Chapter Text
At breakfast her mother reminds her to pack extra socks, as if she’s going away to camp. (The first time she went away to camp, it was Jon who drove the two hours to Maine to fetch her, as her father was in New York on business and her mother was in the hospital with Bran.) Arya gives a noncommittal grunt.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off at the train station, sweetheart?”
Arya’s mouth is full of Cocoa Puffs. She shakes her head. “I’ll take my bike.”
She takes her bike everywhere - school, library, fencing lessons. That’s everywhere, more or less. Occasionally she goes to the bike shop but Gendry doesn’t let her use his employee discount, even after she points out that Sansa has no qualms about doing the same. Gendry looks at her steadily and asks, “How long does Sansa expect to work at J. Crew?” Long enough to be crowned valedictorian, leave this town and never look back is the answer, but Arya gets defensive when other people criticize her sister. She shrugs and reaches over for a bite of his donut. She knows that Gendry has busted his butt for Tobho Mott since long before child labor laws permitted him to be paid, that he wants to open his own shop someday. Still, she thinks it’s manifestly unfair that she could use new brake pads much more than she could use another identical cashmere sweater from J. Crew.
When she gets to the station she discovers that cyclists aren’t allowed on the train during “peak” hours, which means she has to wait another forty minutes before another train comes along. She perches on a bench, pops her earbuds in, composes a message to Jon but doesn’t send it.
She has promised to call her mother when she gets to South Station. “Where’s Jon?” Catelyn demands sharply, and Arya considers lying, but Catelyn might insist on speaking to him so she says, "He’s meeting me later,” and there is an ominous silence on the other end.
"Mom, don’t. He’s busy. He’s got classes.”
“So busy he leaves his fifteen-year-old sister to fend for herself?”
Arya is suddenly, profoundly grateful that it’s her mother and not her father who is checking up on her today. Her father knows perfectly well that where Arya’s safety is concerned, Jon is as dependable as death or taxes.
By the time she arrives in Cambridge with its glorious, ubiquitous bike lanes it’s begun to drizzle, and in the distance she hears the unmistakable rumble of thunder. The restaurant she is looking for is in Central Square, where there are plenty of bike racks. She snakes a cable lock through the frame and the front wheel, then ducks inside to order a bowl of noodles while she waits for Jon. She’s already entered the message - all she has to do now is press “send.” Meet me at the place we went for Robb’s birthday.
The storm worsens. The patrons wait for an opening to dash into vehicles, subways, other buildings. Arya has fished out all the noodles and is slurping broth. She glances up and there he is, his jacket drenched and his face long, leaning down to pull her into a one-armed hug, leaving raindrops on her cheek. “You should have told me you were coming,”
“I wasn’t sure you’d want me,” she admits. I figured if I hurled myself onto your doorstep you couldn’t turn me away.
“You know better than that.” He sounds hurt. Which is ridiculous, considering that he’s the one who’s been ignoring her calls. “Does your mom know where you are?”
“Yes. Except she thinks you invited me.”
Jon’s expression doesn’t change, but Arya expects she knows what he’s thinking. He’d put me on the first train back if he could do it without Mom realizing I lied to her. “Arya, what are you doing here?”
There are a million answers to that, and none. She gives him the first one that comes into her head. “Sansa thinks you met a girl.”
“Sansa wants to set me up with a girl, you mean.”
“You’re not seeing anyone?”
“Without consulting Sansa? I wouldn’t dream of it.” A knot of tension relaxes in her stomach. “Wait, since when do you and Sansa sit around speculating about my love life?”
“Since sixth grade,” she replies. “And I wish you would just tell me why you’re doing this. Just tell me why you’re mad at me and I’ll go home, okay?”
“I wouldn’t know how to be mad at you.” His grey eyes are earnest when they meet hers.
“Ignoring me, then.”
“I warned you I wasn’t going to have much time my first semester.”
“Which is why you play World of Warcraft with Bran every weekend.”
He shuts his eyes briefly and turns away. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. Jon’s never been evasive with her - exasperated, sure; all the time. But he’s always straight with her about what’s bothering him. “I’m sorry, Arya. God, you have no idea how sorry. I’d only make it worse by letting you stay, though.”
“Nothing could be worse than this disappearing act of yours,” she counters. “Do you understand? Nothing.”
And maybe he does finally get it, because he goes very still for a moment before assenting. “All right. Let’s get out of here. We can talk in my room.”
“What about my bike?”
“You take the bus back to campus; Sam will let you into the room. I’ll be right behind you on the bike.”
“Your legs are too long.” She eyes him dubiously.
Jon looks at her like she’s grown three heads. “If you think I’m going to let my little sister ride around Cambridge in the middle of a thunderstorm, you’re out of your mind.”
Arya doesn’t like being told what to do. But she likes knowing that he cares.
Not, she muses later, on the bus, that he has a choice. You can’t just decide to stop being siblings with someone the way you can stop being friends, or lovers, or golf partners (there had been an almighty row back when Dad and Uncle Robert dissolved their twenty-year partnership). If such a thing were possible she would gladly take a break from Sansa at least twice a week, and wouldn’t that be a relief. There has never - so far as Arya can recall - been a time when she wishes she wasn’t bound to Jon by ties stronger than friendship or love. But does he wish now he could be rid of me?
:::
Sansa’s underwear comes in every cut and color under the sun. Arya watches her fold each item with military precision. She used to do that even before she worked at J. Crew. Arya’s offer of assistance is met by a scowl. “First of all, you have orange Cheetoh dust all over your fingers - mind you don’t get it on the carpet, by the way. Second of all, I’ve never seen you fold underwear in your life. You just shove it into the drawer.”
“Much easier that way,” concedes Arya as she pops a Cheetoh stick into her mouth. She gives Sansa’s swivel chair another twirl, and her sister’s scowl deepens.
“If you want me to look for that lip gloss later you’d better not break my chair. Or leave crumbs all over my carpet.”
“I’m just trying to help. I haven’t got all day here.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I gotta pack.”
Sansa shoots Arya an incredulous look. “Seriously, you’re going to visit Jon. It’s not exactly tea with the queen.”
“I’d rather visit Jon than the queen.”
Sansa rolls her eyes. “Of course you would.”
Arya finishes the bag of Cheetohs, crumples it up and marches through the connecting bathroom to her own room, where she tosses it. Sansa has a rule about no food or tampons in her trash bin. By the time she returns, Sansa has sorted everything into several piles; half the garments on the bed are black.
“Do you really need eighty pairs of black underwear?” asks Arya.
“Black underwear is sexy.”
“So … like, white underwear with hearts and flowers isn’t?”
“Nope.”
Arya chews her lip thoughtfully. All her panties are white, or flowery, or both. Certainly none of them are lacy.
Sansa adds, “I mean, it doesn’t matter unless somebody is going to see you with your clothes off, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried about it,” insists Arya, a little too forcefully.
With unerring elder-sisterly instinct, Sansa glances up. “Arya, if this is about Gendry …”
“It’s not, okay? There is absolutely nothing going on between me and Gendry. How many times do I have to tell you that?” She stands up and pushes the chair back towards Sansa’s desk. “Jesus Christ. Why do you have to stick your nose into everything? All I want to do is borrow your lip gloss so I can look nice for Jon.”
“For Jon?” echoes Sansa, frowning. “Why would you …” She stops.
Arya waits for her sister’s expression to change from baffled to horrified. Except that it never does. When Sansa’s frown clears, she looks more concerned than anything else.
That’s the last straw. She can deal with Sansa’s scorn and Sansa’s revlusion but not this, not Sansa’s sympathy. Arya turns around and flees.