A/N:

Gully washer- a powerful rainstorm

Supper-In our house, the afternoon meal wasn't called lunch, it was called dinner, and it was the largest meal of the day. The lighter evening meal, usually leftovers from dinner, was referred to as supper.

The manners displayed between Sansa and Brienne are not considered formal in a Southern household, these are just the basic manners used for any visitor to the home and to use such is to welcome the person.

The phrase: "You all come back now, you here?" is an open invitation for the caller to return anytime.

My grandfather invited every caller inside the house, as he considered it shameful to keep a visitor on the porch, or as he stated, "You're just announcing to the neighborhood that you're rude and ill-mannered when you keep folks outside." Of course, this was in a time when people didn't have to be quite as cautious as they are now about letting strangers into their homes.

And just a note about the treatment I chose for Sansa to try on Sandor: my friend uses this in wound care for third and fourth degree burns but in a very different application than Sansa is using here. Please do not consider the mention of the medication in this chapter as an endorsement for use in treating burns at home.

Sansa kicked off her platform shoes, unhooked her hose from her garters and stuffed them in her bag before she set to work. Vigorously she then scrubbed and polished every surface in the den, living room and sun porch before she gave the hardwood floors a thorough sweeping, working out all her frustration in the process. It did not take her very long, for she was used to cleaning quickly at the coffee shop and the house wasn't really very big.

During that time Sansa thought of Sandor and what exactly it was about the man that made her so willing and eager to put down her defenses for him. Embarrassment and heady desire filled her as she thought of his kisses and the feel of his chest against her palms. Despite his kisses and the feel of his body against her own, Sansa for the life of her could not imagine why she allowed herself to get so utterly carried away with him.

Her sister Arya had always teased her about being a goody-goody, but Sansa did not care. She wanted to save certain intimacies for her wedding night, or so she believed until today. She had never been kissed like that before. In the past Sansa never had any trouble controlling herself with Joffrey; in fact it was quite the opposite: she had difficulty controlling him. Looking back, Sansa should have refused to even see him again after the very first time he didn't want to take no for an answer.

And yet Sandor listened to her, both her words and how her body responded to him. He managed to easily navigate her wants and needs, even without her expressly telling him. Unlike Joffrey, Sandor had immediately stopped when she asked him to. Granted, Sandor hadn't really done anything other than kiss her, but even that made her feel very wicked and longing for more of him.

Even though his face was horribly scarred, Sansa still found Sandor extremely attractive. There was no denying his body was a work of art, but it wasn't merely his physique that stoked her interest in the man. His deep gray eyes held an honesty she had seldom seen since leaving Winterfell, and also held a melancholy which touched her deeply. Seeing thus within him, watching him allow her to see into his soul and let down his own defenses made her long to learn the source of his sadness, and if possible, to comfort him.

Sansa didn't pity him, however, for Sandor possessed a strength and ferocity that was both unique and formidable, and it made the young woman long to take some of it for herself. In truth, she found Sandor an intriguing blend of many qualities she never expected to find in any man, let alone one she met in a coffee house.

Sansa certainly had her own share of misery in her young life; unfortunately there had been no one to comfort her. She did not want the same for Sandor; in fact, she patently could not bear the idea.

The day her father escorted her from Winterfell for Washington D.C. to join his childhood friend Robert Baratheon, Sansa thought her life was about to begin but in fact, she came very close to losing it among the den of lions that made up Joffrey's family. In no time Sansa was trapped there, engaged to Joffrey, a virtual prisoner in their home. Unfortunately, death was a fate that her mother, father and brother could not escape.

No, Sandor deserved better. He served his country, he was honest, and despite his gruff ways, he seemed to respect her. Absently Sansa wiped away the tears she did not realize were falling from her eyes before her hand wandered to the scar that marred her right temple. Though she carefully tried to cover it with her hair, the scar Joffrey had left was the first thing she noticed in her reflection. What if Sandor notices it? How would she explain it to him?

Sansa decided she would just tell him the truth, even though she also dreaded his reaction, given the way he treated the businessman in the coffee shop. A sudden chill came over her. Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Sansa then set to cleaning the kitchen counters with generous amounts of Comet. When her eyes wandered toward the clock, she was surprised to find he had been in the bathroom for forty five minutes.

I wonder what is keeping Sandor. I hope nothing is amiss. The water is still running, he must be enjoying the first hot shower he's had in a long time. So as not to interrupt his hot water supply by running the kitchen faucet, as often happened in her old house, Sansa decided she would forgo the kitchen in favor of the bedrooms.

The first two were small and devoid of furniture, which made cleaning them easy work. The largest of the three had knotty pine walls, a heavy down comforter, a dresser and a nightstand. Sandor's room, she sighed as his familiar scent filled her senses and sent a fresh wave of lust through her body.

Such a lovely home, she sighed to herself as she allowed herself to sink back onto the California king-sized mattress. Curiously she began entertaining the small changes she would make to it, if by some chance she ever was allowed to live here. Maybe he would rent it to me if ever he's deployed. When the time came, she would be sure to ask him, for Sansa hated the small, noisy apartment she had downtown, and even more so now that she had been inside Sandor's cozy, quiet home.

Was it the home she found cozy, or was it Sandor? Yes, for some reason, it was him that made her feel safe, comforted, and happy. Sansa blushed at the thought. But how could such be? She barely knew him, and though Sansa loved fairy tales and romance novels, in the real world she knew love took time to develop. Was it love she was beginning to feel for him? Her heart began hammering in her chest at the very idea. Or was it just a healthy dose of lust? In truth, it was more than a little bit of both.

She wanted to finish before he came out, and she definitely did not want him to find her wallowing around on his bed, and so Sansa generously sprayed the rag with lemon furniture polish and hurriedly dusted it thoroughly. Then, she moved on to running the dry dust mop over the floor, fluffed the pillows and remade the bed before moving on to the nightstand.

There sat a picture of a young boy about 10 years of age, the same age as her brother Rickon, and a young woman. For a moment Sansa held her breath-is it possible Sandor has a son? Of course it was possible, but was it so? And who is the woman? She was very pretty, and a wave a jealousy went through Sansa as she studied her. On closer inspection though, she saw it was a childhood picture of Sandor, for the child staring at the camera had the same scarring on one side of his face, and the beautiful young woman with jet black hair and gray eyes. She had her arms wrapped around him and they were laughing. Was she his mother? His sister, or an aunt, perhaps? Relieved, Sansa carefully picked it up, smiling back at the pair in the photograph until a knock on the front door startled her out of her reverie.

Wiping her hands on a towel, Sansa peeked around the corner and saw an unusually tall platinum blonde woman with a fashionably short hair cut at the door. "Good afternoon," Sansa called out with a smile as she unlatched the screen and stepped onto the porch.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, ma'am. I came to see Sandor Clegane," the woman stammered. "Is he here?"

"Yes, he's in taking a shower. Won't you come in and sit a spell until he's finished?" Sansa offered, proud that she remembered the local courtesies. When the woman entered the house, Sansa could see she was almost as tall as Sandor.

"Thank you kindly," the woman answered as she slowly sat down. She was holding a basket of food, and the delicious aroma reminded Sansa that she had not eaten since breakfast.

"It smells wonderful!" Sansa smiled, gesturing toward the basket.

"It's a tradition in this neighborhood to provide a meal for the soldiers on their first night home."

"How very kind! If you would care to wait, I'm sure Sandor would be most happy to receive it."

The woman smiled as she glanced around the room. "You've been busy in here. Forgive me, I am Brienne."

"How do you do, Brienne? I am Sansa."

"I'm very well, thank you. And how do you do?"

"I'm also very well, thank you. Would you like something to drink? Sansa offered.

"No, ma'am, I just wanted to stop by with a meal for him. My husband serves in the same unit as Clegane. They've known each other since they were children. We're only a few doors down, in the red house with the elm tree out front."

Sansa smiled broadly. "Well the food smells delicious. Perhaps I can return the favor another time?"

"No, ma'am, please, don't trouble yourself. My Jaime won't be home for three more months." Brienne forced a smile.

Sansa gently rested her hand on her arm. "Well, I hope in the meantime we can become friends. Let's have lunch together one day next week-what say you?"

Brienne smiled now, an infectious, genuine smile that reached clear up to her startling blue eyes. "I would like that very much." Suddenly she rose, and Sansa noticed the water in the shower turned off. "I best be going now. I hope you like my chicken and dumplings."

"I'm sure we will, thank you, Brienne. Let me walk you out." Sansa stepped off the porch and followed alongside Brienne as she walked to the driveway.

"Pardon my forwardness, but are you the, um, Clegane's employee or are you…?" Brienne blushed brightly as she spoke.

The question took Sansa aback. What was she to Sandor, exactly? Hardly more than a stranger as of this morning and yet somehow, by this afternoon everything had changed, and now she could not deny that they meant something to each other despite their short acquaintance. She found herself wholly unprepared to explain.

"Sandor and I, well, we were starting to become friends before he left. He used to come into my work for coffee every day and we'd chat a bit and now…well, we're getting to know each other." Sansa shrugged shyly, her cheeks flushing deeply as she struggled to find the right words.

"I'm glad he has you," Brienne smiled softly. "Sandor has been lonely for some time now, though he'd rather die than admit it. You're the first woman I've ever seen him bring into his house. That's not to say he's never-well, you understand me, but you must be special for him to bring you into his own private sanctum." Brienne then offered her a quick hug before she hurried down the path to her own home before Sansa could answer her.

"You come back now any time, you hear?" She called after Brienne, who turned and waved in reply.

As Sansa made her way back to the house, she replayed Brienne's words, which immediately brought a huge grin spread across her face. Could it be true? Did Sandor invite me here because I mean something to him as well? Is it possible that he feels what I am feeling inside? His behavior made it obvious he had been with other women, but the fact that Sandor brought her to his home was out of the ordinary made her wonder if he somehow viewed her as special.

Sansa hummed happily to herself at the idea, and when she reached the porch, Sandor was standing there, his mouth twitching into a smile as he regarded her. She bit her lower lip and wondered what he was thinking as she returned his smile. "I met your friend Brienne. Did you see the delicious meal she brought us?"

"Aye, I saw it." Sandor swung open the screen door for her just as fat raindrops began descending upon her. He had on a tight black t-shirt and black sweatpants which accentuated every inch of his muscular frame. "You called it for true. Looks to be a gully washer."

Squealing, Sansa hurried inside, laughing as she did so. "You had your shower. I guess nature decided it was time I had mine." Carefully she shook out her hair, trying not to stare at the imposing man before her. Sandor was still staring at her, the intensity of his gaze threatening to steal her breath away.

Tremulously Sansa sighed contentedly as she moved past him to the kitchen. "Would you like me to fix you a plate?"

"Sure you wouldn't rather go out?" Sandor tipped her chin up to him. The rain began to patter loudly against the tin roof.

Recalling his behavior in the noisy coffee house, she said, "No, I think I would prefer to stay in. We could eat, maybe watch a movie. What say you?" Sansa blushed as she rested her hands on his own.

"That suits me fine." He scratched his stubbled chin. "I'm not up for noisy crowds just yet."

He averted his eyes as he spoke, rubbing his hands together nervously as he did so. The act saddened her at once. Slipping her hand into his own, Sansa led him to the small table in the kitchen. "Here, please, sit down. Let me fix your supper."

"I can do it, lass. You've been a busy little bird in here," Sandor raised his eyebrow as he looked about. "Let me serve you for once." Gently he pulled her closer and raised her hand to his lips and kissing her lightly, the intimacy of his movement causing Sansa to tremble at his touch.

When she met his gaze, Sansa noticed open fissures on the scarring around Sandor's mouth, his ear and his temple. It must have opened up in the warm water. "You're bleeding, Sandor. Please, let me help you with that."

Sandor started to protest but Sansa moved away from him, not waiting for a reply. Fumbling in her cross body bag, she brought out a small kit consisting of swabs and then carefully arranged them on the table.

"After we first met, I asked the wound care nurse who was training me if I could take a few of these for you to try. They are silver nitrate swabs. They won't hurt or sting, she said, and they can heal the raw areas and prevent infection."

"You held onto them in your pack this entire time?" Sandor eyes bored into her own, searching for any signs of deception, Sansa knew. Was he so unaccustomed to someone caring for him, for someone even wanting to help him, that he immediately doubted her intentions? The thought made her sadder still. Within his gaze, Sansa watched his steely façade fall slightly, but soon enough, the hardened expression Sandor with which he normally armed his features returned. "Find me that ugly, did you?"

"You mustn't say such things." Sansa felt her eyes fill with tears. Sandor both looked and sounded so angry, so bitter, that it pained her deeply. She wanted to help him but she did not know how. "You are not ugly, and scars cannot change that. I want to help you. You will get very ill if you let these open wounds go untreated. Please, I cannot not bear to see you suffer." Reaching out to him, Sansa gently cupped his cheek. "How do the military doctors treat your fissures?"

Something like shame washed over Sandor's face but he made no move to turn away from her. "They have me slather some greasy ointment over them and keep it covered, even in the heat, the buggering fools."

Surely it wasn't plain Neosporin they give him? It's a miracle it didn't get infected, what with the unsanitary conditions and blowing sand. Keeping her thoughts to herself, Sansa nodded and led him to the table. "Here, I can reach your face easily if I sit on the counter." She propped herself up. "Come closer." When Sandor hesitated, Sansa smiled brightly and beckoned to him once more.

"Come here, Sandor." She reached out to him.

"Disgusted by the scarred dog, are you?" He snarled at her, jerking away. "Must be for you to put on such a show."

"No, no, oh, how could you say such a thing?" Sansa turned his chin toward her, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Do you think so little of me? Surely you must not, or you would not have come to me as soon as you got home." Taking his hands in her own, Sansa whispered, "Do you believe that I would kiss you, hold you, and touch you so freely if I found you repulsive? I find you most attractive Sandor-did you not feel it? Didn't you see what a fool I made of myself with you earlier?"

Gritting his teeth, Sandor struggled to speak. "You didn't make a fool of yourself, lass; it was…special, something I haven't had before, believe that."

Unwrapping the swab, Sansa brazenly placed her legs on the outside of his thighs and drew him closer still, blushing as she did so. He allowed it, and rested his hands on the tops of her thighs.

"This isn't how I imagined us in this position, lass." Slowly he rubbed small circles over the material of her dress.

Sansa giggled nervously. "I have carried this medicine with me since the day we met. I just didn't know the right way to approach you. Please, it is because I care for you that I wish to help you." She placed her hand on his chest. "I know you see the truth in my eyes. I know you can feel how deeply I care for you."

"Little bird," Sandor rasped, his voice as harsh as steel against stone. Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against hers, sighing deeply as he did so. Slowly his calloused hands brushed under her skirt against the bare skin on her legs, and Sandor began rubbing soothing circles on her thighs as he submitted to her attentions. Sansa allowed him this intimacy, for his hands began to tremble violently as she tended his wounds, and she understood he was touching her as much to comfort himself as to reassure her.

"Are you in pain?" She asked softly.

He shook his head, never opening his eyes, though he began trembling violently. His pain is not physical, it is psychological. Sansa tried to finish as quickly as possible, and when she was done, she drew Sandor close in her arms. For a long while, there was no sound but the rain pouring off the roof as they held each other.

"Forgive me, lass." Sandor's hot breath caress her ear instantly raised goose bumps on her arms and legs, leading Sansa to wonder if he felt the effect he had on her.

"I do forgive you," Sansa replied, pulling slightly away from him so she could look into his eyes. "But you must not question my feelings for you simply because of your wounds and scarring-it isn't fair to me, and it could very well jeopardize what might be between us in the future." She brushed her lips lightly over the scarring at his temple, the ruined area that was his ear, and Sandor's jawline while tenderly cupping the other side of his face. She felt the wetness on his cheeks. Not knowing how else to comfort him, Sansa was moved to sing a hymn her mother taught her to him.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy,

Save our sons from war, we pray

Stay the arrows,

And stay the arrows

Let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, strength of women,

Help our daughters through this fray

Soothe the wrath and tame the fury

Teach us all a kinder way.

As her voice faded, Sandor suddenly drew her closer to him, wrapping his massive arms around her body protectively, even possessively, and that was all the reply Sansa needed from him. He pressed her body against his until they were flush against one another. Gently Sansa ran her fingernails lightly through his short hair.

"Thank you." Sandor whispered in her ear after a while. "I'm not good at this sort of thing…"

"We'll learn together, Sandor." She pulled him closer still.

"I found another letter from the military in my mailbox while you walked Brienne out," Sandor rasped low, burying his face in her hair. "I'm to be deployed back to Kandahar in December."

A sharp pang of fear drove the air from Sansa's lungs. "So soon? For-for how long?"

"Three months, the fucking bastards. I was supposed to be done. My duty was done." Abruptly he pulled away from Sansa and then stalked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.