#will cartwright oc

[whumpcereal]

Looking at puppy adoption pages, and thought of the ad copy the WRU team (or Doc) might write.

Jack, 24. Jackie is a sweet boy who's finally realized his full potential. Calm and obedient, Jack would be an ideal companion for an owner who can appreciate his gentle personality and unique qualifications. He comes completely prepared for an active owner and absolutely loves to play with all manner of toys. He responds well to physical affection and would be happy to snuggle up with you anytime.

Champ, 23. Champ is a gorgeous specimen who's been well-trained to provide his owner with hours of fun. He is active and prefers physical play, even if he may seem a bit shy at first. He is easily motivated by affection and treats, just like a good boy should be.

Will, 23. After a bit of an intensive training period, Will may look a little rough around the edges, but he's ready for an owner who will lavish him with special attention. He is a quiet boy who does best away from other pups, but if you're willing to put the time in, he'll do whatever he can to please you. He can be a little food aggressive, so it's best to keep him on a regimented diet and a short leash.

[noforkingclue]

Fractures Chapter 1 (James 'Spider' Webb x OC x River Cartwright)

Summary: there are certain unofficial rules that you need to follow when working in MI5 and Rebecca Blake is finding these out the hard way after one of her friends gets dumped in Slough House. Just how far is she willing is test these rules in order to maintain this friendship and just what will she uncover about the people she thought were her closest friends.

Author's Note: hello and welcome to my fic where I emotionally torture these characters, especially my OC. I should warn you, this fic will contain spoilers for Slow Horses. If want to watch the series spoiler free maybe don't read this...

Slow Horses tag list: @cillmequick

It started with a picture.

Everyone was drunk. Well, drunk was putting it mildly.  It was the last official day of training and let’s just say that everyone wanted to let their hair down before the serious shit started.

“River! James! There you are.”

The two men at the bar turned around at the familiar voice. Rebecca pushed her way through the crowd grinning at them. She pushed her way in between them and put her glass heavily on the bar. It was immediately refilled with red wine and she raised it in thanks.

“So,” she looked at the both of them, “last day of freedom for the both of you.”

James took another swig from his pint and grimaced. Not exactly his first choice but it was free. River seemed a lot more at ease in the setting.

“Although you both must be glad to be back in London,” Rebecca continued, “I was looking at the weather reports for your training. It was pissing it down the whole time!”

“Yeah,” said River with an amused smile, “Spider definitely loved all that mud.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“But it suits you so well,” said River, “Spider.”

Spider turned to face River but before he could snap back Rebecca said,

“We need to take a picture!”

“A picture?” said James, “Why would we do that?”

“To remember the occasion,” Rebecca said, “come on. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t think-”

“Come on Spider,” said River, who took a step closer to Rebecca, “why not?”

“Because,” Spider looked between River’s smirking face and Rebecca’s hopeful one and gave up, “fine. Just make it quick.”

Rebecca beamed at him and tossed her phone over to the bartender and asked him to take a photo of the three of them. She slung her left arm around James’s shoulders, pulling him closer to her, and linked her right one with River’s. When Rebecca got her phone back she couldn’t help but laugh at it. James’s hair was ruffled and his expression reminded Rebecca of a disgruntled cat. His cheeks were tinged pink which was probably due to the alcohol. River’s cheeks were also red and Rebecca had her head pressed against his arm.

“Perfect,” she breathed out, “thanks guys. I really mean it. I don’t know how much I’ll be seeing the two of you from now on.”

She set the picture as her phone screen and quickly sent it to the others. Rising on her tiptoes she pressed a drunken kiss against River’s cheek and then James’s. She gave them one last beaming smile before disappearing into the crowd.

“You know,” Spider said when she had gone, “the only reason why she took a photo with you was because she pitied you.”

“Sure,” River said before taking a swig of his own pint, “that’s why she kissed me first.”

“Then why did she kiss me for longer?”

“She didn’t.”

“She did.”

“For what? A fraction of a second, if that? Doesn’t count.”

“Still counts, Cartwright. So back off.”

“Or what?”

“You’ll regret it.”

River looked down at Spider and laughed. Spider turned to fully face him and held out his hand,

“Let the best man win?” he said

River paused for a second, weighing up his options, before clasping the offered hand.

“Let the best man win.” he said

After all, how could he possibly lose?

*

“River? What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you that is. It’s just… this is The Park and you’re, well…”

Rebbeca trailed off awkwardly as she struggled to find the right words. River, who was thankful he had his back turned to her, closed his eyes. He wished that he was somewhere, anywhere, else. He wished that Sid had been around to deliver this fucking laptop. It was humiliating enough having to see Spider but to see Rebecca as well.

“Well,” Spider relaxed back in his chair, “it’s rude not to answer a question, River.”

River looked over his shoulder at Rebecca. It had been too long since he had seen let alone spoken to her. She had tried to keep in contact with him after he got sent to Slough House but he hadn’t had the courage to message back. Rebbeca quickly made her way further into James’s office, depositing the files on his desk.

“Just doing a delivery.” said River

“All Slow Horses are trusted to do.” muttered Spider

Rebecca shot him a glare and tapped the files.

“And that’s what I’m doing.” she said him

“Yes well,” Spider shrugged, “that’s different. You still have security clearance. Cartwright can’t get around without a chaperone.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes but didn’t answer back. She knew when arguing with James was a lost cause. She frowned when she noticed the burns on River’s hands. She sat down in the second chair and gently took his hand. James leant forward, clearly displeased about the turn of events.

“What happened?” she asked

“Oh nothing,” said River quickly, “I just burnt it on a grill.”

“Careless.” Rebecca said teasingly

“You’re surprised?” muttered Spider under his breath, “Look,” he said louder, “I am a very busy man and Cartwright has other things he needs to fuck up. So…”

He picked up the phone but Rebecca was quicker. She stood up and gave him a bright smile.

“No need to bother anyone else,” she said, “I can lead him out.”

“But-” James said again

“She said,” River said with a smirk, “she can do it.”

“But-” Spider stood up quickly, his chair almost clattering to the floor

“Trust me James,” Rebecca said, “and I’ll see you later.”

“What-” started River

Now it was his turn to be surprised and he wasn’t liking the feeling coiling in the pit of his stomach. The smirk Spider gave him wasn’t helping the feeling and made River want to punch him all the more.

“Above your paygrade Cartwright,” Spider said, “Now fuck off. And yes,” he gave Rebecca a softer smile, “I’ll see you later.”

As Rebecca and River walked out of James’s office she linked arms with him. River stiffened slightly before relaxing under her touch. He had missed her and was enjoying the brief moment back with her.

“So,” he said eventually, “You and Spider.”

“Purely platonic,” she said quickly, although her cheeks had turned slightly red, “we’re just friends. Like us!”

“You know,” River said when they were both in the lift and trying to ignore the stabbing feeling in his heart, “he set me up.”

“River…”

Rebecca had heard this a thousand times before. Or at least it felt like it. River’s grip on her arm tightened slightly. She didn’t want to think that James was capable of doing something like that.

“Please,” he said desperately, “he gave me the wrong colours to fuck me over and get me kicked out.”

“It didn’t work though.”

“Slough House isn’t Service.”

“You still have a job.”

“If you can call it that.”

“You’ll be back eventually,” she said, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze, “It’s just a slap on the wrist. Like you said- it was a training exercise. It could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. I know what your other colleagues had done to get in there.”

“You do?”

“Working with Molly Doran I hear a lot of gossip about what goes on.”

“So, you must know what Lamb had done then?”

“Ah, no, not him. The only times Molly talks about him has been less than complimentary.”

They arrived at the ground floor and River unlinked their arms. Rebecca sighed at the action and resisted the urge to relink them. She had missed her friend but she knew why he had done it. As the two of them walked across the foyer she said,

“River, one last thing.”

“Yes.”

She winced slightly at the hopeful tinge in his voice.

“Visitors pass.”

“Oh right.”

River handed it back to her. He closed his eyes as her hand brushed against his. He wished he could turn back time, to tell her everything he wanted to say before he was exiled to Slough House. He wished he had the same faith as her, that he would be back eventually. He would do everything in his power in return and stop Spider from getting any closer to her. Right now, Spider had an unfair advantage but that wouldn’t last for long.

“River,” Rebecca’s voice dragged him out of his thoughts, “don’t be a stranger ok? We’re still friends, right? You being in Slough House shouldn’t stop that.”

“Right,” River gave her a tight lipped smile, “still friends.”

Rebecca remained where she was until River had left the building. She glanced down at his pass and sighed, running a thumb over his photo. She hadn’t realised exactly how much she had missed him until she had seen him again. Of course she had missed him but now it felt like a part of her was missing.

“Excuse me. You’re going to need to hand that back in.”

Rebecca looked over icily at the receptionist. She raised her eyebrows at Rebecca and held out her hand. Rebecca marched over and threw the pass at her. The receptionist scrambled to get it and Rebecca turned on her heel and marched down to the archives again, plotting on how to get her revenge on the receptionist.

*

“Is he ok?” muttered Min to Louisa, “he’s been like that since he got back from The Park.”

Louisa glanced through the window to the kitchen area where River was sitting. He was staring at his phone, seemingly lost in thought. She took a sip of her tea and said,

“Who gives a fuck,” she said, “although it might be better if Lamb doesn’t see him like that.”

“Why?” asked Min

“Because then he’ll be pissed at Cartwright and that’ll make our lives hell.”

“What’s going on?”

Sid approached the two of them and joined them in spying on River. She frowned at River’s expression. He sighed and shook his head before putting his phone away. However, that didn’t last long. He scrambled for it as it pinged with an incoming text.

“It’s a girl,” said Struan, “definitely a girl.”

“How would you know?” asked Louisa

“I am married,” said Struan, “I can see the signs.”

“As am I!” said Min, “But yeah, it might be a girl.”

“Ooh maybe we can invite her to our pub nights?” said Struan, “your wife Min and I sure I can persuade-”

“I didn’t know he had a girlfriend,” interrupted Sid, “he’s never mentioned her before. Do you think it’s someone in Service?”

“Can’t be someone at The Park,” said Louisa, “not while he’s here. Who would want to date a Slow Horse.”

Catherine watched the others in silence and took a sip of her tea. If any of them had bothered to ask her (although why would they) she’d have been able to tell them what River was looking at. Unusually Struan was right, it was a girl that River was looking at. A photo of him and a girl with short red hair and hazel eyes. She was grinning madly, and clearly very drunk, and had her arm linked with his. However, the small bit of blonde hair that River hadn’t quite managed to crop out told her that there was more to this story than initially met the eye.

The sound of thumping from above had everyone scattering and River almost dropped his phone again in shock. Catherine just sighed and began to make her way upstairs. Whatever was going on, River needed to learn to cover it up unless he wanted Lamb to find out about this weakness. Although, from Catherine’s unfortunate experience with knowing Lamb, he probably already knew.

*

“You need to be more careful.”

Rebecca looked over at Molly wheeled over to her. She handed Rebecca a folder which Rebecca dutifully took.

“What do you mean?”

“Cartwright Junior.”

“River? What about him?”

“I can see why you didn’t go down the surveillance route. You’re a shit liar.”

“We’re friends,” Rebecca said as she followed Molly further into the archives, “and he was here. What? Wasn’t I meant to say hi?”

Rebecca recoiled slightly at Molly's look. She just about managed to jump to the side as Molly wheeled around, not caring if she got Rebecca’s foot in the process or not.

“I’m stuck as your line manager so fucking listen to me,” she said, “now sit.”

She clicked her fingers and Rebecca sat on top of a desk.

“You still have a lot to learn,” she said, “about The Park and about how you can fuck up.”

“I’ve been here as long as James and River. I know how things work. How to keep my head down. What people need to see and who can see it. Who I should and shouldn’t be friends with.”

Rebecca said the last bit bitterly and looked away. She didn’t understand why she needed to throw away years of friendship just because of River’s fuck up. Well, on the one hand she did but her life outside of work didn’t need to be affected.

“Exactly.”

Rebecca sighed and swung her legs back and forth.

“I’m not an idiot,” she said, “I’m sick of people treating me like one.”

“You might be in some ways but not in others.”

A mug of tea was roughly pushed into her hands and Rebecca looked down at it in shock.

“Don’t get used to it,” said Molly harshly, “you moping is getting annoying. Now shut up and listen because I’m only going to say this once. You’re not completely useless down here so maybe you can stay a bit longer. If you survive that is.”

“As long as I survive long enough to get revenge on that receptionist I’ll be happy.”

*

“Are you feeling ok?”

Rebecca stabbed at her pasta and glanced up at Spider. He wasn’t looking at her, focusing on his own meal, but he always had the uncanny knack of knowing exactly how she was feeling.

“Just… seeing River today.”

Spider sighed and put down his cutlery. He took a sip of his wine and reached across the table. He took her hand and gave in a squeeze. Rebecca was the only person who was allowed to see this side of him. Really she should be honoured about him being so vulnerable in front of her. And in public no less!

“You shouldn’t think about him,” he said, “he fucked up and now he’s in Slough House.”

“But he doesn’t belong there.”

“He doesn’t belong in Service. Not after his fiasco.”

“Unless it wasn’t his fiasco.”

Spider’s grip on Rebecca’s hand tightened slightly.

“What do you mean?” he asked

“I don’t know,” Rebecca shrugged, “I wasn’t there. I’m only hearing about things second hand. Just… you’re not lying to me are you, James?”

“No,” he said firmly, “I wouldn’t. I-”

He swallowed thickly and looked away.

“You’re my friend.” he finished bluntly

“Just a friend?” the teasing tone that Rebecca used with River earlier that day returned, causing Spider to turn red.

“Well,” the cocky attitude returned trying to cover up his embarrassment, “I never knew you felt that way about me.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes and pulled her hand free. She tried to ignore the warmth she had missed from it and distracted herself by taking another sip of wine.

“Very funny Spider.” she said teasingly

“I thought I told you not to call me that.”

“No, you told River not to call you that,” Rebecca stabbed another bit of pasta and waved it at Spider, “getting forgetful in your old age?”

“You're not that much younger than me.”

“Still younger.”

Rebecca smirked at Spider’s annoyed look and glanced out of the restaurant window. She frowned slightly when she thought she could see a glimpse of blonde hair but as quickly as she had seen it, it had disappeared. James’s conversation about some irritating thing one of his underlings had done drew her back into the conversation. She wished that moments like these could last forever.

But when you worked for M.I.5, nothing ever did.

[burymeinwillow]

Father and Son.... 👉👈sure might be 140-ish years between them but that's time travel for ya

(Jesse is a Bonanza/Top Gun OC)

[hobbies-miscellaneous]

We now have Hanz and Kaitlyn as The Lovers and Alexander with some supplies as The Chariot!

Finally drawn Kaitlyn on a card!

These are totally not late lol! I was busy with other stuff

[nessaadraws]

What happens when the boys are gone on a cattle drive 🤫

This has been requested by dear @unicorn-cloud , Ben and her OC.

[si-cucumber]

I have spent all afternoon making Prosekai stamp edits for the TMR server!

I am so proud of them! I think they came out really nice!

[maevesdarling]

Some days you gotta draw your OC in cute fluffy situations and some days you gotta draw your OC in mortal peril 🤷🏻‍♀️

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

Olivia Rodrigo Edits ✤ Colton Cartwright

Guts (Spilled) ✤ Scared Of My Guitar: I say that I'm fine, I tell them all the time, as they watch all the life fade away

Tag List: @airwolf92 – want to be added?

[whumpcereal]

i want to see will's eventual rescue!!! :D:D:D

Do you, @hold-him-down? Here you go...

part of the kennel. set a year after will and tommy's disappearance. tommy and annie have been free for nearly six months; will has been sold away to whumper extraordinaire, pat deangelis, whom you'll get to know here. master list here.

content warnings for: extreme dehumanization, depersonalization, derealization, pet whump, references to noncon, noncon body modification, references to organ harvesting, forced nudity, collars, electrocution, captivity whump, creepy whumper, conditioned whumpee, thoughts of death, adult language

will's rescue, he's coming home

There is some awareness. The mutt knows that he exists. He is real. And at the same time, he isn’t real at all. The pain he feels is real. The feeling of Pat’s knife blade against his skin, the grinding pressure of the bolts in his jaw, the wet heat that seeps from deep inside after he’s used; he feels it all. But then, he doesn’t. 

He isn’t–he can’t. He isn’t himself. There is no self to be. Not anymore. There is sensation and there is darkness and there is nothing in between. Everything happens to the body that used to belong to someone with a name, someone that people knew, but someone that no one cared very much about. No one will ever care for him again. That much he knows. It’s easier to retreat into the darkness than to entertain the thought that someone might love him. He’s not meant to think anyway. So he doesn’t. He won’t. 

There is a man with Pat when feeding time comes. The syringe is full of the usual brown slop, but the mutt doesn’t care. He takes what he can get. When Pat lifts the lid on his tank, he scooches dutifully onto his ruined back. He’s still bleeding from yesterday, but he can’t really feel it; so much of what used to be skin is scar tissue now. His nerves are dead. 

He thinks he might be dead soon too. He isn’t sure he knows how to look forward to it, but there’s something comforting, knowing that, soon, the darkness won’t be interrupted by any more pain. 

“You got a visitor, pup,” Pat says dryly. 

He kneels beside the mutt’s tank and reaches to cradle the boy’s head in preparation for his food. The mutt doesn’t make a sound; he’s not even sure that he can. When he can think, he idly wonders if his vocal cords are swiss cheese beneath the scabs and scars left by Doc’s bark collar. Doc never took it off, even after he’d wired Will’s jaw shut. Pat soldered the collar’s lock permanently closed; he did the same with the little locks that keep the mutt’s mitts in place too. 

The mutt hasn’t seen his own hands in he doesn’t know how long. He doesn’t even remember what they look like. But he remembers the white hot shards of molten metal splattering against his skin. He hadn’t screamed, even then. He knew his purpose just as well as he knows it now: to suffer. That’s why Pat bought the mutt in the first place. Perhaps Will had been a whipping boy at Doc’s; here, the mutt is even less than that. 

Sometimes, when the mutt comes back to himself for a stretch of time, he misses Tommy, even though he knows it is wrong. He wonders what it would feel like to be used gently again, to know any kind of apology or affection, even at the expense of his body. 

He misses Annie even more. 

Not that it matters. Not that he can think about it. Just now, there is nothing but the feeling of Pat’s hand beneath his snaggled and greasy hair; nothing but the rubber tubing that Pat shoves between his cracked lips. 

The dim outline of another man hovers over Pat’s shoulder. For just a moment, the mutt’s eyes strain to see, but there’s only a faceless body, a voice that he doesn’t recognize. He isn’t sure if that’s good or bad. 

“He looks like shit,” the other man says. “There’s nothing to him.”

Pat laughs, and at once, the piston of the syringe shoves forward and a slosh of blended dog food and water hits the mutt’s teeth. The mutt sucks dutifully at the little tube, swallowing whatever he can. There won’t be any more until tomorrow. 

“Well, I didn’t think you were after him to win any beauty contests. It’s not his outsides you’re interested in.” 

The mutt closes his eyes. His insides hurt. Everything hurts, and the hurt means he’s still alive. He doesn’t know if he wants it to stop. He knows he should roll onto his stomach, that he should let the man feel his insides. He doesn’t have to think to know that.

But the other man drops into a squat next to Pat and peers into the tank. “Lemme see his teeth.” 

“His jaw’s bolted–”

“Yeah, I gathered. But I still want to see his teeth.” 

Pat pulls the syringe away, and the mutt doesn’t whine. His head falls back against the plastic bottom of the tank, and Pat’s hands reach for him again. Pat uses his dirty thumbs to pull the mutt’s chapped lips backward from his teeth, which are permanently joined by Doc’s wires and bolts. 

“I brush them every now and again.” 

It’s a lie, of course, but the mutt won’t disagree. If his teeth hurt, he hasn’t noticed. That doesn’t mean they don’t hurt, but what the fuck does it matter either way? 

Still, the mutt’s breath picks up. Why? The thought is tiny, like a knifepoint in the back of his mind, but it’s there. Why is this happening? Why won’t it stop? Why?

“I think he likes you,” Pat says with a soft laugh. He rubs his thumb over the mutt’s lips, catching the dry skin with the edge of a callous. “He’s getting all worked up.” 

“That’s not what I’m here for,” the guy grumbles back. “If he’s not healthy, it won’t be worth using him for parts. I mean, look at him. He’s fucking gray. He’s, like, two seconds from sepsis. People don’t want kidneys that are already failing, you know?” 

The mutt jerks against the floor of the tank. His insides. The man doesn’t want to use him; he wants to gut him. The mutt shouldn’t care. He should just let it happen, let everything fade into darkness for good, but the thought is growing now, slicing through his gray matter. Why? Why me? Why isn’t it ever over? 

The mutt can’t breathe.

Pat dangles his arm over the edge of the tank. He’s still laughing. “Well, now! That’s the most excited I’ve seen him in weeks. Guess there’s still someone in there after all.” 

Someone. The mutt used to be someone, that’s true. He shakes his head, only just swallowing the moan of protest that he can feel building in his abused throat. He wishes he could open his mouth to gasp for breath. He tries. His jaw stays firmly shut.

“It doesn’t mean he’s healthy,” the guy shoots back. 

“And what do you care if he’s healthy? Does it matter to you if he dies on the table? You want the things that are keeping him alive, and damned if he isn’t still kicking. He’s got working lungs, doesn’t he? A heart that’s still beating. Just look at him!” 

The mutt closes his eyes and squirms against the plexiglass walls, pulling in as much breath as he can through his nose. He remembers a movie he watched with his father, when he still had a name. In the movie, a man’s beating heart is ripped from his bare chest. The mutt imagines his heart being ripped out; it must be small now, like the rest of him. Tough and ashen. 

He can’t feel his heartbeat, though. Maybe it isn’t there at all.

He is drowning. Pat tucks a hand against his throat in warning. The mutt has to get it together. He has to impress the new man. He has to be prepared to suffer and like it.

Pat slaps the mutt across the face, shoving the soft meat of his cheek into Doc’s hardware. The mutt whines without thinking. The collar deploys. His throat snaps and burns. He seizes against the walls of the tank, but when it subsides, he is breathing again. He feels his heartbeat.

He is still alive, and the new man is going to kill him. 

Another memory of his father. A book. To die will be an awfully big adventure. 

The mutt doesn’t want an adventure; if he could want anything, it would be relief. 

The new man leans over the tank. His face looks funny. 

“You’ve kept him this way the entire time you’ve had him?” the man asks.

The tank. That’s what he must mean. When the mutt was still Will, he’d laughed when Pat showed him the tank. It set off the collar, but he didn’t care. The whole thing was just ridiculous. Like something you’d put an overgrown lizard in. Glass walls, a mesh top. Just enough room for a body to lay flat. It made Tommy’s dog house look like a motherfucking palace. 

It’s a fucking coffin masquerading as a terrarium. It’s a coffin. His coffin. Will’s. Oh, God– 

He doesn’t want to think anymore. He wishes he could scream. 

“I take him out when the mood strikes me,” Pat replies, and the mutt freezes when Pat’s rough hand cups his face. “He’s still nice and tight, even after all this time. The doc trained him well. I will miss that once you take him to play Operation, but I’m sure I can find another boy somewhere. Maybe one whose jaw has more range of motion, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m not interested in that,” the man snaps. 

“You’re pretty touchy for a guy who wants this little fucker’s organs on ice.” 

The mutt whines again, before he can stop himself. The collar responds. As he twitches and burns, he looks up at the man who is going to kill him. Their eyes meet. The mutt doesn’t understand the look on the guy’s face.

*

Derringer winces as the kid’s body stills in the tank. It’s not like he wasn’t prepared for this; it’s not like he’s new. He’s been on the task force for the better part of a decade, and he knows how depraved people can be. But this—everything that’s come out of Barker and his contacts, it’s next level shit. 

He looks down at the body in the glass tank. Christ, the kid looks barely human. He’s emaciated—of course he is; according to what the Mahoney boy told them, his jaw’s been wired shut for the better part of a year—and his gray skin stretches too tightly over his bones, some of which have been obviously broken and poorly set. And that’s concerning, but somehow not as concerning as the webwork of thin, deliberate scars that covers most of the boy’s naked body. He’s been defaced. Decorated. 

Ruined, Derringer’s mind supplies. 

He can’t imagine the pain. The boy must have spent hours under Pat DeAngelis’ knife. And when he wasn’t being slit open like a fish, it was worse. He can see the blood and pearly smudges that line the boy’s inner thighs. Derringer doesn’t want to think of the scars he can’t see.

There’s no question it’s Will Cartwright, but whatever resemblance exists between the photos and videos Derringer’s seen and the broken person in front of him is limited at best. How could it not be, after what the kid’s been through? 

Will watches him, brown eyes wide, and Derringer looks back. Their eyes meet for just a second. Hold on, kid, Derringer thinks. It’s almost over. You’re almost home.

He hardens his face again and looks back at DeAngelis. 

“I’ll take him.”

“At the price we agreed on?”

Derringer shrugs. He can’t make this seem too easy. “He’s pretty beat up.”

“So you can’t skin him and make a profit,” DeAngelis laughs. “Though I’d buy it back from you if I could. I’m a little disappointed you’re going to destroy all my handiwork when you cut him open.” The jackass rakes his nails over the boy’s chest, opening wounds Derringer hadn’t realized were fresh. The kid flinches but stays silent. DeAngelis nods his approval. “I’ve worked hard on him.”

“I can see that,” Derringer says. 

“But he’s outlived his usefulness, and I thought, waste not, want not, you know?”

Will’s eyes slip closed again. Derringer wonders how much the kid really hears, if he even has it in him to be frightened anymore. He hopes not. It will make this next part easier. 

“Sure, waste not. But he is in rough shape. And you can’t personally guarantee his health, so—“

DeAngelis’ eyes narrow. “How much?”

“I’ll give you five grand for him as is.”

It’s an insult, and they both know it. Will probably knows it too, if he understands any of what’s going on around him.

“We said ten. And you know you’ll make more off of all his bits and pieces. That’s bullshit.”

“I don’t know that. He might not have anything viable. He might die before our people open him up. He’s practically dead already.” Derringer ignores the twist in his stomach; it’s too close to the truth. “If we can move his heart and lungs at least, I’ll kick you back a percentage.”

Will turns his head suddenly, and a tear slips down his soiled, sunken cheek. 

Derringer sucks in a quick breath and forces himself to look away. He’s still in there. The kid is still alive, even if he is in pain. 

Just a little bit longer, I promise. 

*

The mutt wants to die, but at the same time, he doesn’t. 

He knows what the new man is planning. He understands. And even if he doesn’t quite know why, he knows he doesn’t want it to happen. Staying alive isn’t really worth it, but it is. It is. Because maybe–maybe this isn’t forever. 

It’s a stupid thought. He hasn’t had a thought like that in he doesn’t know how long. This is why he shouldn’t think. He should let the darkness take him. He should let the pain slip away. 

But the pain that’s going to come before–he can’t stomach it. 

Okay, poor choice of words. 

Behind his closed eyes, he imagines himself cut open, his scarred skin peeled away from his chest like flaps. He can almost feel hands reaching inside to grab the things that are keeping him alive; he knows he will feel it when the time comes. Fuckers who do things like this, they get off on the pain they inflict. He will feel himself being disassembled piece by piece. 

It’s more than he can bear. 

“Fifty percent of his proceeds,” Pat is saying. 

“Jesus Christ, you must think I was born yesterday. He’s not worth fifty percent.” 

The mutt isn’t worth anything. There’s nothing he can do to keep Pat from going through with this. 

Except–

“Twenty five,” the man shoots back. 

The mutt blushes, but the men aren’t looking at him now. 

He doesn’t make a sound–the two shocks he’s already had were plenty–but he starts to rock his body gently back and forth. He’s got to roll over. He isn’t much to look at, he knows, but Pat likes to look at his handiwork, likes to know the mutt is his creation. It excites him. And if the mutt can just get Pat excited, remind him of how good he is–

“Twenty-five? I’m giving you a fucking treasure trove here. You don’t have to hunt for any of the goods; he’s got them all. I should be charging you a fucking finder’s fee, not knocking down the price. I paid a pretty penny for this little mutt; he’s worth more than five grand and a measly twenty-five percent.” 

Fuck, the mutt should be touched, shouldn’t he? He’s worth something after all. 

“What the fuck is he doing?” 

The mutt doesn’t stop moving. He’s almost made it. 

*

Derringer bites back a gasp. This is worse than the Mahoney boy and Barker’s daughter let on. Of course, they don’t know what’s happened since Will was sold away.  His back is completely destroyed. The thick, ropey scars from Barker’s bullwhip are as bad as he expected, but what DeAngelis has done–it’s like he’s traced every one of the boy’s veins with his knife. It’s a root system of carnage. It looks like DeAngelis reopens the wounds at will; there are a few still weeping. The smell is gut churning. 

DeAngelis laughs. “Awww, pup! You want to show the nice man what else you have to offer, don’t you?”

The kid forces himself onto wobbling hands and knees; Derringer doesn’t know how he manages it. He dips his head and shoves his bony backside a little higher. His hips are a mess of black and blue fingerprints, and a silicone plug swells from between his red-striped buttocks.

“I told you, I’m not interested in that,” Derringer spits. Christ, how is this kid still alive? 

DeAngelis sighs and nudges the plug with his fingers, and Will dutifully grinds backward. Derringer has to fight not to look away. The poor fucking kid. 

“No, mutt,” DeAngelis says, swatting softly at the boy’s naked ass. “That’s done now. We had a good ride, but it’s getting a little sad, isn’t it? And besides, apparently we’ve got to protect the integrity of the merchandise if I want any return on my investment.” 

Derringer has been doing this for years. He sees people at their lowest points on a regular basis. But damn if his heart doesn’t feel like it’s breaking when Will throws his body back against DeAngelis. Will’s dark, greasy head swoons against DeAngelis’ chest, his brown eyes pleading where his mouth cannot. Tears slip down his cheeks, but he only presses himself closer to DeAngelis. It’s a grotesque thing to watch: the kid is begging to be used with every ounce of strength he’s got left. 

How do you ever get over that, Derringer wonders? Will is begging for pain because he thinks it will keep him alive. What happens when that stops? When the pain isn’t a memory, but something that’s carved into your skin for everyone to see? Tomorrow, when Will Cartwright is safe in a hospital, how will he live with what Barker and DeAngelis have done to him? How will he live knowing the things he’s had to do? 

Will’s hips press backward again—almost instinctively, Derringer thinks—but DeAngelis only shoves him away, letting the boy fall face first into the tank. 

“I said no. Don’t fool yourself, mutt. You’re no prize. That’s why you’re here in the first place. If anyone had wanted you, you would never have ended up with me. I don’t want you. I never did. I just needed something to do, and I’ve done all I can with you. Now it’s time to let this nice gentleman do all he can. At least now you’ll be doing something useful, huh?”

Will’s decimated back heaves with a silent sob. Derringer’s hand clenches into a fist at his side. 

“If you don’t want him,” Derringer says, “then you should be willing to let him go for five.”

“7500.” 

“Six.”

“Seven, and forty percent of whatever you get for his bits and pieces.”

“Seven and thirty.” Even as he says it, Derringer has to remind himself that Will Cartwright will still have a beating heart days from now, that there will be no percentage for his bits and pieces at all.

DeAngelis looks down at the naked boy with impassive eyes; the open wounds on the kid’s back shine under the fluorescent light.

“Fine. Seven and thirty.”

“Done,” Derringer says quickly. 

DeAngelis leans over the tank. “Did you hear that, mutt?” he says to Will’s back. “It’s time for you and I to say goodbye.”

And then, Will shrieks. The sound is more animal than human, lodged somewhere deep in the boy’s scarred throat, and when the sensor on his collar picks it up, there’s a cruel snap of electricity. But Will only screams again. And again. And again. 

Derringer starts forward. “Hey—“

DeAngelis only shakes his head and heaves the mesh lid back onto the tank. Will’s body thrashes against the glass walls of his prison, and he doesn’t stop screaming, even as the collar pops against his throat.

He thinks he’s fighting for his life. There is a part of Will Cartwright that still believes he’s worth saving, that wants to go on living even if it means being trapped in DeAngelis’ fucking tank until he dies.

Hold onto that, kid. You’re so close. Don’t let go now.

But still, Derringer knows that a part of Will Cartwright will stay trapped here, even when the rest of him is safe. The kid’s real fight is just beginning. 

“He’s going to hurt himself,” Derringer says. “His heart—“

DeAngelis kicks the side of the tank. “He’ll pass out soon enough; it’ll save you the trouble of drugging him for the trip.”

Derringer wants to wrap his hands around the fucker’s neck, but it isn’t part of the plan. The others are waiting outside. DeAngelis will be in custody in minutes. He will never be able to hurt anyone like this ever again. He and Barker and all of their disgusting contacts are going to rot in prison. They are going to pay.

But it doesn’t mean Derringer doesn’t want to inflict some pain himself. For the Mahoney boy and Barker’s daughter. For Justin Huang, whose husband is still lost somewhere overseas. For every soul they’ve pulled from the depths of hell since Barker’s operation was blown open—and for the ones they were too late to save. 

But right now, all he wants is to make DeAngelis suffer for Will. 

But Derringer is a professional. He manages to smile, even as Will’s close-mouthed sobs keep coming. 

“Well, thanks.”

*

Will can’t hear everything they’re saying. He can’t hear anything but his own screams, really—it turns out, when you can’t open your mouth to scream, the sound just echoes in your own head. Still, it feels good to hear some version of his own voice. To know he’s there, even if it’s only for a few more hours. 

And he is there. Will is there. The mutt is too, but he’s already slipping into the recesses of Will’s brain, silent where Will is screaming. Will will scream until he can’t. He will scream and he will fight until his heart is cut from his chest, and they cannot stop him. 

He doesn’t notice when Pat locks the mesh top on the tank. He doesn’t quite feel it when the tank is hoisted onto a push cart. He doesn’t care when he starts to roll away. He doesn’t stop screaming. 

The pain from his collar dulls with every shock. It’s no worse than anything else he’s suffered, and it matters less now. He gurgles against the electric current, but he doesn’t stop himself from making noise. He won’t give Pat the satisfaction. He won’t give the new guy a break. He gets to decide how this goes, even if it’s the last decision he ever makes.

Will rides the electricity until his whole body shakes, and he beats the sides of the tank with his shoulders, his elbows, his heels. They ignore him, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.

His jaw aches to open, and he feels himself fighting against the bolts and wires that Doc installed all those months ago. Nothing budges, but he pretends that it does. Another throat-shredding scream, another jolt of electricity. Over and over and over again. 

With every snap of current, Will lets himself think of the people he’s leaving behind. No one wants him, not like this, and he gets it, he does. But he is himself for the first time in a long time, and he isn’t going to waste it. 

He screams and the collar lights up, and when he closes his eyes, he sees Annie. She is smiling at him, her big brown eyes crinkled at their corners. She reaches for him with her little hand, and Will tries to reach back. His mitt brushes the mesh top of the tank. Annie fades, and he screams again. 

Tommy is there when the shock comes, wrapped in his favorite hoodie and leaning against something Will can’t see. Tommy’s head tips back, and he laughs. He is happy. But looking at Tommy hurts, and Will screams, and he is relieved when the shock sends Tommy away. 

Will’s father takes Tommy’s place, young and a little sad, like he was when Will’s mother took off. Bud? he says, but somehow, he doesn’t say it at all. He looks so tired. Bud, I miss you so much. I’m sorry—

Will screams so long and loud that the shock stops before the sound does. He wilts on his bloody back, exhausted. He’ll go again, he will, he just needs a minute—

“What the fuck?!”

“On the ground! ON THE GROUND!”

The tank isn’t moving anymore. Will can’t see Pat or the new man. All he can see is a metal ceiling beyond the mesh top. It’s dark around him, but there is light, just outside his range of vision. He doesn’t scream again. He stills. He waits. He listens.

“Get his hands behind his back and make sure they’re real fucking tight.”

It’s the man. The man who is going to kill him. Will doesn’t understand. He tenses against the glass bottom of the tank, his bloody skin smooching awkwardly along the smooth surface. His mouth twitches, as if to bite his lip, but too late, he remembers that he can’t. The pain starts to build again, needling at him from every direction. Still, Will strains to hear. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on the voices, even as the world begins to gray.

“You fucking son of a bitch—you’re a Fed—“

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, DeAngelis. Turns out, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. Not that it will matter too much once my team sweeps your depraved little Xanadu here. I only wish they’d put you in a fucking tank.”

Will’s brow wrinkles. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. The pain washes over him again, and his atrophied muscles seize. He groans, but the collar doesn’t react.

“Get him in the car. I’ll help the kid. Make sure the ambulance is en route.”

The floor beneath Will stutters a little, and then the man is kneeling over the tank. 

“Will?” 

Will shakes his head, trying to force his eyes back open, trying to understand. No one’s called him by his name in so long. How does the man know his name? 

The mesh disappears from overhead. The man leans over the tank. His face is dark and stubbled in the dim light, and Will presses his body somehow flatter against the bottom of the tank, even though it hurts. Somehow, he finds the strength to scream again, and the snap of the shock flares against his throat. 

“Will, no–no, kid, I promise, everything will be okay.”  

The man’s voice is suddenly soft. He leans closer, and Will can see that he has blue eyes. The man doesn’t smile, but his face isn’t unkind. It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Will, my name is Special Agent Christopher Derringer. I’m here to take you home.” 

Home. Will’s eyes sting with fresh tears. It can’t be true. The man is lying. Will doesn’t have a home. No one wants him. How could they? He needs Pat. He needs someone to tell him what to do. 

“Will? You’re safe now.” 

But Will isn’t safe. Everything hurts so badly, and he is so tired. He knows he should keep fighting, that he shouldn’t believe what this man is saying, but he can’t do this anymore. It’s too much. 

His eyes close, and he lets himself go. When they open–if they open–maybe he will understand. 

*

The boy loses consciousness before the paramedics get there. 

“Christ almighty,” one whispers under her breath. “The poor kid. How on earth–” 

Derringer nods, standing by as they carefully lift Will from the fucking tank. They lay him gently on the gurney. His skeletal body looks too small on the blue sheets. One of the paramedics covers him with a space blanket, and for a moment, the boy looks like he must have as a child; for all that his body bears the marks of Barker’s and DeAngelis’ cruel treatment, his face is untouched, innocent. 

Well, almost, Derringer amends, thinking about the bolts and wires that have kept the boy silent for the better part of a year. But like this, it almost looks like he’s just fallen asleep; like maybe, everything that’s happened to him was just some kind of fucked up nightmare. 

It isn’t, of course, and when Will wakes, he’ll know it too. 

Derringer follows the gurney to the ambulance, and he prays that the kid will stay asleep as long as he can. What comes next might be some kind of relief, but it certainly won’t be easy. 

The heavy doors close, and Derringer digs in his pants pocket for his phone. He scrolls for the number, and he ignores the clenching in his gut as it rings. 

“Mr. Cartwright? Agent Derringer. We’ve got him. He’s coming home.” 

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @tasteywhumpee, @whumplr-reader, @sad-boys-anonymous, @whumpzone

[noforkingclue]

Love to Hate and Hate to Love, Chapter 1 (River Cartwright x OC)

Summary: so far Olivia's time at The Park had been relatively uneventful, despite working for a Service Legend. However, when her boss manages to piss off Lady Di she's forced to cooperate with the Slow Horses. And only one team is only going to get out of this alive.

Author's note: my first of my Slow Horses OC fics (and first OC fic in general...). Title might change though

Slow Horses tag list: @cillmequick

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites spngingerbread21,  @layazul,  @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

Olivia tapped her pen on her desk and she glanced down at the paper in front of her. Her colleagues had seemingly abandoned their work for the meantime in favour of focusing on the message.

“Remind me,” she said, “why are we doing this, oh, how did Fitz describe it again?”

“Dealing with the fuck ups,” grunted Kara, “chuck that over.”

“Why?”

“I want to see if there’s a message in it.”

“Why?”

“You’re still new here Olive. When you’ve been here as long as we have you learn to pick things up.”

“Olive,” Olivia muttered as she folded the paper into an aeroplane, “never going to live that down am I?”

“Nope,” said Laura as she relaxed back in her chair, “you aren’t. Besides, it suits you!”

Olivia threw her a glare but chose not to snap back. She chucked the plane over to Kara who read it in silence. She sighed and put it down heavily.

“Nothing,” she said as she ran a hand through her straight black hair, “that’s disappointing.”

“You were expecting something?” Asked Olivia

“Maybe a little something,” Kara admitted, “then again Fitz is a bit cagey about his Cold War days. Especially when it comes to his old colleagues. You can’t really blame me for being suspicious.”

“And even more when it comes to Jackson Lamb,” said Warren, “heard they almost came to blows more than once.”

“Definitely,” said Laura, “you must’ve heard of Jackson Lamb right Olive. Despite still being a bit green.”

Olivia rolled her eyes and swatted Laura’s hand as she ruffled her hair. She had only been in The Service for six months but it was hard not to have heard of Service legends like Jackson Lamb or the infamous Slow Horses. Even her boss, Max ‘Fitz’ Fitzgerald was a Service legend in his own right and you don’t become one of those without doing some shady shit.

"So why are we involved?" she asked

"Because Lady Di thinks she's being funny and she’s also punishing me."

Olivia, who was the only one with her back to the door, jumped at the sound of Fitz’s voice. Fitz just gave her a bright smile and clapped a hand on her shoulder. For someone so short he was a lot stronger than he looked. He was only five foot five and yet his presence always commanded a room's attention.

“And you are coming with me.” He said

“Why me?” Asked Olivia

“Because Lamb’s bringing someone with him and I want you to distract him.”

“Fitz! I thought you said that honey traps weren’t your style.”

“Nothing like that. I want you to piss off River Cartwright.”

*

Cartwright, Cartwright, Cartwright.

Another name you couldn’t go five minutes in The Service without hearing. The grandson was just as famous as the grandfather although for completely different reasons. Actually, famous was the wrong word. Infamous was definitely more like it. Olivia bit her lip to avoid ranting to Fitz. He had already had enough of hearing about it in the office.

“Remember what I said?” Said Fitz, “level head.”

“But distract him,” Olivia said through gritted teeth, “I know. Trust me, I know. I have the perfect distraction.”

The only thing keeping Cartwright in The Service (if Slough House could be called that) was his grandfather. That pissed Olivia off. Anyone else would’ve been cast out but no. Precious little River Cartwright still had a job. Fuck, she thought she had left the nepo babies behind at university.

“We’re here.”

Olivia was dragged out of her thoughts as Fitz spoke. She looked up at the pub and wrinkled her nose. It looked like the type of dives she would’ve gone to as a struggling student. Flaking paint, cracked windows and a general air of unkemptness oozed from it.

“It’s a shithole.” She said

“I know but Lamb chose it so it’s not surprising. Ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

Fitz opened the door and gestured for Olivia to go in. Olivia sighed and tried to hold in her grimace as she entered the pub. However, when she walked on the sticky floors she couldn’t help but let out a disgusted noise.

“This your new girl, Fitz? Heard you got a new one. Thought you’d bring someone with a bit more fucking experience.”

“Jackson,” Fitz said grimly, “I’d say good to see you but we’re both too old to bullshit each other. So cut the bullshite and let's just get on with it. I doubt neither of us want to spend too long in each other's company.”

Fitz walked towards the two men in the corner of the pub with you following closely behind. Olivia had to admit, she had been curious about meeting Jackson Lamb (less so River Cartwright) but he wasn’t what she expected. She had been expecting someone like Fitz who was always very well presented and never seen out of a three piece suit. She wasn’t expecting someone who, to put it bluntly, looked like a homeless man and nothing could prepare her for the smell. His companion on the other hand…

“River Cartwright.” He said standing up and offering Olivia his hand

He flashed her a bright smile which he probably thought made him look charming. Fuck, she could just imagine what the others would be saying. Well, at least he had some manners unlike his boss. Oh well, time to ruin it.

“Olivia Moher,” she said taking it, “nice to put a face to the name of the person who crashed Stansted. I saw the video. The Park uses it as training on how not to fuck things up.”

River narrowed his eyes and let go of Olivia’s hand. Lamb let out a snort of amusement.

“Very fucking funny,” he said to Fitz, “I can see why you brought her. Now tell your fucking idiot to piss off.”

Fitz opened his mouth and quickly closed it with a snap. He nodded towards the door and Olivia took a deep breath. Secretly she was glad to get out of the pub.

“As long as you tell your Slow Horse to piss off as well.” He said

“Gladly. Cartwright, fuck off.”

“But-“

“Now!”

Even Olivia flinched at the harsh tone in Lamb’s voice and she was already nearly out of the pub. River practically pushed past her and she grimaced. Well, thís is going to be awkward. Not like she cared that is.

There was a heavy tension in the air. Olivia folded her arms and leant against a wall. She could quite bring herself to care about whether or not she hurt his feelings. Probably not the best idea to piss off someone you're meant to be working with.

“I suppose you think you’re funny.”

Olivia glanced over at River and smirked.

“I’m fucking hilarious.”

“It was a training exercise, you know. And I was set up.”

“And I was only following orders.”

“That’s the oldest excuse in the book.”

“And yours isn’t? I wonder how many agents tried that excuse before being thrown out? At least you had your family name to rely on.”

Olivia gave River a sharp smile and River slowly approached her. She pushed herself off the wall and folded her arms. She looked up and him as he said,

“What’s that meant to mean?”

“Maybe if you spent half a second thinking about it instead of asking questions you’d be able to figure it out for yourself.”

River opened his mouth to snap back but a shoot from inside the pub stopped him. Olivia and River glanced at each other in confusion. The door flung open and a furious Fitz was in the doorway. He glanced between you and snapped,

“What the fuck is this? Sexual tension?”

Both Olivia and River recoiled from each other

“Not fucking likely.” Said Olivia

“Good. Now hurry up. We have to go back to The Park.”

“Already?”

“Yes,” Fitz gave Lamb a disgusted look as he pushed past him, “it’s the only place he can’t get to.”

“I wouldn’t count on that Fitz.” Lamb practically spat the nickname

“Moher, let’s go.”

“Ok. See you around Cuntwright.”

“It’s Cartwright!”

“Yeah but Cuntwright suits you so much better!”

*

“So,” Kara kicked out and wheeled her chair over to Olivia, “what was the infamous Jackson Lamb and River Cartwright like?”

“Yeah, I’ve never seen Fitz that pissed before,” said Laura, “and I’ve been working with him for three years.”

“I’ve been working for him for ten and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him like that.” said Warren

“Cunts,” Olivia said, “especially Cartwright.”

Warren put down a mug of tea on Olivia’s desk and offered her a pack of biscuits which she gratefully took.

“Well this certainly bodes well,” Warren said, “you annoyed, Fitz pissed. Looks like they both got under your skin. I thought Fitz wanted you to do that to Cartwright, not the other way round.”

“And I did.”

“And it looks like he did the same to you,” said Kara, “say, is he as handsome as people mention? I never had the pleasure of meeting him before his fuck up.”

“His personality ruins it.” Olivia said through a mouthful of digestive

“So he is handsome,” said Kara teasingly, “careful Olive. You might find yourself compromised.”

Olivia wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

“I think I’d rather quit the Service.”

“Don’t let Lady Di hear you say that,” said Fitz, “she might just take you up on that offer.”

“Why?” Olivia asked

“Because she hates me and wants me to suffer.”

“What did you do?” Asked Laura

Fitz sighed and took off his glasses. He cleaned them on his tie before putting them back on. For the first time since Olivia met him, Fitz looked his age. He looked tired and he leant against her desk, stealing the mug of tea that Warren had made her.

“It’s ancient history,” Fitz said at last, “the past is the past and should remain so. However, when dealing with people like Jackson Lamb, the past never remains buried for long. He has an uncanny knack of digging things up at the worst possible time.”

He took a sip of the tea and winced slightly as it scolded his tongue.

“This was back before the wall fell,” he continued, “you four would be too young to remember it-”

“I vaguely remember something on the news,” said Warren, who had just turned forty, “but I was too young to take in the significance of it.”

“Well,” Fitz gave a one shoulder shrug, “I spent a lot of time behind the wall. Doing… off the record things.”

“Off the record?” asked Olivia

She glanced over at Laura and Kara. Laura mimed cutting her throat and Olivia looked over at Fitz in horror. Fitz just grimaced and said,

“What did you expect when you joined The Service? Everything to be sunshine and rainbows?”

“Have you all killed people?” Olivia asked

“Now is not the time for this conversation,” Fitz said, “We need to focus. And I need a fresh cup of tea. This is too weak.”

Fitz shoved the cup at Warren who sighed but ultimately made him a fresh one. Fitz looked at it and nodded.

“Better. You never leave the tea bag in for long enough.”

“Yes I do! The others agree with me.”

Warren turned to look for backup but suddenly everyone was interested in the floor. Even Olivia looked away, uncomfortable at seeing the hurt look on Warren’s face.

“Back to the matter at hand,” Fitz said grimly, “most of the ‘off the record’ was carried out abroad. People we,” Fitz coughed and gave a bitter smile, “found difficult.”

“And did this just happen abroad?” asked Kara, a hint of cynicism in her voice

“Well,” Fitz ran a hand over his face, “most of the time. All the stuff I did was.”

“Most,” Laura paused, “What do you mean by ‘most’.”

“You killed your own people,” said Olivia, “I thought we didn’t do that.”

Fitz shrugged again. His nonchalance about the whole situation was starting to irritate Olivia.

“We don’t.”

“Then what does Lamb have you on?” asked Olivia

“On me? Nothing.”

“So who does he have dirt on?”

“Well there’s nothing concrete,” said Fitz, “but in this game nothing needs to be. All it takes is a rumour and,”

He clicked his fingers and smiled when his team jumped,

“Gone!”

“And this is what Lamb has?” asked Laura, “something that could potentially be damaging?”

“Ladi Di wants us to check it out,” said Fitz, “yes. If it’s enough to get her spooked,” he let out a soft chuckle, “then it’s worth checking out.”

“So why are we working with the Slow Horses?” asked Laura, “they’re Slow Horses. Can we just go in and demand they hand it over?”

“Because they’re led by Jackson Lamb,” said Fitz, “and he’s someone you have to play London and Moscow Rules at the same time.”

“So what does Second Desk want us to do?” asked Olivia

“Second Desk, fuck me,” Fitz said rolling his eyes, “you don’t have to be so fucking polite in here.”

He walked towards the windows of his team's office. Fitz managed to snag one of the few remaining ones that had a view out onto Regent’s Park. For a moment his team had wondered if he had actually heard Olivia.

“Ladi Di wants us to see if he actually has what she thinks he has and get it back. So unfortunately we’re going to play the long game and go along with his pathetic little game. And in the end,”

Fitz turned around and grinned at them.

“I’m going to destroy him.”

[suzanami]

Cartwright & Pepper! I felt like drawing winking faces so sue me

[stachedocs]

Kat's beloved plotbunnies | Slow Horses (all media types) Introducing GRACE KEARNEY in RATS RUNNING with special appearance of ZINNIA HERNEITH SHARPE by @hawkesbright (@farrradays)

This is how Grace Kearney, Queen of the Database, the famed fibber of Regent's Park, the over-achieving twat slipped off the fast track and joined the slow horses. The true TL;DR? Did the wrong thing for the wrong person. Then again, it wasn't wrong, it was work. But circumventing her own boss to assist the Ops Second Desk Diana Taverner with an off-the-books operation eventually turned out to be the single worst decision Grace Kearney has made in her life so far. Instead it becoming what she hoped — a shortcut from the musty depths of Comms & Surveillance to The Hub — it had landed her on a very long, very rocky, very fuck-off cunt road to Aldersgate Street. At first, there was just a grain of regret and an ounce of disappointment. The op plunged her into the exact revolting bog out of which she had only recently crawled as a former SCD10 researcher: the abominable world of the British far-right conspirators and outright neonazis. Then a boy got kidnapped, her best mate got shot in the head, another joe list his entirely, and the same boy got kidnapped for the second time, all while Grace was being bossed into covering for the people responsible. Surprisingly, not the neonazis. And the reason for it all? A little gratification. Not to be an utter hypocrite, Grace did what she had to, to come out of the whole thing the Good Guy: she blew the whistle, to Jackson Lamb of all people. Next hoped for a dignified sacking. Diana Taverner, though — Diana Taverner didn't do dignified, she didn't do nice, not civilized. She didn't do sackings; never offered an easy way out to those who crossed her. She only granted deal or death. And for those she particularly despised, she had one thing and one thing only. Slough House.

[hobbies-miscellaneous]

Hanz as Strength and Alexander as The Hermit!

Hanz is going through it yet again

And Alexander is in an interesting location

[burymeinwillow]

Some Jesse Cartwright thoughts cause I love my boy so very much

He doesn't grow up around horses, so while he secretly has a huge fond of horses, he's not experienced with them at all. He becomes obsessed with Spirit: Stallion of the cimarron and is 100% one of those people who see a buckskin horse, point at it and go "That's Spirit". Which is alot of fun when he sees Grandpa Ben's horse (:

Grows up in he golden age of the 2000's and 2010's (': As an adult his favorite music is rock music and funky 80's songs, but his favorite guilty pleasure band is Backstreet Boys

Back to the topic of horses, when he travels back to 1890, Joe has to teach him to ride, which he's NOT happy with at first... Only time he ever rode a horse was at a birthday party when he was 10 and it was a pony, AND he fell off

A Gamer Dude.... and yes he LOVES Red Dead Redemption 1/2 and yes he won't shut up about it. At some point he has said "How hard can this western stuff be? I got over 800 hours in Red dead!"

Realizes his dad is Not Like Other Dads during a shootout, watching someone point a gun and Joe and Joe doesn't even flinch. (Puts things into perspective and makes him realize certain things he may not have thought of before about who and what his father really is)

Downplays his own intelligence alot. He'll joke around and be silly but he will also explain and discuss jet engines and flight physics with Adam

Is diagnosed with Adhd (which he 100% realizes he inherited from his father (: )

[the-witching-ash]

📷+ Andrew?

(Your welcome everyone)