Chapter Text
She’s not quite sure what time it is, but her four PM coffee has long since gone cold. There’s a pile of indigo velvet at her feet, lined with fur and trimmed in gold. Pants, undershirt, doublet, and overcoat sit folded neatly at the end of her work table. Her hands smart, and her fingers, knuckles, and palms are raw from hours spent hammering, welding, and crafting. It’s tough work, but Sansa Stark is a perfectionist, and perfectionists get the job done no matter what.
The costumers’ department is nestled on a quiet hill far away from the festivities of the filming grounds, but by all accounts, the man she’s meant to be fitting should’ve arrived hours ago. She glances out the window into the sprawling acres beyond, seeking out that point in the horizon where treetops meet faded denim sky. Somewhere in the trees, a bird of some sort lets out a mournful coo, the prelude, she imagines, to another long night spent in wait.
A series of pops and cracks offer relief as she stretches out. Sansa sighs, then glances up at the clock. Nine PM, and not an actor in sight.
“Fucking diva.” And she’s not wrong – over the course of the past week, her team has been scrambling to get together some last-minute pieces for an amended scene. The lead actress – a fresh-faced Hollywood sweetheart – had shown up five hours late, giggling and half-drunk.
Rumour has it she’s been throwing herself at her co-star.
The sound of hastening footsteps calls her back to the present,and she looks up just in time to see the man in question stumble through the door. She’s just about resigned to a drunk fitting when he lets out a sheepish chuckle and straightens – all too apologetically to suggest he’s been drinking at all.
“Sorry! I’m sorry – I should’ve knocked. I’m Jon.”
He’s not all that bad, she supposes. If she were honest, she’d admit that Jon Snow deserved every ounce of the attention he’d been receiving as the new Rhett Butler of Hollywood – dark eyes that gleamed and crinkled when he smiled and hair that curled almost rogueishly over his brow. Still, she’s annoyed at his tardiness, and isn’t in a good enough mood to hide it. “You’re late.”
The man manages a sheepish smile as he strides over, toussling curls with a quick brush of his thick hands. “Sorry. We had to retake the boat scene over ten times.” A brief pause follows, in which the man’s voice takes on a slightly guilty cast. “It was a little challenging.”
“I’ll bet.” The director had sent over the amended scripts last week, but she hasn’t had time to look through the details. She hands him his undershirt and tunic, then jerks her head at the changing screens. “You know the drill.”
Jon glances curiously at the rest of the pile, but does as he’s told. While he changes, Sansa sets out to put together the remaining components of that particular outfit – a beautifully-tailored suit for a ball. Her hand stops over his codpiece – painstakingly hammered throughout the day to his exact measurements. She’s expecting it to be a bit larger than needed – but in her experience, male stars have egos to maintain. She’s happy to let him have his, if it means she gets the job done and the money in the bank.
“So can I ask you a question?” Jon peers at her over the edge of the screen. “What happened to Ella?”
Myrcella Baratheon had signed on to the project in its initial stages. It had taken her three months to complete all the costumes required – but by the time the reshoots had been announced, she’d taken another job and was otherwise unavailable. I told them you’re just as good, San, she’d laughed gaily over the phone two days into her new project. It’s so sunny here in Sicily! I’ll bring you back some lemoncakes.
She swallows the bitter taste in her mouth, along with the sentiment that it had been her project. Myrcella’s your friend. You love her. And Sicily will always be there. The thought is easier to stomach when she considers the benefits of staying put. And when she speaks, she’s genuinely happy. “She’s doing that historical drama with Canal+ in Italy.”
“Oh, yeah.” Jon steps out from behind the screens, all loosely-laced tunic and ripped jeans. “So you’re her replacement?”
“Yup.” She straightens. “And she’s mine. You can call me Sansa.”
“Right. Sansa. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He turns away as she makes her adjustments, only letting out the occasional grunt at an overly-spirited tug or pull of his tunic. It isn’t until she’s done hooking him into the garment that he speaks again. “So Ella’s in Italy doing your job, and you’re here doing hers? Why?”
“I’ve got some business to take care of in town.” She helps him into his overcoat, then brushes at the finely-woven fabric with a lint roller. It takes mere seconds to thread a needle, and within moments, she’s stitching up the darts to better the fit of the garment. “And I’m only needed here eleven weeks.”
“Let’s hope you have a pleasant eleven weeks, then.” He grins, then steps back and holds out his arms. She twirls a finger about, and can’t help but to be impressed when the man obeys without question. One turn. Another. Pose after pose to showcase the fit of the garment, parries and lunges alike. It isn’t until he’s swinging his arm about that he remarks, his voice tinged with mild amusement, “You know, this outfit’s for the new ball scene, right? Shouldn’t we be testing out dance moves instead?”
She rolls her eyes. Myrcella’s voice rings in her head. He’s a flirt – they all are, especially Theon from logistics, but don’t be fooled by it. And she isn’t. “Test them out with your co-star. I hear she’s got the hots for you.”
That shuts him up. It’s industry insider information that Jon Snow doesn’t flush so much as he broods, and he doesn’t disappoint in person. The man mumbles something about a misunderstanding and his voice lowers to a deep, almost gritty quality. “The feelings are not mutual, thank you.”
“Alright, I’m sorry, I was only teasing. Don’t get your knickers in a knot.” He looks up as she pauses, and she can’t help but to grin. “Especially since I need you to put these on.”
The deadpan stare he levels her with is enough to bring a bubble of laughter to her chest. Ever dutiful, he takes the codpiece from her hands. “Thanks. I hate it.”
“I worked hard on it.” She reaches out to rap the metal with her knuckles, the inverted cup nonetheless emitting a faint echoing sound. “Go put it on, then let me know how it fits.”
Jon lets out a grumble, but she swears she catches the glimpse of a smile on his face. Half a moment later, it’s gone, the man himself hidden away behind the screen once more. “I thought you had actual metal workers to do this stuff for you.”
She takes a long sip of her cold coffee. “Our first meeting, Snow, and you’re already insulting me. What do you think we costumers do all day? Sketch and compare notes on actors’ sizes?”
“Well, I just thought you’d have assistants for the hard labour.” He steps back out, pants off and codpiece on. She takes a moment to appreciate the fine contours of his quads, the muscles of his calves. Jon Snow definitely does not skip leg day. Some cracks must show in her professionalism, because the man is wearing an almost cheesy, knowing grin when she deigns to look up again. The bastard. “How do I compare, then?”
Shrugging comes easier than she’d expected. “Somewhat average.” His feigned gasp of disapproval is instantly halted by the pants she sends flying at him. “Now put these on so I can see how they fit together.”
“You’re a slave driver, Stark.” The man is a tease. Still, his demeanour makes it easy – all too easy to play the game, and Sansa has never been one to back down from a play of words. She decides he really isn’t half bad after all. The revelation is surprisingly welcome.
She lets out a chuckle, sinking down onto her armchair. “Are you going to make it hard for us to work together?”
Jon’s only response is to emerge, the glint of his codpiece only just visible between the opening of his pants. He glances down – then looks up to meet her eyes, thick brows slightly furrowed. She thinks it’s equal parts horror and equal parts amusement. “No more than you’ve made it hard for me.” Two knuckles rap against the steel. The lack of hollow echoing suggests the garment fits perfectly.
She lets out a breath. Fuck. This guy’s good.