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Arya rolling her eyes, Robb mumbling something about Theon's party, Bran saying he'd rather play the video games he got for Christmas when she asked them the day before— she'd expected all that. But Margaery brightly chirping that she was also going to Theon's party, and with Joffrey? That ruffled her feathers almost enough for her to protest when Marg picked out a sparkly gold mini-dress to borrow. Even her best friend since the dawn of time, Jeyne, was too busy to join her. ("Someone's got to help Theon host!")
She'd have to go alone and that was fine with her. She could go stand for half a day in New York City, maybe sneak in some booze, maybe even hit it off and make out with a stranger when the ball dropped. She's 21 now, has been almost 3 weeks, and if she wants to get buzzed alone in a crowd of a million people then by all means she can.
That was her argument until her mom firmly said that there was no way she's going by herself, young lady. Mr. Stark was already looking on helplessly when Jon spoke up before mother and daughter dissolved into a shouting match.
"I can go with you," he offered, even as Robb smacked him on the arm and grouched about him missing the party.
"I've only ever watched it on TV," he added with a shrug, not making eye contact when Sansa stared at him in surprise.
Mrs. Stark seemed satisfied enough with this plan, even though her eldest loudly protested. ("I'm no fun at parties anyway, Robb, you know that.") Sansa couldn't do more than softly agree before her dad told her to stay safe and that he'd drop them off somewhere along 6th Avenue since everything'll be closed off.
It's not the end of the world that she'll be stuck with Jon for a few hours, just weird. They don't talk too much, but they're friendly and can hold a conversation when it comes down to it. He's the nicest out of Robb's friends by far and even nicer to look at now that's he's filled out and let his stubble grow. The problem is exactly that, though: Jon is to Robb what Jeyne is to Sansa, and attractive to boot. Throw in some cold and alcohol and one of them is likely to be permanently banned from the Stark household.
Robb can be your stereotypical older brother when it comes to boys interested in Sansa; he's threatened to kill both Joffrey and Harry, but he might not know what to do if his best friend got with his little sister. Even more so if his little sister got with his best friend.
(Which Sansa might not mind too much, if Jon keeps looking as good as he does now.)
It was 2 o'clock when they drove onto 6th with some traffic that wasn't a surprise to anyone. Sansa was all bundled up for the 10 hour wait and stuffed an extra scarf, a pair of gloves, and a flask into the bottom of her purse before leaving, while Jon only had skinny jeans and a flannel button down under his windbreaker to keep him warm till midnight. Snow whisked around them as Sansa pulled her trench coat closer to herself and followed the crowd towards 7th.
"I'm freezing just looking at you," she said over her shoulder as they waited to pass into the fenced-off viewing area. Even when a thousand bodies were slowly pushing her toward the pen, he stayed with her, his hand a gentle pressure against her wrist or forearm or the small of her back, keeping them together.
"You've grown weak."
"I'm just out of practice," she replied, voice muffed by the layers of her scarf. "Weather in California's forgiving."
Which is one of the only good things Sansa has left to say about going to school on the west coast. She never ran into any celebrities at the coffee shop, her skin burnt instead of tanned, and every light-haired, bright-eyed boyfriend turned out to be awful. It's a little embarrassing, how eagerly she'd flown West only to long for home again. Even worse is how easily the New England cold is making her shiver while Jon just looks on, amused, with his hands in his pockets and snowflakes in his hair.
They settled in front of a McDonald's, where they got a pretty good view of the ball and stages. Sansa even got to see Miley Cyrus up close as she walked up to the stage, which was pretty much the highlight of her entire year. Miley had on a massive fur coat that even Jon was intensely jealous of, judging by how much he was shivering now.
"You alright?"
They'd been talking about her school in the west and his job at the firestation, but now his teeth were chattering so much it was hard to understand what he was saying.
"I guess I'm out of practice too," he said, hunching his shoulders and rocking on his feet. "What have I gotten myself into?"
"A New Year adventure with the one and only Sansa Stark," she replied while fishing through her purse again. "You ought to be honored."
Only between his smile and when her gloved fingers found the edge of the scarf she had tucked away did she realize that Jon might not want the warmth she had to offer. It was pink and fluffy and perfumed, after all. Steeling herself and pulling it out anyway, Sansa got on her tiptoes to coil it around his neck and tuck the ends into his jacket.
Daisy by Marc Jacobs was probably the only thing he could smell now, but Jon smiled anyway, that stupid hesitant smile that crinkled his eyes and dimpled his cheeks, the smile that got her heart beating even faster than putting her scarf around him did.
"Thank you, O great Sansa Stark, for the generous gift," he said with a dramatic bow that earned him a punch on the arm.
They're about 4 hours in when Sansa ducks away to order a white chocolate mocha and large fries from McDonald's and finds herself in a mob of people reaching over the barrier at the man passing out Nivea freebies. It's a violent scramble and she's elbowed than once, but she emerges victorious with messy hair and two big blue hats.
Jon's looking in her direction before she's even untangled from the crowd, his brows scrunched with worry and the muscles in his neck tense like he was debating if he should dive in and wrestle her out or not. His shoulders relax when she approaches him, hats in hand, but his arms still hang heavy at his sides when she puts a hat on his head with a smile.
"Hey, there's lip balm in here!" Sansa lets it join the other things in her purse before working her hat over her head. Everyone around her was topped with Nivea blue now, but only Jon looked completely unamused.
"God, Sansa, don't do that again," Jon finally said, taking his hat off to run fingers through his hair. "I thought you'd get trampled."
Even with the long face and wrinkled brow, it's hard to take his concern seriously when he's holding a floppy top hat.
"Sorry! Forgot that Robb'll kill you if you let me die." Her mom would too, but at least Arya might be a little thankful.
Jon scrubbed his face. "I wouldn't be able to live with myself."
She didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't. They settled into a tense silence, the first since they'd arrived, and Sansa fought the urge to pull out her phone.
"So," Jon cleared his throat and moved the pink scarf away from his mouth. "Why were you so set on coming here?"
Sansa shrugged and adjusted her scarf too. "Why wouldn't I want to?"
"It's freezing and you're stuck with me."
It isn't even that bad, though: only her toes are numb and it's easy to talk to Jon. She doesn't have to pretend around him; doesn't have to force laughter at his jokes or feign interest in his stories, and he doesn't either. These few hours spent with Jon have been more genuine than the years she'd spent in California.
"It's better than how I spent the last New Year's Eve."
Crying at a party after seeing a drunk Joffrey make out with some random freshman isn't exactly ringing in the New Year right. It's pretty chilly right now, but at least her mascara's staying on her eyelashes tonight and no one had spilled a drink on her yet.
"I just hope 2014's good to me. This is supposed to be good luck or something, right?" Then she shrugged, biting her lip before she could correct herself that no, it's the kiss that's good luck.
"And you? What made you volunteer?"
Jon shrugged. "Haven't seen it before. And I could use some luck, too."
"Look! Spiderman!"
Jon flicked his eyes from her, to the mittens in her hands, and back again. "Spiderman."
Her laugh fogged up in the cold night air.
"A pair for Bran and a pair for you." Sansa tossed one to him and stuck the other deep into her purse. "You didn't bring any gloves."
Which was weird, because if there's anyone who's always prepared, it's Jon. He's the guy with a tool box in his car and a pocket knife anywhere it'll fit, not someone who lets his hands freeze in the pockets of his jeans when it's 24 degrees out.
Jon caught the mittens, handed the cup of white chocolate mocha he was using to warm his hands back to Sansa, and bit down on the plastic tag connecting them while mumbling his thanks, probably still frazzled over how she'd disappeared from his side and wound up in another rabid crowd. Sansa considered heading back into the madness to get a pair for herself as a souvenir when a kissing contest started on the main stage.
The first couple was adorable, Sansa thought, but the second stole the show when the man on stage twirled his girlfriend and dipped her into a kiss.
"Oh! Did you see that? She twirled!" Sansa added her cheers to the crowd's and Jon pitched in a whoop of his own.
That couple won a basketful of Nivea goods and Sansa's wistful sigh. Despite all her birthday wishes, she never got the Disney romance she'd always wanted. It at least seemed likely with Joffrey, since he looked princely enough before she got to know his true self, but Harry was just a cheating mess of a rebound, and please, don't even talk about Petyr.
But I'm leaving that behind, she thought. It's a new year, there'll be new people. Biting her lip, she glanced to Jon and away before he noticed.
Everyone crowded together on the street now, straining for a better view and tilting their heads up to watch the gleaming crystal ball descend, but Sansa turned instead to Jon, who looked back at her. They were close now, much closer than before, to the point where Sansa could feel his breath flutter her eyelashes because he's taller by about a head even when she's wearing her heeled boots. She flicks her eyes to meet his, about to apoligize for getting all up in his bubble like this, but they detour on the way there and focus on his mouth—half-open and pink and full—instead. Maybe it's the excitement in the air, or the way he's looking at her lips too, but a string of words about "midnight" and "kiss" and "good luck" are tumbling out of her mouth before she can close it.
Just as the count down reached 5, Jon's hand clasped hers firmly and raised their arms together, stopping her from shouting out the next number. 4, and he guided her arm over her head until she spun on the toes of her boots and felt a breeze on her frozen cheeks. 3, she was facing him again, closer now, having stepped into his arms to regain her balance. 2 and his hands settled into the small of her back and cradled her neck and slowly— so slowly everything stopped; the counting, her breathing, her own pulse—dipped her down. 1 and his eyes met hers, his smoky grey eyes that seemed to ask for her permission even when this was everything she'd ever wanted, and he gently pressed his lips against hers as cheers erupted all around them.
His lips are cold and a little chapped, but the soft give of them and the careful brush of his tongue was all that mattered. She opens her mouth under him but he's already leaning back, and before she can even get her bearings straight she's upright again, arms around Jon's neck while his hands find a home it the tapering of her waist, fitting as if they were made to rest there. Her face was pink from embarrassment, surprise, the cold, and the scratch of his beard and Jon wasn't much different, though he was also grinning like an idiot as 2,000 pounds of confetti fluttered around them.
"Happy New Year, Sansa."
"Yeah, she breathes, the words coming out with a fog. "Happy New Year."