I'm sorry I couldn't post this chapter earlier. As usual, the fantastic Underthenorthernlights beta read it.
This story will be longer than I thought at first - perhaps 10 chapters? The rating changed as well. There will be less angst than in my other stories and no violence. It's focused on Sandor's thoughts, his doubts and his fear of letting the chance pass him by, with lighter moments. In any case, I hope you'll enjoy it and I'll be glad to receive feedback.
After splashing water on his face, Sandor stood up straight and gave a disillusioned look at his reflection in the mirror. Behind the dark curtain of thin hair dripping in the sink, his asymmetric features were the same. One side gaunt and unwelcoming, the other one burnt. He smirked at the disfigured man in the mirror, then wiped away the shaving foam that remained on his cheekbone.
Sighing, he rested his palms on the sides of the sink and he leaned forward to scrutinize his reflection. On his good side, the lack of sleep due to what he didn't dare call nervousness had left marks, tracing thin lines at the corner of his eyes. On the temple, he could see some gray hair. Stop it, you're being an asshole. This is not a beauty contest, you're going there to help her, nothing more. Yet he knew he would have to bear the way other people look at him, and Sansa would be there, watching their reaction to his unexpected presence, possibly taking in their disgust.
For some reason, he suspected the others didn't know he would come and he dreaded the moment they would finally see him. Seven years later, he guessed they still associated his name with the Lannisters and their deeds. These people remained Eddard Stark's loyal friends and they lumped together all the persons who had wronged the Stark family; Sandor doubted the Northerners were able to see the difference between a sleazebag like Joffrey and those who had obeyed Joffrey's orders, like himself. They don't want to make a fucking distinction, he mused bitterly, and they're probably right: what's the difference between the bastard who commanded and the shithead who beat the girl?
His jaw tense, he squeezed his eyes shut, spun on his heels and turned off the radio blaring on top of the washing machine, behind him. The fact he had never laid a hand on her but only watched as Meryn Trant slapped her didn't change anything: the persistent guilt would never vanish. It's too late, now. He had promised he would come to help her move and now that the Little Bird was going to work and to live there, in the same town where he ruled a boxing gym, he couldn't just stood her up because he was afraid of a bunch of Northerners, could he?
Running his hand on his still wet face, he turned to the mirror again, exhaled a deep sigh and tentatively combed his hair, so that it partly covered his scars. Then, after replacing the comb, the three-blade razor and the shaving foam inside the bathroom cupboard, he stretched his limbs, slightly arching his back in the process. When the towel around his hips fell to the tiled floor, he didn't pick it up and he finally walked back to the bedroom stark naked.
Sandor caught a glimpse at his reflection in the window panel - he usually didn't feel the need to close the blinds, as the bedroom looked towards the woods, preferring the pale light of dawn to wake him up to any alarm clock. He was in good shape, thanks to the exercise bench and the weights he lifted daily: the rippling muscles of his torso and arms proved it. Further down, below the dark area of his groin, the legs didn't look that bad, for a man who had suffered a bullet wound and its consequences. In the blurred image the window panel reflected, the scars on his thigh were barely visible, but the legs seemed strong and muscled.
And all these efforts, what for? He had often wondered why he forced himself to do all this, while lying on the exercise bench, lifting the dumbbell until a glow of sweat covered his limbs. He wondered why he did it, yet he went on, calling himself a moron because it wouldn't be of any use now that his life had changed so drastically.
The day Sansa had showed up in the elevator, he had told himself that, perhaps exercising wasn't a waste of his time, that he had done something that would finally make sense. Now he didn't know anymore. With impatience, he went to the closet, picked boxer shorts, a pair of jeans and a checkered shirt. He couldn't make her wait, especially that day.
The morning sun was pale, outside, casting a wan light on the oak grove and the bush nearby. From his window, the landscape exuded something akin to serenity - it was one of the reasons why he had chosen this small house among dozens of others he had visited - yet this calmness failed to rub off on him that morning. After he opened the window and let the breeze cool the warmth on his face, he felt as if he was about to leap into the unknown. Basically, that's exactly what it is.
Leaving his bedroom, he went to the kitchen and prepared some coffee. I don't even have a proper coffee pot, he mused, putting two teaspoons of instant coffee in a mug, then pouring hot water on it. He stirred the mixture until an imperceptible cream-colored foam formed at the surface of the dark brown liquid.
Since he had met Sansa again, these kind of thoughts popped up in his mind and he called himself stupid and wondered what was suddenly wrong with the lack of a proper coffeepot. Unbeknownst to him, she had changed the way he considered his existence, and he now saw everything in a new light: some aspects of his life, like the boxing gym, were achievements he could be proud of and they had gained in value because Sansa Stark prized them. Some others didn't bother him so far - the Spartan equipment of his house, for instance - but he now questioned his choices and feared her reaction, should she visit him someday.
Drinking coffee - piping hot and tasteless - didn't soothe his nerves. In the foolish dreams he had had the past few days, Sansa inevitably knocked at his door and came in. These dreams were only dreams and senseless ones, to say the least, he kept repeating this to himself, but what if she visited him for real and found nothing else to drink than beer and instant coffee? For the first time, material concerns like tableware, the contents of his fridge or the clothes he wore began to worry him.
The Elder Brother had seen the change in him instantly, the other day, Sandor acknowledged it as he wiped the corners of his mouth, leaning his elbows against the table. He remembered the surgeon's amused look when he had come in his office, Sansa on his heels. The man was too polite to make any comment, but the notion his former patient and the new recruit of the orthopedic department knew each other forced a smile out of him. Or was it my pathetic look when she left? In any case, the Elder Brother had behaved as if nothing had happened, before telling Sandor he really needed a break and suggesting they took a beer somewhere in town that evening.
It was only then, as the sun went down and set fire to the horizon, casting a red light on the riverbank, that the Elder Brother had begun to question him.
"So she's back in your life?" he had asked Sandor. They were sitting outside the bar; only the street separated them from the riverbank and instead of holding the Elder Brother's stare, it was easier for Sandor to pretend he was mesmerized by the golden liquid in his pint glass.
"Dunno. We met again, that's all."
As he perfected his sulky attitude, round-shouldered and playing with the cardboard coaster, the Elder Brother kept staring at him. "So... you're free on Saturday?" he said innocently.
"No, I'm not. Why?" This time, Sandor raised his eyes and gazed at the bald, middle-aged man sitting opposite to him.
"What do you plan to do next Saturday, then?" the surgeon went on.
"Is it a fucking police interrogation? I thought we were done with this shit," he growled.
Seated right up against the back of his chair so far, the Elder Brother leaned forward, grinning. "You used to do a better job at hiding your embarrassment behind feigned anger, before..."
Sandor cursed in an undertone and took a sip of beer. "The girl is supposed to move to a new place. I will help her, period."
"So seven years later, you meet again a girl, who would never forgive you for what you've done, according to you… You two spend half-an-hour talking, she asks your help to move, you say yes… and she's not back in your life?" The Elder Brother's incredulous smile was unpleasant, to put it mildly.
"How did you know it's on Saturday?" Sandor rasped, trying to ignore his friend's sarcasm.
"Easy. Before leaving, she said she would give you a call 'to sort out the details about Saturday morning.' You nodded eagerly at that."
A gulp of beer wasn't enough to disguise his awkwardness. "So I can't help a friend without having you misinterpreting my actions?" Sandor replied, bending forward and leaning his elbows on the small wooden table.
"Oh, come on. You know better than to bury your head in the sand, don't you? Is she a friend, Sandor? What do you intend to do about this girl?"
Sandor was at a loss. To put up a front, he retrieved his pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his jeans and he took one, then he nervously looked for his lighter and lit the cigarette with difficulty. He was trying to quit, hadn't smoke in a while, but this was too much for him. Besides, he knew the Elder Brother disapproved and he couldn't shake off the feeling he was doing something transgressive, something that infuriated the doctor. The first drag was a relief, the second one - a long, exaggerated drag - was even better.
Smiling rather wickedly at the Elder Brother, Sandor jabbed a finger at his face. "You know you sound like her fucking father now?"
Across the table, the surgeon pinched the bridge of his veined, red nose between his thumb and his forefinger, then he smiled back: "Funny how you overreact when it comes to her… Did you spend the day playing the conversation you had with her back in your mind? Oh, and stop scratching your tattoo, please."
Sandor looked down and froze; without him noticing, he was scratching a spot on his chest, through the thin fabric of his shirt. Settling back in his seat and folding his arms, he sighed deeply. The Elder Brother had a talent for diagnosing his patients; sometimes Sandor believed the man used his skills outside the hospital, to diagnose what was wrong with the people he met. More than once, during one of their conversations, he had felt like the Elder Brother observed him like a friend, but also like a patient, trying to detect symptoms of his uneasiness. What kind of symptoms is he trying to discover, tonight?
Later, after they parted, Sandor walked back to his old pick-up truck, hands shoved in his pockets. What were his intentions? Where would all this lead him? Things were going too fast, he told himself as images churned in his head. He already had his keys in hand when he spun on his heels and called the Elder Brother; the man was sitting in his dark gray sedan, ready to turn on the ignition. Sandor almost ran towards him despite his limp, thus drawing the Elder Brother's attention on his leg. Frowning with concern, the surgeon got out of the car.
"What if she has a boyfriend?" Sandor heard himself ask.
The Elder Brother didn't expect that question, for his eyes widened like saucers. It took him some time to finally answer: "In this case, you'll do what you already did once. You'll stay in the background, observing, making sure she's OK."
"I didn't make sure she was OK," Sandor retorted, feeling like his voice was breaking. "I just... walked away."
There was a silence. At nightfall, the Elder Brother's expression was unreadable and the street lamps were too far to light his square face. In the end, his response came like a whisper. "You were unable to take care of anyone back then. Now you could watch over her if necessary. If she- If Sansa has someone in her life, I know you'll… step back. Because there's one thing we know for sure, you and I: you want this girl to be happy. In this case, if things don't turn like you expect them to, I'll be there."
And that was all; the Elder Brother didn't wait for his reaction and he got in his car, before going into reverse and leaving Sandor alone in the parking lot, with his interrogations and his doubts. Looking defeated as the lights of the Elder Brother's car disappeared at the corner of the street, he admitted the man was right: he had spent the day playing the conversation back in his mind, wondering why he had not found the strength to ask her more about her past. Pathetic.
Four days later, in the silence the outdated kitchen of his small house offered, Sandor still mulled over the Elder Brother's advice, wondering if he was able to step back, in case Sansa Stark had met someone. Looking back, he loathed the short-tempered, violent man he once was; the notion his older self could come back any day, if only something big happened, like a disillusion - he didn't dare think a romantic disappointment - scared him. He now had a quiet - if not happy - life: he didn't want to lose the little calmness he had found.
He knew it; despite her charming appearance, Sansa Stark was a storm. She had brought chaos in his life, playing havoc with his habits and his values, questioning his loyalty towards the Lannisters. There had been two brutal changes in his life so far: his father's death when he was a kid, leading him to seek the Lannisters' protection, and his leaving on an impulse, seven years before. It wasn't a coincidence if he had left the Lannisters' service after he had met her. If his brother Gregor had caused their father's untimely end, thus forcing him to leave home, Sansa's influence had been as decisive the day he had given up his job as the Lannisters' enforcer, even if it wasn't obvious for a third party.
The Elder Brother had called him again the night before. They seldom called each other, the surgeon preferring to show up at the boxing gym whenever he wanted to talk to him. Sandor had guessed there was something unusual and he was right: the content of their discussion was unexpected at the very least.
"I've been talking with Sansa Stark," the Elder Brother had confessed, after the customary small talk.
On the other end of the line, Sandor had remained silent, then he had finally replied: "Good for you."
"She said she's- She's single," he went on.
"What- Why did you ask her?" Sandor boomed. "She knows I'm a friend of yours, she's far from being stupid…"
"I didn't ask her directly, I made sure that she felt comfortable enough to confide in me."
Sandor facepalmed; he knew exactly what the Elder Brother was talking about, for he had experienced the same situation when he had met the man. He didn't know how the doctor managed to make people confide in him, but he never failed to learn what he wanted.
"I thought this information could be of some use," the Elder Brother added. With his guileless and even words, he had the knack of getting on Sandor's nerves. Just like the night they had drunk a beer by the riverside, he didn't wait for Sandor's reaction to take his leave; he hanged up, and Sandor stayed there for a few seconds, listening to the unpleasant beeps.
Maybe the Elder Brother's call the night before had something to do with his sleeplessness, he told himself, as he replaced the mug on the kitchen table. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Sandor got on his feet and put down the now empty mug in the sink. Although he never lacked appetite, he simply couldn't eat that day. For the tenth time that morning, he called himself a moron, then he put on his shoes and shoved his wallet and his cigarettes in his back pocket: it was time to go.
The Little Bird had asked him to come bright and early to the motel where she had spent the last two weeks, so that they could go together to her new apartment. She didn't have the keys yet and she was supposed to meet the owner at that moment: he suspected she wanted him to be there because all this was new for her. The notion she still sought his protection, years after, even if she was a grown woman, awakened something inside him he couldn't quite place.
Stop reacting like a fucking schoolgirl, he chided himself as he got into his truck. The engine roared when he turned the ignition key, uselessly underlining his nervousness. Sansa had given him the motel's address two days ago, on the phone: he knew the place or at least he sometimes went past the seedy building it had become.
Imagining her alone in this motel didn't please Sandor: it wasn't a place for a girl like Sansa Stark. Yet there's so many things about her I ignore. He pictured her coming back to the motel after a long day at the hospital, trying to find some peace in a room which was probably too small and smelt of stale tobacco. The only distraction being a TV, she probably fell asleep very soon, and he imagined her lying in bed, squeezing her pillow as the now useless screen flashed its garish light and its distorted images on the bedspread. The very notion of Sansa Stark lying in her bed was enough to bring back the discomfort in his pants, although he had given himself some relief in the shower, a while ago. One more thing that didn't change, years after.
All too soon, he arrived in the parking lot of the motel, pulled over and got out of his car. She had given him her room number and he felt his heart thumping in his chest as he climbed the stairs leading to the upper level. Room 13. He stopped in front of the door, glanced at his watch and took a sharp intake of breath. It's time.
After he knocked at the door and before she opened, the maddening thought there could be someone else inside with her tormented him and his throat was so dry when the door finally creaked open that he couldn't say hello.
"Please come in," Sansa nonetheless told him.
With her denim overalls and her white tank-top, she looked like she was ready to do home improvements; a pair of red, worn-out Converse completed her outfit. She had put her brown hair up in a ponytail. That was something that amused him when Sansa was a teenager: she always picked her clothes with great care, as if there must be a dress for every occasion. He stepped in. The only window didn't give much light and the room smelt of cigarette, just like he had imagined.
"So," she said, wringing her hands, "was it difficult to find the motel?"
He replied he lived nearby and often went past the motel; she chuckled nervously and an awkward silence descended upon them. In the meantime, he swept the room and took in the two duffel bags she had put down on the fusty carpet with a plastic bag containing a wash basin and some detergent. There was a guitar case on the bed. It's about time she leaves this place.
"Is all your luggage here?" he inquired, pointing at the duffel bags.
"I traveled light. I knew I wouldn't stay here forever. All my stuff stayed in the North. Uncle Brynden and the others will bring everything; Rickon texted me, saying they would be here before noon."
Does she chirp because she's nervous too? Why in hell would she be nervous? His eyes drifted back to the guitar case. "So you play the guitar?"
She nodded, a mix of pride and embarrassment making her blush.
"You played the piano back then…" he observed thoughtfully. "Don't remember you with a guitar." He moved past her, leaning forward to take the guitar case, breathing in the flowery scent of her hair in the process.
"There's a lot of things you don't know about me," she said with a mysterious smile.
The night he had offered to take her with him, far from the Lannisters, he was drunk, violent and he didn't have a clue about what he was going to do with her. Statutory rape. That's what they call it. I would have committed a crime. She said she didn't want to come with me, I could have taken her all the same but I didn't. At least, I did one good thing in my life. The girl was right: he ignored most of her life, and although he had more often than not wondered about her attitude towards him when they both lived in the Lannisters' shadow, he acknowledged he still didn't understand what the hell she had in mind. Sansa Stark was an enigma: his favorite one.
"Maybe I'll sing for you one day, after all," she offered and her remark was like a punch in his stomach.
The Little Bird remembered their exchange, that night. She's a grown woman, she knows by now what I meant at the time. Is she just playing with me? He swallowed hard and found nothing to answer. Unlike him, she seemed serene and she certainly was happy to check out. She hummed as they left the room and went downstairs, with Sansa's luggage: he insisted to carry the duffel bags while she took her shoulder purse, the plastic bag and her guitar.
Once her things were inside Sandor's truck, they headed to the check-in desk and three minutes later, Sansa walked out, a broad grin on her face. Elated, she executed a dance step on the asphalt of the deserted parking lot, to Sandor's delight; some of her enthusiasm might have rubbed off on him for he chuckled. He resisted the urge to squeeze or to kiss her and took a cigarette instead.
"You mind if I smoke?" he asked, although he already held the cigarette between his chapped lips. He seriously needed the relief smoking gave him when he fidgeted and he doubted her reluctance - if she had ever expressed it - would have prevented him from lighting the cigarette.
Shoving her hands in the pockets of her overall, she shook her head then gave him a curt smile; he guessed she too disapproved his smoking pattern. Tilting his head back and blinking his eyes in the morning sun, he enjoyed the first drag, though he knew she was wondering why he had waited for her to leave the motel before lighting a cigarette if he needed it so badly. And once more, I look like a pain in the ass.
Summer had just begun and as they stayed face to face in the parking lot, the sun blinded the Northern girl she still was; tired of shielding her blue eyes with her hand, she inspected the content of her purse until she found her sunglasses. In the meanwhile, Sandor stared at her full lips: he was dying to cup her chin and to run the pad of his thumb on her lower lip before kissing her - something he had never ventured to do.
If Sandor had failed to quit smoking, Sansa had kept what Cersei used to call a bad habit: her tendency to bite her bottom lip had not disappeared, and it only increased his desire. The more he craved to kiss her, the more he dragged on his cigarette. He realized smoking was just a pathetic attempt to stave off his need for her lips; that notion was disturbing enough for him to avert his eyes and to slightly turn so that she couldn't see his turmoil.
"If you take your car to go to your new place, I'll follow you," he offered after a while, still avoiding her gaze.
Sansa seemed to not understand why they were standing there, in the sun, when there was so much to do in her new apartment, yet she didn't make any comment, carefully observing his every move. Her politeness tinged with overindulgence reminded him of their relationship years before, when he couldn't stand her courtesy. The fingers of his left hand curled slowly until they formed a balled fist; he was more angry at himself than exasperated by her behavior though, and the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had come.
In the end, as he inhaled the last long drags of his cigarette, Sandor was forced to admit they had to go. Once she gave him the address, he told her her apartment was located in a pleasant area of the town, thus reassuring her. Then he stubbed his cigarette out in the dirt, before shambling to his truck. Sansa was already heading to her car, an old Ford Taurus which blue body shone in the sun; he couldn't help smiling, realizing she took her sedan to the car wash on a regular basis. At least I taught her something.
As he followed her car to her new apartment, he couldn't help glancing from time to time to the guitar case Sansa had left on the passenger seat, trying to picture her playing the guitar. All the changes he had noticed in her so far roused his curiosity and only made him want to know more about the seven years she had spent far from him. Ahead of his truck, Sansa was very careful not to drive over the speed limit nor to forget to use the blinker: that was exactly what he expected from her.
They soon arrived in the street Sansa had mentioned, entered a parking lot then she pulled over in front of a rather new condominium. Sandor followed suit and parked his truck next to hers, but to his great confusion, she didn't get out. Through the car window, he watched her taking her phone and reading her texts; it wasn't good news, most likely, for she frowned deeply. Eager to know what was going on, Sandor unbuckled his seatbelt and eased himself out of his truck. The moment he slammed the door, she swiveled her head towards him and she beckoned Sandor to come sit inside her car.
With his uncommon build, he felt cramped for room in Sansa's car. "What's the news?" he asked her, still wriggling and trying to find enough space for his long legs.
"Nothing serious. The owner says he'll be late. He hasn't even left his home yet. I'm sorry you'll have to wait."
Sandor mumbled it didn't matter and they exchanged a few words about Sansa's first visit to this apartment and the appearance of the condo: it seemed quiet and well-maintained. In the end, he turned on the car radio, curious to know what kind of music she was listening. He recognized the Arctic Monkeys and on the evidence of her half-smile, she was pleased to share this with him but also embarrassed. If she was one of these persons who think listening to music with other people is something as intimate as being naked in front of them, Sandor could understand; although he never considered himself an artist, he didn't like sharing with others the music he enjoyed. Music tells more about people that the clothes one wears or the car one drives.
If the song was pleasant, he could tell rock music was not what he expected her to listen. He remembered a naive girl humming the smash hits of pop stars, whereas this song exuded disillusion and irony. Quite a change. As they listened to the music, sitting side by side and wordless, Sandor almost regretted his decision to turn on the car radio: instead of filling time, it only raised more questions about what had happened to her during these years and Sandor was convinced a heavy silence would fall upon them once the song would be over.
So we all go back to yours and you sit and talk to me on the floor
There's no need to show me round baby, I feel like I've been in here before
I've been wondering whether later when you tell everybody to go,
Will you pour me one for the road?
Swallowing hard, he stole a glance at her; once again, she was biting her lip, gazing at something straight ahead. She felt the same uneasiness in all likelihood and she suddenly looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, mirroring his attitude. The eye contact was brief and it encapsulated all the tension existing between them since their encounter in the hospital, all their expectations as well. For a split second, he thought he could lean towards Sansa and kiss her, yet he only envisioned it without being able to take action.
Would she ask him to stay once the Northerners would leave and drive back home? Would she politely thank him and let him go while one of the Northerners would stay with her? Why am I even listening to this fucking song? Why does the bawling of a damn English singer affect me? The harm had been done: the song was stuck in his head and the last line of the chorus would haunt him for the rest of the day.
All of a sudden, a black sedan arrived and parked next to Sansa's. She recognized the owner of the apartment and she rushed out of the car. Was she relieved by the owner's arrival that distracted her from the tension remaining between them or did she got out of her car hurriedly out of politeness? As Sandor wondered if she expected him to come with her or if she preferred to be alone with the owner, he realized his life was less complicated before her arrival in town. Less complicated and somewhat boring. I don't want her to go now. There was something else he couldn't place, but he decided his interrogations about Sansa Stark's return could wait: she had just motioned him out of the car.
He curtly nodded at the old man who rented the apartment to Sansa, taking in the man's visible discomfort at the sight of Sandor's scars. Short-legged and rather smiling whenever he addressed Sansa, the owner led them to the apartment located by the swimming-pool. The man opened the door and they all went in; Sandor was quite relieved to see she had chosen a bright, nice apartment, with a separated bedroom looking onto the garden and a rather large bathroom. He stayed silent while the owner and Sansa completed formalities.
From time to time, Sandor caught the owner's puzzled glances and he understood the man was wondering what he was doing with a girl like Sansa. At some point, he even asked her if she lived alone and Sansa replied evasively, calling Sandor a friend. So is this how you consider me? A friend? He didn't know if it was flattering or if he should take it as a warning a shoulder to cry on was the only thing she expected from him.
When the man left, Sansa turned to him with a happy grin. "I finally live in my own apartment!" she said triumphantly.
Whatever twisted smile he gave her satisfied Sansa for she squeezed his forearm with excitement and walked back outside to retrieve her luggage from Sandor's truck. They carried the two duffel bags, the plastic bag and the guitar case to her bedroom; empty, the room seemed probably smaller than it really was.
She squatted in front of the first duffel bag and opened the zip, sighing. For a few seconds, nothing happened and she silently contemplated the clothes inside her bag, until she raised her eyes and took in his large frame in the doorway.
"I'm sorry there's not even a chair so you can sit down," she apologized.
"Didn't I tell you I'm not a cripple?" He sounded much more angry than he wanted and he rued his gravelly voice that made his every word aggressive.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean- Whatever."
Eyes downcast, she reminded him of the young, impressionable girl he had met years before and he felt guilty at once. Sandor took a step forward. "How can I help you?" he asked, softening. He knelt down because he couldn't stay for a long time crouching, and he observed her reaction: the girl was at a loss, probably asking herself why he was reacting like this, sometimes ready to snarl at her and almost apologizing one minute later.
"Well, can you fetch me some water?" she said, handing him the small plastic wash basin. "I want to put my clothes away in the closet, but I'd like to clean the closet before."
"It looks clean, to me," he rasped.
Her soft, tinkling laugh resonated in the empty bedroom. "You never know what people stored in a closet, before you moved in. I suppose you find this useless. Oh well…"
She was so pretty at that very moment with one suspenders of her denim overall dangerously sliding off her shoulder he found nothing to answer back with and went directly to the kitchen sink, while she brought a sponge and some detergent out of the plastic bag. After he came back to the bedroom, he watched her as she cleaned the shelves. Once she was satisfied, she wiped her forehead and turned to him.
"I know what you think," she said, breaking the silence. "You're telling yourself "She's such a princess." You're probably right."
"I defy you to guess what I'm thinking right now," he replied, his gray eyes challenging hers.
There must have been something in his tone that made her uncomfortable, for she averted her eyes. He didn't suspect he could stare her out so easily and he found himself bothered by her sudden shyness, as if his words conveyed some innuendo he wasn't aware of.
She cleared her throat. "Can you give me the clothes, now? I'll put them away in the closet," she offered, taking a tentative step towards him although she still had trouble to hold his gaze.
Sandor knelt down by the open duffel bag and began to retrieve clothes from it. The situation was unusual for him and even unique. Under his callous hands, her skirts and her sweaters seemed so soft he wondered at some point if he had a right to touch them. She picked these clothes in the morning, probably placing them on her bed and chewing her lip to decide if this dress or this Tee-shirt was appropriate. Touching things that belonged to her, that wrapped her in a soft, silky cocoon bordered on sacrilege. Careful not to crease the clothes she had meticulously folded, he held them with both hands, before handing them to Sansa who arranged them in the closet.
"Does it hurt?" she suddenly asked him. Her voice exuded concern.
"What are you talking about?"
"When you stay on your knees for a while, like you're doing now, does it hurt?"
He shook his head, both pleased and embarrassed to notice she worried about him. As he thrusted his hand again into the duffel bag, his fingers found the hard surface of a picture frame; intrigued, he retrieved it from the bag and showed it to Sansa. She remained still at first, then she swallowed hard and he suspected she was about to cry. The picture was one of those family portraits people hang on the wall of their family room to convince visitors they're happy and normal. In this case, the picture showed the Stark family before the tragedies that had struck them. Eddard Stark and his wife Catelyn were sitting outside, most likely in the garden of their house, Winterfell, their five children surrounding them. Even Jon, Eddard's son from his first marriage, was there.
Where are they all, now? Of course, the parents were dead and so was Robb, Sansa's elder brother. Jon was fighting abroad, as far as he knew, and if the youngest, Rickon, had finally made it back to the family house, Sansa had not seen her brother Bran in years. The boy was most likely in some ashram, racking his brains about questions that were best left unanswered, according to Sandor. As for the only sister Sansa had, Arya, the family's tomboy, she was missing. Unlike the young woman standing in front of him, the tall, stunning girl of the photo had red hair and a large grin. Such a contrast.
Sandor wasn't sentimental by any means, but he acknowledged that, if there was something Sansa had to take with her, in addition to her clothes and her toilet bag, it was this photo. The girl took it, giving the picture a long look, as tears gathered at the corner of her eyes.
Don't be a moron, he told himself. Try to comfort her. Sandor stood up with a grunt, hesitating. What was he supposed to do or to say? He tried to figure out what the Elder Brother would do in such a case but he rejected the idea at once: he wasn't the damn Elder Brother and Sansa was not one of those fucking patients the man tried to comfort everyday.
Instead of mimicking the Elder Brother, he took a sharp intake of breath and did what seemed right at that very moment: he stepped forward and brushed her arm up and down, as delicately as he could. When tears rolled freely down her cheeks, he regretted his gesture, but far from pushing him away, she shoved the picture frame in his hand and buried her face in his chest. His back stiffened and the shock was so violent he swayed a little at first, then he anchored his feet to the floor and wrapped a tentative arm around her waist.
Sandor should have said something, but soothing words were stuck in his throat. Ashamed by his own uselessness, he admitted he wasn't ready to comfort her because comfort was still something unfamiliar and even if his friendship with the Elder Brother had allowed him to confront his demons, he still felt like the little boy he once was, looking silently at his mother while she cried over Gregor's behavior.
He wasn't ready and the notion he couldn't do a good job at reassuring her disturbed him; how could he say he wanted her back in his life if he wasn't even able to share her sorrow and to dry her tears? Feeling helpless often resulted in fits of anger before he met the Elder Brother; that day, he didn't feel the tremor in his limb and the pressure in his head that foreshadowed outbreaks of violence, just the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
Sansa was still shaking like a leaf in his arms, so he tightened her grip, unsure of what he was doing. If he tried to be honest with himself, her sobs brought him back to his childhood days, before he had hardened himself to resist Gregor's fiery temper, and it was this peculiar feeling - the feeling he was defenseless, like a child - that made him so uncomfortable. As she went on crying, his shirt was soon soaked and he couldn't help wondering if these tears dampened the tattoo on his chest he had gotten on a night of blackout binge. No, don't think about it. The tattoo was a reminder of his years adrift and he didn't want to mix up the wreck he was at that time and the man he tried to be now. Yet if she sees this damn tattoo…
Still convulsed with tears, she fisted the fabric of his shirt, until he felt bundled up; then, she stopped crying all of a sudden, let go of him to wipe her cheeks and sheepishly looked up at him. What the hell am I supposed to say? Her eyes squeezed shut with a pained look, then they flew open. He felt as if the fingers of his right hand resting on the small of her back were burning and he slowly let go of her. His other still held the picture frame; when she took a step back, he took it in both hands, to put up a front.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't sleep well because I was too excited. People think I'm strong, but I just fake. I know I made a choice when I decided I would start a new life here, but sometimes, when I see my parents' picture, I just-" She stopped short from saying more and covered her mouth with her shaky hand.
"It's alright," he said, remembering it was one of the Elder Brother's favorite expressions. He wondered if he should put the picture frame back in the bag or not, then she sniffed and held out her tiny hand. Sandor gave her the frame and watched her as she walked towards the empty place where they would most likely put her bed and her night stand; squatting, she set down the picture frame, so that it stood against the wall. Then, she slowly stepped backwards, looking at the family portrait, until she almost bumped into Sandor. He mirrored her expression, gazing at the photo for a while before feeling the urge to break the silence.
"I liked your red hair," he confessed in an undertone, whispering as if they stood in a church, looking at some icon.
She didn't swivel her head to glance at him, yet the ghost of a smile appeared on her lips.
"I guess it's time I stop dying my hair," she observed. "I'm not a runaway anymore, am I?"
In the silence of the bedroom, he didn't dare add anything. Nothing important had happened since he had left his house that morning, yet the aggregation of all the tiny events that had taken place made his head spin: since when had he experienced all these contradictory emotions, feeling stupid, then elated, confused, then disappointed, sad and so happy at the same time?
When her fingers brushed his hand, asking silently his support and whatever comfort he could give her, his back stiffened but he couldn't refuse. Her hand seemed tiny in his, and he called himself a moron for his palm was callous and probably sweaty.
Clammy or not, his hand reassured her and that was for the best. Sandor slightly turned to face her, observing her profile, making sure that she wasn't about to cry again. If she was paying attention to his labored breath, she didn't show it; only did she cock her head to the side the moment he leaned towards her, trying to find the strength to kiss her lips. What do you have in mind? her inquiring gaze asked. She very well knew what he was thinking about though, because she spun on her heels and faced him. Still hesitating, he drank in her sight, trying to etch in his memory her fragile look and her full lips the moment before their first kiss.
Determined and loud, a knock at the front door ruined everything. "Sansa!" a boyish voice shouted.
Sandor stepped back at once, arms dangling. The Northerners had arrived.