The working day is nearly over but there’s a possible new crisis on their hands. The rest of the department are chipping in ideas on how to handle the situation and the meeting room is enveloped in a cacophony of noise. Mobiles are ringing off the hook, multiple notifications buzz in every three seconds and the din is enough to set anyone off, even the fucking Archbishop of Canterbury.
But it figures that nothing compares to the sight of Finn leisurely sipping his coffee on the other side of the table to spite her, scribbling notes or ciphers or pentagrams or God knows however the fuck his reptilian kind choose to communicate. Liz is tempted to yell at him. In order to make him yell at her…and Jesus, that’s something she had never expected to contemplate.
(But then again, Liz had also never expected to end up sleeping with him on a fairly regular basis – more regularly than she’d care to admit – so…yeah, the joke’s on her. As usual.)
Much like a child who hasn’t got his way, Finn is sulking. And very much not like a child, he’s drinking a cappuccino. Not his customary coffee order but she knows it’s deliberate. Subtlety isn’t his forte – it never will be – but he’s definitely been reading up on her long game strategy. Fuck him and really, fuck him.
At this disjointed junction in time, someone grabs her attention for two seconds – not because they’ve hit upon something, but because their suggestion is frankly appalling. Liz briefly wonders what sort of calibre the Met’s HR has been recruiting. Then her train of thought is brutally derailed at the equally, or even more, appalling sight of the paper cup slowly leaving Finn’s mouth, a perfect crest of creamy foam sticking to his upper lip.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Her mind alarmingly goes blank, a spike of familiar desire threatens to overwhelm her, and Liz is on the verge of sending everyone home, crisis be damned. Body aquiver, she’s already edging closer without knowing it and she’s this close to kicking his chair from beneath him, pinning him to floor and –
The memory of having kissed and licked the foam off his then-startled face last week returns to her unbidden. To do so again, and this time in public, is a real, wonderful, and terrifying possibility.
Ironically, she’s saved by Finn himself. Perpetrator and idiot, the master of self-sabotage. He commits the tactical error of looking up, locking his smug, smouldering gaze with hers which freezes when he sees her flinty expression.
Scowling, his eyes return to the press release in front of him. Liz nearly cries out when he viciously wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.