angst, blood, pain. the usual.

The position has no relief in it.  No way to settle.  Every inch of him feels suspended in the anticipation of strain.

His ankles are secured separately now too, farther apart than before, keeping his spine locked flat against the table.

He tests one arm instinctively.  The restraint answers with a sharp metallic pull.

And pain immediately flashes hot through his shoulder socket.  Not from the restraint itself.

From the position.

His jaw clenches before he can stop it.

“…you redesigned the furniture,” he mutters hoarsely.

No response.

But there’s movement nearby.  Not hidden this time.

A chair sits several feet from the table, angled toward him with deliberate neatness.  Someone occupies it already.  Watching.

The same composed figure from before.

Clean sleeves.  Straight posture.  Hands folded loosely together.

Waiting.

His stomach tightens despite himself.

That’s new.

“You know,” he says after a second, voice rough from disuse, “most people buy me dinner before the bondage setup.”

Nothing.

The figure studies him for another long moment before speaking.

“You slept intermittently for three hours.”

His throat feels dry enough to crack.  “Congratulations to me?”

“No sedatives were required.”

That lands oddly.

Not praise.

Assessment.

He shifts again despite the warning already screaming through his shoulders.  The movement drags another sharp line of pain through both arms, deeper this time, immediate and ugly enough to pull a harder breath from him.

The figure notices.

Everything here notices.

“Muscular fatigue beginning,” they say calmly.

“Yeah,” he says tightly. “That tends to happen when you hang people up like spare parts.”

No reaction.

The figure rises from the chair.

His body goes still automatically.

Not fear, he tells himself.  Readiness.

The person approaches the table without hurry, carrying a slim tablet in one hand.  No instruments.  No tray.

That somehow feels worse.

They stop beside him.  “Your cooperation will reduce duration.”

He laughs once under his breath.  “Sure it will.”

The tablet activates with a soft tone.  The figure glances at it briefly.

Then:

“State your name.”

He stares at the ceiling.  “No.”

A pause.  No immediate consequence.

His pulse doesn’t lower anyway.

The figure taps the screen once.

Something beneath the table shifts with a quiet mechanical sound.

Then—

His arms are pulled another inch upward.

The pain is instantaneous.

A violent stretch tears through both shoulders hard enough to wrench a sound out of him before he can stop it—a sharp, involuntary gasp as every muscle across his chest locks tight in reflex.  His back arches automatically against the restraints.

The position holds.  Doesn’t release.

Oh, fuck that—

He sucks air carefully through his nose, fighting to force his muscles to unclench, but there’s nowhere for the strain to go.  It just sits there, digging deeper into the joints with every breath.

Not sharp anymore.  Heavy.  Grinding.

The interrogator watches him stabilize.

“State your name.”

He laughs again, but it shakes at the edges now.

“…creative,” he manages.

Another tap.  The table shifts again.

Not upward this time.

Outward.

His arms spread wider.

A white-hot bolt tears through his left shoulder so suddenly his vision flashes.  He chokes on the breath that tries to escape him, fingers convulsing hard against the restraints as pain radiates down both arms in brutal, pulsing waves.

The position stops there.  Held precisely at the threshold before something tears.

Tears.

His breathing loses rhythm for a second.  The interrogator waits through it patiently.

“State your name.”

He squeezes his eyes shut hard enough to see sparks.

Don’t react.

Too late for that now.

“…go to hell,” he bites out.

Silence.

Then:

“Deflection maintained.”

The tablet chimes softly.  The table does not move again.

Instead, the restraints at his wrists tighten incrementally.

Small adjustment.

Tiny.

But in this position it changes everything.

Pressure bites hard across already strained joints, forcing his arms into stricter alignment.  The pain deepens instantly—less explosive than before, more invasive.  A relentless pull buried deep under muscle and tendon.

His shoulders tremble.  He hates that they can see it.

The interrogator’s voice remains perfectly level.  “You accessed Facility Archive Seven on the nineteenth.”

His eyes open slowly.

There it is.  Real questions.

He swallows against the dryness in his throat.  “Sounds fake.”

“Who authorized your entry?”

He says nothing.

The strain builds by degrees now—not mechanically, but biologically.  Muscles tiring.  Nerves inflaming.  The slow dawning realization that his body cannot maintain this position indefinitely.

That’s intentional.

The interrogator watches the silence stretch.  Then asks calmly: “What did you remove?”

Another adjustment.  Not wider.

Higher.

The change is minimal.  The effect isn’t.

Pain lances viciously through both shoulders, deep enough now to feel nauseating.  His head jerks back against the table with a muffled sound as his entire upper body strains involuntarily against the restraints.

A broken breath escapes him.  His hands are shaking openly now.  He can’t stop it.

The interrogator waits until his breathing starts working again.  “What did you remove?”

“Nothing,” he snaps immediately.

Too fast.

The interrogator’s eyes flick briefly to the tablet.

“Stress elevation inconsistent with response confidence.”

Shit.

He turns his head sharply toward them despite the position screaming in protest.  “You measuring my heartbeat now?”

“Yes.”

That shouldn’t make his stomach drop the way it does.

The interrogator steps closer.

“Who else accessed the archive?”

“No one.”

A beat.

Then the interrogator says, almost conversationally:

“That answer was truthful.”

His chest tightens.

Why tell him that?

Before he can process it—

The restraints pull wider again.

This time he actually cries out.  The sound tears free before he can contain it, rough and sharp as agony rips through his left shoulder hard enough to make his entire arm spasm violently against the restraint.

For one horrifying second he thinks something dislocated.  The pain surges hot and unstable through the joint, radiating down into his elbow, his wrist, his hand—

Then settles just enough to remain survivable.

Barely.

He’s breathing too fast now.  He knows it.  Can’t stop it.

Sweat slicks cold along the back of his neck despite the freezing room.

The interrogator studies him with clinical focus.  “Why did you enter the archive?”

He laughs once—breathless, wrecked around the edges.

“You really—” he sucks in air sharply as another pulse of pain cuts through the shoulder, “—really need better security.”

The interrogator regards him silently.  Then reaches down.

Not to the tablet.

To his arm.

Gloved fingers press carefully against the damaged shoulder.

Not gentle.

Precise.

Testing.

The pressure hits something deep in the joint and pain detonates instantly through his arm.  He jerks hard against the restraints with a strangled sound, muscles locking uselessly as panic flashes bright and animal through his chest.

“Easy,” the interrogator says calmly.

The word almost makes him hate them.

Their fingers press again.  Slightly different angle.

His vision blurs.

“Answer the question.”

“Fuck—”

Pressure.  White pain spears downward through his shoulder blade hard enough to make his whole body shake.

“Why did you enter the archive?”

“I didn’t take anything!” he snaps, voice cracking violently this time.

The room goes still.  Too still.

The interrogator slowly removes their hand from his shoulder.

Looks at the tablet.  Then back at him.

“You did not deny entry.”

The realization hits him like another blow.

No.

No, no—

His pulse spikes so hard he can hear it.

The interrogator watches the reaction with terrible attentiveness.  “Interesting,” they murmur.

He clamps his mouth shut hard enough to hurt.

Idiot.

Pain throbs relentlessly through both shoulders now, each pulse of his heartbeat grinding deeper into exhausted muscle.  His arms are trembling continuously.

The interrogator returns to the chair.

Sits.  Composed.  Unhurried.

Like they have all the time in the world.

“You will continue answering questions.”

His breathing still won’t steady completely.  “And if I don’t?”

The interrogator folds their hands again.

“Your joints will fail before the restraints do.”

Silence.

Cold and absolute.

His stomach twists hard.

Because the worst part—

The worst part is that they say it like a measurement.

Not a threat.

The tablet gives another soft tone.  The interrogator looks down at it briefly.

Then asks: 

“What were you looking for?”

Taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires @elvenarcane @sir-fenris @whumpy-daydreams @ziptiesnfries

"You're alright," Nureyev soothes, finally undoing the strap around Juno's ankle. "You're alright, I'm going to get you out of here."

"What..." He's gasping now, his words rising in pitch and volume, and panicked. "Wha'd they do to me?"

Nureyev moves his hands to Juno's face, then, running his thumbs over Juno's cheekbones. "I'm here now, Juno. Look at me. Look at me. That's it. I know I--" He swallows, surprised at the sudden wave of emotions that washes over him. "I know I've hardly earned it, but I need you to trust me. I am getting you out of here, Juno, but you must calm down. Take a deep breath."

Juno stares at him, wide-eyed, and then he nods and takes a long, shaky inhale.

"Very good. Keep going," Nureyev says as he undoes the straps around Juno's wrists. There's an uncomfortable feeling settled deep in his stomach as he does so; Juno is barely moving – hardly the reaction Nureyev was expecting. Whatever they've given to Juno, whatever they've done to him, his usual fight is gone. And his usual brightness.

Nureyev can only hope that it's temporary.

"There," he says, releasing the final strap. "Let's get you sitting up."

Juno doesn't speak as Nureyev slides a hand under his back and levers him slowly into a sitting position, only grimaces slightly.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Juno says shortly, shifting so that his legs are dangling over the side of the bed table. "Just stiff." He grips Nureyev's hand so tightly that it's almost painful as he slides forward and sets his bare feet on the floor.

And promptly falls.

"Juno!" Nureyev kneels in front of him, doing another quick scan for any sign of blood or injury. "Are you hurt?"

There's a dazed look in Juno's eyes and a moment passes before he slowly shakes his head.

"I...I don't know. I don't – I don't think so? I can't remember...'m dizzy."

Nureyev does his best not to let his worry show on his face. Whatever Rita had done to keep people away from this part of the lab, he suspects it's only temporary. Which means he and Juno have to move. A more thorough examination will have to wait until they're out of this place.

"I'll help you," Nureyev says, pulling Juno's arm around his shoulders. He stands slowly, giving Juno time to get his feet under him. Then, once Juno is (mostly) upright, he steers them both toward the door.

Juno's footsteps are sloppy and increasingly uncoordinated as they make their way down the corridor. Nureyev is practically dragging him by the time they get to the elevator that Rita had said she would keep open for them.

"Can't get out this way," Juno mumbles. "I tried...Need a code..."

"Rita gave me the code," Nureyev says, punching the eight-digit number into the keypad by the elevator doors and trying not to think too much about Juno, alone and trapped and trying to escape. Being unable to.

Not this time, though. This time, the doors slide open, and Nureyev guides both of them into the elevator, leaning Juno against the far wall so he can press the button for the ground floor. The doors shut again and the elevator car shudders before starting its ascent.

xxx

Juno was right about Rita; she's the best at her job. Nureyev had been able to get Juno out of the underground lab without setting off any alarms or encountering anyone. Juno had slept for most of the drive to the motel, and they're in the room now. Juno is sitting on the edge of one of the beds.

He looks awful. There are dark circles under his half-lidded eyes and a hollowness to his unshaven cheeks. He's leaning heavily against the wall and looks like he may collapse at any second. Nureyev reaches forward to take his pulse and he flinches violently.

"I'm sorry," Nureyev says, pulling his hand away, silently scolding himself. He has no idea what Juno has been subjected to this last week, but it's hardly any wonder he'd be nervous about any sudden physical contact. "Sorry, Juno. I just want to take a closer look at you, is that okay?"

Juno gives a slow nod.

"I'm going to take your heart rate," Nureyev says, lifting Juno's wrist and pressing two fingers to the inside of it. He silently counts each beat that pulses against his fingertips. It's slower than it should be, but that's not too unexpected given that Juno was almost certainly sedated. Whatever they'd given him will still be working its way out of his system.

His eyes trace up Juno's arm and his stomach twists at the sight of needle marks and slight bruising on the inside of Juno's elbow where they'd taken blood, or given him something through an IV or both. There's a small circular wound on his upper arm, as well, that Nureyev suspects is from a biopsy. He doesn't even want to know what they intend to do with the tissue sample.

Nureyev continues his examination, making sure to ask before he touches Juno, and explain what he does as he does it. Juno remains disconcertingly quiet through the whole process, and pliant in a way that Nureyev doesn't like.

"I don't see any obvious signs of injury," Nureyev says finally. "You'll need a more thorough work-up tomorrow, though – urinalysis and blood work."

A shudder runs through Juno at the words blood work, and Nureyev puts a hand on Juno's.

"I can go with you, if you'd like," he offers. Juno doesn't look at him. Nureyev can't blame him, really. Not after the way Nureyev had betrayed him. He takes a breath. "Let's get through tonight first, though, shall we? Would you like a shower?"

"I think I just want to sleep," Juno says. Nureyev nods.

"Sleep would be good, I think."

xxx

Nureyev is awakened by the sound of Juno being sick in the bathroom. Fear and worry spike through him as he bolts upright, immediately swinging his longs legs over the side of the bed. His heart pounds as he strides across the motel carpet.

"Juno?" he calls, rapping on the door with a knuckle. "Juno, are you alright in there?" There's no answer, just the continued sound of heaving. Nureyev carefully tries the doorknob, relieved when it turns. "I'm coming in."

Juno is sitting panting and wide-eyed on the bathroom floor, his tank top soaked through with sweat. His legs are splayed in front of him and one arm rests on the edge of the toilet. He's visibly shaking.

"Juno!" Nureyev kneels in front of his partner, taking one of Juno's hands gently in his own and pressing two fingers to the inside of his wrist. "Your heart is racing. Are you having any other symptoms? Pain or dizziness?"

Juno shakes his head. "No, no. I'm--" He swallows thickly, raising his eyes to meet Nureyev's. When he speaks his voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, and trembling. "I remember something."

Nureyev's heart jumps. He's been wondering if exactly what happened to him in that lab was going to remain a mystery forever. Looking at Juno now, he can't help but wonder if that would have been better.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks gently.

Juno's eyes fill with tears and he grips Nureyev's forearms.

"It's Ben," he whispers. "He's alive."

Her expression is one of deliberate focus as she exits the house and heads toward the stables, gun in hand. She's so focused on the stables, in fact, that she doesn't bothering observing the rest of her surroundings, which is probably why she doesn't notice the many pairs of boot-prints in the mud. And why she doesn't notice Lamb stopping to look at them. He doesn't call after her, partially because he's confident there's no one waiting in the stables to ambush her, precluding the need for backup, but mostly because he can't be arsed.

He follows the prints to a pair of basement bulkhead doors round the east side of the house. There's a heavy chain and padlock keeping them shut, but the lock obviously cheap. All it takes to get it open is a large stone Lamb finds on the ground and a few heavy blows. He highly doubts there's anything in the darkened basement that he'll need to shoot, but he draws his gun anyway before pulling the doors open and making his way down the steps. It's dark at the bottom, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust.

When they do, he can see that he's in the right spot.

“Fuuucking hell,” he murmurs, holstering his weapon before stepping further into the basement. “Christ, Cartwright, you alive?”

The figure huddled against the far wall stirs slightly, but offers no other response. Lamb makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat (or worried, more like – not that River will be able to tell, the state he's in) and crouches next to the younger agent. There's old blood in his hair, dark red matting the blonde over his left ear and dried onto his neck. An ugly purple-yellow bruise stretches over his jaw on the same side, a few days old. A gash on his right cheekbone looks newer. Lamb doesn't need to see to know that his torso likely took the worst of it; ribs and kidneys tend to be favored targets of this sort of brainless thug. River’ll probably be pissing blood for a day or two, and he'll be hurting for a bit, but he seems surprisingly okay given the circumstance.

“Oi," Lamb says loudly, giving Cartwright's shoulder a firm shove. River's brow crinkles into a frown and he grimaces, blue eyes fluttering open. His gaze lands on Lamb and he groans, letting his eyes fall back shut. Lamb prods at him. “If you think I'm gonna carry you out of here, think again."

Cartwright opens his eyes again, staring up at the low ceiling. He takes two deep breaths (But not that deep, Lamb notes) and then slowly starts to push himself up on his elbows. He doesn't say anything, hardly even seems to notice, when Lamb reflexively puts a hand on his back to help him get upright.

Lamb doesn't like it.

“What," he says, putting a sneer into his words in the hopes of drawing some sort of reaction. “Don't tell me you don't have something smart to say. No, ‘I’d’ve had it’? No, ‘Where the hell have you been’?"

Cartwright sighs, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I’d’ve had it," he says, and looks up at Lamb. “And where the hell have you been?"

Lamb bites back a smirk, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, you'll be fine. Come on!"

He turns, pulling his mobile out as behind him Cartwright makes his way, groaning, to his feet. Shirley answers after the first ring.

"Yeah?"

"I found Cartwright," Lamb says. "Hurry up and finish what you're doing and meet us out by the cars." He glances over his shoulder as he returns his mobile to his coat pocket. Cartwright is swaying slightly, but there's a determined set to his expression. Lamb raises an eyebrow at him. "You coming?"

Cartwright gives him a shaky thumbs-up. "Yep."

xxx

It's not a sunny day—far from it, seeing as they're in the English countryside in October—but the daylight is still far brighter than the hole in the ground where River's been held the last three days. Or maybe it's four? He's lost track. Regardless, he finds himself wincing as he emerges from the basement as the relative brightness sends bursts of pain through his skull.

"Lamb!" Louisa's voice. "He's not in the stables. Where did you go?" She looks over Lamb's shoulder and her eyes widen. "River!"

"Hey, Louisa," River says, raising his hand in a sheepish wave.

Louisa steps around Lamb and grabs River's arms, looking him over, brow furrowed. "You alright?"

River shrugs. "Oh, you know..." He looks up at the back of Lamb who, unsurprisingly, didn't stop to watch Louisa and River's reunion. "I'm surprised Lamb came himself."

"Yeah. Marcus and Shirley are here, too."

"Really?" River frowns. "All of you are here?"

"Well, not all of us. Roddy's still at Slough."

River snorts. "He doesn't count."

Marcus and Shirley are already at the cars when they get there, and Shirley grins as soon as she sees River, straightening up from where she'd been leaning against Marcus's car.

"Were they keeping you in the stable?" she says. "'Cus that would be really fucking embarrassing."

"It was the basement, actually," River says dryly. He's not sure why he expected anything else from her.

"Because we're Slow Horses," Shirley continues as if River hadn't spoken. "Horse. Stable. It's funny."

River shoots her a sarcastic smile and holds up his middle finger. Shirley scowls.

"Rude."

He opens his mouth to answer, and is interrupted by the loud crack of gunfire.

"Get down!" Lamb shouts, and River thinks it's a little funny that he bothers saying it; they're all already moving, diving for cover behind the parked cars. They may be Slow Horses, but they're still Service. They aren't just going to stand around while a sniper opens fire on them.

“Shit!" Shirley cries as a round strikes the dirt near her. "Where is that coming from?”

“Uh – barn.” Marcus is the one who answers. “Hayloft, I think.”

Lamb growls. “You didn’t clear the fucking barn?”

“You called and told us you had River! You didn’t say anything about clearing the barn!”

“I said to finish what you were doing, I didn’t think I had to fucking spell it out! Bloody well should have known, though, you’ve all the sense of a toad. Didn't clear the fucking barn..."

"We can return fire, but I don't know what good it'll do us," Marcus says. "He's got better cover, better range, a better vantage point..."

“He’ll run out of ammunition eventually,” Shirley says, and Lamb lets out a bark of laughter.

“Yeah, I suppose we could just roll around in the dirt here and hope the bastard is stupid enough to waste all of his bullets. Anyone else have any bright ideas they'd like to share? Cartwright?”

River, who's only been half-listening to most of the conversation, looks up at the sound of his name. “Erm – what? Sorry?”

Lamb’s irritated expression shifts slightly, his forehead creasing in the middle. Then his eyes flick downward, then back up again, eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion. “Are you hit?”

"What?" Louisa says sharply.

River looks down to where his hand is clasping his hip. He hadn't even noticed he was doing that...He lifts his hand away from his side enough to catch a glimpse of bright red before quickly replacing it, swallowing hard to quell the nausea that tries to rise up.

“Yup. Yeah, I--I think so. Yeah."

He's not sure he would've realized if not for the sight of blood. Adrenaline is a hell of a thing.

"Jesus," Marcus says.

Louisa's voice is tight with near-panic. "We have to get him out of here!"

"It's fine!" River's voice is loud, almost shrill. It comes out too insistent. He swears internally, then takes a breath and forces a smile that he hopes looks less manic than it feels. "I'm alright, it's a good guy wound."

Shirley makes a face. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"The good guys in action movies, they always – you know what, never mind!" His mind is racing. He's pretty sure adrenaline is supposed to bring clarity, but his thoughts are all noisy and competing for attention. The one that makes it out of his mouth, before he has time to really process it, is, "This is a good thing."

"How?!" Louisa and Shirley cry in baffled unison.

There's an opportunity here for River to turn something humiliating—having to be rescued from the ex-military meatheads that had managed to kidnap him—into a win. He just has to make them see it.

"Look, now that their secret hideout isn't a secret anymore, they're just going to go deeper underground. Whoever's shooting at us is alone right now. We can press him for information, I--" He falters momentarily as he sees the doubt plainly written on his co-workers' faces. "I can distract him, and you can sneak around the back of the barn and get the jump on him. We might not get another chance."

"You'll distract him?" Lamb chuckles. "What, for the two seconds it takes to blow your head off? All that'll do is give me an extra pile of paperwork to fill out."

"But--" River begins.

"We're not here for him, Cartwright, we're here for you. And we have you, so we're gonna fuck off back to London. Let the Dogs deal with these pricks."

River blinks in surprise. Of all of them, he'd thought Lamb was the most likely to agree that they should try and get something out of this shitshow. If Lamb notices his shock, he doesn't mention it.

"Guy, Cartwright and I'll go in your car. Dander, you're with Longridge – Christ, I feel like I'm arranging a carpool. Anyway, whoever is up there isn't a very impressive shot, or Cartwright wouldn't be alive right now, but still: move fast."

There's an exchange of glances, some nods. No one counts down, but somehow everyone starts moving at once – Marcus and Louisa yanking open driver's side doors and clambering in, keeping their heads down and trying to make themselves as small as possible (an easier task for Louisa than Marcus) as Lamb and Shirley get into back seats. River is waiting for it, for the sound of gunfire to pick up again, but it doesn't come. He should feel relieved that they aren't being shot at, but all he feels is dread.

"Cartwright!" Lamb barks.

River is still sat in the gravel beside Louisa's car. He's sitting there when a man in a balaclava comes out from behind the small garden shed the cars are parked next to.

Oh, that's not good.

The man's got a gun raised, and it's aimed right at Louisa's head and fuck if River is going to let her get killed. His body doesn't feel like his own as he launches to his feet and places it between the gun and Louisa. There are two loud pops, and then he's falling and the man in the balaclava is falling, too and Louisa is screaming his name but he can't gather the breath he needs to answer because it feels like he's just been kicked in the chest by the world's angriest horse and he can't breathe--

Someone grabs him under the armpits from behind and pulls, and that's enough to shock his lungs back into working.

He screams.

When his vision returns, he realizes he's in the backseat of Louisa's car. He's more than slightly mortified to find that he's laying partially in Jackson Lamb's lap, one of Lamb's hands held tightly against the bullet hole in River's chest.

"Drive!" Lamb yells, and the car lurches into motion and the only sound River makes this time is a low, strangled groan.

River isn't particularly religious, never has been, but as he bleeds and bleeds and tries to breathe in the backseat of Louisa's car, he finds himself pleading with whatever higher power is out there to please, please not let him die in Jackson Lamb's arms.