AN: When I first got into Rachel's character, I noticed that there's sort of a ridiculous amount of fics out there in which she's sexually assaulted. And it's okay, I understand why that type of situation would be relevant to her character (there's a long history of sexual assaults on priestesses and oracles or really any woman ever), but in the majority of these stories Rachel thinks nothing of it and just gets sort of annoyed and then some guy (usually Apollo or Nico) saves the day and she never thinks about it again, and the problem-solution, sexual-assault-is-a-thing-that-happens-why-should-i-be-traumatized portrayal is not always the way it goes. So I thought I would try my hand at creating a story to make up for what I consider a misinterpretation of the way Rachel, or anyone, would respond to being assaulted.
tw: rape
He is drunk. And she is pretty.
It's the excuse he mumbles in her ear when one of his hands is against the wall, right by her head, and his other has a grip on her wrists so firm she cringes. Rachel Elizabeth Dare trembles. No, not trembles; shivers. She's not scared. Not her. It's just…cold. It is cold and she is angry, she thinks distantly.
Ten minutes earlier everything had been fine. She was at a bar with some mortal friends, taking a break from demigods and monsters to relax for once. Except then her pager had gone off- the special pager Apollo had given her that alerted her when he wanted Rachel to send him an Iris Message. She sighed obligingly and ducked out of the dimly lit building, finding an alley where she wouldn't have to worry about anyone seeing her and thinking she's crazy as she dug out a flashlight, a mirror, and the rest of the makeshift-rainbows-for-dummies kit she had taken to carrying around with her in case of situations exactly like that one.
But then he had called out to her. Intoxicated. Jeering. Baby doll, he says.Let me talk to you for a minute, he says. The flashlight tumbles out of her hand and she whips around to face him, her eyes wide with- no, not fear, surprise.
Her eyes meet his and she sees a darkness in his expression that sends her body into instant fight-or-flight mode. Her legs feel strange; they're weak and bursting with energy at the same time, begging her to run away even as she shakes. Her pride anchors her to the spot where she stands. Her pride, she thinks, not the paralyzing apprehension coursing through her.
When he starts to walk towards her, she starts to move too. In the opposite direction. Her feet stumble forward, her head down, as she tries to escape some way. But there's nowhere to go. The threshold to safety, where her friends are laughing and drinking and oblivious, is at his back. The opposite direction holds only a further descent into the shadows of the alley. Why did she ever come here, she thinks. How could she have been so stupid.
After a few steps she decides she's making a mistake. Leading him towards the alleyway is a horrible idea, there are people not twenty yards away inside the bar. So she turns around, keeping her head down and walking briskly toward the lights. But he's closer than she anticipated, moving surprisingly quickly for a man so drunk. Her pace quickens and she's all but running for the door.
He grabs her. Pushes her back against the wall and her head rings and the lights that were so welcoming a moment ago are now blinding.
"Don't touch me," she tells him, her voice low and dangerous. Except, maybe it's the head injury, but 'low and dangerous' sounds a lot more like a barely audible mumble that she chokes out in a shaking voice.
He laughs.
His hand grabs both of hers at once, twisting them so that she cries out. She heaves her weight forward and struggles against him, kicking, writhing, shouting. It doesn't matter. He's so close to her, the pungent stench of liquor on his breath assaulting her. Her stomach turns and she thinks she's going to throw up. It's the drinks, she thinks. It's the smell. It's the flu. It's anything, anything but the pure terror that's causing her stomach to roil and clench up, causing her to turn so pale.
Because if there's one thing Rachel Elizabeth Dare is not, it's afraid. Not her, never her. How could a girl who flew a helicopter into the Battle of New York tremble before a mortal? How could a girl who stole a pegasus, flew past a dragon, and demanded to take on the Spirit of Delphi have anything to fear in something as trivial as a rowdy, inebriated human? What could the Oracle, Seer of Fate, Priestess of Apollo, ever have to fear?
The answer came in the form of his hand moving from the wall to circle around her neck.
"Stop," she chokes out.
He doesn't.
"Leave me alone," she screams.
He doesn't.
She waits for him to say it, the way they do in the movies. There's-no-one-coming, no-one-can-hear-you, be-a-good-girl-and-no-one-gets-hurt.
He doesn't.
He doesn't have to because it hits her that no one is coming. Not a demigod wielding a golden sword, not Apollo and his immortal wrath, not any of the people she'd watched slay monster after monster over the years. Because he is a mortal. And though he is a monster, it's not in the mythological sense. Nobody but her knows she's in danger.
The thought makes her feel small and fragile. It makes her feel human and ordinary. It makes her feel stupid and helpless. It doesn't matter who she is, who she knows. She's a young girl in a dark alley. She is pretty, and he is drunk. And no one is coming to help her.
When his hands go around her waist she closes her eyes and a tear slips out. She tastes blood in her mouth and fear on her tongue and she wonders what will happen to her. She remembers Luke's mother, green eyes and green mist and a fragile, broken mind. She remembers some of the other Oracles she'd seen in her visions, girls her age crying and screaming on nights as dark as that one. She remembers how much she hates feeling small and fragile and human and ordinary and stupid and above all, helpless.
"Stop."
This time when she says it her voice is warped, thick like three of her are all speaking at once. Her eyes glow green and her wrists snap free from his grasp. She twists, she wriggles, she breaks free of him as he stares at her. This time it's him who has fear in his eyes.
She pushes him away, the Spirit swelling within her and making her so much stronger than she had felt a moment ago. As he stumbles backwards she moves away, walking, running, sprinting back into the building and away from him. She finds her friends and they make noises of worry and concern, they ask what happened. Rachel's eyes stop glowing and she collapses into them, her voice quavering and trembling and all her courage leaving her. They take her home right away, staying with her, begging her to tell them what happened. Rachel cries.
She did not fear drakons or manticores. She did not fear the creepy, crawly, slimey beasts she had seen in her dreams and her visions and standing directly in front of her. She did not fear the Spirit that could have rejected her, killed her or warped her mind.
But there were some monsters she was still terrified of.