Fic: On the Importance of Boundaries (Jon/Sansa, Sam/Gilly, PG)
Title: On the Importance of Boundaries
Pairing: Jon/Sansa, Sam/Gilly (a bit).
Rating: PG (WHAT? NO SMUT? WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ME?)
Notes: Can be seen as happening in both the "You're the Storm" universe OR the "Bedroom Hymns" universe. Or both. They're more or less the same. :)
Sam is surprised how well being Winterfell's maester suits him. For all that he still loathes blood, for as often as he still hears his father's voice in his ear, growling about men who wear chains, for every night that he still feels the tiniest twinge of guilt as he lies next to Gilly, there is a rightness to his life now. A sense of belonging he had never dreamed to find. Strange, he often muses, how Jon Snow had known that this role would fit him, much the same way Sam recognized the natural leader in Jon.
He has never had a friend like Jon. Indeed, Jon is not his friend, but his brother, truly. Sam would gladly die for him. That does not, however, mean that Jon is entirely free from reproach.
"These books are very delicate," Sam says, scooping up two of the tomes that have tumbled from the shelves. While the Maester's Tower has been repaired, Sam still spends most of his time in Winterfell's massive library, having set up a large desk for himself there. He considers the room his sanctum, which is why it was such a shock to walk in and find Jon and Lady Sansa there, pressed up against the shelves, their fingers interlaced as Jon held their hands over Sansa's head, kissing her as though his life depended on it.
And Lady Sansa! Prim, lovely Lady Sansa had had her leg up against her husband's side. One of her slippers still lay on the floor among the books they had somehow managed to dislodge.
Nearly a full year they've been married. Jon can kiss her anytime he bloody well likes, so there is no need to practically attack her in Sam's library.
Honestly, Sam understands the pleasure of kissing a pretty girl, but there have to be limits.
Jon straightens his jerkin, doing his best to look stern while Sansa merely smiles. Still, her cheeks are bright pink, lips swollen, and if Sam is not mistaken, there is a blush creeping up Jon's neck as well.
"Our apologies, Maester Tarly," Sansa says, her voice soothing and sweet, and Sam can't help but flush just a bit when she lays a hand on his arm. "Are the books undamaged?"
Flustered, Sam looks down at his hands. "Well. Yes, th-they appear to be fine, Lady Sansa."
Then he stands up a bit straighter, fixing Jon with a stare. "But one must be more careful with such precious things."
Jon rolls his eyes. "Oh, for the love of the gods, it was her idea."
Shocked, Sam nearly drops the books again. "Jon."
Sam would not think the Lady Sansa capable of giggles. Surely, such a demure and serene lady could, at most, chuckle beatifically. But the sound that erupts from Sansa's throat is decidedly...giddy.
"My husband speaks the truth," she says, linking one arm through Jon's. "He did object most vociferously, Maester."
"I did," Jon insists, and that is most definitely a blush staining his cheeks. "I merely asked her to show me a book. She was the one who instigated...," Jon trails off, and Sam sees him drop his gaze to the pile of books- and Sansa's shoe- on the ground. "Events."
Sansa gives a solemn nod. "He reprimanded me quite sternly, I assure you, Maester Tarly."
At that, Jon scowls at his wife, but Sam could swear there's affection in it. "Bloody lot of good it did me," he mutters, and Sansa tucks herself closer to his side. Sam thinks of the heat practically shimmering around them when he walked in and clears his throat awkwardly.
"Very well," he says, trying to sound as serious and firm as a maester should. "You're lord and lady of this castle, so obviously every room here belongs to you. Still, I would ask...I would ask you to at least lock doors beforehand if you suspect you're going to be...,"
All three of them are bright red at this point, and Sam finally just waves them off. "Oh, shoo, the pair of you. I've work to do this afternoon."
Now it is Jon's turn to straighten his shoulders. "Sam-,"
"I know, I know," Sam says, bending down to pick up Sansa's slipper. She accepts it with dignity, and Sam sees the way Jon's eyes follow her movements as she lifts her skirts slightly and slide the shoe back onto her foot.
"You're Lord of Winterfell, so every room in this castle belongs to you," Sam continues as he ushers them toward the door. "But when you made me your maester, you gave this room to me, so I am well within my rights to eject you both."
"Very true, Maester Tarly," Sansa says, holding her head high. "It was terribly rude of us to invade your domain in such a manner. Come along, Jon."
"His domain?" Sam hears Jon ask as the door closes behind them, but there's no answer.
Shaking his head, Sam begins to retreat to his desk. Halfway there, he stops and turns back around, opening the door as quietly as possible.
As he'd suspected, they are only a few feet down the hall, once again entwined, although this time, it is Lady Sansa pushing Jon against the stones. Jon's hands are buried in her hair, and even Sam can see how white Sansa's knuckles are as they clutch Jon's jerkin.
They part for a moment, and Sam watches Jon's chest heave up and down as he rasps out, "We have our own chambers, Sansa. Many of them. There's no need to paw at one another in the corridor or Sam's library."
Sam is not sure what fills him with more happiness, the smile lighting both Jon and Sansa's faces, or the fact that Jon conceded that the library is his.
Lady Sansa leans forward slightly, and while Sam is sure he is mistaken, he could swear she whispers, "Race you."
Even when the Lady of Winterfell goes dashing down the hallway- her husband only a few steps behind- Sam tells himself that can't be what she said.
He's still blinking, surprised, as he ducks back into the library, firmly closing- and locking- the door behind him.