I do not give permission for my written work to be posted elsewhere, by anyone else or on any other platforms. I do not give permission for my work to be scraped by an AI system for any purpose including, but not limited to, learning or 'creation'.
thank you for all the love on the other fics!!
i was inspired by this edit by @im-being-so-normal-about-this.
💬 2 🔁 9 ❤️ 19 · Decided to try my hand at editing…
(Song is Like Him by Tyler, the Creator)
You found him on the edge of the bed, hair still damp from his shower, towel bunched in his hands, staring at the wall. His chest rose and fell, breath shuddering through him. His pulse still ticked high from the adrenaline rush earlier. It hadn’t settled since the truck crashed into the car. Since Patrice had killed two Dogs, and almost killed you and Flyte in the process. Since he met his dad, and his dad had tried to kill him.
You watched him scrub a hand over his face.
“How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” he said, tossing his wet towel onto the floor.
“Do you want to sleep? Or eat?”
“Sure.”
“Which one, River?” He shrugged. You bent to pick up the towel.
“Leave it,” his hand rose and fell, like it was too heavy for his arm. You reached for the towel anyway. “I said, leave it.”
“Fuck me, okay Lamb.”
River pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. The ache in him seemed so much deeper than his bones.
Sid and Marcus, Sid and Marcus, images of their still bodies, blood pooling under their heads—he pushed them away. Min—Min, it had been so long since he’d thought about Min; silly Min, forgetful Min, dead Min. He hadn’t seen Min’s body, but he’d read the report and the images came to him in his sleep: Min’s crushed body begging him for help until he woke up in a sweat, looking down at you.
You, whose body had crumpled, folded in on itself, blood pooling under the side of your face in the middle of the road. How long until it was permanent? How long until you became a face he knew only in dreams?
Frank had singled you out when he was led away, and River hadn’t let the creeping dread at the pit of his stomach overwhelm him then, but now he felt it cresting over the hill and swallowing him whole. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
When he looked up, the room was empty.
“Fuck.”
The door was ajar. As he peered through the crack he could just make out you in the kitchen. The pain you still felt was obvious in the way you braced your hips against the countertop.
In the pocket of the jeans he’d discarded on the clothing chair his phone buzz-buzz-buzzed. He let the ringing die out, which it did for a moment, and then resumed.
“What?”
“You talk to the Old Devil like that?” Jackson’s voice slid down out of the phone, and against his will, River felt some of the tension leave him.
“No.”
“Where is he, by the way?”
“My guest room.”
“Ah,” Lamb exhaled. “Alright.”
River waited but Lamb seemed unwilling to elaborate. “Is that it?”
“What, you don’t like talking to me?” River let his silence speak for itself. “Alright, fuck me, fine. Taverner called. About Frank.”
River closed the bedroom door with a gentle click. “What about him?”
“Got your attention now, haven’t I?”
“Lamb.”
“She’s letting him go. Can’t hold him.”
“What? What do you mean, there’s proof—he—he tried to kill me in front of the Dogs—I—”
He could feel a familiar tightness invade his throat. Clawing at it, he went to the window, peeking out of the blinds. Three people were on the street below, all waiting queueing the chippy. One of them wore a leather coat. One of them had grey hair. One of them stood in shadows and was obscured from plain sight.
“Yeah, I hear ‘ya, I hear ‘ya.” River heard a faint murmur in the background. “She said—well it doesn’t fucking matter what she said. What she meant was that we’re compromised. MI5 is. And we have to let him go.”
“Lamb, what if he comes after them again?”
“He won’t,” Lamb said, and promptly hung up.
Observing the figures in the street for a while longer, River’s mind ran wild. Another man, walking with purpose, strode down the street, and he was distracted by thoughts of Marcus. Kind Marcus, flawed Marcus, dead Marcus.
Something smashed in the kitchen. He was bursting through the door and across the living room before you could even begin to pick up the pieces of the bowl.
“What happened? Where is he?”
“Still asleep,” you said. “It’s been a long day for him. And I smashed a bowl, so… that’s great.”
“What? Who—what?”
“He’s where you left him, Riv,” you placed a warm hand on his arm. “He’s in the guest room.”
Gulping down shallow breaths he looked into every corner of the room and out of the window, twice. Only then did his gasping panic wane. He watched as you picked up the larger pieces of the bowl, dropping them into the sink. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” you said. “I was never very fond of this one.”
“No,” he reached out, pulling you away from the mess on the floor and into his chest. “I’m sorry.”
Wanting to avoid the inevitable, you pressed deeper into him, nuzzling your forehead into the crook of his neck. “You can pick up your towel next time, how about that?”
The stress that Lamb’s call wrought began to unwind in your arms.
“Taverner is letting Frank go.” He regretted saying the words as soon as they left him. Under his tender hands, you tensed. Trying to soothe you, he smoothed a hand up your back to press between your shoulder blades.
“Did she say why?”
“Lamb said something about MI5 being compromised. Didn’t elaborate.”
“Mm,” you pressed your lips to the junction between his collarbone and clavicle. “How do you feel about that?”
“I feel it’s fucking stupid.”
His large, warm hands settled on the back of your head, pulling you away from his neck to look you in the eye. “How do you feel?”
“If he comes near you, I’ll kill him.”
“He won’t. Lamb—he won’t. Don’t…”
Your hand moved to undo the crease between his brows. “Don’t what, my love?”
“Don’t put yourself in danger for me.”
“I do what I like, thank you very much.” The ringtone of the phone which he’d left abandoned on your bed broke the relative quiet of the flat, sharp and piercing. “Please get that. My head is killing me.”
His thumb traced down the edge of the bruise and flattened against your cheek in order to manoeuvre your unbruised cheek towards him. “Whatever you want.”
River checked out the window. The phone continued to ring. The three men from earlier had moved on, to where River didn’t know. His phone screen went dark as the call went to voicemail. Then, it rang again. Same number. Unsaved.
The unknown number stared at him as it rang out. It persisted longer than he was comfortable.
“Yes?”
“Christ,” Frank chuckled. “You sound just like him.”
River’s blood ran cold. “Fuck off, Frank.”
“Easy, kid. You’re my one call.”
“Fuck off!” River hung up and hurled his phone across the bedroom, knocking a photograph from the wall.
“What was that? River?”
“Nothing,” he called back. “Just bumped something, sorry.”
Collapsing to the floor, he swiped at the tears which he found streaked his cheeks. “Fucking stop,” he whispered to himself.
Your soft knock at the door had him turning his back. “I’m fine, seriously,” his voice was thick with the unbidden tears, “dropped my phone.”
“River.”
Your hands passed over his shoulders, turning him around and letting him bury his head in your shoulder. River’s fists tightened, the soft wool of your jumper caught tight as he held you against him.
“Was it him?”
River said nothing and that was answer enough.
Later, when you’d fed him and checked in on a sleeping David, the two of you slumped on the couch. He turned the TV on, Sky News showing footage from the wreckage you’d stumbled away from earlier. Keeping the sound off, you stared at the rolling headlines at the bottom of the screen, only pieces of it catching your eye: unknown terrorist, four dead, rubbish truck.
The weight of River’s head settled in your lap. His shaky breath fanning against your leg. Turning his face until it was almost entirely pressed into your thigh he let his eyes close.
“I don’t know what to do with all of it. Just the—the weight of it, y’know.”
Your hand carded through his hair, tugging lightly on the strands. “Give some to me.”
“Darling—”
“I’m serious, River.”
His hand reached down to curl around your ankle. “It doesn’t scare you off?” I don’t?
“None of it does.” No, you don’t. “I love you, River.”
You’d been stirring for a while already when he came in. If there was one thing that river always complained about it was your need to let the curtains half open when you slept.
‘But I’m scared of the dark.’
‘But I’m here, just trust me alright close the fucking blind so we can sleep.’ I’ll protect you. That’s what he had meant to say.
But he hadn’t of course, because he was a massive fuck up. And now he was coming back at the crack of dawn with his head bashed in. He was praying you’d be fast asleep and stay that way for a while so he could feel the weight of you in his arms without having you asking what had happened. River couldn’t take pity from you. He had never seen it in your eyes but he was so afraid of the day it would inevitably happen, he didn’t fancy his chances. And god he was tired. He just wanted you and sleep.
After an express trip to the bathroom he slipped carefully under the covers. You tended to hog them when you’d fall asleep before he came home, if there was at least one good thing about slough house is was that he was usually bolting at 5 o’clock sharp and definitely in bed with you by 11:30. Not today he thought sighing. Awkwardly shuffling to nudge himself fully under the covers.
Hearing you make a deep noise halfway between a hum and a groan he knew he’d miserably failed, and turning your head around to face him, eyes still closed and half asleep he couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across his face.
‘Hi Riv’ you said nuzzling his chest before slotting yourself against the familiar curve of his neck.
‘Hi’
‘What time is it?’
‘Fucking early, you have ages’ he’d cupped the back of her head hoping that was enticing enough to keep her from looking up at him and spotting the black eye or remnants of dried blood. Feeling her lean into his touch and pressing her lips to his chin before muttering something he knew he had succeeded for now and allowed himself to slip into a dreamless sleep.
…
The first thing river saw when he woke up was her furrowed brows, fingers hovering above his face in the way that she usually traces his features in the morning. He slowly blinked his eyes open.
‘River’
‘Good morning ‘
´What happened ?’ She’d said it with a slight pout which made him want to kiss her, he settled for one on her nose.
‘Uh- got beat up’
She sighed ‘it looks bad-‘
‘Aw thanks darling ‘
‘Did you see a doctor ?’
‘…No’
‘Do you think you need one?’
´No,honestly. I’m fine’
She was looking at him so intently he couldn’t help almost shying away from it. Maybe this is when the pity-
‘Baby’ he laughed. Like he had the first time she’d called him that. She always said it so softly it still caught him off guard.
´I’m going to have to fight them if they keep doing that to your pretty face’
´Yeah?’
‘I would 100% fight them for you, you know that? Right?’
River pictured her in front of nick Duffy and shuddered at the mental image. ´I wouldn’t let you I don’t think’
Kellie! ( @dreamer-98 ) This was such a sweet request - thank you so much!
I would like prompt #16 with River. It can be a Reader, OC, or involve the other Slow Horses. For all of his screw ups, it'd be nice if we can see River being good at something for once. 🤭
And that marks the end of the Festive River fics!
Warnings: River being competent?! 🤭
Word Count: 600
Ficmas Masterlist
Slough House had fallen quiet at last, in that late-night way that made even the worse shitholes feel softer and more welcoming.
The only light came from the dismal tree in the corner - battery-powered fairy lights reflected in the window - and the lamp on the desk, which River had angled just right so it didn’t glare off the glossy wrapping paper.
You sat cross-legged on the floor with a pile of gifts between you, your scissors abandoned somewhere, tape and scraps of paper stuck to your jumper.
River, somehow, looked perfectly composed.
He folded the paper with careful precision, creating sharp creases with the edge of his hand like he was handling classified files instead of a light-up novelty mug and a cheap paperback from The Works.
You paused, watching him.
“…You’re actually good at this.”
He didn’t look up. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I just assumed you’d be really shitty at it. Y’know, too much tape and baggy corners.”
He laughed. “I can do neat.”
You looked over his shoulder at the piles of manila folders and empty coffee mugs. “That’s not what your desk suggests.”
“That’s organised chaos,” he said, finally glancing up at you. “This is different.”
He turned the parcel once, checked the edges, then pressed the final piece of tape down, the pattern on the paper lined up perfectly.
You leaned over. “That’s… how did you even get it to look so… sleek?!”
“Want me to do yours?”
You scoffed. “No, course not.”
He eyed the lopsided bundle you’d just finished with it’s raw edges and tear in the corner. “Sure about that? It looks like it’s been run over -”
You kicked him gently with your foot. “Oi.”
Still, you nudged the gift over to him.
River accepted it without comment and carefully peeled back your tape. He re-wrapped the whole thing perfectly. His hands moved with easy confidence - folding, seemingly measuring by eye until it was just right.
You watched with your chin propped on your hand.
“How do you even know how to do this?”
He shrugged. “My gran. Grandad used to be working a lot when I was a kid so I ended up spending way too much time with the WI and the ladies at the church.”
“Ah. Trauma.”
“Nah,” he said wistfully. “They were all really nice to me. Kept sneaking me sweets and pound coins.”
You laughed, then went quiet again as he worked.
The paper rustled softly, River tore the tape with his teeth, sealed the last edge, and handed it back.
“There,” he said. “Acceptable.”
You turned it over slowly. “Selfridges would snap their hand off to put you on their gift wrap desk.”
“Obviously.”
You smiled at him. “You’re good at listening, too.”
That made him pause.
He looked at you, properly this time. “What?”
“You remembered who that one was for,” you said softly. “And that they like things… just so.”
Something eased in his expression.
“I remember stuff,” he said. “When it matters. And I know it matters to Catherine.”
You reached for another sheet of paper. “Alright, then. Teach me.”
River shifted closer, knees brushing yours as he leaned in behind you.
“OK,” he murmured, guiding your hands. “Fold here first. Gently, you’re not wrestling with it.”
His hands stayed on yours, pressing the crease into place.
↳ three times you almost kiss river cartwright... and one time you do. (one shot)
- ,, 5:46PM - by @surejaney
↳ rivers acting suspicious and the slow horses want to get to the bottom of it. (one shot)
- ,, new normal - by @marvelwitchergilmore
↳ you have kept your reason for being at Slough House a secret from everyone, including river. but what happens when you finally decide to tell him the truth? (one shot)
- ,, what are we doing here? - by @teddyheartwright
↳ (one shot)
- ,, we're not friends - by @marvelwitchergilmore
↳ river comes to you after fighting with the dogs, which comes as a surprise to you since you're not friends. (mini series)
➥ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ꜱʟᴏᴡ ʜᴏʀꜱᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI WITH NSFW CONTENT ON THIS MASTERLIST
I do not give permission for my written work to be posted elsewhere, by anyone else or on any other platforms. I do not give permission for my work to be scraped by an AI system for any purpose including, but not limited to, learning or 'creation'.
mostly slow horse shenanigans + some x gn!reader fluff
a little drabble while i’m working on getting chapter two of moscow rules out + i’m refusing to cross tag it, so check out chapter one here, or keep updated with the masterlist here <3
“What’s got you bouncing off the walls?” Louisa watched River over the brim of her mug. Her tea, once warm, was now cold and slightly stale after a morning of sitting, untouched, next to her keyboard. She couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when River was vibrating in his chair and checking the clock every two minutes.
“Nothing.”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
He fiddled with the pencil pot on his desk, glancing up at the clock once more. “Do you think it’s got the right time?”
“Got somewhere else to be, Cartwright?”
“No. Maybe.” He took a pencil out and put it back in again. “How quickly do you think I could get to King’s Cross?”
“What do you need to go there for?”
“Jesus, Louisa–”
“Circle line from Barbican station would take you directly.” She leaned away from her desk. “Won’t tell you how long it will take unless you tell me why you’re going, though.”
“That’s what Google Maps are for,” he said.
Shirley leaned over the back of his chair, turning off the monitor.
“Oh—what the fuck?” She sat on the edge of River’s desk. He looked between the two of them. “What?”
“We just want to know,” Shirley said, “what stupid fucking plan you have this time.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid.” Louisa tried to smile in a way she hoped was reassuring. "Whatever it is." When she’d brought up confronting River to Shirley and Marcus, they had both assumed she’d be good cop. She didn't want to admit that they were right.
“You’ll go too easy on him,” Marcus had said.
“So I’ll go hard.” Shirley crossed her arms, and ignored the fork she knocked off the table.
Thinking back now, she wasn’t sure if it had been the best idea to involve Shirley.
River checked the clock once more and stood, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. “Right, well. Good chat. I have to go, so.” He waved awkwardly and launched himself out the door.
Shirley moved to follow. “Wait,” Louisa said. “Give him a minute.”
Heading to the station. Walked right past me. Smiling. Louisa showed Marcus’s texts to Shirley, and the two of them headed to join Marcus on the street.
River bounded up the left side of the escalator, sighing heavily at tourists who took too long to get out of his way. “Excuse me,” he grated out, shouldering past a large backpack that hung off one shoulder of a man standing in the middle of the step. “Fucking tourists.”
In his haste, he didn’t see Shirley, Louisa, and Marcus running up the escalator to his right.
Speeding through the station, he bumped into several people, but kept going, ignoring frowns cast in his direction. Eyes firmly on the Arrivals board, he dodged and weaved as best he could before coming to a firm stop. Platform 4. He took off in its direction, leaving his breathless colleagues behind.
“Where is he going?” Shirley swiped at her brow.
“I’m not leaving the city tonight,” Marcus peeled the sweaty collar of his t-shirt away from his collarbone between forefinger and thumb. “I need a shower.”
“Yeah,” Shirley nodded. “You do.”
“Shut up.”
“Come on,” Louisa surged onwards, following the crowd desperate to board the train before the newly arrived had the time to get off.
They ran through King’s Cross Station, occasionally catching the tail end of River’s jacket, or the brightness of his hair as he surfaced above the masses. Eventually, they saw the top of his head still, and the crowd divided around him, all united with their singular aim.
“Why has he stopped?” Shirley’s hand curled around Louisa’s wrist, pulling her backwards towards the ticket machines. “Marcus?”
“You’re not gonna believe this,” Marcus stood on tiptoe.
As the crowd thinned, and the last of the travellers made their way through the barricade, the Slow Horses saw what density had stopped them from before.
You.
River’s chin tucked in the crook of your neck, arms crossed over your back as he tugged you further and further into himself. You were laughing, smiling, as you held him just as tight.
“You’re so warm!” They heard you exclaim.
River said something, low enough to only be heard by you. The corners of your eyes crinkled as you carded a hand through the soft, short hair on the back of his head. When he pulled back to look you in the eyes, Louisa found herself overwhelmed by the softness in his gaze; the way tension seeped from his shoulders the longer he held you.
“I didn’t know River was seeing someone,” Shirley said.
“Makes sense, actually.” Marcus leaned against the side of the ticket machine.
“Shut up, no it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Louisa let their arguing fade into the background as she watched River slowly peel himself off you, and pick up your bag. He wrapped a comfortable arm around your shoulders and led you out of the station, pressing kisses to the side of your face as the two of you left. You made eye contact with her, and she found herself smiling at you, even when Shirley and Marcus ducked their heads and tried to cover their faces with the collars of their jackets.
"Well that was stupid."
"Did they see us?"
"Are you stupid?"
They watched the two of you go, watched you slip deeper under River's arm, watched your hand disappear under the back of his jacket, watched him slow down to turn his gaze to you as your talked.
"I think we got away with it."
It was in the doorway that River turned around to flip them off.
I do not give permission for my written work to be posted elsewhere, by anyone else or on any other platforms. I do not give permission for my work to be scraped by an AI system for any purpose including, but not limited to, learning or 'creation'.
“Whatcha looking at?” River jerked in his chair, hitting his knee and cursing.
When he turned his head he jerked again, his nose just missing the soft skin of your cheek. You were bent at the waist trying to get a good look at the video playing on his monitor. His eyes trailed down to where your shirt had ridden up and exposed a sliver of skin all the way across your back. Taking a sharp breath, he dragged his eyes away from it and back to the footage on screen.
“Nothing,” he turned off the screen. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Right…” River bit his lip, praying you wouldn’t ask too many follow up questions. “Tea?”
He blinked owlishly. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, that would be nice. Thanks.”
You nodded once and squeezed his shoulder. The brief heat of your hand lingered and River swore he could still smell the scent of your shampoo lingering in the air. Shaking his head, he pushed the thought away. Wishful thinking. He was too proud to admit that he had gone through an aisle at Superdrug opening all the caps and sniffing them until he’d found the exact match. It was in his cupboard at home, the seal broken but the bottle unused.
“Good work weirdo.” Shirley leaned against the doorframe. “Didn’t sound suspicious at all.”
“Shut up.” He reached his hand to cover where yours had been and squeezed again, trying to mimic its firm press.
In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. He knew it was the same model in your kitchen. You had been the person to recommend it to Catherine after Coe had destroyed the last one by throwing it at Patrice. You had also helped choose the sofa in Lamb’s office, the colour of the walls, even the wood stain. River could see pieces of you in every room of Slough House. Not only did it make it hard to get through the day without thinking about you, or being near you, or being with you, it also made his motivation to return to the Park vanish into thin air. How could he want to spend his life there, when he could spend it here, surrounded by you?
“Hey.” He looked up. You had a cup of tea in each hand and a packet of biscuits under your arm. “Fire escape?”
It was self-indulgence really, that influenced you to coax him outside and away from the immediate surroundings of Slough House. The day had started off grey and cloudy, but as the morning continued on, the sun broke through the clouds. Now, approaching high noon, the fire escape had become a sun spot; one which—unless you were quick to claim it for yourself—would soon be taken over by someone else. Where the self-indulgence came in was two-fold: first, to be alone with River, second, to watch his hair become strawberry blond in the sun.
“You going to share those biscuits then?”
You tilted your head at him, a crooked smile brightening up your face. The brilliance of it dazzled him and he blinked.
“I might,” you said. “Depends how nice you are to me.”
“I’m always nice to you,” he protested.
“Yes.” You couldn’t tease him. As fun as it was to watch him work himself into knots trying to prove himself to you, his face was just too earnest to truely poke fun.
Opening the packet, you took one out and handed it to him, hoping that his fingers would brush against yours as he took it, chasing the exhilarating flip-flop of your stomach that happened every time he entered the room. Your finger imprinted in the chocolate of the digestive. “Sorry, I’ll get you another.”
“No,” he said. “No, that’s fine, really.”
“But my finger was in it.”
“I happen to like your fingers.”
Your mouth opened slightly and there it was, that flip-flop.
“Not in a weird way,” he scrambled. “In a normal way.”
“Is there a normal way to say you like my fingers?”
He groaned, leaning his head back against the railing. The vast expanse of his throat was bared to you, and you could see the flush rising underneath his collar. His adam's apple bobbed.
“You can’t hide from me now,” you said, reaching out a hand and brushing it along his shoulder. You drew broad sweeps over and over, thumb occasionally brushing the side of his neck.
He wondered about the possibility of getting a hug, a really good hug, if he asked just right; like the one you’d given him when he came back to Slough House after Frank was arrested. He’d made it halfway up the staircase to Lamb’s office before you came cluttering down and threw your arms around his neck. “Don’t do that again,” you’d said, clutching him tighter. His arms had spanned across your back, pulling you firmly against him. “I won’t,” he’d murmured into your hair. Neither of you had let go until the clean-up team had come for Marcus.
The back of your hand brushed his cheek. “What are you thinking about?”
Placing his broad palm over your hand, he moved it until it was flattened against the side of his face. He nuzzled the pulse point in your wrist, pressing a kiss against it and smiling when he felt it jump under his lips.
“You,” he said. “Just you.”
The door above you was flung open, but neither of you moved. “When the two of you are done flirting,” Lamb drawled. “I need the analysis on that video, Cartwright.”
The door shut again.
“River?”
“Mm.” His eyes still half closed, he brushed the tip of his nose across your palm.
“What is the video you’re watching?”
He snorted, pulling back just enough to meet your eye: “Lamb thinks Taverner tripped up a staircase, but there’s no direct footage of it. Wants me to check every angle.”
I do not give permission for my written work to be posted elsewhere, by anyone else or on any other platforms. I do not give permission for my work to be scraped by an AI system for any purpose including, but not limited to, learning or 'creation'.
It had taken you a while to realise that River couldn’t tell you were flirting. If you were being honest with yourself it was also probably because you weren’t sure what could be counted as flirting, and what could be dismissed as friendly.
Three fresh cups of tea a day set on his desk in passing, two too many times being caught gazing at him over the top of your monitor, and one time when Shirley caught you biting your lip as he put on his jacket and wretched theatrically.
“That’s right,” she’d said as you shushed her. “Stare at him long enough and maybe he’ll read your thoughts.”
She was judgemental, which you’d expected, as you settled into the snug at the pub she’d suggested. The whole team was turning up at some point, but she’d dragged you out of Slough House first to get the low down: “Cartwright? Fucking Cartwright?”
“That’s the goal.”
“Eugh—that’s disgusting.” She sucked on the straw of her gin and tonic aggressively.
“He’s not Roddy,” you countered. The stained grain of the table in front of you, sticky with beer the servers hadn’t had the time to wipe off and rings of dried condensation became a welcome distraction from her sudden laser focus. You traced the still-wet rings made by your glass with the tip of your pointer finger.
“Yeah. Thank fuck for that at least.”
Gripping your chin between forefinger and thumb she tilted your head until your eyes met. “Is it terminal?”
“Fuck off.” Shoving her hand away you slumped deep into the crook of the booth. “He doesn’t even know I’m trying to flirt with him.”
“Who doesn’t?” Louisa slipped into the booth beside Shirley.
River stood at the end of the table awkwardly. He placed his hands in the pockets of his coat, then the back pockets of his trousers. “You’re flirting with someone?” His hands moved again, tracing the edge of the table.
Glancing between the two of you as you stared at each other, Shirley snorted.
“Go get the next round, River,” Louisa said.
“But—”
“Go.”
The three of you watched him leave, waiting until he was swallowed by the crowds of gilet-clad financiers that were also ending the workday in the pub.
“It’s River.” Unwrapping her scarf, Louisa looked at you.
“How do you know?”
“I do share an office with the two of you.”
“Not that they’d notice,” Shirley muttered.
“I’m sorry, Lou,” you pressed the glass to the side of your hot cheek.
“Oh I don’t mind,” she said. “Just, if you’re going to do something about it, can you do it before next Thursday? I don’t want Marcus to win the bet.”
“There’s a bet?” You turned to Shirley. "Did you know about this?"
“'Course I did. Lamb already lost,” Shirley said. “He was proper tamping about it as well.”
“Like you weren’t,” Louisa laughed.
River resurfaced from the crowd, four glasses clutched carefully in his hands, and the three of you fell silent. “What? Come on, what?”
Louisa just shook her head as he slipped into the booth beside you. Though there was space for Marcus and Roddy, maybe even Coe if he felt like sitting in, he was pressed against you; shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Under Shirley and Louisa’s knowing gaze you tried not to react. After a moment, their heads bowed together, their hands covering their mouths.
“What are they whispering about?” Rivers lips brushed your ear.
Shaking your head, you smiled at him.
“Come on, I’m being left out.” His pout seemed so true, teasing bordering on genuine hurt, that you reached out and covered the clenched hand on his knee with your own.
“They’re just making fun of me.”
“About that man you like?” He was smiling enough that you almost missed the edge in his tone.
“Something like that.”
“What’s his name?”
You shook your head again. His hand, still under yours, twitched. “Please don’t tell me it’s Roddy.”
“It’s not Roddy.”
Tension bled out of his shoulders a little. He knee pressed a little harder against your own as he leaned in, crowding you against into the corner of the booth. “Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“God, Cartwright,” Roddy sneered. “Are you trying to hump her in front of all of us?”
He slumped down into the space next to River. Marcus, shaking his head—but laughing—, slid in next to Louisa. The two of them bumped shoulders, and Louisa leaned in to whisper in his ear. His eyes flickered from you, to River, and back.
“Fuck off, Ho.”
“Fine. But only because I’m going to get a drink.”
“Get me a pint?” Marcus called after him.
The night stretched on, the masses of finance bros and women in pencil skirts moving on from the convenient warmth of the pub. But the Slow Horses remained. Thankful for the chance, you watched River as he rolled his eyes at Roddy, snarked with Shirley, and laughed with Louisa and Marcus.
Happily trapped in the corner, you took the opportunity to trace the the slope of his brow; the slight bump on the bridge of his nose which you often dreamt about tracing with the tip of your finger on a weekend morning when nobody needed you for anything and you could go the whole day only seeing each other.
He pulled his hand out from where it was curled under yours and placed it flat on the table. Taking your hand back from where it fell limp on his knee, you let it lie in your lamp. He drummed his fingers a couple of times then slid it back underneath the table to weave his fingers between yours.
baby it’s cold outside (river cartwright x reader)
The Christmas season had rolled around and with it the hope you’d get to spend more time with river was renewed. Of course you knew the sacrifices that came with his job, but you tended to think that his tendency to be a workaholic and his crushing hero complex was also part of the problem.
In a desperate attempt to drag him away from his responsibilities temporarily you had accepted his grandfather’s invitation to spend a little time in the English countryside in their family home. David likes you well enough and so did you him but there was only so much chess you could play without going mind numbingly insane.
You’d even started walking the neighbourhood dogs to keep yourself occupied. That’s how River had found you that afternoon, endlessly endeared by the sight of you swallowed up by one of his old Barbour jackets and rain boots. You only had one dog left as he approached, a stubborn little daschund which you had taken in your arms giving up trying to get him to comply with your instructions.
« Do you think we could get away with dognapping? » You said scratching behind the ears of the caramel coloured pup.
« I leave you alone for one second and suddenly you turn to illegality? Grandad will not be best pleased » River says grinning as he goes to pet the dog and instantly retracts his hand as he hears it growl.
« Yeah but if you Cartwrights get me locked up then who’ll make chocolate cake for tea? » River scoffs following you inside. As David spots you coming in he raises an eyebrow at you « River did you buy her a dog? » he says appalled. You cackle as River tries to justify himself. « Don’t worry mister Cartwright he’ll be back in his own bed by 6, I’m just watching him for your neighbour » David goes to pet the dog that sniffs his finger enthusiastically. River shoots you a look of indignation which makes you snicker as you head back outside to run around the fields with your new friend. River watches from the kitchen window with a soft smile on his face.
« That poor girl is so lonely here soon you might have to consider you’re driving her away »
River almost drops his mug as his grandfather appears. Looking back outside to see you laughing at the tiny dog in the tall grass. « Looks pretty happy to me granddad »
David sighs grabbing one of the mugs « You don’t see the way she looks like you’ve shot her yourself when you disappear after dinner and suggest we bring out the chess board »
River looks confused « she’s great at chess »
His grandfather pats his shoulder « never said she wasn’t river. We both know what this job takes, but you’re at Slough House right now, and she’s still with you. That ought to count for something. » he says living him with his own thoughts.
…
That night after dinner River ushers his grandpa away as you’re both finishing up the dishes. The last few flicks of water are sent his way as he dries the last plate. You’re mentally preparing yourself for another round of chess when river comes up from behind you resting his chin on your shoulder.
-I missed you.
-We see each other everyday Riv. you say laughing softly lacing your fingers together.
-I know but- still…
-such a way with words mister Cartwright. You yelp as he pinches you.
-I just, I wanted to say I’m sorry if I haven’t been…here for you…
-River, you say soflty turning to face him.
-Granddad said something which is how I know how bad it must’ve been.
-My favourite Cartwright. You say grinning.
-He also said you looked like I shot you when I suggested chess.
-I am definitely buying a scrabble for Christmas.
-I just wanted to say that… I am sorry, and I’ll be better.
-Oh Riv. You say hugging him. I always knew you came with a laptop, phone and responsibilities attached.
-Don't do that. He says lifting your chin. Don’t settle for me.
-Riv, honestly, I’m not, I do happen to like you very much. You say bumping your foreheads. He hums.
You could win brownie points if you got me a dog though.
