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Small hands (In the palm of mine)

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I am alone, so don't speak
I find war, and I find peace
I find no heat, no love in me
And I am low and unwell
This is love, this is hell

-Keaton Henson

Mance orders they take Castle Black and Tormund is of the first to breach it. He fights his way through brutally, and for the most part there is no one to stop him. Crows are easy to cut down in this state, all frantic and afraid. Some of them have rounder features, still soft with boyhood. Tormund slices their throats all the same.

He gets pegged by a few arrows to the back, quick blades draw blood a time or two, but mostly he is still intact even after the battle has ended and the crows have him surrounded. He is ready to die in these moments, taking with him as many bastards in black as he can.

Of course Jon fucking Snow has to come and stick his nose in it. He puts Tormund down with a well aimed arrow to the knee, finishes him off by kicking the axe from his hands.

And Tormund is livid, struggles even after they've started putting him in chains. The anger taste like blood between his teeth, and still he doesn't start screaming until he notices a shock of fiery red hair from the corner of his eyes.

He knows it's Ygritte before he actually sees her.

The sound he makes isn't human.

"I shoulda thrown you from the wall when I had the chance!" Jon Snow is no longer looking at him, but the boy stops and Tormund knows he understands. He was probably there to watch her die. He might've even been the one who shot that arrow.

Jon looks over his shoulder, grim and almost wistful, like he too wishes Tormund would've killed him then and saved them all this trouble.

"Aye, you should've."

The next time they see each other a kind elderly crow has spent hours working to patch Tormund's wounds only for him to find out that Mance Rayder has become prisoner to a southern king named Stannis. He doesn't understand why they would have him healed only to torture and kill him later, but he supposes it doesn't matter that he understands. These people have silly customs that are well beyond his comprehension. It passes time to ask questions though, so the next time Jon Snow comes around Tormund asks him, "Your old blind man patched me up. Why?"

The crow blinks at him, slow and almost sad. They had almost been friends once. He wonders if the boy remembers. Carefully Jon pulls up a chair, settles into it so heavily one might think he is carrying the weight of worlds on his shoulders. There was a time when Tormund would have worried for him, but now is not one of those times. He thinks of Ygritte, her blue eyes distant and glazed. Such a stark contrast to the sharp mischievous glances she'd sent him from across countless campfires.

"He is sworn to treat all wounded men, friend or foe."

Ah. Of course he is. Crows and the vows they take. It's all the bastards ever talk about. Tormund curls his upper lip and spits on the ground near Jon's feet.

"You want me alive so you can torture me?" It's what he would expect of them.

Jon Snow fidgets in his seat. He seems bothered by the question, and Tormund figures he's guessed right then. But the crow finally shakes his head, fingers curling into fists at his side.

"No one's going to torture you." He looks damn well determined to stand by those words, and Tormund finds himself curious of what Snow would do if king Stannis or head crow gave such an order.

"So how do we die? Hanging? Beheading?" The wildling is anxious but not yet afraid. That's subject to change as time draws near. It may calm him to know the manner in which he'll be leaving this world. Jon doesn't look at him. The boy's gaze has fallen down to examine the soot and water tracked in by snow covered boots, avoiding the question however he can. It would be endearing if there wasn't so much death between them.

Giantsbane leans into the iron wrought bars that keep him prisoner, much too calm for a conversation of this caliber. They'd only spent a few weeks working together but in that short time he'd learned much about how to push the crows buttons. "Drop us from the top of the wall?" He makes the suggestion casually, not the least bit surprised when Jon's eyes rise to meet him. Tormud expects a disgruntled rebuke, maybe some comment about vows, but there is none of that. The boy only looks lost.

"I don't know what happens to the prisoners." Jon's face is grim set, and Tormund sees something akin to fear in his gaze. Maybe the crow had cared about them, once upon a time. He hopes Ygritte knew that before she died.

"Who decides?"

There's a moment of quiet as Snow considers it, fingers gripping at the thigh of his pants. He must know. Maybe he just doesn't like the answer.

"I suppose Stannis does."

Ah. Jon Snow doesn't know this new king. Tormund had heard whispers of what happened, how Stannis and his men rode through and slaughtered the freefolk. It was a cruel way of fighting, no honor to it. How could good and loyal Jon Snow ever kneel to a man such as this?

"He your king now?" The question is meant to be a harsh one, barbed and angry. Snow doesn't flinch.

Tormund has noticed him wringing his hands. That is nothing new. Jon does it absently while brooding, a habit he'd struggled with before as well, back when Tormund was fooled into thinking he could be one of them. Ygritte had been the most scorned by his betrayal but Tormund came a close second. He'd liked this crow, honestly and truly. Jon Snow had balls for a pretty boy.

"I don't have a king." His voice has a certain clarity to it, and Giantsbane wonders if this is how he spoke to Ygritte in that cave. She didn't give any specifics but Tormund knew, and she knew that he knew. It was just the relationship they had. She might be proud to hear the crow now, talking like this.

"You spent too much time with us, Snow. You can never be a kneeler again." He smiles, smug and almost satisfied in knowing they'd changed this boy regardless of how much he'd fought against them. Jon Snow might still be a sworn member of the night's watch but he is free at heart.

Jon doesn't try to deny what's been said of him, and that only pleases Tormund more. Instead the crow takes a long suffering sigh and leans forward. "We're gonna burn the bodies of your dead. Do you want to say any words over them?"

The wildling snorts at his question, expression one of morbid fascination now. What good could a couple of words said over a corpse do for their dead? It wouldn't be of any comfort to anyone. But Jon is asking and Tormund wants to understand before he says no.

"Words? What kind of words?"

Snow seems uncomfortable to be talking about it. He scuffs his boots across the floor and speaks just loud enough for Tormund to hear, "Funeral words. I don't know how the free folk do it." The boy trails off, and Tormund figures maybe he is thinking of Ygritte, what they might say over her if given the chance.

"Do what?"

"Say farewell." He is looking at Tormund, all open and honest for once. Perhaps he is thinking about his ginger prisoner and the words he will say over this body when the time comes. It sends an odd little pang of hurt through Tormund's chest, and for just a moment he takes pity on this boy in a man's shoes. His voices is soft when he speaks, boarding on gentle. He does not say this to be spiteful. He says it because it's true.

"The dead can't hear us, boy."

That answer seems to hit home for Jon. He moves as though to walk away, back already turned to the wildling in chains. Tormund isn't ready to see him go. It's not hard to think up a question to keep the crow here another minute, he has so many.

"Snow. Did you love her?" Boots come to a grinding halt near the door, and Giantsbane watches as the crows back goes rigid. It's satisfying in some sick way. He wants this boy to grieve for the women they've lost. "She loved you."

Jon finally turns to him, and the little bastard has the gall to look shocked, like it wasn't plain as day how she felt about him. Her pretty little crow.

"She told you?" The boy takes a step towards him. His hand twitches, and Tormund half expects he will reach out but he never does, only keeps staring with those dark almond eyes. The wildling wonders if this is the first time anyone has loved him.

"No. All she ever talked about was killing you. That's how I know." Jon deflates at the words, but knowing Ygritte this would be the best he ever got. He might even deserve it. What right does he have to live while her body is stiffening in the snow?

"She belongs in the North. The real North. You understand me?" Tormund could rise to his full stature, peer at the boy from between thick iron bars and give off the perception that he can still snap necks, even while in this cage. Its effective but there's no need for intimidation. Tormund stays seated, noticing how the boys shoulders are slumped in defeat. He has no fight left in him, not now, not over this.

Later Tormund hears about how Jon took the red headed wildling girl from Castle Black to be put to rest in the North. The news is like a soothing balm over his heart.

Snow visits him frequently after this, bringing food and little scraps of news. These moments are a welcomed distraction, still Tormund can't comprehend what keeps the boy coming back. Anyone can deliver his daily meal, and talking is certainly not required. This persists for almost a week. Tormund's grown to expect his company.

He knows something's changed when Jon comes to him at night. The boy is quiet in a way that leads Tormund to believe he isn't supposed to be here. Not even his boots make noise, each step carefully placed on a plank of wood that doesn't creak. Sleep is hard to come by in this place where it's constantly cold or damp if not both. Giantsbane warily tracks Jon's silhouette as he pulls up a chair and sits down. He is younger than Tormund but his bones creak when he sits. The wildling watches him, waits.

Nothing happens. The crow just sits there, dark and brooding. Tormund knows the boys eyes to be brown but tonight they look bleak, pitch black under all the creases in his forehead. He wonders why Jon has come here, to this tiny cold room with nothing but a cell and its one occupant.

"What you doin' here crow?" His breath is a bloom of frost, reminiscent of smoke hitting the air. It's freezing in this room but Tormund barely notices. He was raised in the wild, has lived with ice his entire life. The cold is the least of his worries here.

Jon doesn't answer. It would be frustrating if the crow wasn't so damn nice to look at. Tormund figures the boy is contemplating so deeply he might not have even heard. Ygritte had told him of how Snow loved to brood. It seems she hadn't been exaggerating.

He doesn't know how much times passes. There is no real way for him to tell. The crow has been here for what feels like hours by the time he finally moves, stands on stiff legs and leaves without a word. Tormund listens to his retreating footsteps and wonders if this has been some strange farewell, a southern habit he doesn't know about.

The wildling is already settled back into his corner when he hears it again, those same damn boots thudding up the stairs. Maybe they've finally decided what to do with him. Tormund stands to glance out the window, expecting to see a block for his head or platform for hanging. There's nothing but the wind blowing snow through an empty courtyard.

When he turns around Jon is already in the room, standing just in front of the cell with a large fur clutched against his chest. The crow looks down at the sleek black garment, gnawing his bottom lips as though he still hasn't made up his mind. Tormund steps towards him. Jon shifts on his feet as though he might step back, but in the end he stands still and allows the wildling to approach.

From here Tormund can see he looks guilty, haunted almost. Something must've happened then.

"Here." Jon thrusts the thick layer of fur between iron bars. The wildling can feel his hand, if only for a moment as they press the coat into his chest. He takes it gingerly, surprised to find it's still warm from where the crow had it held so tightly.

"You wastin' good fur on me boy?"

"It's not a waste if it keeps you warm." Jon leaves him then. The boy tries to keep his steps steady but it still seems like something's hot on his heels. The door shuts heavily behind him, and Tormund is once again alone in the cold except this time he has a fancy new fur to keep him cozy.

Giantsbane presses the soft fabric against his cheek and for a moment he's convinced he can still smell the crow.

People talk of what will be done with Mance Rayder. The southern king says he can either bend the knee or burn to death, and Tormund already knows which Mance will choose. He would do the same himself. So it's no surprise when some nameless lot of soldiers come to collect, leading him down into the courtyard so he can watch his friend and leader burned alive.

Tormund is placed in the front row, chained and helpless to do anything but witness as Stannis asks Mance to kneel one last time before sentencing him to die. It's a savage thing. Something even his people reserve for the worst of punishments. Tormund sweeps the crowd for Jon Snow. Of course his crow has come to observe the end. Mance had led the attack on their castle after all. He's heard time and time again about the fifty crows that met a gruesome death that night. At least it was honorable. They died protecting the castle they claimed. They died free.

Mance will die in shackles, burning like some nice plump pig placed over the fire. He finds Jon standing on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Mance pauses to catch Snow's eye as they lead him up to the post. In another life they could have been friends.

Tormund thinks maybe he's seeing things, but for just a moment Jon Snow looks as though he dreads this just as much as any wildling forced to be here.

They say some words and a women in red declares Mance the king of lies. Giantsbane feels a white hot rage prickling his skin as Stannis gives the order. His witch takes up a torch, cruel satisfaction shining in her eyes as she ignites the pyre. It seems that southern kings don't carry out the sentences they pass down. Tormund feels like he's swallowed brimstone, can feel it sitting in his belly, setting fire to his insides. The blaze creeps closer, and Giantsbane clenches his teeth in dread when it nears Mance's legs.

It's clear the moment flame meets skin. Mance screams, a sound that pierces through Tormund's ribcage and leaves him gasping for breath. It seems in those seconds that this will last forever-

But then it stops, just as quickly as it started. Tormund has been watching this whole time, and still it takes a minute for his mind to process what has happened. There's an arrow in Mance's chest, well aimed and merciful.

The only man holding a bow in the crowd is Jon Snow.

His crow.

Tormund is grinning as they drag him back to his cell, smiling like a fool from ear to ear. Mance has died but he was spared the worst of it. In this situation that is the best they could've hoped for. And they have none other than Jon fucking Snow to thank for it. The soldiers throw him back behind bars, he doesn't get to see what they do with Snow. Tormund hopes to see the crow again though. Expects he will avoid this punishment just as he's avoided so many others.

Soon after he learns that Jon Snow has been elected as the new King Crow. It's cold in his cell but Tormund smiles despite himself, a certain warmth blooming in his chest

Tormund had assumed his first late night visit from the crow would be the last. They were special circumstances, Snow had reason to feel guilty so he'd offered what little he could. There's no rational cause for the next visit, but it happens all the same. Jon stumbles into the room on wobbling knees. He's had more than a few to drink. The stench of it is heavy the second he walks in.

Snow pauses in the doorway, just long enough for a white direwolf to follow him inside. He scratches the beast behind its ear like one would a common dog before staggering over towards Tormund's cell. Tonight Jon plops down beside him on the filthy stone floor, not once bothering with a chair.

Giantsbane stares at the boy, curious about the way his lips seem to tremble. The only light in the room is a small torch by the door. It sends tiny shadows dancing across Snow's cheek.

"What's cursing you today, crow?" Tormund scoots a little closer. Jon doesn't seem to notice. He reaches into his coat and produces a long bottle. It's too full to be what he'd been drinking on all night, something he'd brought here just to share. He passes it to Tormund without comment, and shudders when their fingers brush during the hand off.

The wildling takes a long swig of whatever foul tasting booze Jon has managed to sneak off with. He's grateful for it. Until now he thought his days of sharing drinks and feeling tipsy were behind him.

"Do you think she had a good life?"

Tormund snorts at the question, turns himself until he is face to face with the miserable crow outside his cell. If not for the bars between them, he'd be able to reach out and touch the boy.

"Oh aye, surely she did." The wildling sounds perfectly certain of himself. "She was always out doing something or other. She learned well and traveled far. We had lots of fun together, we did." His lips twist into a wistful sort of smile. "And because of you Snow, she had some love in her life before it ended. I think Ygritte would be damn proud of all she accomplished, though we all wish she'd had time to do more." Tormund is warmed by the thought of her, takes another drink to her memory.

"She'd have liked this, us getting along so well." It's only partly sarcasm. Tormund realizes now that he wants Jon to smile. It's not as fun as he thought it would be seeing the crow glassy eyed and helpless.

"You believe so?" Jon doesn't know what she'd think, he didn't have enough time with her to understand how her mind worked. He hopes that Tormund is right though, it would make these strange little visits between them so much easier if he knew she would have approved of it. The crow shifts his weight, tongue sneaking out to carefully wet chapped lips. He has something to say but the words are caught in his throat.

Tormund is surprisingly patient with him. Giantsbane drinks and passes the bottle back. Jon's hand lingers a bit longer than necessary and Tormund has the sudden urge to reach for the boys wrist, pull him closer. He wonders what those pretty pink lips taste like. The thoughts are fleeting. Jon takes the booze and Tormund settles back on his side of the bars.

The crow takes a drink, and maybe it gives him some courage. Afterwards he swipes a hand across his mouth and speaks softly, words careful and uncertain. "You said she loved me once. Did you mean that?"

Tormund is taken off guard by the question. He'd figured this had been buried with Ygritte, but it seems as though the crow is still letting it fester. Poor bastard. His heart is too tender for this cruel world they live in. Giantsbane scoots closer to the crow, until his shoulder is pressed flush against the iron bars. It takes a moment, but eventually Jon closes the distance between them. Tormund is almost startled by the feeling of the boy's arm leaning into his. He looks over to find Jon is staring at him, waiting for an answer.

Tormund's never been one to disappoint.

"You're alive, aren't you? If she didn't love you, you'd have never made it back to Castle Black after betrayin' her like you did." The words weren't meant to hurt but Jon flinches anyways. He doesn't know how to feel about everything he's done in service to the watch. He took a vow and he meant every word of it, but look where it's gotten him. All the people he's put to the sword in order to honor some words said under a tree North of the wall. He feels the guilt like a sinking stone in his stomach.

"I loved her." Fuck, he'd loved her so much he'd wanted to leave his people, become a wildling and disappear into the real North with her. He'd loved her and he watched the life drain out of her, little by little, breath by breath. "And I miss her now. So much that I don't know what to do about it some days. Feels like my heart might just shrivel up and stop in my chest. She's everywhere for me. Fucking in the fires we burn to keep warm at night, standing at the bottom of the wall when i'm on duty. I catch just a glimpse of her and then she's gone." The boy reaches out, gloved fingers closing around thin air.
His head has fallen to rest against Tormund's shoulder. It should feel like more weight considering how Jon has slowly slumped completely into the bars, nothing but Tormund to keep him from falling on bare metal. It is none of that though. Jon is a warm weight, heavy with life and the grief they've shared. Tormund likes the feel of him.

"Aye, I miss her too boy. She'd probably like that you went and got piss drunk over the memory of her." The crow hiccups softly, no doubt surprised by the soft fondness of those words. Tormund takes the opportunity to snag the bottle of ale, careful not to jostle Jon's head in the process.

The boy glances up at him, eyelashes longer than any woman he's ever seen. There are a few tiny droplets caught in them, reflecting off the fire light. "Do you think we could've made it work?" Snow hesitates, gaze dropping to the concrete floor, weighed down by his shame. "If Ollie hadn't shot that arrow."

Tormund watches Jon shudder, and against his better judgement he reaches out for the crow. The boy's frame fits surprisingly well in the crook of his arm. Giantsbane tugs Jon closer, not satisfied until their foreheads touch. He can feel the crow leaning into it despite the metal biting into skin. Jon sniffles, soft and damn near pitiful. Tormund's heart aches for him.

"If she hadn't been hit by that arrow there's a good chance she'd have shot you with one." It's the truth. Tormund has never been good at lying. "But nonetheless I think you two could've made it. She was a stubborn one, and it seems to me crow that you are too. Who knows. She loved you, and you loved her, but more often than not loves just not enough these days."

Jon thinks of his father. Ned had once told him that everything before the word but is horseshit. He doesn't know if that counts in this situation. Tormund says she would have shot him, but. And he remembers how she'd looked at him, lowering the bow inch by inch. He doesn't presume to know if she still planned on killing him or not.

"Life is a cruel thing. We slaughtered everyone in that village the boy came from. You might feel the guilt, but that bit is not your fault. She was a free women and she decided to help kill those people. Ygritte always knew what it could cost." Tormund means the words to be comforting but Jon doesn't feel any better after hearing them. The wildling is warm though, his blood still runs and his arm is heavy around Jon's shoulders. It's soothing in a way he's never known. Being with Ygritte felt different. She was so tiny and fierce, even in that cave. Tormund has these moments of quiet. Jon's seen him in action, the same arm that holds him now has ended so many lives. The crow's gaze drifts to their hands, linked at the fingers. He is wearing gloves but he can still feel the warmth of Tormund's palm against his, seeping into the leather.

It's hard to salvage anything in this world, and at this point Jon's done his fair share of losing. Maybe he can keep this though, not forever, but he can steal away these quiet moments and that can be enough for him. He doesn't plan on living all that long anyways, not in this line of work.

"Here boy, take this and quit all that poutin'." Tormund gives him a gentle nudge with the bottle, gaze strangely soft as he looks upon Jon's brooding expression. The boy's entire face is drawn tight in contemplation. "You'll be an old man before you know it if you keep this up."

The comment earns him a playful elbow to the ribs. Snow takes the bottle being offered. He's isn't expecting the wildling to reach up and touch him, just between the eyes. His hand is huge and worn, callused across the palm and every finger. It feels rough against the soft skin of Jon's face but to his absolute astonishment the crow never once flinches away. He allows Tormund to rub a thumb over the crease in his brow, massaging until it's nothing but a small set of lines left behind from years of this same sort of sulking. It felt like Jon even leaned into the touch, if only for a moment.

"You can call me Jon, you know. I figured by now you've earned that right. I don't always have to be boy and crow."
Jon does a good job of keeping his tone even but something about the way he says it makes Tormund think this isn't the first time the crows thought about it.

"Alright then Jon," Tormund had meant to sound teasing but finds he likes how easily the name rolls off his tongue. "Tell me about that beast you brought along tonight." It's not the first direwolf he's ever seen, but it's sure as hell the only one he'd ever known to be friendly enough for a pet behind the ear.

"Oh, that's Ghost. I've had him for about four years now. He was runt of the litter." Jon's face is smooth with affection as he looks upon the wolf. "There just happened to be one for me and each of my siblings that day. Father allowed us to keep them." The boy's chest swells with drunken pride. "Not to mention a direwolf is our house sigil." He leans heavily into the iron bars and Tormund does his best not to laugh at how the boy's cheek is squished against the metal. It's easy now to see why Ygritte liked him so much.

"Ah, you know what I could use right now?" Tormund doesn't know but there's no need for a response. Jon's going to tell him what it is anyways. "One of those meat pies my brother used to bring me." He sounds particularly wistful and Tormund finds his curiosity is peaked. "I wasn't allowed at the table with my family so I liked to stay outside during feasts." The explanation comes slowly, a fond expression taking over the crows face. His Adam's Apple bobs in a way that is very attractive. "Rob would always bring me a meat pie. We'd share it and talk so much shite about the people inside. God I miss that." Snow clears his throat, spine a little more rigid as he passes the bottle back. The wildling takes a sip and Jon has to avert his gaze, pretend not to wonder if Tormund can taste his lips on the rim of the glass. If he does the man gives nothing away, only grins in a way that makes his eyes crinkle at the sides while going on about telling stories. Most are of Ygritte, battles they've one and a few they lost. Jon listens and shares a couple of his own.

He stays until the sun comes up, long after the liquor is gone.

There isn't light outside yet, but Tormund knows from experience that they have roughly a half hour before Castle Black starts coming alive. The guards will change shifts and everyone will be waking.

"Better go before you run the risk of bein' noticed here. It would be a bloody big scandal for the Lord Crow to be seen sharing sips of ale with a wildling now wouldn't it?"

Unfortunately Tormund's right. Jon has duties to attend and an entire castle full of men who look to him for orders now. He has to at least appear like a man worthy of that responsibility.

"I suppose you've got a point there. Better run before Edd or someone comes looking for me." He reaches to take the empty bottle back, this time expecting it when Tormund's fingers close around his wrist. The wildling doesn't squeeze. This is no assault. He is just holding on, skin to skin, hoping to remember this night until his last. It doesn't last long but it sets Jon's heart to racing. The crow gathers himself, carefully brushing away all the dust and dirt that clings to his trousers. Ghost seems to understand it's time they go. Jon's got his hand on the door when Tormund's voice rings out behind him.

"Ah, one more question before you go." The wildling rises suddenly as if this question is one of great importance. Jon notices too late that his eyes are alight with mischief. "I never got to ask Ygritte so you gotta talk honest with me Snow." Tormund spoke nothing but truth all night, so in his eyes it's only fair Jon do the same. "Was she your first time in that cave?"

Jon visibly balks at the question, and that's good enough confirmation for Giantsbane. Still the wildling waits it out, watches in barely contained amusement as a blush creeps up the boy's neck to color his cheeks.

"Aye, she was."

Tormund cannot help but laugh at the crow, endeared by how even his ears are tinted a bright pink. "And did you pleasure her like I told you to? Didn't go trying to ram yourself in without proper preparation didya?" Jon's face is hot with embarrassment. He may have hurt her once or twice, Ygritte wouldn't ever tell him. He'd been nervous and clumsy but she kissed him so sweetly none of that mattered. In the back of his mind he'd thought of Tormund and all the gingers advice about making love. He must be well experienced for all of his wisdom was sound. Jon had gone into that cave a virgin and walked out a fully fledged man.

The crow bites his tongue stubbornly. He can't very well tell Tormund all this. Jon doesn't have to though. The wildling takes one look at Snow's face and nearly starts howling. The laughter is silent and yet Jon feels more called out than ever before. "Oh fuck off. It was good advice, don't get a big head."

Tormund levels him with the smuggest smirk he's ever seen. "I already have a big head." He winks, suggestive in every way. "But thanks for the sentiment." Jon can't help but sputter. Fucking of course he's seen it before. How could he look at that towering ginger and not sneak a peek at least once? Especially after being brought into a tent and mistaking Tormund for the King Beyond the Wall. He'd even kneeled and the wildling never lets him forget it.

Subtly Jon pinches the bridge of his nose, a lame attempt to shield his face before humiliation puts him into an early grave. It wouldn't be so degrading if Tormund's voice had not been in his head while at the cave, giving him directions, turning him on.

"I appreciate the booze, Jon Snow." He smiles, crooked and sincere. Jon might have kissed him then, if those fucking bars weren't in the way.

"Aye. Thank you for sharing the night with me." Snow doesn't mean for it to come out sounding how it does. If this were anyone else he'd have corrected himself, albeit somewhat awkwardly. But there's no need for that here, Tormund knows what he meant.

The wildling's laughter follows him out. Jon swears he still hears it while doing morning rounds.