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milfcodeddean · 3 years

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Memento Moratus Sum

Emma Haunts the Necklace- The Fic <3

Starts more post/concepty and becomes a fic bc I did not plan on this it was stream of consciousness! I have not seen all of the later seasons and it was hard to keep track of what plot points to mention even of all the seasons I have seen!

AO3

Emma dies and Dean keeps her necklace to have something to remember her by, partly out of grief for what could have been partly as an act of emotional self flagellation. He wears it under his shirt, a secret, just like any thoughts he has about his dead daughter.

Emma is a ghost because she didn’t do enough to be a monster and earn her place in purgatory but she isn’t human enough for heaven and she’s anchored to the necklace.

She follows Dean around silently, quickly learning enough about ghosts to know if she reveals herself too soon or ever really then Dean is going to burn the necklace.

During season seven Dean is haunted by two ghosts, Bobby, who is actively reaching out for him, and Emma, who is a silent observer. I think Emma hides from Bobby, he’s a hunter and she doesn’t want him to tell Dean about her, OR Bobby sees her before she knows ghosts can see other ghosts and they talk and he pities her but agrees to not let Dean know

Dean is wearing the necklace when he goes to purgatory. Emma is still a ghost here but it’s different, and she’s been watching this man for months now, he’s her world now. She keeps some of the monsters away, she makes him wake up when there are threats at night, she watches him befriend a monster and burns with pain at the knowledge that maybe she could have had that. Maybe she didn’t need to kill him, maybe he would have loved her not just as a dead hypothetical but as her.

Dean comes out of purgatory with an extra extra passenger. She watches with a sense of smugness as he rages at Sam, she pretends he’s also mad over her. She doesn’t like Sam’s attitude towards Benny either. She gets to see her great grandfather and she sees him die. She talks to his ghost, he calls her granddaughter (forgetting the great) even after learning she’s an amazon, before he gets reaped.

There’s an empty room in the bunker she pretends is hers. She moves objects in there, never quite decorating, but practicing telekinesis where Dean won’t see it and making up a fantasy of a life she could have had. She still never minds being tethered to Dean, especially now as he doesn’t sleep around and spends less time in bars where she’s left uncomfortably watching. She likes going to the grocery store, she likes watching him cook, maybe a few times she’s kept a pot from boiling over or a bag from falling. She’s learning to live from watching Dean, he doesn’t know it, but he’s teaching her life skills. She doesn’t know the names for the dishes he teaches her to make or the parts of cars or guns but she etches the motions he makes into her mind. She likes Charlie, she wishes she could meet her, and she likes larping. She imagines herself as an Amazon warrior of antiquity, armored in bronze.

She tried to wake Dean and Charlie out of their djinn dream but nothing worked, she tried to fight the djinn to no avail either. When Dean and Charlie hugged she wished she could be in their embrace too.

She’s glad it’s Bobby’s ghost they use for the trial, she’s so glad she never revealed herself.

Sam is slowly growing on her, she doesn’t love him but he means enough to Dean that she would try to stop him from dying.

She knows about Gadreel. She hides harder now, afraid too of the new angel in the bunker. Castiel she likes, Castiel she watched in purgatory and she watched beat her father bloody in the crypt and she understood brain washing and the control of authorities. She almost reveals herself and her knowledge of Gadreel when Dean kicks Cas out of the bunker, but her hesitation lasts too long.

She’s tethered to Dean so she isn’t there when Kevin dies. Kevin had been another one she enjoyed observing, she envied him his mother in so many ways, Linda had been everything Lydia hadn’t been. When Kevin dies he’s haunting the bunker too. It’s almost like having a friend. He pities her, but she’ll take anything, he’s sort of her age in some ways and she teaches him how to be a ghost.

Crowley almost gives her away. He knows she’s there, but he saves her presence as a bargaining chip against Dean, a surprise tidbit to bring up later.

The father of murder can see her too. Cain keeps his eyes on her father most of the time, but the spark in his eyes and smirk when he sees her and her bloody pink shirt cut straight through her.

Her father dies. She wants to run to him, to fling her arms around him and greet him with her bloody lips and stained shirt and tell him she forgives him and she loves him and she’s sorry he’s dead but can she at least spend some of eternity with him and she wants to teach him to be a ghost and she wants to tell him so many things she’s noticed. But Crowley does something that locks her voice and powers and keeps her from the room.

Demon dean leaves the bunker with Emma’s necklace ripped off and dropped beside a bedstead.

Sam picks up the necklace. Emma hates him touching it but it’s all she can hope that he doesn’t destroy it. She doesn’t know if he recognizes it, but he doesn’t throw it away, and brings it out to show Castiel as evidence for Dean’s absence. Castiel names it as Amazon gold, recognizes it as Dean’s, but does not know it’s origin. Emma has to hear her story from her murderer’s lips. She almost shows herself, but she’s afraid Sam will cast the necklace into a fire. If they could do that to Bobby, they’ll do it to her. But she doesn’t feel like a vengeful uncontrolled spirit, perhaps it’s the Amazon magic, but she feels calmer than she ever was during her days of life.

Her necklace stays in the bunker, she watches demon Dean from a distance at first, she tries to comfort him strapped to the chair but he calls her a hallucination and lets something between a sob and a laugh out before turning away. She tries, she wipes his brow, she begs him to become human again or to die, she tries to keep the devil’s trap intact. Still she is called a hallucination. It’s almost nice to be important enough that he’d hallucinate her.

When Dean, normal human dean, is back, he fixes the necklace with pliers and holds it staring at it in his hands. He’s alone in his room. Emma gently puts her hands over his where they are clasped around her anchor to him. She doesn’t know if he can feel her. Her name comes from his mouth in a breathy whisper, wet and rough, a word unused to being spoken. He bends over himself, weeping with the necklace pressed to his mouth. Emma weeps as well. He would not weep if he did not love her, but he is a hunter and she has to chose between this silent spectatorship where she can pretend she is living in rooms beside him, or the knowledge that if he knew she was haunting him, he would burn the necklace to send her on.

She doesn’t know if there’s another afterlife for failed amazons, and from what she understands of Heaven, hers would be something pathetic like the day she met Dean before she died, or an eternity as a ghost watching him weep.

She hates watching Dean with Amara those few days. She hates the burning wretched envy risking corrupting her as he holds a baby girl that isn’t her. She hates that Amara loves Dean. And she hates even more that Amara brings back Mary instead of her.

She never realized that she wanted to be brought back and resurrected so badly and that it was even an option until she watches Dean reunite with Mary.

Dean mentions her to Mary- almost - he says he had a kid, and the cut off gesture to the necklace means her. Emma stopped minding that Dean never spoke about her. She didn’t want him to talk about her with Sam, and she quickly realized he didn’t talk about his grief with anyone. But he did wear her necklace, and sometimes he took it out from under his shirt and rubbed his thumb over the metal and she would pretend it was his thumb stroking the back of her hand. Dean didn’t talk about her and she didn’t need him to. But now he had, and with his mother. And he implied he had thought about what he would want for her, that he wouldn’t want his life of violence and moving for her.

Emma likes Mary as a warrior woman, but can’t help but understand Dean’s pain when she leaves. She understands being the surprise child older than a parent wants too much.

She tried to help Dean as she always has, but the British Men of Letters terrify her. She knows they would either keep her to study or destroy her and she can’t trust anyone to keep her secret from their spying.

Later it seems the world collapses again. Cas dies. Angels don’t have ghosts, she can never meet him. And Kelly has eyes only for her son until she is reaped. Emma wishes she could comfort Dean or that she could truly leave him to his grief. She turns away as he ties Castiel’s body with yellow curtains. She stands beside him watching the pyre.

She doesn’t understand Dean’s attitude towards Jack. She’s watched jealously how Dean interacts with Krissy, with Claire, with the orphan boys at the home, and she has her fantasy of how Dean would have treated her had she lived. The jealous part of her doesn’t want Dean to like Jack, but most of her wants Dean to go back to acting like how she expected him to, she wants the man she could pretend was being her father. And she watches Jack enough to be afraid of their similarities. To see herself in him. And if Dean hates him, would he have hated her. Does he only wear her necklace because she’s dead.

She watches silently when Dean finally breaks, confronted, and tells Sam that he sees her in Jack. She hears how he loves her. She watches Sam realize the enormity of his crime and apologize. She accepts the apology, even if it wasn’t meant for her ears. Dean doesn’t see her, but she sits beside him on the opposite side of Sam on that floor.

Something has changed.

Sometimes, it seems like Dean is glimpsing her out of the corner of his eye. He stares at the steamy bathroom mirror while he’s shaving, right at the red smear on the pink of her shirt. He nicks himself, swears, and swipes a hand through the steam, through her image. He does double takes in the rear view mirror, glancing twice at the backseat where she sits, pretending she’s part of his road trips.

Jack brings back Castiel. Jack has powers beyond what Emma could have imagined. And Jack is both nice and not fully indoctrinated into hunting ways. Emma also likes Jack, she understands so much about him, and she likes the shows he watches, she likes the way he’s nice, and in her elaborate fantasy of what if she was alive, she decides he’s her brother.

It’s hard to find a time when Jack is alone but near enough to Dean and the anchoring necklace that she can talk to him, but it happens.

Emma focuses everything she has into appearing, a heavy grounding feeling she hasn’t felt since Dean was a chained demon. The words catch in her throat, unpracticed at speaking, but she blurts out to Jack that she’s his sister, the words spilling fast, that she’s Dean’s dead daughter, she doesn’t tell him that Sam killed her, she’s seen Sam with him, their closeness she can’t decide if she envies or not. She tells him she’s an Amazon, how she’s dead but anchored, how she doesn’t have a heaven or purgatory or hell, how she wants to come back. She tells him that she likes his shows and she tells him she loves Dean and Castiel and she finds things she likes about Sam. He doesn’t look at her with pity. He looks at her with a bright spark to his eyes.

But he doesn’t resurrect her. At least not right away. Apparently he’s been too recently warned off from the idea of asking for forgiveness rather than permission. He thinks she should reveal herself to Dean first, before they decide. Emma hates the idea, she spent all of these years afraid of Dean destroying her anchor, and now she’s afraid of his rejection, what if he resents her watching him all the time, what if he blames her for not doing more. What if he wants her gone instead of brought back.

The Amazons,in their scant days of raising her, taught her to be brave.

Jack asks the family to stay after dinner.

Emma takes a deep breath, more for the instinctive motion than for a need for air, and materializes.

There’s a beat of silence and then a mess of noises. Dean drops a mug, Sam’s chair skids, everyone one is talking at once.

Emma can’t find words to say to Dean, she wants to stare at him as she always does, but she can’t bear to see rejection on his face. She waits and Jack opens his mouth to introduce her but then her name comes from Dean’s lips. It’s like that dark night where they wept in his bedroom again. She has called him many variants of father in her mind in several languages, but it is the most childish “daddy” that slips out.

No one else in the room matters, he looks at her, meeting her eyes instead of the gorey wound, and she gets eye contact without having to pretend she is what’s in his sight line.

He doesn’t ask if she’s a ghost or if she’s dead or any of the silly civilian questions. He only manages “how” before fumbling for the necklace, and she nods confirmation. She wonders if he’s planning on burning it.

He asks how long and suddenly words spill forth, she tells him she’s been here the whole time, watching, she says she sorry about Bobby and Kevin and Charlie and Kelly and Cas and Benny she tells him the ones she helped with being a ghost, she tells him about watching the others move on, she says she’s sorry she couldn’t do more when he was a demon and something in his expression breaks, she says she’s sorry she never showed herself.

He holds up a hand, stopping her before she apologizes again, and says he remembers her when he was a demon, that he had thought she was a hallucination, she nods and cries anew.

She wants to tell him that she’s watched him and loves him and even if it’s embarrassing she wants to say she’s pretended to be alive with him, and she wants most of all to ask if he loves her, to hear it said to her face.

Instead he asks weakly why she’s here now.

She says she wanted to come clean about haunting him, says she’s thought about it for years and was scared he would burn the necklace, says she’s learned about ghosts from him and she’s never felt vengeful, she doesn’t feel corrupted, and maybe it’s because she’s a monster. His face twitches at that word.

Jack interrupts, changing the air in the room and suddenly both she and Dean remember their audience. Sam’s eyes are wet and he looks something close to afraid. Emma hopes the look on Castiel’s face is softness for her too and not just Jack.

Jack offers to bring her back, tells Dean that they didn’t want to do it behind his back. Emma turns invisible again out of the sick swoosh of anxiety that overwhelms her. She barely hears through her ringing ears that Dean desperately agrees and says yes, fumbling to take the necklace off and pass it to Jack.

She’s going to have to wait a few days. Jack is going to bring her back where her body is, and that’s more than 24 hours of driving away, and Dean wants to be there.

It’s a weird car ride, they know she’s there, and she sits between Castiel and Jack in the back of the Impala. They had her pick a set of Jack’s clothes to replace her bloody shirt, they have food and water for her. Emma doesn’t have a name for the emotions she’s feeling and they’re almost overwhelming.

They don’t have to dig her up to bring her back, Jack’s powers allow for that at least, and Emma is glad, she’s watched Dean dig up enough graves to imagine what she’ll look like.

Then Jack’s eyes glow bright gold.

It’s like what she imagines being born feels like. Overwhelming and dark and bright and both blissful and painful. And then she is gasping with real lungs and the sunlight is bright in her eyes and she can feel the textures of her clothing and the grass.

And then arms and hands are on her, Dean is pulling her to her feet and into his embrace in one motion.

She’s never been hugged by him, and it’s better than her jealous imaginings when he held others. She never wants to let go, she feels safe and warm and loved and his hand is on her hair and she can smell him and feel his heartbeat.

He finally lets go and steps back to look at her, keeping a hand on her shoulder and cupping her cheek with the other. There are streaks of tears matching her own on his face. His hands leave only to be replaced by Jack.

Jack’s hug is different but enthusiastic, there are no tears, he is beaming, part proud, part delighted, she can’t help but smile back. He calls her sister and she accepts him as brother.

Castiel does not embrace her, but his greeting his warm and his eyes match his smile. He clasps her hand between his and Emma’s heart swells.

She knows Sam doesn’t know how to look at her or how to talk to her. She doesn’t know what she wants from him either. She knows hes sorry, she’s heard it from his own lips, not to her, but to the only other person to whom it would matter. She smiles hesitantly at him, instead of glaring, and waves.

Then she slips her hand back into Dean’s and lets him pull her into another hug. She feels light and giddy and afraid this is all a dream. If she died and this is heaven then she would accept that too.

But it’s real, she changes out of her bloody shirt and into a blue one of Jack’s, she drinks water for the first time in years and eats fruit snacks from a packet pulled from Castiel’s trench-coat pocket, and a cereal bar.

A few hours later they stop at a nicer diner than Emma usually sees them eat at, and Dean tells the hostess it’s his daughter’s birthday and Emma gets to order foods she’s been curiously watching people eat for years off the menu. The restaurant gives her cake.

Emma’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and Dean’s eyes have not lost their cheerful crinkle and Jack is beaming and even Sam and Castiel look endlessly pleased.

Later there will be harder talks, about the things she’s witnessed, later she’ll talk about haunting their steps, about the years of questions built up, later she’ll realize she doesn’t remember how to sleep and Dean will sit and try to stroke her hair and talk softly and it’s nice but not enough. Later it will be Castiel who explains how to become human, how to adjust to having a body, how to sleep and how to tell if you like a food or not. Later she will argue with Dean about her usefulness on hunts and he will tell her how scared he is of her dying again. Later Mary will come back and die. Later Jack will die and a demon will wear his corpse and she will hate and fear it, later God will tell her she is an interloper in his story.

But for now Emma has a family and a piece of cake and a table of smiles.

#emma winchester #emmanatural #dean winchester #dad dean winchester #my writing #this was not planned this was just me thinking Hey what if Emma haunted the necklace and was there watching events and like the Emma feeling #s spilled over into a whole 3.5k fic so #i might put this on ao3? the start is so weak tho #yes that is a reference to buried ghosts and bitter truths

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3pirouette · 2 years

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Fic: A Red, White, and Blue Christmas (13/?)

By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette

Disclaimer: They’re not mine.

Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :)

Story Summary: White Christmas AU. Peggy is pulled from Project Rebirth, setting off a chain of events that leaves Steve and Bucky unharmed at the end of the War, but never having met. Until, that is, their paths cross as professional performers. Steggy Secret Santa gift for @roboticonography

Chapter 12: Love, You Didn’t Do Right by Me

Chapter Notes: They finally talk, and sing, and little comes of it

Chapter A/N: We’re at 98 pages and 39K words. And still a good 20 minutes left in the movie. I hope you’ve all been enjoying the changes and how we’re moving along.

And thank you to @roboticonography for being the MOST PATIENT HUMAN EVER. I swear this will be done before summer.

~*~

Peggy felt empty.

It wasn’t exactly the kind of empty she’d felt before. It wasn’t the lack of anything fulfilling or the darkness of being surrounded by the enemy as she sang.

No, as she’d moved into her little hotel room she’d felt alone. It had been years since she’d been by herself and the silence seemed too loud and she found herself humming and talking to herself as she tried to settle in.

As she moved through the Stork Club she felt like an oddity. They’d had to change the marquee when they found it was only her, and the manager looked at her like she’d somehow betrayed his trust when she asked him to put Carter instead of Martinelli on the board.

She knew the feeling was loneliness, and loss, and the absence of the bright excitement that had fluttered in her belly every time she’d been around Steve. She felt so silly, giving in to such emotions after only knowing the man a few days, but she’d been drawn to him for so many reasons.

All through her dress rehearsal she tried to put it in the back of her mind.

It was hard, though, making all the decisions herself when she was so used to splitting them up and talking on pieces to make a whole show. It had been so long since she’d been a single place without Angie, she ached for the woman’s presence beside her. She missed her dearly, missed the hole she filled for a friend and a sibling and a confidant, but she still felt the crushing weight of her betrayal, too.

She tried to wipe her mind clear, she didn’t want to think about him, or Angie, or Vermont anymore as the day wore on.

She didn’t want to do anything but sing tonight.

The backstage was empty. She was the only act, aside from the band, and the dressing room felt lonely and haunted as she pressed powder over her face.

She wasn’t sure which of these feelings was because of what had happened in Vermont, and which of them were from the stirred-up vestiges of war.

The ghosts seemed so near lately, and the loneliness only made them stronger.

Afterall, the last time she’d sang solo, she’d very nearly died at the hand of a German Officer.

“Miss Carter,” the stage manager called, “Five minutes.”

“Thank you, five,” she called back, acknowledging his warning. She pulled out her lipstick and ran it over her lips, feeling at least a little more powerful as they changed from their natural pink to a bright, strong red.

She wasn’t sure what her next step was, what tomorrow or the day after would bring, but she had a job, and a hotel room, and her own name. For today, that was better than nothing.

~*~

Bucky found her behind the barn, sitting on a crate. “Finally! I’ve been looking for you all over the place! We have to—” He stopped short when Angie looked up at him, skin blotchy and red with tears in her eyes.

“I’ll, uh- I’ll be there in a minute, yeah?” She swiped hard at her face. “We’ve got to work on that finale?”

He sat down next to her slowly. “How about you tell me what’s wrong first?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, you know. Same old same old. Just drove my best friend away and I don’t know if she’ll ever speak to me again.”

“Come on.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “You know that’s not true.”

“This is all my fault, though,” she mumbled, wiping at her tears.

“The only person who can actually take any blame here is Jarvis.” He pulled her tight for a second. “He was eavesdropping, didn’t have the whole story, and started a rumor. All him.”

Angie leaned back and looked up at him, shaking her head. “I shoulda known, though. Peggy’s my best friend. I always know when it comes to her, but I—” She sighed, looking away. “I was so wrapped up in this show, and trying to get her set up with Steve and I just wasn’t paying attention to how she was really feeling.”

“Mistakes were made.” Bucky smiled softly at her. “We all made ‘em. You can’t beat yourself up over them.”

She settled back against his side. “You know, Bucky, this show is a dream for me. The kinds of shows you and Steve put together, the kinds of stages you play? That’s all I’ve ever wanted and a couple of days ago I never, for a second, would have thought anything would stop me from joining.”

He looked down at her, concerned. “You’re not gonna join us?”

“It’s swell and all,” she started, sighing, “but it means nothing if I have to do it without my best friend.”

~*~

Steve stepped into the Stork Club, looking around cautiously. He wasn’t sure what was going to come out of his mouth when he opened it when she was finally in front of him, even if he had rehearsed and written out a dozen or more different versions while he’d been on the train. The maître d seated him at a small, reserved table right at the edge of the dancefloor.

“Has Peggy Carter performed yet?” Steve asked as he sat.

“No. In a few minutes, sir.”

“Good.” He smiled, looking out at the floor. “I’m also expecting Tim Dugan. Show him over when he gets here?”

“Of course, sir.”

He had at least a few minutes to think on what he’d say, to really try to figure out how to start it off. Everything he came up with seemed so patronizing, and he didn’t want that.

No, he wanted a second chance to get to know her. To kiss her. To find out if the butterflies in his stomach every time he saw her were the real deal.

And, at the very least, he needed to get her back to Angie and straighten out this whole mess.

~*~

She could see him from the wings and started rubbing her hands up and down the velvet of her gown. A million questions ran through her mind as the emotions started to well in her chest.

Of all the clubs in all of New York, Steve Rogers had to walk into hers.

There was the tiniest spark of hope that bloomed with in her: maybe it wasn’t a coincidence, maybe it was on purpose.

She shut the spark out: even if it was on purpose, it wouldn’t change anything about what he was doing, or why he was doing it.

She hurried back to the bandleader, calling his name from offstage as the band finished their song. “Dick!”

“Yeah?” He smiled as he stepped offstage.

“Let’s not do the number we rehearsed this afternoon,” she begged, fingers still twisting in her skirt, “Play Blue Skies, play anything.”

“It sounded so good, though,” he replied, knowing nothing of why she was asking and not caring a lick for it. “You’re gonna kill with it. C’mon, we’re ready for you.”

Peggy tried to stutter out a rebuttal as he guided her on stage in the dark behind the scrim, but she knew he was right. It was a fabulous number.

She took a deep breath as the band started the first few notes and she got into place behind the microphone. If Steve was going to have to hear this song, she damn well was going to make it hurt.

The Club was still brightly lit, and as the stage lights shifted and the curtain lifted, she could see him clearly, right in front of her, his fingers rolling around the stem of a glass. She stood tall and proud, smirking her little smile and calling back to every ounce of professionalism she had to take in the whole crowd and not just leave her eyes on him.

As the notes grew stronger, though, she caught his glance, and held it, as she sang. “Love,” she let float out before dropping her voice low, “you didn’t do right by me.”

She saw his eyes fall to his glass before she turned her gaze out to the rest of the club, singing on. “You planned a romance that just hadn’t a chance, and I’m through.”

~*~

Steve’s heart was pounding in his chest. If there had been any question about how she was feeling, well, there wasn’t one now. “I’m back on the shelf and I’m blaming myself, but it’s you.” Her honeyed voice dipped low, and he felt the same rumble in his belly he’d felt the first time he’d heard her sing.

It hurt him that she’d chosen this song, that she looked so profoundly sad while singing it, though to the other patrons they’d think it was just her fabulous performance. He knew what the sparkle looked like in her eye, and tonight it was dull.

He didn’t like seeing it dulled like that.

~*~

“My one love affair didn’t get anywhere from the start.” Peggy kept singling, clutching at the microphone like a lifeline. She focused on the sounds, the notes, and trying to keep her performance moving. She didn’t think about the tears starting to prick at the back of her eyes, didn’t want to acknowledge there was only one reason they were there. “To send me a Joe with winter and snow in his heart, wasn’t smart…”

She moved the microphone across the stage, letting every inch of emotion pour out through her words and not through her eyes.

She’d cried enough for Steve Rogers.

She wouldn’t do it again.

Not when she needed this gig.

Not when she couldn’t go back.

She turned and belted.

~*~

He hadn’t heard her belt before, and though he suspected she could, hearing her powerful voice and just assuming it was there were two different things. It didn’t help that she seemed to be speaking right to him, accusing him of the hurt and pain she felt.

For all she knew, he was the reason.

He hadn’t second guessed himself before, but he was now. She wouldn’t be happy with him, and she wouldn’t be happy with him showing up.

When her voice and the notes of the band slowed to an end, he was the first on his feet, clapping loudly and wolf whistling. He may have looked a fool, but for once he didn’t care.

He watched her disappear behind the curtain, and he sat heavily, turning back to his drink. It wouldn’t get him drunk, and would do little more than make an expensive tab, but he liked to pretend it gave him some courage. He was still afraid he’d somehow make things worse. More so, even, after hearing her song choice.

She came out from the back not a minute later, still in the extravagant velvet gown she’s performed in. He stood, pulling out a chair for her.

“What a surprise,” she started as he sat, in what Steve imagined was the exact tone she’d used while at Military bases and when humoring officers. “What brings you here?”

“I, uh,” he was already off kilter, and felt like a teen again talking to a pretty girl. “I have some business here.” Peggy’s eyebrows lifted and her eyes rolled before she could contain herself, but Steve nodded along. “Yeah, that was…”

“Just come out with it, please.” Peggy folded her hands and set them on the table. “I have another song in a few minutes.”

“Right, well, they’re not engaged. Angie and Bucky, that is.” He looked down at his own hands, then up at her, trying to keep his thoughts straight. None of his rehearsals started out like this, he didn’t know what part of his apology to jump to next. “I’m not even sure I could explain it if I wanted to, but Angie seemed to think you needed an excuse to go out on your own.”

Peggy looked away. “On my own?” She turned back swallowing heavy. “Like I… I…”

“But the real kicker is that you got some bad information.” Steve interrupted her. This conversation hadn’t started right and it wasn’t getting better. “Jarvis was eavesdropping and—”

Her lips pressed together and she grew indignant. “Oh, I know very well about what he heard!”

“What he heard,” Steve interrupted her, placing his hand on both of hers, “well, I promise I can explain it.” He held her eyes, “Look, Angie’s a wreck without you, and she and Bucky are sorry for all the meddling they were doing about us…”

She swallowed hard, but didn’t pull her hand away. “Us?”

“Yeah, I…” He looked down and back up, leaning closer. “I like you, Peggy. I know you wanted to go slow, and I know this whole misunderstanding has really messed with how you see me, but… come back. We all want you to come back.”

She squeezed his hand. “I don’t know if I can.”

“I’d understand,” he started, looking down at his glass, “if it’s been too much. If talking about the war and all has…” He cleared his throat, looking up at her sincerely. “Me and Buck, well, we’re both having those nightmares again and—”

“Cap, come on!”

They were interrupted by Tim Dugan moving quickly past the maître d, coat over his shoulder and bowler hat in his hands. “We’re gonna be late!”

“Dum Dum!” Steve stood, gesturing to Peggy. “Tim Dugan, Peggy Carter.”

He gave a little bow, but turned back to Steve quickly. “Boy, what I had to go through for you. The network, sponsors, all kinds of red tape, but I finally got it squared away just the way you wanted it!” He smiled, then let it drop and tilted his head. “But we gotta go now, Cap. I got a cab waiting, we’re late.”

Peggy stood as Steve turned to her. “I’m sorry I—”

“Go ahead,” her smile was fake and placating.

“Listen, can I see you later tonight?”

He reached out for her hand, but she pulled away, bewildering him. “I can’t, I have a date.”

“Tomorrow, then?” He asked, stepping towards her even though Dum Dum was slowly inching away.

“No, I’m busy all day.”

He caught her eyes, and wondered if he was imagining the pain in them.

“You better go, you’re keeping Mr. Dugan.”

He looked over at Dugan, who seemed at least a little apologetic for dragging him away so quickly, then back at Peggy. “What should I tell Angie?”

She looked down, playing with the edge of the table cloth. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. Goodbye, Steve.” She gave him no choice and moved away quickly. He watched her slip backstage as Dugan pulled him toward the front door.

“Kills me to pull you away from a dame, Cap,” Dugan muttered as he shoved him in the cab, “but we got a schedule to keep.”

~*~

Peggy paced backstage. She wanted to call up that Inn and holler at Angie. That engagement had been the last straw, it was what made her pack her bags and go.

But his words… he’d promised he be able to explain something. And the way he’d looked at her…

She felt it, deep in her gut. She’d gotten things so very, very wrong.

“Miss Carter? Are you ready for your next number?”

“Yes,” she replied, turning sharply, moving along with the stage manage back to the floor. “Is there a television here?”

“We have one in the break room, why?”

“I’ll be taking my break tonight during the Tim Dugan Show.” She looked down her nose at him with the face she knew had scared a thousand recruits. “It’s non-negotiable.”

~*~

Phillips made his way to the lounge five minutes before the show was set to start, on the dot. “Your Bourbon, sir,” Jarvis set the tumbler down next to his chair, just as he did every week. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“No, no.” He shook his head, settling in. “Not unless you can explain to me how it seems like all my soldiers ended up in show business?”

Jarvis pressed his lips together tight. “I have still not come up with an answer for that, sir.”

Phillips smirked at Jarvis’ proper answer as he sipped his drink. Just as he was reaching for the television Ana stepped in. “Oh, Colonel, just the man I need. The battery on the Jeep has died.”

“Oh, I’ll get to it tomorrow,” he waved her off, then tiled his head towards the seats next to him. “Don’t make me ask you to join me again. I know you two like this show, too.”

Ana began to object, hoping to pull him away from the television, when a cry sounded from the other room.

Angie skidded through the door, horror written on her face. “Oh, you have to help!” The Colonel jumped to his feet, marching out followed by the Jarvises. “He fell! It’s horrible!”

They all found Bucky at the bottom of the stairs, clutching his leg, rolling in pain.

“Barnes!” The Colonel bent low. “What happened?”

“Just a slip, sir,” he pushed through grit teeth, “I should be fine in a few minutes.”

“You’re damn clumsy for a dancing man,” Phillips muttered as he helped him stand, Bucky still holding his left leg in his hand. “You think you can put weight on it?”

“Sure can,” he tried to step on it, but lifted it right back up with a cry. “Not. Cannot, sir.”

“We should call a doctor,” Phillips set his shoulder under his arm.

“No, oh no, I don’t think it’s that bad.” Bucky argued, trying to smile. “I’m rolling my ankles all the time, just need to walk it out a bit and I’ll be just fine.”

Phillips looked at him and nodded, knowing his own penchant for avoiding doctors. “Ok, then, let’s put your weight on it real slow.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he panted, then made a show of crumbling to the floor as he tried to stand on it.

“Ana, call a doctor!” Phillips called, looking down at him.

“No!” He called, hauling himself up by a railing. “I just need to get it going again.” He snuck a quick look at his watch under the guise of steadying himself.

“Ok, then. Why don’t you come in the lodge, watch Dugan make a fool out of himself and—”

“If you don’t mind just helping me back to the bungalow…” Bucky leaned forward, “I wouldn’t want to faint in front of everyone, sir.”

Phillips raised his eyebrows then rolled his eyes. “I guess it doesn’t matter which one of you boys I watch make a fool of themselves tonight,” he muttered, putting his shoulder under Bucky’s arm. “Let’s go, Barnes.

#steggy secret santa #steggy fic #3p's fic #yes I'm still working on my secret santa

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technospotatoes · 3 years

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FUNDY LORE ANALYSIS

Howdy, howdy friends! After about 6 hours of pure thinking, I have more Dream SMP brain rot-theory-analysis stuff for you! This week I’m on spring break, so unfortunately I’m not prolonging any assignments haha! Today my focus is FUNDY LORE >:) and I’ve sprinkled in a little IRL factoids for ya to enjoy!

Please lemme know your thoughts, opinions and theories-- and as always, it’s gonna be a long one!

Enjoy <3

TW/CW for brief mentions of derealization-- nothing in detail, just thought I’d let y’all know. Please be safe ily.

Fundy’s lore stream took place today, 3/30/2021. It's roughly 45 minutes, so if you have some time to kill, go watch it! It’s really well done, and his acting is incredible. I will give you a warning; it contains derealization. If you choose not to watch it, here’s a summary from Twitter! link

First, let’s talk about what we know of Fundy’s character so far.

Fundy’s story throughout the events of the SMP are quite tragic. A few key staples are...

1: the death and betrayals of both Wilbur and Schlatt, as well as the absence of Eret-- all of whom he viewed as father figures (Wilbur being his biological father, and Eret his adopted father who failed to show up at his adoption ceremony. Schlatt was a source of validation and approval for Fundy).

2: Jealousy of Tommy and Tubbo-- These two replaced Fundy’s position as Wilbur’s son during the L’Manburg eras, and Fundy became rightfully jealous towards them. He no longer felt valued by his father, and was only more negatively impacted when Wilbur made an attempt to mend that rift.

3: witnessing the rise and ultimate fall of L’Manburg-- and even assisting in its destruction with Niki.

Along with some other rocky encounters with his family members in the timeline, Fundy can be simply boiled down as a character with no stable relationships to his family, or those whom he considers family. However, he does deeply value his friends and the fun that he has with them-- which we can assume is one of his attachments (this will be important later). He takes pride in making mischief and carries a friendly persona… which makes him easily approachable.

He does carry valid reasons to instigate villainous acts-- but he instead chooses to remain neutral due to his fear of losing something else close to him.

I have a number of thoughts regarding Fundy’s character and his current lore, so enough stalling from me, and let's get into it!

Analysis of Stream:

The desert

When Fundy leaves his tower for the first time during the dream sequence, the world is no longer the SMP, but is replaced with a barren desert. From the title of the stream, we can infer that this desert represents Fundy’s Mind and contains the majority of what he thinks about. Deserts often symbolize loneliness or emptiness, and can also be synonymized with brutal honesty or survival. Fundy’s character is indeed alone (in terms of family), and has fought for his survival by being sly and mischievous through Schlatt’s reign of Manburg. Sand itself symbolizes the passage of time, or in other words, the inevitability of the future or truth. As we see in each of the 3 dream sequences, the mysterious bunker containing “truth” appears closer and closer to Fundy’s tower and also becomes more withered and worn on the inside, implying that Fundy cannot escape the coming of truth and future as time passes.

The desert itself contains a replica of the Camarvan from the old L’Manburg days-- likely a representation of Fundy’s childhood that he holds onto dearly, in spite of his past trauma. During the first dream sequence, the van even contains Wilbur-- perhaps to mock Fundy’s pain, or remind him of it. During the second sequence, Wilbur is gone, likely referencing Wilbur’s absence in Fundy’s life, or his death. During the 3rd dream sequence, the Camarvan is replaced with what looks to be a crater, or the aftermath of an explosion. This could possibly reference the ultimate destruction of L’Manburg (and the destruction of the van), or it could be foreshadowing of the destruction in the future…

Side theory, here! Tubbo just lost a nuke, and multiple people have vendettas against Dream / want him dead. The pit seemed like it was made out of black stone and obsidian, the same materials as the prison, so it is likely that this is an allusion to Dream’s possible escape.

Who is “He”?

On his 3rd visit to the odd bunker in his dream world, Fundy reads the 3rd book in the chest. Towards the end, this book warns him of a vague male character that Fundy should not join, or avoid at all costs. To quote the book…

“Do not join him. Whatever he asks of you. Do NOT join him. His plans aren’t as nice as they sound. His intentions aren’t what you think they are. He will use you. He will destroy you. Everything you ever loved, everyone you ever cared about. Do not join him.”

I bet a few characters instantly came to your mind as to who this person that Future Fundy is warning us about, and I’m going to list who I first thought it could be below:

Technoblade and the Syndicate. Now, I disagree with this option, even though Techno has the outright power to destroy anything and everything like he’s done before. However, because of the creation of the Anarchist Syndicate and their accommodating ideals, it would be out of his character or set of ideals to suddenly destroy Fundy’s attachments to purely demonstrate his power. Also, Fundy no longer represents any forms of government, so he does not pose a threat to the Syndicate.

I did theorize here that Fundy could be Harpocrates, but that would imply that he goes against the warnings of his future self. (Also not to mention the placement of this stream in the timeline would have to be much later in the past.) But the more that I think about it, the more likely it could be. It wouldn’t necessarily be out of character for Fundy to join the Syndicate and side with Techno against the warnings of his inner voice, but he has been a spy before…

BBH / the Eggpire. This is also not a likely option for our “he” character, because it is more likely that this dangerous person is not associated with a group such as the Syndicate or Eggpire-- in other words, he operates alone. The Eggpire has plenty of members and those who oppose it, even BBH tried to recruit Fundy and failed. Our “he” has not had an interaction with Fundy yet, and I don’t think that the Eggpire would make an effort to reach out to him again.

My theory is that Quackity is our “he” figure. As I’ve stated before (see my C!Sam post here), Quackity has proven himself to be an effective manipulator, and could easily persuade Fundy to join his side. Quackity has power over Dream at this time in the plot, and is using it to gain knowledge about revival. He could use his acquired learning from Dream to make a deal with Fundy through using Wilbur’s revival to appease his interest (and provide a chance at healing, given his tough past). Not to mention his cameo at the end of Fundy’s lore stream-- There’s plenty more involvement in the lore that we are going to see from Q.

The Mysterious Figure

During the final dream sequence of Fundy’s lore stream, he opens the door to his tower, only to see a dark figure, staring into the world… or rather, the absence thereof. This Figure has no other significant character details besides the black hood/cloak and no ign, so we have no evidence as to who it is. I’ve seen plenty of people theorize that this person could be BBH (because of the similarities in cloak design) or they could be the “he” Fundy’s logs are warning him about. But I disagree-- I strongly believe that this mysterious figure is neither of those options, rather, The Mysterious Figure is someone completely separate in this story. Here are a few people I think it could be:

Wilbur/Schlatt-- both of whom are dead, and could manifest inside Fundy’s mind as spirits or ghosts.

Dream-- he causes paranoia in many of the younger characters of the SMP, so I wouldn’t put it past him to haunt Fundy like he did Ranboo (the voice in his head).

Fundy-- a form of himself from the future, or a representation of his conscience (wants, desires, etc).

Or a guide/protector to Fundy’s mind-- we could see more of this figure if episodes like this stream occur in the future. A character similar to that of the Inbetween or Other Side.

It is important to note that at the end of the sequence, the Mysterious Figure chased Fundy up the tower in fear, causing him to sleep and escape the dream world. I think Fundy would only react this way if he felt directly threatened, so this figure is likely someone unknown and intimidating, or familiar and repulsive enough to cause behaviour akin to a sort of PTSD. It is possible that this figure doesn’t have malicious intent, because there was a bed placed on top of Fundy’s tower. The figure was likely supposed to guide Fundy to this bed to escape the dream world, but this encounter probably did not go according to plan, due to Fundy’s reaction.

His Internal Monologue

Through the presence of fear and doubt we can learn about the deeper parts and truths of a character. This is the case with Fundy: while he is distressed and afraid in his dream world, through the provided angst we learn about what Fundy truly wants. Fundy states that he wants this dream to end, and he wants to go back to his friends and his old life. He longs for the times where he can just have fun again and prank people, when his friends were there for him. Except, sometimes they weren’t. He states he would join parties and join groups only to watch them disappear as he started to get attached to them. Now, whenever the word “attachment” is uttered anywhere I immediately think back to Dream’s speech, perhaps Fundy is becoming more aware of what he could be endangered by.

Deja Reve

There’s no theory attached to this, just some super cool stuff I found. :)

The reveal of Fundy’s powers instantly set off a flag in my mind the second I heard it. His “powerset” or ability is one of foreshadowing, whatever he dreams about, could happen or is linked to the future. Now, the reason I bring this up is partly because I think it is cool, and it is actually a REAL thing. And I’ve experienced it. Let me introduce you to Deja Reve.

Deja Reve isn’t really a condition or illness, rather it is a “creepier” form of its more popular counterpart, Deja Vu. When translated directly from French, Deja Reve means “already dreamed.” This word is a descriptor for a specific sequence of events: you dream something, and it happens later, in real life. No, I’m not making this up, and yes, it is real. I’ve had this happen to me multiple times.

Deja Reve isn’t so simple as “i dreamt this so it will happen tomorrow”. In my case, I would have a particular dream, for example, I went to a Subway with my mom and she discussed with the manager about having my sister work at that location. The morning after I would forget the dream like any other, but many weeks later the exact event I dreamt would happen. I can remember it now, right down to the sandwich I ordered and the way my mom moved across the establishment to talk to the manager-- it was word for word, vision for vision. Each time Deja Reve occurs, I freeze, and I think I’m experiencing a second copy of life, or rewatching a movie. It's super weird, but cool. If something like this has ever happened to you, leave a comment below, I’d love to hear your experiences!

Now I bring this up because many people mistake these sorts of things as having foresight or being able to prophesize-- but it's not the same thing. Deja Reve occurs more often in the younger population, and becomes less and less active as one gets older. Because Fundy is still relatively young in the SMP timeline, I think that not only is this a cool ability set for him to have, but it makes sense for him psychologically as well. There is no clear cause or reason behind why individuals experience Deja Reve, but personally, I believe it has to do with the condition of your brain and it’s experiences to past trauma. Kids who experience trauma find elaborate ways to cope, and usually defer to their imagination. Due to the fact that most of Fundy’s trauma occurred while he was very young in the SMP lore, it is definitely plausible that his amplified, or “more woke” application of Deja Reve, is a product of his past.

Number Symbolism

I’ll keep this section short, because this post is already miles long, but similar to the previous section, this is something SUPER COOL that I noticed :]

Each book that Fundy reads has a specific number of pages… haha big whoop, Biz, that’s not weird. But did you know that some numbers have symbolism? Did you notice that the 3 books in each dream sequence each had 87 pages, which symbolize family, organization, and idealism? That number symbolizes what Fundy WANTS, but also what he’ll never get if he’s not careful. The first two times he read that book he didn’t finish it… He didn’t achieve his goal?

Did you also notice that the signed book had 22 pages? That number symbolizes redemption, intuition, emotions, duty and diplomacy-- qualities that oddly correlate to warnings. This number represents what Fundy will NEED to be, in order to survive his future. Also, a Catch 22… take that as you will ;)

Sidenote…

Ok this is the last mini section before the end, but another thing that immediately popped into my head during Fundy’s lore was the factor of derealization. Nothing major, but the other times we’ve seen this storytelling or manipulation technique used was during...

Ranboo’s Panic Room / Prison Visit-- believes derealization

Karl and escaping the In Between-- fights against derealization

Fundy’s notebooks-- questions derealization

I have a feeling that whenever derealization is being used, it’s intended to distract the character from the true evil, to prevent them from tracking their own course or fulfilling their own story… So I’ll be excited to see where Fundy takes his.

GAAAAAAAAAH IT’S DONE, FINALLY. And Congratulations! You made it to the end!! If you have any thoughts or theories, comment below, shoot me an ask or DM, I’d love to discuss with you! Follow me for more in-depth analysis content, I will be doing as many of these as I feel inspired to do in the future. :]

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING <3

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hallowed-nebulae · 2 years

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ghosts and nightmares

[ @beastenraged this ended up being more focused on the Spirit than the Nightmare, but yknow what, they deserve it. It’s not necessarily that long but I wanted to finish this before I went to bed, so yeet]

They watched as the Wielders, the Replicas, and the other humans all went to sleep. There would be many nightmares tonight, this they knew.

The Spirit was apprehensive of this place -- this was not home. This was not a place they knew. Oh, they could still teleport to their other half, or to Vanitas or Ven, but this place was not home.

The Nightmare did not mind, as much. It was not home, yes, but there were still things that were the same. Both the halves of Ventus were whole -- as whole as they could be -- and healthy, and Ven and Vanitas both would at least be free from nightmares, should need be.

The Nightmare settled in their place, curling up near Ven, and Vanitas, and Terra.

Terra’s nightmares were the same as they always had been -- futures and pasts flashing behind eyelids, the many deaths or ways the worlds would be torn apart, the many ways Terra would be torn apart, the many ways the past had been shredded before his own birth.

Ven’s nightmares were more. . .twisted, warped, tearing apart and stitching together and dissolving into nothingness again. They never formed into anything, and were not truly nightmares so much as they were simply dreams that happened to be a bit more twisted than any of Ven’s other dreams. Ven never remembered these in the morning -- the Nightmare’s role by Ven’s side was, instead, one of comfort, their presence simply reminding Ven of something to hold onto and keep close. Perhaps that was the oddest thing about their Ven -- Ven didn’t have nightmares. (Those ones that were nightmares, true nightmares, were eaten as everything else was -- and would not be remembered at all.)

Vanitas’ nightmares were simple. Just that man, or of himself being torn open. Easy to eat. Easy to see. Easy to remove. Easier still, to replace with dreams, good ones. That was the Spirit’s job, for many years -- slip into Vanitas’ dreams, replace anything bad with better dreams.

That was not mentioning the ghosts that haunted the halls of this place.

The Nightmare was not able to see the ghosts as easily, of course. The Nightmare dealt in the now. The living. What existed currently. The Spirit dealt in the then and the will-be, the dead, what no longer existed. So while the Nightmare was willing to stay with the little group -- Ven, Terra, Vanitas -- the Spirit would wander the halls, if not needed, and see what ghosts could be met.

That was how they found him. Not the wielder of that Chirithy who held the one named Xehanort. Not the one who kept memories of a past life, no. But a Xehanort all the same.

It was not that Xehanort who’s Dream Eater was that Replica named Ruse, either.

No. This was simply a ghost who’d stayed by the one he felt he had failed with his death -- this was a ghost who belonged to Ven and Vanitas’ worldline. The was the ghost of that Xehanort who had died, decades ago, who’s body had been taken over by a Darkness who worked with the Master of Masters in assumption that it would win.

The Spirit did not say much to him, that ghost, that boy who was barely eighteen. Simply butted their head against his hand, demanded pettings. The ghost’s face was young -- younger still with the small smile, and he raised a hand to gentle run over the Spirit’s head. “How kind of you, to visit me like this.”

The words were spoken, but not heard by any who could not sense the ghosts, of course.

You need some good things too. The Spirit reminded the boy.

He laughed, softly. “I’m just a ghost who’s not allowed to move on. My happiness can come from seeing those I hurt in my absence grow past that hurt and become better people than I could have been.”

His speech was the same as it always was. Quiet, calm, a tired, resigned self-loathing, trapped because his soul could not quite free itself from the Darkness that still existed on the living plane. Blaming himself for dying, for letting the Darkness puppet his body as it wished, for letting that Darkness cause all that hurt. Blaming himself more, now, because he has seen what could have been, what he could have been -- and the Spirit has spoken to this person, many, many times, knows this ghost more than anyone else except himself. The Spirit knows that this boy will see his life -- even one that is “evil” -- as proof that he has failed, proof that it is his fault that that evil, working with the man wanting to tear down the universe, is allowed to do as it pleases.

While the other Chirithys tend to their wielders, mind the dreams and nightmares, and while the others inside of this castle sleep -- the Spirit stays here, for the night, by the side of that young, self-blaming ghost, who’s silver eyes are always alight with tears never quite shed.

It is all that they can do for him. It is not nearly enough -- but it is better than nothing.

#drabbles #tell me verse #tempests verse #storm whispers #chirithy #xehanort #young xehanort #dream eaters #ven vanitas and terra arent a big enough part of this to be mentioned i think #anyways en you can bounce off of this if you want or you can do a timeskip or something #i know this one doesnt end on the best place for an alternate pov but it ended on a good place for the snippet itself #so i hope you dont mind too much?

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lettrespromises · 3 years

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#LettresPromises informs you : You have one notification. ──➤ 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐕𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋!

─➤ Ushijima Wakatoshi sent you a letter, would you like to read it? #CC of the letter directed to : @babythotshq.

──➤ #𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : angst, song letter. ─➤ #𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 : “When I Was Your Man” by Bruno Mars. ➤ #𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : slight injury.

❝𝐒𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞.❞

His orbs never left once the wilted color of the ceiling, nor did he dare to blink, surely because his subconscious had already made him prisoner jailed in his own thoughts. What did he fear by blinking? Did he fear to wake up in trance from this nightmare? Did he fear being left breathless by the umpteenth realization that you were, indeed, not laying next to him? Ushijima Wakatoshi was laying on his bed. His orbs never left once the wilted color of the ceiling. His arms were spread open (but oddly respected the limit of where your body would usually occupy), like a martyr begging for forgiveness and mercy to the higher beings. But his salute never came, his prayers fell in the deaf ears of vacuity. Ushijima Wakatoshi was laying on his bed. And found himself unable to move. And upon lacing his shoe laces to head out and commit to his morning run, despite being three hours late, he threw a last glance at your shared bedroom, which had become singular with time. He felt his own legs attract him to the edge of the bed, like an old habit poisoning his rational thinking and arbitrary, but was rendered weak and let himself be invaded by the toxins secreted by his own body. It was only when his shinbones hit the wooden surface of the bed that he snapped out of his reverie, and realized that the bed was empty. And realized that there was no forehead left to be kissed this morning, again. He stepped back from the bed, his steps were cautious and testified of the fear slowly embedding his actions, now the toxins were spreading onto his bones and muscles, it was no longer a burden on his mind, it had metamorphosed into a metaphorical chain wrapped around his muscles which forbid him from enjoying the liberty of his movements. A shaken step caused his to stumble backwards, knocking the radio throning on the shelf behind him. And when Ushijima’s eardrums were expecting a loud bang, to which he did not even shut his lids in anticipation, he was met with a song. Your song. The shock of the radio against the floor had caused the sudden musical eruption of a song which often throned amongst Ushijima’s happiest memories. Now, upon hearing it, he could barely discern what the words meant. It all sounded like a blur, or rather, as if the musical keys had changed. He even wonder if the singer hadn’t released a new version of the song with new lyrics. Ushijima Wakatoshi didn’t go on his usual morning run on this day, he gave in to the assault of emotions and the whimpers of nostalgia hidden between two words sung by the singer, the pain found comfort in the melody of the song. ❝𝐌𝐦, 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐝𝐮𝐦𝐛 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝.❞ Each volleyball season ended with a gala organized by the Volleyball Club Association, it was the perfect occasion to give back to charities and at the same time celebrate the victories of this season. Ushijima had the habit of growing oddly quiet whenever this season would arrive, the nerves of knowing whether or not he had been voted as the best performing winged spiker were rendering unable of forming any word.

And like every year, you were accompanying him.

You found yourself to be cherished under the flashes of the photographers, exposing in front of the public eye a relationship which was burning with the fire of a Phoenix. Only, to the private eye, you had doubt regarding the renaissance of your idyl. Your love was burning, indeed, burning amongst the unforgiving inferno of a romance which had turnt into a mere illusion.

Being at a public event, it was common for Wakatoshi to answer the journalists’ question, and being someone quite reserved himself, the preying eyes of the interviewers often gravitated about his private life— who is he dating? Is he single? Does he have someone on his mind?

A journalist gathered enough courage to approach him, and you thought it was your time to affirm yourself— as the galas went by, you and Wakatoshi grew and grew closer, and this year was your first time as his official romantic date. A grin had already bloomed amongst your facial features in anticipations to his answers regarding his private life.

“Ushijima-san, thank you for allowing us to ask you several questions. Now, everyone knows you as this relentless warrior on the court, but do you also happen to have the same success on the court as in your private life?” The journalist asked, a gleam of hope shone in the irises of her eyes.

Ushijima hesitated for a short instant which seemed like an eternity, the metaphorical gears in his head were working with difficulty, and the words connected to one another without ever forming a complete sentence, or at least, one which reflected his thoughts. “No, there is no one in my life except volleyball. And I believe it will always remain this way.” He announced to the journalist in response, despite your obvious presence next to him.

And as the words were drowning in your eardrums, you felt yourself gradually disappear under the haunting sensation of being forgotten. His hold on your hand also seemed to be gradually becoming numb, as if you had truly obtained all the characteristics of a ghost after his reply. After he stated that you meant nothing to him, and will never mean anything.

“Y/N, I’m pleased to see you are happy to be here, should we continue, my love?” His question provoked the rise of a cacophony of miserable whimpers inside your head, not only did Ushijima failed to see you for who you were, but he also failed to perceive your most vivid emotions. ❝𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.❞ You were sitting on the edge of the bed, the back of your calves rocking softly against the wooden surface, your skin had already adopted a spectrum of reddish and purplish tones from all the bruises caused by this constant rocking of your legs against the edge of the bed, you were bruised from waiting for him, you were bruised from loving him.

“Y/N? I ignored you were waiting for me, you should have gone to sleep instead.” Did this tone remind you of your lover’s? Or did it remind you of yet another lecture given by a parental figure? “I tried, trust me I tried, Wakatoshi. But I can’t sleep without you anymore... You’re, you’re always abroad and I can never catch you. It’s like I’m dating someone who only exists through phone calls and texts... It’s like all this time I’ve been dating a ghost.” Your lower lip began to tremble under the heavy weight of the words pouring from your mouth, “I don’t even know if I want you anymore or not. I can’t tell if your presence is hurting me or not, I don’t know who you are anymore to me.” The last words died on your tongue in a shameful whisper, your orbs solely focused on the ground.

Wakatoshi’s hand reached for your shoulder, like a metaphorical saving hand trying to save your from drowning in your most horrible nightmare but as your fingertips were about to touch his and be saved from the misery hovering above you like a sword of Damocles, a sudden sob ripped apart this moment of solace and you felt all alone again, shut away from the world, an exiled soul in a loveless abyss.

Ushijima knew you couldn’t find deliverance in his presence anymore, he knew that in your eyes, he had become a poison you needed to find an antidote for. Each second spent with him felt like pure agony, and he felt eaten alive by his own guilty for having fallen asleep to the sounds of your rocking sobs like the most miserable lullaby.

❝𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐧.❞

The absence, the ignorance.

Two cruel elements which, once associated to one another, signed the end of your relationship with Ushijima Wakatoshi. You had left him a letter with your most beautiful calligraphy, soon ruined by the uneven spheres caused by your tears. You even left him a bouquet of flowers, an attention he used to pour a lot of importance in at the beginning of your relationship when it was still blooming. Now your relationship was wilted, colorless, and already falling apart. And just like that, a petal had fallen on the wooden surface of your kitchen counter. His kitchen counter.

Ushijima tried to make up for your absence by concentrating the burning hole in his chest left by your absence by unleashing his frustration in his spikes. At first, he was applauded by his coach, and his performances were worthy of his peers’ praises.

But the same spikes infused with frustration were now infused with a rare kind of genuine hatred when you sent him a text saying you had found someone else, someone who had more time too, but the last straw was that you had apologized.

Said rare kind of genuine hatred wasn’t directed to the person you were dating, even less you. It was directed to himself, Wakatoshi Ushijima, and how in the deafening silence he managed to give birth to the loudest emotions.

And the praises turnt into worry.

Like your compliments turnt into whimpers.

It was the same circular scheme.

During training, as the palm of his calloused hand slapped the leather surface of the ball, picturing his own face on the martyr of a ball, Ushijima cried out in pain.

He ignored if the origin of the pain emanated from the way he had just dislocated his left wrist, or was it coming from the final rupture of his last heartstring as he had witnessed himself coming undone under the weight of his emotions, his memories, his regrets.

And the praises from his coaches regarding his spikes were now made vocal for another player. And the praises, your praises, regarding himself were now made vocal for someone else whose name wasn’t Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Someone who had the luxury of time.

Someone who had the privilege of loving and being able to be loved.

Someone who wasn’t him.

❝𝐃𝐨 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐧.❞

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu oneshot #ushijima x reader #wakatoshi x reader #ushijima hcs #ushijima oneshot #hq ushijima #ushiwaka #ushijima #ushijima x you #haikyuu wakatoshi #wakatoshi #hq !! x reader #hq!! x reader #haikyuu

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daddystiltskin · 2 years

Text

the one that got away

Chapter 1

-💖-💖-💖-💖-💖-

SANSA

He was long since gone. Vanished after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, never to be seen nor heard from again. Yet, his scarred face still haunted her, his presence lingered in her mind. His absence did nothing to stop the visions. She imagined him on her wedding night, would have pretended it was him during the entirety of the bedding had Tyrion decided to deflower her. For the thousandth time, she lay away in the darkness wondering if she had made a mistake. Only this time, she knew the truth. She should have let the Hound take her with him. He could have protected her.

I wish the Hound were here. She thought once again, sobbing. Cold. Wet. The shackles on her feet rubbing blisters into her sensitive skin. The cloth shift she was forced to wear itching and irritating her. Hunger and thirst were now her sole companions, except for the rats. So, to occupy her time, waiting for the days of the trial to end, she thought of him. Of what could have been if she had been braver. Of the future she would never have now. What would he have done if he were here? Would he be her champion? Would he have laughed at her? Called her stupid?

Would he have saved her, or simply softened the blow?

She closed her eyes and drifted in and out of sleep. Dreaming of scars, blood, fire and rage.

A stolen song, a kiss, and a wetness that was not blood.

-💖-💖-💖-💖-💖-

SANDOR

He never could have protected her. He couldn’t even keep himself from being caught. How was he ever to keep the little bird safe? Safe from the brotherhood? Safe from himself? So, instead, he drank. He drank so much that he barely kept ahorse. Even the she-wolf, who was nothing like her pretty sister, began to fuss. He would take the girl somewhere; he didn’t know where yet. Little heathen was plotting his death every spare moment she had, mayhaps she would pull it off. Slit his throat while he was dead drunk, or split his head open with a rock after all.

Do it. He thinks.

Then he might get some rest. The little bird haunts him. Comes to him in dreams, begs him for help, pleas with him so prettily to return to her.

That’s just the wine sickness. He is sure of it. She would not want him to return, not the way he had left her. Not after taking what she was unwilling to give. Instead he totes the she-wolf all over the whole of Westeros trying to pawn her off for a sack of gold and a clear conscience.

If he could not save Sansa, at least he might save her sister.

-💖-💖-💖-💖-💖-

ARYA

She tried to convince the stupid Hound not to go into the inn, but he wouldn’t listen. He never listens!

"We don't want to go in," Arya insisted, "there might be ghosts."

“Need more wine.” He called over his shoulder after dismounting, as he went stomping down the hill like the great huge aurochs that he is. She thought for a long time about escaping, jumping on Craven and leaving the stupid, ugly dog behind her.

But she didn’t. Instead, she swung down from the saddle and grabbed at his arm.

"You know how long it's been since I had a cup of wine?" Sandor shrugged her off of him. "Besides, we need to learn who holds the ruby ford. Stay with the horses if you want, it's no hair off my arse."

She rolled her eyes and stomped after him, wishing he would hide the terrible burns of his face like he had before. He had become careless. Stupid.

More stupid.

"What if they know you? They might capture you."

"They can try." He grunted, loosening his longsword.

They knew him, it was obvious, and the room grew eerily silent as they strode through the door. But that wasn't the worst thing. She knew them. These were the soldiers from Harrenhal. Polliver, The Tickler, and an ugly squire with poxy skin.

"Looking for your brother, Sandor?" Polliver called out, his hand down the bodice of a girl on his lap, groping her harshly until he slowly he slid it out.

"Looking for a cup of wine. Innkeep, a flagon of red." Sandor threw a handful of coppers on the floor, their metallic clank the loudest sound in the room.

"I don't want no trouble, ser," the skinny innkeep said.

"Then don't call me ser." The Hound’s burnt mouth twitched. "Are you deaf, fool? I ordered wine."

As the man ran off to do his bidding, the Hound shouted after him, "Two cups! The girl's thirsty too!"

"Is this the lost puppy Ser Gregor spoke of?" The pimply squire asked the Tickler. "The one who turned craven at the Blackwater and run off?"

The Tickler put a warning hand on the boy's arm and gave a single, sharp shake of his head. Eyes slanted, a deep frown pulling at his thin lips. She knew his meaning and read the warning clearly. Shut up boy, don’t anger the Hound.

The squire didn't, or else he didn't care. "Ser said his puppy brother tucked his tail between his legs when the battle got too warm at King's Landing. He said he ran off whimpering."

Sandor stared at the boy, his eyes taking in his measure, but never said a word.

"The lad's drunk," Poliver said, throwing the girl off his lap to stand. "He can't hold his wine, is all."

It was an excuse and a beg-your-pardon to the Hound. Polliver was near as tall as Clegane. Though not nearly so heavily muscled.

"Then he shouldn't drink." Sandor’s rasp was worse, his voice lower. He was getting angry.

"The puppy doesn't scare m-" the boy began, till the Tickler twisted his ear and the words became a shriek of pain.

The innkeep came scampering back with two cups and a flagon. Sandor waisted no time, he grabbed up the flagon and drank it half gone, slamming it down.

"Best pick up those coppers too, it's the only coin you're like to see today."

"We'll pay when we're done drinking," Polliver offered with a wicked smirk.

"When you're done drinking you'll tickle the innkeep to see where he keeps his gold. The way you always do."

The innkeep disappeared to the kitchens and only then did she notice that all the others were gone as well. The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire in the hearth. She wanted to leave, too, it was past time to be gone. But the Hound would not be satisfied until he had his fill of wine.

"If you're looking for Ser, you come too late," Polliver said, more casual now. "He was at Harrenhal, but now he's not. The queen sent for him." He patted the longsword at his side, and she saw beneath it was a thinner blade. Not a dagger, which he also wore, but something longer.

"King Joffrey's dead, you know," he added. "Poisoned at his own wedding feast."

Arya tried not to react, inching further into the room to hear, ears perked. She could hardly believe it. Joffrey’s dead! She should have been thrilled, but instead it was hollow. She wanted to be the one to kill him, or at the least see him die.

"So much for my brave brothers of the Kingsguard." The Hound gave a snort. "Who killed him?"

"The Imp, it’s thought. Him and his little wife."

"What wife?"

"I forgot, you've been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she and the imp plotted it all, together. She tried to scurry out with the king’s fool, but they were caught. She and the dwarf sit in the black cells, and Cersei means to have their heads."

It didn’t make sense. Sansa liked pretty men, she never would have married the Imp. They must have forced her. And killing Joffrey? Sansa was not capable of it, Arya was sure.

Sandor sat hard down upon the bench at the table, as though his legs could not hold his weight. The twitching of his mouth became greater, his face harder, and he watched the hearth with intent. His eyes settled on the flames that licked up into the darkened chimney. He poured himself another cup, and then one for her. The cup clattered loudly against the wood in front of her until she took a seat in the shadow cast by the Hound.

"A pretty girl, I hear," said the Tickler, his first words to be spoken. "And honey sweet." He smacked his lips and smiled.

A long silence ensued as Sandor made no move, not to drink nor speak. The cup in his hand remained still, his knuckles white, until he lifted it to his lips and took a long pull.

"And courteous," the Hound finally agreed, his mouth drawn tight as a bow. "A proper little lady.”

“Not for much longer.” Polliver chuckled darkly. “They’ll snip her neck same as her lord father’s.”

Arya kept her eyes cast down, desperate not to think of Sansa alone in a cell in the bowels of the Red Keep. She would not fair well at all.

Finally, Arya lifted the cup and drank from it, trying to hide the grimace on her face.

Sandor gulped what remained of his wine and when he spoke again his voice was sharp.

“Cersei cannot execute the last bloody Stark. The Old Lion would have her live yet. To keep the North in line, maintain a hold on Winterfell, and all that shite.”

"They have the sister for that," said Polliver. "She's married to the Bolton's bastard, I hear."

Arya kept her head down and sipped at her wine so they could not see her face. She didn't understand what Polliver was talking about. Sansa had no other sister. Sandor Clegane barked a single, loud snigger.

"What's funny?" asked Polliver.

The Hound never flicked an eye at Arya. "If I'd wanted you to know, I'd have told you.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Several beats passed before another word was uttered. Sandor was concentrating hard on the hearth; his cup had been empty a while, but he never reached to refill it.

"Ser would have you come to Harrenhal with us, Sandor. Or King's Landing…” The Tickler finally spoke. “He’s to be Cersei’s champion. First against the Imp and then the Stark girl."

Sandor snorted. “Of course he is.”

Arya watched as the men looked one to another, until Sandor slid his empty cup away and leaned himself back with his arms crossed heavily over his chest.

Polliver spared her a single glance, the squire never turned his attention to her. But the Tickler, he gazed long and hard until she felt her heart beat faster. Does he recognize me? She wondered.

“You know what?” Polliver continued, voice light, sitting down to face them. “You should come with us. That innkeep, he’s got something hidden away somewhere. Gold, silver…daughters. Always something if you know how to make ‘em talk. And there’s plenty of more like him on our way to King’s Landing.”

“I’m not going to King’s Landing.” Sandor rasped.

“Think about it. We can do whatever we like, wherever we go. King’s dead, and that baby lion they’ll put on the throne isn’t like his brother. No one’s standing in our way, now.”

“Bugger that. Bring me one of those chickens.”

Polliver smirked. “Tell you what, we’ll trade you. One of our little chickens, for one of yours. Give us a go at your friend.”

His eyes flashed to Arya, and she knew his meaning too well. The Hound smiled, it was a gruesome picture that made her want to gag.

“If any more words come pouring out of your cunt mouth, I’ll kill every one of you in this room.”

Silence again. The men did not appear to breathe. And then, everything happened all at once. Sandor lurched to his feet as Polliver drew his longsword, but the Hound crashed the table down stop him and whirled around to dodge something silver that streaked across the room. From further back, the Tickler's hand dropped, and behind her a dagger was left quivering in the wall.

If the Hound had not been moving, the knife might have ran through the hallow of his throat, but instead it only grazed his side.

He laughed then, a hollow sound that was cold, dead, and mad. "I was hoping you'd do something stupid."

His sword slid from its scabbard and his fist rammed into the Tickler’s face, knocking him over. The smaller man recovered and rose with a shortsword slicing upward. It scratched at the Hound’s armor. Sandor was not fighting his best, he was drunk. Clumsy. He had too much wine in his belly but had eaten no food since the day prior.

Still, he was twice the size of the Tickler and stronger. He picked the man up and threw him bodily through a wooden beam. The Tickler did not get back up. Polliver had managed to stand and was holding his longsword, charging at Clegane until a dance of steel resounded in the common room. Arya was sure that Polliver was going to outmaneuver the Hound, as sloppy as he had become. She ran to the wall and worked at the dagger, nearly having it loose when she was turned around roughly.

It was the poxy squire, with his pimply face all sweaty and greasy. He made for the hilt of his sword, struggling to remove it from the scabbard when she fought him off. Her arms and legs swung blindly at whatever she could make contact with. Her elbow hit his gut hard, and then her knee at his groin. He cursed as he fell to the ground.

Arya went back to the wall, gripping the dagger’s handle hard and braced her foot on the wall until the steel finally broke free. She twirled around and fell upon the boy. The dagger sheathed smoothly into his belly. He wasn't wearing armor or chainmail, nor even boiled leather, so it went right in, smooth as butter. It felt the same as Needle, when she killed the stableboy in King's Landing all those moons ago. The squire's eyes got large and round, his hands rushed to the hole she had left when removing the dagger.

Sandor gave a loud grunt of pain. The burned side of his face ran red from temple to cheek, and the stub of his ear was gone. That made him angry. He drove Polliver backwards with a furious attack, hammering at him with massive blows until the man gave way. Blood ran down Sandor’s face and from a gash in his neck. He looked more dreadful than ever.

She snuck up behind Polliver and slashed his leg from behind with the same dagger, still red with the squire’s blood. The man seized, falling backwards with a scream as the Hound cut him across the chest. She had wanted to be the one to do it, to be the one that killed him. Instead, Arya took Needle from him and stood over his prone form. He was gushing blood from his middle, his guts slipping out onto the wooden floor.

He was not dead yet.

“A fine little blade. Maybe I’ll pick my teeth with it.” She repeated his words, and he looked at her. The light in his eyes already fading but there it was. He remembered.

She pricked him with her Needle, in the throat, and blood ran out his mouth. He died, just after, and she felt herself smile.

“Finish that one off, too.” She heard the Hound say.

It was the squire. He was trying to stop the bleeding in his belly with his hands.

“Mercy.” He pleaded. “I beg you, mercy! I need a maester, please. I only came for the girls…” He sobbed and whimpered, like a child.

“Do you remember where the heart is?” Sandor asked.

She nodded and slid Needle between the squire’ ribs, giving him the mercy he begged for. The Hound was quick to rush her away after, grabbing food and shoving it down his gullet. Then took a longsword from the Mountain’s fallen men.

"Where will we go?" she asked.

“North.” He put a big hand on her shoulder and thrust her forward. "Get some wine, she-wolf. And collect whatever coin they have as well, we'll need it where we’re going." His mouth twitched at her, as more blood ran down from where his ear had been.

She did as he asked and soon they were mounted on Stranger and Craven, heading Northwest towards the setting sun. He spoke no more until they made camp, hours later, and boiled the wine she had brought to use on his now completely missing ear. The wound bled like a stuck pig, and when he cleaned it, he nearly broke his hand banging it against the ground. He screamed and passed out, not waking again until late that night.

She let the fire die out, cleaned his wounds as best she could, and bound them with the squire’s cloak they had taken. When she came to his ear, she had to wrap up half his head to stop the bleeding. By then it was dusk and growing dark. She let the horses graze, then roped them for the night. She made herself as comfortable as she could in a corner between two rocks.

Arya watched the moon through the branches overhead. Then, she began her list.

"Ser Gregor the Mountain," she said softly. "Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei." It made her feel odd to leave out Polliver and the Tickler.

Joffrey too, but she was glad he was dead. Polliver said that Sansa killed him, and the Imp. Her husband, the dwarf! It was almost funny to think of. Her pretty sister and that ugly troll.

Sansa . . .

If Sansa died too, there would be no more Starks but her. Jon was on the Wall a thousand leagues away, but he was a Snow, and these different aunts and uncles the Hound wanted to sell her to, they weren't Starks either. They weren't wolves.

Sandor moaned in his sleep, whispering, and she rolled onto her side to look at him. He did this sometimes, mumble in his sleep. She was not sure what all he dreamed of. Sometimes he was frightened, and she wondered if perhaps it was fire he dreamed of. Or his brother.

Other times he was sad. He would call out little bird in his sleep, and she wondered if she heard him weep.

She had left his name out too, she realized. Why had she done that? She tried to think of Mycah, but it was hard to remember what he'd looked like. She hadn't known him long. All he ever did was play at swords with her.

"The Hound," she whispered, and then, "Valar morghulis."

Maybe he'd be dead by morning . . .

He tossed and turned fretfully, rose and clambered into the trees without any regard for her own rest. When he returned, he paced until he came back to rest at the roots of the tree where he had passed out before. She thought to sleep once more, but in the dark of night she heard his voice.

“Little bird.” He said, agonizing. She could not see him, the fire had gone out. Was he asleep? She could not tell. He grumbled something more she could not make out, and then he fell silent once again.

When the sun peaked over the horizon and light came filtering through the trees, it was he who woke her with the toe of his boot. She had dreamed she was a wolf again, running free and chasing a horse with a pack all her own at her back. He was staring at her, the bandages around his head already stained red, and his brow matted with sweat.

“Up she-wolf. We’re leaving.”

He saddled Stranger with haste, yelling at her when she did not move quickly enough. They had never set off so suddenly, nor rode the horses so hard. She realized after a long distance of travel that they were no longer heading North. They were not going East or West. Only South.

“Where are we going? You said we were going North.”

He did not answer, he did not even look at her. As though she had said nothing at all.

“Hey!” She yelled at him and drove Craven up beside him. They had ridden the horses at a gallop several times already. She had thought it was to outrun any more of the Mountain’s men. It did not seem to be the reason, though. She had not seen anyone all day, only birds and the occasional squirrel.

“Shut your mouth.” He grumbled, blood had begun trickling down his neck from the soaked bandages.

“Where are we going? Why do we travel back South?”

He pulled the reigns and Stranger came to a halt. He turned to her, and she could see the wild look in his eyes. He was mad, perhaps feverish. She had not seen him like this outside of a fight.

“They mean to kill your sister.”

This was his explanation. He expected her to understand, but she didn’t.

“What do you care?”

He snarled and Stranger neighed in distress, kicking his feet against the dirt.

“You’re a cold little devil, aren’t you? Aye, well, stay here then. You’ll only slow me down. Go to your aunt or bugger off to the Wall. Its no hair off my arse.”

He kicked Stranger’s sides and his mount took off, it was all Arya could do to keep up with his pace. Craven was not as large as Stranger, but she carried a lighter load. Arya refused to recognize that the Hound was changing all his plans for Sansa. She could not imagine why he would do such a thing.

She grinned a little at the idea of how appalled Sansa will be when she has to see his terrible face again. She only thought she was rid of him. And he was even more hideous now, with his face mangled worse than before and blood still running down his chin to drip on his mail.

She was grumpy with him the remainder of the day. She was angry that he kept such a hard pace and would not remain on the Kingsroad for fear of running into more soldiers. Instead, he rode as hard as he dared without killing the horses. They rode until she was sore and hungry, tired, and the saddle sores she thought were long gone had reappeared.

He would not speak to her about his choice. He would not explain. She had a suspicion that the little bird he spoke so much of was her sister. He acted in love with her. Or he felt very sorry for her. When she tried to broach the subject, he would get angry all over again. He would only remind her that she did not have to travel with him, she could do as bloody well pleased, and it was no matter to him either way.

Fine then, she would say no more. Ugly as he was and getting uglier by the day, let him return to her perfect sister. Her sister that adored comely knights with soft hair and shining bright eyes. Who loved pretty words and songs of romance, everything beautiful and maidenly in the world.

Sansa will not be happy to see him at all. And it will serve him right.

CHAPTER 2

-💖-💖-💖-💖-💖-

Sansa

“My lady?” A familiar voice echoed through the darkness.

Sansa looked up, sure that the vision she saw was from a dream. The person standing outside the barrier of iron bars had fled Kings Landing long ago, not to be seen or heard from again.

Dark hair fell out beneath a cloak.

“Shae?” Sansa’s voice cracked from want of use. Though, the damp and cold room likely did not help.

“Oh, my lady.” Shae’s voice was laced with remorse and, perhaps, a tinge of disbelief. “What have you done?”

Sansa might have produced tears at the accusation, but she had cried too many already. She had no water left. They gave her too little to eat and drink. She grew thin from lack of food, weak from thirst, and lifting herself to sit took a great deal of effort.

“I did nothing.” She argued, for the thousandth time.

“Your hairnet held the poison.” Shae countered.

The trial had revealed this as well. She had attempted to explain herself. It was Ser Dontos that had gifted her the hairnet, had told her it was the key to her escape. She stood in her box, accused of Joffrey’s murder, telling all the high lords and ladies of the court the truth. The utter truth. Dontos was not there to confirm or deny, he had hanged himself in his cell – with rope that he had not possessed.

All her justifications mattered not. They all condemned her, same as Tyrion, but she found she could not demand a trial by combat as her husband had. When the verdict of her judgment was passed down by Lord Tywin, seconded by the newly anointed King Tommen, she felt her heart sink.

“I only want to go home.” She muttered to the darkness and Shae’s shadowed figure moved, reaching into her cloak, and then extending a hand between the bars as far as she could.

“I cannot help you return home, my lady. But I can give you mercy.”

Her brain was muddled from the bitter damp and cold in the cell, as well as lack of sleep, food, and water. She was confused. Coming to the conclusion that Shae held in her hand a vial that was an offer of mercy was as difficult a trudging through high mud.

“Poison?” She asked, and the irony did not escape her that it was the same fate that Joffrey suffered.

Did she really want to die like that? Like him?

She roused herself with great effort, stumbling only a little as her legs wobbled beneath her and her knees did not hold her meager weight as they should. She took the vial in her hands and looked at her once-maid. A person she had considered almost a friend.

“I heard you and Tyrion…” Sansa let the question drop off at the deep frown that formed on Shae’s lovely face.

“It makes sense.” Sansa corrected. “I understand why, he is a…good man.”

The sentence was not untrue. He had loudly and angrily protested her involvement, as well as his own. She knew from the moment the evidence of the hairnet was produced that there was nothing else that could be done. Tyrion could not save her from her fate. No one would be her savior. She had trusted the wrong man. She had been monumentally stupid. Naïve.

I wish the Hound were here.

“Use it wisely. Goodbye, my lady.” Shae disappeared down the long, dark hall before Sansa could say more.

Wise. That was not something she had been most of her life.

The Hound had been right about her. She was a stupid little bird, singing all the songs they taught her and still a terrible liar. There were no true Knights. She did not even believe in the Seven, instead she felt only the calling of the North. Was that the old gods her father had served? Did they know her life was over, and were calling to her?

Regardless, she went back to her little rut and sat. There was no cot, only straw and the reek of things that had long since passed. She held the vial in her hand, looking at it for so long the ember hues of daylight made their way past the doors as they opened and shut. She contemplated on the mercy Shae had bestowed her and wondered heavily on its outcome. Did she want to writhe in pain as Joffrey had? She had heard the terrible stories of his blood-red eyes, purple face, the swelling of his throat that nearly burst.

No. Beheading had to be better, didn’t it?

Or was there a fate worse than death that Shae was saving her from? Would Cersei even allow her to live until her execution, or did she have a more ruthless end devised?

Pondering all this, she collapsed on the ground from exhaustion. The vial tucked away underneath the straw, saved for a future she was unsure would come to pass.

-💖-💖-💖-💖-💖-

Sandor

Sandor knew he looked wretched. Like a bloody demon from the seventh hell, an uglier dog than when he had left the buggering capitol. He was cloaked from head to toe, a cowl wrapped about his face and bandages still around his head. Still, who would miss his giant form wondering about the city? Instead, he brought the she-wolf through the Dragon Gate during a throng of merchants with hundreds of camp followers near sundown.

He had ventured to an inn only once more since leaving the Crossroads, listening for word of the little bird. Nothing more to be heard except that the Imp had demanded a trial by combat. No news on his lady wife’s fate just yet. He wondered if he was too late. The Stark girl might have already had her head lopped off and sitting on a pike, and he would not know it. He could not show his face, or any other part of him, to the winekeeps or brothels in Kings Landing. He would be recognized and of no use to anyone, least of all the little bird – if she still lived – if he were caught.

The she-wolf was a pain in the arse, but not completely useless. She was a good little sneak and even better lookout. Between them, they made their way to the old rusted gate past the Blackwater, beyond Shadowblack Lane. He knew the way well enough, but the gate was shut and locked up tight. He had to break the chain. They went along near Blackwater Rush until he climbed them up to the hidden passage that led to the Targaryen’s Dragon Skulls.

“I was here once.” The little spitfire was jabbering on, nonstop.

“I followed two men that were talking of treason and birds. I was let out in the sewers, so nasty I removed my clothes and swam to get clean again.”

“Hush girl.” Even their whispers echoed in the darkness.

She murmured behind him but had the good sense to remain quiet. When they came upon the corridor that would split, one way leading up to the holdfast and rooms for servants but the other leading down into the bowels of the keep, he turned to her once more.

“Stay here, keep a lookout. And don’t get into any trouble.” He thought his tone was menacing enough, but the little shite just scowled at him.

“I’m going!” she hissed.

“You’ll stay put right here or I’ll slit your throat for the trouble.”

Ever unafraid, she snarled nearly as well as himself. “Sansa is my sister and nothing to you…you…big ugly dog! She’ll be terrified all the more if it’s just you come to fetch her, anyway.”

Growling, he conceded. If the little bird lived still, he had tried to keep his mind away from their last encounter. She would likely not want to see him, but if he hauled her long-lost sister with him, she might be more forgiving.

“Come. Be silent and do exactly what I say.”

Stupid bloody Stark cunts going to get me killed.

But he pressed on, eager to retrieve the little bird if he could manage without waking the whole of the keep. Then it would be the lot of them, both Stark sisters and a Clegane’s head mounted on the parapets.

The danger would not stop him, though.

“I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” Those had been his words. The closest to a vow he had ever come, but a promise nonetheless.

He would keep his word.

-💖-💖-💖-💖-💖-

Arya

She followed the Hound quietly. At least the dumb brute knew the way, and he was sober as a septon. She thought perhaps he might be useful now that he was not pissed drunk and raving mad. He moved like a specter, darting around corners and lowering them into dark passages that became overwhelmingly disturbing. Chains on the walls held bones, dead men…or dying. She felt her stomach lurch.

The first time they came upon a guard, the Hound sliced him clean through his middle so quickly Arya did not even see him draw steel until the deed was done. The second time it was two guards, and he slit one’s throat from behind while the other scrambled to unsheathe his sword. But he did not have a chance, not even to utter a word. Sandor clamped his hand around the man’s neck and lifted him, stabbing his longsword through his belly.

The Hound kept moving, and so did Arya, pleased anew with his focus. She had not seen this side of him, not in all their travels. He was impressive, when he wished to be.

A long hall lit with few torches, cells on either side counting six total and a door at the end. It was narrow. If the door opened, there would be nowhere to hide. But he marched on, and she trailed him by only a few steps. He looked in each cell, displeasure marking his wretched face until he stopped full at the fourth. She knew it must be Sansa, or the imp, but the Hound’s face did not betray any emotion at all. Taut and glowering, he lowered his sword and slid it into the scabbard, placing his hands on the bars.

Arya came up to stand near him and a gasp escaped her before she could stop it.

“Sansa?” She called out.

The girl in the room could not be her sister. She was filthy, half-dead, and curled into herself laying on straw. The shift was likely once white but now it was stained ruddy and brown. It was hard to see more from the angle, her bare feet were black with dirt and smudges of grime led all the way up to where her legs disappeared beneath her thin gown.

The body shivered and made to stir. The girl only lolled her head to the side, looking their way and taking a long while for recognition to light in her eyes. But there it was. Arya saw her mother looking back at her for a moment. The blue eyes and red hair, a tangled mass that had once been a braid. She sat up slowly, grimacing as she did.

“Am I dead?” She asked, looking between the Hound and Arya several times.

A silence began, and Arya could not make words form to break it. Finally, it was Clegane that answered.

“No, little bird…you’re not dead.”

I knew it. So her sister was the little bird the Hound kept muttering about. Gods be good, the Hound was in love with her sister. She might have laughed, but she could not manage it.

“Sandor.” Her voice was pitiful. Small and awful but…relieved? Her sister said his name as if it tasted sweet.

With that, Clegane shoved himself off the bars with a growl and lumbered back down the way they had come. His surefootedness and hasty retreat confused her. For a moment, she was sure he had changed his mind and was leaving them.

“Arya?” Her sister’s voice, and the clanking of chains. That was when she noticed the shackles on her one of her feet.

“We’ve come for you.” She felt stupid for pointing out the obvious, but by then the Hound’s heavy steps were coming closer but this time, he had the clank of keys in his hands.

She did not ask where he had found them.

It took a dozen tries, and several impatient curses, before the lock gave way. Metal turning rusted metal, the clank of it when the latch opened deafening in the silence. The bars moved inward like a door on hinges, and then they were in the room. It smelled foul. Piss and shite and that of an unwashed body. How humiliated her sister must be, knowing Sansa as she did.

It made her feel all the more wretched, having hated her so much. Loathing her perfect, proper sister. It had never even occurred to her that they should travel south to save her. That had been the Hound’s doing, not her own.

Shamed, Arya kept back while Sandor tried every key on the ring but non would unclasp the shackle. Once again, without a word, he stood and walked away. He was gone much longer this time, as Arya sat beside Sansa using her sleeve to wipe the grit from her face. Sansa never even bothered to attempt rising. She looked too tired to move.

It angered Arya a little that her sister was still prettier than her, even in such a state.

This time, when the Hound returned, he had with him an axe. It was not as large as the battle axes she had seen some of the knights use during the melee. But it was thick and sharp.

“Little bird…prepare yourself. I’ll not hurt you if it can be helped.” A look passed between them, and her sister raised her dainty hand up to squeeze the Hound’s massive, hairy paw. With a jerk, he grasped hers back, rubbing his thumb along her knuckles like she was made of glass.

Arya thought she might be ill for true at such a sight. Her sister ought not tease him so.

He pulled away and braced her leg with one hand, keeping her still, and then raised the axe high. He brought it down with measured control against the shackle, reverberating loudly and drowning out Sansa’s pitiful wail of pain. He did it a second time, and a third. Sansa recoiled and tried to move her leg, but the Hound kept her still.

On the fourth the shackle cracked. He wedged the blade of the axe into the fissure that had formed, twisting and turning until it broke away. The axe was tossed aside, and he grabbed up her sister into his arms without even asking permission. Sansa didn’t seem to mind, though.

“Come.” He ordered at Arya, barely turning his head over his shoulder to issue the command.

Hurried, they retraced their route and stepped over the bodies of the guards Clegane had killed. Sansa did even spare them a glance. She had her face buried into the Hound’s neck, the fingers of one hand grasping the laces of his tunic. Twisting and gripping, she did not let him go.

Arya wondered at the ease of their departure when they had made it to the room of Dragon Skulls, only to stop dead when a torch appeared suddenly from behind a darkened wall.

“And here I thought I was going to be the hero.”

Arya curled her lip and drew her needle.

The Hound cursed and let Sansa drop to only one arm, her body pressed into his side as he drew his longsword with his newly freed hand.

“Out of my way or I’ll cut off your other hand.” The Hound roared a laugh and continued. “Would your cunt sister still want you cockless, Kingslayer?”

Jamie Lannister, handsome still though his sword hand lay lifeless at his side. A false, golden artifice anchored to his wrist. He only smirked at the Hound’s threats, not once moving to draw his steel.

“Sandor Clegane…” He said it as though only just recognizing him. “I never took you for a romantic.”

To this the Hound gripped the pommel of his sword tighter, his body rigid with rage.

“Shut your mouth before I take your head as well.”

Jamie paid him no heed, and instead turned his face toward Arya.

“So, the Stark sisters both live.” There was something - - a sad smile, like a man remembering someone dear that was lost. It graced Jamie’s face for a moment before his smirk reappeared.

“I have no interest in stopping you. In fact, I plan to do something similar for by brother. But Lady Sansa, I must ask…do you want to go with the Hound?”

Her sister nodded quickly, squeaking out a meager “Yes, ser.”

Jaime frowned for the first time. “I swore to your lady mother that I would see you both safe. I have not kept that promise, for that I beg your forgiveness. But, I can help you now.”

“Bugger off.” Sandor cut in, having to grip Sansa hard around the waist and push her towards Arya.

He needed both his hands, and so Sansa near-collapsed into her. It took more of her strength that she though it would, letting Sansa lean heavily on her. Her sister had nearly no strength left at all, and it was not until she was so very close that Arya noticed the dark rings beneath her eyes, the gauntness of her cheeks.

“I only mean to help.” Jamie sounded sincere…but Arya did not trust him, then he took a step forward.

“Don’t touch her.” Arya could barely make out the Hound’s words they were so poorly articulated.

A look passed over Jaime. For the first time, he looked nervous.

“You are not the loyal dog I remember, Clegane. I’ll admit, Joffrey misused you…he misused all of you. If it’s coin you need, I have it. Safe passage can be secured. It’s the least I can do-”

“To the seventh hell with your coin. Come closer and let me show you how I want to be repaid. My sword in your belly, and one less Lannister in the world. Aye, now that would be a help.”

Grimacing, Jaime nodded and looked to the girls directly. “Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, is this what you wish? To be in the care of the Hound?”

Arya scowled and hoisted Sansa, who was slumping against her shoulder. “I’ve already been in his company for the past six turns of the moon. What’s another few if it keeps us safe?”

To this, Jaime’s eyes widened with mock surprise. “I see…Clegane, what chivalry. I did not realize you were so gallant. All this effort and for no reward?”

The Hound lashed out with a heavy blow, finally losing his patience, he sliced upward in an arch that was menacing in its height. The depth of his frustration coming in a loud crash of steel upon steel when Ser Jamie managed to block.

Arya remembered then that the Hound had been in it for the reward from the beginning. He had told her so.

Of course.

Her nose wrinkled in disgust. That made much more sense. Sansa was worth twice as much as Arya and was better behaved as well. Easier to manage. It was no wonder he went through all this trouble. Arya had felt guilty for nothing. With all the difficulty they had caused him, he needed them now to get the fat purse he so often boasted she would bring him. He would sell them to the highest bidder and get his sacks of gold dragons and silver stags.

It was a relief. She could not have stomached the Hound loving her sister. Or her sister pretending to care if he did.

The dance of steel was short lived. Tyrion’s sellsword appeared as a ghost out of the darkness. He materialized from nowhere and made to clash his own sword with the Hound – two against one – when it was Jamie that threw a hand in the air.

“Enough.” He said, breathless. “If you are taking the Stark girls to safety, I’ll not fight you.”

A beat of silence.

“I am.” The Hound said it like a vow.

“Then go. No one will follow and I will not speak of this to anyone. You have my word.”

The Hound stood, rooted, contemplating. She did not know if he calculated his ability to win a fight against both Ser Jamie and the sellsword, or if he considered how his injuries might slow him down. Whatever it was, his odds or the fact that both Sansa and Arya relied on him now, he took a passing glance backward at his two charges before giving a single nod.

“Fine.” He once again sheathed his sword and walked over to pick up Sansa. It was all Arya could do to heave her back to standing, so it was just as well that the Hound preferred to cart her from place to place. Her sister’s eyes drooped, and she withered into his embrace like a dying flower, limply allowing him to secure her against his chest.

“Get her food and water, Clegane. She’s barely able to stand.”

Growling, Sandor took long strides to within arm’s reach of Ser Jamie.

“You dare lecture me about caring for the little bird, when you could have saved her any time you pleased? Spare me your bloody righteousness, Kingslayer. You’re the same as all the others, or worse. Did you swear an oath to Catelyn Stark, and then watch them beat and bloody the girl? Did you give your vows to her mother and then leave her to the lions?” Sandor spat to show how he felt about that.

Ser Jaime lost his proud smirk and replaced it with something like shame.

“You’re right, Clegane. I am no better. I am a hundred times worse. And you…” His smirk returned. “You have surprised me. You may be the best of us all.”

Growling, Sandor had no retort for that except a few curses and a “blond-headed cunt” thrown over his shoulder as he stalked away, Arya having to nearly run to catch up. It was the dead of night when they reached Blackwater Bay and trekked their way to the rusted gate that was halfway falling down. He led them through and down streets so winding and narrow, she would have been lost if not for following the shadow he cast.

Not once did the Hound stop, nor rest, or even put Sansa down for reprieve. He took them through the worst of King’s landing, staying near the wall and amongst the smallfolk. It was in Flea Bottom that they stopped and placed Sansa on her feet before entering a crumbling inn. Sansa leaned her left side upon the Hound, her hand gripping his arm, with Arya holding her from her right. One small step at a time, she made her way through the door.

There he paid two coppers to a withered old inn keep for a room and three bowls of brown. Wine for him, water for her and Sansa. The people of the inn were the worst Arya had ever seen. The lot of them thin, dirty, and stinking like pigs. Some hanging their heads down low, some already passed out on tables or the floor. It was decrepit indoors. A woman in the corner with her teats near falling out of her bodice, and less lace below than would make up small clothes. Eyes watery, sitting in the lap of a balding man thin as a wisp, with his hand up her skirt.

But not one of them even glanced their way as they passed.

The room was even worse. The tiny bed was too small, lumpy and the straw smelled dank and old. He laid Sansa down upon it and covered her with his cloak. Arya fed her sister what little she would take and made her drink many and more sips of water. The bowl of brown was thick and meaty, but not good. Arya shuddered to think of what was in it.

The Hound did not remove his armor but sat on the floor with his back anchored to the side of the bed where Sansa lay sleeping. Arya took the other side, laying down fully on the dirt covered floor. Her eyes heavy, she remembered only the sound of her sister and the Hound breathing.

She awoke to voices. Whispering. Speaking in hushed tones and her confusion mounted. She did not know where she was, until her sister’s voice made the night’s events crash back into her memory.

“I dreamed of you.” She had said, and Arya wanted to choke. Sansa did not make it sound like the nightmare it ought to have been.

The Hound huffed.

“Truly. I…I missed you. I should have gone with you. It was a mistake.”

Arya lay still as a mouse, quiet and barely breathing to listen better. Her sister’s voice so weak, she could scarcely hear it.

“I gave you no reason to leave with me.” The Hound sounded…different. Softer.

What are they speaking of? Arya did not understand what they were talking about. When had the Hound meant to take her sister away?

“I should have trusted you.” Was Sansa crying? “You won’t hurt me.”

“No, little bird. I won’t hurt you.” There was a movement, shifting of metal on the wooden floor. “No one will hurt you again…or I’ll kill them.”

A light, breathy laugh. “I believe you.”

The movement again, and then a long silence in which Arya was nearly back to sleep.

“Sandor?”

“Aye?”

“Thank you.”

The Hound cleared his throat, rough. “Go to sleep, little bird.”

He was displeased, his voice sharper than before. Another silence and Arya was growing frustrated.

Spit it out. She wanted to shout at them. She was tired, and they ought to be sleeping. Not speaking nonsense in the middle of the night!

“Goodnight.” Sansa always was too polite.

Clegane growled, but to Arya’s amusement he offered a gruff “Goodnight” in response.

Thank the seven it was dark, and they could not see her! She never could have kept her face from turning upward into a mocking smile. The Hound, cowed by her dainty little sister, who was too weak to swat a fly.

She laughed inward, keeping to her mummers act of sleeping. To her disappointment they said no more. But she knew on the morrow she was not like to keep her face straight if she so much as looked at them. It was as funny as it was disgusting, this bizarre game they played.

She would find the truth out…but not that night. That night, she was ready for sleep.

Chapter 3

-💖-💖-💖-💖-💖-

Sansa

The days they spent at the Inn were a blur for Sansa. She was so very tired and weak that it took all her strength to remain in more than a dream-like wakefulness that was shrouded in voices, light, and darkness. Her sister’s face was the most common for her to see. She would be sitting on the edge of her bed, small as it was, forcing a thick, greasy spoonful of brown into her mouth.

It was all she could do to swallow. Water would chase it and keep it down. Arya became frustrated easily with her and, at first, would try to feed her more than she could manage. She simply had to turn her head away and refuse.

“Come on, eat.” Arya groaned impatiently. “You’re skinny and pale…and you look like shite.”

Sansa whimpered when she tried to pry another spoonful between the closed lips of her mouth. The meaty stew splashed from the spoon and ran down Sansa’s chin, making her groan out Arya’s name in vexation of her own.

“Now look what you made me do!” Arya scolded her, as though it were Sansa’s fault she was not ready for more.

“Enough.” The Hound, ever watchful but mostly silent, rose from his seat in the far corner to come closer.

“It’s not my fault, she won’t eat it.” Arya angrily slammed the bowl and spoon down on the small table nearest to her.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a job for you she-wolf.” His voice was as harsh as she remembered. Steel on stone. “I’m too recognizable and so is your sister. Go, buy her a new dress and boots. Can’t take her on the road in what she’s got on now.”

She thought for certain Arya would argue, but instead she looked almost grateful for the chance to leave the small upper room. The Hound tossed her a silver from a small coin pouch and sent her on her way.

“Hey,” He called to her before she reached the door. “Nothing fancy, either. Better make that coin last. It’s all we’ve got. And don’t get caught.” He hissed the last part at her in a blatant threat.

Arya rolled her eyes at him and left. He barred the door and came to her then, sitting on the edge of the bed as she attempted to wipe the brown dribble from her chin with her hand. She had forgotten how very large he was. His presence demanded her attention. He had more scars now. His bandaged head open and there was a hole where the stub of an ear used to be. Bruises, nicks, and cuts ran along his face and neck. She leaned against the headboard and scrutinized him, amazed that she had not dreamt the entire rescue.

He had come for her, but why? Some lingering sense of devotion or duty to her?

A notion of chivalry and saving a fair maiden, which he had scorned her so exceedingly for not so long ago?

Or was it something more, the thing she dared not hope and would not even put a name to for fear that he might somehow read her thoughts and chastise her.

She could not ask him. She only stared as he used a torn strip of cloth to dab at her face. It took her back, years prior. Suddenly she was on the parapets, forced to see her father’s head. Trant’s strike still stinging her face. Joffrey’s death imminent and by her own hand.

Sandor had stopped her, saved her, even then. Used his handkerchief to gently wipe the blood from her broken lip. Just as he did now, and it transcended her.

“You came for me.” She said to him, perhaps too affectionately and wistful for his taste. He tossed the cloth angrily to the ground and thrust himself to standing.

“Fool girl. It was your sister’s doing, don’t think any differently.” He grumbled a curse and stalked back to his chair across the room. Muttering along with way: “Both of you Stark cunts are pains in my arse, and it’s straight to Riverrun with both of you. I aim to be paid for my troubles, little bird. A sack of coil for each of you.”

He sat heavily into his chair and scowled at her with every ounce of venom he could produce.

“You would do best not to think of me as some shining, golden Knight from one of your songs. You will find yourself disappointed when you learn the truth. I am a dog. And I will bite.”

When he said no more and slumped against the back of the chair, she realized he was finished speaking. Disappointment was heavy in her heart and, though his words made sense, the reasoning of his actions did not. It was such a huge risk to take. Even if Arya had insisted, and perhaps she had. Even if Sansa was worth a sack of coin from what little family might remain at Riverrun. She was a criminal. Freeing her was tantamount to putting his own head on the chopping block alongside her own.

Why would he take such a risk for what little coin a war-riddled land and cousin or two might be able to produce?

Still, she did not want to anger him further. Or prove the pain in his backside he accused her of being.

“I am sorry, Sandor.” She whispered and rolled herself over, burrowing down into his cloak that served as her cover. “You should not have troubled yourself to come, then, for I doubt what family remains to us in Riverrun will be able to pay the ransom you require.”

She heard him scoff from across the room. “No, I likely shouldn’t have, then.”

Silence. He said no more and neither did she.

She had her answer.

-💖-💖-💖-💖-💖-

Sandor

He watched the little bird sleep, eat, drink, and sleep again in a cycle that did not change for three days. They kept themselves hidden in the Inn, waiting for a time when news of the Imp would allow them a window of opportunity to leave. Jaime Lannister had secured passage on a ship, or so he had hinted at. By the fifth day they were all on edge, feverish to be outdoors.

Each day the little bird grew stronger, and he was sure she could travel soon enough. The journey most likely would have killed her if they had been too hasty. But the little she-wolf would not be kind to her sister if the Stranger himself were standing there demanding it. Sandor was not a caring man, he could not make up the difference, but he had not expected to be the voice of reason, either. He had assumed the sisters would be…different with each other. The Starks had seemed like a loving family, at least as far as what he knew of loving families.

There was nothing loving about the she-wolf, not even towards the sister she had not seen in two years. It should not have surprised him by now, but it did.

The little bird was every bit the proper lady she had always been. Polite, meek, and soft-spoken, but this time even more frail from her stay in the black cells. Eventually, she was rested enough the dark circles below her eyes faded into faint shadows, and the broken skin around her ankle from the shackle had begun to heal. He ought to have been glad the she-wolf tended to her at all, or else that would also have fallen on him.

And it would not have made things easier.

He did not like the way she stole glances at him. At first, her eyes would find his wherever he was in the room, day or night, and she would smile. He ignored it mostly. Ignored the fire it lit inside him, and the warmth is spread. Her smiles turned into an almost romantic gaze, lingering and hopeful. That, he hated. Still with her head in the clouds and songs in her heart, after everything that had been done to her.

He despised that as much as he admired it. The Lannisters had not broken her.

If he were a smart man, he might have taken advantage of that gratefulness she felt. He had thought of it, plenty. Imagined her, when she was healthy, plumped up again and cheeks pink. Long, slender legs wrapped around him. Wet and eager to please him, to thank him. Her chest bare and bouncing with her movements. It would only take a few honeyed words from him and she would spread her legs, he was sure of it.

But he was a stupid man and he wanted more. He did not how much more and what exactly. Just more. If he wanted a cunt, he would pay for a cunt. If he wanted a whore to suck his cock, he had coin for it. He wanted more from Sansa Stark, but he could not even explain to himself what he was after. She drove him mad, that much he knew.

Finally, they were readying to leave. The little bird was dressed in a plain brown traveling dress and boots that would keep dry during the long ride northward. She was even more a woman now and the dress only proved it, gone was the girl that had traveled south from Winterfell. Teats that filled out the bodice, a long neck and sloping shoulders. A small waist with hips that flared out into a perfectly rounded arse, legs that stretched on for days.

He was a man, and he was not blind. She had been a pretty girl already, but she had grown into a rare beauty.

She fussed with her hair, which even he admitted looked a wild and tangled mess. She would need a brush or comb for it, but gods knew he would not pay any more coin on this girl. He refused out of sheer stubbornness.

The little she-wolf had scouted and spied until she had them passage inside a grain wagon headed north along the King’s Road. It took two silvers to secure their silence and he hoped it would be enough to keep the driver and his family’s tongues from wagging. When the time came to depart, he hid himself under cowl and hood in the dark of early morning. The little bird wore a knitted headscarf to cover her red hair, one she had made from the scraps of the gown she had worn in the black cells. She was handy with a needle and some thread, another gift from Sandor’s silver that he had bid the she-wolf to purchase. Her skill could be of use with it, that was the reason he had allowed good, scarce coin to be paid for it. There was practicality in the purchase.

There was no other reason. Not even the fact that it gave her pleasure, and a small smile would contort her face each time she picked up her sewing. It was a far cry from the solemn frown she had worn since he had put her into her place. Reminded her that she and her sister were a means for ransom, to put to bed the fanciful notions she had dancing in her head.

She had finally stopped looking at him like he hung the moon and stars. He was equal parts dismayed and relieved for it.

The wagon-master gave them no issue but waited just inside the bailey for them. If he realized who they were exactly, he said nothing of it. Arya, who brokered the arrangement, sat within the wagon atop the stores of grain while Sandor and Sansa had to squeeze into the storage compartment beneath. It was barely enough room for him, so the little bird had to mesh herself along his side. When he breathed, his chest would hit the wood floor of the main compartment of the wagon.

The she-wolf would have been a better fit, but it was he and Sansa that were the outlaws. They both had to be hidden.

To his left side, the little bird was tense and breathing hard as they waited. He did not like it any better than she, but he would make do if it got them out of the city safely. Stranger and Craven waited for them in the stables outside the King's Gate, not far from the Tourney Grounds. When the wagon finally started at first light, grain fell through the cracks of the bed.

Each time they hit a bump the same would happen. His had to turn his face away.

The little bird fidgeted and sneezed, unable to reach up her hand and cover her face in the small confines. She moved her head to the side and buried herself into his arm, he could not tell if she was crying or trying to keep from sneezing again.

“Shhh.” He attempted to sooth her. It would not do to be heard, especially if they were stopped and inspected.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered back frantically, her breath hitching, and he knew then she was weeping. “The space is too small. I cannot breathe. I can’t do this!”

“Shh, quiet.” He hissed, and she whimpered.

He heard a loud stomp and the she-wolf’s voice irritated and shrill.

“Will you two shut up!”

Grunting, he leaned himself down what little he could and reached out his hand to find hers. His fingertips touched only fabric at first, until she shifted and her fingers laced with his own. He squeezed her, mayhaps too hard even, until she stilled and stopped her panic.

“I’ve got you, little bird. Nothing to fear.” He tried to make his words soft and quiet, but he likely failed in that, too.

But she sighed and pushed her face further into him. “I trust you, Sandor.” She gave his fingers a squeeze of her own, emphasizing the truth of her words.

He knew she did, had known it, but her blind faith in whatever goodness she thought she saw in him was overwhelming. From that moment, he decided to let her stay as near to him as she liked. He would not push her away again. He would not lie, not to her or to himself any longer. Let her see what he really was, he was sure her stary-eyed wonder would cease soon enough once she knew him.

-💖-💖-💖-💖-💖-

Arya

Those two would not shut up! They talked at the most inappropriate times. At night, when they should be sleeping. Underneath the wagon, when they could be caught and sent back to be executed. She knew her sister was stupid enough to blabber during times she shouldn’t, but Arya had thought the Hound knew better.

Still, Arya did her part perfectly. She had helped get them out of King’s Landing without anyone knowing. She was the one to get Stranger and Craven back and hitch them to the wagon. It was hours later that the Hound and Sansa emerged from the wagon’s storage bed and stretched. Arya expected to be thanked for her efforts, but she was once again disappointed.

Ungrateful, the both of them!

Stranger was difficult but she could handle him, and the Hound didn’t even let on like she had done anything of help at all.

She mounted Craven and the Hound helped Sansa into the saddle behind her. Sansa was a terrible rider, not like her. Arya had learned skills that were actually useful while on the road, but Sansa refused to sit any other way but side-saddled like a stupid proper lady. There was no place for propriety while they were on the road and traveling in these conditions!

The Hound didn’t bat an eye at her being too ladylike, he just cantered the horse over to the wagon-master and his wife. He was talking with them about something and giving them more coin. She was about to object that she had paid them well enough, but Sansa almost fell off the horse, grabbing Arya’s stomach in a death grip.

“Let go of me!” She yelped, making Sansa wrench her hands backward and grab each side of the saddle awkwardly.

“Can’t you balance yourself?” She asked, and her sister only glared daggers at her.

“You know I never learned to ride well.” She forced the sentence through gritted teeth, stealing glances up toward the Hound who was still dealing with the wagon-master’s wife.

“You’re embarrassed.” She snickered as Sansa turned eight shades of red from her chest to her ears.

“I am not. I just…don’t know what to do. Please show me.”

Taking pity on her poor, pitiful sister. She grabbed one of her hands and slid it around her waist. “Don’t grab me too tight.”

Sansa nodded and let the other hand fall into her lap. “Can’t you sit normally? Just put one leg on each side.”

The blush from before was still there, but it didn’t stop her cheeks from turning the color of twin cherries.

“No, certainly not.” She looked appalled. “It’s improper. Besides, you are wearing trousers. I only have a dress.”

Arya shrugged. She supposed that was the best she would be able to do. Her sister was trying at least, and she could not fault her for what she wore since it was Arya herself that had picked it out.

“Fine. Just, don’t fall off. And if you do, don’t take me with you.”

She nudged Craven in the sides with her heels and trotted toward the Hound. By then, the woman he was speaking to was wrapping a parcel and handing it to him. He spared the two of them barely a glance over his shoulder, shoving the parcel into a saddlebag and kicking Stranger into a canter.

She followed close at his side, but it was odd sharing her horse. The saddle was not really big enough for the both of them and her sister jostled something terrible from behind. There was no changing it though, and so they carried on like this for a long while until Sansa was grunting painfully behind her. The sun was well high and even trekking westward when the Hound finally ordered them to stop and rest.

Arya proved how adept she was and how little the Hound had to help her by sliding right down onto the ground from Craven. Unlike Sansa, who had to wait for Clegane to help her. Arya wasted no time, taking Craven to the stream that trickled slowly only a few paces away. She had not noticed at first that Sandor was not bringing Stranger straight away, until she turned and saw that he was still standing within arm’s reach of Sansa, speaking with her.

Whatever he said, she must have liked, because she smiled up at him stupidly and reached up to loosen the cowl from around his face. He turned and went to Stranger then, unwrapping the cowl slowly as he led the huge stallion down to where Arya was already. Arya would have preferred he keep his face covered. Sansa walked and tried to discreetly rub her bum once he had passed. Arya snickered at that, knowing how her delicate sister must be aching from the ride.

Once the horses were watered and rested, and after a rather hilarious adventure taking Sansa to piss in the brush, they mounted up again. Arya went up first without any help at all, while the Hound lifted her sister once again. He even took a minute to let her settle herself before hauling his huge body into his own saddle.

Poor Stranger, always having to carry your giant arse around. Arya couldn’t help thinking.

“We ride until sundown.” He told them, brokering no argument. “I don’t want to hear any whinging about it, either.”

Sansa nodded while Arya only rolled her eyes. The stupid Hound with his stupid face, making all the rules and her sister not even arguing a little bit.

True to his word, though, he would not let them slow down while the sun was in the sky. When it had only been the two of them, he had stayed in front leading the way. He had not even bothered to check behind him very often to make sure she was still there. Well, where was she going to go anyway? But now, he kept glancing over his shoulder as if to make sure Arya was following him.

She started making facing at him each time he did this, until he grew frustrated and slowed his pace to make her come up beside him.

“Little bird, you alright?” He asked, and Arya wondered if there was not a fair amount of concern etched into this hideous face.

“Yes.” She answered. “Just tired.”

Arya thought she sounded sleepy, even though it was not yet nightfall. Her sister’s arm had gone slack around her long ago, but Arya was not about to complain. She was glad of it.

Sandor nodded and they continued, but this time they kept the horses trotting side by side. A long while later she felt Sansa’s body flopping hard against her, like she was not even trying to hold herself up.

“Sansa, get off me!” She yelled, shoving her back to where she was supposed to be.

“Seven hells.” Sandor growled before her sister’s weight slid away completely. Arya could only grab her arm, which did not stop her from slouching right off the horse.

The Hound moved his whole body, halfway falling out of his own saddle with only a grip on the reigns to keep him vertical. He wrapped one of his arms around Sansa and was pinned. She was no longer falling, she was squealing and grabbing at Arya’s hair. But the moving horses and the angle of their bodies kept him from raising them both back to sitting.

“Shite.” He cursed, and rather ungracefully kicked the leg that kept him from falling over with a heave, making him slide right off his horse.

They both fell to the ground, her sister landing hard on his gut, as he let out a comically loud Oof.

Sansa sat wide-eyed on top of him, scrambling to right herself as he leaned up. With a yelp, she ended up in his lap. For a moment, Arya gaped at them.

And then she laughed. Hard. So hard she had tears building and then streaking down her face.

“You two look ridiculous.” She barely made the words form.

“Up, up!” He growled, incensed. He stood and hoisted Sansa by her middle to standing as well.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She kept saying, her hands steadying herself on his forearms. “I don’t know what happened.”

“You were sleeping and fell off the horse!” Arya wailed, still giggling like a simpleton.

“Oh gods.” She covered her face with her hands, resting her head on his chest.

The Hound was already in a foul mood which was made no better by the ordeal. He grabbed Sansa up and put her on the front of Stranger, not unlike Arya herself had once ridden with him before she was allowed to ride Craven. He slid into the saddle behind her, waited only a moment for her to right herself, and then pinned her to him with an arm around her middle. His free hand held the reigns.

Better her than me. Arya thought, realizing that the Hound took notice of her excellent riding skills enough to let her keep on with Craven and make Sansa ride with him instead. She notched her chin upward and kicked Craven to surpass Stranger, hoping to catch Sansa’s eye. Sansa had always been such a perfect lady and Septa Moradane had complimented her well on all her neat stitches and harp playing. She wanted Sansa to realize that she could do a few things better than her now. Important things. Skills that actually mattered.

But Sansa’s eyes were closed again like she was asleep that quickly, leaning fully into the Hound’s chest like he was the most comfortable pillow in the world. Arya knew for a fact that he was not. She had been there before. His armor was rough, and he took up too much space. And he stank. But Sansa ignored all that, apparently too tired to care. She even had a little smile on her face, like she was just exactly where she wanted to be.

She will be wishing she was back on Craven with Arya soon enough, though. The Hound was not a pleasant companion. Although, Arya found it odd that the Hound hugged her to him so snugly, and kept his arm round her in a way that he had never done to her.

Thank the Seven for that. She supposed, it was to make sure Sansa didn’t fall off again and take him with her.

At dusk, the Hound determined they had found their campsite. It was a den not unlike the place where she had tried to smash his horrid face in with a rock. He settled the horses and kicked down a dead tree trunk, letting it fall into a perfect log for she and Sansa to sit on. He had never bothered doing something like that before. She had always had to find her own way to get comfortable.

Sansa sat prim and straight, pulled the scarf from her head and began to unravel it from the braided knot it had become.

“I could cut it for you. It’s so much nicer with short hair. People wouldn’t recognize you so easily, too.” Arya offered, trying to be very polite.

Sansa looked up at her, shocked beyond words, as the Hound choked back a snarl in her direction.

“Must I?” Sansa was practically crying. Over hair!

Arya, excited for the opportunity to show her sister how much better life with short hair was, ran and grabbed a dagger from her saddlebag.

“Here, it doesn’t hurt. You’ll like it, I promise.” Arya sat back down next to her on the log, trying to grab her long braid from behind. Sansa fought with her, yelling her name hysterically and telling her to stop.

“Knock it off.” Clegane yelled, angry, and pulled the parcel from his saddlebag. “Get that dagger away from her, you little devil child.”

He stalked over to them just as Arya huffed her annoyance at their uncooperative attitudes, and he dropped the bundle in Sansa’s lap without any explanation at all.

“I’m going to get firewood.” He announced just after and was gone into the woods before Sansa had even untied the string.

Arya was curious but even more surprised when the package revealed bread, cheese, a berry tart and a wooden comb.

Arya reached for the tart immediately and took a huge bite, so large it was far more than her share should be.

“What if that was his? I am sure he only meant to lend me the comb.”

“Too bad for him, then.” She said between a mouthful. Sansa looked longingly at the tart and licked her lips.

“Well, go on. We’ll leave him the biggest bite and maybe he won’t go batshite crazy on us.” Arya coaxed her sister, who did finally take a very large bite.

It really was very good, even Sansa hummed her appreciation. Arya had not tasted anything sweet in so long, she was not sorry in the least if it was supposed to be Sandor’s. He should have been specific and explained what they were supposed to do with the contents of the bag. It was his own fault that he just threw it at them and trailed off by himself into the woods.

“We should thank him.” Sansa was saying, after she recovered from the pastry. “We are costing him quite a bit of his coin.”

“That’s not his coin.” Arya spat, angry all over again. “He stole it off this nice farmer after he clocked him on the head.”

Sansa furrowed her brow. “Why would he do that?”

Arya shrugged, ripping off a piece of the bread. “Because he’s the worst shite in the seven kingdoms, that’s why.”

“Don’t say that. It’s not true. He has saved us, you know. Even though…well, I ought to thank you, too. Arya, I know we do not always get along. But it means the world to me that you convinced him to come get me.”

Arya did not think she wanted to correct Sansa. She also did not think she wanted her to believe a lie, either.

“Well,” She started, chewing on her bread. “It wasn’t my idea, actually. We heard about your arrest at the Inn at the Crossroads. Clegane went bloody mad. When we left, I thought we were still headed north. But…he took us south. Told me I could go or not, but he was going to get you from King’s Landing.”

Sansa’s face was always funny looking when she was confused.

“But he told me it was your idea, when I thanked him for saving me.”

Arya huffed. “We’ll, then, he’s a liar. He was coming with or without me. Plans to sell us off, you know.”

Sansa nodded, ripping off a piece of the bread for herself. “Yes, he did say that. Who in Riverrun would be able to pay for us? How much does he hope to get?”

“Riverrun? He told you Riverrun? Stupid aurochs. He never said anything to me about going to Riverrun. We were going north before we heard about you. He hasn’t said anything about changing that plan. I tried to convince him to take me to Jon at the Wall. But he said bugger that, he wasn’t going that far north and freezing his balls off for any amount of coin.”

Sansa blushed at the word ‘balls’ and chewed thoughtfully, until she took the comb and slowly – so painfully slowly, it had Arya once again glad of her short hair – unknotting and picking her way through the tangles. After a while as darkness began falling quickly on them, the Hound returned with an arm full of kindling and several small logs.

“Here’s your share of the tart.” Arya offered to him once he sat on the ground, but he only grunted.

“That stupid woman, I told her I had no taste for sweets. You two have it.”

Arya did not argue but took her second large bite.

“Give some to your sister, runt.” He growled at her, and she made a face at him to show him just how stupid he was being.

“I was. She already ate some of it, anyway. Calm down.” She handed the last bit to Sansa, who looked at it in her palm, then to Clegane, and then back to it again.

“Are you certain, Sandor?” She asked him, and he only grunted his aggravation and shook his head.

Gods, her sister was so annoying. Nothing in the world pleased her more than to play the perfect highborn lady, even in the middle of the woods with the Hound for company. Still, she ate the remainder of the tart and once again made noises of appreciation for the taste. It really was a delicious treat, and she was thankful to the wagon-master’s wife for having mistakenly given it to them.

It seemed the Hound finally regretted giving up his share. He looked at Sansa as she ate and had the hungriest expression on his face, eyes dark and ferocious. It served him right for being so disagreeable. If he was going to give up his share, he would have to face the consequences of not having anything sweet to eat.

He managed to control himself, ripping off a bite of the bread and a wedge of cheese to satisfy himself instead. Arya turned herself away and got out Needle. She was cleaning it and sharpening it, as any good swordsman must do. She was proud of it, so very pleased to have it back. She spent as much time honing her blade as her sister did combing her hair. Finally, her sister stopped.

“There, not so bad now?” She asked.

Arya looked and yes, it was much better. Not so soft as it used to be, but there were no oils and lotions for her to use out here. Arya nodded and that pleased Sansa, who then looked to the Hound and asked if she could use the string from the parcel to tie her hair into a braid again.

The Hound looked ready to murder Sansa’s hair. Arya seriously wondered why he would be so angry at the long red tresses, it was like he was ready to pounce on her and cut it right off her head! He shook himself and grabbed the string, handing it to her without a word. Sansa looked distraught as well. And no wonder, the Hound had probably scared her to death with his furious glances and dark eyes. Didn’t he have gray eyes? Why were they so dark now?

Poor Sansa, she was not used to the Hound at all. She lowered her eyes and looked at the ground, blinking over and over like she had something in her eyes. But she managed to braid her hair, even though the Hound had obviously terrified her. Arya would have to explain that Sandor Clegane was a brute, but he would keep them safe. He was many things and she hated him, but he was a good protector. She could say that honestly.

When it was time to bed down, they only had the two bedrolls. Arya did not have to give hers to Sansa, though she would have done it to be a good sister, because the Hound had already placed himself on one side of the fire and put the two bedrolls for them on the other side. Sansa chose to sleep by the fire, complaining that she got terribly cold and needed the warmth.

That was fine with Arya, she didn’t want to have to sleep closer to Clegane anyway. At least now, she could roll herself over with her back to Sansa and sleep in the dark. Things became quiet, finally, and she mumbled her list lowly. Sansa had asked her about it at the Inn back in King’s Landing, and she even looked sincerely sad that Arya wanted to kill so many people. Or maybe she was sad because so many terrible people lived in the world and had hurt the Starks.

An owl in the distance hooted. Rustling of leaves from the woods beyond them. Water in the stream. The horses nickered or moved from time to time. Otherwise, it was quiet. A very long time passed until:

“Goodnight, Sandor.” She heard her sister whisper. If she had not been so close and quiet, she would have missed it for certain.

There was a long silence, in which she assumed the Hound was already asleep.

“Goodnight, little bird.”

He was so confounding! Arya thought for certain he would not answer her. He did not seem half so angry as he always was with her.

“Arya told me it was your idea to come rescue me.” She continued. “I told her she must not lie, it is a terrible habit of hers.”

Was her sister being…smug? Did Sansa know how to be smug?

It was very unladylike.

“Little she-wolf needs to keep her mouth shut.” He grumbled, but it was soft. Too soft. Not at all like the Hound.

“Are we going to Riverrun?” She asked, sounding less like Sansa and more like her friend Jeyne Poole. Jeyne always made her voice higher and sweeter when she wanted something from Theon or Robb. Like the time she wanted a flower picked from high up on a branch above her head. She talked all syrupy and high-pitched, until Theon climbed up there to get it for her.

Arya hated that. And she hated that Sansa was doing it now.

“Where is it you want to go, little bird? Got very little family left. Winterfell is rubble. Only the one bastard brother at the Wall.”

Sansa did not answer, but she shifted herself. Arya could not see, but she thought maybe she was leaning up on her elbow.

“I don’t want to go to Riverrun.” She said, confident and sure. “But…I don’t know where it is safe. And I know you want your coin. If we do not go to Riverrun, I will try to find another way to reward you. Jewelry, perhaps, if any of my things remain to me.”

The Hound’s breathing got heavier, his voice raspier. “Keep your pretty things, little bird. I don’t want them.”

“What do you want, then?”

Another long silence, and Arya was holding her breath waiting to hear what it was the Hound wanted. He had wanted ransom. Coin. The reward he was owed for carting her and now Sansa all across Westeros. Those had been his words.

“Too much.” He finally said, voice low. “Get some sleep, got a long day ahead of us.”

These two were the dumbest people in the seven kingdoms. Neither one of them knew how to talk to the another. If Sansa was going to flirt with the Hound, and he was going to like it so well, they might as well learn to speak their minds. She had an instinct to turn and chide them then and there, but instead she thought on it.

Her pretty sister and Sandor Clegane. It was an idea she might have fun with, now that she was used to it. Their trip might get a bit more interesting for her, maybe even enjoyable. With a smile, she went to sleep, thinking on how she might help the two of them get their heads out of their arses and stop acting like love-sick fools.

Arya was sure she could help with that.

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think-blot · 4 years

Text

Timeless (Klaus Mikaelson x F!Reader) Pt. 1

Summary: For centuries, Y/N has been Klaus’ well kept secret. An innocent soul that cherished him despite his short comings, that loved him no matter the monster he became. She was his, he was hers, and he wasn’t keen on letting that go. Of course, that kind of love is perfect leverage and the Salvatore brothers have just learned about her existence.

Word Count: 3534

A/N: Beyond excited about this one and I hope you guys like part 1! I’m not sure how many parts it’ll be but I like where it’s going so far. Enjoy ;)

PT. 2

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There was a house in the middle of what once was an empty field. He had told her it would be and, despite her doubts, standing right in front of her was exactly what he had promised. It was bigger than she could ever possibly need and she hadn't even stepped foot inside just yet. He had a habit of spoiling her it seemed. A rush of wind brought the man to her side, his sudden appearance no longer shocking her the way it used to. It was quite thrilling if she was honest with herself. "Are you satisfied, love?" He was a charming man, his smile enough to threaten her strongest of principles. Her mother must be rolling in her grave as she stood in front of him with her bare feet on the ground.

"It's far too much, Niklaus." She was always radiant when she smiled, the sight enough to warm even his cold heart. It was unfair to say that he had taken her, though he was sure that's what the village thought once they found her empty bed. The truth was he had grown quite fond of the human. She saw him in an innocent light that he swore had left long ago. He wanted to keep that and he didn't have to compel her to do so.

"It is just what you deserve." There's no hesitancy when she takes his hand, onlookers no longer around to judge at the simple act of affection. He tugs her gently, opening the door to more than just a new home. It was a new life.

The inside took her breath away. It was decorated as if she was royalty, the floor smooth underneath her with no fear of splinters and the walls decorated with paintings that she used to only dream of seeing. He let her go, smiling to himself at the wonder that was on her face as she moved from room to room. To him, it was modest living, but she reacted just the same as the first time he took her to his family's manor. He planned on keeping it that way.

"Did you paint these for me?" She stared at a face she only ever saw in the river, her own eyes unblinking with a coy look that only Niklaus has seen. She had never posed for him and yet the resemblance was so uncanny it distracted her from the grand fireplace that it hung above. Her young heart told her it was love.

"Some. Others simply came to fruition." He was behind her, admiring the way her heart picked up as his breath ghosted along her neck. "You haunt my mind far too often, love." He whispered, nosing his way to the vein that seemed to pound with her nerves. He pressed his hand to her waist, the touch the closest the two have been in the time they've known each other. It was easy for him to find a common whore or a snack, he didn't need that from her. She was something else to him and, to some degree, she knew that.

"Will it hurt?" Her words were almost a whimper as she waited with bated breath, unsure whether she was more excited or nervous about what was to come. He had promised her the world on a platter and it was finally time for him to deliver.

"Not for long." His voice became rough as he pushed her body back against his, the movement practically forcing his teeth into her soft flesh. She had expected a scream to echo through the woods but all that came was a gasp as she felt the blood leave her body. He turned her around with a flick of his wrist, blood staining his smile as he looked down at her. "Are you ready, my love?" He purred. All she could do was nod. He kissed her like they had been married for years and the world wasn't there to simply judge their sin. It was addicting. He reminded her of sharks she once saw a fisherman pull in from the water but as she watched him bring his own wrist to his mouth, she knew he'd never be caught as they had. He cradled her head as she suckled at the wound, looking up at him with such innocent eyes as his blood stained her insides. "It'll be you and I, love. And when the time comes, we will rule." He whispered against her hair, staring at the painting instead of focusing on what had to be done. "My Queen, Y/N." With a snap, she fell into his arms.

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In the beginning, she was only allowed to feed from him. She wasn't sure how long it lasted, time something that was compelled away from her from the very first day, but there came a time where he couldn't continue his visits. He was nothing if not paranoid and if an enemy learned of her whereabouts, hell would be a welcomed experience. This led to his presents. Whenever the hunger started to fester in her gut, a human would find themselves lost at her doorstep with a gift from her beloved in their hands. It made her heart soar and her eyes turn blood red every time. Though her sweet cottage seemed to be timeless, it was through these visitors that she realized time was changing. The raggedy dresses and scuffed feet slowly morphed into harsh silhouettes and too tight clothing. The amount of skin shown was enough to make any woman faint but she was only ever intrigued. There was no need for much clothing at her home, outfits only changing from day to night and whether she was going for a walk or gardening. Yet she found herself stealing the clothes off her guests before disposing of them for her forest friends.

She was wearing a sundress in her garden when she sensed a presence. She stood gracefully, brushing the dirt off her with a calm despite the stranger on her property. "Who are you?" She still held her old accent, her gifts never speaking long enough to adopt anything new. The man seemed shocked at seeing her as if she was the one intruding and not him. He was well dressed; wearing a tuxedo despite the harsh sun above them, and she couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps she knew the man.

With a speed she'd only ever seen in one other man, he suddenly stood in front of her. "Remember me."

She blinked, confused as her mind fought against the centuries of repressed memories. "Elijah?" Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him; the joy from reuniting with him outweighing the knowledge that she was practically naked in front of a man that wasn't Niklaus. "Where have you been? Niklaus was quite worried for you last I remember." She pulled away, finally noticing the state of dress she was in. "Is this acceptable now or shall I go change?"

"You're overdressed compared to the people out there, Y/N." He smiled softly at you, gesturing for the two of you to head inside. You immediately headed towards the kitchen, excited to use your new tea kettle and stove for someone besides yourself. "And as for my brother, he had kept me asleep for almost a century until he needed my assistance again."

To some degree she knew the outside world was nothing like the one she had left behind. But to hear a century had passed without her knowing, it was startling. "Has it truly been that long since I last saw him?" It felt like just yesterday that Niklaus had sat with her by the fireplace, humming a tune as she combed her fingers through his freshly cut hair. She wondered what he must look like after so long, whether his hair was still touching his ears or if he adopted the short style so many men wore that passed her door frame.

"He's quite apologetic about that. The small ounce of humanity he has these days is used towards you." She puffs with pride at that, glad that she wasn't forgotten despite what some may think. The kettle cut through the comfortable silence between statements, reminding her that Elijah was a guest and not just an informant. "He wanted me to check on you."

She paused as she stirred the tea cup, the act of care seemingly foreign from her Niklaus. "Someone is after him then?"

Elijah didn't know whether to smile or sigh, instead just taking the tea with thanks. There was a reason his brother adored her so passionately and it was moments like this that made Elijah see why. "He's close to breaking the curse."

Immediately, her eyes lit up. She adored living in her cottage, loved the presents and fresh air, but Niklaus being free meant she would be as well. She could see the world for what it currently was, maybe even feel a day pass by. "Does that mean you are staying? I can't imagine Niklaus offered as much."

Elijah did laugh then, "No. no. Just checking on you. Making sure no one has come that shouldn't have."

She nodded, somewhat lost in thought as she continued to stir her tea. With the presence of the elder original in front of her, thoughts that left with his presence were coming back. "Elijah, may I ask you a question?"

"I will do my best to answer."

"He has only taken time from me, yes?" She doesn't meet his eyes, the guilt of doubting Klaus causing her heart to sink to her stomach. He had explained his reasoning for it so perfectly, she had never questioned it for a second. She didn't want to learn that the reason she didn't was because he didn't want her to. "He hasn't compelled me anymore, has he?"

"Not that I know of, Y/N." She nodded, still lost in her thoughts and the new emotions that were spiraling in her head. It wasn't that he wanted her to be perfect, he just wanted her to be happy in his inevitable absence. "He'll come to visit soon. I must be leaving." Elijah was gone before she could say goodbye. It wasn't until she was washing his cup that she realized she could still remember he had even visited.

Later that night, with only the moon to judge her through her window, she let her questions of the world flood her mind. Niklaus had spun stories of what would happen when he was free of his mother's curse, of the army he would build and lead with her by his side. She was never one for violence or gore but if it meant being by his side in broad daylight with more than just the forest as witness; it was worth it to her.

She woke up to a silhouette in her room. It was far too soon for her to be receiving another gift and far too late in the night for Elijah to be back. "Niklaus, I do not appreciate your scares, darling." She mumbled into her pillow, eye barely open as the shadow danced around her room. She blames the sleep that still plagued her mind for not seeing soon enough that it looked nothing like her lover. Or that it disappeared before she could raise her head again. "Niklaus?" A rush of wind caused darkness to bloom for a different reason than the night and no matter how hard she tried to fight, it was useless. She was taught to be happy and caring, never taught to fight or protect. There was a poke at the side of her neck, next to the scar Niklaus had left so long ago, and instead of pleasure coursing through her veins all she could feel was pain. When it became too much, the slight burn turning into a wildfire in her borrowed blood, her body shut down, allowing the shadow to take her from her home.

-----

She wasn't fond of the quarters she was being held in. It was small and…dirty, she hardly wanted to get up from her rusted chair in fear of stepping foot on the disgusting floor. Niklaus had truly been spoiling her if this is how the people lived these days. Far away, she could hear unknown voices arguing and the fact that she couldn't hear their words clearly caused her to worry for her ears. When she couldn't break free from the chains around her wrists, she realized there was more to be worried about than her hearing capabilities. The arguing abruptly stopped in favor of footsteps that were getting far too close for her comfort. She remained calm, even as the small window of the door snapped open to reveal eyes she's never seen before. She tilted her head, "Hello. Who may you be?" The eyes widened slightly before the window closed and she was left alone once more. "Bit rude." She mumbled, straining to hear the whispers on the other side of the door.

"How long has he had her?" One whispered, pity coating his tongue even at such a low volume. She always hated the dreadful emotion.

"They had met a hundred years or so after we were created." She knew that voice, better said she remembered that voice.

"Elijah?" Betrayal choked her, causing the words to come out strained and far from ladylike. He winced at the sound, focusing on the brothers in front of him instead of the woman behind the door.

"She's no harm to you, the chains are unnecessary." He cleared his throat, adjusting his suit in favor of not having to think about his actions. His job was to look out for his brother; this was a part of that. "I will warn you that once he sees she's gone, nothing will be able to stop him from getting her back."

"We'll drain her by then." The word drain caused panic to course through her though it felt muted despite the circumstance. Perhaps Elijah knew more than he wanted to admit when it came to her and Niklaus. She couldn't see how this was the correct response instead of simply telling her.

The door opened, the two unknown voices left and Elijah long gone. The one with brown eyes and an apologetic smile was the first to step forward, acting as if she was a wounded animal and not a captive. "He won't be happy with you."

Blue eyes laughed, darker than his counterpart yet she was less offended by him. "We’re counting on it, sweetheart."

Her eyes practically popped out of her head at the nickname, Niklaus forbidding anyone from being so crass with her. She struggled in her chair, uncomfortable all of a sudden. "It'd be best to let me go. I don't like seeing him hurt people."

"I can't believe this." Blue eyes chuckled to himself, looking at the other man like she had said something outrageous.

"I'm sorry about my brother, he can be…rude." Brown eyes looked at her as if she understood the sentiment. Niklaus was never rude towards her, even as he told her stories about daggering his siblings he said it in such a sweet tone it almost seemed like just that; a story. "My name's Stefan. That's Damon. We're here to help you."

"I'm not in need of any help, thank you." Damon, as he was called, was getting far too close to her.

"You are." Stefan grimaced for a second, the expression warning her of what was about to be done. "And I'm sorry."

-----

He had come bearing good news, a smile on his face that the sun could only hope to rival. It had been far too long since he saw his queen; the downfall of New Orleans, his only home, leading him to protect the one thing he still had. Her. And as the years turned into decades turned into half a century he realized the only way he could be with her was if he was free. He threw himself into finding a way to break his curse then more than ever, vowing he wouldn't return unless he was sure it could be done. Now, not only was he sure but it was practically done. He could imagine her face as he told her, the pride that would swell in her chest as she hugged him in celebration. He wished nothing more than for her to be there when the time came and, when imagination was no longer enough, he decided to get her.

The smell of flowers overwhelmed him as he stood at her doorway, her love for gardening never dying as the years went by. He knocks on the door only to be polite, she was never a fan of being surprised with his presence. "Darling, open the door won't you?" There's a slight timber in his voice, something she could never resist after hearing especially after such a long time apart. Her mind might not know the years that passed but her body certainly did. When there was no response, the door not opening to reveal her beauty to him, he huffed in aggravation. He adored waking her up but only after she had fallen asleep with him next to her. Otherwise, it was a nuisance. The fact that the door was unlocked didn't alarm the original, she was never a paranoid soul and the only people she saw were those he sent to her. "Wake up, love!" He throws his jacket towards the living room towards a lounge chair that had always been there but it falls to the ground with little noise. He was too focused on seeing her to notice the knocked over furniture. "Y/N, you couldn't possibly be this tired-"

There's a stark silence as he looks at the scene in front of him. Her bed is unmade, the side left for him uncharacteristically messy with the blanket pooling to the ground. The mattress was askew, almost titled as it hung off it's frame. If he did not know her loyalty like his own mind, he would assume she had a lover. He turned, finally seeing the trail of damage that she had left as she was torn from her bed; fingerprints dented into the doorframe next to his head. Someone had taken her from him and she had fought with everything in her. If the anger hadn't already consumed him he might have felt pride. With clenched fists he stalked around the cabin, looking for any hint of whoever dared to steal his queen with bloodied eyes. He screamed until there was no more breath in his lungs, the rage he felt only building with the sound, and he hoped the brothers could hear it from where they were. A warning before death knocked down their door.

-----

She had stopped screaming when the last drop of blood had left her now scarred body. Stefan may hate the sound but Damon seemed to revel in it. She may not have much power but she could take away the satisfaction he got as he shoved fire down her throat. She wasn't sure what it actually was but the burn it left behind seemed never ending and, soon, all she could do was sit and wait. He would come for her, she knew it somewhere deep inside her.

There's a somewhat gentle slap on her cheek, jostling her head from one side to the other, "Wake up, princess, we got some questions for you." Y/N opened her eyes the slightest bit, glaring at the blue eyes that stared back at her. "There we go. Now, where did Klaus snatch you up?"

The sight of a living statue walking towards her flooded her mind, her heart beating just as wild as when she first saw him. "Greece." She mumbled without realizing, lost in a past life that felt like a dream. The haze that clouded her mind dissipated quickly as she realized what she had said to the brothers. She had meant to scoff, maybe even gain the energy to roll her eyes at the cruel men before her. She didn't even hesitate to tell him, she could hardly remember the last time that was the case. "I'd like to go home now."

"You sure?" Stefan speaks for the first time since she was captured, slumped against the doorway. It must've been days since then. "You're free to go if you want, he doesn't control you anymore." She lifts an eyebrow in confusion, ready to defend Niklaus in a heartbeat, "Before you go, we can show you around. Let you experience 2011."

His words give her pause. "2011?" His nod is lost to her as she tries to understand. Ten centuries she's been alive and all she knows is him. For the first time in her life, she feels negative towards her lover. He had stolen time from her and she was too in love to see the injustice it was to do so. She cleared her throat, uncomfortable with the decision before her, "May I have something to drink first?"

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