Summary: Sansa didn't mean to fall asleep in Jon's bed, but as for the rest of it, it was sleepily plotted.

Notes: This falls sometime after Halloween and before Thanksgiving in the A City timeline. If you're following the blogs, there was reference by both Jon and Sansa to this little incident, which ends with Osha finding them both.

When Sansa falls asleep in Jon's bed, while watching a movie she can only remember the first twenty odd minutes of, it's an accident. As for the rest of it, however, it's sleepily plotted in the chilly hours of night.

When she wakes in the darkened room, she has a moment of panic and disorientation that makes her breath catch in her throat. She doesn't know where she is and she can't immediately see to judge for herself, since the only light that filters through into Jon's basement room comes from the well windows, which are mostly blocked by black curtains. What she can tell is that the sheets aren't hers. The smell of them is wrong, since they smell of soap and men's deodorant. The feel of them is wrong too—flannel instead of Egyptian cotton. The room is colder than she keeps hers, cold enough to raise bumps along her arms. And there's the sound of someone breathing. Her heart thuds four times, as she tries to remember what kind of bad decision has led her here and then she remembers.

Jon. It's Jon's smell, Jon's sheets, Jon's bed, his heavy breathing.

She lets out a shaky breath. It's okay. Even if she has a recent run of bad decisions, Jon's responsible and good and kind. Nothing bad is happening here. No one needs to watch themselves around Jon, least of all her. He's not going to take advantage of a situation. He's certainly not going to take advantage of her falling asleep in his bed. It's why she feels so safe around him after giving up on the idea of ever feeling safe with a guy again.

She turns her head on the pillow, the feathers softly compressing under her ear, to see him dimly outlined in profile on his side. They have sides now, though usually not quite like this—asleep together in the middle of the night. It's usually movies and popcorn or hot chocolate and cookies. Sometimes he reads his books with his reading glasses slipping down his nose and she flips through fashion magazines, while the rest of the house is asleep and they're both restless and awake. Until she starts to yawn and he calls her a pumpkin, sending her off to bed with a goodnight and sleep tight. The details are wrong—princesses aren't in danger of turning into pumpkins at a certain late hour, coaches are—but she likes the way he says it, such a silly thing in his serious tone.

What they are not are two people who sleep together. In any sense of that phrase. He's not on his back, full lips slightly parted, dark hair curling over his forehead and she's not usually tucked under the covers with her legs stretched out diagonally, taking up more than half the bed. She's terrible about spreading out in bed, which is why Joff used to send her home after. He said he couldn't sleep with her arms and legs poking him all night and her hair in his face. It always made her feel cheap, doing the walk of shame at two in the morning, even if she wouldn't let herself admit it.

Jon could have kicked her out too, so he could reclaim his bed, the way he usually does, when the pumpkin hour approaches. He'd certainly have more room if he had. Over at the edge of his side, his forearms pin the grey comforter down, exposing his upper half, despite the coldness of the room. He's wearing a t-shirt. White, not the black one he had on earlier, so he's changed. He probably put on flannel pajama pants too in some gesture of gentlemanly behavior, though he usually sleeps in less. A fact she knows from showing up outside his hotel room during the campaign before he'd properly woken up. He answered her knock, confused and puffy eyed, and the sight of her sent him stumbling around attempting to find a towel or a robe in his boxer briefs, while she pretended to admire a bad piece of hotel art.

She smiles to herself in the dark, thinking about the indecision paired with hair ruffling he must have gone through, trying to decide whether he should wake her up or let her sleep, once he noticed she'd fallen asleep, and then when he decided not to wake her, whether he should sleep on the floor, on top of the comforter, fully clothed with a row of pillows between them, or some other awkward arrangement. Jon's sweet like that. He over thinks things.

Her smile fades, when his lips move, mouthing silent words. His brows are knit too. He's dreaming. Not a night terror—those are bad—but whatever it is doesn't look particularly restful either judging by the tension in his face. She props herself up on her arm, peering down at him. The movement from her side of the bed shifts the mattress beneath them, making him mumble something, and she whispers his name, ready to brush his shoulder with her hand to wake him up, so he won't have that pinched look on his face. It would make sense to wake him up, say goodnight, climb the stairs as quietly as she can to her bedroom, and leave him to fall back asleep alone. There's no real reason to stay here, now that she's awake.

Except there was no real reason for him not to wake her, and he still let her sleep. And whether she wakes him up or sneaks off, she doesn't like the thought of going off on her own to her bed upstairs. She's done that before with Joff because it was what he wanted and with Petyr because she hated herself after. That's what she's almost always done, and for once she wants to wake up where she went to sleep with someone who cares enough to worry about whether he should put a t-shirt on while he's sleeping alongside of her. If only to pretend it's something more.

His hands clench, pulling at the comforter, twisting. It isn't the way she likes to see him, she prefers his reluctant smiles, but surely there's more than one way to ease the lines from his face and keep warm in the chill of this room. No reason they can't both wake up before anyone has to know, and she can pretend it was all a mistake, wearing her perfectly blank mask and blinking confused eyes up at him. He's sweet enough that he'll never suspect, and for once she really wants to use that to her advantage, just the once to know what it feels like.

She slides over, closer, softly shushing him, when he threatens to stir, her hand stroking his bicep. His arm is heavy with sleep, difficult to slip underneath to mold herself to his side, but when she does and his body goes stiff, she only has to whisper, "It's just me," for him to pull her in tighter. Tucks her in close with his arm slung around her waist, as if he knows automatically how she fits with her head over his heart, her arm draped up over his chest, and one leg curling over his own.

He's smells good, sleep making him smell warm and earthy, something he's usually showered away before she ever sees him. She rubs her nose against his t-shirt, breathing in.

He probably held his girlfriend like this. The one she's only seen in the one creased photo. Short and skinny with a head of red hair a shade brighter than her own before she took a box of dye to it. Different enough in shape and looks that you might never comment on the similarities, but probably not so different to a sleeping man, who's been alone even longer than she has. She likes it more than she should, but that's all it is—his muscle memory and her pretending. As for the rest, it's better to not think about it, to play dumb and not upset the boat. Still, as she curls her fingers underneath the neck of his t-shirt, it's the warmest she's felt in months.

Notes: I think I might do a little drabble about the Starks in Michigan at Christmas, but if there are other drabble moments you'd like to see me explore in this universe, drop me a comment or an ask on my tumblr!