Chapter Text
“Can I buy you a drink?”
She knew the rich burl of the voice against her ear, recognised the presence behind her, even over the pub’s too-loud music and the unfamiliar cologne that filled her nostrils. Even with the two years since she’d seen him last. It was a testament to her professional skill that Brienne did not flinch away, merely spun on the stool and took him in.
He was still—
“Vodka,” she said.
Jaime nodded to the bartender, motioned for two more of the drink in front of Brienne—vodka tonics, which had never been Brienne’s drink of choice—and sat beside her.
His hair had darkened; less time in the sun, perhaps. There was a scar on his cheek that hadn’t been there when she’d left, a thin white mark that gave him personality. More worry lines. Not a single one of them kept him from being the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Seven hells.
“I’m Jaime,” he said once the drinks had arrived, flashing her the easy smile he used to charm people. Never her though, who’d been subjected to sardonic smirks at the Academy and then, later, the rare and honest joy that started in the corner of his eyes; it was somehow both better and worse.
“Jeyne,” she replied, pushing a dark lock out of her eyes. What the everloving fuck was he doing here? And more pressingly, why was he here, beside her, looking at her with a casual sort of interest that she knew was more? It had been many things—loathing, respect, affection—but it had never been casual, not once.
Another smile, devoid of any true emotion; he’d always been good at this game. “Do you come here often, Jeyne?”
“Often enough to know you don’t,” she said, arching an eyebrow in question; there was a split second of honest amusement on his face, quickly stifled.
“New in town,” he shrugged. “A friend said Red’s was a good place for cheap drinks and no questions.”
“And yet here you are, asking questions,” Brienne said dryly, raising her drink to her lips.
“What can I say, you make me daring.”
He leaned forward, his hand making its way to her thigh. Fuck. She’d spent… too many nights, alone in her shitty little one-room apartment thinking of his hands. His lips. The precise timbre of his voice.
“I don’t go home with strangers,” she said, removing his hand with a forefinger and thumb; even that minimal touch sent electricity through her, sparked memories better left alone. “And I’m waiting for someone.”
A lead. Thank the Seven that they’d always been good at understanding each other, in moments like this; he pulled his hand from her grip and picked up his own drink, raising it in a silent toast.
“Do you mind company?” he asked. Can I safely stay?
“It’s a free country,” Brienne replied. I’m not saying no.
Jaime nodded, turned to rest his elbow on the bar. They chatted, shallow flirtations she would not remember in the morning; her attention was focused on the door, hoping her lead would arrive, and focused on Jaime, all the things he did not say and all the ways he had changed. All the ways he had stayed the same. Secreted away all those little glimpses of the man she knew that leaked around the corners of his mask, told herself that it was just the familiarity she craved, the connection to a past she could not think of.
Two carefully nursed drinks later and well past the time she’d expected him to arrive, there was still no sign of the Blackfish, and the rote flirtations had… escalated. A bitten lip, a brushed elbow, every movement so steadfastly not how they’d been together that her skin burnt with the memories all the same. When he stood and made a faux-drunken stumble towards the narrow hall that led to the toilets, she waited only a minute to follow him.
The toilets were single use, dimly lit, and barely clean. Jaime had left the door ajar, just wide enough for Brienne to slip inside, and the moment she was through the door was kicked shut and his body moved towards her.
“Jaime…”
He was near-flush against her, pressing her against the door, his fingers on her hips, rising on the balls of his feet to lean in to speak against her ear. “Hello, Brienne.”
She fought the urge to cry. Nobody had called her that in… 18 months. Her handler called her Jeyne, or Tarth if he was feeling kind. She’d been allowed one phone call, early on; her fingers had hesitated, tempted to punch in Jaime’s number even after they’d left it… She’d called her father instead, locked the sound of his voice calling her by her name deep in her heart, only to be brought out in the most dire of circumstances.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she whispered.
He scoffed, harsh and bright and golden, and his lips twisted into a wry smile. “My job, same as you. I didn’t even know you were in the Riverlands, nevermind... I thought I was seeing a ghost for a moment, but you’re too damn stubborn to die.”
From anyone else, it would sound like a condemnation. He was so close, close enough that she could catch the scent of sweat beneath his heavy cologne, feel the heat radiating off him; she needed to push him away, make space between them, but she tilted her head back, exposed her throat so he could come closer. His breath tickled her neck, pebbled her nipples against the cheap cotton of her bra.
“How’s the case?”
She shouldn’t—shouldn’t tell him, shouldn’t be here—but… they’d been investigating it together, in the beginning, their antagonistic quarrelling shifting into something more; by the time she’d had to leave, they had spent most of their nights together. He deserved to know, that it hadn’t been in vain, that she hadn’t... .
“I found Sansa Stark.”
“Alive?”
Brienne nodded. “She’s tough. She got out, but… there are other girls. I couldn’t—”
He fell back slightly, gave her a strained smile and a rueful shake of his head. He had no business being so… this in a dingy bar toilet. “No, you couldn’t,” he said. “You wouldn’t be you if you could.”
His arm swayed towards her, his knuckles grazing against the inside of her wrist, and her composure faltered. She staggered forward, nearly colliding with his chest, pulled herself up just short.
“I shouldn’t—I have to go.”
He looked at his watch, his brow furrowing. “Anybody watching will think we’re fucking in here. Give it another five minutes, more if you can stand it, and make sure you’re rumpled when you leave.”
It was a valid point, but the urge to flee was rising. Away from the bar, away from him, away from the life she’d almost had, before her boss had come to her, offered the assignment, said Sansa’s name.
“I’m surprised you aren’t suggesting we actually fuck,” she said; it was crude, but she had to say something, something other than the foolish I miss you, I love you, Jaime I am so glad to see you even if it’s like this that she dared not voice.
“No,” Jaime said, with no such qualms. “Not here, like this. When you get home…”
Brienne winced. Living for that when could kill you, undercover. It couldn’t be an option; no after could be. She might be home in a week, a month, never.
“Jaime,” she said. “I told you not to wait. I can’t…”
She’d tried, so hard, to forget him. To file away their time together as beautiful but fleeting. And now he stood in front of her, two years later, with a look of such gentle, familiar amusement that her chest ached.
“I told you I would,” he replied. “You don’t think I’m a man of my word?”
She couldn’t help herself—she reached up, traced his brow, his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw. Leaned down to press her forehead against his, felt their breath mingling in the tiny space between them. It would be so easy to move, to brush their mouths, part their lips; it would be so easy and she couldn’t, she absolutely couldn’t, and so she stayed still, allowed this one silent moment to be enough. Eventually, Brienne swallowed and stepped back, finding herself against the door once more; they’d clasped hands at some point, though she hadn’t noticed when, and his thumb was brushing against her knuckles.
“Jaime,” she said softly, her answer of Of course I know you are, but I can’t—I can’t do my job if I’m living for an impossible dream dying on her lips. She squeezed his fingers once instead, allowed their hands to slide apart before walking to the sink, splashing some water on her face and running her hands through her hair. Rumpled her clothes. Studied herself in the mirror—even after two years the reflection was still unfamiliar, the dark hair and glasses somehow enough to give her some anonymity.
“It helps if you pinch your cheeks,” he said; she shifted her focus to meet his eyes in the mirror; he was smiling, her smile.
She did, and moved towards the door; he snagged her arm as she passed, tugged her in close.
“I don’t know who you’re looking for here, or why,” he said quietly. “But there’s going to be a raid. Saturday night. Don’t be here.”
“That’s why you’re…?”
“Yes.”
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other.
“Thank you,” she finally said, and he gave an exasperated sigh.
“There’s absolutely no chance you’ll stay away, is there?”
Of course he knew, he’d do the same. She shook her head.
“Hopefully I’ll make contact before,” she said. “But if it comes down to it, I’m duty-bound to come so long as there’s a chance.”
He gave her a small smile. “Then let’s hope it won’t come to that.”
Her chin wobbled, a tell she knew he knew all too well, and nodded stiffly. She could swear she felt his gaze on her back long after she’d left the toilets, the bar. Long after she was safe behind the locked door of her cheap motel room, staring at the water stains on the ceiling.