Archive of Our Own ^beta

They finally make plans to get that drink, but things, as ever, do not go smoothly. There's a job, then there's a raft of complications with said job and when everything is at last sorted, they do end up drinking, but it's in some crowded, grimy little pub with Charles and Jamie. Who are chatting away amiably, laughing at each other's jokes while Fran takes nervous sips of her pint.

Because Liz has just downed her third vodka shot and she's sitting across from Fran, leaning back in her chair with her legs wide apart, one hand dangling loose over her left thigh. She's smirking, the corner of her mouth curled up, very obviously noticing and appreciating the not-especially-furtive glances Fran can't stop herself from casting in the general direction of what Liz is so openly displaying.

"ET phone home," Charles intones, Jamie dissolving into helpless giggles and Fran can't tear her gaze away as Liz's hand edges further and further up her thigh until it's...

Fran abruptly stands up, and Jamie and Charles stop talking, looking at her, confused. "I've just..." she says, and gestures in the direction of the toilets.

Which are badly lit and unpleasantly damp and as Fran emerges from the cubicle she's just thinking this wouldn't be a bad place to kill someone when Liz grabs hold of her shoulders, pushing her back inside. She's forcibly turned sideways, shoved up against the wall as Liz slams the door shut with a perfectly executed kick, and suddenly Fran can't breathe.

"So," Liz says, and she's close, so very, very close. "I saw you staring out there."

"Staring?" Fran replies, huffing out a nervous laugh. "Staring at what? I wasn't staring."

Liz bites her lip, raising her eyebrows. "You were staring, Fran," she says, leaning in even closer, her palm flat against the wall, right next to Fran's face, the fingers of her other hand stroking along the waistband of Fran's jeans, slowly, teasingly. "You were staring at my pussy."

"Well, it was rather difficult not to," Fran scoffs, or tries to scoff, because scoffing isn't exactly easy in these circumstances. Still, she goes on, saying, "What with the way you were sitting and everything."

"Yeah, whatever." Liz gives her a predatory, lopsided grin. "Did kinda seem like you were enjoying the view," she says, her voice low, and oh god because she's unfastening Fran's jeans, her hand slipping in down the front of Fran's underwear, and Fran is panicking, her heart racing a million miles an hour, the beat of it loud in her head because this is too much, already, just far, far too good and she can't deal with this sort of thing, she just can't.

"I don't think we should..." she stutters out. "I really don't feel this is an appropriate place for..."

"Wow," Liz murmurs, her breath hot against Fran's ear. "You're very wet."

"I..." Fran starts, but it's difficult to form words when Liz's is licking her neck and Liz's fingers are inside her, moving, her thumb pressing up against Fran's clit.

"Oh," she moans out. Then, "Ohhhhhh."

"Ooh, you're loud," Liz says. "I would have thought you were way too uptight for that."

"I'm not uptight," Fran snaps back.

"Not right now, you're not." Liz laughs, low and dirty. "I bet I can make you scream."

"No..." Fran swallows, closing her eyes. "No, thank you, no screaming necessary, I..."

And maybe she doesn't scream-scream but there's noises definitely, and she comes harder than she can remember doing in a very, very long time.

Maybe ever.

She's still panting as Liz unzips her own jeans, grabbing Fran's wrist and shoving her hand in and Fran can feel her, all hot and wet and smooth, and she tries, she does, but she's still so dizzy, and Liz's jeans are so tight that she can't seem to get her fingers at anything approaching the right angle, and she's suddenly very, extremely aware of the crowded room outside the door and what everyone there must have almost certainly just heard.

Focus, she tells herself, but Liz sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes, and not in the good way.

"Jesus, Fran," she says.

"Sorry," Fran replies, "it's just my hand keeps cramping and pub toilets aren't really a performance-enhancing environment for me, but if you give me a second I'll..."

"Never mind." Liz pushes her away, leaning back against the opposite wall of the cubicle, hips thrust forward, her own hand now inside her jeans, rubbing herself, and it's only a minute or two before she's moaning, her eyes fluttering closed, lips slightly parted, her body visibly arching up as she comes. And it's so fucking hot, and even though Fran's normally a one-and-done kind of woman, there a very distinct twinge between her legs as she watches.

Liz stands up straight, matter-of-factly zipping her jeans, and then she takes a step forward, reaching up to stroke her thumb along Fran's bottom lip. Fran's tongue flickers out instinctively, tasting, and they stare at each at other for a long moment, before Fran says, "So."

"So," Liz seems to agree, nodding.

"Do you want to go out first? And I'll wait a few minutes."

"Yeah, I'm guessing everyone actually already knows what we were doing in here."

Fran pauses, then says, carefully, "So I'll go first?"

Liz shakes her head, and she looks a little tired and perhaps more human than Fran has ever seen before, which is, frankly, quite strange.

But nice, Fran thinks. Very nice, even.

And Liz smiles. "Sure," she says, "you go first."