Despite all odds -- despite the epic disaster that the mere phrase 'infiltrating Daenerys Targarynen’s swanky black tie soiree undercover with Brienne' seems to promise -- Jaime thinks they just might make it out, for a minute. Brienne detaches the zip drive from the laptop (taking the time to eject it properly, of course; "You do realize that doesn't do anything?" Jaime points out impatiently, and earns himself a thoroughly delightful glare). She shoves it into her sparkly clutch purse, which she's been handling all night with vague distrust, as though suspicious it might explode.
"Mission accomplished?" Jaime grins.
"Mission accomplished," she agrees, and even graces him with the tiniest hint of a smile.
He proposes a fistbump.
Ah, there's that glare again.
"Haven't you ever heard of celebration, Lady Disdain?"
"There's no time to celebrate."
"Oh, come on, now. We can at least stop for McFlurries on our way back to headquarters."
"The last thing you need is sugar—"
"Actually, I'm fairly certain the last thing I need is you dictating my diet, again--"
“You can’t keep eating like a ten year old boy—”
“You can’t say I’m not a physically perfect specimen. You’ve felt my abs—”
“Because you wouldn’t shut up and get back to work until I touched them—”
And then the doorknob twists with an ominous creak.
"Well, fuck," Jaime says, and starts considering the weaponry potential of the objects surrounding them. The dragon-shaped bookends look hefty.
"Right," Brienne is saying, her hands suddenly on his shoulders, "don't you dare read into this."
And then she kisses him with determined and surprising force, steering him onto the desk. He knocks over a cup full of writing utensils; it spills with a clatter.
Oh, this – this is the best thing that’s ever happened. He will never, never, never let her live this down.
"Brienne," he teases, having entirely too good a time with the syllables of her name, and rests his hands on her hips.
"Stop it," she hisses (intriguingly breathless in a way that definitely deserves further exploration), and he laughs against her mouth.
The door opens, and there’s Ms. Targaryen’s second in command, Jorah Mormont. It figures. The man’s loyal as a dog, and has no doubt been sniffing out potential intruders all night long. "What the--?"
"Damn it!" Jaime says, pulling away from his (kissing) partner. She looks flushed and determined, blue eyes bright, cheeks pink, lipstick smeared, and he has to admit that for someone so homely, he does get perhaps inordinate amounts of enjoyment out of looking at her. Somehow, you can't quite get to know her face and still call Brienne unattractive.
“God,” Brienne says, slipping seamlessly into an American accent, “how embarrassing.”
Jaime follows suit. And goes Southern, just for fun. "Peaches, I've told you a thousand times, this exhibitionist kink of yours is going to get us into some very naughty trouble. We do have a bed." He meets their intruder's eyes and tragically adds, "Honestly, I can't take her anywhere."
"We're terribly sorry," Brienne says, and stomps on his foot. The urge to laugh is almost as strong as the urge to cry out from the crippling pain. That woman belongs nowhere near stiletto heels, and not just because they make her tower over him. “We were just—“ She falters. It’s typical: Brienne’s default setting when it comes to sex is ‘blush like a twelve year old’, which makes sense when your track record basically consists of Your Gay Boss and that jackass Hyle Hunt.
(You’re one to talk, says an inconveniently Cersei-esque voice in his head, but now is hardly the time for yet another ‘just how great a life decision was it to fall in love with my stepsister?’ existential crisis.)
“Horny,” Jaime supplies. “But that alone is no excuse to romp around like teenagers at a kegger, am I right?”
There’s a tense five seconds of silence before Mormont smiles. “At least someone is having an enjoyable time.”
“Thank you so much for the lovely party,” Brienne says with a gracious smile. “We’ll just get ourselves out of your hair.”
She grabs Jaime’s hand and grips it like she intends to crush every bone. Ah, the joys of partnerdom, he thinks as she drags him out.
“Okay, that definitely merits a fistbump,” Jaime announces once they’re safely back out in the car.
Brienne narrows her eyes at him until he buckles his seatbelt. Then and only then does she actually start to drive. She is (he thinks, not unaffectionately) the squarest spy that’s ever lived. “Fistbumping is unprofessional.”
“And what about making out on the job, hmm, Agent? I suppose that’s the height of professionalism?”
“You’re such an ass.”
“An ass I may be, but now I know your true feelings for me. Go on, don’t deny it any longer, you insatiable wench.”
“Do you really think I’d ever kiss you unless I had literally no other options?”
“We could’ve hit him over the head with the dragon bookend.”
“That did cross my mind—”
“Aha! See.” He reaches over to squeeze her shoulder triumphantly. “Another option.”
She quiets instead of chastising him some more. That’s always a harrowing sign. She stops at a yellow light, like the maddeningly dutiful driver she is. Then, after a strangely tense moment (for their moments usually aren’t these days, now that they’ve settled into each other): “I hate when you tease me.”
“I’m not teasing you,” he protests.
She laughs a little, exasperated. “Yes you are!”
“I’m bantering at you! We’re bantering. It’s what we do. Isn’t it?”
“I just don’t like to be made into a joke, that’s all. Everyone else does it. I don’t need it from you as well.”
“You’re not a joke.”
“Brienne Tarth, Insatiable Wench? It sounds quite a lot like a joke to me.”
“Is this about that Who Can Bang Brienne the Beauty nonsense? Because you should know me better than to think I’d have anything to do with that.”
“I like to think I know you better.”
“Damned right, you do. You do remember what happened with that shit Connington?”
Brienne very carefully doesn’t smile. The corner of her mouth twitches with the effort. “You really shouldn’t punch your colleagues.”
“Yeah, well. They really shouldn’t talk less-than-glowingly about my partner.”
“How chivalrous,” she says – with great dryness and poise, but he can tell she’s cheering up.
“Believe you me, milady fair,” he says, inspiring an eye roll, “kissing you makes for a—” He pauses thoughtfully, pretending to deliberate, “—fairly decent day on the job. Better than the time I saved you from the bear, that’s for sure.”
“I may have preferred the bear to the kissing, myself.”
“Oh, that’s gratitude for you.”
“And besides, I wouldn’t go so far as to say you saved me—”
“Bullocks, I totally saved you! And do you know what?”
“I only save beauties.”
She turns to look at him, which is quite wild and risky driving by her standards. He smiles at her. This seems to inspire some mad decision, because she takes an unpredicted right.
“Wait, where are we going?”
“Tiny detour,” she replies with a perfect poker face. When they pull into the McDonald’s parking lot, he thinks he may have to kiss her again.
“I knew it,” Jaime says gleefully, “you’re trying to seduce me.”
“We’re splitting one between the both of us,” she answers firmly.
“Fine, fine. So long as there are mini M&Ms, I’ll agree to your terms.”
And like any pair of illustrious agents, they celebrate their victory with two spoons and a M&M McFlurry in the McDonald’s parking lot. Privately, Jaime thinks there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
(No way he’s telling the insatiable wench that, of course.)