Archive of Our Own

It wasn’t quitting, Sam told him. It wasn’t giving up. It was changing your path. It was realizing something wasn’t meant for you and doing something about it, rather than being too afraid to move. He was brave, Sam said. He was brave and honest and doing the right thing.

He went to headquarters with Jon and explained to all the drill sergeants and commanders that he wasn’t the kind of person to desert without good reason. He clapped him on the back as he spoke and nodded excessively in everyone’s direction. Each perfumed leader got their own personalized speech about Jon’s relationship with The Watch. Sam went into great detail about his life back home. His parents. His dirty laundry, to say the least. Jon winced the entire time that Sam talked. When one of the leaders would glance at him, he would force a humble smile back. He kept his arms folded behind him and stood straighter than he’d ever done before. Jon agreed when Sam prompted him to agree, he elaborated on matters that needed elaborating on. And he shook hands with them all when, ultimately, his desertion was granted.

Jon decided to leave Ghost at the Wall. The only reason he was allowed to bring him in the first place was because Uncle Benjen was chief commander, and he always was a little soft on Jon. But, when push came to shove, Jon knew Ghost did better helping the more psychologically strained soldiers than he would at home, in Winterfell, running around and chasing his own tail. He gave his leash to Sam and said, take care of him for me.

Sam cried, because of course he did; he thought it was the last time he was ever going to see his best friend. He was happy for him, he really was, but places like these didn’t allow much time for friendship, and Jon was the only one who had believed in him since day one. Sam’s companionship was an easy one. Jon knew, meeting him at orientation, that he was going to be sticking around for the long term. That thought hadn’t dismayed him, though, not one bit. He held Sam until his eyes ran dry.

The remaining months of basic-level training went by like an autumn breeze. When it came time to start packing his bags, clear his end of the bunk, he struggled to repress a smile. The other lads scoffed as they watched him. He could feel their eyes, trained, judgmental, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not in the slightest.

He was going home.

***

Calling home was an awkward affair.

Ned had answered the phone—luckily—from whatever rusty payphone he was ringing from, and gasped when he heard Jon’s tired voice on the other end of the line. Jon explained he was currently in King’s Landing, but heading for Winterfell very soon if only the coach would hurry up. They arranged a time to come pick him up from the bus bay, despite Jon’s insistent refusal, and that was that.

He immaturely avoided saying it back when Ned said, I love you, son, and hung the phone back on its rusty metal prongs for the next person.

The coach ride was rejuvenating. It gave him time to think about what he was going to say to everyone when they inevitably ask why he left. He imagined the looks on all their faces, on Robb and Sansa’s faces, when he admits he just wanted to come home. They’ll say they’re glad, that they missed him too, but it’ll be empty and conflicted, and he’ll be able to tell that they don’t fully understand or support his decision.

Ned gets out of the car when he sees Jon step off the coach. A wheel on his suitcase gets caught on the corner of the door, and he doesn’t notice Ned’s there until he’s up in his space and helping him unhook it. Then he looks up, attention undivided, and takes in the sight of the man he hasn’t seen in almost two years. Ned gives him that solemn sort of smile of his, and Jon just crumbles.

Before he knows it, he’s swallowed by strong, captivating arms, and he feels the handle of his carry bag being taken from him. Ned flattens the curls on his head, petting, when the muffled crying he isn’t even aware of begins. He wraps his arms pathetically around the man’s middle, twisting his fingers in the fabric of his stupidly dad-like flannel jacket. He buries his face in the crook of his neck (because he’s taller now) and shakes his head absentmindedly when Ned resolves to shush him all soft.

They stay like that, blocking the exit of the coach for a moment. Jon gets in one last sniffle and one last hiccup before pulling his head away from Ned’s chest. His body aches as soon as they're separated, and he can’t quite tell why that is. Ned doesn’t ask about Ghost. He nods like he understands.

He carries all Jon’s bags for him and loads them into the trunk while Jon clicks his seatbelt in; he remembers the way it takes two to three juts.

***

The car ride isn’t as rejuvenating as the coach. He and Ned exchange little words, and after a while, Jon grows sick of trying to keep up with respectful small talk, so he pretends to fall asleep against the window and listens to Ned sigh. He only feels a little guilty because, well, he knows Ned is trying his best since the whole parent thing—but it doesn’t make it any less weird. Doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. 

Jon’s allowed to brood if he wants to.

He doesn’t know what Ned is to him now. He’s not Dad, because that would be absurd. He can’t possibly call him what he actually is—which is his uncle—because he’d raised Jon as a dad would, and that would be unfair. And calling the guy who raised you and housed you and kept you fed a ‘friend’ is a little too on the nose for saying but not saying, I have daddy issues. So he’s just stopped saying anything at all.

“Here we are,” Ned announces, pulling the handbrake up. Jon blinks his eyes open as sleepily as possible and takes in the sight of the house he hasn’t seen in almost two years. “Rise and shine.”

Jon grunts in response and unbuckles himself. He stretches getting out of the car, and gives Ned a quiet thanks when he holds his backpack up to sling around his shoulders. Again, Ned takes his remaining luggage, wheeling it up the steps to the front door.

“Key’s still under the mat,” Ned reminds.

“Oh,” is all Jon says back, because he had indeed forgotten.

He bends down and flips the mat up. The writing is still faded but he can make it out, clear as day. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Something Ned had bought during their first week of moving in. The second—a litter of huskies.

He snatches the key.

The door unlocks with a satisfying click and he drops the key on the ground again to shabbily tuck back under the mat with his foot. He pushes the door open, exhausted, and—

“ Surprise! ”

On instinct, he tucks his chin to his neck to dodge whatever loud party streamer is heading his way. He feels the gentle flutter of ribbon land atop his head, so he slowly looks up and removes his hands from where they settled over his eyes. A weight tumbles into him halfway down his torso, trapping him in place, and when he looks down again, seeing that tousled mop of hair—he knows it’s Arya. He hears the door close behind him and the fading trail of kazoos dying out in front.

“Welcome home!” Arya exclaims into Jon’s belly. Jon finally comes back to himself and smiles. He quickly kneels down to sweep Arya into a big bear hug, spinning her around, hollering wildly until she’s squealing and begging to be let off.

“Oh my—little wolf!” He exclaims.

“Jon! Jon! Put me down, put me down—big wolf, put me down!”

He puts her down after a few more merciless spins. She giggles as they part, arms still attached to his shoulders. Jon takes her small face in his hands and places a firm kiss on her forehead. She’s gotten bigger. Her face isn’t the same little girl face he remembers. Only two years. Only two years—and he’s missed out on so much.

Next, Bran comes barrelling into him, and then Rickon shortly afterwards. He closes them both in a dual-tight hug—one arm each, enough for their little bodies—and kisses both their cheeks. He blows an exaggerated raspberry into Rickon’s neck, and he squeals, just like Arya. Bran pushes Jon away with his tiny hands on his face when he realizes he’s got his own raspberry coming. Jon fights back because he loves seeing Bran squirm and panic at the small things.

He eventually lets up when he hears, “Home so soon?” from a voice so tender and articulate, it could only be Sansa’s.

He palms Bran and Rickon’s hair as he stands up, bashful smile creeping onto his face at her fiery orange hair coming into view. He sees the dogs standing around wagging their tails and all excited, although no Lady and no Nymeria. Sansa can’t help her own grin. She uncrosses her arms and travels the minimal distance between them. Jon crashes into her first, hands coming up to cradle the back of her head. She folds her arms around his neck and laughs giddily. Jon has to laugh back, because Sansa Stark, his beautiful sister, is right here in his arms.

“Gods, I missed you so much,” she whispers.

Warmth blooms in his chest. Sansa. “I missed you too.” She smells of milk and honey.

She leans in close to his ear. “If you ever do that again, I’ll kill you,” she says, then specifies, “If you ever go away for that long again.”

Jon pulls back and gives her a look. Not what he was anticipating her saying. Now he has to rely on Robb and Catelyn to live up to his unsatisfying expectations.

Sansa detaches herself from him slightly, still grinning. As if he could read his mind, a hand grips his shoulder, tight, and Robb steps into view with a scraggly smile and a party hat on his head that says let’s eat! Jon beams, laughing, and completely forgoes Sansa’s existence. Pushing past her and reaching out for RobbRobbRobb. Torturously far away, but now here.

Robb’s always been just that little bit taller than him and that little bit bigger than him. For most of his life, Jon resented it. He found other ways to outdo and upstage his brother, but none quite equal to the ability of being able to rest his elbow atop of his head when standing next to him. Jon hated that. Always hated that.

Hated it—but he also secretly loved it. The only time he really gets to feel like someone’s—like something precious. Worth holding onto. Since Robb is taller and bigger, he can fully enclose Jon and press him solid against his body, muss his hair. Jon gets to relax in Robb’s arms and just stay there for the moment, knowing Robb will hold him up, will keep him steady, if he for some reason decides to fall.

“Jonny,” Robb says breathlessly, and hauls him into his arms. 

Jon goes pliantly, no resistance whatsoever. There goes Robb’s chance at a disciplinary reaction. He hooks his arms under where Robb’s go over. He curls fingers into his jumper, just like he’d done with Ned, and hides his face with his forehead against his shoulder. Even though he doesn’t say it, he thinks Robb knows, because he always does that quiet, oh, Jon, and holds him that little bit tighter.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” 

Jon chuckles into his shoulder. He feels Robb shake his head above him and move his hands to—yep, his hair.

“Alright, Bob?” Jon asks. “Miss me?”

“Miss you? I fuckin’ mourned you, little brother.”

Sansa laughs from behind. “He’s being dramatic.”

Robb pulls away. His hands remain in place. “I’m not. Have you been around me at all these past two years? Do you even know me, Sansa?” He then turns back to Jon. “This is not drama. I’m truly miserable without you.”

Jon yanks him back in, chuckling. He wants that last drop of affection before it all has to end. Robb lifts him off the floor and swings him side to side. Too strong for his own good.

Catelyn clears her throat. “Jon.”

Robb turns to his mother, so Jon’s forced to meet her eyes in this humiliatingly compromising position as well. He taps Robb’s shoulder frantically, and Robb releases him. His shoes thud as he returns to natural footing.

He dusts himself off—imaginary dust. “Catelyn. Hi. I mean—how are you? It’s been… well, it’s good to see you. You look well.”

Catelyn smiles and steps forward. Jon suddenly feels all clammed up. He half expects her to give him a good thwap across the head, a firm kick to the shin. Something well within her right of punishment. Someone long overdue. It may be the only reasonable reaction to his enlisting at the Watch, then returning home with little to no warning.

But all that comes is a gentle, half-bodied embrace, and the whisper of, “Welcome home, Jon,” before she pulls back.

He stares, follows her hand motioning to the ceiling above, then blinks at the banner hung from one end of the window frame to the other. Welcome Home, Jon! in the messiest handwriting he’s ever seen. When he looks down again, it’s only now that he notices Catelyn wearing a party hat, too. And Theon.

Jon blinks. Oh. Theon. He raises his eyebrows. Hadn’t noticed him. A bit strange that he was here. Jon knows he’s Robb’s best friend and all, and that they all kind of grew up together, but—Theon? The kid who used to step on his sand castles and snatch his crayons, here at his welcome home celebration?

“Hey, Jon,” Theon greets awkwardly, shuffling on the balls of his feet.

Jon winces. “Hi.” He captures the very moment Theon sees his mouth turn into a grimace, and neutralizes himself immediately.

“Uh—welcome back,” Theon says anyway.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Jon turns away out of embarrassment. Back to Arya, Bran, Rickon. “You guys didn’t want hats?”

“Oh, um,” Robb pipes up. He darts his eyes at his mother, then back. “Choking hazard.”

Don’t mention it, then. “Ah.”

Catelyn gives him a weak smile. Her precaution, clearly.

Silence fills the room for about a second, and everyone stands idly and waits for someone else to make the next move.

Jon feels frozen in his place, the high of bombarding hugs and reunions fizzling out. He shoves his hands in his pockets and swivels around once, twice, then back to original position. He breathes in and holds it, because maybe that will help, of all things. Robb shuffles closer to Theon, which hurts to see for some reason. And so does Sansa, which hurts even more. Bran and Rickon just stare at him, waiting expectantly. Arya bites her lip as she looks around, like she can sense the tension. It’s not an inherently laborious task for a twelve-year-old, but she’s been known to be a bit slow on the uptake.

Ned claps his hands. Thank god. “Right! Lad, I’m gonna put these in your room, then how’s about we eat some cake, yeah?”

“Cake?” Jon echoes.

“Yay!”

“Hey, Jon, where’s Ghost?”

“Can I have the first and biggest slice?”

“Oh, yeah,” Sansa hums, happily migrating over to the kitchen. “There’s cake.”

“I think the writing got messed up on the way back from the shop,” Robb says.

“You guys got a cake for me?” Jon questions, chest doing that blooming thing again. He huffs a smile onto his face watching the littles scramble for a seat at the counter.

Robb scoffs. “Well, yeah. Two years, no? That deserves a cake.” He winks, pats Jon on the back as he passes. “Go have a shower. Get changed. I’ll save ya a slice.”

Jon doesn’t move. “Okay.”

***

Jon didn’t finish his slice of cake. He couldn’t. Between leaving the Watch and coming back to real life, he just wasn’t all that hungry. His stomach hadn’t stopped churning since he had gotten on the coach. Arya happily finished his slice for him, save for some insistent begging.

He tried to keep up with their fast conversation and playful banter—even though he’d never struggled to before—but all in all, it was too much, too fast, and Ned caught his eye from across the table and nodded. You can go.

He felt bad because they had done all that just for him. Set up banners and bought party hats and a cake, and he had just ditched. Realistically, he knows they probably would’ve understood if he had just said he needed some downtime, alone in his room. But it’s the way he slinked past the chairs and up the stairs, all secretive and ungrateful, that irks him.

Robb adjusts his head from where he’s laying on Jon’s stomach. The crickets sound from outside his window.  “Did you wear that funny hat?”

“No.”

“Did you live in a tent?”

“No.”

“Did you drink river water? And eat maggots?”

“What? No,” Jon scoffs.

Robb sighs. “Well, then what did you do?” he asks. “Isn’t that the whole military lifestyle? Sleeping in the mud? Always on the go?”

“Yeah, if you’re in battle. I only completed basic training, asshole.” Jon moves his arms to rest behind his head. The wall was starting to hurt to lean on, but he didn’t want to disrupt Robb’s comfortable use for him as his personal pillow. “We slept in bunks. Had duffel bags. Clean water. And we worked out a shit ton.”

“Bunk beds?” Robb echoes. He gets this cheeky grin on his face. “Were you on the bottom?”

Jon shoves him, going red. “Shut up, man.”

Robb laughs. It’s been too long since Jon’s heard that sound. He’s sure jokes were swapped at the dinner table before he left, but he can’t quite remember anything that was said. But here, together, lying on Jon’s bed in the dark of the night with nothing but a corner lamp to illuminate the room, he’s sure he can retain it all. He wants to retain it all.

Robb props hismelf up on his elbows. “Working out, huh?” He reaches for the hem of Jon’s shirt. “Lift up your shirt, let’s see.”

“No, fuck off.” Jon blocks his hands.

He can’t help the slightly congested laugh that escapes him when Robb starts poking. His pillow position abandoned, and he’s leaning over Jon with threatening fingertips. He tries to curl in on himself to cover his stomach, but he bumps foreheads with Robb and they both groan. This is worse, because he’s extremely ticklish, and there’s no doubt that Robb knows that.

“Aw, c’mon, lemme see!” Robb coos.

“No—”

“Don’t be shy, little brother, I’m sure you’re scoring a handsome six pack by now, all those lemon pies you eat.”

Jon shakes his head. “Get off!” he exclaims. Robb finally grabs a handful of his shirt, yanking upwards, revealing Jon’s bare torso.

He gasps at the sight, immediately pushing himself back to sit on his knees. He gapes at Jon with his eyebrows raised and jaw near hitting the mattress they’re perched on together. “Holy shit! You’re ripped!” Jon suddenly feels very exposed. He tugs his shirt back down. Robb blinks rapidly and leans close again. “Jon—Wait, can you start taking me to the gym? I wanna look like that.”

“Take yourself to the gym. ‘M done with all that,” Jon mumbles.

Robb deflates, disappointed. “You didn’t like it?”

Jon grimaces. There’s not really an easy way to explain it. “Not… didn’t like it, persay…” It was apart of the Watch and the Watch was apart of running away and running away was apart of leaving everyone behind. He made the decision and came home, and so he was done with it. “Just… that’s not who I am. Y’know?”

Robb looks confused, but then his face drops, exhaling dramatically. Jon can tell that he’s doing that thing where he lets it go even if he doesn’t understand. He pats Jon’s belly teasingly. “Oh, I know.”

Jon sighs. Stupid. Robb mumbles to himself about how he didn’t feel any abs through Jon’s shirt when laying on his stomach, but Jon just ignores him, because retaliating with a comment about his thick head was less than necessary when all he was trying to do was spend some time with him.

Robb flops back down on his back, head resting against Jon’s stomach once more. “How about guns? Did you shoot guns?” Robb then asks.

Jon doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. “Yes, I shot guns.”

“Sick. What about tanks? You ride a tank?”

“No. That was a bit above my rookie ranking, Robb.”

“Just asking.” Robb scratches at his cheek. “I don’t know jack about the Watch.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

Robb lifts his head slightly, meeting Jon’s shy gaze. Jon hates the way he feels so embarrassed. He averts his eyes. Robb just stares and doesn’t say anything for the moment.

Then, “You don’t have PTSD, do you?” Robb mutters.

Jon looks at him, blankly. “Dude.”

“Well, you’re being awfully closed off. And I know you’re kind of a quiet type anyway, but this is more than usual.” He leans closer, eyes widening. “Don’t forget—I know you, Jon. You can’t hide from me.”

“That’s what you think.” Jon flicks his forehead.

Robb lies back down with a huff and a small smile. “Did you make any friends, at least? A place like that, I’d think it’d pay off to have some allies.”

“Yeah. One. His name was Sam.”

“Was? He didn’t… did he?”

“Huh? No,” Jon detests even the thought of it. “God, no—Jesus, Robb, what’s the matter with you?”

“You’re just speaking so earnestly!” Robb defends. “Makin’ me think somethin’ horrible happened while you were away. You leave without warning after some fight with Dad, you don’t call or write, and now you refuse to talk about it! What are we supposed to think?”

Jon grits his teeth. “You’re supposed to respect my wishes and shut up.”

From where Jon can see slightly over the curls on his forehead, Robb rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, no. No can do,” Robb tutts, then starts picking at his nail beds. That’s one thing Jon remembers before he left. Sansa used to always nag Robb about keeping his fingers away from his nails, that he was ruining them. She would pluck them out of his mouth as he bit, yank them away from his teeth, or his other nails, or whatever unrolled paperclip he’d found to scrape the edges between the skin. His own unique manicure.

Jon didn’t know why it mattered. Robb wants to chew his fingernails—so what? He was the eldest, and arguably the smartest, so what was some minutely bothersome habit compared to everything else he did right? When he’d asked, Sansa had just said, neither of you will understand because you’re guys, and guys don’t care about that sort of stuff—but it’s harmful, trust me, and gone back scolding Robb. You’ll thank me later, she mouthed as she did so.

Robb pulls him out of his thoughts, even with his lips wrapped around his ring finger. “So only male trainees? Were any of the drill sergeants female, at least?”

“Oh my god.” Jon hides his face in his hands.

Robb smirks. “Hm. You had a hot female drill sergeant, didn’t you, Jon? And you liked it when she yelled at you to tuck your shirt in and slick your hair back and get on the ground. Snow! Another twenty! Yeah?”

“You better shut the fuck up.”

He peeks through the cracks of his fingers and sees Robb with his head tilted upwards, grinning up at him. He knows he’s red. Knows it travels to his ears. He keeps his hands covering, nonetheless.

Robb shakes his head fondly, looking back down at his nails. Enjoys it too much. “You can talk to me about these things. I won’t judge,” he says. “I used to think you were gay until that fling you had in highschool with—what was her name? That redhead? Yvonne, or something…”

“Ygritte,” Jon corrects him, “and I’m still friends with her, so watch it.”

“Ygritte. What a name. Wasn’t she from the deep deep North?”

Jon hums. “Mhm.”

“Wow,” Robb whispers to himself, almost instantly in a trance. He has this fascination with the folk way up north—for what reason Jon cannot decide. He thinks maybe Theon told too many stories about the girls, and Robb’s taken it in his stride that he’s going to marry one one day. Jon never knew how to bring up Theon’s quiet obvious and almost painful virginity to Robb. It felt akin to taking a child’s candy.

He knew for himself that the girls way up north weren’t as perverted and desperate as Theon believed them to be. Ygritte was a tough nut, hard to crack, and even on the many occasions Jon had tried to give up and leave her alone completely, it was then where she’d come bouncing right back into his life, kissed by fire, eyes gleaming. Gave him whiplash, how she couldn’t make up her mind.

Robb suddenly got up on his elbows again and looked at where his head had mussed up Jon’s shirt, revealing a sliver of his abs. He smiled down at them and then up at Jon, almost sadly. “I’m sorry. Won’t keep asking. But you really can talk to me about things, okay?”

There was a genuine glint in his eyes and Jon knew he’d done the right thing by coming home. For all the teasing and fights and arguments and disagreements. His room hasn’t changed. Not his nerdy video game posters or his abnormally high stack of books set on his desk collecting dust. They hadn’t moved anything. They expected him to come home.

“Thanks, Bob,” he says, a little choked up, praying Robb doesn’t hear it in the way his voice wobbles.

***

Sam calls on the fourteenth day Jon’s back. Two weeks. It must be phone time for them, so he picks up immediately.

“Sammy!” he exclaims.

Sam’s voice comes through staticy and warbled. “Hey! Big J! You made it home okay!”

It’s good to hear his voice. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Thank you. For everything.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. What friends do, yeah?” There’s a pause in Sam’s speaking. Then, “How’s your family?”

“Yeah, they’re—they’re good.” Jon holds off on telling him about how strangely welcoming they’ve all been. “All is well.”

Sam hums. “Is all really well, or are you just too tired to go into detail?”

Jon huffs a laugh. “Still know me so well.”

“Only been two weeks without you. Not that easy to forget, Snow.”

“Thanks, I guess,” even though his heart swells.

“You get that northern drawl in your voice when you’re sleepy.”

“Okay, Sam.”

Jon hears a chuckle. “Everyone happy to see you? How was the bus home?”

“Mm. Took a coach, actually. I was lucky enough to score a seat alone, but the heaters were dud, and it was cold as balls.”

“Right. And everyone…?”

Jon pauses. He feels Sam waiting on the other line. It was a weird reuinion. Something about it. “Yeah. Everyone,” he replies flatly, giving no further explanation. “Even Theon—can you believe?”

“Theon Greyjoy? The kid who stepped on your sand castles and stole your crayons?”

“That’s the one.”

“I suppose he is Robb’s best mate.”

Jon feels a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You remember a lot of what I tell you, don’t you?”

The line crackles again, and half of Sam’s speech gets cut out. “—not much else worth remembering.”

“Thank you… I think,” he responds, humble attempt. He shakes his head. “Whatever—any trouble down there?”

He holds off on asking about Ghost, just because he misses him so much he thinks he’ll take to tears if he hears about how well his boy’s doing far, far away from him.

“Nope!” Sam’s voice reaches an octave.

“Sam,” he tries, politely.

It doesn’t take much. “Yeah, people are talking, mate. They’re not happy. I’ve had four people come up to me already, asking how you fled with impunity.”

Jon scrunches up in anger. Something he was told the Watch would train out of him, but no. He was still was short-tempered as ever. “Fled? I didn’t—!”

“I know! I know! You think I didn’t tell them that? You al—” Sam’s words dip out, then back in, “—ways knew people were gonna do this, mate, that’s the consequence you face. But you’re at home now, a million miles away, so don’t worry about it.”

Jon grumbles. He crosses his arms and presses his ear hard to his shoulder, trapping the phone in between. He did not flee. He did not. He deserted—which, to be fair, not an entirely better word for it—but he did not flee.

The phone crackles once more. Then Sam. “Before you get too bent out of shape—remember Edd? Who did the same thing, except six months into training?”

“Edd,” Jon echoes, racking his mind. Edd, Edd, Edd…

“Yeah. He lives nearby, you know? As in—Winterfell. Maybe on the outskirts, but you should go see him. He’ll have some words of advice for you. Maybe. He was a bit weird but he was a good friend. Don’t you remember?”

Silence fills the line.

“‘Loyal Lad’?” Sam continues. “Followed you around with his jaw dragging ‘cross the floor?”

A lightbulb springs on. “Oh. Edd.” A man of many words, he can hear Theon teasing in his head. Not particularly tall, might be shorter than Jon. Brown hair, shoulder length. Often greasy and slicked back, but that was the expectation for all military trainees. Jon remembers hating using so much gel because it fucked up his curls. Remembers Robb making fun of him for caring about his hair. And then that made him miss home even more.

Edd was put in their small group and did his morning exercise with him and Sam. There was a time when Edd had left his socks in his boots and his boots outside the tent, and it had rained all night long. He complained about wet feet the whole day, then panicked when Sam brought up the legitimate risk of trench foot. Edd took a timely liking to Jon and would stay by his side during briefings. He saved Jon spots in line and at tables at food times, and defended him against the other guys who’d occasionally give him lip for being better at combat than them. He stayed up late, as well, when Jon couldn’t sleep. When all he could do was think about how much he missed home, and Robb, and Ned. He would talk Jon to sleep about some boring old baseball season he’d never gotten over the loss of back in 2005.

“You know what, I miss him. I might just do that.”

He can almost hear Sam’s grin. “That’s it, J. Get back to your life,” he says earnestly. “Gods know you of all people deserve it.”

Jon scoffs and hopes the phone doesn’t pick it up. The Watch’s landlines tend to cut out when it suits them, anyway.

***

Edd’s front lawn is barely even a front lawn. It’s got weeds that reach the gutters and a tree with branches that do their own thing and seem to have been doing their own thing for a while now. The curtains are drawn so he can’t see inside. The steps leading up to the front door are wobbly and Jon almost rolls his ankle trying to catch his balance on them. The doorbell doesn’t work—granted—so he balls his hand into a fist and knocks once, then twice, and then steps back and waits.

Jon was too scared to call, the ugly truth of it. Sam’s words made it all feel too real and he just wasn’t ready to take the first step. Edd was nearby. The outskirts of Winterfell. So instead, he skipped the first step and jumped straight into executing the plan. No warning on Edd’s part—but Jon figures he can’t refuse him this way, and he kind of really needs a friend who gets it right now.

Edd recognizes him immediately when he opens the door.

“Jon Snow,” he says breathlessly. Suddenly, his arms swing up and he beams, cackling. “At my door! Holy fuck—what are you doing here?”

Edd drags him in—making sure he heeds the broken plank holding the door up, because sometimes the nails will catch you off guard—and gets Jon settled right and comfy on his squelchy, peeling leather couch. The kettle’s popped on. Edd calls out, hey, didn’t you have that big ass husky? He makes them tea and puts on the baseball. After all these years, he’s still watching baseball. Edd says he usually hates sports but baseball is special, like Jon hasn’t already heard that, countless nights in the barracks. He bites back a laugh. He tries to watch the baseball to soothe some of his nerves. But the tea is too milky, and the audio on the telly is too crackly and low, so he’s the same amount of nervous as he was when he first arrived.

Edd’s house, or unit, is more of a den than anything. The ceiling paint is molded on most corners, peeling off where it meets the skirting boards and door frames below, and almost all of the windows lack real linen curtains, tacky blinds drawn to keep the daylight out. A vampire, Jon considers he might be. There are bananas in a fruit bowl not far past the kitchen counter, but most of them are past browning, are slowly morphing into one another. A pizza box sits on the edge of an armchair, begging to be finished off.

Jon hopes Edd doesn’t offer it to him.

“So, you left the Watch?” Edd begins.

“Yeah.” Jon slowly nods, still slightly ashamed.

Edd slurps his tea loudly where Jon sips tiny little kitten licks. Even though Edd left earlier than him, he somehow felt his desertion was worse. “Two years in? Sheesh,” Edd whistles. “I thought six months was bad but that actually doubled as a grace period. Lucky me. I knew I wasn’t cut out for the military as soon as I got there.”

Jon’s stomach churns. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “…Yeah, me too,”

Some tea runs down Edd’s chin. Jon cringes, though he doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, you lasted a lot longer than me, that’s for sure.” Edd finally wipes it. “Good on ya. Always been a determined lad.”

Or a coward. Jon nods anyway, taking the compliment, and sips some more of his milky tea to stop himself from saying something dumb.

Edd places his mug down gently on the coffee table, a coaster with cannabis leaves on it. “So what brings you here to the Edd Cave?”

Jon stares, lip quirking up. Holy shit, Sam. “Well, I heard the Edd Cave might hold some important wisdom for me,” he answers. Then he sighs before Edd can ask him to elaborate. “The sad truth? I just need a friend. Joining the Watch… then leaving the Watch… it kinda fucked me up. I rang Sam the other day and he thought it would be good for us to reconnect.”

“So formal,” Edd teases, almost crooning. “Reconnect. Like we some estranged exes. Loosen up, Jon. We’re friends.”

“Right. Sorry.” That gave him the confidence to take another sip. He regrets it as soon as he does. He also has the feeling that Edd was going to ask him about why he left soon.

“So why’d you desert?”

There it was. Jon hated how attentive he was sometimes. Uncle Benjen used to call him inspector gadget whenever he visited them. It was cute when he was young, but when he’d joined the Watch and had his Uncle, one of the chief commanders, calling him something from a children’s television show. Well, it got old real fast.

“Um. Family stuff,” is all Jon says.

“Did someone die?” Edd asks.

“No, I… I don’t know, I just wanted to come home.”

“Shit, didn’t we all?” Edd leans over the side of the couch, reaching for something. Jon sees a sliver of cardboard, or paper, or maybe a tissue. Edd brings out something rolled—a cigarette, Jon initially thinks. But no, too thick. It takes him a moment to register what Edd’s holding, but when he does, his breath catches.

Edd smokes weed.

Jon shifts in his spot, looking around awkwardly. Edd takes notice and leans back into the cushions behind them. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a lighter.

“Sorry. I know it’s probably more complicated than that,” he says to Jon, still on the topic of his family, and not the open investigation pinched between his index and his thumb. He lights it, breathes in, and then holds it out to Jon. “You smoke?”

It definietly made sense that Edd smoked weed.

Jon always hated the smell of tobacco. Hated how easily it clung to your clothes and hair. And Jon’s always had a lot of hair. But marijuana, on the other hand…

“No,” he smiles, taking it anyway.

***

They were all going through old photo albums, taking the pictures out of their plastic slips and examining them closely, trying to figure out who was who as a baby. Everyone had particularly enjoyed Robb’s album because it had been so long since he was so small and cute. Catelyn had argued that he was still her cute little man, and ran a hand through his curls. Arya and Sansa pointed at pictures of his wrinkly toes jutting out from his swaddle, and cackled at others of his bare bum on display. Embarrassed, Robb had flushed a bright shade of red and demanded they move on to the next album.

Sansa’s album was delightful. Catelyn used to dress her up in the prettiest little dresses and jumpsuits she could find. Her first daughter, so of course she was mummy’s princess. There were the few strays of Ned holding her upside down and blowing raspberries into her belly, Catelyn mid-scold distant in the background, and some of her and little Jeyne she used to be friends with in the day centre.

Arya and Bran shared a photo album because they were so close in age. The ‘twins’ everyone called them. They wore matching outfits and played together and shared a cot and double pram. Arya hated seeing herself dressed in all pink, thought Bran’s smooth baby blue would’ve been a better fit. Robb had jabbed at how the two didn’t look any different from their photos.

Sansa had picked up the last album in the box and blown the dust off the cover. Her face had screwed up in confusion. “Who’s Aegon. T?” she had asked.

Jon hadn’t thought about where his photo album might’ve been. He remembers being so caught up in cuddling Ghost and looking at Robb’s and Sansa’s and Bran and Arya’s that he didn’t at all question the fact that he and Robb didn’t share one, by twins logic. He had just supposed it was because he wasn’t Catelyn’s son.

He remembers watching Ned’s face drain of color and then slowly turn to look at Jon. He remembers gulping, feeling a sudden sense of impending doom. He remembers thinking it could’ve gone any other way, but he still would’ve found out, and his world still would’ve been knocked off its axis. It could’ve been Sansa handing him the album straight on and him opening the first page and being met with his baby face. It could’ve been flipping through for a bit before Arya pointed out the label—why does Jon’s say—or until Jon closed it and tilted his head and went, hah, why does mine say—but none of that happened.

Sansa looked between Jon and Ned, and then at Catelyn. Jon could feel Robb’s eyes on him. Some measly mistake. So simple, so easy. It was at that moment he saw the flicker of defeat travel through Ned’s eyes. And so Ned sighed, his shoulders sagging.

“Dad?” Jon remembers saying with a squeaky voice.

Ned had only given him an apologetic smile back.

***

Jon wakes to the sound of Arya screaming, Sansa yelling, and the vacuum’s deafening rumble downstairs. Robb barges in as soon as he opens his eyes.

He’s chewing, staring, sandwich with a bite mark in his hand and asks, “You hungover?”

Jon sits up, groaning. “No,” he answers, leaning forward slightly to peek down the hallway. “What’s going on?”

Robb leans against the door frame. “Hm. Sunday cleaning. Sansa and Arya are arguing over who has to dust the skirting boards, since there are so many of them,” he chuckles. Then, “Where did you go yesterday?”

“What?”

“You took Dad’s car and didn’t come back till late. What were you doing?”

The initial fear goes as quick as it comes. Jon grumbles, rolling over and away from Robb to check the time. “Nothing. No one.”

“Oh, I didn’t ask that yet.” Robb takes another bite of his sandwich. “Ahead of me, brother.”

10 A.M. Jon groans and drags a hand down his face. He swears under his breath then annoyedly turns back to Robb. “Gods—you’re always around! Do you ever just spend an hour on your own?”

Robb does not flinch. “Come down. Mum wants you to cut the grass.” He shoves the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth. “You know how to do that, right?”

He shoots Jon a teasing smirk while exiting his room and wrinkling his nose up in disgust. Jon’s eyebrows furrow. He brings a bundle of his shirt up to his face and sniffs. He drops it, and groans again.

“Fuck,” he says to no one. Turns out marijuana smells just as bad as tobacco. Worse, even.

***

The frosty autumn air nips at their exposed cheeks. Sansa has a matching beanie and scarf, a deep green with polka dots. Jon just wears one of Robb’s coats with the furry hoods and crosses his arms over his chest and shivers. He hadn’t asked if he could borrow it but when Sansa invited him out for a walk around the neighborhood, he found it draped over the arm of the sofa and picked it up. Robb had called out from the other room, you can wear it if you want! somehow, without looking up from his phone.

The sun shines through the leaveless tree branches and he has to squint in order to properly see Sansa. All she does is giggle at his twisted face and walk faster than him. He’s noticing that she’s growing taller than him, as well. Soon it will be her, then Arya, and then Bran. And then probably Rickon too, knowing his luck. And he’ll end up shortest in the family because even Catelyn has some inches on him.

“Did you sleep in trees?” Sansa starts questioning once they’re a good mile away from the house.

Jon sighs. Not this again. “What is it with you and Robb and asking me the most heinous questions?”

“Did you shoot guns?” She dismisses his remark.

“Yes, actually, so don’t piss me off,” he says pointedly.

Sansa laughs. “You don’t own a gun.”

He ignores that.

They do another half mile in the rising sun and frosty air and slowly melting sidewalks before Sansa steals glances from where she thinks he can’t see. Then she finally pipes up again.

“You know I slept in your room a lot while you were gone?”

It takes Jon by surprise. Nothing had seemed particularly different about his room, like no one had ever really been there at all. He’s skeptical of the weird curiosity she has for his reply. “Really?” is all he gives her, a little more than flatly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Thanks for that—”

“You’re welcome?”

“—and that lamp you’ve got in the corner, the orange one, the one that looks like fire?”

“My lava lamp?”

“Yeah!” She perks up like she’s hit the jackpot. “‘S pretty cool. Say… where would you go about getting one of those? Like—one that’s exactly the same as that. No differences whatsoever. I want one of my own, and that one’s just—it’s perfect. For me.”

Jon looks at her, almost slipping on the ice beneath him because they’ve haven’t stopped walking to have a conversation, which is something he hates and she probably knows. She stares ahead as she walks—or runs—and he has to skip and then jog and then break out into a short run to keep up. Despite the compulsory fitness routine he had to conjure up while at the Watch, exercise was not his forte, and cardio benefitting activity was unfortunately the fastest way to revive his dormant asthma.

He had gotten that lava lamp one Christmas when he was fourteen or fifteen. Robb had gotten the same one except his was blue, so they matched. Except Robb didn’t so little as feign care for his stupid lamp and told Bran he could have it. So then Jon matched with Bran—begrudgingly. Bran wasn’t too crazy about it either but he liked the colour blue at the time so he accepted it. Jon didn’t understand the two. Looking at his own lamp—the way the little lava blobs swam and rose and sunk—it was completely mesmermizing. He loved it. It kept him in a trance for days. He couldn’t stop watching. It was just like magic to him. He loved it.

He puts a hand on her shoulder, or her scarf, to steady himself. She doesn’t bat an eye. “I guess you could just look online. I’m sure mine still has the brand on it somewhere.”

“Oh.” Sansa bites her lip. “But do you remember the brand without having to look?”

“Nah, not a clue. It was one of my gifts one year, remember? Christmas? Man, I adored it. Kept it on all day and night just to watch the little things swim.” He shook his head reminisincing it. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t gone and turned it on yet! How could he have forgotten all about his lava lamp? “Your mum yelled at me to turn it off more times than I can count. She thought it would overheat and start a fire.”

“Oh… haha. Yeah, that’s… don’t worry, I’ll just have a look when we get home. Somewhere’s gotta have it.”

“Well, I’ll just show you the label, no?” Jon wonders. “Don’t go searchin’ if you don’t have to.”

“That’s alright.”

Jon’s mouth paused. They didn’t stop walking, but there was something off about her. He thought they should sit down. And that wasn’t a notion specific to this moment, because he’d been wanting to sit down for the past half hour, but now Sansa was just being plain strange.

Nothing sounds any alarms in his head at her behavior except maybe for her skittishness. Whenever Sansa was lying or trying to cover something up she would always avoid eye contact and sit or stand very rigid. She would speak very eloquently so as to not accidentally let the lie slip. She could not be trusted with secrets, so no one ever told her secrets. But sometimes she found out things by accident, the poor girl, and the weight on her shoulders all of the sudden felt positively world-ending.

There wasn’t anything to lie about, though. Jon was usually good at spotting her little tells and connecting it with something, but—

“Sansa,” he says, wary, unsure. Maybe praying he’s wrong.

Sansa hums.

“Did you break my lava lamp?”

She lets out a disheartened whine, cozying her face into his shoulder. “I’m sorry!” Jon just sighs. “Technically it was Bran! He scared me coming out of the bathroom! And I knocked into the dresser, and it was already sitting on the edge, and…”

She looks up at him guiltily.

“I’m sorry…”

Jon shakes his head. Goddamnit. His favorite lava lamp. “How long ago did this happen? And how on earth did you dispose of it all? That’s, like, a lot of goop.”

Sansa groans like she knows. “It was within the first few months of you gone.” Oh, so lampy’s been gone a while now. “I tried to find it online but nothing looked right, and then I just forgot about it. Then you came back. And now you’re lampless.”

Lampless. What an overly tragic adjective for a situation of this severity. Jon felt a bit bad. It was just a lamp. She didn’t have to go through all this turmoil, especially if it was an accident. He could always just ask Ned to buy him another one. Pray he even remembered where he’d gotten them from in the first place.

“I do have a regular desk lamp,” he tries to reason, make her feel better.

“Yeah, but this was your favorite one. You loved it as soon as you got it.”

“Yeah,” Jon exhales. He could ask Bran for his, but it was blue. Not really the same. And maybe Bran grew to like his blue lamp. “Yeah, I did.”

He’s not mad at her, but it is disappointing to hear, something valuable of his. Maybe that was the way it was supposed to go. Enlisting in the military, and so he lost a part of himself, left it back home where all his soul was. Maybe it was a symbol of leaving childhood behind. Something poetic like that. 

Sansa finally looks at him. “Are you angry?”

“No, no,” he quicky reassures, then shrugging. “It’s whatever. Shit like that happens.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“I know. I forgive you.” He smiles. He punches her arm lightly. “Quit worrying, you’ll go greyer than Lady.”

Sansa face drops. Jon instantly knows he’s just made a mistake. He wishes they would just sit down.

“What is it?” he asks.

She sighs. “Lady’s passed.”

Jon grabs her arm, stopping—and stopping her effectively, too. “Holy shit, what? What the hell happened?”

Sansa looks to the sky for a moment, breathing in, and then back at Jon with only slightly glassy eyes. “Just some idiot in a car. We were all at the dog park, and I guess I threw the ball too far. It’s fine.”

Jon’s heart breaks. “Sansa, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s fine. Nymeria’s gone missing too, by the way. Arya’s torn.” Sansa wipes her eyes with her polka dot scarf and sniffles. “This all happened a few months before you came back, as well. Hey, suppose that puts us even.”

Jon cringes internally. That explains why he’s only been seeing Summer, Shaggydog and Grey Wind. Jesus, he’s missed a lot. He’s been feeling that very heavily lately.

“Sure, Sans,” he accepts, coaxing her forward with a hand on her back. “For sure. Let’s just go home.”

***

It’s night—very late at night—and Jon cannot sleep.

He’s not used to it anymore. Being able to hear Arya’s YouTube down the hall, Sansa’s music, Robb’s and Greywind’s snoring. He’s used to quiet bunkers and the occasional owl. He’s used to chattering teeth and nightmares a few beds over. He’s not used to the crickets—not anymore. He lies awake staring at his ceiling, waiting for slumber to take him over like a puppet with its strings cut.

He ends up going downstairs and making himself a cup of tea. Wanders around the living room aimlessly as he blows on it and then sips. He ends up catching the family photos on the mantel, standing in front of them for longer than usual. All the frames. Examining. English breakfast filling the air.

There’s Robb and him, curled around each other. Robb and Theon on dirtbikes. Catelyn, and then more Catelyn but younger—and then Catelyn and Ned, their wedding portrait. Then Arya—just Arya. Then Sansa and Arya. Then Sansa, Arya and Robb. Jon and Arya, on a giant swing. Theon, by himself, with his first missing tooth. Catelyn and Lysa and Edmure as kids. Then Ned, Robert and Jon (Arryn, he reminds) a few years ago. Ned and Benjen and Brandon. And then, finally, Ned, Benjen and…

Lyanna. His throat catches on some tea. Your mother, a voice in his head mercilessly supplies. The three of them are huddled around a birthday cake that vaguely spells out HAPPY BIRTHDAY BEN! Jon can only assume Uncle Brandon was the one taking the photo. Lyanna is smiling. She looks happy. Jon still doesn’t feel anything when he looks at her. She, too, is Aunite Lyanna to him. Ned is now Uncle Ned, but—she’s still just Auntie Lyanna.

When he thinks about it too much he starts to hate himself. That’s his mum. His mum, and he doesn’t feel a thing. He used to beg to know anything about her, anything at all. Used to chase Ned round the house after he found out. How could you have kept this from me? From Catelyn? From all of us? And Ned used to ignore him but sometimes reply, I was going to tell you. Jon never knew when, or if that was the truth or a lie. But she’s been right under his nose this entire time and he just doesn’t care.

“You alright, Jon?” Ned suddenly speaks.

Jon jumps. The remaining tea in his mug sloshes. He flips around to face Ned, and to pretend like he wasn’t taking a solemn trip down memory lane.

Ned chuckles. “Sorry. Can't sleep?”

Jon just holds up his mug. He doesn’t feel like talking.

Ned sits down on the armchair nearby. He yawns and scratches at his stubble, then he eyes what Jon’s looking at. A fond smile spreads across his face.

“You lot were a feisty bunch,” he says. “Kept us on our toes, you did.”

Jon smiles, too. “Sorry, not sorry.”

“Don’t you apologize, you were the good one. The calm one. It was Arya and Sansa that needed reeling in. And Theon, occasionally.”

Jon huffs a small chuckle and goes back to Theon’s missing tooth. It was true. He and Robb rarely got in trouble, if not for petty fights and immature disputes. Theon was the worst of them three; he always got Robb involved in whatever shenanigans he was plotting that day, and sometimes Robb extended the olive branch and got Jon involved too, because he was nervous or scared or just wanted Jon to be there with him. And sometimes Jon accepted, sometimes he didn’t. It always ended with Theon getting an earful, Robb studying his feet skittishly beside him.

Robb was the favorite, Jon thinks. Cat never yelled at him as much as she yelled at Theon and Jon. Ned yelled at them all equally. Even Sansa and Arya and Bran.

“You had your moments,” Ned piped. “Do you remember going to the zoo?”

“No, not really.”

“Alright. You loved meerkats. How about ice skating?”

“Oh, yeah, totally.”

“Yeah. So you remember refusing Robb’s hand and skating all the way into the middle on your lonesome?”

Jon smirks. He had fallen right on his ass. He still remembers how much it had hurt, unexpected on his twelve-year-old body. Thought nothing in the world could hurt so bad.

Ned chuckles. “Yeah, we left you there to learn your lesson. Wouldn’t move a damn inch, you. Cried when we went to the café next door to have lunch, but you just wouldn’t take Robb or Theon’s hand to help drag you to the edge.” Ned shook his head in delight. His fingers picked up at loose threads on the armchair. “What was going through your head?” he asks.

“I was thinking I wasn’t about to be spun in circles against my will,” Jon answers truthfully.

“Robb wouldn’t’ve done that. Nah.”

“I’m not talking about Robb.”

Ned pauses for the moment then understands. He snorts. “Justified reluctance, then,” he accepts. “I taught you well.”

Jon’s eyebrows twitch. “What—never trust a Greyjoy?”

Ned makes a face fearful and points to the ceiling all cheeky like. He brings the finger to his lips next. “He’s upstairs, you know. Draped over Robb’s lap like a sloth.”

“Looks a bit like one.” Jon’s proud of that insult. He’ll have to repeat it when Theon’s awake. “He has enough to badger me for anyway. A bit of eavesdropping ain’t goin’ to be the death of us.”

Ned seems to think on that. He rocks back and forth in the chair and makes a little humming sound. He tends to do that, Jon’s noticed. Ponder on things. Whether it’s life or death or what to have for breakfast in the morning. He ponders. It’s not something he’s picked up on before he left for the Watch, but now that he’s back he sees it in everything Ned does. Nothing happens without precise thought, clear planning, etched all over his face. His wrinkles could be a map that Jon follows.

“You know about Theon’s brothers, yeah?”

That’s where this was going. “Of course.”

“Yeah. So I do hope you’re nice to him from time to time, at the very least. He might be older and Robb might be his mate, but I know he sees you all as his younger siblings.” He values your respect, your acceptance, is what Ned means to say. Theon’s family has always been a fickle thing, which is why he took to the Starks so easily. “He’s a good boy who the world has been very cruel to.”

More often than not, Ned gets solemn when he ponders, too. Jon looks away from Theon’s photo but not towards Ned, because he’s not in the mood to butter Theon up or feel any sympathy about his past. Not at this time of night, where the guy won’t even be present to appreciate it.

Jon thought it was over. He was ready to take the last swig of his english breakfast and bid his uncle goodnight—when Ned clears his throat.

“Your mother,” he starts off, quiet. “She loved you, Aegon”

Jon tenses. “Stop,” he immediately tells him.

“I just want you to know—”

“That’s not my name.” Jon begins to walk away. He all but drops his mug in the sink, and feels a little surprised that it doesn’t break against the force.

Ned gets up out of his armchair and steps tentatively with his hand out. Jon hates how everyone’s being extra gentle with him now, like he’s a damn animal.

“I’m sorry.” The arm drops, almost like Ned had realized the same thing. “I… You never ask about her. It makes me wonder. You’re… You’re allowed to ask, you know that, right? It’s okay to want to know things. She was my sister, I can—”

Jon reaches for his hair, tugging on his curls manically and sewing his eyes shut. “Please stop it. I don’t care. I don’t want to know anything.”

“Jon…”

“Just stop. Stop it.” Jon grits his teeth. He breathes through his nose and covers his ears and stays faced away from Ned.

When pulling at his hair isn’t enough, he rests his hands clasped together at the nape of his neck, feeling the sweat building there. He feels Ned looming closer, because Ned has that predictable looming presence, and steps back in response. He can tell the look on his face. That stupid, heartbroken look, struck with all the misery in the world.

Jon heads for the stairs.

Ned follows loosely. “I don’t want you to resent me for the rest of your life! T-There’s closure in talking about it!” He grips the banister tight. “I don’t want you to run again!”

It’s an admission as much as any, but Jon can’t take it seriously. There’s too much honesty in his voice. Too much reality. Tough luck, he thinks, and runs up the stairs to his room.

***

“Shit,” Edd says, eyebrows raised, eyes wide and concentrated on the blunt pinched between his fingers.

“Yeah,” Jon tuts, lips thinning. He takes the blunt graciously when Edd holds it out for him, and takes a longer drag than normal.

Edd shakes his head in disbelief. In shock. “So he didn’t… he didn’t say anything all those years?” he questions. “Not even to you as a secret?”

“Never. No one. My Auntie Cat had spiralled, then lived with the fact that her husband had had a baby with another woman,” Jon explains. “It was hell, my childhood, living with her.”

“Your poor aunt…” Edd mutters to the floor, then looks up and catches Jon’s face. “You have to admit, that’s pretty cruel. It wasn’t her fault your dad lied to her.”

Not my dad. “It wasn’t my fault either.”

“Yeah, I’m just sayin’. Ne’ermind.” Edd goes back to the floor. “Wait, so why did he lie again?”

Jon smiles at Edd’s dazed stare. “Something about my mother’s… well, my father being unfit to parent. Ned said that if he knew I existed he would try to get custody of me. Lyanna made him promise not to let that happen.”

Jon takes one more prolonged drag then passes the blunt back to Edd, who looks like he’s itching for it.

Jon likes these visits. They soothe him. There’s something more to it than the weed, although that part’s pretty good. Getting all these things off his chest, it’s—it’s exhilarating. Robb would unintentionally defend his own father, and Sam would try and change his perspective on things to a more positive note. But Jon doesn’t want reason, he doesn’t want solace. He wants to be understood. And that’s exactly what Edd gives him.

Edd exhales slowly. “That’s most parents, though. No one ever had the perfect childhood.”

“I think it was more than that.” Jon blinks, thoughts coming together to form ideas in slow motion. “I think maybe he was dangerous. Like—unfit unfit.”

“But if you still have his last name—wait, how does that work? Aren’t you still in the system as a Targaryen?” Edd asks. “I remember. At the Watch. People used to call you—”

“Yeah,” Jon cuts him off. He loathes hearing it. Reading it was different; it was easier to digest on paper. But hearing it. “Yeah, I don’t know how it… Ned’s a solicitor.”

“A family solicitor.”

“But a solicitor, no less. You’d be surprised what someone who’s welcome in the court can do.”

A beat of silence between them as the smoke rises from the embering blunt. The stench of pot sticking to his teeth and gums and tongue, but hopefully not his person. Then Edd just laughs—and Jon laughs too because he didn’t really know what he meant when he said that.

Edd bumps his shoulder and it feels like fire. Jon hunches in on himself and grins shyly but doesn’t stray away from the touch. The blunt goes through its two person rotation and makes its way over to him again.

Jon accepts it. He wonders if there’s anything in the world that can feel better than this.

***

Sam’s graduation rolls around quicker than originally anticipated. He and Edd got their letter invitations and suddenly, Jon felt extremely excited. He was going to see Sam again. The only problem—Jon does not own a suit.

Jon didn’t go to the formal when his high school offered it. Never had anyone to take or even the slightest interest in attending. Sansa, although years below him at the time, had said that she would go with him if he was desperate for that classic teenage experience. But he wasn’t, and so they didn’t. Jon had an inkling Sansa just wanted to be the youngest and prettiest there, even if it meant being taken by her own brother. And Robb wasn’t an option because he, of course, was swimming in girls. Jon had helped Robb shop anyway, and gel his hair and tie his tie—but he did not buy a suit.

He ends up wearing one of Ned’s suits, since he’s bulkier now. It still falls loose on him around the sides because Ned’s got that growing beer gut, but he fits better in it than he would’ve in one of Robb’s, and better than how Robb would’ve fit in one of Ned’s.

It’s a patchy compromise. He hopes Sam can forgive him.

Robb gets dragged along as his plus one because Jon wants Sam and him to meet, and because he needs that little bit of moral support when seeing all of his old sworn brothers graduating without him. Edd doesn’t seem to operate on that mindset. It kind of irritates Jon. He’s jealous, in a way, of how simple Edd’s mind can seem at times, but he’s sure it’s both a blessing and a curse.

All in all, Edd’s arrival was uncomfortable and assaulting.

Jon thought he wasn’t even going to show up with how late he was, but halfway through the ceremony, he crowded through the perfectly aligned plastic lawn chairs and scrambled over to squeeze right in the middle of Jon and Robb. He hadn’t acknowledged Robb as a person at first, thinking he was just another stranger sat beside Jon, but then Robb cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows expectantly, glancing at Jon ever so slightly. Jon kind of wished he hadn’t done that because then Edd gasped and said, Robb Stark! so loud that they paused the general’s speech and glared at them.

Edd shook Robb’s hand and apologized—to him and the rest of the crowd. He finally sat down, but then he turned to Jon, beaming, and whispered, Robb fucking Stark. Which was enough to make Jon crack the smallest grin. Edd, he thought fondly.

When Sam’s name got called, the three of them cheered and whooped, and watched as his face went red on the big screen projected from the back of the audience. There were handshakes, nods, military salutes, and more speeches. They bored Jon no less than they did back when he was at the Watch, but he kept telling himself and Robb, just a little longer

The rest of the soldiers received their certificates then got into formation.

This was the fun part.

Jon tries his best to dodge the people running past to their crows. “Do we have an idea of where he might be posted?” He felt so stupid walking around in this suit. Like a goddamn second skin—shedding.

Robb’s hand closes around his wrist. He was falling behind. “No clue,” he says. “At least you know what he looks like.”

“You’re right,” Jon hums, dismissing the fact that Robb too saw Sam’s blurry face on the projector. “Edd. Could you open your eyes?”

“Huh?”

“Right,” Jon sighs. He was probably high, and Jon was sort of jealous of that. He pushes past more people and maneuvers his fingers to properly intertwine with Robb’s. He squeezes—I got you—and Robb squeezes back. “Well, he finished basics and advance, so maybe keep a lookout for two ribbons rather than one—”

“Sam!”

Jon and Robb whip their heads around to where Edd had wandered off. They watch Edd approach a particularly round character and tackle him in a hug, his rigid, flat-faced stance crumbling effortlessly as he wraps his arms back in tandem.

Jon chuckles, drags Robb along.

Sam and Edd sway in their hug. Sam has his eyes closed, facing them, but he opens them slightly as the grass crunches beneath their feet, and then they widen when he processes Jon in front of him.

“Jon,” Sam breathes.

He pulls off Edd slowly, now closing Jon in a tight, tight embrace. His hands come to cup Jon’s neck, and Jon shivers. He clutches Sam’s camouflage uniform, closing his eyes, breathing in, out—relishing, drinking it in. Samwell.

After a moment of it, Sam whispers, “I missed you so much.”

Jon could make fun of him for that but he actually doesn’t feel like it for once. He has to blink a few times to suppress the tears that threaten to well up in his eyes. “I missed you too.” His voice cracks. Early signs.

Sam pulls apart from him, hands still planted on the sides of his neck. “Jesus, I thought it was bad already, but without you there—fuck—didn’t know if I was going to make it to graduation.”

Jon shakes his head. “Of course you were.” He gives Sam a firm pat. “You’re not a quitter.”

Sam just smiles. “Yeah.” He then looks past Jon. “Hello there!”

“Hi!” Robb blinks, zoning back in. Jon smirks; he can feel the unease radiating off him. “Nice to finally meet you. I’m Robb, Jon’s brother.”

Jon appreciates how he still introduced them as that.

“Oh, yes. I’ve heard heaps about you, Mr. Golden Boy.”

Robb chuckles nervously. “Hah… what?”

“Sam,” Jon mutters, jutting him in the rib.

“I mean—you know—all good, of course. You’re Robb. Robb! Eldest of the Stark children, heir to the Winterfell estate. What’s not to love? And Jon—he loves you, he does. Even if he doesn’t say it. He’s told me enough—”

Jon covers Sam’s mouth, going red. “Okay, that’s enough.”

“Aw, no, I was enjoying that. Keep going!”

Sam flushes. “Sorry. I’m Samwell—Tarly.”

“Hello, Samwell.” Robb shakes Sam’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

Jon soaks in the image of them stood next to each other, hand in hand and smiling. He tries to imagine them as friends—if they would be friends—and the three of them all hanging out together, whatever it is that they’d do. His best friend and his brother. All he’s ever needed.

Robb says something about a nice café, a nice lunch, to which Sam beams and nods ferociously in agreement. They start to walk before Jon can ask them about any details. He supposes Robb’s got it sorted.

Edd then suddenly interjects his vision. Goofy grin plastered on his face.

Jon grins back, maddeningly, annoyed—’cause Edd just has that effect—and shoves him. “What’d I tell you about waiting to tap him out, asshole?”

***

Jon finds Theon sat at the kitchen counter one morning, cup of coffee held between his palms. He didn’t take Theon for an early bird or a light sleeper, but he recalls, one late night, where Robb had told him the boy has trouble falling asleep. When he’s asleep, he’s asleep. The journey there is just a bit more complicated. Robb was oddly protective of Theon, sometimes. Knew a lot about him.

Jon doesn’t know everything but he knows about Theon’s two brothers. Rodrik and Maron were their names, before a rogue tide swept them away while surfing, taking their lives with it. They were both older, if his memory served him right. And when Theon had gotten the call from home, he hadn’t stopped crying for weeks.

Jon was there for some of it. Mostly the times when Theon was left alone, and Jon felt bad so he’d go and sit with him. Theon’s sad eyes would well up out of nowhere and he’d flee their admittedly uncomfortable silence to go cry in the bathroom.

Jon could never tell if Theon appreciated his company or not.

He slides into the kitchen silently. Scrunches his nose. He sees Theon pick his head up at his presence from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t say anything. Summer and Shaggydog are lying on the couch, chewing on their chewtoys. Jon assumes Robb must’ve taken Greywind out for a walk. It’s slow mornings like these where Jon misses Ghost the most.

He takes out his own mug and fills it with the remaining coffee Theon had already brewed. Then, because he doesn’t have anything particular exciting planned for the day, he leans against the counter and sips.

Theon stares, confused.

Jon lifts his mug as he swallows, letting out a pained, “Morning.”

Theon’s eyebrows furrow. “Morn…ing?”

“You sound unsure. It’s eight o’clock.”

“No, I know that. I’m just… Since when do you drink coffee?”

Jon looks inside the mug and shrugs. “I don’t. But you seemed lonely.”

Theon scoffs. “I was thinking.”

“Oh. What about?”

“Nothing that should concern you,” he snaps. Jon can infer that it’s something serious, because Theon has a way of only joking his way out of the silly stuff, the stuff that doesn’t matter. When it comes to the deeper matters, he clams up, gets rude, like an irritated, constipated old man. It reminds Jon of an old neighbor they used to have.

Jon just nods, because he gets it. This wasn’t him trying to upgrade their relationship to the next level, so he hadn’t any reason to pry. He takes another sip of his coffee and tries not to pull a face at the taste. Do people add milk to their coffee? Maybe he should add milk to his coffee.

Theon chews on his bottom lip at Jon’s nonplussed reaction. The anger visibly fizzles out of his expression, and he looks down guiltily, sighing.

And then, “My brothers,” he says, all quiet and brooding, like Jon’s familiar with. “I was thinking about my brothers.”

“Ah,” is all Jon says.

“It’ll be six years next week.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Theon takes his last swig. “Um, s’rry.”

“It’s okay.” Jon feels like he’s intruding for some reason. He still can’t tell if Theon appreciates his company.

Silence stretches. They spend a minute looking at their own hands. Jon swirls the remainder of the liquid around in the bottom of his mug, and Theon fidgets with his handle. And now that he thinks about it, there’s this sharp, potent stench lingering somewhere in their vicinity. He smelt it when he walked downstairs, and when he had poured the coffee. It got a little stronger and a little more pungent each time Theon opened his mouth, but it smelled almost like tequila, and—

Jon looks at Theon, slowly realizing. “It’s eight o’clock.”

Theon gulps like he’s been caught. “Oh, fuck off, alright? Like you never had a drink before midday.” He reaches forward and drops his mug in the sink. Jon immediately regrets saying anything at all. It wasn’t his place, and it’ll be six years next week. He really regrets saying anything at all. “And—you’re one to talk, Snoop. Can bloody smell it from the front yard. Why don’t you move your gardening career elsewhere before comin’ at me for a lil’ morning pick-me-up?”

Jon’s eyes widen at the sudden callout. Theon gets up and heads for the front door, but not without giving Jon a bitter goodbye sneer. It opens—unexpectedly—when he wraps his hand around the knob, and Ned emerges from the frame with a couple of grocery bags hooked under his armpits.

Ned jolts in surprise, but then smiles warmly when he sees him. “Ah. How’s your back, Theon?”

***

“Are you sure this is okay? He won’t mind?”

Sam pulls harder on Jon’s arm that’s fighting to stay stationary. “Yes, Jon, gods. Davos is one of the kindest men I know; he won’t throw you out. He’s good for it. If he sees you’re in a slump and need some work, he’ll be more than happy to provide.”

“Hey, I’m—’m not in a slump…”

“You haven’t gotten a job yet and you’ve been back for months, now,” Sam says. “I finished training and still got one quicker than you.”

“That’s you, though. I’m very introspective about these sorts of things. I need time.”

“You’re not allowed to make those observations about yourself. That’s supposed to come from the people around you.” Sam frowns. “And I’ll tell you—you are not.”

Jon groans and lets himself be pulled this time. “Okay, so what am I, then? Go on, doctor.”

Sam shakes his head. He’s tired of Jon’s antics, definitely. “An expert procrastinator, for one. A bit of an overthinker. You’ve got this weird contrast to those two things where you occasionally pick up stray impulses and run with them for an indefinite amount of time. But most—and worst of all—is that you’re lazy. And it’s got to stop.”

“Sam,” Jon begins sadly.

Sam interrupts, cut and firm. “No. No, that face only works with things like buying you food or ordering for you. This is a non-negotiable. This is opportunity.”

“I don’t know anything about cars.”

“Neither did I! But the guys—they’re real nice, they’ll show you the ropes, I promise.” Sam nods. “Won’t shove you into things you’re not ready for.”

Jon makes an unimpressed face. “Like you are now?”

“Ha.”

Jon sees the giant yellow SEE YOUR WORTH sign come into view. It’s smaller than he’d imagined, the whole place, so the sign takes up most of the front of the shop, weighing into the roof and possibly the first window. But Winterfell is a small town and not many drive, so he supposes it doesn’t need to be humongous.

Sam opens the door for him and waits, tapping his foot. They’ve come all this way so there’s no chance he’s backing out now. It’s just tedious as all hells, is all. And Jon hates when Sam is right because he gets all smug about it.

Jon sighs and walks in. The inside has one reception desk and a door to the actual mechanic part of the shop. Jon can see cars on hoists through the glass window. Sam rings the bell on the countertop and smiles at Jon excitedly. Part of him thinks that Sam just doesn’t have any friends at work and is doing this all for his own selfish benefit. Another part of him tries to smile back, because he’s helping Jon out all the same 

An old man with a beard walks in through the door. The distant sound of buzzing and whirring is apparent before the door swings shut again. “Sam!” the man calls out. “You’re not on shift today…”

Sam turns. “Hey! No, I’m not—but I had someone I wanted to introduce to you.” He steps aside, presents Jon like he’s some noble, holds his arms out and does small jazz hands. “This is Jon Snow.”

Sam just might be the best hype man ever. Give him a banner with his face on it, a trumpet of some variation, and he would sooner march into every room Jon deigned to enter.

Jon waves timidly at the man with the beard and cracks a less nervous-looking grimace. “Hi,” he manages to squeak out. Stupid. Stupid.

The man with the beard looks him up and down. Sizing him up. What other crows used to do to him in the Watch when they wanted a fight, or to prove themselves, or to embarrass Jon because he was very young and very skilled and they were undoubtedly intimidated by his perfunctory. Uncle Benjen used to warn him about scrats—and the word had befuddled him. Scrats? he’d asked, to which Benjen replied, scrats, Jon, and apparently that was explanation enough. Jon’d come to the conclusion that scrats were anybody insecure enough to try and turn him against his own mind, have him second-guess himself. There were many people at the Watch who tried to get inside his head. Many he had not let.

There were many scrats.

He hoped Sam’s boss was not a scrat. “Hello there, Mr. Snow. Need your car fixed?” he chuckles, then gets very serious. “You look like a motorcycle guy. I’m sorry, but we don’t do motorcycles.”

Jon steps forward. “No, no, I’m…” Then back. Then shuffles on his feet. “Actually, uh, Sam and I trained at the Watch together. It’s where we met.”

Why did he say that?

Sam has a confused expression on beside him. “Oh,” the man looks to Sam. “Oh, how splendid. This is one of your pals then, is it, Tarly?”

“Yes,” Sam confirms—thankfully, “and he was wondering if he could bother you for an interview?”

Jon steps forward again, hands out, waving Sam off. “That’s—only if your avaliable, Mr. Seaworth. I’d hate to burden your time.” Jon hopes it’s Mr. Seaworth that the man is, or else this moment was going into the pile of nightmare fuel of addressing someone by the wrong name.

Sam gives him a look. Don’t undersell yourself, he remembers. Don’t undersell myself. Don’t undersell myself. I can reload a grenade launcher in under three seconds. Don’t undersell myself. How’s that going to help me fix cars, Sam? It’s not, but it shows that you’re a faster learner, and that you’re good with your hands.

“He’s my friend that, uh… you remember my friend I was telling you about, right? With all the siblings and… uh… the—the hair?”

Oh, god, Jon thinks. He’s already given me some sad orphan backstory. He flushes a bright red; he can most definitely feel it trickle into his cheeks.

Mr. Seaworth perks up. “Oh!” He turns to Jon. “Yes! Oh, of course—Jon, come along. I’ll give you a tour of the shop. We’ll find you a locker to put all of your stuff.”

“Oh, no. That’s really—that’s… just an interview, really. All I ask.”

“Oh, nonsense. Nonsense. No—we’re understaffed as it is. And you can reload a—what was it—a grenade launcher in under three seconds? Wow. Just—that’s impressive, boyo. Very impressive. We’re gonna need you helpin’ us in here.”

Mr Seaworth heads for the back of the shop without heed for Jon’s following behind him. Jon watches him trek through the door and between cars and workers like it’s nothing.

Jon turns around slowly. “So this was planned,” he notes, because there was no way.

Sam backs up to the entrance. “Hey, he’s turning a corner, you’re about to lose him.” He pushes the door open with his hip, cheekily inching out. “I’m not rostered, so… have fun!”

Jon sighs and turns back around, opens the door and slips inside.

***

Mr. Seaworth tells him to just call him Davos. Just call me Davos, boyo, with his thick Flea Bottom accent that Jon for some reason finds very comforting. He shows Jon the ropes, leads him through the shop, rambling. Jon gets the impression that Davos didn’t get to ramble much, so he lets him.

Jon gets the locker right in the middle of everyone else’s, probably because no one wanted that one. He figures it’s because there’s some mold sticking to the edges of the door, the shelf half-knocked off its hinges. But a locker’s a locker and Jon doesn’t own much, so it’ll do just fine.

Davos digs around a dusty box in the back for any spare company shirts. They’re not a booming establishment, so things are often recycled ‘round here, he explains. He finds one, though it has an ominous stain on it, and tells Jon a bit of vinegar could go a long way. Jon forgets the name of that blue bottle atop the laundry shelf that Catelyn uses to work Arya’s stains—but that could get it out, easy. Or he could just pin his nametag over it, Davos also suggests.

Jon nods and catches the shirt as Davos throws it to him.

(It also smelled.)

Jon’s nametag is a piece of laminated paper with his name scribbled on it. Actually—with J. SNOW written on it, and a flimsy pin that clipped risky right into his breast pocket. It unclasps every few steps and every few torso turns, and Jon yells minutely, peering down, already bringing his hands up to fix it each time. He imagines there’s going to be a bright red spot on his pec by the end of the day.

“Stan, this is Jon Snow. I’ve just hired him.”

Jon dreaded this part. He always felt he was bad at meeting new people, as bad as one can get at the pastime. Sansa always reassured him and told him he was fine, but he always felt as if he didn’t belong to his own body, that his hands were not his hands and his face was not his face. To fix that—he resorted to shoving his hands in his pockets and avoiding as much eye contact as possible.

Stannis Baratheon was apparently Davos’ best pal. They had served together, he said, somewhere Jon wasn’t familiar with and kind of zoned out while he was elaborating. Stannis was a quiet character with that intimidating demeanor about him. Davos said he was more shy than he was scary, but Jon thought he would have to see that for himself before he believed it.

Stannis all but glares at him. He looks him head to toe—sizing him up—and then lifts his chin and sticks his hand out. Jon flinches in surprise, but then tentatively shakes it. And that was that.

Daario was just finishing up his shift when they approached him.

Davos calls out from afar. “Naharis! Hang back.” He claps Jon on the shoulder as Daario jogs towards them, brown waves bouncing cinematically. “This here is Jon Snow, a new recruit. He’s a buddy of Tarly’s, so best behavior, yeah?”

“Yes, sir. What’s up, Snow?” Daario did one of those weird handshakes Jon’s seen Robb do with Theon. And he tries to replicate it, best he can with limited knowledge and memory, but definitely stuffs it up and prolongs into an awkward fist bump, then high five, then simple shake. Jon looks at him and winces. Daario just laughs.

Something to prove Sansa wrong, then. And a reason to never let Sam make them a secret handshake.

Davos smiles at them. “Daario here is our sales representative—most of the time,” he explains. “He used to work at a dealership, so we rely on him for all good publicity. Good thing, that, too, since he’s got the looks and all.”

Daario does have a certain twinkle in his eye, but Jon doesn’t know how to respond to that—so he just chuckles as Davos nudges him in the ribs and points at Daario playfully, following him to the next person.

Gendry was fifteen and currently working at the shop as an apprentice. He had dropped out of high school, Davos said, and shown up at their door with a busted tire, a busted lip, and a smoking engine. A bad car accident.

Jon feels his chest constrict when he sees his young face.

He could be in the same grade as Sansa. “Hi!” Gendry beams, arm half in an open bonnet.“Sorry, I’m pretty busy here—” and waves him and Davos off. Stannis was supposed to be his mentor, and Jon found that fitting, somehow.

Lastly—The Hound.

His real name was Sandor Clegane, he finds out, but something had happened one time—to which Davos wouldn’t speak further matters on—and now he was known as The Hound. He refused to interact with any of the other mechanics. Worked strictly on solo projects, usually trucks and vintages. Only grumbles without looking up when Davos comes to introduce him.

But, “He’s a softie,” Davos says with wistful eyes. “If you ever get hurt on shift, he’d be the person I’d go to.”

Jon isn’t completely sure he trusts that, but he stays quiet about it.

Then Davos shows him some pipes and a wash station and the break room—which was just four armchairs on an upcycled carpet—and what to do in case of an emergency. Where the fire extinguisher was, to which Jon had to confirm that he indeed knew how to use one. And when he asked about the different types of emergencies, Davos got shifty eyes and brushed him off.

Davos had also dangled a chain of numerous keys in front of him and said, “Master key,” while looking at him threateningly. “If I think you’ve got anything no good in your locker, I’m gettin’ in.”

Jon thought of Edd and smoking weed, and gulped, nodding. He just wouldn’t bring any with him. Simple as that. Would be easy enough, a days work—only a few hours a week.

Would just have to see Edd afterwards.

***

Weeks pass, and him and Sam are seeing each other almost every day, surrounded by car parts and tools and lots and lots of motor oil. There’s challenges and there’s surprises—like how little space there is when working in the shop, and how easy it is to bump into somebody behind you, and how angry somebody can get at you when you accidentally spill a tray of oil on them because you weren’t watching where you were going. How understanding your boss can be, but also how stern. How apologetic you can suddenly become when staring down the tunnel of Sandor Clegane’s pupils.

A few weeks in, and Sam tells him he’s getting the hang of it.

“This stuff really doesn’t come off,” he says to Sam washing his hands beside him.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam snorts. “Forgot to tell you that you’d have black arms for the rest of your life.”

Jon shakes his head. He still doesn’t know anything about cars, how to tune them up, name the parts, label them. And yet he’s reaping the cons.

“Think you’re going okay?”

Jon peels himself out of his head. No use in wallowing. “Sure. I’m getting the hang of it.”

“Everybody being nice?”

“Everyone’s… well, I only really talk to you.”

Sam smiles sadly. “That can change.”

“Don’t want it to,” Jon retorts. “I’m fine with just focusing on the work.” Gods know I need to.

Sam’s the social butterfly between them. He’s all buddy-buddy with everyone here and Jon sometimes can’t help but feel left out. It helps to think of Robb and Sansa and Arya back home, who are probably waiting for him with the PlayStation powered up. All Arya wants to do is play video games every day, and all Sansa wants to do is his makeup. Robb is nothing if not compliant, but even that makes him feel better about the whole thing.

“This is more than just a job, Jon. It’s community, it’s environment, it’s—it’s a fresh start.” The oil is starting to fade but there’s no way he’s getting whatever’s under his fingernails. “You’ll only get out of it what you put in.”

Jon sighs, shutting off the tap and leaning against the sink. Sam’s right and he knows it. He’s been trying to take it slow and stick with what’s safe. Keep his open mind for a better suited moment, because—contrary to popular belief—marijuana is addictive, and he’s been having trouble trying to navigate that bump in routine.

He wonders if they smell it on him. If Robb and Theon can smell it, surely everyone else can too. He turns the tap back on and scrubs harder.

Sam turns his tap off and eyes Jon weirdly. He rips a piece of paper towel down from the box and dries his hands. “Alright. Hungry?” he asks as he tosses it.

Jon’s stomach does flips. “God. Starving.”

***

You haven’t been over in a bit, Edd texts him one day.

Jon’s been swamped at work trying to remember what all the parts of a car do, and outside of that there’s been a civil war back home between Arya and Sansa over a honey-drizzled chocolate bar. He’s been cutting back, unintentionally so; that message is a reminder to him that there is a way to relax.

He walks to Edd’s house this time. 

Edd lets him when he arrives, guides him to his leather couch, but forgoes making them any tea after Jon had recently and finally admitted his disdain for it. Instead, Edd brings the bong out straight away.

Amidst their vaguely structured jokes and rambling, the air full of stationary smoke wrapping around through and in on itself, Edd sits up straight and reaches into his pocket while Jon stays sinking into the cushions. He pulls out a small ziplock bag with tablets in it. The tablets vary in colour; there seems to be the whole rainbow in there. At first, Jon thinks it’s candy. Those tiny little poprocks kids used to shove up their noses back in the day. (He never did. He wasn’t that on trend. Theon probably did, though.) But it’s when Edd turns to him with a nervous smile, holding the bag up to the light in offering, that Jon realizes it is definitely not candy.

Jon swallows, sitting up slowly. “Is that…”

“Yeah,” Edd says fast. “I got it from, uh… well, I got it.”

Edd gives the bag an experimental shake, staring at it like it’s akin to gold to him.

“Don’t feel like you have to,” he adds, lowering the bag into his lap and starting to unzip it. “I only started taking them, like, last week or something. Don’t remember. But, hey—just goes to show it works, huh?”

Jon doesn’t know how he feels about not remembering weeks at a time. Weed is one thing—ecstasy is a wild other. Jon remembers a few crows in particular who had joined the Watch solely to get clean. A weird way to do it, he’d thought at the time, but now maybe he was beginning to understand. He hasn’t even agreed to taking any yet and he already feels like the trajectory of his world is being shifted. Was he really going to do this?

Jon hears Ned’s warbled voice echoing through his mind, now, when someone offers you drugs, what do you say? ‘no,’ exactly, good lad, thassit, and then he’d go on to ask the same of Robb and Theon. Jon studies Edd’s shy expression and decides that this isn’t the same. No, not at all.

“‘Kay. Hit me.” Trying it wouldn’t hurt, and maybe he’d end up not liking it, anyway. There were a million things that could happen.

Edd grins and plucks out two tablets, a red and a blue. Reminds Jon of the Matrix. He snorts at the irony. Edd takes the red while Jon takes the blue. There was something interrogating about the way he lays it flat on his palm and turns it over a few times, inspecting it. There was a small smiley face etched into it on one side, staring right at him, and Jon kind of felt like he had to smile back.

Edd gets comfy. “Okay. Only one to start. You might feel dizzy or you might feel faint, or you might feel sick or tired. But that’s okay, that happens. It’s just important to stay calm, okay? It’s gonna be good, I promise you.” He nods to Jon. “Just trust me.”

“I trust you,” Jon says, nodding back, having accidentally half-tuned out everything he’d said. Too nervous

“Do you trust me?” Edd repeats.

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Really really?”

“I really, really trust you, Edd.”

Edd doesn’t respond and just pops the pill on his tongue, swallowing. Jon’s eyes widen and he does the same, swift and unthinking. The pill feels powdery on his tongue, a bit of a tang to it. It tastes similar to dry swallowing pain relief medication and feeling the medicine seep out its sugar coating. He uses his teeth to scrape it further back and swallow it down completely, no mind for the way his throat closes up at first.

Jon grimaces slightly, a low churning in his abdomen, something like shame. Edd just starts laughing. His own laughter is quiet and trepid to begin with, but it builds as the evening sun dips past the roofs of Edd’s neighbors’ houses and leaves them to the shadows. 

Commencement, it feels like. And Jon—strangely—is more than ready.

***

Robb always comes barging in at the worst times. Jon’s halfway through taping a small bag of tablets to the wall behind his dresser—one Edd gave him, this time green and purple—when he hears the split-second knock and the doorknob turning behind him.

He rises fast and straight, knocking his head on the side of the dresser in doing so, and shoves his hands in his pockets. He blinks at Robb entering. Close call.

Robb’s initial smile fades into a skepitcal frown. The sound of an unexplained wooden thunk raises suspicion. “All good?”

Jon nods quickly, too quickly. He stops to look at his feet.

When he looks up again, Robb is completely unimpressed. “You know, you do the same thing as Bran,” he tells him. “You both look at your feet whenever you lie.”

Jon can feel himself flush some shade of pink. He rolls his eyes. There are a multitude of tells he’s ungovernable to when it comes to letting the cat out of the bag, but he’s exceptionally lucky that Robb’s got them all figured out.

He scoffs and shoulder-checks his brother as he leaves.

Robb follows him down the hall. “Hey! Go for a run?”

***

Ygritte comes to pick him up even though he hadn’t given her a direct ‘yes’ to going out. When he hears the car horn sounding for him, he knocks off the sofa, leaving Bran pillowless beneath him, and grabs Robb’s coat on the way out. As soon as he’s in the backseat he realizes someone else is driving.

Tormund turns over his shoulder, one hand on the wheel, giving Jon a wide, toothy grin.

“Tormund!” Jon leaps forward and catches him in a half-hug that wraps mostly only his shoulders.

It had been awhile since he’d seen Ygritte, yes, but the last time he saw Tormund was going on years now. More than the usual number of years he’d spent away from everyone. When they were dating, Ygritte had dragged Jon to a family function far North where she’d introduced him to her cousins, which included Tormund. She had said that her and Tormund were more friends than cousins, that that’s what it felt like, and Jon had understood because sometimes he felt more like a friend overstaying their welcome in the Stark residence than their son and their brother.

He and Tormund had gotten on really well, and even after the breakup, they made the effort to catch up and grab a bite every now and then.

Leaving him was another thing that made taking the Black so hard.

Tormund wraps his arms around Jon’s neck and nuzzles his face into his cheek. “Long time, no see, little crow.” He places a wet one right where he’s buried.

Jon groans and squirms out of his hold, wiping his cheek with his sleeve. “God—see you haven’t changed.”

“Did you want me to?”

A smile creeps back onto his face. “No,” Jon says. “Never.”

It’s nearing eight p.m. when they arrive in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, a tucked-away pub with neon lights flickering from the veranda beckoning them kindly. There are few outside smoking cigarettes like Jon would expect there to be, so he assumes there must be good entertainment inside. They pile out of the car and in through the doors and grab a table for three. And as soon as Jon steps foot, he feels it.

Jon turns to Ygritte. “You didn’t tell me this was a club!” he shouts over the music.

Ygritte’s already smiling and bobbing her head to the beat. She gives Jon a strange look. “Dude, it’s live band, not a club!”

“Well, it basically is!” Jon gestures to the tens of people crowding every square inch of the place. “Look how squishy it is!”

Tormund pipes in. “That’s what makes it fun! Don’t tell me you’ve never been to a pub before, huh, pup?” He smirks. Jon just shrugs. Another thing about the Watch. So Tormund pats his arm and says, “Go on, order us some food. I need a piss.”

Tormund disappears down some hallway after waving over the barkeeper. Jon struggles to pull his seat out with everyone so close, so instead he leans forward on the table and snatches one of the small paper menus wedged between the cutlery bucket and napkins. Scanning over the options, and nothing looks appetizing. He settles on a bowl of chips with Ygritte and Tormund in mind; they’ll want to share something.

When he thinks no one’s looking—he leans back and take out his small ziplock bag, pops a pill onto his tongue and swallows graciously as the blast of instruments pumps through his veins.

Ygritte appears by his side, suddenly interested, leaning over with a certain glint in her eyes. Jon looks up blankly tries his best to decipher what her face is doing under the flash of color and light. In the end, she goes, “You don’t have sticky fingers, do ya?” and smirks. It takes Jon a second to catch on. Her eyes quickly dart down to his lap, where the bag resides clenched in his fist.

No way, he thinks to himself, and fishes out a pill to jam past Ygritte’s lips. She licks it in with a giggle, then takes him by the wrist to the center of the dance floor.

It makes the night better, even if he barely remembers it.

***

It takes an amount of wrestling to wrangle Jon through Tormund’s door. They dropped Ygritte home first and then decided that Jon would be better situated back at Tormund’s flat than back home. A passing thought was how worried his family was going to be since he hadn’t told anyone anything. But then—it was just that. A passing thought. And he figured they’d survive one night without him, whether or not they knew he was safe.

Tormund has big biceps and strong hands and a warm touch. Jon leans into it each time he tries to get them moving. They laugh, and they shout, and the guest room is apparently too far so they deposit Jon face down on the sofa instead. To make things easier, Tormund pokes at his ribs, twirls his fingers through his curls, and messily yanks off his boots so he can drape a blanket over his body before bidding him goodnight.

Somewhere in between all that, he calls Jon his ‘pretty’.

“I’m coffee and I’m donuts,” Ygritte announces, slamming the door shut with her foot. “Hello?”

Jon groans, the noise muffled by a pillow.

Ygritte finds him with ease, placing the cardboard holder of cups and the brown bag of food down on the coffee table nearby. “Hello there, you. Didn’t know you stayed the night.” She pats his head. “Would’ve gotten your order.”

Jon pushes himself upwards and flops sideways. “What time is it?” he croaks. Was a really good sleep, actually.

“Mmm, just after eleven.”

“Where’s Tormund?”

“I dunno, I just got here.”

Jon then sits up fully. He holds his hand out while rubbing his eye.

Ygritte smirks. “You want a donut?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer, bless her. She fishes out a chocolate one to put in Jon’s hand, and watches, enthralled, as he shoves most of the thing in the mouth in one bite. “Wow. Fat as fuck.”

“Shut up.” Mouthful.

She chuckles and goes to shift his legs so that she can sit at the other end of the sofa. Jon pulls his knees close to his chest, licks the chocolatey smear off his chin.

“So.” Ygritte wiggles her eyebrows. “Long night?”

“What?”

“You know…” She looks around aimlessly, egging. “Long night?”

Jon stares at Ygritte’s expectant face, her pursed lips. She squints at him and nudges his foot with her foot. He’s in wonder with how she’s so put together only hours after taking molly. Must be a magical girl thing, or just a her thing. Probably just a her thing.

It takes awhile for it to click but when it does he screws his eyes shut and leans his head back, groaning.

“Ygritte.”

“What! I’m not allowed to ask? I’m well past the awkward stage of trying to remain friends, Snow, I’m all in. I want all the details.”

“There’s no—! For fuck’s sake.”

“You’re telling me he took you home drunk and nothing happened?”

“Nothing happened!”

“Somehow I don’t believe that.”

“Why would you wanna know anyway? He’s your cousin, weirdo.” He kicks her.

She kicks back. “You’re the weirdo, getting with your ex-girlfriend’s cousin.”

“I didn’t—”

Tormund walks out. “Baby crow pup is right.” He scratches at his beard, yawning. “Would’ve been wrong of me to take advantage of something so pretty. A shame, though, that you couldn’t keep your body upright. Maybe we could’ve had some fun.”

“Shut up, Tormund.”

“I got us coffee and donuts.” Ygritte points to the coffee table.

Tormund grumbles, “Love you. Need a piss.” and leaves again.

Ygritte turns back to Jon.

“Now do you believe me?” Jon sneers.

“Whatever. What’s that about your body?”

“Huh?”

“Not being able to keep your body upright? C’mon, you didn’t drink that much.”

Jon blinks at her, thinks maybe she’s forgotten. “There was the… we had… Ygritte?”

Ygritte reaches over and grabs a coffee from the holder. She gives it a whiff then brings it to her mouth to take a sip. Once she deems it agreeable, she holds it firm between both palms and leans her chin on the lid. Then she sighs, looking at Jon all wistful and suddenly very tired-looking.

She tilts her head and her eyebrows pinch inwards. “You’re careful, yeah?”

Jon gulps at the turn of mood. “Yeah.”

“I just didn’t take you for someone who did that.”

Jon scratches the nape of his neck. “It’s a recent development.”

“I gathered,” she tuts. “Just don’t be stupid about it, alright, pup?”

He hikes the blanket higher—up to his nose. He wonders about Ygritte’s experience with drugs. She’d never mentioned anything before. Instead, he replaces that wonder with, “Why do you guys still call me that?”

Ygritte only smiles. “‘Cause you’re still our cold little wolf pup.”

***

Robb has a weird face. He can tell. He’s been looking at Jon different these past few days, or weeks, or ever since Jon’s been visiting Edd more frequently, and it’s starting to get unnerving.

So, he visits Edd again.

Later, when he returns, he asks Robb, “What’s for lunch?” with a head that’s stronger, better, easier.

Robb replies, “Tomato on toast,” slowly scanning Jon. His hand pauses at the cutting board.

Jon hums and kicks back on the couch, arms behind his head, resting his eyes. He can feel Robb watching him from the kitchen but he pays it no mind. He can be weird. He can look at Jon differently. That’s his problem.

***

He doesn’t remember much about getting to the bathroom’s tiled floor but he’s there with something red staining his mouth and a toilet that smells fresh, somehow. Slightly sweet. Robb’s arm around him where he’s slumping further and further into his chest. Everything spinning. His face. Jon weakly paws at the collar of his shirt, whimpering.

Robb shushes him softly. “I know, I know. Jonny, hey, look at me.”

Jon’s head lolls. “Feels weird…”

“Yeah, I know.” Robb traps Jon’s face in his hands and forces him to look up. The light hits and Jon cries out, screwing his eyes shut. Robb ignores it. “You take something?”

He presses the back of his hand to Jon’s forehead. Jon chases the chill of it as he pulls back. “Robb,” he says, strained.

“Jon, there is something wrong with you.” It sounds like he doesn’t have the time to mess around. Sounds like when Arya or Bran or Rickon need to be dealt with. “And I need you to tell me—did you take something?”

Jon doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to say anything, to spill the secret. It’s the only thing that makes him feel good nowadays and he doesn’t want to let that go. Doesn’t want Robb or anyone else to ruin it, take it away from him.

Robb just sighs at his silence, and Jon hears a square of toilet paper being ripped off. It passes over his parted mouth, his chin. Robb wiping his spit. It’s now that Jon recognizes the taste of tomato still pungent on his tongue. Tomato on toast, he distantly recalls, wherever remote and faraway it came from. Lunch.

He threw up Robb’s lunch. Jon feels a pang of guilt shoot through his chest. Another thing to add to the nausea. He leans in closer to hide his face, and mutters, “Yeah.”

“You—what? What did you take? What was it?” Frantic, Robb’s voice gets closer, his breath hitting Jon’s skin. “Jon, tell me what you took.”

Jon shakes his head.

Robb sighs again. “Alright. Okay.” He moves, and then Jon is being lifted to his feet. His feet that stumble, can’t hold him up. Take him back to the tiles. “Doesn’t matter right now. Come on.”

***

He starts stashing stuff under his pillow. His bed frame. His windowsill. Shit taped to the skirting boards and door hinges. Then in his work locker, which Davos so specifically forbade, and his pockets, his toolbox—his socks, even. He takes longer breaks because sometimes it hits him too hard. Sometimes he hides out in the disabled toilet, the very last of the row of stalls, and has to sit still on the floor for the better half of an hour.

Then, at lunchtime, Sam tells him about this girl he met while Jon chews on air. Gracie or Greta or Gianne who works at an elementary school next door to the library Sam frequents. Says she has a three-year-old son named Sam, as well, and what are the chances? He sees her quite often, and she’s a sweet soul. Jon can tell by the way he talks about and the tint of his nose that he already likes her.

He tries his best to choke down bile and nod along as Sam speaks, telling him to go for it, absolutely. A single mother never meant any less in the grand scheme of starting a new relationship than it does now. There is nothing that can possibly go wrong.

Sam frowns.

His sarcasm might be laid on a bit too thick.

***

The front door opens too loud and it closes too loud. Its hinges need greasing, Jon thinks, but he definitely won’t be the one to do it. He drops his bag by the couch and leans on the arm, face in hands. A text from Tormund awaits him, weighs heavy in his pocket.

A voice pipes up from behind. “Jon?”

Jon whips around, startled. “Jesus!” he gasps. “Ned. Hi.”

Ned chuckles. “Those door hinges need greasing.” He has an array of papers scattered over the kitchen bench, pen in hand. “You well? I thought you had work today.”

Thought you did, too. Jon sighs and drags his feet, scrapes his empty body up to a seat and settles at the counter. “Did,” he says. “Went home early. Don’t feel too great.”

Ned puts his pen down and frowns. “Oh?” He crosses his arms. “What’s the matter?”

Ned’s doing that ‘dad’ thing with him again, even though they both know he’s not Jon’s father anymore. Jon both loves it and hates it. On one hand it means nothing’s changed between them, that things don’t have to the different—but on the other, it kind of feels like he’s rubbing it in Jon’s face. Something bittersweet. Like now Jon can’t appreciate it the same way.

Jon wipes a hand over his face. “Nothing, nothing. Just, you know, sick days.” He shrugs. “Bit of a headache, a bit of fatigue.”

“Nothing a good nap can’t fix.”

A breathless laugh. “Yes, sir.”

He wonders if Ned ever misses being his father. He’s about to get up and go to his room, abide by Ned’s suggestion, when Ned clears his throat and shuffles over to the pantry.

He gives Jon a small, timid smile, the one they give the dogs when they’re trying not to scare them off, and says, “I could make you some soup?”

Jon blinks. Then softens. “Yeah,” he accepts, surprising himself; really, all he wants is to be alone. But soup sounded nice for some reason. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot, actually.”

“Great.”

“Great,” Jon agrees. Then, before he can stop and think about it—“Thanks, Dad.”

He means it jokingly. Or, he was supposed to mean it jokingly. He doesn’t really know. It just came out. But Ned always took things too seriously—way too seriously—and with something like this… Jon feels queasy and regrets ever starting a conversation with him in the first place.

Ned doesn’t respond, only does that beginning of a beaming look towards him and goes to open his mouth.

Jon slinks away upstairs before anything can happen at all. He’ll just wait for Ned to leave a bowl outside his door.

***

During family gatherings, the kids often found themselves hidden in some part of the house.

It’s Aunt Lysa and Uncle Jon, Uncle Robert and Aunt Cersei, and all their kids plus the Starks crammed into one living room. Bran and Robin had already gotten into it over some toy, and Arya being Arya, stepped in very aggressively to avenge her brother’s pride. Aunt Lysa and Catelyn were too busy cackling like witches to hear—sisters, Ned always said, rolling his eyes—and so the feud was left to him and Uncle Jon to defuse.

When Aunt Cersei started pestering Sansa about some little first date idea she had planned for her and Joffrey, Jon knew it was time to bail. Uncle Robert never put a stop to that kind of stuff because he thought it would be ‘just swell’ if any of his and Ned’s kids got together. Officially tied them together as family.

He drags Theon and Sansa away to Robb’s room—closest to the stairs—and lights a blunt. 

Jon sits cross-legged on the floor, Sansa in Robb’s desk chair, and Theon on his bed, leaning against the wall. “It’s just horrible there, I’m telling you. I hate it so much. The other day—I dropped a coffee, yeah? And a customer sat three tables away started yelling like it landed anywhere near her. It didn’t even splash that far! The customer who the drink actually belonged to was more forgiving than that. I just can’t with people.”

“But you get to wear that cute little apron.”

“Fuck off, Theon, it’s hell. I’d rather be teaching toddlers to swim,” Sansa says.

Theon takes a drag then barks out a laugh. “Hah! No you wouldn’t, trust me. I get peed on, like, eight times a day.” He passes the blunt to Jon. “You’d lose your mind.”

“Gross…” Jon says before breathing in. He’s pretty sure Sansa’s already losing her mind but he doesn’t vocalize that.

“And besides, waitressing is the perfect part-time for when you’re still in school. Less stress.”

“Are you kidding me? What do you know about waitressing and stress? You don’t get catcalled every shift, do you? You don’t get verbally abused by fatasses who can’t wait five minutes for their stupid bacon sandwich to heat up, do you?”

“Jesus, Sansa.” But he’s laughing. Loves the way Sansa gets when she’s high.

Jon passes the blunt.

She takes it. “Last weekend, an old man literally felt me up as I was bending down to pick up something I dropped, and my boss did nothing.”

“You should be telling Robb this,” Theon says.

“I told Dad.”

“Yeah, but you should be telling Robb. He’s the one who’ll get stuff done.”

Sansa coughs a little. “Stuff done?”

Theon rolls his eyes. “You know. He’ll go harass the guy or something. Tell him not to mess with his sister.”

“You and I could do that, easy.” Jon points out.

“I feel like Robb’s more intimidating,” Theon admits, which he never would were Robb around to hear it.

“Hey.” Jon frowns. “I was in the military.”

“Yeah, was. Couldn’t even make it to graduation.”

“Theon,” Sansa warns.

Jon sneers at him. “And how’s getting pissed on at work, Theon? Do you reek yet?”

Sansa laughs and passes the blunt off to Theon again. Full circle and once more. Theon sulks for about five minutes after that, quiet in Sansa’s complaining and greedy in hogging the joint. Then the door swings open, and Robb quickly shoves in and closes it behind himself.

He sniffs, face twisting up. “Seriously? In my room?”

“It was Jon’s idea,” Theon says plainly.

Jon glares at him, then looks at Robb pitifully. “The window’s open,” he tries.

Robb just sighs, eyes narrowing at all three of him. But then he steps forward and takes Jon’s wrist in hand. Says, “Need to talk with you,” and nothing else.

Jon’s heart starts hammering when he hears Theon go ‘ooo’. Robb leads them out of his room, slams his door shut again and shields the two out of sight from the adults. Still at the top of the stairs, but shielded.

“What did you take?” he whispers before Jon can start. Whatever Jon was going to start. Defending, explaining.

Shit. Jon stammers, blinks about ten times, then whispers back, “What are you talking about?”

Robb steps into his space. “When I found you shaking on the bathroom floor, you said you took something.” He searches Jon’s eyes, almost desperate. “What was it?”

He hasn’t let go of Jon’s wrist.

***

He remembers everyone leaving and he remembers saying goodbye, goodnight, drive safe, see you next time, thanks for coming, and he remembers going to sleep with a heavy heart but a light head. He remembers waking up, and by second nature going to check behind his dresser. He remembers having a mini heart attack because it wasn’t taped to the wall, not anymore. It was flat on the ground, fallen, and he quickly picks it up and shoves it in his underwear drawer until he learns how to calm the fuck down. Anyone could’ve walked in. Anyone could’ve seen it. And he needs to calm the fuck down.

He’s on the couch later that morning with Bran. “Can we play Minecraft?”

Jon feels a bit in his head so it takes him a while to respond with, “Sure, monkey,” and get up and go turn the television on.

Arya shuffles up to Robb at some point while he’s in the kitchen. She waves him lower and he bends down so she can whisper something in his ear. She glances at Jon scaredly every few seconds, and then it’s Robb slowly standing up straight again and staring at him, some indistinguishable expression haunting his face. Unreadable.

Bran tugs on his arm and shoves a controller in his idle, empty hands. Jon feels a lump pass down his esophagus and expand in his stomach. But Bran wants to play Minecraft—so okay. “Okay, okay.”

***

Another thing is—Sam notices when he clocks in late. He notices Jon sneaking in through the door with his bag draped sluggishly over his shoulder. He notices the time on the wall. He notices Jon dropping tools left and right, and those lines of exhaustion etched into his face like a faded map navigation route. Jon grows increasingly more skittish about his locker and anything within its vicinity. When Sam comes in unannounced, Jon slams his door shut, smiling wryly

Davos tells Jon he’s doing really well. He tells Jon that he’s one of his best.

Another thing is—Edd showcases a bag of heroin to him. He shimmies it out onto a tablespoon and heats it over an open lighter till it melts to a chunky sort of liquid. He ties his belt tight just below his elbow and shows Jon how to use a syringe one-handed. He tells Jon, it’s easy, you just need to find the most visible vein, it’s easy. He balls a fist and does it, right in front of him. Pierces himself and shoot it right up into his body. He sighs and lies back as Jon watches him spot blood. Watches it trickle.

Then, when it’s time, and Jon’s just about to leave, Edd gives him his own bag. Tells him to just think about it, it’s even better than those pills I gave ya.

Another thing is—the first time Jon ever feels afraid going home is then.

***

He does think about it. He thinks about it a lot.

At work, at home, messing up cars because of it. He stays with the pills for some time because it’s nice, it’s familiar. It’s something he knows well enough to believe it’s beneficial. He sneaks off for his abnormally long bathroom breaks and then rejects any food offered to him during their actual breaks. He goes pale. He gets sleepy. And then he goes home early again.

And then for a week, Jon stops everything. He doesn’t know what possesses him to do so but he just does. Was it Robb’s looks? Arya’s avoiding of him? The sheer and unrelenting reliance on it? He doesn’t know—but he stops. And so it’s a week where he’s hyper and scarily happy all of the time, and doing all of the right things and right chores and saying all of the right words. He almost eats them out of house and home, Catelyn says with a weirdly fond smile. You’re eating us out of house and home.

Then he throws up at work. Not for the first time, but it’s Sam who decides to follow him to the bathroom and watch from the corner of one of the stalls. When Jon gets up and flushes, finds Sam waiting there, he near jumps out of his skin.

Sam has a sad look about him. “What was that?” he interrogates.

Jon laughs. “I have no idea! Must’ve been my lunch. I guess turkey doesn’t agree with me today.”

“Jon…”

“You know that Chevy Hound’s been working on? What do you say we go finish it up for him, seeing as he’s not here?” Jon suggests. “That’ll be good fun, no?”

“Clegane doesn’t like it when we interfere with his projects. He probably has a specific way of doing it,” Sam says softly. “Plus, we don’t know anything about vintage cars.”

“How different can they be?”

Jon shoots Sam a cheeky wink. He heads for the door. Sam grabs him by the arm.

“Jon,” he says firmly, and asks—although Jon thinks he already knows—“What was that?”

***

“I’m full.”

Everyone’s overlapped chatter dies down and they stare at Jon like he’s grown a second head.

Catelyn takes a peek at his half-full bowl. “You’ve barely touched it, Jon.”

“But I’m full.”

“Okay,” she says, confused, “what would you like me to do about that?”

Jon looks around the table. The littles are quiet, staring. Ned’s eyebrows are furrowed. Sansa and Theon are both just frozen with their spoons in the air—except Theon’s got his mouth open, mid-bite. Robb is still—and has been for this past week—unreadable.

Jon smiles shyly and scoots his chair backwards. “Sorry. I was just wondering if I could be excused?”

Robb hums, unconvinced. “You’ve never asked before.”

“Sure, lad, go on,” Ned grants, and Jon’s up the stairs before anyone else can refute it.

He hears a quiet, does anybody else reckon he’s been acting strange lately? which he thinks comes from Sansa, but ignores it and locks himself away.

He ignores his phone screen lit up with yet another text from Tormund, something about camping or a party or dinner somewhere sometime. He rolls up his sleeve and catches the spoon that falls out. In the dark of his room, he does what Edd taught him to. He unzips the little bag of heroin, readies his lighter, and places his finger just right so that he can tighten the belt and inject at the very same time.

There’s a feeling like he’s been gifted a punch to the chest, breathing suddenly jagged, his airflow restricted. A warm, tingly feeling; if someone heated up honey to the very best temperature then somehow opened the top of his skull, this is what it would feel like. Everything drops immediately. His grip goes slack. Over his head, maybe, the honey. In his brain. Warm, tingly. He eyes the blood spotting from the injection point. It’s hard to tell how far down it’s dripping but it’s warm and tingly and hot and his head and a punch and oh my god.

***

His stuff is stencilled, A. TARGARYEN, which is illuminated by the dim overhead lights. They all have the same bunks and same duffels and same guns, but that makes him feel like he’s sticking out like a sore fucking thumb. There’s the low hum of tired soldiers settling in for the night, of boots thudding and muted laughter, voices easy and loose. And everyone here calls him Aegon, but Sam and Edd are the only ones who call him Jon—because that’s who he really is, and the only two people who he wants to know that are them. So he stomachs the identity of Aegon Targaryen for the time being.

A certain routine. Jon can never seem to catch a break. “Oi. Look alive, lads. Golden boy’s broodin’ again.”

Jon lifts his chin off his palm as chuckling ripplies through the tent.

The soldier—Rast, Jon thinks his name is, though he doesn’t quite recall—tilts his head at him patronizingly. “What’s it tonight, Egg?” He’s bare-chested, balling his shirt up small and tossing it over all the other bunks and onto his own. “Thinkin’ ‘bout how you’re gonna outdo us all again tomorrow? It’s tough work, I’m sure.”

Jon ignores them most of the time. It doesn’t always work, but he tries.

“Oi. Targy. You ever speak?”

“Sometimes,” Jon speaks.

“He’s got a word limit,” Edd appears, sighs, wrapping an arm around Jon’s shoulder. He turns his nose up at Rast. “Doesn’t like wastin’ ‘em on lowlives such as yourself. You understand.”

It’s clear Rast doesn’t appreciate that, but he chuckles and puts his hands up anyway, feigning surrender. “Yeah, alright, I get it.” He steps back. “Pretty boy’s got bodyguards. Whatever.”

“Well, he’s more my bodyguard, if anything.”

Sometimes it sucks that he has to rely on Sam and Edd to defend him. Course, he’d never outright ask them to, but they’re good friends, and honestly he just can’t bring himself to say anything most of the time. Can’t be assed. It’s too much effort with not enough gain. He already hates being here; a little bit of not-so healthy rivalry wasn’t going to help that

But he’s lucky he’s got a bunk right between them, at least. Sam and Edd on either side, safe.

Rast always has to get one last quip in. He leans over once Edd parts from Jon and goes back to back to his own bed. His breath is hot and smelly on Jon’s face. “Hey, what’s with the sour look all the time, Egg?” He smiles playfully. “Aren’t you happy to be here with us?”

Jon lies down and rolls over, clicking his torchlight off on the way. Sam and Edd take the hint and do the same. Sam gives Jon a sympathetic smile from where his face is smushed into his pillow, and Jon returns it, however fraudulent it may be. Every time he looks at Sam he misses Robb.

“Oh, alright. Goodnight then, you three. Sweet dreams.” Then Rast mutters to somebody else, “Bit throupley, those guys…”

***

The weather gets warmer, but he refuses to wear any tops that aren’t long-sleeved. Sometimes when he’s washing his hands they roll up, and he has to laugh off the little bruises on his forearm that Robb and Sam and Gendry absentmindedly point out.

Robb’s taken to calling him ‘glass bones’ because he remembers a time as kids where Jon bruised much too easy. It got to the point where for one of his Halloween costumes, Ned wrapped him up in bubble wrap and called him Robb’s squishy sidekick, no, trust me, it’s a thing, who was dressed up as Batman.

Sam is Sam—so he worries over it. Always looking half in Jon’s direction and half in his own. He’d sooner strain his eyes than get on with his work. And Gendry doesn’t do anything other than raising an eyebrow here and there. Jon thinks he just doesn’t care that much and he’d probably be right in that assumption. Jon likes that because there’s nothing difficult about it. Nothing to try and hide and nothing to lie about—simply because he doesn’t ask.

It gets warmer and warmer, and Jon does a load of washing every couple of days, uses Catelyn’s fancy muck remover to soften the darkening of sweat stains on his shirts. Even when he’s not rugged up to hell, he still sweats through his bed sheets and tank tops, and flops around restlessly in bed like some uncouth dog in heat.

He sometimes believes he’s gotten heatstroke, and spends hours at a time, the very early morning, hunched over the toilet bowl, his hair sticking to his skin. He’s been lucky enough so far that no one’s ever walked in on him. Tomato on toast with Robb was just about as much as he could handle.

The bruises become consistent and the jokes becomes dry. Robb asks about it, for real, one day. “What’s this?”

“Nothing,” is all Jon can say, already wrapping his arms around his stomach.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” Robb’s eyebrows furrow, tracking the movement.

Jon watches him squint and feels himself start to sweat again. “It’s just a bruise.”

“It’s five bruises.” Robb steps closer, so Jon steps back. “Where are you going?”

“My room,” Jon spits. “Tired of being interrogated every time I get a damn bruise.”

***

It’s a reducing, tedious and humiliating routine, one that he’d be glad to leave behind come the end of his days at See Your Worth. It’s a one, two, three sort of thing. It has steps.

One goes clock out and spend as much time in the bathroom as possible, pack up agonizingly slowly and make your presence apparent, lingering, right up until the moment you leave out that door. Two goes sit in your car with your foread against the wheel. Two goes breathe, you’re okay, and wait for Sam to finish his shift. Three says don’t make eye contact as he leaves the building and locks up. Pray he notices you’re still in the parking lot. Act surprised when he knocks on the window, then roll it down as tiredly as you can, no room for whatever guilt presses on your lungs. Look past his disappointed face and at the moon just above.

Sit in the passenger seat of his car in silence. It’s the least you could do. “Do you just want me to start picking you up for work?”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

“But I’m driving you home every night at this point. You keep having to bus to grab your car.”

“We don’t always have the same shifts, Sam, it’d be pointless you driving me.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Sam says. “I’d be taking you to work, and you wouldn’t have to leave your car behind.”

“It’s fine, it’s just—no, it’s fine. I’ve just been tired lately.” Jon waves his hand. “I’ll stop asking—promise.”

Sam sighs. “I don’t mind driving you home, Jon. I mind that you’re not honest about it,” he admits. “I know there’s something going on.”

Jon shuts his eyes. “God, not you too.”

“You can talk to me. I’m your best friend—”

“I don’t need to talk to anyone, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. What’s this?” Sam reaches out and pinches Jon’s sleeve. The car swerves. A horn beeps.

Jon pulls back like he’s burned. “Piss off,” he says, leaning into the passenger door.

“This is exactly what I mean. You’re weird about the most random things. You don’t eat and then you do—and it makes me sick sometimes, how much you stuff your face—you’re not focused, and that can be lethal, Jon. You know what Davos says—”

Jon drags his hands over his face. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine—”

“—And what have you got in your locker, huh? What’s so bad that you had to buy your own lock? That’s against company policy.”

“Sam…”

Sam shakes his head, visibly stressed. His jaw jitters around words he’s not able to get out. Stamers around thin air. “I just—I want you to be straight with me. No more secrets. And I will too—”

“Sam,” Jon repeats.

“I found needles in your toolbox.”

Jon goes wide-eyed. Suddenly, everything’s quiet. Sam clenching the steering wheel, looking forward, head on is the only sound he can comprehend. The indicator clicking. The low rumble of the engine. Jon recognizes the street they’re in; he’s almost home. He can just stay quiet for the remaining five minutes until they reach his driveway, or he can make a dive and walk the rest of the way, roadburn be damned. There are ways out. He is not trapped. And yet…

“Promise you won’t tell anybody.” He figures Sam will likely spill if he isn’t mediated here and now, and Jon needs something immediate to soothe his short-circuiting nerves.

“Promise you’re okay,” Sam counters with a wobble in his voice.

Jon lets out a shaky exhale. He forces his lips into a thin line. “It’s under control,” he says through his teeth.

Sam laughs. Laughs. “You’re doing drugs.”

Jon hates hearing it said aloud. No. I’m not. He tries the car door lock and pulls on the handle.

***

Glass bones. Glass bones. Glass bones. Glass bones. Jon wonders how Robb doesn’t get tired of his own voice. “Alright, Bobby…” Since Sam, he’s stopped trying to hide it. He wears short sleeves around the house, says the track marks are evil mosquito bites to Bran, and probably some sort of muted chickenpox to Catelyn and Ned. Glass bones. Glass bones. Glass bones. He could punch Robb in the face.

“Why is it always the same arm?” Robb questions again.

He’s getting really fucking annoyed. “Because that’s the arm I keep hitting. God.”

Robb doesn’t budge. Jon can tell he’s catching on.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” He goes to grab Jon’s wrist.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Jesus, Jon.” Robb huffs a small but irritated smile. “What are you, a jellyfish?”

***

It keeps happening in the bathroom.

Robb cradles his face. “You used.”

Jon hazily finds his eyes. How did—How does Robb know? His mind wanders to Sam. Don’t tell anyone.

God. Traitor.

He nods anyway. Robb does a harsh swallow, then Jon’s head starts to tip. “Hey, hey, steady. What was it? Was it—was it a pill again?” He starts spewing. “Is it the—whatever Arya found?”

Jon blinks, suddenly regaining some composure. “Arya found…?”

“You took something. What was it?” Robb grabs his jaw. “Focus, Jon.”

Don’t tell him, a voice says, far, deep, ingrained in his mind. Robb pulls his slug of a body into his lap, just like last time, and blows on his face. The cool air feels refreshing, but it’s odd. Jon whines, tries to turn away from it, but Robb has a tight hold on his head or his neck or everything probably.

“Don’t remember,” Jon tells him. A suitable compromise.

“Brilliant,” is all he mumbles before reaching over for the toilet paper. Good idea. Jon could feel sweat beading at his hairline.

Sometimes—only rarely sometimes—does he think he doesn’t want to do it anymore. He has these moments of clarity where he suddenly hates feeling sick all of the time, hates scrounging for a good place to be alone, uninterrupted. Hates sleeping all day and fighting with his family, with Sam, hates being more excited about going to see Edd instead. He has these moments of clarity where he realizes how bad it is, and how deep in it he’s gotten. How far gone.

He has moments of clarity.

“Hey, cut that out.”

He doesn’t register the saliva spilling over his chin until Robb’s softly patting his cheek.

“Jon. Jon. C-Cut it out, man.”

He sounds scared, and Jon seldom hears him sounding scared.

***

His mistake is stealing from Arya. Anyone else in the world and he would’ve been fine. Anyone else in the house would’ve swept it under the rug. But, Arya…

“I know it was you! Of course, it was you!” She screams at him, an assaulting contrast to the way she’s been avoiding him like the plague. “No one else needs to steal money!”

Jon screams back. “I have a job, too, you know!”

“Yeah, but you also have expensive hobbies!”

“I didn’t take your thirty dollars, Arya!”

“You did! You obviously did!” She shakes her head. “You come back home so late!”

“I’m working!”

Arya scoffs. “Yeah, right—it was you, buying junkie shit again!”

Jon lets out a frustrated growl, but then he pauses. Arya has tears welling in her eyes. She’s travelled a fair distance backwards since their argument had started, and she’s clutching at the hem of her sweater nervously. But—is it the—whatever Arya found?

Jon moves forward, swift, and grabs her by the shoulders. “It was you.” She struggles in his grasp, crying out and shaking her head rapidly. “You went through my room! You touched my stuff!”

“Big wolf, let go!”

“You told Robb! You ruined everything!”

“I’m sorry!” She’s sobbing, now. Jon hears footsteps behind him, heavy ones. Ned. “Jon, I-I’m sorry—let me go—”

“Jon.” Ned’s gruff voice swallows up Arya’s desperate please. He rips Jon’s hands off Arya and steps in front of her. He asks, are you hurt, are you okay, ushering her toward the stairs as she nods, yes, yes, I’m sorry.

Ned comes back over to yell at him. Jon watches it all unfold like he’s not even there, staring, unblinking, only one thought circling his brain.

I think I need to move out.

***

“You’re moving out?”

Robb stands in the doorway, furious. He barged in upon hearing the news probably. Classic Robb. Jon would’ve preferred Ned keep it a secret but, oh well. Can’t have everything. It would’ve come to light eventually anyway, if not on the day with his bags packed, waving goodbye at the door. Yeah—Robb would’ve slaughtered him.

Jon rubs his eyes from where he sits perched on the end of his bed, freshly awoken. “Yes, Robb. I’m an adult, I can do that now.”

“With what money?”

Jon sits straight. “I work,” he all but spits.

“Yeah, but you’re—!” Robb stutters over emptiness. He gestures hastily but vaguely to Jon’s entire frame.

“I’m what?” He’s not interested in whatever Robb has to say. Ned’s already helping him place a deposit on a flat nearby. He’s putting whatever Davos gives him and maybe another thirty from Arya’s room into the payment. Robb continues to flail his hands midair in attempted reason. Jon sighs. “Well, fuck, Robb, I’ve just gotten back from the army and my dad isn’t my dad, and my siblings aren’t my siblings—could you give me a fucking break?”

***

In the morning he locks himself in the disabled toilet again and produces the stench of burnt metal. In the afternoon he throws up, up, up, then heads back out and gets underneath a big car on a hoist.

He locks all the bolts in place himself and that should be his first indicator that it would all go wrong. Something’s tipping—and then the world goes dark.

A moment of nothingness—of clarity—and for a second, he thinks he’s dead. The worst part is that he only feels a smidge of morality. Only the slightest bit of regret for how he’s treated Robb and Sam and Arya, and everyone else who’s been silently trying to help him. He feels that, and nothing else, and it’s enough to accept that it’s over.

He comes to with a pounding headache. Sandor leans over him, pressing a damp cloth to his head. When he pulls it away, Jon can see blood, a lot of blood.

“You stupid boy,” Sandor spits, acid, although Jon can make out the faint concern in there. He dabs the cloth on and off and wipes near his temple. Jon winces. Ow, ow, ow.

He makes a strained noise and cranes his neck. Sam, Davos and Stannis all peering atop him, worried. Davos is holding the first aid while Sam has triple nine visible on his phone screen, thumb hovering dangerously close to the green call button. Gendry stands twiddling his thumbs somewhere close behind.

“Can you talk?” Sandor asks.

Jon’s tempted to shake his head, but in the end, he just nods. Yes, but please don’t make me.

***

He doesn’t tell anyone about the accident, and by some miracle, neither does Sam. He’s walking back from Edd’s this time, a rainy street where he hasn’t brought an umbrella, when he bumps into Theon.

“Oh, sorr—” Jon looks up, surprised. “Theon.”

Theon’s wearing a coat with a furry hood over his head. The zipper is fully to the top but Jon can still see his face through the fluff. He holds one of Robb’s coats slung over his arm. “You look like shit.”

Jon huffs. “Good to see you too.” He steps aside.

Theon grabs him. His bruised arm. Jon hisses. “Charming. I’ve been looking for you.” He shoves the coat into Jon’s arms, not meeting his eyes.

“Looking for me?”

“Your family. They want you home.”

Jon raises an eyebrow as he starts to shimmy his way into the clothing. It’s instantly relieving, even if his wet clothes are squishing against his skin. “I was just—I was only at a friend’s house.”

Theon stares, almost knowingly. “Not my place. I just do what they ask.”

Hoping that doesn’t automatically exclude him, Jon says, “Well, in that case, could you tell them to stop keeping such close tabs on me?” He rolls his eyes. “I’m eighteen, for fuck’s sake.”

“Maybe they’re trying to help you.”

“Maybe they’re not doing a very good job at it,” Jon says under his breath, starting away in the direction of the next pedestrian crossing. He doesn’t care for being escorted home. He’ll get there by himself. “Maybe they should mind their business.”

Theon follows loosely anyway. “Maybe you should pull your head out your ass!” he shouts.

Jon pauses just before the light turns green. The people waiting beside him cross the road. “‘Scuse me?” He turns around, walks back over to Theon, more people quickly stepping out of the way.

Theon scoffs. “You don’t even see what you’re doing to them.”

“Theon.” Warning.

“Jesus, look at your fuckin’ eyes. You’re fucked.” Theon shakes his head disapprovingly. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does; it’s Theon, for crying out loud. “He stays up half the night worrying about you, did you know that? Drops everything the second you look like you’re about to fall apart—”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to stop actin’ like some poor sod who’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders,” Theon says. “Want you to stop thinking that it’s easier to shut them out, because it’s not.”

“What do you know?” Jon derides.

Theon narrows his eyes. “I know that it’s selfish. I know that you don’t deserve them,” he tests, stepping closer, like he’s instigating a fight. “I know you’re just a weak junkie for the taking. I know—”

Jon swings the first punch.

Evidently, Theon is sober and significantly more coordinated than him, and so he goes down quick.

***

The slow tick of the grandfather clock all the way at the other end of the café is driving Jon insane. Ygritte presses her mouth to her hands that are clasped together, her elbows leaning on the table. She studies Jon and thinks he doesn’t notice. Her coffee cup half empty. Jon can’t cope with the chatter of other customers ringing through his ears. He’s sewing his eyes shut and putting his head in his hands and focusing on just breathing. It’s pathetic to think it’s enough. He feels itchy, shaky, and all around miserable.

“You sure you’re alright?”

He doesn’t know why he said yes to coming out, to a café, no less. He thought maybe it would be another moment of clarity. Thought he might need it after yesterday. He knows she’s making a mental note in her head not to mention it, be shocked by it, but even so when he lifts his head the sight of his black eye makes her breath hitch every time.

Theon got some good hits in. All to the same spot, apparently. Between that and the concussion from having a car almost fall on him, he actually doesn’t know how he’s able to form coherent thoughts right now.

The waitress comes around with his tea. “Yeah,” he replies to Ygritte.

As the waitress sets the mug down along with the small side serving of milk, blood drips then runs down Jon’s chin fast. He tastes the metallicness of it before he’s even registering, darting his tongue out to swipe it away. Ygritte exclaims and quickly grabs a napkin to press to his nose, holds it there firm. She holds one of his hands there too, but it’s weak and slips as soon as she gives it the chance to.

***

When he’s not working, he sleeps, and he can hear them talking downstairs about how he sleeps all day when he’s not working.

Wrapped up in his sheets, curtains closed and room dim of sunlight, he catches a familiar voice from the creaky front door hinges. “What’s wrong with the boy?” It’s gruff and sincere, and kind of everything Jon needs.

Tormund opens his door slowly and leaves it open. Some form of fresh air. He doesn’t mention how Jon’s been ignoring his texts. Doesn’t mention how one side of his face has a scar on his temple and a bruise shadowing his brown eye. He silently takes his boots off and slides under the covers with him. Pulls Jon’s back flush to his chest, arms tight around his waist. Steadying.

“Tor,” Jon whispers, but he doesn’t get a whisper back.

They stay there, like that, for hours.

***

Jon catches Arya exiting his room. “Hey!” he yells, speeding up the rest of stairs

Arya gasps and turns a hell, running straight into Robb’s room, who isn’t home. The door shuts in Jon’s face. The lock turns.

Jon jiggles the doorknob violently, then slams his fists against the door twice when it doesn’t open. “Stay out of my room, Arya!”

***

Vomiting so loud that it wakes Robb up from inside the house. Jon abandoned the bathroom because he thought it was bad luck, but now Robb was finding him outside in the garden too.

Robb picks him up and sits him down on one of the plastic chairs. He drags his own plastic chair over and drops it down arm-to-arm with the other, so Jon can rest his head on his shoulder. The fairy lights dangle from tree branch to tree branch, left on from last night’s barbecue that Jon didn’t include himself in. Jon smelled the steak and heard the laughing and watched from his bedroom window as everybody ate and smiled with one another. He understood then, what Theon meant. Watching Robb’s eyebags lift and sag with his expressions.

He was hurting them. He was destroying this.

Jon grabs onto Robb’s shirt like for what feels like hundred times before, tears already blurring his vision. “Please don’t hate me,” he chokes out. Please, please, please don’t hate me. Please.

Robb looks down at him. His arm around Jon’s shoulder pulls him impossibly closer. “Hate you?” he echoes, hurt.

“You’re gonna hate me.”

“Jon,” Robb says, sliding a hand up one side of his face. His fingers slot perfectly around his ear and reach the closest curls. Coaxes Jon to look at him. Jon thinks he’s going to tell him, I could never hate you, and everything would be okay. But instead he asks, “What did you do?”

Jon’s jaw quivers, and he begins to sob. Please. “I-I don’t know,” he hiccups, retreating back to the safety of Robb’s shoulder.

Robb quickly lets go off him and frantically moves to roll up his sleeve, thinking something else entirely. He lets out a strong sigh of relief, riddled with stress, when he sees Jon’s skin unbroken, running his fingers over ever so gently. He traces the plethora of bruises littering his forearm instead, the veins that look like they’re rotting, trying to escape from within.

“Jesus Christ.” As Jon continues to cry, he swipes a light, feathery touch over one of the many injection points, traces it all the way down the track mark, holding his breath. “Bloody hell, Jon.”

“I’m sorry.”

Robb shakes his head in disbelief, eyes wide. He finally breathes out. “Alright. Enough.” He pulls Jon in for a proper hug, cradles his head and twists his fingers in his hair, other hand gliding slow and soft up and down his back. “Not going anywhere. Not gonna hate you,” he says, even though it’s shaky and Jon can tell that it’s nothing short of a plea, a prayer.

He lets himself bask in the warmth of his cousin and greedily pretends that it’s a brother’s embrace.

***

What it feels like is a warm hug. An all-encompassing embrace. He’s pressing down on the plunger part of the syringe, and then he’s lying on his back, heaving in the best way possible. He can’t feel his limbs—or any part of his body, for that matter. There’s just warm pressure. His childhood bedroom and warm pressure. And he might’ve imagined it, but he thinks he hears soft knocking at his closed door, and Ned going, Jon? I think it’s time we have a talk about your mum. Jon thinks he’s completely fine with all that stuff, now. Thinks he doesn’t care a thing. He is who he is and nothing can change that. Nothing can transform it.

There’s more knocking, and then Ned’s just there, at his side, pulling at him ruthlessly. Jon hears shouting commands and barking from the dogs—wonders if Ghost made it home. He vaguely makes out the shape of Sansa frozen in the doorway, Arya and Bran behind her, shaking. He feels himself start to shake, too.

He feels Robb—which he knows is Robb because it’s that distinct coolness on his skin—clawing at his body, crying something hysterical. He’s never seen Catelyn’s face contort that way before, but he has now, as she peels her eldest son away from the horrifying scene. Jon half-expects Theon to appear as well, slap him across the face for what he’s doing, tell him to snap out of it, to grow a pair.

Jon finds that he would greatly appreciate that.