Chapter Text
This is absolutely the last time James lets River talk him into staying over at his shitty little flat in Leytonstone. He smears condensation away from the kitchen window and scowls up at the tiny patch of visible sky. Then his gaze falls on the pile of assorted crap the neighbours have dumped around the gaggle of wheelie bins, and he shudders.
While James’s apartment is ideally placed for any commute to anywhere in London, including Slough House, it’s not particularly convenient for River reaching his grandfather down in Tunbridge Wells twice a week: there’s only space for one car to park in the private garage at James’s so if he stays over, River has to go home to fetch his own car before heading in for work and then visiting the Old Bastard after that, returning tired and cranky. On Grandad visit nights, they either each sleep at their own apartments, giving James the opportunity to chat to his old dad on the ridiculous phone line he had fitted for that purpose, or he slums it at River’s, as he did last night.
He’d headed over while River was still down in Kent, sat on River’s ancient, skip-dived sofa and played a badly pirated version of Grand Theft Auto on River’s equally ancient X-Box while waiting for the man to return.
River had been mono-syllabic as he’d toed off his boots and slumped on the couch, a strange mixture of exhausted and wound-up:
“How was it?”
“Fine.”
Great. In the end, James had admitted defeat on conversation, hauled himself up and headed off to the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way, trusting that River would take the hint and follow him. Roughly fifteen minutes later the man had at least been relaxed.
On the other side of the thin partition wall, the shower shuts off and James hears River complete the step-slip-stumble-swear manoeuvre that comes with clambering out of his rubbish shower, and snorts with laughter.
“Try not to die in there!” he calls out, and hears a just about audible ‘fuck off’ in reply.
“Just say the word and you can be out of this shithole,” He adds, flicking the switch on the elderly kettle and River sticks his head around the corner just long enough to tell him to give it a rest, he sounds like a cracked record.
They’ve been over and over this for the last few months, ever since James left the service and a new job in the private sector fell into his lap: Chieftain is a growing firm, it needs more talent than its current crop of ex-forces knuckleheads and private school wankers. James has been trying to convince River to leave Slough House ever since. Of course, the man is sticking resolutely to his guns, seemingly unwilling and unable to walk away from an employer that clearly doesn’t want him. Under normal circumstances, loyalty is a perfectly acceptable trait in a person, but Cartwright takes it to the Nth degree, staying when any reasonable person would just leave.
Resigned to another day of banging his head against a brick wall, James heaps instant coffee into two mugs and considers whether or not he can shoe -horn a small coffee maker into the tiny kitchen, between the kettle, microwave and toaster. If he has to wake up in such a place on a regular basis, he’s going to need something to sweeten the pill…
+++
He knows he’s an idiot, but there’s one particular thing River enjoys about having James stay over, besides the obvious, of course. It’s the two of them, walking to the tube station in the morning, each with a commuter cup, like a normal couple, bickering as they go.
River’s not a hand-holder, he’d feel like an absolute weapon, but having the other man alongside him, he’s almost tempted. He can’t imagine how James would react, of course, probably take the piss. So instead, he’ll occasionally bump his shoulder against the other man’s and each time he does so, James does the same back. It often ends in some sort of stupid shoulder-bumping mini-war, with the two of them shoving harder and harder until one falls off the kerb or the other bumps into a lamp post- childish but fun, like everything else they do.
“I know it’s not great staying at mine, but it’s just easier this way…” he says, en route to the station today.
Summer is behind them now, they’re well into early autumn, both in jackets for the first time in months, although James of course has a proper shirt and tie with his work trousers, some sort of blouson jacket that River really doesn’t understand, whereas River is in his usual Slough House gear: t-shirt, jeans, trainers— nothing he’s bothered about messing up. It occurs to him from time to time that maybe he should try and smarten his image up a little bit, but then, at Slough House, what would be the point? James didn’t actively scowl or laugh at today’s outfit, so River’s considering that a win.
“Look,” James edges around a passing mother and pushchair then gets back into step. “At least give it some thought— Chieftain, I mean. Or, some other similar organisation, there are a few options, if you don’t think you can handle working *under* me…”
River snorts. “You’re such a prick…” He makes a show of ignoring the way James waggles his eyebrows at him, then bumps his shoulder with his own, just to see if he can get the man to slop his coffee: nope, he’s some sort of coffee-transporting ninja…
“Can we at least spend tonight at mine? I’m not wearing this shirt two days in a row—”
“Well, you could just keep a few more at mine, you know…” River stares down at his shoes as he suggests it, these things are always a bit awkward, he’s never sure what’s too much, what’s not enough, where they are in their relationship, whether it’s even that at all… There’s a good reason why every dating situation he’s ever been in has lasted less than a month…
“Are you fucking joking? River, you barely have a wardrobe. You don’t even own hangers!”
“I do! There are plenty of them—”
James shudders. “Those wire monstrosities are not clothes hangers, they’re freebies from some shit dry cleaners.” James halts suddenly. “Oh Christ! I bet you stole them from the skip outside that laundrette…”
“It’s not stealing if it’s been thrown away…” River mutters, also stopping.
“Clue’s in the term, dickhead: if it’s been thrown away, it was with good reason.” James very deliberately presses down on River’s foot with his own and then takes off running. “No returns!” he calls back as he reaches the tube station and dashes inside, leaving River to limp after him, coffee splashing over his hand.
“Twat!”
The thing of it is though, in spite of Slough House, and the worry of his grandfather, River is happy. He has no idea what this thing with James really is, whether it will survive them, but he’s stupidly, embarrassingly happy. And there are moments when they look at each other and he’s sure James is feeling the exact same thing.
+++
James hobbles River, then sets off at a run to reach the tube station first. The wound is his chest is mostly healed, now, or so he’s been told, but still any extended amount of cardio hurts like an absolute bitch, his heart feeling like it’s bursting right out of his chest. He slaps his card at the ticket barrier and dashes to the stairs down to the platform, his lungs screaming at him. He can hear River behind him, gallumphing along, no doubt knocking over old ladies and shouting out belated ‘sorrys’. At the bottom of the stairs, unable to run any further, James stops, pulls great long breaths of air into his stupid, hurting chest and does his best to look as nonchalant as possible, sipping from his coffee when River joins him at the platform edge.
“That’s… Really… Quite… Sad,” River gasps. “Only way you can win is by cheating…” he shakes his head in mock despair, then shakes coffee from his hands and removes the lid to see if there’s any left in it.
“You’re just a sore loser, Cartwright. Thought you’d be used to it by now…” James takes the lid off his own cup, pours half into Rivers and then replaces the lid.
He’ll never admit this to River, but he does love these weird little couples-commuting days, the two of them shoulder to shoulder in the Central Line scrum until River goes to catch a bus at Liverpool Street. True, the rest of James’ journey to Lancaster Gate is tedious and generally spent with his face too close to somebody’s armpit, but the journey starts out well enough to put him in a cheerful mood.
Today, he has a meeting in the City, so for a change, they’re both off at the same station. Big meeting. Important meeting: Chieftain’s main backers, of whom James has heard little in the way of detail, Sly Monteith being coy about anything fact or money oriented. It’s about time: Sly’s had him doing little more than make-work since he joined the firm, left resolutely out of any of the strategic decision-making that he excels at. He’s actually been considering whether he was too quick to take Monteith up on his job offer. After all, fantastic as the pay and benefits package is, James is no ones’ glorified office manager.
“You okay?” River says, little frown flickering around his eyes. “It can’t be that big a deal, it’s the private sector…”
“Piss off,” James mutters, more out of habit than anything. “And besides, that’s no way to talk about a potential new employer…”
“Not that again!” River groans, fixes his gaze on one of the ad posters, pretends to be engrossed in reading it.
James looks up as well. “Contraception apps? Something you want to tell me, darling?”
River frowns, appears to realise what he’s been staring at and snorts. Then his face turns serious again.
“Seriously, Jay, I’m okay where I am. Work-wise, anyway… I know the flat’s crap, but it is a bloody easy commute, and there’s grandad and—”
“I know! I know. You care about him, you need to keep an eye on him.” James reaches down and squeezes River’s hand.
The obvious solution, really, and James knows this, he’s just not sure how the other man will react to the suggestion, the obvious solution is for the two of them to share a place. With James’s greater salary, they could easily afford somewhere reasonable. He keeps considering whether or not to suggest it, has no idea where to start. Instead, he says nothing, just takes a sip of his cold coffee.
“Christ, that’s bad…”
River just snorts. He’s drunk his already, no doubt, can gulp coffee down while it’s still molten. He squeezes James’s hand back, and then neither one thinks to let go, so they just stay like that, hand in hand until the train pulls in at Liverpool and they’re caught up in the mad dash for the exit.
+++
James has been subdued for the last few days in the lead up to this big meeting, River thinks. Not on edge, per se, just distracted, a tiny distance coming into his tone when River asks him a question.
It’s just nerves, he tells himself. It’s not the usual ‘perhaps we’re better as friends’ one month in like it has been in every other one of River’s relationships: this one has lasted longer than a month, for a start, has been better from the outset than any of the others. Even only counting it from the first night they shagged (on James’ sofa, while the man was still supposed to be recovering from a gunshot wound) that still makes it three months. It’s more like five if, like River, you count it from the first time one kissed the other (while James was lying in a hospital bed)— that’s a bloody big deal.
Knowing the quietest route to the escalators to head for, River guides James along the platform towards it with one hand at his back, and for once, James actually lets him.
“We’re definitely at mine tonight, though, yeah?” James says as they near the exit from where James will head towards Bishopsgate and River to a bus stop that will drop him a bit closer to Barbican.
Ah crap, River thinks. His grandad had asked him to come and help in the garden again— he always needs more help with it this time of year and River had put off going as much as he should have during the summer, so the great annual ‘cutting back’ remains largely outstanding.
He realises he must be pulling a face when James gives him a sour look.
“Fuck’s sake, River!”
“I’m sorry, I forgot!” River pauses James, pulls him back out of the thoroughfare before some city twat in a suit and trainers knocks them over staring at his smartwatch. “Look, I’ll come over to yours if I don’t get back too late, okay?”
Which is going to be impossible, since he’ll have to go from Slough House to home, get his car, drive down to Tunbridge, then back up again, dump his car once more in some dodgy parking space near his flat and then get back on the tube over to James’s (all on a weekday night, having navigated Jackson Lamb all day and fielded repetitive questions from his grandfather all evening…) Just the thought of it is exhausting.
James looks at him, exasperated, then his expression softens into resignation. He grabs River’s sleeve and resumes walking until they reach River’s bus stop, which is already crowded with other passengers, including a group of Japanese students, all staring at their phones. At a rubbish bin, he dumps his cup, takes River’s and does the same with that too.
“Okay, dickhead, how’s this. I leave my car at the carpark at work tonight, so you can leave yours at mine when you get back…”
River blinks. James hates leaving his stupid little hairdressers car anywhere, even the well-lit private car park beneath Chieftain headquarters.
“Besides,” James adds, stepping closer, “If you stay at mine, the shower’s big enough for me to blow you in it.” He says this just loud enough for the elderly man stood close by to gasp and several of the students to stare, and then with a final peck on River’s cheek, he’s gone and River is left to stand there, blushing bright red and feeling simultaneously like a complete prat and embarrassingly turned on.
+++
Slough House looks like even more of a bombsite than it normally does. Over the summer, boxes upon boxes of assorted crap have arrived by van to be sorted and catalogued in order for transfer to some facility in the arse-end of nowhere.
Not even James’ promise of a shower blow job is enough to stop the sinking sensation that comes over River as he steps inside the building and finds that he’s the first one in, not even Catherine is waiting for him with a work schedule, packing tape dispenser and a Sharpie, like she had been yesterday... and the day before.
Last night, heading out and in a hurry to start the tedious rush hour drive down to Tunbridge Wells, River had made an off-the-cuff remark about Catherine being a martyr, and having mulled it over on the way down, knows he needs to come up with some sort of apology for it. Frankly he’d like her to hurry up and get in so he can get it done and out of the way. He toys with making her a cup of tea to start with, but there’s no point until she’s actually in the building because it’ll only go cold and there is nothing worse than cold tea.
+++
James still can’t quite believe how easily this job fell into his lap: one of the benefits of being able to put MI5 down on your CV, not to mention all of the networking he’s done over the years, getting his name out there. That’s all it takes really, this person who knows this person who knows that and before you know it, five degrees of separation from someone like Sly Monteith. And Sly had known precisely what he was getting in James: the final puzzle piece in his empire, the right hand man who can get things done. Far more than can be said for some of the chinless wonders Chieftain has employed in the past.
His sister often jokes about ‘Ruperts’, those privately educated wanks from the military academy who couldn’t lead a team if they were strung together like daisies. Although having also been an alumni of Sandhurst, she can’t really condemn them all too hard, even if she and James do come from humbler stock. And, the thing of it is, James can run rings around those guys, because having not been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, James has more drive in his pinkie finger than the bunch of Ruperts Monteith hired have in their whole bodies.
In truth, the Chieftain mob aren’t all bad. There’s Raffe, posh (technically a Rupert, he's Monteith's nephew) but funny and up for anything, as well as an impressive sniper. There's also Lotte, the team’s intelligence analyst, poached from South Africa and who never seems to leave her desk. James won’t ever say it to Sly, of course, but the man could pretty much just sack everyone else, keep the three of them and there’d be no difference in the amount that got done.
At Bishopsgate, James steps through the doors into the venue for the meeting and takes a deep breath to centre himself. Whoever this big wig from the States is, James is prepared for them. He’d better get in there: it's time to prove to Sly once and for all, just how much he deserves to be in the room.
+++
A few hours later, read the riot act by Lamb and still stinging from being told, yet again, that he’s shit, River’s sorting through archive boxes when a message comes through on his phone.
“Oh, Catherine’s messaged!” He calls, in case anyone’s still speaking to him. “Thank god.” Then, “Shit!” because the text is just a photograph of the woman, bound and gagged, and flinching from the camera. She looks terrified.
His phone rings.
“Catherine?”
But it’s not Catherine. Instead, a male voice he doesn’t recognise: “Tell anyone, she dies. Barbican Bridge, one minute. Or she dies.”
+++
James steps out of the conference centre and half stumbles as he reaches the lift.
This isn’t right, this can’t happen.
He’s hot all over, hot and cold; his tie feels too tight, his jacket too close, the elevator so, so small.
The meeting had started out just as you’d expect. The big wig from the US had been tall, bearded and bulky with eyes that had probably watched and cheered on atrocities. Deep voice, bone-crusher of a handshake:
“Harkness, Frank. You’re Webb. You’re just the guy we need for this.”
James has to stop the lift at the next floor down, just to get out of there into the cool of the corridor where he can find a window, look out over a corner of skyline. Sinking into a chair, he forces himself to do a couple of reps of box breathing, just like the physio had taught him.
This cannot be happening!
In the conference room, sat at the massive oak table, Sly had looked small, diminished, perhaps, nervously glancing from James to Harkness and back again.
“So sorry, old chap,” Sly had murmured. “But I’m sure it won’t be as bad as all that…”
“I don’t follow?” This wasn’t the first time James had sat in a meeting room and felt the seasick roiling of his life coming off its tracks. Not again, not again, not again, he’d willed.
Harkness had passed a manilla envelope across the table and indicated for James to open it. He’d done so and everything in him had just sunk.
Now, still slumped on a chair on who-the-fuck-knows-which-floor, all he can think is that he has to betray the most important person in the world, and if he doesn’t then…
So, he has to. And he has to do it so well that Cartwright falls for it. And when the man figures out that he’s been played, he’ll go right back to hating James all over again. But, at least that way, he’ll be safe.
Doing his best to ignore the way his legs shake, James gets to his feet, rights his tie and heads back to the lift.
+++
River tears out of Slough House, races down the street to the Barbican Bridge, up the stairs and stops dead: what the fuck?
James is waiting for him, dressed exactly the same way he had been this morning. He looks odd, like he’s holding something in that wants to tear free.
“What the fuck?”
“River, you have to do exactly as I say.”
“James, what’s happened, are you alright?” River reaches out to catch hold of James’s hand, or his arm, or anything, but James just flinches back.
“I was told to deliver a message,” he says, woodenly.
“You’ve got Catherine?”
“What? No, what are you talking about, I don’t know anything about Catherine, I need to—”
River tries again, and this time he manages to catch hold of James’s arm, pulls him in so he can look at him properly. There aren’t any bruises to his face, that he can see, no signs of harm or torture, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
“Jay, whatever this is, tell me, I can help.”
James shakes his head. “Please listen to me, they’ve just sent me a picture of my sister and her kids at the swings.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t fucking know, okay? But they say you have to do what they say or they’ll kill the kids in front of their mother… These are bad people, River, please!”
This isn’t right, River’s brain says. James’s sister’s kids— does James’s sister have any kids? He can’t remember him mentioning them, then again, he also never mentions his sister, so that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. River pauses, considers.
Oh. Oh no. Oh no no no no no. Not again.
His hands curl into fists at James’s lapels.
“Spider, this had better not be… I swear to fucking god, if you’re playing me-” He tugs James up onto his toes, shoves him back against the railings. James’s eyes widen, he flinches away. “You need to start talking. Tell me who’s got Catherine and I won’t shove you off this bridge!”
“How many more times?” James cries. “I don’t know, I’m not in the service, you tell me!” He pushes back against River, vainly trying to give himself some room between himself and the railings.
River tightens his hold, but his mind is racing. Five fucking months: has James— Webb being playing him all this time? Or, was it more recent, some way to engineer his way back into the park? River is such a fucking idiot!
But, right, he needs to focus, because this won’t save Catherine. He’ll deal with Spider later, for now he just needs to deal with this whole Catherine thing, make sure no one harms her.
“They want you to get this, I wrote it down.” James whispers, handing River a piece of paper, stepping back and wiping his face when River lets go of him to read it.
“The PM’s vetting files? You know where that is, right?”
“Course I know where it is!” Webb’s face is flushed, his eyes red: he’s always been a convincing liar.
“Well, then you know I can’t get that,” River snaps.
James claws his hair back from his face, unfastens his tie. He shakes his head. “No, you have to get it, if you don’t then it’s going to be so fucking bad… You have to trust me.”
“Trust you. Trust you? After everything you’ve— Jesus!” River wants to kill him, actually wants to throw him from this bridge and watch him fall, hear him land. He grabs hold again, shoves James back against the railings, then he sags: it won’t solve anything.
“Who do I even give it to if I get it?” He asks, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.
“I don’t know,” James whispers. Absolute Bullshit, River thinks.
It must register on his face, because James swallows hard.
“I don’t know. They just said they’d make contact again at midday…”
“Then why didn’t they just get you to get it?”
“I’m not in the service anymore, how the hell would I get in?”
“And I’m in Slough House, which you love reminding me of—”
Yeah, even when they’re supposed to be friends, supposed to be lov— Even then, James is needling him about it, taking the piss, crowing over how much he gets paid while River is barely making ends meet. He can’t believe how easily he fell for it! How he didn’t put it together? What the hell reason would Webb be doing with him if not playing him?
Spider backs away, losing the fight with his hair. River remembers that he'd forgotten to pack his stupid hair gel when he stayed over last night, and River had taken the piss out of him this morning for it, joked that they could stop off at a supermarket and get him a hair band. James had taken it in his stride, pointed out that River probably still had the same haircut he’d had in school. They'd ended up a sweaty tangle on the kitchen floor, laughter quickly forgotten. River forces the memory away.
“You don’t belong in Slough House, everyone knows that,” James whispers, sounding as real as he had last night when they were finally naked and James was easing carefully into River’s body.
River grabs hold of James, wants to shake him, but in the end, just shoves him away
James stands his ground, though. “Maybe they want you because you’re… fuck… “ He sighs, voice breaking. “Because you’re special, like the only person who can pull this off…”
A calm settles over River. They’ve finally hit truth, no doubt after five months of lies. Spider has always been jealous of him, because River is better than he is, a better agent, with better instincts. Webb will only ever be a suit, one of millions. River, in spite of being stuck in Slough House, is still an agent, what Lamb would call a Joe. He can pull this off, he knows it, deep down and in spite of all of Webb’s shite, and his lies, it’s almost worth it to finally hear the truth of it all from him.
He can’t help but smirk: he’s fucking won!
Then, he sees an unmistakeable red dot of light appear in the centre of Webb’s chest, and even though he fucking hates the man, something in him goes cold.
“What?” Spider stares at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Then he looks down and sees it too.
“Oh Jesus! Oh god…”
Automatically, River’s arms raise and James’s do the same because a red dot of light like that only ever means sniper.
James starts to back away.
“River, please go- run now.” He gets on his knees, arms still raised, and when River still can’t bring himself to move, he starts to beg. “Riv, please don’t let them kill me, please!”
Is this true, though, River can’t stop thinking. Is it real, how can it not be, of course: red dot equals sniper, but still if anyone can play him it’s Spider. But, what if it is real?
“Right!” He snaps. “Fine!
But Webb is still staring down at himself, to where the light still dances on his shirt
“Please!”
River turns to try to see where the light might be coming from, can he see its source, but whoever it is has hidden themselves well. Of course they, have: Sniper 101. An idea has started to form in River’s mind, though, one of those crazy, stupid ideas that will never work in a million years, but then, what if…? He approaches Webb.
“What are you doing? What are you doing?” Arms still raised, eyes still wide in terror, James’s voice is a broken cry, all fear and dread. Is this the last time they see each other, he almost wonders. In spite of everything, he wants to put his arms around the other man, somehow protect him from the inevitable, but there’s no time for that.
River tears James’s tiepin from his shirt and runs.
+++
“River?” James collapses to the ground, clutching his chest and gasping, he can’t get enough air into his lungs, he’s drowning, he’s sure of it. He’s had dozens of nightmares end like this, with this heavy, useless feeling in his chest, nothing working the way it’s supposed to. Each time, he’s woken to River lying beside him, just waking and pressing a kiss to his forehead, telling him he’s okay, it was just a dream, he’s safe now. Whenever that happens, they curl up together, wait for James’s terror to fade and although it’s never said, James knows that River remains awake until long after James has fallen back into sleep.
Well, not anymore. He’s lost him for good now.