Bridget is diligently writing up notes on her latest session with Maxine Conway, warmed by how well the older woman seems to be handling herself in what could have been a hostile environment. Bridget can't help but think that Maxine's towering height and discernible muscle tone may have played a role in helping her to assimilate – especially as her fellow prisoners aren't exactly renowned for their open-mindedness - but beneath the brawn there's a soft spoken, well-meaning woman who seems more than deserving of a second chance.

Bridget flicks through Maxine's file, jotting down some notes on her sentencing report, but her neat handwriting turns into a startled scrawl when her office door is thrown open without any warning. It sounds like it's been hit by a battering ram, and the plasterboard starts to crumble at the point of impact, leaving a small dent in the wall.

Bridget looks on in open-mouthed shock as Franky saunters into her room unsupervised, marching past the picture that's positioned across from her desk. It's still swinging with the aftershocks of her entrance.

"Why'd you do it, huh?" Franky demands, before Bridget even has chance to voice her alarm. "I thought you were one of the good guys, but it turns out you only give a shit about yourself."

"Franky - " Bridget holds out a hand, trying to speak as soothingly as she can amidst her confusion, but she can't withhold a gasp when Franky stalks towards her, kicking the chair she's sitting on with surprising force. Bridget has no choice but to stumble to her feet or topple over with it.

"I fucking trusted you," Franky seethes, and Bridget feels her chest constrict when she sees the dangerous combination of hurt and fury contorting Franky's features. "But lecturing me about my trust issues and then screwing me over really wasn't a good move, Gidget. I mean, that kind of hypocrisy makes me crazy, you know?"

Franky hits the wall to illustrate her point, and Bridget tries not to cringe reflexively.

"OK, Franky, you need to calm down and tell me what it is that you think I've done," she urges, trying to keep her tone as measured as possible, but she knows all the tricks of the trade aren't going to help her right now.

"Oh, so you wanna play dumb, do ya? Insult my intelligence even more?"

They're more or less the same height, but it doesn't feel that way with Franky looming over her. The inmate's body is coiled with an explosive tension that Bridget isn't sure she can abate, and she edges towards the door, desperately trying to evaluate the situation.

She doesn't have time to think, though, because Franky seizes hold of her shoulders, flinging her against the nearest wall. The impact leaves her wheezing for breath, but Bridget pushes back, trying to struggle her way out of Franky's vice-like grip.

"Tell me why," Franky demands again, but there's no mistaking the anguish lacing her tone.

"Come on Franky, don't do this," Bridget pleads, "This is the anger talking. This isn't who you really are."

"And how the fuck would you know? You think you've got me all figured out? You don't know shit."

Franky's breath comes in hot spurts against her face, and under any other circumstances, Bridget would have found her proximity arousing, but now she realises that Franky's anger issues aren't just the product of a tortured childhood; they're real, and they're terrifying. She has a flashback to Franky pinning Liz Birdsworth against the wall, suffocating her with her bare hands, and for the first time since they've met, Bridget feels a sliver of fear race down her spine and settle deep in the pit of her stomach. She doesn't like this. She doesn't like being scared of the woman who's made her feel more alive – and more passionate about her job – than she has in years.

"Then talk to me," she implores, still frantically trying to make Franky see reason, "Tell me what's got you so riled up. You want to air your grievances, fine, but this isn't the way to do it. This isn't helping anyone."

When Franky's grip tightens even further, digging into her flesh with painful intensity, Bridget's gentle tone slowly gives way to desperation. "Think about your parole, Franky."

"Are you kidding me? You've just given the Freak all the dirt she needs to stop me from getting out of here for good and you're telling me to keep the fucking faith?"

The penny finally drops, and Bridget's racing heart lurches inside her chest.

"You think I told Ferguson about Meg Jackson?"

"Well, how the hell else would she know? You sold me down the shitter, and now she wants me to give you a taste of your own medicine," Franky retorts, but a tiny smidgen of doubt is starting to creep across her features. Her hold on Bridget's shoulders loosens slightly, and Bridget sucks in a staggered breath.

"Shit," she cusses, squeezing her eyes shut as she imagines the hell the Governor is planning to rain down on them both. "Shit, shit, shit."

When she opens them again, Franky is looking at her with the hopeless uncertainty of a woman whose world keeps shifting on its axis, like she doesn't know who or what to believe anymore.

"You know, I really thought we had something here, Franky, but if you honestly believe I'd invest so much time and energy into our sessions, just so I could turn around and stab you in the back, then you go ahead and do whatever you need to do to make yourself feel better." Bridget's starting to feel braver now, because she can see that Franky's wrath is on the verge of waning. "Throttle me, punch my lights out, have at it... because maybe I got it all wrong. Maybe you are a cold-blooded killer, after all."

Bridget holds Franky's gaze unflinchingly, but her resolve crumbles when she sees Franky's lower lip start to tremble. The inmate's eyes pool with tears, and now the hands that are encircling her shoulders brush against her arms in what feels like an apologetic caress. Bridget can't stop herself from reaching out, because Franky looks like she's about to keel over, but Franky lets out a tormented cry, slumping onto the nearest chair and burying her head in her hands.

"I don't know how Ferguson found out, Franky, but I promise you I didn't betray your confidence," Bridget informs the inmate earnestly. "I said our sessions were private and I meant it, but if you're so quick to doubt my veracity and call my integrity into question, then what are we even doing here?"

Franky shrugs listlessly, and Bridget sighs, tucking her hands under her armpits to try and stop them from shaking.

"You know how Ferguson operates, Franky," Bridget reminds her, with a hint of frustration in her tone, "She plays people off against each other, makes them second-guess themselves, plants the seeds of doubt..."

"But she isn't bloody psychic, so someone must have - " A look of slowly dawning realisation crosses Franky's features. "It was Liz. That fucking lagger. You saw how pissed she was when I took her kid under my wing, and she's made it pretty clear that she wants me out of the picture."

Bridget can feel the rage coming off Franky in waves and realises just how volatile the inmate can be when she makes a beeline for the door, ready to even another imaginary score, but Bridget grabs her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

"For God's sake Franky, if the last ten minutes taught you anything, you wouldn't be so quick to jump to conclusions," she snaps, and Franky turns to look at her with guilty eyes, but Bridget can see how restless she is beneath the momentary contrition.

"Look, Liz was drunk during your last confrontation, she wasn't thinking clearly, but she's sober now. Why would she want to cross you when you're in a perfect position to use her daughter as payback? I don't..."

Bridget abruptly trails off as a horrifying thought occurs to her, and it's the only possibility that makes any sense. Her eyes dart around the room, trying to spot any signs of covert surveillance, even as she's inwardly saying a silent prayer that she won't find any. Franky looks confused for a moment, but then her eyes widen with unbridled panic as she reads between the lines.

Seconds later, they're both tearing up the office, and the sinking feeling in the pit of Bridget's stomach gives way to a gaping abyss when Franky emerges from underneath her desk, holding a tape recorder in her trembling hands.

"I'm fucked," she proclaims, and she looks like all of the fight has been beaten out of her in one fell swoop. "If she's got a taped confession, she's never going to let me walk out of here. I'm going to be her lap dog until someone's zipping me up in a body bag, aren't I?"

Bridget finds herself blinking back tears as she watches Franky yank out the tape and pummel it into submission, tearing out the spool and ripping it to shreds. They both know it won't make any difference, though, because Ferguson still has the tape that holds the ticket to Franky's freedom, and her future. Bridget wonders exactly how many recordings the Governor has amassed over the past few months. Has she been listening to them since the very beginning, waiting for Franky to reveal her weaknesses so she could mercilessly exploit them; biding her time until she had enough ammo to tank Bridget's career? Bridget knew there was something off about the Governor, but she never imagined her questionable methods and obvious lack of empathy would manifest themselves in this kind of cruelty. Joan Ferguson isn't just a psychopath, she's a fucking monster.

"Franky, Ferguson's not going to get away with this - " Bridget tries to sound as reassuring as possible, but Franky's staring at the wall, digging her nails into her palms. Her vacuous expression makes something inside of Bridget ache, and she looks on in dismay as Franky inadvertently bites through her bottom lip, making it bleed.

"Hey," Bridget can't resist the compulsion anymore, and she crosses the room, kneeling down in front of Franky and laying her hands on her juddering thighs. "Promise me you're not going to give up, OK?"

"What's the point?" Franky retaliates, in a voice that's hollow and completely devoid of expression. "I'm gonna be spending my life in Queen Bea's shadow, looking over my shoulder every minute of every day; doing sexual favours for those disgusting, disease-ridden bull-dykes just to get by. Oh, and let's not forget the added privilege of being The Freak's right-hand woman, doing her bidding until I hate myself even more than I do already. Yeah, sounds like a barrel of laughs."

Bridget can tell that Franky's hanging on by a rapidly fraying thread, and she can feel her self-control starting to waver.

"Look," she commands, cupping Franky's face in her hands until the inmate is forced to initiate eye contact. "I can't compromise my professionalism any more than I already have, Franky - I can't, but we're not going to be patient and therapist forever. So believe me when I say you have something to live for, OK? "

She brushes her thumb against Franky's cheek, and then tenderly wipes away the blood on her lip, but she's a little surprised when Franky jerks away from her.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Gidget?" she demands, but Bridget takes heart from the fact that there's a little more passion in her tone this time around.

"I mean, you get why I came here today, right? I was gonna rough you up a bit, and then I was gonna sign a statement saying that we were banging like rabbits; that you were all over me like a rash. I was supposed to be helping Ferguson get you fired, but look at you, you're so fucking noble... "

"Franky..." Bridget tries to interject, but Franky doesn't want to hear it.

"I mean, who am I kidding?" Franky says, with a self-deprecating snort, "This is never going to work. I'm never getting parole and, even I do, you're not going to look at me twice once we're out there in the real world. I mean, dating an ex-con will pretty much kill your social life; your friends and family are gonna think you've lost the plot. You're so far out of my league - "

"Self-pity really doesn't suit you, Franky," Bridget says wryly, wondering what the hell happened to the cock-sure woman who had been shamelessly trying to hit on her since their first session.

"Yeah, well I'm all out of options now, aren't I?" Franky retorts, ducking her head.

Bridget maintains her stance, hands resting gently on Franky's knees, and her heart starts thudding when Franky's delicate fingers tiptoe over her wrists, tracing a tender pattern over the back of her hands and leaving a trail of longing in their wake. Franky twines their fingers, and when Bridget doesn't pull away, the inmate meets her gaze, and there's a vulnerability in her expression that Bridget's only ever seen once before.

"I'm scared, Gidget," Franky whispers, and that admission just about breaks Bridget's heart.

"I know," Bridget commiserates, gently squeezing her hand, "But I'm going to fix this, OK?"

"Oh, so you're a miracle worker now, are ya? What're you gonna do? Crack her over the head with a crow bar? Push her down the stairs? I knew you were a bad-ass underneath that whole buttoned-up thing you've got going on."

Bridget can't help but laugh at that, although the gravity of the situation quickly wipes the smile off her face.

"No, I'm going to figure out what makes Joan Ferguson tick, and then I'm going to play her at her own game." Or die trying, she silently adds. She glances down at their linked hands, realising that neither of them want to let go, but they quickly pull apart when they hear a door unlock in the distance.

"Shit," Bridget curses, hastily straightening her clothes. She picks up the tape recorder, depositing it in her desk drawer, and then shoves the destroyed reel into her jacket pocket. She looks around to see Franky hurriedly straightening up the office, trying to remove any evidence of their earlier altercation, although there's no hiding the ding in the wall.

"Everything OK in here?" Matt Fletcher asks, sticking his head around the door, and Bridget's momentarily grateful for how distracted he's been lately, because he barely bats an eyelid.

"Fine, thanks, Matt," Bridget demurs, giving him a warm smile. "How are things with you?"

"Yeah, good," he mumbles non-committally, turning his attention to Franky. "Governor wants to see you, Doyle."

"Well, you can tell her where to shove it," Franky retorts, turning to look at Bridget to gauge her reaction.

"Hang in there, OK? And don't do anything stupid," Bridget says softly, and Franky hesitates for a moment, before giving her a barely perceptible nod.

"I'm sorry," she mouths, and her remorse is palpable. She offers Bridget a tremulous smile, but when Bridget smiles back with the full intensity of the feelings she's almost given up trying to hide, for a second, the sparkle returns to Franky's troubled eyes.