NOTE ADDED ON 15.08.17: All previous chapters have been tweaked a bit. Nothing plot-related but I guess my sentence structure and wit decided to ask for a backdated promotion. Yeah, don't you just hate it when they do that. Anyway, I hope you find this chapter to your liking. P.S. Laaancel. You'll get it when you're done.
JAIME II
In which an ex-cop is sucked back into a world that used to fit around him like a glove.
The green line jumped and fell through on the black monitor like it was trying to make fucking Christmas trees out of the wavering pulse. The sound of it exploded in Jaime's ears even though there was a glass wall between him and the kid that could be recognized as patches of skin between the many contraptions that kept him alive for the time being. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. A funny way of measuring human life. Disturbing as hell, too.
Pangs of reflex guilt scissored Jaime's gut. Payne was a piece of shit but his grandson had probably done little to deserve a perforated stomach, a fractured skull and a community hospital cot all at the frail age of nineteen. Jaime couldn't recall doing anything significant with his life at nineteen, past fighting not to be sent to a crappy private law school, teaching Tyrion how to drink, and looking for creative ways to get Cersei to do it with no condom.
Jaime pressed his lips together as he looked on at this kid who'd always seemed duller than a horse to him and yet here he lay, strewn with injuries, an officer's badge sewn in on his discarded, bloodied uniform. His own bullet scars—two across the ribs from a manhunt, one at the shoulder from when he'd been stupid enough to hand Cersei a gun to practice and not given her a clear 150 yard, 360 degree perimeter to knock herself out—seemed to stir at the sight of the boy.
That should've been you on that bed, a small voice sang, solemn and reprehensible and sounding a lot like Tarth. Or perhaps you would've done better. Now you don't get to know how the story might've been written.
"What happened?" Jaime asked, the question directed at the only man around that might have bothered to answer, however much did he not want to.
"What do you think happened," Clegane spat out slouching against the opposite wall, grunting as a nurse kindly asked him to put away his booze. The man had a weird way of giving the impression that he'd rather be anyplace but where he was standing, everywhere, all the time. "The streets happened. Fucked if I know what exactly. All I know is, they were on to something. Something big and nasty that should've been left alone but they poked at it and now it's bitten back."
"Were you with them, when it happened?"
"Do I look like a fucking guardian angel to you?" Clegane snapped, teeth out. The way he looked at Jaime, you'd think he'd pulled a Judas on the whole damn station. If Sandor fucking Clegane was taking a moral hardline with you, there was something very wrong about your day.
"No, you look like a big mean Rottweiler. Thought you'd be proud."
Clegane lifted up his head sharply. Not a sight to behold. His jaw was set and his bushy brows were clashed together. His stubble was wet from dripping beer foam though, spoiling the effect of his silent wrath. The burn scars were as Jaime remembered them, creased and everywhere and the color of grilled shit. They made that part of Clegane's face look as if it was constantly offended by the presence of air. And that was arguably the better part.
"Don't let the last name fool you, Lannister," Clegane barked, lowly, a warning. "I'm not your father's dog. I'm not your nana and I'm not a saint. I'm a cop, I'm here on duty and I'll handcuff you to a damned chair if you don't keep your stump out of my face and your guilty questions to yourself. Go look to relieve your conscience elsewhere."
What the hell do I have to feel guilty for? Jaime wondered. That was always the damn question.
He hadn't done anything. Except that was the problem. He'd done nothing and Tarth's blood was all over the walls of a fucking warehouse storage.
He hated Clegane for being right on the money again. The man seemed to mind his own business religiously, but when it came to work, he somehow knew what went through each head that surrounded him. It was what made him a good detective as opposed to a mere ruffian like his older brother. Less great of a company for Sunday golf games, but that was inessential.
"What were they investigating, exactly?" Jaime asked, eyes carefully following Clegane's expression. If angry nothing ever had a face, that was it.
"Which part of 'fuck off' didn't you get? The fuck or the off?"
"I thought you were supposed to be a Hound, Clegane, not a bitch. I need to know what happened to her. There's a chance she's still out there somewhere. She doesn't deserve to die like a dog. No offence." Clegane looked like he was about to either punch through his teeth or worse—stalk away. Jaime cleared his throat, not liking either prospect. He needed the information but he wasn't in any position to fight for it, not anymore. With two good hands and a stick, maybe he might've taken Clegane back in the day. Maybe. On a good day. Now he was little more than a punching bag, not even a good sport, and they both knew it. "My point is, I need to know the details. What she was up to, who she saw, what she did, that sort of thing. What was she investigating, last that you know of? Come on, Clegane. Do you really want her death to be on you?"
Clegane snarled, grumbled, stared daggers, but thankfully didn't complicate things any further.
"There was no official investigation you dumb fuck. The higher-ups told Tarth to drop it the minute they realized she'd been sticking her nose in that particular pile of shit. I've heard it had to do with some Canadian black marketers with connections up high but that's it. It was clear as day the whole thing was rotten from the head down but Tarth of course couldn't sit on her shit for five goddamn minutes.
"She had no business sniffing around the big fish. Everyone told her to let it go. But no. She had to drag the boy into it too. A decent kid. Thick as a log, but he meant well. He followed her around like a lost puppy for two months until they finally gave him a chance. It was his first day on the job. His first damn day. Look at him. He might be a corpse by tonight. We don't mean squat to any bastard with money and influence. That's how they take care of officers around here these days." Clegane barred his teeth down at Jaime. "Officers who don't have a rich Daddy to cover their fuck-ups with plasters of cash at every turn."
Jaime let out a droopy sigh, reclining his head on the fortified glass peering into Payne's misfortune. And there I was, forgetting you were an asshole.
He was getting too old for that kind of shit. He didn't have time for it. Not today, when his family had sucked him dry and he still had Tarth to worry about. Even so, it was a terrible prospect to think he might have to suffer Clegane's silent treatment without hitting back.
Jaime held the man's gaze, never breaking it as he pulled out a lighter he hadn't neurotically reached for in five years. He ignited the flame and dangled the thing between his fingers as carelessly as he could. Thoroughly enjoyed the look of dead recognition that flew over Clegane's face before it got ushered away by enmity.
"I never really got what your problem was, Clegane," Jaime drawled, casually as if ordering a soda. "I guess standing this close to a lighter must be making you giddy."
He'd heard all about Clegane's gruesome story, the reason he'd flip every time a cigarette was lit on the floor. Iraq wasn't kind to Americans, but rumor had it it had been Gregor himself who'd pushed his brother's face into a bonfire after they'd hit the skids on an operation. There might still be a family that has one up on ours, Jaime thought bitterly.
Clegane pushed himself off the wall, finally, started walking up towards him in heavy, creaking steps. Jaime hadn't grown taller in those last two years nor had Clegane shrunken, and the inches stretching between them were still undeniably there, minatory.
"I just gave you classified information, Lannister," Clegane rumbled, nasty breath skating over Jaime's face, making him grimace, "so you can maybe make use of your privileged life, or go get killed in a funny way. Whatever the case, don't make me regret it."
A gruff laughter butted in the hostility of their silence, timely as much as it was uncalled for, and then a hand was patting Clegane's shoulder informally. Clegane tensed at the neck. Jaime wasn't sure Janos Slynt realized the danger his fingers were in.
"Go take a piss, Clegane," Slynt howled, unadvisedly elbowing the man. He had a vastly unimpressive voice for the whole imposing deputy sheriff thing he was trying to sell. "Cool off a little. And watch your drinks while you're on duty, for fuck's sake." The irony swimming in the sheriff's own bloodshot cornea was not lost on Jaime, but Slynt would never be worth the effort it would take to point it out.
Clegane growled gutturally, stared each man down, then probably decided it was better to let the two pricks before him annoy the hell out of each other instead of getting in the middle of it. Jaime watched him stride away without another word. It might as well be the wisest move he'd witnessed today.
Slynt directed his permanently constipated face towards Jaime, burying his pepper-like nose into a coffee cup. "Sorry about that. Want some? It's decaf. Clegane's piss might taste better but Christ knows I've been trying to cut down on the, ah, progressive killers, that's what my wife calls 'em."
Ignoring the man's small talk came as easily as Jaime remembered. "Any sign of her yet?"
Slynt sighed and shook his head. "Nothing for the time being."
"How many people are out looking?"
"Listen, Lannister..."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Jaime scowled through pressed teeth. "No one? A detective's been kidnapped. There was blood at the scene. Her blood. One officer has been heavily injured and another is being held hostage probably tortured for information, and here you are, with your imbecile peaked cap on, drinking fucking decaf."
Slynt stifled a curse. His wounded ego bled a bright red across his obnoxious porky face, a hue Jaime longed to punch right off.
"I know it's difficult to hear, Lannister," Slynt began, composing himself with some difficulty, "but we don't even have a way of confirming her status. Chances are she's dead already. You know only 10% of the assaults on officers have to do with kidnapping. Maybe they just wanted her dead. Maybe they don't care about a ransom. Don't let your personal feelings get in the way of your judgment, fella."
Why take her and leave Payne to die on the street if they were just planning to kill her? Correcting Slynt's logic would get him nowhere. "I wouldn't fella me if I were you, Slynt. And you're certainly not increasing her chances by sitting around doing nothing."
"I can assure you I'm doing everything within my power of jurisdiction..."
"Jerking off is not a power of jurisdiction, Slynt."
Slynt's face grew pink and outraged like a pustule. He jabbed a finger in Jaime's chest. The guy seemed hellbent on losing a limb today. Even one-handed, Jaime was pretty sure he could hook Slynt up with a room right next to Payne's.
"Watch it, Lannister! Remember I'm still your superior. Look, it ain't that simple. They weren't out on an official investigation so that's an additional complication to account for. As far as the state of California's concerned those two were just a pair of bastards who got mugged near a storage that wasn't their property. Dang… Until Payne wakes up we've no way of identifying the assailants anyway. Fuckers left us nothing to work with."
Jaime rubbed his temple. The level of incompetence had clearly risen since he'd taken his leave. No one ever left nothing behind.
It all dawned on him in one instant. No one left nothing behind. Clegane's words about the connections up high suddenly clicked into place. He narrowed his eyes down at Slynt, his suspicions confirmed when the man's gaze was painstakingly moved away. Un-fucking-believable.
"You know who it is, don't you," Jaime growled, a statement. "You know the son of a bitch who did this."
He watched Slynt's reaction, the way those piggy eyes went wide and frightened at first, then squinting and resistive. "It's a delicate situation…"
"It's always a delicate fucking situation," Jaime scoffed, not bothering to conceal the revolt in his voice. His jaw tightened. Heat prickled his ghost hand, taunting him to hammer Slynt up against the nearest wall. "I don't know whose shit she's stepped in on this time, but she's an officer. An honest, loyal, capable officer. That's more than half your station can say for themselves. You owe her."
"This is bigger than me and you, Lannister! Jesus. You think I don't wanna help her? My hands are tied. Cut me some slack here!"
Jaime paced up and down the corridor, wondering how it could have all gone to shit in just two years. They'd had the odd mole before, sure, like in your typical station, but never like this. Never had there been a net so vast, a rat so well hidden.
"How does Dayne even allow this?"
Slynt spat out cynically.
"Oh, you think Dayne likes this anymore than you and I? The man's a fucking legend. It's killing him to stand and watch. It's killing him more than it's killing us, let me tell you that. Really, Lannister, what's wrong with you? You waltz in here after two years of maternity leave since they pulled your spine out through your vagina, and suddenly you're bleeding deeper than the rest of us? Fuck that, Lannister. Dayne's not like you. He has real honor. His badge means something. This whole thing haunts him more than you'll ever know. But he bears it in silence. Like a man. Savvy?"
Jaime fisted the air. He didn't fucking savvy. How could he? It was all a giant, reeking pile of shit. He'd fled Dad's snake nest and came onto another.
So Dayne wasn't going to be any help. Fucking Arthur Dayne had succumbed to an offstage scheme. He looked around to check if the earth was still spinning. It was weird to be hearing of a god's downfall, especially one you'd used to worship.
Jaime swallowed hard, muscles rippling from the center to the column of his throat. It was stupid. Dayne had taught him everything, except how to cope with shit on his own.
Now he had to. Now he had no fucking choice. The damn cow, he had to hand it to her, she'd finally found a way to draw him out of his cubbyhole. Getting herself beat up and abducted might be the most gratuitous act of stubbornness she'd demonstrated in her life. Damn her.
This wasn't going to be a reboot of the old days, Jaime was painfully aware of it. This world he was getting sucked back into, it used to fit around him like a glove. But now it was a strange place that made him feel like a relic. And it got worse. It wasn't the only thing that had changed. Bygone were the days when he could charge in with a gun and a grin and let his body follow its own instinct, that thing that told him to fight and to fuck Cersei. His body didn't know what to do with a gun anymore. No, this would be a slow and derogatory crawl across a track he used to sprint on, and it would be every bit as humiliating as it sounded. It would not be fun to be Jaime in the next few days.
Jaime fixed his collar, ever the gentleman. Wouldn't Cersei be proud. He whirled on his heels and shuffled away without another word.
"Where the hell are you going?" Slynt shouted after him, spit flying.
Jaime pinned the blockhead to the wall with his version of Cersei's murderous gaze.
"Where does it look like I'm fucking going? To do your damned job. You wanna dance around drinking your healthy crappuccino till you're a hundred? Fine. But if you so much as think to get in my way, I'll end you. If I don't my father will. Fucking savvy? Oh. And do tell Dayne my furlough's temporarily suspended."
~oOo~
His cousin in a flurry was the stuff of horror movies—those cheapest, crappiest one-and-a-half hours that still got a couple of unintentional laughs out of you.
He'd changed a lot since uncle Kevan had bought him a badge. He wore a set of big boy pants now, and he'd finally gotten rid of that Elizabethan hair gala he used to carry around on his head. He even tried to work up a deeper voice when he talked. Underneath this new attitude though, Jaime could still smell the looser who'd used to fetch cocktails for him and his siblings at family brunches. Up until their fourteenth year, he and Cersei had believed little Lancel was part of the personnel, much to uncle Kevin's shock and affront.
On a regular day, it might have been somewhat funny to watch the boy take himself so goddamn seriously with his newfound station and privileges. But tonight, Jaime needed a favor. From him, of all people. Life did pull its strange jokes on the Lannister family at very fitting opportunity, he supposed.
The sound of Lancel's creepy long fingers smeared with grease or lube or Christ knew what rat-tatting furiously across a keyboard put Jaime in the mind of mice. Not those mutant rats that lurked in abandoned farms, mind you, just little city mice scurrying from this corner of the subway station to the other, chomping the shit of bigger animals to get through the day.
"I can't do it," wailed Lancel, sweat glistening in the yellow moss across his upper lip. He wiped his forehead dramatically. "It cannot be done."
Coming up from behind, Jaime hugged the tops of his cousin's chair with his left arm, the complete one, the one that ended with fingers. He rested his chin in the crook of his elbow. Invaded his cousin's personal space quite on purpose, sniffing the sweetish aftershave inhabiting the skinny neck. Lavender? Some weird things kids were into these days. He blew slightly on a perky ear, for the fun of it, barely containing his amusement when the boy flinched and wiggled in his chair like a cockroach.
"Come on, cuz," Jaime said airily, smacking Lancel on the nape a notch harder than he usually did Tyrion, "you're this big scary officer now, aren't you? Act it. She's not fucking Schrödinger's cat. Just find her."
Lancel tried his version of an irritated groan. "I'm telling you, those chips they've been handing out, they're untraceable. It was just to test these new gadgets that are gonna flood the market ten years from now." His cousin's lip jutted forward in a wildly non-threatening pout. "And I don't owe you any help."
Jaime briefly wondered if this was his cousin trying to sound menacing. In all fairness he seemed to give it his all. Jaime found himself not even wanting to bash the boy into the flat of the desk. He admitted he'd felt the twinge of grudge when he'd first heard Lancel was being handed the life that had once belonged to him, but every time he saw the boy, he got more and more convinced his cousin would simply never be what he'd used to be. Poor kid just wasn't cut out for it.
He doesn't love the bullets, Jaime thought. You couldn't hope to be a cop if you didn't have at least that. If anything, Jaime was starting to feel the beginnings of pity towards his relative, for all the crap their family would dump on the boy's head for not living up to their expectations. He's more Tyrion than me, and he's got none of Tyr's redeeming intelligence, either.
"Remember dear cousin," Jaime sighed, a little miffed that he'd have to play that card, "last Thanksgiving when I entered aunt Genna's rooms to fetch a much needed dose of Merlot, and there you were, furiously scrubbing your dick right on her bed? My help seemed to suit you fine then."
Lancel crossed his legs like a schoolgirl, thoroughly blushing.
"I can't track her!" he repeated, far from the cocky nerd this time.
Jaime sighed. Unfortunately, he believed him. "And there I thought those hands could be of use to someone other than yourself on a lonely Friday night. Alright, cuz, follow me then."
Lancel stiffened. "Follow you? Follow you where?"
"To plan B, of course. I'm back on my job, you see, but you know how tedious jurisdiction is. It'll be weeks before I have my free access back. If you would kindly unlock detective Tarth's office for me in the meantime."
"Hell no! That's breach of ethics, I'm an officer—"
Jaime grabbed Lancel by the neck and helpfully directed him towards the door to Tarth's office nose first, ignoring his relative's woozy struggles as they lollopped across the patterned, hardwood floor. A good thing the station was half-empty on a Saturday evening or else they might be in trouble for this.
"In you go." The imminent threat of flat solid core timber approaching was enough for Lancel to cave in. A little fumbling with the keys and Jaime was staring at a life he thought he'd left behind forever.
Tarth's office hadn't changed one bit since he'd last seen the inside of it. The whole place was neat and formal, and still smelled of her trademark unaromatic washing powder. (She'd been here as early as this afternoon, Jaime had to remind himself, making plans to head out and do the thing that would get her shot and kidnapped, even though it seemed like an eternity since he'd hung up on her in the middle of the Peninsula hallway.)
Despite his initial reluctance, even Lancel poked his head in over his big cousin's shoulder, gulping like a kid in a museum.
The room had mismatched wooden furniture, poured floors and textured walls. The ceiling-length shelves were stacked full of case files, with colorful markers sticking from the bulks of paper at every odd page. An impressive set of records. They'd swollen considerably during his absence, Jaime noted. Other than those, among the first things one noticed walking in were a collection of memorabilia and a large mug of pens and pencils, the only personal belongings she allowed herself to carry around. See, the big bitch had a thing for professionalism. Probably why she was thirty four and a virgin (that and the fact that her job was to lug most of her street acquaintances into a patrol car). Jaime was yet to meet a guy who got a hard-on at the prospect of formal and respectable sex.
There was still more stuff reclining on the shelves in here than in her actual apartment. Which was understandable, considering she spent a vast amount of her personal time camping at the station, pulling all-nighters writing down reports and sweating over secondary case files everyone else lacked the nerve to delve into. Not Tarth. She always relished those quiet challenges, going the extra mile. She often had him denounce sleep and aid her in taking on the countless stacks of written evidence, connecting dots in the strange hours between dusk and dawn. Jaime grudgingly admitted that after a certain point, he'd stopped hating it.
Today was the first time he was setting foot into the premises without an irritable macaroni-haired head lifting up from the piles of work lined up on the desk, scowling about his tardiness or making dry remarks about his untucked shirt. As much as she always pushed his buttons, it felt… empty, without her in, waiting to tackle the day's work together.
Jaime went for the research drawer and started pulling out case files, concentrating on the words so that his brain didn't rummage them.
"The shooting of Ros Winters, the strangulation of that Irri girl, Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark's suicides… These are all solved cases," he muttered, memories of the real events, the real action behind most of those folders flooding his mind, parching his throat in a weird way.
"Maybe she doesn't keep her current files here," Lancel tried, surprising Jaime by taking some form of initiative. "I mean, she was on to something pretty major, right? She couldn't have it lying around in plain sight, they'd have her head for it."
Jaime cocked an eyebrow at his cousin. "Well look at you, just itching for that detective promotion. That was pretty perceptive, cousin. Well, for you at least." He tried a few more drawers, even took a gander at the private files on her laptop. Nothing. "OK, Lancel, tell the chief you're taking the evening off."
Lancel swallowed noisily. A good punch in the nose couldn't have gotten his displeasure across more clearly. "Why?"
"Because I'll be needing a driver and a scapegoat and I'd say you're an adequate blend of both."
~oOo~
Lancel was no Schumacher, that was for sure. In fact, there was room for doubt he'd even make a decent community driver in case his glamorous cop career didn't exactly carry off.
Back in the day, before he'd lost a hand and mostly denounced driving (he'd rather have Cersei scoff at him than get an automatic like a kid needing fucking training wheels), Jaime would have broken every speed limit and street sign regulation to hear a shocked gasp spill from Cersei's pretty painted lips. For a blissful few years while they were in college away from Dad's bullshit, they'd been a bonafide pair of yuppie adrenaline junkies, rich and reckless enough to take on this new city of angels. Neither of them believed in seat belts, but they believed in speeding and shoving dollar bills into the pockets of angry cops, and in making out before the side window had fully rolled up to shield them from pesky onlookers.
He'd been a natural. Nothing quite matched taking his sister for a drive across town at night after they'd both flunked their midterms. Even when she would crawl up into his lap and stroke him through his pants as he weaved and swung across two lanes to the accompaniment of beeping and honking, he liked to think he'd never made her feel unsafe with him.
Then there was Lancel, who managed to drive at 30 miles per hour on a freeway and still make it feel like taking a ride through hell's scariest places. The kid had almost run an old lady over on her way out of Starbucks, forgot to use his turn signal twice, resulting in a descant of screeching brakes and swearing, not to mention he somehow clipped a side view mirror on a mailbox while he'd spurred the car out of the parking lot.
Jaime certainly hoped he'd make a finer patsy than that, his cousin.
"So… How's Cersei?" Lancel asked tentatively, an odd little question, even though on all accounts he should only be watching the road.
Jaime shrugged. "She just buried her husband this afternoon. She's deeply traumatized."
Lancel chuckled incredulously. "Seriously?"
If not even Lancel was buying it, then no one was. Cersei's hatred for Robert had never been a subtle thing but this much public notice of her deteriorated marriage could not sit well with his sister.
"Fine, she's happy as a clam," Jaime admitted, much more lightly than he felt about the whole thing. "Rocks the hell out of that glowy thing that comes with widowhood."
Lancel nodded his head. He seemed nervous. "Does she… does she ask about me?"
The only question I've ever heard her ask about you is 'Who's Lancel?'.
"Nope."
"You sure? I thought she'd notice if I was gone," his cousin mumbled stiffly, cursing with little originality when he nearly got pushed off the road by a speeding jeep to the left.
"My sister pays attention to suits, not people."
Lancel licked his lips, unable to wipe the emotion from his face quickly enough for Jaime to quite pin it on his imagination. "Yeah, I… I guess she does."
Jaime would ask his cousin what that was all about but then there was a cat in the middle of the street which clearly overestimated Lancel's ability to swerve on time, and then there wasn't much of anything except for bangs and curses.
~oOo~
Tarth's flat was emptier than Lancel's head. Jaime'd forgotten just how little she kept in here. It pretty much consisted of a bare dining room, a bed and a shower. Not much to divide between two lives when you only have the one. Shit, Tarth. The only thing that indicated this was her home and not a vacated place up for sale was a charter for outstanding contribution to the law enforcement hanging on a wall, the one she'd received following her detective promotion. Tucked between the frame and the wall was a single creasy picture of the two of them accepting their medals after cracking the Ros Winters case. The sight of it made something hitch hard in Jaime's throat, and he backpedalled out of the building as quickly as possible.
Never did he think he'd find himself happy to be in a car with Lancel again.
"Get us to the storage room," Jaime implored. "Where it happened. I want to take a look."
Lancel didn't seem happy. Not one bit. Fortunately, Jaime didn't care. "Did you find anything?"
Jaime gave his cousin a look. "If I'd found anything, do you think I'd be returning to your vehicle telling you to drive me to the crime scene? Contrary to what someone with a bad sense of humor has led you to believe, cousin, you're not that great a company."
Lancel pouted a little, but started the engine. Jaime's phone rang. An unregistered number. Odd. He picked up, ready to tell any commercial rep to go suck a dick.
"Hello. Is this Mr. Lannister?" a female voice gushed from the other end, barely concealing the underlining tenseness that prickled beneath the film of politeness. Not a salesman vulture, then.
'Mr. Lannister'. No one had called him that since he was twelve. Dad was the mister with a capital M. Jaime got to be the big bro, or J, or just Lannister. He'd left all the complicated labels to Cersei and Dad a long time ago.
"It's his son. Who's calling?"
"I, uh, my name's Dorcas. I'm your nephew's daytime sitter? Anyway, it's past eleven and I have not been able to get in touch with your sister. My shift ended almost three hours ago and she didn't tell me where to drop off her son for the evening. He's… he's hungry, sir, and he's asking about his mommy."
Jaime sighed, smacking his face. So his sister wasn't with Tommen like he'd hoped. It wasn't like her to be careless with her children. If anything, she seemed to always cling to them devoutly and haunt their every step like a tigress, especially in light of Joff's death. Something must've really gone up in smoke on her end to provoke this.
"Do you know where my sister is now?"
"No, sir, but I did see her take her leave from Lioness Publications a couple of hours ago. She seemed… distressed."
A nice way of saying strung out.
"She didn't happen to mention where she was going?"
"No. I think she was in a hurry to be someplace, though."
Of course she'd be in a hurry. Cersei always geared up on her way to bad decisions. Fuck. Now he couldn't even pretend to believe she might be steering clear of trouble.
He'd call her but he didn't think his ear would take another try again later without exploding into bloody bits. Shit. He couldn't worry about that too, right now.
"So bring Tommen to her house," Jaime said into the phone, quietly enough so that Lancel's perked ear couldn't pick up on the conversation. "She has a night nurse too, doesn't she?"
"I tried but no one is answering the door," the sitter sighed. "Mrs. Lannister isn't picking up her cell phone either, and you're the only contact she's left me, so…"
"When did you check on the house?"
"About an hour ago."
"So check again. She might've come home."
"With all due respect, sir, my shift ended three hours ago. Is it alright if I drop off Tommen at your place?"
Jaime blinked. As if he'd know what to do with the kid. My son. "What? No, fuck no, I'm not home at the moment. Just… just take him to Tyrion's. My brother. Our brother."
There was a considerable pause, and then, "…Are you sure about this?"
"He's the boy's uncle. He's reliable… ish."
"Your sister won't be happy about this. I don't want to lose my job."
"I'll say it was my idea. I'll say I ordered you to. Don't worry. Just get it done."
Jaime hung up before the woman had a chance to retaliate.
He refused to meet Lancel's inquisitive side eye for a while.
"Step it up, Lance," Jaime urged breezily when they came off the highway at the lurid speed of 45 miles per hour. "Chop-chop. What's with that face, Lance? OK, Lancel. Definitely Lancel. Lancel the Destroyer."
"Don't mock me!"
Jaime shook his head, smiling sadly. He'd die on this job, his cousin.
"Oh look, we're here. See? I knew you'd step it up for your beloved cousin. And you didn't think you could get us here in one piece. Now if you could just park us over there without scraping the dumpster... Aw, that's alright. There's always next time."
Jaime explained very slowly what was required of Lancel. His cousin blinked, paled, and shook his head.
"I don't wanna die," Lancel sniveled, the pathetic catch of his voice mercifully swept by the wind bursting in through the open window.
"Well, cuz, you're gonna have to," Jaime chirped serenely, not much venom in his voice. "It's inevitable, like taking a shit. Though with some luck you're only gonna have to take that shit today." He sighed when his cousin's expression only darkened and sank. "For fuck's sake, kid, I'm not asking you to fire a gun for me. Just talk a little to your colleagues. Worst case scenario, you'll get fired. OK, fine, you're not happy about that. But imagine the glory... imagine all the pretty promotions that'll be thrown your way if you become known as one of the two officers who rescued a captured detective. You like the sound of that? Good. Now get that ass moving before I use it as a boot warmer. Come on, out you go. There's a good lad."
The wind was roaring in their faces and he couldn't claim for sure, but it was as if a very naughty word had just escaped his cousin's plump and blowzy lips.
~oOo~
Lancel was narrating his lines well enough to the forensics moseying along behind the restricting yellow tape, even at this hour putting up a show of collecting evidence when they were really just guarding the place from prying eyes. Jaime listened to the conversation from a respectful distance. Neither a fighter nor a thinker, but the boy was arguably a decent talker.
Officer L. Lannister. Yeah, I bring you your coffee every Thursday. Aha, great ball game last week! You guys were pretty darn good. Anyway, I must've forgotten my wallet somewhere around here this afternoon… Silly me, yeah. Nah, my buddy and I are just gonna dive in and grab it. He's a cop too, don't worry. His badge? Well…
Jaime rolled his eyes when Lancel glared at him at a loss what to do. Scratch that about the boy being a smooth talker. Lancel was officially the most talentless creature on Earth.
"That's alright, I'll wait outside." Jaime smiled thinly as a dozen suspicious eyes dug into him. He glanced obliquely towards the crepuscular interior of the abandoned storage. A regular warehouse in the middle of an unobtrusive residential area. Surrounded by shacks people had either vacated or packed in with boxes labeled X-Mas and Baby Stuff and Fuckables. Then there was this odd little room. Where Tarth's bloodied gun lay discarded.
Jaime kicked Lancel forward, hissed in his ear, "Scrap me some evidence."
Lancel blinked. "Me?"
"No Lancel my Pilates instructor. Yes you. Now get your ass in there."
"But—I can't—I don't—I'm not a detective!"
"I'm sadly aware of that. Look, I don't expect you to pull a Sherlock in there, just get me something to work with. Here, calm down. I bet you can hear your own heart pumping blood like crazy into your head, am I right? Remember that's the sound of an upcoming promotion, Lancel. Go do the job. Earn it. Make it happen. That's all I ask of you."
"O-OK…"
Jaime watched his cousin hind his way into the perimeter, feeling skeptical at best about his odds.
He leaned against the side of Lancel's car, breathing out into the cool of the night. His thoughts went to Cersei again. And Tyrion, too. It was like someone had set a timer in his heart to clench every few hours or so, thinking about either one of his siblings. He wondered what they were doing now. Tyrion was probably—definitely—drunk. His brother seemed to have developed a speculative theory about avoiding hangovers by refusing to sober up. Chances were, he had a girl on his dick too. He deserves a real woman, Jaime thought ruefully. A woman who'd love him. Like that girl from back then... He didn't like to think about that. As for Cersei... well. His recent talk with Tommen's sitter had left him with several scenarios for her current occupation, each as dreary as the next. Which's it gonna be this time, Cers? His sister was always generous with her bullshit. So many tortures to choose from. It could be her endless schemes, or her screwed up ideas of self-medication, or perhaps she was crashing sleazy bars and acquiring filthy fingerprints that had no place on her. Jaime didn't know which of the three got him more worked up. Probably that last bit.
What the hell had happened to them?
It seemed like yesterday when they could spend a day in the same house without scratching each other's eyes out. Without Jaime fearing a lethal substance might be found floating in his brother's drink, or a mysterious pillow clamped over his face at night.
Not that they'd ever really gotten along. No, but at least they'd managed to get through the day without trying to kill each other. For the most part.
Truth was they were always at odds. They were born fighting, your children, he'd overheard aunt Genna say to his father once. Too much of you in them all. That last part didn't make much sense, but he could agree with the former. From their earliest days, they were constantly driving each other up the wall, somehow, always.
Except on Christmas. None of the sibling rivalry guidelines applied to Christmas. They'd always liked Christmas Eve, as teens, all three of them. Joanna Lannister had passed around the winter holidays, so it was the one time of the year when all bad blood was cast aside and the Lannisters resembled a real 90s family for a couple of dinners.
As a rule, Jaime had been given free rein to watch sports games without being urged to study, and Tyrion had been allowed to help around the kitchen, even whip up some brownies of his own. Though that particular custom had been unanimously outlawed following what would later become known as The Christmas That Never Happened, wherein Tyrion had slipped something into Cersei's and Dad's brownies unbeknownst to anyone in the kitchen. Jaime would always cherish that night as one of the most hilarious things to have ever happened to their family. Cersei had hiccupped and sung a butchered version of All I Want For Christmas—badly—in front of a jaw-dropped table, Tywin had slipped something gratuitously homophobic in his opening dinner speech, and—to the family's uttermost horror and shock—both father and daughter had excused themselves and clashed in front of the bathroom as soon as desert had been served.
Other than that one priceless incident, family Christmases had been nice in a low-key sort of way. Father still wasn't smiling but at least for a few days his face didn't resemble a long, ever-frowning bust of a Greek philosopher. Even Cersei could be found grinning under a mountain of presents, treating her expensive new acquisitions with care and glee for a whole of five minutes before growing bored of them and throwing them at her brothers, more playfully than spitefully, just this once.
She'd always insist on receiving gifts from both him and Tyrion, and she'd taken a firm stand that they had to be good, or else there'd be punishment. It used to be their own little tradition. Jaime found it comical that his brother usually ended up buying presents on both their behalves. Jaime just seemed to run out of ideas as soon as he started trying to come up with them. Tyrion was always the attention payer. Jaime didn't mind giving up that role to his brother at all.
When Cersei had found a collector's edition of Nirvana's In Utero under the Christmas tree one year, she'd squeed and looped her arms around Jaime's neck. He still remembered the sound of her blonde head snapping when he'd laughed and pointed towards Tyrion. His brother had tried hiding behind the fireplace with an embarrassed look on his face. Cersei had been quiet for a moment, then she'd walked over and given their brother a small pat on the head (they'd both been this much taller than him already).
Jaime sighed.
The Christmas following Joff's death, Tyrion had tried sending a gift to their sister. Jaime had been there when she'd received the unlucky delivery. He'd been there when she'd burned the carton box without so much as looking at the contents.
"Much on your mind?"
Jaime startled. One of the forensics had stepped out of the restricted perimeter and had just leaned on the car next to him, unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He was young, not as young as Lancel but still, there were more twenties in him than there were thirties. It was too dark outside for much to be made out of anything, but Jaime could still tell the guy was a looker. He had dark hair and a pair of blue eyes that shone like gems in the night.
"Got a lighter?" the man asked, grinning to reveal a set of sharp white teeth. "Sorry, you look like the kind of person who might carry around that sort of thing with him."
Jaime inclined his head. "You got that right." He brought the flickering flame to the man's lips, let him touch the tip of his cigarette to the lick of the fire, suck in the heat.
"Thanks," the man chuckled. "Nasty habit but I get real jumpy unless I've had my fix. Bad for the job. Bad for the ladies. It's a lose-lose, really."
"Oh I doubt that." Jaime nudged the man. A couple of years ago he might've sneered at anyone who'd approach him like that. Now he found himself grateful for the distraction. "A guy like you, you must be quite a catch for certain girls."
The cigarette glow illuminated half a lazy grin on the man's obscured face. "You're far too kind. I must say you're not so shabby yourself."
Jaime shook his head. "Ah. 'Not so shabby'," he repeated. "You know you've grown old when a twenty-something guy is talking to you like you're his dad."
"There now," the man drawled, a sympathetic smile on his face. "I was thinking more the cool uncle."
Jaime paused, then shrugged. "I could live with that."
"It's weird though, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"It's taking your friend forever to find his wallet in there."
"You know how kids are. He couldn't find his own ass in the dark with two hands and a flashlight."
They both chuckled. "Still," the man continued, mischief in his voice, "I must admit I envy him the tiniest bit."
Jaime couldn't think of a plausible reason for someone like this to envy a snot like Lancel, no matter how hard he tried. "Why?"
The man discarded the gray stump of his dead cigarette to the floor. Squashed it like a bug with his sole. "You don't think very highly of him. That's understandable. You see him as a person. And it's true he isn't anything remarkable in and of himself. Ah, but there's so much I might have done with that last name of his."
"Last names aren't everything," Jaime said, bitterly. As if I'd know. "You seem like the efficient kind. I bet you'll still end up someplace better than an incompetent Lannister."
The man cocked his head, as if he was about to let him in on a secret. "That's very kind of you to say," he whispered. "But I'd suggest you bet your missing hand first."
Jaime looked the man askance. It was too damn dark for him to have noticed. Something about this was off. Or perhaps Cersei's paranoia was finally starting to rub off on him. The last thing he wanted was his sister's tendency to see monsters at every turn complicating things further for him.
"Who are you?" Jaime asked, flatly.
"Oh, I'm just a nobody, really. My dad's kind of a somebody. But with a small s." He wiggled his little finger in illustration. "Like a pinkie. He thinks our family deserves better than that. I hope to help him."
Lancel flew out of the storage room, a big proud smirk on his face.
"What's with the grin?" Jaime scoffed, crinkling his nose. Something about a happy Lancel just put him in a foul mood.
"I know where she is," Lancel beamed. "I know where they've taken her. She's at—"
Jaime frowned as he watched Lancel crumple to the pavement, eyes bulged, face-first. His body convulsed with what Jaime recognized as the aftereffects of an electroshock jolting through a frail system.
Sure enough, the weapon itself flashed in the hand of the forensics guy. Looking over his face, Jaime didn't need his detective training to tell something about him had changed. His jaw was set like a piranha's, pulling back to showcase the bottom row of his teeth. His blue eyes were suddenly filled to the hilt with that savage something Jaime had only caught hints of, initially.
Jaime's hand dove for his gun.
The man smiled sadly. "Oh Mr. Lannister. I so wish you hadn't seen that."
