Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones nor its characters. They belong to GRRM, HBO, and whoever else has the rights.
Warning: Forced stripping and mentions of abuse.
Part Two
When she curls into a ball that night and presses her mouth to the pillow to muffle her cries, Sansa reminds herself that every movie needs a little tension, a little heartache. All the best movies do.
Sandor gambles and drinks and engages in plenty of expensive and unsavory, personal endeavors when he's off duty - but in his line of work it's always good to set aside 'for a rainy day.' He's set aside enough money in case the time came where he needed to disappear (he just didn't think he'd disappear with pretty girl in tow).
They switch from his motorcycle to his SUV when he stops to grab the cash he has hidden away at the place he hasn't slept in enough to even jokingly call it home.
The little bird is quiet and nervous. Her eyes flittering about as if regret and fear is creeping in, making her question her compliance with this plan. Little doubts fluttering in her head like the flapping of wings; she'll be all alone with him wherever they go.
It makes no sense that he feels insulted she might even briefly think that is worse than staying there as Joffrey's plaything. He's not the nicest guy (not even among Lannister goons).
But she keeps her second guessing to herself and like a good girl gets into the backseat of the SUV. She still has his jacket wrapped around her little frame, draped in it as if it's a cloak. She looks so small when she curls into a ball in the back, and his gaze flickers to the rearview mirror far too often.
He doesn't say a word. He hasn't spoken since telling her to pack. What the fuck is there to say? He tells himself he's making a mistake; they'll have an impossible time disappearing from the Lannisters.
They could cut and dye her hair. He could make her buy clothes that Sansa Stark would not be caught dead in. They'd still know her if they spotted her.
And his face and height make him stick out like a sore thumb. Bugger all, he's a fool - but he checks on the sleeping girl in the rearview mirror and keeps on driving.
At most they have five hours before their absence is discovered. Possibly less, but four to five hours is the more likely. When he's the one put in charge of the girl, the Lannisters never worry to check in (up until now he's always been a loyal dog).
So Sandor drives. He drives for five hours, six, seven. He stops only when he has to; when his legs need a stretch and he has to take a piss and the tank needs to be filled and the little bird is chirping about her bladder between naps. He gives her money to buy gas and some food to get by for a few more hours and keeps his head bowed enough that his too long hair curtains the burnt side of his face.
The little bird peeps up when they hit the road again; not so exhausted and not so ashamed. She sits in the front seat now, legs pulled up and crushed to her chest.
His jacket is still hanging from her shoulders.
She eats daintily - like a little lady - and asks him where they're going.
"Where we won't be spotted," he snaps.
There's the hint of a flinch, and then a timid voice asks, "Where is that?"
"Just keep your mouth shut, and you'll see when we get there."
She looks down and puts away the other half of her sandwich. She hugs her legs and stares outside the window, and Sandor sees the way her shoulder shake under his jacket. But she's quiet, and that's all that he cares about right now.
He's tired of hearing her cry (and the way it makes him feel useless). He's tired of her stupid questions (because he doesn't have answers for her yet). He's fucking tired (and there are not enough miles between them and the Lannisters).
They make it another two hours before he knows driving any farther will put them in as much danger as stopping for the night will. He pulls off at an exit where there's only one grungy motel waiting and one boarded up gas station that any sane driver would avoid.
Sansa looks less than pleased about their accommodations but keeps her mouth shut.
He gets one room and lies that he's alone. He's grateful when they go in and see two beds; his dick isn't. But he sees the flicker of relief in her eyes when she spots the two beds, and he tells himself it's better this way.
This is about getting her away and keeping her safe (but why did he have to be on the list of scum to protect her from?).
"May I get a shower?" she asks him pitifully.
His gut clenches, and he's uncomfortably hard again - and he hates that she thinks she has to ask him such a request in such a voice. It isn't all that shocking after everything she's been through; in the past six months, in the past twelve hours.
"Don't use up all the hot water," he growls and busies himself with checking over the few belongings he brought with them. He can't look at her; can't see her gratitude or watch her gather her clothes or let his eyes follow her into the bathroom where she'll strip completely for her shower. He can see her, pretty little thing with her ugly bruises, wet all over, and he feels like a wretch.
"Thank you," she whispers (she thanks him in a small voice that transforms the words into a prayer) before she digs through her bag and slips into the bathroom.
Sandor checks all the locks. Rigs the window to allow for something of a head's up. Hides a gun and a k-bar under one of the pillows on the bed closest to the door. Puts all their bags in the space between beds. Checks his weapons and his cash. Checks them again.
Anything to keep his mind off the hard-on he's been battling for hours. The reason he's still awake and restless while his eyes burn and fatigue wears away at him.
The shower's on. The little bird's naked in the bathroom of their cheap motel room, and he can still see her in front of them all.
He doesn't like taking girls who are crying and trembling. He hates the smell of fear and the taste of tears when he's fucking (he's not his brother, he's not). But that doesn't stop him from feeling uncomfortable in his jeans at the memory of her stripping there for Joff and all the men present to see.
It would be so easy. There's something besides fear in her eyes when she glances at him now, ever since he instructed her to get ready. It wouldn't have to be horrible for her; he's paid for it enough times to know a few tricks that even prostitutes genuinely enjoy.
But he's wound up tight and aching for it. If he gets his hands on her, he'll break her. Break her all the same as Joffrey and the others; maybe worse, because she doesn't have any more illusions about what kind of people they are.
When she tells him thank you now, he knows she thinks he's different. Thinks he's better.
And he fucking wants to be, like some pathetic lovesick fool - but he has no delusions. He wants her; he wants to keep her safe and keep her for himself, and there's no trace of purity in his intentions. But he's not his brother.
The water finally turns off. Several agonizing minutes later she emerges, her hair wet and skin glowing. She's in a t-shirt and loose pants, practical and innocent and unflattering, but his dick twitches all the same.
"I didn't take too long, did I?" she asks. Her mouth forms a shy smile she's never given him before.
"Not quite," he mutters with enough irritation to make the smile fall. He can't have her smiling like that at him when he feels this way. "Don't turn on the tv, leave the lamps off, and don't touch any of my things." He gives her a small knife, ignores the wide-eyed fear she stares at it with. "You hear something, you come in the bathroom and tell me."
That wide-eyed fear moves to his face, a tiny gasp escaping her. But she swallows and shakily nods. "I-I understand," she manages to get out.
He grunts and grabs one of his handguns and storms into the bathroom. He doesn't mean to slam the door shut, but he does. Almost locks it, but then he remembers what he told her and what they're running from and leaves it be.
The hot water feels good when he steps in. Cold water might be more appropriate, except that's never worked for him. Sandor doesn't bother to wash yet, his hand moves straight to his dick and starts to stroke. He's so hard it almost fucking hurts, and he groans. Doesn't care if the little bird hears, doesn't care if she comes to check on him and catches an eyeful of him jerking off in the shower.
It'd be so easy to take her. He feels like a wretched fool, fingers tight around his dick and the other hand braced against the wall, wanting the slip of a girl in the other room. He feels like a pathetic dog that he's so careful with her - feels like a sick fuck because part of him wonders if this is how Gregor feels.
That it's just so easy.
He's not his brother. He's not. He tells himself that when he thinks of her breasts exposed for just a moment before her arms crossed over them instinctively. Swears by it as he comes so violently he sags in the cramped, little shower and presses his forehead against the wall as he pants and grunts through gritted teeth.
It's only after the fog lifts and he's starting to clean himself off that he realizes he was probably loud enough to be heard. Too fucking bad; he can't seem to care.
Better she hears an old dog finding a little relief with his own hand than having to lay under an old dog finding relief in her.
No matter how fucking easy it might be.
When he steps out of the bathroom, the little bird is laying on her side, facing the other bed (his bed). He ignores her eyes on him as he pulls his shirt on and lays on the other bed. He doesn't get under the covers, and his sleepwear is simply what he'll be wearing when they get back on the road.
"Sandor?"
His eyes, already shut, clench shut tighter.
"Thank you."
"Shut up and let me get some fucking sleep, girl," he snarls and rolls onto his side, facing the window (because his eyes are open, and he doesn't want to see her face fall in the dark).
Sansa shifts on her bed but otherwise doesn't make a peep. Even when she begins to cry again, she's hushed and quiet - and eventually, it lulls him into a fitful, guilt-ridden sleep.
Sansa Stark thinks of all the little things that movies leave out; like when princesses bleed for a few days and when heroes have to go to the bathroom and the long nights of fitful sleep where nothing important really happens. Because otherwise the movies would drag.