Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You’re simply jealous, admit it,” River says and takes a large bite of his burger.

James nearly splutters at that and suppresses an urge to take a quick look around, to make sure no one in the Park canteen might have overheard them.

“What? No,” he protests a beat too late. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But you wanted to work with Duffy,” River insists, still chewing. “I don’t understand why Taverner assigned you to HR instead. We both did well during our training. Maybe she has something against you?”

Oh. That’s what it’s all about.

“I think it’s unfair, actually. So. No need to be snappish with me if you’re upset,” River goes on, having diminished the burger in half in the meantime. “Could you maybe transfer later?”

James picks at his salad, devoid of appetite and unsure whether he should find it funny, River being…supportive, in his awkward and absolutely unhelpful way. If only the idiot knew that he’d been set up at Stansted and was supposed to crash his training exercise. And that it had been James who’d fed him wrong intel, upon Taverner’s order (…blue tee, white shirt).

River is the one who has displeased her somehow. But there is something she should have taken into account before trying to discredit him. Namely, that River is indeed a moron. He’d really got the colors wrong (white shirt, blue tee) and thus caught the right guy, to Taverner’s dismay. Now she doesn’t have an excuse to get rid of him, whatever reasons for that she might have had—and therefore River has become one of the Dogs, at Duffy’s command.

The worst thing is that River is totally unaware of all this. And James can’t even tell him, doomed to endure his sympathy instead.

“I’m pretty happy where I am,” he grumbles, in a tone that doesn’t sound convincing even to his own ears. “I’m going to make a career, not to be at someone’s beck and call my whole life.”

River sighs, licking his greasy fingers, the peasant. “Okay, if you say so. I thought we’d be working together. Pity, really.”

There’s a smudge of ketchup in the corner of River’s mouth. He eats so messily; it’s distracting. Always has been.

“So how’s working with Duffy?” James inquires, stabbing his fork into the disarray on his plate.

River licks his upper lip too, like he usually does when he goes pensive. The smudge stays.

“Uh. Good, I think? Maybe a bit…unconventional. But. Well. I’ll adapt, I guess.”

The word ‘unconventional’ should have spiked James’ curiosity, but he’s been too busy feeling annoyed with both himself and River to pay attention.

Chapter Text

To be honest (which is a rare and unpleasant occasion for James Webb), he’d first approached River because he’d thought of him as a nepo baby with useful connections. Everyone had. With such a grandfather, surely, River was to move the ranks in no time, so befriending him had seemed like a good idea. But pretty soon it had turned out that except for being constantly taunted for his family name in addition to his own, River seemed to get nothing from his ancestry. Which was worse, this instigated a reckless tendency in him, to push himself past every possible limit to prove his worth to MI5. Not the right person to be around if you wanted a career.

It would have been prudent to cut the connection right then, for it promised nothing but trouble. And yet. River bouncing around James like an eager puppy had been…entertaining. Sometimes River would bite unthinkingly, like all overactive puppies did, but he hadn’t minded being swatted in return, metaphorically speaking—James could be outright mean with him, and River would think nothing of it, like a bit of roasting was normal between friends.

Well, maybe ‘friends’ isn’t the right word, all things considered, but for a year, they’ve been nearly inseparable. No wonder James expects some awkwardness now that River hasn’t been fired and they are bound to work in the same building. It’s not like he’s wallowing in guilt, absolutely not. But he feels certain uneasiness at the thought that River will keep pestering him: bumping into him in the canteen, barging into his office. Still thinking they are close. Will he eventually discover that his best mate Spider has almost screwed him over? And in the meantime, until he does—what is James supposed to do? Maintain his illusion?

It’s going to be difficult. Especially because James finds that he’s, in fact, not entirely opposed to doing so—and it’s even more of a problem than River’s possible outbreak.

River does show up in his office, predictably scoffs at the lines of colour-coded folders and the big wooden desk, and unceremoniously plops into one of the visitors’ chairs.

“Aren’t you bored of all the paperwork yet?”

James feels it beneath him to explain an obvious thing: his current role, interviewing graduates, is just a step on the road to being the keeper of secrets. So instead, he jibes back, “And what exactly you’ve been busy with? How many times have you saved the world?”

He expects River to parry that, answer in kind, sarcastically, like he always does, but instead, River’s shoulders sag and he complains, “Duffy keeps me off serious stuff. Until he’s sure I can be…properly subordinate. There’ll be some training. Teamwork exercises and the like.”

He rubs at his wrist, absently. There’s a circular mark on it—reddened, chafed skin. James can’t see whether there’s a matching one on River’s other wrist, but he can take a guess. What have they been doing? Practicing how to get out of restraints?

“Oh, it’ll take a long, long time for you to become a team player,” he muses. “You’re pretty much untrainable in that regard. So don’t get your hopes up: Duffy won’t let you do real work anytime soon.”

River purses his lips stubbornly. He’s always had problems following the chain of command, but he also has an issue with admitting he’s hopelessly bad at something.

“We’ll see,” he says.

Maybe he takes offense this time because James doesn’t hear from him for a while after that. When they bump into each other at a lift lobby, it’s by accident.

“Oh. Spider!” River says.

James could remind him (again) not to call him that: this is a professional environment after all. But this won’t work, it seems, so he chooses the next best thing and jeers, “Done something useful yet?”

“Actually, yes!” River claims, excited to overshare. “See, there was this guy, Alan Black, one of us previously, but he was demoted to the Aldersgate office—you know the Aldersgate office?—and then quit. It looks like he used an old ID of ours—a passport in another name, the full legend. Whatever the reasons, it must have been something shady. Good thing I noticed this in time, before he sent things afoot.”

“So you heroically prevented a security breach, huh?”

River waves a hand in what James considers to be an exaggeratedly (and annoyingly) timid manner.

“Well, it’s no big deal, but at least it’s some real work, finally, as you called it. I keep thinking—I must have seen him before, this Alan Black. Not here, somewhere else. I just can’t remember—”

“So what, Duffy finally let you do grown-up spy stuff?”

At that, River deflates a bit.

“Uh…I sort of did it without Duffy’s sanction, so there’ll be…debriefing. Going there now.”

James looks at the lift buttons. River’s heading downstairs, not upstairs.

“Not in Duffy’s office?”

“Thank god, no,” River blurts out. “He never locks the door.” Then he visibly stalls and finds it necessary to elaborate, “I mean—it’s a delicate matter, security breach and all…” He prods at the corner of his mouth with his tongue (there’s a scabbed split on his lower lip), and then adds out of the blue, “You know, what you said, about having a career. Maybe it’s really better for you. Not to transfer, I mean.”

He’s going to say something more, perhaps declare it outright that James is unsuited to be a field agent, unlike him, but all of a sudden there comes a cheerful cry from afar, “River-fucking-Cartwright!”

It’s Dan Hobbs, one of the Dogs.

“Duffy’s really pissed at you,” he says just as exuberantly as he strolls near, milling a chewing gum with his impressive jaws. “You knew he would be, and still did it. Gotta respect that, innit?”

The lift keypad beeps, the doors open.

“Yeah, well, uh…” River says to both James and Hobbs in lieu of a good-bye as he steps inside.

The doors are about to close when Hobbs pushes them apart and walks in too.

“Actually, you know what? I don’t want to miss your meeting with Duffy. You’ll need team support, like before, yeah? Is that all right?”

River gives him a broad smile. “How could I say no?”

Hobbs casually slings a hand over River’s shoulders—a friendly gesture, something that mates do. If one wants to be mates with Hobbs. River probably does, or else why wouldn’t he protest? James despises how the thought of it feels, heavy and bitter, and just as bad as the confirmation that River, apparently, deems him not good enough for proper spycraft—the nerve, really!

He needs a clever parting line, something seething with sarcasm, but nothing comes to mind.

Hobbs keeps chewing his gum; River keeps a smile plastered on his face.

The lift’s doors close, unhindered this time.

Chapter Text

Sometimes James can’t help thinking: it might have been different, if not for his… no, not jealousy. (Why does this word keep popping up again? There’s something awfully romcom about it.) A competitive streak maybe? Annoyance at how Cartwright, while being naive to the point of idiocy, could still surpass him out of pure luck and nearly suicidal determinacy? And River wouldn’t even notice sidelining him, too focused on the task.

Sometimes he can’t but think: why has it lasted so long, the way it is?

Taverner’s order has had a sobering effect on him, like glowing letters suddenly appearing on the wall: end this now. Yet look at him, waiting for River to casually stroll into his office and start rambling about his debriefing and the support he gets from his team and Duffy being a twat or whatever else he has to brag or complain about. Because that’s what River would have done only a while ago, and James has got used to it. But the work day is slowly nearing its end and there’s still no sign of Cartwright; it’s starting to be a pattern. Is he suspecting something? Or maybe there’s a simpler explanation: River now has other people to hang out with.

James shakes his head, although there’s nobody to witness the gesture, and adjusts his phone on the desk, so everything looks neatly, comfortingly aligned. If River has more appreciation for crude and uncultured company—that’s his problem, isn’t it? It’s of no concern to people like James Webb at all.

It’s just that he’s been idle of late, HR stuff aside. He’s been expecting that being under Taverner’s wing will give him more opportunities to showcase himself, but for now, he can’t even show up on the hub uninvited—exactly because he’s her asset and she doesn’t want anyone to know that. Maybe River Cartwright isn’t the only one to wilt away from the lack of action. Maybe it’s time to start thinking about what he can do behind Taverner’s back to present her with a ready project and score a point.

It’s highly displeasing that instead of doing just that and focusing on his illustrious future career, James keeps quietly fuming about Cartwright Junior. It doesn’t help that on his way out he happens to nearly run into Hobbs who’s enthusiastically chewing yet another gum (or is it still the same one?) and two more of Duffy’s thugs he doesn’t know by their names—one sturdy and the other lanky, with tattoos sneaking up his neck from beneath the shirt collar. They pass him by, chatting.

“…he was so into it, he hadn’t even noticed me filming the best parts.”

“Send me the vid, yeah? Need something new to wank over.”

“Sure. Gonna be rewatching it too while he’s away.”

James cringes in distaste, out of their sight of course. How can River be on friendly terms with these goons? What is he talking about with them, given that he’d never discuss his sex life (which is probably just as nonexistent as it has been all the while Spider has known him) or porn preferences (which are a mystery—not that Spider would ever ask—but most likely, also absent). A safe bet: River would blush if he were merely to say the word ‘sex’—he’s prudish like that, brought up by his grandparents in an old-fashioned way.

The thing is, despite his brashness, despite all the cheeky banter and occasional acerbic remarks, River is…nice. Not in the sense he always acts nice. But he generally means well, and has his ethics. He certainly wouldn’t film anyone during sex without their consent. Possibly even after some encouragement.

…at that, a very peculiar train of thought comes to a screeching halt because—fuck—he’s forgotten his phone on the table. James blames it on River for distracting him. Story of his life as of late: River Cartwright is to blame for pretty much anything.

The corridor is empty: no emergencies, therefore all the staff occupying adjacent offices must have already left. It’s not like James is in a hurry to get somewhere, except for his very nice (and very empty) flat, but he’s irritated at the delay nevertheless.

As he opens the door, his hand gropes for the switch—and simultaneously, his mind supplies him with a warning: there’s something wrong. In the dark, he discerns a suspicious lump on the floor beside his desk. But instead of acting professionally and making a quick strategic retreat (because every what-the-fuck scenario potentially bodes trouble, and not only in MI5), he completes the move, simply on autopilot, and the light fills the room.

The lump makes a protesting sound and turns out to be River Cartwright squinting against the sudden brightness.

Chapter Text

James favours smart suits and polished shoes, as befits him now, whereas River, not to criticize, has always had a different approach to clothing. Casual at best. But what he’s wearing now is a new low: formless cargo trousers and a black hoodie so big that it seems to be someone else’s, a man of a different build.

It’s not like James hasn’t noticed other things—smudges of blood under River’s nose and a bruise now adorning his eye, yet he’s still processing them, as well as the mere presence of River Cartwright in his office, so the first thing he asks is, “What happened to your clothes?”

River makes a grimace. “It might need cleaning. Had to borrow these.”

“How about you get up and tell me how you sneaked in here, and why?”

Another wince as River tries to do as he’s told, but apparently gives up on the idea right away. “Nah. You know, I’m kinda fine down here. I just needed somewhere to lie low before going to my place. It’s rush hour, see. Not sure I’ll manage standing on the Tube all the way there. Better to wait it out.”

James is well aware that Dogs have their own macho rules, which mostly means beating people up whenever possible. Colleagues too, sometimes. For the sake of law and order, and their own self-fulfillment. But when River had mentioned debriefing, it hadn’t occurred to him how far this might go. Not that he’d interfere anyway—it would make this his problem.

“Was it Duffy?” he inquires, just to be sure. “Did you punch him back, by any chance?”

“Attack a senior agent? A head Dog? Nah, that would definitely get me kicked out. And I really acted without his permission, so… But it wasn’t that bad this time, we just had a longer training session afterwards.”

James huffs. Duffy is a sadistic prick, but more importantly—an ineffective manager. What training can there be after a beating?

“How about your best mate Hobbs? Didn’t he speak up for you?”

“He did, actually,” River insists, somewhat defensively. “Suggested to start the training early. And gave me a pill—didn’t hurt that much. Maybe I need another one now… Got more of them, somewhere on me…” He paws at his pockets feebly, then gives it another thought. “Or maybe not. Makes me a bit queasy.”

“Will you be able to walk, down to the parking lot? I can give you a lift,” James offers, no idea why.

Chapter Text

At some point in the future James is planning to buy a sports car. Red, preferably. For now, his vehicle is more generic, but also more suited for loading a barely coherent River Cartwright into the passenger seat.

“Let’s get you home,” he declares somewhat grimly when the job is done. He already regrets his feat of generosity. It’s just as troublesome as dragging a stray dog to a vet, which James would never do.

River perks up. “Tonbridge?”

“Your flat, idiot.”

“Oh,” River says, not without disappointment. “Yeah. Okay.”

And goes limp against the backrest again.

“Seatbelt,” James points out.

“Mmm,” River says noncommittally, his head lolled to the side and eyes closed.

After a second or two of nothing happening James sighs irritably and fastens River’s seatbelt himself. River doesn’t even flinch.

James knows River’s address, of course he does. He’s been to River’s flat exactly once—enough to make him swear to himself he’s never going to slip into such squalor. Newham where Cartwright resides isn’t a prime spot to start with, but his immediate neighbourhood is especially unwelcoming. A place for drunks and meth-heads. And, apparently, losers like River Cartwright who think it beneath them to milk their wealthy family for allowance and don’t have time or energy to change anything when they finally have a better paycheck.

James parks his SUV beside a row of locked-up garages that constitute a picturesque view from River’s one-bedroom flat. No way he’s going to leave his property unsupervised here. River will have to make it to his front door and up the stairs alone. It’s his own problem how he’s going to do that. There’s a police car with its lights off standing a few doors down from River’s house, but even if there’s someone inside, James wouldn’t be so sure they aren’t taking a nap instead of preventing petty crimes like carjacking.

James casts a glance at River who has been dozing all the way to the East End. Not very peacefully: he winces whenever he shifts in his half-comatose state and mumbles something incoherent now and then.

James reaches sideways to shake him by the shoulder and wake him up, but stops for some reason. Smoothes his own hair instead. Sits in silence for a good minute more.

Then he sighs dramatically, all to himself, and starts the engine again.

Chapter Text

Unlike River Cartwright, James has a lovely view from his flat—a feast for the eyes: treetops organised in a neat row because they line a canal. Sometimes he’d thought of showing River pictures of his spacey abode and stylish furniture. The problem is, River, the unrefined clod, would probably just say, “Oh, nice!”—instead of having a bout of envy.

Now it’s too dark to fully enjoy said view, and River is in no state to appreciate the rest. He seems to be totally indifferent to the surroundings and to the fact that James has completely outclassed him in terms of housing. It’s a wonder James has managed to coax him out of the car and in here, cursing himself multiple times for his own inexplainable, unreasonable behaviour.

River looks around blearily, maybe not quite aware he’s not actually home. Does he have a concussion? Would it have been better just to drive him to A & E and leave him there?

“Need a shower,” River mutters. “Feel yucky.”

“And look like that too,” James informs him tetchily. “Fine. Bathroom’s that way, just take off your shoes first… Fuck, River, no, not your clothes too, not here!”

But River has already discarded his atrociously oversized hoodie (with obvious effort, but not slow enough for James to stop him) and let it drop on the floor, heading in the general direction of the bathroom and already fumbling with the zipper on his equally hideous cargo trousers. That’s another problem with River, and not only when he isn’t entirely lucid: while being somewhat prudish, he’s hardly self-conscious about his body. He’s never been bashful in locker rooms and such, in presence of other people, as if he’s not aware someone might look at him…appreciatively. Or look at him at all.

James follows River with his gaze, stupefied as he always is in situations like that. There are splashes of bruises on his back, of varied colours, like not all of them are recent, and more orderly diagonal welts… And his unzipped trousers are hanging too low on his hips now, ready to slip down altogether, revealing no sign of underwear, just vulnerable untanned skin.

Fuck. James remembers to turn away.

That’s not how he might have imagined River Cartwright leaving a trail of clothes on the floor in his flat. In fact, he hasn’t been imagining this at all; he’d rather focus on more plausible and more comfortable dream scenarios like having a career and a shiny car and dining with the right people in fancy restaurants. These fantasies are safer. Because a poorly chosen alliance, so-called friendship might be bad enough, but an infatuation, an obsession? It’s sure to be a disaster. He knows how it ends, no matter whether such interest is reciprocated or not. Super masculine guys like Hobbs & Co might fuck around and then shrug it off, “A hole is a hole, you know?” But him? He’ll always be referred to as ‘that little faggot in a pinstripe suit.’ Behind his back of course because it’s the age of tolerance nowadays. Which means he’ll be tolerated. No, thank you. His life isn’t going to be like that. He’s a practical person, he’ll climb the social ladder as far up as he can first.

Annoyed, he paces around the sitting room, listening to the sound of running water and wondering if River hasn’t keeled over in the shower stall. It would be pretty inconvenient.

Finally, River emerges with a towel wrapped loosely around his hips and the same somewhat vacant expression on his face, pads barefoot across the fawn-colored carpet, leaving damp footprints on it—and collapses facedown onto the nearest piece of furniture, which happens to be a designer sofa in the very centre of the room, long enough to lie full-length on. The knot on the towel comes undone, revealing a good deal of River’s thigh. James comes near, not quite sure whether he’s going to adjust the towel or move it further away, as a prank. That’s when he notices there are bruises on River’s hip too, of a very distinct pattern—someone’s fingerprints.

James doesn’t know what has come into him as he sits down beside River who’s warm and pliant and seemingly asleep already, and touches the marks, traces them with a curious finger, both transfixed and sickened. With morbid fascination, he lays a palm on River’s hip, splays his fingers to match the bruises. The print is larger.

“Again?” River mutters weakly into the cushion—and James jerks his hand away as if burnt.

Chapter Text

Several heartbeats pass. River doesn’t stir, unresisting.

James, more or less carefully, pokes at his shoulder. “Hey? Cartwright?”

River only makes a pained hum in objection (well, it was hard to pick a part of him that wouldn’t be bruised).

“River, come on, don’t drift off yet. Look at me.”

River makes an effort and props himself up a little. “Huh? Spider? Wha—”

“What did they do, exactly? Duffy and Hobbs…and others? There were two more Dogs, right?”

“The usual stuff,” River says, more like perplexedly than evasively. “You know. Training.”

James remembers Hobbs saying, You’ll need team support, like before, yeah? So it wasn’t a one-time thing.

“Did this usual stuff include sex, by any chance?”

River looks even more perplexed. “No?”

“It’s okay, you can tell me.”

He doesn’t know why he keeps prying. Maybe he’s appalled that someone else got to debase River Cartwright. Or maybe he just wants details.

River frowns. “’t wasn’t sex. I mean—there were bodily practices involved. But. It’s not about attraction or something, it’s—” He trails off and gets lost in thought for quite a while. James is about to snap his fingers in River’s face to bring him back online, so to speak, when River finally finds a more or less suitable analogy: “It’s like a trust exercise! When you fall backwards without looking and your teammates catch you. Just…more intense. Very physical. A test to show if you can give all of yourself to them. And there’s also…obedience training.”

At that, his voice falters a little.

An exercise. A test. Of course Duffy would choose some bureaucratic words, more acceptable than, ‘Let’s have an orgy at the workplace right after I beat you up, since you’re here anyway.’ What does he call a pummeling then? A reprimand to improve unwanted behaviour, perhaps?

James lets out a hissing sigh through his teeth. He shouldn’t have asked about it at all. Naming aside, what can he suggest to River now that he knows? Report Duffy to HR? To him, that is? No, no, it’s not a good idea. It’s an outright awful idea to cause inconvenience to Nick Duffy, unless you’re suicidal and looking forward to being pushed under a speeding truck on a perfectly ordinary stroll. And it’s not even the worst that might happen: there are vaguely sinister rumors about a certain pig farm in Surrey.

Besides… James wavers at the thought that maybe River wouldn’t want to report this at all. Maybe he liked it. Mostly. Not the beating but the rest. Team bonding stuff. One of the Dogs seems to have said, “…he was so into it, he hasn’t even noticed me filming the best parts.” God, there’s a video of River Cartwright being fucked, isn’t there?

River must have sensed his distress because he props himself up some more, wincing, and awkwardly, uncoordinatedly pats at his arm. “Spider, hey. It’s okay, seriously. I’m not a civilian, I can take this. It’s not worse than our torture resistance training, right?”

It’s not a fond memory for James, but it hadn’t been truly terrible either. Isolation, stress positions, sleep deprivation, and a lot of shouting and insults… Nothing more unpleasant than some of his school experiences, really… Except that now he realizes they’ve never spoken about River’s recollections of the training. River had been unusually taciturn after they’d finished the course, and by silent agreement, they hadn’t mentioned it at all since then. Now James wonders if it had been the same, what they’d been subjected to. Given that everyone had been of the opinion that Cartwright had made his way into MI5 only because of his family connections, no wonder if things had got…more hostile.

“Did you like it? Your trust exercise?” he asks after all, apprehensively.

River grows thoughtful. “Actually, Hobbs said I did because I…uh…reacted in a certain way.” For a few moments, he’s processing this, then nods affirmatively, “Yeah, it wasn’t too bad today, I think. Still hurt, but Hobbs—he gave me—”

“Yes, a pill, I remember. How very nice of him.”

And then it all clicks together in his head, so startlingly obvious that there should have been a sound effect, something like ‘ta-da’, to accompany the pieces falling into place: River’s wasted state, more pills somewhere in his pockets, one of the Dogs saying, ‘…while he’s away,’ and a police car with its lights off waiting right by River’s house. If River came home tonight, unsteady on his feet, he’d have been stopped and searched—and behold!—there would have been drugs on him and in him.

Another way to get rid of the nosy River Cartwright after the Stansted fiasco. This time, by putting him behind the bars for drug possession, possibly for a few years, after having had collective fun with him. Not a very elegant solution, but it could have worked. It could still work.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take long to find an unmarked blister pack in one of the large patch pockets of the ugly loose trousers River has left on the floor in the bathroom. James has prudently put his leather gloves on not to leave any fingerprints and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and now he’s glad about it because upon a closer look—eww!—there are dried stains on the crude fabric. Is it come? Is it River’s or not?

There’s no question about the fate the trousers deserve: they belong in the trash bin, along with the hoodie. As for the pills… For a while, James contemplates what to do with them. Should he present the pack as evidence tomorrow, when River will be able to think clearly, as much as it’s possible in his case? How is he going to tell River his teammates are trying to get him nicked for something he had no part in?

The answer is: he isn’t. It’s better to pretend he doesn’t know anything, hasn’t noticed anything. He wouldn’t have if he hadn’t forgotten his damned phone!

But he couldn’t have left the pills in River’s pocket and let him put on the soiled clothes tomorrow, could he? For purely self-preservation reasons. If River would have been caught with them, no doubt he’d have mentioned James when asked about the previous night’s activities—because why not, from River’s perspective. And that would have got James involved in a drug scandal, at least as a witness if not worse. Such allegations tend to tarnish your reputation and career if you’re not high-ranking enough already.

Hence the pills are flushed into the toilet. It’s a sensible thing to do.

When James returns to the sitting room, he finds River curled into a fetal position, trying to fit all of himself under the unwrapped towel. Given its size, it’s no wonder the attempt hasn’t been successful. There’s a lot of him visible, bruises and all. Swearing under his breath, James goes to fetch a normal blanket.

River doesn’t even say ‘thank you’ when James throws it over him, still irritated. He just fumbles with it clumsily for a while, trying to form a cocoon, apparently. He’s utterly pathetic. James can’t stop himself from watching.

On an impulse, he smoothes River’s still damp hair from his forehead, and River, just as unexpectedly, nuzzles into the touch, perhaps oblivious of what he’s doing. James could stroke his cheek to feel the light stubble with his fingertips, then trace River’s lower lip with a thumb, press harder to make him open his mouth… He isn’t sure why he doesn’t do any of it. River would let him, most likely. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember it afterwards. Maybe he wouldn’t remember much more than that.

“I’m such a fuck-up, aren’t I?” River mumbles, his eyes closed, a crease between his eyebrows.

He certainly is, but instead of simply confirming it, James finds himself asking, “Why would you say that?”

“I just want to be useful,” River complains. “To do something meaningful, you know? Save someone. Prevent something awful. That’s what we’re supposed to be doing—us in the intelligent services, I mean. But Duffy and others—they will never trust me until I learn to work in a team, and I really, really try to…I want to be good…and then I always slip up. The training—it should help, but what if it doesn’t?”

“Cartwright, you’re not just a fuck-up, you’re an idiot. They don’t trust you exactly because you want to be good. They don’t need you to be good, they need you to be one of them, average and compliant. But you’re an overachiever. You’re all or nothing. You’ll dig into things everyone else has long buried, you’ll ask questions no one wants to hear, you’ll go against the current to prove you’re right. And that’s your problem: you’re supposed to blend in, not to stand out. There’s no merit in being special if it only causes trouble.”

Of course River fishes out something totally irrelevant out of his heated, scornful speech.

“So you think I’m special?”

“Oh, why am I even talking to you? You’re hopeless.”

Exasperated, James plops onto the sofa beside River, and they are both silent for a while.

It seems useless to explain an obvious thing to River—how big establishments, including state ones, usually work, even if they don’t have people like Duffy among their ranks. You either make a career, or you’re disposable. You follow the rules—wear a suit if everyone in your line of work does, for instance, or sort of close your eyes to things no one else looks into, brain activity almost entirely dormant—and if you make a fuss instead, you’re a nuisance or even a menace. You won’t last long.

River has always been blinkered by his bookish, romantic views. He’s still thinking he’s one of the good guys, and there’s probably no point in trying to talk reason into him right now. He’ll get it one day—and it’ll break him, more than any beating ever could. As much as James wants to surpass him, it’s not like he wants him completely broken, so it’s a no-win situation for them both.

“Still cold,” River laments eventually.

“And what am I supposed to do about it?” James snaps. “Bring you a hot water bottle? Share body heat with you, like on an endurance course?”

He instantly regrets his slip of tongue. It has happened exactly once and he’s glad River has never mentioned it afterwards.

Meanwhile, River budges a little, to make more room for him on the sofa. He must be unaware the second question has been rhetorical.

Fuck it. Just for a moment, James tells himself, both annoyed and titillated, and carefully settles along River’s body wrapped in the blanket cocoon, with an intention not to think (much) of the fact that River is stark naked underneath.

His trousers will be creased. It’s appalling. Yes, it’s better to focus on this thought instead.

He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, in addition to many other foolish things he’s done tonight. The idiot beside him must be a bad influence—that’s the only logical explanation for all of it.

River tucks his nose into James’s armpit and murmurs, “Could you say that again? What you said about me.”

James huffs. “I said a lot of things about you. Be specific.” But then it comes to him, because naturally that’s what River would want to hear. “You mean—that you’re special?”

“Yeah,” River breathes out dreamily.

He’s going to bash his head into the nearest surface about it tomorrow if he remembers his sleepy neediness. But now—why not indulge him? It costs nothing.

“Of course you’re special.”

River sighs again, content. “’t’s nice. Nobody’s ever said this to me.”

His breathing evens out soon after that while James stays awake, inexplicably vexed. It’s not as if he needs…reciprocation. Unlike River, he knows full well he’s special. But River could have said something flattering in return nevertheless.

On the other hand, it’s his office River has crawled to, beaten up and drugged. And it’s him he’s now sleeping against, unwarrantedly trusting. Maybe it counts for something.

Chapter Text

River looks good in James’s dressing gown (silk, paisley-patterned, high quality), like it was meant for him. Even with a black eye and stubble, he’s still a better sight than the view from the flat’s windows, however elegant it might be. He doesn’t look happy, but one hardly would in his place.

His expression grows even more miserable when James says, “We need to have a serious talk.”

“Yeah, I know,” he nods gloomily. “Sorry for imposing. It’s just that I was—” He makes a vague spinning gesture, probably indicating he’d been not right in the head, or else he wouldn’t have bothered Spider with his presence. “Anyway, I should be going. You don’t happen to have seen where I put the clothes I was wearing, huh?”

“Where do you think you’re heading?”

River frowns at him, as if it’s obvious.

“Work?”

“Christ, River, you’re not going anywhere near the Park today, you’re having a day off. I’m in HR, remember? I’ll sort it out.”

“Oh,” River says, not without appreciation. It might be the first time he understands HR job is not without its perks.

He must be having an unpleasant comedown, in addition to all the bruises reminding of themselves at the slightest move. Not to mention that his ass must be sore after the ‘workout’, judging by the way he’s sitting, slouched on the sofa, legs splayed a little wider than usual. James is apprehensive about giving River any meds—hell knows how a new drug might react with what’s already in his system, and River doesn’t even ask for it, the stoic idiot.

“What I wanted to ask…” James goes on, forcing his gaze away from the suggestive folds of the silk robe at River’s crotch. “Are you still willing to be one of the Dogs? You said maybe it was better for me not to transfer, but what about you? You could apply somewhere else if there’s…something not to your liking. Whatever it is.”

River makes a face at that—a painful mix of frustration, stubbornness, and maybe self-deprecation too.

“I can’t see myself anywhere else, so it’s not like there’s much choice, is there? I just have to go through some stuff—and maybe it gets better. It should, eventually. I can’t fail, I just can’t, you know?”

So what, you’d rather wreck yourself than quit? James wants to ask and doesn’t. Maybe they’ve never been friends for real, but he does know River. This isn’t going to help.

It’s better to let him rest while James will be dealing with the matter to the best of his abilities and to everyone’s satisfaction… except for maybe River’s own. For now, let Cartwright be oblivious of how it might be done. Because he’s not going to like it.

…As per James’s expectations, the video Hobbs has mentioned ends up circulating through the hub. It’s not that difficult to obtain it. Also predictably, the only person fully recognizable in it is River. One could speculate about the voices in the background and various body parts that appear on screen, maybe it would even be possible to identify other participants, but who’s going to bother? Unless River files a formal complaint about harassment. But he won’t do that, will he?

James watches all of it, of course he does.

(“All worn out already? Not so tough then, eh? Such a shame. It’s just starting for you, sunshine.”—A slap and a barely audible sound, not even a gasp.—“You should have thought better than to misbehave, but you’re such a fuckwit, right? It’s going to be a long, long session, Cartwright. Unless you do your best to prove you’re gonna do as you’re told from now on. Reach behind yourself and spread your buns. Squeeze them tighter. Tighter, I said! Spread as far as you can. Show us you can follow orders. Show us. Yeah.”)

A few long seconds after the video ends—and James clicks on ‘play’ again.

(“Got his bollocks yet?”—“Yeah, I’ve softened him up for ya.”—Some shuffling, the distinct noise of a zipper being pulled open, more shuffling, a sudden pop of a bubble gum. And then—slick unrhythmic sounds of flesh on flesh.—“Yeah. Yeah, mate. Getting easier, see? You’re over there, and I’m over here. And that’s how it should be. Now work yourself on me, will ya? Yeah. Yeah. Like that. Yeah. We’ll make a pro out of you yet.”)

James ends up rewatching the video several times, pausing it now and then, horribly aroused, with ‘horror’ being just as relevant a word as ‘arousal’. Strangely, the most disturbing thing is that River—bratty, caustic, dumb, never shutting up when he should—doesn’t talk back, doesn’t utter a single word throughout it all. That’s what they want from him and others: don’t speak up, don’t act on your own, don’t cause problems. How much have they already broken him? How much of him is still left?

He used to tell James his grandfather’s saying, Moscow rules, watch your back. London rules, cover your arse. It seems the latter recommendation should have been taken literally.

It’s futile to think of how River could get even with Duffy and Co. Especially because he doesn’t seem to understand he should, and it’s better this way. On a happier note, bullies like Duffy often have a dramatically short life expectancy, given how many people they manage to wrong, including ones of their own kind. Eventually, someone will be very eager to drop a large block of concrete on Duffy’s head, metaphorically speaking. Or maybe not so metaphorically. (As for Hobbs, he might survive even a direct shot in the head, he’s not using it much anyway.)

The problem is, no matter whether Duffy and Hobbs are there or not, it’s Diana Taverner who won’t leave River alone. She wants him out—and now James has an idea why, even if it’s very vague. Out of curiosity, he’d looked up the guy River had found appropriating an identity issued by the Park. One Alan Black. As it turns out, James has a better memory than River. It doesn’t take him long to remember where he’s seen the burly chap—in the photos from River’s assignment when he’s been following Taverner without her noticing.

Taverner wants to get rid of River because she knows he’s taken pictures of her and Alan Black: this meeting must have been off the books and the identity theft surely has something to do with it, so the eyewitness and his evidence should be dealt with. She’s pretty tenacious once she’s made up her mind about something, therefore River is unequivocally doomed. He’s been gagging to prove himself to her…and look where his perseverance has brought him.

James finds it a tad unsettling, like a foreshadowing, but it’s not the right time to ponder on such trite things as the danger of ambitions. What’s more pressing is this: there’s no doubt Duffy or one of his thugs will use the lewd video against River on Lady Di’s command, since their plan with the drugs hasn’t worked… So James needs to use it first.

Chapter Text

James is waiting for River on the Barbican Bridge—not a very classy spot for a rendezvous, but at least not as crowded as the street below. When River finally shows up, he looks subdued. It’s his first day in Slough House—and it wasn’t enjoyable, most likely.

“Lamb knows about the damn video too,” he says, without any greeting (a slip that should be addressed and amended later). “He’s not going to stop mentioning it anytime soon. Like I’m some kind of OnlyFans porn star.”

Now, that’s a vision. James catalogues it for later as well.

He touches River’s arm in a soothing manner, lets his palm linger there. “It’s only temporary. I’ll get you back to real work as soon as I can. Second you for a bit of vetting for a start—you know, personal checks, identity confirmation, location cleansing, that sort of thing. I have…a certain project in mind. Meanwhile, focus on watching your coworkers. You’re undercover, remember?”

River nods, still not entirely consoled.

The deal sold to him—by his HR friend—had been this. You must be still curious about the guy you’ve been investigating, Alan Black... As you probably remember, his last place of work was the Aldersgate office, a place for MI5 rejects. Slough House, as they call it. That’s because…okay, okay, I’ll explain the joke later. What I’m saying is: maybe Black wasn’t plotting something shady alone? Maybe someone else from Slough House is involved as well? I bet you’ve been thinking of it. What if we could get you there?.. Duffy? No, Duffy won’t interfere, he won’t be able to…but only if you’re formally demoted and banished to Slough House, like Alan Black was. Good news: I think we could find a pretext to do that—namely, accuse you of inappropriate behaviour. I must warn you, it will be very unpleasant. Humiliating, most likely. But you’ll infiltrate Slough House and take a look around without anyone getting suspicious—wouldn’t it be worth it if there’s something dubious going on? And I promise to pull you out back to the Park. Eventually. So what do you say, River? I’ll understand if you need time to think this through…but if there are really some unknown forces at play…who knows how much time we’ve got?

No need to be a fortuneteller to predict the outcome. Of course River had agreed. Of course it had been humiliating. But not much worse than other things he’d been through, so it’s fine, isn’t it?

“How about I take you somewhere nice for dinner, to improve your mood?” James suggests. And adds, after looking River up and down, “Probably somewhere without a strict dress code. But it still can be something decent. My treat, don’t worry.”

Which means it’s ‘out of your league’ of course, a place you won’t normally frequent because you can’t afford it. But River must be so preoccupied with his misery that he doesn’t notice a subtle jab.

“Yeah, thanks,” he says. Maybe even with genuine gratitude.

James finds it perhaps just as entertaining as River scoffing at him.

It’s a heady feeling—knowing that he will be River’s only source of positive vibes for the next few months, or maybe more. James is going to relish it.

Unless River, being a nuisance as he often is, really finds something dodgy in Slough House. It could turn into a problem. Sough House is a safe haven for someone like Cartwright—away from Duffy, away from Taverner, and it’s somewhat better than to be locked up in a jail. But River is unlikely to be very appreciative of it, is he? He’ll rush into trouble as soon as he gets a chance.

The only way to prevent it is to be the first one River will tell about his findings. Maybe they could even be of use if that’s something about Lady Di’s black op? So James is planning to keep River close. Very, very close. Just in case.

“Well, at least my office is now bigger than yours,” River says almost cheerfully, marching beside him.

James should have pointed out that real estate is cheaper at this end of town, but he decides to let River have this one.

For now, he’s carefully optimistic about the future. If everything goes well with his Russian project, he’ll be in Diana Taverner’s good books, and then, after a while, maybe he’ll get Cartwright assigned to him on a permanent basis. As long as they don’t cross paths with Duffy and River doesn’t immediately bite into every conspiracy he stumbles across, their life might be not so bad. Normal even. After all, people write off a lot of stuff as normal when it’s everything they’ve got.