Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Summary: They meet each other again, a year after the fire that tore so many lives apart, in the waiting area of the small office, struggling to find some sort of semblance of peace. Sandor Clegane just wants to forget the memories of the flames. Sansa Stark just wants to forget the memories of her past. In between, the Elder Brother reminds them what it means to live.

A/N: This one is for bestrafemich21 who deserves a HUGE ROUND OF APPLAUSE, for being a fantastic human being, holding my hand and comforting me, when I thought I would lose my mind. Darling, I don't words will ever convey how much it means to me that you have willingly entrusted me with this (please see bottom A/N for a longer explanation) and I can't thank you enough for being there for me and supporting me one hundred per cent with this.

Thank you ALL, for being fantastic and I hope you all enjoy this story! The title is the same title as the instrumental song from Industries of the Blind. SUCH. A GOOD. SONG. Also, not mine. Reviews are always appreciated and I hope you all enjoy! Any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Big parts in italics are memories.

WARNINGS: AU, PTSD, very coarse language, violence, violence against women (memories), bullying, mentions of blood, killing, arson, intimidation, political stuff (though let's be real, it's a backdrop), past abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, self-esteem issues, healing, kissing, sex, there are others that I'm missing but I will add them when I remember them. PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS.

The lights weren't that bright (but our eyes were tired)

Part 1

Every time I hear another story

Oh the poor boy lost his head

Everybody feels a little crazy

But we go on living with it

Yeah they go on living with it

I'll tell you one thing

We ain't gonna change much

The sun still rises

Even with the pain

Another Story – The Head and the Heart

He can feel the heat from the flames as he watches it blaze in front of him. His heart beats thunderously in his chest and his ears echo with the cackling of the fire. The smell of smoke chokes him, but he's entranced and terrified with the way the flames absorb the once large and brilliant house before him.

There's a burst, a small little explosion and instinctively he covers his face, his blood pounding through his veins and suddenly, the fire grows in its intensity.

"Did you see that?!" Joffrey cackles.

Sandor looks over at him and sees the way his face is twisted in a sadistic grin and he feels his stomach bottom out. His breath becomes labored and suddenly, all he can think about is when his brother grabbed his head and put his face to the flames. All he can remember is the smell of burning flesh and the pain that radiated through his body. All he can remember, all that he can see, all that haunts him, is the sound of his brother's manic laugh as he squeezed him tighter and held his face in the fire longer. (He doesn't remember passing out, but he does remember thinking that he's dying and oddly, even at that young of an age, he welcomed death like a long lost friend.)

"What do you think, Hound? Is the fire as great as you remember it?"

He doesn't say anything, just watches as the house burns (the house he set aflame.) He looks around, his eyes stopping at Blount and Trant and then on Joffrey who is watching the scene with glee and he turns around, walking the opposite way of them (away from the flames that threaten to consume him.) "Dog!" He hears Joffrey shriek. "Dog! Get back here! You chicken shit! You're fired! You hear me? You're fucking fired! I'll kill you!"

He hears the sirens (too little too late, it's always too late too late) as he makes his way away from the burning house and he looks at the people peeking through their blinds, their eyes transfixed on the flames.

He can still feel the heat of the flames when he gets back to his apartment and no amount of alcohol helps ease the ache, helps ease the pain of being burned alive.

Sandor wakes with a start, an alarm blaring to his left. He lifts an arm and silences it, running his hand over his face and yawning. He swings his legs over the edge of his bed and stretches, cracking his neck, turning it left and then right. Taking a deep breath, he gets up and walks to the bathroom.

It's still dark out, the sun just starting to peak over the horizon and Sandor knows by the time he leaves his apartment, the sky will be tinged with pink. He grips the broken porcelain sink and splashes cold water on his face, brushing his teeth and avoiding the mirror (he's become a multi-tasker, had to become one, since his brother decided to scar him for life.)

It doesn't take him long to finish his morning routine and he walks into the kitchen, flipping on the television grabbing a box of cereal from the cabinet and milk from the fridge. He has a spoon halfway to his mouth when his eyes catch a familiar face on television.

"Stannis Baratheon, the late Senator Robert Baratheon's eldest brother, victim of a vicious arson attack by unknown perpetrators, has released a statement, stating that he will not give in to the bullying and that he will continue to run for Senate against late Senator Baratheon's eldest son, Joffrey. It's been well documented that there is no love lost between the Baratheon siblings and it seems to be escalating to uncle and nephew. More will follow the progression of the Baratheon power struggle for a seat in the Senate."

Suddenly, the cereal in his mouth tastes like ash and he leaves the bowl on the kitchen counter, grabbing his keys and leaving his apartment, shutting the television off on his way out.

(It doesn't help; he still sees their faces, still hears the cackling and roaring of the fire, still feels the heat of the flames. He doesn't realize he's shaking until he gets to his truck and struggles to put the keys in the ignition. He gives up and leans against his seat, taking in deep breaths, until he thinks he can finally breathe again.)

Jorah Mormont is a friend of his from when they were younger and in a fit of desperation, when he's finally out of a job and has no way to support himself, he calls him and asks him if he knows of anything, anything at all.

The other man is quiet on the line, until he finally lets out a breath. "Did you quit or were you fired?" He asks him.

"What does that have to do with fuck all?" Sandor explodes, his fury tightening in his chest, flames dancing before his eyes.

Jorah falls silent again after his outburst and then he sighs, "the Baratheon fire…that was you, wasn't it?"

Sandor feels the pit of his stomach churn with bile and he looks away, pulls the phone from his ear and sucks in a deep breath. It's only because Jorah has been there for him for years, it's only because when Jorah's wife left him for someone younger, someone richer, Sandor offered his couch until he got himself on his feet and away from the whispers that seemed to follow his every move. It's only because Jorah has never, not once, judged him for what he's done, what he's become and understands the turmoil and fear and anxiety, silently eating away at his soul, that he confesses the truth, because he knows Jorah and he knows that Jorah won't say a fucking word. "Yeah. It was me. I left. Too little too late, but I left."

Jorah lets out a breath and Sandor can imagine him running a hand through his thinning hair. "`Bout fucking time." He says honestly. "I'll see what I can get you at the construction company. You're a big guy. I'll vouch for you. I'm not making any promises, but I'll see what I can do."

They hang up after that, the thank you unsaid, but both of them know it's there.

(The next morning he has an interview with Daenerys Targaryen, CEO of K.D. Construction. She asks him few questions and he answers plainly, bluntly and she laughs, and hires him on the spot. Before he leaves, she holds up her hand and looks at him, eyes straying to his mass of gnarled flesh. Her expression morphs to one of empathy and to a certain degree pity and he wants to spit at her feet and tell her that he doesn't need pity, and wonders idly what Jorah has told her about him. "You have a kind soul, Mr. Clegane. Broken and burned but kind. I think you'll fit in just fine." He wants to tell her to drop the Mr. that he's never been the type for titles, but he just nods and leaves the office, fists shaking.)

"You're here early." Jorah comments, as he walks into the work trailer that he, Jorah and Bronn share.

"Gotta leave early." Sandor grunts, as he looks over schedules and plans.

Jorah nods and clears his throat, "how's that…how's it going?"

Sandor lifts his head and stares at him until Jorah shakes his head, stifling a laugh and holding his hands up in mock surrender. "I'm just trying to look after you. Returning the favor and all that."

Sandor doesn't bother to tell him that the favor has been repaid a thousand times over ever since Jorah helped him land this job.

K.D. Construction has been good to him. He enjoys working with his hands, using them for things other than intimidation and murder. He enjoys the callousness and roughness of his hands, and for the most part, he likes the people he works with. Most of the younger men and women don't bother him much and listen to him when he tells them to do something. They're all terrified of him, terrified of his scars and the way he snarls and snaps but Sandor thinks it's better to put the fear of God into them than be soft and kind.

(He knows where being soft and kind gets people, it gets them beaten bloodied and bruised and all too soon, his mind wanders to his memories of a young woman with hair the color of fire and eyes the color of a summer's clear sky and he remembers her cries and her pleas but most of all, he remembers doing nothing when her eyes sought out his and silently begged him to end her suffering. To help her.)

"`-dor. Hello? Sandor? Jesus fuck, are you hung-over?" Bronn asks, snapping his fingers in front of his face.

"Bronn," Sandor rasps, jolting out of his memory, "if you don't get your fucking fingers out of my face, I'm going to fucking break them."

Bronn rolls his eyes and walks around to his own desk, settling into his chair and putting his feet on the desk, leaning back, with his hands behind his head. "I've only been calling your name for the last five minutes."

"Thirty seconds." Jorah corrects as he types something on the computer.

"Whatever. Anyways, have we heard anything on that development build?"

Jorah shakes his head. "Should hear by the end of the week, beginning of next week, I think." He sighs, flipping through papers, "Sandor, do you-"

"They'll have it done by today, or if something goes to complete and utter shit, tomorrow by lunch. I've drilled it in them that we have a timeline and we're making pretty good time."

Bronn lets out a laugh, "those kids are fucking terrified of you."

Sandor stands up and rolls his shoulders, swiping Bronn's feet off the desk roughly and causing him into stumble in the desk, a curse falling from his lips. "At least I get shit done."

"I get shit done!" Bronn hollers as Sandor leaves the trailer.

"No, you don't." Jorah answers.

He lets the door slam shut behind him, breathing in crisp air. The sky has lost its pinkness and the clouds have parted, the sun already shining and Sandor knows the heat will get to them later on. He knows that he'll be cranky and his temper will be foul, but for now, he lets his eyes wander and he stares at the small group of people anxiously waiting for him.

"Alright you little shits," he calls out, his voice rumbling, "We've got a lot of work to do."

(As they all scurry about their jobs, coming up to Sandor, asking questions and informing him on progress, he almost, almost, forgets about his past and present and what seems like a bleak future.)

The receptionist when he walks in nods at him and points to an empty chair, as she chats into the phone. She can barely stand to look at him for more than a few seconds (he finds that hardly anyone can stare at him for longer than a few seconds, just long enough for the horror to sink in and then they look away, only to look back again in morbid fascination. He snaps at people who do that and on more than one occasion he's made people cry. He refuses to feel bad about it.)

The door opens and a man he's never seen before comes out, Kleenex gripped tightly in his hands and he leaves, head bowed, not looking at anyone.

An older man pops his head around the doorframe and smiles warmly at Sandor. "Sandor, come in. Come in."

He doesn't spare a glance to the receptionist and instead, shuts the door behind him as he enters the room.

"How have you been, Sandor?" The Elder Brother asks him.

When he's younger, long after accepting his face would never be the same, his father takes him to an old friend, a monk with a doctorate in psychiatry. "You think I'm crazy?" Sandor asks his father.

His father shakes his head, "no. I just think you're angry."

He stays silent for three sessions with the man his father calls the Elder Brother and the man for his part, doesn't say anything. Just stares back at him, no judgment on his face. On his fourth session, Sandor takes a seat on the leather couch and blows out a breath, hair flying in his face. "My brother burned half my face off."

"You're brother is deeply disturbed."

"He's a fucking psycho."

It's raining on his last session with the Elder Brother. "I'm ready."

The Elder Brother doesn't agree nor disagree. "I'm always here for you Sandor."

(Which is why, when he's one drink shy of alcohol poisoning, decades and some odd years later, he dials a distant but always present number and waits for him to pick up. "I wasn't ready." Sandor slurs. "I don't think I was ever ready." The Elder Brother gives him an appointment the next afternoon and he's been going to him since.)

"Working." Sandor grunts, folding his hands and leaning against the leather couch.

"How is the job?"

"Good. It's good. Jorah and Bronn are good men to work with."

"You've known them for quite some time, correct?" The Elder Brother asks.

"Jorah since I was a kid and Bronn, for about seven years."

"You trust them, then."

"I don't trust anyone."

The Elder Brother nods and looks at him, head cocking to the side and expression unreadable. It sometimes unnerves him, how he can't read the Elder Brother's expressions. He's always been able to read people before. He's always able to fish out a lie and the good from the bad (previous employees not withstanding, he thinks to himself.) But for a long time, Sandor has never been able to fully trust anyone. It's not a family trait, not trusting other people.

(The last person to trust someone in his family was his younger sister and she trusted that Gregor wouldn't hurt her. "We're family and he wouldn't hurt me. Not really." She was right. Gregor didn't hurt her. Instead, he killed her.)

"I watched the news today." The Elder Brother says conversationally. The double meaning behind his statement is blatant.

"Yeah? I did too." He thinks this is why he likes the Elder Brother. Where others skirt around the topic of the Baratheon's and anything that has to do with his past life, the Elder Brother meets him head on. He doesn't hide behind anything, doesn't try to baby him, doesn't try to avoid the demons that Sandor keeps hidden and locked away.

"What first came to your mind when you saw him on television?"

Honestly? He remembers wishing that Gregor had killed him that day, so long ago. He remembers wishing that Stannis would beat the shit out of him, because Sandor knows, he knows, that Stannis knows who was behind the burning of his house. He remembers wishing that Stannis had kept out of politics. He remembers wishing he never took that fucking job with the Baratheon's. He remembers wishing the floor would swallow him whole.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees and looks at the Elder Brother, "I remember thinking, I hope he beats that little shit Joffrey."

(He remembers wishing that as well. But most of all, he remembers wishing that he would stop being haunted by fire and flames. He's been burned enough for one lifetime.)

When he walks back into the waiting area, he stops dead in his tracks, his eyes landing on a young woman with familiar red hair (the color of fire) and blue eyes (the color of a summer's clear sky.) She's biting her lip (a habit he knows she has whenever she's anxious) and wringing her hands, legs crossed at the ankles.

She's wearing a long, light pink dress and a jean jacket thrown on top and his chest constricts when she looks up, startled at the sound of the door opening. Her eyes land on him and widen in surprise, mouth falling open. She doesn't break eye contact with him and she lifts her hand, long, slim fingers twitching in half a wave.

He can feel the Elder Brother behind him and he peers around his side. "I'll be with you in a moment, Sansa."

She smiles and it's bright, but forced, "that's alright." She chirps, her voice soft and just as he remembers it. "I can wait."

Fuck. Didn't she just cross his mind today? Albeit, he'll admit to himself that she generally always crosses his mind, at least once a day, but today, today, he let his memory roam, trying to remember the disintegrating image he has of her. (His memory doesn't do her justice. She's more beautiful than he remembers.)

He walks over to the receptionist, aware of her eyes following him, as he books another appointment. He thinks that he should leave. Just leave and never come back. God. Fuck. It's been what? Ten months? A year? Since he last saw the Stark girl? The last he heard, she went back north to visit her older brother and cousin and he remembers thinking, good for her. The little bird got away.

Only for the stupid girl to come back.

He turns around to leave, trying to erase her from his thoughts, and his hand is on the doorknob, so close to being free and leaving her oppressive presence when he feels a small hand on his bicep. He looks down and the first thing he sees are nails painted a light pink and long thin fingers, attached to an unblemished hand. (Her hand doesn't belong on him. It looks wrong. Where her hand is pale, his arm is tanned from being outside all day. Where her hand is soft, his entire body is hard, full of rough and pointy edges. Where she's beautiful, he's a monster and broken…but then, he supposes, she's a little broken too.)

She opens her mouth to say something, when the Elder Brother sticks his head out. "Sansa? I'm ready. Are you?"

Her face falls and a sort of desperation floods her blue eyes and he recognizes the fear in them. Her hand tightens around his arm and she looks up at him. "Stay." She blurts out. "Please." She adds politely. She's always been so polite. Even when they were beating her black and blue ("please," she begs, "please, stop. I'm sorry. Just please stop.")

He should shrug off her hand. He should leave and never come back. He should tell her that he's not someone she should be around because after everything she's been through, he's the last person she should be around. He should snarl and snap at her like he used to when they first met and she was an impressionable young girl, in love with evil incarnate masking as a young golden haired boy.

But he doesn't do any of that; because he remembers seeing her eyes flood with fear and despair. He remembers wiping away blood from her split lips and telling her softly to go along with what Joffrey says (it'll be easier one you, he remembers telling her, just tell him what he wants to hear.) He remembers the small smiles and how she would sometimes defy Joffrey and rise with fierceness until he had it beat out of her and into submission. Instead, when he opens his mouth, Sandor Clegane damns them both to deepest pit of hell, and says, "okay."

She smiles a relieved little smile at him, squeezes his arm for reassurance once more and then turns around, walking into the room, giving him one last look before the door closes and hides her away from him.

(He was never able to say no to Sansa Stark. This, he knows, will be his downfall.)

So, this is the first part to a ten-part story. I hope you all enjoyed!

A little history to how this story came about: I was surfing the SanSan tag on tumblr when I came across bestrafemich21 post, "In relation to my last post, I am now consumed with the idea of a fic in which Sandor stopped going to therapy in his late teens but after accompanying Joffrey to burn down Stannis's mansion, his PTSD is badly triggered and he quits working for the Lannister's and starts seeing a therapist again. One day he walks into the waiting room and sees Sansa sitting there. The last time they saw each other was a year earlier on the night of the fire, after which she broke up with Joff. They end up going for coffee and he discovers that she's just started therapy to deal with the effects of Joffrey's abuse. And as they walk their own personal roads to mental health they become increasingly close and….you see where I'm going here." This of course had my wheels turning and churning and then I finally got the courage to ask bestrafemich21 if I could have the honor and permission to write a story based on this and WAM-BAM, this story came along!

So, it is very very AU and has a whole bunch of characters, and it will be switching from PoV, Sandor and then Sansa, etc…, for every chapter. Geographically, speaking, I'm picturing this in California, except you know, with this world we seem to love so much, hehe. If anything seems confusing or unclear, please let me know and I'll hopefully explain it! Obviously, there are some blanks because we've just got Sandor's side, more will reveal itself on the way!

I just want to thank you all so so so much for everything and all the support and love and just, you GUYS ARE AWESOME. SO SO AWESOME.

Again, any mistakes are mine and mine alone and I apologize if they offend anyone.

MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,

BB