Maybe I wasn't Born to Die
Sansa was standing at a podium looking out over a sea of heads with cameras poised and notebooks ready. It wasn’t, all things considered, very different from the dog and pony show she’d done as the Little Bird. They’d put her in green and tight skirts back then for those shows though. She’d always felt like an imposter but this-
Her Captain America uniform was meant for durability, for heavy impact, for protection and it weighed heavy on her shoulders as she faced the journalists down. It felt wrong, it all felt wrong but this especially-
“Good evening,” she began and wished that they’d let her keep the cowl up. “My name is Sansa Stark and I’m Captain America.”
**
New York Times
SANSA STARK FOUND ALIVE
May 25, J. Jones
NYC: Last night, the nation over was shocked by the news that Sansa Stark, hero of the second World War, darling of America, and seemingly lost to history, has been found. For decades, scientists and adventurers have explored the Arctic Sea in search of the missing soldier only for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division (SHIELD)- to have found her in early May. Frozen in ice for 67 years, the
**
Solid weight of the shield on one arm. The comfort of a knife in her hand.
**
Huffington Post
FRAUD OR FOSSIL
June 1, Betty Brant
In a world of Elvis sightings, kids in hot air balloons and bat babies, would it be so outrageous that this Sansa Stark resurrection is nothing but another media fraud?
**
Fury slid a folder across the desk to her. “Assemble a STRIKE team. These are the available operatives.”
She opened the file. She’d never had a team, just a family.
**
Sansa threw the shield.
**
People Magazine
EVEN SUPERSOLDIERS NEED TO JOG!
June 3, Everheart
Sansa Stark was seen running through her hometown, Manhattan, wearing a purple sports bra and black yoga pants. Talk about abs!
**
The bank robber fired and the bullet connected. The uniform took the brunt of the impact but it still lodged itself between her ribs and they cracked.
Her knife met the joint of his arm.
**
Time Magazine
SANSA STARK: MIRACLE OF THE CENTURY
June 7, Reed.
In this era of modern science, it is sometimes difficult to remember to be incredulous. The discovery of Sansa Stark, and the science used to thaw
**
Cosmo
AMERICA’S DARLING: 95 AND LOOKING FLY
**
Sansa threw the-
**
Her hand pressed firm against the mercenary’s straining neck.
**
Mensrights.com
SANSA STARK: RUINING THE MILITARY SINCE 1941
**
The White Walkers dunk you in the tank again again again again again again-
Sansa slept through the night.
She wished she hadn’t.
**
She threw-
**
The Daily Bugle
CAPTAIN AMERINOT
**
Arya comes at you- Rickon rushes you- you can’t find Bran and Robb just watches. He always just-
**
Threw the-
**
Washington Post
THE RETURN OF AMERICA’S DARLING AND AMERICA’S MORALITY
**
Threw-
**
Ice sticking up and through the scars on your arms-
**
Buzzfeed.com
25 REASONS WHY SANSA STARK AS CAPTAIN AMERICA IS GREAT FOR FEMINISM
**
Threw the-
**
She threw-
**
“Excuse me,” Sansa called out, drawing the attention of a woman fixing a window screen. "I'm looking for Mya Stone. She owns the building?"
The woman stepped down the short ladder and wiped her hands on her jeans: "Yeah, that's me. What can I do for you?"
"A woman down at that Ethiopian market- Maharene- she said you had a room for rent. I was hoping to take a look at it."
The woman frowned: "Yeah, I know her but I don’t usually rent to folks from outside the neighborhood."
Sansa stretched a smile across her face. "'Course, yeah. Sorry I bothered you." She shifted her grip on the big duffle bag and turned to leave. She tried not to let the disappointment show. She'd been excited to find the brownstone rowhouse, had liked the familiarity of Bed-Stuy even if she'd never lived there.
But she wasn't going back to that white room. It wouldn't be the first time she’d slept on the street.
"You a vet?" The woman asked and Sansa had to breathe deep. "You've got the look." Slowly, tightening her grip on the large tote that held her shield, she turned back. "It's not obvious. But it's there if you know what you're looking for."
"You?" Sansa asked.
Mya Stone nodded. "Two tours and three years back with a metal leg as thanks for it."
Mya had an easy smile, big, like she did it often. Sansa’s throat went tight. "A month."
She whistled: "Fresh off the boat, huh?” After a moment, Mya nodded, seeming to decide something: “Alright, I wouldn’t normally do this but why don’t you come up, look at the unit. You like it, it’s yours.”
Sansa stayed quiet even as she felt herself stiffen, her eyes narrow.
“It’s not pity,” Mya said, her voice just a little bit hard. “I know what it’s like to have no place to go.”
Sansa nodded: “Thank you.”
“You got a name?”
“Sansa Stark,” and she waited for Mya to go starry-eyed and tongue-tied. She didn’t. Relief spread over her like a wave.
**
The first time Sansa felt well and truly cold in the 21st Century was on June 17, 2012 when SHIELD sent her on a mission to North Dakota and there was a surprise blizzard.
Sansa was grateful, she was so grateful that the blizzard didn’t hit until she and Red Thorn were already escorting the hostages into the medical tents that SHIELD had set up because the air was already chilled but when the snow came, it came hard with a sharp wind that stabbed right through her and Sansa’s breath came short and her eyes widened and it took everything she had not to scream and curl up and drown in it. But she didn’t because there wasn’t the time for her to be weak, so Sansa steeled herself and let herself go numb with it until she could continue giving orders to the rescued hostages, until she’d seen that they were safe and until everything was squared away and she could squirrel herself away in the dark corner of an ally of and then-
Sansa’s fingers fisted her hair, her knees curled up to her chest, her head down and Sansa’s breath went quick and loud-
Sansa walked out of the alley two minutes later and nobody noticed a damn thing.
**
Rayder’s office was just as stale as the first time she’d seen it. There were the big tall windows that the future loved so much and plush black leather couches, an enormous glass desk. The man himself sat behind it, back rigid, fingers folded and staring at her grimly. Sansa supposed that it could be an intimidating look but if he wanted her cowed, he’d have to do better.
“I’d like to know why you thought it would be a good idea to try and run away,” he started. “You haven’t been properly introduced-”
“It wasn’t an attempt, sir,” Sansa interrupted, pettily satisfied when Rayder looked offended. “If I wanted out, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Elaborate.”
Sansa cocked her head off to the side, considering. She wanted to make sure that Rayder understood the limit of his power. “It took me five minutes to lose three of your agents. It took you five hours to track me down,” Sansa levelled her gaze, “and you found me waiting. Imagine if I actually tried to get away.”
Rayder’s nostrils flared. “SHIELD houses some of the best operatives in the world, Captain. We’d find you anywhere you went.”
She smiled sharp: “The world’s a big place.” Sansa pulled out the chair across from the director and sat down, crossing her ankles. “But I don’t it want to come to that, so let’s talk.”
After a moment, Rayder nodded and sat back in his seat. “Alright, Cap. Let’s talk. What do you want?”
“I pick an apartment of my choice. I pay for it, it’s under my name. And no more tails. Not a single agent-” Rayder opened his mouth- “That’s non-negotiable. I find a single agent following me and I’ll disappear. No more Captain America. No more symbol.”
“It’s for your own protection. The agents are there to make sure nothing happens to you. It’s a brand new world and we want to make sure you can get along in it,” Rayder tried to placate her.
Her fist clenched and she resisted the urge to scold him like the liar he was: “No more agents.”
Rayder shook his head: “SHIELD has regulations. I can’t just let you go galavanting across the country. If you work for SHIELD, you follow SHIELD regs.”
“So give me a handler,” Sansa argued.
“SHIELD does have liaisons-” Sansa’s jaw clenched at his unwillingness to call it what it was, “that work to communicate with some of our more specialized operatives.”
“Good, then give me that.” It wasn’t ideal but if it was one person- Sansa could work with that.
“We’ll start with daily check-ins-”
“Weekly-”
“Daily- don’t push it, Captain,” Rayder warned and Sansa let him have it. “And I want you to do a press conference.”
Sansa nodded. She may have hated the idea but it was a long time coming. Symbols didn’t work if you kept them hidden.
**
Open floor. Five exits. Three possible sniper’s nest. Unoccupied. Seven targets. Orders to subdue.
The shield rebounded off a man’s ribs. Six. She caught it, brought it down on the knee of another, uppercut to the chin. Five. She brought the back of her ankle to a man’s neck, dragging him down, rolling up, shield to the spine. Four. Caught a knife, threw it back, side of the throat. Three. Side kick, block, flanked, ducked, threw the shield against the warehouse wall; it hit the mercenary behind her, two, kick to the man’s knee, it broke, one, caught the shield, gripped the man’s neck, slammed him against the floor. “Clear,” Sansa breathed into the comm.
A woman in tactical gear broke out of the shadows, dashing for the far door. “Target sighted. In pursuit.” Sansa took off after her, leapt off the wall, vaulted the railing. The target turned, bringing up a gun. The bullet deflected off the shield. She threw it and knocked the gun out of the target's hand, breaking the wrist. The shield hit the wall, hit her neck. She crumpled. “Target secure,” Sansa said and bound the woman’s hands in a zip tie.
“Acknowledged. Evac in five. Bring target to roof.”
“Affirmative.”
Sansa flipped the shield up from the floor and caught it on her arm in the smooth motion she’d practised. The edge of it was covered in blood. A drop fell to the floor.
Sansa swung it over her back, hooking it to the custom magnet on the back of her harness.
Robb had never gotten it bloodstained.
She would do better.
**
“So,” Mya started, taking the steps sideways and slow, “A month? You SNAFU or FUBAR?”
“FUBAR,” Sansa choked out around a shaky laugh, glad to say it. “Like the day is long."
Mya’s smirk was knowing and a little bit sad: “Ain’t we all.”
**
The heat of the desert sun made her the warmest she’d ever been. But the stench of the bodies they found, desecrated and burnt on the border- that lingered much, much longer.
**
“Do you want to talk about why you ran from SHIELD?” Dr. Lewin asked, his voice gentle like it always was.
“Not really,” Sansa replied. Her eyes met his and she made sure that her expression was blank. SHIELD hadn’t earned anything from her and for all his kindness, neither had Dr. Lewin.
The doctor sighed, the first time she had heard him do it, and slumped a little in his office chair: “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, Captain.”
Sansa slipped on a polite smile: “I’ll try harder.”
His eyes went a little hard then and Sansa finally understood why he worked for SHIELD. "I want you to know that I recommended that you not be cleared for active duty."
"But Rayder wanted his weapon."
"Is that how you see yourself? A weapon?"
"You don’t?"
His lips thinned. "I think you're a highly traumatized war veteran suffering from anxiety, paranoia and depression. I think you're experiencing a completely unprecedented sense of displacement and are undoubtedly in extreme grief over the loss of your family," Dr. Lewin paused and Sansa, terrified, kept her face blank. "I also think you're one of the strongest people I've ever met because despite all of that, you are enduring. I think you will continue to endure." He leaned forward. “But you won’t- not if you keep doing what you’re doing. All the fighting- all the lying- it’ll drag you down. You know that. So don’t let it.”
“I- I’ll-” Sansa pushed the words out against her closing throat. “I’ll try harder.”
**
The shield hissed through the air, rebounded off the crack of a collarbone-
**
The apartment was small, a little dark, but with a big window in the main room, a kitchen big enough to breathe in and the one bedroom looked out over the street and had a little balcony. It was all white.
“Can I paint the walls,” Sansa asked, interrupting Mya’s schpiel about the heating.
After a moment, Mya said, “So long as you paint ‘em back when you move out.”
Sansa smiled, a small little thing, but genuine, “I’ll take it.” She turned to Mya and she felt excited, the sensation breaking through the gray haze she’d been living in. “Can I move in today?”
Mya looked calculating again and a twinge of doubt shot through Sansa. “That’s all you have, isn’t it?” Mya said, gesturing at the duffle bag and tote that Sansa was carrying.
She nodded.
With a sigh, Mya ran a hand across her shaved head. “You can move in today on two conditions: you let my fiancée feed you dinner and you borrow a sleeping bag and some pillows until you get a bed.” Mya’s eyes were flint and serious: “You’ve earned a helluva lot more than sleepin’ on hardwood with an empty stomach.”
Sansa swallowed, a little overwhelmed. “Yeah, yeah sure. Twist my arm.”
**
“Name’s Agent Tarly,” the man stuck out his hand. It was warm and a little bit sticky from sweat but he had an honest smile. At least, Sansa supposed, as honest a smile as a SHIELD liaison could have.
**
Mya paused for a moment in front of a door on the first floor landing. For the first time, she looked uncomfortable. “Look, uh, I just wanna warn you: my fiancée’s a real big fan.”
Sansa shook her head: “I was starting to think that you hadn’t noticed.”
With a smirk, Mya unlocked the door: “I’m crippled, not blind.”
**
“Ask me a question,” and Sansa almost decked him for sneaking up on her and he really ought to know better.
“What?” Sansa panted, getting her balance back and refusing to slow her run. She had ten miles left and had finally started to feel winded. It’d been good, pushing her body this far, getting out of her head. Clegane kept pace with her and when Sansa glanced at him, she noticed that he hadn’t even started sweating yet. “Were you waiting for me?” she asked.
His shoulders twitched up: “I know your running path.” Sansa gritted her teeth. She’d found this path three days ago on a blog called brooklynrunner and it was a good one; she could get about 20 miles out of it. It went around the southern tip of Manhattan, past Governor’s Island and she could loop around into Brooklyn over the bridge. She hoped she wouldn’t have to find a new one.
“Ask me a question,” Clegane repeated.
“No.”
“Ask me,” Clegane almost growled, his frustration bubbling up.
“Look, Clegane-”
His arm shot out to grab her but Sansa dodged it. He was easy to read when he was angry. “My name-” he gritted. “Say my name.”
She watched him again as he ran next to her and she didn’t let herself feel how nice it was to have him by her side again. Sansa pushed back against the comfort of him. But he looked- hurt, so- “Alright. Sandor. But you don’t owe me anything, especially not something like this.”
“Ask me!” he seethed.
“No-”
“Please,” and it came out desperate.
Sansa veered off of the path, stopping next to a tree and leaning against it. Sandor stood in front of her and for all that he was a giant, he seemed, in this moment, almost small. Vulnerable.
“Fine,” Sansa said and his relief was almost palpable. “But you have to ask me one after.” He started to shake his head but Sansa cut him off. “That’s the deal. A question for a question or this doesn’t happen.”
Emotions flickered across his face too fast for her to read before finally settling on the steely determination that she was used to: “Ask me.”
Sansa paused because- this was his trust but- and it would be so easy to hurt him like this, to sink her talons in and leave him bloody- she could ask him anything and god save him but he would answer and Sansa had become many things but cruel still wasn’t one of them.
“You said you were born in 1948,” his jaw stiffened and Sansa almost stopped because maybe this question was too- but then he nodded and Sansa went on. “But you- you can’t be that old. You don’t even look 40. Sandor, do you age?” Sansa asked, suddenly terrified of the answer.
“Yes,” he answered, automatic. “But slowly.” Sansa didn’t know if she was allowed to ask how, if that would be two questions but then he offered her so much more than she deserved. “I was given my version of the supersoldier serum when I was 17,” he stared at her hard. “What use is a weapon if it weakens with age?”
Sansa did the math: “You’ve aged maybe, what? 20 years in almost 70? Is that-” as awful as it sounds she wanted to ask but stopped. One question. “Your turn.”
“That’s it?” Sandor asked, surprised. She didn’t know if it was because she’d taken less than she could or because he’d expected it to be worse.
“Yeah, that’s it. Now ask me.”
Sandor started to shake his head: “That was the deal, Sandor. A question for a question."
“I know,” he snapped. “Just- let me think.” Sandor turned from her then, getting back on the path and starting to run. After a moment, Sansa caught up to him. She started to be lulled into that sense of security that he brought with him and she resented him for it. He’d gotten what he wanted from her, some sense of redemption or- and it still left Sansa cold.
They ran for a while, side by side and silent in their familiar way until she felt him stiffen beside her. He’d thought of the question but it took him longer to ask it. Some things, Sansa knew, took time to say. Sandor, when he did finally turn to her, had a heavy gaze, a cutting one: “Would you go back?”
“Is that your question?” Sansa clarified, praying that he’d say no so she could run from it. No one had asked her that yet.
“That’s my question.”
It would be easy, she supposed, it would be so easy to say “yes” and leave it at that; to wrap up all of the longing inside of her into such a simple word. Going back was working three jobs to make sure that her family stayed stitched tight and knowing all the songs on the radio and hanging laundry between fire escapes and dragging her bones across Europe. But none of that was what she wanted. She longed desperately to see her family again and lay to rest all the demons inside of her that the war planted deep and to sleep sweet and to feel loved and she wanted to go home. And that had nothing at all to do with going back.
“No,” Sansa forced herself to say for all that she hated the answer.
“Why not?”
“Because it wouldn’t change anything.”
**
Target in sight, Sansa breathed out and squeezed the trigger. She did it again, the kickback jolting but never enough to throw her back. Smoothly, Sansa pulled the bolt and ejected the casing- a habit that had become ingrained with her Springfield back in the war. She’d never been as good with it as Bran but none of them were. It was why he’d been the Crow.
Then again, that Springfield had nothing on the Barrett MRAD. The design was solid, kickback minimal and Sansa liked the weight of it. She’d chosen it today because of the bolt-action and the focus she’d need. It was methodical; trigger, bolt, adjust, trigger. Again and again. The bullets ripped through walls and Sansa could imagine the exit wound it would leave, how easily it would leave them; how efficiently.
Sansa noticed Shireen approach her. She’d kept her movements large and obvious, letting Sansa know she was coming. Sansa pulled the trigger again, release, trigger. Shireen waited until Sansa emptied the magazine before crouching down beside her and pulling off her hearing protection.
After making it clear that she wasn’t going away anytime soon, Sansa pulled off her own hearing protection and put the safety on. Without looking at the agent, Sansa sat up to grab another magazine.
Shireen sighed and Sansa felt her exasperation. Sansa knew she was being petty and that Shireen didn’t deserve the cold shoulder but it stung all over, remembering that she was SHIELD and Sansa didn’t trust anything to do with SHIELD.
“Rayder is pissed,” Shireen stated like she was saying the sun was out. Sansa nodded, settling back into position. “He doesn’t understand why you would try to leave.” Shireen paused. Sansa nodded again and was about to put the hearing protectors back on when she spoke again. “I don’t either. SHIELD is the good guys. Always has been. Your brothers- Rickon designed it to be that way. He would have been proud to have you serving. Hell, he was proud to serve. He did it all his life-”
“A park ranger,” Sansa said, her voice calmer than she thought it would be.
“What?” Shireen asked, her eyes wide and startled that Sansa had spoken.
“That’s what Rickon said he wanted to be after the war.”
After a moment: “I didn’t know.” It came out pained.
Sansa finally turned to face the agent crouched beside her. “Rickon wanted things to be quiet. He didn’t want- he never- the Rickon you’re talking about, the one who was proud and honored- he doesn't even seem real.”
Shireen stood then and looked down at Sansa with those same heavy eyes: “I’m sorry that you never got to know him."
Sansa pushed the Barrett away and shoved herself to her feet: “I did know him,” she said through gritted teeth. “He was my brother- my baby brother. I knew him when he was in diapers. I knew him when he was pulling Becca Barnes’ pigtails and when he got scared of the rats in the walls. I knew him-” Sansa broke off, huffing. “Did you know that he used to go to work hungover because he’d been out all night drinking ‘cause he hated going home? Or that he was three inches away from being in deep with the Irish mob and that I had to splint his hand ‘cause he broke it in some dumb bar fight? I held him when Marcy Costigan broke his heart and I held him during that first night in the trenches and I-.” Sansa laughed and it was ragged. “I knew my brother. I knew him when-” and suddenly Sansa stopped because that was it, wasn’t it. She’d known him when.
She shattered.
“God, I’m so sorry, Shireen. “I’m so sorry-” and Sansa finally cried. The sobs heaved out of her and they ran wet down her cheeks, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh god, I’m so sorry,” she blubbered, flinging off the protective glasses and burying her head in her hands. Shireen’s arms went around her, coaxing Sansa and murmuring in her ear. Shireen let Sansa sob, let her dirty up the shoulder of her uniform, all the while running her hand through Sansa’s hair.
It was a piece of comfort that Sansa hadn’t even known that she was desperate for. For the first time in- the first time in- Sansa let herself feel warm. She burrowed into Shireen and Sansa thought of her mother, of the way that her mother had held her before the serum took over everything. And she missed them so much- her parents. She cried for them and she cried for her family and then, for once, Sansa cried for herself and everything she’d lost because she really, really wished that she could have known her brother.
**
“Look,” Shireen whispered. “You’ve got to let somebody in. It doesn’t have to be me and maybe it shouldn’t be, but you have to let someone in. Or-” Shireen glanced down and her eyes went far away and Sansa would bet twenty dollars she was thinking of Rickon. “You’ve got to let somebody in.”
Her thoughts turned to Sandor and how she’d come so close- but that stung so Sansa pushed it away. “I-” don’t know how anymore “I can try,” and even Sansa wasn’t sure if she was lying anymore.
**
Sansa sat in Randa and Mya’s kitchen, deveining shrimp for the jumbalaya. She’d never had jambalaya or shrimp but distinctly remembered the night in Brighton when they’d been put up in a fisherman’s cottage. Three pairs of dog tags had been hanging from the mantle. The widow had cooked lobster- a gift from the neighbors. She’d said they’d have gone to waste otherwise but Sansa remembered thinking that she was just glad to have someone to cook for again.
It was one of the warmest nights of the war.
Randa’s kitchen was nothing like the dreariness that had hung over the widow’s cottage. It was bright and colorful; yellows and purples and blues and oranges with beads hanging in the doors and artwork on the walls. Jazz was pounding out of the speakers, blending with the scent of the cajun spices and sauce for the jambalaya. A picture of Mya and Randa laughing hung on the wall, their arms wrapped tight around each other.
Sansa had never been in a kitchen like this one- had never been in any place like this one. Her apartment with Arya had been home but always too hot or too cold and carried a lasting sense of being overused and old. Her parents’ kitchen only ever had whatever groceries Sansa bought for them and was always just a little bit messy, a little bit lonely.
It was pleasant and easy, sitting in Randa’s kitchen, listening to the woman talk about the children in her kindergarten class. It was nice how Randa hadn’t mentioned the fading bruise on her cheek where she’d been caught with the butt of a gun. But out of the corner of Sansa’s eyes, Sansa’s own eyes were staring back at her and they were burrowing beneath her skin.
She’d noticed the poster on her first night in their home. She’d noticed it every time she’d come over since. It was a painting of someone who looked remarkably like her. The woman was coiled up like a pin-up girl, a gray dress hugging her curves, legs on display with garter belts and stockings, a smirk and beneath it all was the text “she’s beauty, she’s grace, she’ll punch you in the face.”
“Do you want me to take it down?” Randa asked, drawing Sansa back into the kitchen and away from a theater in Harlem that had been closed for years.
Sansa shook her head, working her throat around the words: “No, it’s- it’s okay. I don’t mind. I- it’s my favorite one I’ve seen so far.”
It wasn’t a lie. Randa didn’t look mollified so Sansa put on a smile and ducked her head, getting back to the shrimp. It wasn’t all a lie.
**
Sansa bought lavender curtains and hung them in her bedroom.
**
When the ambush had started, Sansa had believed that it was going to be the hardest fight she’d had in a while. It’d been exciting; the opportunity to lose herself in the combat. Even during the war Sansa had been able to take herself out of the equation. Her mind narrowed until there was nothing but the mission.
But this fight was hectic in a way that Sansa didn’t like. Their intel about the Warlocks- a terrorist group primarily operating on a scientific front- hadn’t even hinted towards this kind of manpower. Her team had prepared for a covert mission and expected to mostly be slinking about in the shadows and quietly capturing the scientists one by one. This though, this fight was out of character. Chaotic in a way that the controlled, careful Warlocks never had been.
Sansa blinked, realizing. “This is a distraction,” she said into the comm.
Red Thorn responded first and Sansa could barely make her out from her perch in the rafters: “How can you tell?”
Sansa drove her shield into of the enemy’s solar plexus, felt the crack. “Look at the way their fighting-”
“Seem to be fighting pretty hard to me,” Sellsword broke in and shot one of them in the kneecap. They had direct “No kill” orders.
Rolling away from a hit, Sansa came up and heaved the shield. It ricocheted off the cement wall before rebounding off a man’s ribs and coming back to her. She turned and brought her fist against a woman’s jaw. “They’re not fighting to stop us,” Sansa answered just as another target danced out of her reach- like almost all of them had been doing. “They’re stalling us.” An arrow was suddenly in his back.
The comms were silent for a moment. “She’s right,” Agent Payne spoke up. “We need to find what they’re hiding.”
Sansa considered for a moment and the fluid movements of the fight came second nature. “Alright, Oathkeeper, take the top floors. Squire, I want you to find command, get whatever intel you can. I’ll take the basement. Thorn, Sellsword?”
“We got it, Cap,” Sellsword said with a smile in his voice and the gun going off. “These guys aren’t going anywhere.”
With the new, clear mission, Sansa finally felt her mind settle. The dark stairwell felt familiar, like all the missions she’d run during the war. She’d been trained to slink through the shadows. It was almost a comfort to be back in them. She let herself go blank.
Long hallways, poorly lit. No soldiers. No scientists. Multiple doors. Electricity so loud she could feel it thrumming. She kicked the first door in.
Empty room. Machines. Off. Chair. Leather straps. Metal table. Restraints. Needles. Tubes. Tray of- metal table. Retraits. Needles-
Sansa looked closer at the machines and the breath rushed out of her. It was 1943 and there was a metal table and a chair and needles and the constant beeping of machines and it was 2012 and there was-
“Mission objective changed. New priority,” Sansa said into the comms, rushing out of the room and going to the next one. Bashing in the door, she stopped herself from reeling at the familiar sight. “Warlocks have prisoners. At least-” Sansa paused to count the doors. “Seven, maybe more.”
“What? Intel didn’t show-” Oathkeeper responded, sounding breathless.
“There’s White Walker tech in this base. Modified, newer, but- they’re conducting human experiments. Squire, you connected yet?” Sansa moved onto the next room and stamped down her feeling of panic.
“Almost, Cap. Give me another minute. Control was empty but they’ve got good hardware.”
Of course it was empty. The Warlocks had known that they were coming somehow and left. She hoped they’d left the prisoners, she hoped and hoped.
The machines were still on in the final room, emitting a steady sound that was so familiar it set her teeth on edge. God, she’d wished that if this future could offer her nothing else that she would have never had to hear that beeping again.
“Cap, I found a cell,” Red Thorn said and there was some emotion underneath her words that Sansa couldn’t identify.
“Are they alive, are the prisoners-”
“Yes. They need medical but they’re fine. They’re going to be fine.”
Sansa let herself breathe finally and rounded a corner. She found a lab, scoured it for anything that could help, found nothing.
“Evacuation in progress. There’s eight of them and they say that there’s no one-” Red Thorn went silent and when she came back her voice had that note again. “There’s a kid somewhere in the complex. They don’t know where.”
“Top floors secure,” Oathkeeper reported.
“I’m in. Schematics show a room in the lower levels. It’s connected to a- it looks like some sort of cellblock? Turn left at the next corner. You should find it,” Squire said and she heard the typing in the background.
“Sellsword?” Sansa asked.
“I got the last of the minions down. We’re clear up here.”
“Then get them out,” Sansa said and took off down the next hallway, not even bothering to check the other rooms. She could see something up ahead, caught up in the shadows. A blinking red dot and the air was dense with the smell of sweat and fear.
It was a timer. It was a bomb. It said 30 seconds. Sansa didn’t know how to disable it. On the left was a steel door and a small window. There was a little boy inside.
“Thorn, there’s a bomb. Tell me they’re out. Tell me they’re the fuck out-”
“Yeah, we’re good. We’re good. But Cap-”
“Then get out of here. All of you.”
“What about-”
“Just go,” Sansa yelled and yanked the door off of it’s hinges. Inside the room, the little boy scurried away from her and Sansa wanted to be kind and soothing and gentle his fear but there wasn’t time for that. The beeping grew louder and insistent and that sound was also familiar and she should have known.
“No,” the boy whimpered, “no quiero-” The foundation cracked beneath their feet and Sansa lunged for the boy. Her hand closed around his wrist as she pulled him to her, felt his shoulder pop, and then the building crashed down on them.
Sansa curled herself over him, her knee slamming to the concrete and barely getting the shield up in time to take what impact it could.
**
She took the curtains down.
**
The first thing Sansa registered was the fluttering puffs of breath against her arm. The next was the boy’s whimpers. Then the voice in her ear.
“Cap? Cap, are you there? Oh shit, c’mon. Answer!” Sansa blinked. That was...was, Oathkeeper. That was Oathkeeper.
Sansa opened her mouth to respond, coughed instead, hacking up dust and grime. She finally noticed the strain on her right arm and the enormous weight of what she was holding up. A building. She was holding up the rubble of a building and for a brief moment even she was shocked at her own strength.
Her other arm was still holding the boy flush to her body and a slab of concrete was pressed hard against her back and the knee she had pressed against the floor was shooting with pain. The shield seemed to be keeping everything in place though so she just needed to hold on. Sansa didn’t know if she was strong enough for it but she was going to be. She had to be.
She remembered Oathkeeper’s plea then and spoke around her dry throat. “I’m fine. I’m alive. I’ve got the boy but we’re buried out here,” she heard the breath of relief. “Did you get everyone out?” Sansa asked.
“Yeah, they’re all out. We got all the hostages out.”
“What about the mercenaries? The ones the Warlocks hired?”
There was a pause. Sansa closed her eyes: “Look for them. Save who you can.”
“Confirmed,” Red Thorn answered and Sansa finally recognized that the emotion in her voice was panic. “We’re coming for you. Just hang tight.”
“Roger that,” Sansa said and turned her attention to the boy.
“Hey there,” she whispered and willed herself to be soothing. “You alright? Does anything hurt?”
When the boy didn’t answer, she remembered what he’d said earlier. “¿Estas bien?” she tried.
The boy sniffled, “Tengo miedo,” and then whimpered again.
“Okay, bueno. Bueno. What your name- ¿como se llama?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. “Gabriel.”
Sansa nodded, ignored the dull ache in her right arm, and bent her head just a little to kiss the top of his head. “Estamos bien, Gabriel.” He didn’t say anything back and Sansa scoured her mind for something that would soothe him. She used to watch Widow Arcadio’s daughter sometimes, even after Sansa had quit the factory. Remedios had been sick all the time and there’d been a song- it’d been for babies, but it was ringing through her head and blocking out everything else. So she began to sing.
“Que linda manita que tiene el bebé, qué linda, qué bella, qué preciosa es,” and when she began to repeat the verse the boy started to turn his hand back and forth in small, scared little movements, and Sansa willed herself to last a little longer.
**
You wake up and there is a hand on your shoulder. The hand is shaking you. There is a distant impression that the voice-because there is a voice- is familiar. That the words are familiar. This is irrelevant. You are shaken awake by a warm hand on your shoulder and you are lying on a cool, hard metal table. There are no longer tubes in your arms. The straps restricting you are gone. There is a warm hand shaking you.
You register the knife on the young woman’s belt before you register anything else. You grab it and swing at the young woman. She moves out of the way. The others had not been that fast. You swing again and hit nothing. The young woman does not fight you and, inextricably, it feels wrong to be fighting her. You distract the young woman with the knife and when she dodges it, your fist collides with her face. You feel upset that you have hit the woman but you are also upset that you cannot hit her with the knife.
“-ansa!” the voice filters through the haze. It tugs at the back of your mind.
“It’s me! It’s-“ The young woman says a name and it is familiar. It is also irrelevant. But you are not fighting as well as you know that you can. You are faster than this young woman. You are stronger. You are deadlier. You do not fight the young woman as well as you know you can.
“Sansa, snap out of it!” The young woman cries. Her voice is desperate even though her defenses are smooth and controlled. She is also not fighting as well as you know she can. How do you know this?
“Little Bird!” These words yank at your mind and you howl. You swing the knife with much more chaos than you are supposed to have. You will be punished for this. You try to gain control.
“Little Bird! I’m your sister!” You falter for a moment and try to regain yourself.
You have no sister. You have no sister. You have no brother with auburn hair or brother who used to wear reading glasses or brother who smoked on fire escapes or a sister with bruised knuckles. You have nothing. You are nothing but a-
“Soldier!”
The word is like a whip and you stumble back. You stumble because you are a soldier and this young woman called you a soldier and the only ones that called you soldier were a brother with auburn hair a brother who used to wear reading classes a brother who smoked on fire escapes and a sister with bruised knuckles. You drop the knife even though you shouldn’t. Your legs shake and crumble even though you are stronger than that. You scream because you can’t stop yourself.
They took this from you. They took the brother with the hair and the brother with the glasses and the brother with the cigarettes and the sister with the knuckles. They took them and replaced them with an empty void and needles and tubes and hard leather straps and knives and orders to cut and hurt and kill. You howl because there is nothing else you can do.
There is a warm hand on your shoulder and you look up and Arya is staring at you. There is a watery gleam to her eyes and a bruise forming around her eye. You whimper.
“You’re safe now. We’re here,” Arya reassures you, her hand squeezing your shoulder. It hurts. You try to answer her and your mouth falls open like a gaping fish, the only sound a giant gasp of air.
“Breathe, Little Bird.”
You shrink from the name. It sounds wrong, somehow. Distant and unfamiliar. It doesn’t belong. Arya reads the tremor as something else. “You’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you. You don’t have to be afraid. I promise.”
Afraid. Afraid. Afraid. The word skips in your mind because you were not afraid. They didn’t let you be afraid. They carved into your mind with their wires and their electricity and their chemicals until there was no fear. Until there was nothing at all. Nothing but obedience. You were not afraid but they were. The prisoners were. You saw it in their eyes when-when the prisoners-when the prisoners-when-
“Where are they?” You gasp. “Where are they?”
“Who?” Arya asks, her eyes uncomprehending.
The hand on your shoulder all of a sudden feels like a cage and you twist away from her grip, launching yourself off of the ground. You don’t realize that you have also picked up the knife again. “The prisoners! Where are the prisoners?” You voice strains around the words because your throat is raw. You distantly realize that you have been screaming for weeks.
Arya’s face pinches. “Little Bird,” you flinch again, “they’re gone.”
“You got them out?” You ask, relief flooding through you. It leaves just as suddenly when you notice her shoulders tense.
“No, they’re…gone. We found them in their cells. The White Walkers must have killed them before we could get to you.”
You grip the knife tighter even as you clutch the sides of your head. The memories are starting to come back to you. They were afraid. The prisoners were afraid. They were afraid of you. Because you were holding a knife and a voice was telling you to bring it down on them. The prisoners were afraid because you were killing them.
“No…no, no, no,” the words tremble out of your mouth and even though your knees are shaking, you will not let yourself fall. You look at Arya’s face. “I killed them. It was me. I killed them.” You will not fall but you can’t keep looking at her eyes.
“What are you talking about? I know you couldn’t save them but that doesn’t mean-“
“It was me!” You yell. “They ripped me out of my mind and, oh god, what did they put in me? What did they do? I did it I did it I did it-“ The words keep tumbling out of your mouth. You see Arya glance around the room and you force yourself to look too. You see the hard lab table where they had strapped you down. You see the machine they had hooked you up to. You see the tubes hanging off of it uselessly. You see the needles at the end of them. The mouth guard is on the floor. You can’t stop looking at it.
“Little Bird,” she begins and you have the unbidden urge to raise the knife at her again. “Sansa,” she tries again and somehow that is even worse. “What did they do to you?”
“They took me out,” you whisper because you cannot think of another way to put it. “And they made me…”
Arya rushes to your side and it takes so much effort not to put the knife at her throat. You let her put her hands on your face, you let her look into your eyes. “It wasn’t you. You said they took you out. It wasn’t you then.”
It was though. Because you remember doing it. When they gave you a knife, you used it. When they gave you a gun, you used it. When they put you on the table and put the tubes back in, you let them.
“I need to see them,” you say, pushing Arya away. Stumbling, you make your way across the room and ignore her protests. You remember the way to the cells. You remember it with sickening clarity.
You vomit when you see them and all that comes up is bile. The bodies haven’t been moved. Not one of them. You can’t remember if you were told to kill them all at once or if they made the prisoners sleep with the dead. You will remember soon enough.
“Sansa, please,” Arya says behind you, her hand coming to rest on your arm.
You shake it off: “Don’t touch me.” It is unbearable. She doesn’t move to touch you again. She also doesn’t try to stop you from looking. She doesn’t speak at all.
“How long was I here?” You ask.
“A little over a month.”
“Why did it take so long?” A part of you thinks it isn’t fair to ask but they are your pack. You are supposed to protect each other.
“You’re the one who gathers that kind of intelligence. The bastards kept transferring you. We didn’t know how to find you. You’re better at it than any of us. I’m sorry we couldn’t do it faster.” Arya’s words are sincere, the apology heavy with truth.
A month, you think. A month and they took so much of you out that you could be ordered to kill innocent prisoners. A month and you did it.
Her hand is back on your shoulder. The grip is hard, bruising. Direwolf is using all of her strength. On anyone weaker, their arm would be broken. “It’s your fault,” she hisses in your ear. The words feel like a betrayal but you know that she’s right so you don’t argue. She grabs the back of your head and slams your face against the bars: “Look what you did. You’re a killer. Did you like it? Did it make you feel powerful?”
You cry out, the sound having only the barest resemblances to the word ‘no.’
“Murderer!” she yells.
Direwolf drags you away from the cells and up the stairs. Through your tears you can see that she has the snout of a wolf and burning red eyes. “Arya-Direwolf-please!” you plead with her even as you know that you deserve all of it.
You are outside the White Walker base. There is sunlight and it hits you like a burn. They are outside waiting for you. The brother who smokes on fire escapes has shriveled skin and hatred in his eyes. The brother who used to need reading glasses has three eyes that pierce cruel and heavy. The brother with auburn hair has a bullet hole in his forehead, his shield at his side.
Direwolf shoves you forward and you barely keep your feet beneath you. “Traitor,” Wilding rages.
“No,” you moan, “I’m not, I swear I’m not.”
“Liar.” Crow croaks at you, his three eyes like poison.
“I swear I’m not!” you plead again.
“Murderer,” Direwolf howls.
“Please!” you cry out. Because they are right but they aren’t and you can’t bear it either way.
“Thief,” Captain America snarls, his voice sharp like steel.
The shield is in your hands and it is covered in blood. You try to drop it. “This isn’t mine!” You scream but you can’t drop it. It won’t fall, the leather straps fusing to your skin. “I don’t want it! I never wanted it!”
They close in on you. “Traitor,” Wilding rages. “Liar,” Crow croaks. “Murderer,” Direwolf howls. “Thief,” Captain America snarls.
There is a gun in your hand. Your hand lifts it up because behind you the White Walkers are telling you to do it. They say kill and you fire a bullet. Direwolf drops dead. Kill- and Crow crumples. You can’t see beyond your tears but your arm is steady and your aim is true. The White Walker says kill, and Wilding falls.
Captain America stands in front of you. He grabs your hand, the one holding the gun. He brings the gun up, fitting the barrel against the wound in his forehead. He won’t let you go.
“Traitor, liar, murderer thief,” he hisses. “Kill,” he commands. You don’t want to but you feel your finger start to curl around the trigger. “Sansa. Little Bird. Captain America. Kill.”
The ground freezes around you and he keeps screaming, “Sansa! Little Bird! Captain America! Sansa! Little Bird! Captain America!”
The ice grows up your legs, your arms. You pull the trigger. You kill your brother.
The ice spreads over your face and the words still ring out; Sansa Captain America Sansa Captain America милая-
The ice shattered.
Sansa’s eyes flew open and in a moment she’d pulled a knife from the man’s jacket and there was a tugging at her arm and beeping in the background.
“-ansa!” The man gritted out, his voice impeded by the knife’s pressure on his windpipe.
“Where are the prisoners?” Sansa asked, her voice wavering. This wasn’t familiar but it was just on the edge of recognizable. She was- Sansa was-she couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember anything but there were tubes in her arms and a machine was beeping. “Where are they?”
“There aren’t any prisoners." The man said, honesty in his voice.
With a moan, Sansa brought the knife away and dug her fingers into her hair and ice crept into her lungs. “How many?” she asked. “How many did I kill this time?”
“There aren’t any prisoners.” The man with the scars repeated.
“Just tell me how many of the prisoners I killed,” she gasped.
“You didn’t kill any, милая.” She looked up at the name, at the note of tenderness in the voice. “I swear you did not kill any prisoners.”
Sandor’s eyes were softer than she had ever seen them. She whimpered and dropped the knife. It clattered to the floor. Sandor was here but he wasn’t supposed to be. She was in- in a- in the White Walker base and there was- a machine beeping faster faster faster and Sandor was- it was a bed and the White Walkers had never given her a bed they’d had hard metal tables and dunk tanks and- but there was a needle in her arm and a chemical flowing and it was going to- it was going to- the chemicals burned under her skin and ruptured inside and the chemical would- would- scar they would scar her but the room was bright and the base was so dark but the beeping of the machines-
A warm hand, a scalding hand, curled around her own, pulled gently at the fingers twisted in her hair and the ice started to melt except-
“You were dreaming,” he said, and she realized he was sitting in a chair. “I woke you up.”
Sansa felt her bottom lip start to quiver and there were tears welling in her eyes. Her breaths were still coming fast but the ice was breaking- Sandor was breaking it. Sansa tried to pull herself back together, not wanting Sandor to see her like this. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this and it killed her that someone had. It left her wanting to destroy something.
Slowly, she noticed the mattress she was sitting on, the papery dress and the IV in her arm. A hospital. Not a White Walker base. The drip wouldn’t hurt her. The machine wasn’t going to force her blank and empty.
There was a fierce pain in her left knee and her right arm ached and her back hurt. The building, Sansa remembered. She let the pain ground her; focused on the pulse of it as it shot up and down her leg. Time passed but she didn’t lose it. She held fast onto reality because the dream- Sansa had so many nightmares but that one, that one was the worst of them.
Sansa cleared her throat when she finally could, when the breaths were coming slow enough. She forced herself to lower her other arm and noticed that Sandor was still holding her hand. With the shame still raging hot inside of her, Sansa slipped free from him. Gently, she lowered herself onto the bed and stamped down on the fear that it might turn out to be a metal slab anyway.
She could feel Sandor’s eyes boring into her and collected her thoughts enough to ask about the important things: “Is Gabriel okay?”
Sandor nodded: “He has a dislocated shoulder.”
“Fuck,” Sansa breathed. Captain America wasn’t supposed to hurt kids. “That was me.” Sandor didn’t say anything.
“And the mercenaries?”
“Most of them died in the collapse. Some are in ICU. Some are fine,” his voice was steady and blank.
Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. There had been a no-kill order. She took the deaths on her shoulders. She could carry it.
“I didn’t expect you to care about them,” Sandor said. She met his eyes.
Her chest went tight because had it been the war- but it wasn’t: “I’m supposed to be Captain America.”
He was quiet for a beat and then Sandor slid the knife back into her hand. It wasn’t until she felt its heavy weight that she realized her fingers had been twitching for one. She gripped it tight, breathed deep, and flipped it. It was a sick comfort. After a moment, Sansa finally allowed herself to look fully at the man sitting next to her.
He looked uncomfortable in the hospital chair; too big for it. There were bags under his eyes and his brow sat heavy. The black t-shirt he was wearing was wrinkled and there was dirt on his jeans and workman’s boots. Sandor’s hair was pulled back into his usual bun and the strands were greasy. She wondered how long he’d been there.
The window in the room told her it was night. It’d been night when they pulled her out of the wreck. Time. She’d lost more time and the last time she’d been wounded in the field she’d lost 67 years. “How long have I been here?” she asked, voice tight and small and she was trying so hard not to be terrified.
“Almost a day,” he said and Sansa could have wept in relief. “You were in surgery for most of it. You fucked up your kneecap pretty bad.” That explained the cast.
“How’d they put me under?” Sansa asked.
“Rhinoceros tranques.”
She almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it but the mention of her injuries had made her remember the pain. “I think they wore off,” she grumbled. Neither she or Sandor moved to call the nurse.
Silence came.
She flipped the knife again and again, drawing peace from the familiarity. Sansa worked up the courage to ask the question that’d been burning in her. “Why are you here?”
His eyebrows rose just a fraction and then his eyes narrowed, lips turned down: “A building fell on you.”
“Oh, stud, I didn’t know you cared,” Sansa drawled and then instantly regretted it when rage clouded his features.
Bolting forward in his chair, his hand suddenly wrapped around her wrist, stilling the motion of the knife. “Of course I care. Fuck, Sansa. Of course I fucking care.”
She looked away from him, knowing that she’d hurt him and wishing she hadn’t:. “Yeah, alright. Okay,” she murmured.
“Okay?” he asked, his anger still making him prickle. “That’s it? Okay?”
“I can’t do this today. I’m too tired, Sandor. I’m too tired for all of it,” she whispered and whatever was on her face made him nod. His hand moved down and cupped hers, soft.
“Okay,” he said. “Not today.”
**
“So there we were, comin’ in after three weeks in the fucking backwoods of France, freezing our asses off and gettin’ by on spam MRs and boiled water, and we get back, and the mess hall, they’ve got spam and spam and more goddam spam. We couldn’t do it, didn’t even go down for dinner, just went to our bunks hungry, wet and miserable,” Sansa took a swing of her beer, something light and tangy and made with apricots. “But you know, way I see it, I owe spam my life ‘cause that night the mess hall got hit by the krauts and the rest of the unit got blown to fuckin’ hell. I owe a lot to that canned shit.”
For a moment, Randa and Mya just stared at Sansa, and she quirked up her lips. Then Mya did. Then Mya started to snicker, and then a full bellylaugh erupted out of her. “Goddam,” she said between breaths, “Goddam, goddam.” Sansa threw her head back and joined in. It was a bursting feeling, the sensation rising up and through her chest and making her feel buzzed in a way that the alcohol no longer could.
Wiping away the tears at her eyes, Mya raised her beer up: “Here’s to spam; the best damn pararescue around!”
Sansa raised her own and clinked the bottles together: “May the devil take it!” She downed the rest of it, slammed the bottle down on the table, smile still in place.
“You know, when I learned about you in the history books, I never pictured the swearing,” Randa said, thoughtful, but Sansa didn’t begrudge her it because there was a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“I don’t think you can tell a war story without cussin’,” she shrugged as Mya passed her another drink. “How else you gonna talk about sleeping in mud and shit and guts and prayin’ to something that you’re not sure is even there and hopin’ to fuck that you get out of it but don’t really think you will?” Mya’s smile fell a little, her stance a little tighter, and then she nodded her head.
“I think Shakespeare did alright with iambic pentameter," Randa said, the sound of a smirk in her voice. It made Sansa like her. She liked them both.
**
Sandor was back the next day, quietly slipping a knife into her hand and taking the chair again. She flipped the knife in her hand and concentrated on the solid weight of it. The silence, as it always was, was a comfort. A part of Sansa, a part that still stung from their meeting in Red Hook, pushed against him; wanted him gone, his hand off of her because he was part of this world that she didn’t want, didn’t trust. But her metabolism was burning through whatever pain medication they had given her and her knee screamed with it and she wanted him there so bad she thought she might cry if he left.
She flipped the knife again and again, and Sandor’s eyes drooped shut and it was a sign of trust that Sansa didn’t think she deserved but was selfish enough to take. They stayed that way for hours; Sandor sleeping, Sansa on watch.
The door opened and Sandor sat up instantly, his hand dropping to his side for another knife. It was Shireen. His hand moved away. Shireen smiled and Sansa fought against the pain to give one back.
“The doctors said that you’re healing well and fast and should be ready to be discharged by tonight. They want you back for PT eventually but they can’t really say how long until then. They can’t figure out how fast you heal,” Shireen said, leaning against the wall. The harsh hospital light showed the faint circles under her eyes and the fine lines of her face. There was a scar peeking out for the top of her t-shirt. Sansa saw the heaviness on her shoulders, coupled with a little bit of hope when she asked: “Do you want a ride home? I can take you.”
Sansa couldn’t stop the alarm that rang through her. Sandor felt her tense and he squeezed her elbow, grounding. “No, but that’s real kind of you,” Sansa said in a rush, and then- “Sandor already said he’d give me one. Thanks, though.” Shireen’s smile faltered for a moment and Sansa felt a twinge of guilt. She didn’t want to hurt Shireen. The agent’s eyes flicked to Sandor’s and it dawned on Sansa what she had said. He didn’t like lying, she knew that and if he- Sandor nodded at Shireen.
"Я её отвезу."
Whatever it was he’d said, Sansa saw Shireen’s eyes soften and a little smile pull at her lips. She nodded and said, “Good, that’s good.” She stepped up to Sansa’s bed, bent and placed a kiss on her forehead, and then left, her steps silent.
Once she was out of view, Sansa turned to Sandor and her grip on the knife tightened. She found herself suddenly afraid. “Thanks for going along,” she said and her voice came out a little quieter than she would have liked.
He was wearing a familiar smirk: “I only have my motorcycle. I don’t think it will work so well with that,” he nodded his head at the cast on her leg.
“I was plannin’ on taking the subway anyway,” Sansa said, shrugging.
“Fuck that.”
Sansa raised an eyebrow: “I ain’t takin’ a cab. Prices like that?”
“Then you’re getting on the motorcycle,” it came out like a command and Sansa’s fear drained out.
“You don’t have to,” she said, a token argument.
“I will,” he paused. "Для тебя - что угодно, милая."
**
By the time Sandor pulled to a stop in the alley behind her building, Sansa was on the verge of tears and furious about it. Her knee pulsed and her hip ached from keeping her leg propped up and straight on the ride over. Sandor had been right; riding pillion with full leg cast had been more than awkward. It’d been excruciating.
Sansa looked up at the brownstone and almost whimpered at the thought of the three flights of stairs waiting for her. She’d seen Mya take them enough times to know she shouldn’t complain but she’d burned through the pain meds they’d given her at the hospital.
“This isn’t your building, is it?” Sandor asked.
Sansa paused, surprised. She hadn’t even considered giving him a fake address. She did now though. She thought about lying to him and found that she desperately didn’t want to, even if it meant trusting him with this. “Actually, it is,” she answered, and then, because it was another truth, “I figured you’d already know that though.”
His jaw clenched: “I’m not your keeper.” Sansa stayed silent. “I’m not a curr nipping at your heels or some pathetic bastard in a suit of armor in a fucking fairy tale. I’m the Hound and I do my job. I did my goddamn job.”
“I know,” Sansa breathed, her mouth close to his ear and her fingers digging deep into his side. “That’s why it hurts.”
Sandor surged to his feet and the sudden movement dislodged Sansa. Automatic, she shot out her leg for balance and she cried out. The pain whited everything out and she slid, crumpled, from the motorcycle onto the sticky cement of the alley.
Sansa gasped for air and Sandor rounded on her, crouching low and crowding her. “You are not the only one who knows pain, милая,” the petname, usually said so sweet, was spat out. “You lost your world, your family and you hide with your tail between your legs.” His hand gripped her chin and forced her eyes to meet his.
“You’re hiding just as much as I am,” Sansa accused.
“The world wants me hidden,” Sandor’s fingers tightened. Sansa’s inched towards his knife. “The House of Black and White made sure of that.” He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his scars. “Proof of loyalty from my brother and I-“ he bit down the words and Sansa understood suddenly why he looked ashamed.
“And you let him. That was yours.” Her fingers stroked his cheek.
It was like she’d stabbed him. Sandor’s eyes flung wide, mouth unhinged, the fingers on her chin dripping down to her neck.
Then his body tensed all over: “Fuck your pity.” Sandor shoved her away. Her cast caught on his ankle and Sansa braced herself against the onslaught of pain, refusing to let out the scream.
There was the click of a safety being turned off. Sansa didn’t have the time to shout before Sandor had Mya slammed against the brownstone, her head hitting the wall with a hard crack.
“Who do you work for?” he hissed and brought the knife to her throat. It drew up a thin white line, made all the brighter by the darkness of her skin.
“Sandor, stop-“ Sansa pushed herself up and the pain back. She didn’t have time for it.
“Go to hell, asshole,” Mya spat on Sandor.
“Who sent you?” Sandor pressed his knee into Mya’s gut and for the first time, Sansa saw what the Hound truly was; all that pent up fury and rage aimed, directed, controlled. It made him deadly. It made him lethal.
“Let her go,” Sansa commanded. “Now.” Sandor hesitated, backed off, just slightly, but it was all the opening that Mya needed. Whatever training she’d had, it’d been good.
In a moment, she had their roles reversed; Sandor’s cheek mashed against the wall, arm twisted behind his back. Sandor met her eyes; he could be out of the hold in an instant, kill her even faster but he was waiting for Sansa’s order. She shook her head. He nodded.
“Grab the gun, Sansa,” Mya breathed heavily.
“Let him go,” Sansa said, making her voice calm.
“This fucker was hurting you,” she yelled and twisted his wrist harder. Sandor grunted.
“Yes, he was,” Sansa said. “Let him go.”
“Fuck that,” Mya was seething. Sansa could see the tremors of adrenaline in her arms, saw the sweat of it rolling down her temple.“I know shit was different in your day but in this era, we don’t let men get away with this shit. You hear that, asshole? I’m calling the fucking cops on you!” She slammed him against the wall again.
“Твою мать!” He threw over his shoulder. “Sansa, get this bitch off of me.”
Sansa ignored him because she knew what it’d looked like. She knew what Mya had seen. “Not that kind of hurt,” she kept her voice gentle, trying to put Mya at ease. “The way you’re thinkin’- that’s not how he was hurtin’ me. Never would.”
Sansa saw doubt flicker in her eyes. “He shouldn’t be hurtin’ you at all,” she said, still so angry.
“I’ve been hurting him the exact same way. Don’t make it right, but it’s the truth. Now c’mon, soldier. Let my guy go.” Another flicker. “C’mon, Mya. I’m Captain America. I’m fine.”
Mya finally stepped away, stumbling a little with the prosthetic. Sandor pushed off the wall and turned to face her. He rubbed his wrist. Sandor glanced at Mya and- Sansa blinked because that was admiration in his eyes. “Spec-Ops?” he asked, masking it all with a sneer.
“Oo-rah,” Mya answered, teeth bared. “You hurt her again, I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Sansa grumbled when she saw Sandor tense again. Bending down to unhook her crutches from the motorcycle, she said, “Sandor, get me up these stairs and then you guys can rip each other’s throats out.”
“He’s not coming into my building,” Mya said and she picked up her gun; a threat. Sansa pushed down the sigh.
“Mya, please. I got three flights of stairs and a shattered knee cap.” When that didn’t convince her, Sansa closed her eyes and let the truth slip out: “He’s one of the only friends I’ve got.”
It took a moment and then Mya’s shoulders slumped: “You need better friends.”
Sansa thought of Sandor dancing with her, of the way he stayed by her side at the hospital, of how he slipped his knife into her hand because he understood that it could be as comforting as it was deadly. “He’s better than you know,” Sansa whispered.
She turned away from them, eyeing the short steps up to the entrance of the brownstone. Now that her mind wasn’t distracted, the pain in her knee had come roaring back. The four steps were a promise of agony but Sansa gritted her teeth and faced them down. She’d had worse.
The crutches were yanked out of her hands but before she could fall, Sansa was scooped up into thick, warm arms and a hard chest pushed against her side. She squirmed, embarrassed and red-faced.
“Damnit, девочка. You’ll hurt yourself,” Sandor said.
“Put me down!” Sansa squawked, hitting her fists awkwardly against his chest. “I ain’t your bride and I sure as hell ain’t some helpless dame.”
“Но ты моя,” and his hands were cupping her gently, his arms a bracket and Sansa felt very warm and very safe because this was the apology that he would never voice.
“Yeah, well, it ain’t happening again,” Sansa grumbled more for effect and he pressed her crutches into her hands.
“Huh,” Mya said and unlocked the building door in front of them. Sandor took her up the steps and into the landing. Mya looked like she wanted to follow them up to Sansa’s unit but Sansa shook her head.
“Just-“ Mya looked torn and it ate at Sansa. “I’m around if you need me.”
“Thank you,” Sansa said and meant it deeply.
**
Sandor carried her over the threshold and Sansa couldn’t stop her blush. Back before everything’d gone down with the economy, she’d thought a lot about getting married and how her husband would carry her into their new home just like this. Then Sandor stopped short, the door swinging shut behind him, and Sansa flushed for an entirely different reason because-
“This is what you didn’t want Baratheon to see,” Sandor said, quiet.
Sansa knew what her apartment looked like. A pile of purple drapes by the window. A few dishes in the sink. A laptop. Books. A mattress on the floor, blanket, pillow.
Empty.
“She worries enough about me already,” Sansa murmured.
He didn’t say anything to that, just brought her to the bed and placed her down gently, not like she would break, but like he cared. Sandor stood to leave but Sansa grabbed his hand and tugged him down beside her. She desperately needed to say something because he’d told her- he’d said- he’d trusted, even in his fury, and he needed to know that it wasn’t pity.
His eyes bore into hers and Sansa didn’t know where to start until, suddenly, she did. “It was Robb’s idea to steal some uniforms and sneak into the trenches. He’d made it sound grand- like we’d be makin’ a real difference and when he’d put a gun into my hands, it’d surprised me. I’d never really thought about the killing. I don’t think I’d really understood up until I pulled the trigger,” Sansa took a breath, traced the lines on Sandor’s palm. “It was hard on Robb, wore him down, but it was the worst for Bran. Even Rickon’s hands shook in the beginning. But me and Arya- it came easy as breathing. Killers made.” She brought her eyes up to meet Sandor’s. “What about you, Sandor? You a killer made?”
He nodded; a jerk of the neck, a tick in the jaw.
“People like us- killin’ comes easy. And maybe that means we’re damned or demons or monsters but-“ and she gripped his hand tighter because this was the important part, “your brother, the House of Black and White, the White Walkers- SHIELD, it’s their fault the world’s full of people like us. Not ours.”
And when Sandor looked like he didn’t believe her, couldn’t, that was when Sansa kissed him. She put away all the words that they were no good with and let the pull of their lips say everything else, let press of them be the kind of silence that existed between them. The good kind, the sweet kind, the kind that came on the cusp of a promise.
**
Sansa hung yellow drapes in the window.
**
She left them up.