Chapter Text
Shit.
The whole floor was quiet. He sat in his office and listened to the silence, wanting to hear her leaving. He wanted to hear her buying a plane ticket back home, loudly on the phone. He wanted to hear her running down the hall to his office in her bare feet. He wanted to hear her moan again.
A jolt of arousal shocked through his pelvis. He felt trapped; he couldn't leave while he might still run into her. He wanted to run into her. He wanted to beg for forgiveness for his momentary sanity. He wanted to tell her they would never touch again. He wanted to get on his knees and wrap her legs around his head in the lift after he ran into her there. Which, oh right, he didn't want to do.
He heard a ding. He heard a metal door sliding.
He waited another half an hour before leaving the building, too.
———
He didn't sleep at all.
He’d left the office around eleven, gone home, nearly chucked his phone into the bin because he kept almost dialling Liz, laid in bed all but yanking tufts of hair from his head, composed 7 texts messages and deleted them, scoured the internet for reasons to be awake, rearranged his closet, shouted abuse at late night television, ordered new pants online (a 3 pack of black briefs) and watched as the sky turned deep black, purple, pink, fire red and blue.
He heaved himself out of his armchair and got dressed.
He managed to lay low in his office until 9:30. Then he made his way to see the Commissioner.
“Jesus, Finn. What’s happened to you? Were you bludgeoned over the head as well?”
“No, just couldn't-didn't sleep well last night. Did you see the top picks for the desk? Has Liz shown them to you?” Keep it light and casual, voice steady.
“Nobody’s seen her today, apparently.” Finn’s stomach lurched and a small siren went off in his head and it was all he could do not to run from the office and shout at everyone until he found out- “...run off to City Council where she’s statistically less likely to be threatened?” Inglis was still talking. And expecting a reply, going by the look on his face.
“Oh, er, no. No, I don't think so, she’d be tainted over there at the moment, too. Sorry, what do you mean nobody’s seen her?” Usually a skill improves with repetition. The opposite appeared to be true for pretending he didn't care.
“Well of course after the incident we sent someone round to her place, but she wasn't there.”
His heart shuddered, he began to feel clammy all over. “Hotel.” He cleared his throat, “she was advised to stay at a hotel.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. He’d been gripping it so hard he was amazed it hadn't shattered. “I’ll try and check around, shall I?”
“Finn.”
“Commissioner?” Please just let me leave this room and fix the problem.
“You’re good at the broad strokes. You and I share a knack for keeping wolves at bay. I’m not threatening you...” Speak faster. “But I do hope that this has made an impression. Not everything is a game or a chip to be played.”
“Of course.” Finn realised his demeanour was coming off as abrupt as he felt inside, so he added, “Commissioner.”
“Of course what?”
“Not everything's a game, of course it isn't.” He tried to arrange his face into sincerity and not just barely concealed rage and panic. “This isn't a game I’m playing, it’s my job. It’s your job. It’s her job.”
“Please stop saying job.”
“I think I should locate Liz. I’ll have Mia pull a list of hotels.”
“Finn, we’re the Metropolitan Police and one of our own might be in trouble.”
All stoicism had been depleted at this point. “Yes, Commissioner, which is why-”
“Trace her phone.”
“Right.” Embarrassed relief washed over him. “Right.”
“If she’s just skiving off it’ll scare the shit out of her.” Finn simply offered a polite grimace as he turned to leave. “Oh and she’s still expected at the end-of-year do, tonight. Even if she’s currently chained to a radiator.”
-----
Forty minutes later, Finn was standing beside a TSG at the door of a rowhouse. Liz was inside, or at least her phone was. He was upset it wasn't a hotel. He was upset it wasn't her own flat. He was upset by the research done on the man whose flat this was. He had no reason to be upset, and that upset him more than anything. He realised he’d just been standing there when the nameless TSG cleared his throat and raised his fist, making pointed eye contact, ‘should I knock, or are we waiting for armed reinforcements?’ Finn nodded at him and the officer knocked. Finn spent the next 45 seconds pretending he was somewhere else, anywhere else. The next 15 seconds after that were spent making sure his sneer was at full capacity for whoever greeted them. The TSG knocked several additional times. Then they heard an annoyed, drawling, male voice approach from the other side of the closed door. The hair on Finn’s neck raised and he could convince himself later that it was just because of the December chill. The door opened to reveal a man with impossibly high hair in a vest and pants. “Oh, hallo.”
Finn’s sneer hardened. He was speechless. He hated that he was speechless. He hated this man’s hair. He hated that he knew who this man was. He hated that he knew which pictures he was in, in which cafes. He hated that he’d stared for far too long at an image of Liz in a black top, low neckline, holding a comically large cup of coffee, and this man’s arms around her, his face buried in her neck. He hated pictures. The internet. This house. The whole damn city. But, back at the centre of it all, he hated the choking noises coming from his own throat.
Luckily his new best mate the TSG chimed in. “Good morning, sir, we’re looking for Elizabeth Garvey and we have reason to believe she’s currently at this address.”
Finn was expecting a denial; hoping for one. But instead the trouserless man turned and shouted inside “Liz! There are police on my doorstep!” Oh yes, hit those s’s a little harder, ponce. “I’d invite you in, but it’s, er, a bit of a mess.”
Finn was able to process large quantities of information in a small amount of time. That was day one stuff. Absorb everything and use it later as needed. But now, here, his brain was failing him. He was angry, climbing down from panicked, picking up pieces of annoyance from the ladder on his way down, and this absolute arsehole was, what, half naked? His pupils were dilated, maybe? Sweaty. Was he high? Liz was in there. Confirmed to be in there. Was she high too? Was she skiving off work to get high with an arsehole she used to date? He needed more information. Or less. He needed to run really quite far away.
Too late. Liz’s voice.
“I emailed Mia. I-” she made eye contact with Finn and her eyes widened. She gathered a dressing gown a dressing gown closer around her and her throat constricted briefly. Finn looked away. Liz’s voice again, less annoyed, slightly strained. “Granger, give me a minute.”
“Police on my doorstep.”
“A minute, Granger.” Annoyed again.
The arse moved past her, and Finn looked back just in time to see him touching her waist as he went. He looked away again, his head whipping almost as if he’d been slapped, and raised his phone to his ear. He should have dialled someone first. He stepped away to have a fake conversation while he listened to the TSG explain why they were there.
“I emailed Mia, though, to say I wouldn't be in until noon. A personal morning.”
“I’m guessing she didn't get it?” the officer helpfully supplied.
“I’m guessing not.” Liz’s voice was testy and Finn could tell without looking that her eyes were on him. She was directing lasers of contempt at him. Well, good. He was teflon. He was a rock. He was wrapping up his fake phone call. He walked back to the door where Liz was studying her phone.
“...drafts. It’s still in drafts.”
Finn didn't look at her. “It’s the little thing that looks like a paper aeroplane, Liz. You should press that next time.”
Liz turned to the TSG. He should really learn the man’s name. “Can we have just a second, please? I’m really sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Doesn't matter to me! Glad you’re alright.” He rotated on the spot and amiably made his way back to his transport.
“Yeah, thanks.” She watched the retreating neon back until they were no longer in earshot. He saw her look at him out of the corner of her eye, but her gaze was on the street while she spoke. “So you, what, called out the bloodhounds? Gave them an item of clothing to sniff?”
“We traced your phone.” He was only just containing his rage. He was mostly focused on the door jamb, which was probably responsible for all the hurt and hunger in the world, but he occasionally shot glances at Liz. Her eyes. Her neck. Her hands holding the cloth around her waist.
“Wow. Jesus. My phone?”
“Liz, you were attacked within the last 48 hours and then nobody knew where you were. It wasn't an overreaction.” Evil, evil door jamb.
For the second time in that same 48 hours she asked a question he didn't know the answer to: “But why are you here?”
His face betrayed him. That’s often meant poetically, but he felt the muscles in his face falter and he had serious plans to take them to court for treason. He didn't know why he was here. He was overdue for an answer but all he’d supplied thus far were sputters and clenched fists at his sides. “I...I just-”
“Because, Jesus, it’s really awkward that you’re here.”
He could hear the blood in his ears. He finally fixed her with his full attention. He marshalled his features, he looked deep into her eyes and practically begged her not to continue down this path. “I didn't say anything.”
“Did you have to?”
“No! There’s nothing to say! You can do whatever you-”
“Of course I fucking can.”
He glared at her. He hated her. He needed to think of new ways to feel hatred so that he could stand to feel it as often. “Okay, let’s play pretend.”
“Finn-”
“Let’s say, just for shits and more shits, that I came here for anything other than professional concern with a thick layer of well-documented self-interest regarding my job on top. Let’s say that I found out you were here and I looked up whose place this was and I put two and twat together and then came storming over with police officers to, what, spoil your cozy midday fuck-fest because I was jealous?”
“I didn't-”
“I’m not jealous. What you choose to do” he gestured vaguely toward everything “is none of my business. Unless everyone we work with is 85 percent sure you’re dead, in which case it becomes my business. But not because of anything that...happened.” She was looking shocked and slightly angry and somehow the way her brow furrowed and lips pouted was sexier than any naked woman he’d ever seen and he wanted to claw his eyes and brain out for being wired incorrectly. “I don't have a...claim over you. On you. I could’ve” he gestured vaguely again this time indoors and then at her and then glared angrily at the fucking door jamb again. “but I didn't, and you didn't.” Oh god he was rambling now. “And then you didn't show up for work and everyone was…” he waved his hands by his head and rolled his eyes and prayed for death because he had lost all control of this conversation, “and I don't care what you’ve been doing I just don't want to have to clean up another high profile police-associated death.”
She was smirking. He wished he could do something about that. He felt his adam’s apple bob and he knew she caught him glance at her lips. “Right.” She nearly purred, “I didn't mean to suggest you had feelings for me.”
“Jesus fuck-” he composed himself. The look on her face was still smug, but with undercurrents of disappointment. Good. Good. “I’m glad you weren't killed as a pawn in the city’s war against its own law enforcement. I’m going to go back and do my job now. Are you going to come and assuage fears that you’re still alive?”
She cocked her head. “You mean ‘fears that I’m dead.’”
“It was a mixed bag when I left.”
“Fuck off,” she smiled.
“Inglis expects you at the festivities tonight and you can't miss a full day’s work and then just show up for champagne.”
“What is this? Am I in high school and I can't go to homecoming if I play hooky?”
“I understood almost nothing you just said.”
“Fuck off, again.”
“Glad to.” He turned and began walking to the car.
“I’ll be there in half an hour.” She shouted after him and he gave her a thumbs up in acknowledgment that she was deigning to do her job. “Oh and I’m not a pawn. I’m the queen, remember?” He adjusted which of his digits was extending from his fist and smiled to himself when he heard her chuckle.
-----
“I can't believe Caroline came.”
“It’s basically a press event, Mia.” Finn popped another olive into his mouth and scanned the room.
“I mean I guess I can't believe she’s still a reporter. I mean, one that we talk to.” Mia cast a look in his direction that took in his exasperated expression and small plate filled with olive pits. “I also can't believe they didn't cater pitted olives.”
“Wouldn't do to be seen to cut her off. Makes it look like we’re hiding.” He looked at his plate. “I don't have answers for you about the olives.” He turned to face her fully. “Are you here alone?”
“Er...yes? Why?”
“I don't know. Speeches are starting in a bit.” He set his plate down on a table where it absolutely didn't belong and then set off to navigate his way across the bustling event space. Cocktail attire. Big inebriated smiles. Eruptions of laughter that made his skin crawl. He wished he wasn't looking for her. He wished a high- ranking police officer would be caught wanking to a YouTube video of a man playing the clarinet in a green bodysuit. Anything, anything to get out of this...feeling. He was more on edge than usual. He was out of gum! He was completely fucked when he finally saw her.
It was so predictable, that was the agony. Pretty woman, blonde, deep blue dress. High heels, some sort of off-white, possibly. The dress came down to her knees so it wasn't like she was showing too much skin, but if she’s viewed from behind, as Finn was currently doing with his mouth slightly open, her entire back was exposed, just the barest edges of her shoulders covered with fabric that also encased her toned arms down to the wrist. Perfectly appropriate attire for the situation. Perfectly atrocious attire for his lungs to remember to function without interruption.
One of her forearms was resting gently on one of the many tall white clothed tables dotting the hall. She was idly playing with the straw in her drink. She was laughing at something Tom was saying. He made eye contact with the timid policeman and then Liz followed Tom’s gaze. She started laughing as Tom clenched. “Oh, hey, Finn” she said after a partial recovery, “we were just talking about you.”
Finn glared at the two of them.
“I’m going to check on Sharon. See if she needs anything.” Tom returned Finn’s glare and left Liz and Finn alone in a room full of people.
“Tom! It's a party, you don't-” she called after him, but gave up. She smiled at Finn and took a coquettish pull from her drink.
“Was I interrupting another exchange of sex for information?” He wished he had a drink. Or anything to do with his hands. God, he missed smoking.
“Don't be gross. How about for just the next hour you don't do or say anything gross?” She was still smiling and he could just see the tip of her tongue swirl around that damn straw.
“I won't if you don't. Where’s Drugsy Malone? If he's not here that’ll make it easier for you.” He scanned the room again just for something to do. The only person he wanted to look at was already-oh, fuck.
“You just lost by saying Drugsy Malone, so I can't really see how it could be easier. Are you okay?” Her voice shifted and was softer, almost concerned. “Your eyes look weird.”
“I didn't get much sleep.” He realised his admission, but if she had noticed as well, she didn't let on.
Inglis was approaching the small stage where a microphone was standing between two opulent, wintry plant-like things. The two applauded along with the crowd; Liz set down her nearly finished drink on the table to do so. Inglis began speaking and, perhaps in an attempt to avoid mouthing the words along with him, Liz leaned close to Finn and whispered, “Neither did I.”
It was a heady mix of lust and contempt that goaded him to say “Really? Good for Drugsy. I’ve always heard it’s hard to perform whilst coked to the gills.”
He was facing Inglis, but aware of her staring at him in his peripheral vision.
“...difficult year, to say the least. We were challenged as a force, and as a city. The eyes of the world are on us, and they’ve seen us stumble, only to rise even higher…”
Their table was at the very back of the crowd and nobody was paying attention, nobody saw Liz’s hand on Finn’s. Nobody saw her body lean into his “He didn't fuck me. Not last night.”
“...and believe me when I say the challenges aren't over. They never are. We will need to prove ourselves again and again, we will need to work every day of this new year, just like the last and the one before…”
“But if he had, Finn,” her lip grazed his earlobe,
“...we will succeed. We will keep our city safe, and set an example for our children and the watching world…”
“I would have screamed your name.”
The hand under hers slipped from its place and grabbed her wrist. He led her through the nearest pair of doors into the foyer, making sure nobody saw them leave. He rounded on her in the harsh fluorescent light; she teetered slightly on her heels. Beautiful, more beautiful, always beautiful. “Why.”
“Why what?”
“Just-” he stared at her, let go of her wrist, and tried to communicate telepathically, “Just why.”
She stared back, open and readable. “I don't know.”
He looked away from her, bunching his hands at his sides. He felt tired and stupid. He winced at the feel of her hand on his cheek and he kept his eyes trained on the carpet, but then heat consumed him, radiating from where she touched him, vibrating along him, down through the floor, up through the light fixtures, one with the universe, probably.
“That was a lie,” she whispered, could have been just speaking to herself, “I know, but I can't tell you yet.”
He looked at her again, they shared the briefest of eye contact before her eyes moved to his mouth. Her thumb traced over his lower lip. Her brow furrowed. She bit her lip. And something inside Finn burst open.
It caused his hands to cradle her head once again and crash his lips to hers, it caused her to whimper again, it caused him to stumble forward into her. It caused him to break away and look cautiously at the doors they’d just come through. He grabbed her wrist again and they moved together down the hall to an unassuming door, the first one they found. Inside were shelves and paint tins and electrical cord, nothing anybody could need tonight. She entered first, he followed and closed the door behind them. She pinned him against it as soon as it was shut. She was beautiful even when he couldn't see her. Even when she made him feel like he wasn't real. Even when she was the worst thing to happen to him.
She was kissing him. She was undoing the top buttons of his shirt. He was running restless hands along the expanse of her back. So smooth. Skin shouldn't be that smooth. She obviously drank the blood of children. He grabbed her by the waist and moved her toward a worktop. She hopped up on her own power and began hitching up her skirt and he hoped she’d forgot the growl that escaped him at that sight. He used just the tips of his fingers to pull at her neckline. This dress was, apparently, designed to be pulled neatly away from the body in a darkened supply cupboard. He caressed her breasts and tried not to take personally how perfect she was.
She grabbed his head and kissed him deeply again, distracting him, perhaps, as one of her hands began to deftly undo his belt and flies.
“Eerily good at that.”
“Shut.” she bit his lip quite hard, “The fuck.” she grabbed his tie and bit him somewhere on the jaw, “Up.” And then she gasped because his thumb was circling her clitoris. And then she moaned.
“I think you need to shut the fuck up.” He released his head from the vice grip she had on his hair and nodded toward the thin door before dipping it to attend to her peaking nipples with his mouth and most of his attention.
“Make me.” She grabbed his hand not currently providing her with much-needed friction and placed it over her mouth. He growled again and ground his hips against his wrist which was now rather inconveniently between him and where he wanted to be.
Liz made a muffled sound of impatience and released him from his pants with one hand and began pumping him while with the other she shoved his hand and her knickers out of the way.
She did it, then. It was her that decided this. That was an oddly consoling thought as he sank into her. His breath shuddered. He grabbed her hip with his free hand to keep himself steady. He buried his face in her neck and released sounds that may have been words, but probably weren't. He began to move. She was clawing at his back, her legs wrapped around him as best she could manage.
He paused and moved his hand from her mouth and she keened.
“Shh. Shh!”
“Then why did you take your hand away?”
“Can you hear that?”
“...be forgot and never brought to mind…”
“Are they singing Auld Lang Syne?”
“Finn.” She rolled her hips against him and he shook. She brought her hand up to gently caress his cheek again. “Is this our song?”
He released his mirth in a single breath and slammed into her, turning her grin into an expression of stifled ecstasy, her head lolled back against the wall. She cried out and his hand flew to cover the sound again but this time she took two of his fingers in his mouth and sucked on them and he fucking died.
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne!
He continued to move in her and she lifted herself toward him, wanting to be as close as possible or maybe seeking more control. He moved his hand back to between them and when he found her again she scraped her teeth against his knuckles, bit him, nearly drew blood. He might have been exaggerating. She began humming.
At first he assumed it was just generalised hums of pleasure. But of course, after listening for a while, he knew it was the song. It was the fucking song. He placed three open mouthed kisses along the column of her neck because he hated her so much, then used the hand over her mouth to turn her head away from him and he began slamming into her over and over, faster and faster.
He felt her legs shake around him, heard a shoe drop to the floor, she grabbed at his wrist and he removed his fingers from her mouth. She took a breath and then kissed him as she came so he could swallow she short bursts of noise that escaped her. He catalogued each one and ranked them from 1-7. He tumbled quickly after her, and then the two of them were left in a post-coital glow the likes of which this cupboard probably wouldn't see again.
And then he remembered he was a forty year old man who’d been awake for almost 48 hours and was, in every likelihood, about to keel over from exhaustion.
Liz patted his shoulder to get him to extract himself from her. She wiped at her mouth and even in the dim light he saw the mild disgust on her face.
“Olives? I hate olives.”