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Stumbling through the door of Slough House was not something that River thought he would ever do again.
It pained him to even sway on his feet, so he clutched the doorframe as he shuffled himself into the doorway, every single part of his body aching like a fierce and throbbing bruise. The office hadn’t changed a bit in the 37 hours he had been ‘missing’, a thought that both reassured him and deepened the gnawing pit of despair and desolation that hung in his stomach like a sack of rocks. The carpet still had the slight stains, only noticeable to those either never before introduced to the setting, or those comfortable enough to ignore them politely. The slightly crumbling, peeling walls, the rust on the door, the texture of the door handle under River’s shaking hand – all part of the proof that he was still alive, however much he didn’t wish to be. The air was still permeated by the smell of smoke, that undeniable stench of nicotine that River didn’t want to admit to finding comforting, but even though he didn’t smoke he felt calmed by it, something akin to the rush smokers got he was sure. He didn’t mind the second-hand lung damage.
He was uncharacteristically silent when ascending the stairs, trying desperately to stay quiet as he slinked back to his office to lick his wounds in peace. River was fairly sure he’d left a half-empty blister pack of paracetamol, maybe something stronger, in his desk from the reoccurring headaches he’d been getting recently, and that was the only thing that spurred him up the stairs. Otherwise, he would have just sat about halfway up the steps that led to his own worst nightmare personified, and remained there until he either succumbed to his fairly minor injuries, someone showed up for work and collected him on their way in, or he turned to dust and blew away in the gentle autumn breeze. He wasn’t sure which option he preferred.
He hobbled up the steps, favouring his right foot and dragging his left behind as quietly as possible as he used the creaky bannister to pull himself along. His breathing was laboured, though he was trying to breathe as shallowly as possible so that his ribs didn’t protest. Had there always been this many stairs?
Finally reaching the top after what felt like an eternity, he took a moment to regain his breath and assess the situation. It was sometime in the early morning of a Thursday he thought, though he wasn’t sure – he remembers being abducted on a Wednesday afternoon from the park, the sun shining and the people around him happy in their blissful civilian lives, while he was on the phone to-
And there was nobody else in the building. Of that he was certain. Louisa never worked unpaid overtime, Marcus and Shirley never did overtime full stop and Roddy, though comfortable in his single office on the ground floor, would have been seen by River as he crawled through the front door had he been in his office. Standish was the most normal out of all of them, and though she did work later into the night occasionally, she was still recovering from her recent trip out of the office, so it would have been a miracle if she had even made it in today.
So that left him, and-
‘You’re back. Thought you might have found another job by now.’ Lamb’s voice was teasing yet soft, uncharacteristically so for talking to River Cartwright, his favourite of the dead (slow) horses to beat. River furrowed his brows as he leaned his forehead on the wall adjacent to his office, breath fogging the plastic windows. Another signal that he was alive.
‘Nope, couldn’t- get rid of me that easily.’ It pained him to speak, his throat feeling like jagged glass was working its way back up his oesophagus in a way that left him whispering hoarsely. He didn’t really want to be having this conversation right now, he would rather be taking some painkillers and relaxing in his chair, but the presence of Jackson Lamb was irritably soothing him. He peeled himself off the wall, turning to face the older man while keeping himself upright through sheer determination to not collapse in front of Lamb; he couldn’t take that, he couldn’t look weak yet again, Lamb would turn him away, or worse, join in on the-
‘Looks like you’ve been through the wringer, lad. Did you have to sew your fingers back on or did that come complimentary with the service?’
‘Yep, no- no nothing, um, nothing too bad. I walked here at least.’ He breathed his way through the blatant lie, punctuating it with a flat chuckle at the end. River carefully watched the way Lamb’s face changed, ever so slightly, from assessing the damage to a look of concern. But only just, a subtle softening around his eyes and the corners of his mouth turning down.
Lamb walked over to him, clasped a gentle hand on his shoulder, and River felt the weight of each individual finger resting on his body like an anchor to a boat in a storm. He bit back a whimper at the touch: not because he needed it, needed it more than he needed oxygen to breathe, but almost certainly because he could definitely feel that his AC joint was no longer whole, and the bones were grinding against each other with every inhale. Definitely because of that.
‘River, I don’t- listen, are you alright?’
And it was that moment that River Cartwright finally broke.
Sliding down the wall, he crumbled into himself and let the tears fall uncontrollably down his already stinging face. He brought a hand to his face to muffle his sobs, fully aware of Lamb stood less than a meter away from him, but he’d lost the ability to care, to maintain any shred of dignity he may have once been born with. It was so uncharacteristic of Lamb, how dare he ask how River was feeling and catch him off-guard like that, it wasn’t like he even cared Or did he? Does he? A hopeful voice whispered in River’s head like a parasite, and he knew he must ignore it. He wouldn’t survive if he let it hold even a shred of power in his psyche.
But what was wrong with River? How could his entire foundations feel like they were collapsing after just one sentence, after just one op? He had been through worse he was sure, though he couldn’t particularly think of anything at that point- but he couldn’t really think of anything so much at that point in time, between Lamb’s grounding, solid touch and his own mental fragility. Lamb stood above him, unsurety written on his face as he contemplated what to do with a broken agent. River continued to cry.
‘Alright, it’s okay. Let’s get up, there’s better places to do this than the top of the stairs. Wouldn’t want you to throw yourself down them after all.’ Lamb’s voice was soothing, oddly enough, but River was too lost in his own head to even come up with some shite quip about how he would actually really like to throw himself down the stairs right about now, or how funnily enough he had already been thrown down some stairs that day. He was fairly sure it had been that same day, at least. Lamb extended a hand, but let River make the jump to grasp it, and grasp it he did. He held on like he was dying and it was his only lifeline. He felt like he would disappear if he let go of the firm, quietly strong hand.
He let Lamb pull most of his weight up, not even laughing quietly when he made a show of it, how heavy River was to drag up from the floor, and he watched the older man’s face fall even further. I’m one of those hopeless cases, he thought to himself darkly. Lamb slung one of River’s arms, his left one, around his shoulders and the younger man winced noticeably enough that Lamb mumbled something under his breath before shrugging, rolling his shoulders back and allowing River’s aching joint to slip further down his back into a more comfortable position. After an audible exhale from the injured man, Lamb gently wound an arm around his waist, tensing up to take some of his weight off of River’s fucked ankle but not pressing into the bruises adorning his torso.
It was a blur: somehow, Lamb managed to pull the both of them up the second set of stairs and into his office, depositing River with very little grace or decorum on the left hand side of the sofa and letting him curl up, before perching on the very edge of the right side in a way that was very un-Jackson-Lamb-like. River was too out of it to care, trying desperately to cling to his surroundings and his proximity to the older man in a way that he was sure he would dream about in the upcoming weeks, but in the moment he was slipping.
He heard Lamb sigh deeply, before moving again, feeling his weight leave the sofa and his own body sink a little deeper into the worn leather. It was comforting, the sort of feeling he’d imagine you’d feel if you were swaddled. If- When, he got back to his flat, he was going to wrap himself up in the largest, fluffiest, warmest blanket he had, and stay like that for at least the next few days. He might even allow himself a week.
Without warning, he felt the laces of his shoes being untied, and his gaze flicked down to the floor. He saw Lamb, knelt on the stained carpeted floor, untying his shoes for him and slipping them off his sore feet with a reverence that he was certain he didn’t deserve. River would deny it, but the tears in his eyes were undeniable at the small act of kindness, of intimacy, from the older man.
It made his brain short-circuit, rewire, and short-circuit all over again. Though he wasn’t at his maximum cognitive capacity after having the braincells beat out of him so hard they were leaving via his eyeballs, a single question was rotating in his head though it were a microwave. One that threatened to unbalance the soft feeling in the room – so of course River had to shatter the blissful truce they appeared to have by stamping all over it with his stupid thoughts.
‘Why are you doing this, why are you being nice to me?’ He just couldn’t understand what was compelling Lamb to collect his broken pieces this time, when he could just turn a blind eye and piss off home. The resounding silence from the older man made him think that he doesn’t care about him or his particularly shit few days, like that traitorous voice in his head is saying and begging him to believe for some reason. He felt the urge to fall on his knees in front of the man, tug at his trouser leg like a toddler until he gets even a shred of attention or affection that might quell the raging fire that burns deep in the pit of his guts, worse than any pain of his ribs or shoulder or face.
Instead, River sunk deeper into the sofa, wishing he could disappear, the fight leaving him at once. He suddenly felt tired, and like he was bearing the full brunt of the world on his chest, crushing him with such ferocity. Suddenly, there is a gun, and Lamb is standing over him in a way that makes his breath catch in his throat – if there is even any air in his lungs, which it doesn’t feel like there is. The barrel of the gun was pressed into the middle of his forehead, directly between his eyes. River couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except stare up wide eyed at the man.
‘Do you want to die, River? Should I finish the job for you?’ To punctuate his sentence, he pressed the gun deeper into River’s skin, and the younger man didn’t gasp; he remained looking up at Lamb through his eyelashes, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. ‘I could make it look like a suicide, it would be easy. And a beat-down, beat-up horse like you, I doubt anyone would question it. It’d just be a shame he did it in the office, would probably traumatise Standish, and even Louisa if you’re lucky. Depends on who finds you I guess.’
Lamb’s monologue had gone on too long. River snapped out of his dazed reverie at the mention of Standish, and in that moment he knew he couldn’t die. Not like this, no matter how much he wished to. He inhaled.
‘No,’ he mumbled, turning his head lethargically to the side trying to escape the gun’s glare.
‘No what? I can’t fucking hear you.’ Lamb’s voice was raised now, and River felt sick.
‘I don’t want to die! Not like this!’ River chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut and retracting further from the gun.
‘You don’t sound so sure.’ Lamb mocked, his voice patronising. River whimpered, and felt another tear escape his shut eyes.
‘Please, I’m sure. I don’t want to die.’
‘But do you want to live, River? Do you even know what you want?’ Lamb had gained the softer quality to his voice again, though his words stung in a way that wasn’t physical, and River appreciated it. He couldn’t answer the question. He felt like he was vibrating out of his skin, it was all too much for him. He heard Lamb sigh heavily, and felt a stilling hand placed on his knee. ‘River, my boy. You need to be taken down a notch or two, calmed down a bit. I think you’ve had a rough few days, and it’s all gotten a bit much. Now, I want you to kneel for me, can you do that?’
It took River a second to weigh up the embarrassment of doing as he has been told, and the embarrassment of leaving right now, and he decided that he can’t leave now, especially not with the promise of whatever this may turn out to be. He slid to the floor, on his knees, hands folded in his lap wringing his wrists, and took a deep breath before looking up at Lamb again.
‘Good boy. Now, you are going to stay there for a bit, while you calm down. Is that okay?’ The softness in Lamb’s voice made River want to cry, so he swallowed noisily around the lump in his throat, feeling too overwhelmed to respond. ‘I’m going to need a verbal answer River, so I’ll ask you again: is that okay?’
River cleared his throat, before stumbling through his response. ‘Yes- yes, Lamb. Jackson.’
Lamb chuckled, brushing his hands through the younger man’s short but knotted hair. ‘While you’re down there boy, you can call me sir. I think that’s fitting, don’t you?’ There was the clear implication that he expected a verbal response once again, and would continue to require one, and River picked up on it.
‘Yes, sir.’ The words fall out of his mouth a lot easier than before, almost naturally. He felt himself slipping away from the forefront of his mind as Lamb went over to sit behind his desk, kicking his feet up and lighting another cigarette. The smoke drifted lazily throughout the room as he exhaled, and River feels the overwhelmingly dizzy urge to chase after it as it leaves the older man’s mouth. He found himself fixating on the floor, chasing the spots of darkness against the slight discolouration, until he had well and truly dissociated and was out of his mind. At that point, River felt an odd sense of panic, yet calm: it was refreshing to not feel anything after his intense few days, but he knew he couldn’t stay like this. Lamb wouldn’t let him, he’d need someone to go and- well, someone to do the next mission. And he had to prove himself.
‘You were so close River, I almost couldn’t hear your thoughts any more before you got yourself all worked up again. Relax, boy.’ Lamb’s voice cut through the heavy silence of the room, and River took a deep, shaking breath, feeling his hands tremble where they lay flat on his thighs. ‘Come here.’
At the command, River moved as if to stand up, wincing and gasping at the pulling injuries across his torso and legs. Lamb made a noise, one that made the man on the floor stop in his tracks. ‘I didn’t say you could get up now, did I?’
River was too far into it to care. Sighing deeply and attempting to fill his rapidly constricting lungs with oxygen, he began to crawl over to Lamb round the desk. He was distantly aware of the older man’s gaze locking onto him as he took it step by step, moving right hand then right knee, and left hand before left knee. Hearing a deep sigh from Lamb who was now once again above him, River paused and returned to his previous position on his knees. A hand guided his disorientated head onto Lamb’s leg, allowing him to relax his neck and upper body and slump into the solid, comforting presence. His lungs expanded, and for the first time since he got involved in the whole mess, River felt like he was able to breathe properly, filling every cubic centimeter of his body with air that was so rejuvenating, so homely and so undeniably Jackson Lamb. A weighty touch combed through his greasy hair, lying lank and dull against his scalp and forehead. Lamb brushed the tendrils of blond that fell over his eyes out of the way, and River closed his eyes at the tender touch that threatened to send him deep into somewhere he didn’t think he would or could return from.
‘That’s more like it my boy. You just relax there until you’re feeling a bit better, then we figure out what to do next.’ Though River’s heartrate spiked slightly at the prospect of having to continue on with his life after this blissful experience, he returned to filling his lungs with as much oxygen as his aching ribs would allow while letting his thoughts drift and eventually disappear like clouds. Lamb kept stroking his hair with one hand, taking long, deep drags of the cigarette in the other, exhaling in a way that made River drowsy with intoxication.
Something in his brain twitched, and told him that maybe it would be okay. Maybe.