A/N: Please heed the "Now/Then" heading. The next two chapters will be in the present.

NOW:

The morning after.

Brienne had decided to label their revealing conversation as such, as it was just as awkward and uncomfortable as having sex with her work partner would have been.

Not that I would know. I'd prefer to have just fucked him, she thought cravenly, then at least it'd be awkward, but I'd have gotten off at least once.

She thought of how smoothly he moved around the station house, and how fit he looked underneath all the black of their uniforms.

Maybe more than once.

As if conjured by the mere thought of himself, he appeared in the bullpen clutching a white paper bag in one hand and cradling a cup carrier with two large to-go cups in the other. She tried to meet his eyes from across the room, but he was quick to avert his head as he picked his way toward his desk, and unloaded his goodies. He reached into the bag, pulled out a puffy pastry with a napkin, and carefully pulled one of the cups from the carrier before making his way to her desk.

He cleared his throat, and placed the items next to her elbow.

"As a thank you," he grumbled. "For yesterday."

She gingerly picked up the cup, and relished the warmth it emitted. "A thank you?"

"For listening to a drunk man's bullshit." His throat sounded closed off, and he had continued to dodge her searching gaze.

Brienne realized that he didn't think she believed him, and that saddened her. He made to move back toward his own work station, but Brienne snatched his wrist with her free hand, and stopped him. She quickly let go, and leaned forward. When she again sought out his eyes with her own, she held it.

"I believe you," was all she said.

He let out a strangled noise.

"What the fuck was that?" Clegane demanded from a few yards away. He scowled in their direction, dark eyes narrowed in distrust, but returned to his work when no one replied.

Jaime cleared his throat again, the tips of his ears reddened in embarrassment, and chewed on his lower lip. Unbidden tears rendered his eyes glassy. He nodded once, took a deep, steadying breath, and nodded once more. She watched as his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly.

"Thank you," he whispered back.

This time when he turned to leave, he made his way toward the back of the station, where the locker room and restrooms were located. She let him go.

Brienne rested her aching head in the palm of her propped up hand. She had been staring at her computer screen for the better part of an hour, and yet nothing seemed to be jumping out at her. In her mind a litany of Littlefinger, Bloody Mummers, girls, Casterly Rock circled around her otherwise blank mind. Frustrated, she abruptly pushed her chair back, and entered the break room.

She opened the communal fridge, and glared at its contents as if they had personally offended her. She scanned the yellow post-it notes taped to each one, trying to find her loopy handwriting on one of them, when a neat one caught her eye: Baelish.

"I didn't realize my tuna salad sandwich was that interesting," a silky voice wondered from over her shoulder.

She slammed the fridge door shut, and turned to face the source. She was unsurprised to see Baelish standing in the open doorway, thumbs tucked into the band of his utility belt. He had that funny little smile on his face. It was like a permanent smirk, like he constantly knew something that you didn't know. It unnerved her.

"Baelish," she greeted curtly.

"Petyr," he corrected. He crept further into the room. "You seemed intent to stay with the CRD, so we might as well be on friendly terms. I do wonder, though," he trailed off and raked his eyes over her tall form, "What you're doing here."

"Getting lunch?" She supplied, but she knew that wasn't what he meant.

His smirk widened further.

"I think we both know what I meant, Brienne." He tilted his dark-haired head to the side. "May I call you Brienne?" He took another step forward. It was so smooth, so silent, it was as if he gliding on ice. "What I was referring to was to how you found yourself with the CRD. It's not well known for hosting a squad of reputable cops. And yet," he pulled his hands away from his belt to motion toward her, "Here you are."

"Are you not honorable yourself then?"

"Are you?" He took one last step, and leaned forward. They were still several feet apart, but his voice didn't carry out of the room as he cryptically added: "We're birds of a feather, you and I."

She furrowed her brow in confusion, but had no reply.

Baelish met her eyes, his beady pupils seemingly staring into the deepest recesses of her soul, before he stepped back with a flourished bow, and swept out of the room as quietly as he had entered.

Brienne mulled over his last statement. It struck her as familiar. Then it struck her like a bolt; she needed to speak to someone outside of the precinct. Someone that knew the coming-and-goings of certain people, who knew the city inside and out, but wasn't a cop.

Someone like Varys.

She stepped out into the bullpen, Baelish nowhere to be seen, and called her partner's name. He looked up from his dark corner, and warily perked a golden brow.

"We need to go see an old friend."

Jaime sighed as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the squad car.

"I should have known," he muttered. "I don't have any friends."

"Rude," Brienne japed, before resuming her search through the passenger window. "How can a guy dressed so ludicrously not stand out?"

"It's Varys," Jaime said with a roll of his eyes that she felt, rather than saw. "The little spider is probably-"

"Right there!"

Jaime slammed on the brakes with a curse. Brienne was already out of the door before he could properly pull the car over, and park it. He cursed again, and scrambled to unbuckle his belt and follow after her. She was halfway down the block, ducking down an alley, when he caught up with her.

"You have got to stop doing that," he growled.

"I'll think about it."

"You were looking for me?" Varys questioned as he stepped out from behind a dumpster.

Brienne blinked. "How did you know?"

Varys turned to Jaime expectantly, and Jaime scratched the back of his head. "There's a removable spider decal we put on the cruiser when we want to flush him out."

"You can't have possibly seen that!"

"I have eyes everywhere, my dear."

"Do your eyes have ears too?"
Varys cocked his head to the side, and splayed his hands out to the side.

Brienne continued: "Have any of your friends heard of a man called Littlefinger?"

The other man smothered an amused smile. "Of course, dear. Who hasn't?"

Jaime shifted next to her, his blue eyes trained at the mouth of the alley at their exposed backs. She trusted him to keep lookout as she asked Varys if his cohorts heard of any movement from Littlefinger.

The soft man conceded with another tilt of his head, "I did hear some whispers about a man calling himself by that name claiming to be making his way here. To Casterly Rock."

"Why would someone so sought out blatantly put his next move out like that?" Brienne wondered aloud.

"Maybe it's a decoy," Jaime chimed in.

"Maybe," Varys murmured. He took a step forward. "I've been here too long. If you have need of my services again, reach out." He placed something in Jaime's hand, who frowned down at it, and disappeared into an oddly timed rush of people on the sidewalk.

Brienne motioned toward the slip of paper he unfurled. "What's it say?"

Jaime looked pale, but he offered her a smile. "Nothing of import." He pocketed the paper, and glanced down at his bare left wrist. "Looks like it's time to clock out. How about drinks on me?" He held up both of his hands as if to placate her. "No more deep, dark secrets." He joked, but Brienne could tell he was lying. "I don't have any left to to tell anyway."

Now she knew he was lying.

Cersei.

She figured she could ply him with alcohol and get him to share some stories of their fellow officers, one or two in particular, so she agreed to drinks, and followed him out of the alley. But as they buckled themselves into the squad car, Jaime offering to stop at her place first so she could change out of her uniform, his cell went off with a ping that indicated it was a text.

He read it, and apologized. "Sorry, O'Tarth. Change of plans. I'll drop you at the station, so you can grab your car. We'll have to reschedule the drinks."

Though suspicious of his behavior, Brienne had no choice but to go along with it. Her suspicions were confirmed when, several minutes after he had dropped her off, he sent her a text with an address located on the outskirts of town.

What are you doing, Lannister?

TBC...

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