Chapter Text
Jerry wiped his sweaty hands on his slacks, nervous in the way no man of the law should be. There was no gunman on the other side of the door, no strung-out squatter armed with a tetanus-riddled kitchen knife, no 250-pound drunk who got called on for beating the missus too loudly. (To be fair, Jerry didn’t see a lot of any of those things in these parts, though Mormont had been around so long he’d seen a bit of everything.)
No, none of those things were the cause of Jerry’s damp palms (which would be strangely dry if faced with actual mortal peril). His adrenaline was pumping because of a slender woman with eyes like cornflowers and a smile like Christmas morning, about three years Jerry’s junior. And not even one accompanied by an over-protective father or brother who might mean to chase off any and all would-be suitors on a matter of principle. (Though for the young woman’s sake, he wished there was.)
He’d finally summoned the courage (and gave into his mother’s nudging) to call on Miss Stark. He had seen her in town, here and there. Even stopped to shoot the breeze a couple times. But after the last of her kin passed (her stepfather, the slick-haired, silver-tongued, grease-grinned type), it had never felt right to talk about anything other than how she was doing. The closest he came to wooing was to offer to come by the farm on one of his days off in case there was anything needing doing that required a man’s upper body strength or mechanical aptitude. And while some might think he was trying to backdoor his way into her good graces, the lord above knew his offers were both earnest and pure. (Not that he would have complained one lick if she offered him to stay for supper and he managed to make a good enough impression during that shared meal that she would subsequently let him call on her for something other than yardwork.)
Now, though? It’d been eight months since Mr. Baelish saw himself to an early and vile demise, and Jerry (and his mother) felt custom allowed the young lady to socialize. So he was going to call on her with the explicit and singular purpose of inviting her to Sunday supper, and had decided to ask in person rather than be telephone.
He knocked on the screen door which she must have repaired since last time he was here (despite the values his mother tried to instill, Jerry found a woman who could use a screwdriver was an alluring thing, and not due to of any innuendo) and heard Sansa’s voice calling that she’d be there in ‘just a minute’.
He wiped his hands again and took a deep breath.
She came to the door, looking at him through the mesh screen in confusion, “Hello, Deputy Glover.”
He took off his hat, better late than never, “Hi, Miss Stark. I, uh, was hoping for a few minutes of your time. If you’d oblige me, that is.”
Sansa smiled as she pushed out the door. Jerry stepped around it to enter her kitchen, noting the aroma of what might be meatloaf judging by the sweet tang of brown sugar and mustard mingling with a savory scent that could only be animal fat. His mouth might have watered if his palms weren’t doing the job.
“Can I offer you some lemonade, deputy?”
Jerry shook his head, “No, thank you. And please, call me Jerry.”
She gave him a queer look – not unfriendly, but he lost his nerve all the same, averting his eyes and noticing that which the door had hidden from his view a few moments ago – a rounded tummy. Perhaps five months along, if he remembered the way Miller’s wife looked at that point.
“Well, what can I do for you, Jerry?”
“Uh…” all his mother’s lessons in etiquette escaped him. Was it okay to acknowledge her state? And if so, to what end? To enquire as to how an unwed woman living alone became pregnant? To congratulate her, even if perhaps she didn’t consider it a blessing? As a lawman questions a victim? That last thought was almost enough to make him grind his teeth… had she been attacked and felt too ashamed to come to the police for help?
But he was spared from saying or asking anything when Sansa blushed and put a hand on her belly, “I s’pose I wasn’t showin’ when I last ran into you in town.”
He blew out a puff of relief that it wouldn’t fall on him to address the elephant in the room, “I… Congratulations?”
It was the right thing to say. Sansa smiled, “Thank you, Jerry. Now what brought you to these parts? Not that I mind the visit.”
“Yes, Jerry… what brought you to these parts?”
With an embarrassing gasp Jerry turned to find the tallest man he’d ever seen leaning against the threshold between kitchen and sitting room. His raven black hair was combed in attempt to conceal the wreckage that was the left side of his face, but it was only a partial success, and Jerry wasn’t sure whether to be more intimidated by the burn scars or the man’s stature – he’d tower over even Sheriff Mormont, who wasn’t called the ‘old bear’ for nothing.
“Uh… My mother…” Jerry managed to respond before his voice failed him.
“Your mother brought you here?” the man’s lips hinted at a smirk, “I’d think a sheriff’s deputy ought to know how to drive.”
“Oh, stop teasin’, John,” Sansa tsked. “Jerry, forgive my… fiancé. He has a wicked sense of humor, and I do mean that literally.”
Jerry turned back to face the woman of the house, “Fiancé?” He couldn’t decide whether he was more relieved to learn that the giant man had a valid reason to be here, or disappointed that his courage to call on Miss Stark came several months too late.
While Jerry let his heart return to a normal pace, the man named Jon walked slowly around him to stand beside and slightly behind Sansa, a giant hand resting on her shoulder, his face blank. At least, it would look blank to any woman, but men in their prime communicated in a silent and invisible language – and this big fella was communicating that the lady was spoken for, but that Jerry was welcome to try his luck anyway because said big fella appreciated exercising his fists once in a while. Reminded Jerry a bit of Mormont’s son, who, it was sufficient to say, did not hold the law in such high regard as his old man. Jerry would add his own father and his adopted cousin Larry to the category of men who’d defend their lady loves with a primitive yet admirably devoted zeal. Passion is a two-sided coin, Aunt Syb always said. People who hate deeply also love deeply. People who laugh the loudest also holler the loudest. People quick to violence against their foes are quick to affection toward their loved ones. (Jerry had felt like the odd Glover out, since both his scorn and his admiration were hard-won things. Hence his disappointment at finding, now that he’d fully acknowledged his interest in Miss Stark was more than pity paired with skin-deep attraction, the lady had been taken off the market.)
“Yes. John. He was a friend of my brother’s – met while they were stationed in France. He came by to pay his respects about six months back and… well…” Sansa blushed, “I s’pose you can see that we took an immediate shinin’ to one another.”
“Oh… I…” Jerry extended his hand, “Thank you for your service, sir.”
The man looked hesitant before accepting the offered hand, but Jerry knew how touchy some veterans could be. Despite the man’s intimidating visage and status as a rival of sorts, Jerry couldn’t help but feel sorry for someone who’d suffered so greatly, by the look of things. No doubt the recovery from the burns he suffered defending this great country had been a long and painful ordeal. Jerry had been spared the pain (and the glory) of most of his contemporaries even though he’d been of prime age to enlist. Apparently, his heart ticked irregularly. Paired with the fact that the glasses he wore when driving could justifiably be compared to cola bottles, and perhaps because the Army doctor knew he was already serving his country by being a sheriff’s deputy in training, he was excused from serving.
Jerry fiddled with his hat, realizing he’d need to change his tune to spare himself some embarrassment, “Well, uh, as I was saying, my mother asked me to check in on you and make sure you’re not getting lonely out here all on your own. Clearly, my welfare check wasn’t necessary,” Jerry forced himself to smile. Sansa returned it generously; John didn’t. “Anyway, you both have an open invitation to Sunday supper. Anytime.”
“Oh, how sweet of you both,” Sansa offered him an odd little look that might be a smile or a frown, “I’m afraid we might not get the chance to take you up on that. See, John’s folks live in San Antonio and, with nothing keeping me here, we’ve decided to sell the farm and move down there before it gets hard for me to move at all,” with a slight chuckle she rubbed at her belly again.
Jerry nodded and hid his surprise, “Sounds like a plan. Well, you’ll be missed, Miss Stark, but I can’t fault you for wanting to be near family.” He put on his hat and tipped it at the scarred man who’d gone and snagged one of the prettiest marriageable ladies in the entire county, and Jerry hoped he wouldn’t regret not making a move years ago. Then again, there’d never been a good time as her entire young adulthood was spent grieving loved ones, it seemed. Then there was the fact that Mr. Baelish had been an over-protective sort after losing his wife. He seemed to use that same silent communication to scare off any boys who might be sniffing after his stepdaughter. Or any who simply let their eyes linger too long or too appreciatively.
In fact, the perverse state they’d found his corpse in was enough to make Jerry wonder if the bugger had even lusted after his own stepdaughter, but Jerry knew better than to wonder aloud. He knew the way the world worked; such a theory, if the townsfolk latched onto it, might shame Miss Stark more than her deceased stepfather. Regardless, Jerry shed no tears for Mr. Baelish, though he would find the streets of town a bit boring without any chances of spying a certain redhead. It had felt a bit like the sport of birdwatching, these past eight months.
He’d have to find a new hobby. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt to find himself a girl.
After giving his well wishes to the soon-to-be-wed couple, Jerry let himself out and decided he’d take Miller’s wife up on her offer to fix him up with her cousin who lived two counties over. Miller vouched for the gal’s looks and figure (while his wife was out of earshot). Even if she didn’t end up as the future Mrs. Glover, Jerry figured they could have a good time together while they were both young.
…
Sandor bent to plant a kiss on Sansa’s neck after Jerry’s cruiser was nothing but a dust cloud on her dirt drive, “This little belly you got is better’n any wedding band at scarin’ off your admirers.”
Sansa tsked, “He was just being friendly. His mother always did worry for me, though you’d call her meddlesome. I’m sure he was bein’ honest – she sent him to check in and invite me to supper.”
“A man don’t look so nervous to check in on a woman.”
“What would you know about it?” she turned her head enough to give him a sidelong glare.
“Cheeky little bird.”
She smiled. It was hard to stay mad at Sandor for long, even when he was being impossible. His frosty demeanor toward Jerry Glover – a deputy, for God’s sake! – was something she wanted to scold him for, but it was hard to scold him, too. For as much as others might compare him to a junkyard Rottweiler, he could play the part of sad pup alarmingly well. (Though her personal favorite was the loyal hound – eager to please and steadfast in his devotion.)
He let his forearms cross over her chest as he rested his chin on her head, “Decide where we’re really goin’ yet, little bird?”
She shrugged, lifting his arms a hair as she did, “Got an aunt in Denver livin’ with her husband. At least last I heard. They eloped there when I was a baby. I never met ‘er; the family wouldn’t talk to’er after that. Might show up and introduce myself. See if they’ll put us up while we find our own place? I can give ‘er her some of Grandma Stark’s jewels to oil the wheels.”
“Or?”
Sansa huffed, “What makes you think there’s an ‘or’?”
“You always got an ‘or’.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
“Ugh! Fine… the ‘or’ is we go someplace open and untamed – relatively speaking – and make it our own. Find ourselves a little tract of land in Montana, not too far from civilization though. Or Arizona if you’re afraid of the cold.”
“My little mama will keep me warm enough.”
She smiled despite her best effort not to, “Trading California land for Arizona land? We won’t have to worry ‘bout money for a long time.”
“Hmm… State of California sure is generous, ain’t they?”
Sansa snorted lightly, “If only they knew…”
She felt the warm air of Sandor’s laughter in her hair and thought back to that day that had been an un-asked prayer being answered, even if it had started off seeming like a nightmare come to life.
Two months after the stranger who turned out to be Sandor Clegane, future father of her child, arrived at the farmhouse, a green truck with official state emblems on the driver’s door pulled up.
Expecting the worst, Sandor had kissed her forehead and reminded her to stick with the plan before darting down to the cellar to hide.
The “plan” was if anyone ever came to question her about a certain escaped convict and seemed even remotely suspicious that Sansa was sheltering said convict, that she would cooperate fully and claim to be a victim. Say that a tall and dangerous man in prison garb arrived one night, killed her stepfather, staged it to look like an accidental suicide, then threatened to hurt her if she told the sheriff the truth. She was to claim to be afraid for her life, that the man promised that if she ever told anyone about him, such as during her infrequent trips to town, he would kill her. So she let him stay, fed him, even submitted to his perverse demands – all to keep herself alive. Then she’d tell them said man was hiding in her house. Cry tears of relief to finally be saved from the giant rat in her cellar. Shake with fear when they brought the man up the stairs in handcuffs. Tremble when he made one last threat that she’d pay for this, as he had said he would to better establish her innocence. “All lawmen are little boys fancying themselves either cowboys in the wild west or knights in shining armor. They’ll gobble up your damsel in distress act, ‘specially if you were so upset that you needed to cry into a sturdy chest that’ll swell to twice it’s normal girth with pride. They’ll never even doubt you, little bird. Never even wonder. Not for a second.”
As they heard the door of the truck creak open then slam shut that day, Sansa had nodded numbly to get Sandor to release her and flee to the cellar, but she knew she’d never tell that lie (well, that part truth, part lie). She wouldn’t let Sandor be sent back to prison for murder, rape, and a dozen other crimes. He didn’t deserve life in prison or worse – execution. He’d killed his brother in the midst of a charged fight that only one of them was going to survive – a kill or be killed situation. He’d killed Petyr because she’d asked it of him, and while she did sometimes wonder if his ability to kill a stranger meant he wasn’t a good man, she had never doubted that he wasn’t a bad man. He was a flawed man, a scarred man, a hurt man. But he was her man. And he treated her like a queen. She’d send herself to prison before slandering him.
But all his planning and her fear was for naught. As it turned out, it was no prison official but a representative from the highway authority, making an offer to buy her house and land for fair market value plus 15% if she could vacate within ten months, which was when the road they were building – the road Sandor had been building – would be approaching her property line with intent to cut right through it. The man explained to her that something called ‘eminent domain’ applied and that his office had the right to force her to sell, and that they’d be much less generous if she made them jump through hoops and bend over backwards.
Perhaps a call to an attorney would’ve been merited to find out if the man was bluffing, but in that moment all Sansa cared about was that she could sell her property for more than it was worth and use those funds to start a new life with her man somewhere far away from Folsom Prison.
So, she had shrugged and said, “Make it 25% over value, sir, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
The representative made only one halfhearted (and unsuccessful) attempt at meeting in the middle at 20% before shaking her hand and having her sign.
Sandor had come up from the cellar after she shouted the all-clear. She told him what happened, and he lifted and spun her around the kitchen, then insisted on cooking his “sugar mama” supper that night. She wasn’t sure blood-red steak could be considered “cooked”, but she didn’t complain. Of course, it would’ve been poor taste to complain after Sandor had had her for an appetizer, right there on the kitchen table, while sitting in the chair that Petyr had been preferable to.
Of course, moving wasn’t going to be quick. She had to sell the animals (Sandor told her to butcher them, but she didn’t have it in her). She had to pack up her entire house, delivering unwanted items (which included all of Petyr’s possessions) to the church. She had to inquire about a moving company. She’d also had to finish her dealings with the local attorney over Petyr’s estate, which was humble but not insignificant, once the attorney confirmed that Petyr had no living kin other than Sansa. And, per her instruction, Sandor had to take down the wooden swing that she and Robb used to spend hours on. Wherever their future might be, the swing would have a place in it, Sansa insisted. Sandor didn’t mind, nor did he begrudge her for having a loving older brother even though he was generally resentful of the raw deal he got in terms of family and childhood.
So they weren’t in a hurry to move, but nor did they have any reason to drag their feet except for Sansa wanting to enjoy her childhood home, Petyr-free, with a man she loved. She wanted to make new memories there that would erase the taint of Petyr’s lecherous smiles and possessive touches.
Turns out, they made more than memories. Four months into Sandor living with her, she woke up and made a mad dash to the basin on her bureau, into which she vomited up bits of three-bean soup.
It shouldn’t have been a shock, given the frequency of their intimate moments, but she had always supposed that making a baby was one of those things that took time. (Naively, she thought that her status as a virgin meant it would take many months of coupling before her body was even ready to become pregnant.) She knew her mother was ready for a second baby almost immediately after Robb was born, yet Sansa wasn’t conceived until three years after her brother’s birth. Presumably her parents were trying to conceive for two of those three years. And while her parents had decided to stop at two, Sansa couldn’t swear that they didn’t occasionally forget to be careful, yet no child had come after Sansa.
Though it was no matter of forgetting, with her and Sandor. The only feeling more satisfying to Sansa than her own completion was feeling Sandor find his own within her body. The way the strong and sharp-tongued man was reduced to pleading moans and confessions of love in those moments, mumbling sweet gibberish into her hair before going almost dead silent but for a single grunt when he pressed himself deep within her.
And on some of those nights (or mornings, or afternoons), she would not be so quick to stand and wipe away whatever spend hadn’t leaked out onto the sheets already. Sometimes she’d lay there, very still, and touch her belly, wondering if anything was taking root. Wondering if it would be a boy to name Eddard or Robb, or a girl to name Catelyn or Evenor (after Sandor’s sister who died before her tenth birthday under mysterious circumstances that Sandor believed were caused by his brother).
The first time Sandor caught her touching her belly, a wistful smile on her face, he rolled to face her and grinned, “Does the little bird want a little little bird?”
She shook her head, “She wants a pup. Or four.”
Sandor’s face became solemn – a rare expression for him to wear. Over the time she’d known him at that point, she’d seen his humor, his amusement, his satisfaction, his annoyance, his anger, his frustration… She’d yet to see him look serious unless it was paired with anger.
But soon enough the earnest moment was over, and Sandor was grinning again, “Four? I best get on that, then.”
It had been only about fifteen minutes, but he was ready again soon enough. He was always ready for her, had confessed as much sometime in their second month together, in his own vulgar yet sweet way. She had marveled at his ability to rise to the occasion a second time in a half hour. She thought men needed hours, if not more, and told him as much. Sandor had given her that grin she had come to cherish and nipped at her lips, “My ticker will give out before my cock fails to salute you. I promise you that, little bird.”
The promise had made her laugh then made her cry, as she unintentionally summoned an image of Sandor, still in the prime of his life, keeling over from a heart attack, like her daddy had – the type that sneak up on seemingly fit men who let bitterness, worry, regret, or resentment take up too much real estate in their minds. Given his childhood and incarceration, one could certainly call Sandor Clegane bitter and resentful, and while he often seemed shameless she knew the man was not immune to regret. Worry? Perhaps because he had survived a heinous injury and by sheer dumb luck sprung himself from penitentiary, he tended not to worry too much, so that was something.
But all those emotions he harbored? Perhaps less so now… Several months with Sansa and he seemed to have a new lease on life. It was yet another memory she found both warming and sad… One night Sandor pulled her into his arms and she realized he was crying. She sshhhed him, stroked his hair, held his face against her breast. He told her that all his life he’d hated his brother, hated his father, hated his scars. Hated the injustice of losing five years for what he considered self-defense. Now he didn’t know how to feel about any of it, because he realized that without his entire life playing out exactly as it had, he’d never have met Sansa. He had cast off the anger but found no peace in its absence, because that anger had been the driving force in his life. Without it, what was he living for, he’d asked.
She had whispered, “Live for me.”
And from that day forth, he did….
“So which is, little bird? The Montana snow or the Arizona heat?”
She closed her eyes and pictured each future by turns.
Snuggled under a fuzzy blanket, sipping cocoa or tea while outside the snow came down in fat flurries…
Or sprawled out naked in the master bedroom of a little adobe house, letting a fan dry the sweat from their skin…
“Well, I’m tired of sweating nine months out of the year, and you do look mighty fine chopping wood…”
Sandor’s hands went to her waist, “Montana then?”
“But you also look mighty fine walking around without a shirt, which probably won’t happen too much in one of the northmost states in the union…”
Behind her, Sandor groaned.
She chewed her lip, “I might have overshot it with both. Perhaps we should aim for someplace more… temperate?”
Sandor turned her around and held her firmly by the shoulders, “In case you hadn’t noticed, we got only four months ‘til you pop.”
With a sigh, Sansa separated herself from Sandor’s hold and went out to the car to retrieve a five years outdated road atlas, unfolding the first map, which showed all forty-eight states along with their major cities and thoroughfares.
“Close your eyes,” she told Sandor as she placed the book down. After he complied, she spun and moved the book so his finger would pinpoint their future hometown without any influence from his brain. “Whenever you’re ready,” she instructed. He twirled his finger then brought it down with a jab strong enough to still her movement and spinning.
She was chuckling before he even opened his eyes, because his finger had landed just below the northern border of Arizona. Flagstaff was the closest major city.
He chuckled along with her, “I’d call that fate, little bird.”
“I won’t argue. At least it’s northern Arizona. It’s cooler there than the parts I was picturin’, I s’pose.”
“Mmhmm. And I did always want to see the Grand Canyon,” Sandor shrugged. He didn’t like to admit ever having had aspirations or even simple wishes. He was overly pragmatic and oft times cynical, meaning he equated hopefulness with foolishness.
She brought a hand down to her belly when she felt a light thump that could almost pass for gas or digestion issues if she didn’t know she was pregnant.
“I think your pup approves,” she smiled at her man.
Her man smiled back, though his was inhibited. A child of his own was yet another thing he’d never hoped for, and she knew at times he was a ball of nerves thinking of all the ways he could bugger up fatherhood.
(Not that he listened to her opinion on the matter, but she thought he’d be an excellent father.)
“So what’s in Flagstaff, anyway?” she asked Sandor, who was worldlier than her, even if his world only included Lubbock, Texas, the southern California coast, Folsom Prison, and now a farmhouse a day’s ride east of Folsom Lake. She had found he knew about other places as well – byproduct of living part of his life as a bit of a drifter which meant meeting other drifters, and part of his life in prison where men from around the country ended up after arriving in Los Angeles and having their dreams of fame and fortune prove to be illusions or, sometimes, nightmares.
Sandor shrugged again, even as his smile became a bit wider, “Our future.”
-- The End --