#foiml

.

The sheets smell like bleach and starch and just a little bit like Sansa. The scent calms Margaery’s overwrought mind. Along with sensation of long even breaths softly straining the sheets with every inhale; the sight of her whenever she blinks heavy eyes open.

Sansa’s still pale. So, so very pale, worryingly pale, but the sharpness of her features has softened out during the night. Everything about her looks soft in the first rays of the morning sun.

Margaery has her head rested on folded up arms and clings to sight for as long as her heavy eyes allow. It’s been too long since she saw her like this, asleep, at the crack of dawn and it’s so wonderfully simple to drift off like this, knowing her close, knowing her okay.

“Hey.”

The croaked word has Margaery’s eyes flutter open. Sansa still lies there like she’s sleeping, and for a few seconds only the slight curve of her lips gives away she’s awake.

She blinks slowly, like it’s a tremendous physical effort. Margaery smiles, without moving and grants herself a moment to rejoice the sight of hazy blue eyes looking back at her. It feels like waking up together for the first time in way too long, and even the slightest movement might destroy the illusion.

Last night in the bathroom, waiting the eternity it took for the ambulance to arrive, holding Sansa, pleading for Sansa to look at her over and over again, the fear that she’d never might never again, that she’d never see those blue eyes shine with excitement, sparkling with joy again, darkening with lust ever again, had petrified her.

Seeing her in the middle of the night, the blue of her eyes had been swallowed up by the darkness of the room. Now, with soft light filtering in through the windows it’s still a little subdued, like fog slowly dispersing over the sea, but it’s there.

Fingers play with the tip of a curl, and Sansa quirks her brows almost coyly. “’d you sleep here?”

“Not quite, no.”

She hasn’t slept yet.

It took her until the wee morning hours, and every cleaning agent Sansa ever dragged to her place to get the last traces of blood off tiles and surfaces, off herself. 

She curled up in bed, dead tired, but the images wouldn’t settle. Neither would the scent.

The scent most of all. Metallic and sickly-sweet; it got a little stronger every time she closed her eyes.

A hint of it lingers even now, in these sterile, clean surroundings. It’s like a chemical she breathed in for too long, that’s now etched into the lining of her nose; like a pungent taste that overlays everything else.

Her attempt to escape it, a walk in the freezing morning air, led her back here. She lied her way in, telling the ward nurse that she couldn’t make the regular visitation hours in the afternoon.

“What time is it?”

“Around half seven.”

Sansa takes the answer with a breath sawing in and out of her, a slight frown appearing on her forehead, like as much as a deep inhale causes her discomfort.

Margaery presses a kiss to fingertips that lack coordination tracing her face. “How are you feeling?”

A thin smile stretches dry lips, as she traces the line of her jaw. “Okay. I think.”

She doesn’t sound okay. She doesn’t look okay either. But the meds must still run high enough to not be able to tell the difference.

“What are you doing here, Margaery?”

Margaery smiles tiredly and props her head up on one hand. “As usual, my burning longing for you stole my sleep. I just had to see you.”

The shake of her head is only perceptible by the soft rustle of the pillowcase. “I mean here,” she licks dry lips. “Back here.”

“I just had to see you,” Margaery repeats, shrugging a shoulder.

“And Lorath?”

“As it turns out, my presence isn’t as quintessential for the outcome of the revolution as I perceived it to be.”

Sansa looks at her in a way that silently pleads her to be serious and Margaery kisses knuckles that feel too cold to belong to Sansa. Sansa’s hands are always warm, now they’re so cool Margaery wishes she could stuff them in mittens and clamp them up against her body. At the lack of an alternative she presses one against her cheek.

“I couldn’t go,” she says, and dropping her fake levity, her voice sounds like she’s the one who had a tube shoved down her throat a couple of hours ago. “I stood on that pier, ready to board the ferry and I… I couldn’t bear missing you a second longer.”

A regretful smile spreads of Sansa’s lips. “I’m sorry.”

With a quick shake of her head, Margaery kisses the edge of her palm. “I’m not.”

She’d be dead if she’d gone to Lorath.

Through the course of the last night, Margaery played that thought through in all its devastation more times than she can count. She scrubbed tiles and wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t changed her mind. If she had boarded that ferry. How long it would have taken for someone to find Sansa.

“There’s no place in the world I’d rather be than right here,” Margaery promises, “with you.”

Sansa tucks a strand of hair behind Margaery’s ear. She cups her face for a moment, then her hand drops to the bed like that small motion cost her the last of her strength. “I can think of better places.”

Margaery hums. “All in good time, darling. We have time.”

“I know,” Sansa breathes and closes her eyes. “Finally we do.”

The tranquil expression on her face seems more at peace than Margaery has seen her in their most blissful, intimate moments. She looks so content, satisfied almost and that feels most unbecoming given she’s in a hospital bed, given all that it took to get them here.

Margaery forbids herself to dwell on it. Sansa is okay, and that’s all that matters.

A nurse comes and brings a tray with breakfast. Margaery stands by, her arms slung around herself, while the nurse fluffs up Sansa’s pillow. She bates her breath along with Sansa when the nurse brings her into a semi-upright position. Seeing her in pain, lets her wish that unbecoming content expression would return at once.

It doesn’t. Sitting up, Sansa looks a wider shade of pale, her are hands twisted into the blanket on either side of her.  The nurse appears unfazed by the obvious discomfort and shakes out a folded bib as if she was a butler, offering up a cloth napkin to their master.

She smiles encouragingly at Sansa while tying the strings around her neck, and tells her to try and eat at least a little. In passing she brushes a hand over Margaery’s arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll have your sister back up on her feet in no time.”

A hint of amusement shines in Sansa’s pale features when the nurse closes the door behind her. “Sister?”

A hearty kick brings about the desired roaring. Margaery glares down at the radiator as the metallic clang echoes, daring it to not give out on her again.

The small plug-in radiator sitting by her bedroom window is her most cherished and her most despised piece of furniture in this place. It’s a complete piece of rubbish. No matter at what temperature she sets it, no matter if kicks it, pleads with it, no matter if turns it on just before going to bed, it always turns off during the night, leaving her to wake up in a walk-in fridge of a bedroom.

She’ll have to invest in a newer one if she wants any chance to survive the winter. The other day, a shiny red one in the window at the hardware store tempted her, the advertisement promising rapid heating, but she couldn't bring herself to buy it—for the mere notion of having to surrender to spending the winter here.

She knows that’s stupid. Whether or not she’s freezing here, won’t be what helps Sansa to reach a decision. Never mind that in the temperatures Margaery’s used to, this right here is winter, or at the very least the coldest August she has ever experienced.

With a warming sip of her coffee, Margaery looks out the window. One of these days she'll need to catch the sunrise somewhere out of town. It’s already completely different than only a few weeks ago. The cool, damp air is almost palpable in the first rays that break through the clouds. It’s a gorgeous sight, but it also robs her off any motivation to leave the house, like, ever.

The thick woollen blanket wrapped around her she heads to the kitchen and pours herself another coffee. Hearing the weather report on the radio, lets her think there’s no getting around that trip to the hardware store.

She exhales heavily. There’s no use to fret about it. She’s always thrived on new experiences and new challenges, and this right here, surviving a northern winter might be her greatest yet. If she makes it through fall that is.

A light fizzling feeling spreads in her chest when the key turns in the lock. Spinning around, she smiles, spotting Sansa pushing through the door, a potted plant in one arm and a rolled-up rug in the other.

Setting her cup down, Margaery takes the spider plant off her hands. “I would have preferred flowers, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Sansa takes off her shoes and into the set of slippers matching Margaery’s. “You’ll get flowers when I’m convinced you can keep them alive.”

“I resent that. I’m good with flowers.”

“In the South maybe,” Sansa says brushing a fleeting kiss to her lips. “Keeping them alive on four hours of daylight is a whole other thing.”

Margaery’s fingers trace the delicate veins of the leaves, and she wonders how she’s supposed to stay alive with four hours of daylight. She trails after Sansa and watches her unroll the thick, red rug on the bathroom tiles. Sansa stands there for a moment, hands braced into her hips, before crouching down and unfurling the plush fringe. A content breath comes of her lips as she takes it in a second time.

“What do you think?” Sansa asks over her shoulder.

“Convenient colour for being on the rag.”

Sansa rolls her eyes and takes the plant from her, setting it on wash counter. “I don’t know why I bother.”

Coming to a stand behind her, Margaery loops her into a tight hug. “I’m teasing you. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

A tentative smile looks back at her through the mirror. “You really like it?”

Margaery presses a kiss to her neck. “I love it.”

Truthfully, Margaery can’t claim to care much for these home making endeavours.

Renting an apartment was somewhat of a necessity; the only sensible choice to make. Staying in the motel in Mole’s Town, while convenient in proximity and cozy enough, had started to become a peril. Too central in a town too small not to attract attention. Here, in the outskirts of Queenscrown, nobody bats an eye when Sansa pops in and out of the big, anonymous apartment block.

The decoration efforts are less of a necessity. In Margaery’s perception anyway. For her standards the plain furnishing the apartment came with was perfectly acceptable.

Sansa wholeheartedly disagreed.

From the first time she brought her here she’s made it her mission to make it as comfortable as possible. The sheer volume of things Sansa has dragged here in the last couple of weeks makes Margaery wonder how her husband has not yet noticed the countless items missing from their home. Bedding, curtains, cutlery and dishes, plants, lamps, glasses, vases… It’s reached the point, where Margaery honestly isn’t sure how she will go about moving out of here without a moving service.

She’s understands that it’s Sansa’s love language; her way to make sure she is as comfortable as possible staying here. It might not always be what Margaery considers necessary, but she will admit that being surrounded by things Sansa lovingly put in place–pulling open the curtains she sewed for her, first thing in the morning, cuddling into the warm flannel bedlinen and a mountain of throw pillows at night, finding a fridge stacked to the brim with Tupperware containers—is a nice notion, makes her feel constantly surrounded by Sansa.

She looks forward to the moment she steps from the shower onto that fluffy rug for the first time.

“How are you, darling?” Margaery asks.

“I’m fine.”

Her voice sounds just a tad too bright and something about the way Sansa fiddling with the leaves, chafes within Margaery. “No, you're not.”

Sansa’s hands still, her eyes wide with soft astonishment. “What makes you say that?”

“Well for one, you haven’t kissed me yet.”

“I did.”

“Not properly.”

The gentle smile spreading on Sansa’s face, brings a warmth that spreads through Margaery like sunshine, one only Sansa’s presence brings these days. Twisting around, Sansa tilts Margaery’s chin up, her breathy, “How incredibly rude of me,” disappearing in a through and through proper kiss.

In the last six weeks Sansa’s kisses have not lost an ounce of eagerness; neither have hands, always pleasantly warm, brushing over her cheeks, sinking into her hair. The heavy wool blanket, that Margaery carries around all day, wrapped around her as a make-shift poncho never stays put for long when Sansa is close by.

With a first longing sated, Margaery brushes a hand over the heavy braid sitting on Sansa’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Want me to take your mind of it?”

Sansa smiles softly as fingers work the belt of her dress. “I don’t have a lot of time.”

“And when has that ever stopped us?”

She has yet to see the day when Sansa has time to spare. Time is all too sparse. Things are ramping up for the harvest on the farm and Sansa’s workload is mindboggling. Sometimes she’ll just drop down for a nap as soon as she arrives. Margaery will lie next to her then, watch her try to keep her eyes open, and caress her into the sleep she needs.

The reality of her staying here differed from her expectations in many ways; mid-morning naps weren't something on her agenda. She’s filled a couple rolls of films with photographs of a sleeping Sansa. It’s all so sickeningly domestic.

They’ve both become masters at making most of every second together, to squeeze whole days of lovemaking, of talking, getting lost in each other’s eyes and soaking up each other’s presence into less than an hour.

Taking a hold of her hands, she pulls Sansa a few step backwards, before she halts once more, searching her eyes. “Unless you’d rather talk.”

“I have two hectares of potatoes awaiting my attention,” Sansa says, pushing her to keep walking. “Just talking won't help me retain my will to live through that.”

So that’s what the mood is all about.

Margaery threads her fingers thread through Sansa’s and nods to the bedroom. “Come on then.”

There’s something that’s almost clinical to the way they both slip out of their clothes. Like stripping for a doctor’s examination, each item of clothing carefully folded and stacked neatly; a quiet ritual only accompanied by rustling of fabric on skin.

That sentiment never lasts very long though. There’s always that one second that has nothing to do with efficiency: When Sansa stands there naked, and her fingers loosen the hair tie holding her braid together. How she holds her eyes through that simple act, delicately pulls apart strands of her hair, letting tresses cascade around her bare shoulders, is breathtakingly sensual.

She does it for no other reason than knowing Margaery prefers her hair open, only ever wears it open for her. In that moment she truly arrives here, becomes hers for however short of a time they have together.

Finding their way into each other’s arms becomes as inevitable as breathing after that. With the length of Sansa’s warm bare body pressing against her own, with kisses finding hers greedily, every last bit of Margaery’s restlessness settles. The sparse doubts she has about staying here, the wondering if there truly will be a future for them, slips to the very back of her mind.

Sansa could tell her in this very second that it will be nothing but these stolen moments for the rest of their lives and she’d be content with it.

.

Her duffle bag fills at a steady pace. It’s the same one she arrived with four month ago. Four months ago the most important items in her life fit into a duffle back that wasn’t even completely full. When she closes the zipper now it’s filled to the brim, that yet only make for the smallest portion what she collected here in these past months.  

Her eyes dart to the set of clothes that hangs on the closet door. A simple turtleneck and a pair of cord pants. Both neatly pressed, with sharp creases that won’t survive an hour of travelling. She should get dressed. She should stop stalling. Only all her willpower is occupied with suppressing the urge to turn that duffle bag upside down and empty it.  

She doesn’t want to leave. She shouldn’t leave. Leaving now, feels like giving up, like running.  

“You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry.” 

Sansa strides into the room and Margaery watches her wearily, tries to shake the notion that she can’t wait to have her gone. It’s not that, she knows it, but the never ending back and forth of the last week left her thin-skinned. 

A knot forms in her stomach when she sees the bulky jute bag in Sansa’s hands. It’s not the same she tried to send her off with four months ago, this one is newer, nicer, has a colourful print. Peeking inside Margaery finds three stacked Tupper containers and a large thermos.  

“You can have breakfast on the train,” Sansa says. 

Margaery nods. No, it’s not the same. Only it feels exactly the same.  

When she yet doesn’t move, Sansa pulls her travel attire off the hangers, towers above her holding them out to her. “Come on now.” 

Instead of taking the clothes, Margaery clamps both hands around Sansa’s wrists. “It’s not too late to change your mind you know. You could still come.” 

“You know I can’t.”  

She pulls free, leaves Margaery clasping onto fabric still warm from the iron and wondering if it’s not the same after all. It feels the same. It even sounds the same.  

She shouldn’t go. She doesn’t want to go.  

It's just a four-day trip, a short visit to Highgarden for her grandmother's eighty-third birthday.  Margaery never planned to go, never intended it.  Allowing her mother to book her a flight was nothing but a knee-jerk reaction to Sansa's relentless efforts to push her away—a defiant and childish that’ll-show-her. 

It showed her nothing. Sansa took it with the same stoic indifferent expression she spots through all their arguments and now that Margaery sits her next to her packed bag, she wonders if the whole thing isn’t about to blow up in her face.  

It’s only four days, yes. She’ll be back by Sunday night, but she can’t help but wonder what she’ll come back to. Her apartment cleared and all her belonging put into boxes? That fear is perhaps exaggerated, but it wouldn’t be the first time Sansa presented her with a fait accompli, and in her current state she trusts her judgement less than ever before.  

She tried to talk Sansa into coming with her, knows she had her on the verge of considering it a couple of times, too. Not too long ago, Sansa promised that they could do a long weekend away together, that she’d find an excuse for Jon. Now she’s acting like it was always impossible altogether.  

The worst thing is that she knows it would do Sansa good. A couple of days away to clear her head, to distract herself and recharge.  

She observes Sansa for a moment, how she stacks pressed clothes into the dresser. There’s a nervous energy thrumming from her every motion, that has Margaery's stomach churn with unease. 

Setting her travel attire aside, Margaery closes the distance and wraps her arms around her to try. Ignoring the tension that comes to Sansa’s body she presses a kiss to her neck. “I’ll miss you.” 

“It’s only four days.” 

Margaery forbids herself from telling her that four days was all it took to change the course of their lives once before. Instead, she holds her yet a bit tighter and nuzzles her face to her skin. “Four hours would be too much.” 

Sansa’s torso expands in a deep breath, like she barely keeps herself from shrugging her off. She barely tolerates her touch lately; a touch even just close to her stomach will have her pull away.