Chapter Text
Brienne has the whole day planned—it’s stupid to do so, it’s just Jaime and she knows he’ll be happy with a cheap card and whatever shitty movie they can find on streaming, but it’s his birthday and nobody else cares. His father’s assistant will send a too-expensive gift without so much as a tag but the ever-tangible reminder that he should return to the fold, and Tyrion might remember to text him if he’s not too drunk. He’s got other friends, the few he didn’t push away after the accident, but they’re scattered through the Seven Kingdoms. Nobody else is going to make a cake, or buy the stupid balloon swords he’d always wanted as a child, and maybe it’s too much for just a friend, and yes maybe her feelings are more than that, but it’s not why she’s doing any of this. She just wants to. It’s something she can do.
Of course, her plans last until all of 7:15 in the morning, when Cat texts her with a question about work and the next thing she knows she’s on her way to the office because—despite her boss’s insistence they can handle it—this is important. If they don’t file the forms before noon, months of work will be delayed and hundreds of families will be made homeless. And once she’s at work it’s so easy to swear she’ll just finish that one thing so it’s not waiting for her after the weekend, and sooner than she knows it’s 5pm and she’s worked through breakfast and lunch, the fucking party store is closed, there’s no time to bake, and so her carefully planned evening turns into a grocery store cake with sloppy roses and whatever he decides to order.
It’s shitty. It’s not what she’d planned and it’s not what he deserves, but when she opens the door to her apartment and he smiles at her like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen… No wonder she fell in love with him. He smells faintly of pine and vetiver when he hugs her, and she can feel the pull of his back muscles against her palm. She ought to hate him for being this attractive. It would be easier. Instead she pulls away, smiles.
“I have cake,” she says.
“Yours?”
Nobody else likes her absolutely generic, recipe-from-the-internet sponge cake enough to prefer it, and she shakes her head.
“Just chocolate fudge from the grocery store,” she says. “I know it’s not as good, but Cat called and….”
His smile widens. “You still remembered.”
If she ever meets Tywin Lannister, she will punch him on sight. No wealth in the world could convince that man to love his family, and Jaime had always borne the brunt of it. Oh, Tywin always liked him most, or the idea of him as the perfect heir, but love and understanding were in short supply. Jaime had done his best to give his siblings all the love he held; no one had returned it. It’s why it is so easy to hug him, to tilt her head and gesture him in, to apologise for all the things she hadn’t done.
“Brienne,” he says. “I haven’t seen you in a month. The cake is not the reason I’m here.”
There was a time she would have sought some hidden barb in his words, when there would have been one. But he is… gentle with her now, in his way. Sharp words are only meant to amuse, not harm.
“I know,” she says, and he arches his eyebrow as if demanding she not lie. “I know. I just— Let me get your gift, at least.”
He nods, and by the time she has slipped into her bedroom and returned with the gift bag he has sprawled onto her sofa, shoes off, shirt loosened at the throat, the grey of his trousers taut against his thigh in that way she does her best not to notice. He’s closed his eyes and tilted his head back, and for a moment she thinks he has fallen asleep. Setting the bag aside, she moves quietly across the room, intending to cover him with the blanket that hangs over the back of the couch; he opens one eye when she gets close though, smiles wryly.
“Coffee?” she asks.
He hums in response. “I’ll help you.”
He follows her into the kitchen, digs through the cupboards for his favourite mug. Asks her about her day as the old coffeemaker gargles to life. Sometimes she doesn’t know how to deal with him, with the ease he fits into her life like he fits everywhere; worse still is the thought that one day she may not need to. So she shrugs when he asks about work, launches into a too-long explanation while he watches her, his hips resting on the counter and his long legs stretched before him.
"I'm talking too much," she says when his lips quirk, turns to open the fridge to hide her blush.
"No," he says behind her. "No, I just like hearing about your job. Ser Brienne, Saviour of the Smallfolk."
She frowns, her fist tightening around the milk carton. "If people like your father didn't uphold the systems that—"
"Brienne." She glances over her shoulder and he is smiling. "I know. I agree. I'd rather not talk about him right now."
"Oh. Right. Sorry. Anyway, the paperwork is filed and the final hearing date is in a fortnight."
"The 15th?"
"Yeah."
"I'm out of town from the 7th, but I should be back in time for a celebratory—"
"Or commisitory."
"Celebratory dinner the day after. Unless you have plans?"
"Just sleep. I'm sure I can fit you in."
It isn't particularly funny, but usually Jaime would laugh; instead his brow creases, quickly masked by a strained smile when he sees her looking.
"It's a date,” Jaime says, and then he tilts his head. “Speaking of…"
"Yes, I went. Yes, he was nice. No, I will not be going out with him again."
Willas had been nice. He'd also been politely deferential to the point of boredom, but it’s hardly his fault Brienne likes her men to be as stubborn as she is.
Jaime nods. “I don’t know how they turned out so insipid, given their grandmother. The girl isn’t bad—”
“Jaime! Don’t be unkind.”
“I’m just saying, don’t settle.”
“I already said I wasn’t going out with him again.”
“Good,” he says, more tersely than is necessary.
“Good.”
The coffee is done, and she pushes past him to pour it out. The man is infuriating in his concern, made worse by the knowledge that a few years ago she really might have gone out again. There is nothing wrong with Willas, after all.
“Good birthday?” she asks, mostly to change the subject.
“Father sent me a lion-headed fountain pen made of pure gold,” Jaime says dryly, and Brienne laughs, the weird moment of tension dissipating.
She hands him his coffee, raises an eyebrow. “That’s positively tame by his standards, do you think he’s gotten the message?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Shame.”
He smiles and lifts the mug to his lips, sighs as he takes a sip.
“Your coffee is always the best,” he says.
“Ahh yes, the three-dragon store brand is always a fine vintage.”
He shrugs easily, a lithe sort of movement that she tries not to think about.
“Maybe it’s the company,” he says. “You don’t get modern day knights at the cafe down the street.”
He’s looking at her again, in that way that’s too soft and fond for her composure, so she turns away, puts the milk back in the fridge.
“What do you want to watch?” she asks. “There’s… well, the exact same selection as at your place.”
“We can pick together,” he says, and when she opens her mouth to object he waves her words away. “I don’t want you falling asleep out of boredom. That couch will do your back in, and while I’d happily carry you like a knight of old….”
“I’d probably crush you.”
“Oh, I’m strong enough. But I doubt you’d appreciate it.”
The image of being in his arms flashes in her mind, far too welcome.
“Probably not,” she agrees, picking up her own mug. “Come on.”
The two of them settle on the couch, pick a middle-of-the-road action film. The acting is shit and the plot nonsensical, but the lead is an older woman so it sidesteps most of the misogyny of the genre. Twenty minutes in, his phone rings and he pauses the movie.
“Hey.” Pause. “No, I haven’t—” Pizza? He mouths to Brienne and she nods. “Yeah, I’m at Brienne’s. Do you need the— Yeah, fuck you too.” He laughs and hangs up.
“Should I ask?”
“My brother, in his infinite wisdom, has decided that the gift for the man who has everything is pizza from the new place down the road. Apparently it’s the best he's ever had.”
Brienne has long given up trying to understand Lannisters. So she nods and they resume watching the movie and then the pizza arrives, and Tyrion is obnoxiously right that it's good pizza. Richly layered, but not pretentious in the way she expects Tyrion's tastes to be.
She eats half the pizza before Jaime is finished his second slice—she's hungrier than she realised, now she's not mired in work—and it's all so fucking mundane. It could be any night they have shared, except she can't stop thinking about things she'd long sworn not to think about, until her skin burns red and she shifts in her seat trying to chase away her awareness.
Near the end of the movie—she's long lost track of the plot, but it's some romantic music swelling in the background so it's got to be almost over—she glances over. He's absorbed in the scene, his profile glowing golden in the light of the lamp. He wipes at a stray string of cheese on his lip, licks it from his finger. Hums in pleasure.
She bolts from the couch, cunt clenching.
"Drink? There's still coffee, or…"
"I'm fine."
"Well I should—" How the fuck is she suddenly aware of her nipples against her t-shirt, every breath a reminder of their existence? "I'll get myself one then."
"You want me to pause this?"
"Nah. I won't be long."
"You okay?"
Just thinking about pushing you against that couch and riding you until I scream.
"Fine. Just thirsty."
He looks sceptical, but she practically runs out of the room before he can say more. Before he can see more. She just needs to gain control again.
In the kitchen, she grips the edge of the counter, pants. She needs… She doesn't know where this has come from, every nerve on edge, her mind fixating on carnal pleasures long deemed impossible. His beard against her thighs, the aching fullness when he thrusts into her. She whimpers, hangs her head, grips the counter tighter.
She needs to… One hand moves between her thighs, the nail of her thumb running against the seam of her jeans, a spark of pleasure that only twists her higher. She needs to come and she needs to do it now, anything to take off the edge.
She unzips the fly, slips her hand between denim and cotton. Her underwear is soaking, a musky scent teasing her, making her think of his cock in her mouth, his hand in her hair.
"Fuck," she curses quietly as she pushes the underwear aside, her fingers slipping too easily between her folds, over her clit. She's not sure she's ever been this wet, not sure she's ever been this desperate for something that can not be.
She uses the heel of her palm as her fingers dip inside her cunt, a sweet pressure that is nowhere near enough, and she wants to cry when it only drives her higher, when there is no relief in her release.
Clenching her thighs, she tries to think. She needs him to leave before she—
"Brienne?"
She pulls her hand out, wipes her hand against her thigh to wash away the evidence, tries to smile as she spins around just as he enters her little galley kitchen. He's too close, close enough to smell him, close enough to feel his heat.
"You should head home," she manages to say.
"You okay?"
"Yep. Just tired. Long day. But take your cake, I wouldn't—"
He steps even closer and she thinks— well, she doesn't think, only tilts her head to expose her throat, whimpers when his fingers brush against her pulse.
"I just got a text from Tyrion," he says. "Apparently they sent his pizza to us and ours to him and his paramour."
She nods, ears buzzing. His fingers are stroking her throat and she can't think, her fists clenched so tightly her nails dig into her palm. The prickles of pain are what she focuses on.
"How did he not notice? It was just pepperoni."
"Apparently not. Seems the pizzeria has a… side business in aphrodisiacs, a business my brother approves of wholeheartedly."
"I don't—"
"You're flushed, pupils dilated, short of breath." He leans closer, so his whispered words brush against her ear, make her squirm. "All I want right now is to push you up against this counter, feast on your delectable-smelling cunt until you forget your own name, until you shake and sob and beg for more."
She swallows and he pulls away, his eyes studying hers. He licks his lips.
"Lucky for both of us I ate far less than you did. Because you don't really want that."
"I do."
The words are ripped from her throat, laced with pleading need. She'd be ashamed, only she's thinking of that tongue again, thinking how good it would feel to come around it, to lick the taste from his mouth.
"Don't tempt me, darling," he says with a shake of his head.
"Please."
"No. Not like this, Brienne."
He gives a ragged sigh and she wants to ask him how, if not like this then how damn it, but even the tiny shift of her weight tightens that need within her and she cries out.
"Bed," he says. "Tyrion says it wears off in six to eight hours."
"I can't last that long." It hurts, wanting this much.
He leans up, presses a kiss to her temple that is far too tender. "Of course you can, ser." And fuck him and fuck Tyrion and fuck all her better senses because she grips his shirt and pulls him in, and he kisses her and it is so damned good…
He pulls away, chest heaving, and fuck fuck fuck she's ruined it, she's wanted too much and now he knows and he's so gentle as he takes her hands in his and leads her towards her bedroom. She sees the still-open pizza box on the coffee table as she passes and the absurdity of it hits her and she laughs, but then he smiles and she can’t— She closes her eyes and breathes and his thumb strokes her wrist and she burns.
“Almost there,” he says, his voice strained though he gives her a smile when she opens her eyes once more. She glances down, sees the outline of his hard cock against his trousers. It really does not help.
“You can’t drive like that,” she blurts out.
“Don’t worry about me.”
For a moment, her irritation cuts through her arousal. “I can worry as I like.”
“Your stubbornness in the face of adversity is noted,” he says dryly. “Come on.”
She shakes her head. “Take the spare room, at least.”
“That’s not—”
“Please.”
It’s not like he hasn’t on other nights, but never… never when she’d felt like all her carefully constructed fences, friendship on one side and desire on the other, would fall away if she only put her hand against them and pushed. Not when she is close enough she can imagine them beneath her palms, when every nerve ending cries out for her to do it.
He nods slowly. His thumb is still stroking and the repetitive motion soothes; it is not enough to take this need away, not enough to make her stop thinking how badly she wants him, but it dulls the edge, allows her to keep walking until they reach her bedroom door even though her cunt aches.
“You’re sure you won’t join me?” she asks, voice hoarse, already knowing his answer.
He shakes his head.
“No. As much as I would… This desire isn’t yours,” he says.
It is, she almost says, but she knows these are words she can never unsay, that in the morning this will have passed and she must live with the consequences. She pulls her hand from his, places it on the doorknob, the metal smooth and cool to the touch.
“Good night then, Jaime,” she says, and slips into the quiet dark of her bedroom alone.