Chapter Text
There was blood in his hair.
River coughs a few times as he sits up, placing a hand to the back of his head where the pain is the most concentrated. His fingers come back red and he swallows the growing bubble of nauseau climbing up his throat. He was getting quite annoyed at waking up in strange places with blood in his hair.
He isn’t sure if the blood on his head was from the first blow to his head or the second but that seemed like a very River Cartwright-like problem to have, he realised, even with a probable concussion.
River grunts in pain as he struggles to sit up; eventually realising one arm is stretched above his head towards the metal headboard. The bed groans with him as he moves, and he hears the rattling before he feels the chain, before his hand snags, and metal snaps against his wrist, cold and unforgiving, and his brain slowly processes the sound to be a handcuff latching him to the bed.
The dots connect slowly in his head, and the dread of the situation creeps up his belly.
“Fuuuuck,” he moans and squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden onset of pain and tilting of the room.
He jerks his hand but doesn’t manage anything other than the handcuffs chafing against his skin. River struggles through his memories, Les Arbres, the fire, a man hitting him in the back of the head with something, holding the knife he took to defend himself to his throat, then miraculously being saved when the man is scared away by someone yelling at him in French. He dragged River to his car, and just as River thanked him, he hit him in the face with the same rifle that had saved his life moments earlier.
Knocking you out after two words, that's a new record even for you, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Jackson Lamb offers unhelpfully from his head. Yeah, he was definitely concussed.
Why would the man save him only to knock him unconscious and handcuff him to a fucking bed?
He struggles again, the bed creaks, but it might as well be laughing at River for all the give that follows his attempt. River pushes himself to stand, gripping the edge of the bed as a wave of nausea rolls through him and black spots dance across his vision. He squeezes his eyes shut before opening them and blinking away the haze. His head fucking hurts.
River pats against his pockets, searching for Catherine’s phone. It’s gone, setting off a wave of guilt that courses through him. First, he gets her kidnapped, then he drops his grandfather at her flat in the middle of the night, and now he’s lost her phone. He tries to walk towards the window, but his tether pulls him back before he reaches it fully. He cranes his neck, but he can’t see anything in the immediate area; wherever he is. Smoke billows in the distance, so he’s been driven far enough away from Les Arbres. River pats his pockets with his free hand, finding the photo he took from one of the abandoned books.
He struggles to remember, but he thinks the older man in the photo is the one who tried to knock him out. The first one who tried to knock him out. River didn’t get a good look at him when he swung at him, but he stared into his face while the man’s forearm pressed against River’s throat, constricting his breath as he brought the knife closer and closer to River’s exposed Adam’s apple.
River is almost certain now it’s the same man. Only what the hell was the Westacres bomber and the man who tried to kill his grandfather doing in the same photo? How did they connect to each other? It was giving River a headache. Or maybe that was the consecutive blows to the head.
Hard to tell, really.
River yanks on the bed, and the floor screeches as it moves slightly, but not nearly enough.
“Hello!” he screams into the emptiness. He’s not in the mood to wait around for his captors to tell him what the fuck they want from him. “Help! Anyone?” He yells again before switching to French.
Rivers about to give the bed another hard pull when he hears the rumbling of a door being unlocked. His eyes travel quickly over the room, assessing, looking for something, anything he can use as a weapon. He can see a plastic colander in the hallway, just out of reach. There’s a lamp on the other side of the room but he can’t stretch far enough to it, the muscles on the side of his chest strain with his outstretched arm.
He hears the door open and assumes the defensive position, his unmanacled hand rising in a fist intended to defend himself.
The man who saved him from the frying pan and knocked him out and tossed him into the fire appears in the hallway, gun raised. River raises his free hand automatically, the other one following with muscle memory, but yanking against the headboard.
“Fuck okay okay, yup, yup,” he says, raising his free hand higher. “All right, who are you? What am I doing here? And why did you hit me in the head and tie me up? Did we need that? Hmm?”
River probably shouldn’t be so hostile to a man pointing a gun at him but sometimes he just can’t help himself. He was working on it.
Maybe.
“Who are you?” he asks, switching to French. “What are you doing? Are you French?”
“Your mother is coming to talk to you,” he says in English, flicking the tip of the gun at River in emphasis.
The concussion was confirmed now. “My mother?” he asks, unable to keep the increduliosity from his voice.
“She will be here soon,” the man says.
“Fuck. Okay. Yeah? You must be confused. My mother isn’t in France.”
At least River doesn't think she is. She could be. Isobel tended to update him after the fact if at all. He had no Earthly clue where she could be at the moment, but he didn’t think it would be in Lavande. But there was something about this place that was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. The mural in the nursery was nagging at something in the back of his brain that he couldn’t quite remember. He couldn’t find the right file. They were all mislabeled and moved around from the concussion.
He needs to look at the mural, again.
“Did you take my phone?” he asks, switching tactics as the man begins to back away. “Did you – wait, wait!”
“Can you–” he struggles against the restraint and to form words and make them travel from his brain to his mouth. “Fucking – merde!” he yells before dropping dejectedly to the bed.
Shit.
A woman bursts in then, blonde with curly hair, around his mother’s age, maybe slightly younger. She slides to a stop and merely stares at him as a hand flies to her mouth in disbelief.
“It’s you,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
River doesn’t recognise her; he wracks his brain as best he can, but there’s not even the weird sense of knowing someone and being unable to remember their name or place how you know them. He’s struck with the thought that this might be how his grandfather feels all the time now. It stabs into him with pain worse than the one in his head and he has to forcefully push the thought away so he can concentrate on the woman in front of him. The man stands slightly behind her, still holding the gun.
“I don’t know–”
“Bertrand,” she cuts the distance to him and he flinches as she grabs his face between her hands. They’re warm, but he steps back.
“I don’t know who that is,” River finally manages to say.
She ignores him and squeezes his face tighter between her hands. “What did he do to you?”
“Who? I’m not Bertrand. I don’t know who that is.”
“Natasha, are you sure?” the man behind her asks in French.
“Tell her I’m not who she thinks I am,” River implores of him.
“She thinks you are her son,” he tells River.
Oh, Christ, River thinks. Adam Lockhead. Or Bertrand he supposes. Of course it was a fake ID. It was a good one though. River had spent most of the travel time staring at it, at the photo, memorising the details. It was identical to his passport in every way he could think of though he didn’t have his with him to compare.
“This is a misunderstanding,” he says finally, peeling the woman’s hands away from his face as gently as he can. They really do look alike. He wonders absentmindedly if Isobel would have been able to tell them apart. He swallows thickly, speaking again to the woman. “I’m not him, I’m not your son. My name is River Cartwright, and I’m an MI5 Agent.”
The woman doesn’t seem to believe him. She steps forward and cups his face in both her hands again.
“My baby boy. I would recognise you anywhere.”
River shakes his head, attempting to lower her hands again but she digs in more, her nails digging into his cheeks.
“I’m not your son,” River says through gritted teeth, and she drops her hands as if his face had scalded her. “If I’m your son then why did you tie me up?”
“That was Victor’s idea,” she said, nodding to the man with her. “We don’t know what Frank has done to you. What lies he told you about me, about us.”
“He didn’t tell me anything because I’ve never met anyone named Frank and he didn’t tell me about you because I’m not your son.”
“Natasha, are you sure this is him? It’s been a long time since you saw him,” the man – Victor apparently – said.
“Listen to him,” River pleads. “My name is River–”
The slap shocks him more than it hurt, though his cheek stung afterwards as he stared at the woman. Her face looks as if she was the one who was slapped and not River.
“I am your mother, you will not talk back to me,” she says as a mask slips down across her face and the words are so stark that suddenly River is in a different place with a different woman telling him to behave merely because she birthed him. “Let’s go, Victor. Bertrand, we’ll be back when you remember your manners.”
“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit,” River sighes as the door slammed shut. “Merde!” he yelled after them.
“We have to move you,” the woman says what River thinks might be an hour or so later, bursting frantically into the room.
“What?” River is so confused that he doesn’t know what to do.
"There are men outside who want to hurt you," she tells him.
"What? Why?" River asks, stunned.
He has only been in France for a few hours and two people have tried to knock him unconcious and now there are men who want to kill him?
She shakes her head. "Because of what you did to his children."
"I’ve been in Lavonde for an hour? The only person I offended was the man who tried to kill me."
River racks his mind. He tipped the cab driver. Had he not left enough money in the cafe? He hadn’t even taken his drink. Who could want to hurt him?
The woman holds her hands to his face before River shakes her off. "Bertrand it is okay, we will protect you."
Fucking Bertrand was fucking him over from beyond the grave. River begins to feel less badly about desecrating his corpse suddenly. Victor raises the gun as the woman, Natasha, River remembers despite his aching had, unlocks the handcuff from the bed.
“I will shoot you if you try anything,” Victor promises and River believes him.
Natasha secures his other wrist with the handcuff and Victor steps aside as Natasha leads him towards the door and into the hallway and back into another hallway. Stairs lead towards ground level and River walks slowly, trying to get an idea of his surroundings. He’s led towards the back of the house to another door which Natasha pulls open. The basement is dark and River’s feet stop before he thinks about it but a light switches in and Natasha gives him a small push as motivation.
River trudges down the stairs, the basement even more frigid than upstairs in the January cold. There’s a small closet in the back and Natasha turns a key to unlock it. River stops again and the rifle pokes into his back to push him into the room.
“Lie down,” Victor says, angling his head towards the dingy mattress on the floor in one corner of the room. River does as he’s asked, kneeling then attempting to lie down but ending up falling unceremoniously onto the mattress. “Do not move.”
She undoes the handcuffs and River instinctually flexes his hands. He feels the mattress move as Natasha stands up and moves away.
“Can I move now?” he asks, turning his head as much as he can though he can’t see Natasha or Victor as he does.
The gun presses into the side of his face.
River feels his boots be quickly untied then pulled off. Mercifully he’s left his socks but then he hears then feels the handcuff secure around his ankle just over the sock.
“What the?” he asks, instinctually moving his leg but the gun presses into his face forcing him to stop moving.
“Keep quiet now,” Natasha tells him. “They won’t hurt you.”
”Why would they hurt me? They don’t even know me.”
Knowing you has never stopped someone from wanting to kill you before, a voice echoes in his head.
“Shhh, Bertrand,” she whispers, giving his foot a squeeze that River thinks she means to be reassuring.
“I’m not Bertrand,” he says though no one is listening and the door closes against his objections.
“Merde.”
Footsteps and muffled voices wake him.
Whoever is after him must be searching the house. A dog barks. A woman screams. River doesn’t know if the people upstairs would be his saviors and executioners. Would they believe he wasn’t Bertrand? What would be worse, being with people who wanted to kill you or a woman who was clearly disturbed and confused?
River didn’t have to wait long to find out as he heard rushed footsteps on the stairs.
Natasha burst into the small room he was kept in, breath rushed, her face flushed, blonde hair wild. “They’re gone.”
River wasn’t sure he should be disappointed his potential rescuers were gone or relieved they were. “Listen, it’s Natasha, right?” River waited for her to nod. “I’m sorry, I really am but I’m not your son.”
“You only say that because that’s what Frank led you to believe. He wanted you and the other boys under his control. It is not your fault.”
”Listen to me, please,” River pleaded. He needed to get back to England, to his grandfather and Catherine. God why did he leave him? Not like he could have brought him with him to France but River was regretting all of his decisions at the moment with one leg tied to a pole. “I am not your son. My name is River, River Cartwright. I’m an MI5 agent.”
“I don’t know what he did to you but I will fix, you will see. I will fix,” Natasha said. “But first, I need your help. They hurt Victor and I can’t get him inside on my own. I need your help. Please, Bertrand.”
She pulled the shotgun from behind the open door then tossed a small key towards him and nodding to his manacled ankle.
“Put the gun down, I’ll help you, just put the gun down,” River begs her.
He needs to convince her he’s not a threat. The steps unfold in his head, unsecure his leg, get the gun, get out, get home, find Grandad.
Find Grandad.
The final step stands out in his head like a neon sign, both emphasizing it’s importance and River’s failure until this point. How disappointed the OB would be in him if dementia hadn’t started to claw away at his memories, and brain, the mind that once led MI5 in all ways but in name.
“I’m sorry, Bertrand, but I can not trust you. It is not you, it is Frank’s fault. He did this to you, it’s just for now, just until we learn each other again. Now, please.”
River does as he’s told, taking the key and unlocking the manacle, then rubbing along his ankle where the metal had begun to dig painfully into his skin. His shoes are gone, but Natasha doesn’t seem inclined to return them to him at the moment. She retreats slowly into the main area of the basement, angling her head towards the stairs, indicating River should go first. His arms raise automatically and he walks slowly toward the stairs, the cellar floor cold under his socked feet.
The stairs are worn wood, and River debates making a run for it until he sees the door at the top of the stairs is bolted shut. Any head start by his surprise would be obliterated by the time it would take him to unlock the door, and then he would be obliterated as well. He doesn’t know if she’ll shoot him while she thinks he’s her son, but he can’t take the chance she won’t.
The bolt undoes with a groan, and River pauses at the top of the stairs. The house, which was cluttered before, is nearly destroyed. Lamps, tables, everything overturned.
“Left, out the front door,” Natasha instructs. River does as he’s told, walking slowly, dodging debris. “They made a mess,” Natasha says absentmindedly behind him.
Victor lies on his back a few feet from the front door, blood flowing from his head. For a moment, River thinks he might be dead before he notices his chest rising and falling slowly.
“Can you carry him inside?” Natasha asks.
“He needs a doctor,” River tells her, leaning to check the older man’s pulse. Steady if not a bit fast.
“I can look after him. Please, Bertrand, just bring him inside.”
If River hears the name Bertrand one more time he‘s going to scream. River bends and ignores the pull in his back as he pulls the older man off the ground from under his armpits. He hoists him higher and Victor groans his displeasure in his arms but doesn’t wake. Natasha lowers the gun slightly and River takes his chance.
He hoists Victor towards Natasha with all the strength he can muster. Natasha yelps in surprise as they both fall to the ground. River doesn’t wait, he takes off running the opposite direction. He doesn’t stop.
Pain explodes in the back of River’s calf before he registers the ragged breathing. Growls follow as he’s pulled to the ground, his hands stinging as his palms scrape against the cobblestones and he barely manages to catch himself. The dog lets go momentarily to let out three angry barks and voices follow, the French muted as River’s ears ring and he tries not to cry out in pain.
The dog clamps down on his leg, higher this time, close enough that pain jams up around his knee. River punches out at the dog and it yelps and releases his leg from it’s jaw. A gun replaces the dog in River’s field of vision.
“Bonjour, Bertrand.”
Merdeeeeeee.
They left him in a room with bars on the windows. It seemed more like a home security thing than a prisoner thing. It didn’t matter which. He was still trapped either way.
They don’t tie his hands.
Nor do they tie his ankles.
There’s no need to when any attempt to put weight on his left leg sends waves of agony up the mangled limb. River can’t tell if the pain is from the bites or the swelling of his ankle. He must’ve twisted it when the dog bit him or when he fell. It doesn’t really matter, his ankle had been fucked since his attempt at BASE jumping at the Park when Catherine was kidnapped. It’s fucked again either way.
Blood drips sluggishly from the two bites and tears from the German Shepherd's jaw. River presses his coat against the wound but there’s nothing to bind it and River absentmindedly tries to remember the last time he had a tetanus shot. Is that what you had when a dog bit you? Or was that just with metal? Does he need a rabies shot? His French was barely passable and rabies certainly wasn’t a translation he had available to him at the moment.
River doubted they would have answered if he could ask anyway. They had ignored his other questions; asked in both English and French.
Where are we going?
Who are you?
And then there were the statements he made as well.
I’m not Bertrand, you have me confused.
Bertrand is dead.
I’m not him.
My name is River Cartwright.
His declarations were met with a punch to the ribs. River had stopped after that. The men hadn’t. The blows and kicks came faster than River could count. It might’ve been two men or twenty. The blows quickly overwhelmed him even as he curled into a ball attempting to at least protect his vital organs. He had learned that in secondary school before he hit his growth spurt and his height caught up with his mouth.
His mother had warned him that his mouth would get him in trouble one day. She hadn’t been wrong but this time his beating was cashed in by River’s body and done by someone else. Maybe Isobel should’ve given him a different name if she didn’t want him to rely on sarcasm half his life.
River Cartwright, though, had likely been declared dead by now, at least if his little trick with the wallet and his phone had worked. MI5 would have called someone — likely Lamb — to identify his body by now. Would Lamb know it wasn’t him? Would he come if the new Head Dog called him to heel? Or would he tell her to fuck off as well? Would they call Louisa then?
Fuck.
Louisa.
She was going to kill him.
Like, really fucking kill him.
At least if his new captors didn’t kill him first. Could he count on another rescue from Victor? He would’ve felt bad for tossing Victor’s unconscious body at Natasha if the man hadn’t knocked River unconscious earlier. River rubs at the back of his head subconsciously, the wound having reopened at some point, his fingers now sticky with blood.
River wasn’t sure what the men wanted with him. Natasha had mentioned Bertrand had done something to his son and daughter. Had he killed them? Would the man and his friends return the favour?
Louisa really was going to kill him.
If he didn’t die of an infection from this dog bite first.