Stalwart and Steady and True

Sansa swept the Montezuma Red across her lips, patted them against the napkin and then puckered her lips. In the mirror, she looked garish and pale, the stunning red of the lipstick making the circles under her eyes all the darker. She wiped the lipstick off and then felt suddenly and terribly  bare without it- exposed. Her hand trembled as she reapplied the lipstick but it still looked too bright so she picked up the napkin-

“Jesus, Sansa. Leave it on, will ya? That’s the fourth time you’ve wiped it off,” Arya said from her sprawl on the couch. Sansa looked at cloth napkin and saw all the smudges. She dropped it fast.

“I didn’t realize,” she muttered and forced herself away from the mirror.

“I know,” Arya grumbled, sitting up. “I’ve been calling your name.” Her sister got quiet then, serious, and Sansa got scared. “You sure you should go tonight?” she asked carefully, like Sansa was an open wound.

“I’m not broken,” Sansa snapped and grabbed up her pumps.

“Didn’t say you were. I just thought, you know, we only found you a few weeks ago, and after the base you might not wanna go to a big crowded party full of people who don’t give a fuck about you.”

Sansa shoved the shoes onto her feet, all the way angry now. “Willas will be there,” Arya knew that, she knew that. “He cares.”

She felt her sister’s eyes; hard and cold and familiar. Arya stayed quiet though and Sansa’s chest went tight because Arya didn’t do quiet and Sansa rushed to fill the silence: “Willas cares and I’ll be fine and besides, there’ll be dancing so I’ll be fine.” Arya stil didn’t say anything and Sansa tugged at the sleeves on her dress, frantic, wanting to leave the room, itching for it. Her hand on the doorknob, Sansa looked back at her sister, saw all the worry etched there on her face.

Before the serum, Arya had been so small and she’d always tried to take up as much space as possible. After, they were all of them giants and right now Arya’s long limbs were held taught and close like all she wanted to do was be small again. She’d never, Sansa realized- Arya had never tried to be gentle with her before, had never felt like she had to be.

“He makes me happy,” Sansa tried, willing Arya to believe it  so she could stop being worried.

But Arya just shook her head: “No, he just makes you forget that you’re not- and that’s a whole different kind of thing.”

Sansa swallowed and went out the door; ran from it like the coward that she was.

The Howling Commandos had been put up in some fancy English manor with big green lawns and bushes that hadn’t been trimmed in a long time. The halls in the place were massive and cushioned with deep carpets and Sansa got lost in the whole vast money of it. Sansa had never, not in her whole life, felt so out of her depth.

The entire affair put her on edge; the marble ballroom floor and its arching ceilings and the army brass and all of their wives. The businessmen were talking with the politicians and were busy making the Starks into something they weren’t. Sansa tugged at her long sleeves, pulled them down as far as she could. The room was full of people that she didn’t know because Bran had gone to town to find Jojen and Rickon had gone with him to try and find something strong enough to get him drunk and god knew that Arya would never go to a party like this but Robb would and Sansa didn’t see Robb anywhere so maybe he wasn’t down yet but he should-

“Darling, are you alright?” Willas asked, coming up in front of her. His mouth was turned down and there was sweet concern in his voice. Sansa thought that if she could melt into his arms, everything might just go away.

Sansa picked up his hands, held them tight, and put on her brightest smile- the one that always reeled in a patron at Red’s- and said, “Of course. Everything’s swell.”

Willas turned shy, the way he did sometimes when he got nervous: “Would you like to dance?”

Sansa worked to keep the surprise off of her face. Willas hardly ever asked her to dance. He was always too self-conscious or wary of the pain it might cause him. It broke her heart a little that she had to turn him down. “I wish I could,” and his face fell, “but I don’t know how to waltz.” 

Willas laughed, the one he had for when he thought that Sansa was acting silly. “Don’t be absurd. Of course you can- you’re a dancer.”

“Sure I am, but I never learned to waltz. Now, you want the New York shag, I’m your girl.”

He stepped in close and wrapped an arm around Sansa’s waist. It was solid against her back and then he was leaning in, breathing, “You’re already my girl.”

Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut and a smile came up, small but real. “Please, darling,” he said, pulling back. “I’ll teach you, but please dance with me. I’ve simply got to hold you close tonight. The way you look in that dress- you don’t know what you do to me when you’re in blue.”

How was Sansa supposed to say no to that? She nodded at him and his smile made it worth it. And the waltz wasn’t so bad it turned out. Willas was a good teacher even if he couldn’t do it very well. He told her that he’d been taught it as a child before the polo accident that left his leg twisted wrong. The box step- well, it really wasn’t anything at all like the quickstep but the turns were a little bit alike and Sansa had to force herself not to go too fast or lift too high or bop as much. It was nice though, being held by Willas.

The problem, the real big one, the one that kept her from letting go and getting lost in the dance, was that holding her hand so high made the cuff of her dress slide down and there it was. A silvery white scar peeking out, just the tip of it. It ached, they all did, these long, thin lines from the chemicals that the White Walkers had forced into her again and again. Now, Willas’ fingers were wrapped around hers and so, so close to those fine threaded scars.

The music kept flowing and she counted the one and the two and the three and the one and the two and her pumps clacked and the three and the one and Willas’ hand pressed firm against her side and the two and off on the side a journalist was taking a photograph for the war effort and the three floor was polished to shine and the one couple came in close and Willas stumbled and the two and his face scrunched up in pain the three and Sansa’s vision was tunneling in on her wrist the one and the two scars were peaking through and the three trumpet players were good but the one played two loud and the three her fingers itched to pull up the sleeve and the one scar was it getting bigger? and the two and it burned up under her skin and the three and the one and the two and the-

Willas wrenched his hand out of Sansa’s grasp, clutching it to his body. With a twist in her gut, Sansa realized that she had hurt him. “Sorry,” she muttered, her voice a little shattered.

“It’s all right, dear,” he said but she could tell from the line of his shoulders that it wasn’t. But he smiled like nothing at all had happened. Willas was good at that- making out like there was nothing Sansa could do that bothered him. Sansa knew it wasn’t true but she also knew that he did it because he loved the rest of her to pieces.

“Come on,” he gripped her elbow. “Let’s get some champagne and I’ll show you the gardens. I summered here once as a boy- a guest to Lord Crawley- and the grounds are lovely.” Willas paused and smiled at Sansa, her favorite soft smile of his. “You were made to walk through gardens, Sansa. Positively born for it.”

Sansa dropped her eyes and blushed even as her stomach clenched up. She’d been made for a lot of things- dancing, maybe, before the serum, winning a war after, maybe to put her grip around a knife but she didn’t think she’d been made for gardens. It could be nice to pretend though, just for a night, that maybe she was.

She let Willas lead her through the ballroom, out the tall paned glass doors, down the grand stone steps and onto grass softer than any bed she’d ever had. Candles lit up the gravel pathways- soft, gentle light that German bombers wouldn’t see. Willas was right; lovely was the only word for the place. The big, wide expanse of it reminded her of Prospect Park and right then, Sansa would have traded anything in the world for a breath a Brooklyn air. 

Sansa wanted it bad; the drafty apartment and not these tall corridors, the nights sweaty from working instead of from a knife fight, feeting aching from a dance and not a march. It overwhelmed her. Desperation saturated her so she grabbed Willas too rough, and kissed him too hard, all so she could forget that Brooklyn was years and miles away.

His lips were too soft though and he was too gentle. Willas tried to guide the kiss, slow Sansa down, make her softer than she was. Sansa couldn’t stand it and brought her hands to his shoulders to pull him closer. His smooth hands cupped her cheeks and for just a moment he kissed her back like he meant it.

The kiss lit Sansa up because Willas hardly ever- his lips came down hard for just a moment and then just as suddenly, he pulled back. Sansa whimpered at the loss.

“We’re in public, darling,” he whispered. Sansa, who came from a world of chorus girls and dance halls and back alleys, was tempted to roll her eyes. But Willas, polite and gentle Willas, was from gardens and waltzes and Sansa supposed that public necking was something that just wasn’t done. Instead of pushing it though, Sansa nodded and stepped back, tugging her sleeves back into place.

“Sorry, Willas. I just got carried away a little. It’s-” she dropped her eyes. “It’s real pretty here is all.”

Willas seemed to like that because he took her and led her a little deeper into the garden. They came across a large pool of water, lined all the way around with blue and purple flowers. The moon reflected off of the water and all of it looked very soft.

“Say, isn’t that your brother?” Willas asked and Sansa jerked her head around. Sprawled out on a stone bench, his big limbs lank, was Robb. There was something in his hands and a hangdog expression on his face and he had sad, sad eyes. “He looks like he’s having a rather bad night. Do you think we ought to go talk to him?”

Sansa shook her head- not him. Robb never knew how to talk to Willas. “You go back to the party,” she said and put on her most dazzling smile. “I’ll talk to him and meet up with you later.” He seemed struck dumb by the smile- most men were and that was why she used it- but he managed to nod. 

“I’ll see you soon then,” he said and kissed her cheek, being awful sweet about it.

As soon as he turned back onto the path, Sansa moved to her brother’s side and sat down next to him. She knew that he’d noticed the two of them but it worried her that he hadn’t tried to hide his hurt. It wasn’t like him; letting other people see how the world pressed down on him. If it’d just been Sansa or another Stark- but he’d let Willas see and Willas had been right. It was a public place and that meant that he would have let anyone see.

It was a letter. There was a letter in Robb’s hands. It was a letter from Jeyne. She’d been Robb’s sweetheart for years. With a face like that though, there was only one kind of letter it could be. Robb held the letter carefully and it hurt Sansa to see that his eyes were a little puffy like he’d just stopped crying.

He didn’t say anything though and Sansa didn’t push it. Robb had always been like that; only talking when all of his thoughts were in order and laid out neat. Sansa waited, tugged down her sleeves, and waited a little more. She glanced at her brother and caught him staring at her wrists. “Stop that,” she murmured and jostled his shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

Robb frowned and opened his mouth, then closed.Then, he pulled away and put the letter into her hands before dropping his head into his hands. It was a single page, filled from edge to edge. Jeyne’s hand writing was loopy and precise.

Dear Robb,

I see you up there in those newsreels they play and it makes me so proud to know that my best guy is out there winning the war. Captain America- my hero. Flynn wrote a whole article about you in the Worker (I put it in with the letter) and she came to me for an interview! Can you believe it? She thinks that Captain America is going to be a great symbol for the working class too and all the union workers. You’re going to win this war. I just know it. And even though I can’t wait for you to come home I know that you’re helping save the world and I couldn’t love you more. It warms me right up, seeing Captain America and knowing that it’s your face in his cowl.

With all my love,

Jeyne

Sansa looked up from the letter, confused: “This is what’s got you all upset?”

He took the letter back, set it down gently, and then, so damn soft in a way that she couldn’t be, he picked up one of her hands and pushed up the sleeve of her dress. The blue satin raked up and up, crunching, and left behind a network of pocks and scars from where they’d pushed the needles in and the chemicals had raged through her.

“This is what Captain America did to you,” Robb said hard and Sansa tried to yank her hand away, horrified, but he held on tight. “This is what I did to you.”

Sansa burned white: “No.”

“Sansa, I-”

“You don’t get to make this about you. It’s my pain and the White Walkers did it and it didn’t have anything to do with you,” she hissed and Robb dropped her hands, shocked.

He looked down and braced his arms against his knees: “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you damn sorrys,” Sansa spat, all of a sudden sick of men who kept wanting only pieces of her.

“You’re starting to sound more and more like Arya,” Robb murmured, deflecting. “What happened to Sansa, huh? Where’d my sweet little sister get to?” He meant it light but Sansa had been asking herself that question for years now.

“I don’t think you want to know the answer to that,” she said, which was all she could do to spare him.

Robb glanced at her and then away: “No, I don’t think I do.” He reached out again for her arm and Sansa let him take it.

“They hurt you bad, didn’t they?” He asked, misunderstanding.

Sansa was tempted to tell him a lie- that they hadn’t. She was tempted to tell him a truth- that he’d lost sweet Sansa before the war even started. But he didn’t need any of those so she offered him a different truth even though it hurt her to give it.

“Yeah,” she said and sounded broken to her own ears. “Yeah, Robbie, they hurt me real bad.”

He tugged her down to the bench again and pulled her into a hug. Sansa knew, sure as the sun rose, that if Robb could put his shield around the world, he would. He’d give up the whole of his heart to do it. But he couldn’t, so Sansa let herself go small and limp against him and take the love he was giving her. She let him shield what he could. 

"Why'd that letter upset you?" Sansa asked after a long quiet moment.

Robb frowned and pulled away from her. “She’s got it all wrong. Look at me,” and he swept his arms down and out, bringing in the crisp lines of his dress uniform and the lush, opulent garden surrounding them. “I’m sitting here at this fancy party at a lord’s house while thousands of men are sleeping in foxholes. I don’t even like champagne but I’m drinkin’ it because that’s what Captain America does. He shakes hands with politicians and eats fish eggs and sleeps on a feather bed all while pretendin’ to be just another grunt but he’s not. Jeyne can’t see it but Captain America’s the biggest lie there is.”

“I don’t think that,” Sansa whispered, quiet and feeling a little afraid. 

“How can you not?” Robb asked, his voice breaking around the question.

Sansa shook her head: “I went to just as many of those union meetings as you did and Captain America ain’t any of those things that we rallied against.”

“If Cap ain’t any of that, then what is he?” The thought that Robb- brave, strong Robb- couldn’t see the hero in himself shook Sansa up. It scared her because Robb out of everyone else was supposed to know what Captain America was and if he didn’t-

“I think that Captain America’s just a name, kinda empty, so you have’ta fill it. You’ve got to make it into whatever you want it to be. So maybe Captain America could be just another propaganda stooge or maybe you make him into something different. Make him something more, something bigger.”

“Like what?” Robb asked, barely a whisper, barely at all.

“Make him stand for the big words, the big ideas. Make that shield about hope or freedom or liberty. You pick- but Robb,” and Sansa met his eyes, “You can make Captain America into anything at all so you’ve gotta make him something good; make him into something anyone can believe in.”

It was a tremulous thing, the smile that her brother gave her. It stung to see it, so small and fragile, but it was a true one. “Maybe you should have been Captain America,” Robb said and Sansa knew that he meant it. 

She wanted to laugh it off, turn it all into a joke but the thought of it- all that blood she’d spilled coating that shield- Sansa shook her head hard. “No,” she pulled her sleeves down, “you’ve always been the best of us.”

**

-and when Sandor looked like he didn't believer her, couldn't, that's when she kissed him-

-his lips were softer than all the rest of him; softer than the grip of his hands on her shoulders, softer than the tense line of his body. Softer than the whole of Sandor put together. His lips were the very truth of him. The way that Sandor kissed her held more honesty, more meaning, than anyone had ever offered her.

“The world shoveled its grime all over us but underneath- you and me, we’re the salt of the goddamn earth” she kissed him again, hard, so that he’d know the truth of it. “You understand? You got that?”

“Yes,” he said low. “Yes, да, yes, yes.” He caught her bottom lip between his teeth, bit down.

Sansa sagged in relief and it was only his hard hands on her shoulders that kept her up. The world narrowed down to his touch. The tips of his fingers blazed against her skin and the press of his forehead against her own grounded her and his knee was anchored to her thigh. It’d been so long since she’d been touched like this. Sansa didn’t know if she’d ever been touched like this. All the men she’d ever kissed and even that Russian Night Witch with her red lipstick- they all paled in the sheer force of violent understanding pouring from Sandor’s lips. 

It overwhelmed her and she could tell that it was doing the same thing to Sandor. She could feel the frenetic energy of his hope, his desperation, his fear. It was all the same for her and, Sansa realized, that was the meat of the whole thing. Sandor’s touch burned her up and she ripped him to pieces and they tore in at each other because they were just one another turned inside out.

Sandor wore all that anger outside of himself and sharp and Sansa hid from it, terrified. Sandor was the colossal strength of her worn like armor and she was all the tenderness he’d tried to crush like a blight.

Never in her life had Sansa been offered the consolation that Sandor gave her- the salvation and promise of safe-keeping. Desperate to taste it- that shattering sense of being understood- Sansa kissed him again. She kissed him fiercely, secure in the knowledge that he, unlike all the rest, could bare the bitter brunt of her strength.

**

Agent Tarly was the first one to show her the photograph. After that, she saw it everywhere: on the news, on t-shirts, in magazines and newspapers, on posters.

Sansa didn't remember much after the building collapsed; remembered checking in with her team, remembered Gabriel quaking in her arms, but not much more. She'd put everything she had into holding up the rubble. Tyrell told her that it had taken hours to dig her out of the debris. By the end, they'd all been shocked that she was still conscious, let alone strong enough to stand on her own.

But she had. The last of the rubble had been lifted off and Sansa had risen up like Lazarus.

It'd been night and the lights from the construction trucks shined orange, and, muddied by the floating dust, the air brightened up like fire. Sansa had stood up from the destruction, Gabriel on hip and the shield held firm and steady on her other arm.

Captain America with her free-flowing red hair spilling from the top of her cowl, standing amidst the ruin, hard gaze to the horizon and a child looking deep into the lens.

And that was the photo.

Iconic, Agent Tarly called it when he handed Sansa a newspaper where it took up the whole front page; guaranteed to win the Pulitzer.

**

Sansa didn’t want Sandor to leave. He was pressed up against her back, fingers tangled in her hair even though it was unwashed and greasy. He was incredibly warm. She couldn’t even bear the thought of him leaving and losing his touch.

It was like she could finally breathe. Every breath she felt him take went straight to her lungs and filled her up with good clean air. Sansa had spent her whole damn life trying not to be selfish because there had been so many others that needed things more than she did. But Sandor- she wanted every last bit of him. She wanted to wrap herself tight around him and stake her claim. She wanted the whole goddamn world to know that there was no one else on this green earth that would understand her like he did.

It scared her though, this intense need inside of her, the idea that maybe now that he’d touched her and cut himself on her jagged edges that she would no longer be able to survive without him.

Sandor’s fingers tightened in her hair and he pulled her neck taught a little bit. “Your breathing was starting to speed up,” he explained, mouth pressed against her scalp. “Stay here with me.”

She noticed, now that he’d pointed it out, how her body had started to curl in on itself, how her skin stung like it was being burned by ice. His fingers tightened more and Sansa let the sweet little pain of it ground her.

“Do you hurt?” he asked, his other hand running down her thigh.

“Hm?” Sansa burrowed deeper into his side and he chuckled.

“Your leg. Does it hurt?”

“Oh. Yeah. A little bit,” Sansa lied because it was actually agonizing but he didn’t need to know that. 

Sandor’s fingers twisted her hair: “The truth, милая. You tell me the truth.”

Sansa gasped, “Yes. Yeah, yeah. I hurt. It hurts.”

“Bad?” he asked, hand squeezing just a little tighter.

“Bad, it hurts so bad,” she sagged in relief.

“Okay,” he said and gathered up her hair to kiss the back of her neck. “Don’t move.”

He was gone before she could protest. Sandor left a cold wake in his absence; chilled air rushing against her back. There was an ache in her chest as if Sandor had ripped up a part of her when he got up and to her shame, Sansa’s eyes prickled up with tears. Resentment followed on its heels because as much as Sansa knew that she needed him, she hated that she did.

When he helped her sit up, stroked her back, pressed the needle into her vein, Sansa forced all of that down. Sandor hadn’t earned her rancor, not when all he ever did was give her what he could.

The tranquilizer worked quickly and a tingling, numbing sensation oozed through her. Sansa hated it. It left her cold and terrified because what if she was freezing all over again and didn’t even know it. What if after the drug took over her she didn’t wake up for another 70 years. What if-

Sandor grabbed her chin and met her eyes. “You’re with me. Say it. You’re with me,” he gripped her chin tighter when Sansa didn’t say anything. Ice was creeping through her and her limbs felt heavy and terrible and the freeze was burning her up from the inside out-

A hand pressed feather-light against her throat, warm, so warm, and Sansa gasped, air filling her up so fast that she felt dizzy with it. Her eyes found Sandor’s.

“Say it. You are here with me. Where are you? Say it.”

“Here. Here with you. I’m here with you.”

He pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Умница” Sandor murmured low and sweet, kissing her sweaty brow.

The pain medication was doing its job but it was leaving her so sleepy. Sandor must have noticed because he lowered her onto the mattress but didn’t move to join her.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he whispered, like it hurt. “Rayder is sending me to Libya for a mission.”

Panic flared in Sansa’s chest, but it was dulled by the tranquilizer. She pushed past the numbness and said, “I thought I was your mission.”

HIs fingers tangled in her hair again and Sansa practically purred. “Rayder doesn’t think you’re going to run anymore. Mission over.”

“But you’ll come back to me,” Sansa stated. It wasn’t a question. His fingers were touching her and Sansa knew it wasn’t a question.

“I will always come back to you.” The honesty in Sandor’s voice was the sweetest thing Sansa had ever heard.

Sansa used the rest of her energy to tug on Sandor’s arm: “Sleep here tonight. Stay.”

He did.

**

Sandor screamed himself awake in the middle of the night, pulling Sansa out of her own nightmare. She turned over to find Sandor sitting up and breathing hard, a knife clutched tight in his hand. Gently, telegraphing her movement, Sansa put her hand on his back. Sandor’s shoulders stiffened but he didn’t pull away.

After a few minutes of his chest heaving violently, Sandor flung himself off of the mattress. He moved through the apartment methodically, checking the locks and windows, knife held at the ready. A perimeter check. Then he settled himself in a corner. It was the place with the clearest view of all the exits and vantage points. Sansa knew because she’d spent a lot of time in that corner. She knew what it was like to feel like the world was closing in around her.

“Sleep, девочка. Я тебя в обиду не дам,” he said, his voice a little hoarse from the screaming. "You'll be safe," he whispered, more to himself than to her.

Sansa nodded and closed her eyes so he’d know that she trusted him enough to let him keep watch. That was something that she could give him. Even then though, she didn’t sleep for a long time. His screams echoed in her mind and she wondered what he’d dreamed of. She wondered at his horrors, at what could make a man like Sandor Clegane scream.

**

“That guy- your friend,” Mya said, helping Sansa wrap a garbage bag around her cast.

“His name is Sandor Clegane.”

“Right, yeah, Clegane. He also a vet?”

Sansa paused. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that- well, not him. Just me. But, no, I don’t think either of us are actually vets. We never really-” Sansa groaned as Mya pulled her up. “We’re still fighting, you know. Never left the war. Just got into a different one.”

Mya pulled back the shower curtain and Sansa did her best not to stumble into the tub. “Don’t think you can really call us vets if we’re still fightin’,” Sansa said and tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

She turned on the spray, standing clear until it warmed up- a lesson she’d learned the hard way. Sansa heard Mya sit down on the toilet lid to wait. It itched at her, the way that Sansa needed help, wasn’t used to needing it, didn’t like needing it. But she’d tried once to do this on her own and she’d ended up slipping and cracking the counter where she’d caught herself. She’d bucked up then and took Dr. Lewin’s advice to “acknowledge her limits.”

“Do you want to stop fighting?” Mya’s voice drifted over the curtains.

Sansa huffed: “Don’t know what I’d do with myself if I did.”

“Literally anything you wanted.”

Sansa shook her head even though Mya couldn’t see it and stamped down the undeserved anger. Her hand squeezed the shampoo too tight and a huge clump plopped into her hand. “I was made for it- for fighting wars,” she willed Mya to understand, already knowing that she couldn’t.

She could hear the frustration in Mya's voice when she said, “You were made to do whatever you want to do.”

“No,” no, that wasn’t- “I was made out of chemicals and bottles and formulas. I came out of a machine just so I could win a war. My parents were murdered so that I could win a war.”

Mya stayed quiet and it dug into Sansa like hooks.

“Look, it’s like at the factory. You’ve got your de-stemming machine-”

“Wait, what factory?" 

“The cigar factory. You’ve got the de-stemming machine for the leaves and it was made for one thing and it’s good at it. But all it does is that one thing and that’s what it’s good for,” Sansa tried to explain, knew she wasn’t doing a good job when Mya said, “So you’re a de-stemming machine?”

“Yeah,” Sansa said and rung her hair a little rougher than she had to. “Yeah, I’m the machine.”

Mya’s breath hissed through her nose and Sansa was shocked to find that Mya was just as angry as she was. “So you’re what- a machine made for war? For killing people? That’s the truth of Sansa Stark? Killing machine and made in China?”

“China? What does China-”

“Goddamn it, Sansa!” Mya shouted. “You’re more than any of that. Or at least you could be if you even stopped to think that maybe there’s more than just following orders and getting yourself blown up. I mean, fuck! Do you want to die? You don’t have to keep fighting when it’s obviously tearing you apart!”

“Mya- I need you to stop,” Sansa breathed through her nose, her body quaking, warm water sliding down her body too hot too much too fucking much and Mya kept talking and talking-

“They don’t own you! SHIELD or the army or who the fuck ever- they don’t own you and you don’t owe them shit-" 

And Sansa’s fist clenched, the tendons in her neck stood out and Mya’s words became a fuzz or white noise. It was all so- everything was so- Sansa wanted to dig into her own guts and rip out all the shrapnel or maybe pull out her heart, do anything to make Mya’s words -so, so many words- stop. But she didn’t. Mya kept talking and Sansa couldn’t hear a single word just the noise of it burrowing into her.

“Mya, please!” and Sansa hadn’t meant to shout, hadn’t meant to attack her friend. “Please, please stop,” Sansa whimpered. Mya did and the silence was heavy. Sansa’s body trembled and it didn’t matter that the bathroom was steaming, she was so, so cold.

“Then explain it to me, Sansa. Please,” Mya’s voice was quiet and hard.

Sansa laughed but it was just a scrape. Everyone kept asking her to do that; to explain something that Sansa really, really didn’t want to. She was so sick of giving things to people when it was something she didn’t want to be taken away. She was so sick of the questions. But Mya had asked and because Mya needed to know, Sansa gave up a truth, again, she gave a truth: “It’s a good fight. I don’t mind so much if it’s a good fight.”

“There’s no such thing as a just war. You ever heard that?”

She had. She’d spent a lot of time thinking about that; had spent years of her life thinking about it: “Yeah, yes. I-.”

“Then don’t tell me it’s a good fight,” Mya said, bitter.

Sansa closed her eyes, took a breath, dredged up words she’d learned a century ago: “My friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory that old Lie. Dulce et Decorum est pro patria mori.” Sansa swallowed. “Ask me, Mya. Ask me if it was glorious to die for my country.”

So quiet, so strong, Mya asked: “Was it glorious to die for your country?”

Mya had lost her leg and so much to the war and she had her own heavy burdens but she’d come home to Randa. Sansa had died and then had come home to find that she truly had given everything that she had. And Sansa knew that her hurts didn’t make Mya’s any lesser and that was why she was able to say it, was able to tell her: “No. No, it really wasn’t.”

“So why are you trying to do it again?” Mya hissed.

“Because it’d be a goddamn waste if I didn’t.”

**

Round, short and cheerful, Samwell Tarly just didn’t fit with SHIELD. Sansa kept waiting for it to make sense. Pod had confused her at first too but his field record was impeccable and in the field, Squire was fierce and relentless for all that he blushed and fumbled in the office. But Tarly, no matter how Sansa played him, stayed implacable and friendly. 

Tarly’s big, wide smile was calming and for all that she didn’t trust him because of it, it did make it harder for her to fight him on going to the doctor when, after a week and a half in the cast, Sansa couldn’t put any weight on her knee without screaming. Shoving down the shame, Sansa called Agent Tarly to tell him that she wouldn’t be able to go in to his office for their daily meeting and then the day had ended with him dragging her to medical and the doctors discovering that her body had not only rejected the metal pins and wires they’d used to reconstruct her kneecap, but that her body was in the process of forcing them back out of her body like bullets.

**

Dr. Lewin smiled at her. She hadn't said much this session but Dr. Lewin had an unbreakable patience. "It feels different now," she told him, pausing in her knitting.

"What does?" he asked.

"The hurting. It feels- heavier. Less sharp." She met his eyes and they were still so kind. "I'm not saying that you get used to it but-" her eyes dropped, "but you kinda get used to it."

**

Shireen had been the first with the laptop and then there was the agent who had shown her how to use a cell phone and then there was wireless internet- and of course the internet itself- and the cloud and Google and email and Facebook which was better than Google Plus even if Google was the best search engine and apparently Twitter was something that she should avoid entirely.

It was a lot and the truth was that Sansa tried really hard to understand it all. She’d dedicated a lot of time to learning how to  navigate SHIELD’s electronic database but then she’d taken one look at the remote control for Randa’s television and given up. A show about whining, Southern attractive vampires was good enough.

The point wasn’t that Sansa was trying so hard to understand modern tech. The point was that it wasn’t enough.

So Sansa hauled herself and her knee brace to the subway and to SHIELD HQ and to Pod’s office.

“Cap-” he startled, a wonder-wide smile on his face. “I didn’t-” he rushed to his feet and thrust his chair out at her. “Here, you should-” and then Pod started pushing piles of paper together and soda pop cans into a trash bin.

“Pod, it’s alright. There’s another chair,” Sansa said and lowered herself into it. She smile at him kindly and he blushed.

“So, Captain, what can I do for you?” He said and sat back in his own chair. He laced his fingers together on the desk and tried to look composed and professional. It didn’t really help; his boyish features were always working against him.

Sansa looked him in the eye, looked at him hard, until his back straightened and she could see the SHIELD agent inside of him. There was a reason Squire was on her STRIKE team.

“The bomb that took down the building- you’ve been analyzing it, right?”

Pod nodded: “It was pretty basic, as far as bombs go.”

“Simple isn’t really how to Warlocks do things,” Sansa mused, knowing that Pod would have already come to that conclusion.

“It was homemade, too. Rigged out of wires and batteries. Something hasty, made out of things that would have been lying around the base.”

Sansa paused to consider. She’d assumed, because of the mercenaries, that the Warlocks had been expecting them but if that was the case they would have used their own tech. She’d seen the schematics of Warlock explosives and Pod was right- the bomb that had taken down the building was a hackjob. “If they weren’t expecting us, then why were there mercs,” she asked, as much to herself as to Pod. 

‘They’ll be expecting us now, though.”

Sansa sat back, blew a breath out of her nose. “We’ve got the briefing in a couple hours. I want the rest of the team’s input. But,” Sansa leveled Pod with a another look. “Could you have disarmed that bomb?”

Pod’s face crumpled a little: “It wasn’t your fault, Cap.”

Sansa shook her head, dismissing it, that wasn’t why she was here: “30 seconds left. Could you have disarmed it?”

After a moment, Pod nodded. 

“Good,” Sansa said. “I need you to teach me.”

**

Sansa was tugged out of sleep because Mya had -once again- changed her ringtone to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy. She groggily groped around until she found her phone and answered the call.

“Yeah?” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“Sansa?” Sandor was breathing heavy, like he was too close to anger.

She yawned: “Whazzit, Sandor?”

“You are safe, yes?” There was an edge of panic in his voice but Sansa knew this kind of call, knew that sometimes, when Sandor was on a mission, he needed to make sure that she was still there. She understood.

“Yeah, stud. I’m safe. I’m real safe. Here in Brooklyn, jus’like-” Sansa broke off and sniffled a little, burrowing back into her pillow. “jus’like I promised.”

Flipping over, Sansa stretched out her long limbs and closed her eyes: “Wanna stay on the phone with me? Hear me sleepin’?” she offered, like she always did.

“да, Лисичка. Sleep now. Sleep.”

“M’kay. Jus’ listen. I’m safe,” Sansa murmured before tumbling back to sleep.

**

Sansa ran the mission from a conference room, each of her teammates’ comms hooked up to a camera and wired through to her live. She gave orders, analyzed data and felt, generally, useless, sitting in a plush office chair with her knee in a brace while her team- good agents, good people- put their necks on the line.

Adrenaline crashed through her, unfettered, for the entire op. From the team’s flight to an old masonry in northern Massachusetts, to Red Thorn shutting down security, through all the fighting with more mercs, to Squire securing the intel and Oathkeeper finding yet another lab with even more hostages and through until Sellsword detonated the charges and Sansa called the mission over, all from the 34th floor of a Manhattan highrise. 

Wasted. Useless. In desperate need of moving hard and moving fast and excising all the energy pent up inside of her. She wanted it out, wanted the Warlocks shut down and burned down and bones salted, wanted to figure out how they’d gotten the White Walker formula, wanted to cut it out of them, wanted to run, to hit a punching bag, to fight Sandor, to go for a walk without crutches and to do anything but sit in the blue light of her laptop and finish writing the report for a mission that she hadn’t really been a part of.

The clock on her laptop had jumped ahead 23 minutes. Sansa had completed the first section of the report. The cursor blinked back at her. Sansa clenched her fist and tried very, very hard not to punch the floor.

It didn’t matter that the doctors said that in another week, two at the most, she’d be out of the brace. She could barely remind herself that the mission had been a success and that no one had gotten hurt. Sansa remembered sitting in that sterilized room, watching the feed from her teammates’ cameras and felt sick all over again. No one had gotten hurt. No one had even come close but god-

Sansa shut down the image of watching, helpless, as Pod or Brienne or Tyrell or Bronn- as she watched like God from Manhattan as mercs got the best, got the upper-hand, took them down-

There was a scream bubbling up in Sansa’s throat and it felt like the endless waiting in the trenches all over again somehow. Her skin itched and her blood raged and Sansa kept waiting for the enemy to finally show his coward-face or for the shells to finally start dropping or for the shadow in the corner to turn into a White Walker agent so that she could finally get the fight out of her.

A car horn blared and Sansa snatched up her phone, calling Shireen almost without thinking.

The phone rang once, twice, four- “Sansa?” Shireen asked and even though it was past two in the morning, she didn’t sound like she’d been sleeping.

“You’ve got a car that goes fast, right?” Sansa asked, secure in the knowledge that Rickon had loved a good V8 and therefor Shireen must too.

“Of course,” the agent said over the line. “Feel like going for a drive?” Sansa could hear the concern under the smirk.

“Yes. God, yeah,” she answered, barely pushing down a rasp of a laugh.

“I’ll be there in 20.”

The line went dead and Sansa shut the laptop before scrambling for a pair of pants and her shoes. She threw up her hair in a quick braid and launched herself down the stairs.

When Shireen pulled up to the curb, Sansa was feeling flushed and thrumming. The car was a beautiful black slip of metal, something shining and purring and completely new to Sansa. She hadn’t loved cars the way that Rickon and Robb had but this one, Sansa knew, this one was art. Getting out of the car, Shireen tossed Sansa the keys and walked around to the passenger side. Sansa’s mouth lifted up in a feral grin as she slid into the driver’s seat. 

“Get me out of the city,” she told Shireen. “Get me somewhere where I can let her fly.”

And Shireen did.

Took her through and out onto long dark highways with nothing but rolling hills to either side. Black stretches of roads that went on for miles. Sansa got the engine roaring, let it howl, and somewhere along the way, Sansa found herself laughing. It was maniacal, desperate, a yowl. She gripped the soft leather of the steering wheel tight and flew down the roads. A glance at Shireen told her that whatever wild thing was raging through Sansa had passed through to her friend; glint and chaos in her eyes too. 

**

Sansa pulled the car over at a lookout point; some forgotten blip in the center of New York. Leaning against the guardrail, she breathed in deep and fast, feeling like she’d run a race. Finally, after weeks of pent up energy, Sansa felt her body start to relax, piece by piece. Shireen was sprawled against the car hood, stargazing, and Sansa looked up, to see what there was.

A big black void and a mess of stars. Sansa felt it in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t a thing you could ever get used to.

**

The drive back was calmer and Sansa took the time to really appreciate the car, to let herself feel how smooth it was and take in a breath of the leather seats. A thought occurred to her.

“How’d you get to me so fast?” She asked Shireen. “I thought you lived up in Inwood.”

“I was visiting Rickon.”

Sansa’s heart skipped. She swallowed and forced her throat to work: “Where?”

“Greenwood Cemetery. I don’t like to go during the day- too many tourists.”

Sansa shook her head a little, feeling crushed in and just a little dizzy. Her grip made the leather groan.

“Are you okay?” Shireen asked, sounding puzzled.

“Yeah-” Sansa forced the word out. “I guess I never- I mean, graves. Of course there’d be graves. Don’t know why I never thought about it.”

Shireen didn’t seem to know what to make of that so she didn’t say anything for a long time. Sansa didn’t know what to say either. She tried to imagine it; Rickon’s name on a headstone, with the dates. Her whole family, she supposed, were they all- “Are we all there?”

“Yeah, by your parents.”

Sansa tried to take that in, found she couldn’t. “Not Arlington?” she asked.

Shireen shook her head. “By the time the government got their heads out of their asses and realized that they wanted to recognize you and Arya as soldiers, you were already buried in Brooklyn and- Rickon told it how after Robb got assassinated that Bran wasn’t going to let him be turned into a martyr when you and your sister weren’t and Rickon said that Robb shouldn’t be buried alone so it was either move you two to Arlington or bury Robb at home and, well, Brooklyn won out.”

Sansa swallowed. “I have a grave,” she tested the words out.

“Yeah,” Shireen laughed, an unexpected sound. “I wonder what they’re going to do about that.”

“Beats me. I’m still signing papers to get me declared as legally alive again.”

A long moment passed. “You want to go see them?” Shireen spoke up, hesitant.

“Yeah, yeah I think I do,” Sansa answered and followed the signs back home.

**

Sandor had scraped knuckles and a cut along the side of his hand. Lightly, Sansa pressed her fingers against the length of his. Early morning sunlight streamed in and made everything look soft, safe.

“Does it scare you?” Sansa murmured into Sandor’s shoulder. “How bad you need me? How bad I need you?”

He didn’t answer and after a moment, Sansa lifted her head from his chest to look at him. He was watching their hands so Sansa wove their fingers together. His breath caught, rattled out.

Sansa pressed her lips to his collarbone and breathed him in, the hair on his chest tickling her nose. “Yeah,” she whispered, bit him gently, “Yeah, it scares me too.”

**

Shireen moved towards Rickon’s headstone like gravity. They’d hopped the fence to the cemetery because it was after hours and Sansa had been worried that she wouldn’t remember how to get back to her parents’ headstone but Shireen walked the greens like it was an old, familiar path. Now, her friend sat back against her brother’s grave, nudging a model car out of the way.

“What is this stuff?” Sansa asked, gesturing to the trinkets and flowers and candles and pieces of paper that decorated the headstones.

Shireen picked up a toy soldier, twirled it with her fingers: “They’re thank you notes, signs of appreciation, stuff like that. It started after Bran Stark died and Jojen Reed came out about their relationship. People kept vandalizing Bran’s grave so gay rights activists started cleaning it up and leaving their own things behind to beautify it,” she tossed up the soldier, caught it, twirled it again. “It caught on." 

Sansa nodded slowly, sucking her lip in between her teeth. There didn’t seem to be much pattern or sense to what people left behind or even who they left them to but all the candles reminded her of going to mass and lighting one at the feet of a saint. She shuffled her own feet, forced the thought away.

Instead, Sansa knelt at her mother’s grave and ran her finger over the name. “They added a headstone,” she murmured. Shireen glanced at her. “We couldn’t afford one for each of them.”

She’d always planned on saving up so that she could get her parents their own headstone, maybe actually add the dates of their deaths instead of just their names. They’d tried to use Robb’s membership with the International Workers Order to get additional money but the truth was that every penny they had was going towards getting to Europe and the war and that there hadn’t been much to spare.

There were two headstones now though, so Sansa closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold hard edge of her mother’s, tried to well up some sort of emotion. Nothing came. There was a beaker filled with daisies nudged up against her knee and someone had left, inexplicably, a bottle of vitamins at the base of her father’s grave. Sansa hadn’t had anything to do with these plots. She blinked, looked at Shireen whose head was hung low and was still twirling that soldier, and realized that her friend was hurting. She was hurting so bad.

Sansa stood and then carefully maneuvered the mementos so that she could sit at her side and take Shireen’s callused hand. Her fingers were cold so Sansa brought the knuckles to her lips and gave them a soft kiss.

Sansa didn’t say anything, let Shireen leech off of her. Idly, Sansa reached over and plucked up a note that had her name on it. She glanced at Shireen who met her eyes, blank and tired, and then Shireen shrugged.

“Nah,” Sansa dropped it. “I don’t think they’re really written to me, anyway.”

Shireen shuddered and then, like Sansa might run away, slowly put her head on Sansa’s shoulder and huddled in closer to the stone against their backs. Sansa held her tight so she would know that she wasn’t alone.

**

Physical therapy would have been a lot more tolerable if her doctor hadn’t started off by asking for a selfie.

**

The ice creaked loud, so very, very loud.

**

Sansa spent her 93rd birthday turning 26 and watching her country set off fireworks to celebrate its 235th anniversary.

Sandor was out of country but Shireen had a case of cold beers and a nice patio where they could see fireworks being set off over the ocean.

“I used to go to Coney Island with my siblings,” Sansa told Shireen as another firework went off.

“I know,” her friend nodded. “Happy birthday, Sans.”

“Thanks for spending it with me.”

“That’s what family is for,” Shireen smiled and Sansa clinked her bottle against Shireen’s before settling back into the lawn chair, her bad knee propped up so the brace didn’t dig in too much. 

Sansa felt warm.

**

As soon as the doctors declared her fit, Sandor took her to a gym in Queens where nobody looked at her twice or stared when she and Sandor fought each other like beasts.

The old woman working the hole-in-the-wall Russian diner beneath Sandor’s apartment in Rego Park didn’t stare either, just passed Sandor a bowl of borscht and went back to sweeping.

**

“You want a beer?” Sansa called over her shoulder as she opened the fridge.

“I refuse to drink anything but imported vodka,” Sandor growled and Sansa hid a smile.

“Yeah, why’s that?" 

“I’m Russian,” he said like it explained everything.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” She pulled two beers out of the fridge.

Sandor paused and when she saw his face he looked confused: “It’s- the Russian stereotype-”

Sansa plopped down on the couch next to him, her thigh pressed against his. “What’s a stereotype?” she asked, biting her cheek.

Sandor studied her for a moment. Sansa’s lip quirked up. He scowled and grabbed the beer from her. “Fuck you,” he said without any bite to it and threw his arm around her shoulder.

“Hey, you started it, trying to pull one over on me,” she grinned and took a swig.

**

Heavy sweat, layers of it, sweat from an hour ago getting tacky, sweat from five minutes ago sliding down her spine and the crown of her head. Damp hair and the burn in her muscles from a damn good fight. Sandor’s grey eyes cutting her and the plains of his stomach and back, ropes and ropes of scars, working up a lather from fighting her.

Sansa’s lungs were burning up and he kicked her in the ribs, sending her to the mat. She flipped up, snarled, and launched herself back at him, teeth feral.

Fighting Sandor was as good as kissing Sandor; he was unforgiving and relentless in both. Sometimes, after a hard fight, he’d pull her flush against him and pressed his lips to hers and that was Sansa’s favorite way to be kissed.

**

“Murderer-” Arya’s hands go over your throat. You thrash in the mud, choke on it and your sister’s hate.

You reach out to Bran but he steps back, the eye in the center of his forehead blazing: “I saw, I saw, I saw-”

**

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been- a long time since my last confession,” Sansa said into the quiet, heavy space.

“That’s alright, child. You’re here now,” the priest replied softly through the lattice. “What do you have to confess?”

Sansa dug her nails into her hands. She hadn’t gone to confession since she started working the Saturday morning shift at Murdock’s in 1940. There was a lot to confess but that wasn’t-

“We were told during the war that killin’ was okay so long as it was the enemy,” she forced the words up out of her throat before she lost her nerve. “And maybe that’s true, but maybe it’s not. I didn’t think about it a whole lot. I couldn’t. But- In 1942 I killed 27 people that weren’t the enemy,” Sansa didn’t even care that now the priest knew who she was, didn’t even care- “and I know, I know that I was brainwashed and forced to do it and the rest of the Commandos all said it wasn’t my fault but I keep on thinking, what’s the difference? My hand, my knife and they’re still dead, right?” Her breath shuddered. “They’re still dead,” she repeated, whispered and flexed her fingers.

The priest stayed quiet for a moment before asking, “Are you seeking absolution for their deaths?”

“No, no, I-” Sansa didn’t think she could ask for that.

“Then why are you here?”

Sansa curled her arms against her stomach, felt her heart clench. “At first I thought that it just didn’t make it into the history books like a lot of other stuff but then, then I looked it up in the old reports and Robb never even- he never even mentioned the prisoners. And I-” Sansa couldn’t bite back the whimper.

“I needed someone to know that it happened. Someone besides me had to know that I killed those people. Someone had to know.”

**

“Ma?” you whisper in the shell of a bombed-out London pub. She doesn’t blink- blank white eyes and no smile. “Ma?” you try again and take a step forward.

She holds out a vial, opens her mouth- a croak, a groan, a drip of spittle-

Drink up

**

Sansa came home from a five day mission hunting the Warlocks in Mexico to find a flyer taped to her door for a dance festival at the LeFrak Center in Prospect Park. She smiled to herself and took it off the door; Randa.

**

Jon’s eyes kept flicking back up to the TV behind Sansa’s head.  The Yankees were playing and much to Sansa’s horror, her cousin (first cousin once removed, according to him) had shown up to their weekly lunch date in one of their damn jerseys. The Yankees. The Yankees.

Someone in her family rooted for the Yankees. Sansa wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep her shawarma down.

After her third attempt at wrangling Jon in for a conversation, Sansa pushed her plate away and settled back in the hard, plastic seat. “I’m flattered that you came out even with a game on but I ain’t playin’ second stringer to the Yankees. My pride can’t take it.”

Jon rolled his eyes and smiled dryly: “Everyone is second stringer to the Yankees.”

“Careful, pal. Those words’ll get you in a whole pile of trouble in the wrong neighborhood. In fact,” Sansa raised an eyebrow, “Why don’t we go watch the game at my landlord’s apartment? Show you exactly what I mean.”

He threw his head back and laughed and Sansa was always struck by how unstarched her cousin became when he wasn’t in the uniform. “Can’t say I like those odds,” he said as if he wasn’t Rayder’s right hand man and one of the most dangerous men in SHIELD.

Sansa ate a bite of her meal: “That’s because you know that you can’t buy us out.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” Jon asked and spread his arms wide. 

“Oh, that’s how it is,” Sansa smirked.

**

There were over a dozen knives laid out on Sandor’s coffee table and the only sounds were a whetstone sharpening steel and the soccer commentator yelling in speeding Russian.

Sandor was scowling and Sansa- well, it wasn’t baseball, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the screen either.

Russia scored. Sandor roared and Sansa leapt off the couch, cheering. She bumped the table and a knife tumbled off, skewering the floor.

**

Muttering under her breath, Sansa repeated the prompt from the “Beginner’s Mandarin Chinese” program that she’d downloaded onto her laptop. It was hard to wrap her Brooklyn tongue around the sounds and the phonetics- jeez, she was bad at the tonal differences. But she’d asked Jon what a useful language to learn would be, since she already spoke Spanish, and apparently Mandarin was the most spoken language in the world. Besides, it’d help her bargain down at the markets in Bensonhurst.

Sansa repeated another phrase and tried to figure out what had gone wrong in the coding project Pod had given her. If Sansa was grateful to the serum for one thing, it made multitasking whole worlds easier. 'Course, multitasking wasn’t so great when she was still typing so slow. Sandor made fun of her for it but she was getting better, honestly. It wasn’t her fault she’d never gotten typing lessons; there hadn’t been a whole lot of reason for a taxi dancer to learn a typewriter.

Sansa slurped at her alcha wot soup, licked her lips, and furrowed her brow. She was almost certain that she’d added semicolons where she wasn’t supposed to. Almost certain. She repeated how to formally greet an elder. She stared down the code and felt, not for the first time, like she was in completely over her head.

A plate crashed to the floor and Sansa was drawn back to the small Ethiopian café she was in. The place was mostly empty, like it usually was, just a couple of customers seated at the counter with her and keeping to themselves, but now their heads were turned to the TV that Lebna had mounted in the corner. Sansa blinked. Then she closed out of the language program and took out her earbuds.

The news was playing footage of that Lannister bastard in his shiny metal suit fighting some other bastard in another shiny metal suit right over her city. Sansa’s nostrils flared as Iron Man- and at least it was an accurate name- shot some sort of energy beam out of his hands, and somehow the goddamn asshole managed to miss his enemy and hit a building that still had people evacuating it.

“Motherfucker…” Sansa growled and snapped the laptop shut, and pulled her shield out of the gigantic tote bag that she’d taken to carrying everywhere. Jesus, she’d been carrying the shield around with her because Dr. Lewin thought it might help ground her when she disassociated it public. She hadn’t thought she’d actually need to use the damn thing. Hurriedly, she hooked the shield’s harness over her shoulders and swung the shield around until it caught the magnetic hook on the back. Then she shoved the laptop into the bag and turned to Lebna, finally noticing that the rest of the customers were watching her with wide eyes.

“Can I leave my bag here?” she asked the restaurant owner. “I gotta get down there, see if I can help with the evacuation.” Lebna nodded and Sansa handed over the bag. She’d been coming to the café for a while now, had even met Lebna’s wife and daughters. He’d keep it safe.

Then she was out of the café, scaling the building and taking off across the rooftops. The reporter has said that that jackass was fighting the other tin suit over Brownsville like he didn’t give a good goddamn about the lives he was wrecking. Sansa leapt from rooftop to rooftop, crossing Bed-Stuy and grateful to Tyrell for teaching her basic parkour.

In the distance she could see Lannister grappling in the sky, could see the way that he was putting on a show for the news helicopter. What an asshole. He was spinning through the air with flair, and his enemy was too busy trying to shoot him down to notice where those stray bullets were going. Sansa gritted her teeth, vaulted over a ledge and came up in a roll.

As she got closer, she could see a squadron of cops trying to conduct an evacuation of a public housing building. And the one next to it. And the one across the street. There weren’t enough cops, there were too many people and Sansa knew from personal experience just how many people could be shoved in that kind of housing. Sansa halted at the ledge of a bodega and grimaced, tried to figure out where she’d be the most help.

The shield pressed firm against her back. She felt its weight.

Backing up, Sansa took a running jump and hoped to God that she’d judged the distant right to get over the street. She hadn’t. Her fingers scrambled to grab the ledge, barely catching herself and slamming into the building and the air whoofed out of her. She’d bit the inside of her cheek and could taste blood. Ignoring it, Sansa hauled herself up and took off again. One more block and she’d be under the bastards.

Neither of them noticed her and for a fleeting moment, Sansa was sorely tempted to throw the shield at Lannister and quell his ego. But Sansa was Captain America so she studied the other man and she may not know much about modern technology but she figured a blow to the neck could knock anyone off balance, even a man in metal suit. Hauling her am back, Sansa aimed for the seam in the suit’s neck and let the shield fly.

It worked better than Sansa could have hoped. She saw a spark go up from the suit, heard the crack, and he went reeling back, spinning. By the time he’d regained himself and turned his guns back on Sansa, she had the shield back in her hands and adrenaline pumping through her veins. She hoped he’d come at her, wanted to bring him down hard and fast and show him that he should have picked a different city. Brooklyn was protected.

Iron Man saw his chance, and with a completely unnecessary barrel roll, shot his energy beam against the crack Sansa had created so Sansa created another one in the faceplate and felt a sickening satisfaction.

As soon as she was confident that Iron Man could handle the rest of the fight, Sansa gave him a salute and ran back to the evacuation site. It was- Sansa’s breath rattled. It was- it wasn’t as bad as it could have been, she tried to tell herself. She’d walked through the bombed out shell of Paris. She’d walked through Dresden. This was- this was- this was rubble in the streets, a corner blasted off of a building, a hole blasted through into a public housing apartment. There were ambulances but she didn’t see any body bags which was, that was good. That was so good. But there was a lot of- there was a lot of rubble and so many people lived in Brownsville.

Sansa squared her shoulders and walked up to the policewoman who seemed to be in charge.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I’d like to help, if I can,” Sansa said.

“Look, kid,” the officer huffed and turned around, “unless you’ve got some sort of medical training-” the woman paused, squinted her eyes, took in the shield strapped to Sansa’s back. “You strong enough to help clear debris?” she jutted her chin towards all the rubble.

Sansa nodded. “The construction crew isn’t here yet but I’m worried that there are people trapped under that shit. Dig around- careful, you got that? You be damned careful. Move around some of the small stuff. You’ve got enhanced hearing, right?” The officer paused while Sansa nodded again. “You hear anything, anything, you shout out to the EMTs. Got that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sansa said and fought off the urge to throw another salute.

Sansa started to walk away towards the largest of the piles when the officer reached out again, grasping Sansa’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Captain. Good to have you on the team,” she said, her eyes serious.

Sansa tipped her head: “I’m here to help.”

She got to work.

**

Sansa hoisted a hunk of concrete onto her shoulder, wincing when the hard edge dug into her exposed skin. Behind her, she could hear the quick clacking of high heels against the street and Sansa’s closed her eyes. A reporter from the Daily Bugle had been clamoring for hours for an interview when all Sansa wanted to do was her job.

“Captain America! Captain America!” the reporter called out and Sansa steeled herself and put on a smile when she turned around. The woman was in smart business clothes and clutching her microphone like a lifeline. A cameraman and sound guy were quick on her heels. When the reporter reached her, she thrust the microphone into Sansa’s face and breathlessly said; “My name is Missandei Nakloz, reporter for the Daily Bugle. Our new helicopter captured footage of you fighting alongside Iron Man today as he took down a member of the terrorist group known as the Brave Companions. Tell me, Captain, are you and Iron Man going to be a regular team now?”

Sansa was shaking her head before the reporter had finished talking, trying not to show her annoyance on her face. “No, no I don’t think so. I was here today because I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“So you weren’t aware of the threat that was made against Iron Man this morning? SHIELD didn’t send you?”

Sansa frowned, shook her head. “I only became aware of the fight when I saw it on the news.”

Ms. Nakloz smiled: “That clears up the lack of uniform, then.”

Sansa glanced down, only now paying attention to her outfit. Running shoes, yoga pants and a red “Brooklyn” tank top. She hadn’t exactly been planning on a clean up operation today. She forced a smile: “There wasn’t any time to change.”

“And what about now? Should we expect more help from SHIELD during the clean up?”

“Honestly, ma’am, I’m not really sure. I’m not here because SHIELD sent me.”

“Then why are you here, Captain?” 

Sansa cocked her head to the side and shifted the slab of concrete on her shoulder: “Because I wanted to help. Because I can help. And if you can help, then you should. Excuse me, ma’am.” Sansa smiled before walking away and dumped the small boulder on the pile that the construction crew was creating.

**

Jaime fucking Lannister was giving an interview about the fight with the Brave Companion. He sounded proud. He sounded smug.

What an asshole.

**

Sansa hadn’t heard Bei Mir Bist Du Shein in so long, and it was so, so wonderful to know the words to a song, even better when there was an arm pressed warm against her back and a fella swinging her back and forth across the floor. It was like a hundred smoky dancehalls and it was like doing high kicks at the Aladdin because the trumpet player was a real swell player and oh but she thought she might love the man on the saxophone. Her partner was a stranger, some fella she’d picked up at the festival but even that was grand; dancing with a stranger and going wild on a hardtop. 

The floor was littered with couples and some weren’t all that good, and some gave Sansa a run for her money but there was a lot of laughter and the bar was serving shandy and Manhattans and Sansa had been dancing for what felt like hours. And she was in Brooklyn.

Sansa was dancing and she was in Brooklyn and with her body moving so fast it was almost like Bucky’s got big strong hands and he can toss you through the smoky air in the hall. It’s Friday night and you can’t remember the last time that you didn’t have to work a Friday night. When was the last time that you laughed this loud in such low light? You don’t want it to ever end. You don’t want to remember that it’s winter outside. You want to love and to laugh and you want to be kissed and Bucky slings an arm across your waist and kicks his legs up and out. His brown hair is in a tumble and yours is coming out of your braid and when Bucky grins so big and wide and gobsmacked you just know that he caught of glimpse of his best guy and you laugh because isn’t love grand?

The afternoon was bright and full of sunshine and even though Sansa had been dancing all day in her pumps, she thought she could go all night if she wanted. She wanted to never stop being a Jitterbug and she never wanted to stop hearing the deep brassy sound of the band. Sansa remembered the liberation of Paris and a soldier steps up in front of you and there’s music playing out of the busted window of a restaurant and the soldier takes you by the hand. You’ve never met him but you can recognize the sheer relief at being alive for another day in his eyes so out in the brick streets of Paris, with knives strapped to your thighs and a rifle across your back, you take his other hand and pull him forward, push him back, and forward again. He spins you around and then into a six count and when you both laugh it’s loud and wonderful and hysterical. 

The sun started going down four songs ago and the LaFrak workers had turned on bright lights two songs ago. Sansa had found a new partner, another stranger, who was just as tall as her and quick-footed. He had sweat rolling down his forehead and clammy hands but when the band started up a shag, she found out that he could do it like a New Yorker ought to be able to. The woman dancing close to her had sequins dripping down her dress and even a feather in her hair and the stage lights are blinding and you have sweat slipping down your spine. It makes the stockings stick to your thighs and your shoes are just a little too big so after every performance you have blisters on your heel but you still kick your legs up as high as all the other dancers. You think that they’re starting to accept you because Connie helped you pin your hair since you were running late and Mary Jane had covered for you with the manager. The short dress is really just mesh and strings of fake diamonds and if your Ma ever saw you in it she might throw a fit. But you feel powerful up on this stage, even as you turn your back to the audience andshimmy like Lorraine taught you.

Sansa didn’t want the night to end. She didn’t want it to ever end.

**

There are 27 prisoners which means that meant that there are 54 dead eyes in 27 heads and they all turn at once to look at you-

**

Sansa cased Lanniscorp Tower for three days before marching up to the receptionist and asking her to tell Jaime Lannister that she was on her way to see him.

Then she took the elevator up to the 37th floor and breezed past the receptionist and security and into the man’s private office. She closed the door with a sharp click and Lannister looked up from his desk, that same lecherous smirk spreading across his face.

He looked her up down, eyes crawling. She’d chosen her outfit carefully; pencil skirt and blouse, a pair of Randa’s heels that put her at 6’6” and a blazer. This was a power play and she needed to look the part. “Captain,” he practically purred, “did you miss me?” 

Sansa raised an eyebrow: “We need to talk.”

“About our spectacular team up? How we really should do it again some time? Maybe over dinner, at the London, let’s say. You can put on a little black number, I’ll bring my charm.”

“I want to talk about how you decided to have an aerial battle over a densely populated area when both you and your enemy could not only fly but were also surrounded by miles of ocean,” Sansa said and let the disgust filter into her voice. “I want to talk about how many people lost their home because you couldn’t fly a few miles east and not hurt a single person.”

Lannister’s smirk dropped into a scowl. “Lanniscorp is already financing the cost for reconstruction.”

“And in the meantime?” Sansa pushed. “What about all of the families that you put on the street or had all of their belongings crushed?”

Something hard flashed in Lannister’s eyes and Sansa was happy to see it, even happier when he pushed away from his desk and stood: “What about them?” 

“I watched those interviews about your reconstruction plans. New highrises? Luxury apartments? A modern apartment that a flat screen in every unit? You’re gentrifying Brownsville and pushin' out the families whose homes you didn’t manage to wreck.” When Lannister didn’t say anything, Sansa stalked forward and flattened her palms on his mahogany desk. “Did you even think about that?”

“Jaime,” a deep baritone voice cut through the tension in the room. Sansa turned and watched a man stride tall and proud into Lannister’s ridiculously large office. His skin was deeply tan and there were streaks of grey in his blonde hair. His suit was tailored to perfection and probably cost more than Sansa’s rent.

“Padre,” Lannister responded. He walked around the desk and shook his father’s hand. “This is Captain America.” He glanced back at her. “Sansa Stark- my father, Tywin Lannister.”

Tywin’s smile was sharp and his eyes tried to pin her down like prey. Sansa met his gaze, gave him nothing. After a moment, he came forward and shook her hand: “Mucho gusto.”

“Mucho gusto,” Sansa responded and didn’t smile. Tywin Lannister didn’t seem to be the sort of man that respected a smile.

“What seems to be the issue?” the man asked and dropped Sansa’s hand.

“The good capitán was just lecturing me on the proposed reconstruction plans for the Brownsville property,” Lannister said and Sansa narrowed her eyes. There was something -off about his body language. His patronizing slouch was gone, replaced with a rigid back and shoulders hunched in. He was- Lannister straightened his tie. Nervous. Sansa went on her guard. 

“Is that correct?” Tywin’s expression hardly changed, even though Sansa could hear the condescension dripping off of his tongue.

“I have concerns,” she said, refusing to be quelled by this man. He was just another rich suit and she’d been fighting rich suits since 1936. She’d campaigned with Liz Flynn and this man didn’t scare her any.

“And you think that there’s anything that you can do about these concerns,” Tywin’s mouth twitched as if he was fighting hard to keep his face blank. “Forgive me, Capitán, but you are neither a business woman nor a contractor. I don’t see that there’s anything that you can do.”

“No, I’m not. But,” and now Sansa did smile, teeth sharp and pointed, “I am Captain America. And Captain America has a lot of sway. You don’t really want me to come out against your project, do you? After all, I’m the only one in the footage helping with the rescue effort. That doesn’t look so good, does it?”

She watched Tywin stand just a little straighter. “Now,” Sansa continued, “how about you decide if you want Captain America on your side or against and get back to me.”

**

Sandor held the deep red door open for her which Sansa was almost positive he did so that he could watch her ass. Sansa looked at him over her shoulder and flipped her hair back just so she could see him swallow. She felt a tug at the hem of her dress and as he trailed in after her and Sansa smiled. She’d thought he’d like the wine color, thought he’d like the way that it ran short on her thighs and showed her pale Irish skin.

He’d warned her that the bar was more of a dive than anything else, and now Sansa could see that he’d meant it. There were maybe four other men in the place, all of them sitting on their own and nursing their drinks. The yellow lights put most of the grime in shadows and Sansa’s shoes stuck to the floor a little bit. When they walked in, every head turned to look at them.

Undeterred, Sansa walked to bar and sat on a stool, smoothing down her dress. Sandor took the one next to her. The bartender turned to Sandor, already for a bottle of vodka.“Тебе как обычно, Клиган?” he asked.

“Да.”

The bartender thrust his chin at Sansa before saying, “А твоей подруге?”

“Сам её спроси” Sandor gestured to her.

“What do you want to drink?” the man asked Sansa in an accent even thicker than Sandor's.

Sansa smiled at him: “Whiskey, neat.” The bartender nodded, poured her a tumblr of Irish and gave Sandor a lowball of vodka. 

“Thought you weren’t a stereotype,” she teased him. He rolled his eyes at her and dropped a kiss on the crown on her head. Sansa couldn’t stop her blush.

“You know,” she said, looking around. “I think I had to pull Rickon out of bar fight in a place that looked just like this. Complete with surly Russians.”

Sandor laughed, “I think I helped Rickon win a bar fight in a place that looked just like this. Except we were actually in Russia.”

“Well, here’s to Rickon not being able to finish a bar fight on his own,” she smiled when Sandor clinked his glass against hers. 

“Here’s to long suffering sisters and the bastards he made friends with,” Sandor touched their glasses again and threw back the rest of his drink.

**

Tywin Lannister had smiled at Sansa when she left the office. It had been cold and knowing and despite agreeing to have a meeting, Sansa felt like somehow, she’d walked into a trap.

**

Sandor and the rest of the regulars at the Dead Rabbit helped Sansa find out that is she threw back 15 shots of vodka in a row, she could get drunk for about half an hour before her metabolism burned through it.

Yegor Mikhailovich, a shameless flirt and avid brawler, tried to keep up with her once. That night ended with him teaching her how the Tropak dance, and then, later, with Sansa up on a table and singing at the top of her lungs, “Gory, gory what a helluva way to die! Gory, gory what a helluva way to die!” She was doing high kicks that Connie would have been proud of, Gory, gory what a helluva way to die! Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die! The men were cheering and even Demyan behind the bar was laughing And he ain’t gonna jump no more!

Sansa threw in a shimmy, just because she could, and Sasha passed her another shot. She threw it back to a chorus of cheers, and belted out “He counted long, he counted loud, he waited for the shock! He felt the wind, he felt the cold, he felt the awful drop! The silk from his reserves spilled out and wrapped his legs! He ain’t gonna jump no more!” 

“C’mon fellas, sing it with me!” and a gaggle of drunk men shouted out the chorus with Sansa. Even Sandor sang along, singing that it was one helluva way to die.

**

It was almost 4:00 in the morning and Sansa was coming back from the SHIELD gym where she’d been with Sandor for the past couple of hours. She liked the subway this early in the morning. It was full of people on their way home from the night shift, people on their way to the opening shift and the drunks who couldn’t be bothered with anything but their bottles.

Bed-Stuy was a whole other creature in the early morning. The streets were never really dead or quiet but people were more likely to mind their own business, even in this part of the neighborhood. That wasn’t to say that it was perfectly safe so Sansa wasn’t exactly surprised when she turned a corner and there was a man with a knife stepping into her space.

“What’s in the bag, huh,” the man groused and pointed the knife at the tote that she used to cart her shield around. “Huh, bitch, what’s in the bag.” He stalked forward and Sansa stepped back into the street light, waited for him to recognize her, blinked when he didn’t and then almost laughed because it seemed like she’d finally found someone who didn’t know who she was. “C’mon, hand it over,” he hissed and Sansa finally took the time to look at him. 

He was a sweaty, pale mess in dirty clothes, shaggy hair and a beard. He was shaking, the knife wavering in his hand. “C’mon!” he yelled and Sansa saw that his teeth were rotting.

She shook her head: “I can’t do that.”

“I’m not asking!” he took a small lunge at her, not like he actually wanted to stab her, just like he wanted to scare her.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. The kid was shaking out of his bones, spooked, his eyes glancing away every couple seconds, going wide and wild. Drugs, definitely. Sansa frowned. She really, really didn’t want to hurt the guy. He needed-

The man made a grab for her tote and Sansa stepped out the way, watching him stumble forward. She’d expected him to regain his feet but he didn’t, too high to do much of anything but fall to his knees. 

“Woah, hey, you alright?” Sansa asked, taking a step forward.

The man flipped over all of a sudden, his eyes too wide and swung out wildly. “Stay back! Stay back! They’re gonna- I gotta- oh god, they’re gonna get me, gonna get me-” He was making wide arcs with the knife and his eyes had gone terrifyingly blank. “What do I do?” he shouted up into the night. “Tell me what I do now!”

His eyes found Sansa’s and he looked terrified. Sansa just stared down at him, feeling completely in over her head. Should she call an ambulance? But what if the guy didn’t have insurance? She’d been reading about Obamacare in the paper and it seemed like not having insurance was still as much of problem as it had been in the ‘30s. Then the guy started coughing, hard and loud, and then he dropped the knife, turned his head, and he vomited. And kept vomiting. Sansa turned her head to give him some privacy and when the noises finally stopped she looked back and gasped. That was- that was a lot of blood. Without hesitating, Sansa pulled out her phone and dialed Randa’s number.

It took three rings before her friend answered, sounding groggy and annoyed. “‘Lo?” she mumbled.

“Hey, Randa, it’s Sansa. I need to borrow your car.”

**

“Is he gonna puke in my car?" 

“...I’ll put down some towels.”

**

Sansa dug out the guy’s wallet, relieved to find that he had an ID: Lom Greenhands.

**

Sansa scanned her SHIELD ID, gave her vocal and retinal scan, and carried Greenhands to the elevator, Randa at her side. She punched the level for medical. The guy might not have insurance but she was positive that with the grotesque size of her bank account, she could afford whatever SHIELD was going to charge the guy. At least the money would go to good use.

**

Randa fell asleep in the waiting room only to be shocked awake by her phone ringing. She fumbled for a moment before getting the phone to her ear.

“Yeah?” she asked, still more than half asleep. After listening for a moment, Randa sat up, ramrod straight and eyes wide. “No, baby, I'm fine. Promise, promise I'm fine. Sansa needed a ride to SHIELD. I'm okay.” Randa pursed her lips and listened again. “You're right, I should have left a note. Okay. Okay. Mya, you have to breathe. Can you do that? Can you breathe for me? I promise I'm safe. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you woke up. No, I know, baby, I'm sorry, but you have to breathe-”

Sansa got up, squeezed Randa’s shoulder and let them have their privacy.

**

Hours later, Randa was long gone, had to go back to the kindergarten, and Sansa was still in medical, waiting for any news. Eventually, Dr. Willow came out with a heavy, tired expression. Sansa stood up.

“We managed to stop the internal hemorrhaging but it's going to be a long haul before he'll be able to be discharged. He's severely dehydrated and I don't think he's eaten anything in almost a week,” Dr. Willow told her.

“What about the bloodwork?” Sansa asked. 

“This is where it gets complicated,” Dr. Willow flipped through her chart. “Most of his symptoms point towards methamphetamine, even found a baggie of it in his pocket that we sent to the lab. His blood work almost confirmed it.”

“Almost?”

Dr. Willow studied Sansa for a moment before handing her the chart. Sansa stared down at it for moment, the whole thing a mess of chemical formulas that she didn't understand.

Until she did. 

“You’re sure?” she asked, her voice a scrape.

“The blood work got flagged by the main servers almost immediately. We didn't even know what it was until we were given clearance to the information. Nasty stuff.”

“Yeah, it is,” Sansa whispered. She stared down at the formula on the stark white page and couldn't stop the tremor in her hands because this- this same formula was in every Warlock base they’d raided, every one of their computers that Pod had hacked, in every blood sample they'd found in every fridge. 

Sansa was very, very tempted to scream.

**

Lom Greenhands died four hours later, thrashing in the holds of a seizure and blood foaming out of his mouth.

His death matched the report of 25 other cases in New York City. 

Sansa went down to the gym, broke two punching bags and this time, when she wanted to scream, she did.

**

Sansa had a patch of freckles on her ribcage and it was Sandor’s favorite place to touch her. Sometimes, Sandor would pull Sansa out of her nightmare, ease the ice out of her frozen limbs and lay her out. Splayed in his bed in his Rego Park apartment, deep in Queens, Sandor would ruck up her shirt and place such a gentle kiss there that Sansa thought she might cry.

“Where are you?” he would ask, low and prostrated against her stomach and Sansa with a breath that might have been a sob would answer, “Here, here, I’m here with you.”

**

Sansa looked at the holographic charts that Pod was remotely projecting into her apartment. Blown up large and blue, was that same familiar string of letters and numbers.

"Is it-" 

"The same chemical compound the Warlocks are using for mind control? Yeah, that's the one. It's just been reformatted so that it looks and acts like meth, just with the added side effects of increased aggression, violence and a strong response to suggestion. Something’s wrong with it though. It's not acting like the chemicals that we found in the Warlocks’ bases. That one doesn't kill its users. We think it’s because of the different format. The chemical is causing a different reaction.”

Sansa’s nostrils flared: "And this is across the board? All the samples we got on the streets came up with this?"

"Yeah, Cap," Pod paused, sounding hesitant, "We have to get out in front of this. The potential of this drug-"

"Call the rest of the team," Sansa cut him off because she knew, better than any of them, she knew. "We're going to meet at HQ, make a plan and figure out who the hell has been poisoning my city."

Pod nodded, "On it."

He cut off the comms and the holograph went with him. Sansa sunk back against Sandor, incredibly, achingly grateful that she'd let him into her life if just so she didn't have to be alone right now. His arms wrapped around her and even if she was still terrified and shaking in her goddamn bones, at least she was warm. 

A minute. She let the terror have one minute of control. Let it rattle around in her chest and roil in her stomach and block up her breathing for just a minute. Just one short little minute with Sandor pressed behind her and cooing in Russian. 

Then Sansa brought her hands up and gripped the arms wrapped around her waist. Her breath rattled but that was alright. The minute was up and she'd done it; she'd beaten the fear again.

"You know what I'd be really good at?" Sansa asked and it came out rough. "Firefighter. I'd be a great firefighter. ”

Sandor didn't say anything, just pulled her a little closer. 

Sansa let her head droop. “Sorry, Sandor,” she mumbled. “They used that drug on you for decades longer than they ever did on me.”

Sansa went quiet then and Sandor let her. The fear was threatening to take over again but it’d had it’s minute.

She huffed and unwrapped his arms to grab up her shield. He followed her to the door and Sansa paused, looking out into the hallway of the brownstone that was starting to feel like a home. “Firefighter though,” she said and Sandor pressed his hand to the small of her back. “I’d make such a good firefighter.”

**