Her movements were precise, not what one would expect from someone who had been awake as long as she. Petyr thought to ask her how much sleep she had gotten in the past day—it would be the fatherly thing to do, after all—and almost did, but at the last moment held himself back. It seemed vulgar, somehow, to pry with words. Better to learn through examination.
How else was she to be taught but by example?
Her declaration of devotion hit him hard, left him wordless for a moment. Perhaps he did need rest. Petyr wasn’t entirely certain, even after being taken aback, whether or not she was being truthful, and yet still her words had a sense of weight to them that made him pause. Before he knew it he was taking her hand, his now cleaned fingers trailing over her spotless ivory, a mere brush of skin that could mean anything or nothing.
“What did I do to deserve such a devoted daughter?” he asked, his lips in a smile that was somewhere between warmth and mocking. There was some truth in those words, if she cared enough to look.
Perhaps it was her lack of sleep, but the room seemed to spin slowly. Not in a nauseating sort of way but in a gentle, self-aware rock. It was different, the auburn would admit that much. It wasn’t pleasant yet at the same time it wasn't repulsive. Blue hues glint toward his greens, searching in them right before moving her eyes downward.
Sansa wasn’t about to skip the topic that had been pondering around in her mind for the past few days. No, she was going to keep constant and ask. She had to, such unexplained tension and movements certainly couldn’t just be shoved aside. Sleep hadn’t aided her, mostly because of this, the rest was of Robin’s doing.
“Why did you kiss me?” The words fell out of her mouth, just as Aunt Lysa had fallen out of the Eyrie. The kiss had resulted in her Aunt’s death, and Robin’s mourning of his dear mother. A mother whom he had been close with ever since birth. The boy still hadn’t left her teat at the age of ten, let alone prepare himself for his mother to leave him. He wailed and cried constantly, and apart from Petyr defending her, all of this was her doing.
That was something that she couldn’t just push aside.
Her other arm reached up, clad in black and feathers, and placed her palm over his that had overlapped her own. With such movements she moved forward, closing in the gap between them. It wasn’t sexual, but it was intimate. Sansa was pressuring him for the truth, and she was going to get it.
Once she started talking of rest it was as if he body betrayed him, his muscles now longing for the comforts of bed. Countless hours had been spent in this chair, the affairs of the Vale laid out before him in the form of paper and ink, until he was not certain what the hour was. It did not appear to be very late, as the dawn had yet to creep across the room, but other than that he was uncertain. It was a curious feeling, not being moored in time but still lucid, not having the crutches of milk of the poppy or illness to fall back on and explain one’s disconnected state. He wasn’t certain he liked it.
He words left he feeling even more uncertain, his eyes scanning every inch of her body, hoping some clue of a gesture would tell him her true meaning. They sounded innocent, that was clear enough, but Petyr Baelish knew enough to know that, unskilled as she was, there was the potential for something more there.
“Well,” he said, and even his voice sounded thick and tired in his ears. He looked down at the scattered parchment and knew that there would be no hope of continuing work tonight, at least if he wished to attack it with the clearest mind. “I wouldn’t wish to be accused of keeping you up.”
Frail fingertips started to dab the remaining water that clung to her off onto a dry cloth. When she was done with it, she folded it and placed the clean side upward. The water would no doubt dry in time for it to be used again. Back in Winterfell, they had no use for cold washing water. Instead, they summoned those who served and they would pour them fresh, warm water to cleanse with.
She missed it, not only the water, but everything.
“You wouldn’t be.”
Sansa wished to address the day of Aunt Lysa’s death. Not directly targeted at what he had done to her, but the vents that had happened before. Fathers do not kiss their daughters in such a way. And since they didn’t, why did Petyr? If they were portraying the image of a bastard daughter and her father, why did he conclude to such actions?
“I only care for your well being.” He was her everything. The one who saved her, rescued her from the horrors and tortures of Kings Landing. He brought her into the arms of her Aunt Lysa. Despite how cold and jealous the woman was, she still was her aunt. Sansa was grateful to have flesh and blood surround her.
Lord Baelish had promised to bring her home, and since her home no longer existed in her eyes, he gave her the second best thing. And for that, she was entirely grateful.
From the vantagepoint of his seat he watched her cross the room, his lips curling in a slightly embarrassed smile when he saw her target. He wanted to brush aside her attentions, to take matters in his own hands—for really, he was never so sloppy as this—but he saw something in her, some mix of the dutiful daughter and attentive lady of the house that gave him pause. A sense of purpose, as it were, and something in the control he saw there filled him with pride. Perhaps he could endure some of her attentions.
With slim fingers she wiped his hand. Though he very much wished to avert his eyes Petyr instead observed her closely. The manner in which she spoke had far more import that what she was actually saying, and he made note of the small amusement with which she recalled these seemingly motherly duties. Coupled with her actions at the moment and the steady, near forceful way in which she undertook them, Petyr couldn’t help but feel that perhaps all his assumptions about her were right.
It was a pleasant confirmation, to put it mildly.
Hand cleansed, he nodded a curt thanks and lowered it to the table. At her words speaking of rest he had to raise a brow, eyes catching hers, amusement tinged at the edges. “I don’t think I’m alone in that. We keep the same hours, it seems.”
With the absence of Aunt Lysa, Robin was forced to sleep on his own, by himself. That, however, didn’t stop him from wandering into her room, waking her and demanding attention. There were times where she didn’t mind, and then there were times where she wanted to jump from the highest window in all the Eyrie. Sansa would never, but there were times where she wanted to. She could realte to the boy, losing his mother, hiis everything. For she had lost her brothers, her mother and father. Arya was probably dead. In total, she lost her entire family. The only family that she felt that she had was Lord Baelish, her lord father.
The auburn kept up with the boy’s ridiculous requests, reading him five bedtime stories every night, allowing him to lay on her belly while she stroked his hair. It appeared that Sansa was his only form of family as well. Despite his demanding requests, she had to keep up with them. She wouldn’t know what to do if Petyr was to deny her, so she certainly wouldn’t instill that sort of fear into the Lord of the Vale. Not unless she had to.
Which she never wished for.
“He does keep me occupied at droll hours of the day as well as night.” She shared a smile with him. If being honest, she was tired, but never would admit it. She put those she cared about before herself. A tactic she had picked up once she found haven in Petyr Baelish.
Father. The was a strange twinge of pleasure in hearing that word on her lips, one which he indulged for a fleeting second, perverse though that enjoyment was. It was not just the nature of the role that pleased him but the fact that there was one, and that she embraced it so wholeheartedly. Any doubts he had about her enjoyment of the game were dying day by day, buried under the spark he saw in her eyes, the pleasure.
“I am sorry for that.” His hand uncurled at the feel of her palm, warm despite the pale ivory of her skin. It was a small gesture, a minor break, though he knew she must see it. “But the Vale does not sleep. All is well, at the moment.” One could never tell when the tide would shift, though Petyr was reasonably certain he could weather most any storm. “How are things out there?” A short nod of the head accompanied those words, indicating the rest of the household. In truth little happened under this roof that he was unaware of, but he wished to hear it from her own lips.
The palm that had extended, retreated back into a folded hold in front of her torso. Her blues had caught the dabs of ink along the inner of his palm. No doubt smudged from his fingertips. Sansa was key at sensing ones mood, however with Petyr Baelish, she learned to expect the unexpected. Never once had she seen his anger exploit him. Only the case with his Aunt Lysa. Even then, his entire self changed last minute. One would have to follow extremely close to catch the sudden change.
What do we do to those who hurt the ones we love? His voice echoed repetitively inside of her head at reminiscing of her Aunt Lysa’s death. The rasp he had to his voice embedded in her ears, constantly reminding her. As a doting daughter, Sansa crosses the room over to a small tub of water perched on another desk within the room. Fingertips grabbed a spare cloth and dipped it graciously. Almost instantly after that, she wrung it out with a weak grip. “Not all is well.” The auburn noted, raising a brow as she referred to his absurd sleeping schedule.
Placing the damp rag in one palm, she held her hand up, gesturing for him to place his upward so she could wipe the ink away. “Things are well. Robin has taken a liking to me. You should have seen the fussing outbreak he made when he was summoned to do his studies.” A chuckled smile sprawls on her lips as she reminisces to the scene
“You, however, must rest." If he wouldn’t rest, she would suggest laying with him until he was coaxed into a sleep. As if he was sweet Robin.
He set aside his quill, noting with distaste the spots of ink that now dotted his hands. There wasn’t a way to cleanly wipe them off before she ended the room and so he curled his hand loosely, careful not to meet her with a closed fist.
“Never, sweetling.” A cutting smile then, as gray-green eyes scanned her body, lingering on her garment. “What is on your mind?”
The question he had spoke was puzzling. What was on her mind? As of recent, her mind was centered on surviving. By the likes of her savior, she had been freed of that role. Blue eyes moved elsewhere as she continued to ponder on the topic; palms moving to fold in front of her.
Robin was away at his studies. Recently he had forgiven her for striking him, as had he for throwing a tantrum. On such quiet days as this, the two would spend their time together. Despite how horrid that sounded, it was actually quite nice. It was like spending time with Bran, or Rickon.
“I have missed your presence, father.” Their conversations, it was something that made her feel far more mature than she was; and she enjoyed it. Being the apprentice as well as absorbing his wits and knowledge. “I trust, all is well?” Blues moved to his closed fist as she stepped forward and placed a delicate palm on his shoulder.
