She threw a pan of boiling oil in somebody's face. She is a drug dealer and a violent delinquent.
And then she had smiled.
You know plenty of people have tried to help Franky. All have failed.
And then she had torn herself apart in the corner of Bridget's office. Arms wrapped across her own chest, black eye makeup smudging down her cheeks, sliding down the door to the ground, eyes full of fury and sadness and desperation. She'd never said the words but Bridget had heard her anyway. Help me.
Franky Doyle you are under arrest for the murder of Mike Pennesi. Gun. DNA. Criminal. Recidivism. Maybe this is where I belong. You are formally charged with the murder of Iman Farah.
And it takes all of Bridget's strength to just close her eyes and keep breathing. They didn't know Franky. They couldn't. If they did- God.
They say criminal and Bridget feels a soft, strong hand slide up the back of her neck to pull her closer after a long day.
They say murderer and Bridget sees layered brown hair flying, the flash of a smile with a tongue poking out in Bridget's direction. Tess's excited squeal as she careens down a slide into Franky's waiting arms.
They say recidivism rates and she knows the statistics off by heart, but she hears the weighty thump of Franky's laptop case hitting her kitchen bench, and sees the brunette still in her work clothes after dark, trying to come up with a solution for some angry kid just like her.
They say life in prison and she thinks, I'll wait.
And Bridget Westfall is almost incomparable. Her emotional intelligence, calm strength and intellectual capacity have meant that her whole life has been something in which she has always maintained control.
Things didn't just happen to Bridget Westfall. She either allowed them or she didn't. Her choice.
Franky Doyle had happened to her though. With her grin brighter than a set of oncoming headlights, her tongue sharp like needles, and her hands that cradled Bridget's body like they were touching sacred ground.
Bridget hadn't had a choice in this.
She knew the science behind it all. Knew the theory. Knew that frustration, anger and complete fear needed to take over for Franky to even survive back in prison. And still her brain hadn't been able to reconcile the woman that had stood in front of her, buzzing with barely contained fury, with the one who would cook dinner and settle on the couch with one hand always touching some part of Bridget.
Well come on then, let's fuck. Nah don't worry I can handle it. I'm trying to get you off like a fucking crim.
It had been a performance. She knew. An effort to get Bridget to leave her. An homage to the Franky Doyle that could've been. The one she'd once thought she had to be to survive. The one Bridget knew, hoped, didn't exist.
And so Bridget had prayed, to nothing and no one, that her version, her Franky, still existed. And maybe she did, 'I just wanna hold ya.' But maybe she didn't, 'no fuck off.'
And Bridget had felt herself slipping. In her efforts to hold on so desperately to someone else, she had woken up one day and realised she no longer recognised herself. And it was the hardest thing she'd ever done, walk out of that door.
Don't leave me. Just give me some time. Don't give up on us.
And she had walked away with three words ringing in her ears. We're not done.
No. They could never be.
But she needed to live her life too.
So she takes a job in private practice. Not high-end clientele, although she is sure that if she'd wanted to listen to the banal problems of business class Melbourne, she would've had no troubles finding work.
This is better. Here she can help people, real people, with no other options. Some nights, when she's honest with herself, she can admit she misses corrections. But she couldn't do it. Not now. Not expecting to see one face around every corner.
So here she is. Leaving work in the dark on a Tuesday night, waving goodbye to Dave and twisting her keys in her fingers, looking straight ahead as she steps off the curb.
And there she is.
It's dark, and she's standing in the shadows cast by a harsh street lamp, under a bridge, and a train rattles past behind her, blending with the lights of the city. She smiles and she holds her hands out by her sides, shrugging her shoulders slightly, something she does – did - often, only now it is more pronounced.
And it's ridiculous, and stupid but the first thing that Bridget thinks is that she's never seen anything more beautiful in her entire life.
Bridget is exultant, and full of wonder and bone crushing devastation all at once.
She has escaped. Just like she'd said she would. And she ran to Bridget. Just like she'd said she would. I'll find a way for us to be together.
Franky smiles and it's like rain finally pouring down after the sky has been black for weeks.
Bridget takes a slow step forward, chest rising and falling deeply, not due to physical exertion.
'I love you! And I'll be back.'
She turns, and runs and Bridget is left standing in the street.
It has been over a week. Exactly eight days in fact, since Franky Doyle appeared in front of Bridget's work.
I'll be back. She had said.
Only she hasn't.
And Bridget is equal parts relief and desperation.
She'd stood in front of her car that night long after Franky had disappeared, mouth slightly open, deep breaths moving her chest. Her hands had been shaking. It had taken a car driving in front of her, interrupting her line of sight, for her turn slowly and slide into her little Volkswagen. She doesn't remember the drive home.
She had arrived to darkness and three missed calls on her mobile. Vera. Hardly a surprise.
Even in her confusion she'd known what she had to do. What she would always do. As if that wasn't the most tragic part.
'Vera,' she had said, 'sorry to have missed you, I was finishing up with a late client. Just got home. Is it a wine night?' She had been shocked at the animation in her voice. Was scared at how convincingly she had slipped that last detail in, even though she hadn't touched a drop of alcohol since resigning.
'Wine night…no.' Vera had sounded confused, exhausted, and then without warning she had been hard, to the point, 'Have you seen her?'
Bridget had let Vera hear the background noise of her organising dinner, had thought it would seem more normal, 'I'm afraid you've lost me there, seen who?'
'Doyle. Franky.'
Bridget hadn't had to fake the panic in her voice when she'd asked, 'Vera what's happened?'
The line had been quiet for a moment, then, 'She's escaped. Through the garden project we think.'
And Bridget had closed her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair, 'Jesus Christ.' Hearing it spoken out loud, from a voice she recognised had made it absolutely real, 'She hasn't come here. I…ended us, when I resigned, Vera. She won't try and see me.'
The line had been silent and Bridget's heart had almost thudded out of her chest.
A sigh on the other end, and then, 'Okay. Alright. Well I uh- I haven't told Channing, or anyone, um about your relationship, I just…had to make sure myself. And I didn't think you should have to hear it on the news.'
'Thank you, Vera. Thank you.' Bridget had never been more sincere.
The next thing she had done after hanging up the phone was go to the fruit bowl, fish out the spare key and tuck it back in the pot plant beside her back door. Franky had been the one to put it there. Bridget had never been in need of a spare key before her, but Franky was forever leaving her set somewhere.
'Didn't need keys in prison Gidge.' She'd laughed after her third time prying open the laundry window.
When Franky…no longer needed her keys, Bridget had brought the spare one back in. Safer. Now she can't decide whether to leave every window and door in her house wide open with the lights blazing in invitation, or keep the key inside and change the locks for good measure.
I'll be back. She had said.
Bridget believed her. She has never wanted and simultaneously dreaded something so badly.
Bridget wasn't safe. Franky shouldn't go anywhere that there was even the slightest chance she could be found. Franky wasn't stupid. Bridget knew that she would recognise a trip to visit her as a major opportunity to be caught.
The part that terrified her was that she was fairly certain Franky would do it anyway.
We're not done.
And that's where Wednesday night found her. Lying on her back in their- no, her, bed, staring at the ceiling, brain ticking over.
She heard the noise. Wouldn't have if she had been sleeping, but that was something she hadn't done much of in the last eight days.
She sat up, tiptoed down the hall to her living room in the dark and then she just stood.
Because there she was.
It was dark, Bridget didn't even know what time it was, but moonlight filtered through the shuttered blinds, stripes of it falling across Franky's face. Bridget ached.
The back door behind Franky was closed now, but the room was colder than the rest of the house and Bridget was suddenly conscious that she was standing in her hallway wearing nothing but a singlet and underwear.
Franky's hands moved out from the sides of her body slightly, palms out. Here I am.
All Bridget can do is keep standing in the hallway. Terrified that if she takes her eyes off Franky she will disappear. Terrified she won't.
'Gidget I can leave,' her voice is strong in the dark, Bridget wants to close her eyes and soak in the sound of it.
'I didn't mean to drag you into any of this, I just…' she huffs, 'I just had to see ya.' Franky's arms move in front of her and Bridget can't see in the dark but she can imagine her fiddling with her fingers the way she does. Bridget can also hear the tiniest note of scared in the last part of that sentence.
Standing in her hallway, in her underwear, in the dark, Bridget has a choice to make.
But she doesn't really.
Because she has made this choice so consciously since first stepping foot into Wentworth that by now it's as easy as breathing.
She chooses Franky.
So Bridget smiles, it's watered down and impossible to see in the dark, but it's there, and exhaling shakily she is walking softly across her living room floor.
'I was already in it.'
And then one arm is around the back of Franky's shoulders and the other hand is half cupping her face in the dark, half sliding into her hair and Bridget's face is pressed so closely into her neck that the only thing she can breathe in is her.
Franky had been reaching for her the second she'd started walking but for one whole second after Bridget's body is pressed into hers Franky is stiff; like despite wanting it desperately she'd never thought she'd actually get to hold Bridget. And then she deflates in Bridget's arms with a reverent, 'Oh,' moulding around her as though trying to press as much of their bodies together as possible.
Long fingered hands slide up Bridget's back, and then they're on either side of her face and Franky is pulling away the slightest bit to just look at her. Her fingers brush through Bridget's hair and her eyes follow her own movements as though to make sure she isn't dreaming.
Bridget's heart simultaneously breaks and soars as she brushes a tear from Franky's cheek with her thumb. Franky looks down into her eyes quickly, pupils moving all over her face in the dark. Bridget hums as she presses their foreheads together, and then finally she tilts her chin up a little, brushing her lips across the younger woman's. Franky exhales as though she doesn't need actual air, just Bridget, but still she straightens, placing herself just out of reach.
She shakes her head, quickly, sadly, her own fingers interlocking at the back of Bridget's waist. Bridget can't see in the dark but she knows the way that Franky acts when she's crying and she has to force herself to stay still.
Franky's voice shakes but is full of conviction when she does speak, 'Gidge…everything inside-'
Bridget brings one hand up to cup Franky's face, 'Later,' she breathes, desperately hoping that later will exist.
But Franky presses her lips together firmly, shaking her head, no.
'You have to know that I'm sorry. I couldn't have ya near me, anyone could've used you to get to me and I couldn't let anything happen to you because of me, I-'
'Shhh, baby, I know. I know.' Bridget's hands are on either side of Franky's face, steady, real.
And she does know. Not because she is brilliant at her job, but because she understands the sharp, strong, beautiful mind in front of her. Understands the complete panic that would've overtaken her at being back inside. Understands the rage and frustration she would've felt at being incarcerated for a crime she didn't commit. Franky had used her. There wasn't an excuse for it. Frank wouldn't try and give her one. She would only try and explain herself. The explanation was simple.
I fucking love you.
I love you too much to drag you down with me.
And so she had tried to kill two birds with one stone. Push Bridget away. Get. Out.
Bridget knew. And they would talk about it. They would. But not now.
'You're still all I think-'
And then Franky's mouth is on hers. Not demanding, just soft and strong. And Bridget knew she had been wrong eight days ago. The most beautiful thing she has ever seen is not Franky Doyle standing in the street with the lights of Melbourne behind her. It is Franky Doyle kissing her in her living room in the same clothes she has been wearing for eight days, with tears in her eyes and the white light of the moon illuminating her face.
'Oh baby,' Bridget breathes, eyes pressed closed, her forehead resting against Franky's. Because what else is there to say? Stay? No. She's dreaming.
Bridget feels fingertips tracing her face and she opens her eyes to insistent honesty and the small, heartbreaking smile of someone trying to soak up every second of something they know will be taken from them.
'I love you.' Franky whispers, and for a second Bridget thinks of a prison library, do you miss me?
Her hands are around Franky's neck, in her hair, 'I love you too.'
And then, despite it all, they are smiling. Smiling in the way that people who know true sadness do, because this is the first time they've said it properly and out loud to each other. It shouldn't be this way. If things were different it would've been said after a hard day at work, Bridget wrapped in Franky's arms on the couch, the words whispered easily into her hairline, and she would've replied with a smile like the sun and a kiss that promised a lifetime.
Now, a lifetime isn't hers to give.
Bridget does the only thing left. She kisses her. A little harder. A little more desperate. A little more like trying to fit a lifetime into now.
Franky's fingers contract on her back, pulling her in. It's all hands in hair and on shoulders and running over backs. That was something about Franky. Something Bridget would never forget but almost had – the way her hands never stopped moving. Never rough or demanding. Just like she could never get enough, never be touching enough of Bridget.
Tonight, her own hands are the same. She runs her palms down Franky's back, follows the dip in her spine, and then her hands are slipping into the back pockets of Franky's jeans, pulling them tighter together. Franky inhales sharply, pelvis rocking forward a little, involuntarily.
'Gidget,' she hisses.
Bridget bites at her lip a little. Not hard. Nothing compared to the way they've been before. But enough to reassure Franky that she knows what she's doing. And then she's walking them backwards slowly, hands still in Franky's back pockets, lips still soft and insistent on her mouth, wooden floor boards cold on her feet.
And they're in the door of their bedroom. Franky looks up quickly, appraising the room while wrapping her arms around Bridget and the sound she makes is not a whimper. Franky Doyle doesn't whimper. But it's the closest Bridget has ever heard her come to it. And Bridget presses her face closer into Franky's chest, because she knows what Franky has seen instantly. She has seen her things exactly the way she had left them. A bottle of perfume and her hairbrush on the dresser. A law text book on the bedside table. A flannel laid across the back of the chair in the corner.
And then Franky's lips are on hers again and she can narrow her entire focus down to this.
Franky moves down to press her lips against Bridget's neck, fingers tracing the gap on Bridget's stomach between her singlet and her underwear. Bridget shudders involuntarily. She moves back again, a little quicker this time, one finger in the loop of Franky's jeans, pulling her along, the other sliding the fly down.
One of Franky's hands is under Bridget's singlet, sliding slowly up her stomach, her other is pulling her own pants off. Bridget doesn't want to wait any longer, she's sliding her own singlet off over her head. She can hear Franky's heavy breathing, watches her eyes ghost over her body, and then Franky's lips are back on hers, one arm wrapped around behind her waist, the other gently sliding over Bridget's chest.
Bridget's knees hit the back of the bed and she pulls upward on Franky's top, and then lies back, allowing the brunette to crawl up her body.
Breath in Bridget's ear, the scrape of teeth along her neck, the softness of an open mouth right after. Bridget's own hands are frenzied, pulling Franky down so her weight rests on Bridget, cupping her rear, nails sliding gently up her back, one hand making a gentle fist in long dark hair, the other palming a breast through Franky's bra.
And through it all Bridget marvels at the softness of her. So much strength in her limbs, in her back, in her and yet the skin that covers all of that is soft. Bridget runs her open palm over Franky's lotus tattoo. Feeling the small indents and raises that indicate burns, follows it all the way up to the underside of Franky's bra, and then it's gone, Franky having reached around behind herself to remove it. Trust.
Chests together, Bridget's skin is on fire, movements becoming more erratic. Her hands are in the back of Franky's underwear when one of Franky's thighs slips between her own legs, and she has arched her back and groaned instantly, chasing her, maintaining the contact. Franky's hand slips between them, a finger hooking in the side of Bridget's panties, eyes seeking out Bridget's, questioning.
'Oh god, off.'
She moans, and her own hands are pushing Franky's underwear down her legs too and then it's just them and their hands.
When Franky finally fills Bridget their eyes don't separate until the last minute, when Bridget's start to hover closed and Franky pulls their bodies together hard, a strong arm pulling Bridget into her own chest, knowing that when it's like this Bridget likes to be grounded by contact instead of lost in her own tangle of sheets.
And when Bridget flips them and Franky is panting her name she whispers, 'I love you,' right as Franky tumbles and she knows that the most magical sight in the world has to be Franky Doyle coming undone beneath her hands.
They lie twisted together in their bed for as long as they can afterwards. Franky whispering about where she has been so far. What she still has to do.
Go to Iman's find the photos. Find something.
Bridget just holds her. She wants to say god baby please don't. But she knows Franky is innocent. Knows it beyond the shadow of a doubt. And what do they say? If you love something set it free? Bridget has never despised a saying more in her life.
But she will do it.
And so when the times comes for Franky to slip out the back door she doesn't beg her to stay.
Instead she says, 'Come back to me.'
And that is not a sight that Francesca Doyle will ever forget. Gidget standing on their back step in her bathrobe, the cool grey of dawn on her body, the bold brilliance of first sun just starting to strike her face, telling Franky to come back.
She knows that she will.
Or she'll die trying.