Chapter Text
1975, Ridge Farm
“Feel my skin is rough but it can be cleansed. It can be cleansed. My arms are tough, but they can be bent. They can be bent. And I wanna fight but I can’t contend. I guess that’s love, I can’t pretend, I can’t pretend.” -Can’t Pretend, Tom Odell
It was humiliating in all the worst ways imaginable and Freddie just wanted it all to stop. He wanted to open his eyes and find it was all a nightmare. He wanted to pass out and never wake up again.
Paul’s belt cut into his wrists from where they’d been thrown above his head; he could feel a thin trickle of blood make its way down his arm. Paul had shoved Freddie’s own underwear in his mouth to muffle his screams. He could smell the whiskey on Paul’s breath and wondered just how long he’d been planning this. He knew Paul would try and say he was drunk and he hadn’t meant to, but Freddie knew better than that.
He knew better than that so why hadn’t he fled the room as soon as Paul entered it? Why had he wandered off alone? Why hadn’t he stayed with his friends?
Freddie knew he was small but he’d never felt so tiny until now. He’d long since stopped screaming; tears streamed steadily down his cheeks, he let out the occasional muffled sob and squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard to pretend it wasn’t happening, trying hard to block out Paul’s hissed insults, his insistence that this was Freddie’s fault, that he deserved this, stupid fucking whore…
He couldn’t say how long it lasted. He didn’t want to know.
When Paul finished he untied Freddie’s wrists and ungagged him. He put his belt back on, fixed his jeans-
And left without a word.
That surprised him. He’d expected another insult, a threat to keep quiet (though the sheer state he was in, the smells alone, would give it away). He half expected Paul to choke the life from him.
He didn’t know how long he lay there either but eventually his breathing hitched and he was pulling his torn clothes back on, stumbling from the room, trying to breathe through the panic, trying to see clearly through his tears.
“Roggie!”
Of course it was Roger he ran to, who else would it be?
Roger was half asleep when Freddie burst into his room and flung himself onto his best friend’s bed, sobbing too hard to talk.
“Freddie? Jesus Christ, Fred!”
A pair of strong arms wrapped around him, pressing his face into Roger’s chest. Roger didn’t ask what happened; he didn’t have to. He smelled like Paul and there were marks all over his neck and he hated them, he wanted them gone. His wrist was still bleeding, his head was still throbbing from when Paul slammed him onto the floor. Everything hurt, he could feel blood on his legs and he couldn’t breathe.
“Shh, shh, I’m here,” Roger murmured. He pressed a kiss into Freddie’s hair, rocking them back and forth. “I’m right here. You’re safe now.”
“What’s going on?” Brian was in the doorway; when the smells hit him his eyes widened and he joined them on the bed, a hand resting on Freddie’s back. His expression just broke when Freddie flinched.
“What happened, Fred?” he asked gently. Roger’s grip on him tightened, pulling him practically into Roger’s lap and all Freddie could manage to say was, “I...I...d-d-didn’t want t-to.”
“We know,” Roger reassured him. “We know you didn’t.” He sighed deeply and turned to Brian. “Get Deacy,” he said and Brian hurried downstairs.
Roger stayed with Freddie, still holding onto him, still trying to shield him, though what was there to shield him from now? The worst had just happened.
‘You don’t have to protect me anymore,’ Freddie wanted to say. ‘It can’t get any worse.’
When Deacy and Brian came back, Freddie’s breathing wasn’t quite so rapid. He wouldn’t open his eyes though, not even when Roger gently passed him to Brian.
Roger’s voice was much different when he growled, “I’ll be right back.”
“What are you doing?” Deacy demanded to know.
Roger didn’t answer him and Freddie still wouldn’t open his eyes, so he couldn’t even begin to guess what Roger looked like. He tucked Freddie’s hair back off his face and said, “Look after him,” before leaving.
“Oh fuck, this isn’t good,” Brian said quietly.
And sure enough…
“PRENTER!”
Roger’s furious roar was loud enough to wake the whole house.
It didn’t take long to find Prenter: he was in the kitchen drinking himself blind and when Roger found him he saw red.
He smelled like whiskey on top of his usual scent; he smelled like Freddie, he smelled like Freddie’s blood.
There was a flash of fear on Prenter’s face at the sight of him; just a flash, because Roger gave him no time to react. He was across the room and slamming Prenter face first onto the counter before the bastard could even blink. There was a satisfying crack and Prenter’s nose started bleeding. Roger grabbed him by the hair, pulling him from the stool, grabbing a knife as he dragged Prenter across the room, pinning him to the wall, knife held to his neck.
“You hurt him,” Roger hissed. “I fucking told you to stay away from him and you hurt him.” He wouldn’t say that word, could hardly let himself even think it, but his mind was full of Freddie; the way Freddie’s voice had cracked as he sobbed Roger’s name, the way he flinched away from Brimi of all people. The blood on Freddie’s arm, the absolute terror in his eyes, the way he couldn’t stop crying.
“It was his own fault,” Prenter gasped, terrified eyes on the knife.
Roger smiled grimly, pressing the knife closer.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”
“Roger!”
He turned to see his boys in the doorway, Brian holding Freddie up. Ratty, Crystal and Roy huddled behind them; all of them looked terrified. Freddie looked terrified.
That was the one good reason; he didn’t want to traumatise his best friend further.
He backed away from Prenter, but he didn’t drop the knife.
“Call the police,” he snapped to Crystal, who stumbled over himself to flee the room. “And call Reid!” Roger shouted after him. He hurried back to Freddie, taking him from Brian.
Surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly), it was Deacy who took the knife from him, but he didn’t throw it away. He marched back over to Prenter, who had slid down the wall; the bastard stared up at Deacy in terror. Sweet little Deacy, who looked a far cry from sweet with a knife in his hands and rage in his eyes, teeth bared in a snarl that put Roger’s to shame.
“One move,” he said coldly. “One twitch and I’ll kill you.”
No one doubted him.
Prenter didn’t move.
“Get him out of here,” Brian whispered to Roger, who wasted no time in bundling Freddie from the kitchen and into the living room.
He held Freddie as close as he could, careful not to jostle him too much because Freddie kept wincing, kept squirming and curling in on himself. His nails dug into Roger’s back; he was shaking all over and Roger curled around him, trying to shield him against the rest of the world.
‘You didn’t protect him, you didn’t protect him, you promised and you didn’t protect him, you weren’t with him, why weren’t you with him? Look what happened, look at him, you didn’t protect him.’
He should have been there. He should have stayed up with Freddie or insisted Freddie go to bed with the rest of them. He should never have let it happen. He should have kept Freddie safe.
Dear God, Roger was never letting him go again.
“No I’d rather pretend I’m something better than these broken parts. Pretend I’m something other than this mess that I am. ‘Cause then I don’t have to look at it and no one gets to look at it, no, no one can really see…” -Words Fail, Dear Evan Hansen
When the doctors tried to take Freddie from him Roger pulled his best friend back against his chest, snarling at them all.
“He’s mine,” he snapped. The only ones who knew for sure they weren’t together were the other members of Queen and Dominique and he wasn’t about to drop the facade now, not if dropping it meant leaving Freddie alone.
“Oh!” the doctor’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t realise.” She offered Freddie a gentle smile that he didn’t return. “Do you want your Alpha to come with you, Mr Mercury?”
Freddie nodded, gripping Roger’s hand like a lifeline. They had to leave Deacy and Brian behind. To Roger’s surprise, Miami stayed with them. Then again, he was their lawyer, so maybe that wasn’t too shocking.
He wanted to say he trusted Miami but everything had been turned on its head. The only people he’d totally trust with Freddie right now were Brian and Deacy.
Each injury listed was like a stab in his heart; the lump on Freddie’s head, the cut on his wrist; the bruises on his wrists, hips and thighs. The dark hickeys and bite marks all along his neck and chest, even a few on his shoulders and thighs. The long, angry red scratch marks down his thighs and worst of all, the tearing, the blood on his legs.
‘You didn’t protect him,’ a voice inside reminded him again.
Freddie wouldn’t look at him, he wouldn’t look at anyone, his eyes were trained firmly on the floor. All the panic, all the tears had vanished, only to be replaced with such horrible stillness, a glazed look in his eyes that frightened Roger to bits.
“Fred?” He lay a hand on his arm and Freddie hummed in response.
“...You can stay at mine tonight,” Roger offered and finally, Freddie looked at him. He didn’t smile, his eyes were still glazed, but some of the tension melted away. He nodded and pressed his face into Roger’s shoulder.
“Can I have a bath now?” he asked. Somehow even that made Roger want to cry.
“As soon as we get home,” he promised.
“You have won you can go ahead, tell them. Tell them all I know now, shout it from the rooftops. Write it on the skyline. All we had is gone now. Tell them I was happy and my heart is broken; all my scars are open. Tell them what I’d hoped would be impossible. Impossible, impossible, impossible.” -Impossible, James Arthur (cover)
They didn’t get to go home right away. They had to give statements to the police, there was a rape kit and Roger wanted to scream at them all to fuck off and let Freddie rest before forcing him to talk about it. Miami had come in with the police, and Roger was ridiculously glad to see he had stayed so long; glad Brian and Deacy hadn’t been left alone in reception. Glad someone could help with this shit, relieved someone who might actually know how to handle this, and keep it short, was still here.
Roger sat with his arm around Freddie’s shoulders, staring the cops down as Freddie recounted what happened; how he’d just been working on a song when Prenter walked in and asked if he could listen for a bit. How he’d started to leave when Paul grabbed him and kissed him- and then, when Freddie pushed him away, how Prenter had…
“Thank you, Mr Mercury,” the taller cop, a skinny guy with red hair. He looked sympathetic, his smile was surprisingly fatherly for a guy who looked their age. “I know it must be hard to talk about.”
“Can we go now?” Roger demandeed, not bothering to keep the anger from his voice.
The shorter cop, chubby and freckled, nodded as he tucked his notebook away. “We’ll be in touch tomorrow, lads,” he said. “Try to get some rest.” They left. The nurse, who had been hovering by the door, offered another gentle smile.
“You can go boys,” she confirmed and Roger wasted no time in bundling Freddie into his jacket and escorting him out of the room, Miami at their heels.
“I can come with you to the police station tomorrow,” Miami offered. Freddie peered up at him through his hair and nodded, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
It was weird getting to Roger’s house. Somehow, Freddie felt like everything should look different, like everything should look as wrecked as he felt.
But no, everything looked normal.
Wordlessly, he dropped his bag by the door and hurried into the bathroom, locking the door and drawing a bath. As the water filled the tub, Roger knocked on the door.
“Fred?” He had to speak up to be heard over the roar of the water. “I’m leaving some pajamas out here for you, okay?”
“Okay.” He hated how croaky his voice sounded, but now that he had some privacy, now that there was finally a locked door between him and the rest of the world, he could feel tears stinging his eyes, could feel his hands starting to shake. As he climbed into the too-hot water, he finally felt safe enough to bury his face in his knees and cry about it.
He’d cried earlier. He’d practically been screaming. But he wasn’t panicking anymore. It felt like grieving; it felt like something had been stolen from him. Had he really been rushing around and laughing only yesterday? Had he really flopped onto Brian’s lap and told him to “perk up, darling,” when Roger had laughed at “you call me sweet like I’m some kind of cheese” ? Had he really been working on that song for Mary only hours ago? That didn’t feel like him. That felt like a dream world.
Or maybe this was a dream, all just a horrible nightmare, and he’d wake up back at the Farm and finish the album. Maybe he’d wake up and finally show the boys Bohemian Rhapsody.
But as he tried in vain to scrub the feeling of Prenter’s hands away, as he silently cried, as he sat there until the water grew cold, he knew he couldn’t kid himself.
It was a nightmare, but it was reality.
The clothes Roger had left by the door fitted oddly; it was a pair of Freddie’s own pajama pants, the cosiest pair he’d brought to the Farm with him, a pair of thick socks that he had borrowed from Deacy and one of Roger’s jumpers; Roger was broad where he was skinny, so the damn thing kept slipping off his left shoulder and the sleeves were ever so slightly too long, but it was warm and soft and surprisingly comforting.
His skin hurt from where he’d scrubbed too hard and he knew he must look ridiculously red but Freddie was simply too tired to care. He flopped onto the sofa, pulling the tartan throw over himself.
Roger came padding out of the bedroom only minutes later.
“What’re you doing, Fred?”
“Sleeping.”
“Nuh-uh.” Roger was trying to pull him up and all Freddie wanted was to just sleep and ignore this for a few hours. “C’mon, mate, you’re not sleeping on the sofa, you’re coming with me.”
Well, that was a surprise. He wasn’t sure why he expected Roger to leave him alone tonight, he just...he had.
“They’re not going to want you around after this, after they see what a whore you are.”
Oh, right. That was why.
“Freddie?” Roger knelt down, peering at him worriedly. “I mean...It’s just an offer. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
Poor Roggie. Freddie had never seen him look so worried before. The last time he’d looked anywhere close to this upset had been when Freddie told him everything; all about running away from home, how his family might have been killed in the Revolution...And yet, compared to now, that only looked like mild worry. This? This was something else entirely. There wasn’t even a spark of anger there, just sadness and concern. Something softer than usual, but something unbearably sad all the same.
And Freddie didn’t want to be alone. The thought made panic rise in his chest again.
“Thanks, Rog,” he said, ignoring how his voice cracked again and followed Roger to his room.
It was surprisingly tense at first. It had never been tense between them before. He lay at one extreme edge of the bed, Roger at the other and damn it all, Paul had ruined everything, he’d never been afraid to hug one of his friends before, Roger had never been afraid to touch him before, but now…
Oh fuck it, he couldn’t stand this.
He rolled over and flung his arms around his best friend, face pressed against Roger’s chest, trying to ignore how his own breathing hitched, how he was shaking again. Instantly, Roger’s arms were around him, pulling him closer, holding on so tightly it was almost painful but it was better, so much infinitely better than being alone. He tried to imagine going home alone tonight and the idea made him want to vomit. If he’d been at home he wouldn’t even have the cats, because Mary was looking after them while he was gone.
He’d have to tell Mary about this. They had to tell the record company. If the charges stuck there’d be a trial. He could stay anonymous, couldn’t he? And yet, if the papers reported that Paul had raped an Omega that worked for EMI he was suddenly certain that everyone would take one look at him and know and oh god oh god oh god, he had to tell Kashmira and Papa and and and andandand-
“I want my mama,” Freddie mumbled against Roger’s chest. He didn’t care how childish it sounded; suddenly all he wanted was his mother.
Was it his imagination or did Roger sob at that?
No, he wasn’t imagining things. When Freddie peered up at him, Roger had tears in his eyes, biting his lip to try and muffle any noise, but when he exhaled his breath broke on another sob.
“I’ll call her first thing in the morning,” he promised. “As soon as I get up, okay? We don’t have to be at the station until they call us, she can come over early.”
Freddie squeezed his eyes shut, clutching Roger’s shirt so hard he was surprised it didn’t tear. “I hate this,” he said. “I hate him. ”
Roger shifted their position, pulling Freddie up so his head rested on Roger’s shoulder instead, so Roger could rest his chin on top of Freddie’s head, one hand reaching up to tangle in his hair.
“He won’t get away with this,” Roger swore. “No matter what. I won’t let him, I promise.”
“You can’t promise that, Roger.”
“Yes,” he snarled and there was something truly dangerous in Roger's eyes now. “I can.”
Against his better judgement (and terrified of what Roger might do if he got his hands on Paul, terrified of how much trouble he might land himself in) Freddie believed him.
He had no idea what the morning would bring and he didn’t feel anywhere near ready to face it, but what choice did he have? The sun would rise and he’d have to face it, no matter what.
(He was stronger than he gave himself credit for, stronger than even Roger gave him credit for. It would take some time, but he’d show them.
He’d show them all.)