"Wentworth" fanfiction. Fridget (Franky/Bridget) all the way. Adult language and situations. Spoilers through episode 3x9. Please see chapter one for disclaimers. Michael Beckett is my creation.
Franky Doyle was no stranger to the protection unit at Wentworth Prison. She regularly volunteered to take the meal cart to admissions, medical and the Protection Units. She had to be accompanied by a Protection Unit guard at all times when she was on the wing but when each cell door was opened she was free to interact with the women inside.
Over the year and a half in which she'd visited the unit she had developed rapport with the guards and many of the inmates, including Jacs Holt. They weren't what anyone would describe as friendly but they had history and on Franky's several-times-a-week lunch rounds the two exchanged barbs and news of other inmates as the brunette dropped off the older woman's meals.
But as she was buzzed into the unit this time, Franky felt a little nervous. The guard on duty at the door looked up at her.
"I'm here to see Dr. Beckett," Franky said after a long expectant gaze.
"Oh?" the guard replied, one eyebrow raised. As the woman typed something into the computer, Franky's eyes found her nametag: Wanda Holt. "So you do. Huh. Have a seat. I'll tell him you're here."
Franky glanced behind herself and found two plain gray chairs she had never noticed before lined up against the wall. She took a few steps and then took a seat.
"Francesca Doyle is here for her appointment," the guard said into the phone. "Right." She hung up and glanced up. "He'll be out to fetch you shortly."
Franky nodded once, then thought to say, "Thanks, Miss Holt."
Franky never had to wait to see Bridget. Of course that's where my brain goes… A guard always escorted Franky to Bridget's office in the administration building so the blonde had to wait for her. Franky hadn't anticipated that this new bloke would be any different.
She felt her own tension rising at the prospect of having to discuss her feelings with this new stranger. Franky longed to talk to Bridget again. She had so much to tell the blonde, so much she'd thought through and realized since their last session.
More than anything she wanted to lay eyes on Bridget to see for herself whether or not the blonde was alright - particularly after Bea said she saw Bridget crying. Franky was burning with the urge to ask whether Bridget was lying when she said she wasn't in love with her, to find out whether she missed their interactions and conversations. Not that Franky would even know how to go about asking such things... Not when the answers meant so much. Not when the answers meant everything.
She was so lost in her own thoughts that the sudden appearance of a man startled her. Whatever Franky had been expecting, this guy wasn't it. Wiry salt and pepper hair was spiked a bit on top and a bushy beard protruded from his jaw. Round cheekbones propped up rims of black, round-rimmed glasses and warm brown eyes shone improbably with a smile. There was a youthfulness to his energy that was at odds with a slightly pudgy late-40's/early 50's male physique.
When he spoke, his voice was soft and a bit higher pitched than she would have guessed. "Good afternoon, Ms. Doyle. May I call you Franky?"
Franky rose, "Yes, thanks." Her eyes fell to his outstretched hand and she shook it. He gave it a quick squeeze before releasing it.
"I'm Michael Beckett," he continued, adjusting his bowtie in a way that made Franky knew he didn't enjoy wearing it. "My office is just this way."
They made their way down the main hallway. A few doors down on the left, he gestured to an open door. She had passed it many times but never noticed it. Bands of frosted glass wrapped a wall of windows that looked out into the corridor. One would have to peer through the quarter inch clear stripes between the bands in order to see into the room.
As she stepped through the threshold, Franky's first thought was that it wasn't as nice as Bridget's office, not as warm. But perhaps that had more to do with the inhabitant of the other office. Two deep orange armchairs sat on one side of a black desk – nearly identical layout from Bridget's office, though this space might have been slightly smaller; same window, same row of low file cabinets against one wall. No hot blonde…
The psychologist closed the door behind them and said, "Please, have a seat."
Franky automatically moved to sit in the chair closest to the desk – the position that was Bridget's chair in the other office. She looked up and the bearded fellow smiled at Franky again as he retrieved a notepad from his desk. "I appreciate you coming to see me over in this part of the world," he said.
"No sweat, doc," she smiled. Franky knew from the printout of her appointment slip that he was some sort of doctor.
"I prefer to keep things informal so you are welcome to call me Michael," he said taking the chair opposite her. She nodded approvingly at the informality.
"I've read your file and of course I've spoken with Bridget Westfall," he said. Franky scoffed at herself for the jolt of excitement that surged through her at the mention of the blonde's name. Smooth, Doyle. The momentary buzz quickly gave way to anxiety. What had Bridget told him?
"It seems you're well on your way to a parole hearing," he continued. "Your paperwork is filed and you need a few more sessions to satisfy the counseling requirements. Maybe work through your statement to the board." She nodded, though he wasn't asking a question. "But if you're open to it I'd prefer to spend this session getting to know you a bit. Delve a little deeper into elements of your life and well-being."
Franky swallowed hard wondering what the fuck that entailed.
"Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself," he suggested, smiling warmly.
Former top dog, former dealer, dyke with a serious case of the hots for her former shrink, she thought, a sly smile invading her lips. "Well, uh, I run the kitchen," she said instead. "Was a chef before – but you probably know that since the incident that landed me here - the accident - what I did that landed me here happened whilst I was taping a nationally televised cooking show."
Fuck… Speaking the truth wondered whether it ever got easier. All mirth was now gone and she swallowed hard before meeting his gaze again.
"My kitchen work sometimes includes delivering meals in this unit," she continued, sticking to safety.
"Oh, right then," Michael nodded. "So you've been in this wing before."
"And I work a shift mopping floors," she added. "I like to stay busy." She expected him to say something, ask something, but nothing came. What else? "I've earned my legal studies degree since I've been here."
After a long moment, Michael said, "I understand you help other inmates with their appeals and other legal paperwork, help them prep for hearings and the like."
"I do what I can," she nodded.
"So that's a bit about what you do," he said. "Tell me more about who you are."
Franky thought for a minute. She had no idea what to say. And then she realized she had tears in her eyes. For fuck's sake… And then she was crying, hot streams spilling down her cheeks. What the hell…?
As she rolled her eyes at her own emotional state she noticed that Michael's gaze remained even. She forced herself to regain eye contact, determined to not fall apart in front of the stranger. In a calm, easy way he retrieved a box of tissues from his desk and placed it on the side table that sat between their chairs.
She took a tissue, wiping her cheeks. She still had no idea what to say.
"We just met," Michael acknowledged. "And I don't expect to just snap my fingers and have you trust me but you're welcome to talk about anything. Everything is confidential and since we'll be spending at least three hours together we might as well make the conversations beneficial to you, continue the work you were doing with Bridget."
Franky wiped her nose and nodded. She tried to breathe deeply which hurt for some reason. Her lungs were tight, as were her abs, she realized. Her mind was racing and she felt the sudden urge to run screaming from the room. She closed her eyes again.
Not something you want this bloke to see, you losing your shit over a simple question. Get it together, Franky.
For some reason a breathing trick she learned in one of Bridget's group sessions came to mind. She had no better options so she began to breathe in for a count of three, then out for a count of three; breathe in for a count of four, then out for a count of four. A handful of breath cycles later she was already starting to feel better. She finished a seven-count exhalation and opened her eyes again.
Michael was still there, gazing at her with calm interest. She was grateful to find no trace of mockery, judgment nor resentment in him.
"I've spent a long time being angry," Franky said before she could think, her voice still choked and tight. "I still am… or at least I still have shit to come to terms with." She studied his face for a reaction to the curse word. Finding nothing more than patient, attentive calm, she continued, "But part of me is totally fucking unsure of who I'll be without the anger…"
"An angry person may be part of who you are," Michael said evenly. "But just from what I can tell from your file you are also a hard worker, someone who helps others, a leader among your peers, a friend, a daughter. The anger is something that may have colored the rest of those things but it isn't the sum total."
This brought a fresh wave of tears. For the second time in as many weeks someone, a qualified professional trained to deal with people and the darkest corners of their psyches, was telling her this. Franky looked down at the tissue clutched in her hands. Her throat remained tight and she felt the precipice where she was: to trust or not to trust, that was the question.
Then she thought of Bridget – blue eyes, radiant smile. The mere idea of the blonde flooded Franky's senses with some foreign optimism about the future, improbable as it seemed. Bridget's words, I was talking about me, Franky, looped in her head. The breathlessness of the admission, the intensity of her gaze, the off-the-charts magnetic draw she felt toward the woman. Heady stuff, to be sure.
Unbidden, a quote Bridget mentioned in one of their sessions drifted into Franky's mind.
"'And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom,'" Bridget had recited. "Have you heard that one before?"
"No," Franky replied, wishing the blonde would recite more. "What's it from?"
"It's a quote from Anaïs Nin," Bridget smiled as Franky's eyebrow arched at the name. "Probably her most famous one. From a novel called Children of the Albatross."
"I've heard of her erotic works," Franky said, studying the blonde's face for a response. "But I've never read her. You a fan of the kinky stuff, Gidge?" Franky asked, thinking she bloody well knew the answer to that question already, but happy to switch from their previous topic of discussion - trusting in others - and onto any fucking other thing in the world.
At their next session Bridget had proffered an older, well-worn hardback copy of Cities of the Interior. "Children of the Albatross is one of five novels in an arc that were combined into one publication. You're welcome to borrow it if you wish," Bridget had said as she handed it to Franky. The brunette took it, inexplicably happy to hold in her hands something tangible that belonged to the blonde.
Franky's eyes raked over the cover. Dark blue ink revealed abstract figures of two women and one ghostly form that was shaped roughly like them intertwined with tree branches on a gray cover. Outlined letters spelled out the title in the background, beyond the branches.
"Thanks, Gidge," Franky had said as nonchalantly as she could manage, all the while fighting a smile at the happiness she felt from this gesture. To deflect this she had gone cheeky, saying, "Bit of an unusual cover, eh? Looks like a find from a bargain bin at the Feminist Women's Bookstore, but I'll give it a go."
Bridget burbled forth with laughter at that, which was exactly what Franky intended. It had become her mission during sessions to get the blonde to laugh as often as possible both because that meant the psychologist wasn't pushing Franky to talk about her feelings and because damn… Bridget's laugh was like the most perfect high, surging through Franky's veins with a delicious rush.
It wasn't until she was back in her cell that night that Franky had a moment to truly pour over the book. It was then she noticed two things: inside the front cover there was an inscription, 'Happy birthday, Bridget! Love, Abby.' Franky wondered who the fuck Abby was and how exactly she loved Bridget.
Then she noticed the post-it note bookmark tacked right at the first line of the quote Bridget mentioned in their previous session. But the thing that captured her attention was the scrawling script written in blue ink: Franky. The brunette's fingertip went immediately to the "y" tracing its indelible mark on the paper.
When she became aware of her actions, how 12-year-old-with-a-crush she was behaving, Franky smiled and shook her head. What the fuck ya doing, Doyle? She knew exactly what she was doing – all the signs were there, written in 40 foot neon letters.
And that damn quote… the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. Opening was a risk – a bloody giant one. The most enormous fucking risk Franky could imagine.
She returned to the present and realized Michael was staring at her, a look of patient anticipation in his twinkly brown eyes. And in that moment Franky Doyle inhaled through her nose, swallowed hard and felt a little like she was going to throw up.
"I don't know where to start," she croaked in a strangled-sounding whisper. "I don't… really know who I am… without the anger. I've been angry for so long and now… and I feel… lost in a way. Or at least uncertain of who I am and what I want beyond the fact that I don't want to be here and I don't want to be angry anymore." She wiped her nose again as tears continued to fall.
I mean I know I want to make love to Bridget Westfall for days on end… Hell, months, years... 'Make love?' Where the fuck did that come from?
Michael was silent and for a moment and she feared she'd missed something he said. Or worse, that what she'd just thought about Bridget had somehow come out of her mouth. Franky held her breath until he spoke again.
"That's a pretty profound place to start," Michael said, his voice and face the perfect mix of respectful, calm and friendly. "Bridget didn't tell me what you discussed in your last session but she said you'd made some breakthroughs and you didn't have time to follow up, to work through it. So let's get into this."
Franky dabbed her eyes with a fresh tissue. She swallowed again and drew in a deep breath. She still felt a little like she'd puke but she exhaled and nodded. She would do this fucking unbearably hard thing because Bridget had helped her to understand that it was important. And because Bridget Westfall wanted her. By God, she owed it to the blonde to get her shit together in case there came a time – as unlikely as it was – when she might have a chance to be with Bridget.
Franky's hands felt the edges of the chair arms, fingers raking across textured fabric. Then she thought of that thing that Bridget did, the little movement she made, rubbing her thumb across the pads of her index and middle fingers. The gesture had caught Franky's attention from their second session together, the inmate's mind spinning with possibilities of what it meant, if anything.
Laying in her cot that night she had mimicked the gesture and found, after many minutes, that the fingertip trick had a sort of soothing effect and really focused her mind too. She wondered if that's what it did for Bridget. She would ask but then she might come off a bit stalkerish at having noticed the behavior - which the blonde might interpret as interest, which the blonde might use to her advantage.
All of that was before… Before she'd known who and how Bridget was, before Franky tossed herself off a cliff by admitting she killed Meg Jackson, and it was certainly before she'd admitted to herself that she'd fallen head over fucking heels for the hot psychologist.
Her mind now back in the office of one Dr. Michael Beckett, Franky closed her eyes and imagined she was sitting in Bridget's chair in Bridget's office because somehow that made her feel a little less like she wanted to die, a little less like she was about to jump off another very high cliff into the unknown.
She opened her eyes and found Michael's kind attention still focused on her. Didn't waiting for clients to spill their guts ever get old? According to Bridget, it did not. She exhaled. Bridget…
It was time, Franky decided. And this bloke was as good as any to help her sort through her shit. "Want to start with my mom or my dad?" she asked, forcing herself to maintain eye contact, attempting a smile that never fully materialized. "Both are pretty fucking horrible scenarios."
"Start wherever you wish, Franky," he said.
Her first instinct was to demand he toss her a bone, give her some fucking place to start, but she kept her mouth shut and breathed instead. It was another trick she'd learned from Bridget in a group session about anger management: the sacred pause.
"Instead of reacting immediately, take a deep breath and count to ten," the psychologist had instructed. It sounded pretty basic Franky thought at the time, but like nearly everything Bridget suggested, Franky gave it a go. She was more than a little surprised to find it worked and worked bloody well, as it turned out. Franky preferred to not think of her pauses as sacred though. She thought of them as profane. She even said that to Bridget at their next solo session after group, eliciting a fresh round of laughter from the woman.
Bridget… all thoughts led to her, it seemed.
Franky's mind again returned to the moment, to Michael's office, to Michael, who continued to gaze at her patiently. "My first memory of my mum is the first time she broke my arm," Franky started. "I was two."
A dozen tear-soaked tissues later Franky was shocked at many things: how quickly the hour had passed; how, with each admission of what had been done to her she felt a little lighter and, improbably, less like a victim; how each statement she uttered made the next a little easier to say; how Michael's questions made her realize things she hadn't known before – about what happened, how she reacted, how she felt, where she carried her pain – so many things she had never considered.
Michael never seemed shocked by her language nor by what she said. He listened and would ask straight forward questions when she struggled with what she wanted to say. He wasn't Bridget… but because he wasn't Bridget there was slightly less of a risk in telling him the awful truth of what had happened and how she felt about it. She was surprised to realize that he didn't treat her differently even after she told him about some of the worst moments of her life.
"Bridget said you were smart and hard-working," Michael said as the minute hand neared the hour mark on the wall clock. "You've certainly proved that today. How do you feel?"
Franky felt wrung-out and raw from the surprisingly bloody hard work it was to talk about her feelings but she managed a half smile and said, with a note of sarcasm, "Peachy."
Michael returned a kind smile. "You've been through a lot – brought up a lot of really hard parts of your past. You can be proud of the work you've done today."
It seemed odd to be proud of herself, Franky thought, particularly for basically vomiting the darkness of her childhood in front of this man but she had to admit that she did feel better in a way, lighter.
"Since I'm only in to see clients once a week, I usually assign homework," he continued. "You up for that?"
Work was familiar. Work was something Franky knew well. Furthermore she knew she could do whatever it was and if it meant that she could "process" (as the two psychologists in her world called it) the considerable amount of baggage she was carrying and move forward in her life.
"Sure thing," she replied. "What did you have in mind?"
Franky's eyes followed as he stood and went around to the far side of his desk. He sat in his chair and opened a lower drawer. She wiped her runny nose as she watched him retrieve a small white box and a composition notebook. He set both on his desk before looking back up at her.
He opened the small box, asking, "You familiar with an iPod?" Franky nodded, recognizing it as the model that had come out around the time she went to prison, which made it older but still…
"This one is loaded with audio books and podcasts that I use with certain clients," Michael explained. "I want you to listen to an hour-long podcast a day. He grabbed a notepad from his desk and wrote as he continued. There's a psychologist and author called Tara Brach. She's fairly firmly rooted in Buddhist tenets. I didn't notice a notation of your religious preference in your file but if you believe in God or some higher power and you're open to it, I think what she has to say might really resonate with you."
Franky's relationship to God had its ups and downs but early years of Catholic school had stuck with her and in her darkest moments God was her go to, be it in prayer or in more of a fucking seriously? sort of way. So she nodded, she'd give it a go.
"I want you to try them in a specific order, though," Michael continued. "It'll address specific elements we touched on today and sort of build, if you follow."
"Sure," she agreed.
"They're pretty loaded with information and questions, meditation exercises so some people find it helpful to listen to one several times, to let it soak in," Michael explained. He scrolled through the iPod menu as he continued to speak, occasionally scrawling something on the notepad.
"It's got nothing to do with intelligence," he continued. "If it did I'd just tell you to have at it. It's more about application to your life, to your situation. And it's not easy. It may stir up some difficult stuff. Just keep going – even when it gets hard. Keep listening. Just an hour a day. And then journal about it." He placed the comp book close to her. "That's for your journaling. What you write is for your eyes only – I won't read it unless you want me to."
Franky nodded again. "What if I want to do more than one hour. S'that okay?"
"Sure, but don't do too much," Michael cautioned. "It's a lot to take in. Give it time to really get into your brain, ya know?"
"Sure," she agreed.
"Everything you need's in this box," he said. "Charger, earbuds and all. I'll write a note giving you permission to have this so none of the screws interferes. Is your cell private enough for you to feel safe in it?"
No place at Wentworth really felt safe, save for Bridget's office. "Probably," she replied. "Why?"
"Because for the meditation part, it'll help if you are someplace quiet and safe," he explained. "And private, preferably. Since it may bring up some things. Tell you what – there's a private conference room right off reception on this wing. A tiny room and there is a window but you can sit with your back to it. The door locks. You would have to be let in and out but it's very secure. I can grant you permission to use it if you'd like."
"Okay," she agreed again, curiosity piqued at what an audio podcast could possibly contain that would necessitate such extreme measures. "Thanks."
Michael smiled. "Now, have you meditated before?"
"Nah," she admitted. "Dated a girl once who was into that but…"
"There's a podcast, Ten Minute Basic Meditation Practice, that will walk you through it," he said. "Listen to that first. She'll talk you through it – relaxing your body and mind. For many it's difficult to turn down the chatter in your mind at first but just breathe through it and if your mind wanders, just be calm and patient and return to the meditation."
Franky wasn't entirely sure she got what he was saying but she nodded anyway. How hard could it be, really?
Michael laid down his pen, pulled the page from his notepad and handed it to Franky. While he went about re-boxing the iPod, she read what he'd written:
"One podcast per day, in this order:
Loving Yourself into Freedom
Self-Compassion
Trusting Ourselves, Trusting Life
Three Liberating Gifts: Forgiveness
Three Liberating Gifts: Inner Fire
Three Liberating Gifts: Looking in the Mirror
Learning to Respond, Not React
Fuck me… Franky swallowed hard.
That night after lockdown Franky lay in her bunk, cell door closed. She still felt exhausted from her session earlier in the day, jagged around the edges from all of the emotions, almost like she was getting a cold. Unbidden, her thoughts turned to Bridget as they did so often these days. She imagined the blonde laying in her arms, the smaller woman's mane of hair loose as her head nestled into Franky's shoulder, a lean muscular leg thrown over Franky's thigh, knee resting between the inmate's.
When she closed her eyes she could feel the warmth, weight and softness of the woman she wanted so badly to see. She inhaled and imagined Bridget's scent filling her nose. Franky sighed; the mere imagined Bridget a comfort somehow. After a few moments she opened her eyes and wondered if Bridget ever thought about laying with her… Or doing other decidedly more intimate things…
Franky wasn't prone to fantasy. Sure, she'd imagined various women as she brought herself to climax but she never dwelled on the possibility of anyone, the details of them, particularly on the idea of whether or not they ever thought of her or felt anything for her. She didn't usually give two fucks. But that had all changed with one Bridget Westfall.
Franky sighed, unused to the feeling in her chest – hollow, achy, needful. She needed to see Bridget and that thought both pissed her off and brought exquisitely tender tears to her eyes.
Fuck…
She sat up swinging her feet to the ground and breathed deeply, willing the tears to stay where they were. She'd cried enough for one day. Her eyes roamed the space and eventually landed on her desk and a white box and notebook that had been added to it earlier that afternoon. She retrieved the iPod and earbuds from the box. It was fully charged, she was happy to realize, and as she scrolled through the various audio files she was stricken how nearly every title made her stomach ache a bit.
Franky swallowed hard. She had a feeling this homework assignment would be as fucking difficult as the session had been. But ten minute meditation sounded benign enough. She found the audio file and pressed play, settling back down on her cot.
It took her a few minutes to really adjust to the American psychologist's voice and dialect, to the distinctive whistle of her s's but in short time it sounded familiar enough as this Tara Brach began to instruct her.
Breathing she could do. Particularly when such a lovely calm voice was telling her how to do it. She didn't really know what a quality of presence was, nor a quality of here-ness, but she kept listening. As the woman suggested she scan her body for tension Franky snorted. What about her body wasn't tense? But as she breathed deeply she felt the knot behind her right shoulder blade, a slight ache across her lower back, a general stiffness in her neck. And then the woman was telling her how to relax her brow, shoulders, belly, and gradually Franky did actually relax a little.
By the time the tutorial was done she genuinely felt calmer, less emotional. And not at all sleepy. Franky glanced at the slip of paper and then scrolled the iPod menu until she found the first podcast Michael prescribed, Loving Yourself Into Freedom. She thought of the pot-smoking, yoga-practicing vegan she had fucked for a time some years earlier: Vivian. Viv would have laughed her ass off at Franky listening to Buddhist new-age meditation podcasts – whilst in prison.
This Brach woman's language was a bit touchy-feely for Franky's taste but the calm ease and frequent humor of the speaker cut through the foreign softness. The inherent rightness of what she was saying washed over Franky.
Unlike what she had discussed during her therapy session, this woman talked of universal issues and stories about herself and others, about common struggles. Because it wasn't specific to Franky, because she didn't have to give voice to the thoughts and memories this Tara Brach's words conjured, Franky was able to really listen and take in what she was saying.
And, God, she had cried even more.
Somehow when Tara – at some point during the hour-long recording she had become Tara, a third psychologist for the inmate - talked about loving yourself, being kind to yourself, that was the most painful fucking thing. Franky knew but didn't admit to herself why – just that loving herself and being kind to herself were not things she did. That made her cry hardest of all. She had to pause the audio and stifle sobs into her pillow at that.
When the podcast was done she lay there for a long while, mind churning with new awareness. Eventually when reaching for toilet paper to blow her runny nose, Franky's eyes landed on her journal.
She grabbed it and turned to the first blank page and began by just naming how she was feeling – a trick Tara taught in the podcast. She started to describe on paper how she felt and she was surprised both at how easy that was and how it morphed: sadness, disappointment, grief, loneliness, unlovable – on and on. Eventually description gave way to more coherent thoughts, memories and understandings. When she looked up she realized she had been writing for a half hour.
Exhaustion washed over her as she closed the journal and plugged the iPod in to charge. She crawled into bed and lay on her back for a moment before flipping over onto her stomach. She attempted to make the prison-issue pillow at all comfortable beneath her cheek.
Then her thoughts returned to wishing Bridget was there with her, pressed against her back, arm slipped beneath Franky's, leg nestled behind hers in a mirrored crook. She summoned the idea of the woman's weight, heat, soft breath on her neck and Franky fell asleep as she imagined the blonde whispering, Good night, Franky.
When she woke the next morning, Franky felt stripped bare. Somehow the emotional work she'd done the previous day made her feel physically different. She would have donned armor if she had any. As it was she layered up and zipped her hoodie. She felt a little like she had after the session when she'd confessed Meg Jackson's murder to Bridget – naked, raw.
As she walked the halls, blonde hair, a quick gait – anyone who might be Bridget – caught her eye. Franky didn't actually see the blonde for two days though, and then it had been when she hadn't been looking for her.
Franky had been mopping outside the library, lost in thoughts of the podcast she had listened to that morning (she had already listened once to all of the ones Michael had suggested and she was now on a second go-round), when she heard footfalls coming rapidly down the quiet hall behind her. Then they slowed suddenly.
Franky turned and there was Bridget, looking every bit as surprised as she was, clad in that bright purple top that added a tint of green to the psychologist's eyes. Franky opened her mouth to say something but no words came. She wasn't sorry about that though because she was entirely unsure whether she could utter a word without her voice cracking with emotion. Nor that she wouldn't say something insane like, I love you.
Instead Franky smiled, letting every bit of happiness and relief at seeing the blonde show on her face – unguarded, unfettered, open, honest.
"Hi, Franky," Bridget exhaled, smiling, eyes roaming the brunette's face, sparkling with the light Franky hoped only shone for her.
And then they were no longer alone – a gaggle of inmates from D block passed by en route to the library, a few saying hello to Bridget as they passed. Group session, Franky guessed. She looked down at her mop until she was alone again with Bridget.
She felt the heat of the blonde's gaze and looked back up into blue eyes that were tinged with concern. That killed Franky – stabbed her directly in the heart, sharpening desire to pain since Bridget had walked away from the possibility of whatever it was between them – at least for now.
Tears sprung to Franky's eyes – fucking really? again? – and she quickly looked down again. Bridget had to feel it, the energy between them, the magnetic draw. Franky felt her heart would beat out of her chest. Surely it was audible… She wrapped both hands around the mop handle lest she reach for the woman as every cell in her body screamed for her to do.
A trio of inmates neared and Franky's eyes traveled the length of Bridget's arm to her hand, to the signet ring she nearly always wore, the one Franky wondered about – Where had it come from? Who had given it to her? What was its significance? Those fingers…
After the women passed, Franky looked back at Bridget's face, wondering whether her obvious ogling registered to the blonde, if thoughts of those fingers, of Bridget's touch, were written all over her face.
Bridget's eyes darkened just briefly and Franky knew. Bridget's pink lips parted and Franky willed her own hands to stay where they were.
Franky drew in a breath and managed, "Have a good session." Then she returned to her work, heart aching in her chest, tears welling in her eyes.
She felt Bridget's presence, her gaze, for many moments as she mopped. Then she heard the familiar swoosh as the library door closed and the little double-knock it made as it settled into place. Only then did the tears fall. Franky missed Bridget, their time together, the older woman's attention, conversation, energy, light – she missed Bridget like she didn't know possible. And there wasn't a thing that she could do to remedy the situation.
Fuck… she exhaled, hurt sharp in her chest, tightening her throat. The downside to the awareness that was happening her, the "presence" she was "cultivating" as Tara Brach's words seeped into her mind and soul, was that she now felt things more than ever – more emotions, deeper ones too. And it was fucking painful.
Again she tried that naming thing, in her head this time, as she continued to mop the corridor swiftly so she could be sure to be gone by the time Bridget's session was over.
It had been the longest weekend Franky could recall since being at Wentworth – which was saying something. With no hope of another Bridget Westfall sighting Franky threw herself into two things: working on an appeal to reduce Bea Smith's sentence and finish listening to all of the podcasts a second time.
She had already filled so many journal pages with reflections, questions, memories and notes taken between listening sessions. And crying was her new hobby. She'd taken to carrying a wad of tissue in her hoodie sleeve lest she be caught unprepared when the dams broke – which was at some pretty fucking inopportune times.
She'd been playing a game of pick-up ball Saturday morning and one of her teammates grabbed her wrist a certain way and, in an instant, Franky recalled one incident of her mother grabbing her by the wrist and dragging her to the kitchen where she was tossed onto the floor and screamed at while she picked up a box of cereal that she hadn't spilled on the floor, in spite of what her mother believed.
The sense memory had immediately brought tears to Franky's eyes and she quickly excused herself from the game, fleeing back to her cell where she fell apart entirely. She was becoming unhinged and that was the scariest feeling ever.
That night Bea had come round to her cell. "You've been laying low," Red had observed.
"Working on a few things," Franky replied, wondering why checking on her had become Bea's new pastime.
"S'that it?" Bea replied, not buying it. "Heard you had a run-in with Lora on the courts. Anything I need to know?"
"Nah," Franky replied, battling the instinct to tell her to fuck off and another, counter instinct to say thanks. She chose silence instead, eyes returning to the journal page she was writing.
Bea lingered a bit longer in the doorway – it seemed to be becoming a habit. When Franky looked back up, Bea asked, "D'ya see Jodie today?"
"Nah," Franky replied, concern seeping into her eyes. "Sarah was there when I took lunch 'round. Will give it another go tomorrow."
Bea made no move to leave so Franky again met her eyes. "You okay?" Red asked.
Franky exhaled, again fighting the urge to snipe at the woman. She studied Bea's face, seeking some sign of the other woman's intentions. All she found was a soft kindness, genuine concern etched across the plane of her brow.
"I'm handling some shit," Franky said, voice barely above a whisper. "Some of my own shit. It's fine. I'm fine. I'm just… Handling it."
Bea's eyes lingered a little longer before she tucked her chin a bit. "Okay," she allowed, nodding. "Well, I'm… here… if you…"
Franky rolled her eyes. "Don't go getting soft on me, Red," Franky admonished. "That's how top dogs lose their footing."
Red smiled, "No worries there, I just… You can talk to me, ya know?"
For some reason Franky believed her. And this caused a fresh wave of tears to be summoned to her eyes. Fuck…
"Thanks," she managed, voice thick with emotion. "I'll be sure to call you the next time I feel like crying into my bon-bons and braiding my B-F-F's hair."
The sarcasm made Bea smile. "Now fuck off," Franky said, motioning for the other woman to leave.
"Alright, alright," Bea nodded. "Good night."
Franky watched Bea slip out, her eyes following the door as it closed. Then Franky closed her eyes, exhaling as the tears streamed down her cheeks. This feelings thing, this whole letting your emotions be what they were was fucking torture.
Again her thoughts returned to Bridget and how she wished for the blonde to be there. The ache deepened in the center of her chest. She pressed her hands over her heart – a trick Tara mentioned in one of the lectures – and after several deep breaths Franky was surprised to realize she felt a little better. Franky felt surprised on a regular basis now.
Her eyes eventually returned to her journal page and she had an idea. She doubted Bridget Westfall would ever read what she wrote but as she turned to a fresh journal page, Franky began to write to the woman she so longed for.
Dear Bridget -
