Jaime walks through the living room while Brienne is busy in the bathroom, getting ready for work.
How much he envies her for having a purpose.
His purpose is watching movies and TV shows, eating the fridge empty, being frustrated with himself, putting off probably everyone who cares about him, and failing at the easiest of tasks. That, and finding himself unable to stop being a bitch when around the one person who cares about him beyond reason, and whom he cares about to the point that it hurts even more being the one to cause her additional pain.
"Brienne?" he calls out, his frown deepening as he catches sight of something unfamiliar.
As an aside, he can't bring himself to call her 'wench' these days either, out of fear that the word will come out as an insult instead of a tease, an echo of familiarity, a nickname.
Which only proves that this is screwed-up beyond repair.
"Yes?" she calls from the bathroom.
"For what are these brochures on the coffee table?" Jaime asks in a rather demanding tone as he flips through the top one.
In fact, Brienne puts brochures everywhere lately, as though they were Easter eggs. Brochures for takeaway services. Brochures for barbers. Brochures for physical therapy. A few for psychotherapy and trauma management. Mixed with some about sword fighting, fencing, and group meetings, like the AA, or the way Jaime understands, AC, Anonymous Cripples.
At some point Jaime reckons Brienne thinks she can communicate with him better through the brochures than with words… and Jaime can't say if she isn't right in the end, but he is too stubborn these days to take this too seriously.
Though these brochures are things he starts to take seriously, very seriously.
Because they go one step further in the non-verbal communication.
"Just read them once you find the time. They have some very interesting projects when it comes to prosthetics. There are even tests about artificial limbs you can move with a chip in the brain, something like that. I didn't finish all the material just yet. I bet your Father can get you in any program with a snap of his fingers," Brienne says.
"Oh, so you already talked to him about my new prosthetic?" Jaime growls. "I'm glad to be involved into the process, too!"
"What? No. I just meant to say that we can consider asking him – if you decide to join such a program," Brienne says, walking into the living room. She expected a harsh reaction, but Brienne didn't really care. She realised that something has to change about the situation, and she believed that offering Jaime a few perspectives would somehow break him out of his shell.
But of course not.
Jaime Lannister, foremost, is a bloody bullhead of a man.
"And what if I don't want such a thing?" Jaime questions in a dark voice.
"Then that is so, but sitting around won't fix anything either," Brienne quips.
"A prosthetic won't fix me either," he retorts angrily.
Even if they put the finest metal or silicon or whatever else over the stump, the stump will remain a stump. It won't grow to be a hand, his hand. His hand was cut off in the hospital, and no one asked him if he was alright with that.
"I didn't say that," she sighs.
"You implied it, though," Jaime insists, but she shakes her head vehemently, "That is not true. You know I'm as bad with making implication as I am with lying. I just see that you don't do anything other than sitting around – and that won't do you any good."
"Sitting around? I lost my hand, Brienne! Excuse me if I don't get back on the horse the very next day," Jaime barks like a dog that got kicked.
"It's been two months since. Maybe it's time for you to look ahead again, you know," she tells him.
"Oh, so I hit the invisible mark that says that I'm now to move on with my life. Thanks for letting me know," Jaime huffs, feeling hurt.
"I just got some brochures, by the Seven. It's not like I shoved you to see a doctor about the matter. I just brought some stupid brochures as an outlook. Because, foolishly, I thought you wanted to change something about the situation, but I was seemingly mistaken. You want things to go on as they do right now," Brienne shakes her head, but that only gets Jaime's anger flaring tenfold, "I don't want any of this, alright?"
"Then want something again! Do something, get up!" Brienne cries out.
"Move on?" he lets out a strangled laughter.
"No, just move!" Brienne shrieks atop of her voice. Jaime looks at her, stunned.
"I don't say that you are healed or that a prosthetic would heal you. I don't say that you ought to act like your old self or so. You can curse at me all you want, you can yell at me, knock things off the table, or throw a tantrum. But something about this situation has to change, something about you has to change, because you are destroying yourself, sitting here all alone and wallowing in… I don't know what you wallow in, because I don't know what's going inside your head. But in any case, I'm done sitting by and watching whatever it is happen. I tried my best, but you know me, I can't just sit still. So don't expect me to," she goes on, her voice shaking with so many emotions at once that her body feels as though it was on the verge of breaking apart under the pressure.
Jaime pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling nauseous.
"I'm ready to move if you're ready to move. So make up your mind," she says, grabbing her bag angrily. "I will be late tonight, so you'll have to see about dinner for yourself. Bye."
And with that she stomps to the front door and away. Jaime takes up the brochures, messily stuffs them against his chest, before he walks over to his nightstand, opens the drawer, tosses the brochures inside, and closes the drawer with a thud, biting back tears he is not willing to shed.
He is not yet ready to move on.
He is not yet ready to move.
Jaime sits down on the couch, staring at his stump, wanting to rip it off, wanting to cut it off, throw it away, and himself along with it.
Is this supposed to be their life from now on?
Is that all they worked for?
And how are you supposed to fix that?
Ever?