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Dinner had been a good and a bad idea.
Good, because the food was good and the wine was good and the company was great, and Kate had never enjoyed the sight of a woman flashing her badge as much as she had watching Jo do so.
Bad, because Kate hadn’t even looked twice at the men on the table beside them when a year ago she would have been all over them. Well, not all over them, but interested. After she and Mark split, she hadn’t seen a reason not to try and enjoy herself. If she was only getting to see her son every other week, why shouldn’t she find comfort elsewhere in the meantime? Admittedly, it was a poor effort to fill the enormous hole in her heart that not being able to raise Josh had left in her, but it was something. It had been something.
She hadn’t gone on any ‘late night dates’ (as a friend had called it) since joining murder squad. And she hadn’t really been sure why, until tonight; until Jo held the door open for her as they left the restaurant and let Kate lead the walk towards their respective homes.
Jo thanked her. It was out of the blue, and Kate hadn’t been expecting it, and she wasn’t prepared with a response.
“Thanks for coming out tonight, Kate,” Jo said, using her name, making it impossible to misunderstand that Jo was very thankful that Kate specifically had come out with her tonight. Kate wasn’t naive to what her own comment at dinner may or may not have implied. She was well aware that her knee-jerk response of “not really my type” held an obvious subtext that Kate’s type was not men at all. Which wasn’t true, because Kate was attracted to men. Was being past tense. Had been. She couldn’t think of a man she had found attractive (romantically, that was - sex was a different thing entirely, that required only physical attraction and very little emotional connection) since Mark. Her type had always been men and women, though having been with Mark for most of her adult life, she hadn’t had many in the way of girlfriends. One at university had been serious. Kate knew she liked women.
And now, quite obviously, Jo Davidson did too. And Kate had the suspicion that Jo was interested in women, too. Something about her, something about her eyes and that look in the corridor; it was always the eyes. That was one piece of information that Kate had not told Hastings. That, she had kept to herself.
She should have kept the next words out of her mouth to herself too; “Mark’s got Josh next weekend if you’re at a loose end.”
What was that? She asked herself.
“I’ll check my diary,” was what Jo replied with, and of course she had to check her diary. Jo Davidson was a busy woman, Kate knew that.
But it still didn’t make the sugar coated no any easier.
Shouldn’t have said it at all, a part of her brain sneered. Made a twat out of yourself, haven’t you?
In for a penny, in for a pound then at this point. Kate’s body was working on base instinct as she stepped closer to Jo and pulled her in for a hug. She hadn’t been meaning to, but this was how women said goodbye wasn’t it? Women hugged each other. Kate hugged her other female friends, and she had hugged other female colleagues. Women hugged.
But hugging Jo Davidson didn’t just feel like women hugging each other to say goodbye. Hugging Jo Davidson felt like a a different thing entirely, something that warranted its own category in her memories. There had been an instant of hesitation from both women. This wasn’t women hugging. This was-… Kate wasn't sure what this was.
A mistake?
Kate’s fingers began to tingle, the feeling of Jo’s back against her warming palms almost too much, like smoke from a fire; hot, and tolerable, but for how long?
They separated. A moment passed where Kate felt like she was in the corridor of the police station all over again, turtle neck and blazer, staring down into Jo’s eyes as she took a step towards her and took her hand. She was on edge, and at the mercy of the other woman; your move.
Jo’s eyes flickered down, away from Kate’s, and Kate had to fight hard not to try to track then, to find out what they were looking at. So when Jo stepped back, and rectified her response (“I’m not busy”, she said), Kate had to wonder what Jo had found to change her response. Jo wasn’t busy. Jo was free. And Kate had invited her to spend the weekend with her. And she hadn’t said no.
The tips of Kate’s fingers tingled, palms threatening to burst into flames at the sheer heat resonating through them just from something as simple and mundane as a hug. It felt like too much, and not enough at the same time.
She contemplated calling Hastings that evening and handing in the towel. She was, for the first time since he had brought her in on this, glad that Steve didn’t know; he’d never let her back out. He’d insist she see it through to the end, even with the likelihood that this was all going to become too real. The 'Denton Incident' had been more about sex (and pride) for Steve than anything else. He would assume it would be the same for Kate, with Jo, and would tell her to carry on. The sheer fact that Kate was even considering backing out of the job should have been a glaring indication for her that it had gone too far.
Too far, Fleming.
Kate couldn’t resist watching Jo cross the road and disappear down the alleyway opposite. Jo was magnetising, and Kate had to blink once, twice, three times, to look away. She had to get home. She couldn’t stand here all night.
She poured herself a glass of white as soon as she got in, not even taking off her shoes or coat until she was in the living room with wine down her throat. How had a dinner that had been so easy turned into a walk that had left her feeling fuzzy? Kate couldn’t focus, and her palms were still burning; the fridge-cooled wine wasn’t even helping.
You invited her to see you at the weekend.
God her head hurt. What did people even do on the weekends? Dinner, again, was always an option. Or a bar. She didn’t have Josh, so she could always just invite Jo round, but that was a bit presumptuous wasn’t it? Jo would definitely get the wrong impression. But wasn’t that exactly what she was trying to do, to give Jo the impression that Kate could be trusted (and gaining trust in any way was part of the job) so she would spill all her secrets (and Kate could feed them straight back to AC-12)?
But she’s my boss, thought Kate.
She heard Jo in her mind:“Out of work, forget boss.”
Even so, Jo was her boss no matter how much Kate had come to enjoy her company.
Part of the issue with what Hasting’s had asked her to do, was Kate’s own moral code telling her she shouldn’t be ‘ratting’ on her gaffa at all. This wasn’t like the undercover jobs she’d done whilst still being on AC-12’s payroll. She didn’t work there anymore; she was murder squad now and this was just a favour for Hastings. She was a CHIS. And she wasn’t sure she liked it. Kate hadn’t lied to Steve when she had told him she liked working in the team. She got on with everyone, and she felt like a valid member of the team after only a short time working there. And, more importantly, she liked not being seen as a traitor for working Anti-Corruption by every other copper she met. It was nice to be able to walk into a police bar and not be glared at.
But on the other hand, a part of her had a growing issue with the fact that she shouldn’t be ratting on Jo Davidson. ‘It’s Jo,’ a voice would whisper, and she would have to wrestle with herself to send her acquired information. And so with each message to Hastings it was only getting harder to press send. The last one had been over a week ago. He had asked for an update two days ago and she had ignored it.
Instead, she had told Jo about Steve’s investigation.
You’ve chosen a side, a voice that sounded unnervingly like Cotton hissed in the back of her mind. Never thought you were bent, Fleming.
She understood his euphemism. Her own euphemism, considering she had put those words in his accent purely to torture herself.
“I’ve just come out of a long term relationship,” Jo had said tonight. “It would be nice to see you at the weekend.”
Kate let her head drop into her hands, and let out a sigh. “Shit.”
It’s just a job, Kate, she told herself, not hard to fake a smile, brush shoulders, follow her with your eyes around the room as she walks, laugh whenever she says something remotely funny, tell her you think she's-…
Kate blinked. Too far, Fleming. Too far.
It’s just a job.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Hastings had asked.
Kate had said yes, ‘without a doubt’.
She finished her glass of wine, and sank back into a plethora of sofa cushions. She wasn’t so certain anymore.
It’s just a job.
But where was the line, and how close was she to stepping over it?