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She swirls her wine, tinting the glass red with each controlled flex of her fingers around the stem, but doesn't bring it to her mouth. He'd drained his glass and poured himself another by the time the crackly voice in her earpiece told them it was go time, that they're here and being lead to the table at her 2 o'clock. Heavy clicks of the hostess's heels tell her that much, but she appreciates Theon's help anyway. Robb glances towards them--a couple in a sharp suit and slim black dress--a little too quickly, but wine gets to him like that sometimes.
He reaches for her hand across the table and she lets him take it, lets him run his thumb over the knuckle just below their wedding band. The 2 o'clock couple clinks their wine glasses and mutter something between themselves. His thumb is warm and it seeps into her skin, burrowing deep into her as if she wasn't already completely, throughly corrupted. Back and forth and back and forth, stopping sometimes to nudge the ring and trace the inscription, even though he knows the latin better than the identities he slips on like an favorite coat.
"Darling," he says, with the smile and half-laugh of someone who can't keep a secret. It used to wrap around her throat and tighten; the certainty that he'd give them away, the fear someone would turn their head and notice the snickering couple that might look like the graphite police sketches that have been circling the news. But tonight Sansa just hums from low in her throat and leans forward to sink her fork into the cake they've been sharing. Robb repeats the endearment as she bring the fork to her mouth, dropping a few chocolate crumbs onto the white tablecloth along the way. His thumb keeps twisting the ring around her finger.
He hates her darkened hair, she knows, prefers how it shone like copper, like his, in the dim candlelight of a fancy restaurant like this. She'd taken a box of L'oreal to it one night after his half-laughs turned a few heads in their direction and he woke up with his fingers tangled in her still-damp hair, betrayal sitting deep in his stomach. It's better and worse this way.
The waiter returns with Robb's credit card and he removes his hand from hers to tuck it into his wallet. She sips her wine. It reddens her lips and it's nice, watching how Robb's mouth just barely slacks at the sight of it, how it moves with a wordless whisper as if he was kissing her already.
They walk out of the restaurant with the relaxed confidence that comes with experience. She's leaning her shoulder into him and his hand is a gentle press against the curve of the hip as the crackly voice directs them to the shiny black Mercedes parked down the street. He takes her hand--the left-- when she steps onto the asphalt and holds onto it even as she's opening her clutch to find the key they copied a week earlier.
Robb drives, because he knows the way better than she does and because it means he can keep holding onto her hand--the left-- on the way there. He keeps twisting the ring, running the pad of his thumb over the engraved letters as steadily as they pass streetlights as if he has to make sure it's still there, that she's still his.
She steps out of her heels when they enter the couple's mansion with another copied key and they run up the carpeted stairs two at a time together, laughing and pushing each other like the races they had when it was just the two of them at home. It's just the two of them under the glittering chandelier now, the way it always is on nights like this.
The watches are cold against her bare arm, where Sansa hangs them all from as she continues picking through Mr. 2 o'clock's things. 4 pairs of cufflinks and a few tie clips. A diamond necklace, still wrapped nicely in it's blue Tiffany box and bag of heavy camera lens. She carries them all down the stairs out the door into the car while Robb emerges with a bag of the missus' things, a bottle of red wine, and a wolfish grin.
They don't know who decided on their code-names and it's a little bit embarrassing, both how uninspired they are and how fast the media latched to them. Political cartoons of wolves and birds appear in newspapers across the nation, even during the weeks between heists. Robb likes to thumb through them just to point the especially nasty ones out to her, trying (as always) to coax a laugh out of her to share.
Theon and his black Mercedes wait in the driveway to take the loot back to the hotel while Robb and Sansa drive back to the restaurant to return the car. It's become routine, a third-Saturday-night-of-every-other-month tradition that drags them deeper and deeper into each other. They were close since childhood; a pair of easy, charming grace whose dreams were manifested in the other's auburn curls and sapphire eyes. Sansa deserves to sparkle like a princess, always has, and Robb would see that she is covered in jewels and silk. She could hardly let her shining knight do so by himself.
They're allowed to pick out something to keep for each other, a kind of commission and tradition Theon doesn't mind allowing them as long as he gets credit for the rest. This kind of thing is Greyjoy business, after all,
A beautiful blue dress is draped over the bed beside a few neatly arranged items from the house. The Tiffany box and camera bag are missing, Sansa notices, and the Pinot Noir is already sitting in a bucket of ice. Robb uncorks the bottle and pours two glasses while Sansa admires the gown.
"It matches your eyes," is what he says, but she looks at the shimmering cloth and thinks of his. The wine he offers is sweet and fruity on her tongue.
"It's beautiful," she says and runs her fingers over the bodice as Robb's arms wind around her waist from behind and he buries his face into her neck.
Sansa chooses a slim silver watch from the pile and fastens the black leather strap around his wrist. His pulse beats on under her fingertips and matches the one in between her lungs, skipping and stopping and speeding up in tandem.
Her fingers trace his veins until they lead to his fingers and the gold band that rests there. She keeps hers on a thin gold chain around her neck when they aren't pretending, but Robb always keeps his on as if it's the only honest thing about him. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head (he was always so tall, so strong, her knight) and Sansa wishes her hair was still auburn for him. They fall onto the bed after that, lying next to their (Theon's) wealth with their fingers intertwined, and she finds herself wishing harder. They used to match so well, used to fit so completely that you could only tell them apart after you've broken them in two.
Robb raises her hands, still intertwined with his, above her head and settles into the perfect space between her long legs, which she gladly spreads to get the skirt of her dress out of the way. Sansa struggles half-heartedly under his hands, wanting to work at the buttons keeping their bare skin apart while arching her back off the bed to press into him. Robb groans at the contact and drops a hand to fumble with his belt as Sansa eagerly kisses the rising falling rising falling skin her questing hands expose.
He sucks a bloom onto her neck and licks the wine off her lips and then deeper. She lets him in because that's where he belongs.