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In Slough House, it’s always one unpleasant thing or another. In some ways, this is comforting, a porridgey sense of unsatisfying routine, regular as a daily kick in the balls; in most ways, however, it’s the bane of River’s short, depressing existence. To be within the creaking, dusty floors of Slough House is a war of attrition between a spook and his own pride - in his less functional moments, River can’t say with confidence that there’s anything else tethering him to the mortal realm, considering the state his once promising life is currently in. Those less functional moments are becoming more and more frequent, it seems.
Most days, River tries to forget the throbbing ache of resentment and failure that dogs his every step. This is, perhaps, the best way to handle such a bad set of cards, should one be dealt them. What’s certainly not the best way to handle said cards, as it happens, is recklessly volunteering for any minor errand that could get him outside the House and into the game again. There had been deaths, still hanging spectral in his mind; there had been several heart-stopping moments in which both employment and fate hung in the balance; there had been and continued to be the gimlet stare of Diana Taverner, icy blue and unflinching, from behind the shoulders of First Desk. Anyone else would have learned just a shred of caution, you’d think.
And you’d be right, but to his detriment, River’s a uniquely hopeless case when it pertains to caution. Case in point being his current whereabouts: on a street down in the city, nighttime, out of bounds of Slough House. Crucially, he’s not exactly ambling in that dingy dark vehicle.
In fact, ambling is possibly the furthest word in the common lexicon to describe what River’s doing, which is closer to hurtling down an empty road at a speed to make a ticket cop weep. Much like the secret agents in stories from his youth, he’s on a highly confidential mission; unlike those agents, however, he’s driving a car that looked as though it hadn’t just seen better days but smelt them, and is wildly careening across the asphalt fast enough to leave sparks where he clips a sign.
Also unlike those agents: his brake is broken. Fucking of course it is. It’s not even his fucking brake; this is a Service car, as the assignment was delegated right from the top down to him - an infinitesimally small trickle of water from the glorious Service fountain, trickling and dribbling down smaller and smaller pipes, rusty and groaning, until it splashed onto Lamb’s umbrella and River caught the drops. What a fucking metaphor for his life, which, by the way-
“Fucking shit, Cartwright, eyes on the road! You maniac!”
Another distinctly unglamorous aspect to River’s life at present: his companion. Or acquaintance. Honestly, that might still be too friendly. Colleague implied the laughable idea that Slough House was a work building, as opposed to a 21st-century dungeon. And that either of them did work, rather than filing so bad it was pretty much just shuffling.
“Cartwright!”
Said companion - god, fuck no, what else is there? Stranger he knows? Associate? Fucking blight? - continues to shriek increasingly falsetto protests in his ear, most of which he tunes out on automatic. Less easy to tune out is Ho’s fucking arm, grabbing his shoulder and jostling him, which is bad bloody road etiquette on a good day, but fucking insane considering the breakneck speed with which River is approaching that dead end.
“Brake!” Ho yelped, and River wonders whether it’s possible to save their lives with one hand, strangle Ho with the other.
“I’m fucking trying, dipshit-“
“Try harder, the Rodster’s not dying like a bitc-“
Fortunately for River’s blood pressure, the car smashes into the curb and slips dangerously sideways. Roddy’s words cut out as he smacks into the window, hard, and if River survives this, he’s going to find that curb and kiss it.
In the meantime, he focuses his energy on stomping down the brake, because it’s stuck down - considering how many enemies he’d made traipsing after Lamb, he’d half-suspect subterfuge, but River’s pretty sure the Dogs aren’t clever enough for this. There’s an elegant simplicity to the stuck brake that he almost admires, but mostly curses with every shred of his brain not devoted to the steering wheel.
The car rights itself, still skidding along, and Roddy’s words zoom straight back into motion. “Cartwright, you absolute shit, have you never played GTA before-“
River one-hands the wheel, ignoring Roddy’s shrill squawk at the way the car swivels, and digs into his pocket. He fishes out his phone and thrusts it in Ho’s direction. “Call someone.”
“Who?” Roddy demands, pressed low against his seat. He was looking vaguely queasy (unusual) and extremely punchable (default).
“Lamb, Standish-“ River curses and just manages to turn in time. “Look, you fucking figure it out, I’m kind of busy saving our lives-“
“Saving? You just hit another trashcan-“ Ho starts. River shoves the phone in his face, probably hard enough to hurt, and focuses on not dying.
He thinks the brake is loosening, a good sign considering how he’s definitely lost control of the car. Unfortunately, it’s looking to be about half a minute until said car meets that wall up ahead, likely with many effusive greetings and all the expected force of an armoured vehicle embracing concrete. At his side, Roddy is typing, somehow managing to project an air of aggrieved obnoxiousness even though his clear panic. River tries not to think about how, if he dies, the last person he’ll have seen will be Roddy fucking Ho.
It would be a poetically hideous end to his hideous life, but he’s not quite ready to accept it yet. First comes denial, and he’s crushing that - furiously, he keeps stomping on the brake, pretending that his movements on the steering wheel have any impact on the car’s zig-zagging death spiral, and he swears it’s getting less stuck. Just a little bit.
Then he looks up, and realises the wall is not just half a minute away. It’s like ten seconds away now, and if he’s being honest with himself, River’s pretty certain this brake isn’t going to fix itself in ten seconds.
“I don’t want to die!” Roddy blurts, and kicks his shin. “Do something-“
“What do you think I could be doing that I’m not doing already?” River grits out through his teeth, and at least Roddy’ll be going down with him-
The merciless skid of the car continues. River takes a brief second to imagine his funeral: a service one, since Lamb had an extremely perplexing moral code that stretched to murder for his joes but not basic decency; the other slow horses present, expressions ranging from genuine sorrow to boredom; and of course, Diana Taverner. He assumes she’d be there to comfort the wounded, give a little speech about honour in dying for the country, and do her level best to act as though she wasn’t performing an smug little internal jig. He can practically see her face, the gloating in her eyes behind a perfectly smooth mask, and in contrast, Jackson’s vaguely indulgent expression that could hide anything from good temper to murderous fury.
It’s all very predictable, of course, the funeral and the means of death. River’s been picturing this scenario - highly abstracted - since he knew what dying in the line of duty meant, and accepted it as an honourable fate. What could be nobler than sacrificing yourself for the people around you?
Now, mid-twenties and still feeling the sucking vacuum of a black hole where his optimism was leeched out, River is decidedly less gung-ho about glory of dying on a mission. For one thing, this stupid assignment doesn’t involve saving salt of the earth brits so much as it does a sleek dark flash drive - which he is more than certain contains secrets beneficial not to the public but to the little handful of self-absorbed vipers that run the service - a tech genius with all the defensive ability of a limp noodle, and himself being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with a driver’s licence.
Shirley said she’d lost hers, but he was pretty sure she’d just burned it the second Ho was brought up. The rest had similar excuses.
For another thing, at that, now he’s in the moment, this doesn’t feel honourable so much as it feels fairly embarrassing and a little awkward. There’s something about Roddy Ho clutching at your arm as your car looney-toons its way down a road that really takes the majesty out of situation. Maybe River should have predicted that too; real life, it turns out, is mostly a series of pains in the ass that you’d rather people not see. Maybe, if he was lucky, the cover story wouldn’t be that he was drunk driving.
God, Taverner’d love that. Predictable again.
Roddy hasn’t stopped yelling obscenities, but by this point, they glance off harmlessly. Blunted by overuse, same as any weapon. Meanwhile, River’s just about come to terms with death - not for the first time in the past year or even month, god, he should really write a will - when something so unpredictable happens that it may actually freeze time, at least in River’s brain.
What happens is, he raises his foot for one last triumphant stomp on the broken brake - because if you go, go out fighting - and then abruptly, there’s a hand on his face.
“What the-“
Then Roddy Ho attempts to shove his tongue straight into River’s mouth. It’s so fucking startling that he doesn’t even register the kiss for what it is for way too long - Roddy is trying to attack him with his mouth? Roddy is trying to give him cpr? Roddy is- Oh. In a thousand years, River wouldn’t have predicted that, and it’s so bizarre it throws all his carefully curated predictions off as well; even the contemptuous Lady Di at his imaginary funeral has dropped her icy smile for a stare of mildly disgusted bemusement.
River performs something that can only be called a thrash, and his foot comes down so hard he can feel his ankle creak- and then, to his complete disbelief, the fucking brake clicks out of its locked position and the car halts, mere inches from the wall.
They still smack into the wall, because they’re going double the speed limit and that’s how the laws of physics work when you’re not James Bond. It’s a fairly brutal impact - River lets out an oof as the air is knocked whole from his lungs - but it’s not fatal, and River’ll take it.
Thank God he’s not a betting man. He’s alive - which is unexpected - and he didn’t even dent the wall too bad - practically a first - he thinks his ankle’s sprained but it doesn’t feel broken - incredibly lucky - and Roddy-
River and Roddy sit there in the car for a moment, the windscreen mere inches from the wall, panting like they’d ran a marathon. Given the amount of screeching Ho did, River concedes, he may well have used the same amount of lung capacity.
As soon as his breath evens out, River whips his head over to the other man and tries to read his face. Whether it’s the adrenaline or the shock, he can’t seem to process any other feeling but simple disbelief, and words are eluding him.
He wipes his mouth on his arm and tries to find some.
“…What the fuck, Roddy?”
“What do you mean, what the fuck, Roddy?” Roddy snaps instantly, apparently not traumatised enough to become a decent human being. “We almost died here because you can’t handle a steering wheel, I told you I should drive-“
“You kissed me!” River interjects, because even in his own mind, the reality of the moment is starting to blur into fiction. If he doesn’t speak now, he might never, and if he didn’t have blood on his mouth from someone else’s clumsy teeth, he’d think it was a stress-induced hallucination.
Ugh. He really didn’t like what that implied about him.
Roddy stares at him for a moment, then snorts and ducks his head. “Yeah, you wish, Cartwright. I was trying to stay upright when you were doing flips with the car-“
“No,” River emphasises. “You kissed me - you put your tongue in my mouth, which- what the fuck, Roddy?”
Roddy shrugs mutinously, the very tips of his ears stained pink. “Dunno.”
“What?”
“I dunno, it just seemed appropriate!”
River goggles at him for a second, then blinks and sighs. Sometimes being in the same category as Roddy, even just de facto as members of Slough House, felt more like an insult to his communication skills than a punishment for failure. “In what world is trying to lick my tonsils while I’m saving our lives appropriate?”
“Bull fucking shit, you saved our lives, you endangered them in the first place,” Roddy sniffs. “If I’d been allowed to drive-“
“The day I get in a car with you at the wheel is the day I commit murder for the public good,” he snaps. “That’s not- this isn’t the point!”
“Just cause you don’t value your life-“
River pinches his nose bridge. He was picking up bad habits from Lamb, it seemed, but not the useful one of scaring the piss out of anyone who interacted with him. “I thought you were straight!”
Which wasn’t to say that it would be bad, were Roddy to not be straight. River firmly believed that Roddy’s potential non-heterosexuality could be a redeeming factor, because it might stop his endless creepy comments about women. Plus, gay people had to fight for civil rights just like women, so perhaps Roddy could even acquire a single succulent morsel of empathy.
Then again, Ho was asian, so it wasn’t like he didn’t have experience dealing with minority stuff. ‘Minority stuff.’ Could River say that? He felt like he was too white to say that. The latter sentence might be worse, actually-
Roddy rescues him (a first) from an alarming spiral of self-recrimination, tossing his hands up dramatically. “I thought we were having a moment!”
“A moment?” River echoes, incredulous.
Roddy expression turns subtly smugger. “It’s a trope in romantic comed-“
“I know what that means, I’m questioning the fucking ludicrous premise, Ho,” he explains, with the sort of jittery patience that comes from narrowly averting death yet again. “How was that a moment?”
“We thought we were gonna die-“
“We think that every Tuesday!”
“It was just what people do in near death situations,” Roddy says, like it’s obvious. “If there was a chick in here, she’d probably be crea-“
“Don’t, don’t, just-“ River lets out a deep sigh of relief when Roddy stops talking, “Just- look man, I don’t care if you wanted to have your first kiss before you died, but I certainly didn’t sign the fuck up for this- I mean, Jesus, Ho, have you never heard of enthusiastic consent before?”
Roddy scoffs. “I’ve had a kiss before.”
“Hookers don’t count.” He mutters.
The smug look returns with reinforcements, and River groans.
“Hey, don’t hate the Rod-man’s game-“
“Don’t say it-“
Roddy shoots him with a finger gun. “Hate the plays.”
He holds his face in his hands and tries to remember why he wanted to live. “That’s not even the phrase-“
“It is now.”
“-and no way you’ve been kissed before,” River adds, because he’s apparently also a petty infant now.
“Have too.”
“Yeah? Then why do you kiss like a fucking thirteen year old?” He demands.
Roddy sneers. “Been kissing a lot of preteens, Cartwright? That’s-“
“Yes, as a thirteen year old,” River cuts in. “It’s called ordinary social development, you wouldn’t know-“
“Listen, the Rodster-“
“Don’t talk about yourself in the third person.”
“Is not gonna tolerate these disses-“
“Seriously, it’s just fucking embarrassing.”
“Especially not from-“
River loses his patience suddenly and explosively. Tossing his last fuck to the wind, he leans forward and hisses, “Why the fucking kiss?”
Roddy rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue. “…figured it’d be classic to go out on a move of manly camaraderie, Cartwright.”
“No,” River says grimly, and pinches his nose bridge again. “No, Ho, manly camaraderie doesn’t involve your fucking tongue halfway down my throat - which, Jesus, if it really wasn’t your first kiss then I pity the girl who had to deal with that.”
Roddy leans toward for a second, and River pauses. There’s a tension buzzing in the air, distorting noise and adding static.
Then Roddy slaps him on the shoulder, flashing him a knowing look. “Not everyone’s masculinity is as secure as mine, Cartwright.”
He pauses, frowning.
“What was wrong with the tongue?”
River looks up from his contemplation of the floor with disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“I need to know,” Ho insists. “For the babes.”
“What babes?”
“What was wrong with the tongue?”
River’s eye twitches. “You mean apart from the fact that it was in my mouth?”
Roddy nods, eyes narrowed in contemplation.
He sighs. Unbe-fucking-lieveable. “Well, as a general rule, you’re meant to kiss someone, not start whacking them with your tongue first thing.”
“But-“
“You start slow and build up to the tongue,” River explains, and hysterically wonders to himself how he became Roddy Ho’s sex ed teacher. “And you don’t just shove it in there.”
Roddy nods slowly, wisely. “Can’t overwhelm them with the full Rodsperience first thing.”
“Whatever,” he says, abruptly too exhausted for any more conversation. “Can we-“
“You should kiss me again,” Roddy says, and his knuckles go white on the wheel.
“…I’m sorry?”
“You should do it again, so I can figure it out.”
River tries to breathe deeply. “I- you kissed me.”
“You’re welcome,” Ho tells him. “Now you go.”
“Are you sure you’re straight?”
River receives a patronising look.
“Not to disappoint, Cartwright, but this here is all man. I just can’t have the ladies thinking the hot rod doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“Jesus,” River mumbles. “No.”
“No?”
He looks over at Roddy’s blank incomprehension.
“Yeah.”
“What? Why not?” Ho demands.
Maybe River did hit his head. “Are you insane? Why would I do that?”
“The bro code, man. Gotta help a brother out.”
He can’t believe he’s having this conversation. You think you’re safe, and then this bullshit happens. Maybe next time Lamb hands him a gun, he’ll hold onto it. “Why do you think every iteration of male friendship involves you getting to tongue me?”
Roddy looks offended. “A little respect-“
“Just stop talking before I report you to HR.”
“…HR?”
“Lamb then!” River hisses, and tentatively tries the engine. It creaks and wheezes but starts nonetheless, to his eternal relief.
“You think Lamb’ll care? He didn’t give a rat’s arse about Min and Louisa-“
“They were dating!“ Deep breaths. Is this how Shirley feels all the time? “It’s different. Asking your colleagues to kiss you on the bloody job is just sexual harassment, dipshit.”
“I’m not the one whose name is gonna end up on the sex offender’s registry if you keep acting like a wanker.” Roddy tells him.
River snorts. “What, did the doctors tell you the sexual predation was transmissible through spit? You should really just wire your jaw shut.”
Roddy lets out a wordless noise of affront.
“Anyway, the answer is no, and never mention this to anyone again.”
Unfortunately, his colleague finds his voice. “Why not?”
River breathes in sharply. “I just fucking said-“
“You said I was straight and we were colleagues,” Ho says, which is a generous summary of the conversation at best. “You didn’t say you didn’t want to.”
He blinks. “Fine. I don’t want to. Is that it?”
“You didn’t say because you were straight-“
“Jesus, Roddy.” River turns to look him in the eyes properly. “Do you think this is going to work?”
“Just curious, is all,” Roddy tells him, his typical smirk in place. “I’ve got a detective brain, Cartwright. Can’t help the pieces clicking together.”
“To form what, exactly? The world shittiest picture puzzle, titled Rejection?”
“Big picture, actually.”
River succumbs to the urge to clutch his face again. “What?” He demands, slightly muffled and extremely exasperated.
“I told you, I’m discerning as fuck,” Roddy Ho says significantly. “I don’t just notice the gist, I get the details. Cause I’m a hacker, you wouldn’t get it-“
“What details? The detail of me not telling you I’m straight?” River rolls his eyes.
“Well, you didn’t!”
“That,” he says tightly, and finally puts the car back into drive, “Is because I’m not.”
Slowly, the bumper inches away from the wall. Ominous crunching noises drift up from the wheels, but that’s par for the course, really. River’ll be lucky if the car only explodes a little bit, considering his track record.
He turns, keeping half an eye on the windscreen, to see Roddy staring at him, agog.
River sighs and pulls away from the wall he dented. The flash drive is here, presumably still safe in Roddy’s pocket, but the job isn’t done until they get back to the drop location. At this point, getting the job done is becoming an urgent issue; if he has to deal with Roddy Ho in an enclosed space for much longer, he’s going to beat the geek to death with his overpriced metal water bottle.
Eventually - unfortunately - Ho speaks up, a half-murmur. “This explains so much.”
River doesn’t want to know what that means. He briefly considers explaining bisexuality to Roddy, then decides to let him just think whatever he wants.
“So if you’re bent, that’s a yes, yeah?”
His irritation spikes. “Are you fucking deaf? No!”
“Why not?” Roddy demands for the fiftieth time, and River can’t tell if he’s always been this close or if it’s the stupid cramped car, but he would like it to stop asap. “Seriously, Cartwright, what gives?”
“How many times do I need to say that I’m not going to-“
“Well, if you’re into blokes, then you should be jumping, mate,” Roddy tells him, and he sighs harder. “Gotta admire your professionalism, but you have to be chomping at the bit to-“
“My answer hasn’t changed, I’m not going to kiss you,” River snaps. “God. Is this how Louisa feels?”
“I’ve often wondered that myself.”
“Not like that, you-“
Ho’s face lights up. “Oh! Oh, that’s why you’re tight with Louisa, it’s like a gay best friend thing.”
River’s going to kill him.
“And Sleepin’ Beauty-“
“Don’t call her that.”
“It’s coz you’re not a threat to them. Guys like me, women get intimidated.” Roddy nods sagely.
He sighs again. “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”
A beautiful second of silence passes.
“So…?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“What?” River demands.
“So you’re really not gonna-“
“No.”
Roddy’s silent for a second, contemplating that. “But-“
“No.”
“I-“
“Listen, Roddy, I thought you were meant to be rolling in the babes. Could you maybe go be a sexpest at them instead?”
Ho frowns. “I’m hot and you like blokes. What’s with the playing hard to get?”
“Fucking hell, this is what Louisa feels like.” River makes a vicious turn. “I’m just not interested.”
“C’mon.”
“No.”
“I-“
“Roddy. Save it for the babes,” he snaps, and then mutters under his breath, “If you find one willing to get within five feet of you.”
Roddy sends him a look of smug superiority. “I’m knee deep in them, Cartwright. Jealous?”
Maturely, River gags. “God no. Given how this is going, I can’t imagine you’re ever successful.”
“You don’t know my life.”
“Actually I do, Roddy, because you never shut up about it, and-“ River shuts his mouth before he says something that will actually get him destroyed via internet.
“Well, I figure it’s even better if you’re gay, cause you and chicks look for the same thing in a kiss, so it’s basically the same principle.”
He wonders how much he’d have to pay Shirley to smack Ho again. Probably too much, considering how much therapy he imagines he’ll be soon needing as a result of this deranged conversation.
Roddy seems to misunderstand his expression. “Fuckin cheer up, Cartwright, there’s nothing wrong with being gay. Just not one of us manly men, but that’s alright.”
He closes his eyes for a moment.
“And it’s not like all gay dudes are just body glitter and shit, right? Some of them are like, hairy, and they wear leather.”
“Stop talking,” River orders. Unsurprisingly, his imitation of Lamb’s most authoritative tone fails to pass muster. At this point, it sounds more like a plea.
Roddy rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Sorry I ain’t an expert on gay flirting, alright, rest assured that if you were a lady, you’d be reeled in on my fishing rod in two seconds max. And by fishing rod, I mean-“
“I know what you mean.” River hisses. “Well, by all means, pretend I’m a girl.”
Sarcasm is a funny thing; a key principle of British personhood, the national pastime, but also, as River has failed to learn time after time, extremely useless in the service. Particularly with Roddy Ho, to whom criticism is something that happens to the plebs, and insults are harmless drips of water sliding uselessly off his downy duck plumage.
“Huh. That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Roddy clicks his tongue, considering. “Guess you’re learning, Cartwright. Might as well reward you with a view of my technique.”
A kind of horrified hysteria bubbles up in River’s throat, and he pulls over on the side of the road. “Sure, why not.”
Ho pauses, breathes in, and rustles his hair. Then he leans an elbow forward on the dash - almost slipping as he does - and sends River a look of pop-eyed concentration.
It transforms into what River can only describe as a leer.
“Hey, babes.”
Fucking Christ, you fail one training exercise and somehow you end up here.
Roddy watches him expectantly. Finally, he demands, “Well?”
“Honestly,” River manages after a shellshocked second, “I think I’d rather kiss Lamb.”
Roddy’s face creases with great indignation, and not a little disgust at the mere idea. “What?”
“Maybe even Spider.”
“What?” Roddy repeats, clearly outraged. “That’s- but he-“
“At least he knows what shower gel is. And at least either of them would be as uninterested as I am.”
Roddy sends him a Look. “Huh. I always thought Spider was a bit queer-“
“Oh my god,” River grouses.
“Figured you and him-“
“Stop.”
“That’s not a no,” Roddy insists, and River cannot believe this bullshit, hasn’t he been punished enough?
He breathes in slowly, gathering himself. “Roddy.”
“Yuh?”
“If I kiss you, will you shut the fuck up?”
Roddy considers. “I guess.”
River sighs again, the deepest of the day so far, and steadies himself. “Then pucker up, Ho.”
“Wait, reall-“
Roddy Ho does, in fact, shut up.
It takes a good few seconds for River to get him to stop wriggling around inconveniently, but after that, it’s surprisingly tolerable. For once, Roddy seems content to let someone else lead; River tips his face up, tilts his chin with a hand, and leans forward to lick into his mouth.
Roddy squeaks.
He tastes like whatever acidic energy drink he’d been sipping, but it’s not unpleasant. He’s warm and pliable, easy, and River really should’ve guessed that he’d be a thousand times more tolerable when he couldn’t talk. He’s something close to cute, almost.
There’s a surprisingly and entirely unwelcome heat starting to coil in River’s gut. It’s been a while since he kissed anyone, he guesses, and there’s something at least flattering about the way Roddy shuts up and leans in to him. There’s a hand clutching his upper arm, tight enough to almost hurt, and he doesn’t- he doesn’t hate it.
Eventually, River pulls away, swiping his hand over his mouth. Maybe this’ll be a positive experience for Roddy, he thinks. Maybe his perpetual douchiness will be mitigated. Kissing frogs works for princesses, at least.
Roddy stares at him with wide eyes and slightly swollen lips, flushed.
“…so did that get your rocks off?”
River sighs. “You wish.”
Yeah, maybe. Or maybe he just made out with a toad.
When they finally slope back into Slough House hours later, River painstakingly tiptoes up the stairs to avoid any questions - he’s not the worst liar, but he’s not entirely sure how capable he is of not acting guilty as fuck right now.
His efforts, it turns out, are for naught; the second he steps into his office, he’s greeted by the entire slow horse cast.
Lamb takes one look at him and starts laughing.
“What?” He mutters.
“God, Cartwright, and here I thought it was physically impossible for you to sink any lower.”
“What’s happened?” Shirley demands.
“Nothing!” He hisses.
Lamb mimes zipping his lips, as patronising as ever. “You’ll not get it out of me, Sharon-“
“Shirley.”
“-I’m a spy, remember?”
He walks off, cackling, assured in his position as worst bastard alive.
“…what was that about?” Louisa asks suspiciously.
River sits, thunks his head into his desk, and groans. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“Where’s Ho?”
In his office, probably fistpumping wildly.
“I don’t want to think about it.”