"Okay, I'm heading out to work, then. Do you have everything?" Brienne asks, shouldering her bag. She is still a little, or no, a lot unsure about heading out for work. She stayed home at first, since Jaime needed a lot of assistance, even for the most basic tasks of life, which proved to be a true challenge for Brienne.

She is awkward, and before all this happened, it didn't really bother, because Jaime was not... as much. He knew her cues, he knew her awkward ways of offering a hand, of offering comfort, but now it's all different because he doesn't want to ask for her help, doesn't want help because he wants to do things alone, like he used to, and Brienne has to overcome her anxieties to offer it, and sometimes even force herself upon him. She is accustomed to wordlessly doing chores or small favours, not to telling people to let her do something for them, or assist. But now she has to ask, or else she'd give Jaime the feeling that she belittles him and assumes that he is unable of doing it by himself.

But Jaime still fails at most of the tasks. It starts with getting dressed. Jeans are a no go these days, which is why he mostly sticks to sweatpants. Button-up shirts are equally much a pain. And even the waistband of the sweatpants still gives him beads of sweat on his forehead. It goes on with having to pour drinks with his other hand, though he uses his right arm out of reflex, and often ends up knocking things over. It goes further on to eating certain things being a real pain in the arse, which is why steak and the like are off the menu for a long while. Then there is the issue of shaving. Brienne waited until the third cry from the bathroom until she took the razor from him and told him that she'd do it, after she wiped the bloody streaks away. There is the issue that he can't sleep with his right hand propped up under his chin when he lies on the side. There is the issue of him tumbling out of bed because he forgets that he has to use his stump now. There is the issue that he has to hold books very awkwardly in his lap, constantly losing his page. There is the issue of holding forks and using knives. There is the issue of not being able to type text messages without throwing a tantrum.

And those issues repeat themselves, unfold themselves, each day more, forming a more and more solid vicious cycle.

So yes, Brienne would rather stay home to make sure that he is alright, but she has to work, and as selfish as it may be, she also needs to work, if only to get a small breather from running up against a wall she cannot climb no matter how much of a run-up she takes.

And she feels terrible for even considering that, but Brienne feels trapped in her inability, and that is nothing she is used to.

She is used to people telling her that she can't do certain things - and proving them wrong.

She is not used to simply being unable to do certain things, and be it the easy task of helping her partner through such a low.

Because this should be easy, right?

It's hard on Jaime, so she should support him no matter what. That is what she promised him, but at some point Brienne fears that she is reaching her limits already.

So yes, she needs a breather.

"We have Netflix and candy, what else could man possibly ever want?" Jaime snorts.

"If something's up, just give me a call, alright?" Brienne goes on.

"Oh, yes, in case your dearest can't open a jar of pickles," Jaime huffs.

Gods, does he hate himself.

But then again, what do the Gods care, huh?

If they take his hand, they are likely not very much concerned about his self-hate either.

"I wanted to bring Chinese tonight when I get home. I don't know how you feel about it, but…," Brienne says, biting her lower lip.

"Oh, I wonder how I will handle chopsticks. Maybe I'll poke my eye out with one. Now imagine that. Then I can get an eyepatch and a hook and pretend that I'm a pirate," Jaime can't help but laugh, but then stops himself, offering an apologetic look. "Chinese is fine."

He has to stop acting like a little shit, if only he knew how.

Because Jaime really would like to stop, but the acid just keeps pouring out of him, no matter how much that pains his dear sapphires in turn.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out.

"It's alright," she replies automatically.

Just that it's not alright.

None of this is.

"I should be on my way. Love you."

"Love you."

And with that she flies out the door. Jaime sighs as he picks up the remote and starts to skim through the possible options as he lets himself plop down on the couch.

"Hm, The Walking Dead. Now if that isn't irony."

Maybe they should cast him for the show.

Because that is what he is: Dead. Dead, but walking.

Done for.

Some zombie without the need to eat brains or whatever it is that zombies eat. Jaime never was into this genre.

To think that no month ago, he was that close to being Assistant Commissioner.

To think that he was that close to...

And now he is a walking corpse, a cursing walking corpse, who can seemingly do nothing but tear whoever he cares for down his grave along with him.

Maybe he should go with The Addams Family instead.

A single walking-around hand in a world full of gloom and dark humour is apparently a lot closer to him than he would like it to be.

Well, he has a lot of free time from now on. So he can watch all those shows that suddenly relate to him in all the wrong ways.

It's not like there is much else left for him.

There is just Brienne.

And it seems like he'll draw her away from him soon enough, if he doesn't get a handle on the acid he pours.

Maybe he really should have died back in that street.

Because corpses seem not halfway as threatening as do the walking dead.

Because corpses don't come to haunt the living.