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set-phasers-to-whump · 23 days ago

Text

not alone (anymore)

prompt: "who said you could rest?"

whumpee: river cartwright

fandom: slow horses, slough house

hi everyone here is another sh fic. it's show and book canon compliant but river does not have a car yet which is i believe a detail from the books. i hope you like it, i had fun with it!!! (title adapted from i don't want to be alone by billy joel which fun fact is my favorite song!)

River vaguely hears the telltale sound of Lamb entering Slough House, a slammed door and stomping footsteps, but can’t be bothered to lift his head from where he’s pillowed it atop folded arms on his desk.

This proves to be a mistake.

He hears Lamb’s elephantine footfalls stop in the doorway of his room, and then Lamb himself barks, “Cartwright! Who said you could rest? Christ, you’re not exhausted after a long morning of doing fuck-all, are you?”

River reluctantly raises his head, which spins, and wiggles his mouse. He doesn’t say anything, but Lamb, evidently satisfied by this suggestion of work to be done, leaves.

River immediately puts his head back down. He feels bad. He’d woken up this morning with nothing but a sore throat, and now it’s not even midday and he feels like absolute dogshit. His head is pounding and he’s freezing and his throat hurts terribly and his nose won’t stop running and every so often harsh and painful coughs will tear their way out of his lungs.

He’d leave, but he doesn’t have the energy to walk to the bus stop, to wait, to ride, perhaps standing, the considerable distance back to his flat.

He rests for a while longer, and then hears the sound he’s been dreading all morning. A distinctive thump from directly above his head.

He is not going up to Lamb’s office. The thought of going up the stairs is enough to make him want to cry, not to mention the suffocating feeling of the room, the unpleasant stench, the general vibe of despair. He’s got enough despair all on his own at the moment, thank you very much.

He presses his head harder into his arms and wills everything to just go away.

As if the universe would be that kind.

Another loud thump resounds, and Lamb yells, “Cartwright! Are you deaf, or what?”

River groans, which grates on his throat. Fuck, he feels awful.

Lamb continues thumping, and the noise is making his head absolutely throb. He can hear disgruntled muttering coming from the room beside him, and resigns himself to tackling the stairs.

He stands very slowly. His head spins terribly anyway, and he has to brace himself against his desk for several seconds until the world more or less resumes its equilibrium.

He trudges to the stairs and struggles upwards, gripping the dilapidated railing like a lifeline.

When he at last arrives in Lamb’s office, the man in question is leaning back in his desk chair, scratching his chest. He definitely looks like he’d had good reason to call River up here.

River doesn’t have the energy to say anything besides, “what,” his voice flat and scratchy and rather quiet.

Lamb looks up at him as though he’s surprised to find him there.

“Took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

River says nothing.

“How’s…whatever the hell your latest task is going?”

It’s another pointless task in a long list of pointless tasks, sorting through late rent payments in Brighton, and River hasn’t started.

“It’s fine.”

“What’d you gargle with this morning, thumbtacks?”

River would scowl, but he doesn’t have it in him.

“You really don’t look so good,” Lamb says, with an air of disinterest. “The job finally getting to you?” He sounds vaguely hopeful at the prospect.

River shakes his head, which proves to be a terrible idea. His vision goes all blurry and his ears start to ring. He grabs blindly for the back of the chair in front of him and shuts his eyes against the dizziness.

When he opens them again, Lamb is standing right beside him. River flinches. The man can be incredibly stealthy when he wants to be.

Suddenly, Lamb’s palm is pressing against his forehead, and it’s weirdly textured but also very warm, and River is so cold. He leans into the warmth without thinking and nearly falls forwards when the hand is taken away.

“Fuckin’ hell, kid, you’re burning up.”

River hums in vague acknowledgement, feeling ashamed, somehow, of having been found out.

“Why the fuck are you here?”

He shrugs. Doesn’t feel like explaining that he’d felt fine, mostly, in the morning. Doesn’t want a deeper truth to be dragged out of him—that all he wants, in the whole world, is to go home, but there’s no one there anymore.

He wants, and god, there’s part of him that’s ashamed of it, the comforts of the sick days of his childhood. He wants his Nan to comb her fingers through his sweaty hair, let him lie with his head on her lap, sneak him sweets when Grandad’s not looking. And he wants his Grandad to tell him stories, bring him tea with milk and honey, sit beside him with his reassuring steadiness.

Of course, this is all long gone. River’s a grown adult, his Nan’s been gone for years, and his Grandad’s a shell of himself existing in a care home which feels about as far from an actual home as Lamb feels from an upstanding citizen. What he wants is deeply impossible in more ways than one, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting it anyway.

He’s entirely zoned out, and it’s only when Lamb barks, “Cartwright!” that he returns to himself. He blinks rapidly, clearing away tears he hadn’t realized were forming. Everything feels so bad.

“What?” he manages to ask. His voice doesn’t sound like his own.

“I said, go home. Before you get everyone else sick. Not that I wouldn’t love a few days of blessed silence in this place.”

Having learned his lesson about rapid head movements, River makes an “mm” noise to indicate his acquiescence. There’s nothing else he can do. He feels the shadow of tears return as the thought of the bus ride once again manifests itself, followed by the image of his sad, empty flat.

“Go on, then,” Lamb says. “Get out.” His voice doesn’t exactly match his words, strangely quiet and neutral. River doesn’t dwell on it. He just drags his achy, freezing body back down the stairs.

He doesn’t make it to the front door. Louisa steps into the hallway and intercepts him. There’s nowhere for him to run, and he really doesn’t want to talk. Now that he’s resigned himself to going home, he just wants to get there.

“I heard you’re sick,” she says, and River stops in his tracks. He doesn’t bother wondering why she knows this—Slough House is like that, everyone finding out everyone else’s business entirely too quickly.

He shrugs.

“I’m driving you home.”

There’s no question there, only assertion, so River doesn’t feel too bad for agreeing immediately. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and Louisa winces.

“God, that sounds rough.”

He shrugs again. He’s not sure if he can handle sympathy right now. He feels far too fragile, even though he’s only sick, and it’s hardly anything actually terrible.

They settle into Louisa’s car, and she cranks the heat. He’d thank her, but he really doesn’t want to have to talk again if he can avoid it.

The drive to his apartment is quiet, save for the few coughs he’s unable to hold back and the sniffing he can’t avoid every few minutes. He hopes Louisa doesn’t get sick from him. That’d be awful.

When they arrive, he climbs out of the car as slowly as he can, but his head starts spinning when he stands up fully all the same. Louisa is there immediately, tucking herself beside him and wrapping a supportive arm around his back.

River leans against her gratefully, and she doesn’t move from his side even when he feels steady enough to walk.

Inside his flat, he sinks down onto the couch immediately and lets his eyes close. He’s expecting Louisa to leave and is slightly startled when he feels her hands tugging at his shoes, which he hadn’t even bothered attempting to remove.

He opens his eyes and looks at her curiously. “Why—?” he begins, but a sharp cough cuts him off, and he forgets what it is he’d been about to ask.

“I’m hardly leaving you here on your own with your shoes on and all,” Louisa says, and River remembers his question. “I can feel your fever from here. Speaking of, have you got a thermometer?”

“Bathroom cabinet.”

Louisa disappears in search of the thermometer. River wills himself, once again, not to cry. He’d expected loneliness and an empty flat, the same as always. And now she’s here, and he still feels awful, but he’s not alone.

It’s nice. It’s really nice.

Louisa comes back, thermometer in one hand and bottle of paracetamol in the other. She sets the bottle onto the table and uncaps the thermometer, hands it over.

River sticks it into his mouth and they both wait for it to beep. Louisa takes it from him before he can read the number himself.

“39.2,” she reads out. “Shit.”

That’s not good, River thinks. How can his temperature be so high when he feels so cold?

“Hold on a sec, I’ll be back,” Louisa promises. River watches idly as she goes into the kitchen, listens as she searches his cabinets and then fills something with water.

When Louisa returns, she has a glass of water in one hand and a damp towel in the other. River doesn’t like the look of it.

She hands him the water first, opens the paracetamol, and hands him two tablets. He swallows them, and even with the water they make his throat sting. He winces and sets the glass down heavily.

“Lie back,” Louisa instructs. River eyes the towel in her hand warily, but does as he’s told.

Sure enough, Louisa drapes the thing over his forehead. He flinches back, but there’s nowhere to go. He reaches a clumsy hand up to remove it, but Louisa stops him.

“I know it’s cold, but we need to get your fever down, alright? I’ll get you a blanket instead.”

She disappears and returns with the blanket that typically sits on the end of his bed. She tucks it around him, and it doesn’t exactly make the towel on his head feel less cold, but it does help.

For a few seconds after this, Louisa just stands there, and River tries very hard not to fall asleep.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Louisa asks, eventually. “I’m not that good at this sort of thing, actually.”

River doesn’t know. He’s not exactly good at it either. “S’okay,” he decides. “Thanks.”

He would like one other thing, which is for Louisa to stay a while longer, to just be there so that he’s not entirely alone, but he can hardly ask. She’s done enough as is, and he’s very grateful.

Only she’s not leaving. “Are you sure? I mean, I could cook something, or, I dunno, search around and find some cough drops, or…look, I just don’t want to leave you here all alone, alright?”

God, he loves her. Which is perhaps a strange thing to be thinking at this particular moment, but he does. She gets him, in the same way that he gets her, and he’s really not sure how it happened that the two of them came to care about each other this much.

But this is a tangent that he does not need to be going down. Louisa, he senses, is expecting a response.

“Stay?” is all he can come up with. It proves to be enough.

“‘Course, yeah. Shove over a bit.”

He makes room for her on the couch, and she settles down comfortably beside him.

River falls asleep almost immediately, feeling, for the first time since his childhood, that he is not completely alone in his illness.

thanks for reading! i do not understand celsius temperatures so i did my best there lol. i hope you enjoyed!!!

#whumptober2024 #no.29 #'who said you could rest?'#fic #slough house #slow horses #river cartwright #sick #fever #cared for #comfort #my writing #i say things

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