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The Starks sure know how to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s, still Jon’s a little in awe of everything despite detailed recounts from Sansa on their way down from Queenscrown.
What he hadn’t heard of, however, is their fascination with placing sprigs of mistletoe everywhere.
Fucking everywhere.
Jon’s convinced the Starks consider him a lunatic now, looking in every direction before crossing any threshold. But after nearly being caught under one with the little sister, Arya—after showing the Starks what’s probably a miraculous feat of acrobatics by near jumping across the room in his haste to get away—well, there really isn’t much to say.
He’s trying to be cautious here, because that hadn’t been the only time.
Robb’s girlfriend, Jeyne, had almost stumbled upon him under a mistletoe as well; Robb’s friend, Theon, had dropped by and that, too, had been a close mistletoe call. So far, it’s been all fun and laughter – the youngsters seem to find it all hilarious, even Mr. and Mrs. Stark had cracked a smile at what seems to be his luck these past few days.
Sansa can’t seem to stop laughing, any time she sees him edge around the mistletoes; though, she has dragged them under a few, kissing him lightly on the lips, over and over, until her siblings begin protesting. This is, of course, the only reason why he doesn’t really mind the teasing—Sansa is so damn happy, he’s not going to start protesting over a stupid thing and risk turning her smiles upside-down.
Or upsetting the Starks, for that matter; only a few days, but they’ve all made him feel so welcomed already. Jon can safely say he likes them, very much, and wishes to have many more holidays like this one.
And I might, he muses, remembering Sansa’s smile when he’d told her he had an extra gift back in Queenscrown; when he’d blurted out what it was. If I don’t screw this up.
“I can hear you thinking, Mr. Snow.”
It’s pretty much instinct what makes him lift his arm so Sansa can snuggle into his side. The flurry of activity that seemed to be a constant in the family had finally winded down; for once since arriving, each and every member of Sansa’s family is relaxed enough to just sit around with a mug of hot chocolate. Mrs. Stark’s specialty, he’s been told.
“Jon,” she pouts and he has to hide his grin behind the mug, “what is it?”
“You know how to make this?”
Sansa eyes him for a moment before rolling her eyes. “Yes, I do. And please, don’t try to be cute and oblivious.”
He chances a quick glace around the room, then drops a light kiss to her lips. “It’s nothing, really, just—” he doesn’t know how to explain it, how overwhelming it’s been “—these past few days, it’s been pretty…”
“Crazy?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll get used to it, eventually.”
Hearing her say that makes his chest hurt, in the best possible way. “Aye, I hope so,” a pause, and then, “your siblings… are really something.”
Her happy giggles blindside him for a moment, enough that she manages to steal his mug of delicious hot chocolate and step out of his reaching hands.
“Hey, get your own!”
“They really are something,” she takes a sip from his mug, lifting an eyebrow at him in challenge, “you’ll get used to that, too.”
Jon reaches once more for her; mug still between her hands, Sansa lets him draw her into his arms – she fits so fucking perfectly there. Back to his chest, he can either place his chin on her head or shoulder, whichever is fine with him.
“I’m sorry about the whole mistletoe thing,” says Sansa, after a while.
“It’s okay,” he smiles when she gives him a dubious glance over her shoulder. “Really, I don’t mind… so long as it’s you who gets caught with me under them.”
There’s that glint of mischief again; oh but Sansa will be the dead of him.
“Should I drag you off in search of one? Make good use of a noble tradition, Mr. Snow?”
But he can give as good as he gets.
“Depends, Miss Stark,” he lowers his voices to a whisper, pressing his lips to the shell of her ear – and her shiver, he’ll count as a win, “is it just for kissing?”
Before she can answer, with would most likely be an answer that’d have his blood humming in anticipation, someone knocks onto them, nearly toppling them over. It’s sheer luck that Sansa had drunk all the hot chocolate, or it would be currently all over them—Gendry is his name, the tall and broad-shouldered boyfriend of little Arya, the one who stumbled into them.
“Sorry, sorry!”
Jon had managed to spare Sansa of much of the impact, raising his arms in time, so really, there isn’t any need apologize. Except now Gendry straightens up, standing nearly a head taller than him, and Jon notices the thing on his head.
Oh, no.
Robb seems to be the first to notice, he burst out laughing. Then come the youngsters, Bran and Rickon; then Arya herself, the one responsible for this. Mr. and Mrs. Stark look torn between amusement and reproach for their children. Because the accursed thing currently offending him, a stupid hat Robb had gotten as a present, a Santa hat with a fucking mistletoe attached to it, is hanging over his head—
Sansa dissolves into giggles, then.
—and Gendry’s.