Chapter Text
“People are fucking weird.”
The complaint rouses a confused furrow in Charlotte’s brows. She glances over at Tara, watching the Sergeant glare at her phone screen. “Huh?”
Tara rolls over on her bed and tosses her phone over. “Have a look.”
Charlotte catches it, eyes falling to the screen. “Why are you looking at dating apps?”
Tara scoffs as she heads over, clicking on the link in the app store and showing Charlotte the description. It makes her stomach turn.
“Selling off your virginity,” Charlotte reads. “Why are you-”
“Not a virgin, so not for me,” Tara insists. “It’s buried pretty far down, but ugh. That’s got to be illegal, right? This counts as prostitution.”
Charlotte continues scrolling the details. “This is bizarre,” she mumbles. “How far down did you scroll, Tara?”
Sergeant Al Salim snatches her phone back from Charlotte’s grip, huffing. “Look, I’m bored.”
“Are you going to sign up and pretend to be a virgin?” Charlotte asks.
“Stop it,” Tara hisses, pouting. “You make me sound like a weirdo.”
“You are a weirdo,” Charlotte retorts. “Next argument?”
Tara blows a raspberry at her. “Maybe you should sign up, though,” she points out. “It’ll keep General Creeper from having it if he decides he wants to take it.”
Charlotte looks at her in horror. “God, that is so disgusting!” she snaps. “Tara! That’s not even funny! Why would you say that!”
In her defence, the other woman holds up her hands, shame on her face. “You’re right. I’m- that was way too far, Lottie. I’m sorry.”
There’s a long silence. Charlotte stares at the book in her hand, swallowing.
“Do you really think he’d-”
“Let’s not,” Tara mumbles. “Let’s really, really not. We’re not going there.”
“Yeah.”
She can’t take her mind off it.
Charlotte ends up scrolling the app store on her phone an hour later. She remembers the name of the app and can’t help herself. It’s disgusting. It’s absolutely prostitution and shouldn’t exist.
It promises a safe and secure way to facilitate your first experience.
Non-refundable.
Then her phone rings and it’s her dad and Charlotte’s face burns.
“Hello?”
“Lottie, darling. Just making sure you’re coming back home next weekend? Your mother is ordering all the food now.”
“Oh. Yes, I’ll, I’ll be home,” she promises. “Should I bring anything?”
“Just yourself, darling. Do let us know if you need a plus one, though.”
“No, I- don’t.”
“All right, darling.” There’s a pause. “...Jeffrey is going to be there.”
Charlotte recoils. “In our house-”
“I know, darling. Nothing I can do.”
Her throat clogs.
“Fine.”
“I’m sorry, darling-”
“I have to go,” she blurts out, “bye.”
Without waiting for his response, Charlotte hangs up.
She waits in the darkness to see if he calls again, but her father must know better than that by now. Charlotte lies there instead, rubbing her eyes. She tries not to cry. She doesn’t do very well. Fat globs of tears spill down her cheeks as she wraps her hands under her knees and pulls them against her chest.
Fuck.
She brings the phone up and goes back to the app store. A long moment passes as she just stares at the screen in front of her.
Sign up now!
The date and time are set for a hotel in London two nights from now.
She still cannot believe she’s doing this. Charlotte has no strong opinions of prostitution, but as much as she hates to think of herself that way, it is… apt. Maybe she isn’t getting paid, but she is offering herself for a specific sexual act, with someone paying money towards a third party to obtain it from her.
Charlotte feels the days pass in a weird haze. She’s probably acting bizarrely, but if Tara notices, if Emily or Becca wonder what’s going on, they don’t ask what’s wrong with her.
She’s given the room from 3pm, with all the amenities needed to change and prepare. Once her chosen date arrives, he’ll come up to the room and they can discuss anything they need to. Apparently, since that was what was written in the description. It’s not like she really knows any better, anyway.
Cliche as it is, the only thing she can think to wear on the day is a little black dress. She pairs it with black kitten heels and ties her hair up. Her makeup is nudes, except for bright red lipstick.
She is glad that there’s no need for her to walk anywhere or be seen with anyone. Even just this is far enough.
There’s a knock at the door.
Charlotte feels her face flush, and she swallows. Her footsteps are hesitant as she approaches the door, but she turns the handle to open it anyway.
The man on the other side is tall and built and tanned, wearing a zipped up leather jacket and jeans. He looks even better in person than the photo. His hair is shaved into a mohawk. His face is slightly scruffy, but what Charlotte can’t stop looking at are his eyes. They’re a shade of blue that reminds her of clear winter days back in Hokkaido.
“Hi,” he purrs.
He’s Scottish. His voice is absurdly deep.
She licks her lips.
“Hi,” she tries. Her own voice comes out low and throaty.
“Y’ want me lingerin’ in the hallway, miss?” he asks.
Charlotte steps aside and gestures for him to come in. He passes her by, the smell of his cologne just enough to make her head dizzy and not enough to be overpowering. She follows him into the room, moving to stand beside the bed, as the door slams shut.
“Name’s John.” He sounds so abrupt. “How’re we doin’ this?”
Fuck, he’s done this before. Charlotte feels herself go cold. “How do you usually tend to do this?” she asks.
He makes a conceding face. “Depends. Not everyone does it the same, y’know?”
No I don’t. She smiles at him instead. “I suppose.”
Charlotte raises her hand.
John grabs her wrist, spins her around, and yanks her against his chest. And then there is a fucking gun pressing to her temple.
“Where’s the thumb drive, Yelena?” he growls.
What?
“What’s going on?” Charlotte whispers.
“The kompromat y’ collected for Makarov can’t be far,” he adds. “Carry it on y’, do ye?”
What the hell.
Charlotte stamps on his foot, throwing her head back. She turns on her heel and goes for his gun. Abruptly she’s shoved into the bed. The muzzle is right under her jaw.
And then it’s pulled away and she’s left lying on the bed with a wide-eyed man staring down at her in horror.
“Fuck!”
Charlotte goes for his gun again and he shoves her away.
“Sorry!” he blurts out. “Christ, fuck, no, stay the fuck down, christ!”
“What the hell is going on?!” she demands. “Who the hell are you?! Why do you have a fucking gun?!”
“Shh!” He tugs aside his jacket, showing her the bulletproof vest bearing the insignia of the SAS.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, “why is the SAS sending you to-”
John winces, touching his ear. “Negative, sir,” he suddenly says. “Subject was incorrectly ID’ed. Wrong woman.”
There’s a momentary pause. Charlotte realises he’s wearing an earpiece.
“S’no’ the target, sir,” John says. “She’s a civilian.”
“I’m not a civilian,” Charlotte calls. “I’m Army.”
John turns to look at her in surprise. “Wha’?”
“Sergeant Charlotte Baxter, 21st Royal Signal Corps,” she tells him as she gets to her feet. “Not a civilian.”
John’s brows raise, and he glances away with a conceding face. “Nevermind. She’s a scaleyback, sir.”
Charlotte winces at the nickname. “What’s going on?”
John looks at her, then pauses, hand on his earpiece. “All righ’,” he begins. “Y’know how tae shoot?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Good.” He pulls a gun from his holster. “Rest of the team’s inbound tae secure the building. No’ expectin’ any company, but no use goin’ in blind.”
“Who exactly would be coming here?” she asks.
“Russian Ultranationalists,” John tells her. “Y’ever heard of Konni Group?”
Charlotte checks the bullets in the gun. “I know plenty about them.”
“They’re workin’ with a PMC called KorTac-”
“I know about that too,” she says.
He nods. “There’s an operator who works for a man named Vladimir Makarov. She uses these auctions tae lure clients an’ take compromisin’ photos for blackmail, or assassinate anyone of interest tae them.”
“Charming,” Charlotte mutters. “And she has red hair?”
John glances her over. “Aye,” he agrees. “If it’s anythin’, yours is a nicer shade.”
Her cheeks burn. “Oh.”
“But,” he snorts, “doubt if she was blunt as you, there’d be much chance of shaggin’ her targets.”
She gives him an incredulous look. He nods towards the door.
Charlotte glances back towards her things. “Let me change my shoes first.”
He huffs. “Really?”
She’s already going for her trainers. “Do you want me running across a hotel in heels, then, John?”
That cracks a smile on his face. The sight almost blinds her.
“Y’ can call me Soap,” he offers. “Tha’s my callsign.”
“Why?” she can’t help asking.
Soap pulls the door open. “Really? Y’wannae ask me tha’ right now?”
“What’s the plan, then?” she asks.
Soap leads her out of the room, down the corridor. “Team’s inbound tae locate the real target. Gonnae lock this place down, stop her from runnin’.”
“You said her name was Yelena,” Charlotte ventures.
“Yelena Semyonova,” John tells her as they reach the lifts. “Former FSB turned Konni Group informant.”
The doors slide open. “Is she from Sakha?” Charlotte asks.
Soap glances at her, stepping inside. “How’d you know that?” he asks
“I’ve met her,” Charlotte replies, joining him. “No wonder you mistook us.”
“Sorry, let’s backtrack tae the part you just know a goddamn Konni Group assassin,” Soap manages, hitting the button for Ground Floor.
“Know is a strong word,” Charlotte retorts. “I met her once when I was living in Japan. Her father was a diplomat. Mine is a General.”
“And y’were how old?”
“I was twelve,” she shoots back.
“Huh.”
There’s a long pause as they reach the ground floor. Soap tucks his gun back into the waistband of his jeans, nodding to her to do the same. Charlotte tugs up the hem of her dress skirt and tucks the gun into the outside of her stockings. When she glances back at him, his eyes are lingering on the spot that she just exposed. Her face goes hot.
Soap steps out of the lift car and heads across the lobby, striding towards the front desk. The assistant behind it greets him with a smile.
“Hi, is there something you need?”
Soap tugs aside his jacket to show her the insignia. “Don’t say anythin’, just listen,” he murmurs. “There’s a woman checked in earlier, looks like this girl. Need her room number. Don’t gimme shite about confidentiality or guest security, she’s got a gun an’ she’s possibly gonnae kill a man. Doubt y’ want that splashed all over the news.”
The girl stutters, glancing to Charlotte. “Um…”
“She’s working for a terrorist group, miss,” Charlotte adds. “This is a matter of national security.”
“Can I call my manager?” the girl whispers.
“Do that and she gets away,” Soap counters.
The girl’s eyes are wide. “Room 411,” she manages.
“Thank you,” Charlotte glances to her name badge, “Madeline.”
“Sir, Semyonova’s in Room 411,” Soap says, as he heads back for the lift. “Heading tae extract.” He stops dead. “Wha’? Naw, come on, sir! This’s bullshit. Lemme go up there- seriously?!”
Charlotte frowns.
Soap shoots her a frustrated look over his shoulder, then rolls his eyes. “Fine!” He heads back towards her, grabbing her by the wrist. “New plan. Team’s got the place covered. Ah’m supposed tae get y’ back tae the nearest safehouse.”
“Why?” Charlotte asks, letting him drag her along towards the door.
“Price hates politics an’ doesnae want shite startin’ with yer old man,” he grumbles. “Fuck me.”
I would like to.
Charlotte keeps that to herself.
Instead, she shivers in the bracing cold outside as Soap leads her into the multi-storey, finding his car. He pops open the passenger door for her and strides around to the driver’s side, getting in as she does. The engine revs, the car pulls out, and they’re driving off into the London night.
“Sorry you’ve been relegated to babysitter,” she offers.
He just grunts. “Well, sorry for fuckin’ over yer evenin’.”
Ah. She coughs. “Yes, well… I suppose it could’ve gone worse.”
“Could’ve,” he agrees.
The car goes quiet. A few miles tick over before he speaks again.
“So… can I ask?”
She glances over at him. “About?”
He snorts. “Seriously? Y’were there for a reason, right?”
Oh, oh shit.
“Well, I, yes, I was there for a specific reason,” she fumbles on the words, “so what?”
“Come aff it,” he laughs. “How’s a beautiful woman been forced tae join some dogshite bid tae get laid?”
Her cheeks warm. “That is the question,” she agrees. Her eyes drop to the floor of the car, dimly illuminated by the lights in the footwell.
Soap waits, curious.
Charlotte huffs. “The moment I began puberty, there was this- man. The same age as my father. And he began to show me… special attention. And I just- I thought, maybe, if I did this, if I did it with some- some stranger, it didn’t matter what else he did. He wouldn’t have that.”
“Y’ did this to keep some creepy old fuck from havin’ his way wi’ ye?” Soap asks.
She shrugs. “That is pretty much it. And now it’s not going to happen because it turns out, you’re not here to do that-”
“Ah didnae say tha’,” Soap interrupts.
She freezes. Her dark eyes find his, her cheeks growing flush.
“You… oh.”
He pauses. “But, um, probably not tonight, yeah? Got paperwork and shite tae do.”
She can’t help laughing. “I see,” she manages. “Well, then. Would… would you like to join me for a fancy dinner at my parents’ house as a plus one?”
He blinks. “Seriously?”
She nods. “He’s going to be there.”
John makes a conceding face. “When?”
Charlotte feels herself grow bold. “Give me your number.”
John hands her his phone, unlocked, and Charlotte enters her number and messages herself. Her phone lights up.
“What’s your actual name?” she asks.
“John MacTavish,” he replies.
She can’t help the sound of disbelief that escapes her. “You gave me your actual name-?”
“An’ you did too,” he protests.
She saves him in her contacts, then texts back the date and time and details. He spares her a glance when they reach some traffic lights.
“Yer fuckin’ weird,” he snorts. “Like it, though.”
“I am not weird,” she insists.
“Yeah y’are,” he coos. “Told y’ it’s cute, though.”