Chapter Text
The keys aren’t where he left them. Jaime spends a good minute staring at the bottom of the empty mailbox before remembering he took them out just before they left. There wasn’t any sensitive information in the flat, but it still seemed bad practice to leave the place wide open for burglars. He swings his backpack down off his shoulders and searches the side pockets. Kleenex, half a packet of spearmint gum, a torch, ah, there were the keys, gleaming dully right at the bottom.
Zipping the pocket closed, he straightens up and begins the process of unlocking the door. Back in May, when they’d procured the place, Brienne had insisted on proper security. Ironic, seeing as after buying half a dozen locks they proceeded to leave the keys lying around.
Eventually the door creaks open. He hesitates just a fraction too long before walking inside. He hasn’t been here since the first week of August. A light layer of dust has settled over the furniture, when he drops his bag onto the sofa it rises in a small cloud. He waves it away, and makes for the kitchen.
To his great relief, the whiskey is still at the back of the cupboard. It was a sarcastic birthday present from Tyrion that Jaime hadn’t known what to do with. He doesn’t like whiskey, and Brienne doesn’t drink. Didn’t drink.
He was invited to the funeral, more of a formality than anything else. They spent a lot of time working together; it would be only natural for him to show up and pay his respects.
Jaime pours himself a glassful of whiskey and walks back into the living room. He didn’t go to the funeral because he wouldn’t fit in. That’s what he told Varys, anyway. His boss clicked his tongue and sighed, but didn’t press it. He’s lost a lot of agents over the years, knows the proceedings well enough not to pry.
A puff of air escapes from the sofa as he sits down. Taking a sip, Jaime surveys the flat. They were so preoccupied with the assignment that there wasn’t much tidying done before they left. A couple of empty coffee mugs are on the table that holds the TV, Brienne’s sandals are lying in the middle of the floor. He doesn’t trust himself to look at them too long.
The rest of the flat will be even worse. Until Varys tells him otherwise, he’s going to resume living here, which means he’s going to have to clean out Brienne’s room. Her family will probably want her things, if he can bring himself to gather them together.
The glass is empty before he knows it. He’s pouring a second one when there’s a sound. It takes him embarrassingly long to recognise it as somebody knocking on the front door.
Wonderful. One of the neighbours, probably – coming to inquire how the building’s most elusive couple enjoyed their holiday. Playing neighbours has been a necessary part of their cover. Sighing, Jaime goes to answer it. He’ll have to say they’ve split up. Brienne met someone else, he cheated on her – there are endless ways their fictional relationship could have ended.
The glass is still in his hand when he’s reaching for the door. He looks around for somewhere to put it, but the hall is narrow and empty. Oh well, it’s not that out of place for a recently single man to open the door while nursing a drink.
Carefully composing his features to resemble what he imagines patient melancholy looks like, Jaime opens the door.
He recognises her figure immediately, but it takes five seconds or so for him to process what he’s seeing. She’s wearing a long black coat, and an ugly grey beanie that hides most of her hair, and when she turns her head to meet his gaze her voice falters.
‘They said you were dead.’ Far from sticking in his throat, the words tumble out as if he has no control over them. Maybe he doesn’t. It would be the least bizarre thing that’s happening today.
‘I know,’ she says, matter-of-fact. ‘May I come in?’
‘It’s your flat too.’ He opens the door wider, and steps aside to let her pass. The hall is so narrow that she has to squeeze past him, and he gets a whiff of perfume. It’s so unlike her that he has to stop himself frowning.
Brienne hangs her coat up on the rack, and walks through to the living room. Her eyes alight on the whiskey bottle, and she swings round to look at him, her face accusingly concerned.
‘You hate whiskey.’
‘And you were dead.’ He drains his glass, just to make the point. Now he’s actually drinking it, he’s going to have to say thank you to Tyrion. ‘Care to elaborate on that?’
‘It’s…complicated.’ Brienne sinks into an armchair, and he returns to his spot on the sofa. ‘I got to the computer, that was all fine. It was on the way out, I ran into Clegane.’
‘The elder?’
She nods, and Jaime swears under his breath.
‘So when I was meant to be rejoining you I was being whisked off to his private jet.’ It’s then that he notices the bruises, purple against the pale skin of her neck. The suit she’s wearing covers most of her top half, but suddenly Jaime knows from the way she’s holding herself that she’s hurting elsewhere. He would have realised sooner, if it weren’t for the shock of seeing her at all. ‘I didn’t get away till we’d landed in Italy.’
‘And you didn’t call because he’d find you?’
She nods again. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So Varys never knew you were out when it blew?’
‘No, he knew Clegane had me. I saw him just before I came here.’ Her blue eyes are steady.
‘And he didn’t tell me that because?’ Jaime’s right hand is gripping the glass so tightly his knuckles are white.
‘He thought you’d want to go after me. And that it would be no use.’ Brienne’s gaze flickers. ‘Would you have?’
He hated her for the first three months they worked together. ‘Of course.’
She doesn’t quite smile, but one side of her mouth lifts a little.
‘You must be exhausted.’ Jaime gets up quickly. ‘I’ve only just got here, so I haven’t looked at our rooms yet. I don’t know what state they’re in.’
‘As long as the mattresses are still there I don’t care.’ Brienne gets up too, and stretches. ‘Do we have any food?’
He forgot to get groceries on the way, but there’s some instant soup on the shelf. She insists upon preparing it herself; so he just leans against the kitchen doorframe and watches. The flat feels complete with her in it. Come the morning, he’s going to have a few choice things to say to Varys.
The kettle takes forever to boil. Brienne stares at it, and Jaime stares at her. She looks exactly as he expects to see her; tall and strong and focused on her task, regardless of its mundaneness. It hits him again that she’s really here, and before he knows what he’s doing Jaime has started across the room, one hand outstretched. He has to touch her, make sure she’s real. It may be something he’ll regret later, but the memory of the last week is still fresh in his mind. She looks up, just as his hand lands on her bicep, and suddenly he’s very conscious that their faces are only a foot apart.
The moment stretches on, and just when he’s steeling himself to do something it passes. The kettle clicks and she looks away, and he has to step back to stop it getting weird. (It was weird anyway.)
It’s safe and easy after that. She sits and eats her soup, and he fills her in on his half of the mission. Once he’s done she takes over, filling in the detail of her capture, escape and return. It hadn’t quite sunk in before that she’d been caught by Gregor Clegane. A wave of belated terror washes over him, followed by fervent relief. He asks after her injuries and she dismisses them, arguing that Varys saw fit to let her go after a brief checkup. Given his current faith in Varys, the assurance doesn’t do a great deal of good.
‘Have you been in contact with your family?’ he asks, because it has to be said sooner or later.
‘No,’ she admits. ‘It isn’t like I can call them. I thought about going to my father instead of here, but… it’s awful, really. I didn’t have the energy.’
Jaime can’t empathise, and yet he knows what she means. His own family would hardly be distraught if he showed up unexpectedly, bruised and exhausted, but his family cannot be relied upon to react sanely to any situation. His exposure to the Starks, however, allows him to appreciate Brienne’s viewpoint. No doubt her father would be overjoyed to see her, but she would have to constantly reassure him that she was all right, and just now she’s not in shape to be taking care of anybody.
‘Go to bed,’ he suggests, lifting the empty soup bowl from the table and putting it in the sink. Washing up is one of the many chores they can postpone till tomorrow.
‘I think I will. Are my clothes still there? I don’t have anything but this.’
‘I haven’t touched anything,’ he promises. He’s done in the kitchen as well, so he turns off the light and accompanies her into the living room.
Just outside her door, Brienne pauses, and looks back at him. ‘I missed you.’
‘Me too.’ The intimate words sound strange on his tongue, and yet they come quite naturally. ‘I’m glad you’re back.’