A huge 'thank you' to Underthenorthernlights, who beta read this chapter!

Thank you all for reading and reviewing.

In this chapter like in next one, Rickon is back. 'My' version of this character might be different from the ones you read so far - or from your headcanon - but there's room enough for several interpretations, right?

As a side note, I apologize in advance to the fans of Coldplay - it will make sense later - and I confess I've been a great fan of Cold War Kids… before Mine Is Yours.

Sansa's back stretched, then bent; under the soft, ivory skin he restrained himself from kissing, her spin seemed to undulate. She arched her back again, slowly, one vertebra moving after the other. Must be the most beautiful thing on Earth and it's a shame the lighting is so shitty. One of his hands left her hips to trace the dip of her waist, eliciting a tiny moan when he probably tickled her. Her skin was smooth underneath his fingers, and he wished he could map every curve, every beauty spot on her back. Further, her shoulder blades moved as she tried to find her balance on the bed. One of the said shoulder blades almost disappeared under red locks. Red. Again. Thick and glossy, although disheveled, her red hair mesmerized him and for a split second he could have forgotten why he had carried her to the bed and hastily undressed. Or why she was on her hands and knees and he was behind her.

She sported the most wicked smile when she glanced at him around her shoulder and said: "I thought you couldn't wait. What are you doing?" Her eyes drifted away from his face, drawing an imaginary line down his chest, taking in his abs and staring at his groin.

"Admiring the view," he growled, spurred by the notion she was doing exactly the same. Sansa's eyes flickered up to his features, then she blew a red strand out of her face and bit her lip before steadying her gaze in front of her, on the headboard. There was something downright provocative in the way she seemed to ignore him: a heartbeat later she ground herself against him. Fuck. "You'll be the death of me, girl."

In retaliation he tightened his grip on her hipbone and positioned himself at her opening. She moaned softly when he thrusted inside her. This is not fucking possible. Sansa's hair was red again and he was taking her like he had always wanted to. When she's on her hands and knees. Her red hair fanning out across the mattress would have turned him on too but this was his fantasy, the scene he had played over and over in his mind. Her red hair, her naked back and my hands on her hips. Maybe God exists after all.

It had started with a text from Sansa he had received earlier that day when he was at the gym, after he had fixed the shower in the locker room - something he hated, plumbing had never been his thing. The text was short enough to be intriguing - it simply read "I have a surprise for you" - and he had spent the rest of the day wondering what could be this fucking surprise. A brand-new coffee pot for the mornings when he got up on the wrong side of the bed? A button-down shirt, maybe? A few days before, Sansa had threatened him with a whole afternoon of shopping, not for her but for him.

Later, another text had excited his curiosity even more. "I know you'll like my surprise. Perhaps I should send you a picture… But then there would be no surprise."

All of a sudden, the brand-new coffee-pot seemed like the stupidest idea ever and he had more and more trouble focusing on all the things he had to do before leaving the gym and meeting her at his place.

She was already there when he parked his truck in the driveway and as he often did now, he stayed outside, gazing at the kitchen's lights through the window for a second or two in the dark. When he came in, he heard the radio playing in the main room; the creaking of the front door might have warned her he had arrived for she turned off the radio and walked to the hallway to meet him.

"Surprise!" she said gleefully, striking a pose in her floral sundress. It was a surprise indeed: her dull brown hair had disappeared and red locks framed her oval face, shining under the strong light of the bulb that had never seen a lampshade.

The sight of her with her natural hair color must have made his jaw drop, according to Sansa's fit of laughter. "You should see your face!" she told him. With short, slow steps, she crossed the distance remaining between them, caressed his stubble and kissed him lightly. "Do you like it?"

"Hell, yeah. This is- This is-" His words fled him and he felt like a complete moron under her fond gaze. "What- I mean why did you… You know?"

"Why did I dye my hair?" she asked, trying to fill in the blanks. "Well… I didn't work this afternoon so I went to the hairdresser."

"But why…?" He gestured at her hair and finally dared run his fingers through it. It felt silky and the rich color of her strands against his tanned phalanxes brought him back seven years earlier when she was Joffrey's girlfriend and him his dog.

She shrugged. "Why not? I told myself you would like it." He nodded at that and ducked his head to bury his nose in her hair. It smelled of the hairdresser's shampoo: not unpleasant but unfamiliar. Sandor prefered the scent of Sansa's conditioner he now recognized instantly. He nevertheless left a trail of kisses on her temple, her earlobe and further down, her neck. "Hmm," she sighed. In the periphery of his vision, he saw her mouth opening and closing, a smile pulling up the corners of her lips. She's trying to focus and tell me something, he mused, before stopping his ministrations.

"What were you about to say?" he asked her in hushed tones.

She grinned, eyes closed for a second; he had often seen her doing this when she felt embarrassed. "Maybe it was time for me to go back to my natural hair color," she answered softly.

There were things she kept for herself and he told himself that from the moment he had run into her at the hospital, almost two months ago, she had perhaps solved some of the issues that poisoned her life so far. Sandor didn't know if he had played a part in this; if so, should he feel proud? Fuck, I don't want to think about all this now.

By common consent, they hurried through dinner, Sandor staring at her as if he was starving. No need to talk: she knows what I have in mind. Their unspoken agreement included not doing the dishes so they left the dirty plates in the sink and walked - or rather ran - upstairs.

"I had no idea hair color could have this effect on men," Sansa teased him, as he stripped her from her clothes.

And now that he thrusted inside her, now that her release - and his - was closer than ever, he knew he would later replay the events of this night over and over again in his mind.

A minute later, they both collapsed on the bed, Sansa rolling on her side to look at him. She barely let him catch his breath before commenting: "You never did this before. Why?"

"You didn't like it?" he asked tongue in cheek. He already knew the answer.

"You know I did." Propping herself on her elbow, she jabbed a finger at his chest. "I want to know why this happened tonight."

"Because you're red. Again," he rasped. He disguised his embarrassment behind raucous laughter. I looked for you in every redhead I ran into for the last seven years, but do you need to know that?

Sansa rolled her eyes and wound her fingers in her long hair. "You see this?" she began, her eyes moving between him and her copper-colored hair. "This is not red, this is auburn."

"Oh." He drew her close until she straddled him. "Sorry if I insulted your natural hair color, Miss Stark. Auburn sounds much more classy than red. A bit snooty, too."

Feigning outrage, she flicked his fingers and he laughed heartily. "I'll get you for that, Sandor!"

"Whenever you want," he mouthed. She was already sitting up, her legs on either side of his middle. For once, she towered above him, her red hair framing her oval face, cascading on her shoulders: there was something challenging in her look as her pretended haughtiness had not completely disappeared. "You look changed," he went on. "A tad bossy, like this." One arm under his head, he stared at her, a smile playing about his lips.

She arched an eyebrow. "You don't like it?" It was a rhetorical question, most likely, and her inquiring tone didn't fool him. The pressure of her thighs against his waist increased pleasantly.

Sandor replied in a whisper: "You could ask anything of me right now. You know it, girl."

Her pretty little face disappeared behind a curtain of red locks as she suppressed a giggle. "Well, that's a piece of luck: I have a favor to ask."

"You have my attention."

"Rickon called me last night and said he'd like to pay me visit. He'll stay a week or so."

Rickon… Sandor remembered a lanky teenager, taller than his elder sister, and much too curious for his own good. The brat wouldn't stop pulling my leg. And suddenly, he asked himself what the favor Sansa was about to ask him could be.

"Rickon doesn't have a car yet - Uncle Brynden says he would probably crash it in no time - so one of his friends who's going to some rock festival will drop him here tomorrow afternoon." Her embarrassment bordered on sheepishness. "Could you- could you, you know, pick him up and keep an eye on my little brother before I come back from the hospital?" Full of hope now, she locked eyes with him. "Pretty please?"

Sandor closed his eyes briefly before opening them again. "You want me to babysit your sixteen-year-old brother?"

A mere shrug was the first answer he got. "That's one way of looking at things…" she commented. "I know you're busy at the gym and you barely know my brother but I can't leave the hospital during my shift. I wouldn't ask you if I had not tried to talk one of my colleagues into changing her shift with mine. As it turns out, she can't."

"What would I have to gain by doing you this favor?" he asked, deepening his voice on purpose and gripping her hips.

Sansa bit her lip at once to disguise her grin. "As I have the coolest boyfriend, I guess I would find a way to thank him," she purred, lowering herself and claiming his lips. He was soon blinded by the red locks that tickled his cheeks and his temples. When she pulled away from him, she looked satisfied as if she anticipated his positive response.

"Fine, I'll do it for you." Her grin deepened. "But… I can't help thinking you're using sex to get what you want," he added, gloating over her shocked reaction. Her tiny gasp made him laugh. "I know you," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You coax me to babysit your brother and behind your innocent look, you use sex so that I pander to your every whim."

"You're a monster," she whispered before kissing his lips again. "And a hypocrite at that. Who uses sex to make me come back in his house night after night? You, not me."

Sandor chuckled and pulled her close; he was thinking of flipping her on her back when she broke their kiss. "And… there's something I forgot to tell you." Despite her smile, her tone conveyed a sort of hesitation he didn't like. "Rickon will stay at my apartment as long as he's here in Quiet Isle so… I will have to stay with him."

"You mean you're going to ask for a few days off?"

She shook her head. "No! I just started working at the hospital, I can't do that! I mean… I won't spend the night here."

She must be kidding. "So what? Your brother arrives, and we can't see each other?"

"Of course we can! We can have dinner together. The three of us."

The more the merrier. Great. His features probably exuded frustration for she brushed his cheek apologetically. "Look, Sandor…"

"You're going to tell me I can't sleep at your place either, right?" he snorted.

She sighed. "My uncle accidentally walked in on him with his girlfriend the other day. They were engaged in some heavy action on the couch."

"That's what kids of his age usually do, Sansa."

"Did I tell you he almost got expelled last year for shouting at a teacher? You probably think it's stupid, but still… he's a kid and Uncle Brynden and I are his only role models. What kind of message are we sending if we're having sex in my bedroom when he's sleeping on the couch?" she asked.

"A message that says you're a grown-up," Sandor retorted. "According to you, what does your brother think we're doing at night? 3000 piece puzzle sets? Crosswords? The kid is not a fool: he knew we would end up together before we realized it." A long time ago, he would have yelled at her because she was being a hypocrite; now frustration replaced anger and the doubts he had managed to keep at bay crept in his mind again. She doesn't accept her feelings for you, a little voice said. She might kiss you when you're alone, she wishes she could lock you in a closet when her family is around...

"Before you say anything," Sansa began, "I told Rickon and my uncle I was dating you - not that it was a big surprise for them - and I told them our relationship was a serious one." Sometimes he asked himself if she could read his mind or if he was that predictable.

Another kiss, slow and more passionate than the previous ones, overcame his doubts. "Rickon knows you're my boyfriend and he expects to spend some time with you because we're together. Now I don't ask you to understand why I'd rather sleep on my own as long as my brother's here. You made your point, I know how you feel about it. It doesn't mean I don't want you: quite the contrary." She snuggled up to his chest. "I just ask you not to be mad at me. I'm trying to act in the interests of my little brother."

Sandor remained silent for long seconds and he felt her body tense against him as she waited for his reaction with bated breath. Then he cocked his head to the side and kissed her forehead.

"You're not mad at me?" Relief laced her words.

"Nope." After another silence, not quite as long this time, he flipped her on her back and stared at her, propped on one elbow, before pinning her wrists down to the mattress.

"What are you doing?" she protested. The hint of apprehension in her tone was just enough to spur him and to make him hard as rock.

Towering above her, he never broke eye-contact. "This is going to be a very long week," he said, his speech deliberately slow. "If I can't touch you when the little brat is here, I intend to take you as many times as I can before he arrives." The sight of goosebumps on her upper arms made him smile inwardly. She was looking at him, her mouth ajar. "Mark my words, girl. You can expect me to be insatiable once he'll head back North."

This is fucking ridiculous, he scolded himself. You spent years babysitting Joffrey - even if his crazy mother called you a bodyguard. Not any kid: Joffrey Baratheon. This boy is a Stark, Eddard Stark's youngest son and the worst he did so far was make you feel stupid the day Sansa moved, so stop being a pussy about it. Getting out of his truck, Sandor folded his arms across his chest and stared at the car which had just arrived. The car - a japanese one with a filthy hood and rust spots on the wing - had seen better days. Its smooth-faced owner had pulled over to the gas-station parking lot, as expected, and the young Rickon Stark had jumped out of the car, soon followed by his friend. The two boys opened the trunk, retrieved a duffel bag from it and parted after a shoulder clasp.

Staying in the background, Sandor observed them, gave a perfunctory wave at the unknown boy who walked back to his car and left after a last gesture to Rickon. Sansa's little brother was still standing by his duffel bag, staring back at Sandor, an unreadable expression on his face. So what now?

Rickon Stark smirked at him and shouldered his bag before crossing the space between them. "Hey, man. What's up?"

"You had a nice trip?" was the best Sandor came up with. There was a silence and he couldn't help thinking the brat found him the worst conversationalist ever.

Rickon nodded and asked if they were going to Sansa's place.

"Nope. We'll go to the gym first." He gestured at the truck and they both got in. "On Fridays, it closes at 9 PM but I asked someone to take care of it. I'll make sure everything is OK at the gym, I'll show you around and we'll go to my place. Sansa will join us for dinner after her shift."

Since they got inside Sandor's truck, Rickon kept looking at him, making him uncomfortable. Suddenly he realized Sansa was probably not the only one to feel strange about the situation. Meeting a member of her family who knew they were dating was unfamiliar to say the least; it made him feel awkward. His back was stiff, his gestures clumsy. Trying to behave as if nothing important was going on was a fucking tall order, making conversation was worse: he turned on the radio instead and an old rendition of I Walk the Line filled the car.

"So… It's a boxing gym you're running," Rickon said. By rekindling the conversation, the boy suggested to turn off the radio and to silence Johnny Cash. In any case, that was how Sandor read it; after the radio went silent, he answered that yes, he ran a boxing gym. For some reason, he felt the urge to give him details about the treadmills and the exercise benches and he soon found himself chirping like the little bird when she got nervous. Pathetic.

Lucky for him, the gas station was not far from the gym. Rickon and him looked around the property, and the boy expressed more enthusiasm for the gym than he expected, going so far as to ask if he could come there the next day and train with the other customers. Sandor mumbled he would be pleased to have him there, he gave his instructions to Lem and they left.

As Rickon remained silent on their drive to Sandor's house, he began to wonder what the boy would think about his place and when he would start making fun of him. Because he will. There's no reason why he would spare me today. I'm sure he's biding his time. They started glancing at each other in the truck, then as they walked to the front door. Again, Sandor showed the boy around before telling him he would start making dinner. He thought he would watch some crappy show on TV like the kids of his age, but no sound came from his living room, except that of Rickon's feet dragging on the floor. What the hell is he doing? As far as he could tell from the kitchen where he stood, Sansa's little brother was wandering between the French window and the shelf containing a few books and lots of CDs.

Finally, after Sandor had put in the oven the prime rib roast, Rickon's auburn mop appeared in the doorway.

"Need some help?" the kid asked without ever losing his smirk. He took in the disorder on the kitchen table and the beads of sweat on Sandor's forehead.

Sandor declined politely. Cooking was hard enough; giving Rickon instructions while he tried to prepare decent potatoes was beyond him. Undeterred, Rickon stepped in and looked around, hands shoved in his pockets. It lasted for a minute or two before he commented, disbelief lacing each syllable: "So there's only two things on your fridge… One is the number of… 'Portofino's Pizzas' and the other one is Sansa's schedule at the hospital."

"So?" he replied, probably too quickly and too curtly not to sound nervous. Disguising his anger behind his unwavering interest for the wholegrain mustard dressing he prepared, Sandor ignored his young guest.

"So this is serious business between you two."

He was certain by now, that Rickon knew he was avoiding his gaze on purpose and he probably found it ridiculous; Sandor made an effort and locked eyes with him. "I wouldn't have come to pick you up and you wouldn't be in my kitchen otherwise."

"Hmm. That's a subtle way to tell me I'm a pain in the ass and you only tolerate me because you fuck my sister."

Sandor's eyes narrowed instantly. "You'd better watch your tongue when you talk about your sister in my presence."

Rickon looked amused. "So you're going to tell me you don't bang Sansa because you have too much respect for her?"

Little prick. He cursed under his breath; his instinct told him Rickon only did it out of provocation and tried - successfully - to make him fly off the handle. Now he just wanted Sansa to come back from the hospital, hoping the brat would behave once his sister would be here: nothing was less certain though.

"Talk about things you do know," Sandor snapped. "Video games and such… You know nothing about women and sex."

"Touché." Rickon mimicked someone who had received a punch in the stomach and made as if to fall. "I- I have some questions though and given that you know so much more than I do, you're going to answer me."

His ironic tone gave Sandor murderous thoughts: he had always thought Arya was, amongst her siblings, the only nuisance and that the rest of the Stark children were good kids - although a tad boring. He found in Rickon, his sister's acerbic tone, her gall: in Arya's case, it had been a way to defend herself at a time when they were more or less on the lam, forced to share the same shelter - whenever they found one - or the same car. There was no need for Rickon to defend himself; or had the years spent abroad with this Osha - a woman whose criminal record was as long as a month of Sundays - changed him irreversibly?

"So…" Rickon came closer; even if Sandor busied himself with the dishes in the sink, Rickon's lanky frame was in the periphery of his vision. "Is she more into Asian or Italian food? I have a part-time job now, so I'm supposed to invite Sansa to a restaurant at least once during my stay here to thank her… Does she take some sugar or cream in her tea for breakfast? And… on which side of the bed do you sleep?"

Sandor slowly swiveled his head and looked daggers at him: "You've got a nerve! Fuck…" The plate he was washing slipped through his fingers, sank in the water and splashed.

Next to him, Rickon smiled smugly. "Mental note: my questions embarrass you."

"They don't."

"Then answer them!"

Sandor took a sharp intake of breath. "Try Korean food. No cream, no sugar in her tea. And… for your last question, the answer is on top."

Hands shoved in his pockets, the brat chuckled, his head pulling in to his shoulders rhythmically. At least, I make him laugh.

The lingering tension hardly decreased when Sansa's car arrived in the driveway. Assuming the siblings wanted to be alone for a moment after not seeing each other since Sansa had moved in Quiet Isle, Sandor stayed in the kitchen to clean the mess he had made while cooking but he only heard them laughing and chatting in the living room.

Sansa was radiant during dinner: never had he realized before what it meant for her to have found one of her brothers again. At some point, watching her joking with Rickon made him ill-at-ease because he had never experienced the same with Gregor. As for his sister, the memories were old, very old, but they hurt all the same when he remembered their fits of laughter and the way they squabbled sometimes; at some point of the dinner, he might have felt a lump in his throat.

He was roused from his thoughts by Sansa who apparently couldn't finish her meat and daintily placed what remained of her portion on Sandor's plate. He gave her an inquiring look before grabbing his fork; he would have eaten the savory meat in no time if Rickon had not stopped him.

"Interesting. Do you know she did this when we were kids, Sandor? She would give Dad whatever she was not able to eat. Especially the fatty part of meat."

"Rickon, you're trying to embarrass me," his sister protested. Rolling her eyes, she stood up and informed them she was going to refill the water jug.

After she disappeared in the kitchen, Rickon leaned over the table and whispered to his host: "Does she call you Daddy when you're in bed?"

Sandor snorted. "What is this? A sort of test? You're trying to find out if I'm going to lose it and crush your head against the table? Nice try."

They must have looked funny for Sansa arched her eyebrows when she came back from the kitchen. She nevertheless rekindled the conversation and they made small talk for a while before Rickon addressed his sister: "You know Sandor has an awesome collection of CDs and even vinyl records? I saw this and told myself your boyfriend was not a complete hasbeen."

"Rickon!" Sansa sounded both scandalized and embarrassed.

Sandor chuckled.

"Seriously, I don't understand why you keep your old CDs, but man, you've got good taste. From Johnny Cash to Nirvana, including The Ramones, you know the classics."

Without a word, Sandor tilted his head by way of thanks and raised his glass.

"Of course, he's got good taste," Sansa cooed, taking his hand and squeezing it.

"There were good bands when you were a teenager. Back then…"

"Back then?" Sandor repeated, an incredulous look on his face. "I guess that's your way to tell me how old I look." A smile pulled up the corners of his burnt mouth, but his eyes narrowed at the kid. Again, Sansa protested. But it's between him and me. A sort of childish urge to have the last word, to shut the other's trap had slowly crept in since the moment they had been alone in the kitchen. "The thing is, when I grew up, Nirvana and Rage Against the Machine were on the radio. What kind of rock band is on the radio now?... Coldplay?" His tone was dismissive enough to silence Rickon for long, blissful seconds.

The kid's mouth dangled open then he snapped his jaw shut. "I- I was a big fan of this band, you know, Cold War Kids, before they sold their soul to the devil, AKA pop music."

"You summed up the last ten years of rock music," Sandor approved.

"Their third album broke my heart," Rickon confessed, half-serious, half-joking. That was how he saw the boy since the day they had met: torn between the urge to make fun of everything - including himself - and the utmost seriousness. I guess that's what happens sometimes when you grow up too quickly.

"Sorry, kid." And somehow, as he uttered these words, Sandor knew he meant them, that he was truly sorry for Rickon if things weren't like they were supposed to be, if rock bands abandoned their convictions and if serious shit happened.

"You guys had great rock bands, back then." Rickon's tone was laced with a mix of resignation and envy. Afterward the kid distractedly started playing with the cork of the wine bottle Sandor had opened for him and Sansa; staring into space, Rickon seemed to forget how he had taken a perverse pleasure in teasing him earlier. Sandor had the fleeting impression he had passed the test, that for some reason Rickon would leave him be because the kid now knew what kind of person he was.

The rest of the night was spent listening to rock bands who had split or whose leaders had died way before Rickon was born, before Sansa decided it was time to leave.

Rickon had already walked outside and stopped by Sansa's car with his duffel bag; he listened to the cicadas. Sandor stood on the threshold, his little bird in his arms.

"Rickon can be a little prick sometimes," she whispered apologetically. "He's a good kid though and as strange as it seems, I think he really likes you."

Sandor didn't find anything relevant to say and nodded. "You smell good," he rasped to break the silence.

"I know you. You're trying to sway me into changing my mind and staying here." Sansa smiled. With her arms wrapped around Sandor's neck and the way she arched her back under his touch, she acted like she wanted to stay more than she'd ever voice it aloud.

"You can't stop a man from dreaming... This- This is going to be a very long week."

"Tell yourself it's like waiting for Christmas morning."

"You being the long-awaited gift," he said. "Did I tell you I always tore my gifts open when I was a kid?"

Sansa bursted out laughing and after a last kiss, she wiggled away from his arms. "I'll make sure to pick clothes I don't really care about the day my brother leaves, then." Smiling mischievously and never breaking eye contact, she walked backwards to her car, then she blew a kiss.

As Rickon had told him, he showed up at the gym the day after and spent his day training and talking with the customers while Sandor attended his business and filled in paperwork for the new fitness centre that was supposed to open soon.

At lunch, he took Rickon to the food truck where he used to buy sandwiches and they walked back to the boxing gym with two paper bags smelling of chicken and warm bread. They sat on the bench outside of the gym to enjoy the sun. Feeling ravenous, Sandor stuffed his food down without paying much attention to his young companion, until he realized Rickon's silence was unusual.

Reluctantly putting aside his toasted chicken and mushroom sandwich, he asked the boy: "What's wrong? I thought you were hungry…"

Rickon cocked his head to the side and gave him a long look. There was something almost intimidating being under the boy's scrutiny. Rickon's eyes were as blue as Sansa's and even more piercing, it seemed.

The boy shrugged as if to minimize the impact of what he was about to say and he asked Sandor: "So… what's your next move? Are you going to propose or something?"

Propose? The next seconds stretched while Sandor racked his brains for the right answer. Propose? To Sansa? The question struck him like a blow on the head.

To anon (guest): Thank you! Rest assured I do my best to update as often as I can.