Work Text:
He doesn’t know how he got here.
(Okay, fine, he does. And it has to do with a five foot seven woman with long red hair, twinkling blue eyes and a penchant for anything and everything lemon. He just doesn’t know how he got here.)
All he knows is that he’s slumped tiredly in an oversized chair, with a high back and arching armrests carved intricately (and he won’t admit it to anyone, but the cushion beneath him is more comfortable than he would like to admit.)
He tries to hide it, and he thinks he’s doing a good job, until he catches her gaze over the heads of the attendants who coo and shower her with compliments that he gives her every day.
(So, he may not give her compliments every day but it’s in the unspoken things he does, the way he kisses her forehead before he leaves for work, the way he runs his hands over her body, worshipping every inch of her, it’s in the way he knows he looks at her when she’s not looking, full of emotion that he’s not familiar with and often doesn’t know what to do with.)
She crosses her eyes at him and sticks her tongue out, jutting out a hip as she stares at him and he’s tired and she’s so fucking different than any other woman he’s met and been with that he laughs. It’s rumbling and deep and he sinks deeper into the chair that smells like something floral and he knows the looks he’s getting.
“What do you think?” She asks, her voice hesitant as she makes her way over to him, her bare feet making noise along the tiles, her bright green nail polish glaring at him.
(He knows he looks they’re getting.)
(She, the beauty, with her deep red hair, long and held in a braid, braced over her shoulder, her tall, lithe body, fit in all the right places, her blue eyes, twinkling with mirth and hidden pain that no one, no one but him and her family and her dead and buried monsters know about and he, the beast with straggly hair that barely covers his burnt half of his face, and a violent past, filled with smoke and ash that creeps up more often than not.)
“Sandor?” She asks again, tilting her head to the side, eyes clouding over with worry.
He thinks he hates that the most, that after everything she (he, they) have been through, she still has the strength, the capacity to look at him with worry, with love that he feels in her gaze alone. He doesn’t deserve it. Fuck, he doesn’t deserve her. He never has.
(“I’m not who you want me to be.”
“I don’t want you to be anyone but yourself.”
“Myself? I’m old, bitter and hateful. I’ve been to prison, little bird. I’m violent.”
“You won’t hurt me.”
He laughs and it’s hollow and empty and he closes his eyes, images of her laughing and smiling and then crying and screaming, with a bloodied body and bruised ribs and there is a pain so intense in his chest, he feels like he could explode. “No, I won’t hurt you.” Not you. Never you.)
“Sandor?” She calls out again, placing her hand on his bicep and he looks down, her long and thin fingers, skin creamy and unblemished, dainty and fragile against his rough arm, littered with scars hidden by tattoos. She gives him a small, soft smile, the one she always gives him in the morning when she first wakes up and it’s for him, always for him, just for him. “What do you think of the dress?”
It’s a dark blue dress that comes to her knees, with thin straps and some sort of gold design swirling around it. It brings out her eyes and the redness of her cheeks and he thinks she would look fucking beautiful wearing a burlap sack. “Perfect.” He tells her, his voice getting caught in the back of his throat, “you’re fucking perfect, Sansa.”
She grins and blushes, bites her lip and turns around, a skip in her step as she slips back into the dressing room to change.
It’s been an exhausting day, he thinks, as he slips back into the comfortable chair, with work and then being bombarded by Sansa when he walks through the door, only for her to drag him back out on a few errands.
Those few errands end up being a few stores and those few stores end up culminating in at least half a dozen bags that lay at his feet and Sandor has never been so sick of clothing stores and department stores than he is right now, but he would do it all over again to see her smile, to hear her laugh and to watch her bite her lip, cocking her head to the side as she studies herself in the mirror, heedless of what the attendants say to her, but always seeking his opinion.
He’s learned by now to not get in between Sansa and shopping, even though he still thinks it’s ridiculous, not to mention a waste of money to spend one hundred dollars on a shirt and even more on dresses. He knows that Sansa is wealthy in her own right, not only from her family money but from her own job and he knows that she likes to look flawless and even though he teases her mercilessly about it, he can’t help but be mesmerized as he watches her get dressed. She does everything with such precision that he’s often reminded she’s a fragile little bird, chirping for everyone and falling against him in exhaustion at the end of the night, murmuring sweet nothings to him as she drifts off to sleep in his arms.
(“You like it when I dress up.”
“I like it when you don’t have anything on.” He corrects her, staring at her through the mirror as she applies on her make-up. He admits that he doesn’t like her with make-up. He likes looking at her, at the real Sansa, not some made up doll. She cries the first time he tells her that and he tries to back track, knowing that he said something wrong, but she stops him in his tracks as she clambers into his lap and kisses him until he forgets how to breathe. I love you, she whispered, I love you, I love you and I love you. Thank you. Thank you.
“Admit it.” She laughs. “You like it when I dress up.”
“I like watching you dress up.”
“Oh, you have a fetish.” She grins wickedly, “I get it. I’m your fetish.”
She shrieks when he grabs her by the waist and twirls her around, depositing her on the bed and he covers her body with his, “don’t you know?” He mutters against her skin, drowning in her feminine smell, “I’m addicted to you.” I’m in love with you.)
“I just have one more store I need to go to.” She tells him as she walks out of the dressing room, the dress and a couple shirts over her arm. “I’ll meet you at the truck?”
He would like nothing more than to get to his truck and out of the stuffy atmosphere that he hates being in, but he looks at her and she’s not meeting his eyes and she’s fidgeting with her pockets, rocking on the heels of her feet. “You sure?” He asks her.
She nods eagerly. “I won’t be long.” She eyes the bags and looks up at him, “do you mind taking the bags with you?”
Does he mind parading through the department store and down a block, where they parked with half a dozen designer bags filled with clothes that aren’t even his looking like some whipped little dog? Of course he doesn’t mind. And this, this, is how he knows he loves her. Would do anything for her. He stares at her blankly and she giggles, rising on the balls of her feet, almost on her toes and not for the first time, he’s thankful for her ballet classes, and she presses a chaste kiss to his burnt cheek. “Thank you, Sandor. Meet you at the truck.”
He watches her walk towards the register and then he looks at the bags and sighs, gathering them up and walking out the store, looking over his shoulder, eyes catching familiar red hair, before she turns around and disappears from view.
They order in pizza from Salvatore’s, he’s nursing a beer and she’s sipping from her wine glass, staring at him every now and then.
He frowns. “What?”
She bites her lip and blushes, getting up and dusting off her pants. “I have a surprise for you.” Is all she says before she walks into their bedroom and shuts the door.
He’s in the living for a few minutes before he hears the door creak back open and her bare feet smacking against the hardwood floor.
“Sandor?” She asks softly, her voice still so hesitant but laced with mischief and a sense of confidence that only Sansa Stark can pull off. “What do you think?”
He turns his head and almost chokes.
She’s wearing a grey lace bra with matching panties and a silk black robe over it, the ribbon hanging loosely at her sides. It’s simple and probably the least scandalous thing in whatever store she went to but she looks so unbelievable gorgeous, standing there, her toes playing with the cracks in the floor. “Fuck.” He groans out.
She lets out a breathy laugh and traces a finger over the tops of her breasts, “well,” she says with a grin, “I was kind of hoping for that.”
She lets out a shriek and a laugh when he picks her up over his shoulder, feeling her smooth legs and kicking the bedroom door close behind them. He drops her on the bed, watching as she bounces, breathless from laughing and reaches out to pull him to her. “I love you.” She says.
He grins at her and he knows it makes the burnt side of his face twist, but he presses his lips to hers quickly and then moves to her neck, nibbling on her earlobe. “Love you too, little bird.” He whispers hotly.
(After that, they don’t do much talking. Not like either of them complain about it, anyways.)
(And suddenly, he thinks shopping may not be all that bad.)