Alright, time for fic. Go easy on me.

[buckalter.livejournal.com]

Title: Bad Luck
Paring: Jean Baptise Requien/Giles Coren, Jean Baptise/Other
Rating NC-17
Warning: Non-con, angst
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: After a fight with Giles, Jean Baptiste is assaulted during the walk to his car. Basically.

 

He never had anything to do between his segments. It was far too boring to sit by himself at his table until Gordon came over and they introduced whatever report he’d done for the episode. So, instead, he usually just stood in the side doorway to the kitchen and watched everyone cook. It wasn’t much more exciting than the table, but at least it wasn’t as awkward as sitting alone, which might have been tolerable, if he didn’t have to address Jean Baptiste in short, polite words.

Giles watched dazedly as Gordon ran four blonde women around the kitchen, barking orders and jumping around with a bizarre agility that didn’t match his frame. He looked at his fingernails, wondering passively he might ever stop biting them.

“Jean Baptiste!”

Giles looked up.

“There’s my little Frenchman. Come over here.”

Giles watched as Jean Baptiste strutted into the kitchen, overconfident and too well-dressed. He grinned lopsidedly when the Maitre' D recoiled from the sloppy dessert Gordon was trying to foist on him, sidestepping him girlishly. Giles stared at Jean Baptiste while Gordon’s brigade made lecherous eyes at him. ‘You can’t have him, ugly.’ His lips curled, amused at himself.

 

“......gay?”

His smiled dropped. Giles turned quickly to Gordon.

“Well, they’ve told me you’re gay.” One of the girls leaned slightly toward Jean Baptiste.

“Ahm not!”

“Who told you that? JB’s not gay!” Gordon laughed unevenly, and turned his immediate attentions to the collapsing dessert in his hands.

“Nononononono!” Jean Baptiste’s head shook.

The brigade giggled furiously. 

He could not have heard that right. 

Giles shifted his weight from hip to hip. He knew they couldn’t hold hands at work, they couldn’t chit-chat or have a quick kiss on air, and virtually no one on set save for Gordon and some of his chefs knew about them, but this was a step too far. They’d have to deny it if someone asked, but a quick and gentle ‘no’ would suffice. It didn’t have to be a repulsed outcry. He shook slightly. Jean Baptiste continued defending his chimerical heterosexuality.

Giles backed into the storage room. His back hit a rack of supplies and he jerked. He looked around himself . Looked at his shoes. Looked back up through the doorway to the kitchen floor.

“Fuck this.” Giles pushed out of the side exit of the storage room and stomped toward the parking lot.

“Fucking...Fuck! Augh!” He stabbed at the lock on his car door, missing and scratching away paint. He threw his keys on the ground, picked them up, and tried again. He nearly broke the key off in the lock, but the door clicked open and he slid inside, slamming it shut. Windows down, cigarette lit, car started. Home.

“I’m fucking going home.” 

The next few hours were spent holding back angry, hysterical tears. The ashtray filled quickly and the tea tin emptied slowly. Giles sat on his kitchen counter, occasionally knocking his heels against the cabinets. He picked up his half-empty teacup and stared into it, wondering if coffee wasn’t a better choice. ‘Care to go out for some tea and cigarettes?’ The combination didn’t have the ring of coffee and cigarettes. Perhaps it was better for your nerves, though. 

Keys jingled. The lock turned in the front door.

“Giles?”

What little calm Giles had built up was obliterated. 

“Babe? Where are you? Baby?”

His jaw tightened. ‘Don’t come in here. Don’t fucking come in here.’ He set down the teacup.

“There you are.” Jean Baptiste put his keys on the table. “What happened? Where did you go?”

Giles closed his eyes and let his hand waver above the pack of cigarettes laying next to his thigh.

“Babe? They were looking for you. You missed your segment. They said you have to film it next time, so bring the same clothes from today.”

Giles dropped his hand, letting it sit next to the pack. ‘Go. Go. Go. Gogogogogogogogojustgo. Goddammit, JB, go.’

“Hey? Allo? You not talking or what?”

‘Don’t say anything to him. He might just get mad and leave.’ Giles worked up his resolve. He opened his eyes. He wasn’t going to look at Jean Baptiste. He wasn’t going to talk to him. Probably. Or not.

“What the fuck do you care?”

Jean Baptiste’s looked surprised “What?”

“Since you’re so fucking ashamed of me anyway, what does it matter to you where the fuck I go, JB?” He sat up straighter, crossing his arms and leaning his shoulders against the cabinet behind him.

Jean Baptiste walked up to the counter and stood between Giles’ knees. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard you in the fucking kitchen, JB, I was standing in the doorway.” Jean Baptiste looked unmoved. Giles was going to push it “‘Me? Ahm no faggot, madame.’” Maybe the bad French accent was mean, but it felt necessary. And Giles felt mean.

“That?” Jean Baptiste put his hands on either side of Gile’s thighs, leaning forward slightly. “I never said faggot!”

“Might as fucking well have!” He was getting the urge to push JB away from his legs, away from his counter.

“Come on, Giles, you know we have to say we’re not gay.” ‘Why? Why do we have to say that?’

“You don’t have to sound so fucking disgusted with the idea.  You’re fucking ashamed of me or something! We can’t even drive home together! In the same fucking CAR!” It was irritating that JB never yelled back. It made Giles feel stupid, which made him angrier and more apt to yell.

“You know that’s not fucking true. I love you. Stop it.” Giles leaned forward on the counter, forcing Jean Baptiste back a few steps. He just moved to lean back against the table, looking every bit as collected as Giles was not. ‘French bastard. Fucking asshole.’

“No, JB, I don’t know that. Why the fuck am I not allowed to even touch you in public if you love me so goddamned much? You just...you’re fucking...Augh!” Jean Baptiste crossed his arms over his chest. Too casually.

“We just can’t, Giles. It’s dangerous.” 

Giles raised his hands and grasped at the air, moving them helplessly and fidgeting incredulously.

“How is it..it’s not fucking..It’s NOT! It’s...That’s fucking NOT...that’s not even...fucking sense! That’s not even sense, that’s not!” 

Jean Baptiste smiled. “Don’t get flustered.”

“I.....My GOD, you’re an asshole! You know that? You’re a real prick, JB! Fucking stand there......fucking stand there being a fucking asshole!”

“Calm down.”

“NO! I will NOT fucking calm down! You know what? Why don’t you fucking go?”

“Come on, cheri, please just calm down.” Jean Baptiste dropped his arms and gripped the table behind him.

“Fucking go, JB!”

“Mon chaton, please...”

“FUCKING GO, JB!”

Jean Baptiste’s hands slid from the table. “Yeah, fine, okay. I’ll go. Whatever. I’ll see you, Giles.” He picked up his keys.

“Fuck off.” There was a precarious jitter in Giles’ voice.

“Hmh. Yeah. Fine, Giles.” The door shut. Jean Baptiste didn’t slam it. 

Giles slid off the counter and melted slowly to the floor. He pulled his knees to his chest, lowered his head, and started to cry.

Jean Baptiste walked to the sidewalk. He stood in front of Giles’ gate for a minute. He sighed shakily. He told himself this would blow over. He stood up straight to stop his shoulders from quivering.

“Goddammit, Giles.” He didn’t like the waver in his voice or the achey tightness in his throat. He looked up the street toward his car. There was never any parking in Giles’ neighborhood. There was a marketplace a few blocks up, and Jean Baptiste could usually park there. It was a bit of a walk, but he never got tickets. He sighed again. He didn’t want to walk today. He didn’t want to move right now. 

Jean Baptiste looked at Giles’ door. He shook his head and started walking towards the marketplace. What time was it? It had to be close to midnight. Eleven, maybe.

The lights in the windows of Giles’ neighbors were all off. The residential houses faded into townhouses, then to small apartments, then to seedier apartments, and then into shops. It always seemed strange to Jean Baptiste that the mid-to-upscale neighborhood Giles lived in faded to a grimy shopping district within a few blocks.

He was bumping into trash cans and tripping on uneven pavement. He couldn’t decide if the weather was comfortable or not. He didn’t know if it was raining or if he was crying. His focus was disintegrating with every step. Where had he parked? In front of a flower shop, he knew, because he would have bought Giles flowers, but he didn’t think he’d like that sort of thing. Where was that stupid store? Where were his stupid keys? Here, in his pocket. Good. Was that his car? No. How could he miss it, when there were hardly any other cars around?

He needed to get home. Soon. Now. He might pass out. He was sure his breathing was getting erratic. He could faint. He could faint easily, He wanted to go home. No, he wanted to turn around and go back to Giles. He couldn’t do that. He might do that. He will not do that. He will not think about it. He will not think. Walk. Walk. Walkwalkwalk.

“Fuck!” Jean Baptiste yelped. He was on his ass on the ground. Did he fall? He must have tripped into the alley.

“Fucking fuck!” Someone was pulling him backward by the collar. He did not fall.

“Don’t fucking touch me! Get away-” Man. Tall. Big. Hooking hands under Jean Baptiste’s arms. Clearly very strong.

“Let fucking go!” Big guy pulling him to his feet. Almost. Pulling him past the reach of the streetlamp. He was going to die. ‘Give him your wallet. No, don’t. There’s a picture of Giles. He might kill you twice as badly because there’s a picture of you and Giles.’

“Oh, you are a real strong guy, huh? You fucking ape.” ‘Why? Why would you make this worse? Shut up. Shut up.’

“Jesus fuck!” Jean Baptiste is pivoted and slammed into the alley wall. Hands creep down his hips, toward his pockets, toward his wallet. He starts kicking and twisting, unwilling to let this man reach it. He is butted against the wall again. ‘Okay, okay, he’ll take the money and go. He won’t look through your photos. Stop it. Calm down.’

Jean Baptiste’s wallet is removed fro his pocket. It is thin and made of hemp. He had a leather one, a nice leather one, but Giles gave him the hemp one.  He can hear bills and papers being removed and crumpled, and some hit the ground. A very quick hand is shoving a folded hemp wallet in his mouth. He mumbles a protest and tries to spit it out, but the hemp absorbs quickly, and it is not easy.

His tie is pulled, choking him momentarily, then removed. It is looped around his head, holding the folded wallet in his mouth. He braces both arms against the wall and pushed back, but there is, apparently, a gun present, and he lowers his arms and whimpers through his gag. His belt is being unfastened and pulled through the loops. Hands push between his hips and the wall and fasten his wrists together in front of him.

He’s being pulled by his arm away from the wall and strung along to a heap of empty crates, where he is unceremoniously pushed face down over a short stack. ‘He is going to shoot me. He is going to execute me right now. Right in the back of my skull.’ When hands reach to unfasten his pants, the dread becomes worse. Pants pulled down. His stomach sinks. Boxers jerked down his thighs, and this is a fate worse than death. Gun pressed into the back of his neck. Maybe this fate still comes with death.

“Y’aven’t much money for a boy dressed nice as you. Just a few bills, then?” Jean Baptiste does not try to stop his shoulders from shaking now.

“That’s alright, then, boy. Here. Y’can look at your boyfriend, love.” Chills up his spine. Disgusting, uneasy jolts of fear dancing up his back. The photo of he and Giles placed delicately on the crate in front of him. Facing him. Right there. He stares at it, his eyes hurting from not blinking. He breathes hard. There are hands at his hips that he doesn’t acknowledge. 

There is searing pain. Jean Baptiste squeezes his eyes shut and screams through the gag. He can feel every nerve on fire and every filthy slide of this man inside him. Pushing, pushing, he won’t stop pushing. It’s hot and it burns and it hurts more than anything he’s ever felt or any bone he’s ever broken. Giles wouldn’t ever hurt him like this. Nobody has ever hurt him like this.

His arms are aching in their awkward tangle, crushed between his hips and the crates and wrenched with every thrust. His shoulders are burning and his chest hurts badly. None of that compares to what the rape feels like. This man is too big. There was nothing to ease this in any way.       Every nerve is screaming, and every push in is horrifying. Every pull out is horrifying. Every inch of this is pure pain and he doesn’t care that he’s sobbing and screaming. The gag is muffling it, and probably no one is going to come rescue him, but he can’t stop screaming.

The thrusts become quicker, deeper, and more erratic. Jean Baptiste realizes that the hot trickle down his thighs is blood, and it’s terrifying and disgusting, but at least it might smooth some of the pain. It doesn’t. Whatever broke and bled, it’s agony now, worse than before. More raw. He opens his eyes and the picture is still in front of him, and he cries harder. He doesn’t notice when the thrusts become shaky and uneven, and is unprepared for the rush of fluid into his body. The burn is like salt on a fresh wound. He screams again, loud enough that it’s almost not muffled. He can’t stop sobbing. He can’t do anything but.

“Liked that, did you, darling? I thought you might.” The gun is pressed to the back of his head. He’s not sure if he cares if the trigger is pulled.

“Hmh.” The gun is gone. The man is gone. 

Jean Baptiste slides to the pavement, crying hysterically. He puts his hands to the front of the tie across his mouth and pulls until it unravels and falls away, then coughs out the wallet. He’s almost surprised at the hoarse weeping sound he makes. He tries awkwardly to jerk his pants up around his hips, not bothering to try to button them. 

He want to curl into a ball and die. Or sob. Or both. Instead, he twists his bound hands to reach for the phone in his inside coat pocket. He opens it and dials Giles, but his phone is off. He tries another number. It rings three times.

“JB? Hey, what’s the matter? It’s late.”

“Gordon. Come get me, please.”  His voice is near hysterical and barely intelligible.

“What? Where are you?! My god, JB, are you alright? What’s happened?” Jean Baptist breaths raggedly and tries to move his legs, but the pain in his pelvis is too much.

“Please, Gordon.” He’s weeping incoherently.

“Where are you? I’m coming right now! Where do I go?!”

“I don’t know. In an alley. At the marketplace near Giles’ house.”

“I’m coming. I’m in the car. Can you stay on the line? Stay with me, JB.” He might black out.

“I don’t know.”

“Alright, okay...just...just make sure that you try to stay awake, yeah? And answer the phone if I call you, yes?”

His throat is too sore to say anything else, so he whimpers and hangs up. He uses the last of his strength to twist himself around and pick up the photo of him and Giles.

 

He is almost unconscious when he hears Gordon calling his name. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he called Gordon, or how many alleys he might have had to look in before he found this one, and he doesn’t know how far his voice is coming from. He can only make strangled noises in response.

Gordon’s hands are rolling him onto his back, and the pain is too intense, so Jean Baptiste rolls to his other side against Gordon’s knees.

“Jean Baptise! JB! What happened!? My god, you’re fucking bleeding! Where are you hurt!?” Gordon carefully unwraps the belt from his wrists.

Jean Baptiste sobs.

“Please, JB, what happened! For fuck’s sake, come on, we’ve got to take you to hospital and I don’t want to make things worse! Where are you hurt!?” Gordon’s hands move frantically in the airspace of Jean Baptiste’s body, unsure of where he can touch without damage.

“A man....raped me.” He can barely say it. He’s sobbing hard, and his words are choked and fragmented. Gordon pales. He might be sick.

“Jb...Jb, I....Oh my god. I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry. “ Gordon pushes his hands through Jean Baptiste’s hair, unsure for a moment of what to say or do. “I’m...I’ve got to get you to hospital, JB, so...so I’m going to have to move you. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m...I’m going to pick you up, alright? Let me know if I’m hurting you.” 

 

Gordon sounds desperate and terrified. Jean Baptiste might feel bad, but all he can do is sob and try to catch his breath. Gordon hooks his arms under Jean Baptiste’s knees and shoulders and slowly stands. He moves carefully to his SUV and gingerly deposits Jean Baptiste into the back seat, folding the seats flat and covering him with one of the kids’ blankets.

“Hold on, JB.” Jean Baptiste blacks out.

 

He wakes up at the emergency room doors, being transferred to a stretcher. Gordon is trying to keep up with the EMTs. He is going to black out again. “Gordon, get Giles.” 


Okay! That's it for now. Hope it wasn't terrible, and I apologize for any errors. I've got no beta or anything. Feedback would be lovely, if you find yourself so inclined.