i hope you don’t mind a modern au—i thought it suited this prompt best!
11) things you said when you were drunk
take a shot, leave your lip gloss
[jonxsansa, modern au ~5k+]
and i don’t wanna leave this bar until i get your number
and if i’m being honest i can’t wait to get you home
—the summer set
Sansa doesn’t usually hit the bars by herself; it’s no fun, and if she fancies a drink alone she’d prefer to cozy up on her couch with a bottle of moscato and a bad film, or that playlist of break-up songs Margaery put on her computer after that nasty split with Joffrey. (Fuck Joff, by the way.)
Tonight, though, Sansa’s not sure that the power of goddess Gloria Gaynor can help her. She can’t bear to shut herself up in the confines of her small apartment with nothing but her own thoughts to keep her company. On a whim she’d spent far too much on a cab downtown and ended up at The Crow, a well-reputed dive bar that Margaery swore by because she knows a guy who knows a guy, et cetera, and Margaery had never steered her wrong before, especially not when it comes to a good mixed drink.
Sansa sits alone at the end of the bar and wishes Margaery was in town, but she’s on a trip with her grandmother and won’t be back for weeks. There are few others who Sansa feels particularly comfortable confiding in: her sister Arya is a phone call away, but she’s also four hours away at some rugby match, neither of their younger brothers are old enough to tag along, and Sansa couldn’t bear to text Robb. He would know something was wrong, and Sansa just knows he’d get all overprotective big brother when he inevitably wrangled an explanation from her. She loves him for that, but right now it’s not what she needs. Right now she just needs someone to listen so she doesn’t have to keep thinking about it.
Right now she also needs another drink, but the bartender who’d been waiting on her the past hour must have clocked out because he’s nowhere in sight. He’d been a nice chap, Sansa reflects as she drums her fingers next to her empty glass. Sam, his name was, and he’d had a kind face and he must have seen right through her because Sansa had never had an amaretto sour with quite so much kick. Not that she’s complaining—the kick is what she’d come for.
She’s drawing patterns in the puddle of condensation her glass left behind when someone says her name—“Sansa?”