different facets of a diamond

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—

She is seventeen and wild and free when he notices her. Always running, always moving, hands towards the sky, arms outstretched to catch oblivion.

She's always been an enigma, something to be reckoned with, but...has she always been so lithe and graceful and tall and, Gods, beautiful? No, he reckons, she hasn't. He would have noticed it before.

(But, perhaps, he hadn't been looking.)

"Gendry," she snaps, and oh, they're sparring, and he's been staring at her like a loon for so many immeasurable moments that he's lost count, "I could have killed you at least four times by now with all the staring you've been doing." she slips Needle into her belt, strides towards him in her men's pants and boots, drops her hands to her hips, and asks, "What? Have I got something on my face?"

Gendry clears his throat, takes his eyes as far away from her truly spectacular face, and lightly prods her with the tip of his sword, "No, m'lady," he gives the old jibe out, hoping it'll ease the sudden awkwardness that probably only he feels.

Arya's quick to launch a counterattack, jabbing Needle into his arm, drawing blood, "You'll pay for that!" she cries, eyes wild and alive and—

Oh, Gods.

—

He flicks water at her, taunts her for being dirtier than the pigs in the sty, and dodges her quick kick. "C'mon, Arya, you've got a bit of dirt," he points to her cheek, "here," he points to her chin, "here," points to her nose, "here."

She scrubs at her cheeks furiously and he rolls his eyes, "No," he sighs, as if talking to a small child. Without thinking, he swipes his thumb over her cheeks, chin, and nose, and then, as if on its own accord, his thumb sweeps across her bottom lip. Confusion dances in her eyes as she stares up at him, but she does not pull away, to his delight. His thumb strokes her bottom lip; so full and pink and chapped and—

Gendry swallows thickly, prays the hunger he has for her doesn't show in his eyes. Down the hall from the washroom they're standing in, a door closes, and the moment is gone. He drops his hand, "Been eating dirt lately?" he questions jokingly.

Arya just stares at him, touches her fingers to her lips, and scurries from the washroom as quickly as she can.

Gendry's left staring after her, wondering if he's just changed everything.

—

Gendry watches her from afar, balancing a basket on her hip, examining the fruit in her hand. He ducks behind a market stall just as she turns in his direction. She's been avoiding him since...whatever had happened between them in the washroom.

She's walking now, admiring things in the stalls as she passes. He notices that she never relaxes, though she seems cool and collected to anyone else. Her shoulders are tight, her back stiff, waiting for someone to spring from the shadows and draw a sword.

But he also notices, what he's never noticed before, the confident sway of her hips, the toss of her tightly braided hair over one shoulder, the coy smile she wears when a vendor whistles at her.

This is Arya as he's never seen her.

The woman Arya, not his friend, not his comrade, not his partner, not the fearless little boy she'd pretended to be so long ago, but a combination of all of the above. He had never noticed. Had never thought that she'd turn into such an amazing creature.

She was the same in manner and form, he found, but he had never noticed the color of her eyes or hair or skin or the way she handled a blade or bow.

Gendry swallows, ducks behind another stall, and sinks down to the ground. He doesn't want to think of another man coming to the same realizations he has.

But—

He has no grounds to take her as his. No money, no land, no name. And besides, he is nothing to her. Nothing but a trusted friend.

A brother, even.

But—

The feel of her lips beneath his fingers...

He wonders how it would feel to have his lips replace his fingers.

—

He feels her eyes on him as he takes an arrow and slings it through his bow, pulling the chord back and taking a shot at the shoddy target he'd made out of a fallen tree.

They're still traveling together, but in awkward silence and missed glances rather than joyful conversation and stories told around a fire.

He misses it and curses himself for what had happened between them in the washroom. But the chemistry and the feelings that had coursed through him that day! He was sure she'd felt it too.

Arya watches him, tossing berries into her mouth, sitting high up in a tree. Her legs swing back and forth, and she hums to herself. So childlike and innocent looking, but capable of killing a man with one hand.

He'll never meet another like her.

—

He has enough when they're on the outskirts of Winterfell, the grass yellowing underneath them as they pass from one season to the next, almost instantly. Snow peppers down on them in light flakes, and he hops down from his horse, giving her a pat before he sets off to gather firewood.

Arya remains on her horse, watches him leave, and waits until he's vanished from sight before she jumps off. He grits his teeth as he hears her coo something soft to her horse.

He brings back an armful of firewood, finds that she's already laid out her sleeping pad, far away from his. The yellow grass and cold dirt underneath his feet tremble as he grows angry, and he glares crossly at the snow that falls in front of his eyes and dissipates before it can touch the ground, "Arya," he chokes out, defeat coloring his smooth tenor, "what's happened to us?"

She has always slept beside him, even in their most grueling fights, they have never left each other.

Arya's cool gaze turns towards him as she kicks a rock away from her bed, and for once, she seems unsure, "It seems that we've finally noticed what we've been missing all along." she stands, brushes herself off, and approaches him.

Gendry blinks as she comes towards him, face upturned towards his, "Did you know I've never been kissed?" she questions, eyes melding into his.

Of course he'd known. He knew everything about her. That she hated wine, missed her direwolf more than she missed anything, wished for contact with her sister and brothers, but also wished to be free of her bonds to House Stark. He knew every detail. Every flaw. Every nook he had explored, every cranny he had seen.

But he also knew that she needed to be kissed. Lips like that; full, supple, rough to bystanders but tender to the lover, cherry red, waiting for someone to swoop in and—

He clears his throat, "Yes." he answers.

"And you have been." she states. It's no secret that he's bedded women in towns they've passed through together.

"Yes."

She tilts her head to the side, "You've never picked me." her eyes narrow, "Why?" she implores.

Gendry struggles for a moment, wants to spout a million things out, but decides on, "You're Arya. You don't want a lumpy cot in the middle of nowhere. You want a soft bed and a man who could give you the world; maybe not all of the money or land in the world, but a man who could show you it. I—" he swallows, "I am not that man. I'm a bastard, I carry the label like my own name. I—"

Before he wastes another second on listing the reasons that he's not good for her, she leaps on him, arms winding around his neck, toes barely brushing the ground. Her lips find his in the chaos of the moment and later he'll swear she's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

Spitfire with words, lover with lips.

A perfect contradiction.

His arms wrap around her middle, her slender body presses up against his in the sweetest way, and he's losing his mind. She pulls away, all too soon, lips red and swollen, "It seems," she breathes, as he sets her on her feet, "that you don't know me as well as you think." she reaches out and, uncharacteristically, grabs his hand, "Come," she says, "lay your bed next to mine."

Perhaps she's right. Maybe he doesn't know every side of her. Because this Arya? This, this Arya holding his hand, is a new side of her. Never before seen. One he would like to explore and bend and tease.

He will spend the rest of his life discovering new parts of her.

(He doesn't mind, really.)

fin.