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The flames in the fireplace are high, dancing in hypnotic patterns that help distract Theon’s gaze from his hands. They don’t hurt, not yet, still too cold from the freezing air, but he knows it’s just a matter of time. It’s not even the pain he fears, what makes him reluctant to look. How much damage has been done? How much more damage can they take before they become entirely useless, reducing Theon to a burden once more?
The door opens behind him, but by now Theon has learned not to flinch anytime that happens, at least not when he’s in here. Jon’s chambers are a safe place, and while Theon still watches his back in the rest of Castle Black, here he is able to let his guard down, at least a little. So he doesn’t turn around at the sound of the door closing, not looking away from the flames.
“If you are looking for the Lord Commander, he’s not here.”
And won’t be until every single one of the brothers has been taken care of.
“Are you sure about that?”
At that Theon does turn his head, his gaze falling on Jon standing near the door. He’s carrying a steaming bowl, looking back at Theon with an expression he can’t make out at all. There’s so much in his gaze; worry, disbelief with a hint of awe – an impossible thought. Theon can’t imagine any reason for that. What he is sure about is that there’s more warmth than usual in that gaze.
“Edd sends his greeting and his thanks. Sam is with him, everything looks to be a lot less severe than we feared.”
“Good, that’s good,” Theon mumbles. He can wait. Edd is more important.
“Sam will come here once he’s done with Edd,” Jon says with his strange knack for mind reading. “Until then I’ll have a look.”
“What?” That alerts Theon, makes him sit up straighter. “No, you don’t have to, I can wait, seriously, Jon, I can wait.”
In no way can he subject Jon to the horrible sight his hands are. Not if he ever wants Jon to touch them again like he does when they eat together, away from the rest of Castle Black. It doesn’t happen often. Sometimes it does when Jon steals the spoon from Theon to eat a few bites. Sometimes it happens when they drink and finally talk about home. Jon’s home, and in a painful way Theon’s too. They talk about their lessons, their petty competitions, about hunting in the woods and training in the yard.
It often gets too much, a memory, the mention of names that are now carved into Theon’s soul, a register of his sins. That’s when Jon will lean forward, when his hand will cover Theon’s with a soft, unobtrusive touch until the worst has passed for the moment.
They don’t talk about Jon’s siblings, not yet. Theon had told Jon everything he knows about Bran and Rickon, which isn’t much, but since then they’ve been carefully avoiding mentioning any of them. One day they will talk about them, Theon is sure, about the boys, about Jon’s sisters. About Robb.
“Don’t be stupid,” Jon says as he places his bowl on the table, indicating Theon to come over. “I may not be a maester, but I can do at least something until Sam is here.”
Theon awkwardly gets to his feet. “You’re the Lord Commander–”
“And you’re the one who saved my second in command and one of my friends.” Jon rolls his eyes when Theon keeps standing there, unsure what to do. “Alright. As your Lord Commander I order you to shut up and sit down.”
Theon does, trying to ignore the slight tingle in his chest at Jon’s words. Your Lord Commander. He hasn’t sworn any oath, not yet. He wants to. Not to the Night’s Watch, not to Castle Black. To Jon.
“Are you in pain?” Jon asks, fishing a cloth out of the bowl, wringing it out and placing it to the side.
Theon silently shakes his head. Everything is still numb, apart from the burning sensation in his palms. It’s nothing, not anywhere near real pain.
“It’s nothing,” he tries to say out loud, a last futile attempt to stop Jon.
“Theon, your hands are completely covered in blood.”
Jon’s indignant tone almost makes Theon smile.
“I’m going to wash the blood off, see what we’re dealing with.” Jon takes the bowl, balancing it on his lap. “The water should be warm at most by now. It’ll still hurt, aye?”
Theon shrugs. It’ll be nothing. With a sigh he lifts the bloody, torn mess that is his left hand, placing it into the water. It stings, aye, a burn that intensifies as the blood in his remaining fingers starts flowing again in the warmth, thousand needles pricking at his palm until tears spring into his eyes, and still it’s nothing.
Jon’s hands are gentle, his fingers deftly moving over Theon’s, scrubbing off the caked-on blood and turning the water a muddy brown. This hurts, but Theon doesn’t flinch, his eyes trained on Jon’s calm face. He’s completely focused on his task, there’s no sense of hesitation or disgust as he gingerly rubs the stumps two of Theon’s fingers end in. The needles intensify, but that’s not what makes Theon’s eyes get wet once more.
“It’s not too bad,” Jon says, giving Theon a quick, worried glance as he lifts Theon’s hand out of the water, angling for the cloth. “See, it’s just – the skin is torn. It’ll heal.”
Theon presses his lips together, not wanting to make a sound as Jon wipes away the last faint traces of pinkish blood. He wants to believe him, but the way his hands had looked…
“How did that happen?”
Jon pulls a wooden box from his pocket, and the familiar smell of lanolin fills the air when he opens it.
“I couldn’t – the gloves – I took them off.”
He hadn’t thought about it in that moment, the only thing he’d seen Edd taking on two walkers at once, his own arrows uselessly cutting the air without finding their targets.
“I don’t – I aim better without them.”
Skin tearing as one arrow after the other hits its target, the creatures shattering to dust, too many, more arrows, bowstring slippery with blood, grey goose feathers stained with red.
“It’s just the skin,” Jon mumbles again, pulling off loose rags of torn skin then working the salve into Theon’s palm, between his fingers, so gentle. “It’ll be raw and painful for a while, but there’s no – you’ll be alright.”
He repeats the treatment with Theon’s right hand. Water, cloth, salve. They don’t talk, Jon too concentrated on what he’s doing, Theon too caught up in his head. Finally it’s done, and both of Theon’s hands are burning but clean, glistening with salve. Jon is still holding Theon’s wrists, his fingers wrapped around them in a loose hold.
“We’ll wait for Sam to have a look, then bandage them up. You won’t be able to use them for a while. Keep them clean.”
There it is. Useless once again. Unable to earn his food, the roof over his head, the clothes he’s wearing.
“I’ve had three volunteers already.” Jon smiles as he says it, the smile widening at Theon’s evident confusion. “What?”
“Volunteers?” It makes no sense.
“Three men offered to help you with anything you may need until you’ve healed.” Jon raises one brow, tilting his head. “Why so surprised? They saw what you did for them.”
“But – but–” Theon’s mind is reeling, his heart beating fast. “They don’t – I’m not their – I’m not one of them.”
“You are now,” Jon says simply. His fingers tighten around Theon’s wrists. “They are thankful for what you did. You fought for them. You saved one of their own. I am thankful too.”
His thumbs move to Theon’s pulse points, softly stroking the skin.
“Thank you, Theon.”
He looks up into Jon’s eyes, the same sense of warmth in them than before, and something else. Something new. It makes Theon’s throat go dry.
“I thought maybe you’d like…” Jon swallows, the tips of his ears turning red. “Do you want to stay here? In – in my rooms? I talked to Satin - my new steward. He doesn’t mind caring for two rather than one.”
Stay here? In Jon’s rooms?
“I thought maybe you’d be more comfortable here.” Jon shrugs, looking away. “It’s warmer than your cell and – and–”
“Yes. Yes, please, I want to stay with you.”
There’ll be more to say once the uproar in Theon’s mind and heart has settled down, but for now this is all.
Yes.