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River wakes up to find himself duct-taped to a slim and awkwardly uncomfortable metal chair. His hands are pulled back and each wrist is unfortunately attached to an individual back leg, rather than to each other. Similarly, each ankle is taped to the outside of the front legs. It’s not great, but if he’s honest, he hadn’t been 100% sure he would wake up at all, so he’s in bonus territory already. His head is pounding, though, and his brain is foggy. His eyes feel gummy so he squeezes them open and shut several times. It helps a little.
There’s not much light and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust. The heavy drapes on the windows are closed. There are old, elaborate light fixtures hanging from the ceiling but the light they emit is weak. He’s definitely in some kind of country manor house; he’d almost think he was back at Les Arbres if he didn’t know it had burned to the ground. There are stone floors and wood-paneled walls, and he recognizes it as being a few-hundred years old. The room is large and very high-ceilinged—20 feet at least. It might have once been a dining hall, or large drawing room of some kind. There’s a fireplace on one wall that he could stand upright in. The only furnishing in the room is the chair River occupies.
He feels battered. Every breath causes sharp pain in his chest; possibly the elbow he took from the assassin while trying to help Flyte bruised or cracked his ribs. His wrist hurts. The half-cuff is still on him and the way he’s taped to the chair, the edge of it bites into bone. But his whole body aches, too. After the man threw him into the boot of the car, but before he closed it, he shoved a taser into River’s neck. River’s had more experience with tasers than he’d have liked and this one was just as bad as the others. He’d lost consciousness, which he was mostly thankful for. Who knows how long he was in the boot. River isn’t particularly claustrophobic but if he’d been awake in the small, dark space for any lengthy amount of time, he probably would be now.
So maybe he aches from the taser, or a rough ride in the boot. But there’s also what had to have happened to get him out of the boot and into wherever he is, deposit him in the small chair, get him sitting upright, keep him from slumping to the floor while his limbs were secured. It’s disquieting to think about the manhandling that took place while he was unconscious.
He tries to move the chair, hoping to rock it over and tear the tape, ignoring the fact that doing so also has potential to snap a limb. It’s a moot point, though, because the chair doesn’t budge. Craning his neck to look down, River sees it’s bolted to the flagstone floor. What the hell? That can’t be good.
The assassin in the road was Patrice—Natasha’s son—he's certain of that. He recognized the intense expression from the boyhood pictures she’d shown him, and as an adult, River can see his mother in the shape of his nose, the curve of his jaw.
When River had first come face to face with him on the street, there had been a split-second expression of surprise. Patrice either thought he was about to rescue Betrand and realized River wasn’t him, or he’d known he was coming to get River and was caught off guard by how much he looked like Betrand. Either way, any emotion his face betrayed disappeared in an instant. After that, Patrice seemed more automaton than man; he’d put down four of Flyte’s Dogs—and Flyte herself—in a matter of moments. He wonders if she’s still alive.
There are footsteps behind him and River twists one way and then the other, but whoever it is, is very precisely in his blind spot. With no other option, he waits. Eventually, and not particularly surprisingly, Patrice walks slowly into his field of vision. He circles round to stand in front of River. His face is blank but he’s carrying a knife in his right hand. It’s not a knife gleaned from the kitchen of wherever they are like the one River had grabbed at Les Arbres. It’s a serious and highly illegal butterfly knife, and as he stands in front of River, Patrice flicks his wrist and the blade opens.
Deeply aware of how vulnerable he is, River says, “Patrice.”
If the man is surprised River knows his name, he doesn’t show it. Nor does he answer. He just cocks his head slightly and stares at River, eyes narrowed.
After a long, silent moment, River tries again. “Patrice, what—" But when the man takes a quick step forward into the space between River’s legs, looming over him, River stops. He has to tip his neck as far back as he can to look at him.
Patrice’s gaze is focused and penetrating and he’s just staring at River, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle.
“Patr—” River starts.
Before he can say any more, Patrice presses his finger lightly against River’s lips in the universal gesture for ‘quiet.’ River complies because the knife may not be visible, but River hasn’t forgotten it. The finger remains several seconds, reinforcing its intent, and then it’s gone. Patrice continues to stare at him, his gaze flicking around River’s face, over and over. Who knows what he’s looking for or what he’s thinking. River holds his gaze, his lips pressed firm as he’s unable to hide his annoyance—or possibly just unwilling.
Patrice raises his free hand and River flinches—the guy fired a gun inches from his face not long ago and his ears are still ringing. The hand stops briefly then moves more slowly to lightly cup River’s cheek for a moment before Patrice begins to run his fingers roughly up and down River’s face through his beard, mashing his cheek around as he does.
River grunts and jerks his head away, but Patrice grabs a fistful of his hair with his other hand and grips it tightly. River can feel the hardness of the knife handle pressing into his skull as he does. Once River is forced into stillness, Patrice goes back to rubbing River’s face, harder now, like he’s trying to wipe his beard off of him.
River’s neck is bent painfully and his heart is beating fast in his chest. Foreboding grows in him. He’s had interrogation and torture-resistance training, but this is like nothing he was taught. Patrice still hasn’t said a word so River opens his mouth to try to get answers, but in an instant, Patrice’s hands switch and the flat of the blade is pressed against his lips. River snaps his mouth shut. The face mauling goes on for another moment or two—now on the other side—and then Patrice releases him and takes a step back. His focus never moves from River’s face, though.
Glaring as he tries not to squirm and to keep his breathing steady, River waits. Patrice continues to study him, raking his eyes down River’s body, lingering on his boots for a moment, squinting briefly. His eyes eventually slide slowly back up to River’s face. His expression is unreadable, but River feels like a bug under a microscope, and he shifts uncomfortably in the chair.
Patrice unzips his own jacket, pulls it off, and tosses it carelessly on the floor. There’s blood spatter on it and River wonders who’s it is. One of the Dog's? Flyte’s? He wouldn’t be surprised if this guy left more bodies in his wake that River doesn’t know about.
With the knife still held loosely in his hand, Patrice takes a half-step forward. When he reaches his free hand out, River presses back into the chair. It’s ridiculous because there’s nowhere he can go, but it’s an unconscious act. “What’re you doing?”
Patricie ignores him and grabs the zipper tab on River’s jacket—the one he swapped into on the train—and perfunctorily unzips it, pushing the material over his shoulders. River cranes his neck down, watching uneasily. He can’t remove the jacket with River’s hands attached to the chair the way they are; if he wants it off, he’ll have to cut it off.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps in close again, between River’s legs. He’s tall, and the edge of the chair hits him just below the knees. Like before, River bends his neck, looking up. “Patrice,” he tries again.
Patrice casually lifts the knife into view and it’s enough to make River stop. Staring again, he raises a hand and River recoils involuntarily. But when Patrice’s fingers brush through River’s hair, it’s gentle, loving, even. Meeting Patrice’s gaze, River sees longing there and it feels like the bottom drops out of his stomach.
“I’m not Bertrand,” River says quickly, then digs in his memory to find some French words. “Tu comprends? Je ne suis pas lui, Patrice.”
Patrice ignores him then drags his fingers lightly down River’s cheek. River flinches away but Patrice grunts, making his displeasure clear. He tips River’s head back and forth, scrutinizing again, one thumb petting through River’s beard. River watches as his eyes flit around River’s face, always seeming to land on his mouth for a brief moment before moving again. Despite the dimness of the light, this close, River can see Patrice’s face is slightly flushed.
“Don’t,” River says, his jaw tight. Anxiety and adrenaline have River breathing heavily and he’s starting to sweat despite the cold temperature in the room.
Patrice ignores him and the petting continues for a full minute before he steps around so his legs are outside of River’s and slowly lowers himself so he’s in River’s lap, straddling him. It’s uncomfortable and painful; with all of the man’s weight settled on River’s legs, the edge of the small chair cuts hard into the back of his thighs.
Patrice leans in slowly, his intent obvious, and River shrinks backward, futilely tries to buck Patrice off of him.
Patrice jerks his head back at the same time that he presses himself more forcefully onto River, making it clear that he should stop. He traces a finger along River’s bottom lip, and finally says something. “You like this.”
River doesn’t know if it’s meant to be an instruction to him or if it’s meant to convince Patrice himself. Or if the guy is so unhinged he actually believes River is the doppelganger he’d left in his grandfather’s bathtub.
“Patrice, I’m not, I’m not Bertrand,” River stammers, trying again.
Patrice shakes his head once and hisses sharply, “Shh.” His dark eyes are hard and just inches from River’s as he stares, apparently waiting to ensure River will comply.
When Patrice leans in again, River twitches his face to the side, only to feel the sharp tip of the knife pressed to his cheek, pushing him back again, before it drops to his neck and stays there, a threatening reminder. River swallows very carefully as his pulse throbs against it. Patrice leans in again, and this time, with the knife just a flick of the wrist away from exsanguinating him, River doesn’t move. A sense of dread sends a shiver through him.
“Open,” Patrice says softly against River’s lips, and River complies. Patrice breathes out a warm, shaky gust before connecting their mouths. The kiss is soft and tender—a lover’s kiss—and frozen in place, River reels from the turn this whole thing has taken.
They’d addressed it, of course, in the torture-resistance training. He knows rape is not an act of sex but rather an act of violence. He knows that warring factions often use rape and sexual assault as an intimidation and demoralization tactic. How some governments sanction the use of assault and rape to get prisoners to talk. So when he’d woken up bound to the chair, he’d expected a beating, questions, even torture. And though it seemed less likely, possibly even violent sexual assault. But this…this had never crossed his mind. This doesn’t feel like anything they’d taught in the damned training. This feels personal.
Patrice grunts and presses the tip of the knife into River’s neck. It breaks the skin and since the room is cold, River can feel the small trickle of warm blood seep down to his clavicle. A surge of adrenaline hits him and his body shakes with it. Patrice grunts again and this time River does as he assumes Patrice wants—he kisses back. Once River starts participating, Patrice’s tongue finds his and River hears and feels him sigh deeply though his nose.
The kissing gradually shifts from soft and gentle to increasingly heated necking and after a couple of minutes, Patrice begins to rock in River’s lap. River’s brain sort of shorts out and he stops kissing as he processes what’s happening. Patrice doesn’t stop his slow rocking but he does press the knife again, reminding River it’s there. River takes the hint and kisses back again. Without disengaging his mouth, Patrice releases the button and zipper on his own pants and fumbles for a moment pulling his cock free. River can feel his erection, now, hard against his own abdomen as Patrice presses his body closer into River’s and grinds faster, with more intention.
River’s horrified to realize that his own cock has started to harden. He’s not enjoying this in any way, but it’s just a biological fact that if you stimulate a man’s dick, it’s nearly always going to respond, at least if he’s basically young and healthy. He knows this, but it’s still disturbing and humiliating.
After several long, long minutes, Patrice’s pace accelerates and his thrusts against River get more insistent. He breaks away from River’s mouth and abruptly stands up, taking his cock in his fist. The head glistens.
“Don’t—” River tries but before another word is out, the knife is back at his throat and the second after that, Patrice pushes his cock past River’s lips, taking what he wants.
Patrice grips River’s hair with his free hand and holds him still. He’s breathing hard and sweating, his face is red as he forces his cock in and out of River’s mouth. River had braced himself for a ruthless face-fucking given what he’d see of Patrice on the street, but it’s not that. It’s slow and gentle. Patrice caresses River's cheek with his free hand like they’re part of some farcical love affair. Somehow this is more disturbing than if Patrice used pain and brutality, because at least that, River could make sense of.
River just wants it over with so he does what he can to speed the process. He tightens his lips, uses his tongue, applies suction. It works. It’s no more than 30 more seconds before River hears a choked catch of breath and bitterness floods his mouth. He gags and coughs, reflexively jerking his head back and to the side; he’s only able to because Patrice’s hand has gone slack with his orgasm. A shot of come hits River on his cheek and slides through his beard, another hits his neck and the collar of his shirt.
Patrice finally gains more control, taking hold of River’s hair again and pushing his cock back into River’s mouth. His eyes are closed and his chest heaves as he moves it slowly in and out, just a couple inches. It’s slimy and bitter and River gags again. It continues for several moments and when Patrice’s cock has mostly softened in River’s mouth, he sighs deeply before pulling it out and bending to slide his mouth against River’s, slipping his tongue inside for just a second.
Then he drops to his knees between River’s legs.
“No,” River says immediately, shaking his head vigorously and rearing back in the chair. “I don’t want that.”
But Patrice isn’t watching or listening. He’s intently focused on unbuttoning and unzipping River’s pants.
River squirms in the chair but there’s nowhere he can go. “Please. Stop,” he pleads.
Still focusing on the task in front of him, Patrice says, “You’re hard.”
River shakes his head violently and bucks his body as much as he can in a futile effort to get away. “That’s not…I don’t want this. You know why I’m hard.”
Patrice ignores him and a few seconds later, he’s pulling River’s cock free from his jeans. He’s not fully erect, at most half-hard from Patrice’s grinding.
“Patrice, please,” he tries again.
Without looking at River, Patrice works River’s cock in his fist and repeats what he’d said earlier. “You like this.”
River keeps struggling until he feels the tip of the knife press against his leg. It wouldn’t take much for him to slice into River’s femoral artery.
Patrice fondles River’s cock until he’s mostly hard, then he dips his head and takes it into his mouth. River jolts and sucks in a sharp breath. The tip of the knife digs into his thigh and River stills. Patrice works with practiced efficiency and thank God he makes no effort to vary the speed or technique or drag things out; it feels like it’s a rote exercise on Patrice’s part. Eventually River realizes that his first instinct to resist and try to prevent himself from coming will only make this longer—Patrice will likely keep going until it’s over. And River does just want this to be over so he does the best he can to relax. Even so, it feels like it takes forever to bring him to climax. River’s orgasm, when it comes, lacks any gratification. His only thought is, thank God.
Patrice swallows all of River’s come, licks him clean, then tucks him away and stands. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looking away and down, and asks, quietly, “Where is he?”
“He’s dead,” River snaps, angry and aiming to hurt.
“You killed him?” Patrice asks. With his French accent it comes out ‘keeled.’
“No.” River shakes his head and laughs a slightly hysterical laugh. “My 84-year-old grandfather bested him, but I showed up after and blew his face off.” Which River knows, objectively, is a very stupid thing to say but given everything, he’s maybe not on his best game.
The backhand happens so fast, River doesn't see it coming. And then there’s a hand on his neck, squeezing, and he can’t breathe. Patrice isn’t looking at the floor anymore, his dark eyes flash and bore into River’s with intense hatred.
“That’s enough,” a voice says, conversationally, from behind.
River can’t see who said it and he’s not sure he ever will because his vision is starting to tunnel.
“I said that’s enough,” said louder, more forcefully this time, and then there’s a fist wrapped around Patrice’s wrist in a tight grip.
Patrice lets go and stumbles backward a couple of steps, head down, looking at the floor. River coughs and gasps for air as the other man steps into view. It’s the man from Les Arbres who’d tried to kill him. The man River is 90% sure is his father. ‘Frank,’ Natasha had called him.
Frank barely glances at River but with the sweep of his eyes, River is somehow sure that he takes it all in immediately and knows exactly what’s gone on here. River can only glare in return, still catching his breath.
Turning, Frank steps in close to Patrice and wraps one hand around his neck and the other grips his hair on the side of his head, immobilizing him before pulling him in close and viciously pressing their mouths together. Patrice is docile, arms at his side, allowing Frank to do as he wishes. River can see that Frank’s tongue is sweeping through Patrice’s mouth, but not like Patrice’s kisses earlier. This is pure domination; the assault River had expected himself. It’s several seconds before Frank disengages, and when he does, he slaps Patrice hard across the face.
“There are no fucking squatter’s rights here,” Frank hisses. “I can taste him on you.” He slaps Patrice’s other cheek.
“I’m sorry,” Patrice says quickly, still staring at the floor. “I— Bertrand—"
Frank slaps him a third time. “Shut up. Despite what you might have thought, Bertrand wasn’t yours either.” Then he grips the back of Patrice’s neck and leans in, murmuring something in Patrice’s ear, too low for River to hear. Patrice looks over Frank’s shoulder as he does—at River briefly, then past him to a spot on the wall. His face flames red from Frank’s hand, but his expression has shifted back to that blank vacantness.
When Frank finishes what he has to say he gives Patrice a questioning look. Patrice nods once and Frank smiles at him before grasping his neck and kissing him on the cheek. It looks like an almost loving gesture.
All River can think is, whatever the hell is going on here is so fucked up.
Frank spins back to face River and steps closer. River rears back as far as he can. “You’ll have to forgive him,” Frank says. “He’s overly emotional right now.”
River’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, he’s overly emotional, is he? I see. And that gives him the right to rape someone, does it?” Behind Frank, Patrice flinches and a small strangled sound comes from his throat. Frank half turns and throws a quick glance at him. “Is that what you taught him at Les Arbres?”
Frank raises a single eyebrow, and River would swear the man is amused. “Oh, he learned a lot of things at Les Arbres,” he says distractedly. He bends with his hands on his knees and scrutinizes River’s face. “Damn,” he says. “You really do look like him, don’t you?”
River snaps his head forward to bash Frank in the nose, but Frank is expecting it and he easily dodges the blow. “Ah, ah,” he says, shaking his head, and suddenly there’s a vice-grip on his genitals. River freezes but the grip gets tighter. River’s whole body tenses. “Keep still, now,” Frank tells him before dipping his head and nuzzling at River’s neck, sniffing at first, then laving River with his tongue, lapping at the trickle of blood caused by Patrice’s knife, and the come on River’s neck and beard. Then he grabs River’s face between his meaty hands and presses their lips together sliding his tongue in and out quickly, like a snake. River braces for more but it doesn’t come. The kiss—if you can call it that—is over nearly as soon as it began, but River can still taste the mix of bitter come and metallic tang of blood. Frank moves his mouth over to River’s ear. “You’re mine, River,” he says, a low, possessive growl.
River jerks, trying to pull away. “Fuck you,” he spits. “I’m not anyone’s.”
Frank pulls back but stays crouched, his face just inches from River’s. He smirks. “Well, you know what they say, ‘possession is nine-tenths of the law,’ and we took you pretty damned easily.”
When Frank finally stands upright, he says, “See you again soon, son.” He smiles broadly and his lips and teeth and beard are smeared with red. River turns his head away and gags. Frank lets out an amused huff. “We’ll have to work on that.”
And then Frank is gone, without another look at Patrice.
When Frank’s footsteps have receded into nothing, Patrice approaches with the knife again and River recoils. But Patrice just leans in and kisses River, one soft, chaste kiss on the mouth, before pressing their foreheads together. For a second, his face contorts painfully. “Goodbye,” he whispers.
River braces, expecting the knife to slit his throat or disembowel him, but all he feels is some pressure on his left hand and then, like Frank, Patrice is gone. It takes a moment for River to realize the tape on his left wrist has been cut but as soon as he does, he rips it free.
He spends the next 20 minutes picking at the layers of duct tape around his other wrist and ankles. When the last bit finally releases, relief crashes over him and he slides out of the chair and collapses onto the floor, shaking and near hyperventilating.
“Oh, fuck. Fuckfuckfuck,” he whispers, curling into a ball and grasping his arms around his knees. He shuts his eyes and breathes carefully, trying to forestall the threatening panic attack. He digs through his memories until he comes up with the 4-7-8 breathing technique they were taught in torture-resistance training. It takes several minutes but eventually the shaking stops and he can breathe almost normally.
He gives himself a couple more minutes to be sure he’s got himself under control, then he unzips his pants and readjusts himself, very carefully not thinking about why he needs to. Getting to his feet, his knees nearly buckle and he stumbles forward to put a hand to the wall. He decides he was being optimistic, thinking he could actually walk, so he leans against the wall and bends with his hands on his knees, continuing to aggressively not think about what’s just happened. It’s a solid three minutes before he thinks he can actually move. He takes a tentative step and when his legs surprisingly continue to hold him up, he walks toward the door, keeping one hand skimming the wall, just in case.
He walks quickly but quietly through the house, watching and listening for signs of the other two men. Every door is closed and he has to open them as he goes. The whole house appears as empty as the room was—no furniture, no décor. He finds the kitchen, tries the tap, and curses when no water comes out. He moves on, continuing to open doors until he finds a water closet. The tap there doesn’t work either but there’s water in the toilet and when he lifts the lid off the tank, it’s full.
Leaning over the tank, River scoops water into his cupped hands and slurps, swishing for several seconds before spitting it in the sink. It’s old and has a dirty, metallic taste, but it’s better than the taste of Patrice’s mouth, his come, Frank’s bloody lips. He rinses his mouth several times, then starts using the water to scrub Patrice’s dried come and Frank’s spit from his face and neck. And the blood. There’s not a lot, but when he glances in the mirror above the sink he can see that it’s smeared around from when Frank licked at it. This time when he gags, he doesn’t try to stop himself from throwing up. He retches into the sink but not much comes up. All he’s eaten in the last 24 hours is a bag of crisps on the train from France.
He dry heaves for a moment, then rinses his mouth again and goes back to scrubbing the bodily fluids off of himself. His beard makes it more difficult. He should shave the fucking thing off. If he does, though, will his mind see Bertrand every time he looks in the mirror?
The water is freezing and his hands are stiff and red by the time he can bring himself to stop cleaning the night’s residue off several minutes later. He wishes he had toothpaste because he can still taste bile. He imagines he can still taste Patrice’s come—it’s possible he’ll taste it for the rest of his life.
He wipes his face and hands on his shirt, then zips up his jacket and heads toward what appears to be the front of the house.
“Oh, ffffucking fuck...,” River says when he opens the door to see Patrice is there, leaning against the car they’d arrived in, the boot open. “And fuck you,” he seethes, pissed and so done with this shit.
Patrice’s face is a complete blank. “Come,” he says, gesturing with his head to the boot. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Why the fuck didn’t he just talk to me before? Hm? When he was here?” River asks, no longer worried that Patrice will kill him. It’s pretty clear that Frank is in charge and Patrice is his dog, doing exactly as Frank tells him.
A gun appears in Patrice’s hand, but he holds it loosely at his side. “Get in the boot.”
River walks straight to Patrice and stands a step away, in open defiance of the order.
Patrice’s jaw flexes but he looks over River’s shoulder. “In,” he says.
When River doesn’t move, Patrice’s eyes shift to him and a second later, River’s on the ground struggling to breathe. He has no idea what Patrice just did to him but every nerve in his body feels like it’s been lit on fire.
“I can keep doing things like that,” Patrice says calmly, looming over him. “Or I can shoot you someplace that hurts very badly but won’t kill you.” He points the gun at River’s right shin. “Or,” he tips his head toward the back of the car, “you can get in the boot.”
River coughs, takes a few more gasping breaths, then rolls onto all fours. From there, he manages to get one foot planted, and with assistance from the car, he levers himself up and staggers to his feet.
River glares at Patrice. “The last person who hurt me like that,” River stops to take a gasping breath, his nerves still lit up and burning, “ended up with his head caved in by a metal pipe.” It’s big talk given the circumstances, but also true. It had felt better than it should have to bash Duffy’s head in and he’d be happy to do the same to Patrice.
Patrice just blinks at him.
River gets in the boot.