"Oh, sweetie," Catelyn hugs her daughter like she hasn't seen her in years, and it's understandable considering that news has gotten out that her boyfriend turned out to be a murderer, though she still doesn't know Sansa lived with him.

Lady comes running to her mistress, smelling her clothes for she has detected the scent of Ghost, while from upstairs, a voice Jon can't decide is feminine or not asks Catelyn, "where is my baseball glove?"

In the kitchen a young boy is concentrating on a videogame on his laptop, the colors of the screen reflecting on his glasses. The soundtrack gives away the latest adventure of The Third Eye Raven. On the floor a little kid is pulling at his direwolf's tail, but the patient animal doesn't look like he's taking it to heart.

Sansa's home is so big it almost looks like a castle, and it's loud, to say the least.

"And you are…"

"He's my friend," Sansa says, introducing him, "Jon Snow."

A look of recognition clouds her mother's expression but she recovers quickly, inviting him in. "Please, come in Jon," she says, politely. As he walks past, she can see the giant head of a white direwolf out the window of his car.

"Can I offer you some coffee?" she asks.

"I don't wanna bother you, ma'am."

She can recognize immediately the posture and the words of a soldier. She's been married to one for almost twenty years and Jon walks inside her house the way her husband did when he was courting her.

"No bother," she says, keeping herself busy with making coffee for her guest, "You brought my daughter back. I want you to feel at home," she tells him, reminding herself of the debt she has towards this man. A man that was family to her Ned, though that family – always wearing black and always keeping secrets – has stolen time from her and she had resented them for years.

Now that the pain burns a little less, now that she can stare at his pictures without bursting into tears, she knows she was wrong, for his band of brothers were a part of him too, a part that made him the honorable man she loved.

"I was getting worried," she admits, bringing the mugs to the table where Jon sits. Sansa is ruffling her brother's hair, trying to annoy him as he plays, while Lady sits by her chair.

"When I saw the news, and you wouldn't come back home, I thought you had gotten yourself into some kind of trouble."

Cate knows she's right when she sees a look passing between her daughter and Jon. But Sansa just says "I'm fine, mom. Really," sounding sincere, and Catelyn knows that Jon Snow has helped a great deal at keeping her like that.

The front door opens again without warning, and a man enters carrying a royal blue gym bag over his shoulder, wearing the same colors, from the Winterfell national martial arts team. Jon has seen his face before, in the short pieces on sport pages.

"My little sister is back," he says, dimples showing as he smiles. A beautiful grey direwolf follows him. He has Sansa's blue eyes, and as she runs to hug him, someone laments, "I am your little sister."

"Right, right," he concedes, as a short girl walks down the stairs, wearing her baseball uniform. The young man just places a kiss on top of Sansa's head. "Affectionate, today, are we? I must be lucky. My proper princess is usually so reluctant," he comments, looking down at her though they are almost the same height. "Did you miss me?"

"Very little," she concedes feigning a great effort into doing so. He puts an arm around her shoulders and walks towards their guest to introduce himself. "I'm Robb," he says, extending his hand, "Sansa's older brother."

"He means, Sansa's perfect brother."

Robb rolls his eyes. "And she's Arya," he explains. "Words can't describe Arya."

A man could feel right at home in the Stark house.

#

"Will you—" It seems too much to ask for such a thing, too much to assume that he would want to see her again, stay in her life with something more than a few words on a note, but she can't help but ask. The heart wants what it wants. "Will you visit me when you are back?" She asks as they walk through the garden path to reach the car where Ghost is patiently waiting. Under their feet reverberates the melancholic melody of crushed leaves.

Autumn will follow wherever he goes, reminding him of Sansa's hair, of her eyes as she asked him if he would come back for her.

He's surprised by her question, wishing to attach to it meanings it probably doesn't hold, and looks hesitant to answer.

"Will Ghost come with you?" she asks, trying to fill the silence between them, trying to forget his hesitation so that maybe she will forget that he probably was trying to find a way to say goodbye without breaking her stupid heart.

Jon nods his answer, studying her face like he's trying to decide a course of action. Because autumn will follow him, but winter is coming, and maybe someone will keep her warm.

"I could…" he says, adding more only when he realizes he's not being clear at all, "…visit you, if you want. If you don't mind."

"I don't," she smiles, relieved. She could cry, and he has not promised her anything special. A visit. Kind people visit the ill and the poor, and the Gods know that Jon is nothing but kind.

"You take care of you while I'm away," he says, kissing her temple before going away, leaving her no choice but to stand there and watch him go. Praying that he'll be back safe.

As she watches from the kitchen's window, Cat knows exactly how that feels.

#

Lady is sleeping at her feet and she should in bed by now, but Sansa's mind goes back to the news. To the number of dead soldiers that are being brought home week after week and she must concentrate on something productive, something good. So she sketches, goes back to her pencils, trying not to tear the paper when her mind gets away from her.

She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath and sees him.

Not an illusion from a dream, but his silhouette outside the gates of her house. She stands at the window, palms pressed against the glass to make sure it's not just a drunkard wondering aimlessly during the night and risking hypothermia, and then rushes down while the whole house is sleeping. Throws opens the front door and runs to the gate in nothing else but pajamas and a pair of ridiculous fluffy slippers she'd be ashamed to show if it wasn't so urgent to go, so important to reach him.

She opens the gate, one hand wrapped around the metal to support her shaky knees, and looks at him like she is having a vision. She's still not sure she is not.

"Weren't you going to ring?" she asks, waiting to hear his voice and assure herself of his presence.

"I didn't want to wake you," he replies, standing still.

"Were you planning to stand here all night?" she asks again, smiling though her eyes are glossy with unshed tears.

"I don't know," he confesses "I didn't have a plan," he says, shrugging, "But I told you I would come."

"That you did," she nods.

"I came."

But it's too cold. It's winter now, and it's past midnight. There are no proper visits done at such an hour and he should have known better.

"You should go back inside, you'll catch a cold," he says, taking a step back to go back to leave, but Sansa reaches out, takes his hand and it feels like he's not been touched in years.

"Stay," she says, tugging at his arm to drag him inside. He's heavy and well built. He'd resist her easily if he wanted to, but he doesn't want to. "I'll make you a bed in the guest room, and we'll have breakfast together, tomorrow."

Her pleading eyes look at him like he could refuse her.

"You'll make me fat," Jon replies, grinning at her.

#

When he wakes up inside Sansa's house he remains in bed, listening for the noises of a waking home. There are many, but he can only concentrate on Sansa's footsteps on his ceiling. For months later, she keeps on dancing over his ceiling like on his heart. For months later, her floor is still his ceiling and he kind of likes it that way, now. Because if this is all he'll ever get, then it's okay with him.

"Good morning, Jon," Cat says amiably, as she's setting the table. His plate is already in place. Obviously, her daughter has informed her of his presence, and she's behaving like the perfect host.

"Isn't your direwolf with you?" she asks, looking around him.

"I left him with the team," he says, turning around as he hears Sansa's steps approaching. He remembers too late not to smile like an idiot and he looks down when Cat fixes her eyes on him.

The whole family reunites around the table, and everyone behaves like Jon is an integral part of it. No one questions his reasons for being there, and when he tells them he's only on a short leave and he's meant to go back to his team by the evening they are actually disappointed by the news, especially Arya and Robb. He can't begin to guess what Catelyn Stark thinks of him, but she informs him the very moment they are alone, when everyone has left for school and Sansa has gone upstairs to get her cardigan.

Cat is wearing her jacket. "I will bring Rickon to kindergarten myself," she decides, stopping to turn around and ask, "You care for my daughter?" Though actually, her words are somewhere in between an accusation and a sad statement.

"I—" he starts taken aback, "Sansa is a great girl. Very sweet… I, we are friends, ma'am and—"

"That's not what I asked, boy." No one has called him boy since puberty, and he suddenly feels like one. Like she's going to ground him for a week and take away his games because he's done something that was forbidden.

"I do, ma'am," he confesses, starkly.

#

Sansa is sitting at the table watching the steam come up from her cup, when she slowly brings up her eyes to study his chest.

"Were you hurt?" she asks. He just stares at her, unsure about what to tell her. He doesn't want to lie to her, but he doesn't want to make her worry either. Most of all, he can't tell her he's woken up from a serious injury to find Daenerys sitting beside him and it only made him miss Sansa's face to the point of making it hard to breathe.

"I saw the news. Many soldiers were killed…" she explains. "They didn't even say where the conflict was."

"It's classified," he says. If he doesn't tell her, she can think he's on a mission in the Stormlands, maybe in King's Landing. That would still be better than the Iron Isles.

"Those soldiers. Did you know them?" she asks

"It's—"

"Classified, I know," she interrupts him, frustrated.

"I'm sorry," he tries to soothe her.

"I know that, too," she replies tiredly.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come," he decides, standing up from his chair. She's young, and she has probably many suitors to pick from and he's wasting his time, sitting at his table like a dog that's waiting for a crumb to fall.

"No, please," she rushes to him, holding his hand with both her own. "I'm sorry, I know there are things you can't say. I just… I was just worried, you know." She looks him in the eyes, defenseless, dragging out his instinct to protect her like it's that easy. "I thought… I thought…" she says, unable to breathe properly, "…maybe you were dead and I would never know."

She lowers her face, like she's defeated by her own words.

"You would," he admits quietly, "I enlisted you as my emergency contact."

Her head shoots up, eyes open wide. "What?"

"If I die, they will inform you," he repeats, regretting it almost immediately. She's holding his hand but he's dragging her into his life, and he shouldn't.

"I have to go now," he decides. "Dany is coming to pick me up. She'll be here any moment," he says, slipping one arm inside his jacket, then the other.

"Is she the girl from the picture?" she asks, taking him by surprise. It takes him a long moment to put the pieces back together.

"Yes," he replies, "I told you. She's a detonation specialist."

Sansa nods, her expression blank. "She's a member of your team?"

"It's—" He stops himself before he can give her the same empty answer. "No, we work together when needed."

"You only work together?" she asks, wrapping her cardigan about herself like she's going to freeze to death.

"It's…a long story," and he doesn't have time to tell her, doesn't even know if he should.

"Will you come back?" she asks, trying not to cry. He needs to fight himself not to reach for her and brush her tears away.

"I don't think I should," he says, and a tear rolls down her cheek. And then another, and another.

"That's not what I asked, Jon," she says, angrily wiping her tears away with the heel of her hand.

"Sansa…" he starts, feeling his chest being crushed by the weight of the distance between them. "I hurt people for a living. You don't need someone like me in your life," he explains, feeling the cruelty of his own words, of his own fate. "You should have someone different, some kind of prince charming that will shower you in gifts and offer you a life without any worry."

"I had someone like that and you saw what he did to me!" she replies angrily. "If you don't want me, you can just say so and stop treating me like a stubborn child—"

"I'm not—"

"All these months, I've been waiting for you to be back, and I knew I wasn't good enough but I was so stupid. A stupid girl with stupid dreams who never learns!" she continues, turning away from him, ashamed.

Jon grabs her arms, turns her gently as she tries to hide her face from him.

"You're not," he whispers, taking her chin between her fingers. "You're not. Please, don't cry," he begs her, taking the chain from around his own neck, to slide it down around hers, pulling the material of her sweater so that the dog tags fall between her breasts.

His fingers grip her sweater, like he's tempted to tear at the fabric, to take it off of her and see his tags on her naked skin. And see his mark on his girl.

"I'll be back," he says, pressing his forehead to hers, breathing her in like the last fresh air he'll have for years.

"You promise?"

"You think I have any other choice?" Jon asks, chuckling exasperated. "I don't," he says, pulling back if only to look into her eyes, as he cups his face with both hands. "I love you," he admits, painfully, like a confession an enemy is extorting from him. "I love you," he repeats. "I don't…" before his mouth crashes down on hers, taking from her a kiss that was his own to begin with, robbing her of air and her heart, violently, like his survival was on the line and he couldn't leave her no choice, nor chance to pull back from him.

The need is throbbing in his skull, in his veins, like she has pressed a button to self-destruction and it's only the sound of his cellphone that reminds him to stop. He's got her slender body pressed against his chest and her cheeks are bright red and her eyes are darkened by want.

"I have to go," he says, almost roars at the idea.

Sansa nods her answer unable to do anything else, but hold on to his shirt and breathe him in. Feeling the hardness of his whole body as he stands there, ready to leave her.

"Will you wait for me, Sansa?" he asks, one finger wrapping around a lock of hair, entranced by their color, by the silky feel of them against his skin.

"It's not like I have any other choice," she admits, smiling before she stands, tiptoes to kiss him again.

#

Note: This has been my first and last attempt at writing for jonsa. I was actually considering deleting it altogether but for now I'm leaving it here.