Work Text:
She's not sure why she agrees to go to Franky's graduation ceremony.
Okay, that's a complete lie, and there's only so much lying to herself that she can stand to engage in anymore. She knows why she's there, but she's not at all sure she knows what she's there for. She's never really known, when it comes to Franky, and time and space hasn't made it any clearer.
Franky emailed her, of all things, a month ago, with what was really a very polite request to come if she could make it.
You were at my high school "graduation"; it's only right you're at this one, too.
Franky's high school graduation consisted of Erica handing over an already screened letter from the Department of Education in her first office at Wentworth; a prison officer just outside the door. They'd toasted with cups of overheated coffee and Franky had made some insinuation about it being a date and... It feels so long ago now, but she can still remember the way the the desk pressed against her legs as she leaned against its edge, clinging to the illusion of protection it gave her, and the way Franky stood on the other side, daring her to come around.
Now, it's been two years since she's seen Franky, and there's no rampart of her position between them anymore.
...
There's a phone number in the signature. She wonders if Franky sent the email from her work account for any particular reason, or if she just so happened to be at work when she sent it.
Francesca Doyle | Paralegal, Mergers and Acquisitions
e: [email protected], ph: (03)...
It's only her work number, but she sent the email from her work account and even though it's eight in the evening, Erica remembers those days, and dials before she can talk herself out of it.
"M and A, Franky speaking."
Franky Doyle is in the office at 8pm on a Wednesday night, while Erica's at home alone, watching Game of Thrones and eating reheated Indian food from two nights ago. Something about that has her smiling so hard it's difficult to speak for a moment.
"I got your email," is all she says by way of greeting.
There's silence for so long she's not sure there's even a connection anymore, until, "Erica?"
"Yeah."
"God," Franky says, laughing into the phone. "So you'll come?"
"I..."
"Come on, Miss Davidson, don't leave me without a date to this thing."
"Franky," she sighs, and even she can hear the fondness in her own voice, like no time at all has passed. "Yes, I'll come." And for old time's sake adds, "But it's not a date."
…
There's no chance to catch up before the ceremony; her ticket was emailed to her a week ago.
As she sits in her seat scanning the rows of people with their caps and gowns in the stands, she realises she can't pick Franky out. In her imagination, Franky still looks like she did the day she was released, and tight black tee-shirts and even tighter skinny jeans have featured heavily in Erica's wandering thoughts ever since.
When her name is called out, Francesca Marie Doyle, it becomes clear why Erica hadn't stood a chance at finding her.
Gone is the messy bed hair. Covered are the tattoos.
In their place, hair curled and falling to her shoulders, a dark, silk shirt tucked into a tidy pencil skirt. The heels make her taller, but she carries herself across the stage with so much confidence--and that, finally, allows Erica to recognise the person she was sure would never get her head around the bifurcation of directors' duties.
If she saw this person on the street, she wouldn't think twice about--
Franky accepts her cardboard tube with nothing inside, bows and nods, which makes Erica smile because she can just imagine Franky's reaction to that, and somehow, as she makes her way off stage she finds Erica amongst the crowd and the Franky she knows is finally makes an appearance, winking in Erica's direction.
There are a number of people cheering loudly for Franky amongst her cohort, but to her left is an old Korean couple and to the right is a bored looking guy, and neither of them offer anything more than cursory applause. Apparently she's the only person Franky gave a ticket to.
She doesn't know what to do with all this, but she can't deny there's something with which to do whatever it is. She watches Franky make her way back to her seat, a slightly stunned grin on her face as she clutches her degree, and remembers the person that dared her to come around the other side of the desk.
Somebody gives a speech, but she doesn't hear any of it.
"You came," Franky says, after she pushes her way through the proud friends and family milling around.
"I said I would."
Franky hovers, like she's waiting for permission. Her eyes dart around the hall before they return to Erica, realising there's no officer to stop her, and she flings her arms around Erica's neck. "I'm so glad you came. I know you said you would, but--"
It's the closest they've ever been, really. She's never hugged Franky. Never anything more than a hand on her arm, maybe. Somehow, in all her daydreams and nightmares, she sometimes forgets nothing ever happened. She hasn't forgotten now, and she finds herself clutching at Franky's shoulders.
"Of course I came."
Neither of them are willing to let go, and she can feel Franky breathing against her, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with Erica's own. She's never known what Franky smelled like before now.
"I'm so proud of you," she breaths against Franky's shoulder, and Franky finally steps back, enough to break most of the physical connection, all except the fingers she skims from shoulder to hand to tangle around Erica's.
Her right hand's fingers thread between each finger of Erica's left, locking them together, her thumb brushing against the inside of Erica's palm and then down to the base of her ring finger, nail scratching at the unadorned skin.
"I'm pretty proud of you, too."
It's too much, and she pulls her hand away. "I can't stay," she says, even though she's cleared her entire afternoon for this. "I'm sorry."
…
…
"Hey Miss Davidson," Franky calls from down the hallway, and for a moment she's so torn between heading towards Franky and running for the exit that she nearly runs into the sharp point of the corner she's turning.
In her hesitation, Franky jogs the distance to catch up with her, and Erica continues the way she was going. Not a compromise, exactly, but she'll take whatever concession she can get.
"What can I do for you, Franky?" She regrets the words instantly.
"Oh, where to start," Franky says, shooting a wink at the officer trailing behind them. "You shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answers to, though."
"Franky..." She's convinced half of their conversations are made up of her saying Franky's name, over and over again. At some point she hopes it will lose all meaning.
"Okay, seriously, I do have a question." They continue down the hall, and when Franky doesn't say anything more, Erica looks over to see Franky watching the people around them suspiciously.
"What is it?" she asks, before she can censor her curiosity. Franky's rarely hesitant about anything.
"Can you um..." Franky slows her pace as they turn into the empty corridor that leads to the exit to administration. "I know we already had an hour this week, but I need some help."
This was to be expected. She has a date for her parole now, and the closer it gets the more agitated she's become about everything, but especially her studies.
But still, Erica's not a fool. "What with?"
"Constitutional case note."
"I thought we'd--"
"We did," Franky snaps. "I just--" She drags a frustrated hand through her hair. "I don't..."
"Okay," Erica says, accepting Franky's distress as genuine, and rests her hand against where Franky's arms are folded across herself. "We'll work it out."
The tension she can feel under her hand lessens instantly.
"Thanks," Franky says, still sharp, but mostly just uncomfortable. If it weren't so troubling to see Franky when she's like this, twisting in some internal battle just to ask for help, it would almost be endearing.
"I'll clear some time tomorrow."
And just like that, one Franky is gone and the other appears. "It's a date," she says, knowing smirk and joking eyes returning.
"It's not," Erica replies, but it's almost rote now.
"Whatever you say, Miss Davidson," Franky says, skipping backwards down the hallway, before disappearing around the corner. "I'll bring you flowers!"
…
…
"So I have an interview." They never begin with formalities. Or end with them.
They do talk a lot, though.
It's been two months since Franky's graduation. She would like to say it hasn't been deliberate to keep it at just phone calls, that they're both just busy people. She'd like to, but she's still trying to keep her lies at a minimum.
She doesn't know what she's waiting for, but it hasn't happened yet.
Erica ups the volume on her stereo; Franky's probably on her work headset and the sound doesn't carry well while Erica's driving out to the prison. "With who?"
"Those idiots on Channel 9 in the morning." There's equal parts annoyance and amusement in her tone.
…
"I hate it," Franky's voice shouts down the phoneline, and Erica grabs the handset and takes the call off speaker. "I should be in some shitty back office doing discovery, not running around with partners and smiling pretty for the Fin Review."
This isn't the first time Erica's played listener to Franky's frustration. In the month since Franky's gone from paralegal to legal graduate, MWK have trotted her out to some public event almost every night of the week. And it's not funny, she's right to be annoyed, but Erica can't help but laugh at the way life turns out sometimes.
"What's so fucking funny?"
"Everything," Erica sighs, letting her laughter die out. "You're being handed so many opportunities here you can't even see it."
There's silence for a moment. "What do you mean?"
"Whatever PR they're getting out of using you are far outweighed by the exposure you're getting to people who ordinarily wouldn't give a grad a second of their time." She lets that sink in for a moment. "You know how to play the game, Franky. Stop sitting on the sidelines."
…
"Well at least we know you look good on camera already," she says without thinking, but the memory of watching Franky on cameras not for some reality tv show is instantly there, sending heat to her face so quickly she's dizzy for a moment.
"Babe, I look good on everything," Franky says, oblivious to Erica's distraction. "Anyway, after that I'm speaking at the VWL thing tonight, and what a surprise it was to see a familiar name on the guest list."
"Oh," she says, shaking her head violently, as if the images running through her head could be physically dislodged. As if she hasn't tried to forget them before. "So I'll see you tonight?"
"Yep," Franky's voice practically chirps down the phone, and Erica can picture her face. "You can be my date."
She could say yes. She could. There's absolutely no reason anymore to say no.
Caught up in her thoughts as she was, the sign whipping by the car indicating her exit startles her. "Franky, I have to go," she says, merging across three lanes and narrowly missing a ute going twenty k's over the speed limit. "And it's not a date," she adds before slapping the disconnect button.
…
…
"So," she begins, glancing quickly at the file in front of her. "Francesca Doyle."
The name in the file doesn't at all match the woman she looks up to see standing in the doorway of her office.
Erica's seen her in the yard. She's seen her in the hallways. But the only thing she knows about Francesca Doyle is what's in her file, and none of that is particularly helpful. Erica needs to get to know the women, and meeting with each of them one-on-one is a huge part of that. Francesca is the first on her list.
"It's Franky," she says, strolling lazily across the room before dropping into the seat opposite Erica's.
"Franky, right." She makes a note, and then sets her pen aside. It's not about notes right now. "We haven't had a chance to meet properly before now. My name's Erica Davidson. Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?"
"I dunno. Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself, Erica?"
"It's-- It's Miss Davidson," she corrects, but it comes out like a question.
"Right. Miss Davidson," Franky says, nodding thoughtfully. "Got it."
Dragging anything out of Franky is nearly impossible. Erica asks question after question, open and closed, personal and impersonal, and after forty-five minutes all she really knows is that Franky Doyle may not actually be capable of taking anything seriously. Her mother is the Queen of France, and her favourite tv show is SpongeBob SquarePants.
"Okay, well I think we're done here," she sighs, pushing her chair back from her desk. "I'd like to try this again when--"
"I like fucking women," Franky says, low and slow, drawing Erica back in. "It's the only good thing about this place sometimes; lots of women, desperate for a couple of minutes where they can just..." Her eyes close, like she's imagining... something, and Erica watches as her tongue swipes across her bottom lip.
"Is that--" she coughs, clearing her throat. "Do you identify as a lesbian?"
"'Do I identify'--" Franky barks out a laugh. "Yeah, babe, I identify as a lesbian." She sits back, and Erica can practically feel Franky's eyes raking over her. "Do you?"
"That's not really any of your business." Prisoners having personal information about the prison staff gives them power over that staff member. It's in the handbook. It's true. It's... "But I think this is a good point to wrap up."
"Whatever you say, Miss Davidson."
The way she says it, Erica is immediately certain that Franky has never done as somebody said in her entire life. No, it's Franky who does the saying, and others who do as she says. Other women who...
"I, um. Yes." She fumbles with her pen, forcing herself back to the moment. "I'd like to meet again next week to discuss some possible study options with you."
"Alright," Franky says, standing to lean against the desk. "It's a date."
She can already tell Franky's going to be trouble, and she laughs because she has nothing to say to that, no witty deflection. "It's not a date."
"If you say so," Franky says, tossing a wink over her shoulder as she heads out the door. "'Sup, Fletch. Let's go find Kim, yeah."
If all the women are like Franky, she's not going to last five minutes in this job.
…
…
"So," Franky says, leaning against the bar. "When are you going to stop avoiding me?"
"I'm not avoiding you," she denies immediately. "We're both busy; and we're both here now."
Franky takes a sip of her wine, but doesn't say anything to that. She looks amazing in a suit that was clearly tailored just for her, and heels so high Erica has to look up to meet her eyes.
The formal part of the event is over, Franky's speech earnest and funny and well received, and they've spent most of the evening pretending like they're not dancing around the tension between them.
"You know--"
"It's not--"
If it were a movie, they'd both laugh, and the tension would break, but it just makes it worse.
"Fuck," Franky sighs, and sets her wine glass down. "This is a terrible date, you know."
"This isn't a date," she spits out, her voice breaking unexpectedly. She hates this game Franky plays. Why can't she just... But that's the problem; just what?
"No shit," Franky says. "Would you even go on a date with me?"
"You've never asked." And it's like a blow to the head, the realisation that those words are exactly what her problem is.
"Yeah I have. I've been asking you for four years now." But she hasn't, and Erica watches the realisation wash across Franky's face. She pushes away from the bar, standing up straighter. "Will you?"
"Ask me for real," she breathes, letting Franky step closer to crowd her in. "Ask me--"
"Will you go on a date with me?" Franky asks, with one of her rare genuine smiles because she knows Erica's going to say yes. "Will you, Erica Davidson, go on a date with me?"
She knows what she's here for now.