Chapter Text
“Hey, Daphne.”
Sansa turns to see Jon sitting on the back porch with his feet up against the railing, a bottle with the label half-ripped off in his hands, his expression in its usual scowl.
"What happened to your Fred?” he asks.
“We, um—“ Sansa chuckles at the joke she’s about to make. “We split up.”
Jon looks confused for a moment, then laughs.
“He was looking for clues under some sexy nurse’s skirt last time I saw him,” Sansa adds.
His expression softens, which softens something inside Sansa the only way he seems to be able to do. “Want me to go kick him out—or punch him?” he asks quietly.
"Not worth the trouble.”
“So why did you bother this time?"
Sansa shrugs takes the chair next to his. “Don’t know. Needed a good fit for my Halloween costume.” She takes the beer from his hands and takes a sip, not taking her eyes from him.
“Where’s your wine?”
“All gone.” she says, before taking another sip and handing him back the bottle.
“Funny how you always end up taking my drink when that happens.”
“Are you complaining?” she asks with a sly smile, more flirtatious than she means to be. Another thing that always seems to happen with him.
He smiles and hands the bottle back to her in answer.
She takes a long pull. “I saw Val cozying up with someone who was definitely not you earlier.”
Jon shrugs. “You know that’s been over for months.”
“Still . . . you want me to kick her out—or punch her?”
Jon laughs in a way he rarely does, such that he has to bring his feet down to the ground from the porch railing so he doesn’t fall over.
“I think I should be insulted by this reaction,” Sansa replies. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?” she asks.
“Guess.”
Sansa takes full advantage of the opportunity to look Jon up and down. He’s wearing jeans, a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up in a way that makes his arms look way too good. There’s a red cap on his lap—probably couldn’t stay on over his wild curls.
“A ’50s greaser?”
He laughs, then stands up and tucks the cap in his back pocket and looks at her over his shoulder.
Sansa shakes her head, mostly because she can’t form words, feeling positively attacked by how well he fills out those jeans.
“Bruce Springsteen, Born in the USA era,” he says finally.
Sansa puts her hand over her mouth in a futile effort to stop herself giggling. It’s such a Jon choice of a costume: the effort is minimal but the homage sincere. “I’d say you just picked random stuff you had in your closet ten minutes before the party, except I don’t believe you have any shirts that aren’t black and that includes the Sprinsteen shirts.”
“I stole it out of Grenn’s closet, and it was an hour before the party. I’m not an animal.”
Sansa bursts out laughing again. She hates and loves how easy it is for him to make her laugh—laugh un-self-consciously, from her gut. When she looks at him again he’s smiling his un-self-conscious smile, the one that makes his eyes crinkle. She would spend some time thinking about how it is that they can manage to be wholly themselves only with each other, but thinking too hard about Jon always scares her a little bit.
"How many people are left in there?” he asks, with a look that tells her he’s asking a different question.
She could check but she decides in the moment, she doesn’t want it to matter who sees them like this. She stands up and grabs his hand. “Who cares.”