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When he startles awake, blinking harshly in the light, the first thing he does is check to make sure his mask is still in place. He feels the edge of the leather running across the bridge of his nose and sighs out a breath of relief.
Fuck. It feels like a fire in his lungs.
And that’s only his chest. The rest of him feels pretty shitty too. He grips the back of the couch, heaving himself into a sitting position, tells himself that it hurts less this way, but he’s knows the grimace on his face betrays the lie.
“I wouldn’t move, if I were you.”
He glances up, surprised.
Sansa is curled up in one of the plush chairs she’d made him and Robb move three times before she was satisfied. Her knees are tucked close to her chest and she’s staring at him, her face a mix of trepidation and weariness. He checks his mask again.
“I didn’t peek, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she says.
Neither she, nor Robb, knows that he spends his nights jumping off of rooftops and beating the shit out of criminals. She thinks he’s just the mild-mannered lawyer, her brother’s best friend, who, according to her, never eats enough or goes out enough, despite her singularly determined efforts. He shudders at the kind of monster she’d think him if she knew.
“I know who you are,” she breathes, and for a moment, his stomach drops. “You’re the Wolf of Winterfell.”
He doesn’t deny it, though he’s not exactly fond of the nickname the city has bestowed upon him.
“You saved my life.”
He remembers that night vividly, every time he looks at her: Ramsay Bolton’s hired knife cornering her in an alley, her muffled screams as she’d tried to run, to fight; the blood when he’d beaten the man’s face in; the look of horror on her face as she’d watched him kill someone right in front of her. He can see it now, as she sits across from him.
“And then you disappeared before I could thank you,” she adds, and there’s an indignant edge to it that he recognizes.
“I didn’t need thanks,” he mutters, pitching his voice lower.
She unfolds herself from the chair, leans toward him, though he’s not sure if it’s to try and catch his voice or something else. She’s always had a way about seeing into a person that’s unnerved him as much being Jon Snow as it does now being the Wolf of Winterfell.
“I thought about letting you die,” she admits, guilt flaring up in her eyes.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had,” he replies.
She knows only the barest edge of the terrible things he's done. But even with that alone, he’s surprised she didn’t just let him bleed to death when she found him. He has no idea what drove him to the alley outside her flat. Perhaps somewhere in the haze of pain and blood, he knew that she was probably the only person in the city who would have helped him. Or maybe he’d just wanted to see her once more before he died.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No, I actually think you’re helping this city. In your own way.”
In blood.
He can’t stand to hear her defend it, doesn’t want to taint her tongue with the justification of his sins. He pushes to his feet and sways dangerously. She’s next to him before he can wave her off, one hand on the center of his back, the other wrapped around his wrist, steadying him.
“Hey,” she warns, “you’re bleeding all over my carpet, which is still fairing significantly better than my couch, so maybe you could sit back down before I have to replace every piece of furniture in my flat. Besides, an hour ago, you were lying in the alley, half-dead. I don’t think you should be rushing out of here.”
“I’ve got to go,” he tries, but it comes out as a groan and he’s not strong enough to push Sansa away.
“You’ve got to sit down and let me check your stitches again,” she retorts, guiding him back toward the couch.
Once she’s certain he’s not going to try to escape, she disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a first aid box and her sewing kit, kneeling on the floor in front of him.
Without hesitation, she reaches for the edge of his shirt, tugging it upwards, and he sucks in a breath. It’s more from the surprise of Sansa touching him with such casual intimacy than anything else, but it occurs to him that she's already had a look at his chest tonight. She's had her hands on his skin and in his blood; touching him again now is hardly something to give thought to.
“Sorry,” she says softly, hands fluttering, thinking she’d caused him pain.
“It’s okay,” he assures.
He stares at the top of her head as she peels back his bandages, one by one. He’ll have a few new scars, he notes, and a dozen more bruises over the old, yellowed, fading ones. She finds the stitch he’s torn through, wipes away the fresh blood, and sews him back together. A clean bandage replaces the soiled one and, after another moment, she’s declaring him fit for duty.
“All set to go beat up more bad guys,” she announces with a grim smile.
“Thank you,” he says, examining her work, “It looks good.”
She shrugs, tucking things back in her first aid kit, “I always liked sewing.”
He knows. He remembers her sitting for hours, carefully picking needle and thread in delicate, precise lines. She’d made her own senior prom dress. It’s hard to rectify that memory with the woman standing before him now, wiping his blood off her hands and looking completely unbothered by it all.
“I have to go,” he says again, getting back to his feet. This time, the room only blurs for a moment, and he’s able to catch himself before she notices. He takes a few steps toward the door when she speaks again, tentative.
“You could come back, you know. if you ever need to.”
If he’s cut and bruised and dying again, she means. Some small part of him – the part that desperately wants to pull the mask from his face and show her the truth of him – clings to her words; wants to assure her that he will be back, that he trusts her to take care of him when he’s like this.
But he can’t drag her into this world he’s created for himself. He won’t risk her, won’t corrupt the purity of her. Sometimes, when he’s more darkness than anything else, she’s the only thing that makes him feel human again. He’ll do everything in his power to keep that bright spot of her alive and shining.
So he won’t come back. Not as the Wolf of Winterfell, anyway.
“Be careful, Miss Stark,” he murmurs over his shoulder. “Ramsay Bolton is a dangerous man.”
He doesn’t wait to hear her startled words, to ask him how he knows she’s been looking into Bolton. She’d told Jon Snow, after all, not the Wolf.
He lets the night swallow him, leaving Sansa standing alone in the light of her flat.