Jon ran a shaky hand through his hair, and took a step towards her. "Running off —eloping like that over a pregnancy test we hadn't bothered to confirm —sure, that was stupid of us, but my feelings for you were always genuine and nothing I'd ever refer to as a mistake."
She flinched at that. Good. Let her hurt as he had for four fucking heart wrenching, miserable years.
"You were the one that left," she reminded him.
"No," Jon shook his head. "I may have been the one that walked away, but you were the one that left, Sansa. You checked out on our relationship long before I ever walked out that door."
Despite getting in his digs, Jon only felt more lousy at the pain clearly etched on her lovely face, as she regarded him with solemn blue eyes. Were those tears brimming in their depths, or was he just imagining that?
Setting his empty glass down on the tray, Jon brushed past her, knowing this argument was futile. Their marriage was over —had been for a long time now, and she was moving on —it was about damn time he do the fucking same.
"Jon," her voice called him back, freezing him in his tracks. And though he hated not having the strength to deny her —to fight the hold she still had on him, he turned, propping himself against the living room archway in silent defeat.
Sansa moved to stand beside him, leaning on the opposite side of the doorframe. "Do you still love me, Jon?"
Jon pushed a shaky hand through his hair. "Why are you asking me this Sansa?"
"Because I want to know."
"Why? It doesn't change anything. You will marry your stuffy fiancé and I'll go back to base, and maybe we'll see each other five years— "
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight, interrupting Jon as the chime of its bells echoed through the otherwise silent house. Sansa's eyes were fixated above his head, and curiously, he craned his neck to see what had captured her attention.
They were standing under the mistletoe.
Sansa took a brave step forward as the clock struck its final chime, and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Jon," she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through his veins that suddenly gave him the courage he needed, or maybe he just could no longer contain the feelings he'd been stuffing down over the years. Whatever the reason, this outcome seemed inevitable —and if she'd be gone from his life forever, Jon wanted this one last respite from the madness that consumed him for so long.
Sansa didn't protest as his arms wrapped around her waist, and pulled her flush against him. Only a breathy sigh escaped her lips as Jon inched his mouth closer to hers —slowly, deliberately, giving her every opportunity to stop him if she didn't want this just as much as he did.
Their breath mingled as he dipped lower, nudging his top lip against the the fullness of her bottom one —the slightest of brushes, teasing a response out of her. He wanted to be gentle —to savor this moment, yet, the feel of her soft pliant body pressed so intimately against him set Jon's blood to fire, as an inferno seemed to erupt deep within him. Too long. It had been too long since he held his beautiful wife and tasted her sweet kisses.
And then Sansa's arms wove up around his neck, her soft body melting into him, as their lips locked, parted and locked again. Her mouth fell open, her little tongue darting out to coil suggestively around his own —and that was Jon's undoing. For all his strength, whatever was left of his self control faded out into oblivion, as he completely came apart at the seams —rending in her hands like a flimsy piece of cloth.