Chapter Text
Petyr watches as a yellow taxi slows to a halt outside his house, there's a brief pause when the passenger pays their fare and thanks the driver. “Showtime…” He mumbles and starts to make his way out of the kitchen and out of the back door. Sansa emerges, climbing out of the taxi, slinging a padded rucksack on her back. Her hair is longer than the last time he had seen her and the evening sun turns it a crisp auburn and she’s possibly taller, which bodes well. Seeing as he had stopped growing many years ago, perhaps too many to be entertaining a girl of her age and wealth. She stands on the sidewalk, watching the taxi sped away with a hunched position telling him she feels out of place, unwelcome. But he knows she is anything but unwelcome.
Petyr takes her hand, tells her she can stay as long as she wants, how she can decorate her room, though more importantly, how beautiful she looks. Petyr easily takes her face in his hands, gentle yet commanding and leans in graciously and feels her soft, pouty lips against his. It's warm and fleeting and over all too soon. Sansa blushes deeply when he parts. “You truly look more beautiful each time I see you…” He utters and ushers her inside. Sansa bounds up the stairs into his home, his vast kitchen meets her gaze, made out of the finest craftsmanship and oak and filled with all the latest appliances. He gives a knowing smile and takes her bags. Once inside, Sansa gasps at the size of his home, her eyes wide.
“This house is wonderful. You live here all by yourself?” If that was a way of asking if he's single or in a relationship. It worked. He had never been a modest man, and never one to shy away from a compliment.
“Yeah, I do.” She's right by all accounts. An empty, concrete home filled with nothing. Built on lies. Standing at three stories tall with a large pool in what would have been the front garden, so it’s no wonder she feasts her eyes. “You can always stay with me, you know you can.”
“Would you like me to show you to your room?” Sansa smiles thankfully when Petyr puts her things down near the sofa in the sitting room and nervously plays with the hem of her dress, barely touching the top of her knees. They ascend the stairs through the lounge, Petyr briefly pondering if he should show her his room after hers, or if she would be smart enough to make that assumption on her own. His bedroom being at the end of the corridor which runs in an L shape from the top of the stairs with hers being closest to the bathroom, and the stair, the top floor mainly being empty attic space.
Petyr opens the door and shows her the overly lavish bathroom. At one point he had the mental note on building a mini bar in the far corner near the shower and window sill. It being a perfect place to rest a glass of wine or a bottle after a stressful day at work. She admires the giant walk-in shower, dances her fingers over the showerhead fixed with several knobs and buttons. The flooring was a beautiful, cold marble slab with gentle lighting. The walls were a hard black in contrast to the floor and a massive mirror hung majestically above a chest of drawers topped with toiletries and towels and other commodities. Since he was a young boy, he wasn’t the type of man to hold onto things with sentimental quality, usually overpowered with necessity, honor, want. Especially after the death of Lysa, having knick-knacks lying around reminding him of any dead ex partners wasn’t an idea he wished to entertain.
She's giddy, and excited when it comes to her bedroom. Sansa throws open the door and launches inside, flopping face down on the plush duvet and pillow, she rolls over slowly and thanks him. “I didn't have the time to move the desk, but I'm pretty sure you will have use of it, it was originally for my laptop but I can use it anywhere.” Petyr shrugs. After the deaths of both her parents and her late aunt, the task of caring for the Stark girl fell to Petyr during the breaks from university. Not that he at all minded. He had moved the filing cabinet and all his books on finance, economy and the like into his room to make space for her single bed and whatever home comforts she decided to bring with her.
“It's a beautiful room, Petyr. It’s bigger than my dorm room, I'm so grateful.” Her eyes quickly turn sad like she had come across a horrible headline in a newspaper. Petyr then realises he's watching her walk through her memories. The last time she would have had her own bedroom in a house to call a home would have been with her family. Back in Winterfell. Such a long time ago.
Petyr slaps the side of the door frame and leaves the room before he does something he regrets. He would regret pulling her into his arms, telling her that he's her family, that he can protect her, feed her. Be the family she's lost.
But could he feed her his lies, too? It would be so easy and painless, she wouldn't feel a thing.
Petyr exhales slowly, standing on the landing mindlessly picking at the buckle of his watch strap, the clock face turned away from him, uninteresting. He moseys back down to the kitchen and reaches for a bottle of pomegranate juice he'd grown fond of. A life of travelling and growing wealth has its rewards. He unscrews and hears the fizzy drink hiss before pouring into two glasses. It's a bitter drink, mixed with grapefruit and raspberry but it's one he enjoys. Petyr switches on his plasma screen television mounted on the bare brick fireplace in the lounge. Another pointless mod con he’d invested in for making his business associates and dates compliment him on. Complete with packages, and built blu ray player. Standing at fifty in inches and black as sin.
A shopping channel comes on over-embellishing a hair care product for balding men. Petyr huffs and swiftly channel-hops until he finds a channel for teenagers, he cycles through several channels before coming across MTV as a heavily inked youth with long, black hair vents about advertising band merch and concert tickets. Pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, be turns up the volume, hoping it’s suitable.
Once back in the kitchen, he fixes himself a tuna sandwich, on a bed of artisan rye bread, with fresh lettuce, tomato and olive tapenade. He knows, deep down some people he knew would say his interests in fine food was snobbish for a man in his line of work.They could all go to hell as far as he was concerned. Petyr takes a hefty bite out of the sandwich, wishing he’d had some halloumi cheese to grill before devouring another chunk.
Sansa sits and watches the show with strained enthusiasm, she's slouched in the corner of the couch with her legs bent underneath her, the remote resting in her lap. “That smells nice.”
She says.
“You could have had one if you wanted…”
Sansa shakes her head, and he moves over to sit next to her. “I ate on the train, so I’m not really hungry. I’d be happy if we just sat and watched TV for a while.” Sansa shrugs. It sounds like a question, even though he knows better.
Petyr watches the screen for several minutes. “What the fuck are we even watching?”
She giggles. “MTV cribs. They show you around celebrities houses and stuff, I like it, I watch it with my friend Margaery sometimes.”
“Margaery who...?
“Tyrell. She takes some of my classes with me.”
He nods and chews slowly, thoughtfully. The name certainly rang a bell, maybe through her parents.
Ten o'clock comes and she's resting peacefully, her head rests against the arm of the sofa, with her feet outstretched and almost touching his hip, a living image of relaxation if ever he saw one. Petyr scrolls through his phone, there's a few emails from Olyvar from work and one from Varys which he instantly puts into the trash folder without reading. He could easily manage any problems from the comfort of his home if they should arise, more time to spend with Sansa that way. Petyr sighs. “I should get some shut eye soon, I suggest you do the same.” He smiles, self-deprecatingly, knowing all too well he has zero control over her.
Sansa only seems to sense this and rolls her eyes and it only makes him more amused. Petyr sucks in a breath and heaves himself up, and off the sofa. He leisurely takes the stairs and makes his bed, having left it in a shambles before changing into more comfortable attire for sleeping and hanging up a black silk gown monogrammed with a letter ‘P’ over the heart space.
About to get into bed, he hears a gentle tap at his bedroom door, knowing it could only be Sansa, he calls to invite her in. She makes her way over, covered head to toe in a matching pink pyjama set with small sheep and crescent moons dotted all over the fabric. Petyr finds himself watching her bright blue eyes take in every minute detail of his bedroom. The king size leather bed straight at eye level, with egyptian cotton sheets and bedside tables with a matching antique pine, double door wardrobe on his right. A well-used, cold, hard filling cabinet on his left and a Blake chair at the far side, beneath the window. She bites her lip and clings to the door.
“Um, I always find it hard to sleep in a strange place on the first night. Could I bunk with you? Just this one time...please?” Gods be good.
Her eyes are fearful, wider than when she was stood on his doorstep several hours ago. Petyr sits on the edge of his bed, knowing he could hardly turn her away, although spending a night with an unrelated female in his bed, barely out of her teens wasn’t sizing up to be a good notion, either. He tries to sound serious, and rubs at the scruff he calls a beard, mustering up all the bravado he could. “Well, I suppose you could...if you don’t go making a habit out of it.” Petyr glares, then smirks. Letting her know she could come and go as she pleased.