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Until today, River Cartwright has slept alone for months.
Every night, he lays for hours on end in a bed that feels much too big and a flat that feels much too small. There is nothing, nobody, to distract him from his thoughts. A pit forms in his stomach, one that consumes his entire being and wards off sleep. It is like his whole life is crushing him- painful, restless, and lonely, a daily battle he dreads even more than going to work (and that's saying something).
Sometimes, during these fits of insomnia, River fantasizes about his problem being cured. He is no longer alone. The empty spot next to him has been filled by a beautiful, shapely man or woman, with whom he is snuggled up under the sheets. He is held tightly within their arms, or maybe he's the one doing the holding. His face is pressed into their chest or back. Either way, there is comfort, warmth, and cuddling, maybe even some whispered sweet nothings, and sleep finds him quickly and thoughtlessly.
But of course, in the real world, he is a slow horse, and his longings will never be fulfilled. At least, not in the way he wants them to be.
Tonight, he finally has company, but the situation is utterly, ironically twisted. Instead of laying in a cozy, warm bed, he is seated in the cramped, freezing cold backseat of a car. Instead of being with a lover, he is with his two most…interesting colleagues, the addict with anger issues and the murderous sociopath. Instead of cuddling for sleep, they are huddling for survival. They are trapped in the middle of nowhere in a relentless snowstorm, their tiny shelter slowly becoming surrounded by cruel, icy snow. Somewhere out there, River's father is on the loose and his best friend is quite possibly dead, yet he is unable to do anything about it until the morning, which seems years and years away.
This is the type of situation only Slough House can concoct, River thinks miserably. And to top it all off, they’re in Wales, of all the bloody places. Every sensation is uncomfortable, especially the frigid, unbearable cold, and the forced, awkward pressure of his coworkers’ thighs against his, all three of them shivering. River is already resigned; it'll be another sleepless, lonesome night, consumed by thoughts and tension.
Until it isn't.
Coincidentally, he has already begun thinking about his colleagues before the change. His ever-active mind first brings him to Shirley, the addict with anger issues, who is shifting agitatedly on his right side, arms crossed, grumbling about something or other every few seconds. As usual, she wears her emotions on her sleeve: angry, hungry, exhausted, exasperated, cold, pretty much everything negative. River can't help but wonder how Shirley’s nights usually go. Substances seemed to be a must, whether alcohol or drugs or both. She often bragged about her clubbing and how it led to hookups in odd places. Loud and crazy was clearly the common theme.
Meanwhile, on his left side, you had the murderous sociopath, Coe, whose mannerisms were the polar opposite of Shirley’s: a riddle wrapped inside a mystery inside an enigma. River suspected his average night would be as silent and cold as this one; even when surrounded by the other slow horses, he seemed to be utterly alone. Disturbingly, the only time he gained a semblance of life was when he took someone else's. It had been a while since that last happened though, so tonight, Coe was in his usual stance: unmoving, retreated into his hoodie, impossible to tell if he was awake, asleep, or dead.
River envisions his own personality as completely separate from the two. But thinking about himself too much always makes him feel sick, so he switches to the physical situation. He is not so separate now, but right in the middle, sandwiched uncomfortably between Dander and J.K. Despite the proximity, they all seem distanced, each clearly trying to ignore the other two. It is not working, and the air feels malignant in addition to the piercing cold. River can see each of their breaths, feel the collective restlessness. Something has to give.
Suddenly, surprisingly, that something becomes Shirley. Her annoyed, restless twitches slowly become bigger, and eventually solidify into something intentional: movement. Her legs are folding up, her arms are reaching to wrap themselves around River’s middle, and before River knows it, her whole body is curled into his side, ensnaring him in her grip. She is like a bear trap, and River is her unsuspecting victim.
This new development hits River like a brick; he can't quite hide the shock in his body language and face. Shirley must've noticed, or maybe she was just being preemptively intimidating: “Fuck you; I'm cold. And don't you ever bloody bring this up to anyone, or your face will discover a fucking monkey wrench faster than you can say…”
“Discombobulation,” Coe supplies, his voice cutting through the cold air.
“Yeah. Fucking that,” Shirley retorts. Her words hang there heavily for a second, then, the car is enveloped in silence.
Discombobulation. That is what River’s feeling now, rather than cold or uncomfortable or malignant. He is being held. What the fuck? When was the last time he'd been held like this? Or at all? And it being Shirley, of all the-
Just then, Coe makes the discombobulated feeling he'd given name to even stronger. He removes one spindly arm from his hoodie and slides it across River's back, stretching until it rests there upon Shirley’s. Unlike her, he does not voice a defensive threat afterwards, rather, radiates resignation and toleration. Everyone knows Coe hates touch. He must only be doing this because it's a necessity, or maybe because Shirley started it. But no matter what way you spin his reasoning, his arm has still nestled itself between the others.
They are really, truly huddled together now. River, mortifyingly, feels like he's going to pass out.
It's a necessity. That's what he tells himself, in an attempt to escape his emotions. Two people's arms might be wrapped around him. Two bodies may be pressed against his. But it means nothing. It’s just a huddle, a necessary protection against the cold. Without it, they'd get frostbite, or hypothermia, or even freeze to death. They need to share their body heat to survive, need to conserve their energy. That was clearly Shirley and Coe’s only reasoning; this was factual, impersonal. Think of it like CPR. River forces that idea into his brain. Necessary. For. Survival.
But if this is just for survival, his body whispers, then why does it feel so damn good?
Because, despite the persistence of all his inhibitions, River can't ignore his sense of touch. He can feel the sensation of freezing cold start to fade away like an old black-and-white memory. He can feel the warmth that blossoms in its place, the melding of body heat. He can feel himself slowly melting into the touch, his thoughts slowly quieting. Survival, River's mind protests, but it is feeble. He hates this, he hates them, doesn't he?
He doesn't.
To his right, Shirley has been reduced from an addict with anger issues to a clinging, curled-up ball. Her arms tether herself to River so tightly it almost hurts, crushing her body fat into him, her thick legs nearly on his lap. She is as hot as a radiator. Despite her short stature, this heat seems to fill the entire space, as stubborn and fiery as her personality. The energy seems to say try me, bitch, see what happens, fuck you, etc. But her body’s softness betrays her. She remains still and oh-so close, breathing slowly, directly into River's arm.
To his left, Coe is much less close than Shirley, however, he, too, has stepped out of his shell; the murderous sociopath becomes the calm rock. His side is flush against River's, no longer stiff, but limp, moldable, almost like clay. His body is thin to an almost sickly extent, but even so, he emits a warmth of his own, a small, but persistent flame deep within his chest. A singular lanky limb anchors him to River’s back, forming a rare tie to the physical world. He seems not to be breathing. His mind is unreadable. But he is present in the touch.
The car has fallen into an even stiller silence, as if by saying anything or moving an inch, they would be breaking some unspoken agreement. As if acknowledging the very existence of this moment would shatter it. Maybe they'd all sort of needed this, but none of them would ever dare admit it.
There is just one last piece to complete the puzzle, one that River is in charge of putting into place.
He slowly raises his arms, gently puts them around his colleagues’ shoulders, and pulls them closer, holding them tightly, warmly to his sides.
How long has it been since he's initiated physical touch? Much, much too long. River could get used to this. Except he can't, because these are his fucked-up coworkers, they have only been pushed to this point due to desperation, and tomorrow morning, they will each separately have to face potential death. He knows he will hate himself for letting his guard down. But just for the moment, River allows himself to forget these qualms and bask in the touch while he still can. He can feel and hear his companions' heartbeats in harmony with his own.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
And with that, River is too far gone. His eyes unconsciously, drowsily fall shut. He absently notes his head slotting perfectly into the crook of Coe's neck, Shirley's legs entangling with his. When he eventually drifts off to sleep, it is quick and thoughtless.
For the first time in months, River Cartwright sleeps through the night.