The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl
A/N ~ I'm excessively proud of this particular hand story arc, particularly since more Braime comes with it. Apologies for the late update – house, moving, internet, spazzing, holidays, trauma. Updates may not become regular for a while now, I fear.
Coming Up… Hospitals bore Jamie to no end, flowers are sickening, Brienne saves the day (naturally), Eddard and Brandon are the bringers of doom (naturally), Cersei is not yet ready to apologise (naturally), and Tywin Lannister shows concern for his son (unnaturally). Find out in The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl!
1. No, It's The Broken Hand That's Bothering MeThe world was blindingly, searingly white when Jaime Lannister awoke, in a Febreeze-reeking land of blinding, searing whiteness. A few blinking moments of perplexion later, he realized he was somewhat held down by overly starched sheets, and beyond the large, thinly-veiled window, set shallow into the white, white wall beside him, a mist of rain had condensed the glass to foggy obscurity. Above, the harsh glare of the fluorescent, electronic lights burned his blurred eyes. His throat burned. Gods, he was thirsty. It took him a while to shake off the trailing tendrils of sleepiness, but when he did, it took him no time at all to realize he was in the hospital, and his hand was broken.
His right hand. His game hand. His football hand. The hand he'd beat the Iron Island Sporting College with three leagues in a row. And all because his sister was a man-eating moron. Well, not quite – but he had to have someone to blame.
Next to Jaime's bed, resting on a plastic tray on the tabletop was a red plastic jug, plastic cup. An empty Doritos bag lay dormant beside the which, crumbs fresh. Matching fresh droplets of water clung to the cup. He had visitors, or had had visitors not long ago. His hand killed. Already he could feel the wooziness, the haze of whatever heavy-duty painkillers they'd clogged up his insides with. A smaller, equally plastic beaker stood stoutly beside the water jug, with a thick, dusky substance inside. Some new kind of painkiller, he supposed. Also, he noted with a touch of Jaime-esque smugness, dozens of Get Well Soon! cards were arranged there, and along the windowsill. A few were even handmade. By his fans, no doubt. Nice to know the gang had not forgotten him while he was out of action. A large, gaudy mob of flowers malted their vivid petals across the floor, the tabletop.
It was only then, squinting in the stark lighting, head turned awkwardly across the thin pillow, that Jaime Lannister begun to realize just how much his godforsaken hand burned. Agonizingly aching, the useless thing throbbed, a pulse clip attached to the tip of his ring finger – he'd clearly broken most of the bones in his hand, or near enough as to make no matter. The white plastic clock hanging on the ajar door read quarter past one in the afternoon.
It took a while of just lying there, contemplating how long he could milk the injury and skive school, and the larger issue of how long before he could play again, before a nurse came in, much to his annoyance, disposed of the Doritos packet, made him force down the medicine in the cup, which was quite frankly even more disgusting than anything he'd ever tasted before in his life, including dirt as a nine-year-old for a bet, and Cersei's attempts at cooking. She informed him that he'd been out for a few days, and he'd had plenty of people stop by regularly with gifts and cards. A further glance to the other side of him proved her words true – a small clan of gift bags clustered around the foot of his bed. In fact, the nurse – who seemed really quite put off by his irritated rebuffs (well, he did have a broken hand, and he was the WHD quarterback) – told him, his father was downstairs in the coffee shop right now.
She left, eventually, to fetch him some fresh water after he all but chugged the entirety of the jug down in two minutes. Jaime lay staring dully at the ceiling. How was this fair? How was any of this fair? On the bright side, that repulsive painkiller had killed a deal of the pain. On the sable souled, hell fire, abyss-like side, his father was downstairs in the coffee shop right now.
It took approximately – Jaime checked on the door-clock, and then cursed the lack of things to do around here – seven minutes for Tywin Lannister to come hastening to his eldest son's bedside. He strolled through the door, Starbucks takeaway cup in hand, looking for all the world as if he owned the hospital, and drew up a seat in the chair by the hospital bed.
"You're awake." He noted pleasantly, sipping his coffee and then placing it down on the tray. Jaime wanted to slap him. Oh, good – another thing he'd not be able to do for a while. Slap someone, that was – not even Jaime Golden Fucking Lannister would dare strike a man of such presence as his father.
"Well yes, Dad, thank you for noticing. Be a dear and pour me out a drink, I've not drunk as much as I'd like recently."
Tywin's expression was tight, yet he filled the cup and passed it emotionlessly to his son, whose left hand quaked even in anticipation of holding something, as it never truly had. Jaime promptly spilt half of it down himself. "For Seven's sake!" He swore, the thin hospital-issue quilt dampening, translucing, clinging. Tywin measurably peeled back Jaime's soaked cover. Jaime drowned in waves and waves of loathing. Not for his father, for his hand, for the Wall Academy Crows, for Cersei, for Robert and Rhaegar and Lyanna and his stupid, stupid hand. How in the Warrior's name was Jaime meant to get anything done now? Ever! He'd never felt so goddamned useless.
His father reached across and took the cup, sloshing it's contents back into the jug and setting it down on the tray. "Perhaps leave the water until you've mastered the more simple arts of holding things." Jaime opened his mouth to swear and scream as he so wanted to, but Tywin gave him the look that silenced him before he even made any words. "Jaime. It's good to see you awake again." Wow. His father just openly gave away his emotional opinion on a matter. This must be what personal growth looked like. "How does it feel?"
"Excruciating." Jaime lied. In truth, it felt as though he ought to be wiggling his fingers about – felt as though he was wiggling his fingers about, but the ones rooted to his body just stayed still. "I broke, what was it, every bone in the hand? Or rather, some Wall Academy oaf broke every bone in my hand."
"Not every bone, don't exaggerate for sympathy. You've got that already." Tywin gestured sweepingly around the flower-card-gift-bag festooned hospital room. "They've wrapped it up and you'll be out by tomorrow evening, hopefully."
"That doesn't help me with –"
"Jaime," His father rubbed his temples, exhaling. "Could you please not be exactly like your mother for five seconds?"
Silence squalled at him. It always did when Joanna Lannister was concerned. Tywin Lannister was not a man to show his feelings for anybody to anybody, and, Jaime supposed, his children had learnt from him. They never mentioned their mother. Not really. Not anymore. She was in the ground, and the words just piled up and up on top of her. Nobody wanted that. If he thought about it too much, Jaime realized how much he actually did miss her; how little he remembered her, how much he did feel about the matter. And that was when his whole sparkling repute teetered in the balance. So he'd learnt to suppress any passing thoughts about Joanna. It was just… simpler that way.
"I'll do my best. Was it my breasts that gave me away or my long, flowing hair? I need to have it trimmed, I'm starting to look increasingly like Cersei." He tried a smirk, but it curled hopelessly and faltered. His father gave him a hard stare, and he recognized that now might not have been the best time to be himself.
"Jaime, just –" Whatever Tywin had been about to say died upon his lips. He rose, ruffled his son's hair and retrieved his coffee. "I'm glad you're alright." As he took his leave, Jaime gaped after him, and not all in mockery. Had – had his father – his father, Tywin Lannister – just ruffled his hair?
Jaime sighed, settling himself back amongst the disappointing pillow – singular – and kicked away the damp dishcloth of his quilt, to fall half from the end of the bed. The stench of the flowers – whatever they were – was quite overpowering, their acridly cloying stink finding its way to him. Dizzying. He betted they were Cersei's attempt at a cruel punishment. For what, he didn't quite know, but supposed he would the instant the twins were reunited. There really wasn't much to do in hospital. He sort of wanted to break his other hand, just to see what would happen. Or just for something to do, really.
He stared at the clock, swimming in and out of his hazy vision, watching without seeing the hands tick rhythmically around the plastic face. Every so often his nervous nurse returned with water – which, humiliatingly enough so as to make him despise her more, she helped him drink – and fresh painkillers, whose tasted improved not at all. It wasn't until it neared four o clock that the familiar rabble burst through his doors, after their shouting, jesting echoes had preceded them down corridors.
Arthur Dayne, Bryndon Tully, Rhaegar Targaryen, Lya Stark, Jorah and Dacey Mormont, Gregor Clegane, Elia and Ashara, Robert Baratheon (trailing somewhat behind, unlike his usual loud, crude self) and his brother Renly (thankfully he spared of Stannis and his mental-but-hot foreign girlfriend), Brandon Stark and Cat Tully. Jaime managed a rather dampened version of one of his famous Jaime Lannister's Model-esque Grins, easing himself up further with the help of his thankfully unscathed elbows. The hoard of his friends gathered around his bedside, bringing with them bagfuls of you're-hurt-so-why-not-cheer-you-up-with-pity-food food. Which he accepted happily, declining eating now to save himself the embarrassment of attempted to feed himself left-handed in front of them.
When they'd all squeezed and settled comfortably into his cell, Jaime eagerly pounced upon the question that had been roiling in his mind, troubling him ever since he awoke. "So – did we win?"
Silence. Downcast eyes. Great. He broke his hand and subsequently lost them the game. The Wall Academy Crows as well! However good they used to be, the WA was becoming a bit of a joke of a school. "Really that bad? It seems you really can't play without me."
"No, not really that bad," Dacey countered from her squashed perch on the steamy windowsill. "You're guys lost after you went down, but then the rain came and we showed them all the fucking might of girl power." She wiped the glass with her sleeve; beyond he had a stunningly picturesque view of the hospital car park. The sky, though bright, was bruised, and stormy – it wasn't raining, but the puddle-strewn asphalt and the weeping of the limp leaves hinted at bloody monsoon season.
"It was actually quite amazing to watch." Arthur Dayne put in, tossing a Skittle in the air and catching it in his mouth – a feat he thought impressive, no doubt.
"Of course it was, we're brilliant." Lyanna muttered, and Jaime had to smirk despite himself. He couldn't be blamed for his team's failure and if the ladies had managed to salvage their position in the championship, surely he could redeem himself. Once his hand was all fixed up.
"So modest, Lya." Her eldest brother muttered.
"Shut up."
"Kidding, Lyanna." Brandon nodded and smiled. "You were very good."
"It was the blonde one that really won it for you," Robert put in. "You know, the big ugly one?"
"Brienne?" Renly nodded. "She's very good out on the pitch, at least."
Jorah rolled his eyes. Jaime shifted uncomfortably, remembering his outburst as to which Brienne Tarth was on the receiving end. He wasn't entirely sure why that made him feel uncomfortable – he'd shouted at so many people without ever really feeling the need to apologise. But then, he was on a lot of drugs right now. He'd probably kiss Lysa Tully if she was too forceful. Now there was a thought to shudder at.
And so they all sat around his bed and they joked and bantered and talked sport and dating and who made a fool of themselves over who, until Rhaegar checked his watch, then the corresponding clock on the door, and announced he had to get going, had to pick up his baby brother Viserys from a playdate or something, and the rest soon followed, trickling out after their leader. Robert Baratheon still avoided his gaze, stupid oaf; until, when the last had left, Brandon and Ned Stark came wandering back in. Jaime glanced up in question.
"Right, mate, we kind of have something to confess," Brandon started, seating himself in the sole bedside chair.
"We thought it wouldn't be right if we left here without telling you," Eddard put in. Jaime resisted the urge to kick him. He tolerated Brandon and Lyanna, and saw little of the youngest Stark, Ben, but Eddard? Little Neddy Two Shoes? He held a resounding resentment for him, and his rule-abiding, quiet wisdom. It was all Jaime could do not to make some sort of offensive joke about Ned's feelings for his brother's girlfriend. Then again, perhaps it was best to stay out of the pentagon of love, where Catelyn Tully was concerned.
"What?" Jaime asked, suspicious, guards all up again.
"Our little brother. Benjen." Brandon started. "He's got some friends up at the Wall Academy, knows a few Crows – there was talk about him going to school there, in fact. Anyway, he was feeding them all our game plans. I guess he overheard me talking about our positions and whatever. That's why they took you down first – knew you were holding our hopes of a starting upper hand. Lya was smart enough not to discuss football strategies around anyone but her girls -"
"We're sorry - if you –"
Jaime cut Ned Stark off with a withering glare. "Assuming he's forever eliminated from the list of Westeros Dragons subs?"
"Of course."
"Fine. Go, I want to sleep."
They did. Jaime managed to get some water inside of him without dousing himself like a bloody reborn Iron Islander. He was getting better, he thought with little mirth; soon he'd be able to do much more complex things like eat with a spoon. Indeed, Jaime Lannister did get some sleep. It was better when sleeping, he found; dulled the continual throb of his broken hand. Sleeping was good. And for once, he had an untroubled rest. Painkillers killed both pain and, apparently, bizarre, therapy-desperate dreams. For that he was grateful. Until an uncertain knock on the door woke him, and he saw it was quarter past eight, nearly. His glorious nap was short lived, and he was ready to throttle whoever walked through that door for waking him.
He murmured some incomprehensible greeting, and the door opened, and he realized his visitor didn't need to be throttled just for waking him.
"Hi." Brienne Tarth's eyes were downcast, to her shifting feet, and she as picking at the fraying hem of the sleeve of her enormous jumper. "Sorry if I woke you."
"No, not at all." Jaime muttered sourly. "What are you doing here anyway?"
She swallowed, still lurking doubtfully in the doorway, nearly filling the damn thing, as if she wasn't sure if she was supposed to come in and sit down or not. "I – It was my dad's idea. He wanted me to come and see how you were getting on and –" She damn near choked on her tongue.
"At this time? Really, girl, people might get the wrong idea, and unlike you I do have a somewhat platinum reputation to hold up –"
"I thought everyone else would be gone by now, I didn't want to bump into anyone." Brienne murmured, shifting slightly in the entrance, showing no sign of making any move to come in.
"Of course, of course, gods forbid." Jaime rolled his eyes theatrically. "What are you still here for?"
"I just –"
This, he decided, was a perfectly wonderful opportunity to unload all of his fuming burdens. Oh, how good to let it all go.
"Can't finish sentences? My nurse has that problem too, just like you, she is, except better looking, but then, I expect most people are. Very annoying. Making a big fuss out of the flowers – who brought me flowers anyway? How gay is that?"
"I don't know – and anyway, gay is not an adjective, it's a –"
"Offensive? You'd know all about the use of that word, wouldn't you?" Brienne had turned a spectacular, blotchy red. It was quite satisfying. Not even embarrassing the easily embarrassed Tarth – just getting it all off his freaking chest. Having a broken hand came with a whole load of annoyances and fresh horrors that nobody understood. As Tyrion would have so banally put it – he was having a big time meriod. "Oh, relax, girl, I'm not talking about you, though it's a fucking wonder. I'm talking about your special little friend? The one you're half in love with because he has the nerve to speak to you in public?"
"Shut up." Brienne growled, and somehow, something inside Jaime collapsed and he began to feel very, very guilty. It was naturally his right, as Jaime Lannister and as an official Injured Person, to release his frustrations onto other people, but he really shouldn't have touched on Renly. Even he knew, somewhere deep down, that that was way too far.
"Sorry."
After a crushing, swelling seeming centaury of roaring, heavy silence, Brienne Tarth sat herself down in the chair by his bedside. "Does my very – just – being bother you so much?"
"No," Jaime admitted. He wasn't quite sure where that word had come from; he'd certainly not bid it sanction to escape from his mouth. "It's the broken hand that's bothering me."
She nodded. "I broke my wrist once. Football accident. Sort of."
"How'd it happen?" Why, Jaime Lannister, why, for Seven's sake are you engaging in conversation with Brienne freaking Tarth? Why? His thoughts were clashing.
Still not bothering to look up at him – apparently there was something far more interesting to be heard on the polished hospital flooring – Brienne took quite a while to decide whether she wanted to put herself through the trouble of talking to The Golden Quarterback. Jaime almost wanted to protest – she and The Golden Quarterback were never going to stand one another, but she could always talk to Just Jaime. Whoa. Where in the seven hells did that come from. When she still avoided answering, a dozen cruel jokes sprung into his mind. He managed to suppress them all.
"My dad – he thinks I don't socialize well enough. He tried to set me up on a date –" At this Jaime snorted, and then, at the cobalt glare he received, wished he hadn't. " – with this boy, who's the son of his work friend or something, I don't know. He said we had similar sporting interests or something. I said that I would agree if this boy could beat me in a fair football fight. He didn't. it turned into a not so fair actual fight, or – um – anyway, you don't want to hear – I'm going to go."
She was just pushing herself from her chair when something made him stop her. Pity, drugs. He'd blame the latter later on, but perhaps it was the first. Perhaps it was a bit of both. "My dad's the same. Always trying to make me go on dates with people he knows. Think's it'll mature me up, stupid bastard. One such girl threw a drink in my face. Apparently she found me stunningly attractive, naturally, but that was washed away by my, I quote, obnoxiously offensive humor."
He thought, just for a split second, that she was maybe going to smile. Then thought better of it. "I can imagine."
"Thanks."
"One had a rose, and then threw it away when he saw me."
"Ouch. One decided I had too little IQ halfway through the evening and just left. My brother never let me forget."
"Your brother's the dwarf. I'm – I never – I'm never sure how to respond to him,"
"Believe me, none of us are."
Though Jaime would deny this, and make himself believe it was the drugs, though Jaime would remedy this with classic Golden Quarterback-ness, he spent quite the evening talking to Brienne Tarth that night. And a tiny little bit of him found it more enjoyable – more enlightening – than cruel gossip with the his footballers.