The next day drags on to the night, to the late night. Another emergency press conference is called.
Finn helps Liz prepare, back in her office. Back where it started.
“Are you worried the passion will die?” he questions, running a hand down her hair to smooth it. She doesn’t comment on how he’s trembling. “Aren’t you worried that you’ll like me?”
“I’m much more worried about you liking me.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
Her hands twist over the handle of her hairbrush, like she’s imagining it’s his neck. Or his cock.
“Finn, whatever happens - ”
“We’re going to screw each other’s brains out, yeah,” he concludes flatly. “Pity party, furious, or celebratory sex. Or hunted-by-a-mob-about-to-die sex. That’s the only definite thing in this shitstorm.”
She was going to say I appreciate your trust, but his personality has stuck a dick in the face of her diplomacy yet again. “If we survive -” she grabs his tie and yanks him forward. “- I’ll fuck you like I never fucked Richard.”
He frowns. Then a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. “Examining that semantically -”
“Shut up.” Fuck it, reapplying her lipstick will only take seconds. She latches her lips onto his and kisses him like how she would suck out his soul if he possessed one and if she had any use for it. It’s how she wishes she’d kissed him the entire time; how she’d imagined kissing him from the moment his welcoming smile had failed to reach his eyes and his handshake was a press too tight.
Liz swipes the piece of gum from Finn’s mouth, quickly breaks their contact, and spits it at him.