I think Sansa and Shiera would have matching costumes. Something with wings. Jon is trying to get away with just wearing a mask and a t shirt

Exactly!

I did actually start a pp disney fic but as for bee stung—Disneyworld would actually be closer to them! I can see them going for Shiera’s birthday—there’s no way Jon would go for it otherwise with all the expenses, but I don’t think he took that much convincing. Sansa brings three bottles of sunscreen but Shiera gets a sunburn around her nose anyway and even though Jon said she could only have one, she gets two sets of Mickey Mouse ears AND a tiara when she gets her hair done at the princess place, which is overkill in Jon’s opinion, and for some reason, she also demands an eyepatch? Because the only thing cooler than a pirate is a pirate princess. Jon puts his foot down when she asks for the hook. Sansa buys it for her instead. Hundreds of pictures are taken. Cat posts a few on Facebook. It’s a great time

Honeycomb stitch

He’s not closing tonight, but he still has some errands to run, so he gets home close to eight. Shiera bounds up to him like she usually does, freshly bathed and giddy. Jon swings her up high into his tattooed arms, smothering her cheek with kisses. The hem of his white shirt inches up, and even though she just ate, she feels her mouth water.

Which is embarrassing for reasons that are fairly obvious, but she doesn’t have time to linger on it for long.

”Daddy, look at my ears.“ Shiera preens, tilting her head so he see the tiny pink starfish earrings dangling from her ears. “I’m gorgeous.”

She pronounces gorgeous like George-us but Jon doesn’t correct her. He just laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling, right before he kisses her cheek again, and pronounces it the same exact way. “The most gorgeous.”

Sansa is vaguely aware of something inside of her chest free falling; swooping and soaring.

“You didn’t pay for them, did you?”

She knows from the way that he’s fingering the tiny starfish that he already knows the answer, which is more than a little aggravating because she thought she’d have a little more time before he caught on. Hell, she thought she could maybe get away with staving this conversation off until morning.

No such luck, of course. Thank you Shiera.

“Do you think I’m poor, or something?” She asks, rather than answering him.

Jon’s eyes narrow at that. “I think these aren’t the earrings you texted me a picture of, and you would have just texted me another if they were cheap. But they weren’t. Which means you paid for them.”

He tilts his head expectantly, as if he’s giving her time to deny this. As if he’s daring her to.

“They were 16.99.” Sansa admits sheepishly.

His eyes widen a little at that and he opens his mouth, most likely to curse, before he remembers Shiera is in his arms.

“They’re not even real earrings.” He says in disbelief.

“That‘s why I didn’t tell you! Because I knew you would say that. And she really wanted them.”

He bypasses that whole last sentence in favor for the the second one. Of course he does. “You calling me cheap?”

“I wish you were cheap, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation!” Sansa bursts out.

He fixed her car up for free. He didn’t say so, but he probably had to pay for all the parts himself out of pocket. Then, after barely a month of trying to work off her debt, he insisted on paying her, no matter how many times she refused. And now he’s setting down Shiera and opening his wallet, trying to give her more money. Like she already doesn’t owe him enough.

“I’m not taking it.” She says stubbornly.

Jon briefly pauses his counting to close his eyes, right before continuing. ”I’m not doing this with you tonight.”

She blinks.

“I’m not trying to do anything with you. I just don’t want your m—”

“Shiera, go to your room.“ He cuts her off to say.

Shiera, who’s been standing at his side the entire time with her hand in his pocket, watching the exchange like it‘s a fast paced tennis match, juts out her lower lip a little.

“Shiera, stay where you are.” Sansa counters, bristling, “I was just leaving.”

This only seems to further upset Shiera. Her big blue eyes go wide. “What about my story?”

Damn it.

Momentum slightly lost, Sansa holds her chin up high regardless. “After I read you your bedtime story.”

She doesn’t need to tell Shiera twice.

“Night, Daddy.” She wraps her arms around his legs. He drops a kiss on the top of her head, playing with the curling end of her braid.

“Goodnight.” He calls after her.

Shiera grabs her hand and leads her down the hallway to her room. The entire time, she can feel his eyes on her back, drilling holes into her shoulder blades.

15 minutes and two more stories than she agreed to later, Shiera is snoring softly, Balerion underneath her arm, when Sansa finally closes her door behind her.

Jon is still on the couch. Wide awake, and eating what she made for dinner. Lasagna rolls, which Shiera had accidentally yet affectionately rechristened “lesbian rolls.” His plate is practically empty already. They both really liked pasta.

Totally against her will, her heart skips a beat. For whatever reason.

“Is she asleep?” He asks.

“Yes.” She answers, still irritated but not really. If anything, she’s irritated at herself for not being irritated anymore. Which really, just renews her irritation.

She thinks she sees him roll his eyes, like he can tell, but it happens so quickly she could have imagined it. He’s standing up, saying, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

Her tote bag is on the smaller sofa. Sansa shoulders it reluctantly. She double checks to make sure he didn’t put any money in it.

“Only if you don’t try to pay me again.”

“It’s dark outside. I’m walking you to your car regardless.” Jon narrows his gaze, like he dares her to say anything to the contrary.

She almost does. Just to spite him.

She thinks he might sense this.

“I will carry you over my shoulder if I have to.”

Heat floods her cheeks, and Sansa huffs, right before yanking open the door herself and briskly walking into the warm evening air.

She’s parked in a visitor’s space. Not even that far. Where her car is varies on the day, of course, but 70% of the time, him walking her to her car is completely unnecessary.

He does it anyway. Every single time without fail.

She’s tossing her tote into the passenger seat and getting ready to slide in without another word when she feels his hand on her elbow.

Light. Like she’s fragile.

There’s a hostage situation going on in her chest at the moment. One she thought ended when she was 15, the day Jon Snow vanished from her life entirely. There were casualties, of course. The biggest one being her heart, which he never even knew he had the entire time.

He still doesn’t.

She should probably really tell him so he stops looking at her like that. Like there’s a chance that he could feel even a fraction of the same way.

It’s been happening a lot lately, and it would be so much easier if she could say that she didn’t notice.

“Text me when you get home safe.” He says, voice low. Soft. “I don’t care if you’re mad at me or not.”

She isn’t mad at him.

(But she’s always kind of mad at him. For reasons he can never know.)

“I’m not mad at you. “ Sansa mutters, looking everywhere but him. “You’re just—annoying.”

She hears him scoff, exasperated. Helpless.

Just a little gentle.

She feels a tug on the drawstring holding up the ruching of her flared bottoms, firm and adamant. The responding tug behind her navel is a spike of thrill, and she has no choice but to look at him. Into those dark eyes she used to spend hours at a time daydreaming about. His knuckles are brushing her lower stomach.

“Text me.” He murmurs.

“Okay.” She whispers, face burning.

His hands don’t linger, even though she wishes they would. “Okay.”

He tells her goodnight, and shuts the door behind her. She doesn’t say it back. She’s too scared her voice will crack or something else mortifying will happen, preventing her from ever being able to look him in the eye again. She already finds it hard enough.

She settles for a wave as she’s pulling out, and he waves back.

By the time she pulls into the driveway, it’s 15 past eight. Sansa unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn’t get much further than that. She presses her head against the steering wheel, and thinks about banging it for good measure.

When she goes to feel her stomach, below the blue drawstring looping her bare waist, she feels something smooth there. Papery.

A folded $20 dollar bill.

“Son of a bitch.” She swears, and slams the steering wheel so hard that the horn beeps.