#jonsansa

Jon, aware that the answers to his problems aren’t going to be found at the bottom of a chipped beer mug, finishes his fourth pint anyway. He’s never been much of a drinker –he’s seen far too many families torn apart by it, first in the Army and then at the station- but the booze is helping to take the edge off. It’s only been a month and a half since she left but it feels like a lifetime. Only the things she left behind, most of her clothes, her hair products and a pair of pretty silver earrings, convince him it wasn’t all some pathetic dream he concocted in his head.

“It’s not that simple.” Jon says, signaling the bartender for another round. But it sure is tempting. 

He can feel Tor rolling his eyes. “Sure it is. You hop on a fucking plan, find her, and drag her ass back here. Or profess your undying love or some shit.”

Jon chuckles but it sounds humorless and dry even to him. “Brienne is a lucky woman, Tor.”

Tormund, begin Tormund, takes this compliment literally and beams, beer gleaming brightly in his red beard.

Jon is saved by his cell vibrating in his back pocket, and his heart immediately jumps into his throat as he pulls it out. Maybe… but no, it’s Arya.

“I gotta take this,” he mumbles, Tor waving him off, and Jon steps into the heavy night air. He draws in a deep cleansing breath as he answers.

“Hey, Arya,” he says.

“Jon,” is all she has to say for him to know something is very, very wrong. “Jon its Sansa…”

-

Jon’s only been to New York City once, shortly after his last deployment, a few months before getting out of the Army. Ygritte had met him at the airport and they’d stayed a few days, playing tourist. To Jon, it had been just another big, overcrowded city like a hundred other big, overcrowded cities. Now it feels like a living, breathing monster that Jon has to somehow overcome.

Arya is waiting for him near the baggage claim, a worn backpack dangling from one shoulder. He hadn’t brought anything but a backpack himself; blindly throwing random clothes together before getting an Uber to the airport. She’s pacing, arms crossed, the dark fringe of her hair gleaming in the too bright fluorescents. Relief is clear in her eyes when she spots him.

“She left me the message yesterday,” Arya says immediately, grabbing Jon by the arm and steering him toward the exit. She fishes out her phone with a free hand and fiddles with it for a minute before shoving it at him. “Listen.”

Shaking a bit, Jon presses the phone to his ear, heart lurching to hear Sansa’s voice again. “Arya, I know we haven’t spoken in a while and I know that’s mostly my fault. Don’t get me wrong, you can be pig-headed and stubborn… but you were right. Right about Joffrey, about my life, about everything. I-I left him, Arya, I want to get my life back, I want my family back. I’ve been staying with Jon in Chicago, he helped me get back on my feet… and I think, and well you’ll hate it, but I think maybe that he and I have a chance at something… but I need to sort out my life first. I-I hope you can forgive me… I hope-” her voice cuts out suddenly at the sound of a door slamming open and he can hear her sharp intake of breath. “No…” she murmurs, and Jon can all but taste the fear and loathing in her voice. “How? N-No, don’t touch me! Don’t you fucking touch-” there’s a scrabbling sound, a short cry of pain, and then silence.

“Jon,” Arya says quietly, shaking him gently, and he realizes he’s stopped dead in the middle of a busy thoroughfare and is breathing heavily. People are staring. “Jon, pull it together.”

“We have to find her,” he says, hardly aware he’s speaking. He gives Arya back her phone and dials Tormund on his own cell. If he doesn’t keep moving he knows he’s going to completely lose it.

Tor had called in a missing persons as soon as Jon had told him what was going on, relating to him what Arya had explained was in Sansa’s message. He’d gone full cop mode.  

“They haven’t found her,” Tor says gravely when he picks up, “But I did get a possible address out of them, got a pen?”

“Arya, take a note in your phone,” he tells her as they emerge from John F. Kennedy airport and into the madness that is New York City. Tor gives him the address and Arya quickly types it out, her hands shaking too.

“Be careful Jon,” Tor says meaningfully.

“I will,” he says, voice hard, as Arya manages to hail down a cab and they shuffle inside.

Jon gives the cabbie the address and tries to get control of himself, the sound of Sansa’s broken scream replaying over and over again in his head. God, if anything’s happens to her he doesn’t know what he’ll do. It’s just like Ygritte all over again. He’d failed her too, been too late to help her, to save her-

Arya takes his hand and squeezes, hard enough to hurt, forcing him to look at her. “We’re going to find her, okay?”

Jon nods, and there is murder in her eyes reflecting back at him. Today… today he chooses violence.

-

The police are already at the upscale apartment building when they arrive. Apparently Sansa and Joffrey had owned the penthouse on the top floor but, according to the police Sargent who meets them in the lobby, no one has been there in nearly a year.

“No sign of struggle and the doorman hasn’t seen either of them come in or out. We’re verifying with the surveillance feed, but this looks like a dead end.”

Arya scrambles for her phone as Jon processes this information, his heart falling somewhere into the vicinity of his boots.

“H-Here listen to this,” she says, handing her phone over, “Maybe it will help or something, I don’t know...”

The Sergeant listens to Sansa’s message with a grave face. When he’s done he waves over one of his officers. “We need to get more men on this, I’m gonna call the Captain and see what we can do. Make sure they comb the residence thoroughly, we’re looking for some clue, any clue as to where whoever took her might have gone.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The man turns back to Jon. “Alright, I need you to tell me everything you know about Mr. and Mrs. Baratheon.”

-

Two hours later, Arya finds him in the alley behind the apartment building. He’d snagged a few cigarettes from one of the detectives and is working his way through the last one. He hasn’t smoked in years, but there’s a cynical sort of comfort in the taste; blood and smoke on his tongue, the sound of gunfire in his ears, the heat of the desert burning his skin.

She hunches down next to him in the dark, arms wrapped around herself. Arya had always been larger than life, her slight body never seeming quite able to contain her large personality, but she seems very small in that moment. He feels wrung out, drained.

“I-I didn’t know…” she says quietly, breaking a long stretch of silence and Jon huffs.

“Yeah you did,” he says darkly, leaning his head back against the concrete wall, then, to soften the blow, “We all did, at least a little.”

Arya nods, a few tears slipping down her cheeks. “You’re right… we all suspected. D-dad was so worried, he and mom fought about it a lot. And then… after the accident, I was just so angry I-“

Jon puts a hand on her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Arya, we just have to find her now. I don’t know what I’ll do if we can’t-” He breaks off, voice cracking and he presses his eyes closed. Her face is burned into his eyelids, however; it’s engraved on his very soul. Her smile, her laugh, the taste of her skin, they’re all shards of glass in his gut, cutting and slicing him apart from the inside out.

It’s just like Ygritte all over again.

Arya takes his hand and they sit like that for a long time.

Then, “So… you and Sansa, huh?” Her voice wavers and he smiles, it feels broken and sharp on his face.

“Yeah.”

“You did moon over her all the time in high school.”

Jon throws her a dark look and she chuckles a little, rocking back on her heels as she wraps her arms around her knees. “What? You did. Don’t think we didn’t notice. Robb tried to ignore it, of course, Mom too, but Dad…” she looks at him, dark eyes glinting in the city lights, “Dad hoped she’d end up with you, or at least someone like you. He used to smile all, I don’t know, soft or whatever whenever the two of you were together.” She draws in a shaky breath and looks away. “Don’t get me wrong, its super weird and gross but… I think Dad would be really happy she found you.”

Jon tosses his half smoked cigarette into a mysterious puddle nearby and pulls Arya into his arms. He can feel her trembling with suppressed tears, knows a few are leaking out of his own eyes, a dam only barely held at bay. They stay like that for a long time, two shipwrecked sailors, clinging to each other for dear life as the storm rages on around them.

-

“Here’s the name of a hotel nearby,” the Sergeant says, handing Jon a bit of ripped paper, “We got you a good discount.”

Jon takes it with a curt nod. “Thanks.”

The other man rubs the back of his neck, real compassion and regret in his eyes. “Wish we had more to tell you, but we’ll be in touch as soon as we know more, alright?”

Jon swallows against the terror and rage in his throat. “Yeah.”

He and Arya stand listlessly on the street corner, staring into the unfeeling, unflinching traffic, the city immune to their suffering.

Arya finally steps forward to hail another cab when a pretty woman in towering heels and a short blue dress descends upon them.

“Arya Stark?” she queries breathlessly, “Are you Arya Stark?”

Arya frowns, studying the pretty woman skeptically. “Yeah, who are you?”

The woman deflates in on herself. “Oh thank god. I’ve been going mad trying to get ahold of someone.  I recognized you from this picture she had in college. Anyway, I’m Margery, a friend of Sansa’s.”

Jon’s heart lurches, and Arya perks up, gaze sharpening to knife points.

“Have you seen her?” he asks, not bothering to keep the desperation out of his voice. Margery turns, eyes curious and assessing. There’s intelligence there, and cold calculation beneath an honest sort of concern.

“Not for the past two days, and she was supposed to come home after some meeting, I’ve been worried sick. She’s been staying with me while she handles the divorce.”

“The divorce?” Arya asks, trading a glance with Jon.

Margery frowns. “You didn’t know? Yeah, she came back to town to file for divorce, she had some lawyer friend she was talking to that she was sure she could trust, but I wasn’t so sure… I’d heard some creepy rumors about the guy but-“

Jon snags her arm, startling her. “What’s his name?”

She blinks owlishly, caught off guard, and he immediately lets her go. She purses her lips, eyes a bit cooler than before. “Petyr Baelish, some big shot corporate lawyer type. Sansa said he’d been a friend of her mom or something, but like I said, there were some gross rumors about the guy.”

“Do you know where she was going for this meeting?” Jon presses, feeling as though he might fly out of his skin.

Margery bites her lip, thinking, “She said something about Brooklyn, and she wanted to visit some café or something after...”

“Do you know the name of the café?” Arya snaps, clearly losing patience.

Margery nods and pulls a pen and paper from her purse, writing it down quickly and handing it over to Arya. “Here. A-are the police inside?”

“Yeah,” Arya says absently, and Jon can see the plan forming in her mind, the same one forming in his own. They aren’t going to wait for the police.

They turn as one to grab a cab, Jon’s thoughts a torrent of rage and desperation, and Margery grabs his arm.

“You’re Jon, aren’t you?” she asks quietly, intelligent eyes sizing him up. He nods slightly, not trusting himself to speak.

“She told me about you… I’m… I’m glad she found you,” she tells him careful, shadows behind her eyes. “Please find her.”

“I will,” he croaks, and follows Arya into a cab.

-

They narrow down their search to three office buildings near the café Margery told them about.

“We’ll start with the closest one, alright?” he says, unearthing skills he’d hoped to never need again. He knows how to hunt people down, how to find them when they don’t want to be found. He could do this. He’d do anything to protect Sansa.

Arya nods and they hurry down the street, his heart a drum beat in his chest, forcing himself to focus, to not think about all the horrible things that might already have happened to her.

They’re nearly there when Arya stops dead in her tracks, face deadly pale.

“Arya, what-“ she grabs him by the arm, fingernails biting him through his shirt, and hisses. “It’s him, Jon it’s him.”

Jon follows her gaze across the street, eyes darting, until they settle on a blaze of gold. Despite the years, Joffrey looks basically the same. Pretty, slim, well dressed. Jon's almost halfway across the street, mind cycling through the various ways he might ruin Joffrey’s pretty, scowling face, when Arya grabs him by the arm.

“Don’t,” she hisses, tugging him back, “We need to follow him.”

Jon breaths in, trembling with rage and nods, unable to speak. They wait for Joffrey to round a corner before hurrying after him. He’s easy to keep track of with his gleaming, well coifed hair.

They don’t have to follow him for long. Three blocks later he keys into a business complex and Jon dashes forward, only barely managing to catch the door with his foot. He stands paralyzed, framed in the glass doorway, but Joffrey doesn’t bother to look back. He swallows and waves Arya forward as Joffrey’s footsteps echo up the staircase.

Together they slip inside and he presses a finger to his lips and demonstrates how carefully she needs to step. Joffrey whistles too himself, some vaguely familiar tune, conveniently masking any misstep on their part as they follow after him. Near the fifteenth floor of the clearly disused build, Joffrey finally turns and steps out of the stairwell, Jon and Arya hurry the last few steps to crouch behind the door.

Carefully, Jon half stands and looks through the small window in the steel door. A nondescript and deserted hallway stares back. There are no doors and the taupe carpet is old and stained; the whole building smells of rat piss and decay.

“Jon,” Arya whispers and he turns to watch as she fishes something out of her backpack. Jon goes cold as she frees it.

“Jesus, Arya, what-” she cuts him off, shoving an H&K P30 pistol into his hands.

“It’s Gendry’s, he gave it to me.”

The gun feels like a living thing as he wraps his fingers around it, suppressing half a decade of demons in the process.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Alright, stay close to me.” He’d rather she stayed behind but knows better than to say so.

He takes a moment to steady himself, recalling skills and training he’d hoped to forget, and quietly presses the door open, easing into the hall. Voices echo up the hall, muted and indistinct behind closed doors, originating from the left fork in the hallway. He presses himself against the wall at the corner and chances a glance. Another empty hallway with a single steel door at the end. The florescent light, dirty and old, flickers faintly every few seconds. The voices have grown louder. A woman’s and a man’s –no, two men.

He’s considering his best course of action, sorting through a library of possible scenarios, when Sansa lets out a heart wrenching scream and all he can see is red.

Jon busts into the room, the door hadn’t been locked, gun in hand. Sansa is tussling on the floor with Joffrey, both of them spiting and cursing, another man is slumping against the wall on Jon’s left, leaving a bright trail of blood on the wall behind him. He looks stunned as he touches the knife embedded in his chest. Jon doesn’t spare him another thought as he tackles Joffrey to the floor, the impact dislodging the gun from his hand.

The element of surprise wears off quickly and Jon only manages to land a single, solid punch to Joffrey’s nose, blood spurting, before a fist meets his temple and they’re rolling across the floor. The little prick is stronger than he looks and Jon is out of practice. Dazed, he remembers Sansa’s face that day on the pier as she revealed all her demons to him one by one. Rage gives him strength as he rips back Joffrey’s mop of golden hair and sinks his teeth into his throat, tasting blood. Joffrey makes a high-pitched squealing sound and pushes Jon away from him.

His high-end suit is torn, blood dribbling from his nose soaking into his blue silk shirt, and his hair is standing on end. Pure, unadulterated hatred radiates from his blue eyes and his pale face is flushed and distorted, made hideous by rage.

"You fucking freak!" Joffrey hisses, pressing a hand to his neck. "I'll fucking kill you!"

The sound of a gun cocking draws both their attention.

Sansa is trembling, but not with fear, no, her eyes radiate fury and disgust as she levels the gun at Joffrey who looks utterly shocked. She has a fresh bruise on her cheek bone and there’s blood soaking the front of her once green summer dress, he knows it’s not hers, it’s likely the blood of the other man slumped motionlessly on the ground, but it’s enough to make him want to strangle Joffrey with his bare fucking hands.

The sound of approaching sirens breaks the silence as Arya steps into the room with her phone pressed to her ear, murmuring muted instructions to someone on the other end.

“Sansa,” Jon says softly, but she won’t look at him, though tears well in her eyes. “Sansa, honey, give me the gun,” he presses, taking two short steps toward her. She shakes her head, her eyes never leaving Joffrey.

“He deserves to die,” she whispers.

“I know, love, I know,” he says, reaching her side but not touching her; he can sense he shouldn’t touch her, not yet. Her hands are coated with blood and God, he knows how hard it will be to wash it all off. “He deserves to be punished, but not like this, not at any cost to you, okay?” Death, killing, it always has a cost. Always.

The sirens are blaring now as Sansa lowers her arm, tears spilling down her face. Joffrey immediately makes a break for it.

Arya began taking karate at age five, a natural brawler, and has been an avoid practitioner her entire life. She knocks Joffrey out cold before he makes it halfway across the room. She kicks him once in the face for good measure as Jon carefully pulls Sansa into his arms and the gun clatters to the floor.

She murmurs his name over and over again, burying her face in his chest as her slim body trembles with the force of her sobs. Together, they sink to the floor and he’s shaking with her; feeling as if he's coming apart at the seams. He’d come so very close to losing her. So very, very close.

He presses his face into her hair and smooths his hands up and down her back murmuring comforting nonsense, so grateful he’d made it in time, so grateful he's not alone.

-

Two years later...

Jon slams the door of the moving van shut and wipes the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

“That’s everything,” he announces and Arya breathes an exaggerated sigh of relief from below. He hops off the back of the truck with a chuckle as Bran and Rickon finish setting down the last few boxes in front of the garage; Gendry, Arya’s boyfriend, looks on from the shade of a massive oak tree sipping from a water bottle. Jon braces his hands on his hips, a light breeze cooling his face and neck, and takes in the house that had been like a second home to him.

It doesn’t look so empty and lifeless anymore, no longer a monument to everything they’d lost but something more, something better.

“It’s good to be back,” Arya murmurs, coming to stand at his side, and Jon is shocked to see tears in her eyes when he looks down at her. He’s never seen Arya cry. “This is where we belong.”

“Yeah,” Jon agrees, putting an arm around her slight shoulders. “Yeah it sure is.” It feels right, all of them begin here, here where their lives began.

She lets him half-hold her for only a few moments before shoving him off with an awkward laugh, rubbing at her eyes and sighing.

Sansa appears then at the front door, one hand on her protruding belly. “Lunch is ready! But first, I want to take a picture,” she announces, and Arya and the boys all groan.

Jon laughs and snags Rickon, almost as tall as Jon at only thirteen, tousling his curly auburn hair as he tries to escape. “Come on, don’t upset the pregnant lady.”

Arya grumbles and hands her phone off to Gendry as they all gather in front of the house that had raised them. Sansa steps to Jon’s side –waddles, really, she’s only got a few more weeks till their daughter arrives- and he feels warm and ridiculous like he always does when he looks at her. She’s beautiful even with her swollen ankles and messy hair, skin glowing and eyes bright with joy. She beams up at him as Gendry starts snapping photos, ribbing Arya for not smiling, and leans in for a kiss. Bran makes a puking noise and Arya groans, but Sansa only smiles against his lips and throws her arms around his neck.