The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl

A/N ~ Fun fact; I just got in from the theatre when I wrote this, so I'm still in stage-acting mode. And another fun fact; in this oddly-formatted WW1 play we're doing, I'm sort of basing parts of my character on none other than Catelyn Tully Stark. (And Cersei Lannister.) (But you don't need to know that.) (If you didn't find those facts fun then too bad because I'm the one writing here and I get to decide what's fun here.)

Disclaimer ~ *Stands at podium, shuffles papers* It was such an honour when the rights for A Song of Ice and Fire were transferred to my - *Is pushed to ground by George R R Martin* My rights! Stupid Pompey girl-child.

Coming Up… Jaime says goodbye to academia, at least until the scholarship, which OF COURSE he's going to get, the culmination of ALL the science – honestly, they've done so much science – goes atrociously wrong thanks to that damn Oberyn, and the beginning of the end's begun; poor, poor dickish boy. Find out in The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl!

25.The Momentous Martell Molecule Mix Up

The day of Jaime Lannister's final science test at Westeros High School, and by extension, his final test, his final academic work at Westeros High School, he woke up an hour late. (Not by any means because he had been up late Facebooking a stream of well-meaning insults back and forth with Brienne in an unspoken contest of who could come up with the best or most inventive insult – some of them actually made him laugh out loud – very loud – several times.)

(But because) His alarm clock, trusty and thoroughly loathed, was officially dead. Deceased. An ex alarm clock. Pushing up the daisies. So, he'd woken up to Cersei – who was up early for school too, since she had some big culmination of an extra-curriculum law thing coming up – banging her fist against his door sharply, several times over, and when he'd looked at the time on the Quartz watch by his bedside table, he realized the science exam started in like, twelve and a half minutes. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Jaime scrambled out of bed, falling to the carpet in a tangle of pyjamas and duvets, and struggled, blearily and frantically, to his feet, clambering to swiftly remove the Muse t-shirt he'd worn to bed, almost strangling himself with it and replacing it with a proper t-shirt, Superdry. No time for showering today. Oh well – as a certified Teenage Male Specimen hygiene was hardly the first thing on his mind, although showers were an essential part of his daily routine and in waking him up – blearily eyed, he resolved to just spray an exorbitant amount of Lynx all over himself and his clothes and his hair.

He'd writhed into a pair of jeans within the minute, stumbling out of the door as he threaded a belt, glancing at his watch and realizing he'd never actually put it on. Oh well. He almost tripped twice in his haste to descent the blurry staircase, and in the kitchen he tore open a cupboard, grabbed two mini boxes of cereal and shoved them in his pockets, turning around and tearing back up the stairs, going into his room to find a hairbrush. He'd take it to school with him and do it there.

He glanced around his room several times before grabbing his leather bag and shoving all his science notes into it's depths, and his textbook, and a dented water bottle. No hairbrush to be found. He tripped over the duvet still strewn across the floor and realized he needed socks. Damn it, socks. He found a pair and pulled them onto the wrong feet. Hairbrush, hairbrush. Why couldn't he find a hairbrush? Where was a hairbrush even?

Speaking of where, where was his other notebook? The black one that Tywin had bought in bulk for his kids at the start of the year? Damn, damn. He wouldn't last five seconds in the practical without those notes. His mind raced. He felt like he should be doing something, crouching, bag unzipped in hand in the middle of his darkened room, but his every muscle screamed with clinging sleep. He thought back. Hairbrush, first off, hairbrush – where was he getting a hairbrush?

Cersei. Cersei spent what, five thousand a year on her precious hair, plus five hours a morning and night on it? Surely she'd have a spare. He clattered out of the door, bag still in hand and shouldered into her bedroom. Vacated. She was probably downstairs – had he seen her when he'd gotten his cereal? He was wasting time! – anyway, his eyes raced around her room, trying not to burst into flames from such forbidden territory, and noticed, on the drawers one side of her massive-ass bed a collection of combs and brushes, in front of the eighty-billion-zillion-a-bottle conditioners and treatments. He grabbed a brush thoughtlessly.

And then, his eyes found something else that clicked helpfully. His notebook! What was Cersei doing with his notebook? Then it clicked - right, he'd stormed into her room last night with it in hand, as a threat for what she'd be hit with if she didn't keep the music down. (She, of course, had retorted that he wasn't doing anything important enough to be interrupted by her music.) (He had quickly fired ironically back that if she didn't think out-insulting in marvellous ways a sort-of friend was important then he didn't know what the world was coming to, quite frankly.) He was turning into an old man, but really. He grabbed it too, sinking into relief at the familiar feel of the black cover, shoving it with the brush into his bag.

He'd managed to get himself out of the door and into Chataya's car – brushing his hair and swigging water with a handful of dry Coco Pops – in under ten minutes since getting up. Wow. Just went to show what you could achieve in the eleventh hour. Damn fucking alarm clock. It wasn't like he was nervous, as he didn't at all want to pursue science, but sports science, yes. And for that, you needed to get above a C grade in biology. He needed to get above a C grade in biology. And his glazed eyes could barely see past the tip of his nose.

Despite all his efforts, he came into science late. Several people looked up upon his conspicuous entrance into the deadly silent room. Brienne included. If it were any other teacher but Tully, he'd have been immediately sanctioned for turning up four minutes late for exam conditions, let alone actual, fucking important, future-deciding exams. But thankfully, tired old Tully just asked him for a word afterward and let him sit down. The first part of the exam, the theory booklet was in front of him. His stomach growled loudly and he glared at it.

Thank the seven the exams had to supply stationary. Otherwise he'd have been doomed. More so than he already was, fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course, no notes nor revision were allowed for the written test. Not so much the case regarding the more practical sides of the exam.

Jaime was finally managing to blink himself into the land of the living, gripping his pencil hard enough to do some serious damage to his thumb veins as he stared at the printed questions, so patronizingly phrased. But at least he had is cunning; he flicked ahead and found to his immense inward rejoice and celebration, some of the later questions had the answers to the ones he was on. Slowly, things were starting to come back to him. It was stiflingly hot. Damn, did it have to be so damn hot in there? Somebody had opened all the windows but it wasn't doing much good, considering there was no hint of a breeze to move through the gaps. Each tick of the clock on the back wall seemed largely amplified in the scream of the silent, echoing. Fuck. He was to be allowed four extra minutes at the end of the exam to continue, seeing as he was four minutes late starting. Rules were rules and fair was fair.

He was pretty sure he was doing okay. (Minus the sweat sticking his shirt to his back, dripping down his neck, the heat infiltrating his head and making it go all fuzzy.) At least, on more of the rudimentary anatomic questions; spending your life having muscle layouts drilled into you by coaches set on treating said muscles properly did pay off. Some of the other stuff was pure bullshit though. Who the fuck cared about the strains of genetics? Or tissue makeup? All Jaime knew was that you lucked out gene-wise if you were a Lannister and you had to be careful not to tear that tissue when doing sports.

Even so, he pulled through, through the heat and the fatigue of oversleeping. He thought. He pulled through. Since he had only a set time, it made more sense to at least try to attempt the queries he was not so certain on rather than ignore them completely. Often, his guesses, when paired with confidence, yanked him through somehow. he was Jaime fucking Lannister. At least, by the end of the paper he was exhausted but awake. If that made any sense whatsoever.

Between sections of the test, the theory booklet and the practical, those participating were allowed a short break, a breather of eight minutes. Eight. He didn't see why not a simpler five or ten, but apparently eight was how it worked. So, he hurried out into the hallway, collapsed on the corridor floor, and poured the entire bottle of water from his bag over his head. A few people, lead by Lyanna Stark, cheered, but half-heartedly. This was the last exam at Westeros High, for him and for most of them, but instead of nostalgia, there was only relief. A few people followed suit.

He noticed, as he chattered non-committally to Robert Baratheon, whilst stuffing the other tiny packet of ever nourishing dry Coco Pops into his mouth, that a lot of the handful taking this exam seemed as worn as he felt. Brienne was covered in a sheen of sweat, looking positively baked, with her face against a bottle of water, Lyanna's eyes were ringed by the dark circles of somebody who was up all night revising, Rhaegar was just silent and not in the way he usually was, even Robert lacked his usual verve.

This exams thing was really taking it's toll. (Lucky, really, then, that it was drawing to a close.)

After Jaime had finished his mouthful of dry cereal he went a-scavenging, and managed to scrape a piece of apple from Lyanna, who hit him when he took it. Oberyn Martell – who was bragging that when he had arrived early to the school, Tully had enlisted his help in setting up all the cells and stuff so he probably already had an upper hand – had been engaged in throwing peanut butter crackers at Rhaegar, who was throwing them back but half-eaten. Jaime managed to throw himself between the two of them and catch a cracker in his mouth. He expected if they continued their Facebook chat, Brienne, who was half-watching and half playing some game on Lya's borrowed PSP, would milk the heck out of dog jokes. Oh well. At least he was getting food. Soon, of course, Lyanna, not to be excluded from the fun despite her tiredness, jumped in, grabbing a handful of the crackers and throwing crumbs across the corridor into her boyfriend's mouth. And now everyone in the damn hallway stank of peanuts.

Before the testing started up again, Jaime darted to the toilets to splash his face under the faucet, blink the sleep from his face, drag a brush through his hair and respray that oh-so-helpful Lynx. What shocked him was how the damn peanut cracker crumbs clung. He was positive they'd be in the sink for years, took him long enough to wash them off his hands. And then, they were all called back in for the second half of the biology exam, and took their seats, so nervously.

Tully stood at the head of the stuffy microwave of a classroom, once more re-explaining the rules and regulations of examination conditioning and experience or whatever. Basically, don't cheat, don't copy, don't cry and that means you Jaime Lannister. He felt that was mostly for his benefit. Whether because he was late in to hear the original speech or because he was amazingly him. But still, Tully droned on – Jaime pitied Cat and sort of got Lysa's general Lysaness, poor sods having to live with that fool. "Now, this second half of your EOM biology science examination is designed to test your memory and ability to identify the cells you've been learning about in both examination conditioning and in laboratory conditioning. Instruction booklets will be passed around –Ms Dustin, if you would –" Barbrey reluctantly removed herself from her chair and took the pile Tully offered, handing them out. "As this is, for most of you, your final scientific exam, it should be no problem at all for those of you who have been paying attention and sticking well to the revision plan I recommended to you all at the beginning of the semester. Now, once you believe you have identified all five of the specimens provided – in no particular order – and, naturally, recorded your findings, their genetic identity and the other required information asked for in your booklets – we would all appreciate you sit quietly, and check your work, and if there is time devise a conclusion for your time studying with me. This test shall be completed in utter silence. Anyone caught plagiarizing, talking, cheating in any way, using any sort of electronically communicative device, or revising textbooks will be stopped from continuing the examination. You will be allowed to refer to your own written notes." Hoster T paused, nudging his glasses up on his nose. "Mr Martell, the microscopes please, handed out one to a student. Ms Stark, the specimens – no, Ms Stark, with the petri dishes – fine, no, Ms Stark…"

As Oberyn passed down the aisle of Jaime's individual desk he gave him a peanut-buttery cross-eyed face, grabbing a microscope the precise way Tully told them not to handle them and slamming it down on his desk, with a spray of cracker crumbs. Great. Because that was… hygienic. (Thought the guy who used Lynx instead of showering this morning.)

Hoster Tully said some final good luck words and set the timer. Jaime sighed, snapping the first slide with the first specimen into the microscope and squinting through the lens. Ugh, all he could see was some weird blobby thing. Frankly, Jaime didn't see what this had to do with getting into the sport and exercise course at KLC. Sport science was a fucking built-in module. Surely they taught you everything you needed in that. Surely. Apparently not. He squinted at it again. It was making no sense. At all. He personally thought it was maybe the microscope lens that was grubby. He pulled back from it. Did he wipe it, or? He flicked through his exam booklet. Nothing on dirty lenses. Well, what was he meant to do?

Ugh. No, he was probably just being stupid, again. He peered once more through the lens, adjusted the focus. Still nothing he recognized, no genetic identity whatsoever. Maybe he'd been asleep, or busy antagonizing Brienne the day Hoster taught whatever the fuck sort of cell this was. Maybe he'd just forgotten because of stress or oversleep. If it had been in the textbook, he probably would have put something about it down in his notebook. Right. That was a good place to start, at least. Jaime fished around his bag for the thing, drawing it out and flicking through it.

And his heart sank like a stone through his chest at the meticulously double-underlined headings, the familiar handwriting. Socio-legal. Constitutional and administrative law. Law of contract. The notebooks that Tywin had bought all his children, in bulk. He hadn't left his notebook in Cersei's room when he'd gone in to yell last night. He'd just picked up hers.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

Well that wasn't going to help him at all. And his question still wasn't answered – what the fuck sort of cell even was this? He sighed and conspicuously shuffled his papers, sharpened his pencil. Then he switched slides. Apparently, however, half the class was having problems, considering nobody seemed to be writing anything anytime soon. Jaime braved the thing everyone was thinking but nobody was doing. He put his hand in the air, like a fucking five year old. It took Hoster Tully a while to look up, and that took a loud cough from Jaime. He seemed exasperated when his eyes finally settled on him. "Yes, Mr Lannister? Come up with some amusing joke regarding your examination?"

"No, I was just wondering why we're being tested on stuff we've never been taught." Or are you just that bad a teacher?

Hoster frowned. "Mr Lannister! How dare you take that insolent tone when it is only you yourself's fault that you did not pay attention when I taught my class, and –"

"Sir, I don't… my slide B doesn't have any recognizable –"

"Quiet, Ms Tarth!" Tully snapped, and Jaime resisted the urge to actually make some sort of offense joke about the teacher, endlessly grateful to Brienne for at least trying to help his cause.

"But Mr Tully, surely it's your job as our teacher to hear us out," Rhaegar Targaryen put in quietly and deliberately, and quite helpfully, from his desk nearer the front of the classroom. "Jaime and Brienne are right, but," He frowned. "It's not my slide B, my slide A's quite difficult to make out, there's some sort of unrecognizable scattering of other cells or something."

Hoster Tully looked quite rattled. "Fine, Mr Targaryen, give that here." He yanked Rhaegar's microscope toward him and squinted through. The puzzlement of the student took his features as well, and Jaime felt quite smug at that. Stupid old goat. "I… Well, Mr Lannister, it appears for perhaps the first time that you are correct about something almost academic." Jaime modestly inclined his head, accepting his greatness. He caught Brienne's eye and pulled a philosopher-bust face, childishly sticking out his tongue when she rolled her eyes.

Meanwhile, Tully had apparently made a miraculous finding, after having sniffed the slide several times. For a moment he was silent, before the calm preceding the storm faded quickly, and he thundered, "Oberyn Martell!"

Said student looked up nonchalantly as if he'd just almost heard. "That be my name. Yeah?"

"When I asked you, when you first came in so helpfully early to help me out and set up these slides, you did not, repeat not have the gall, the nerve to eat whilst doing so?"

Oberyn, for a split second, had the look of a convict found guilty. He paused, clearly racking his brains for something clever to say, as was his game, before apparently giving up on that. "I might have had the gall and nerve and all, actually."

After several minutes of meaningless atrociously loud shouty blather from Hoster Tully, during which Jaime amused himself by miming hanging himself across the room to Brienne, it was agreed that since these slides were completely ruined by the menace that was children's peanut butter crackers, they would be marked on their written work only, instead asked to quickly write short descriptions of five various different cell types and their makeup. But to Jaime, it was just all too funny. Their end of year exams, ruined by peanut butter. Tyrion was going to have a field day with this one.

But then, all so soon, a bell sounded, and it was over. All his exams, all his academia at Westeros High School was behind him. Jaime jumped from his seat and the class spilled out into the corridor, shouting, screaming, congratulating Oberyn Martell. Ha.

Jaime was in such good spirits, as he fell in beside Arthur Dayne and Jon Darry and a raucous Robert Baratheon, taking the piss out of this and that, that he was almost sure that nothing could dampen his mood.

And then their crowd merged in with the law group who'd just been released, and his life fell apart.

Cersei was there, fuming, storming up to him in a blur. Taena Merryweather grabbed her shoulder and said something to her, and she stopped, a few meters away from him and that lot, under the harsh fluorescent glow of the corridor lighting, but she shook Taena off rather violently, and just standing there, splitting at the seams with fury, she was probably more terrifying than she would have been advancing. And her crackling green eyes were fixed right on him.

Somehow, he felt like this would be something he couldn't make a joke out of.

After a second or a centaury, his twin surged towards him, fists clenched so tight her knuckles were the colour of blanched milk. "Jaime, I can't believe you fucking idiot, I fucking hate you," Her words were each a tempest, swelling and shrilling with anger, slow enough for them all to respond to each syllable. What did he do? Fuck. Fuck. Everyone was staring. He was beginning to get a grasp of how Catelyn Tully felt the day of the match. He couldn't ever let it be said that his sister so publicly ridiculed him like this. So he tried to steady the ignorant grin on his face, for those watching's benefit rather than his own. "I'm your sister, your own twin sister, do you have any idea what you've fucking done?" She shrieked, her voice the only knife in the silence, echoing down the halls. "You have ruined my life. Do you remember, Jaime, invading my personal privacy, my human right this morning and going into my bedroom, and do you remember taking the notebook that was probably going to be the difference between a scholarship or no scholarship? I was counting on it! I was counting on the contents of it! I want to get into that stupid fucking college as much as you do , probably more because I want to actually do something and make something of myself rather than just running around like a fool, like you! And you have ruined my chances of this fucking scholarship! I'll still go! I'll still get in! But I will be the girl whose entrance essay was just okay, and that's because of you and your staying up laughing half the night, and your careless lazy fucking way of life! Do you have any idea?"

Oh.

Oh.

He'd never felt this terrible.

"No, of course you don't," Cersei continued, but quietly, enveloped in that quiet rage she always sank so unsettlingly into. "You don't, because you don't care about anybody but yourself. Well," Her voice was rising again now, with Jaime's guilt. "It's not my fault you're so enraptured by yourself that you can't spare a thought for the outside world," She was one to talk! "It's not my fault you stayed up half the night doing god knows what, laughing at your computer!" She shouted. "It's not my fault you're having some sort of existential crisis because you know what? It's not my fault that you're in love with Brienne Tarth or whatever the fuck's going on!"

Oh gods. Oh seven. What. What was happening? What was she saying?

Why, why was he surrounded by people he'd known half his life, and why was everyone so deadly hushed silent, so still? What had Cersei just done? What had he done? Cersei just stared at him a moment, disappointment and accusation sparking in her irate green glare. Then she stomped off, and left his life in ruin. His mind was reeling, his brain frantically trying to make sense of what had just happened, frantically searching for any excuse.

Once she'd disappeared, the whispering started. As if he couldn't fucking hear. What? What?

"You're in love with who?" Robert asked, incredulously.

Jaime spun around, stared at him. He what? What? "I –"

"Yeah, Jaime," A smaller voice echoed, Brienne's face so plainly shocked and hurt, even. "You're in love with who?"

A/N ~ You know you love me despite my stereotypical cheesiness. You know you do. Also bonus points if you picked up on the Monty Python reference in this chapter. (I had to do some salute to the most hilarious team on the planet reuniting and disbanding for the final time ever.)

In other news, I know I said I'd try to update more frequently now, but frankly now that it's the holidays and it's actually hot for once here, people actually expect me to do things, instead of lugging my laptop to the library. Horrifying, I know. But we've only got four more chapters and an epilogue to go. Just hang in there. I love you all. And after a little break, you will all get your sequel.