Brain
Seeing calm, poised Sansa Stark off-kilter was either tremendously worrying or tremendously hilarious, Willas decided.
Right now, he was going to go for hilarious. No one was dead. (Yet. Sansa might kill Tyrion before she left.)
"I don’t see why I suddenly need to do this, on less than a day’s notice,” Sansa rambled, attempting to pin her hair up for the fifth time. “I hardly have time to edit the speaker’s notes I wrote for him, much less review properly for any questions I need to answer.”
Willas nodded, looking for his cane. He swore it was somewhere close at hand… They’d been a bit distracted last night, and this morning.
Well, until Tyrion called. (Perhaps Willas would kill Tyrion. Garlan would help. Or Margaery.)
"Sansa, sweetling, you forgot something important," he pointed out.
Sansa looked up at him, blue eyes wide and partially made up. “What?” she practically wailed.
Thanking whoever was listening for Marg’s Crash Course on Sansa Stark, Overachiever of the Millennium, he continued, “You wrote Tyrion’s speech, you did the research, and you most likely know more about the subject than the rum-soaked demon who happens to be your boss.”
Still a bit bitter about Tyrion’s timing, yeah.
"Yes, but he didn’t give me TIME!" Sansa pointed out. "I have next to no preparation time, no time to pack, and have to leave town for three days at very nearly a moment’s notice."
"And we will plan horrible revenge later," Willas promised, pulling his cane from halfway under the bed and ignoring the twinges of retribution and penance. "Get dressed, you have garment bags in the closet. Pick two outfits for work, three for casual. Pack toiletries from that cosmetic store you call a medicine cabinet, and you will be fine. Understood?"
"Yes, but the paperwork…" Sansa’s eyes narrowed. "Oh, that… that…Lannister! He must have known I was going from the very start, otherwise all of the conference paperwork would be in his name, and this wouldn't work.”
"Could he do that?" Willas asked, bemused by her sudden shift in mood. (Also by the fact that his fiancee and best friend spat out that surname like a curse.)
He hooked his trousers from the bedpost, pulling them towards him.
"Oh, almost all of it was electronic, and I made him handle his own emails a while back," said a very irritated children’s librarian. "He could, if he was sufficiently sneaky."
"We shall have terrifying revenge," Willas promised. "You can ask your sister for help."
Sansa laughed. “I will, you know.”
Willas nodded. “And rebutton your shirt.” He smirked and tilted his head. “A scarf might also be a good idea.” He tapped the back of his neck and watched Sansa sigh.
"You could use an illusion, since it is your fault," she pointed out, suddenly much calmer as she rebuttoned the dark blue blouse.
Willas nodded. “I could even hide more of them, if you so wish?”
Perhaps he’d spent a bit too much time with the fairies. (Or agreeably watching the sort of movie a young Marg had liked.)
Sansa glared. “Not today, Tyrell. Today, I have to find my other shoe.”