Jaime lay on his tasteful leather sofa, drunk and nearly passed-out. Outside of his second-floor apartment the evergreen's black shadows lengthened in the late afternoon light, pointing the way to the long evening ahead. Another evening of Brienne not calling him on the phone, which meant another evening in the company of Jack Daniels and his sidekick, self-pity.
Months ago Jaime couldn't have guessed how much his friendship with Brienne would come to shape his thoughts or the way he spent his time. They'd found an easy comfort in being together, but recently their friendship had become tense, and now they weren't even speaking.
Jaime no longer knew what to do with his time when he wasn't with Brienne or talking to her on the phone. He missed the sound of her voice in his ear and the rambling conversations that kept them up at night until both were doing more yawning than talking.
He hadn't had many close friendships in his life, and had perhaps come to depend on this one too much. It really wasn't much of a surprise then, when their relationship began to falter. Brienne had probably been spooked by his ever-increasing desire for her company. She might even have realized, to her dismay, that Jaime's feelings had progressed beyond simple friendship. She might have decided that their friendship should never have begun in the first place.
Well, maybe never was a bit strong, but the fact that it had begun was certainly improbable. Good word, Jaime thought, improbable. Brienne would like that one. Jaime fondly remembered the day he'd found out that the taciturn wench he'd been practicing with on Tuesdays and Thursdays had a thing for words, something no one who'd actually listened to her speak would have suspected.
It had been a balmy afternoon, just after they'd completed their work-out on the pommel horse. They'd been sitting together, companionably enough, on the top bleachers of the gymnasium at the Forel Dancing Academy. Brienne had been silent for the previous five minutes while Jaime nattered on about Instructor Syrio's current recruits. He'd jokingly accused her of being 'loquacious,' and suggested that she might curb her chattiness so he could get a word in edgewise.
Her delighted laughter had surprised Jaime. It animated the normally passive planes of her face and lifted that oh-so-serious brow as her eyes, when she turned to regard him, sparkled. "Me?" She'd said, "I think you mean you."
As sentences went, it wasn't much. Six syllables in all and two repeated words.
He'd grinned at her, oddly charmed by the shy smile she flashed him before looking away, down at the gaggle of gymnasts surrounding Forel, all but one of them taller than the diminutive master. A blush had blossomed in Brienne's cheeks though, and the smile lingered. Jaime's heart had given an odd little thump, and he'd later recall it as the moment he started to become infatuated with Brienne Tarth.
"Yes," he'd confirmed, "loquacious. Also garrulous, verbose, tending to ten-dragon words. I've never met such a talkative girl." She'd gazed back at him, seeming almost amused. Reaching deep into his memory of long-ago journalism courses in University, Jaime had let the words fly, not entirely certain whether they'd hit the mark. "Why, when you open your mouth to speak, m'lady, you are positively eloquent, a veritable font of mellifluous vowels and, er, consonants."
"It rather sounds like you've eaten a thesaurus, Lannister," Brienne had said, "I'd no idea you knew about anything other than parallel bars and, uh, beer bars."
"Beer bars?" He laughed, "You mean pubs? Taverns? Saloons?"
"Yes. Barrooms, watering holes, canteens, taprooms." She leaned toward him confidentially and lowered her voice, "You know, drinking establishments."
And given that opening, Jaime had asked if she'd like to leave off observing the youngsters learning how to fall off of balance beams and accompany him to a nearby bar. She'd been flustered, but agreed to go.
It clearly wasn't a date in Brienne's eyes. She hadn't even changed out of her track suit or brushed her hair, sticking out like quills from dried sweat. In her defense though, Jaime was several years older. Retired from competition, his minor fame faded after a wrist injury in his prime. To Brienne he'd probably seemed old and jaded, and she wouldn't be far off.
Jaime had thrown a light hoodie over the tank top and sweatpants he'd been working out in, made an attempt to beat the chalk out of his clothes and took the brace off of his wrist before meeting her outside the locker rooms for the short walk to the pub.
They'd talked for hours that night, there in that seedy bar on the corner of Rosby and Baelor. Well, mostly Jaime had talked, but Brienne, once engaged in a subject, became downright articulate about it. He'd learned that she was studying for a literature degree, working her way through school as a freelance editor and assistant gymnastics coach.
She'd grown out of women's gymnastics at an early age, her height too great for the traditional floor exercises or the bars. She'd experimented some with the men's equipment in her teens, excelling at the feats of strength and flexibility expected from their side of the sport.
But as insecure and immature men are wont to do, she was jeered for encroaching on their territory. How dare she be as accomplished; she had to be faking. No one wanted to spot her, no one wanted to be compared to her when she failed or, worse, succeeded. Brienne left the sport for years, only venturing back in her twenties after finding Forel's gym with its vintage equipment and open hours for practice.
That had been months ago, though, several weeks after they'd first met and begun to practice together and Jaime had found an opening to ask her out for that first non-date.
After that their Tuesday and Thursday workouts always seemed to lead to taking a walk together or having a bite to eat in one of the local diners, often staying out for hours in each other's company.
They went to pubs and parks, food trucks and chain restaurants, but Brienne was especially fond of the chips at Baratheon's BBQ around the corner from Forel's. It became one of their favorite hang-outs. There they'd discuss politics, sports, the latest manuscript Brienne was editing, or the merits of mustard versus mayonnaise on chips.
One day as they'd sat on the garden patio of Baratheon's, Jaime made Brienne laugh so hard that she spilled her chips. She'd quickly scooped them back into the paperboard basket and offered him one. When he'd refused, she popped it in her own mouth and chewed while he made a face.
"How on earth did you grow so tall, eating bacteria-laden food off the ground, Brienne?" He'd asked in astonishment as she held up another fried bit of potato.
"Five second rule," she'd explained, "Takes your average bacteria that long just to realize something is even on the floor." She ate that one, too.
"You know what you remind me of?" He'd said, "One of those rat-birds that scavenges food from parking lots and patios. What are they? Pigeons! Shall I call you Pigeon?"
She ate another chip defiantly and the nickname stuck.
Many more weeks passed and they continued to have a lot of fun together, during practice and after. Seeing Brienne twice a week was something Jaime came to look forward to more and more. When she needed to leave town for a week to attend a writer's conference in hopes of finding new clients for her small editing business, Jaime took her to the airport, dropped her at departures with a cheery wave, and went home.
And sulked. He was listless and grumpy, cantankerous, even peevish. He'd grown used to her company, to her sometimes rigid opinions, to provoking her into a blush or a laugh. He'd come to crave having her look right into his eyes and tell him he was full of shit, when it was warranted. He made sure it was warranted a lot.
For some reason that challenge in her eyes really turned him on. Platonically, though – definitely platonically. That was an actual thing, right? And maybe she was also – platonically – a little interested in him, too?
His pulse had sped up at the thought, as it did sometimes when they worked together in the gym and he was steadying her when she wobbled on a landing, his hands a light touch on her back or arm. Or when she'd sit him down after a strenuous routine on the bars, pulling his right forearm into her lap so she could take off his brace and check with gentle fingers to determine if his wrist was swollen from overworking it. She'd then either Velcro the brace back on for more practice or tell him they were done for the day.
Either way, he got more time with her.
Not on that first Tuesday she was out of town, though. And not that Thursday either. What had he thought about before meeting Brienne? Certainly not about a too-young-for-him woman with a homely face and the eyes of an angel. Nor about the strength of her body and character, the way her touch made him want -
He could text her, couldn't he? Up until then they'd only used text to make plans, but maybe she wouldn't mind if he just called to ask her something he needed an answer to. What time zone was she in? Was it earlier or later than midnight there? Well, she could damn well ignore her phone if it was later. Or earlier. Whatever.
Jaime: Hey Pigeon, How many minutes do you microwave popcorn for again? Was it ten?
He lay back on his bed, his heart racing like he'd just proposed. Would she text back?
Brienne: Seriously?!
Jaime: Oh good you're up.
Brienne: No, I'm in bed.
Uh oh. Whatever you do, don't ask her what she's wearing.
Jaime: Were you asleep?
Jaime let his imagination wander. What would she wear to bed?
Brienne: Perchance to dream, yes.
Jaime: Sorry. I just -
What? Missed your crooked nose and your freckled face? The way you smell of soap and powdered chalk? Maybe:
Jaime: Sorry. I just missed your voice.
Brienne: I miss yours, too. Droning on and on…
She misses my voice!
Jaime: How sweet. How droll. How about the popcorn question?
How long can I keep her on the subject of popcorn?
Brienne: This is silly. I can hardly see the screen without my reading glasses.
Jaime stared at her answer, disappointed and hurt. She didn't miss him. He tried to think of a way to end the text without seeming like a kicked dog. Then another message appeared:
Brienne: Why don't you just call me so I don't have to type?
No need to tell him twice. That was the first time they'd ever spoken on the phone. The two of them in the dark, in bed, thousands of miles apart. How could that be intimate? But it was; her voice hushed, soft in his ear. A tremor in his chest, a hunger in his belly. His hand strayed beneath the blankets and he stroked himself as they talked, and if his voice got a little husky, well, it was late where he was, too, and one's voice changes in the dark. Doesn't it?
They'd talked until their words began to slow, until one of them yawned and the other involuntarily followed. Until one of them noticed the crows cawing at the sunrise outside the window and suggested they get some sleep. Until they told each other good night and good morning and laughed because it was both. Until Jaime said, "I'll call you tomorrow," and Brienne, that shy smile he loved evident in her voice, told him that would be okay.
She never did tell answer his question about the popcorn.
That first phone call led to spending more time together. Jaime found excuses to see Brienne until he no longer needed excuses. A few nights a week they'd see a movie or get something to eat, or best of all, just spend time together at Brienne's cozy little rental house.
Many times Jaime would simply invite himself over, bringing with him a DVD and snacks or an article he wanted to show her. Brienne rarely came to his apartment, his "bachelor flat" as she called it. She always seemed uneasy, being in his space.
Where she'd sit beside him on her couch at her house, she always chose a chair at his place. Where she'd readily let him sit on her bed with her while she worked on an editing project or matched a basket of socks as they talked, his bedroom she treated like a forbidden place, side-eyeing it like a horse might an improbably high hurdle.
Perhaps she had some idea that her presence there was already a given, when he was alone. Perhaps that had bothered her, to imagine Jaime had mistaken their friendship for more.
Jaime knew that to Brienne he must have seemed like a big brother, even a mentor or a coach. It wasn't many men who would have become her training partner, after all, but Jaime wasn't like other men.
Except that he was, and there was no way around it. He wanted her, and he'd been finding it more and more difficult not to have her. No amount of reading things into her smiles or the way she sometimes looked at him was going to change the truth: he could be her best friend, but not more.
When he realized that his feelings had surpassed hers, Jaime decided to back off. With a supreme effort on his part he called her less often, didn't invite himself over for long evenings in the warmth of her company, or suggest that they go out for pie or coffee or conversation. Jaime wanted to be with her just as much, but he knew it wasn't fair to either of them.
His vain hope that Brienne would notice him pulling away and reach out to pull him back to her was for naught. Her willingness to be without him other than at the gym spoke volumes. Rather than realizing that she needed him too, she seemed to find she needed him less.
Their phone conversations became terse, and when he touched her in any of the old familiar ways, a nudge with his shoulder or to tuck her fair hair behind a surprisingly dainty ear, she'd freeze, waiting for the contact to stop. She must have sensed that his feelings were no longer platonic, and it made her uneasy.
It was on a Thursday afternoon, just over two weeks ago, when he'd been correcting her starting position with one hand on the back of her neck and the other at her hip that he'd noticed tears welling in her eyes.
She'd worn a leotard for the floor exercises that day, a rare treat for him and all the excuse he'd needed to correct her already perfect stance. Self-loathing had surged through him. "I'm sorry," he whispered, wanting to wipe the moisture from her eyes, to kiss each reddened eyelid when her eyes closed as a single tear slide down her cheek. "I know I'm only making things worse, Brienne. Just…call me if you want to practice again, after this?"
She'd nodded. "I'm sorry, too." Such misery in those three words, barely audible as she acknowledged the need for him to leave, and he'd retreated.
Just moments later Jaime was striding out of the locker room, eyes steely and jaw clenched. The locker he'd just punched would always bear the dent of his knuckles, even though he made sure to leave money for its repair when he passed the front desk on his way to the liquor store.
He'd been moping in his apartment ever since. Taking a page from his brother Tyrion's book, he drank heavily, muffling his loneliness with the oblivion of sleep and self-neglect. His phone didn't ring, and Brienne sent no texts suggesting they practice at the gym.
But the life of the idle (and heartbroken) rich didn't really suit Jaime, and on this particular morning he'd stumbled out of bed, looked at his phone to check the day of the week – Monday - and was in his track suit with keys in hand before acknowledging to himself where he was headed.
The parking lot of Forel's Dancing Academy was nearly empty. This early in the day the only person working out on the floor was Master Syrio, effortlessly conquering the parallel bars, his compact form free from the constraints of gravity as he flew through a difficult routine. Jaime sat down on the bleachers to watch, his blood sluggishly metabolizing the previous night's whisky.
Forel completed his set with a double flip and nailed his landing, feet thudding solidly onto the mat. "You look like all seven hells, my friend," he said, coming to stand in front of Jaime.
"Thanks," Jaime said, rubbing his hand over the rough stubble on his jaw.
"You are planning to work out?"
"That's my intention."
Syrio looked at him, his dark eyes noting Jaime's sallow skin and dejected posture as he hunched on the bench. "You look like something the cat dragged in, Lannister. You will drink some orange juice before you attempt to work. Stay." The man turned on his heel, heading for the mini-fridge he kept in his office.
Returning with a full glass, Forel handed it to Jaime and sat down next to him, gesturing that he should drink. Tangy and cold the juice went down, sending its reviving sugar coursing through Jaime's system. It didn't make him feel much more human, but it did perk him up.
Satisfied, the dancing master got up and left the floor again, passing Brienne on his way out. They nodded to each other and she walked right over to Jaime and sat down. He sucked in a shaky breath and tried to smile at her. Curiously, he seemed to have forgotten how and his lips turned down instead of up.
"Hello," he said.
"Hello, Jaime," she said, "You look like hell."
"All seven, I hear." He sat up straighter and ran a hand through his hair, leaving furrows like a plowed field.
"I assume there are no showers in hell," Brienne wrinkled her nose. "When did you last wash your hair?"
"I…recently?"
"I don't think so," she reached out and pushed a greasy lock off his forehead, her expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace.
"Came to work out, not to look pretty." Forget orange juice, her touch was what he needed and it helped him find a smile for her.
"I don't think so," she repeated.
"No?"
"Syrio texted me. He doesn't want you puking on the equipment." She offered him a hand up, "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."
"Will you spot me, if I shower?" he said, brightening, "I might be a little shaky at first."
"Spot you in the shower?" Brienne grinned.
"No! I meant afterwards, out here," he said, a little surprised at her innuendo.
"You're not working out today, Jaime. I'm taking you home with me."
If only. "Brienne…" her name stuck in his throat, raw with an emotion he mustn't show.
"When did you last eat something?" She asked.
"Dunno," he admitted, "Booze has calories."
"Take my hand, ser. Don't make me call Syrio to help carry you to my car."
Jaime let her help him up, surprised by the weakness in his legs as he followed her out to the parking lot. Her car was nearby, it's grey-primered dents and crooked fender strangely endearing, though he'd often made fun of it in the past.
They got in for the short drive to Brienne's little house, and when she led him inside he was surprised to see that it was just the same as the last time he'd been there. In the thousand years since he'd seen it (more like six weeks) he thought it would have changed somehow.
He sat down on the familiar floral couch. Brienne went into her bedroom and Jaime quickly put his wrist up to his mouth and licked it. He was sniffing it when she came out with a bundle of clothes.
"Well, how is it?" She asked, amused to have caught him.
"Not good. Can I borrow your toothbrush?"
"You still have one here," she told him, "along with some clothes. Here, I got these from your drawer."
How had she been to his apartment so fast and found fresh clothes for him? Oh. "I have a drawer?" He said, confused.
"Where do you think I keep all the stuff you leave here?" The briskness in her voice was at odds with the hurt look in her eyes, "Up until, uh, recently, you were practically living here. I think the sofa has a permanent indent from you sleeping on it."
Jaime shifted to look down at the couch, seeing nothing more than pink and red roses separated by broad, dark green stripes. It was hideous and lumpy, but looked unharmed. "I'm sorry. I could get you a new one, if you like?"
"I don't want a new couch. I was kidding about the indent. It does smell a little like you though." She blushed then, and held out his clothes, "I'm going to go make sure there are clean towels in the bathroom."
"Gods, it smells like me? What kind of a guest am I, leaving my scent like an untrained mutt?" He stood up and took the clothes.
"Did I say it smelled bad? It just smells like you, a bit." She left him there to go down the hall to the bathroom, and he could hear her mumbling to herself as she stopped for towels on the way. "Sound like a right lunatic, I do. 'Smells like you.' Nice going, Brienne."
Her voice faded as she went into the big old bathroom, but he could hear her tossing toiletries in a drawer, running the sink briefly, and then blowing her nose. When she came back out her eyes were shiny and her nose pink. She'd brushed her hair.
"Should be safe in there now. No underthings lying in wait to trip you, and the towels are fresh. Would you like coffee first, or are you ready to shower?" She seemed all business, just trying to get through an awkward situation. It reminded Jaime of the first time he'd come here and she'd offered him something to drink three or four times.
He was still standing by the sofa, clothes in hand. Did he want coffee at the risk of stinking up her place any longer? How bad did he look, anyway? He couldn't remember the last time he'd paused at a mirror. Right. Shower first.
But his feet weren't moving. He wanted to look at Brienne, to absorb the image of this girl in front of him; the dancer's stance, the colorless old sweatshirt hanging past her hips, all cuffs and hems cut away to make it less binding, and the jeans that clung to her muscular thighs and were so long the hem was bunched up over her shoe in front, and that he recalled was worn ragged in back from her walking on it. She'd been so proud to find pants that were too long for her.
He sucked in a deep breath. "Right then, I think I shall de-stink first." Two steps took him to Brienne and to both their surprise he leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Thank you," he said, and took himself off to the bathroom.
Once the door was closed behind him he looked in the big gilt-framed mirror over the sink, there to behold greasy hair hanging lank and dull as ditch-water over his forehead, and at least a weeks' stubble on his jaw. He was almost afraid to look at his teeth, but he did anyway. Fortunately, no food meant no bits of crud stuck in there. He found his toothbrush in the porcelain holder (as usual – how had he forgotten?), and he coated it with toothpaste from a tube that he recalled purchasing and bringing over himself.
It was like he had a secret life he'd forgotten about in his muzzy, hungover state. How had things gone from practically living together to this weird estrangement? He shucked off his clothes and stepped into the old clawfoot tub with its maze of pipes ending in a modern showerhead. He pulled the vinyl curtain round the tub and turned the tap on, soaping himself so generously that he began to fear the low water pressure would take years to rinse him clean.
His usual shampoo was there in the wire basket where he'd left it. He opted instead for Brienne's, so that when he ended up back home and missing her he might at least have some of her scent about him. The smell of almonds and cherry hit him as he squeezed the shampoo into his hand, and he breathed it in like a man starved of oxygen.
Then it occurred to him: was that what she meant about the couch smelling like him? Like, in a good way? A little thrill of recognition fluttered in his chest, a sweet ache that felt like hope. If he'd overthought that bit, could there be other things he'd missed? He was a man, after all, and by definition clueless.
Anxious to get back to Brienne and see if other revelations awaited him, Jaime finished his shower, found the promised towels and dried off. He decided to use Brienne's hairdryer, carefully blowing some body into his hair, a vanity he seldom bothered with, but which seemed suddenly important.
The man in the mirror looked better now than the sad sack he'd first seen. Jaime even took a cursory look at his body, lean and muscular from a lifetime of gymnastics. Did Brienne ever notice that? Women had always fallen all over him, ever since he was a teen. But not her. Well, not that he could recall.
He pulled on the clothes she'd given him, a soft jogging suit and black boxer briefs. I left underwear here? Oh, yeah, I did. One last look in the mirror: the scruffy stubble could wait. He went out to find Brienne.
She was sitting at her kitchen table, editing a thick manuscript with a red pencil. She looked up and saw him, stared, really, for a long second, and then looked back at the sheaf of papers, circled a word, marked her place and set it aside.
"You clean up nice when you want to, Lannister," she said, "sit down and I'll get your coffee."
Jaime watched her go to the cupboard to take down a mug, splash in creamer and milk and pour the coffee from a height so it would all blend. How many times had he watched her do that? She knew just how he liked it, just as he knew how to fix hers.
She set the mug in front of him and then refilled her own before sitting back down again. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. He couldn't say it was like he was seeing her for the first time or anything like that. She was as familiar and dear to him as ever, and he'd admitted to himself a long time ago that he was desperately infatuated with her, but now he was looking for signs of how she responded to him.
She was about to open the manuscript again when her eyes flicked up to his and caught his scrutiny. Pushing the paper aside, she leaned forward, forearms on the table and her long fingers curled around the mug. Brienne met his eyes and he watched, fascinated, as they darkened.
Dilated pupils meant attraction, right? Widening to take in something a person likes? Though if his memory of that EMT course he took for extra credit were anything to go by – "Brienne, you haven't done any illicit drugs lately, have you?"
She blinked. "Like narcotics? Performance enhancing drugs maybe?" She sipped her coffee and gazed at the stamped-tile ceiling briefly, making an hmm sound. "Oh, I remember. There was that rave I went to last night. I think I might have accepted a…a doofy? No, no, it was a roofy, that was it."
Jaime laughed. "Pigeon, raves went out of style about ten years ago –"
"Leave it to me to miss a trend," Brienne smiled back.
"And a 'roofie' is a date-rape drug," Jaime frowned, "I sincerely hope no one gave you one of those, because I'd have to hunt someone down and kill him."
Oh, Brienne mouthed. "Well, it must have been a doofy then. No need to kill anyone." She looked down, apparently finding something of interest in her coffee cup, "Anyway, why do you ask? Do I look sick or something?"
"No, you look wonderful," Jaime reached across and put his hand over hers, "really wonderful. I asked because I was noticing…er, how dilated your pupils were."
She looked up quickly, cautious lest he be teasing her. "As are yours, Jaime. Shall I turn on a light?"
Jaime sighed dramatically and almost drew his hand back. Almost. "What I was trying say, rather badly it seems, is I noticed that your pupils dilated when you looked at me. And, physiologically speaking, it made me wonder if they did because you find the sight of me –" he paused, searching for a word less bald than arousing, "the sight of me attractive. You know, interesting, intriguing, pleasing? Also alluring, adorable or otherwise not repulsive."
Her smile was bashful. "Well, you're not repulsive, Jaime. I mean, now that you're clean." She looked at his hand covering hers; perhaps it gave her courage, "I am glad to see you. I hope you're pleased to see me, too. You know: happy, glad, not repulsed."
"Of course I am! Glad, I mean. More than that, I'm –"
"I hope you're not still angry at me," she rushed to say, "I know it was high-handed of me to come in and make you leave Syrio's this morning. I've been so worried about you that I didn't think it through when he let me know you were there and looking ill."
"Angrywith you? Still angry with you?" Jaime said, bewildered, "When was I ever angry with you, Brienne?"
"Maybe angry is the wrong word," she said, sliding her hand out from under his to hide it in her lap. "Annoyed? Disgruntled? Disgusted? No. Those are all wrong. You've just been so distant, Jaime. Indifferent.To me." her eyes welled with sudden tears, "I'm not even sure what I did wrong!"
With a stifled sob she sprang from her chair and ran past him and out of the kitchen, looked around frantically, took a step toward the front door, and then flapped her hands in frustration and fled down the hall.
Jaime, sitting stunned at the table, heard a door close. He got up and walked unsteadily from the kitchen, his heart hammering so violently he had to lean against the wall to get his bearings.
Her bedroom door was closed. Ought he to leave? No, wild Olympians couldn't drag him away until he figured out what was wrong. He'd seen Brienne cry before, but never because of him. A small, smug inner voice suggested that this could be a good thing, Brienne caring enough to cry over him… He silenced it like the outlier it was.
Thanking the gods she hadn't chosen the bathroom (much more awkward to walk in and comfort her there). He went to the door of her room. He knew it didn't lock, but barging it wasn't likely to improve matters. Impetuous heroes survived longer in stories than real life, and this was Brienne he was dealing with.
His hand on the tarnished brass handle, he called out, "Pidge? Sweetl…sweetling? I'm coming in."
She was on the bed, arms wrapped around knees drawn up to her chest, head down, with her back against the headboard. "Oh, Brienne," He sat down and pulled her rigid body against his chest. She didn't uncoil, unyielding as an imperiled armadillo. Jaime stroked her hair, rocking her like a fretful child.
Soon he felt her breathing become deep and even. In and out, in and out, slow and steady. Jaime wondered if she might be falling asleep. Musing on the pleasant prospect of her doing so in his arms, possibly maneuvering her into a prone position suited to cuddling, it struck him that her body was still rigid with suppressed power.
He recognized her breathing for what it was then; a ritual many athletes used to center themselves just before a physical challenge. He'd seen her do it countless times before a difficult routine. Brienne was preparing to bolt, and in another instant she'd be free of his arms and sprinting for the door.
Before that could happen, Jaime used his weight to pull them both onto their sides. He stretched out next to her; she'd have little choice but to unbend or look like a sulking monument to the fetal position, and dignity was not something Brienne readily surrendered.
So it was that they ended up lying in bed together, Brienne in Jaime's arms. She seemed calmer, red-rimmed eyes and runny nose the only evidence she'd even been upset. Jaime offered a tissue from the box by her bed and she took it, trying to dab away the watery snot before giving up and blowing her nose loudly.
"Yuck," she said, tossing the tissue behind her. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this, Jaime."
"Like what, Pidge?" Her proximity made him ache to smooth away the crease in her forehead, wipe the glimmer of moisture from her lashes.
"Emotional and upset, of course," she told him, "not to mention snotty." She sniffed, smiling ruefully at him.
"The snot I can forgive, but if I've upset you I'd like to talk about it, if –" he stopped mid-sentence when Brienne, reaching out, ran her forefinger gently beneath one of his eyes and then the other.
She wiped the moisture from her finger on her sweatshirt. "Do you think tears are contagious, just like vomiting is sometimes?"
Jaime was speechless for several heartbeats. She'd found the courage he lacked and swept his tears away. "You know, yawns are contagious, too," he said finally, "a much nicer image than vomit, Brienne."
She yawned widely, partly covering her mouth with one hand. Jaime's jaw twitched with the effort not to give in and yawn too. Brienne, amused by his struggle, was certain she'd ended the conversation and began to sit up. She didn't get far. Jaime pulled the arm she was bracing herself with and she flopped back down next to him.
"You're not getting away, sweetums. You think it's that easy to ignore that this ever happened?" He gestured between them, feeling the futility of encompassing all he wanted to say with a wave of his hand. "I know you, Brienne. You believe a change of subject, a little joke, a play on words, a yawn, means you can get out of talking about something that makes you uncomfortable."
She shrugged and looked away. "What's to talk about, Jaime? I'm sorry I got emotional, alright? Isn't that what ran you off in the first place? I'm just trying to do some damage control. Salvage what's left of our friendship." Her voice was steady, but not her breathing.
"What in the seven hells are you talking about? You ran me off?" Jaime struggled to recall what she'd said in the kitchen a few moments ago. It was like a thousand piece puzzle and someone had made off with half the pieces. She'd said angry, annoyed…
"Sometimes I really am just a girl, after all," she continued, "I may look like this great hulking thing, but I'm not immune to behaving like the silliest –"
Indifferent. That was it. "Brienne, what is it, specifically, that you think you did?"
"Don't make me talk about it, please. I'm embarrassed enough. Besides, you already know."
"I didn't, but I think I'm starting to." He took one of her hands in his. It wasn't a dainty hand and he didn't hold it like one. It was a lifeline and he hung on. "You said I became indifferent. When have I ever been indifferent to you?"
"I misspoke. Really, I did. It's stupid to expect friends to stay close like we were. Friendships don't work that way, do they? And when you stopped calling, and wanting to hang out together, I knew I'd blown it, Jaime." She said, "And that day at Syrio's, I'd been missing you so much and I was wearing that ridiculous leotard, like a big dumb girl just wanting you to notice me. You were so cool, your hands on me so professional, and then the tear! Why did the Gods burden me with such a weakness? It's like a joke; they gave me this form and this face and a heart made of glass."
"Brienne, I never –"
"And you saw it, you saw the betraying little bastard, the tear that escaped." She was a little angry now, but it was directed at herself.
"And I left," Jaime said slowly. If her heart was glass then so was his, and he felt the fractures spreading along its surface for what he'd unthinkingly done.
"And why wouldn't you? You'd made it clear I was getting too attached to you, and there I was, six foot three inches of weeping girl who couldn't deal with…with any of it!" She yanked her hand out of his and tried to leave.
But Jaime was quick, the trained reflexes of an athlete sending him after Brienne as she scrambled off the bed, catching her from behind. Then they were falling backwards onto the bed with her on top, legs and arms wildly waving.
He just couldn't help himself; the whole scenario struck him as tragically funny and he laughed, holding onto a flailing Brienne with his arms and legs, for all the world like a pair of struggling bugs in coital embrace. "Brienne, Pigeon, please stop squirming for a second," he pleaded, wheezing with laughter, "There's something I really need to do right now, and I can't if I have to keep you here by clinging to you like a limpet."
"Limpets don't have legs," she huffed, pushing at his, which were crossed at the ankle over hers. She lay back abruptly and went limp, making sure her head was covering his face, her hair in his mouth. Her laughter bubbled up as Jaime let go, frantically trying to clear his mouth and breathe.
She made herself boneless, an immovable anemone anchored to the deepest rock in the seven seas, ensnaring her erstwhile captor as he struggled…
Jaime scuttled out from under her, "I think I'm going to hoark up a hairball," he gasped. She grinned up at him, triumphant, but he wasn't ready to give up. In one swift movement he was kneeling over her. "You know what else is contagious, Brienne?"
"Laughter?" She smirked up at him, their little wrestle having restored some of her humor.
"No, this," he said, and kissed away her smirk; kept his lips pressed to hers until she shut her eyes, kept them there until the strangeness of it faded, until their wills fused, and in the end, until they ran out of breath and broke apart gasping.
"What was that?" Brienne demanded.
"A kiss," Jaime said, looking into her astonished eyes, "What, like you've never been kissed before?"
"Well, no. Not like that, anyway." She set two fingers over her lips, found them present and accounted for, "Not on the mouth."
"But I thought…by the teeth of the Stranger, Brienne, I assumed…" Jaime toppled over beside her, staring up at the old textured ceiling as he thought. "But the jokes you make! And you were at the Games! Athlete's village. Surely there…?"
"I was twelve, Jaime. Twelve."
"Oh, that's right. I'm sorry then. I should have asked you first."
"Is that why you kissed me, because you thought I was experienced and wouldn't mind?" Brienne asked.
"I kissed you because I realized something at last, and it seemed the thing to do." He turned onto his side, slung an arm over her waist and said…nothing. Was this really the time?
"I'm all ears, Jaime," Brienne said after a while, "What did you realize?"
"It's hard to explain," he said, "but I think we've both been operating on faulty assumptions. I'm sorry if that doesn't sound very romantic, though in a way it is. I've had, um, feelings for you for a while, Brienne."
"What kind of feelings? I need words here, Jaime. Fondness? Perplexity? Professional regard?" She hesitated, "Desire? What?"
"All of those, actually. But the kind of feeling I'm talking about is just your ordinary, garden-variety romantic crush," he said, pulling her closer. "Though maybe not so garden-variety. I'm talking a huge whopping full-on old-fashioned swoon. Amore, ardor, adoration?"
"Huh. But not attraction, I bet." Brienne said.
"Why would you even say that? You must have noticed how I look at you, seen how I always want to be near you?" He nudged with his nose, "I've been going crazy, wanting you."
"I never saw it, Jaime. No, that's not entirely true, but then you're a flirt. You flirt with everyone. One flash of that smile, that thing that happens with your dimple…" She rolled onto her back, looking for her own answers in the ceiling and finding only a small water-stain, "If you truly felt that way why did you never make a move?"
"I didn't think you were interested. I'm not proud of this, Brienne, but women have always made the first move with me, especially when I was competing. Fame must be the headiest aphrodisiac in the world the way they pursued me. Sometimes I felt like I was coated in peanut butter and birdseed and they were so many ants."
"Poor baby," Brienne drawled.
"The point is, dearest, you were too good at hiding how you felt. I thought if you felt as I did you'd let me know somehow."
"Sure, that has always worked in my favor. How could you be so blind? You know my history; how could you imagine I would risk my ego, my heart, and worse – our friendship, on something so ill-advised? What's that quote from Jane Eyre? 'Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless?' Replace 'little' with 'huge,' ser, and you will see why I hid my feelings."
"But Rochester loved Jane, all along," Jaime said reasonably, "You made me watch the movie, so I know that. And you can strike me blind, too, for I love you just as well."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Jaime felt a rush of terror. Had he held back for so long just to frighten her with the L word now? Brienne was looking at him, pale, startled, her eyes…Jaime relaxed. Her tar-black pupils were wide enough for a dinosaur to drown and spend an eternity in.
"Well. That was unexpected," Brienne said.
"I know it's a bit of shock," Jaime conceded.
"To think you remembered the plot of a movie based on classic literature!" Brienne patted his stubbled jaw, "I'm proud of you, Lannister, really I am."
"You are the most confounding –" He bestowed another kiss, brief but hard.
Brienne narrowed her eyes at him. Then she rolled over onto her back and Jaime heard her small, resigned sigh. She turned her head to look at him. "I suppose you can do that again, if you like," she said, the familiar shy smile lighting her face.
Her arms went round him solid and warm and possibly insistent as he moved into them, tentative at first and careful not to crush her. How had he forgotten how enthusiastic she could be once she became interested in something? How the almost-silent girl from the gymnasium blossomed on their first non-date?
Brienne wanted him on her, and though her methods of getting him there were clumsy, employing much tugging and nudging, Jaime got the idea. Eventually. And then enthusiastically. When he ventured a kiss to her collarbone, grateful for the loose neckline of her sweatshirt, she shivered with the pleasure of it.
"I've imagined this so many times," she sighed, her hands roaming over his back, discovering the skin between his shirt and the elastic of his sweatpants and lingering there.
Jaime raised his head to look at her. "Have you? Which part?"
"Just you, me, my bed…" Brienne brushed his hair with her fingers, "This; you watching me with those bedroom eyes of yours, the weight of you on top of me. I've always wondered what it would be like for you to kiss me and really mean it."
"I mean it." He said, and kissed her lips. Then her ear and neck and the hollow of her throat. "I've imagined being with you, too."
"When do you think of me, Jaime? What are we doing when you do?"
Was she too innocent to hear about that? She could tell bawdy jokes as well as anyone he knew; it wasn't knowledge she lacked, but experience. "I think of you all the time, my Pigeon. I think of how much I want your touch, and how much I want to touch you. I think of you when I'm alone, and when I touch myself and want to believe it's you that I feel."
His cock, hard and neglected, agreed. He'd honestly tried to keep from poking, thrusting or otherwise doing anything to create friction between it and Brienne, but now it knew the contours of her thighs and belly through her clothes and obviously wanted more.
"So you think of me when you masturbate?" She asked.
He laughed. "Oh yeah. Wanna see how much hair I have growing on my palms?"
"Pass." She said, her hands roaming once more, this time working his shirt up his back. "I touch myself and think of you, too."
Jaime groaned. Restraint was so overrated. The thought of her naked and thinking of him, naked and excited and thinking of him, was going to give him an aneurism. Or blue balls, at the least. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he heard her chuckling, amused by his suffering. Rotten woman.
She kissed his chin, then the apple of his throat. "You can…you can, um, gosh, this is hard –"
"You have no idea," he said drily.
"Exactly. I don't have any idea. I was trying to say that I want you to, uh," she blushed to the roots of her hair, "That I want to feel...I mean, I don't mind if I'm able to feel your penis against me."
"Well, if you twist my arm," he grinned. "But you're a virgin, aren't you?"
"I didn't mean against me like that!" Brienne smacked his bum, "Not yet, anyway. I'm saying you can stop trying to keep it away from me like it's a nuclear rocket or something." She tugged on his shirt, "And I'd like it if you took this off, too."
"For a virgin you sure seem to know what you want," Jaime remarked, sitting back on his heels to remove his shirt.
"A twenty-three year-old virgin, dummy. I'm not all that innocent."
Jaime decided the better part of gallantry in this case would be to keep his mouth shut. She was probably more innocent than most fourteen year-olds. Never even been kissed! He tossed his shirt to the floor. "Now yours?"
"No!" she squeaked, and then said more calmly, "I'm not ready for that being naked stuff yet. Sorry."
"'Not that innocent' my finely sculpted ass, Pigeon," so much for not teasing her about it. "Are you wearing a bra? We could leave that on."
"No, I'm not wearing a bra. Not like I need one, now is it?" She scoffed.
"Not on my account you don't," Jaime assured her. On many occasions he'd been quite grateful for her aversion to bras. Especially on cool days.
"Thank you. May I?" She asked, sitting up cross-legged and extending a hand toward his bare chest.
"May you what?"
"This." She combed through the wiry hair on his chest with her fingertips, brushing one nipple with the pad of her thumb. Her touch was tentative but gentle, and the look of revelation and desire on her face set his heart to thudding beneath her hands. "So beautiful, Jaime."
"You have seen me without my shirt before, Brienne, plenty of times," he reminded her.
"I haven't forgotten," she said, moving her explorations to his shoulders and biceps, "But I wasn't able to freely ogle you, now was I? Gods, your skin is so warm and soft."
"I hate to complain, Pigeon, but I'm feeling rather objectified here." Jaime leaned forward to kiss her, "it would be fairer if I could touch a bit more of your skin, since I'm not allowed to ogle you yet."
"True," Brienne sighed. "Would my back be okay? You could put your hands under my shirt."
It was a start. "Come here," Jaime put his hands on her hips, "Put your legs over mine, and I'll stretch my legs out straight."
Brienne looked perplexed. "Like sit with my back to you?"
"No, I mean like sit on my lap facing me." Jaime lifted an eyebrow in challenge, "If you dare."
"Oh. Are you sure? I'm kind of big and heavy to be in your lap."
"Am I sure. Pidge, you ask the strangest questions. We're going to fit together perfectly." He tugged on her shins to get her to uncross her legs, but they were so long it became evident he'd be getting a knee in the nose unless they both got off the bed and started from scratch.
Jaime sat back down first, and Brienne cautiously sat on his upper thighs with her slightly bent legs on either side of his hips. "Like this?" she asked.
"Not quite," he said, "Come closer. No, closer. Ah, that's it."
"Oh my, that is it, isn't it?" Jaime's cock was sandwiched between them and unmistakably hard. "You're sure I'm not squishing you?"
A small groan escaped his lips and his arms went round her as he rested his forehead against her chest. It was a moment before he could form words. "Squishing never felt so good, sweetling," He lifted his head to smile up at her, "I told you we'd be perfect."
She smiled and bent to kiss him, and he put his hands beneath her shirt to caress her back. Her reticence seemed to be fading, and it wasn't long before Brienne rolled her pelvis experimentally. She seemed to find the contact with his cock to her liking. Jaime was more than happy to assist in her happy discovery.
His hands, still under her shirt, had strayed to her sides but no further. Brienne's eyes were half-closed as she let her head fall back. "I think…" she murmured, "I think I'd like it if you wanted to touch my chest, too."
If he wanted to? Jaime moved his hand slowly across her rib cage and up to the swell of one breast and cupped it. Brienne sighed and closed her eyes as he brushed his thumb over her nipple. It was taut, plump with arousal, and if that wasn't enough to turn him on (which it surely was), Brienne whispered his name and ground down on him.
And then he was groaning, helpless to stop the rush of his climax. He clasped Brienne tightly and she cradled his head against her and whispered his name as he shuddered and gasped.
They stayed that way for long moments, Brienne stroking his hair and murmuring endearments and Jaime feeling abashed and ecstatic and messy and loved. She'd need to show him where his drawer was later so he could change, but all he wanted now was to hold the girl in his arms forever.
So he did.