Chapter Text
“Sansa? What are you still doing here?”
School had long let out. Her uncle should have picked her up with the rest of the swarm hours ago. She hadn't any business sitting outside his office like this.
“Uncle never showed up,” she mumbled into the arms of her oversized hoodie, refusing to lift her head, “I don't know how I'm getting home.”
The heartstrings wrapped around her pinky yanked.
Little Miss Stark had carved out her own special nook in his barren chest slowly as the school year progressed. Her misfortunes were endless; dead parents, dead siblings, a neglectful guardian, deeply-ingrained religious programming, and a litany of distinctive physical characteristics that on top of it all made her ripe for bullying.
She was a tall, willowy thing that draped her skinny, long limbs in clothes much too large for her. A poof of bright red hair was always coiled on top of her head in a tight bun. Large round glasses dominated her face, shrinking what could have been green or blue or gray eyes, the lenses were too thick and reflective to tell. Freckles dappled every inch of exposed skin. On the rare occasion she opened her mouth to speak, the gleaming chrome of her braces overshadowed whatever she was saying.
The bulk of the student body feared him ‒ rightly so ‒ but the first week of the new school year, an ugly little duckling of a freshman who didn't know any better had tiptoed into his gymnasium during the lunch period, settled small and quiet in a far corner, and tucked into her lunchbox without a peep. It was an unforgivable trespass and he had reacted accordingly, marching out of his office to tower over her and bark;
“What do you think you're doing?! You can't be here outside of class! Get out! OUT!”
Frozen, she had stared up at him from behind those unfortunate glasses, trembling ‒ and then crumbled to pieces, sobbing her little heart out. Awful choked hiccups echoed through the gym as she struggled with shaking, discoordinated limbs to gather her things.
“I’m s-so sorry, sir,” she had gasped, “I didn't mean t-to‒ the library wouldn't let me‒ I’ll go‒ I’m going‒”
And at that precise moment he recalled his old shop teacher, Mr. Ray ‒ a kindly, quiet man, nothing like himself ‒ and the countless lunch periods spent hiding out in his workshop from cutting barbs and cruel classmates.
“Stop,” his deep voice halted her, hot shame coursing through him. “You can stay. Just you. No friends. Use the entrance through my office from now on.”
If the swarm saw her waltzing in and out of his gym willy-nilly they might start getting insipid ideas such as that she had special privileges. She was merely a charity case, a good deed to keep the late Mr. Ray from haunting his miserable ass.
And so an arrangement commenced in which every day, Miss Stark would timidly knock on his office door, wait for his approval, and then nestle in that same corner of his gymnasium to nibble her lunch and scribble in a notebook. She never tried to stay in his office and he never invited her, content to observe from the window to make sure she wasn't up to any mischief. She never was.
It was truly desperate of her to come to him for help. He sighed, defeated.
“Get your things. I'll take you.”
Wiping at damp, splotchy cheeks, she nodded, and stood to follow him out to his pick-up. No student had ever been this close to his outside life. It was unsettling to watch her buckle into his old bucket truck, little hands primly folded in her lap and backpack at her feet, lips sealed tight. He would have taken her perpetual silence personally if she didn't treat everyone this way.
“Where do you live?”
She peeped her address in a tiny voice, chin to chest. No cars were in the driveway when they pulled up. Something tugged at his gut, warning him not to drive away as she got out, followed the path up to the front door, and knocked.
Knocked.
She didn't have a key. Long seconds passed. No one answered. Tears wet her cheeks anew, a lost, pleading look aimed hesitantly over her shoulder to the only adult in the area that she knew.
Fuck.
“You don't have anyone you can call?”
“He’s not answering,” she whimpered into her wet phone, the smarmy sound of her uncle's voicemail recording audible in the cab.
“You don't know when he's coming home?”
“It's different every time‒ sometimes he sleeps at the office‒”
“Why don't you have a key then?”
She hugged herself, and he felt like the worst kind of shit for forcing an interrogation on her at all.
“B-because Uncle doesn't want me bringing home boys…”
Useless fucking cunt.
“Calm down. Dry your eyes. You hungry?”
He didn't wait for an answer, kicking the engine into gear.
“Let’s get some dinner. See if he calls by then.”
They went where he would have been anyway had he not picked up a lost little duckling; a skeevy pub with decent ale and greasy comfort foods. Bronn behind the bar cocked a severely angled brow at him but kept his mouth shut at the bird Sandor flipped, serving his burger and pint and her fish n’ chips without question. He was in for an interesting conversation the next time they spoke.
“You get locked out often?”
There was no point in asking. There was nothing he could do about it if the answer was yes.
“Sometimes. He always calls though. I’m so sorry, Mr. Clegane, I'm sure he'll pay you back for the gas and the meal‒”
“Spare me your chirping, girl,” he grunted around his burger, blood boiling. What kind of uncle leaves his young niece high and dry with no better options than to rely on the kindness of strangers? The useless cunt kind.
“I don't want your money.”
“Of course,” she hushed, shrinking into the booth, “apologies.”
He sighed, tossing back a third of his mug. Fuck this day.
“No friends you can stay with?”
A long beat passed before she answered silently, shaking her head side to side. He already knew. Desperation drove him to ask. Little bird could ruin his fucking life with this move but the only other option he saw was to turn her over to the police for the night, shuffle her into the system. The same instinct that forbade him from driving off and abandoning her at the door would not let him consider it for more than a fleeting second.
“You can come back to mine until you hear from your uncle.”
Uncle Petyr still had not called by the time their plates were cleared and his buzz wore off. They made one more pass by her house for good measure but the driveway remained empty.
Upon entering his townhouse, Sandor told her to make herself at home before disappearing to shower the day away and contemplate what kind of fucking mess he had gotten himself into. When he returned, changed into a white cotton tee and gray sweatpants, he found her exactly where he had left her; demurely sat on the couch with a library book in her lap, backpack at her feet, everything in the room unmoved and untouched.
“Still no word?”
She swallowed, nosing deeper into her book.
“No, sir.”
Bloody fucking brilliant. Resigned to his fate, he retrieved a beer from the fridge, and sunk into his spot on the couch ‒ she was a smart little bird not to choose it ‒ flipping the TV to whatever had last been on. Wrestling. It was just a recap of last weekend’s match.
So much effort was going into ignoring her that it was a shock to catch a muted sniffle from the opposite end of the couch and realize she was crying again, face hidden fully behind her book.
He was a fucking arse. Turning down the volume, he shifted his full attention her way, going into teacher mode.
“Can I get you anything, Sansa? Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”
Large, startlingly blue eyes framed by tear-clumped lashes peeked at him over her book and the rim of her glasses. His breath caught.
“Would it be alright if I took a shower, Mr. Clegane?”
He nodded, unable to look away, spellbound ‒ until she did. Murmuring, he told her where to find the bathroom over the lip of his beer, willing his cock to soften.
FuckFuckFuck‒
The rush of the shower could just barely be heard over the yelling, angry men on the television, conjuring entirely unwelcome images in his head. He increased the volume. He drank his beer. He drank another.
“Mr. Clegane??” She called from down the hall. The water had stopped running.
“What?” He snapped, frustrated that she was distracting him from not thinking about her.
Her volume diminished.
“Uhm…there aren't any clean towels in here.”
Aye, he was a cunt. He grabbed a clean unfolded towel from the hamper, and planned to wordlessly leave it at the door, the weight of his steps notice enough for her ‒ but she cracked it open, poking out to look for him.
He froze.
Red hair ‒ so, so much of it ‒ tumbled down a strawberry-dappled cream shoulder in perfect dripping ringlets. Her eyes ‒ which he had not truly appreciated before, he knew that now ‒ were the size of the moon and bluer than a summer sky, fuzzy and unfocused in the direction of his towering shadow in the hall. Poor thing must have been blind as a bat else she would have been properly alarmed by the ridiculous tent forming in his sweats.
She still wore her seven-pointed star necklace even in the shower.
FuckFuckFuck‒
“Mr. Clegane…?”
“Here.”
He thrust the towel into her field of vision. She took it. Before running away with his tail between his legs, he had an inspired thought.
“There's an unopened toothbrush in the cabinet. I'll get you some clothes.”
One of his shirts and a pair of gym shorts were left outside the bathroom door before he snagged another beer and stole out to the back patio for a smoke, heart pounding like a green boy who had just glanced his first tit.
He gave it a year, two tops before she would molt into the swan she was meant to be. Those cute braces would come off. She would discover contacts and conditioner. Tits that couldn't be hidden under baggy shirts would bud. The boys would find her fast, and they would find her insecure, needy, and desperate for approval, then off she would fly ‒ his ugly little duckling, his kindred spirit ‒ straight into the meat grinder.
The thought turned his stomach and sprung an ache in his chest.
It was the circle of life.
There was nothing to be done.
He grabbed another beer on his way back to the den, relieved to find his homely girl returned to her spot in the corner of the couch she had chosen; bewitching blues hidden behind glasses, that wild mane wrapped away in her towel. His shirt swallowed her like a nightgown, feet and legs tucked up into a ball in its hollow while she fiddled with her phone.
She was not wearing the shorts he had provided.
“I'm so sorry, Mr. Clegane,” she chirped, brow creased in consternation, still a bundle of stress despite the phenomenal water pressure in his shower, “I still can't reach him. I don't know what to do‒”
“Forget it, girl,” he slumped deep in the grooves with another weighty sigh, tossing the remote across the couch into her bubble, “he’ll call when he calls. Turn on what you want. Why aren't you wearing pants?”
Her face bled crimson.
“They were too big. Is this…not okay?”
No.
“S’fine. Got any homework?”
“No, sir.”
Of course not. She always took care of that during lunchtime in her corner of the gym. The television flipped over to a documentary on the history channel about the War of the Five Kings. Sansa settled in with rapt attention.
Nerd.
“Mr. Clegane…?”
The shy little call near his ear snapped his eyes open. Red ensconced his vision. She was hovering over him, half-dried hair a-tangle all around her head. The doc was over. Another had started, covering the reign of the Targaryens. A half-drunk beer was warm in his slackened grip, threatening to spill all over the couch.
“Ah, fuck,” rubbing his eyes, he stood, feeling every bit the drunken arse he was, “sorry ‘bout that. I'll leave you be.”
“It's alright, Mr. Clegane,” she smiled, tiny and soft, hiding her braces. He had never seen it before. His cock twitched its interest. “You work hard. Thank you for helping me.”
His chest swelled. He felt ten feet tall.
“Tell your uncle to get you a bloody key, or I’ll tell him myself.”
Her smile dropped. That was better.
As if summoned by the threat, her phone began to chime. Fucking finally.
“Where THE FUCK are you?? Why aren't you home??”
Ice water doused him. Sansa was not any better off, stuttering an explanation through nails bit down to the quick.
“When you didn't show, I‒ I got a ride‒ but‒ but‒ I couldn't get in so‒”
“So what?! Why didn't you wait for me?!”
Sandor glanced at his phone, scowling at the late hour. Her cunt uncle really expected her to sit out in the dark that long and just wait? All by herself?
“I tried to call‒”
“The meeting ran long! You know I can't have my phone when I'm in meetings!”
“I’m s-sorry, Uncle, I‒ I didn't think‒”
“No. You didn't.”
Her chirping died. That tear-stained freckled face was frozen, struck, looking right through him.
“I hope your boy of the week enjoyed his ‘ride.’ He can keep you until tomorrow. I’ve got work in the morning and no time or patience to deal with the whims of a stupid, irresponsible slut.”
Beep.
The silent murmur of the documentary was the only sound in the room. She then broke worse than that time he tore her a new arsehole ‒ not because it was louder or uglier, but because it was a silent break. Her glasses came off. She burrowed into that damp, discarded towel, shoulders shaking, the saddest damned thing he had ever seen.
The tap of a beer hitting the coffee table in front of her got her attention, the girl refitting her glasses to properly see what he had done.
“This didn't happen.”
She sniffled, opened her metal-mouth as if to politely turn it down…and then didn't. The face she made at the first swallow was sweetly sour.
“You just can't win, girl.”
Her second went down easier.
“He hates me,” she confessed into her bottle once it was half-gone. “He only took me in because he was in love with my mother. But I don't look like her.”
That was a lot to unpack.
“Mr. Clegane? Can I ask you a question?”
He was both too drunk and not nearly drunk enough for this shit.
“Shoot.”
“Am I ugly?”
FuckFuckFuck‒
“Th’fuck you asking me a thing like that for, girl?”
Couldn't four-eyes see his face? What place did he have judging appearances?
“Nevermind. I’m sorry.”
She shut up then, finishing off her beer without a peep. Aye, he was the biggest shit in Westeros.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
He plopped another bottle in front of her when he went for his next, before dropping to a knee on her side of the couch.
“Here,” he untucked her bashfully ducked chin, “come, come…let’s see you proper.”
Plucking her glasses off to the side, he allowed himself to indulge the complete, unfettered sight; all heartbroken innocence glowing with the untapped potential of youth.
“Aye,” he breathed, aiming her face one way and then the other for his thorough examination, “that's a beauty.”
That plump pink bottom lip wobbled.
“You're not just saying that?”
“Girl,” he chuckled, deep and dark, “if I was ten years younger‒”
You'd still be too old for her, you filthy cunt.
He snorted, taking to his feet.
“It's late. I'll get you a pillow and blanket.”
He did, as well as a glass of water, and a couple aspirin.
“Take those in the morning, and remember,” he warned, pointing at her second half-drunk beer, “this did not happen. Swear it.”
“I swear,” she beamed, braces sparkling. “Mr. Clegane?”
The soft call stopped him in the hallway.
“Aye?”
“I think you're a very handsome man.”
FuckFuckFuck‒
“Goodnight, Sansa.”