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Franky doesn't say I love you.
To anyone.
Not since her dad left, and she figured out the words meant jack shit. That they didn't hold anyone to her, or her to anyone, and that if anyone said them to her, they weren't to be trusted.
They'd just started lying, after all. Just told her they were on their way out of her life, pretending it was for her own good as they walked away.
Her parents, first. Kim, most recently. And too many others in between.
It's easy to believe what her mother first teaches her – that she is unlovable, that she is not worth sticking around for, that she is why people leave. Everyone who has claimed to love her repeats that lesson in one way or another, never looks at her with anything resembling it, or treated her like they cared at all in the end. There is only pity. Sadness. Anger. Desire. Fear.
And once she's in prison, love becomes good only for power; she plays on it over and over again. All of the emotions she elicits in others she cultivates for her own use, allows people to think she cares, then that she doesn't care, anything to hide what she really feels and to get what she wants. Every single selfish impulse she has becomes easier to achieve once she gives up on the idea of love as something real and good and bright.
Even when she thinks she feels it for real, she doesn't trust herself not to fuck up, that she won't falter when she's needed the most. She loses Boomer for months because she isn't strong enough to love the way she should.
Admitting love was tantamount to putting a knife to your throat. It would only be used to hurt, could only be used to hurt.
So she doesn't say it.
(Okay, Boomer's heard it twice, but no one gets to know about that.)
And then Bridget comes along. Bridget, with her levelheadedness, and her kind eyes, and her kind heart. Bridget, who is steady and consistent and honest. Bridget, who is real and good and bright. Bridget, who gets her and gets to her like no one else has.
Bridget, who seems to understand in that uncanny way of hers that Franky won't be declaring her love to her any time soon, and doesn't act like she's expecting or even wants to hear it. Bridget hasn't said it either, not in the few months Franky's been out, and she doesn't know if Bridget's holding back because she's guessed how Franky feels about that particular phrase or if their relationship is just too new for I love yous.
(As far as Franky's experience goes, this thing between them took a hard right into unfamiliar territory months ago, while she was still in prison; she doesn't have the slightest idea what's considered normal for something…serious.)
She knows Bridget loves her, and if Bridget thought she wanted it, she'd add it to their shared life without hesitation, would slip the words in at their goodbyes, their hellos, their lazy mornings-in-bed moments, their dancing-around-the-living-room moments. There have been a dozen times she's braced herself to hear Bridget say it; half convinced she's ready and half convinced she might run.
And each time, the moment passes. They hold eye contact for an extra beat, and nothing happens. They go their separate ways, and nothing happens. Bridget kisses her shoulder, her neck, slides a hand across her belly, and nothing happens. Thinking back on their painful conversation in the prison kitchen and Bridget's grand gesture in the parking lot, maybe Bridget – for all that she loves about feelings and communication – maybe Bridget isn't so comfortable with the words either.
Franky doesn't need to hear it to know. The evidence is right there: a bullet-point list of all the ways she can tell how Bridget feels. She knows it in the way Bridget looks at her, with all of that unguarded affection; knows it in the key she carries in her pocket that Bridget gave her when she got off curfew; knows it in the quiet moments just being in the same space, not needing to talk, and where for once in her life no one expects anything of her other than that she's there; knows it in the way Bridget touches her, in those sweet little strokes across her shoulders and on her cheeks.
Knows it in the way Bridget holds fast when she explodes, when that temper she's still learning to control escapes its bounds, and Bridget doesn't take her shit but doesn't antagonize her either. Wipes away the tears when Franky gets overwhelmed by the freedom she wanted so desperately. And when she wakes in the middle of the night, heart pounding, thinking of the fire or Meg Jackson or Bea beating the shit out of her or Jacs' hand crunching between weights, Bridget listens, follows her directions to stay or to leave her alone, doesn't get offended by requests for room to breathe. And instead of the dread that used to linger after the panic subsided, it feels like some of the darkness might actually be healing.
Knows it in the way she feels about Bridget, that the same soppy look is in her eyes, that she has never felt more secure and safe. This woman knows the worst of her and sticks around. Sees her for who she is and lets her be. Wants her to be the best version of herself but doesn't want to make her into a different person. She is happy, they are happy, and it terrifies her, makes her want to push it away, because she knows this feeling can only lead to pain. But she'd had her chances to stop this months ago, when the flirting was just a diversion, before either of them let it go as far as they have, and she didn't. Couldn't.
(It would be self-sabotage to let Bridget go now, ruin the best damn thing that's happened to her, and cause them this pain anyway.)
Knows it in the small things she finds herself doing, like passing a florist's on her way to work and is unable to resist the urge to send something beautiful on Bridget's consultation day at the prison. Picking out a plant for her office, deciding on a flower instead – a potted plant will only get ruined during the usual search – and handwriting the card.
Explaining to the florist it's for her partner, and not stumbling over the word, imagining Bridget's face when she reads the card. Nothing too obvious, nothing the screws will be able to understand or read into or tease. Settles on the rather cliche but true "Thinking of you" and is immeasurably pleased with herself when her phone rings a few hours later; Bridget ignoring all kinds of regulations about personal cell use during working hours to thank her.
Knows it in what she notices and finds unbelievably appealing, like Bridget's hands – rarely still, especially when she's talking; fidgety when she's listening; buried in her pockets when she doesn't know what else to do with them. And that she owns more watches than any sane person ought to have. More watches than bracelets or rings or necklaces or shoes, and Bridget fucking loves shoes. The collection started as a professional necessity, a way to keep track of sessions, but over time it's grown into a fascination with the mechanics, the inner workings, the beauty underneath a utilitarian object. She suppresses her smirk when Bridget explains all of this to her, thinking of course, of course you look at these like you do people, and knows this is love when Bridget catches her holding back and gives her an amused but self-conscious smile – yeah, this is who you're dating.
Dating. A real relationship, not just someone to fuck and to control. The kind of bond she craved even when she was convinced it was a bullshit fantasy that would never exist for her. Franky knows this is love, because what else could have gotten her to fucking be with someone the way she is with Bridget?
Knows that the words will leave her sooner than later, but there's no rush, because they both know what there is between them.
Franky doesn't say I love you.
When Bridget comes home, bone-weary and mentally fried from her day, she is greeted by such a welcome sight she could almost cry. She knows it's an overreaction; she's well used to the emotional intensity of a prison but there are days like this one where every session seemed ratcheted up, pulling down her reserves, leaving her open to feeling this much relief at the mere sight of Franky's shoes just inside her front door.
The shoes and their wearer have been absent two days, since Franky laced them up on Monday morning, kissed Bridget goodbye, and went down to the Legal Aid office where she's been interning. Bridget sees her private clients Monday and Tuesday evenings, and between that and Franky's schedule, they haven't been able to put together more than a string of texts and phone calls.
Guided by the curfew in place the first twelve weeks of Franky's parole, and their disparate schedules, they've had days apart every week Franky's been out. As much as she loves being with Franky, she still needs space to decompress in order to do her job correctly; a peaceful night at home alone to rebuild her resilience, without the whirlwind energy and spark Franky has brought into her life.
Franky accepts this with surprising ease. She needs the space as much as Bridget does, needs it to ease back into life on the outside and find her way on her own. There's a solid balance between their individual lives and their life together… even if Franky pretends to groan and grumble about it on the mornings of their nights apart, and sends hard-to-resist dirty texts and harder-to-resist flirty texts at all hours.
And, as they've both learned, sometimes that resilience is best restored together than on their own.
Franky's shoes are at the front door, but the house is silent. Strange. When Franky comes over before Bridget gets home, to study or cook or spend the night, Bridget is greeted to the sounds of a lived-in home – music on, utensils clanging, the shower running, Franky grunting through sets of crunches and push-ups. Franky doesn't like silence, can only tolerate it for a bit, after the constant bustle of Wentworth.
Bridget closes the door, puts her keys in the dish and her bag on the table. Coat to the closet and her black boots next to Franky's beat-up trainers with the neon soles. Their pairs of personal items are growing – the shoes, the clothing in drawers and strewn over the house, the toothbrushes nestled together in the bathroom, the makeup on the dresser, the mugs in the kitchen cabinet. Only her keys stay alone. Franky keeps her keys on her; the luxury of having a set of her own hasn't yet worn off.
One of these days, she thinks, these pairs are going to be permanent, but it's a bit soon for that conversation.
First things first: her love is somewhere in this house and being unusually quiet.
"Franky?"
No answer. Bridget heads down the hall to the study. It's her favorite room in the house, calm and quiet, designed as a reading room, a place where she can unwind and enjoy the late afternoon sun. Franky has found it just as useful and most days, that's where Bridget finds her, sprawled on the couch, coffee table lined with law books and notebooks, cheap pens and highlighters. The couch is deep, plush, a bit oversized for one person, but excellent for long nights of reading. And more, Bridget thinks with a smirk, now that she has Franky in her life.
(She also now has a yellow highlighter stain in her life, on the rug underneath the coffee table. She doesn't know who knocked it to the floor, or how it cracked, but she has fond memories of Franky noticing it afterwards, that first horrified "Oh, fuck!" over the stain, then the shrugging, nonchalant "Fuck it," before she dove back in for another round.)
True to her thoughts, when she enters the room, Franky is laying on the couch, long legs stretched possessively over the length of it, textbook tented on her chest.
Fast asleep.
The sight fills her with a simple joy. Franky has worked bloody hard for years building up her walls, and she works just as hard on letting Bridget inside them. It's an ongoing process: some days Franky flings the gates open and welcomes her in, and others, the gates are closed, locked, barred, nailed shut. After only a couple of months out of Wentworth, she hasn't let go of that sharpness that kept her safe inside, and not even in sleep has she fully relaxed. There are nights when Bridget wakes up, looks over, and sees that brow furrowed, jaw tight, and knows it's not just dreams keeping Franky tense.
But now, she's slack, arms folded over her chest, just barely keeping the book in place. Her loose henley is riding up, revealing the yellow band of her underwear and the first of the cherry blossoms tattooed on her side. Mouth parted, her chest rising and falling in the rhythm of deep sleep, face absent of any wrinkles. Franky looks young, in a way that Bridget hadn't imagined, almost innocent. A glimpse into who she could have been if life had gone her way as a kid.
Bridget falls in love a little bit more. Feels her heart grow, feels that breath-catch of affection for this woman, who will never be that innocent little girl and who is all the more beautiful and endearing because of it.
She takes the few steps over to the couch, intent on rescuing the textbook and letting Franky sleep. It's been long days and long nights of work, studying, keeping up with the conditions of her parole, including weekly therapy sessions and meetings with her parole officer, and all the bullshit that comes with the public finding out she's an ex-con. Franky's exhausted by her transition back into the world, and she doesn't want to disturb this found moment of peace.
Franky is holding the book tighter than she thought, and the little bit of pressure she uses to tug it free makes Franky's eyes shoot open. "Hey, it's just me," she whispers, and watches as Franky relaxes immediately.
"What time is it?" Her voice rough from sleep, Franky starts to sit up but reconsiders and settles down.
Bridget sets the book on the table, marking her place first, and sits on the couch beside her. "A bit after six."
"Home early, aren't you?"
Bridget tilts her head in confirmation. "My last appointment got slotted. How long have you been here?"
"Came about three." Franky looks at her, bleary-eyed. "Fuck. I had plans for something special for dinner. Didn't mean to fall asleep."
"You needed it," Bridget says, running her hand down Franky's cheek, gratified when she leans into the caress. "You've been burning the candle at both ends. Dinner will keep until tomorrow?" Franky nods. "Why don't I go change and we'll order in?"
She goes to stand but Franky grabs her wrist, making a low hum in dissent. "Stay."
"Franky…" She's been in the prison all day. The smell of it is woven in her clothes; that complicated, layered smell of hundreds of women and institutional living. She's not so cruel to let it permeate Franky's day any more than she has to.
Franky walks her fingers up Bridget's arm, glides them back down, taking a quick detour along Bridget's watchband before she links their fingers together. "Just for a minute."
God, that tone. That silly, smug, playful tone of hers that makes a request sound like an inevitability. "I'll be right back."
"No, come on. I haven't seen you in two days. You think I give a shit that you smell like fucking floor cleaner and a bunch of my closest enemies? Turns me on." Her cheeky grin is glazed by sleepiness, but her hooded eyes are knowing. Bridget can't say no to that face.
She tucks herself in alongside, Franky maneuvering sideways to make a bit more room, and letting out a satisfied sigh as their bodies meet. "That's better," Franky says, kissing the top of Bridget's head, giving her hips that now-familiar double-tap.
This is Franky, Bridget thinks, this is who she is – tactile, eager for contact, romantic in actions if rarely in words. Not to discount her sharp edges or that clever, wicked mind of hers, because those are who she is, too. But this is the side very few people have been able to see, and she appreciates more every day that Franky trusts her to be one of them.
These moments make all those pre-parole sleepless nights worth it; all the agonizing over what she was doing with a client – a prisoner, no less – whether she was harming or helping by falling in love with Franky, and what in herself had changed so much that she was letting this happen. So maybe her ethical boundaries weren't quite as firm as she'd once thought. It's hard to care about rules she'll never break again when she's tucked in a warm embrace, Franky's heart beating in her ear, feeling more content than she has in days.
She nuzzles closer, pressing her lips to Franky's neck, smiles at the resulting shiver. "You had a good day?"
"Aside from falling asleep in the middle of my reading? Yep. Nice long run early this morning, got a couple of hours in at work before my session, went to the market, and then I came here after." Franky slides a hand up Bridget's back, unclasping her hair clip and tossing it on the coffee table with a clatter. She runs her fingers through the bun, loosening the long blonde waves and giving Bridget's scalp a good rub. "You're kinda tense, Gidge. You okay?"
"Nothing I can talk about." Franky's eye roll in response to her stock answer is nearly audible.
"I know you can't tell me anything about the content of your sessions but as I recall, you're allowed to tell me how you feel."
Bridget huffs in mock frustration. "Lawyers and their technicalities."
She loves Franky's chuckle in her ear, the rumble rolling through the body below her.
"It is my job now, yeah?"
"I'd say technicalities are pretty high up on your KPIs."
"No, looking after you and your feelings."
Every time she thinks she has something of a handle on her reaction to Franky, that she's covered every possible way to be caught off-guard, Franky comes up with some new way to stop her in her tracks.
She has to play this easy; Franky's not one for mushy talk but she's also petrified of rejection. That she's even made this kind of overture is rare. They've had their serious conversations about the state of their relationship, but any hint of romantic vulnerability from Franky usually gets run through that cocky seduction filter so it doesn't come out sounding like…
Well, like what she just said.
She takes a moment too long to respond; Franky tenses ever-so-slightly. Only noticeable because Bridget has spent the last several months learning her body as best she can. Bridget lifts up slightly to meet Franky's eyes, taking in her expression – soft and sincere, and a bit concerned that she's blundered her way into something more serious than she wanted for a Wednesday evening – before cupping her cheek and bringing their lips together for a reassuring kiss. You are fine, this is fine, we are fine. "I wouldn't consider it a job, per se," she says lightly, after they break, settling back into her spot in Franky's arms. "More of a calling. But if it's such a chore…"
"Fuck off." The play works; the tension leaves Franky's body. "Don't think I'm so domesticated I can't be that selfish asshole you first met."
"Ah, you were only half-feral by the time I got to you." Bridget chuckles as Franky swears in protest. "I must admit I like your soft side." She slips her hand under Franky's shirt and traces up the tattoo, stopping with her thumb on the hem of Franky's bra when her breath hitches. "We can talk about me later, okay? Let me get my head around a couple of things first."
A yawn swallows the end of Franky's, "Whatever you need."
"Just you."
The heartbeat under her palm does a little jog. She loves that she can get to Franky just as easily as Franky gets to her.
Before long, Franky's breathing slows, and Bridget's falls to match. She's drowsing when Franky's embrace tightens ever so slightly, a kiss presses into her hair, and she feels as much as she hears Franky's sleepy voice say, "…love you."
Bridget doesn't think Franky even knows she's said it, half-asleep as she is, so she just smiles to herself and murmurs she loves her, too.