Chapter Text
River’s tie was suffocating. It was a cheap one, unlike the one his grandfather bought for him when he got into the academy. Such fanciful things were better suited to Webb who wore designer suits even as a new recruit. He scoffs and resists the urge to tug at the scratchy fabric.
“You might want to glare a little quieter River mate. Your ineptitude is defeaning.”
It made him glance down in a bout of self-consciousness, checking the coffee stains on said tie. It was a rare act of carelessness, one caused by Samara Devon or as he would like to call her — Samara dearest. Of course, it wasn’t her fault per se but she could be implicated. He shoots Webb a scathing glare once more and continues scratching out answers on the test sheet. Today’s assessment was on the jurisdiction of agents, an easy test on all fronts. Yet he feels the itch grow, a chill shooting through his arm as spite lights his skin on fire.
“Fuck off.” He risks a jab.
But anyway, back to Samara…
—
It was seven fifty three when she entered the cafe. She had on a black pantsuit (as per the uniform requirements), a blazer slung over one arm and an iced latte in the other hand. Her hair was pulled away from her face today, held in place by a glossy barrette that was every inch as elegant and radiant as she was.
For a terrible moment, Webb entered his mind, having drew a resemblance to the asshat’s slick back hair. The day Webb died, gel and mousse products would see a surge in supply.
“Samara!” He found himself exclaiming, desperate to shrug the image of Webb from his mind. “That a latte?”
She paused for a moment, as if in surprise then smiled. “You come here too I see.”
“Everyday.” He replied proudly.
Because of you, he wanted to say.
“Right well,” she trailed off, “I’ll see you back at the park?”
He grins. “You got it!”
He reached out, perhaps for a handshake or a hug, anything to bridge the gap between them when he collided with a man. This man was greying, wearing a worn out trench coat and metal frame glasses. River thought of memorising his face, singling the clumsy idiot out for the utter embarrassment.
One day, he promised, I’ll get even.
Except he was not an idiot. No, that man (now startlingly familiar) was Jackson Lamb. A decorated agent who broke the toughest criminals, whose mind was a weapon and deeply respected by everyone.
“Mind yourself.” He snaps. “Bloody hell.”
Both their shirts were drenched with coffee, the hot spillage burning against his chest, though that was partially attributed to the embarrassment. The cafe was full of agents, a discomfort he realised as the room fell silent. Fucking hell. Lamb was looking positively pissed, digging through his pockets for a wad of used napkins. But River hardly noticed it. He wanted to crawl into a hole, wanted to apologise, wanted to make up for this horrid impression that Samara would have on him.
“Right then…” He trailed off.
Leaving as quickly as he could, he half ran half sprinted to the training centre. He looked back worriedly, imagining a gaggle of giggling agents chasing after him. He runs a hand over his face, no doubt messing up his hair in the process.
Shit, shit, shit was all he could think.
Entering the building, he made a beeline to the emergency stairs, a place of refuge from the watchful eyes of colleagues and senior agents. All he could think about was striking out. Already he had a close call with live firing and all because of a stupid bet with Webb.
The bet was as follows: highest score wins. It was simple, healthy even but as always, River had a knack for ruining his life. Instead of staying in his lane, he wound up shooting Webb’s target as well. Call it an act of passion (or over enthusiasm and a disgustingly strong sense of competition and spite), he found himself being marked down.
As he climbed, conversation began to float in the air. A man and a woman, both laughing lightly and oh so familiar. The man laughs once more, an ugly, breathy snort.
Webb.
And the woman? Samara Devon. It had to be. It was just like Webb to swoop in and steal and covet.
Speaking of which…
—
He snaps back to the present, shifting his gaze to observe the prick. His eyes were focused on the test sheet, hand moving furiously across the page. The pretentious fucker.
“I know you can hear me.” River hisses.
Not that it mattered for he had nothing to say. All he wanted was to get the last word, perhaps pull his attention away from the make-or-break-it test. As luck would have it however, the supervisor clears her throat.
“Mr Cartwright.” She calls out. “I’d like you to hand in your answer sheet now.”
His head snaps up as the room grew even stiller. He felt a dozen pairs of eyes on him, all awaiting to see another one of his screwups.
“Mr Cartwright, I won’t ask you again.” She says, rapping the desk top. “Hand in it or fail.”
Numbly, he rose, sweeping up the paper and placing it on the desk. He was only half done, having skimmed through the questions. The full hour was barely up.
In a quiet sort of desperation to gain some sympathy, he finds his gaze sweeping over the room, landing on Samara. She was the only one whose eyes were focused, mumbling quietly to herself as she went over the questions. It was just as he thought. She was focused, paying little attention to the laughing stock. As sweet as she was righteous.
But then a voice cuts through the spell as Webb hands in his paper as well. “I’d like to hand in mine as well. I’m sure you will find it to be outstandingly different. Not that there is any doubt.”
Red fills his vision, a heat slicing through his resolve. He reels his arm back and lands a punch on Webb, fist hitting him square in the jaw.
And just like that, it was strike two.