Things have been slightly improving, and 'slightly' is likely already an overstatement, or so Jaime reckons. Even though he and Brienne didn't talk about the prosthetics ever since the day she brought the brochures, they argued less, and Jaime really made an effort to act less like an idiot and more like a rational being that is capable of dealing with its emotions again.
If he ever was.
At some point Jaime can't tell what was before the night that cost him more than he can take. It's as though everything was wiped out, or at least blurred out, leaving Jaime under the firm belief that he somehow died that night after all, and no one realised this just yet.
Jaime leans his head back on the bed, trying to forget about the hand no longer there, but whenever he does, the images return, the pain returns. Because to him, it still feels like it's there. Just this morning, Jaime wanted to pour Brienne and him a glass of juice. He wanted to grab the container and fill the glass, but only once the juice spilled across the kitchen counter did he realise that he has no hand to grip it, though he could feel it, he really did. To the fingertips that are no longer there.
Just that there is this ugly little stump now, where there used to be a hand to wield a gun with absolute expertise, a hand that didn't shake when he had the finger on the trigger, a hand that could break bones, noses, knock teeth out. A hand that could lift weights with little effort.
A hand that could lift up Brienne with small effort.
Just that everything is effort now.
What used to be effortless is now stuffed with effort, with work. Even buttoning a jeans brings beads of sweat to his forehead, just like his relationship to Brienne grew to be work. Because he has to work hard not to treat her like shit – because she doesn't deserve it, but acting like a brat is far too easy, and the only thing he finds himself in fact capable of. His sarcasm is his shield from all the fears he doesn't want to admit. And that again is more work. It's work to ask for her help, accept her help. It's hard work to force the apologies out of himself, only to hear that "it's alright" when in fact he knows it's not alright.
Because he knows it's not alright how he treats her.
She should just leave him in his misery, that'd be better for her. He hasn't been her a good partner, a good friend, a good lover ever since that mugging.
Jaime just fails in all the matters that… matter.
Because she does, even if he can't show it.
The young man whips his head around when Brienne comes into the room, towelling her hair, wearing only a black bra and not matching white panties.
A few months back, and Jaime would have been in the shower with her to make her scream his name against the glass of the shower. he would have made her scream his name like a prayer until her knees would no longer support her, only to hold her with his hands, because he could.
Now he only feels his member showing a reaction to something his body aches for, since they didn't have sex ever since the accident.
Not that Jaime lost his attraction for Brienne. In fact, he felt in the mood more than once. Already seeing her in panties made him hide his blush like a stupid teenager, aching to touch her, aching to have her, but the thought of Brienne being forced to touch that stump still nauseats him, when she used to hold on to a perfect hand, and a more than toned, trained body that could hold her without effort as she came undone.
"I just talked to Tyrion. He said your Father is preparing some family dinner. If you don't want to go, I'm supposed to let Tyrion know so that he can have your back on this," she says, running her hand over her neck.
Jaime still bypasses social interaction most of the time. He has visitors, but he rarely goes outside. And Brienne tries to accept that, because she doesn't know what is going on with him. That is always the problem. She can't read him. And Brienne reckons that she has been too bold, with the brochures and telling him to start moving again.
Brienne swore to herself right after his injury that she wouldn't ask too much of him, and at some point she fears that the brochures were asked too much, or at least too early.
It's just that Brienne is a person of action, and she thought Jaime was, too. After all, they used to be so very alike beneath the surface, with an oddly old sense of honour, an undying will to fight, and bullheadedness beyond reason. She thought that he just needed a push in the right direction to get his spirits up again, but that proved to be a fundamental mistake.
So Brienne probably just projected her character onto Jaime because she can't take his apparent behaviour and stasis.
This is so messed-up.
The problem is that she can't talk to him.
Because Jaime is her best friend.
And Brienne could really use her best friend's advice right now, to figure out how to deal with this situation with the required discretion and care she doesn't know how to handle without a general direction. Because Brienne is not good with words. Jaime was, is. He was always the one who could talk about matters straight-forwardly when she failed at the task miserably. Just like he was, is the one who can read people. Jaime just has to look at someone once to know that he or she is lying. That is what made him the great officer he was, and the smart man he is. But Brienne is not like him in that regard. She is blunt where he is sharp. She just knows that he hurts at the loss of his hand and that she has no clue how to fix that with anything else but the things she would do to fix it if she had lost a hand.
"I never thought my brother would become such a wingman for me," Jaime huffs.
"Well, just let him know," Brienne shrugs. Jaime looks at her again, studies her features.
By the Gods, he misses holding her. In the dim moonlight, she truly looks glorious.
And seemingly, his member tends to agree.
He really feels like a stupid teenager.
"Brienne?"
"Yes?"
"We didn't… ever since…," Jaime blurts out saying, screwing his eyes shut.
And he used to be smooth, so smooth.
Brienne tilts his head at him, "You mean…"
Jaime nods wordlessly. She bites her lower lip, "I thought you didn't want to."
"Just like I thought you didn't want to," Jaime admits, glancing at her muscular body in the dim moonlight shining through the window. "Do you want to?"
Brienne tries her best not to stare. He didn't want to sleep with her ever since the mugging. And she respected that, wanting to give him time, despite the fact that Brienne missed the close contact more than she'd ever dare to admit out loud.
She was a virgin for a very long time. And up to the point that Brienne started a relationship with Jaime, with whom she later had her first time, Brienne thought she wouldn't need sex at all. The words of Septa Roelle always echoed through her mind that she was ugly and that no one would care for her in such a way because she was hideous and not at all desirable – and her rather graphic depictions of the pain of the first time, and how pregnancy and the like were just bloody business. But then Jaime stepped into her life, or rather, sneaked around in it like a cat, teasing her to the point that she felt like a teenager again – and all of a sudden he was all the things her Septa had ruled out for her being a possibility.
And once they took their relationship to that level, Brienne had to realise that sex was not just enjoyable - and her first time not at all as painful as her Septa had painted it, and that she needed sex indeed, or at least she needed to sleep with Jaime, something that was always a great source for his teases of her being a passionate woman. And at some point Brienne was glad to find someone who seemed to sync with her on that level. Sleeping with Jaime was…
As odd as it may sound, making love was always a way of wordless communication, a way of making up, a way of forgetting the world, because it really was just this: Making love to each other. Now, Brienne can only leave brochures, and ignore her apparent want for him, in favour of her need for him. Because she really needs this idiot of a man who acts like a brat and watches stuff on Netflix for too many hours that Brienne believes he is their best customer.
So yes, she misses having him close to her in that way, to have him synced with her, to speak without words, forget the world, make love.
And in any case, she thought, feared that he didn't want her after…
"I… Do you want, like right now?" Brienne asks cautiously, her bright eyes shining to the point that it blinds his eyes.
And by the Gods, did Jaime love that gormlessness in her wide blue eyes ever since he got to know her. He could bathe in it – until Jaime made her forget about all her uncertainty by claiming her to show her that there is nothing to be uncertain about.
Just that there are many things to be uncertain about, when it comes to him.
"I'm… I… I would like to, but that doesn't mean you have to, I…," Jaime stammers, feeling like a stupid teenager losing his virginity. "I'm sorry. I'm talking gibberish and making a fool of myself."
"So am I, I guess," she shrugs awkwardly.
"So we both… want this," Jaime grimaces.
There was a time when he didn't have to make sure. He simply was sure.
"I… yes," Brienne replies.
"Then… care to join me?" Jaime makes a face at his own words.
He really used to be smoother, so much smoother. However, Brienne seems to ignore it as she climbs into the bed next to him, edging closer to him cautiously, as though she didn't want to scare him. As though he was a startled animal, which could be the truth of course.
Jaime finds a bit of self-confidence at last to cover the bit of distance between them and kiss her plump, warm lips, smelling her shampoo, the one she always uses, for years. Jaime gains even more confidence once he feels her moving against him with need and want.
At least that is something he doesn't need a hand for… yet.
Both kiss for a long while, trying to get used to each other again, but Jaime knows that kissing is not the same as sex, so he turns more to her, running his left hand instead of his right, he has to tell himself again and again that he has to use the left, over her body up to her chin to tilt it the way he always does, but he uses too much power with his fingers so that their lips part.
"Sorry," he mutters between gulps of air. Brienne simply kisses him again, guiding his left hand to rest on her hip. Jaime wants to roll atop of her, like he usually did, only to realise that there is no hand to hold him upright, so he swings too far, unable to balance himself on just his stump, feeling pathetic all over.
Brienne reacts quickly and pulls him back to her, on top of her, not wanting to lose contact, after she has been waiting to feel his skin against hers for felt eternities. She kisses him, and every kiss feels like one of her "it's alrights".
Jaime tries again and kisses down her neck, breathes in her scent, tries to get back in touch with her, with himself, though he still doesn't know what to do with his hands, or no, with his hand, and the stupid stump.
"You can touch me if you want," Brienne tells him in a breathy voice, realising that he only kisses her, pressing his body against her, but keeping his hand and his stump away from her.
Maybe he doesn't want her after all…
Jaime licks his lips as he pulls away, readjusting his posture to straddle her, only to realise that if he wants to balance himself atop of her, he has to use his left hand for it, which leaves him to caress the body of his Amazon with this ugly stump. However, that is when he feels her guiding his stump against the side of her body, to run up and down her skin, probably trying to show him that it's really alright and that she is not disgusted with it, even if he is.
He really doesn't deserve her.
Jaime tries to imagine for his hand to be back to caress her, to run up and down the side of Brienne's body, the curve of her hip, and that he doesn't need her to help him with it.
He tries to pretend that he is the lover she needs and wants.
She pulls on his waistband, her movements fidgety, uncertain.
This is really just like their first time, though he was much more confident during the first time, because he still had both his hands.
"And you're sure?" he asks.
Last chance to chicken out.
Brienne nods before kissing him again, "Are you? If you don't want, we can just stop."
But Jaime doesn't want to stop.
Maybe he can do that. You don't need your hand for that, right?
So he buries his face in the nape of her neck as Brienne does quick work on his and her underwear, so he can at last move into her with a bellowed cry.
What follows is a blur.
A short blur.
Jaime knows he cries her name. He knows that she holds him tightly as he does, not moving much. He knows that she definitely did not cry his name in ecstasy.
And that even though Jaime used to make her scream his name, digging her nails into his back, shrieking it like a prayer as he brought her to completion again and again and again.
And now Jaime lies in her arms, grunting like a boar, not knowing where to move his hand, his stump, unable to do even that one thing, to do the one thing he never called into question, because he always could. But now, he can't even make her swing her too long legs around him, beg him to bring her to completion with the magical word of his names dying on her lips.
He feels even more like a failure than he already is anyways.
"I'm sorry."
"It was good."
"It wasn't good, we both know that."
"I liked it."
"You are a bad liar, Brienne. How many times do I have to tell you?"
"I liked it. I needed you. That is the truth."
"Yeah, you got nothing much of me."
"For me, it was more than enough."
"Then you are very frugal."
"Did I do something wrong?"
"What?!"
"Did I do something wrong? I don't know, it's..."
"I was the one who failed to deliver. Why would you think that you did?"
"I… I thought you didn't want me because of… what the muggers did, or no, almost did. I…"
Jaime pulls her head to his chest at once, eyes wide, heart hammering so loudly in his ears that even the thought of his hand is overshadowed by it.
He really is a bloody arsehole.
He only thinks about his bloody problems of coming too early, when Brienne thought all this time that he wouldn't want her after the muggers almost raped her.
Because the muggers almost raped her.
"That's not it, believe me," he says, his voice shaking with emotion. "It was because of me and the problems of my missing hand. Not because of you. Not at all. Not at all. Not at all. And I'm honestly sorry that I ever made you believe that. Please believe me that much, Brienne. I love you and I didn't keep away from you because of that. I never could. For that I love you too much. Okay?"
"Okay."
He can feel something wet against his chest and something wet in his eyes as their hearts start to calm down again, silently weeping.
Because nothing is alright.
Nothing has improved.
Not even slightly.