Hot Coffee Part 35

[tamoline]

Title: Hot Coffee Part 35
Author:Louisa
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Pairing: Sansa/Daenerys

Author's note:

Apologies for the delay posting this. I'm afraid the update schedule may continue to be erratic for a little while longer, but I definitely haven't abandoned this story. Thanks for bearing with me.

It doesn’t take long for us to get my bags stowed and get under way. By the time we’re thoroughly enmeshed in the city-centre’s stutter-stop one-way system, I’ve found out that Talisa is a medical doctor, that her father’s Italian - her family lived in Italy for a while - and that she really, *really* dislikes being cold. The last point is definitely something we can bond over. What I haven’t yet discovered, however, is the thing I want to know most of all…

“So, how did you two meet?” I blurt out, leaning forward a little in the back seat so I can look from one of them to the other. They exchange a fond look. Well, mostly fond. There’s something else there, perhaps, something almost… cautious?

“Do you want to tell it, or should I?” Rob asks.

“You start,” Talisa decides. “I’ll chip in if necessary.”

He considers for a moment, and then smiles.

“We met at the bank,” he says.

I blink. “Oh.” That’s… not quite the romantic answer I was hoping for.

Talisa makes a disgusted noise. “Take all the fun out of it, why don’t you?”

“You told me to start,” he points out. “But fine. Okay.” His gaze meets mine in the rear-view mirror, briefly, and he grins. “You know I’ve been meeting with the bank to discuss finance options for the Retreat?” I nod, wondering if that means they’re definitely going ahead with it. If so, I wonder how he finally convinced Mum. Or if he’s just decided to press on anyway…  “Well, when I turned up for an appointment one day, there was a group of…” He gives Talisa a sidelong glance. “*Idiots* protesting outside it.”

Talisa rolls her eyes. “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘socially conscious individuals’. That bank is involved in some seriously unethical shenanigans. And they’re not going to stop unless someone makes them stop.”

“As I said: idiots.” She thumps him on the arm, eliciting a loud: “Ow! Not while I’m driving.”

Her eyes lighting up as if he’s just given her a gift, she swiftly retorts: “So, I should wait until afterwards?” Her voice does that *thing* again, turning low and sultry and se- and my face could abruptly put a tomato to shame. I can see it in the mirror before I look out of the window, down at my feet; anywhere but at my brother and his girlfriend. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Talisa!” Rob’s exclamation sounds a little strangled; like he can’t decide whether to be amused, horrified, or… something else. I might find it funny if I wasn’t so *very* embarrassed.

Talisa laughs; a low, musical sound. (For some reason, even though their voices are nothing alike, I find myself remembering the sound of Daenerys’ laughter. I wonder what she’s doing right now? I wonder if she got all her errands done. I hope I didn’t delay her too much.)

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry in the slightest. Something tells me that this woman knows how to keep my brother on his toes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so discombobulated. But he somehow claws back his composure and gives her something approximating a stern look. She mimes zipping her lips closed and gestures for him to continue.

If she’s aiming for ‘demure,’ the wicked glint in her eyes rather spoils the effect. But she does remain silent and, after a moment or two - and an arched eyebrow for good measure - Rob continues with his story.

“As I was saying, I needed to get to my appointment, but these… *individuals* were cluttering up the pavement outside it, blocking the entrance. So I politely asked them to move out of the way.”

“Politely?!” Apparently Talisa’s period of silence has come to an end. She twists around in her seat so she can meet my eyes, barely containing her mirth. “You should have seen him; issuing orders left, right and centre like little Lord Fauntleroy. It was pretty obnoxious.” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper, winking at me mock-conspiratorially. “Also kind of hot. But that’s beside the point.”

“*Not* appropriate, Talisa! Really not appropriate. Sansa’s my *sister*.” Too startled to voice my own protest, I silently agree with Rob. For her part, Talisa shrugs unrepentantly.

“Then be thankful I didn’t say it to your mother.”

Oh god.

“Please don’t,” Rob says in a faint voice. If he wasn’t driving, I suspect he’d be clutching his head in his hands. As it is, he merely tightens his grip on the steering wheel a little.

“It’s not at the top of my list of things to do, don’t worry,” she says lightly.

“Oh. Good.” That doesn’t seem to reassure him all that much. He hurries on with his story as if filling the air words can head off any further embarrassing interjections. From what I’ve seen so far… I don’t rate his chances very highly. “Anyway, the protestors didn’t take kindly to being politely asked to step aside.” Talisa rolls her eyes, but forbears to comment. “Some of them objected. Loudly. Especially their erstwhile leader.” Now it’s Rob’s turn to lower his voice mock-conspiratorially. “Just between you and me, she was a real firebrand.”

I can’t help glancing over at Talisa to see what she thinks of that description. From the small smile on her lips, I think it’s fair to say she isn’t displeased.

It suddenly occurs to me to wonder how long ago this was. I mean, it can’t have been much before the start of term, and may even have been after that. Which means they can’t have been together all *that* long. And yet, if I didn’t know better, I’d think they were an old, married couple who’d spent most of their lives together.

I guess that’s what happens when you meet your true love.

(I wonder if that what’s going to happen with me and Margaery.)

“There was a little bit of back and forth,” Rob continues. “And by the time I managed to make it inside, I was running late for my appointment. Not by much, but…” He grimaces. “Honestly, though, I’m not sure if it would have made much difference if I’d been there an hour early. The meeting… didn’t go well.” That piques my interest almost enough to press for more details - to ask what that means for the Winterfell development project - but I hold my tongue. I can always ask him about it later. For now, I’m much more interested in hearing the details of *their* story. Fortunately, Rob continues without prompting. “When I came back out, I was perhaps not in the best of moods.”

“Understatement and a half,” Talisa murmurs. “I think what you meant to say is, you were so pissed off, you practically had storm clouds hovering over your head.”

“I think you’re exaggerating.”

“You might very well think that. But you’d be wrong.”

“Because yours is the unbiased voice of reason, is it?” he says, the words rich with unvoiced laughter.

Talisa grins. “Just so. Glad to see you’re admitting it at long last. Now, could I please have that in writing?”

I glance from one of them to the other, feeling not unlike a spectator at a tennis match. I haven’t really seen this side of Rob before. He seems relaxed, almost playful. For all his playacting at being haughty and offended, he actually seems to be enjoying her teasing. And, from the looks of her, I’d say the feeling’s mutual.

(I don’t think I’ve seen him so lighthearted since before Dad…)

I think Talisa must be good for him.

I think *love* must be good for him.

(I wonder if that’s why I’m so much more confident these days. True love is a powerful force indeed…)

“Anyway,” Rob says. “The protestors were still standing outside, cluttering up the pavement, and as I once more struggled to get past them, I somehow found myself stopping to give them a piece of my mind. We, ah, ended up arguing for a while.”

“It was fun,” Talisa adds. She gives Rob a sidelong glance. “Even if his assumptions *were* utterly and completely flawed.”

“It *was* fun,” he says, sounding surprised. His voice takes on a sly, mischievous note as he continues. “Even if the holes in her logic were large enough to drive a lorry through.”

“Just because you refuse to follow the steps, that doesn’t mean the conclusions are unsound.”

“Well, just because you don’t agree with an assumption, that doesn’t make it wrong.”

The silence persists for a moment or two, and it should be tense - should be positively *fraught* with tension judging by the words alone. And yet it… isn’t. This whole argument feels… fond. Familiar; like a comfortable routine. Like there’s no real bite to it.

“Let’s agree to disagree, shall we?” Talisa says, eventually.

“Don’t we always?” Rob’s tone is wry, and the two of them exchange a quick smile.

“So, what happened then?” I ask, when neither of them shows any signs of picking up the thread of the tale. Because they can’t just leave it there. That doesn’t tell me *anything*!

“To cut a long story short,” Rob begins.

“Too late!” Talisa quickly interjects.

“We argued for a while, but somewhere along the way it became more of a debate. After starting off on completely the wrong foot, I guess we managed to reach some sort of… detente?”

“That’s as good a word as any, I suppose.” There’s a sly edge to her amusement, like she and Rob are sharing some kind of secret joke. I suppose that’s what couples do, though. Isn’t it?

“So when Talisa and her activist friends decided to call it quits for the day, she invited me to join them in the pub.” He twitches his shoulders in the closest thing to a shrug he can manage while driving. “I didn’t have anywhere in particular to be right then, so I said yes.” He laughs suddenly. “Although I didn’t half feel out of place in my suit and tie.”

“You certainly stood out from the crowd,” Talisa murmurs, sounding… not displeased. No, something more than that. Appreciative? And… let’s stop that train of thought right there.

“Anyway, that’s pretty much the whole story. We exchanged contact details, kept in touch, and now here we are.”

I blink, caught a little off-guard by the abruptness of Rob’s last words. That’s it? I don’t think so. There *has* to be more to it than that. Doesn’t there?

“Which one of you called first?” I ask. “Or texted, or whatever.” All in all, I think that’s a pretty darn tactful way of asking who made the first move. I could honestly see it going either way. Rob’s never particularly been hesitant about expressing himself, but then Talisa *definitely* doesn’t seem at all backwards about coming forwards.

I don’t know which way would be more interesting.

“I don’t-“  Rob starts to say, but Talisa speaks over him, looking like she’s struggling not to simply collapse into gales of laughter.

“Rob called me,” she says. Her teeth show white against her tanned skin as she suddenly flashes me a broad, brilliant smile. “He had to,” she adds, her voice shaking a little as the laughter starts to break free. “After all, he’d left his very expensive silk tie in my bedroom.”

“Talisa!” Rob practically barks her name - well, as near to it as he can; I’m not sure it’s possible to make such a musical name sound even remotely harsh - but rather than quelling her mirth, his stern tone apparently only serves to make her laugh harder. I’m fascinated to notice that the tips of my brother’s ears are turning very, very red indeed. So he *does* blush! It’s not just me! That is certainly an interesting thing to know. But I don’t know why he’s so embarrassed about leaving his tie…

In…

Talisa’s…

Oh.

*Oh.*

Okay, now *I’m* blushing.

“What?” Talisa asks Rob unselfconsciously, apparently oblivious to the twin thermonuclear reactions that seem to be occurring in my cheeks right now. “Sansa’s a big girl. I doubt I’m going to have to break out the smelling salts. Isn’t that right, Sansa? You’re not going to swoon, are you?”

“Um, no?” Don’t think about it. Just don’t think about it. Change the subject. Think about something else; *anything* else. Like, um… “I might just freeze solid, though. Rob can you turn the heating up a little, please?”

“Certainly,” he says, his own relief practically a palpable force.

“He always turns it down,” Talisa confides, pursing her lips in disapproval. “And the car had just warmed up nicely, too.”

That would explain why the temperature in here has dropped from ‘wonderfully toasty’ to ‘polar bears would call it a bit nippy’ over the course of our journey.

“It’s not that cold,” Rob mutters.

“Yes, it is!” Talisa and I both speak in unison, then look at each other and laugh.

I start to relax a little, the crisis apparently averted.

“And your house is *very* draughty,” Talisa continues, disapprovingly. “It’s not insulated at all well. I dread to think how much energy is wasted trying to heat it.”

“We are working on that, trust me,” Rob says, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice as he adds: “But it’s a very old building. Bringing it up to modern standards isn’t exactly easy. Or cheap.”

“I know you’re working hard,” Talisa says sympathetically, lightly touching his knee. “You and your mother, and all the Starks before you. And what your family has achieved is nothing short of remarkable.” She gives a lopsided smile. “Don’t mind me. I just miss having you to warm my bed.”

If I was drinking anything right now, it would have ended up decorating the pair of them.

“Talisa!” The word sounds like it emerges through gritted teeth. I sneak a glance at Rob’s face in the mirror and, sure enough, the expression on his face looks sort of… clenched. Like a fist. Like there’s a thousand and one things he wants to say, and it’s only by some herculean effort that he’s keeping them locked away behind his lips.

And… also like he doesn’t know whether to laugh, cringe or facepalm. At least, I assume that’s what it means. God only knows *I’m* certainly torn on that one right now.

But Talisa just gives him a fond - and maybe somewhat mischievous - smile, and turns to me as if confiding some secret.

“Your mother’s rule,” she tells me, sounding faintly irritated. “Apparently unmarried couples are not permitted to share a bed while under her roof. Or even a room!” She rounds on Rob again suddenly. “It’s really *most* inconvenient,” she murmurs, with a hint of reproach in her voice. Like he’s going to be able to go against Mum on this one. Even though Winterfell is, technically, *his* house now. (Although I suspect it’ll be a cold day in hell before any of us, even Rob - maybe even *especially* Rob - point that one out to mother dearest. I wince mentally just at the thought of it.)

“It’s just for a little while longer,” he says softly, and there’s something in his voice; in the look they share… There are *levels* to this conversation, and I can’t shake the feeling that they’re not just talking about the room thing.

What am I missing here?

“So it is,” Talisa says. She touches him lightly, fingers brushing over his arm like an apology, or a promise. Secrets lurk like shadows in her eyes before being banished by the brilliance of the smile she bestows on us both. “Perhaps I will stop tormenting Rob for the moment.”

“I thought that was your new hobby,” Rob says lightly, visibly relaxing at the change in subject.

“Oh, it is,” she assures him, mock-solemnly. “But I thought I’d take pity on you. It is nearly Christmas, after all.” She focuses her attention on me. “So, Sansa: tell me about yourself.”

“Me?” I really hope my eyes aren’t as wide as they feel right now. I manage to scrape together something like a light, noncommittal laugh. “There really isn’t that much to tell.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” she says, her voice warm enough to take any possible sting out of her words. “I’m afraid your brother has been simply terrible about answering my questions regarding his family.” Rob looks like he wants to say something but, perhaps wisely, holds his peace. “Assume I know practically nothing about you.”

“Oh, um, okay.” Naturally, that’s when my mind goes completely blank. What do I say? What should I tell her? What kind of things would she like to know? What would *I* want to know about me, if I was her?

Why is this so hard?

Apropos of nothing, I see Daenerys smiling at me, telling me that she believes in me, and I suddenly find myself sitting a little straighter in my seat. I return Talisa’s smile.

“I’m a first year student at Nottingham University,” I begin, and as I continue to tell her about myself - about my studies and my hobbies - I realise that I was wrong.

This isn’t hard at all.

*  *  *  *  *

During a natural lull in the conversation, I glance out of the window to realise with a start that we’re almost home! When did *that* happen? As we approach the turn-off onto the last public road before we get to the winding private drive-way that leads up to the main house, I find the questions bubbling up inside me until they overflow, spilling from my lips in a veritable torrent of words.

“So, how is everyone? Did Mum manage to sort out the problems with the construction company? Is Arya still practicing her fencing in ridiculous places? Did Bran decide whether or not he’s going to enter that riding competition? Has Rickon bitten anyone else since lately? What’s Jon been up to? He still hasn’t replied to my last e-mail, but I guess he must be busy. Did he bring anyone back with him for the holidays? Are Uncle Ed and Great-Uncle Blackfish here yet? How-“

“Steady on, Sansa,” Rob says, grinning. “Take a breath before you explode.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, my face heating.

He chuckles. “We’re going to be there in a few minutes. You’ll be able to see for yourself.”

“I know, but…” I sigh. “Humour me?”

“Alright,” he says, sounding fondly amused. “Let’s see…” He considers for a moment. “Everyone’s generally fine. Rickon hasn’t bitten anyone else, but he did manage to empty out a couple of cutlery drawers onto the kitchen floor before Mum caught him.”

“Oh no,” I breathe, torn between amusement at the mental image and a kind of disappointed sadness that he’s not… That he isn’t… “Did he say why he did it?” I ask, after what’s probably too long a silence, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation.

I can’t see Rob’s expression, but I can picture it clearly in my head. It’s the one we all get at some point or another when we’re talking about my youngest brother; serious to the point of being slightly stiff, lips pressed together (against the things we can’t or won’t say), eyes troubled (with maybe just the slightest hint of confused distress) and brow tense, if not quite furrowed; everything locked tight and buttoned down. (Because there’s no point frowning over something that he’s *going* to grow out of, and it’s only a big *thing* if we make it into one. He might have his problems, but that’s only normal, so *he’s* normal and…)

Rob’s shoulders twitch in another almost-shrug. I’m peripherally aware of Talisa watching the pair of us, her expression and posture the kind of calculatedly neutral you only see when you’re being studied assessed seven ways from Sunday. But then she touches Rob lightly - the briefest flutter of her long, delicate fingers over his shoulder - and I see the concern beneath her mask. Not intrusive, just there; leaving this a moment between Rob and me while letting him know that she’s there.

I can’t help but approve of the gesture; of her. Rob’s a lucky man.

He clears his throat.

“No,” he says, and it takes me a moment to recall the question that he’s answering. “But he said he’s going to keep doing it until Dad tells him to stop.”

“I thought he understood-“ I bite off the sentence before its end, unable to bring myself to say the words out loud.

That Dad’s not coming back. Not now, not ever. That he’s gone. (That he’s dead.)

“So did we,” Rob says tightly. “But I guess it still hasn’t quite taken. Mum’s working working on it, though.” Almost under his breath, the words barely audible, he continues. “We all are.”

In a moment of weakness, I let myself indulge in the luxury of disappointment; allow myself the freedom to acknowledge the mournful wail that threatens to break free every time I hear about Rickon’s latest antics.

I hoped he’d be *better*.

Despite *knowing* better than that, despite knowing all the lies Hollywood sells us for what they are, I just can’t help wishing that time and treatment have together performed some miracle of alchemy. That this latest doctor, new teaching aide, revolutionary technique, or altered dosage could just *fix* him, once and for all.

(Like he’s a broken piece of machinery that needs to be put right.)

Immediately, a hot rush of shame bubbles up inside me like lava, burning and bitter with the knowledge that I’m a terrible, terrible person.

It shouldn’t matter, I tell myself, firmly. It *doesn’t* matter. He’s my brother and I love him, no matter what problems he has. Part of me - the cockeyed optimist part of me that still believes in fairytale romance and everything working out in the end - tries to pipe up that he’s still young, that there’s still time, that diagnosis and treatment is getting better all the time. And I believe that, I do. (Despite the phrases like ‘critical development period’ and ‘neurological abnormalities’ and ‘irreversible cognitive impairment’ that flutter around my brain like ragged-winged moths.) But the rest of me knows that’s not the point.

Even if he never *does* get ‘better’, even if he has ‘problems’ for the rest of his life, even if - God forbid - his… issues… get worse…

That doesn’t make him any less my brother.

It doesn’t make him any less  of a *person*.

No matter what anyone else might say.

(But is it really so bad to wish that he wasn’t in distress any more? Is it so bad to hope that he finds some kind of peace? It’s not like I want to change who he is. I just want him to be… to be happy.)

Anyway, I don’t want to think about this any more. Not right now.

“What about Bran and Arya?” I ask; a related but generally much safer subject.

Rob’s shoulders relax somewhat.

“Still causing trouble,” he says. “Yes, Arya’s still practicing her fencing in crazy places. I caught her climbing a tree with her sword the other day. A tree!” He shakes his head. “I swear that girl has no survival instinct. And Jon just encourages her…” Yet another source of conflict between Mum and Jon; I remember. “Bran finally made up his mind about the competition - he’s going to go through with it after all.” He chuckles softly. “Arya called him a chickenshit for even thinking about backing out.”

“That’s a bit mean,” I observe. Even though she’s not here to hear it, my tone is full of disapproval. I make a mental note to have a word with my darling sister about the right and wrong way to encourage someone to get back in the saddle.

Pun not intended.

“That’s Arya for you,” Rob says. “Anyway, it worked.”

“Is he going to be okay?” I wonder. “It’s his first competition since the accident…”

“He’ll be fine. It’s been a good few months since he resumed his lessons, and the physiotherapist said there was no reason why he couldn’t start competing again. It might even do him good. At the very least, maybe having a clear goal in mind will stop him sitting around and brooding quite so much.”

Rob’s tone is dismissive enough that I decide against voicing my fears aloud. Fears that maybe Bran *isn’t* ready; that the consequences of pushing ahead too soon might just be worse for him in the long run than those of waiting too long. I make another mental note, this time to take Bran aside for a quiet chat.

“What else was there?” he wonders aloud.

“Jon, your uncles and the contractors,” Talisa prompts softly.

“Oh, right. Jon’s fine, just up to his eyeballs with work at the moment. He’s hoping to carry out another field research project, which means a frantic scramble for more funding. I’m sure he’ll tell you about it. Him and his friend both.”

My eyebrows lift a little.

“Is that friend, or *friend*.” I resist the urge to make air-quotes, suddenly remembering Asha jokingly - at least, I *hope* she was only joking - threatening to break Ygritte’s fingers if she did that one more time.

Asha really doesn’t like air-quotes.

Rob laughs. “As far as I know, Sam’s just a friend. I have an inkling that *he* just isn’t Jon’s type.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds: “Although Jon might just be his…”

Maybe I’m just imagining things, maybe I’m just reading too much into his words, his tone of voice, but there’s something about the way he says that… Something that makes my stomach clench and twist, making me feel slightly nauseous in a way that has nothing to do with the way the uneven road surface makes the car rattle and bounce along.

(What would he say if he ever found out about Margaery and me? What would he think? That she’s not *my* type? That we’re not… That’s it’s not…)

(But isn’t that the same thing that I’ve been thinking since we… Since it happened? That she *isn’t* really my type? That it’s just true love trumping any and every other concern, including what should be the natural order of things?)

(Including what’s *normal*.)

(I don’t… I can’t…)

Um…

I don’t know what to say. I desperately cast about for some words of wisdom - or at least something not too idiotic - but, luckily, Talisa steps in before I can really put my foot in it.

“Rob.”  Her tone is sharp, almost cutting.

“What?” He turns his head slightly, giving Talisa what I assume from his tone of voice is an injured, indignant look, before returning his eyes to the road.

“You know what.” She sounds utterly certain of her assertion, and he… doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t confirm it either, at least not in words, but I’m pretty sure his lack of further argument defaults to something like agreement.

Or it could just mean that he doesn’t want to have that conversation with his sister in the car. Either-or. In any case, he uses a technique that comes right out of the Sansa bumper book of conflict avoidance techniques: he changes the subject.

“Anyway, the contractor problems have been more or less dealt with, but there are still some ongoing issues.” I can hear the grimace in his voice as he adds. “No doubt you’ll hear all about it from Mum.”

“No doubt,” I murmur.

“Finally, both Uncle and Great-Uncle are present and correct. Well, they’re present at any rate. And they’re getting on about as well as they ever do, so *that’s* fun. Oh, and Uncle Ed has brought a girlfriend with him. A very young girlfriend.”

“Roslin’s not that young,” Talisa says. “No younger than I am, certainly.”

“But she’s *much* younger than Uncle Edmure.”

“That’s true,” she admits with a languid shrug. “But an age difference doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Plenty of May to December relationships work out just fine.”

Rob starts to say something skeptical-sounding, but then cuts himself off practically mid-word to announce: “And here we are.”

“Winterfell,” I breathe, the name feeling almost reverent upon my lips.

“Home, sweet home,” murmurs Talisa, and something about her tone seems a little off, somehow, but I can’t focus on that right now because all of my attention is taken up with one, all-encompassing thought.

I’m home.