Patrick knows that something is going on. They never usually lock him in his room for this long, not without cause, but he's been rattling around for four days now with no idea what he's done wrong.

It must be something, it's always something, they've never made such a secret of it before. He's tried bashing the door down, just for good measure, tried grabbing at the hands that push food through the hatch at the bottom, tried screaming at the fucking cameras before giving in and smashing them to pieces with a torn-off chair leg.

In the end, he gets so bored he fixes the chair, and the bedside table, and the lamp he broke in his fit of fury after what happened with Pete. He worries endlessly, pacing until he's exhausted and falling into bed for night after restless night. Pete shouted at Andy, and if Andy tells White, and if White decides to - to - fuck. Patrick can't even imagine what they might be doing to Pete, whether he's even still alive.

Patrick thinks he is, though. He can't be sure, but he feels it, in his chest, in his halo. He'd know if Pete was dead. Then again, there's worse things than killing him.

"Where is he?" is the first question Patrick asks when White finally opens his bedroom door to find him sitting on the floor surrounded by numbers. She frowns automatically, her mouth spreading to a thin line.

"Get up," she snaps, and Patrick has yet to figure out how he's wronged her, other than simply by being alive.

"What have I done?" he says as innocently as he can, getting to his feet and looking her in the eye. "Why did you lock me in here?" Again.

"Be quiet," she hisses as she stalks over to him and grabs him by the arm, dragging him out of the room. She's tense, more so than usual; distracted, too. "Where's Franklin? Franklin!"

The man appears from around a corner almost immediately. White shoves Patrick towards him. "Restrain him. Follow me."

Franklin's hand replaces White's around Patrick's arm, and it's considerably less painful. The man gently guides him in the direction White's headed, face darkened with worry. Something's definitely going on.

"Where's Pete?" Patrick asks again, peering around every corner, afraid he'll see Pete's body or hear Pete's screams.

Franklin has the fucking decency to actually answer him. "He's fine," the man says kindly, giving his arm a soft squeeze. Patrick breathes out properly for the first time in four days.

"Are you sure?" he asks, just for good measure, and to indulge the fact that someone is actually talking to him. But White answers first.

"No! He's not fine at all, he's bloody gone!" she yells, her hands curling into fists. Patrick mirrors the action, and Franklin's grip on his arm tightens slightly. "He left, like the coward we all knew he was," she snarls, moving closer to Patrick.

She's horribly close to his face as she begins to growl. "I told you he'd get bored of you. He left you to rot. He ran away to his convertible and his six-figure salary. He doesn't love you. No-one does. Now, shut your filthy mouth or I'll sew it shut myself."

With that, she turns away, a flick of her finger gesturing for them to follow. Patrick casts a glance at Franklin, who shrugs slightly and shakes his head, indicating that he has no idea what's got into White either. Not true, Franklin mouths, and Patrick nods. He knows better than to take White's insults to heart; at least, not until Andy reiterates them.

When White stops in front of a certain door, though, Patrick feels the panic wrap its fingers around his lungs and squeeze.

"No - no," he protests, struggling against Franklin's grip, "you just locked me up, you can't - I haven't done anything, I swear!"

White just rolls her eyes. "It's not what you think. Today is very important, so just get in there, for goodness' sake," she sighs, opening the door to his fucking prison cell.

Franklin begins to drag him towards the room, but he can go fuck himself if he thinks Patrick's gonna go right back into solitary after four days with no contact with anyone. He can't go another fucking week without talking to anyone but himself, worrying himself to insanity. "No," he says, "I'm not going. You can't lawfully imprison me for more than twenty-four hours without telling me what the fuck I've done," he states, glad he googled that particular fact, even if it was just so Pete wouldn't think he was stupid.

White's laughter is hysterical, brittle like ceramic on metal, and it is most definitely at Patrick. He hates the colour that floods his cheeks, hates how his wings twitch to wrap around him a little more. Why the fuck can't he remember the big words, the ones Pete uses? Stupid, that's why.

"Has someone been trying to talk like the adults do?" White coos, and Patrick is sure his face is now on fire.

"Fuck you," he mumbles, unable to summon any kind of force to the words. Now even Franklin must think he's dumb as fuck.

White laughs again, and Patrick curls his fists tightly, imagining what it would feel like to slam one of them into White's face. Before he can find out, though, she's opening the door, and Patrick finds himself pushed inside.

The room looks different to how Patrick remembers it; the walls are still white, but they've painted over the scratches and the smudges of his blood he left the last time they put him in here. There's even a chair in the corner, a sad attempt at making this place somewhat less fucking horrifying. He feels suddenly sick, the memories of days spent screaming at endless silence making his stomach turn.

"So, they'll be here in three hours, where are we with the preparations?" Patrick whips round to see Wan marching through the door, her arms filled with paper. Something must be going on, Wan hardly ever comes anywhere near him. She looks to White for an answer, her eyes gliding over Patrick as if he isn't there.

White puts on a smile and says a hurried "Yes, yes, we're nearly ready."

"Good, well, get on with it then," Wan says with an equally fake smile. "We need this to go smoothly."

"What's going on?" Patrick demands, staring directly at Wan, hoping she's unsettled enough by him to answer his fucking question.

She doesn't say anything. Her eyes meet Patrick's momentarily, but then they simply slide to White. "Get him under control," she snaps.

Patrick barely even feels the splash of pain in the side of his head as White smacks him, barely hears her hissing at him to be quiet. His mind is too busy trying desperately to find its way around their cryptic words, to separate truth from lie.

"Strip," White says suddenly, snapping Patrick back to shitty reality.

"What?" he blurts as he realises what the hell she just asked him to do.

"You heard me," she snarls, already reaching for his jumper. Patrick flinches backwards, shaking his head. They do this often enough before he's on the table, but never here. Not in front of Wan, in front of Franklin. He won't do it, not before they tell him what the fuck is happening.

But White gets her way, as she always does, and smirks as Patrick tries his utmost to keep from covering himself. He won't be ashamed, that's just what she wants. He keeps telling himself that this is just another of White's stupid stunts, that it doesn't bother him. It's nothing she hasn't seen before, he's got no reason to hide. They all saw him sucking Pete's dick anyway. He avoids looking at Franklin, even when White's left the room.

She returns with two interns and a box. The interns are young and coat-clad, and Patrick's seen them before but doesn't know their names. They stare when they walk in, and Patrick curls his wings around himself, cheeks burning. He snarls low in the back of his throat, just to see their eyes widen.

They're not his friends, he knows. They acted like it at first, their mouths dropping open at the sight of his wings, smiling at him. The girl even talked to him, asked him how he was, like they were equals. Now White's got to them; now they're wary, now they know he could kill them with two fingers. Now they know he's beneath them.

When they approach him, it's with a reel of silver, metallic tape. They grab for his hands and he yanks them out of reach, stumbling backwards into Franklin.

"Just let them, kid," Franklin says into his ear, his hands closing in a gentle grip over Patrick's shoulders.

Patrick wants to scream, wants to kick and cry and pounce as they tape his hands together behind his back. He settles for hissing, seeing the way they jump and cower away from him as the sound blazes from his throat. They leave the tape loose; he'll easily be able to wriggle free, he just has to wait for the right time.

"What have I told you about hissing," White snaps at him as the interns run back to her like wasps to their queen, "give me that." She takes the tape from the girl and marches towards Patrick, muttering to herself. Patrick's heart sinks when he feels her grab his bound wrists and press them together, wrapping more tape around them, impossibly tighter. His escape plan crumbles to the floor as he tries to twist his wrists and the tape doesn't budge.

When she appears in front of him, spindly fingers tearing off a section of tape, it takes him far too long to realise what she's going to do. He barely has time to cry out before the tape is pressed over his mouth, sealing his lips shut as the glue bonds to his skin.

He flaps his wings furiously, aiming for her head as he feels himself rise off the ground slightly, the interns scattering. Franklin's hands grab at his wings as he writhes, kicking and screeching as loud as he can through the tape, the open door beckoning him, taunting him. He manages to give Franklin a strong kick to the shin, but once the man gets an arm around Patrick's shoulders, he's pinned in place.

"I've been wanting to do that for a long time," White drawls, leaning close to Patrick and tapping the tape across his mouth. All Patrick can do is pant furiously in response, desperately trying to get enough air into his lungs through nothing but flared nostrils.

She moves back before he can crack his forehead into her nose. The box is opened, and the interns fuss around it while Patrick thrashes in Franklin's hold. He tells himself he won't stop fighting, won't ever let their jobs become easy, that no amount of pain will make him submit to their fucking regime. He lands another kick to Franklin's knee, but it's not quite the right angle to make it snap backwards like Patrick was hoping. White starts back towards Patrick, clutching something in her hands.

"This," she says, lifting up a greyish ring of - well, of something. It's dull like rubber but the inside rim shines bright with metal, "has been designed specifically for you." She opens up the ring and moves closer to him, pure malice in her eyes. "It's practically indestructible," she sneers, her hand hovering over his halo as she wraps the thing around his neck, "and it means that if you set a single feather out of line, wherever you are," something clicks into place and the thing suddenly fits tight and heavy around his throat, "we can punish you."

Patrick squirms away from her, twisting his head against the collar, growling as loud as he can, watching in horror as she produces a chain from her pocket and fastens it to a loop in the metal. She hooks the other end to a metal ring drilled low in the wall. When he tries to pull forward, his neck jars and he stumbles back into Franklin. White laughs.

"Now," she says steadily, taking a small black item out of her pocket, "if you decide to cause any kind of trouble for us, I can do this," she presses her thumb into the object, and Patrick's world explodes.

The pain is different to when someone touches his halo; it's sharper, first biting into his neck and then all across his body, his knees buckling and his jaw ringing with pain. Even when it's over, he feels himself trembling, feels the residual burning in his neck.

He pulls towards her in a fit of rage, how dare she, how dare she force this fucking piece of shit on him, he'll fucking rip her apart this time, he fucking swears, but he forgets the chain, and has the air knocked out of him all over again. White laughs. He's going to kill her, someday.

"So," she says, hovering just out of Patrick's reach, "you are going to behave, like a good little freak, and maybe then, perhaps, I won't fry your nerve endings to oblivion. Do you understand?"

Patrick snarls through the tape, hoping his eyes convey the appropriate degree of fuck you. This earns him a slap and a crippling shock that sends him collapsing to the floor. She looks down at him in disdain.

"Do you understand?" she repeats, nudging his head with her foot as the pain begins to fade.

He doesn't nod, he won't. He simply looks away from her, trying to reassemble his crumpled limbs. This seems to be enough.

"We'll be back soon. Try anything, and you'll pay. You," she barks, presumably at Franklin, "take this, keep an eye on him." She tosses him the object that Patrick assumes controls the shocks.

Wan gives him a rather disgusted glance before she sweeps from the room, White and the interns in tow. When the door slams, Patrick's insides collapse.

It's too much. He can't process it, his mind can't take the anxiety, the fear, the anger, the pain all at once, the absolute terror that they might have done something to Pete, that what White said might be true. He can't seem to get enough air into his lungs, he needs to gasp and gulp but the fucking tape won't let him, he can hardly move beyond writhing around on the floor, the collar pressing into his windpipe and his vision beginning to split in two.

He lets out a distraught moan, trying to pull his hands from where they're bound, but every muscle he uses just means he needs more air, air which just isn't fucking moving fast enough, no matter how much he pulls into his lungs it's not enough, and now he can barely see past the black spots clouding his eyes. He feels his throat constrict with each wave of panic, and now he can't breathe, can't see, can't hear anything but the pounding of blood in his ears. A distant voice wonders if he's going to die; another asks whether that would really be so bad.

Hands wrap around him, dragging his body up from the floor and standing him on unsteady feet. He tries to see who it is, but his head lolls and his eyes don't have the energy to open. In the end, he gives in, resting against the chest in front of him, trying to calm the buzzing in his brain.

"...breathe, kid, you're okay, just breathe with me, alright, in...out," the person - Franklin! That's who it is - says, slow and gentle in Patrick's ear. He tries to copy the movement of the man's chest, pushing down the flashes of anger, the desire to claw and tear and wound. In, and out.

For a moment, he lets himself believe that it's Pete's arms around him, that this has all been a dream and he's just woken up in Pete's bed, to kisses and kind touches. He imagines if he looks up, Pete will smile at him, brush a hand through his hair, press their lips together. Patrick's chest aches with want.

The air comes easier, though, his throat finally opening and letting him drink in long draughts, his vision swimming back to him. With sight comes the realisation that the grey-clad chest most definitely belongs to Franklin, and the man slowly shifts Patrick away, hands firmly on his shoulders.

"You alright?" he asks, catching Patrick's dazed gaze. "I'm sorry."

Patrick nods, shifting his weight from one foot to the other just to check he won't fall over.

"Listen, kid, I - what's the matter," Franklin says, watching Patrick's eyeline drift to the remote outlined in Franklin's pocket. He won't trust anything this fucker says with that thing so near.

Franklin digs his hand into his pocket, and Patrick pulls away from him, eyeing the remote and its proximity to Franklin's thumb. He shakes his head, he hasn't done anything, if Franklin tries to punish him for his panic then he'll - well. He'll stand there and take it, won't he. There's nothing else he can do.

But Franklin simply stares at it for a few seconds, then hurls it across the room. It cracks against the wall and tumbles to the polished floor. It doesn't break, much to Patrick's dismay, but then it hits him: Franklin's on his side.

"Alright," Franklin starts, hands firm on Patrick's shoulders, "since no-one else has bothered to tell you what's going on, I will. Some men are gonna come and look at you. They're not gonna talk to you, or touch you, they're just gonna look. And all you have to do is let them, okay?"

Patrick looks up into Franklin's face and sees what else he can decode from the man's expression; there's a pity swimming deep in his eyes that Patrick doesn't like the look of one fucking bit.

"Just stand here, don't move, and as soon as they leave, you can go back to your room," Franklin says, and Patrick nods. He can do that. His pride is already ruined, anyway. He stares down at the floor, telling himself he won't cry.

"Hey," Franklin says softly, his thumb pushing Patrick's chin up. Patrick only appreciates the gesture after he's jerked away from it. "They don't know what you're worth. They don't know what you can do. You gotta make them know, kid. Between you and me, they're all fucking dickheads," Franklin says with a slight smile, which broadens when he sees Patrick nod furiously.

"Pete's safe," Franklin adds suddenly, "I can tell you that for certain. He's fine."

Patrick feels some of the tension leave his jaw at that; he can get through anything if Pete's safe.

As Franklin retreats to the corner and sits himself in the chair, Patrick curls up against the wall, watching the door and waiting for this all to be over.

-

"Get up, get up, they're coming!" White barks at him, as if he should have been prepared for her sudden and unannounced arrival. He struggles to his feet, instinctively wrapping his wings around himself, staring at the door.

Wan strides in first, with three others in tow. They all look like people on Earth, which is strange; Patrick stares at their suits and ties, their watches. How have they got here? Did they come for Pete?

"Whoa," one of the people says when their - his? - eyes settle upon Patrick. "You weren't kidding." The man's got very short hair and a very big mouth, with very white teeth sitting inside it. There's a person with breasts behind him who simply seems to hover, notepad in hand.

He moves closer to Patrick, and Patrick has to fight to stop himself backing away. The man's eyes flick up and down his body, resting momentarily on his crotch. Patrick feels colour flood his face, and hunches his shoulders a little more, as if that might help.

"This is not what I was expecting," the man says, too loudly. In fact, everything he does seems to be too loud for the small room.

"In a good way, or...?" Wan says, keeping her distance but striving for the attention of the man.

Loudmouth hums, looking Patrick up and down again. "It's a pity it's not more attractive, you know? For marketing."

"Yes, well, we could lower it's calorie intake, if that's what's-"

"No, no, I'm liking the paunch, it adds something - the hair, doesn't. Shave the chest, armpits, maybe the face, too, then we'll have something to work with. What's with the kinky jewellery?" Loudmouth grins, jabbing a finger at Patrick's neck.

Wan casts a glance at White, who immediately steps closer to Patrick. "He can be...volatile. But, we hope, with this contraption, we can train that out of him. Here," she says, handing the man - shit, the remote. Patrick has to fight a little to keep his breathing steady as he watches Loudmouth take the object and play with it like it doesn't have the ability to cause Patrick unbearable pain. "The highest setting will knock him out."

"Impressive. Feisty little guy, are you?" the man smirks, and Patrick decides he absolutely hates him. He puts as much venom into his stare as he can possibly muster. This makes Loudmouth's smirk lessen considerably. "We'll soon take care of that."

There's another man, too, who's been circling Patrick slowly. He doesn't say anything, he just looks. It makes Patrick's skin crawl.

"What's this then?" Loudmouth barks all of a sudden, and Patrick's stomach lurches when he looks to see that the man's pointing at his halo. He jerks backwards, growling low in his throat until he feels a stab of sizzling pain.

"Stay where you are," White snarls, waving the remote at Patrick. She can get fucked if she thinks Patrick gives a shit, though; this arsehole isn't getting anywhere near his halo. He curls a wing around his arm, glaring.

"So, Mr. Schmitt," Wan interjects suddenly, shifting the focus away from Patrick. "Do you think this is something you'd be interested in?"

Loudmouth gives Patrick one more sweeping look, then nods slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I mean, obviously I'll have to consult my team but honestly? This is gonna make both of us a lot of money. People are gonna go nuts," he smiles, clapping Wan on the back. "What kind of facilities is it gonna need?"

Patrick tries to follow their conversation, but his mind keeps stumbling over the words. Money? What does Wan know about money? That's a human thing. And these 'people', who are they? Humans? Patrick feels a little sick as he contemplates what this all might mean.

He suddenly feels movement behind him; the other man, the shorter, quieter one, stands very near to him.

"Open your wings, my beautiful," he says into Patrick's ear. Patrick can feel fingers ghosting over his feathers, and shudders away from them, shaking his head at the man.

"Do what he says," White hisses. Patrick hates that he can't hiss back, can't do anything but relax the muscles in his back and slowly fan out his feathers.

"I won't hurt you," the man says, his voice like honey; sticky and difficult to shake off.

He doesn't hurt Patrick, for a change, just runs his fingers across Patrick's wingbones and strokes his hands down Patrick's feathers, but somehow this is worse than Loudmouth. Patrick steals a glance at Franklin, and sees that the man's expression is thunderous. Patrick won't show it, but he's becoming more terrified by the second.

When the man finally moves away, Loudmouth points another stubby finger at him. "Why the tape?" he asks the room, "it doesn't bite, does it?" He laughs like it's an implausible outcome.

"No, no, but it has the tendency to - to forget its place. But we can train it not to talk," White says, eyes glittering, and Patrick takes a deep breath to somehow satiate the anger.

"Whoa, it can talk?!" Loudmouth exclaims, clapping his hands together as if the idea that Patrick can put together a coherent sentence is hilarious to him. "Like, English?! I gotta hear this."

"I don't think that's the best -"

"Come on," the man whines, "make it talk! Make it talk and you've got yourselves a deal."

Wan and White exchange dubious glances that Patrick can't read; White purses he lips, then moves in front of Patrick.

"Get on your knees," she says. "I'll have no funny business."

Patrick gives her an eye roll, then ducks out of the way of her slap to the head. He sits on the floor and wraps his wings around himself; at least he's more covered up like this.

It hurts like a motherfucker when White rips the tape off. Patrick can't be sure but he reckons it takes most of his skin with it, and when the stinging subsides, he tastes blood on his lips.

Loudmouth crouches in front of him, staring at him expectantly. "Well? Go on then, say something."

Patrick licks his shredded lips carefully, assessing the damage.

"Come on, anything!"

Patrick flexes his jaw slowly, then looks the man right in his stupid face. He chooses his words very carefully.

"Get fucked, you shit-faced cunt," Patrick spits.

The man's face turns purple. Suddenly, there's a lot of shouting, mostly at Patrick, and Loudmouth lunges towards him, slamming his forearm across Patrick's face. It'll hurt later, definitely, but for now, it just pushes Patrick over the edge.

He surges towards the man with the only weapon he has: his teeth. He catches the man's arm in his mouth and bites, hard, his canines sinking through the fabric of the man's jacket and feeling the give of flesh beneath.

Loudmouth cries out, louder than ever, grabs at Patrick's hair and yells for help, but Patrick just tightens his jaw until he feels the crack of bone between his teeth, and a give that wasn't there before. The man positively screams.

The yelling continues, hands grab at Patrick's wings, at his shoulders, but he won't let himself be moved. The collar digs into his neck as someone tries to yank him backwards, and he can hear the man shouting curses at him, trying to prize Patrick's teeth out of his skin. Patrick only relinquishes his grip when someone's fingers press into his eyes.

He sits up and is immediately knocked down, feels someone's boot in his head and in his stomach. He tries to haul himself upright again, his wings flapping furiously, but then there's pain, bright, blinding white pain, and he only just works out that the person screaming loudest is himself before everything snaps into darkness.

-

Andy can't quite believe the carnage that he's met with when he arrives bright and early on Monday morning. He'd been expecting a quiet day, perhaps a chance to get some paperwork done, and at most, a few awkward questions from Patrick about Pete's whereabouts. Instead, he's met with the increasingly familiar sound of White yelling at someone.

"...fine! Just go, I'd have fired you anyway for what you said to him when you thought we weren't listening!"

"What?" a deeper voice responds, "telling him what he already knows? That everyone here is sadistic and twisted?"

"You do not have the authority to-"

"Listen, I applied for Head of Security. I was not told that that job would involve torturing a child. This whole place is sick."

"He's not a child! We don't know his precise date of birth but he's certainly over eighteen, we-"

"You really don't get it, do you? You -"

"What on earth is going on?" Andy asks as he crosses the threshold of White's office. White's sitting in her swivel chair with her arms tightly crossed and her face even more so; Franklin's face is red from shouting.

Franklin speaks before White can. "Oh, here he is! The man himself. So, do you regularly practice Soviet torture methods on innocent children? Or is that more of a weekend thing?"

Andy raises his eyebrows, flicking his gaze towards White. "Fill me in?"

White sighs, running fingers through her hair. "We had the potential investors visitation on Saturday."

This is news to Andy. They'd talked about that, sure, but they'd never agreed to anything. "Without me? Were you authorised to-"

"I'm sorry, who's the most senior member of staff in this room? I think you'll find the board  actively encouraged the decision."

"Of course they bloody did," Franklin seethes, "here," - he throws his gun onto White's desk. "I'm leaving. Think yourself lucky I waited this long."

So now Andy's got to waste more of his precious time finding a new head of security. Brilliant.

"Listen, you," Franklin says to Andy on his way out the door. He catches Andy's collar in a loose yet still slightly threatening hold. Andy shifts uncomfortably. "If you've got any human left in you, for God's sake, help him. He's been in there for two days, just - go to him, or something. Tell him the bloody truth for once. Oh, and both of you can rot in hell."

With that, he marches out of the room. Andy watches him leave, pushing down the niggling guilt in his skull. He turns to White. "What happened, then?" She looks tired; it's bad.

She throws him a bitter smile. "He broke Schmitt's arm."

"What?!"

"Yes. The idiot wanted to hear him talk, insisted we remove the gag."

"You gagged him?" Was that really necessary?

"You know what he's like. Anyway, Schmitt was rushed off to hospital, I've been up to my ears in paperwork, but the good news is, he still wants to follow through. I think seeing the kid behind bars might give him some satisfaction; he's not the only one. The collar worked a treat, though."

A chill runs down Andy's spine. "You - you actually got that approved?"

White nods, a glint of pride touching her eyes. Andy frowns at a ring of tea stain on her desk. "Where is he?"

"Solitary," she muses, chewing on a pen as she shuffles the papers in front of her.

"Since Saturday?" Andy says, "isn't that a bit -"

"He savaged a client, I think he deserves it," White says flatly.

Andy nearly opens his mouth to tell her why she's wrong, they both know what solitary does to him, they both know that it'll slowly erode his sanity until he really is just a wild animal, but he decides against it. "Can I see him?"

White rolls her eyes at him. "Of course not. He's being punished, he needs to understand that. You need to start wading through the mess he's made; Schmitt's lot were this far from suing."

Andy nods, keeping his face carefully blank until he's safely in his office. Patrick's violent, sure, but only when provoked. Which makes him wonder what they did to provoke him.

He manages to distract himself until lunchtime. Then he heads towards solitary.

It's dark in the room, of course it is. Of course White saw fit to lock Patrick up in the dark. The door guides the outside light, throwing it into the corner of the room, where a bundle of feathers is huddled. The bundle stirs, groans at the sudden light. Then it scrambles towards Andy, only stopping when the chain pulls it back. Andy purses his lips, and turns on the light.

Patrick looks awful. His wings are scruffy, the feathers sticking out at odd angles, others strewn across the floor. There's blood smeared over him from some wound Andy can't make out; his hair is matted and his eyes red as they squint towards Andy, his body straining against the chain. He's making noise behind the tape over his mouth, crying out for help. Andy sighs.

The boy's eyes are wild as Andy crouches down to face him, his wings moving erratically. He screams when Andy pulls the tape off, and the top layer of Patrick's skin with it, blood welling up on his lips faster than Andy can dab at with a tissue.

"Andy," Patrick cries, his voice ragged from days without use, "Andy, they - they put me in here and I don't know what I did, Andy, I don't understand, I can't fucking take it, Andy, - I - I -"

"Shh," Andy breathes, reaching for the tape binding Patrick's hands, letting the boy lean against him. Once his hands are free, Patrick rubs his eyes, still attempting to adjust to the light, then cups his bleeding mouth. "I'm sorry, Patrick," Andy says, sitting back on his heels and watching the kid assess his various injuries.

Patrick looks at Andy's idle hands, then touches his fingers to the collar at his throat. "Get it off," he croaks.

"I can't. White said-"

"Get it off me, Andy!" Patrick cries, clawing at the plastic.

"I can't, Patrick, if I could I would," Andy huffs, folding his arms.

Patrick screams, shrill and desperate, his fingers still desperately scraping at his neck, his body twisting and turning as if that might help. He's never looked more like an animal. "Please, Andy!" he shouts, like it's a magic word, "get it off! Please!"

Andy shakes his head. "No. I can't." The boy's eyes meet Andy's briefly, desperate and begging, before he screeches again, rattling the chain and pulling at the collar. Andy leans forward and catches his hands, because the only thing the kid's damaging is his own neck. His fingers shake in Andy's hold.

When his breaths come easier, he meets Andy's gaze. "What's going on? Who were those people?"

Andy so nearly lies. But he remembers what Franklin said. "They - uh, well. They want to take you somewhere else. And - uh, display you. For people to look at."

Confusion flashes across Patrick's face. "Why?"

"Because you're special," Andy says, the same excuse he's fed to Patrick before every instance of torture.

"Are those people humans?" the boy asks, still clutching onto Andy's hands.

"Yes, they are."

"Are you human," he says quietly, wide eyes scanning Andy's face. Andy breathes a deep breath, and nods.

The distress that flares up in Patrick's eyes is enough to make even Andy feel guilty; he drops Andy's hands and pushes him away, shuffling back towards the wall.

"I'm sorry we lied, Patrick," Andy offers, as if any kind of apology would be enough.

"Am I human?" the boy asks, staring at his own bloodied hands.

"No. You're an angel. We took you to Earth when you were a baby." It's not as hard to say as Andy envisaged. Patrick doesn't react beyond frowning at the floor.

"Do I have parents?" he asks, eyeing Andy as he pulls his wings around himself.

"Yes. We never saw your father, though."

"What about my mum?" There's so much hope in Patrick's eyes, a light that wasn't there before. But Andy's committed to telling him the truth.

"She's dead. They shot her."

The hope vanishes as quickly as it came. The boy's lips part, but no words emerge. Andy tries not to think about the amount of trouble White is going to make for him for giving the game away. 

Patrick shivers and pulls his knees to his chest; it's cold in the room, even to Andy's clothed body. He shrugs off his lab coat and tosses it to the boy.

"Have you eaten?" Andy asks, watching Patrick huddle under the coat. "Please don't get blood on that."

Patrick shakes his head. Of course he hasn't, White's not that kind. Andy huffs and gets to his feet, heading for the door. "I'll go and get you some food," he says, when Patrick looks up in panic. "I'll come back."

There's no vitamin mix prepared in the storeroom, though, and Patrick will start to get agitated if he doesn't return soon, so Andy simply grabs the only thing in his mini-fridge that he didn't eat at lunchtime: an apple. It breaks every rule they have, but the game's over now. After eighteen years, he's been honest with the boy. White's going to fire him, probably, and Patrick will have one less person who gives a damn about him in his life.

Patrick's eyes light up when he sees the apple. He bites into it like - well, like he's been starved for two days. He eats it quickly and quietly, core and all, then curls tighter towards the wall.

"I'm sorry, Patrick," Andy says again, half wanting the boy to shout and scream; the silence is excruciating.

"Where's Pete?" the boy asks suddenly, and bloody hell, it's becoming a damn catchphrase.

"He's gone, Patrick. He left. We told him what was going on, and he left," Andy states.

"Can I see him?" Patrick says quietly. He must be fooling himself to think to ask that question.

"No. Try to forget about him."

"So I'll never see him again?"

"He's gone. He's not coming back."

Patrick growls at that, slamming his fist into the wall once, twice. Andy reaches and catches his wrist before he lands the third punch. "But I love him," Patrick says, wide eyes accusatory and pleading, as if Andy can make this situation any better.

"You don't know what love is, Patrick," Andy sighs, settling against the wall next to the boy. Patrick turns away from him, his wings reaching to cover his face. After a few moments, Andy hears quiet sniffs from underneath the feathers.

He takes a deep breath, and gives Patrick's wing a soft stroke with the back of his hand. "Come on, Patrick. It'll be alright."

Despite everything, the lies and the crippling truths, Patrick leans into the touch. Andy almost smiles; there was a time when Patrick would do nearly anything for a hug from Andy. As Patrick turns and grabs at Andy's forearms, Andy's reminded of the small child with wings far too big for him snuggling under the covers for a bedtime story, or running into Andy's arms after bumping his head on the counter - or being beaten by the guards for talking back.

It's not fair; Andy knows this. Andy knows it's all wrong, that it's nothing like what he thought he'd be doing when he signed up for a career in science. He thought he'd be curing cancer or discovering a new species, not abusing some helpless teenager and catching his tears afterwards. Crying seems to be about the only thing that Patrick does quietly; he barely makes a sound as the tears roll down his face and onto Andy's shirt, his hands clinging tight to Andy's sides. His wings are wrapped around both of them, beautiful even in the clinical light. He's amazing, a miracle of nature, even if no-one's ever told him. 

Andy holds him close as he cries, shushing him softly and pulling the coat over his shoulders, hoping that this is just a sudden outpouring, rather than a display of giving up. All things said, Andy doesn't quite know what he'd do if Patrick stopped making smartass comments, stopped swearing at everyone he meets. This Patrick, this broken creature crying for his dead mother and his absent love, is not one that he can justify hurting.

Andy waits until Patrick falls asleep, then takes the coat from around him, binds his hands and places a strip of tape over his mouth. Andy knows how to wipe the security footage; White will never know.

He gets to his feet, turns out the light, and closes the door behind him.