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Chapter Text

River Cartwright knew something was wrong the moment he heard the shot echo through the abandoned warehouse. The sound cut through the ambient dripping of water from rusted pipes and the distant rumble of traffic far away. River felt the jolt in his chest before his mind fully registered what it meant.

The operation was supposed to be simple reconnaissance, just another thankless task dumped on Slough House by Regent's Park. But simplicity and the slow horses rarely kept company for long.

Lamb? River called into his radio, hearing only the scratch of static in response. He adjusted the earpiece, tapping it with his finger. Lamb, do you copy?

More static, then a faint crackle that might have been a voice, or might have been nothing at all.

River's heart quickened as he moved through the dimly lit space, his weapon drawn, his footsteps careful on the concrete floor. The warehouse smelled of damp and decay, of rust and neglect, not unlike Lamb's office on a good day. The thought made River smile despite himself, before reality crashed back down.

He followed the corridor past empty offices, their windows broken and floors littered with decades-old paperwork turned to pulp by time and weather. At the end of the passage, a set of double doors hung askew from their hinges, opening onto the main floor of the warehouse. River paused, listening intently, before slipping through the gap between the doors.

The cavernous space was a maze of abandoned machinery and stacked crates, the high windows letting in only thin strips of late afternoon light. Dust particles danced in these wan beams, giving the place an otherworldly quality that made the hair on the back of River's neck stand up.

Lamb? he called again, this time keeping his voice low.

A soft groan from his left had River turning sharply, gun raised. He moved cautiously toward the sound, weaving between tall shelving units.

He found Lamb sprawled against a stack of crates, one hand pressed to his side where blood seeped between his fingers, darkening his already grimy coat. His face was pale beneath the perpetual sheen of sweat, his breathing labored. The SIG-Sauer P226 he favored lay beside him, its magazine empty.

Took your time, Lamb wheezed, his eyes narrowing as they focused on River's face. Was beginning to think you'd stopped for a pint on the way.

Jesus Christ. River rushed forward, holstering his weapon to press his own hands against the wound. The blood was warm and slick, pulsing between his fingers with each beat of Lamb's heart. Too much blood, too fast. What happened?

What does it look like? Bastard shot me. Lamb grimaced, his face contorting with pain before settling back into its habitual expression of disdain. Don't look so concerned, Cartwright. Makes your face even more punchable than usual.

River ignored the jab, focusing instead on assessing the damage. The bullet appeared to have entered Lamb's left side, below the ribs. No exit wound that River could see, which meant the bullet was still inside. Bad news, that.

We need to get you out of here, River said, shrugging out of his jacket and pressing it against the wound. Can you walk?

No, thought I'd have a little lie-down instead, Lamb snarled, then coughed, a wet sound that made River's stomach clench. A thin trickle of blood appeared at the corner of Lamb's mouth, which he wiped away with a grimace. Of course I can bloody walk. Just need a moment to... catch my breath.

River's hands were slick with Lamb's blood as he pulled out his phone to call for backup and medical assistance. The warehouse was on the outskirts of London, at least twenty minutes from the nearest hospital even with sirens.

Shooter? River asked as he waited for the call to connect.

Gone. Spooked when I got a shot off. Lamb's eyes fluttered briefly before he forced them open again. Didn't see his face. Professional. Quick.

River relayed their location and situation to the emergency operator, then turned his attention back to Lamb, whose color was fading alarmingly.

Stay with me, River said, pressing harder on the wound, eliciting a hiss of pain from Lamb. Ambulance is on its way. He carefully hoisted Lamb to his feet, taking most of his weight as he positioned himself under Lamb's arm.

Don't... fuss, Lamb muttered, but his usual vigor was ebbing. Cartwright?

Yeah?

If I die, tell Diana I always thought she was a pretentious cow.

River tightened his grip around Lamb's waist. Tell her yourself. You are not dying on me today.

Always... the bloody hero, Lamb muttered, but there was something almost like fondness beneath the contempt in his voice. He leaned more heavily against River as consciousness began to slip away from him. Slow horses... always need a hero, don't they?

Easy, River muttered, more to himself than to Lamb. Don't go collapsing on me now.

He lowered Lamb carefully to the ground, cradling his head as gently as he could manage, wincing at the smear of blood on his hands. At least now they were somewhere an ambulance could find them quickly.

River felt a knot form in his throat as Lamb's eyes drifted closed. Stay awake, Lamb. Talk to me. Tell me what a useless agent I am. Tell me how I've disappointed the family legacy. Anything.

But Lamb's head lolled to the side, his breathing becoming more shallow. River checked his pulse, still there, but weaker than it should be. In the distance, he finally heard the welcome wail of sirens approaching.

Hang on, River whispered, his voice rough. Just hang on.

The hospital corridor was a sterile ribbon of linoleum stretching between rooms filled with suffering and hope. River paced its length, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor, his hands still stained with dried blood despite repeated washings. They said Lamb was in surgery. They said the bullet had nicked his liver. They said a lot of things in calm, measured tones that did nothing to ease the knot in River's chest.

Six hours had passed since they'd rushed Lamb into the operating theater. River had been checked over, given a cup of terrible coffee, and left to his own devices in the waiting area. Catherine had come as soon as she heard, stormed in, really, demanded answers from the staff and tried to sit with River, but after a while, he'd convinced her to go back to Slough House to coordinate things, just in case the Park started sniffing around.

Now, alone with his thoughts, River found himself dwelling on things he usually pushed aside, like how, despite everything, Jackson Lamb was the closest thing to a solid ground he had in his life. The man was a bastard, yes. Cruel, calculating, manipulative. But he was also brilliant, perceptive, and possessed of a twisted integrity that River had come to respect. And beneath all the layers of calculated offensiveness, there lurked something else, something that might, in another man, have been called caring.

River had seen it in fleeting moments, when Lamb maneuvered to protect his slow horses from the Park's machinations, when he avenged those who had been harmed, when he bent his considerable skills toward justice rather than bureaucratic convenience. Those moments were rare but unmistakable.

The sound of footsteps roused River from his thoughts. A surgeon approached, her face revealing nothing.

"Mr. Cartwright?" she asked, consulting her clipboard.

River nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Mr. Lamb is out of surgery. The bullet has been removed, and we've repaired the damage to his liver. He lost a significant amount of blood, but he's stable."

The relief hit River like a physical force. "Can I see him?"

"He's in recovery now. Once he's moved to a room, you can have a brief visit. He'll be heavily sedated, so don't expect much conversation."

River nodded again, managing a "Thank you" that sounded more composed than he felt.

Another hour passed before a nurse led him to Lamb's room. The sight of his boss, the indomitable, larger-than-life Jackson Lamb, looking small and vulnerable against the white hospital sheets sent a shock through River. Lamb was connected to various monitors, an IV in one arm, his face waxy beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.

River sat in the chair beside the bed, unsure what to do with himself now that the immediate crisis had passed. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor provided a hypnotic backdrop to his scattered thoughts.

Sometime later, minutes or hours, River couldn't tell, Lamb's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy from painkillers.

"Cartwright?" His voice was a rasp, barely audible over the beeping monitors.

"I'm here," River said, leaning forward.

"Water."

River held a cup with a straw to Lamb's lips, allowing him a small sip. The domestic gesture felt oddly intimate, a crossing of some unspoken boundary.

Lamb swallowed with effort, then fixed River with a gaze that was surprisingly lucid despite the drugs. "You look like shit."

River couldn't help but laugh, the sound carrying more relief than humor. "You're one to talk."

"Always... am." Lamb's words were slurred, his usual rapid-fire delivery slowed to a crawl. "You stayed."

It wasn't a question, but River answered anyway. "Of course."

"Fascinating," Lamb muttered, as if making a scientific observation. "You actually... care. Despite everything. How... refreshingly insane of you."

The drugs were clearly having an effect on Lamb's usual barriers, allowing glimpses of something raw beneath the caustic exterior.

"Should've let them send someone else," Lamb continued, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. "Park would've been happy to be rid of me. One less... embarrassing relic to deal with."

"They did send someone else," River replied. "Me."

Lamb's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "My knight in... very tarnished armor. The disgraced prince of Regent's Park." His words were soft, almost fond, entirely unlike his usual biting tone. "Do you know... you're the only one who doesn't... pity me? The others, they think I'm just a sad old drunk. Past his prime. Clinging to... faded glory."

River was taken aback by the honesty. "That's not what I think."

"No," Lamb agreed, his eyes finding River's again. "You think I'm a bastard. But a... capable one. It's why I keep you around... despite your many, many failings. You see... clearly."

"That's the morphine talking," River said, uncomfortable with this new, vulnerable version of Lamb.

"Probably," Lamb conceded. "Excellent stuff, morphine. Almost as good as... proper whiskey." He shifted slightly, wincing. "Don't get used to this... momentary lapse into... human discourse. When these drugs wear off... I'll go back to reminding you what a colossal disappointment you are."

"I'd expect nothing less."

Lamb's eyes drifted closed again, but his hand moved slightly on the blanket, fingers unfurling in what might have been an invitation. After a moment's hesitation, River placed his own hand beside Lamb's, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from the older man's skin.

"You're not... terrible, Cartwright," Lamb murmured, already half-asleep. "For a slow horse. Could've been... worse."

From Jackson Lamb, it was practically a declaration of affection. River felt something in his chest loosen, a tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying.

"You too," he replied softly, knowing Lamb probably couldn't hear him anymore. "For a cantankerous old spy with dubious personal hygiene."

Lamb's lips twitched again, the ghost of a smile as he drifted back into medicated sleep.

When Catherine came back an hour later, she found River still sitting beside Lamb's bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

How is he? she asked quietly, her usually composed face etched with genuine concern.

Stable, River replied. And as charming as ever.

Catherine smiled slightly. I've brought coffee. Real coffee, not that vending machine swill.

River accepted the cup gratefully. Any word on the shooter?

Diana's people are investigating. Forensics at the warehouse, CCTV footage from the surrounding area. Catherine took the seat on the other side of Lamb's bed. Shirley and Louisa are coming by later. Even Roddy asked how he was doing.

The world must be ending, River said with a half-smile. Roddy showing concern for another human being.

We're all concerned. Catherine's gaze lingered on Lamb's sleeping form. He's... important to us. In his own terrible way.

River nodded, understanding perfectly. Slough House was a family of sorts, dysfunctional, damaged, and bound together by shared failure and mutual distrust, but a family nonetheless. And Lamb, for all his faults, was the twisted heart of it.

He's going to be insufferable during recovery, River noted.

More so than usual? Catherine asked with a raised eyebrow.

Hard to imagine, isn't it?

They shared a quiet laugh, the sound strangely comforting in the sterile hospital room. Outside, London continued its relentless pace, unaware and uncaring of the small drama unfolding within these walls. But in this room, for this moment, nothing else mattered beyond the steady beeping of monitors and the knowledge that, against all odds, their terrible, brilliant, infuriating boss would live to insult them another day.

And River, watching the subtle rise and fall of Lamb's chest, found he wouldn't have it any other way.

By the time evening arrived, Lamb's room had transformed from a quiet recovery space into something resembling an uncomfortable family gathering. Marcus and Louisa had arrived first, standing awkwardly near the foot of the bed with the air of people attending a funeral where they weren't sure if they'd liked the deceased.

You two look like you're waiting for me to flatline so you can raid my desk for snacks, Lamb growled, more alert now but still tethered to various machines that beeped with irritating regularity.

Good to see you too, Lamb, Louisa said, the relief in her voice barely concealed.

Marcus cleared his throat. We brought grapes. He held up a small plastic bag containing what appeared to be the saddest bunch of grapes in London.

Congratulations on your fruit purchase, Lamb replied, eyeing the offering with disdain. Were they having a special on disappointment at Tesco's?

River, who hadn't left his chair since Catherine's arrival, suppressed a smile. The fact that Lamb was insulting them was the most reassuring sign of recovery they could hope for.

The door opened again to admit Shirley Dander, whose nervous energy filled the small room like static electricity, and behind her, to everyone's surprise, Roddy Ho, clutching what looked like a hastily purchased card.

Christ on a bicycle, Lamb muttered. It's a full-blown slow horse parade. What's next? A tasteful funeral arrangement from Diana Taverner?

We were worried, Shirley said, fidgeting near the window. When Catherine called...

Save your concern for someone who gives a toss, Lamb retorted, but there was less bite in his words than usual. Ho, you look even more constipated than usual. Either speak or leave before you rupture something vital.

Roddy stepped forward, thrusting the card at Lamb as if it might explode. It's from all of us. Well, mostly me. I organized it. Picked it out myself.

Lamb took the card with a theatrical sigh, opening it to reveal a cartoon of a sad-looking dog with the words Sorry You're Feeling Rough emblazoned above it. Inside, the Slough House team had signed their names with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Touching, Lamb said dryly. I'll treasure it until the drugs wear off, at which point I'll use it to wipe something unmentionable.

You're welcome, Roddy replied, clearly missing the sarcasm entirely.

For the next forty minutes, the room existed in a state of strained camaraderie. The slow horses attempted small talk while Lamb responded with increasingly creative insults. River noted that despite his caustic commentary, Lamb seemed almost... content with their presence. It was like watching a misanthropic cat who complained loudly about being petted but didn't actually move away.

If this turns into a prayer circle, I'm pulling out my IV and stabbing myself in the other side, Lamb announced when a lull in conversation had stretched too long. As heartwarming as this little gathering of failures has been, I'm getting tired of looking at your faces.

We should let you rest, Catherine agreed, rising from her chair. The doctor said you need to take it easy.

Finally, medical advice I can get behind, Lamb muttered.

One by one, they made their awkward goodbyes. Louisa touched Lamb's shoulder briefly, a gesture so unexpected that he actually fell silent for a moment. Marcus left the grapes on the bedside table. Shirley gave a stiff nod. Roddy looked like he wanted to say something profound but settled for an uncomfortable thumbs-up.

As they filed out, River stood but didn't follow.

You're still here, I see, Lamb observed when the door closed behind the others.

Someone needs to make sure you don't terrorize the nursing staff into early retirement, River replied.

Catherine, who had also remained, adjusted her handbag. The doctor says you might be discharged tomorrow if your vitals remain stable.

Hallelujah, Lamb said flatly. I can feel my liver protesting every second I spend in this temple of disinfectant and despair.

You'll need someone to help you get settled at home, Catherine continued, her tone making it clear this wasn't up for discussion.

Lamb's eyes narrowed. I've been dressing myself for decades, thank you very much.

Debatable, River muttered, earning a glare from his boss.

River and I will take you home and get you situated, Catherine said, her voice brooking no argument. Doctor's orders.

And since when do we follow orders at Slough House? Lamb demanded.

Since one of us got shot and nearly bled out in a warehouse, River countered.

Lamb leaned back against his pillows, a gesture of temporary surrender. Fine. But I draw the line at sponge baths and bedtime stories.

Thank God for small mercies, River replied.

The next day's discharge process took longer than expected, with paperwork delays and a final examination that had Lamb threatening the attending physician with creative forms of bodily harm if he poked that wound one more bloody time. By late afternoon, they were finally in a taxi headed toward Lamb's flat in Whitechapel, the man himself wedged between River and Catherine in the back seat.

If you mention this to anyone at the Park, Lamb growled as River helped him out of the taxi, I'll personally ensure your next assignment involves surveillance on public toilets in Glasgow for six months.

Your gratitude is overwhelming, River replied, supporting Lamb's weight as they approached the building.

Catherine led the way up the narrow staircase to Lamb's second-floor flat, using the spare key that Lamb had begrudgingly admitted was hidden above the doorframe. The flat, when they entered, was exactly as River had imagined it would be, a chaotic testament to neglect and bachelor living.

The small living room was dominated by an ancient armchair positioned for optimal television viewing, surrounded by a sea of newspapers, empty takeaway containers, and enough whiskey bottles to suggest either a collection or a prolonged drinking session. The kitchenette visible beyond an archway appeared to be used primarily for making tea and storing more alcohol. A narrow hallway presumably led to a bedroom and bathroom.

Home sweet bloody home, Lamb wheezed as River eased him into the armchair. You've seen it, you've been suitably horrified, now you can leave with your curiosity satisfied.

Catherine was already moving through the flat with purpose, opening windows to dispel the stale air. I'll put the kettle on.

I don't recall inviting you to make yourself comfortable, Lamb called after her.

I don't recall asking permission, she replied calmly from the kitchen.

River cleared a space on the coffee table, setting down the medications the hospital had prescribed. You need to take these every six hours. And no alcohol.

Are you my nurse now, Cartwright? Did I miss your career change from failed spy to Florence Nightingale?

Someone has to make sure you don't undo all the doctor's good work by being your usual stubborn self.

Lamb fixed him with a baleful glare. When did you become such a monumental pain in the arse?

Learned from the best, River replied evenly.

Something flickered across Lamb's face, surprise, perhaps, at being challenged, or maybe a grudging acknowledgment of the hit. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Catherine emerged from the kitchen with tea in chipped mugs, somehow having found the only two clean ones in the flat. I've made a list of things we need. The cupboards are a barren wasteland populated solely by stale crackers and something that might once have been bread.

Don't bother, Lamb growled, wincing as he shifted in his chair. I'm perfectly capable of having takeaway delivered.

You need proper food while you're recovering, Catherine insisted. I'll pop out to the shops. River can stay with you.

I don't need a babysitter, Lamb protested.

Tough, River said simply.

Lamb looked between them, then sighed heavily, the sound edged with genuine pain rather than just theatrical annoyance. If you're staying, at least make yourselves useful. There's whiskey in the cabinet by the television.

No alcohol, Catherine and River said in unison.

Christ, Lamb muttered. Being shot was less painful than this.

After Catherine left with her shopping list, an uncomfortable silence descended on the flat. Lamb dozed fitfully in his chair while River busied himself with clearing some of the more egregious mess, gathering empty containers and newspapers into a bin bag.

Stop that, Lamb said without opening his eyes. You're disturbing the delicate ecosystem of my personal squalor.

I'm preventing a health hazard, River countered. There's something growing in one of these takeaway boxes that probably qualifies as a new life form.

Scientific progress, then. You're welcome.

River continued his cleaning, oddly comfortable in the domestic task. It was strange seeing Lamb in his natural habitat, the place where he became simply a man rather than the feared head of Slough House. The flat revealed little about its occupant beyond the obvious, though River noted a surprisingly extensive collection of spy novels on a sagging bookshelf and, more surprisingly, a well-maintained chess set on a side table.

Didn't know you played, River remarked, nodding toward the chess pieces.

There's a lot you don't know about me, Cartwright, Lamb replied, finally opening his eyes. I prefer to keep it that way.

River sat on the edge of the sofa, facing Lamb across the coffee table. Why are you so determined to push everyone away?

The question hung in the air between them, more direct than their usual verbal sparring. Lamb regarded River with an unreadable expression.

Why are you so determined to stick around? he countered. Looking for a father figure to replace the grandfather who raised you? Some broken authority figure to validate your existence?

The words hit with precision, as Lamb's barbs always did, finding the soft spots River thought he'd armored. Is that what you think this is?

I think you're like a kicked puppy, Lamb said, his voice low and cutting. Always coming back for more abuse, wagging your tail at the first sign of approval. It's pathetic, really. And exhausting to watch.

Then why keep me around? River challenged, anger rising to match Lamb's.

Entertainment value, Lamb shot back. It's amusing watching you desperately try to prove yourself. Pathetically eager for validation. Is that what you want, River? A pat on the head? Daddy's approval? Or should I say Granddaddy's, since that's what this is really about, isn't it?

River's jaw tightened. This has nothing to do with my grandad.

It has everything to do with him, Lamb said, his voice dripping with contempt. David Cartwright's golden boy, trying to live up to the family legacy. But you're not half the agent he was, and we both know it. He must be so disappointed, watching you scrabble around in Slough House, begging for scraps of approval from me of all people.

I think you're here out of some misguided sense of obligation or sentiment, Lamb replied. And neither has any place in this job.

River leaned forward, meeting Lamb's gaze directly. You know what I think? I think you're terrified that someone might actually care whether you live or die. That beneath all this (he gestured at the flat, at Lamb himself) there might be something worth caring about.

Lamb's face hardened. Save your amateur psychology for someone who gives a shit.

I saw you in that hospital bed, River continued, unable to stop now that he'd started. I saw what was under all the insults and the calculated offensiveness. You're not as empty as you pretend to be.

And you're not as insightful as you think you are, Lamb snapped. I was drugged to the eyeballs. People say all sorts of nonsense when they're pumped full of morphine.

Do they? River challenged. Or do they just say things they'd never allow themselves to say otherwise?

For a long moment, they stared at each other, the air between them charged with something neither was willing to name. Then Lamb's expression shifted, the hardness giving way to something more complex, resignation, perhaps, or simply exhaustion.

Why are you really here, Cartwright? he asked, his voice quieter now. And don't give me any bollocks about duty or concern.

River considered the question, surprised to find he didn't have a ready answer. Why was he here? Why did he care so much about this irascible, difficult man who had done nothing but belittle and challenge him since they'd met?

Because, he said finally, despite everything, you've never lied to me. And in our line of work, that counts for something.

Lamb studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed, a short, genuine sound that transformed his face.

God help you, Cartwright, he said, shaking his head. You really are your grandfather's boy.

Before River could respond, they heard Catherine's key in the lock. The moment of connection, whatever it had been, was gone, replaced by their usual dynamic as Lamb's face settled back into its habitual expression of weary disdain.

If you've bought anything green or resembling a vegetable, you can turn right around, Lamb called as Catherine entered, laden with shopping bags.

Too late, she replied cheerfully. I've already paid for it all.

As Catherine busied herself in the kitchen, Lamb caught River's eye once more. There was something in his gaze, not quite warmth, but perhaps a grudging acknowledgment. A truce, of sorts.

Make yourself useful and find me the remote, Lamb said, his tone back to its usual gruffness. If I'm going to be held hostage in my own flat, I might as well watch something other than your brooding face.

River handed him the remote, their fingers brushing briefly. Try not to expire from gratitude.

Not bloody likely, Lamb muttered, but there was almost a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth as he turned his attention to the television.