The radio resonated strangely inside the quiet gym. Sandor often indulged in listening to the radio while doing bench presses or pull ups, believing that it cleared his mind and helped him focus. Staying focused was what he fucking needed that night. With Sansa coming over, he had to keep at bay his natural tendencies to screw up dinners and basically ruin his chances with his little bird. Music always helped him forget the sweat that dripped from his forehead, the itching of that damn tag on his tee-shirt or the dull pain in his thigh, but did it prevent his nervousness? Fuck, no, he mused. Working out is supposed to help me calm down. That was why he kept a timer next to the exercise bench and made himself lift fast and hard for two minutes; your muscles were supposed to grow more quickly this way, according to experts. Books and fucking specialists didn't say it, but it also lulled his conscience and made him forget about all the reasons why he should be flustered. The dinner. The after dinner. The little bird.

No matter the exertion, the details of his dinner with Sansa made him break out into a cold sweat. Dozens of questions about that dinner had haunted him since the moment she had invited herself. Food was his main concern: Sandor cooked for himself, not for other people. If he was being honest, he could say he only cooked not to starve himself to death. The kitchen was a non-descript room in his house, practical, but nothing else. Macaroni and cheese were his culinary crowning achievement. The Elder Brother didn't complain about macaroni and cheese, but Sansa Stark certainly expected something else.

Remembering how he had made a fool of himself when he had broached the topic of that dinner in the gym, he mentally face-palmed. Still reclining on the exercise bench, he rested the barbell on the bar catcher with a sigh, then he took the towel and dropped it on his face. Brienne Tarth. I never imagined a simple question could piss her off and make her yell at me.

It was two days ago, at the gym, a bit earlier in the afternoon. Sandor was doing paperwork in his office, the way he always did it, standing behind his desk, when he had spotted the athletic frame of the young woman; he had searched his mind to find an excuse to talk to her. Brienne Tarth was one of the few girls who frequently visited the boxing gym. In Sandor's mind the girls who bought a member card could only belong in two categories: there were those pretty girls who christened their neon boxing outfit in September, turned on boys and never came back because, all things considered, they preferred tennis or horse riding, and there were warriors, like Brienne. He respected her for that, because she knew exactly what she wanted when she pushed open the doors of the boxing gym: a decent place to work out and to improve her skills.

Being one of the only women in the gym so far - at the request of Barristan Selmy, they would turn the adjoining room in a fitness centre in October - Brienne had become a sort of reference for Sandor and even though he knew most girls didn't share her interests in boxing, she was one of the few female figures he had in his life. Thus, as he walked to the spot where she was training, jabbing at the heavy bag, he believed she would give him useful advice.

"Hey, want some help?" he offered, when the tall and muscular girl arched an eyebrow at him. "I can hold the heavy bag for you, if you want."

"I'm good, thanks," she said curtly, then she jabbed at the heavy bag again. Fucking Brienne. She's not making this easy.

Podrick Payne's arrival, with a bunch of younger members of the gym, provided a welcome distraction after his failed attempt to get Brienne's attention. At least, that was what he thought before Brienne asked him coldly, wrinkling her freckled nose: "What is it you want, Sandor? You… never talk to me, so I assume there must be a good reason. Did I forget to pay my due?"

"We talk," he protested clumsily. "From time to time."

"Oh, do we?" Dropping her gloves to the floor, she took the bottle of water she kept within easy reach. Perplexed, she gulped half of it and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand in the most unladylike way. "Spit it out and we'll both save some time."

"Alright," he said. "I have a question for you. When you have dinner with a guy, what kind of meal do you cook?"

Surprised at first, she gaped, unable to speak. Then, as her face slowly turned red, Sandor realized the extent of his tactlessness. "Excuse me?" she hissed, waving her bottle and spilling some water in the process. "What makes you think I would tell you about the guys I date?"

"Look, I don't want to be indiscreet, it's none of my fucking business," he explained. "I don't know if you're dating someone or not, and frankly I don't give a fuck about it. I'm just asking what kind of meal you would cook, supposing you had a date."

Her eyes widened like saucers. Meanwhile, Pod had come closer, to check on Brienne. For some reason, those two were inseparable at the gym.

"I see. Just when I thought it couldn't be more embarrassing, you find a way to piss me off. Are you asking this because I'm the only girl here and you think that having a vagina makes me a gourmet cook?"

"Brienne, don't…" Pod began, visibly concerned for his friend.

Sandor didn't know what to say.

"I've got news for you, Sandor Clegane. I don't cook!" Brienne shouted. "I don't cook, I don't iron my shirts, and compared to me, you'd look like the angel in the house, but you know what? I don't give a damn."

He gaped. Never before had he thought she could bristle with indignation so quickly. "No need to get on your high horse about it, Brienne, I'm just asking."

"Precisely. You ask me because I'm a woman and that's offensive." Exasperated, she ran her fingers through her short, straw-like hair.

Sandor heaved a sigh, knowing well what he was supposed to do if he wanted her to come back to the gym without glaring at him; despite this certainty, he told himself he just needed more time, even though he knew the window of opportunity to apologize was short when people felt humiliated.

"Look," he finally said. "I'm sorry you took it the wrong way…" Brienne rolled her eyes. "I'll do whatever you want to prove I don't believe clichés about women." With a snort of a laughter, she glanced at Podrick, who considered Sandor with perplexity.

"I don't want to intrude," the boy said, "but do you need advice on cooking? Because, if you do, I'd be glad to help."

"See?" Brienne told Sandor with a sarcastic smile. "Now, you're speaking to the right person. If you will excuse me, I'll resume my training, while you boys are talking about recipes."

When he looked at Pod again, the kid was shifting from foot to foot. "So… you're making dinner?" he asked Sandor after clearing his throat. "Shouldn't we talk about it in your office?"

Sandor could have sworn Brienne had a smug expression on her face as they retreated to the small office. Some of the gym visitors gave them a curious look as they moved past them, but he shrugged it off and shut the office door behind Podrick. He gestured at a seat and ensconced himself in the swivel chair behind the desk.

"Why don't you tell me what kind of food this… person likes?" Pod began.

Sandor shook his head. "Frankly, I don't know."

"What kind of person is she?"

"I didn't say it was a she!" Sandor barked.

"You were talking about a date… I guessed you were talking about a woman. But… if it's a guy, it's just fine." Pod's juvenile features were tensed, reflecting his embarrassment.

He sunk his face in his palm. "It's a girl, Pod. Dainty. The kind you want to impress."

Podrick nodded silently, then went on after a pause: "And what kind of food do you like on special occasions?"

"Meat and potato?" he offered. Now I'm the one who doesn't make this easy.

"How much time do you have to cook?" Pod asked, folding his arms.

"That's the problem. Barristan will close the gym that night, but he won't show up before 7:00 PM. In the best case scenario. I can't leave the gym before he's here." He remained quiet for a few seconds, before adding: "I guess this is the fucking moment when you admit you can't help me."

Silence stretched in the office, interrupted now and then by laughters coming from the gym. In the end, a small smile pulled the corners of Podrick's lips. "I think I know exactly what you should do. And she'll be impressed. Slow-roasted leg of lamb," he announced, proud as a peacock.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Sandor hissed. Who did Podrick think he was? A sort of hipster who spent his weekends at the marketplace?

The kid immediately leaned forward, lifting his hands to calm him down. "Don't freak out about the name. It's easier than you think. You prepare the leg of lamb the day before, you put it in a casserole dish and you leave it for six hours in the oven. The day you see the girl, you put the casserole dish in the oven for one more hour, while you both have a drink. You serve it with boiled potatoes. She'll love it and she'll even ask you where you got the recipe from."

Oddly enough, Podrick's proverbial shyness had disappeared and he smiled triumphantly at the end of his speech. His confidence didn't rub off on Sandor, though. "When you say it's easy…" he asked, wary as ever.

"You know how to read a recipe, right? You know how to chop onions? I swear it's easy," Podrick insisted.

"If it fucking burns in the oven, we'll still have potatoes to eat… And I'll hold you responsible for it," Sandor growled, pointing his finger at him.

Podrick gave him one of these awkward smiles that were his trademark as he pushed himself from his seat and took a step toward the door.

"And one more thing," Sandor said, stopping the kid in his tracks. "Where can I find some good lemon cakes?" He never paid attention to bakeries and pastry shops but he knew Sansa would blush and smile prettily the moment she'd realized he had not forgotten what her favorite cakes were.

Podrick slowly turned to him, folding his arms again. "Try Hot Pie's, next to the library. The guy is really strange with his obsession with pastry, but he's the best. In the restaurant where I work, we only serve his chocolate cakes."

Two days after this conversation, Sandor admitted Podrick's advice had saved his life: the leg of lamb looked and smelled nice in the casserole dish, even if it needed one more hour in the oven, the lemon cakes he had bought during lunchtime at Hot Pie's before dropping them at his place were tantalizing. Brienne would probably laugh at him if she ever learned he had cleaned his house thoroughly the night before, to be sure his dinner with Sansa Stark would not be ruined by some spiderweb. Yet he was growing anxious with each passing hour, wondering if she would enjoy the food, what they would talk about, and how far he was ready to go that night. Fuck me.

At that very moment, the song that was on the radio struck him, not because he knew it, but because he felt like he recognized the singer's voice. What the hell is it? It wasn't even his thing. Where've I heard this guy sing before?

Let me be your 'leccy meter and I'll never run out

And let me be the portable heater that you'll get cold without

I wanna be your setting lotion

Hold your hair in deep devotion

At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean

I wanna be yours

Then realization dawned on him. Sansa's car. The fucking Arctic Monkeys. He was listening to one of her favorite bands and of course, those fuckers had written a song about a guy who was so madly in love with a girl he'd do anything to get her attention. Guess who's acting just like this desperate boy?

Dropping the towel to the floor, he sat up on the exercise bench. The dull pain in his thigh was still there, reminding him of his bad choices and of the burden of memories he would carry until his last breath. He was in a sweat, his tee-shirt sticking to his damp skin. One more hour hour and he would drive home, set the table and wait for her. If Barristan remembers he promised to come. Leaning forward, Sandor dug his elbows in his thighs and cradled his head. He could have stayed there for a moment, putting himself under pressure, if his phone he kept on the floor, next to him, had not begun to vibrate.

Incoming call. Sansa Stark, the screen announced. He swallowed hard. Don't tell me you can't come. Not after I made a fool of myself with Brienne. Not after I cooked a fucking leg of lamb for you.

"Hey, it's me." Her voice was soft as ever, yet it conveyed a sort of hesitation. "I just drove past the boxing gym on my way home and I saw your car on the parking lot."

"Yes, I'm still stuck at the gym," he replied tentatively, wondering what she had in mind. "Barristan will arrive soon to close the gym, I hope. Don't worry about the dinner, it's under control." He hardly believed his own words.

"No, no, I'm not worried at all. It's just that… I could join you at the gym. If you don't mind, that is. I'm curious, I'd like to visit the place where you spend your days." Confused, he didn't know what to say. "So…" she went on. "Do you mind if I join you at the gym? We'll wait for Barristan together. It's been ages since I last saw him."

"Of course. Come whenever you're ready." He hung up, before realizing what was going on. The little bird. Showing up here. Anytime. At first, he thought of cleaning up his office; there were files and papers everywhere on his desk. Then he swept the gym and wished he could change the look of it: the coat of paint on the walls peeled away by places and its color, a dirty green, was just outmoded. She wouldn't like that. Perhaps she would smile inside, at the sight of the gym, but there was nothing he could do about it for now. He ran to the office, began to put away some files in the drawers of his desk; he opened the window, convinced the room had a musty smell and finally decided he needed a shower. Sighing, he remembered he didn't even have spare clothes as he hurried to the locker room.

Shower felt good after lifting weights. Sandor doubted it could alleviate the tension in his shoulders, yet to his great surprise, he relaxed gradually. Closing his eyes, he let the warm water run over his face, wash away the sweat and in the end, the tension that made his back stiff. Standing right under the shower head, he braced himself against the stall wall and stared at his muscled arms and at his six-pack until he cleared his head. At some point, he considered jerking off, but he gave up, without knowing why it felt suddenly wrong; he therefore stayed there, enjoying the warm water on the skin of his back.

When he emerged from the shower, he felt a tad different, as if he had regained some of his confidence long hours of waiting had mangled. He took a towel, dried himself off and put on boxers. As he bent forward to pick up his pants, droplets fell from his hair, leaving traces on the tiled floor. He smiled, remembering his hair was damp too, when he had knocked at her door, before taking her to the Crossroads. Looks like I hardly shake myself like a dog every time I see her. He snorted at that, then heard the locker room door open. Strange. Lem usually stays until the closing time… and so does Anguy. That evening, they were the only people he had spotted in the gym, before he headed to the showers, apart from a bunch of kids who had just arrived at the gym and therefore would not go back to the locker room before an hour or so.

"Oh… I'm sorry," a tiny voice coming from the doorway said apologetically.

Sandor turned around to see his little bird, all flustered, averting her eyes and playing with the shoulder strap of her bag in a nervous gesture. Instead of the jeans he had often seen on her lately, she wore a black sleeveless mini dress that reminded him of the 1960's actresses. Classic, elegant, yet showing her mile-long legs. The white Peter Pan collar made her look innocent, especially when she wrung her hands.

"I'm so sorry, Sandor. I didn't mean-" Eyes downcast, she blushed.

"It's OK," he reassured her. "Stay here, I'm almost ready," he added when he noticed her hand on the door knob.

Her sudden arrival and the sight she offered had made him forget he only had his boxers on. While putting on his pants, he decided to take advantage of the situation; his jeans still low on his hips, he grabbed his shirt and closed the distance between them.

Sandor smiled encouragingly. "Won't you look at me?" he asked. He cupped her chin and made her look at him straight in the eye.

"I feel stupid," she confessed. "I told myself I shouldn't call you, it's always a bad idea when you change plans at the last minute-"

"Shh. It's OK." He brushed her jaw, enjoying the softness of her skin and the pink tone her cheeks now had. She had trouble locking eyes with him and she visibly struggled not to focus on his chest. So she likes it. The muscles, the hair, the tattoo… Even the scars. It made his head spin. "It doesn't look stupid. It looks as if you came earlier to come upon me half-naked," he teased. Sansa opened her pretty mouth to protest, so he added: "I tell you something, little bird. I don't mind being objectified, as long as you're the one leering at me."

Scandalized, she nonetheless laughed at his remark. "You're incorrigible. I mean it."

He put on his shirt, glancing at her from time to time and finding it hard not to pin her against the wall.

"Didn't you see the sign on the door?" he asked her, feeling mischievous. "It says "Men's locker room"." He took a few steps toward the spot where he had left his socks and his shoes.

Biting her lip and nervously playing with the shoulder strap of her purse again, she answered:"One of your… friends told me I should just walk in and I… trusted him. I now realize he knew exactly what he was doing."

Sandor grabbed his things, shoved the dirty towel in the laundry basket and he motioned her out of the locker room. Lem and Anguy observed them with curiosity from the spot where they made some stretching exercises; Sansa informed him that the man with a bushy brown beard and crooked teeth, aka Lem, had encouraged her to walk in the locker room. Of course the bastard did. Sweating in his odd-looking yellow t-shirt, Lem locked eyes with Sandor and mimicked the salute, a broad grin on his face. As Barristan had not arrived yet, Sandor led Sansa to his office before they looked around the property. She had seen the boxing ring while crossing the gym to go to the locker room but she wanted to take a close look at it.

Some of the younger boys insisted on fighting in the boxing ring, so that she could see how good it looked with boxers on it. While they flexed their muscles and tried to get her attention, Sandor contemplated her; pretty girls always made an impression on the gyms regular visitors, but said visitors acted differently with Sansa because she was with him. They glanced at her, but they never looked hard at the girl; they strutted about and did their best to impress her, but they didn't flirt with her. Amazed, Sandor became aware they didn't seem to judge their age difference nor the fact they formed an unlikely couple. I suppose I should be grateful. Was it gratefulness that made his chest constrict?

"So you work out here?" she asked him. Sansa had politely watched the improvised boxing match and even clapped her hands at the end, but she looked like she wasn't interested in the other members of the gym. And she seemed to act like she wanted to let Sandor know she didn't care about them.

He shrugged. "I was working out before you called." That and agonizing over tonight's dinner.

"You lift weights?" she inquired, her gaze automatically drawn to his chest. He nodded. "Can you show me?"

At that very moment, one of the kids began to talk about showing her how he could lift a loaded barbell; Anguy anticipated the whole thing and visibly decided the party was over. He put a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. "Weren't you supposed to punch the heavy bag, kid?" he told him with a smile, kind yet firm. "The heavy bag is out there." Anguy exchanged a knowing look with Sandor who gave him a curt nod.

The exercise bench where Sandor used to work out was in a corner of the gym; Anguy's remark had had its effect on everyone, for they all stayed as far from the exercise bench as they could. With its adjustable back seat, its heavy duty bar catcher and its leg developer that felt so comfortable, he often forgot the pain in his thigh, this exercise bench was Sandor's, and when he was sitting on it, no one messed around.

"So?" she asked, looking suddenly intimidated with her hands behind her back. "This is where you lift weights?"

He mumbled affirmatively, before sitting down on the bench, legs open. Sansa took a step forward, stopping at arm's length of the leg developer and looking down at him. Reclining on the bench, his spine resting against the stuffed back, he glanced at her. Leaving the exercise bench in haste minutes after her call, he had not removed the weights from the barbell.

"Want me to do a bench press?" he rasped. As she arched an eyebrow, he realized she wasn't familiar with the technical jargon of bodybuilding.

"Oh, that?" she replied, finally understanding when his fingers curled around the bar above his head. "OK. I'm sure I'd like to see you working out."

There was this smile playing about her lips that made her fucking adorable. Sandor did as he was told and lifted the barbell slowly, then let it brush his chest once, twice, feeling her gaze on him. A quick glance at her confirmed she bit her bottom lip while contemplating the muscles of his arms. He went on, never sated with the sensation of her eyes on him, until he had a better idea. One deep grunt and the barbell rested on the bar catchers again. Sandor sat up then pushed himself from the bench. "Your turn, now."

Sansa cringed ever so slightly. "What? Are you kidding me?"

"I'll help you and I'll make sure you don't get hurt. Give me your purse, now." Gently, he slipped his finger between the soft fabric of her dress and the shoulder strap of her bag; she barely resisted. As he put down the purse, she still hesitated. "Come on, girl. Barristan is not here yet. Let's have some fun."

His challenging eyes made her decision; Sansa tugged at the hem of her mini-dress as if to smooth non existent wrinkles and she sat down on the bench, a bit clumsy. As she leaned back, the skirt of her dress skimmed dangerously high above her knees and she blushed, suddenly self-conscious.

"My arms aren't exactly what you can call "muscled", in case you didn't notice," she warned him.

"It'll be fine." Standing next to her head now, Sandor was removing, one by one, the heavy plates he used to work out. Doing bench press for the first time was impressive enough for his little bird: one plate would be fine and it had to be light. 2.5 pounds will be good, he mused. Her curious gaze fluttered about the bar catchers, then she gave him a long look filled with apprehension. "I'll stay next to you all the time," he promised her.

She nodded at that and when she grabbed the barbell, lifting it from the bar catchers, the sight of his hands on the device, ready to intervene if something was wrong, seemed to encourage her. She frowned, focused on her effort as she stretched her arms to lift the barbell as high as she could.

"Careful, Sansa. Keep your back on the seat", he whispered. "Now lower the weight to chest level. Slowly… Good."

She smiled at him triumphantly. "This is one rep," he announced, dampening her spirits. "Do it again."

"Are you planning to send me to some boot camp?" she inquired, pushing the barbell once more.

He laughed. "Hell, no. I just wanted to show you it's not that difficult."

She soon asked if she could stop before ruining her hair and he helped her put the barbell on the bar catchers again. "Now I know what it feels like to push weights, I'll never make fun of bodybuilders again," she said, sitting up and stretching her arms.

"You're not impressed by muscles." It was more a question than a statement, for his words inflected at the end of the sentence.

"It depends. Muscles always looked good on you." With a smile, she extended her hand so that he helped her get on her feet. Her hand felt small and cool in his and she was light as a feather.

Barristan arrived shortly afterwards, grinning at Sansa and hugging her like she was family. When he had asked Barristan if he could come at the gym and close it that night, Sandor had had no choice but to tell him about Sansa. The old man's noble features had remained motionless during Sandor's confused explanation, but his blue eyes shone differently afterwards, a sign he wasn't surprised by the news. Eager not to embarrass Sandor, he had asked dozens of questions about Sansa and what had happen to her since the last time the old man and the girl had met; Sandor had done his best to give him answers.

"It's good to see you again," Barristan told Sansa. "After my dismissal, I often wondered what would happen to you. You were so young."

It was still a delicate topic and Sansa took a step backwards, as if to protect herself from the bad memories his comment involuntarily brought back. It's time to go. Before she said or did something, Sandor placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Now that you're here, Barristan, I guess we can leave."

"I'm sure we'll find some time to… talk about the good old days," she offered, addressing Barristan. "You should come to my place, someday."

Barristan nodded at that and they left, under the inquisitorial look of the youngsters who haunted the boxing gym on Friday nights.

Out in the parking lot, he watched Sansa as she walked to her car, stunning in her black mini-dress exposing her long legs. Before reaching her car, she glanced at him over her shoulder, probably because she wanted to make sure he was still there, ready to lead her to his house; anyway, that was what he thought at first. Their eyes locked for a second. In her eyes, which deep blue he had not forgotten despite the seven year gap, he detected a hint of mischief.

Want to play? The blue eyes suggested.

Fuck, I'm ready to play whatever game you have in mind.

You can find more info about this fic (like the recipe of Sandor's slow roasted leg of lamb…) on my tumblr: asimplylucia.

To Guest: Thank you! It's good to know you like the way Sandor is described in this fic… For the second part of their date at Sandor's home, you'll have to wait a bit more. Sorry! I'll try to make up for it by posting a long, sweet chapter next time.

To Tanakacchi (guest): You're right, I kept the same age gap between them, because I like it this way (and also because I've changed so many things when you compare with canon. Changing their age difference on top of that didn't seem right). Will this affect their relationship? Perhaps… Sandor is so cute when he's clueless like he was in chapter 4. Having no experience about love relationships makes him clumsy and I like it. I decided not to rush things between them when I started writing this story: I understand it can be frustrating, but it's going to be great if/when they're finally together. As usual, thanks a lot for your review!

To Guest (about chapter 3 and 4): There were different hypotheses about this tattoo on Sandor's chest and… yes, it's just Sansa's initial. A little bird was a good idea, but the "S" allowed me to write this dialogue between them about the meaning of the tattoo. Besides, the little bird tattooed on someone has been already done (there's a lovely story by Winterwasp about that). Sansa definitely has to lead the way if she wants something to happen between them… Thank you so much for your reviews!