fic: the fold (asoiaf, robb/sansa)
the fold - robb/sansa, asoiaf. A good memory doesn't become bad just because everyone in it died.
Robb doesn't wait until the house is surrounded. He takes Sansa's hand, grabs their father's crossbow from the trunk, and runs them both out through the back door. The rucksack she carries is full, brimming with canned goods and first aid materials. She's wearing his leather jacket which nearly drowns her, but he knows it's the best protection she'll get.
It's quiet outside, but they know it's time to leave. It was time to leave as soon as Bran got infected. It was time to leave when Arya started complaining of a fever. It was time to leave when their father shot both of them and then himself. It was time to leave when their mother went into their rooms that night, kissed them on their foreheads, took Rickon, a shotgun, and left.
It was time to leave their white, single-story rural home that protected them as they grew up. It was time to leave the graves they had dug in the basement. It was time to leave, find shelter, and never look back.
Sansa didn't let go of Robb's hand once that night.
You'd think the world hadn't ended, the way they were laughing and eating and basking in the sun. Sansa had found an abandoned avocado farm and came back to Robb and the fire, grinning, arms brimming with green fruit. Greedily Robb opened an avocado with his knife, splitting it in half and giving the larger one to Sansa.
Now their backs are on the ground, faces toward the blue sky, tall stalks of grass surrounding them on every side. They eat the avocados with their fingers, utensils having become defunct long ago.
She finishes her half of the avocado, throws the skin into the grass forest, and giggles. "I've never tasted anything so good," she tells him, turning on her side to face him.
He turns his head to look at her and smiles. "I think the lamb mum cooked on your sixteenth was pretty tasty," he replies.
"Yeah, but we ran out of mint jelly halfway through the dinner, and Arya dropped the bread in the sink."
He gives a throaty laugh. "Yeah, she did."
They don't say anything after that for a while, but they keep smiling. A good memory doesn't become bad just because everyone in it died.
She's cold, but that's not why she curls up to his side. For the past few weeks it's been sweltering and every night she's laid herself out next to him, her front pressing the side of his body. Every morning they wake up and her face is pressed to his neck, her arm spread out over his chest. They know that they should take turns sleeping so that one of them can be on watch, but she accidentally fell asleep next to him on the first night and they never thought to change it.
Tonight they lie down, ready for sleep. They hope that there aren’t going to be any attacks, but since they’re in the middle of the desert, they think it might be unlikely. (Even if something does happen, they may or may not be past the point of caring.)
She runs his hand through his curls that she washed a few weeks ago. She had poured boiled water from their single pot over his head, watching the red strands plaster to his forehead. There wasn’t any soap, but she couldn’t even seem to remember a time when there had been soap. These days, they wash their hair simply to get all the dirt and leaves and bugs out.
Like most nights, their noses are so close together that they touch. Her arm is already grasping his shoulder, her legs tangled in his. Their hair blends together on the sandy dirt, making everything around their heads seem a pale shade of orange.
She kisses him softly, chastely, lips closed. It isn’t the first time she’s done it. Every night she kisses him before bed. Sometimes she thinks she does it to make sure he’s still there. Other times it’s because his lips are so warm and sweet and alive. Tonight it’s because she’s so grateful for him she wants to cry.
He brings his hand up to her face and strokes her cheek gently. She puts her hand on top of his and can’t help but smile.
“What?” he asks, his lips breaking into a soft smile.
“I’m so happy,” she chokes out, and as soon as she’s said it she wants to take it back. Will he hate her? She never wanted any of this to happen. If she could, she would change everything to the way it was before, where they weren’t hungry all the time and cold and smelly and alone. But she has him and she doesn’t want to apologize that whatever they have together feels like home, if only until they wake up again and move on to the next stretch of dead land.
She holds on to his hand tightly, worrying that he’s going to remove it and turn away from her. But he swallows, and smiles, and puts their foreheads together. “Me too,” he whispers.
There’s a kiss, and a touch, and they’re pressed so close together and it feels good. She doesn’t feel a single pang of shame or guilt. And why should she? There’s no one alive to judge them.
“I love you,” he tells her as they walk through the abandoned town, hand in hand. He’s said it to her before but she knows it’s changed this time.
She sees something out of the corner of her eye. “One second,” she says, and takes the crossbow from him. She aims it and shoots, hitting the monster in the temple. She lowers her arms and rests her head on his shoulder as they continue walking.
“I love you, too.”
It might be a year later, or two. All Sansa knows is that every night they eat what they’ve scrounged up that day, light the fire, drink some water, and then lie down to sleep. Every night, she presses against him and they kiss, and sometimes they fuck, but mostly they just hope things won’t get any worse. They’re good enough now that they can defend themselves against one, two, maybe three of the creatures at the time; and thankfully they haven’t had to test out what it would be like against four.
And every night it’s just the two of them, just like it is every day. Sansa’s okay with that. She’s okay that she can laugh with him and fight alongside him and make a home together with him.
But they’ve come full circle now, and they find themselves in front of the white carcass that used to be their home. The grass has grown high enough to obscure the house, but they know every curve of these hills by heart.
They enter the house through the back door. The screen is broken in. They walk into the house, the floor covered with rubble, all the glass windows shattered. Dust is caked on the countertops. Blood splatters the walls. (That may be from before they left, and Sansa doesn’t want to remember).
They walk into their parents’ room, hand in hand. Sansa clenches her jaw at the same time she clutches his hand.
It goes very fast. First there’s a noise, then a growl, and a touch on her back. She turns around and screams.
The animated corpse of their mother stands before them, pieces of skin falling off its grey face. Robb doesn’t hesitate to hit it in the head with the butt of the crossbow. It falls to the ground, hands still writhing, and he hits it again in the head. Again, and once more. Another time. There’s a crunching sound, a slippery noise, and another thunk of metal meeting bone. He raises his arms again, bringing the crossbow down, and he’s doing it so quickly now Sansa can’t keep up.
She realizes she’s backed herself onto the dusty bed, clutching the wooden frame. He beating harder now, and she’s sure the crossbow’s broken. It’s okay, she thinks - there weren’t any quarrels left.
“Robb,” she chokes out, and he hesitates for a moment. She sees the tears dropping down his cheeks, catching in his beard, his mouth open in anguish. He hits the body again and a sob wracks him. Again. Again.
She wills herself to stand up, to not look at the corpse, and she throws her arms around him, hugging him from behind. She’s nearly restraining him, but she’s grown taller now and he can’t break away from her easily. She rests her forehead on his shoulder blade, grasping him tightly, trying to squeeze all of her love into him. They’ve come this far; she can’t lose him now.
They’re on the bed, and his head is in her lap and he’s sobbing, and she’s never seen him like this. She’s strong enough to handle it now, though. She no longer needs him to protect her or comfort her, but she’s reminded that he may need her.
The corpse on the floor doesn’t move again, and they find themselves sleeping in the basement alongside their family. They’ve dug another grave for what used to be their mother, and they throw the broken crossbow in with her.
They eat whatever canned goods they couldn’t bring when they left, and they should be happy to feast but every bite feels more empty than the last. The beans are too heavy for Robb, and he ends up spending most of the night outside, emptying the contents of his stomach out onto their old flowerbed.
The basement should be scarier, and hurt more, but it doesn’t. It’s dark and damp and cool and it feels safer than anywhere they’ve been recently. His head is on her chest, her hands in his hair and his tears are hot and wet on her shirt.
“Shhh,” she whispers. “It’s okay. As long as we’re together, it’s okay.”
It’s not a lie.