Our Hero Feebly Answered Yes
“No.”
“There have been literally hundreds of sightings over the past decade-“
“Nope.”
“There are photos-“
“Bronn-“
“No, look. This one, the New York Times-“
“Bronn, I-“
“Batman has been protecting this city for years-“
“Bronn, I read the first Batman comic.”
“What?”
“Bran read Detective Comics. He lent it to me.”
“Well, damn.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, well there’s a school for wizards and witches in England.”
“Shireen already gave me the first book.”
**
“How did you sleep?” Dr. Lewin asked.
“Fine.”
“Any dreams or nightmares?”
Sansa paused, considering: “I wake up screaming most nights.”
Dr. Lewin looked surprised for a moment. Then he schooled his features back into a gentle smile.
“Do you want to talk about the nightmares?” he asked.
He knew that she was lying. So, that meant audio mics in her room. Alright. She could work with that.
**
On her second day, Shireen had given Sansa another bag of supplies- more essentials. Things like jeans, shirts and underwear. Makeup. SHIELD seemed to think that Sansa needed a lot of makeup. Or that maybe she would want it. After seeing all the images of America’s Darling, Sansa couldn’t blame them.
Twisting the bottom of the tube, Sansa pushed the red lipstick up and up; it caught the glint of the light and it was ripe and deep. Sansa pressed it against her lips and the color smeared on. It went on easy, so much smoother than anything she’d ever been able to afford. Once, some fella she’d been seeing had bought her a tube of Montezuma Red from Macy’s as a birthday gift. Sansa had coveted it for years, carried it with her to the war and kept it safe through everything. Rubbing her lips together, Sansa evened out the lipstick. She pressed a napkin to her mouth and drew it away. A perfect impression of her lips; suitable for any letter she ever sent Willas.
She ran the pencil over her eyebrows next in a motion she’d perfected by the time she was 18. Sally down at the Aladdin had taken her aside one night early on and shown her how to flick her wrist just right, how to make the pointed shape. Sansa had thought it made her look mysterious and when she got older, she knew how to bat her eyes just like Barbara Stanwyck and the joes had fallen in line. SHIELD hadn’t given her Vaseline to shape her eyebrows, but Sansa was used to making due without it. She hadn’t even had a pencil for most of the war, had lost it somewhere in Italy.
The mascara went on heavier than she would have liked and coupled with the eyeliner, it made her eyes darker, sadder than she normally would have done. The brand was Maybelline, which was at least familiar- not that she’d ever owned it. Stella had though and Sansa had always wanted to try it out. The rouge was last, like always, because Sansa had never liked it much. She thought it always looked so garish on her freckles, clownish, and she’d only ever used a dash. She’d forgone it completely during the war except for the rare nights when Willas would take her out.
Sansa stepped back from the mirror and let herself look. She’d rolled her hair in ribbons the night before- strips from a shirt- and so it curled gently against her shoulders in loose waves. SHIELD hadn’t thought to give her any pins though, so she couldn’t do her hair up in her usual rolls and it made Sansa feel incomplete somehow. Like she was only half there in the mirror.
Sighing, Sansa dropped her eyes and idly pushed the tube of lipstick across the lips of the sink. It tipped over and clattered into the bowel, rolling up and down the sides before spinning for a moment at the bottom. Picking it up-
Sansa frowned down at her unpainted nails. If she was meant to be dancing tonight then she’d have to paint them. She’d used the last of hers the other night and hadn’t been out to the drugstore yet. And goodness knows Arya wouldn’t have any. It’d be easier painting the claws of the tabby out back than getting Arya to put varnish on her nails. Connie would have some but Sansa wasn’t sure that she was working tonight. Stella would too but, well, it was Stella and her fist was wrapped tighter ‘round her cosmetics than Hoover’s around a dollar. Sansa’s brow furrowed as she considered. She’d have to recount what was in the coffee can before she went over to Hal’s Drugstore. She’d already set aside the $5 for the rent this week, and the money for Ma’s new coat and then there was the money for the fish on Friday- although it’d have to be cod again- and they were almost out of coffee and Sansa refused to live with an Arya who didn’t have coffee and old Mrs. Brubaker had been complaining about rats so she’d need to get a couple of traps because their landlord sure wasn’t going to do anything about it and really, what was nail polish when she could put those extra pennies in the jar for Bran but maybe if she-
There was a knock and Sansa gasped, stumbling away from the mirror and suddenly it was 2012 again because this bathroom was so much nicer than anything she’d ever dreamed of and the knock came again. Sansa pulled in a breath that rattled its way through her body, shook her down to her core. She was cold, so cold, and Sansa made herself step out of the bathroom, made herself shake out the ice creeping her in veins, made herself remember that Arya was dead and wouldn’t need coffee anymore so she might as well open the door.
The man standing on the other side almost made her freeze anyway because she would know that long face anywhere and her father’s face had no place being coupled with the navy and white of the SHIELD uniform. Sansa made herself blink. She blinked again. The man’s hair was wrong, curly where her father’s had always hung straight, and black instead of brown, but the brow and the nose and the cheekbones and-
“I’m so sorry,” Sansa said, wrenching her eyes to meet his. “You just look a lot like-“
“Eddard Stark, yes,” the man said, and his eyes crinkled up at the corners in a smile that made Sansa’s chest ache. “He was my great uncle; your aunt Lyanna was my grandmother.”
“So you-we’re,” Sansa’s throat caught.
“Family,” the man said with that same smile. “My name is Agent Jon Snow. I’d have introduced myself earlier but I’ve been out of country. It’s an honor to meet you, Sergeant.” He stuck his hand out and then suddenly the smile faltered and his eyes widened almost comically. “Captain, I meant captain. I’ve spent so many years thinking of you as Sergeant Sansa Stark, it’s a little hard to get used to.”
The joy building up in Sansa suddenly went cold because no, that wasn’t right. To family she was just, just- “Just Sansa is fine."
“Alright, Sansa,” the agent said passively. “Call me Jon,” he said as she took his hand and shook it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jon,” Sansa smiled and it stretched easy across her lips. “I was gonna go down to lunch soon. You hungry? I’ve been readin’ restaurant reviews and there’s a place round the corner that’s supposed to be aces.”
“I’m sorry, Captain, but lunch will have to wait. Rayder sent me to show you your uniform. If you’d follow me,” Jon said and gestured out into the hallway and stepped back. Sansa’s smile waned. She moved to leave but he stopped her: “Oh, bring the shield, huh?”
“Course,” she said, grabbing it and stepping out of the white room.
“I’m free tomorrow though, if you’d like to get lunch then,” the agent said as he started down the hallway. “I’m sure you’ve got some stories to tell. My grandmother loved to talk about the Howling Commandos. She was always very proud.”
Sansa kept the frown off of her face. If Aunt Lyanna had been proud she’d sure had a funny way of showing it, shutting the door in their faces and lookin’ down her nose and all because she’d married that bloke up in Park Slope. “Lunch would be great,” she said instead. “I don’t have much on the schedule these days.”
“I’m sure that’ll change soon. Rayder has plans for Captain America,” Jon said, glancing at her and his smile was almost boyish in its giddiness and admiration. “We’re going to turn this country around. Just wait and see, Cap.”
“Sansa,” she correctly softly, already knowing it wouldn’t take.
The agent laughed: “Sorry, right. SHIELD loves its titles.”
Sansa nodded and Jon hit the down button on the elevator.
“Alright, Cap. SHIELD techs have designed your new uniform based off of the stats we’ve gotten from the tests we’ve run so far. That means it’s going to be optimal for hand to hand combat and maneuverability. It’s impact resistant, but it won’t stop a bullet, just soften blows and falls. We’ve added a utility belt and pouches and you’ve been given clearance to SHIELD’s armory,” Jon told her as they rode the car down. It came out like he’d recited it in front of the mirror.
The elevator doors opened to a floor Sansa had never been to; one of the basement levels. The walls and floor were concrete, the space cavernous. As they walked, Sansa had to step aside to let an agent in a small loading car drive by. Jon kept describing the mechanics of the suit, something about it being “ventilating” and “stain resistant” and Sansa wanted to shake him and beg him to please just look at her without the stars and stripes in his eyes.
Agent Snow led her through the basement level. He turned down a hallway that was lined mostly with what seemed to be storage rooms and weapons lockers. Eventually, he motioned her through a door. It opened to a small storage room. It was mostly empty but at the far end was a display case holding her uniform. It was set up almost like a shrine; the whole uniform on display and the image of the shield behind it.
Sansa had never worn a uniform. Sure, her apron and the cute little hat down at Murdock’s had been one, but Sansa had never had- she’d never been a symbol. The war had been deep blues and blacks, heavy wool and scratching out dried blood. Sansa had dressed for the shadows because she’d lived in them. The uniform in front of her was made for sunlight and speeches and hope and the Little Bird- Sansa had only ever done what was needed of her.
Agent Snow pressed a string of numbers into a keypad and the display case slid open. Sansa stepped forward and rubbed the fabric between her fingers. It was lighter than she expected, softer too. Sansa’s fingers started to shake and she snatched her hand back. “Thank you, Agent. It’s wonderful,” she said, forcing the words to come out even.
He smiled at her, pleased: “You’re welcome to try it on. I could step out for a moment-”
“You know, I’d like that. Thanks,” Sansa plastered on her most excited smile. The agent stepped out of the room, his smile matching hers.
Sansa braced herself against the wall and shook all over. She shook and shook and the tears didn’t come but the ice did and it coated her throat and ripped right through her and she had let herself think that maybe he could be family but that damned uniform-
“You ruined everything,” she hissed. “Why couldn’t you have just stayed dead?”
**
It was easy to get what she needed from Central Park. People forgot things there all the time. Sansa could work with that.
**
Dr. Lewin had been relentless, pushing her to talk about her “unhealthy coping mechanisms” and how maybe spending all night training wasn’t the best for her, mentally. She’d make herself face that later but right now all Sansa wanted to do was collapse and take a nap but when she opened the door and saw Agent Tyrell sprawled against her bed, Sansa knew it wasn’t going to happen.
“Does the future not care about privacy?” Sansa asked, resigned.
Agent Tyrell ignored the question and spoke before Sansa had walked through the door: “I’ve come to take you shopping.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Sansa replied, moving into the room. She left the door open.
“I’ve seen your closet, Captain. It’s more than necessary.”
Sansa glanced down at herself. She was wearing the standard SHIELD uniform. Tyrell, in contrast, was wearing a black H-line skirt, straight and narrow, and a loose green blouse, sharp stilettos on her feet. SHIELD had given Sansa clothes, mostly jeans and plain t-shirts and Sansa had never thought twice about it because there had just been so much…else.
Sansa had always considered herself stylish, had preened in front of mirrors because she may have been living in a rundown flat in Fulton Landing but Sansa had taken pride in how she dressed. She’d worked hard at it too, scrimping and saving for fabric and make-up, a good mirror. Arya hadn’t cared a lick for the primping, but it was what Sansa had, sometimes all she had.
“It’ll be fun,” Agent Tyrell goaded, smirking.
Sansa considered for a moment. She wasn’t sure if it actually would be fun, but she hadn’t really had a chance to go out into the city yet. The idea instantly appealed to Sansa. She ached for the opportunity to leave SHIELD HQ behind, to go farther than Central Park and walk in her city.
“Sure,” Sansa said. Ruefully she thought about how, for the first time in her life, Sansa could afford it. There had been a dizzying conversation about paygrades and back pay and hazard pay and about a half other dozen forms of pay that all meant that Sansa had a bank account that didn’t seem real.
“Thank god. I thought I was going to have to force you,” Agent Tyrell laughed again.
Sansa dug out the credit card that SHIELD had given her out of the desk drawer and slipped it into her pocket, along with the phone. She glanced up and noticed Agent Tyrell giving her a skeptical look. Sansa just shrugged: “SHIELD didn’t give me a purse.”
Agent Tyrell actually rolled her eyes at that before telling her to change into street clothes and sauntering out of the room. Sansa did and then followed her out, feeling more excited than she had expected to.
The Manhattan air hit her with a jolt of familiarity. It was a smell so specific to New York that even 70 years couldn’t change it. Without thinking, Sansa asked, “Could we go to Brooklyn? There’ve gotta be shops there.”
“Williamsburg has some wonderful boutiques,” Agent Tyrell considered. “We’d have to get a car though.”
“Oh, god. Don’t tell me they got rid of the subway,” Sansa gasped, mocking.
Agent Tyrell raised an eyebrow: “You want to bus to Brooklyn?”
“Well I sure as Sunday ain’t takin’ a car,” Sansa said, making her way to where she knew she could catch M line. “C’mon, Tyrell. Afraid of gettin' grime on your boots?”
Agent Tyrell laughed before catching up to her, a bright and sunny sound that Sansa was almost sure was genuine: “You don’t even have cash for the fare.”
Sansa turned to her and grinned, “What? You never jumped the turnstile?”
“Oh, and you did?”
“Almost every Thursday night since 1938. How else was I supposed to get to Harlem?” As they reached the subway, Sansa held out her hand to the agent. “How about that fare, Tyrell? Don’t get stingy on me now.” And god, wasn't it a thing that even the subway felt the same?
Agent Tyrell just looked at Sansa for a moment, studying her. For once, Sansa didn’t really mind. She was flying high on the idea of Brooklyn. With a small shake of her head, Tyrell pulled a couple of dollars out of her bag and handed them over: “You’re nothing like what my grandfather described.”
Sansa’s smile faltered. It’d been almost two weeks since SHIELD had woken her up and she hardly ever thought about Willas. She’d loved him, of course she had, but the loss of him felt more distant, less consuming.
Tyrell seemed to misinterpret Sansa’s reaction. “He really did love you,” she said, putting her hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “He always talked like you were the most wonderful woman he’d ever met. It drove my grandmother crazy sometimes, having to compete with you.”
Sansa frowned: “She shouldn’t have had to do that.”
To her surprise, Agent Tyrell only laughed. “Don’t worry. She never let him get away with it.”
“I’m glad,” Sansa answered, getting distracted as the train came into view and Sansa felt the excitement building in her again. She’d been getting desperate to see Brooklyn, had even gotten so far as to look up the new bus routes. She hadn’t been back since the Starks had left for the war and she’d missed it then just as much as she missed it now. And now she was so close she could almost taste it.
Tyrell spoke again as the train pulled away from the station: “Although I suppose it didn’t help that he was the one that started the America’s Darling craze.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Sansa asked, not quite following and hoping that she’d misunderstood because, no, that couldn’t be right. The idea that Willas had been the one that turned her into some kind of image, something so unlike how she actually was, was startling. More than that, it hurt.
“He wanted to make sure that the world remembered you as more than just a soldier. Like I said, he really did love you. I think he loved you until the day he died.” Tyrell was smiling, like this knowledge was a kindness.
Sansa had thought that he’d known her well enough to see the cracks. They’d met at the beginning of the war, before the trenches, before Sansa had been captured, before-“I loved him too. He was such a good man,” Sansa forced the words out. It was an honest statement even if her smile wasn’t. She had thought that Willas could see it in her, the way that the war took everything that it did.
“Oh, I know you loved him. I’ve seen the movie reels of you two at the SSR headquarters. Grandfather would watch them over and over again. I grew up wanting to be just like you. Of course, then I joined SHIELD,” Tyrell said with that twist of her lips that was starting to become familiar.
You may be more like than me than you think, Sansa thought. “Why did you join SHIELD,” she asked, desperate to change the subject from Willas and the ball of betrayal twisting in her.
Tyrell’s eyes turned just a little harder even if the smirk stayed and Sansa knew that whatever the agent was about to tell her would only be a half-truth. “Well, it was that or become a New York socialite and Grandfather always made SHIELD sound like an adventure, having helped found it and all.”
“Is it? An adventure?”
“It’s certainly been exciting. Not many people can say that they’ve chased mercenaries across roof tops with a bit of stick and string from the Paleolithic era.” The glint in Tyrell’s eyes was hard, and very, very cold.
**
Sansa went to the New York Public Library. It was big enough to force the agents to be in the same room with her but crowded enough where it wouldn’t make them feel like they had been made.
She went on one of the public computers and started researching her city, opening multiple windows at once. She didn’t want them to know that she was only looking at new maps.
SHIELD had lowered the number of agents that tailed her. Now there were only three. She could work with three. One agent kept getting distracted by a man who’d thrown him a wink. He was one of the usuals- Agent Donahue. He’d be the easiest to lose.
**
When the train surfaced to make its way across the Williamsburg Bridge, Sansa lost her ability to keep up any conversation with Tyrell because there it was. There was home. The buildings spread towards her and for a moment Sansa felt like she was being hurled forwards uncontrollably. For the first time in her life she would be in Brooklyn and there wouldn’t be any Stark in any part of the borough. Sansa was terrified and she was thrilled and she wanted it so bad she thought she might die of the wanting.
Softly, Tyrell spoke beside her: “Sansa, how old are you?”
Still caught up in the approaching buildings, Sansa answered without thinking: “25.”
The agent beside her didn’t respond and Sansa couldn’t bring herself to care, not yet. Right now, all she wanted was to get off this train and lose herself in the city. Maybe they could go to Prospect Park or see if Murdock's was still open or if Red's Dance Hall was still on Flatbush. Maybe the Fitzpatrick family still owned the market on Clinton. Maybe she could still go to Coney Island and ride the Cyclone until she threw up. And even if all of that was gone, it wouldn’t matter because the Brooklyn Bridge was still there and that had always been there and it had always been her favorite part of this whole damn city.
Still grinning, Sansa swiveled to look at Tyrell. The woman looked thoughtful as she stared at Sansa, as if realizing something that she hadn’t considered before. “Sometimes I forget how young you are,” she said finally, her voice still soft.
Sansa shrugged: “If it makes you feel any better I’ll be 93 in July.”
Tyrell fell quite beside her and Sansa didn’t mind. They’d crossed the bridge and were underground again but the thrumming in Sansa hadn’t subsided. Just a few more minutes and they’d be getting off in Williamsburg. It wasn’t a part of the borough she’d gone to often, even though she’d worked a couple of odd dance halls there, but home was home.
Tyrell seemed to have recovered by the time they were going up the stairs out of the subway: “I thought we could go to some of the vintage shops they have here. I’ve been to a few and they have some nice things in this neighborhood.”
“Vintage?” Sansa asked, keeping her voice neutral.
“I thought you might like something familiar,” Tyrell replied, her unique smile coming back.
Sansa shook her head: “Take me somewhere new.” Tyrell looked surprised for a moment before smiling and leading the way.
The first store was brightly lit with wood floors and tall glass doors. It was some little boutique and the pristine décor made Sansa aware of the blue jeans she was wearing, the plainness of her purple shirt. It reminded her of all the stores she had wanted to shop at but had never had the money to do it. The clothing was beautiful, she supposed, soft pastels and flowing skirts. Summer clothes.
Glancing at the price tag of a pair of jeans, Sansa’s eyes widened. “Tyrell,” she hissed, drawing the woman’s attention. “These are $300.”
The agent’s lips lifted in their little half smirk. “They’re name brand and a fantastic quality.”
“It’s still $300,” Sansa protested.
“That’s how much my blouse cost,” Tyrell countered and Sansa could see the whole thing was amusing her.
“You can’t tell me this is the average cost of clothes now,” Sansa said, disbelief bleeding into her voice.
This time Tyrell actually laughed. “It’s the average if you really want the quality. I promise you that those jeans will be the most comfortable ones you find.”
By now one of the employees was looking at them with the polite judgment that only New Yorkers can have. Sansa ignored her. “I can’t do it, Tyrell. There has to be somewhere cheaper than this.”
“But you can afford it! And besides, don’t you think you deserve the best?”
Sansa paused, trying to think of a way to make Tyrell understand that she just couldn’t do it. That she didn’t need to, that she didn’t want to. “These pants are six times what my rent used to be. I’ve never owned a dress that cost more than $2 and I made most of mine and my sister’s clothing on a sewing machine I got at a pawn shop for $10.”
“And now you can have more!” Tyrell insisted and Sansa shook her head.
“I don’t need more. I’ve never needed more.”
Tyrell rolled her eyes but conceded: “You really are nothing like I expected.”
Sansa followed the agent out of the shop.“What did you expect America’s Darling to be?” she asked, irritation prickling at her skin.
“Grandfather always described you as sweet and kind and gentle. I suppose I thought you would be- softer. Audrey Hepburn- she was an actress- became famous for playing you in a movie called Brooklyn Sweet. It was all about your ballet career and-“
“I wasn’t a ballerina,” Sansa interrupted, confused.
Tyrell shot her a look: “Grandfather said you were a dancer. So do the history books.”
“Yeah, I danced, just not ballet,” Sansa replied, not adding that it had been a childhood dream of hers that crashed about the same time the economy did.
“But Grandfather told stories about watching you do ballet,” Tyrell insisted.
Sansa wanted to laugh. Even if she did know ballet there certainly hadn’t been time for it during the war. She’d been lucky to go out dancing once a month. Sansa debated for a moment whether she should tell Tyrell the truth or let the agent cling to the stories Willas had told her. She decided to take a sort of middle ground: “Willas always liked it when I danced, no matter what kind it was.”
“So,” Tyrell continued, “You’re not a ballerina, you’re not bashful and doe-eyed and you certainly aren’t soft or sweet or innocent. Is there any part of the America’s Darling legend that is true?”
Sansa did laugh this time and she managed to keep the bitterness out of it. “I don’t know, do people say anything about her having a mean right hook?”
“Feminists do,” Tyrell grinned.
“What do they say about me?” Sansa asked, smiling back because that meant she’d done her friends down at the Radical Women’s League proud.
“That you’re the peak of femininity and strength all at the same time. Kicking ass in stilettos, curling your hair while punching out bad guys, that sort of thing.”
Sansa grinned, “Putting on lipstick and driving motorcycles.”
“There’s a song about you that’s pretty much all about that,” Tyrell said.
“Oh yeah? How’s it go?”
“It’s by a band called the Killers and one of the lyrics is ‘were you soldier or were you dancer.’ I think about half the college girls in the nation have that tattooed.”
“Oh, that’s awful,” Sansa laughed, secretly pleased.
“And then there’s the Beatles and their album ‘Sergeant Stark’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.’”
“Anything else I oughta know about?”
“You have no idea. We should have a movie night,” Margaery said, eyes alight. “We’ll marathon all the movies that have been made about you and the rest of the Starks. There’s a couple that are true jewels.”
“Oh yeah? They all got me in a tutu and battin’ my eyelashes at some joe in the audience?”
“A lot of them do, but not all. There’s one that won a lot of awards and is praised as being one of the best war movies ever made. Of course, then there’s that awful 80s movie, god, what’s it called, Justice Punch? Yeah, and then the second one is “Justice Punch 2: Fists of Freedom.” They’ve got this bottle-job red-head in a green spandex dress popping bubble gum and shooting machine guns. She even has this dance number in a little gold negligee that ends with her shooting a guy in the sac,” Margaery laughed and it tugged one out of Sansa too.
“See, now at least that’s familiar,” Sansa grinned.
“What, the machine guns or destroying a man’s balls?” Margaery asked, clearly amused.
“Nah, dancin’ in a negligee,” Sansa answered as they crossed the street.
“No, no way. I will accept an America’s Darling that jumps turnstiles and skimps on bus fares, but one that did strip teases? That’s where I draw the line.”
“I didn’t strip down or nothin’, just did a couple a' blue pictures and worked the chorus line at the Aladdin on Thursday nights,” Sansa said, not bothering to think about the winter in ’38 when Ma had gotten real sick and Sansa had been tempted, just because doctors cost a lot of money and she knew that she could. There was good money in burlesque.
“What’d you do for the rest of the time?”
“Ballet, obviously,” Sansa snorted before shaking her head. “I worked days at a diner on Ocean Parkway and then worked most nights as a taxi dancer at a hall down on Flatbush.”
“I don’t even know what that is,” and Margaery pulled her into another shop and Sansa breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that jeans cost $30. It still seemed like an obscene amount but she’d been briefed on inflation.
Walking towards a rack of blouses, Sansa started sifting through them. “Taxi halls are just like regular dance halls ‘cept joes buy tickets at the door and give ‘em to the girls they wanna dance with. End of the night, you turn in the tickets you got and the manager pays you,” seeing Margaery’s wide eyes, Sansa shrugged. “It wasn’t the most respectable job but it sure beat working 12 hour days at the cigar factory. And I made ‘bout three times as much a night. It was a good gig. I was lucky to have it.”
Margaery held out a pink blouse out Sansa and she shook her head; that shade would be awful: “So you danced with men for money?”
Sansa wanted to sigh- she’d been having this same conversation for years now: “It wasn’t like I was trickin’ out or anything. It was just dancing. Some fellas had a hard time getting a girl to dance with ‘em and they got lonely. So they’d come to Red’s and they’d get a partner.”
“Did you tell my grandfather any of this?” Margaery asked while handing a soft blue top at Sansa.
“He knew enough,” Sansa answered, remembering how his eyes had tightened and his lips thinned when she told him. He’d never mentioned it again but Sansa had known that he disapproved.
“He never told me about it. He never told anyone, not in any of the interviews. And none of your brothers talked about it either, they all just said that you were a dancer. I suppose that’s why Grandfather said you did ballet” Margaery said, frowning at lavender dress before holding it up for Sansa’s consideration.
She shook her head, not liking pattern. "Willas never really understood about my dancing. He knew that I loved it but he’d never seen it for the job that it was. And to my siblings that’s all Red’s had ever been- a job. I’d a’ dropped it in a heartbeat if I found something that paid better.” Sansa turned and picked up a moss green lace top. It was the same shade that her jacket had been in the war and it made Sansa smile. She put it on her pile.
“That’ll be a great shade on you,” Margaery said with something like satisfaction. “I normally would have picked pastels but the fall colors seem a bit more fitting.” With the statement, the agent took back two of the shirts out of the options she’d given Sansa. Picking up the conversation, Margaery commented, “The Tyrells don’t really understand jobs. Most of us have never worked one. Old money and all that.” She said it with a smile but there was something almost predatory in her eyes.
Sansa nodded, remembering how soft Willas’ hands had been; the only callouses the result of holding a pen. She’d liked that about him though. Most of the men in her neighborhood had been dock workers or in construction. Willas’ lean body was so different from the burly ones she’d been used to. He’d been so smooth. It’d never occurred to her that she was the one who was rough and jagged.
“Alright, go try those on. I’ll look for shoes while you do.” Margaery said, abruptly ending the conversation and nudging Sansa towards the fitting rooms. She didn’t feel like now was the right time to tell Margaery that this would be the third time in her life she’d actually tried on clothes in a store. Almost every time she’d been in a clothing shop it was to see how new styles were being constructed. Then it was off to the fabric shop and home to the Singer machine in her and Arya’s apartment. After all the bills and helping out her parents and siblings, spending money on clothes had seemed not just silly- it’d been wasteful.
**
It was a dreary day, some gray clouds spilling in between the sunny days of May, and Sansa walked out of SHIELD HQ in her brown bomber jacket, boots and new jeans. She had the sunglasses she’d found in Central Park in her pocket, and had stuffed a pair of shorts in the purse Tyrell insisted she buy. She picked up three agents on her way to the subway-Agent Donahue was one of them.
The subway jostled and Sansa moved with it. She slipped her phone into the coat pocket of the woman next to her. She wasn’t sure that there was a tracer in it somewhere but she wasn’t going to risk it.
One agent -she thought his name might be Flowers- was in the subway car with her, pretending to scroll through his phone. Agent Donahue was in the next car over. The third had stayed at the station.
She took the green line to East Harlem and when she got off only Agent Donahue came with her. Sansa, knowing she had maybe five minutes before two more agents started trailing her, walked casually down the streets, taking the two lefts and a right that she’d memorized at the library and when Agent Donahue turned around for a moment, Sansa slipped into a shop named "Cupid’s Adult Store and Bakery."
Agent Donahue passed by the store without even a glance.
**
She’d meant to be methodical when trying on the clothes but her eyes got caught on her body the same way that they always did after the serum. Four years and she still had trouble recognizing herself. Sansa had been soft before the serum, all rounded curves and smooth edges. Lean, of course, and probably too thin because of how she and Arya had to stretch meals. But she’d been soft; Sansa had liked that about herself, had known that her dance partners liked it too. It’d kept her job, if it did nothing else.
The serum had made her hard. It’d taken the soft right out of her and ripened her for war. Looking in the full-length mirror, dressed down to her skivvies so she could try on a dress, Sansa ran her fingers over her abdomen and the ridges of her muscles. The lighting in the dressing room was bright and unforgiving, putting her in harsh relief. She tapped one of her scars; a long, rigid line that stretched down her ribs. Of course the body was hard; it had to be. It was a weapon. The Little Bird had been created to do the impossible and she was made to endure.
The muscles of her back flexed when Sansa turned to pick up a dress. They rippled under her skin and she was sharp all over. Her fingers twitched and Sansa wondered what that soft, smooth girl would think of this hard body, forged for war, and would that girl even recognize, would she even respect, could she even understand-
Sansa slid the dress over her body.
**
Sansa pretended to browse through the adult store and felt the blush creep up on her. There were some posters of ladies up on the wall in poses that were all too familiar to Sansa, even if the clothes had changed.
Moving past the display in front of her -and what was a Thrusting Jack Rabbit anyway- she approached the woman at the register and asked if there was a room she could use.
The woman tapped a sign that read "back room for paying customers only."
Glancing around, Sansa grabbed the first item she saw; a roll of condoms. She tossed it in the counter and it was only when the woman rang it up that Sansa noticed the design and immediately blushed. The condom wrappers had Captain America's shield on it and a line from one of the propaganda reels they'd made: "each bond you buy is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy's gun." It'd been one of Sansa’s lines.
"$15.99," the woman said, completely bored.
Sansa handed over the cash and then the cashier slid a key across the counter and told her, "back of the stoor, to the left."
Sansa thanked her and rushed into the back room, knowing she was testing her time window. Locking the door behind her, Sansa quickly put on the shorts, tied her hair up in the sloppy bun she'd seen other girls wearing, put in the headphones and tucked the loose end into the pocket of her jacket. When Sansa left the store, combat boots clunking against the sidewalk, she slouched her shoulders, swaggered her hips and looked just enough like someone else to look like nobody.
**
After hanging the excess clothing on the designated rack, she made her way to the back of the shop where Margaery was waiting by the shoes. The agent had lined up five different pairs and Sansa immediately dismissed the three pairs of stilettos but agreed to a pair of ballet flats and a pair of pumps that Sansa instantly fell in love with. They were a deep maroon and had ribbon lacings and Sansa wanted to dance in them more than anything. She knew that she had no practical reason to own the pumps and the frugal part of her insisted that she leave them but, Sansa reasoned, it’s not like they were $300 pants.
As she walked back and forth in them, a pair of brown boots caught her eye. They were short, probably only came up mid-calf but they looked eerily similar to the ones that Sansa had worn in the war. She walked over to them and picked one up gently with the absurd feeling that if she didn’t the boots might disappear.
“Combat boots are making a comeback, Cap.” Margaery said, coming up to stand beside Sansa. “You can get shoes like that everywhere now.”
“I want them,” Sansa said, already turning to find a saleswoman so she could get her size.
“Are you sure? They’re almost $100.” That pulled Sansa up short. She hadn’t even bothered with the price tag. “We can find ones like it somewhere else that are cheaper. We can try a vintage shop. They might have some old combat boots.”
The thought made Sansa shake her head. She wanted something that was just hers. “No,” Sansa said, “You were right. I can afford to spend a little more on some things. These are practical anyway.”
Sansa wasn’t surprised when Margaery made her go to another four shops that day. She let herself be led through Williamsburg and Sansa had to admit that she was glad that she’d gone. The new clothes felt like a claim, a statement that she existed in this new world. And if she’d frozen in one of the dressing rooms- the style of a dress too familiar to one of her mother’s- and she’d had to brace herself on the wall and force the ice out of her, then nobody needed to know.
The only shop that made her feel out of depth was the lingerie shop. Margaery had insisted that she needed more than the plain white cotton undergarments SHIELD had given her. Sansa had gone along with it, just like she had with everything else.
“Come on,” Margaery laughed. “Don’t get old fashioned on me now. Not after everything I just found out.”
Sansa let herself be pulled into the sea of lace, muttering “Ain’t nothing different between this and the Aladdin.”
It’d been the last shop on the list and Sansa had been forced to get what she considered to be an absurd amount of underwear. Margaery had been particularly insistent about it until Sansa had snapped and told her that washing machines existed for a reason. After that, Margaery had laid off and by the time they left the store Sansa was more than ready to be done shopping.
“We should get a cab back,” Margaery said outside of the lingerie store.
Sansa reluctantly agreed. Riding a New York subway with bags took up a lot of space and nobody wanted to be that person on the train. All the same, Sansa didn’t really feel like heading back to her cage at SHIELD yet. The sun would be going down soon and Sansa really wanted to watch it from the Brooklyn Bridge. They were closer now, having made their way across a good chunk of Williamsburg and were almost in Navy Yard and then came Fulton Landing- or DUMBO, she’d learned it was called now.
“I’d like to stay here for a while,” Sansa said and almost missed the flash in Margaery’s eyes.
Understanding washed over Sansa and anger for not realizing it sooner because- “This was a field trip, wasn’t it? And the Red Thorn was my chaperone,” Sansa accused.
“It wasn’t like that,” Tyrell started to say but Sansa didn’t want to hear it.
“What were the mission parameters, Agent Tyrell? Was it just to keep an eye on me or was it intelligence gathering too? What am I allowed to do? What’s my window? I go off the grid for 10 minutes and SHIELD sends in a tac team? What are your parameters?” and the thing that got to Sansa was that she wasn’t even surprised.
“Rayder asked me to take you out. He wanted to see how you would do out in the city and I thought you needed clothes. The shopping was my idea,” Agent Tyrell insisted, like that made it all better.
Sansa felt sick; there was always another test. Pursing her lips, Sansa nodded her head. “Okay. Rayder wants to see how I do out in the city? Baby steps before granting me a monitored apartment? Let him watch. I’m walking back to HQ.” Sansa turned to walk away. Either Tyrell would follow or she’d call in some undercover agents to watch Sansa. If they weren’t already there. Sansa cursed again in her head. She hadn’t even been watching for other agents.
“Cap, wait. I’ll go with you,” Agent Tyrell said, catching up, the shopping bags brushing against her legs.
“Why?” Sansa asked, rounding on the woman.
“What?” Tyrell asked, taken aback.
“Why are you coming with me? Give me an honest answer and I’ll let you.” Sansa said, her voice hard.
That gave Agent Tyrell pause and Sansa could see that she was striving to find the right words to diffuse the situation. Sansa scoffed: “Just say it’s your job. The truth doesn’t always hurt.” She started walking again.
“Wait,” Tyrell reached out after her, clutching her arm. Her eyes looked earnest, a little desperate. Sansa held herself tall, let her body be hard. After a moment, Tyrell seemed to deflate, decision made. “Give me the bags you’re holding. I’ll get a cab and you walk back.”
Sansa nodded and then thrust the bags at the agent. “Will you go directly back?” Tyrell asked.
Sansa was about to snap at the agent, tell her it was none of her damn business, but she stopped herself. She knew that Agent Tyrell was disobeying orders right now and taking a risk on Sansa and she owed her more than a brusque dismissal and even more paperwork. “I’m going to watch the sunset. Then I’ll go back,” Sansa answered, slipping her polite mask back on. “Thank you.”
Agent Tyrell slipped on the same mask, any comradery they’d reached this afternoon undone for now: “I hope you have a nice walk. I’ll see you soon.” With that, the agent walked away. Her steps were even, confident and she walked like she could own the world. Sansa was willing to bet anything that walk was the most honest thing about her.
Sansa didn’t wait to see if Agent Tyrell got a cab, just started walking towards the Brooklyn Bridge again. Most of the streets had stayed the same, giving her a clear path to it. She walked down the sidewalks, relishing in the kind of privacy that only big cities can offer. She’d already noticed at least two agents tailing her but she forced herself to push down the disgust she was feeling. This was her first night back in Brooklyn since 1940 and she refused to let it get ruined by a paranoid government agency.
Fulton Landing- DUMBO- had changed, though not nearly as much as Navy Yard. When she had lived in DUMBO, it’d been a poor neighborhood full mostly of factory workers rubbing shoulders with hungry artists. It hadn’t been as rough as Red Hook but that wasn't much of an endorsement. Apparently DUMBO had moved up in the world. The place reeked of money; the brownstones were no longer rickety and barely meeting code and now there trees were planted by the sidewalks and some of the buildings had iron fences. The change didn’t make her as sad as she had thought it would, even if it didn’t feel at all like coming home.
She’d been walking quickly, as close to running as she wanted to get without drawing attention, and she’d managed to cut the hour long walk in half. By the time she reached the Brooklyn Bridge Promenade, the sun had already begun its descent. Hurrying just a little more, Sansa pushed past a group of tourists and walked across the bridge until she was about halfway over it. Turning to face out over the sea, Sansa leaned against the railing. The sky was already darkening over the water but Sansa only looked at it for a moment because she’d never come to the Brooklyn Bridge for the sea.
Sansa walked to the other side of the bridge, the one looking out over the city. The Manhattan Bridge stood tall across from her, cutting a clean line through the buildings. The skyline hadn’t changed as much as she’d thought. She could see it, her skyline, pressed up against the new buildings. Sansa wondered if Rickon had ever stood on this bridge and noticed the change in the skyline. He would have been a passenger in history. He would have seen the city change in a way that none of other Starks had.
Her thoughts turned to Bran. She’d read a biography on him recently and it had hurt her as much as it joyed her. The book said that he had lived in New York for a few years after the war before moving to D.C. to serve as a peace diplomat. He’d stayed there until he died in a plane crash in 1982 on his way back from Russia; he’d been trying to improve relations between the U.S. and the Soviet Union. The biography had seemed to think that maybe the plane had been sabotaged.
Bran had been the one who usually accompanied Sansa when she went to the bridge just to watch the sunset. He was the only one who could sit still long enough. Arya had too much energy, Rickon thought it was a waste of time and Robb was always too busy. But Bran had sat with her to watch the sun go down. Once in a while, when she’d been out working all night, he’d met her here for the sunrise.
It was on the Brooklyn Bridge that he told her that he was queer. He’d said it like he didn’t know if it’d drown him or save him but he’d said it anyway, a quiet whisper as the sun came up. Sansa remembered smiling and asking if he had a fella and Bran had honest to god blushed. And then he told her about a boy named Johnny who liked to play cards and looked beautiful smoking a cigarette. Sansa didn’t know if she’d ever loved him more.
That same biography had told her that after the crash, it was revealed that Bran had been having an affair with Jojen Reed and that had almost made those stubborn tears fall. Her brother had met Jojen during the war. He had been a Canadian bombardier in the RAF and Bran had had the fiercest love for his soldier. They didn’t see each other often, not with how the Howling Commandos functioned, but when they did, the Starks had done everything they could to make sure they could be alone. Reading that Jojen had not only lived through the war, but that he and Bran had been able to keep loving each other, that had to be one of the best things she had heard since waking up.
Rickon had been loved and the woman he had loved was still alive and so strong. Bran had been loved and the man he had loved had become one of the leaders of the Gay Rights Movements. It made Sansa smile, the edges of her lips tugged down and her heart heavy, but the thought was comforting for all that it was painful. Her little brothers had been truly loved in the world and it was all that she had ever wanted for them.
Sansa stayed on the bridge until long after the sun had finished setting. She stayed to watch the city light up, for the air to get a faint chill, for the agents watching her to leave or risk being totally conspicuous. She stayed on the bridge and let herself remember her city for just a little while longer, knowing that once she left she’d have to finally shed the last bits of nostalgia she had. She couldn’t afford it anymore. Sansa thought about her hard body, about surviving, and found that she desperately wanted to.
**
She managed to get a seat on the subway, squished between a teenage girl with her lip pierced and a man who instantly fell asleep on her shoulder. As the car bounced and rattled, a bright strip of yellow caught her eye. Plastered on top of a movie advertisement- and Sansa wasn’t sure women were supposed to bend like that- was a sticker that read “Arya Stark didn’t die for this.”
A smile tugged at Sansa’s lips and she glanced around. There was another sticker, this one wrapped around one of the poles in the car and yet another on an ad for a law firm she’d seen over by HQ- and she almost turned to tell Arya, “See, at least someone thinks you’re right.” Except Arya- Arya. So it broke Sansa’s heart just a little that Arya couldn’t laugh and elbow her and say that “at least someone has a brain, ya scarecrow” and Sansa missed her sister down to the tips of her toes.
**
The band is playing a song that’s close to familiar, it’s so familiar, but the piano is just a little out of tune. But it’s not right and- and- a joe comes up to you, a ticket in his hand but you can’t read the name. His face swims a little and maybe he’s familiar too but his hand is warm so you put it on your waist and let him lead you around in a six count. He’s good and he flips you like you weigh nothing but his eyes keep twisting and you can’t- you can’t- another joe grabs at your arm and pulls and you slam against his chest. He looks right through you, even as he yanks you across the dance floor. He spins you out and at the last moment lets go, his ticket falling to the ground. You hit another joe and you get tossed around and up and suddenly the dance floor is frozen and the joes keep shoving their tickets at you and you’re going to make a killing tonight with all the commissions but then the joe you’re dancing with throws you up and doesn’t catch you and then there’s Willas.
Except Willas isn’t looking at you. He’s looking straight through you, even when he gives you his ticket and takes you in his arms and you try to tell Willas that he doesn’t have to pay for a dance that that’s only for the joes and that dancin’ with him should just be for fun and then you’re in the dressing room at the Aladdin and he’s got your skirt up and he’s pressing into you from behind and you’re looking in the mirror but you don’t have a face.
You don’t think you’ve ever had one.
**
After checking outside Cupid’s to make sure Agent Donahue or any of the other agents hadn't made her, Sansa scaled a fire escape, ran five blocks across the rooftops, dropped down and hailed a cab. There were too many cameras in the subway.
It cost an appalling amount but Sansa had made sure she brought enough cash.
**
There was a statue of the Howling Commandos and Captain America across from the arch in the Grand Army Plaza. It loomed in the entrance of Prospect Park. Sansa frowned.
**
And there, tucked between Conover and Sullivan was the husk of a warehouse and it was almost funny how much it felt like home, preserved in a way that DUMBO wasn’t. Sansa leaned against the iron fence guarding the dock. She waited to see who would come.
**
The new yellow dressed swished against her thighs and the maroon pumps tapped against the hardwood. The brassy sounds of Benny Goodman rang loud from the gymnasium speakers. And Sansa was dancing. She was dipping and sliding and doing the six count and there was a smile on her lips. After she’d forced her body to move and shaken off the nightmare, she’d gotten up to put on her workout clothes and then she saw the dress instead and now Sansa was dancing and she felt so free she thought she might float away on the feeling.
Her legs were flying out in all the familiar angles and she threw a flip and went down in the splits and popped up and her arms spun circles and she laughed. A heavy drum line came on and Sansa jitterbugged across the floor, flying high on the act itself. The trombones made her swing her hips and kick her feet up and she could finally breathe.
Sandor came into the gym later, just as she knew he would. She heard him laugh and Sansa knew how she must look. She was bopping her hips to a slow swing number, some Clyde McCoy song, in the middle of a gym with a goofy smile on her face. Sansa laughed with him because it felt good to do it. His laugh lingered and it had none of its usual mirth, none of the bitterness. This is what he sounded like when was happy, Sansa realized. She liked it. The trumpet player flutter tongued and Sansa shook her hips at Sandor, imitating her days on stage, making it large and dramatic.
Still laughing, Sandor said, “Tired of breaking punching bags?”
Sansa spun, ending with her back to him. “Felt like kickin’ up my feet is all,” she looked at him over her shoulder and threw him a wink.
“I thought those dances were for partners,” he said as he pulled out a punching bag from the supply closet.
“They are, but the last good partner I had was years ago.”
“Tyrell?”
Sansa shook her head, even though he couldn’t see it: “Willas was kind and wonderful but he couldn’t dance very well, not with his leg bein’ the way it was. He tried though.”
“So who was he?” Sandor asked, coming back into view and hooking up the bag. “The last good partner?”
Sansa’s smile grew wistful with the memory. “His name was Bucky Barnes and he danced like he was born for it. He might not a’ been my best partner, but he had a passion and joy that couldn’t be beat.”
She glanced at Sandor, noticed the strange, almost soft look he had: “Did you love him?”
“No,” Sansa answered honestly. “But I think in another life I coulda. See, Bucky had a fella, Steve Rogers, and they loved each other like there was no one else in the world. The way they looked at each other you’d think the other had hung up the moon and all the stars.”
The song changed to something with more swing, and Sansa let her limbs go loose and a little bit wild. “But that was all illegal, ya know, bein’ queer. So Bucky and I pretended we were goin’ steady. That way nobody thought twice ‘bout all the time he spent with Steve. And it didn’t hurt me any. I could do all the dancing I wanted and didn’t have to worry about him making a move I didn’t want.”
Sandor hadn’t even started hitting the bag; he was just leaning against it, that same look on his face: “Why’d you do it?”
Sansa smiled again: “Because I used to be a romantic, and they had a love for the centuries.”
“What happened to them?”
Sansa shrugged, never falling out of rhythm. “The same thing that happened to everyone else; the war. Steve had a list of medical issues about a mile long so there was no way the army was gonna take him. So he and Bucky stole up to Canada to try and join the RAF,” Sansa paused and her steps faltered for a moment. “I never found out if they got in. I don’t even know if they survived the war,” she stopped dancing completely, thinking of Bran and Jojen and the recent marriage laws that had been passed in New York.
Sansa pushed the thoughts away, choosing instead to remember the way that Steve and Bucky had smiled at each other across the dance floor, how Bucky would swing her through the air and she would laugh. “I guess it doesn't really matter anymore,” she said with a sad smile. “What matters is that Bucky Barnes could dance like a dream and he loved his fella well.”
“You should teach me,” Sandor blurted out and when Sansa turned to him, she was shocked to discover that he was blushing.
Sansa stopped dancing: “You wanna learn to lindy hop?”
“Sure,” he said, squaring his jaw.
“I hadn’t pegged ya for a dancer.”
“I’m not,” Sandor responded, pulling the tape off of his hands. “But you can’t expect a man to resist legs like yours for very long.”
Sansa laughed, clear and loud. “Flatterer,” she said. “Sweet talker.”
“Only with you, девочка," he said it with a glint in his eye and a smirk on his lips.
“Well, c’mon then, stud. Let’s cut a rug,” Sansa drawled, batting her eyelashes. She stepped into his arms, put one of his hands on her lower back and took the other in her own. “Although next time we dance you better have your glad rags on.”
“Of course, милая.” She arched an eyebrow at him and his smirk only grew.
It was obvious that Sandor had never danced before. For all that he was fluid, maybe even graceful, in a fight he couldn’t seem to make his limbs follow the steps. Sansa felt his muscles tense under hands and he started to frown.
“Try it with a smile,” Sansa said, trying to make him lose the tension. “Dancing’s easier when ya smile.”
“I don’t understand how that would help,” Sandor said, his voice gruff as he stared down at his feet. His legs and feet were doing all the right things, but even he could tell that it looked awkward.
“Trust me,” Sansa said, “Smiling always makes the dancing better.” For a moment, Sansa thought that he wasn’t going to do it, that his constant frown would stay in place. Then a weak, hesitant, absolutely forced smile wormed its way onto his face.
Sansa couldn’t help it, she laughed. “It’s dancin’, Sandor, not torture.”
“Could have fooled me,” the large man grumbled.
“You didn’t have to ask, ya know. Coulda just let me do it alone.”
Sandor met her eyes then, surprisingly fierce: “You needed a new partner.”
Sansa could feel the sentiment behind the statement, its honesty. She let it settle between them and kept her voice teasing. “You’re never gonna get there if you don’t smile, stud."
Just as she knew it would, the petname brought his smirk back and that was something Sansa could work with. “That wasn’t so hard was it?” She asked and was delighted when he actually smiled.
Dancing with Sandor, Sansa realized how long it’d been since someone had touched her and it wasn’t a fight. His hand in hers, the weight of his arms around his waist, settled something inside of her. Sansa thought it might have been peace.
After they’d called it quits for the night, Sansa asked him if he wanted to learn more, trying not to let the hope show in her face. Sandor’s eyes met hers, utterly sincere, and he said, “милая, for you I would learn to waltz.”
“Oh, believe me, Sandor,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “That would be torture.” When he laughed, Sansa got the urge to kiss him on the cheek so she did, and when his look of surprise melted into a smile, Sansa realized that it’d been a long time since she’d done anything so soft.
**
The water was choppy and the wind was blowing but Sansa was sure that she wouldn’t have heard him coming even if it had been completely silent. She didn’t know he was there until the hairs on the back of her neck pricked up and for the first time since meeting him, Sansa felt his size. He loomed over her and it was suffocating. Her fingers clenched around the iron fence she was leaning against, felt the metal bend under her grip.
Betrayal sat bitter at the back of her throat.
“I’d hoped it wouldn’t be you,” she said, and it came out hard, just like everything else about her.
“I had hoped you would not run,” Sandor said and he sounded resigned.
“So this is why they call you the Hound?” Sansa let the bitterness cover up the hurt. “You know, when Shireen said that you were the best at what you did but what you did wasn’t very nice I didn’t expect you to turn out to be a glorified delivery boy.”
Sandor turned to her and his gray eyes pierced right through her.
“You here to take me back to Rayder? Gonna wrap me up in a bow?” she asked, gripping the metal tighter.
“да,” he answered, quiet, and Sansa wanted to knock his lights out. It wasn’t supposed to be him, anyone but him.
“So all those nights in the gym, they were-”
“Sansa-”
“A job! A, a, a mission!” Sansa’s voice broke around the word and the metal snapped in her fist.
“No," Sandor hissed, grabbing her shoulders and wrenching her around to look at him. Sansa let herself go, the metal shiv clutched tight. “No, that wasn’t the job. Those nights are ours-”
Sansa pulled out of his grip.“Nothing is mine!” she cried, and the metal sliced her hand.
Sandor reached for her again and time slowed because this went two ways. Sansa could drop the shiv, go back to the white room and let Rayder put her on a leash. Or she drove the shiv into Sandor’s gut and she could run and leave him bleeding on a sidewalk in Red Hook.
If it’d been Tyrell, Bronn-maybe even Shireen- but it was Sandor. Sansa dropped the shiv and let herself slump into his arms and god but the tears wouldn’t fall.
“милая, you have me. I swear you have me-” the words came out desperate against her ear.
And it was too much, the words too sweet and Sansa shoved him. “I don’t know you,” she
shouted. “How can I have you when I don’t know the first thing about you? Tell me who you are!”
Sandor stiffened, his eyes going suddenly empty, dead. “Name: Alexander Ivanovich Clegane. Codename: the Hound. Born in 1948. Trained from childhood by the House of Black and White."
“Stop! This isn’t how I want to know!” Sansa cried, shoving at Sandor again, wanting to stop the emptiness in his eyes because-
“Loaned to the KGB for the glory of Soviet supremacy. Loaned to-”
“Stop, please-” because she knew what this was, remembered-
“Midas and the Bloody Mummers. Escaped the House of Black and White in 1998-”
Sansa clapped her hand over his mouth. “Sandor, please, I want to know you. Not this-,” she remembered being unmade.
He stopped talking suddenly and then he shuddered, blinked. Sandor’s eyes met hers and Sansa almost whimpered at the life she saw in.
Sansa lowered her hand.
She watched him come back to himself, watched the rage seep in.
“You once said you were trying to break out of your programming-” Sansa started, quiet, understanding.
His eyes dug into her.
“And direct orders-” he nodded curtly before a harsh laugh burst out of him and his hand curled around the knife at his hip; he gripped it like a talisman.
“I’m sorry,” Sansa whispered. “I didn’t realize-”
“It’s been years-," and Sansa recoiled at the venom in his voice.“Years since that’s happened and then you- fuck you, сука. It’s been years and then you," he turned from her, spitting out the words. "You rip me up.”
“I don’t mean to. I swear I don’t-” but she’d become so hard.
“Why did you run? Why couldn’t you have just stayed there?” he hissed, launching himself into her space, crowding her.
“I wasn’t running away,” Sansa admitted quietly. “I just wanted to see how long the leash was.”
The tension didn’t leak out of his body at the admission and his hand stayed gripped on the knife but Sansa could see him wrangle himself for the conversation. It was a bitter taste, knowing she’d put that tension there.
He surprised her then, pushing his rage down and trying so damned hard to fight everything that he’d been made into: “The clothes were a good choice- you look like everyone else. And the sex shop-”
“Nobody expects America’s Darling to turn up in one of those,” Sansa said, her tone sardonic, letting him turn the conversation, letting him escape.
“да. Donahue was blushing all through the report,” and Sansa didn’t mean to, but she resented the amusement in his voice. This was her life and he was keeping her in the cage.
"I wish you hadn’t run,” Sandor said, his voice heavy. Sansa glanced at him. “I didn’t want to have to bring you back. Not if you didn’t want to go.”
“Sandor,” she said, trying to make him look at her. “Sandor,” she repeated and then his eyes slowly slid to hers. “I don’t have anywhere to run. This,” Sansa swept her arms out, bringing in the broken brick street, the hollow warehouses and graffiti, “Brooklyn’s all I have. There’s nothing else left.”
Sandor searched her face and she let her honesty show; let the pain scratch itself across her face.
“I hope there is enough," Sandor said and he understood so much better than Sansa could have hoped.
Sansa drooped against the fence, let her shoulder rub against his. “It’s a whole new world,” Sansa admitted, “but Brooklyn’s got old bones. Always has.” Sansa pointed at the old brick warehouse across from them. “I used to work there. After I dropped out of school, I spent five years rolling cigars before getting a job at Red’s Dance Hall. And Robb,” Sansa twisted out to look at the pier, “worked over on the docks. Which, by the way, what’s an IKEA?” Sansa asked, looking at the monstrosity near them.
Sandor actually laughed, “It’s hell with Swedish furniture.”
“I thought it might be another factory,” Sansa shrugged, not really sure what he meant but willing to let it go because it’d made him laugh and that was all she wanted. “Red Hook always liked its factories. Not as much as an alley fight, but it liked ‘em all the same.”
“Never pictured you in an alley fight, милая.”
“Probably because I never got in one. Now, Arya,” Sansa smiled sadly at the memory, “Arya got into alley fights. Rickon, too.”
“That never stopped,” Sandor said, his lips quirking up.
“Yeah?”
“He used to go out patrolling the city at night and stop crime like some sort of vigilante. Pissed Rayder off but Rickon didn’t give a damn.”
Sansa grinned. That was her baby brother all over.
“I used to go with him sometimes when we were in the same city at the same time,” Sandor paused, steeled himself, offered up a truth. “He found me in an alley in Mumbai, covered in shit and blood and ready to kill anyone for anything.” He leveled Sansa with a look. “I have never been a good person.”
Sansa held his gaze. She thought about Private Rodriguez and the scars on her arms- and the prisoners, always the prisoners and the bloody knife in her hand. She thought about the way that the shadows felt like home. She nodded. “I think I used to be,” and it was achingly satisfying that he didn’t try to contradict her.
“I’m not going to run away, Sandor,” she said and he breathed deep. “I’m a Stark and that means my home is Brooklyn. I won’t leave.” Sansa looked back out over the choppy waves, at the docks where her brothers had worked all their lives and there were ghosts, but god, those ghosts were hers.
**
The uniform fit well and it would be easy to fight in. Light, mobile, and it looked good on her. Sansa traced one of the white stripes down from the top of her breast to where it met her red boots at her knees. She splayed her hand across the star on her chest and then dabbed at the corner of her eye where her make-up had smudged. Sansa breathed and shook her hair so that that it spilled gently across her shoulders. The cowl framed her eyes and two large wings stretched out behind her ears. Sansa breathed and looked at America’s Darling in her red lipstick. Sansa breathed and hefted up the shield. Captain America.
“Let’s give ‘em a show,” Sansa muttered and walked out the door.