The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl

A/N ~ Are we really only three chapters away from the end? I'm getting sentimental.

Disclaimer ~ I'm currently devising a new heist to steal the rights from the big guy – anyone got a few Dornish blood oranges and Sandor's lovely Stranger – or Driftwood, depending on who you ask – that I can borrow to set the plan in motion?

Coming Up… Super Jock is Super Teen Angst Over-Doer, but you already know that, Jaime has revelations, and reprising her role as her twin's fairy Gokmother, Cersei Lannister is, well and truly, despite everything else, an actual human being. Find out in The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl!

27.Why Do I Bother? (Oh, That's Why.)

Why did he bother?

Jaime Lannister stewed in his bedroom for the next few days.

On the second day after Tyrion's motivational chat turned rant slash guilt trip, he ventured downstairs to grab a wedge of cellophane-wrapped cheese, a bottle of whipped cream, half a cold quiche, three enormous bags of sweet chilli crisps and a huge bar of Galaxy chocolate, his personal favourite no matter what the Team Cadbury guys at school said. (Well.) (They weren't really the guys anymore.) He crept downstairs at four am to collect those supplies, and he went to sleep until midday. He ate those supplies over the next six hours.

On the fourth day after Tyrion's motivational chat turned rant slash guilt trip, he turned on his television, to flick dejectedly through the channel guide for precisely two and a half hours. Eventually, bored, he picked all the crumbs of his empty quiche plate and looked at a programme about rednecks building motorcycles without really watching it.

On the fifth day after Tyrion's motivational chat turned rant slash guilt trip, he geared up to drag himself over to his cluttered shelf and retrieve his netbook, to crawl back to bed, still unwashed and unchanged save for a little rumpling since the day of the science exam that Oberyn Martell obliterated. He'd thought that was really funny till Cersei obliterated his life. He opened the screen up and logged onto Facebook, expecting the worst. Nothing. Those who mattered hadn't really been online since science day. Those who he thought mattered had gone on posting, as if nothing happened, as if he didn't even matter. Those who he expected to be awful, had been.

But mostly, what was clogging up his news feed, was concerning prom, girls posting outfits or pre-makeup, post-makeup, pre-hair, post-hair selfies. Sentimental parents. Fuck. Fuck, was prom tonight? Huh. He hadn't realized, he'd totally forgotten. He knew that Brienne Tarth would probably be reading Mallory or lifting weights whilst listening to Angels by Robbie fucking Williams, but a tiny spiteful bitter-old-man part of him wondered if she'd go with Hyle fucking Hunt. He jerked his head backward and it smashed into the wall. Fun. Fucking fun.

He shut the laptop rather aggressively and rolled over, rather aggressively, staring across his room from the haven of his mattress. The broken alarm clock beside his bed was turned face down, but with a strange calmness settling on him for the first time in a fitful six days, Jaime reached for it, sat up, swung his legs so they dangled off the bed, held the digital thing between his hands. Then, slowly, Jaime stood himself up, and, using all his might, drove it against the solid wall with everything in him. Cracks. Sparks. An electrical sounding noise. He didn't care. This was probably fucking dangerous. Oh well. He smashed it against the wall again, with a grin. He threw it on his carpet, with every frustration and frazzled nerve and irate urge and sadness and guilty word of conscience in his aching body and mind pouring out into destroying that thing. He stared at it, and the image of it swam, first into a multitude of faces, then of feelings.

Then he lifted his foot, and brought it down on the clock. Hard.

Then he went back to bed.

When he woke, it was raining outside. That was the first thing Jaime was aware of – the sound of it, swollen drops exploding against his open window, the grimy sill. And just when the rest of the world was rejoicing of the summer. Served them right for hoping, really. The next thing Jaime was aware of was that his twin sister was perched on the gaming chair that Tyrion had been in five days ago. She was perched on the edge and glancing around with her proud air of privilege, sniffing, as if just to touch anything in here was to be contaminated.

Jaime frowned, his hazy mind struggling to fit the pieces of the image together. The smell of rain was filtering in. Oh gods. What was she doing? Here to ruin him even more? The strangest part was, she didn't resemble her eight year old self, pouty and hateful, whenever she was told to apologize and never, ever meant it. He propped himself up on his elbow. He wished she'd just leave him the fuck alone, to be honest. "What do you want?" I'm sorry.

"I…" Cersei's mouth formed the word and then stopped, looking down her nose and shifting slighting in the gaming chair. Jaime wondered why she wasn't getting ready for prom – after all, it wouldn't be complete without the prom queen, would it? Fucking hells. Then he realized she probably already was. "I am here to make some futile attempt to convince you to rejoin the world of the living."

"Why?" Jaime demanded. He knew well enough to suspect an ulterior motive. He was so torn. He wanted to fly at her, scream and punch and march downstairs to announce that like all good teenagers Cersei once had several bottles of alcohol buried in her sock drawer, because she ruined his fucking life and he hated her, gods he hated her. But at the same time he wanted to hug her and go to her for comfort, because she was Cersei, she was his twin, and he loved her, gods. "I think you've done enough, Cersei. Go back to your face, or whatever you do all day." Sorry, Seven fucking sorry.

"Always a pleasure, Jaime," Cersei paused a long while, and the rain hardened, hammering against the house. "I'm not here to apologise, if that's what you're thinking. I have nothing to apologise for. Unlike some people." She added quietly. "But, as the woman whose necessary vengeance slaughtered your hopes of civil functioning, apparently, I have to say…" She drew in a long breath, as if the very pending words lingering on her tongue pained her. "I think that you should go to prom."

" – No." The word cut off whatever theatrical nonsense his sister was about to push on with. He was not going to prom.

"Jaime!"

"No."

Cersei rolled her eyes. He wondered what the time was. He'd only just noticed his sister was wearing that absurd green kimono dressing gown thing she'd blown a couple of hundred on last year. Shipped from Tokyo. Crazy fashion bollocks. Tywin had ranted at her about, once more, learning the value of money. She'd ranted back about the value of owned every article that appeared in Vogue. (Honestly, he was just surprised she was wearing something that had been 'in' a whole year ago.) She was probably in the middle of getting ready for prom – hair pulled back in one of many only the best Egyptian cotton headscarves to restrain any from so much as touching the masterpiece she had clearly wasted hours on perfecting – her face. Although it was probably just a protective-twin-brother-who-hates-as-much-as-he-loves thing, he personally thought she was wearing far too much makeup.

"I just thought I knew you better, in all honesty. I thought you were very nearly as powerful and independent as I am, though not quite, obviously, but here you are, skulking in your own fumes rather than face those you'd rather not." Cersei finished, looking quite superior for the girl who had caused all of this shit in the first place, and who at any minute he could decide the resentment trumped the love and go tell Tywin she was far from a drinking virgin.

"Oh, of course, like you do, oh great and majestic goddess sister?" Jaime spat, rubbing his eyes fiercely awake.

"On a daily basis." She smiled simply, looking at him and Jaime felt like he was missing some great important point.

"Cut the shit, Cersei, why'd you really want me to go to prom?" He rolled off of the bed, wincing and plucking clinging crumbs of Thai crisps from his hair. He yawned, shaking more crumbs from his hoodie. Cersei looked quite disgusted. (But she could not, repeat not judge.) (She had half of Maybelline's biggest warehouse smeared expertly over her face.)

"Because it won't do anyone any good if the prom queen's brother, most important member of the court isn't there, will it?" She smirked. "Kidding, it's something I do sometimes, Jaime, you'd be surprised." No, no you don't, you don't know the meaning of kidding. "I want you to go to prom because you are a Lannister." She leaned foreward, looking determined and terrifying and slightly reminiscent of their father. "And Lannisters are not weak. So stop acting like a scared little child, because you ought to be better than all of them."

Ah, all for pride. He should have known. All of this was about Lannister pride, really. She'd been too proud to happily settle for a rich-girl-paid entry to KLC. He'd been too proud to face up to – everything that had happened since he had become Brienne Tarth's science partner.

Science partner. But more than that, they were more than that after all this time, weren't they? Weren't they? Science partners. Adversaries. Book-sorters. Allies. Pool confidants. Friends. Camping buddies. Challengers, challenges. A pair in the sad half-orphan kissing club. Family dinner dates. Music ridiculers. Star-crossed somethings. Allies. Facebook friends. Pot Noodle reliants. Friends. Fallback dates. Spokes in the wheels of accepted normality. Maybe he was blowing this completely out of proportion, or maybe he was just a regular in the tumultuous cast of teenage angst, but he was fairly certain he had a phone call to make. A pain to patch up before he could ever show his face outside again.

He filled his lungs once more and looked up at his twin sister, with a slow, slow slight nod. "I will consider leaving my man-cave, consider," He paused. Was he honestly going to say this out loud? Was Cersei actually going to make him say this outside? "Once I've talked to Brienne Tarth." If she'll talk to me. Ever again. Which is highly doubtful.

You know what?

Maybe it was high time he said that out loud.

He felt, absurdly, an ironic smile twitch at his face and he stumbled across the room and fumbled for the iPhone he'd ignored the past six days, finding her number. She wouldn't pick up. Ever. Why would she? Much less he held to the hope she'd actually talk to him. But if he called, that was a step in the right direction, wasn't it? And he'd be going to Kings Landing with her for the next few years. Somewhere, in all that time, she'd have to talk to him. And from then on they could progress. And they wouldn't have to be science partners, adversaries, book-sorters, allies, pool confidants, friends, camping buddies, challengers, challenges, a pair in the sad half-orphan kissing club, dinner friends, music ridiculers, star-crossed somethings, allies, Facebook friends, Pot Noodle reliants, friends, or fallback dates. They could try to be actual human beings.

The first time her phone went to voicemail he kidded himself, giddy with stupidity, that she hadn't heard it. She'd been downstairs, it'd been upstairs, or vice versa. Because what was it about her? Jaime had no idea. This strange, wonderful, dull, ugly, funny, kind, shy, talented woman who had turned his thoughts upside down without even realizing what she was doing, without doing anything but being herself, who had given him a seemingly chronic case of denial. But now Jaime wasn't entirely sure what there was to deny. He didn't love her. He wasn't in love with her, like Cersei had said. That would be stupid, and actually stupid, not the stupid he'd convinced himself his real emotions were.

No, Jaime did not love her, not yet, but he had kissed her and he had felt something, and he had liked that something. He had experienced crippling guilt when he told her he couldn't change for her, something he understood now because, just by saying that, he already had. And Jaime did not love her, but he was certain that if he left this fraying loose end untied he'd never forgive himself. And that was something.

Well, fucking hells, didn't he sound like Ned Stark, or Shakespeare or someone else he didn't care about? Oh well. Oh well. He was calling Brienne Tarth. He didn't give a shit.

He rung. And he rung again. By the eight time, he had to admit to himself the chances of her picking up looked bleak. And yet still he kept ringing. He even dialled her home phone once or twice before going back to her regular one. Cersei had drifted of, allegedly grown bored after having made her point. He was about to give up, to contemplate whether he should just rejoin the world of the living just not at prom, until he heard a familiar voice down the line. He felt like screaming.

"Jaime, I'm just answering to say stop calling, it's annoying and - "

"Brienne, I don't love you but I think I might do one day so can you shut the fuck up for once in your life and let me talk." Jaime exhaled the end of his rushed sentence, the words all slamming into, tripping over one another. He felt the impact of that settling on her like dust. She didn't say anything but he could hear her breathing, and that was enough. "I –" He winced. "I'm sorry that I am a dickhead. It's a part of me, as much as my young-adult-novel good-looks and my prestigious wealth – remind me again why you don't want to marry me? – and that's something I'm afraid you're going to have to accept. Which I have the highest hopes you will do, considering you are by far the most irritatingly, insanely righteous human being I have ever encountered. So if I, perhaps the most stubborn man on this planet, can swallow my Lannister pride and actually apologize for something that I can't really categorize, then surely you can try to put the past behind us, and willingly start over? Is that something you can do?"

He waited with baited breath. He could hear Cersei turning on her go-to 'getting ready' music, over the steady rain outside, stared at the dust motes swirling in the light. "You've got a while to decide, I think, Brienne definitely-not-a-fallback Tarth. I'll collect your answer in a few hours. If you ever want to see me again."

He hung up the phone in a strange state, placing it gently down on top of his Xbox, before stumbling out of his bedroom and into his twins. For once, she did not look ready to scratch his face off that. He paused, smiling again, for the first time in too long. "Cersei, despite the fact that you may be the human incarnation of the seven hells themselves, and the fact that I hate you as much as I love you right this moment, you once helped me out a lot, when I decided too late to look hygienic for a party. Would you mind me rehiring you?"

Cersei turned to him, staring as if he were the stupidest fool on the face of the world. Maybe he was. After all, a lot of people considered prom the borderline between childhood and adulthood. Carelessness and responsibility. The big finale to an essential chapter of everyone's lives. And he was about to go for it dressed in six-day old, cheese-stained jeans that smelled of stale sweat. "Oh, you poor, fashion-impaired fool," She looked over him pityingly from where she, still in that stupid dressing gown, but now the headscarf was gone and she was applying some sort of mousse to her hair. A small smile twitched at her features. "It's what I do."

For the first time in his life he awaited further instruction.

"But first, please take a shower. You haven't washed in almost a week and frankly I don't want you contaminating my stunningly self-decorated bedroom and beautifying space. You reek. Seriously, Jaime, wash." Jaime took the hint, and hastened into the bathroom, locking the door and turning the water on with a new awful feeling that might actually be alright. He washed himself anew and Cersei be damned, he took his own time with it.

When he stepped out onto the landing, wrapped in a towel, he heard Cersei shouting at him. Nothing ever changed, really then. Maybe he would tell Tywin about her little habit. (No.) (That was his leverage now.) (He wouldn't waste it on petty revenge like Cersei wasted hers.) "Jaime, I found you're clothes and they're on your bed, also please get off your lazy ass all day long and clean your stupid goddamn bedroom because pigs would be ashamed to live in there, honestly, I've had to sanitize my entire arm, do you know what that did to my prom-prep schedule, manicure-wise? Jaime! Jaime are you even listening to me?"

"No!" Jaime shouted cheerfully back, feeling more grounded, refreshed and anchored into himself than he had in a while. He had forgotten how good a simple shower could be. Laid across his bed were a rather expensive pair of Levi's he'd forgotten he owned, and a simply-cut tuxedo he didn't really recognize. Not at first. He had the jeans and shirt on when it hit him, striking him like a ton of bricks. "Cersei!" Jaime yelled, confused, happy, sad. "Cersei!" He leaned his head out of his bedroom door, but it was not Cersei who answered him. It was his father.

"Jaime," He greeted. "Your sister's told me you'll be going to prom." He stepped into Jaime's bedroom and to his credit ignored the obvious impact of teenage-boy-slob-bedroom stench.

"Dad…" Jaime frowned, searching for the right words. "Cersei put out what I'm going to wear, I can't… Surely you wouldn't want me to –"

"I want you to wear it." Tywin told him finally, as if that settled the matter. After a moment's pause he nodded at his son, and then at the tuxedo on the bed. "You're a man now. You weren't yesterday, and you weren't the day before, but you are now. Do you know what that means?"

"I can learn to drive?" Jaime smirked. "I can finally move out and get a life?"

"You can be trusted. If I were the kind of fool to linger on the past, I would make some banal comment about how it seems like just yesterday you were a squalling babe. The lungs you had, and your sister. And now you're a man. You're worthy of that tuxedo there, you know that? Put in on. Wait for your sister to finish her hair. I'll take pictures downstairs and have Chataya drive you." Tywin smiled as if he knew something Jaime didn't and clapped his son on the arm, turning away before he could see Jaime, wearing the suit jacket he himself had worn, so many years ago, on his wedding day, to a woman who was gone, but not forgotten.

Jaime wasn't sure how he felt, when he slipped that tuxedo on. Almost like he was putting on responsibility, for his actions done and yet to come, and he felt almost as though Joanna was nearer to him. (Or maybe the jacket just hadn't been washed since the wedding day.) (Whatever, he was being nostalgic and deep, for once.) (That was cool.) (He needed that.) Once he was dressed, Cersei called him into her room and he made some joke about poor little boys being called into scary principals offices' but he was grateful, and in literal physical pain, when she started attacking his head with a comb and some hair stuff that was probably designed for girls and smelled strongly of grapefruit. Then she literally shoved him from her room, berating him for interrupting her schedule.

He sprayed on some Lynx and pocketed his phone. Then, he shook his ghosts like cobwebs from him and made his way downstairs, where his brother and father were waiting for him. It was like his mother was missing and there all at the same time. Tywin took pictures in front of the white backdrop of a wall, with a depth to his look that made Jaime know he was being all serious and sad, but Jaime was done with serious and sad, for a whole fucking lifetime.

They waited what seemed like years for Cersei, who descended the staircase clad in what appeared to be a one-shoulder-to-thigh sheath of golden sequins. Golden sequins that were, apparently, made from or coated in golden glitter. Honestly, the stuff was everywhere. Jaime did not want to get into a car with that, he'd end up covered in it. Glitter everywhere, all over her arm, legs, the deadly-weaponized-looking heels that were too constructed of golden sparkly stuff, and the hair that was artfully arranged over her shoulder but covered in so many products it looked rock-hard. She paused smugly on the lower step, awaiting, Jaime didn't know, adoring fans or whatever.

"You look like a fucking Oscar award." Jaime retorted scathingly, the precise same time that Tywin told her she looked beautiful. Eh, two different kinds of people right there.

"Yes, well, you'd look like a cave troll if I hadn't worked my magic on you." Cersei replied lightly, elbowing past Tyrion and Jaime in front of Tywin's camera. Jaime wondered how many hours she'd spent practising walking on those ridiculous shoes. They took a few photos together, and Tywin gave Chataya the camera so she could take some of the two in the 'ride' – as Tywin put it, with a smug smirk. Honestly, what? – and outside, with their dates. Date. Dates.

It appeared Cersei had finally settled on a Kettleblack boy-toy, but it was painfully obvious to everyone that she had just picked the most handsome one for her date, honestly did not give a shit and could probably pull anyone else she wanted whenever she wanted. Jaime hoped, as Osmund or Osfrey or whatever the fuck this one was called arrived and greeted his sister, that it would be painfully obvious to everyone that he had eschewed all dates because none of them were good enough for him, honestly did not give a shit about any of them and could probably pull anyone he wanted whenever he wanted. (Who was he kidding, of course it was.)

Tywin ushered them all out into the porch. The moment the door opened Cersei screamed and had a minor freak out and rant, involving shoving Kettleblack 3 hard in the chest and blaming the gods profusely for ruining her perfect evening, because even though the rain had slowed, rain at all was a horrific thing, according to her. (She and all her gold sparkle dust would probably melt like the wicked witch of the west.) Chataya found her an umbrella, which Cersei made her latest Kettleblack carry because it was too plain, too black and did not match her outfit. Jaime just laughed.

Outside, the evening air was fresh, and he was grateful to the cool droplets of rain landing lightly on his skin and suit and face. The smell of rain was heavy in the air. Tywin, with his own umbrella, insisted on accompanying his children (and Kettlewhatsit) to the car, down the painstakingly done-up front garden.

A grin hit Jaime's face, and his stomach like a ton of happy, happy bricks when he saw that his suspicions from earlier had been confirmed. Tywin had ordered them a limousine; a sleek, black, dark-windowed limousine. This cheered Cersei slightly from her previous panic about the weather, and though Tywin said something as the three of them bundled into the interior of the limo, Jaime was too caught up in his own now to catch the meaning, just the sounds, and Cersei snapping at Kettleblack when he tried to hold her hand, poor bloke. This was it, this was it. Not just prom, not just the last time he'd ever be inside Westeros High School, not just the last time he'd be a high-school kid, the last time he'd be a kid, but this was the real day of reckoning, this was his apocalypso. If Brienne Tarth didn't come with him, he didn't think he'd ever get over it. But he could, at least, forgive himself, because he, at least, fucking tried.

Oh gods. This was it. This was it. For the first time ever, Jaime thought, his stomach was in knots. It was a new feeling – he'd always been so confident in himself he never needed to be nervous, not even as a little boy. Was this what it was like to be other people? How did they bear it? No. No. He was Jaime fucking Lannister. And whatever happened, happened. He could make it work. He would make it work. He was Jaime fucking Lannister.

Before the limo actually started moving properly, Jaime found the radio thing that allowed him to talk to the walled-off driver, and said the words that would decide his fate, that made him feel like he could shit his stomach out. "Hello, it's the stunningly attractive boy from the back, and you're stopping down Storm Street before dropping us at the school, yeah?"

"That allowed?" Came the grunt through the machine, and Jaime rolled his eyes to nobody's benefit but his own, considering Cersei didn't care to bother looking and Kettleblack wasn't looking at anything but Cersei's cleavage.

"I heard a saying amongst you working-rank people once, something about the customer always being right." Jaime didn't know why he couldn't obliterate the grin tearing across his face, frankly at the thought of his request being followed through he had never been more petrified of anything in his entire life, and he lived with Cersei.

The limousine, inside, was amazing, anyway. Jaime had been in a limo several times in his life. Once, to his mother's funeral. Once, to an away football game. Once, to Aunt Genna's fortieth birthday party. Once, because he was bored and thought it would be funny to rent one for a day. But this one, by far, was the best. The interior was lined with leather seating that was absurdly comfortable and made him want to stay there rather than go anywhere anyway – or would have, if he wasn't stuck with Cersei and a Kettleblack. Red and gold lighting set the whole thing aglow, contrasting and highlighting the patterns on the floor. In several pockets of ice built onto the doors and walls Jaime found plastic cups and champagne, amongst the party poppers and streamers that were absolutely everywhere. (Although he was pretty sure half the sparkles in the thing were coming from Cersei, and her 'dress' and shoes and hair and golden-glitter comprised talons.) (Gods his Christmas bauble of a sister was annoying.) And it had the best music of all the limousines he had encountered.

It seemed like an age before they were there and it seemed like a second. "Customer being right, do what you have to do," The driver's words sent fresh metaphorical punches to his face, every syllable. Because the limo had stopped. He knew where he was.

The door slid open. The rain was just a light miasma now, and in the yellow glow of streetlamps Jaime could make out her house. The lights were on inside. Maybe that was a good thing. Shit fuck fuck shit. Jaime grinned in fear, and somehow, shakily, managed to clamber out of the limo and stand up on his own two feet, on the concrete, somehow, managed to move. Of course he did, he was Jaime fucking Lannister, of course. He just concentrated on walking and not being an prick, as he opened the rain-softened wood of the little gate, went up the scraggly garden path, found the doorbell, cold, pressed it. Inside he heard the noise of it, heard several people talking all at once.

And then the door opened, and Brienne was still shouting something over her shoulder. Then, reproachfully, hopefully, her eyes turned on him. (Or rather, turned down on him.) (Holy shit pants, had she actually grown even more since last week?) Quite uncertainly, she said, "Hi," and he could see her inwardly berating herself for the way her voice came out in comparison to the way she intended it. It was something that happened to him a lot too. But that hi, that was one fucking hell of a hi. That hi was everything.

In that hi, Jaime was sure they were not just science partners, adversaries, book-sorters, allies, pool confidants, friends, camping buddies, challengers, challenges, a pair in the sad half-orphan kissing club, dinner friends, music ridiculers, star-crossed somethings, allies, Facebook friends, Pot Noodle reliants, friends, or fallback dates. They were something else entirely. "Hi? Is that all I get. Hi? That was a big thing I said to you earlier." Fucking hell, why did he not wait for her to bring that up?

"I –"

"You look –" Jaime had finally begun to take in what she was wearing. Because what she was wearing made it obvious; she was not following through with her plan of eschewing the WHS prom anymore. Brienne was not wearing a dress – she would have looked ridiculous, and they both knew that. But she was however, above what was not quite leggings but not exactly jeans, wearing a very nice, fancy-looking blue top or sheer lace, that, as his sisters' fashion magazines would put it, brought out her eyes. She didn't need to wear any dress. Just seeing her out of ratty jeans and enormous, unflattering men's jumpers was astounding enough. And what else he was noticing was how she wasn't wearing so much makeup, but just enough to highlight, again, the spectacular beauty of her one (outwardly) beautiful feature. Brienne Tarth, in that moment, looked so much better than he'd ever seen her.

She did not look pretty – but she didn't need to. She looked like Brienne. Maybe, just maybe, that was enough. "You look great." He finished.

"You –" Brienne, apparently instinctively felt the need to repay the compliment, but judging by the look on her face she didn't know how to say anything too complimentary. She glanced down at her shoes – pretty, and thankfully flat – and then she smiled, just slightly, but he still caught it. "Did you tell Barbie you're not in the dreamhouse tonight?" That was a quiet sentiment, but he appreciated it still, with an absurd laugh tearing from his throat. (Not a nervous laugh.) (Course not.) (He was Jaime fucking Lannister.)

"Barbie's in our limousine with the least offending troll doll, you can tell her yourself." Jaime snorted. In all honesty, Brienne, like this, made Cersei look absurd, over-the-top, gaudy. Which she, of course, was. It was just the male population of Westeros, apparently, couldn't see it. Brienne, at a shout from Selwyn, disappeared into a room for a minute and then came back out, flushed slightly red.

"So," Jaime said lightly, finally ready. "Do you think you can try?"

Brienne paused a second, looking genuinely unsure, before she looked, voluntarily right at him for possibly the first time, and told him, "Yes."

A sudden gale that came, apparently, from nowhere roused Jaime from his Ned-like trance, as the rain presently became so much fucking harder, and for some bizarre reason that made him laugh. He reached out and took Brienne's wrist, yanking her out into the rain with him, icy droplets speckling his fathers wedding tux, beading in Brienne's hair, and she yelled good night to her family, and the door closed. All Tarth sentimentalities had been exchanged before his arrival, he supposed. As he dragged her out, laughing and shoving into the rain, something tugged at him, something else he had to amend.

It was just before they loaded into the dry of the limo and Cersei's sharp looks that Jaime turned to Brienne and said, just loud enough, just cheerily enough, "And by the way," He nodded. "I don't think you were ever just a fallback."

Why did he bother?

Oh. That was why.

A/N ~ I apologise for any OOC stuff in this chapter, I was overwhelmed by fluff and it took me over, whoops. To be fair if you've stuck with this little story this long, you probably won't mind.