Chapter Text
(Enter) Chorus.
Two households, both alike in dignity
(In fair Verona, where we lay our scene),
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
Prologue
Kate holds Steve’s concerned look across the dancefloor; he says as much as she needs to know with an almost imperceptible nod of his head. It helps that they’ve mastered the art of silent communication, though usually their telepathy has to contend with gunfire and shouting, the screeching of car wheels and screaming civilians, rather than the amplified melody of various cheesy hits. She wiggles a little along to the beat, smirking to herself when she sees Steve cracking up over the heads of the handful of people littered on the dancefloor. Kate settles her drinks tray in one hand – still unused to the weight of it – and brings up her other hand to aid her dancing, about to bring out the seventies-style retro moves she knows will make Steve lose it: peace signs over the eyes, that move that makes it look like you’re underwater, all the good ones. As she brings her arm up, however, her elbow makes contact with something solid. A woman careens off-course into Kate’s drinks tray, all but up-ending the empty glasses there, and they both swear emphatically in tandem. Kate uses her free hand to steady the woman, who looks up, dazed, through a curtain of brown curls.
Kate inhales sharply: the shock of nearly causing such a scene hitting her with a moment’s delay, she supposed. Smashing several glasses was hardly a good look for an undercover op, especially considering their only instruction had been to avoid drawing attention to themselves. For a moment they both stood there gaping, Kate’s hand on the shocked-looking brunette’s bare upper arm.
“Near miss,” the woman exhaled, and Kate’s hand fell away. She spoke with a soft Scottish brogue that gave her words a conspiratorial tone, one that suggested one might find a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. Instead, however, she just looked tired.
“I’m a good catch,” Kate shrugged, hoping the openness of her expression alone conveyed a sense of her apology. She had been behaving like a dick. Then she corrected this impulse. This wasn’t the station, where she often felt an open apology put her on the back foot in an already-challenging environment; she wasn’t (newly promoted) DI Kate Fleming here, she was supposed to be member of the event’s catering team. This woman was a guest and she had nearly just had a catastrophic run-in with a couple of broken glasses. Kate’s face flushed hot. She was too old now to be pratting about with Steve Arnott on these jobs and couldn’t believe she’d been caught so off-guard. She prided herself in being professional. She couldn’t imagine what Steve’s face looked like in that moment, could practically hear his gently mocking tone when they finally debriefed: ‘DI Fleming’.
“I mean–” Kate pressed her hand to her forehead for a moment, trying to work around the feeling that her brain had completely fallen out, “I am so sorry, that was completely my fault.”
The brunette woman – Kate considered, for a moment, if she had appeared in their briefing notes, but she was certain she would have remembered, despite her current mental deficiencies – raised her eyebrows. Now she had recovered from the surprise of nearly meeting a face full of glass, there was something cool about her gaze, something exacting.
“What makes you such a good catch?” She replied, completely deadpan, apart from the slightest suggestion of a smile at the very corner of her lips. It would have been very easy to miss, Kate thought, if she hadn’t been looking already. For some reason. Working undercover made her detail-oriented.
Kate didn’t understand – and then, all at once, she did. Her face burned. She was wearing so many layers, the catering uniform, yes, but also a concealed weapon and a bulletproof layer, on the off-chance things got heated. Great, not only had she nearly floored this woman, but now Kate sounded like she was chatting the stranger up. Fan-bloody-tastic work, Fleming, she thought. It was the short haircut, it confused people.
“Oh – no, I just meant–”
“Don’t worry,” the woman cut in, laughing dryly. As she did, she shook her head slightly, some strands of hair escaping from where they had been gripped out of the way, framing her face delicately. She looked beautiful, Kate thought – in the sense, obviously, that it would have completely sucked if she’d ruined this woman’s night by letting her fall. Her dress was a warm gold colour, autumnal. That suggestion of a smile had completely left her lips again.
“I’m good with my hands,” Kate shrugged, aiming for easy nonchalance, but her face momentarily betraying horror at her own words. Digging herself an even deeper hole. Why did it matter if this complete stranger thought she was funny anyway? Was her ego really that fragile? She was getting as bad as Steve. Only fifteen minutes ago she’d been joking about him copping off with the birthday girl, and now here she was – though, of course, this was different. Really, she told herself sternly, those two things were not even slightly the same.
Nevertheless, she was pleased when the brunette did laugh, a bark of laughter that seemed to surprise both of them. She lifted a hand to cover her mouth somewhat apologetically, looking around as if to make sure no one had seen her enjoying herself, even momentarily. “I’ll add it to your list of talents alongside disco dancing.”
Kate scoffed. “That would be generous.”
“Dangerously good, some might say.” The brunette quirked one eyebrow. They both laughed then, until the glasses rattled threateningly on Kate’s tray and they both looked up, startled, glanced back at each other, and dissolved into laughter again.
“I really am sorry,” Kate insisted, catching her breath and ducking her head in shame. “I should be more careful.”
“Suits me,” the other woman shrugged, “little danger keeps things exciting sometimes.” Though her tone was still light, she crossed her arms stonily, and Kate couldn’t help feeling like she really had messed up.
“I’ll take boring if it means you keep your face intact. All guests. If the guests keep their faces intact.”
“Right.” The brunette blinked. They were silent for a moment, S Club 7 playing out into the echoey hall of the country club. Kate spotted Steve by the door. He held up three fingers in a signal that meant nothing but trouble. Then Kate could sense the unease in the room, the first murmurings of trouble brewing.
“I have to go–”
“I’m Jo, by the way.”
“Kate.”
“I’m sure we'll cross paths again, Kate… if I ever decide to put together a football club and I’m looking for a goalkeeper, that is.” The other woman – Jo – smirked, and slipped off into the crowd.
Things continue going wrong. Communications go awry, the negotiations are inconclusive. It isn’t long until shots are fired. The guests, most of them innocent to the less-than-savoury reasons behind this extravagant birthday party, an unlikely cover for an OCG handover, scatter despite DSI Buckells’ warnings that they should remain calm. From somewhere in the commotion, bullet sails in the direction of a woman in soft yellow and Kate swears under her breath.
Jo makes a run for it, down the corridor to the foyer, and, seeing that Cottan has fired a fatal shot at the man in self-defence, Kate tucks her firearm back into her holster for speed, and takes after Jo through the double doors, unsure if she has been hurt.
She finds her leaning against white brick, her eyes pressed shut in clear panic, breathing frantic.
“Jo, are you alright?” she asks, approaching carefully. Kate is surprised when those eyes flicker open and she finds anger there, as well as fear. “They got him. He’s dead.”
“Alright? I was just shot at by some mad man with a gun. It was nowhere near me but I know what happens next – people don’t just walk away after that.” She stepped away from the wall, hair mostly fallen from its style now and her expression utterly desperate. “What is going to stop them coming to finish me off?”
“Hey,” Kate soothed, locking eyes with Jo in hopes it would ground her a little. It was often a shock for civilians when things like this happened. Their imaginations often got carried away.
Jo stepped forward, flickered like a candle on that inward breath. For one ridiculous moment, in the hysteria and chaos of the moment, Kate thought they were going to kiss or something. Jo’s breath stuttered in her throat. She gripped Kate’s hand, the same one that had caught her earlier in the evening, and squeezed gently.
“I guess almost dying twice in one night is enough to make anyone brave,” Jo said, moving for the door. Kate realised she was holding a slip of paper in her hands. She unravelled the tight folds from where it had clearly been worried about in the woman’s pocket, the ink smudged from frequent handling and clammy palms. Jo Davidson. A mobile number.
When Kate looks up, the other woman is gone.