A/N: *SHOWS UP LATE WITH STARBUCKS*
Sorry. Updates will be on time from now on, I promise!
When Arya wakes up, at first, the only thing she can feel is pain.
Her elbow sends jolts up her arm every time she moves it, and the cuts are a dull ache on her skin. Her back is cramped from sleeping on the couch, and a headache is beginning to throb behind her brow. She feels very much like she's gone twenty rounds with Syrio.
She stretches again, trying not to disturb her elbow. She's gotten into all sorts of scrapes before, so she's no stranger to sprains and fractures, but nothing like this. The last time she fell off her bike, she was lucky enough to land in the middle of a grass verge, and suffered nothing more than a bruised knee. This time...
She speeds down the street, weaving between cars as they roar behind her. She's in too deep, they're pissed, she didn't think it would be this...
All she did was visit a bar the 'Brave Companions' were supposed to frequent; the Black Goat, it was called. It sure stank like goats. She supposes they didn't take kindly to some kid landing in on them and insulting them. Before she knew it, they were chasing her out, guns blazing.
She swerves down a side street, glimpsing an empty garage. She hears the bikes roar past her; they missed her, thank the gods. But she's going too fast, she can't slow down-
She bore the brunt of the damage in that collision; Jon's old bike escaped unscathed. She wheeled it into the abandoned garage, and staggered off to find somewhere to lick her wounds. It was then that she glimpsed an open window, easily accessible by a fire-escape's stairs.
She thumps inside; luckily, the room is empty. The window is slightly fogged up. The occupant must have showered recently. She tries to move, but she can't, her elbow is screaming...
And that was when her mechanic entered, half-naked, with the such a hilarious look of surprise in his bright blue eyes that she almost burst out laughing.
He fixed her up, though; she can't complain about that. She would have had no idea how to do it herself. He was surprisingly gentle, despite those big paws of his, and he probably didn't realise it, but he blushed when he was cutting her jeans away; she would have punched him, but she was too weak to do much except stare at him and the creases on his forehead as he concentrated on cleaning her wounds.
She wonders what Sansa would think; invading a stranger's flat covered in blood, giving out to him for not giving her a glass of water and crashing on his couch. Sansa would probably disregard all that and worry about Arya's honour, whatever little shred of it was left. In any case, she doesn't think Gendry has that in him. Granted, she's known him for about three days, in but in those days he fixed her bike and bandaged her wounds, so she thinks her opinion is justifiable.
Said man picks then to enter, bedroom door banging against the wall. Something flickers over his face when he sees her, but it doesn't stay long enough for her to pin down exactly what it is.
"You look like shit," she comments, pulling herself into a sitting position.
He grumbles at her indistinctly, but doesn't refute her, because she's right. He must be some sort of insomniac; this is the second time she's seen him so wrecked.
"What's the plan?" His words are interrupted by an expansive yawn.
"You need to go back to bed." He smiles tightly at that. "Me, I need to get out of here."
"Dressed like that?" When met with her questioning gaze, he nods towards her torn clothing.
"Ah." She'd be picked up by a cop and given a sexual assault form to fill out if anyone saw her like that. "So first I need clothes." Her stomach rumbles. "And food."
"Unless you've forgotten, I'm three times your size."
"Buy them." She extricates a few bills from her pocket, not bothering to count; she knows she has enough. His eyes go wide when he snatches the bills from her outstretched fingers. "And some food. I'm a size small, by the way."
"Am I your servant?" He looks at her incredulously.
"Chop chop." She lies back down, curling up; he sighs, and a few seconds later, leaves. She pops up then, swearing when her elbow jolts in pain. She sniffs herself, and makes a face; she needs to shower. Gendry won't mind her using his bathroom, not after she got blood all over it yesterday.
The bathroom is absolutely tiny. The mirror is cracked, the tub doesn't look to be half long enough for a man of Gendry's stature, and the water pressure is weak. She doesn't care; she peels her bandages off, hops in, and makes a half-hearted attempt at being polite and tries not to use too much hot water.
Afterwards, she is loath to wear her old, ruined clothes, and if she swanned around in her underwear poor Gendry would have a heart attack, so instead she raids his wardrobe. Actually, calling it a wardrobe would be generous; it's just a shelf with a door that refuses to stay shut. She thinks of Sansa's massive walk-in wardrobe and feels a strange stab of guilt. He doesn't have a lot of clothing, but she finds a worn t-shirt and a pair of shorts that, though probably small on him, are laughably large on her.
Entering the kitchen, she inspects her wounds to find that they have mostly scabbed over. She can do without the bandages for now, but she needs to ice her arm again. While she's rooting around in the freezer for the ice-pack, Gendry returns, laden down with groceries.
"Glad to see you've been helping yourself," he comments, dumping plastic bags on the floor.
"Your clothes are better than no clothes." Suddenly he is beside her, yanking her out of the freezer by the scruff of her shirt as he locates the icepack immediately. He fastens it around her arm, and she lets out a pleased gasp as the pain begins to recede into numbness.
"Go and put these on instead. I like that t-shirt." He throws a bag at her, and she rummages around in it to find a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt and a thick grey zip-up hoodie. Its long sleeves will help disguise her injuries; she feels a small burst of gratitude towards him. He may look rather constipated every time he thinks, but he must have some sort of a brain rattling around in there.
"I think it looks better on me," she replies. "I'm keeping it."
He grumbles, and looks over at her to give her a piece of his mind, but she can hear him stumble over his words as she strips said t-shirt off. She wishes she could see his face.
"Arya!"
"What?" She sticks her head up as she pulls the t-shirt over it.
"Go get dressed in the bedroom, please." He's looking resolutely away from her, but even from here she can see that his ears are bright red.
She huffs. "Fine. Spoilsport. Surely you've had naked people in here before?"
"Besides the point. Bedroom. Now."
"Bedroom. Now," she parrots, imitating his low voice.
He splutters. "Get out or I won't feed you."
She admits defeat and stomps off, trying not to laugh. She used to pull that trick in the locker room, sometimes, after boxing; one time, poor Cley Cerwyn almost fainted. Sansa used to give out to her after, but what did it matter? Arya really didn't have much to show, to be honest.
When she returns, fully clothed, Gendry has calmed down, but he still won't meet her eyes.
"What's on the menu?" she asks, settling herself in a chair.
"Eggs, bacon, coffee," he mumbles, as he cracks eggs into a pan.
He stomach grumbles again. "I think I'll keep you," she tells him. "The last time I tried to cook bacon I ended up with charcoal." He laughs at that, and she makes a face at him; he only laughs harder. Giving up, she lays her head on the table; the cool of the Formica helps relieve her headache. Distracted, she watches Gendry cook as her mind wanders.
She knows now that she needs a plan. Going in with her guns blazing won't work; she needs to infiltrate the cartel and take it down from the inside, preferably from the top; the longer you fall, the harder you land. But how? Perhaps she's not recognisable to someone like Gendry, but these men will know her grey eyes immediately. All the big families know each other, and the leader of the Bloody Mummers – Hoat, he was called – wore a ring that was rather distinctly shaped like a lion mid-roar. In this country, lions can only mean one thing.
If she's to avoid detection, she'll need a disguise, and she'll need help. Sansa will aid her, but not directly, especially if that family is involved. She will need someone reliable; perhaps not someone to rush in by her side, but someone to provide remote back-up. Maybe someone technologically proficient; gods know how much dirt she could dig up with a good hacker behind her. Arya's decent with computers, but not that good; Bran was always the brains of their family, and she won't get him involved if she can help it.
As for the disguise... an idea is simmering in her mind. It's crazy, but it just might work.
From now on, the dealers will be on the lookout for long-haired, tomboyish, but undeniably female Arya Stark. What they won't expect is an actual boy.
Her thoughts are interrupted by Gendry plonking a loaded plate down in front of her, followed by a large mug. The bacon is dripping with grease, she's pretty sure there are more than three eggs on her plate, and the coffee smells strong enough to knock a small child out; in other words, Sansa's worst nightmare.
Arya digs in with gusto. By the time she's drained the last drop of coffee from her mug, Gendry is staring at her in awe, having only barely finished his.
"Where the fuck did you put all that?" he asks bemusedly. His forehead has crinkled up again.
"I'm a growing girl," she tells him, stretching; she always does after a meal.
He shakes his head, muttering, and sets about drinking his coffee as she rises to wash her plate and mug. She may be rich, but, being culinarily challenged, she's usually assigned to washing-up duty at home. As such, she's rather good at it; she never met a pan she didn't scrub within an inch of its life.
Once the kitchenette is sparkling clean, she turns to face Gendry, who is shrugging a jacket on.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"Work," he replies, without looking at her. "But first, we're gonna go get your bike. Do you have everything?" He nods at her elbow, and she remembers to remove the ice pack and put it back in the freezer. She grabs her torn clothes, lamenting the loss of her jacket, but she'll be fine without it; she was born and raised amid the snows of Winterfell. He raises an eyebrow at her.
"Don't even think about offering me your jacket," she threatens, and he lifts his hands in a pacifying gesture.
She sets off down the stairs before him, feet thudding in discordant unison against the concrete steps. She notices lewd graffiti scrawled on the walls, and rust stains leaking from the railings. When she almost trips over one half-crumbled step, Gendry grabs her uninjured elbow to save her from splitting her skull open. She brushes him off.
Outside, the weak winter light does little to help her headache. Where did she leave her bike? She sets off to the left, in the opposite direction from the bus stop located a few hundred yards down the street, and halts when she notices that Gendry is following her.
"What are you doing?" she demands.
"Going to buy a carton of milk. What do you think?" There's a combative look on his face, drawing his brows together; it reminds her of Robb and how he used to stare down Sansa's potential suitors.
"I don't need someone to protect me," she hisses, setting off at a brisk pace; to her annoyance, he catches up to her in a few long strides. She curses her short legs.
"Of course not. You're well able to protect yourself, I saw that when you broke into my flat and almost collapsed."
She seethes, unwilling to admit that he's right. "Whatever. Follow me, see if I care."
She reaches the garage mercifully quickly. She pushes the door open with little difficulty, and grabs her motorcycle. When Gendry sees it, he lets out a sigh of relief.
"I'm so glad you didn't total her." He gives her a smile that she doesn't return and hands her her helmet.
She accepts it. "Where did you find that?"
He nods in the general direction of the ground as she jams the helmet on and gets up on her bike; to his amusement, she has to hop and scrabble a bit in order to clamber on.
"We're not all giants," she grumbles, settling into the seat and fumbling around for her gloves, stowed away in some compartment somewhere; she didn't have the time to put them on yesterday.
"No, you're just short." He walks along side her as she shifts into first gear, bike rumbling.
She rolls her eyes. "Go away."
He begins to jog as she speeds up. "See you around."
She snorts and speeds off, hoping she left him in a cloud of dust. She looks back as she cuts into traffic, sees him standing in the mouth of the alleyway with his hands jammed into his pockets. She's sure he's grinning, blue eyes brighter than the sky above, even if she can't see him.
See you around. For his sake, she hopes she doesn't.