Sansa had a flyer in her hand. She handed it to him as she stirred the turkey bean soup. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of rosemary and thyme.
Jon's stomach dropped. Fireworks on the lakefront, a week from now.
"We could make a night out of it, I thought. Maybe even go away for the weekend afterwards." She tasted the soup and held it out for him to try.
"Fireworks are my favorite, I love sparkly things, if that wasn't already obvious from the shower curtain."
Jon had to smile, even through the dread tightening in his stomach. Sansa's white curtain threaded through with iridescent sequins was quite a – what had Margaery called it the last time she'd been over for dinner? Statement piece.
Sansa put the spoon back.
"Jon, you're pale. What's wrong?"
He hated that he had to tell her. "I don't think I can, Sansa I – I have trouble, with fireworks."
Sansa's eyes softened. "That first night we spent together, during the blackout. It was hard for you, when the power came back on, and the music started blasting."
Jon nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"Hey, Bruno Mars isn't for everyone." She threw her arms around his neck. He'd seen her face fall, though, before she hugged him.
They'd been dating for about two months now, and Jon knew Sansa wanted to take a trip with him. She'd mentioned it more than once.
July 4th, though, wasn't going to happen.
"I'm sorry, Sansa. I wish I could share it with you."
Sansa shrugged. "It's all right. Margaery will come, she's looking for an excuse to take Oberyn somewhere for a weekend anyway."
Jon caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. She flushed.
"Jon, I have to finish cooking." She was still holding on to him. He cupped her cheek and kissed her, waiting the whole time for it to happen again. The tension that went though her body. She'd flinched, once, when he'd slid his hand under her shirt, and he'd stopped, right away.
Sure enough, she pulled back. "Wait, the soup!"
She was smiling, but there were tiny lines at the corner of her eyes.
He brushed her hair from her forehead. She hadn't wanted to talk about it, the night she'd drawn away from him. She'd waved it off as "just nerves." But when he'd kissed her forehead and told her it was fine, they could wait, he'd seen relief along with disappointment in her eyes.
Tonight he kissed her cheek. "Do you need help? With the soup?"
She smiled. "Sure. Ready to do some chopping?"
They lined up next to each other. Sansa teased him about his cooking skills, but when he'd told her he really wanted to learn, she'd taken him seriously. By the time the soup was done, Sansa was yawning. Jon told he'd clean up. She smiled at him before she went to take a bath.
Jon was packing the soup into Tupperware for her to take to the clinic for lunch. Sansa came out in her pink fluffy robe. She looked flushed and relaxed. Jon tried not to concentrate on the fact that she was naked underneath that tie.
"It's awesome, you know."
"What is?"
"Having my own kitchen boy."
"I aim to please."
Sansa kissed him on the cheek before he left. Jon felt warmth spread though his whole body. He wanted to turn his head and catch her in a real kiss. But until she invited him, he wasn't going to push her. She meant too much to him for that.
He'd gotten Sansa to understand he had to be alone on July 4th. It wasn't only the big day that caused Jon trouble, though. The pounding headaches he got were clustered closer together as the holiday got nearer.
The large fireworks displays were usually fine. They were scheduled, and he expected the noise. He could handle that, alone. Though he couldn't have taken Sansa, and shown her a good time.
But people in Milwaukee seemed determined to start partying at the end of June. Soon Jon couldn't predict when he'd have to fight to keep from startling, as another backyard barbecue warmed up.
Tonight had been too much, with celebrations popping, crackling and booming throughout the neighborhood. His nerves were shot by 9 pm.
He went back to his apartment as quickly as he could after classes and bolted the door shut. He drew the blinds closed. The sick fear in his gut told him it was only a matter of time.
Sansa texted him. He couldn't answer. All his senses were on hyper alert, and he wasn't fit company for anyone, least of all her.
He'd hoped these days were gone.
But ghosts came to haunt you when they chose. They came on holidays and celebrations, when spirits were high and the world was bright. They had their own agendas and vendettas, and didn't leave until they got what they came for, ripping at you the whole time.
His ghosts were here now.
He saw text after text from her. Finally he turned his phone off. He felt awful as he tossed it across the room. He was the one who'd opened up, and asked for more. Now – now he wasn't sure he could do it.
He had to shut her out. He had to. Because a sniveling, craven boy was not what she needed. Someone who cried as his friend bled out onto the sand was not what she needed.
I'm damaged. Torn up. Broken inside like a clock that won't tick.
The crash of fireworks was coming from all sides. He got onto his mattress and pressed his back to the wall. That helped, and his heart rate started to slow. Until the largest set of fireworks yet started and he covered his head instinctively.
Another explosion went off and it was an IED he heard. All the miles and months between him and Afghanistan evaporated in an instant and he was back, it was happening, it had never stopped happened, he's howling at Satin to get down, get down for god's sake you're too far out!
He could taste the gunpowder in the air and feel the shock of the landmines exploding at random and hear the screams of wounded men, and Satin would be next.
Satin's out ahead because he's quick and quiet and a good scout but he's too ambitious, too confident, and he only throws a smile over his shoulder when Jon yells and Jon's heart sinks.
Satin takes another step forward and the boom of the landmine shatters the air. Jon knows, deep in the pit of his stomach, after his lungs stop burning from racing to Satin's side, that Satin is already gone.
His leg's blown off at the knee and the foam on his mouth is flecked with blood. Satin wheezes as he struggles to breathe, and part of his chest is caved in.
"Easy Satin easy, you're all right, just take it slow."
Satin shakes his head and coughs. Blood spatters on his uniform. Satin, who cheats at cards and loves licorice and never once shies away from ranging ahead, never.
"I'm done, and we both know it, Snow. We both know it."
Jon cradles the back of his head. "You're not going anywhere you're"
– BOOM
He ducks as the sand pelts his back. He has to turn around, assess the damage, keep him men moving. But he can't look, can't find out, because Satin's there in front of him, and Satin is dying.
"You're coming home with us, Satin, you are," and now Jon's pleading with Satin, to stay with him. He takes Satin's hand.
Satin gives him a weary half-smile. "It's all right Jon, it's over for me. Keep going. Keep going." He squeezes Jon's hand, once, before his eyes slid shut, and then he's a heavy weight in Jon's arms, nothing more.
Jon was rocking back and forth, feeling each new blast in his bones.
There was no rhyme or reason to it, why some men would make it through till morning and others would drop to the ground bleeding and broken. Crying out for their mothers. That was something they didn't tell you in basic training. How men would often turn into boys, and beg for comfort in their last moments.
Satin hadn't, though. Jon had begged him for comfort, and Satin had given it to him. It was one of his deepest moments of shame, that he'd cried while Satin died, that Satin had tried to ease Jon's pain as the sand was stained with red.
Now Satin was gone, and Jon was left, and he didn't know why he'd been spared.
What would you think, Satin if you could see me now? Hiding in my room like a coward?
He only heard the insistent pounding on the door when there was a lull in the fireworks.
"Jon. Let me in." It was Sansa, sounding more serious than she ever had.
He was glued to the mattress with his head down. She was going to keep knocking, and he was going to keep sitting where he was, because the distance between him and the door was covered with sand and blood and gore, and he didn't have the strength to cross it.
Coward.
"Jon, please."
It was the sob in her voice that made him stand up. He was shaky on his feet, disoriented. He almost sat down and curled up again when he heard another blast. Satin was back, but it wasn't Satin's face he saw. He heard Satin's last words.
Keep going.
He'd made it, and Satin hadn't, and it wouldn't mean a damn thing if he couldn't live the life he'd been given when he was spared.
So he took one step, and then another. The ten feet between him and the door felt like ten miles. He held on to the doorknob for a long time. He pressed his forehead to the cool surface of the door. He could still hear Sansa pleading with him on the other side.
Do it, Snow.
Whether that was his voice or Satin's, he'd never know, but he turned the knob all the same.
As he looked into her blue eyes he felt the shell around him crack. He was out again, raw and exposed but out, out of the nightmare that never stopped. She was the one who saved him, the one who tethered him to the world and he loved her for it, even when he was screaming inside for her to stop.
He could tell she'd been crying and that tore at his heart, just like the ghosts had. But she was real, and alive. With her next to him it was a little easier for him to breathe.
"It's the fireworks, isn't it? The ones that go off at random?"
He still wanted to deny it. But he was too tired and she was too close. He needed her, needed her care and her comfort.
"Yes."
She stepped in and held him.
"I'll take you away, Jon, somewhere that's sound-proofed, somewhere–"
"Hush, Sansa, you can't, it's all right."
She looked up at him. Her cheeks were splotched with red. "But I have to! I have to be able to help you or what good am I to you?"
"You can't fix this. But you've already helped me, Sansa. So much. So many ways, beautiful girl. These are days I have to go through by myself."
She didn't like it. She didn't like it at all. But she left him, finally, after holding him tight. He was sad to see her go. He was also a tiny bit relieved. She'd be off, soon, for the long weekend, and he wouldn't have another chance to disappoint her.
She knocked on his door again the next morning.
"We're going to Hayes State Park in Michigan for the weekend. I looked it up online, they're far away from big fireworks displays, and they only allow sparklers." Her chin was high and set.
He sighed heavily. "Sansa–"
"I know, Jon, I know, I can't fix you with a camping trip, or a state park, or a pair of headphones. I know that, don't you understand? But I'm asking if I can help you, even just a little bit. I'm asking you to try to let me in."
Come with me, she was saying. Be brave enough to try.
He paused. "Sansa, I might still get–"
She shook her head. "I don't need you to be perfect, Jon. But if we're going to be together, you have to let me see the parts of you that you want to hide away. You have to meet me halfway."
Her hands were trembling. He realized, slowly, much more slowly than he should have, that he was at risk of losing her if he said no.
He swallowed.
Keep going.
"All right, Sansa. You – you deserve someone better than this."
Sansa took his hand. "You're the someone I want, Jon. Take this vacation with me. You won't have to write letters this time, because I'll be there."
He'd told her that he wanted to share stories with her. That he wanted the two of them to go on adventures.
He gathered up his courage. He took a deep, slow breath.
"Well, I do have a lot of camping stuff. Should we figure out what to pack?"
She squeezed his hand, and smiled. "I figured the guy who kept a blackout toolkit would be a good bet for camping gear."
The sun would be high this weekend, and the world would be bright.
He could stay by her side, ghosts or no ghosts.
He gave her the best smile he could manage.
"You bet right."