Chapter Text
Things, it could be argued, had escalated. Liz noticed that Finn was walking awkwardly into the building. Point to her. She also acknowledged that she had to have a little talk with herself about her own body’s reaction to him. Point to an unjust god.
Liz was self-aware. It’s difficult to grow up the child of well-educated, well-meaning parents, beautiful, blonde and intelligent, without constant self-imposed reality checks. She knew she was running from what happened last night. What was still happening. Maybe ‘running’ was the wrong word. More like surfing (she hated actual surfing) the wave of what her life had become. If she didn't move with the mass, she would drown. Drowning was not an option. Thoughts of Richard’s face and voice, disjointed, came to her unbidden. No. Tamp it down. Work to do.
She spent the rest of the day in meetings about Metwork. So much to do. What a wonderful feeling that was. Mostly people just did what they were told and kept their opinions about her mental state to questioning stares when they thought she wasn't looking. A few brave souls asked her how she was feeling and she blasted them with all the thankful sincerity she could muster before turning and dropping the expression from her face like a hot rock.
She spoke to DI Harding four times throughout the day, each with increasing levels of frustration for both parties. First was the news that they'd pulled the CCTV footage, but it wasn't of any use. They were wearing hoods. Knew where to angle their faces to avoid the camera. That was fine. She didn't expect more than that. The next two conversations were purportedly to give her updates, but in reality were thinly veiled accusations that her attack was her own fault for stopping the removal of the graffiti. It didn't help that Finn was in the room for one of those conversations and she had to watch his face attempt to remain impassive. It didn't. She hated him. She loved his mouth.
The last conversation was around 6pm. In it, Harding told her she should stay with a friend or in a hotel under an assumed name. Her safety couldn't be guaranteed at her own place. She thanked him for his insight and hung up, planning to completely ignore his advice. The first person that came to mind as Granger and she would rather be hit over the head again, honestly. Actually, she wouldn't even acknowledge the first first person that came to mind because that was laughable. No. she wouldn't let this take over her life. She needed a distraction.
“Mia! Hey.” She sauntered casually up to her employee’s desk, “any plans tonight? I could really use a drink.”
“Er, actually I do have plans? I’m supposed to go over to mum’s to help her digitize old photos.” She looked uneasy and Liz knew her own face hadn't masked the disappointment quickly enough. “I could probably change that. I’ll change that.”
“No! No, god. Please don't. I just. I’ll be…” she almost said fine, but that would imply she wouldn't be anyway. “No, have fun!”
“Four hours with wine and a scanner. Bound to be a thousand laughs.”
“Right!” Liz did a pretty decent impression of a laugh, “Um, goodnight then.” Liz made her way back to her office despite the fact that she was wearing her coat already. Hopefully no one noticed. Fuck it. She really had to spend more time making friends she didn't hate. She dropped her coat into a chair and made herself a coffee, delaying going home, wondering if she should get a hotel room after all. She looked through her window out over London at night. Beautiful and majestic. Lonely and terrifying. She heard a distinctive throat clearing behind her, just outside the door of her office. She tried to keep herself from smiling and failed. Hopefully he couldn't see her reflection in the glass.
“Planning on knocking through some walls?”
“One or two. Would anyone miss The Shard, really?”
She turned in time to see an eye roll. “I finished this list. Personal opinion, we should go with Angela for anchor. She's been critical of us in the past, but never, you know, critical, critical. And she’s not white, which helps. On other levels.”
“Nice, Finn.” It was dripping with sarcasm but also she probably meant it.
“Right, well-”
“Should I get a hotel room?” He froze. His face a rictus of awkward confusion tinged with hopeful spite. Gorgeous. She threw him a lifeline, “Harding says I’m not safe at home. And I know I could ask to post TSGs outside my flat, but that would become the story. And I don't want that.”
Relief passed over his face quickly followed by annoyance. He very clearly wanted to leave. That hurt her. He spoke quickly and without much inflection. “You know what’s best for you. And at a hotel you could boss a whole new group of people around, which might be fun. I guess just keep me informed with what you decide.” He turned to leave.
“Finn, wait.” She addressed his turned but now motionless back. “I don't want to go home. I don't want to go anywhere.” She winced at the admission.
He faced her again, a wary look on his face. He was intelligent, she knew. Not like Granger. You could tell Granger two contradictory statements or express two polar opposite emotions and if he even noticed, he wouldn't think much of it, just attempt to fuck the change of events. She could see Finn at war with himself. At war with her. “I know I’m sending you mixed messages about my state of mind. This isn't about work. I can speak for myself, still. That hasn't changed. But, um,” she decided there wasn't much to lose anyway, “it turns out I don't have any friends here. Or many. And I could use someone to talk to without having to explain everything about me. And since you’ve been spying on me during our entire working relationship, you’re um, perfectly suited for the task.” That tasted wrong in her mouth, but she attempted to sell it to him, anyway.
“You want to talk to someone.”
“Yeah! I’ll buy your drinks and everything.”
“Liz, we’re not friends.” He spat the word; he was good at spitting.
“Oh, Christ. Of course we're not. God, no.”
“So then why would I-”
“Think of it as leverage.” She sounded desperate and it scared her that she didn't mind. “I might get drunk enough to reveal the cheat codes to my destruction. How could you pass that up?”
He stared at her. She could tell he’d been won over, not necessarily by the prospect of dirt on her. Perhaps it was enough that she knew to play on those motives. He looked great in his shirtsleeves. In this light. Loose tie. Just a few drinks, Finn. Come on. Just say-
“I had a dream two weeks ago that I had you committed to an asylum. And then lobotomized.”
“Wow.” She moved her mouth around a smile. Only the corners quirked; she pursed her lips to quash the rest. He still caught it. She knew she should be outraged. Male fantasies of removing the brain from women dangerous and daring enough to think like them; better than them. She doubted, however, that he had actually had any such dream about her. What a waste of fired synapses that would have been. “Well, then. What are you waiting for?”
“I don't think it would be a good idea to go out. Together.”
Okay, then. That's valid. Hold it together. Fuck him, anyway. Who needs-
“Fortunately, I know that Martin is a functioning alcoholic and he keeps a bottle of scotch in his filing cabinet.” He smirked at her and then stopped abruptly when she sighed in relief. “Right. I’ll be back, then.”
----
Three drinks later her shoes were off, feet propped on the corner of her desk. She felt warm all over. Finn sat in a chair on the other side of the barricade (a seat he took without attempting a power play, probably because that kind of power was now small potatoes). He appeared to be holding his liquor a bit better than she was. Not by much.
“Columbo.” He said, after a thoughtful pause.
“Columbo?!” Liz exclaimed, genuinely surprised. “You think Lieutenant Columbo is the best fictional policeman? Not, like, Sherlock Holmes or...whatsit...Ms. Marple?”
He held his hands up defensively, though one of his hands held his glass using just the ring created by his thumb and forefinger, the other fingers fanned out in support of his argument, “You asked the question, don't squawk at the answer.”
“It's just-can't you be deported for saying that?” She caught him staring at her legs. She recrossed them and smiled innocently at him when he looked back at her face.
“Liz, both of the people you just mentioned aren't actually police.” He had his chin pointed down almost touching his chest, looking at her like prey, swirling the liquid in his glass. “They’re detectives, but not actually police. And you asked for a fictional policeman.” The smirk, never far away, was now back in place.
“Okay, fine. But why Columbo and not, um. Who’s the guy, the opera one.”
“He’s an alcoholic.”
“So?!”
“I’m basing this on optics. Inspector Morse would be a PR nightmare. In reality. We know little to nothing about Columbo. That works in our favor. All we really know is that he’s married, lovably scruffy, deceptively intelligent, and his clearance rate is phenomenal. That’s an easy sell.”
“I think his wife is fake. I think he just uses stories about her to lull Robert Culp into a false sense of security.”
“Never underestimate the well-placed fake wife.” His eyes swept over her again. “Still wish I had mine, sometimes.”
“Yeah!” Liz replied, oozing sincere enthusiasm, “how is Sarah?”
“A bit upset with you.” He looked as his drink again.
“Oh, the jealous type, is she? Worried about all the long hours you put in?” Her voice was calm, carefree. But the direction the conversation had taken flooded her body with warmth that had little to do with the scotch. It was good scotch. Strong. Ah. She hadn't eaten today.
“Yes. And I keep telling her that my boss isn't making unwanted sexual advances on me, but just you try getting her to believe it.”
“That your boss is making them?” Perhaps a bit of fear crept into her voice, “or that they’re unwanted?” She might never forgive herself if she’d been wrong about this. If she’d ever made him uncomfortable in a way that wasn't...well. Part of the game. Part of a game she was sure they were both playing on an even field,
Finn gazed at her appraisingly, then downed the last swallow of his drink. “I can't convince her I don't want them.”
Fuck yes.
“What are you two doing about that?” She turned her head away from him to lean it on the back of her chair. She arched her back, sliding further down in her seat so more of her legs were visible on the desk. An obvious ploy made more obvious by using the toes of her left foot to trace a line up her right calf. They both watched this action with rapt attention. Then she rolled her head to the side to meet his gaze, warning, dark, but oh so consenting. “Counseling?”
He didn't speak, just continued to stare at her with a mixture of lust and resigned anger. Gorgeous, gorgeous.
“See, what’s great about this,” she made a gesture that took in her legs and his face, “is that you can't make a Mrs. Robinson joke because I’m nearly a decade younger than you.”
“Has it been a while since you seduced someone? Because usually you don't bring up the age gap.” His admonition was undercut by a squeak on the last two words as she parted her legs ever so slightly and closed them again.
“Is that bad form? Shouldn't that be a point of interest for me? Ten additional years of skill honing.” She dropped her legs to the floor and stood up, placed her hands on her desk and leaned forward. “Of course maybe you had better things to concentrate on. Gathering all that dirt on Caroline. Or maybe those two go hand in hand.”
“Now you’re really losing the thread.”
“I could die soon.” She straightened herself. She didn't mean to say that out loud. Didn't even really mean to think it. But it was out there now. His expression darkened, became hard. He tilted his head in analysis.
“Riiight. So this is...thrill-seeking behavior because you think your life is in danger?”
The warmth dissipated slightly, “No. I don't know. Maybe?” He leaned back in his chair to look at her. “Does that matter?” Her voice sounded fragile and hollow and she hated everything about it.
“I don't know if I want to fiddle while Rome burns, is all.” He looked down. She’d lost. She watched him grab the bottle and pour himself another three fingers or so.
“Right. Maybe you’re right.” She walked around the desk in the direction of the door. She stopped and turned to him when she realized her unforgivable concession. “Actually you’re not right. I’m not acting this way just because I’m drunk or because I’m frightened. Which I am, definitely both of those things. But I am not defined by those traits. People are complicated all the time. Not sure if they inserted that data chip in you at the factory. But, I think I want to” she took a shallow breath deciding whether or not to proceed, then toppled headlong into “fuck you. And I have no idea why. I hate you. You’re only marginally attractive and I could do better. I want to do better. But I want you. And I hate it, but I want it more than I hate it at time of press. Do with that information what you will; analyze it against the mass of evidence you’ve previously compiled on me and decide how you’ll use it because I could go either way at this point." That wasn't entirely true; he didn't to know it. "I’m going to the bathroom, now.” All he did was stare at her, jaw tense, eyes darker than ever. Right. Fine.
She opened the door and walked down the hall realizing halfway to the facilities that she was barefoot and that was gross but she couldn't bring herself to return for her shoes. That would certainly undercut her monologue.
She splashed water on her face and studied her reflection in the mirror. The light was dimmer after hours, strange shadows cast across her face. She looked gaunt.
She remembered this being more fun when she was 20. Tumultuous peaks and valleys of lust and longing. Not so much ten years later. It takes a toll. Obviously. Obviously, she wasn't bothered if he didn't want her or couldn't handle her, right? It wasn’t like this was important. She hated him, anyway. This was fine
So what if sometimes she couldn't stop thinking about the times he could have been considered to be genuine with her. Or the sound of his voice. Or the way he made her deliciously on edge. Or that in her whole career she’d never met anyone that challenged her or made her work harder to prove herself.
That didn't matter. Couldn't matter. Everything was fine, fine.
One more splash of water. She cupped some from the tap and swished it around in her mouth. Deep breath in, exhale. Tuck some hair behind the ear, use fingers to boost roots-no. No, no. Doesn't matter. Right.
Deep breath. Exhale. Pull the door open.
Finn was there in the hallway and time slowed.
He didn't say anything, she didn't have time to say anything. He took one step forward, put his hands on either side of her face and then it was happening. His lips against hers. He caught her with her mouth already half open and her muffled grunt of surprise vibrated between them. It turned into a hum, a question, when he rearranged his hands on her so that his fingers were in her hair, tugging. Bringing her closer to him. Pressed against his body, his mouth moving against hers still, working together. He moved them sideways and brought her back up to the wall. Her hands were on his sides, pressing into the muscles over his ribs. He had her pinned in almost painfully in place and she’d pay god money to ensure that it never stopped. One thumb began tracing the line of her cheekbone, the other dropped to rest over her throat. He applied pressure lightly to the hand near her neck and pushed away from her, breathing heavily, eyes lidded.
“Liz.” started to take a step backward.
“No.” she breathed, and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him back to her. Their lips crashed together again and she would never admit it, but she whimpered at the joy of the renewed contact. He made a noise in this throat and moved his hands to her hips. She shifted her leg and he took that as an invitation to attempt to hoist her up around his waist. Her skirt got in the way. So next it was the feel of his fingers tracing up her legs, bringing the material with them, while she cupped the front of his pants, feeling him, her mouth watering, he swore under his breath. Then she practically jumped into his arms. They teetered, slightly, regaining their balance and finally slammed against the wall once more. She yelped in pain against his lips. She was so thankful that it didn’t stop him. He ground against her and it was wonderful; the best she’d felt in months. She nipped at his neck. He rolled his hips again and she moaned. She grazed her teeth against his earlobe and he shook.
He felt real, and his single-mindedness was intoxicating. She never wanted to think again.
But not thinking isn't a good idea. Thinking makes you good at your job. Thinking is what helps you get dressed in the morning. Thinking, oh that felt good, thinking is, oh god, it’s um. Important. Important.
“Finn, Finn.” She lowered her legs back to the floor. He jumped away from her like she’d grown a second head. He wiped at his mouth and began to avoid her eyes. “Um,” she said and then couldn't for the life of her think of any words to follow it.
“That was a mistake, probably,” he said, but she didn't think for minute that he meant it was a bad idea.
“What, lurking outside the ladies' room to attack me?” She straightened her skirt and tried to get her breathing under control.
“No, that part was great. The part when I tried to stop and you attempted to climb inside my body was ill-advised.
“Fuck off.”
“Fuck you.”
“Okay, but not here.” She began walking down the hallway to her office.
“No, Liz.”
“No?” She turned to face him again and he had a serious look on his face, indeed.
“You should get some sleep. Or eat something. And we should both go home separately.”
“That's a terrible idea. Sounds awful. Besides I can't go home.”
“Do you want hotel suggestions?”
She studied him, weighing her options, trying not to scream. “No.” She made a decision. “No, I’ll handle it.” She turned and began walking back to her office again. “G’night!” She injected both syllables with angry cheerfulness.
“Liz.” he called after her, but not really a call for her to return, just saying her name.
“Goodnight!” she called again, and he stopped trying.
Good. Fine. She was in her office alone, now. Fine.
Worked up and shaken and alone and completely, completely fine.