Chapter Text
“Your smile is off-putting. Your whole face is ruined by your mouth. Are you okay with that? Like, even aware of it, at all?”
Liz’s shoulder blades dug into the mirrored wall of the lift under the unchanging expression of the man standing across from her, leaning on the opposite side. It was, perhaps, an escape attempt perpetrated by her body without the consent of her brain. Perhaps it was a massage. Fuck it.
She had been making headway with Inglis. It had been three months since the riots, three months since the footage was released, and everything was relatively calm. She was in control. She had sold him on Metwork, or at least a version of it. Slightly pared down compared to the original coke-fueled rant (that was still obviously brilliant), but she could work her way back. Like Obamacare. It wasn't nearly as good as the initial spark, but it was manageable and would benefit a great many people. Well. It would benefit Inglis. And her. And the police, of course. So, yeah. Great many people. He said he was just crossing some t’s and poking dots in the eye and then he would sign off. That was two days ago, and in the time that had elapsed Finn had managed to undermine her. Yet again. She didn't know what his reasoning had been this time; what he used to undo her hard work.
Not knowing was eating at her. And she did not enjoy being eaten in this context.
The fight began as a glare in Inglis’ office then simmered into hissing accusations at him the length of the walk to the elevator. It finally erupted into demanding an explanation as to what he still didn't understand about how great a fucking idea this fucking was for fucks’s sake as the doors rolled open.
All of this was met with the same languid expression. And so she faltered. She mentioned his physical appearance.
Bastard.
Finn crooked his neck to the left. The smile in question didn't widen or harden, just somehow became more pronounced. Liz mentally congratulated him for possessing such control of the muscles in his face. She was sure her own features weren't capable of such subtlety. This was followed by a mental slap because no. No victories. Not even small ones. He doesn't deserve it. Bastard. Reptile. Rat. Bastard. Rat...bastard.
“It's when the insults get personal that the argument is lost, Liz,” Finn drawled, sensing the concession made by his opponent in the privacy of her own mind. He lazily kicked one foot in front of the other to cross his legs at the calf, his arms hung loosely at his sides. Shoulders lowered. A perfect study of relaxation. It was, of course, only ever a study. Never the real thing. His jaw always gave him away.
She felt the skin of her arms buzz, and she pursed her lips wondering why this new position gave her a chill. Wait, she didn't care.
Liz quickly propelled herself from the wall, partially out of instinct and partially to startle him out of thinking he’d made a point. Which, technically he had because she’d regretted saying it mere milliseconds after the words left her mouth. It was cheap, even if it was accurate. No, wait, hang on she had it.
“Our job is personal, Finn. Interpersonal. How do you get people to trust you if it looks like you’ll unhinge your jaw any second and engulf their head, smothering them to death?”
“People?” Finn remained with his head against the mirrored wall, as if he couldn't be asked to match her level of enthusiasm for the argument. “I don't work with people. I work with you. And journalists. Journalists are just a mass of animated flesh with deadlines and ulterior motives, and they don't trust so much as they…” he wagged his head in a semblance of searching for a word they both knew he already possessed “...know damn well they don't have a better option than to listen to me if they want to continue being a mass of flesh with deadlines. And you-”
“Oh yes, let’s hear it.”
“You would never trust me, anyway.”
That took her by surprise. Something bordering on honesty from him, instead of a string of insults. Then she recovered.
“Oh, but I do trust you, Finn. Because I already know everything you’re going to do before you do it.”
“Ms. Garvey,” he affected subordination at the most inopportune times, “I do hate to nitpick, but that’s not trust,” his eyes left her face to roll in a graceful arc echoed by another vaguely bored wag of his head before finally resting on the panel of numbers that told him they arrived at the desired floor. Her gaze had followed his but then they both resumed eye contact, “that is a false senses of security. And if it were true, you’d know what I said to Inglis.”
Ding
Bastard.
She smiled at him and stepped back, letting him exit the lift first. His smile wavered at her lack of reply before rolling his eyes again and beginning the long stomp down the hall.
“Besides,” he continued “you haven't proved your personhood. The current theory is that you are merely the product of all the things you think people want you to be. Things that people think they need to be in order to get respect, or for people to like you. But it still isn't working, is it? Because in the end you bare your teeth and make personal attacks, call me a dinosaur or a snake this time, (moving up in the world’s timeline, glad about it), and you lose.”
“By your own logic that proves my personhood, doesn't it? Because if I was just an amalgam of things people liked then-”
“Oh you missed the bit where I changed the rules of engagement so that I can just insult you in whatever way I feel like and it will be a point to me.” Finn rolled his shoulders as he walked briskly. Liz’s elbows pumped as she took several quick steps to keep up.
“Ah! Good. Well in that case you are a snake. A fat pink snake with a huge head and your hair is weird and nobody likes you.”
Finn made headline hands while walking even faster, “Pot is now calling Kettle unlikable. Kettle remains both useful and unfazed.” She thought she saw a smirk but mostly she saw the back of his weird hair.
“People like me, Finn. And pots are useful.”
“Yes, they’re in a lot of phrases, aren't they? Usually sharing the bill with piss and used to describe being destitute. You’re really nailing this.”
“Well I’m only human. I wasn't sacrificed as a child so that a wet dream someone had after watching Wall Street could take human form. And those are two different kinds of pots, asshole.”
“My parents were very well compensated. And I don't resort to cheap tricks like you do. Tom mentioned you practically asked him to go to bed with him in order to get information.”
“Mentioned!”
“After a brief grilling, perhaps.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yes, I found it rather surprising as well. I thought that was a ploy you’d have the decency to only use on adults.”
“Actually I try to reserve it for my own species. In case you were wondering why you've never been invited.” Liz ignored another rush of sensation tumbling down her spine.
“Yes, think of the children. However, that doesn't explain your predilection for closing in 5 or six inches away from my ruined, dishonest face to make a point.”
He stopped mid-sweep and turned to face her. She nearly fell over backward in her attempt to avoid plowing into him.
“See? You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what, you...wire hanger?! You're the one who stopped!”
“And you’re still so close.”
“I don't tend to back down just because someone’s ego can’t handle-”
“I think you’re playing chicken.”
His hand were at his hips, chin jutting forward. He chewed his gum fiercely for three chomps then slowed to a thoughtful pace as his gaze swept Liz’s face for clues of weakness or aging or anything he could use if this backfired.
“You-what?! Chicken?!” Liz had two seconds to stare at his giant, not-unattractive (no, no, stop that) face in incredulity. She thought she saw something pass behind his eyes before he whirled away from her and marched on faster than before to his office.
She caught up and stood in the doorway as he was rounding his desk and rearranging files in a vain attempt to look busy, she assumed. “What in the actual four legged hell is that supposed to mean?”
Finn shook his head vigorously. “Nothing. Not a thing. Just forget it.”
Liz gaped, open-mouthed for another beat as he continued to fuss with items in front of him. She made an attempt at recovering non-chalance by leaning against the glass door jamb. “Sorry, you think I want to kiss you?”
Finn sputtered and glanced at her quickly, went wake his computer, then returned his gaze to her face in earnest. “What? No.” He sat down. “No, Liz, i just meant-”
“What did you mean by chicken, Finn.”
“Intimidation tactics. You’ve been trying to edge my t-bird over blind man’s bluff.
“No, you think my car wants to kiss your car.”
“Your car still hasn't caught up with my car.”
“My car is in charge of your car.”
“Liz, you’re losing the car metaphor.” Finn was grasping at semantic straws to cover up...embarrassment? Possibly? Liz decided she would use his flustered state to uncover a different truth. For now.
“What did you say to Inglis, Finn?”
He regarded her as if she were a chessboard or maybe a poker table; she could see a war waging inside his thick skull and then, “I told him about this.”
He picked up his tablet and gave it several vigorous taps, then tossed it across his desk so it landed haphazardly facing up and toward her. She looked at him and he nodded pointedly as if this were the answer to all of her stupid questions so what the hell was she waiting for?
She entered the room and picked up the device. “It’s the graffitied elephant in the room, Liz. Wanksy. Mia brought it to my attention when she heard about it on Twitter q&a. And I told Inglis. And we were deciding whether or not it was a threat. Whether or not to…”
Liz scrolled through the images.
“...to tell you about it. It was just three at first. But now they’re being reported all over the city.”
Liz looked down at the photos in front of her. Spraypainted images of police officers in various states of pain, torture, death. DEAD PIGGIES in all capitals. Some of them looked like Richard and her heart lurched. BIG DEAD PIGGY. Some of them looked like Robby Vas. KILL THE PIGLET.
One of them looked like her.
MEDIA WHORE.
Two of them looked like her…
“Yes. They uh, move away from the pig theme.” He supplied.
Three. Five. Ten. All over London.
“You seem to have a fan. A morbid, artistically inclined fan that worked overnight to put your face on walls all over the city.” Finn was eying her cautiously. She got the impression that he might not actually be enjoying this.
“This happened overnight? Do we have, do they have any idea who...did they say what they wanted? Why they were doing this?”
“It’s being looked into, but so far this is it.” He stood up, but didn't move around the barrier between them. “There's no reason to think that you are in danger. We think it’s more that you’re the attractive female face of the Met. And the footage.”
She stared down at her own image, the first one. Painted on a tan wall somewhere. Maybe someone knew exactly where. Maybe that mattered. It was from her Instagram feed. A selfie she took two years ago on a trip back to San Francisco. Rendered here in thick chunks, black on beige, the cracks in the wall adding texture, aging her.
She could feel panic or anger or both bubbling up. She was going to lash out at someone now and she was oddly comforted that it was going to be Finn. He could take it.
“Why the fuck is this the first I’m hearing about this? This is my god damn face all over London along with images of beheaded cops. Why-”
“Liz,” Finn interrupted, finally rounding the desk and coming to stand on the side she was on, a little less than a foot away from her. “Liz,” he placated again and placed his hand on her forearm in a convincing show of support.
“I’m telling you now.”