#now that i think about it doing a handstand requires wrist flexibility and really good upper body and core strength...

[turkey-sandwich]

I hope Midori's FS2 has him doing a handstand

[sapphires-and-gold-fics]

Fictober Day 21: “Change is annoyingly difficult.”

Fandom: Game of Thrones / ASOIAF

Characters: Jaime Lannister / Brienne of Tarth

Read on AO3

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Jaime hated physical therapy, though not as much as he hated the absence of his right hand. In the grand scheme of things, it was a hatred of physical therapy, an abhorrence for the lack of a hand, his ex, and then most of all, Brienne. 

His physiotherapist was a brute. Tall - taller than him, broad of shoulder - broader than his, scarred - okay, on that account he could concede that his were worse. She was freckled all over - down to gods knew where, and she hated him. So naturally, he hated her back. Even though she had absolutely astonishing blue eyes that liked to trip him up. And even though, at the end of the day, what she was doing was helping him. And okay maybe she didn’t hate him, maybe she was just like that with everyone. 

The accident that had taken his hand had been just that - he hadn’t asked for it to happen. He’d just broken up with his ex - again - and he’d been angry and  cocky in his driving. It never paid to do that. The next thing he knew, the sports car was wrapped around a tree and his hand was trapped between the dash and the door frame. 

From what he could tell in passing, the bulk of Brienne’s patients were alcoholics. They’d all done something idiotic like drive off a bridge, or try to do a handstand on a train platform, or operate a saw while not knowing how to operate a saw. She seemed to show them no sympathy, and he apparently was grouped in with the rest. It’s not that she wasn’t a good physiotherapist, it’s that maybe she probably would have been better suited to working with prison inmates. 

On this fine Tuesday morning, she was being really hard on him, by Jaime’s standards. Not only did he have to suffer through his usual semi-weekly routine of standard recovery exercises, but every session she now had him trying to lift a little more weight using the remaining forearm - today he was up to 10 pounds. Afterwards, she would always beat his arm until it was bruised, like normal. Sure, the medical bills called it therapeutic massage, an alternating of cold packs and heat packs with pressure, but really it was just torture. If he had a physiotherapist with smaller hands, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. Of course then maybe it also wouldn’t feel as loose and flexible come next session. 

He was in the middle of lifting the ten pound weight with his forearm when he stopped and stared at Brienne across the small gym space. She stared back, an eyebrow up. “What’s up, Lannister?”

“Wench, I’ve just realized that my arm doesn’t hurt.”

“I told you not to call me that.” 

Okay, so some of the antagonism had been his fault. “Sorry - Brienne. My arm doesn’t hurt.”

“Like the pressure of the band is cutting off your circulation, or like it doesn’t hurt to be moving it like that?”

“The latter. Definitely the latter.”

The therapist broke into a crooked-toothed smile that brightened her eyes, and for a second Jaime thought she actually looked like a pleasant person to know. 

“That’s good, Lannister. It means your muscles are building up. Have you been working with the band between appointments?”

“Yes,” he said, curling his arm toward his chest again. 

“What about your other arm?”

He nearly dropped the weight, but he stopped himself and slowly lowered it to the ground. “Uh…?”

Brienne sighed and walked over, stepping around mats and blocks. “Lannister, you’ve gotta work both arms.”

“My left arm is fine!” he flexed it and spun his wrist to show her. 

“Lannister, the loss of a dominant hand means that the other is going to take some strain. It’s best if you build it up so that not only can you do everything you need to with it, but this way when the muscles build up on the injured arm, you don’t wind up looking like Popeye after only half a can of spinach.”

Jaime let out an exasperated sigh. “Change is annoyingly difficult. It’s bad enough I have to come here and be tortured by you.”

Brienne cocked her head and raised her brow.

judging me, wench? “I never went to the gym before all this.”

“You didn’t?”

“Not like this! I mean I have a gym membership but mostly I used it for cardio when it rains, or for the shower when my building doesn’t have hot water.”

Brienne’s brows drew together, but the glance was gone in an instant. “Excuse me for observing, but you seemed in excellent shape other than - this. What were you doing before the incident?”

“Incident,” Jaime said with a sneer. “You say it like all I did was stub my toe on the sofa leg. I’m down a hand, wench. At least call it a maiming.”

She took a breath and counted to ten. “What were you doing before you lost it?”

“It’s not mislaid!”

“Mr. Lannister.”

“Jaime.”

Fine, Jaime, what were you doing to keep up your physical health when you had all of your appendages? 

“He scowled and muttered an answer under his breath before doing another rep.”

“What was that?”

He set the weight down with a heavy sigh. “I’m a choreographer.”

Brienne’s eyebrows perked up, and she bent her head toward him with interest. “Like dancing?”

“Almost. I thought about it for a while,” he smiled to himself. “But actually, like combat. Some film stuff but mostly stage.”

“Professionally?”

She sounds... impressed? “Yeah. You know that national tour of Targaryen Times they started running once the local franchises proved unprofitable?”

She nodded, and he noticed her neck was suddenly the faintest pink; he looked away.

“I choreographed all the sword play for that, and the jousting.” Jaime could have stopped there, but it had been so long since he’d had a chance to talk to someone about something he loved so much. “On top of that,” he continued, “my niece and nephews have been in high school for the last ten years or so, overlapping you know, and you wouldn’t believe how much Shakespeare one school can do in a decade - it’s a lot. So I kept busy… I guess I stayed in shape by handling heavy weaponry.”

“And dancing,” she japed.

He chuckled, “Yeah.” 

“Well you can still do that, can’t you?”

“Why, did you want to dance my lady?”

She snorted. 

Oh, that’s kind of endearing, he thought.

“I meant the fight choreo.”

“Sure I can still technically do it but I’ve always marked out a fight by doing it myself. And then I make a video of me playing it out so that the actors can learn it. My dominant hand is gone. I can barely handle a dagger in my left hand—”

“—all the more reason to work up that arm.”

“But even then my right —”

“Jaime you’re lifting 10 pounds without pain on your right arm now. Couldn’t you use a shield on that arm?” 

He toyed with the thought. “I see what you’re saying. Maybe in another ten pounds I could think about that. But not all choreo requires a shield. And some weapons require two hands. At this point I’ll need to hire someone for me to direct in order to record the fights.”

She was thinking. Loudly. 

“What?”

“Have you thought about prosthetics? You might be able to get one made that would be specifically for managing a two-handed grip like for a broadsword, and it’s not out of the realm of possibility that you could get one made that had a lock grip with enough of a rating to hold a foil so that it would be like using your right hand again - you wouldn’t have the same range of motion, so it might not be ideal but I think it’s worth a shot, Jaime. I’ve got a colleague who specializes in 3D printing and prosthetic parts with weight ratings - maybe you can talk to him about something that does have some range of motion? I mean if you’re looking at handling a mace or a morning star I would probably insist on you just training your left hand for those - too tricky - but for other things there might be another way.”

Jaime’s mouth was hanging open, he could tell. But he wasn’t sure he had the strength to close it. He dipped his head in order to force his jaw closed. 

“Did you—”

Brienne was now blushing - quite prettily, if he was honest - all over. 

Huh. 

“Are you trained?”

She nodded. “I actually worked for the local Targaryen Times before -”

“You were a--”

“--A knight, yeah.” 

Suddenly some pieces fell into place. Her height. Her breadth. Her strength. 

“So you can—”

“Yeah - spar, joust - I’ve handled a lot of weapons.” She grinned that goofy crooked tooth grin that made those astonishing eyes even bluer somehow and Jaime’s gut suddenly felt like it was on fire. “I usually won.”

“Of course you did,” he sighed before swallowing hard. “Um…” he gestured at the weight on the ground, “Should I...?” he gestured dumbly in a flexing motion, like he was suddenly struck stupid under her gaze. 

She nodded, “10 more reps and then we’ll get everything nice and loose again.” 

“Uhhuh.”

He did the reps and then climbed up on the table for her to start the massage that always felt like ice and fire but which today just felt profoundly like a massage - a good one. He made sure to ask her for her prosthetic guy’s info. And then he made sure to get her number - “for the videos,” he said. “I could use someone I don’t need to train on top of direct, you know?” 

She’d nodded and handed him back his phone. “And maybe I can help train you. Get your sword back in your hand.”

“What?”

“Your left hand - maybe I can help you? You’re a choreographer so I think your instincts are probably good, you just need to improve your flexibility.” The belly fire was back. Huh.