Chapter Text
For one blissful second, when River woke, he thought he might feel better, but if anything, he felt worse, which, yeah, that made more sense in regard to the general state of his life at the moment. Or in the last few years—or maybe it was best not to think too hard about his life at the moment.
It was best not to think too hard because someone was operating a jackhammer behind River’s eyelids and his skin felt both sticky and flush at the same time. His throat wasn’t as raw as it was last night, but it was tender, as if he had spent the time screaming and not sleeping, and his nose was more blocked than a London street during Trooping the Colour. With a groan to accompany the Herculean effort, River lifted his head off the pillow and glanced at the clock on his bedside table, blinking away the remains of sleep from his eyes.
13:32 it stared at him accusingly. Sure, he felt like death warmed over, but why was he in bed in the middle of the day?
Muffled voices broke through the haze enveloping River’s head, and he belatedly remembered Catherine bringing him home from work and tucking him into bed like a child. He bit his lip; no one had looked after him with that level of care since his grandmother died and it was going something to him. River sneezed into his elbow before slowly moving to a sitting position and briefly dropping his head to his hands. River shuddered a breath before moving his hands to his knees and taking a deep inhale to steady himself. Fuck he felt awful. He pushed himself to stand, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers as spots danced in front of his vision.
Once the dizziness passed, River padded to the door, slowly opening it before following the sound of Catherine's voice, the corners of his lips twitched when he realised it was mixed with Louisa’s. The pair stopped speaking and turned towards him as he entered the kitchen and River briefly wondered what—or whom—they were talking about. They sat at his small kitchen table, still steaming mugs sat between them and concerned looks covering their faces letting River deduce it was likely him they were talking about.
He shuddered at the thought at first, only for it to be replaced with a warmth spreading through him at their care. He didn't stop to think about the implications of it, or how the feeling warmed him. He didn't stop to think about how much he missed being cared about and what that said about him.
“River, how do you feel?” Catherine asked, recovering first and vacating her chair momentarily so she could usher him into it.
“Better,” he offered automatically, as he dropped boneless into the seat, tired from the short shuffle from his bedroom.
It wasn't a lie–at least not completely–but it wasn't necessarily the entire truth either. River didn’t feel quite like a glorified The Walking Dead extra like he did this morning but he didn’t feel up to doing much more than sitting in a chair at the moment. Catherine briefly abandoned the kitchen but returned quickly and draped a blanket over his shoulders, her hands resting comfortingly on his shoulders. River reached a hand up and settled it on Catherine’s, giving it a quick squeeze before his clouded brain could think better of it.
Catherine rubbed his shoulders briefly before crossing to the kettle and pouring him a cup of tea.
“Do you want some honey in it?” Catherine asked. “It’ll help soothe your throat.”
“I don’t think I have any honey,” River said with slight disappointment.
He didn’t think that he didn’t have honey–he knew. River had never bought honey in his life, never had given himself reason to, though it did sound quite lovely at the moment. But to his immense surprise, there sat a bottle of honey, one of those ones shaped like a little bear and everything, on the counter next to his kettle, staring at him undoubtedly in judgement. His kitchen had somehow transformed into a pharmacy and surrounding both were boxes of cold medicine, a bag of cough drops, some Lucozade and a brand-new thermometer.
Huh, well look at that, was all his jumbled brain could manage, somehow able to remind him it’s another thing he was wrong about even through the haze.
“Here, temperature first,” Louisa said, shoving the thermometer into his mouth—a bit rougher than necessary if you asked River, which no one did—before he could object.
River sat awkwardly holding the thermometer under his tongue, waiting impatiently for it to beep, Louisa and Catherine staring at him expectantly. His lips were twitching to make some sort of smart comment that would likely have Louisa rolling her eyes and Catherine’s eyebrows knitting together in further concern but both were saved by his tongue being in use holding the thermometer in place. Louisa pulled it from his mouth before he had a chance when the grateful beep alerted to the reading being available.
“39,” Louisa said to Catherine with a purse of her lips.
River suddenly felt like he had failed some test he didn’t know he was taking and Catherine and Louisa set on him with twin looks of concern before Catherine returned to making tea. River wanted to say something, wanted to offer some thanks or some reassurances but he couldn’t force the words to make the long journey from his brain to his mouth. Before he could compel his brain to work, Catherine was placing a cup of tea in front of him and River was saved by at least having something to do with his hands.
He held the cup, letting the warmth flow through his palms. He breathed it in, or attempted to despite his clogged nose before taking a tentative sip, not wanting to burn his mouth and add a burned tongue to his list of maladies and complaints. The tea was warm but comforting, and, hey, honey really did feel soothing to his throat, though that shouldn’t have surprised him, Catherine wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise.
A Lucozade and some cold medicine replaced the cup of tea when it was finished, but the twin looks never finished their appraising of him.
Louisa’s phone buzzed on the table and she glanced at it before a look of annoyance flickered across her features.
“Shirley,” she offered as a way of explanation. “She said Lamb’s looking for me. I guess I should get back to the office, but I’ll check in later.”
“Thanks for coming,” River said. “You don’t–you don’t have to though. I know–”
She rose quickly, squeezing River’s forearm once, “shut up.”
River knew better than to object a second time, offering her a smile before she crossed the small space and said something quietly to Catherine. They both watched her retreating figure, the hum of the electric kettle and the echo of Louisa’s footsteps and the door closing the only sound in the quiet flat.
“Well,” Catherine said, taking over Louisa’s abandoned chair and placing her hands on her knees. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really,” River lied.
He was a bit hungry. All he had for breakfast was a coffee on his way to Slough House, hoping the caffeine would work miracles and get him through the day. But that had failed miserably and Catherine had ushered him home before he could even eat one of the protein bars he left in his desk for emergencies. All of that was mute though as River wasn’t sure what food was left in his fridge–and of that what was still considered edible–and he wasn’t about to ask Catherine to order him something.
Catherine, for her part, didn’t look as if she believed his objections, frowning before she admonished him, “River you need to eat. I’ll make you something.”
“Oh. You don’t have to do that,” River objected meekly. “I don’t think I have much anyway, I’ve been needing to go to the grocery.”
“Nonsense, River. I’m here to help you. And Louisa took care of that. I was planning to make soup for dinner,” Catherine explained and River felt sick at her words. It was destabilising the way she was offering to help him, the way she was caring for him and all that she and Louisa had already done. He didn’t deserve it. Catherine tilted her head at him as if sensing his internal turmoil and deciding she was feeding him anyway, “but for now would you like a sandwich? Or some pasta?”
Eventually, River relented and Catherine made him a sandwich, and one for herself. They ate in silence, the only sound their chewing and River’s occasionally sneezing or blowing of his nose, his napkin holding a slowly growing mountain of used kleenex. River stood to clear the plates before Catherine shooed him away from hers and took his gently from his hands. He should’ve put up more of a fight, but any energy he gained from the cup of tea and the food was slowly melting off him, leaving him feeling utterly useless as he disposed of the dirty tissues before going to the bathroom.
He stumbled through his small living room and stood in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, breathing heavily through his mouth trying to clear the stars from his eyes. Once his vision wasn’t completely dominated by white spots, he pushed off the doorframe and staggered to the toilet before washing his hands methodically as if he could rinse away all the sickness that had settled into his bones over the last couple of days.
When that didn’t work, he settled for brushing his teeth and then almost choking on the cupful of mouthwash when he remembered he couldn’t properly breathe from his nose, barely managing to spit into the sink and not drooling all over himself. He stood doubled over the sink, breathing heavily for a moment, wishing he could teleport himself back to bed.
“River, are you alright?” Catherine called from the kitchen, and River slowly pushed himself to stand fully, blinking against the darkening edges of his vision.
“Yes. Coming,” he replied before slowly making his way back to the kitchen.
He felt marginally better having eaten, and the cold medicine would hopefully take effect soon, but at the moment he felt like crap warmed over and exhaustion pulled at him like weights wrapped around his ankles. Catherine pressed the back of her hand to his forehead as soon as he was in striking distance, River automatically hunching so she could do so.
He heard his mother’s voice in his head as he did so, “River, stand up straight. You're slouching for no reason. God made you tall, act like it.”
His traitorous back straightened against his will after Catherine removed her hand and he suddenly missed the coolness of her touch and River felt himself lean forward unconsciously. He had disappointed his mother for a lifetime, no need to stop now. He must've looked sufficiently pathetic because Catherine moved her hand to cup his cheek instead, her eyes settled on him and warmth spread through him unbidden. He hated how easy it was for him to turn into mush under her touch, and he hated even more how much he didn't actually hate it.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Catherine said, her voice as soothing as the honey in his tea.
Catherine removed her hand from his cheek and placed it gently on his forearm and guided him back towards the bedroom, her hand reassuringly on his lower back. She eased River to sit on the bed before she began to methodically open drawers before turning back to him.
“Do you want to put on some fresh clothes? It might make you feel a bit better,” Catherine suggested.
River could only nod and wonder how ripe he must smell. His clothes were sticky and he relished the chance to change them. He would shower if he thought he could manage to stand up the whole time without face planting. The idea of Catherine having to save him if he passed out in the shower was less appealing than the draw of being clean could ever be.
Catherine stood at his dresser, likely wondering if he wanted her to pull clothes for him or not and River was taken aback at the look of uncertainty on her. Catherine was always so self-assured from the moment he met her, it was difficult to imagine he could make her off kilter at all. This though, he could manage, and River pushed himself to stand slowly, wondering at the same time how his body could be so achy from sickness that it rivalled a Nick Duffy led interrogation.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” Catherine said as she clasped her hands together before turning on her heel and leaving the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
The room felt suddenly empty as River stared at the closed door. What a foolish thought. Almost no one had been to his flat before. Grandad only once, immediately after he moved in, but River hated the idea of David Cartwright in his dingy flat in a not so great part of East London. Spider had been here of course, when they were friends, mocking River’s decorating abilities, or lack thereof, but still bringing takeaway from his favourite place by The Park. That, of course, was years ago now and other than Louisa, he couldn’t remember the last time anyone but a Deliveroo driver had been anywhere near his flat.
River breathed deeply through his mouth before grabbing the top t-shirt in his drawer. He slowly pulled off the sweaty one he was wearing currently and dropped it into his hamper, following the same process with his pants and bottoms. The sheets felt cool against his flushed skin as he climbed back into the bed, resting his still aching head on the pillow and closing his eyes, the thrumming in his ears the dominating sound in the room.
He regrettably pried them open again at the light knock on the door. “River, dear, are you decent?” Catherine asked from the other side of the door.
“Yea—” River coughed. Shit. He should’ve let her back in before he got into bed. “Yes. Come in. Sorry.”
The door pushed open slowly and Catherine entered holding a glass of water and a face cloth. She handed the water to him, River gulping down three grateful sips. The glass thunked onto the nightstand and River shuffled down in the bed, sighing again at the cool sheets against his face and arms. Catherine stood over him, holding the wet face cloth up so he could see, concern still written across her face so much so that it made River’s throat threaten to close.
“May I?” asked Catherine.
River tried to reply but he couldn’t form the words, he could barely manage the nod he eventually gave her, swallowing against the lump forming in his throat. He should stop her, tell her she didn’t need to do all this, to be here–to care. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t form the words, couldn’t push away the care and love she was showing him. The cloth was blessedly cool against his warmed skin, and River felt the tension in his neck dissolve slightly, even as the weight on his heart remained.
“That–” River coughed again, “–that feels lovely, Catherine. Thank you.”
Catherine fretted with the duvet, lifting it then straightening it then straightening it again, brushing against it with her hands. “Do you need anything else?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”
Catherine nodded and turned, walking towards the door. River sat up quickly, the face cloth dropping unceremoniously from his face onto his lap.
“Catherine?” he asked, voice quiet, but causing Catherine to stop.
“River,” Catherine gently scolded, walking back towards him. “Lay back down.”
He did as he was told, easing himself back down as Catherine sat on the edge of the bed, fixing the duvet again before taking the face cloth from his lap and replacing it on his forehead, smoothing it against him. River caught Catherine’s wrist as she let go of the face cloth, careful not to hold it too tightly, just enough so she would stop. Her skin was soft and cool and River fought the urge to move her hand to his face again.
“You didn’t—,” River swallowed thickly, “—you didn’t have to do all this.”
“Of course I didn’t. I wanted to do it, River. You deserve to be taken care of, too,” Catherine said.
It sounded so simple when she said it, so easy. But it wasn’t simple, not to River. Not when more people have wanted to hurt River than care for him in his life. Not when the only two people to care for River before Louisa and Catherine were his grandparents, two people who, yes, loved River, saved River, were both tied to him through duty and DNA. They never chose River the way Catherine was choosing to be here now. It didn’t make their love any less, it simply meant this was new to him.
River wasn’t used to people seeing all his faults and choosing him anyway. At least not when he had nothing to offer other than himself.
But Catherine had.
Louisa had.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, the sound of his voice almost dissolving in the quiet room.
Catherine gave him a tight nod, followed by a small smile and warmth spread across his chest. She cupped his cheek in her hand, it was cool and comforting and more than he deserved but he let himself appreciate it, and not question it as he watched her stand and walk from the room, closing the door quietly behind her. River closed his eyes, drifting to sleep, comfortable for the first time despite the aches and pains of the sickness running rampant through his body.
When River woke later it was to the smell of soup and the melodic sound of voices. He still felt like someone had taken up residence inside his skull with a pitchfork and his head was more clogged than the Tube at rush hour, but there were two people who cared about him in his kitchen, warm food waiting to fill his belly and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel quite so alone.
And for River Cartwright, that was more than enough.