Chapter Text
Sansa has never felt more uneasy dialing a number, as she has now, standing in a phone booth, in the middle of god knows where, using some spare change a waitress gave her. She stares at the 10 digits, triple-checking to make sure the numbers are correct, before gulping down a breath and pressing ‘SEND’.
It rings only once before she hears his voice. “This is Snow.” He sounds thoroughly exhausted, and the guilt hits her like a punch to the stomach.
She exhales hard, feeling the tears well up, but pulling herself together to reply, “Jon, it’s me.”
There’s a long pause on the other end, and she almost stops to check if the call has disconnected before she hears him swear. “Where the hell are you?” His voice is taut with tension, and she knows, if she could see him now, his knuckles would be white with frustration, and his forehead would be creased with worried wrinkles.
“I’m on Lombard Ave and 2nd.” Her voice is small, trying not to raise his hackles even more. “Can you get me? Don’t send Sandor. He reports everything to Dad and I can’t have-“
Jon cuts her off, “I’ll be there in fifteen. Find a well-lit area with people around, and don’t move.” With that, he hangs up and Sansa follows his instructions dutifully, sitting outside a nearby pub on a wooden bench. Plenty of people mill by, but none of them seem to notice Lord Eddard Stark’s daughter sitting by herself, instead of at home, like a proper Lord’s daughter should.
A gust of wind comes sweeping through, and Sansa’s choice in fashion seems especially poor at the moment. Her faux leather shorts and cropped shirt do nothing to shield her against the weather, and as she’s shivering on a wet bench at 2 AM in the morning, she hates herself more than anything.
Her little stint at the club, although hours ago, it seems like only seconds have passed, since she angrily stalked over to her ex, drunk off of 8 shots of bad vodka. Arya had pulled her away, but not before she’d recited every curse word from the Oxford dictionary and splashed a cocktail into Joffrey Baratheon’s smug face.
From there, Arya had taken her to the bathroom, patiently pulling back her hair, while she vomited all her sorrows down the toilet.
“I’m sorry, Arya.” Sansa had babbled. “We were supposed to be celebrating you! And I messed it all up, it’s all messed up and this is shit. This is the shittiest of the shit.”
Her little sister, scoffed. “Don’t be stupid, Sansa. That was the most excitement I’ve had in weeks. Granted, I don’t like this part-“she gestured to the vomit on the rim of the toilet, “But, you can’t have everything, can you?” she shrugged. “I’ll get Gendry and then we can leave, yeah? Stay here.”
Drunk Sansa did not listen, and drunk Sansa had proceeded to leave the club. She’d seen Jon hovering by the restroom door, as she exited, but she’d managed to slip away once he was looking in the opposite direction. It all felt very giddy and exhilarating, but as she sobered up, the feeling quickly left her. Now, all she felt was tired, achy, and her head was pounding as though someone had taken cymbals and was clashing them over and over above her head.
She moaned into her hands, replaying every moment in excruciating detail. God, she had behaved like a reprobate! 'A perfect lady at three years old'. That was what her mother had always said of her, and if Catelyn Stark had seen how her perfect lady had behaved tonight, she would have fainted on sight.
Sansa wallows in her misery, and after a good ten minutes of internal loathing, she spots the Stark-issue, black, Range Rover in the distance. She doesn’t stand, just in case it isn’t Jon, because she knows Jon will be able to spot her either way. Sure enough, the car stops right in front of here, and an angry Jon Snow, comes out of the driver’s seat. He’s still dressed in his suit uniform, and she wonders if he’s been up all night, waiting to hear from her.
Jon notices her shivering immediately and mutters a quiet ‘Jesus Christ’ under his breath before draping his suit jacket over her shoulders.
“Thanks, Jon.” She murmurs. Her throat gets thick, trying to issue an apology without crying. “Look, I’m really sorry I-“
“Get in the car, Sansa.” He says tersely, although he doesn’t look directly at her. In fact, it seems he’s trying to look anywhere but at her. She nods, and goes around the car, to get into the passenger seat, and just a few seconds later, he joins her in the driver’s seat.
They both stare straight ahead, before Sansa dares to peek over at her bodyguard. He’s texting somebody, and Sansa guesses that somebody to be the Stark’s head of security, Eddison Tollett. She can make out one of the messages, ‘Got her, heading back now.’
Jon heaves in a deep breath, “One of these days, I’m going to kill you, Sansa Stark.”
“That’s kind of the opposite of your job, isn’t it?” Sansa snarks back.
Immediately, Jon’s jaw tightens and he looks heavenward, as if trying to praying for some semblance of sanity. Sansa has never made Jon’s job easy. Lord knows Rickon and Bran’s guards don’t have to go through half the things she puts Jon through. Cleaning up after her drunken escapades, making sure she doesn’t get grabbed by press, and picking her up outside strange pubs, are just a few of Jon’s duties.
She’d had her doubts when they’d first met, scoffing to her father that she’d seen benched high-school football players bigger than Jon. However, Jon quickly proved her wrong that night, grabbing a photographer that had gotten too close to her and ushered her inside the paparazzi-swarmed limo, all without breaking a sweat. Even Sandor, had let out an impressed whistle at his display of strength. Since then, he’d been with her for 2 years.
In a weird way, Jon’s moved from family employee to family friend in those 2 years. Robb loves the shit out of Jon, always inviting him out for drinks with Theon, despite their mother’s protests at the unprofessionalism of it all. Jon even goes to Arya’s fencing matches, and Rickon’s competition days when they match up with his days off.
He’s tried (and failed) to be the most distant with her, but for good reason. There’s a clear distinction of where they should stand. She’s his employer and he is her bodyguard, there’s no room for friendship or anything in between. That line has clear boundaries, but it hasn’t stopped Sansa and Jon from stepping over it on multiple occasions.
“Why did you run away?”
Sansa pulls his jacket closer to her body, feeling small underneath his stare. “You know why,” she replies, softly. “I see him, and all rationale leaves me. I become angry, irrational, and I just needed some space, so I left.”
His gray eyes soften imperceptibly, and she sees the anger ebb and flow out of his face. How could he be angry? Not when she had confided in him the things Joffrey had said and done to her. He was the only one she’d told, because she had wanted to tell somebody desperately, but couldn’t find the courage to tell one of her siblings, she was afraid of the disappointment, the ‘I-told-you-so’s and the judgement. Jon had given her none of that. That was the nice thing about Jon; there was never any expectations with him. He had only nodded after every sentence and when she was done, he let her soak the front of his crisp, white shirt in tears.
“My job is to protect you, remember?” His hand comes up to cradle her cheek, and she nods silently into his warm touch. At the back of her mind, she’s pretty sure that this has crossed another line somewhere, but she pushes that thought away. “Joffrey can’t do anything to you.” His tone is solemn and firm, and in that moment she truly does feel as though nothing can harm her.
“The next time, you need to run away-” He pauses, obviously searching for the right words. “Just tell me. I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go. We can even go egg the Lannister mansion if it makes you feel better.” He adds the last part with a boyish grin, as though it’s been something he’s been wanting to do as well.
A giggle escapes her lips, “Is it a deal?”
Jon extends his hand, “It’s a deal.”
It’s then that she notices a purplish bruise forming on the bridge of his knuckles. “Jon!” she gasps, “What happened?” He follows her eye-line and tries, stupidly, to hide his hand from her sight, as though it will make the discoloration fade.
“It’s nothing.” He shakes his head, hastily.
“Jon. What. Happened.” The words come out sharper than she intended, but the bruise is pretty ghastly, and she hopes to dear God that he’s not going to say what she thinks he’s going to say.
He clears his throat. “I punched Joffrey.” When Sansa only gapes at him, he continues sheepishly. “You disappeared, and I thought he’d done something! So I-”
“You punched him.” Sansa finishes, faintly. He looks so adorably embarrassed, his face a touch pink as he scrubs at his stubble. In this moment, she’s never been more glad that her father assigned Jon Snow to her. When she was little, he would always tease he’d find her a prince who was ‘brave, gentle, and strong’ and somehow, he’s managed to deliver on his promises, like always.
Jon turns to her and asks sheepishly, “Are you angry with me?”
Sansa laughs lightly, and leans forward to brush her lips against his cheek. He tenses, initially, as he always does, and then he melts into her touch, exhaling hard with a quiet swear.
“I could never be.” she promises.