Chapter Text
When Sansa steps into the tattoo parlor, she nearly loses her nerve and runs back out.
But no, she made this appointment and she will keep it (plus, if she runs away, Arya will never let her live it down and she cannot let that happen). She just wishes she'd waited until Arya was free instead of declaring, loudly, that she could do this by herself.
It's a Tuesday morning and so she isn't surprised when she notices the shop is practically empty and that there's only one other customer. As she goes to the front desk and then waits for the tattoo artist she booked with – a woman named Val – she tries not to look over at the other customer to see who they are and what kind of tattoo they're getting. That would be rude.
She can't help it, though, because the other customer is distractingly half dressed (and distractingly ripped) and no matter how hard she tries, her eyes keep flitting over to him. He's only in a sleeveless undershirt and she can't help taking in the corded muscles in his arms, eyes sweeping down his forearms and to his hands and-
“Sansa?”
“Yes!” she turns to face a woman who must be Val, trying to look as innocent as possible. It doesn't seem to work, because she's pretty sure Val gives a slight snort of laughter and looks over at the man with a smirk before leading Sansa to a chair that... has a perfect view of the only other customer.
She keeps her focus on Val as the woman applies the stencil to her skin and they both agree that they like the size and placement. While Val preps her needle, Sansa stares at the line of small birds in flight across her inner wrist.
Little bird.
She is free of the Lannisters now and that taunt will never hurt her again. She will never allow herself to be used like she had before and she is getting this tattoo to remind herself.
(Not that her new job is any better, she sighs internally. After leaving Lannister Publications, she'd gotten a position at The Mockingbird, but her creepy boss had relegated her to writing fluff life and style pieces. Not that Sansa has anything against life and style, but the pieces he gives her are incredibly stupid, to the point where it almost seems like he's doing it on purpose, and Sansa aches to write something better, something more. She wants to be a real journalist.)
The needle doesn't hurt as badly as she was expecting (though it's still not pleasant) and Sansa can't help when her eyes wander over to the other chair – or, more specifically, the man sitting in it. His dark hair is pulled up into a man bun that she should hate, but he somehow makes it work. In fact, she should hate his whole look – scruffy beard, battered boots and old jeans – but it just... well, it works for her, ok? Even the way his face has settled into a resting scowl works for her, against her will or better judgment.
But then she sees the tattoo.
He's already got a few of them, and the new one is being added to his upper arm and she almost rolls her eyes when she sees it – a black crow.
He must be a fanboy.
Ever since The Crow showed up in Winterfell almost a year ago, she's seen normal men go absolutely insane over the superhero. He's only been seen a couple times, a man in all black with a mask who leaves one black feather as his calling card.
He'd made quite the splash with his debut – dumping Ramsay Bolton on the front steps of the Metro Police, bound and gagged, with a trunk full of evidence so concrete there was no way that even his father, politician Roose Bolton, could get him out of it. And, stuck into the bindings around Ramsay's wrists, a single black feather.
Newspapers had dubbed him The Crow – even her own newspaper wrote about him nearly every single day, even when he wasn't active. The Crow wasn't like the other superheroes that had been popping up in other cities – he didn't fight petty crime, he didn't seem to prowl the streets at night looking for minor assaults and thefts. No, he went after the elite, the ones the police couldn't (or wouldn't) touch.
(There had been a time when Sansa had wished desperately that The Crow would come for the Lannisters and save her, but he never had. The Lannisters might be cruel, but they weren't criminal masterminds, and in the end, it had been Sansa that had saved herself.)
Sansa sighs and tears her eyes from the stranger and back to her own tattoo. He may be one of the most attractive men she's ever encountered in real life, but she doesn't think she wants anything to do with one of The Crow's fanboys. She has mixed feelings about The Crow himself – she has no issue with someone taking the law into their own hands when the law refuses to do it themselves, but superheroes come with consequences. Consequences that look exactly like the stranger sitting across the room from her – men who decide that they, too, will mete out their own justice. Those copycats usually turn out to be less heroics and more violence for the sake of violence.
Yes, Sansa has very mixed feelings about The Crow.
She looks up again (determined that this is the last time she will look) and she nearly jumps out of her skin when she sees the stranger staring straight back at her. Their eyes catch and Sansa feels a wave of something rush through her. He doesn't look away and she finds herself caught, breathless, until Val declares that she's all done.
(When Sansa's legs almost give out when she stands, she laughs it off to Val and pretends she has a low pain tolerance and also her blood sugar has dropped and it definitely has nothing at all to do with the stranger whose eyes she can still feel burning into her as she walks away.)
SIX MONTHS LATER
Sansa tries very hard not to cry.
If she cries, her nose will stuff up and then she'll have an even harder time trying to breathe around the gag in her mouth. She tries to take deep, calming breaths, fighting against the panic that is swirling through her chest. Her hands are bound tightly behind her, her legs likewise bound with industrial zip ties, the plastic cutting into her skin whenever she tries to move or struggle.
How did she get here?
She'd sworn, six months ago, that she would never allow herself to be at the mercy of a man again - she'd even gotten a tattoo to remind herself. But here she is.
From her vantage point, lying sideways on the bed, she watches Petyr Baelish fold and pack his clothing into a suitcase. To anyone else, he would probably look calm, but Sansa has been around him long enough to see how pale his face is, the tight line of his mouth, the slight flaring of his nostrils - he is terrified.
But why?
Four hours ago, she'd been working late in the office when Petyr had found her and told her to come with him. He wouldn't explain where or why and when she refused - when she tried to leave, tried to run - he'd had his right hand man bind and gag her and they'd shoved her into the back of a car and driven her to Petyr's penthouse.
It hadn't registered then, but Sansa knows something has happened to scare Petyr. Something has forced his hand. He has been making advances towards her for the past few months, making sweet promises of a promotion (she'd finally be able to write something real), trying to take her out to dinner and giving her little gifts that made her stomach turn sour. She'd given the gifts back, refused the dinners.
But something has changed and now he is kidnapping her.
She'd overheard him and Brune talking about a private plane – about an island where he would never find them. Sansa knows that she is going to be taken to this island, that Petyr will no longer accept her refusals.
She wants to vomit, but she tamps it down, afraid that she'll choke behind the gag. She may be bound and helpless, but she refuses to die. She'll find her way out of this, somehow.
The door bursts open and Brune comes in, face a hard mask, and Sansa watches Petyr's eyes get wide and somehow even more fearful. Then something dark fills the doorway and Brune's hand comes up, gun at the ready, and Sansa closes her eyes tight when the first shot goes off. There's a second and a third in rapid succession and then more noises, but Sansa's heart is pounding so loudly in her own ears, she can barely hear.
Eventually there's silence, though it takes her a while to notice it.
No, not silence.
Someone is moving about the penthouse, and when Sansa finally opens her eyes, she nearly lets out a sob when she sees a dark figure dressed in all black standing over the bodies of Petyr and Brune.
The Crow.
There's a rip in The Crow's sleeve and she can see blood seeping out from where a bullet must have grazed him. Her eyes won't leave the blood on his arm as he bends down and begins to tie up first Brune and then Petyr. There's a lot of blood, but underneath she thinks she can see something, almost like a tattoo-
“Are you ok?”
She tears her eyes from his arm and looks up at the masked face that's now turned towards her. His voice is low and rough and even though she can't see his eyes behind the mask, she can feel them on her.
He stands up and walks over to her and carefully unties the gag, finally pulling it away and she coughs and nearly chokes when it's gone. Her mouth is so dry, but she manages to croak out, “water?”
She should be asking him to untie her, but she feels like she still can't breathe with how dry her mouth and throat are and The Crow leaves the room and comes back with a cup of water. He helps her sit up and holds the cup to her mouth, with his other hand on the back of her head, holding her steady, as she gulps down the water.
“Police will be here soon,” he tells her, setting the cup down on the side table.
Then he goes back to the bodies (she sees they're still breathing, which doesn't surprise her – The Crow has never killed anyone, as far as she knows) and he pulls out a single black feather from somewhere and tucks it into the bindings at Petyr's wrists.
“Aren't you going to untie me?” she asks when he starts moving towards the door again.
He turns to face her and says, “no.”
“What?” she gasps, twisting to try and face him better.
“You're evidence,” he shrugs.
“You're just going to leave me here?” her voice raises an octave in disbelief. “You're supposed to be a superhero!”
“I'm not a hero,” he says, the words biting. “Just because the news-”
“You help people!” she cuts in. “I read about what Ramsay Bolton did,” she swallows hard, remembering the horrific things that had come out in the wake of his arrest, the things he'd done to countless women and gotten away with because of his father's position. “You stopped him.”
The Crow stares at her for a while – or, she thinks he stares at her, she can't see his eyes. But she feels it, feels his gaze burning into her and something like a shiver rolls down her spine.
“You're evidence,” The Crow says again. “I'm not going to untie you.”
She knows, deep down, that she will be ok. The police will get here and untie her and she will be fine, but she can't seem to focus on that because there's a primal fear coursing through her at being tied up and helpless. She breathes deep and tries to calm herself.
“Then let me interview you,” she blurts out. He jerks back in surprise and she can't blame him, the words surprise even herself – she hadn't meant to say them. But she has, so she continues on. “Let me write an article on you.”
“No.”
“You owe me!”
“I just saved you,” he says and she thinks if he weren't wearing a mask, she would have seen him roll his eyes. “If anything, you owe me.”
She ignores the strange feeling that flits through her stomach and struggles to sit further upright. “I can help you,” she tries. “Isn't there some message you want to get out?” He's silent and she tries again. “Something you want to tell your fans?” She watches his mouth twist in disgust and she thinks yes! There it is.
“I don't want fans,” he grits out through clenched teeth. This is it, this is her chance.
“You could tell them to stop. Let me interview you and you can tell them whatever you want.”
She waits, heart in her throat, pulse pounding in her wrists, against the zip ties that bind her and the ink of her tattoo. She is not a little bird.
For a long while he watches her, eyes hidden behind his mask, mouth set into a grim line. The silence stretches out between them, crackles with a sort of energy Sansa has never felt before, except maybe once, six months ago in a tattoo parlor when-
Sirens wail in the distance, startling both of them. Time's up, she thinks as he begins to back away towards the door.
“Let me interview you,” she says one final time, and she's surprised at how low and breathless her voice is.
The sirens get closer, red and blue lights flickering on the ceiling through the penthouse windows. He's a shadow in the doorway, almost gone.
“Maybe,” he rasps and she feels a thrill go through her.
“When?”
“I'll let you know. If I decide I want to.”
She doesn't get the chance to say anything else because he's gone – no flash, no notice, just gone. Seconds later, there's the pounding of feet in the hallway and the door bursts open and police pour into the room. She's subjected to questions and she's photographed while still bound, but the indignity of it doesn't touch her.
She's going to get her story, she can feel it. As the police cut the ties and help her up, she knows it's true. She's going to get her story and something else bubbles up in her chest, a new determination. She'll get her story and-
And she's going to unmask The Crow.