heaven knows I'm miserable now
Jon/Ygritte. PG13. 1485 words.
Warning: character death.
Summary: She was a right mess, and Jon thinks he loved her. Modern AU.
Note: Set in the 90s for no particular reason except aesthetics? Written for the![]()
got_exchange .
1996
They met at her flat mostly. Jon thinks it was on purpose, to keep him on his guard, as he was never quite comfortable around her things or in her world and that's how she liked it. He had no way to protest it, either, because he couldn't very well bring her home, where he lived with five brothers and sisters, six dogs, a father, a woman who hated him.
Ygritte's place was always a mess. There was always endless laundry in the process of being done, half of it folded and clean on the couch while the other half remained a dirty heap lumped up by the door. There were always dishes in the sink, dust on the floors, half-read books stacked up everywhere, half-watched movies paused right in the middle. Ygritte always stopped right after the most exciting part, had no interest in the denouement. Ygritte never finished anything.
He wonders what the place looks like now.
Ygritte was always messy too. She had dirt under her fingernails and her hair was matted, unbrushed, forming odd almost-dreds just because she had no interest in its upkeep. Most of the time it was under a hat or a hood anyway, the burnished brightness of it dimmed. Jon had liked the reveal of it when her cap was knocked off, the tangled mess of it spilling sun-bright over her shoulders.
Her knees were always bruised, like a little kid's, like Jon's youngest sister. She always had a million scrapes. Jon never knew where they came from but every time she took off her clothes it was like a map redrawn, new landmarks to learn. Her tights were always ripped, her sleeves fraying, her boots dirty. She never wore makeup, except for her version of a special occasion, when she smudged black around her eyes that almost always found its way down her cheeks by the end of the night. She was a right mess, and Jon thinks he loved her, and he wonders if anyone but him ever knew all those things about her.
The first time he saw her, he'd been leaving the pub drunk and laughing, red-faced. It was a rare night that Jon even went out with Robb and Robb's friends, and rarer still for him to enjoy it. He'd left first, the other boys held up behind him. It had been dark and snowing and Jon's hair was in his eyes but she was impossible to miss: standing there in a bulky coat with her head uncovered, hair shining even in the dark, face tilted up so her sharp smile could meet the snowflakes.
Later Robb told him who she was: new in town, she'd been a barmaid at the pub two weeks or so. Robb had a mischievous grin on his face as he spoke, head cocked to the side like one of the puppies, and he'd asked why Jon cared. Jon only shrugged and hid behind his hair, started going around to the pub more often.
"What kind of a name's Ygritte anyway?" Jon asked her once, watching her from the bed. She was fiddling with the music, switching out one noisy soundless band for another.
"What business's it of yours?" she'd said, her usual secretive way. She shot him a raised-eyebrow look over a bare, freckled shoulder.
"Sounds a bit French," Jon said. "Or…Welsh, maybe."
"It's a name," Ygritte said flatly.
He wondered if she was cold, standing there naked as she shuffled through tapes. She never seemed cold, ever.
"I don't see why you're so curious," she said. "I don't ask where you got a name as stupid as Snow."
Jon flushed. "From my mother," he said tightly, "Where else?"
"Well there you go then." She was the least self-conscious person Jon had ever met, though he had no girl to compare her to except his sisters. Sansa was wound up tighter than anyone Jon knew. He could recognize something of Arya in Yrgitte but he didn't really like to connect his spirited little sister to the naked girl he was staring at.
As yet another rough chaotic song started up, Jon complained, "Do we have to listen to this?"
"So boring, you are," Ygritte said, crawling back into bed and settling on top of him with little fanfare. "In a second you're going to be nattering on about Morrissey again, aren't you? Wanker's not the second coming, he just sounds like he's crying all the time. He's a whiny bugger, just like you."
Ygritte was annoying, loud and combative, and she hated everything Jon loved, sometimes just to irritate him. Mostly just to irritate him. She thought it was funny that he was a virgin and hadn't really believed him until their first go, hasty and awkward, Jon's face a humiliated red.
"Oh relax," she'd said, "It's only sex."
Ygritte was annoying but whenever the phone would ring and her low voice would moan his name into the receiver, Jon would be up and on his way without a second thought.
Jon was often embarrassed and defensive of his embarrassment, keenly aware of all the things he didn't know and ashamed of how he came into the world, unable to forget it. Every time his father's wife would look at him, resentment plain on his face, he'd be reminded. She resented having another mouth to feed, maybe, or resented him looking like his father, looking like Arya. Resented how he fit into her family when she didn't want him there, and her resentment set Jon apart in a way he might not have been otherwise. It followed him all his life, everywhere, and Jon felt awkward in his own skin, as though he was wearing a suit that didn't quite fit.
Ygritte didn't leave him much time for his feelings, though. "Like a sad little stray," she'd teased, always making fun, her hands against his cheeks and nails pressing into his skin. "Best put that pout away or your face'll freeze with it."
Jon wanted to know about her family, her friends, but Ygritte would always defer the meeting, wrapping her arms around him instead and kissing him in that hard, possessive way. She didn't really care about his family, which was well enough; Jon couldn't imagine bringing her round for a meal, like Robb sometimes did with those slight, pretty girls his mother alternately favored and found suspicious. Ygritte would get mud all over the floor, probably, and she'd eat with her fingers, she'd say a thousand inappropriate things. Jon's father's wife would roll her eyes and sigh, probably say something like of course he'd bring home a girl like her.
Now he sort of wished he had. It would have been funny, at least. Then more people would have her impressed upon their minds. Jon would be able to say to his brother, Remember Ygritte? And they'd have stories to share, laughs to have. But it's all trapped in Jon's head, belonging just to him – her dirty flat, her triumphant grins, her pale bruised skin. That's romantic, maybe. But it feels terribly lonely to be the only one in his life who knew Ygritte, and lonelier still to realize she was probably the only one who really knew him. If only Jon remembers, it's almost like it never happened. And he's got nothing to remember her by, no keepsakes except the faint memory of hands on him, the bruise on his ribs from that time they fell off the bed.
Jon wasn't there when she died. He heard about it third-hand, already imbued with myth. She hadn't been looking, of course, when she stepped into the street; it had been snowing; she'd given a final roll of the eyes and an "oh, for fuck's sake" before impact; it had been all copper hair and red blood against white snow.
Already a myth. But somehow Jon doesn't doubt that's how it happened. He can practically hear her exasperation, see it plain on her face.
They sent her back to where she came from, afterwards, and so Jon never attended a funeral or saw a grave. He didn't even know where she was from; he's not sure he's remembered her last name correctly. Jon can't reconcile how someone who meant so much can simultaneously mean so little.
Robb brings her up once at the pub, months after the fact, but only to say, "Oh, remember that girl who worked here? The ginger, the one Snow had a crush on." Someone answers that she got hit by a car and Robb looks the requisite picture of sympathy, but then they start in teasing Robb about being ginger, and it loses the plot, Ygritte is forgotten. Jon sits there with his hands wrapped around his pint and says nothing.
He just doesn't say anything.
Jon/Ygritte. PG13. 1485 words.
Warning: character death.
Summary: She was a right mess, and Jon thinks he loved her. Modern AU.
Note: Set in the 90s for no particular reason except aesthetics? Written for the
got_exchange .1996
They met at her flat mostly. Jon thinks it was on purpose, to keep him on his guard, as he was never quite comfortable around her things or in her world and that's how she liked it. He had no way to protest it, either, because he couldn't very well bring her home, where he lived with five brothers and sisters, six dogs, a father, a woman who hated him.
Ygritte's place was always a mess. There was always endless laundry in the process of being done, half of it folded and clean on the couch while the other half remained a dirty heap lumped up by the door. There were always dishes in the sink, dust on the floors, half-read books stacked up everywhere, half-watched movies paused right in the middle. Ygritte always stopped right after the most exciting part, had no interest in the denouement. Ygritte never finished anything.
He wonders what the place looks like now.
Ygritte was always messy too. She had dirt under her fingernails and her hair was matted, unbrushed, forming odd almost-dreds just because she had no interest in its upkeep. Most of the time it was under a hat or a hood anyway, the burnished brightness of it dimmed. Jon had liked the reveal of it when her cap was knocked off, the tangled mess of it spilling sun-bright over her shoulders.
Her knees were always bruised, like a little kid's, like Jon's youngest sister. She always had a million scrapes. Jon never knew where they came from but every time she took off her clothes it was like a map redrawn, new landmarks to learn. Her tights were always ripped, her sleeves fraying, her boots dirty. She never wore makeup, except for her version of a special occasion, when she smudged black around her eyes that almost always found its way down her cheeks by the end of the night. She was a right mess, and Jon thinks he loved her, and he wonders if anyone but him ever knew all those things about her.
The first time he saw her, he'd been leaving the pub drunk and laughing, red-faced. It was a rare night that Jon even went out with Robb and Robb's friends, and rarer still for him to enjoy it. He'd left first, the other boys held up behind him. It had been dark and snowing and Jon's hair was in his eyes but she was impossible to miss: standing there in a bulky coat with her head uncovered, hair shining even in the dark, face tilted up so her sharp smile could meet the snowflakes.
Later Robb told him who she was: new in town, she'd been a barmaid at the pub two weeks or so. Robb had a mischievous grin on his face as he spoke, head cocked to the side like one of the puppies, and he'd asked why Jon cared. Jon only shrugged and hid behind his hair, started going around to the pub more often.
"What kind of a name's Ygritte anyway?" Jon asked her once, watching her from the bed. She was fiddling with the music, switching out one noisy soundless band for another.
"What business's it of yours?" she'd said, her usual secretive way. She shot him a raised-eyebrow look over a bare, freckled shoulder.
"Sounds a bit French," Jon said. "Or…Welsh, maybe."
"It's a name," Ygritte said flatly.
He wondered if she was cold, standing there naked as she shuffled through tapes. She never seemed cold, ever.
"I don't see why you're so curious," she said. "I don't ask where you got a name as stupid as Snow."
Jon flushed. "From my mother," he said tightly, "Where else?"
"Well there you go then." She was the least self-conscious person Jon had ever met, though he had no girl to compare her to except his sisters. Sansa was wound up tighter than anyone Jon knew. He could recognize something of Arya in Yrgitte but he didn't really like to connect his spirited little sister to the naked girl he was staring at.
As yet another rough chaotic song started up, Jon complained, "Do we have to listen to this?"
"So boring, you are," Ygritte said, crawling back into bed and settling on top of him with little fanfare. "In a second you're going to be nattering on about Morrissey again, aren't you? Wanker's not the second coming, he just sounds like he's crying all the time. He's a whiny bugger, just like you."
Ygritte was annoying, loud and combative, and she hated everything Jon loved, sometimes just to irritate him. Mostly just to irritate him. She thought it was funny that he was a virgin and hadn't really believed him until their first go, hasty and awkward, Jon's face a humiliated red.
"Oh relax," she'd said, "It's only sex."
Ygritte was annoying but whenever the phone would ring and her low voice would moan his name into the receiver, Jon would be up and on his way without a second thought.
Jon was often embarrassed and defensive of his embarrassment, keenly aware of all the things he didn't know and ashamed of how he came into the world, unable to forget it. Every time his father's wife would look at him, resentment plain on his face, he'd be reminded. She resented having another mouth to feed, maybe, or resented him looking like his father, looking like Arya. Resented how he fit into her family when she didn't want him there, and her resentment set Jon apart in a way he might not have been otherwise. It followed him all his life, everywhere, and Jon felt awkward in his own skin, as though he was wearing a suit that didn't quite fit.
Ygritte didn't leave him much time for his feelings, though. "Like a sad little stray," she'd teased, always making fun, her hands against his cheeks and nails pressing into his skin. "Best put that pout away or your face'll freeze with it."
Jon wanted to know about her family, her friends, but Ygritte would always defer the meeting, wrapping her arms around him instead and kissing him in that hard, possessive way. She didn't really care about his family, which was well enough; Jon couldn't imagine bringing her round for a meal, like Robb sometimes did with those slight, pretty girls his mother alternately favored and found suspicious. Ygritte would get mud all over the floor, probably, and she'd eat with her fingers, she'd say a thousand inappropriate things. Jon's father's wife would roll her eyes and sigh, probably say something like of course he'd bring home a girl like her.
Now he sort of wished he had. It would have been funny, at least. Then more people would have her impressed upon their minds. Jon would be able to say to his brother, Remember Ygritte? And they'd have stories to share, laughs to have. But it's all trapped in Jon's head, belonging just to him – her dirty flat, her triumphant grins, her pale bruised skin. That's romantic, maybe. But it feels terribly lonely to be the only one in his life who knew Ygritte, and lonelier still to realize she was probably the only one who really knew him. If only Jon remembers, it's almost like it never happened. And he's got nothing to remember her by, no keepsakes except the faint memory of hands on him, the bruise on his ribs from that time they fell off the bed.
Jon wasn't there when she died. He heard about it third-hand, already imbued with myth. She hadn't been looking, of course, when she stepped into the street; it had been snowing; she'd given a final roll of the eyes and an "oh, for fuck's sake" before impact; it had been all copper hair and red blood against white snow.
Already a myth. But somehow Jon doesn't doubt that's how it happened. He can practically hear her exasperation, see it plain on her face.
They sent her back to where she came from, afterwards, and so Jon never attended a funeral or saw a grave. He didn't even know where she was from; he's not sure he's remembered her last name correctly. Jon can't reconcile how someone who meant so much can simultaneously mean so little.
Robb brings her up once at the pub, months after the fact, but only to say, "Oh, remember that girl who worked here? The ginger, the one Snow had a crush on." Someone answers that she got hit by a car and Robb looks the requisite picture of sympathy, but then they start in teasing Robb about being ginger, and it loses the plot, Ygritte is forgotten. Jon sits there with his hands wrapped around his pint and says nothing.
He just doesn't say anything.