Chapter Text
River’s awake and alert when the door first opens. Having spent the past five or so minutes analysing his situation (or trying to break out of the worn-down cabin he’s been locked in), he thinks of himself as pretty prepared for his father’s dramatic entrance. The small space is racked with tremors as the door is shoved open (with difficulty, River notices, adding credence to the theory that he’s in the middle of fucking nowhere). A gust of cold wind permeates the cabin, but it’s the stare of the man opposing him that chills River’s bones.
Merely a silhouette against the light behind him, River’s father appears with just as little clarity as he’s always imagined him growing up. This is something different from River’s childhood dreams of a warm hallway light drawing his eyes to a figure watching him, soft and rounded corners and too far away to reach; Frank Harkness is intimidating, sharp, cold. He’s real.
River makes a pathetic attempt to engage his father in a staredown. He, of course, loses immediately, unable to hold the man’s intense glare (he hates himself for it - if this were anyone else, he’d like to think of himself as strong and steady, a model attack dog). “Why am I here?” He scowls, trying to get into character as River Cartwright, spy and formidable opponent, all the while making no attempt to hide the raw resentment in his tone. “Bit of a shit place for a father-son catch up.”
Frank, ever silent, takes long, confident strides towards River, who’s practically crouched against the wall opposing the front door. He’s investigated in those previous five minutes of consciousness, of course, so he knows in the creaky floorboards and loose walls, despite the mould and general disarray of the place, there’s no easy way out. Which means playing along, rolling over and showing his stomach, as long as he needs to - or as long as he can. River decides now’s a better time than any to look up, meet him in the eyes again, hold his intimidating gaze with all the determination he can muster; he’s aware he likely looks more like a petulant child failing to hide his fear. Frank merely looms for a moment, eyes narrowed and cold and shark-like, before pulling something out from inside his jacket. Before River can properly react, or really look away from his father’s eyes, arms strike out and wrap something tight around River’s neck.
River yelps and jerks away with the sudden grip around his throat, frantically and feebly grabbing whatever the fuck it is and wishing he could scramble back further against the wall. What the fuck, he thinks, or maybe he says it out loud, he’s a bit too preoccupied to tell the difference. He can’t see what it is; from touch he has a more than clear idea, but for once he can’t quite believe what instinct tells him. He’s not sure if it’s the realisation of what exact kind of situation he’s in or just his delayed response to the freezing wind outside that sends a racking shiver down his body (though it could very well be from the feeling of hands, cold and calloused, wrapped around his neck, however short that time was). He’s stuck, trapped in a cabin who-fucking-knows-where with only his psychopathic dad for company.
Once River’s had enough of attempting to crawl out of his skin, his father finds it in him to speak. “Meant to put that on while you were out,” he rumbles with his low, American drawl. “Morning, son.”
River watches warily, eyes narrowed, as internally he grapples onto that tidbit of information. It’s morning, then, he decides firmly, ignoring the idea that Harkness might not be telling the absolute truth, everyone’s coming into work. I need, what, a few hours for them to realise I’m not coming in? Then, assuming Lamb telepathically recognises I’m in deep shit, which he surely must, they’ll start looking for me. I just need to-
“Ow, fuck!”
His train of thought is abruptly brought to a halt with a jolt radiating from his neck outwards. Not painful. Enough to snap him into focus, enough to let it dawn on him just what the hell is going on.
“I’m talking to you,” Harkness says warningly. More than anything, any anger or fear, River finds his gut reaction to the whole situation is to grimace in a mix of embarrassment and confusion.
He pulls at the device with a finger, glancing down before frowning up at his father, his nose wrinkling slightly. “Sorry, is this a shock collar?” He almost laughs, incredulous and disbelieving. Like it’s a joke, because it really does feel like one. “Like, for dogs?”
The figure in the warm hallway would laugh, booming and friendly, and pat River on the shoulder a few times before taking it off gently. Come to think of it, the figure in the warm hallway would probably never put a shock collar around his son in the first place. Frank Harkness says nothing, the only movement is a minute shift in his right pocket, and -
Hot, sharp pain explodes through River - down from his neck, through his nerves, under his skin, electrifying and blinding. He collapses immediately, and, lacking the foresight to move his arms to protect himself, lands almost as painfully on his side, his head thwacking against the floorboards for good measure. The pain almost dissipates just as quickly as it came, though he takes up the job of keeping his muscles tense, fear coursing through his body. He at least has the dignity to not make any noise, only breathing hard into the old wood under his head.
Pain that bad River would expect to make a lasting impression. It’s almost unnerving the relief he feels the moment the shock is over, the lack of electricity like cooling water soothing his skin. He pushes himself up with little issue, apart from his muscles being taut, wound up in anticipation, and stares up at his father in mixed part shock and fury.
Frank Harkness looks ten times more comfortable now that he’s in his safe place - the countryside, injuring and torturing one of his sons - and, oh great, he actually wants to strike up conversation. Through his laboured breathing, River finds it in him to scowl as Frank pulls up a chair that looks like it might break under him, relaxing in it like he’s with an old friend.
“Sorry,” he says, not at all sorry. “I need assistance. You’ve made it clear to me you wouldn’t ordinarily help. So, if it’s special circumstances…” he waves a hand in the air nondescriptly.
“Help you?” River splutters in disbelief. “What the fuck would I ever help you with? You’re mad, fucking mad, if you think-”
Another zap from the collar, light and quick, cuts River off, but there’s no way he’d let it shut him up. “Fucking - God, what is wrong with you?!”
“This is why I’d rather train children,” Frank mutters, with a lightness that assumes this is a problem other people could possibly relate to. Louder, he continues, “don’t play dumb. You know what that is -” with that, he gestures vaguely towards River’s throat “-you know what it does, and you know what I want.”
River stays silent - he can imagine just how shocked Lamb would be at that, River Cartwright not running his mouth - and mulls over his options. Harkness can sense this, and the shifting of his hand in his jacket pocket prompts River to make a split second, impulse decision (much more in character, Lamb would agree).
This being, of course, to leap and tackle the man to the ground.
The two of them fall and hit the floor with a thud that feels incredibly satisfying on River’s part. The next step of his plan is nonexistent until it’s happening, a mess of hands shoving arms pulling hands away from one particular jacket pocket. An elbow jabs his face - or maybe it’s a chair leg, it’s too much of a blur to tell - and a hand attempts to keep him out of reach by pushing his face away. River is, if nothing else, resilient, and jabs a hand successfully into the pocket, pulling out a small remote control device. Immediately he’s thrust to the floor, back landing harshly against a jutting out chair leg. He spins onto his front and begins to crawl, loose bits of wood digging into his elbows as he keeps the device clutched close to his chest. The room spins, likely because of his previous bang (bangs, multiple..?) to the head. River grits his teeth and endures. This is what he’s good at. Pushing forwards, enduring, staying str-
With a sound River would find concerning if he weren’t so focused on the pain, a heavy set boot slams down on the back of his left knee. A yelp, from a place of shock just as much as one of pain, escapes River, and he impulsively spins to inspect the damage, a pit of fear opening in his stomach almost immediately. Frank uses the opportunity to grab the device, yanking his arm out from under him in the process. Unable to do anything else, River keeps hold with as much strength as he can, aware of how suddenly his breath has quickened and shallowed; aware of what will happen if he lets go.
He doesn’t let go. River doesn’t let go.
That doesn’t stop Frank Harkness from moving the device in such a way that he’s forcing River to shock himself.
A guttural cry wrenches itself from the depths of River’s throat, one that he can’t fight to hold down when his mind has gone blank, a void just as pure and white as the agony seizing his muscles. His arm convulses in his father’s tight grip, an attempt to drag his hand away, to make it stop, please - but Harkness would do anything but relent, not when River would dare to disobey him. His mouth stays agape, light choking noises escaping but not accompanied by any real sound. It’s all he can do to close it, grit his teeth against the pain, and he can’t stop himself from begging his father with his teary eyes, pleading to just-
He lets go, so River lets go, collapsing to the floor, limp and puppet-like. A very naughty dog indeed.
Blearily, he looks up at Harkness as he kneels in front of him. They stay like that, for a moment, Frank kneeling, River gathering strength to, he doesn’t know, attack his father again? “You’ve been training,” Frank says finally, and if River didn’t know better, he’d think he sounds pleased? “Pushing yourself.”
“So I can…” River’s protest fades out into a wheeze. He’s not too sure what he was going to say anyway. Fucking kill you? Something like that.
“Think of this as me helping you,” Frank continues, and his voice is deceptively, enticingly soft. “To get stronger.”
River pushes himself up onto one hand to meet his father’s gaze, and his breath hitches when he recognises what is no doubt amusement glittering in his dark eyes. His head lolls with the sudden feeling of being weak, hopeless, alone. Like Lamb would ever take his disappearance seriously. Like the team would be able to find him, wherever he is. He’s alone, and he’s just fucked himself by acting on impulse. Again.
He closes his eyes. Maybe he won’t be impulsive. Maybe he’ll fight to hide the defiance he wants more than anything to make his father aware of. Maybe he’ll take his time, play the long game, make Frank Harkness really believe he’s broken him. The words strike fear in his heart, so he deigns to ignore the possibility entirely. Maybe the slow horses will find him, but if they don’t, he’ll… he’ll make his own way.