NOW:
The day after Brienne's rather unsparing rejection, Jaime found a paper to-go cup full of hot coffee and a delicious looking cinnamon bun waiting for him at his desk. He tugged at the zipper of his black windbreaker, and kept a cautious eye on the gifts. Finally, he relented and took a tentative sip from the steaming cup, and moaned appreciatively at the taste.
"It's from Hotpie's," a soft voice said from in front of him.
He glanced up, and met Brienne's welcoming blue eyes.
"As reconciliation for yesterday," she continued sheepishly.
He worked his jaw for a moment, canting his head to the side to study her as he took another sip. "It's not necessary." He licked his lips, and followed her eyes as they followed his tongue. "But it's appreciated."
He shrugged off his windbreaker, placed it on the back of his chair, and settled himself behind his desk. He set about powering up his computer, munching on the pastry as he waited for it to boot. When prompted, he typed in his log-in password with one hand, while he sucked on the digits of the other.
"You're going to have sticky fingers," Brienne chided with a hint of revulsion at his actions.
"Speaking of sticky fingers-" He raised his bare left arm, high enough for her to see over his monitor, and shook it as if he was adjusting a loose bracelet or watch. "Our watch connoisseur swiped some of that lady's stuff yesterday, so we're going to have to haul him in again."
She scrunched up her nose. "Oh, joy."
"Yeah," he drawled in mutual sentiment. "No jumping off horses this time, though."
"No promises," she shot back.
He huffed softly in laughter, and turned back to his screen. While he opened up a current case file, and struggled to make sense of the jumbled up words, his partner was busy silently berating herself for joking around with him.
He worked with IAB. He killed his boss. He's a rat. Don't get too close to him. Just do your job.
She hunkered down at her own desk, pulling up any files she could find in connection to the Bloody Mummers, in the hopes of finding some information on either their outfit or their leader.
There were multiple hypertext links that led to articles covering stories of missing girls over the years. She followed blue link after blue, hour after hour, down a rabbit hole of eye-catching headlines, each boasting one or two words of similarity: missing girl, found drugged, and raped.
The locations of each girl were scattered all over the whole of Westeros. Some were in concentrated little groups, presumably when the Bloody Mummers camped there for a time, and it sickened Brienne that they were even able to do so without detection.
There must be an inside man on the force.
The thought turned her stomach even further.
They've been here too long, if they were established in the Casterly Rock area in 2010. She pushed her chair away from her desk. There's no actual concrete information on Littlefinger, and there's possible- She snorted out loud, and ignored Jaime's inquisitive look in her direction. No, there's definite police involvement.
So, could it be that Littlefinger was the cop?
"Hey, O'Tarth? Care to join us for drinks?"
She turned her stiff neck to see the source of the voice, Tyrell, grinning up at her from his usual mop of curls. He was dressed in civilian attire, alongside Blackwater and Baelish. She put down the pot of coffee she was helping herself to, under the assurance that Clegane didn't make it, and looked at her watch. Once again, she had lost track of time, and her shift was over now ten minutes ago.
"There's a pub that caters specifically to cops. It's called Highgarden."
She glanced over her shoulder, to where her partner was tiredly tapping at the keys of his keyboard, and then back to Tyrell. Of the officers she worked with on her shift, Tyrell seemed to be the least egregious. Although, now he was making a point to ignore Lannister, but kept beaming up at her in genuine friendliness.
"I'd love to," she finally replied.
I'd especially love to speak with Baelish, since he's known to frequent brothels. Maybe he can shed some light on the Bloody Mummers, among other things...
"Great!"
"But I can't," she finished remorsefully. "Maybe next time?"
Tyrell's face fell. He finally allowed a glance in Jaime's direction, but he was all smiles by the time he looked back up at her. If it seemed less genuine than before, neither commented on it. "Yeah, maybe next time."
The trio bid their farewells to the afternoon team, and made their exit, as Brienne worked her away around the stupidly positioned desks and to her partner's side. She towered above him awkwardly, cleared her throat, and asked: "Would you like to get some drinks?"
She truly hadn't meant to bring Catelyn Tully up in conversation, but she panicked when he had asked her about her time in the Winterfell Division, and had instead waxed poetic about working with the red-haired woman.
Curious, Jaime had pointed out he hadn't known Catelyn to have ever worked in Winterfell, and Brienne blurted out she must've just appeared like she worked there. Possibly visiting her son, Robb Stark, since he was well on his way to running that outfit.
Which led to the following outburst: "Wait. Catelyn Tully is married to Ned Stark!?"
"Yes," she slowly drawled. Then, "You didn't know?"
"No!"
She cringed. She hoped that bringing up Ned Stark didn't grind their surprisingly pleasant (if not a little too flirtatious) night to a halt. But suddenly Jaime was laughing so hard that he had to set his fourth beer down in fear of letting it slip from his fingers. He clutched at his stomach.
"God! How boring must their dinner conversations be!" He affected a gruff tone of voice, "How was your day, dear?" then tilted his head to the side and attempted a slightly higher one, "Classified. Pass the salt?" He mimed passing said salt. "How was your day?" He pretended to cut a steak, and went back to what was presumably a Ned Stark impression. "Attorney-client privilege. More gravy?"
He cackled at his own japing, his laughter so infectious that Brienne couldn't help but smile at his antics. After a moment, he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with his knuckle, then reached for his beer again. He took a deep pull, then licked at his wet lips.
Brienne froze at the movement, smile plastered on her reddening face. She finished the last of her coffee, having finished drinking over an hour ago so that she could drive herself home, but still prayed she could blame the flush of her cheeks on the alcohol.
She grabbed her credit card, and went to pay for their drinks while Jaime went to relieve himself in the "little boy's room." She rolled her eyes at that. The man was anything but little.
I wonder if his-
She cut that train of thought off quickly, and jammed her long limbs into her beige pea coat. If she studied his fine form as he made his way back to their booth, well, that was her own business. She was in the middle of staring at a shallow scar, lying horizontally on his forehead, when he suddenly looked up from where he was fighting with his jacket zipper.
He smirked. "My father," he said in a tone of voice that belied his expression, "preferred to fight with words, not fists." He had mentioned his father earlier, in the same conversation where he casually mentioned his childhood dream of opening a PI agency to help the poorer masses. "Although, I've a few scars that say differently."
She thought of giant, friendly, loving Selwyn O'Tarth. "He beat you?"
"What?" Now, he looked alarmed. "No, no. Just a corrective cuff every now and again. Hardly a beating." He waved an impatient hand in the air.
Unbelieving, she let it go, and instead fought him on the fact that she would drive him home. He had finally relented when she reminded him that he was already employed at the CRD, and how much lower down the divisional ladder could you go from there?
He had visibly shuddered at the thought.
His apartment wasn't too far from their station, and was in a surprisingly seedy part of town. When she pulled up at the curb, she risked a glance through his side of the window, and up at the forbidding, rundown building.
Don't you come from Lannister money? She wanted to ask.
Instead, she allowed the comfortable silence they had driven in to continue. The car was dark, the streets outside of their little bubble even darker. Finally, he shifted in the shadows and unbuckled his seat belt. He placed his hand on the handle of the door, then paused. She could feel his stare on the side of her face, so she slowly turned to look at him.
"Thank you," he said softly. "The guys, they've never-" He cut himself off, and looked down at his lap. He looked to be thinking hard. He swept his eyes to meet hers, and in the light of the pale moon, she could see that his eyes were actually a vibrant shade of blue, and that they were currently piercing her own. Searching.
He slowly leaned over the console between them, thin lips slightly parted, and she suddenly had the thought: he's going to kiss me!
Just shy of her own lips, within inches, he paused. His stare was shockingly sober and steady.
"You know what they call me? Kingslayer?"
What?
She nodded dumbly to his question. She could feel his warm breath mingling with her own as he sighed in resignation.
"Have you ever heard of Wildfire?"
TBC...
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