Pete has no idea what in the ever-loving fuck is going on.

More than anything, he's relieved he had the good sense to throw some clothes on after waking up that morning, or he'd have had to go through all this - the break in, the threatening, the drugging and now the interrogation - wearing nothing but his holey boxers. At least he's got sweatpants and a baggy jumper to hide in as these...people? stare at him like he's some rare animal.

He'd woken up in some generic-looking hospital room that made him think he'd been in a coma the last few months and finally woken up from an insane dream about an angel boy. But then that guy, that Franklin guy, a heavyset fifty-something with an Arnold Schwarzenegger haircut and, oh yeah, a gun sitting proudly in his belt, walked in and it all came flooding back to him. Pete's watched enough action movies to know that guys that look like that are something to be scared of.

And he is scared, even when the guy tells him to calm down, it's all going to be fine. He's led through to another, impossibly whiter room and sat down at a table. His stomach squeezes tight when he realises it's not unlike the usual three-chairs-and-a-desk setup of police interrogations.

"Where am I?" is the first thing he asks. He figures it's a good place to start, and he wants to stop Franklin pacing around like he is.

"That's classified, I'm afraid," he responds easily, glancing at his watch. Pete is rather terrified to find out what they might be waiting for.

"Uh, okay," Pete says shakily. What else can he say to a man with a gun? He stares around at the blinding white walls, the spotless floors, the bright lights that leave stains on his vision. "Is this heaven?" It's the only conclusion he can come to.

Franklin stares at him for a few seconds, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "If you like," he shrugs.

Pete begins to feel a little queasy as the trauma catches up to him. "How - uh, why am I here?"

"First, to sign a non-disclosure agreement. We'll see where it goes from there." Franklin checks his watch again while Pete's thoughts get smudged into one another.

"You - you have those? Here? What for?"

"The same reasons you have them. You're a lawyer, this is something you should be familiar with."

And yes, he is familiar with them, but not in heaven having just been knocked out and abducted. Then something rather terrifying dawns on him. "Wait - am I dead?"

Franklin looks at him blankly for a moment. "What?"

"Am I - how - to get to heaven you've got to be dead, right? Did I die? Did you kill me?!" he cries, touching the back of his head where it was smacked into the wall. Maybe the impact did more than knock him unconscious, maybe when they said they wanted him, they wanted him dead, but he can't be dead, he can't die, not like this. He feels tears sting his eyes and blinks them away as fast as he can.

"You're not dead, Wentz," Franklin says slowly, and Pete can feel his eyes scanning his face.

"But - I mean, you - you broke into my house! You - you threatened me, you broke all kinds of laws, I-"

"The law doesn't apply to us in the same way as it does to you, Wentz," he snaps. But Pete can't quite deal with being dead and being shouted at, and a lump begins to form in his throat.

"What am I supposed to do now I'm dead? Am I stuck here forever? I have a job, and - and a cat, what am I supposed to do, I can't be dead, I just -"

"You're not dead, Wentz," the other man says, louder, and it echoes around the room, making Pete panic even more.

"Then how did I get here?!" he says shrilly, his voice cracking and his hands trembling on the arms of the chair.

"You took something that didn't belong to you, we came to get it back, and you got in the way," Franklin says curtly, turning his nose up at Pete.

"Wha- Patrick?" Pete exclaims, "he's not - I didn't take him, he - where is he?" Pete stammers, looking around the room as if Patrick might be crouched in one of the non-existent hiding places.

"He's being dealt with," Franklin growls, and Pete remembers more clearly, now; the threats they'd made, the way they'd ripped Patrick away from Pete and held his thrashing body still, the way they'd stuck that needle in his throat and he'd faded right in front of Pete's eyes. They'd gathered him up and taken him away, then they'd turned on Pete.

"What does that mean?" Pete asks, "You - you aren't going to kill him, are you?" He gulps back tears as it crosses his mind that Patrick might already be dead; maybe that stuff didn't just knock him out, maybe Pete saw Patrick die on his landing, and Patrick's left him all alone with these people.

"If we were going to kill him," Franklin sighs, sounding increasingly irritated, "we'd have done it years ago."

Pete has no idea if that's meant to be reassuring or not, but at least Patrick's alive. Pete somehow feels more secure, as if the world is slightly more balanced as long as Patrick's in it. It doesn't slow the steady filling of his eyes with tears, though. "Are you going to kill me?" he asks, head bowed as he tries to blink the moisture away.

"Again," the man huffs, "if we were going to do that, we'd have done it a while ago. You're no use to us dead, Wentz."

"No, he isn't," another voice sounds, and the door bursts open behind Pete. He curls in on himself instinctively, leaning away from the voice. Two women, one dressed in white and one in black, like some good-cop bad-cop caricature, stride past him and sit opposite him. One's dressed in a white coat, in her mid-fifties, maybe, judging by the world-weary look in her eyes, and the other's younger, with short black hair and olive skin. She actually smiles at him; he'd almost forgotten that friendliness existed in this weird pale world.

"Good morning, Mr. Wentz," she says, and after processing the fact that it's still the same morning as it was on Earth (or is it? Maybe a whole day went past. Maybe a week. Maybe a year) he manages a smile. Mr. Wentz is a definite improvement. "How are you feeling?"

The back of his head gives a throb of annoyance, but he nods all the same. "Uh, okay, I think," he says as confidently as he can, "I'd like to know what's going on, please."

She smiles again, kind. "Of course. I'm Wan, and this is White," she says, gesturing towards the woman beside her, who hardly reacts beyond a glance. "Now, let me make one thing clear, Mr. Wentz. You are by no means obliged to be here. We apologise for the violence involved in your encounter with our representatives, but the property you stole - knowingly or unknowingly - urgently needed to be returned."

Pete's mouth obviously thinks it has something to say, because it opens with definite purpose, but his tongue won't form the sounds and his brain isn't cooperating on any level, so it simply closes resentfully. The woman - Wan - leans forward in her chair and folds her arms neatly on the table, staring intently at Pete.

"So, with that in mind," she says briskly, "we have an offer to make you. I understand that you've become rather well-acquainted with what you stole, and this kind of relationship is very useful to us. White has a few questions she'd like to ask you, and I'm sure we can put you to good use elsewhere; a six-month contract, at the most."

"Whoa - an employment contract?" Pete says, sitting up a little. "Here? Why?"

"You could be very useful to us. Your knowledge of the property is invaluable. It wouldn't be difficult work, you'd be under Hurley's watchful eye, and you'd simply have to carry out our instructions."

"Uh...right," he says uncertainly. This is not where he saw the conversation going; he can almost feel them preying on his humanness. "I - uh, have a job already."

"We're well aware of that, Mr. Wentz. Your firm will be notified and I can guarantee that no questions will be asked. We will give you ten thousand pounds in compensation for this incident, and the same again for each week you contribute your knowledge to us. You will also be provided with living quarters for the duration of your stay," she says robotically, smiling again. It's beginning to become slightly sinister.

"But - I mean, I need to go home, I need clothes and - my, my pills and -"

"You'll be allowed home, Mr. Wentz, once you've gained security clearance. Anything you need before then, we'll be happy to retrieve for you, although all items brought here will have to go through extensive vetting. We're going to need you to sign this," - she brings out a slim briefcase, opens it and places a wad of paper and a pen in front of Pete - "and this." Now there's two dotted lines glaring at him. The nausea readies itself for a return appearance.

"Uh," Pete gulps, reaching for the papers then snatching his hand back when he sees his fingers shake, "I don't think - I'd rather not, thank you." He pushes the pen away and breathes a trembling breath, but meets Wan's eyes all the same.

She purses her lips. "Mr. Wentz, I'd urge you to take this offer. Because," she continues, but with a sharper edge, this time, "if you were to return home - which you are at perfect liberty to do - and be, uh, uncooperative, then we may become less sympathetic towards you and your crimes. The bottom line is, Wentz, that you took something very valuable and you hid it from us, giving us ample grounds to make life very difficult for you. Consider your options carefully; if you challenge us, lawyer, you can be certain that you will lose."

This is her way of saying Pete has no choice at all in this matter. "Okay," is all he can say, and not crying is suddenly a much bigger challenge than it was ten minutes ago. "Just - where am I? Who are you?" They don't have wings, these creatures, these...angels? but they're still looking at him as if he's some foreign life-form.

Wan gives a tight smile, and the other woman snorts slightly. It's the only sound she's made so far. "You're out of your depth. And we're different to you. Hurley will brief you when we've carried out the preliminaries," Wan says. Pete wonders if Patrick felt this terrified when he first arrived on Earth, then stops wondering when he feels a flicker of anxious longing. He lacks Patrick's skill of shouting at someone until they say things he understands.

The woman pushes the papers further towards him. Pete wants to throw up; he tries to blink the tears away but they just end up falling down his face and making him look even more pathetic. If he's a representative of humanity, he's doing a piss-poor job.

He signs the papers, in the end, trying to read them over thoroughly but rushed by the three intense stares and his own panic. Wan takes them with a smile and snaps the briefcase shut, and for a moment, Pete thinks he might be allowed to leave this cell of a room, but then the other woman sits forward, and her glare does nothing at all to steady the flow of tears.

"My name is White," she says acidly, like she resents even that fact. "I'm going to ask you a few questions about Patrick."

It's a relief, somehow, to hear somebody refer to Patrick by his name rather than as some kind of possession, but the way she spits it suggests she'd much rather call him something less polite. It was her name that had made Patrick stop dead, and Pete's hatred of her grows as he imagines all the things she might have done to hurt Patrick.

He answers the questions nonetheless, and there are more than a few. The questions about Patrick's sleeping habits seem innocent enough, but then it's the details of their first kiss that she wants, the extent to which they've been intimate, and it feels a little like a betrayal.  He talks until Wan finally waves a hand, and White ceases her interrogation. When she finally leaves, though, there's a glint in her eyes like this isn't over just yet.

Wan smiles at him like she's trying to make him feel better, but all it really makes him feel is more pathetic. They wait for him to wipe his eyes, then gesture for him to stand up. He lets them guide him out of the room without protest.

Now that he's fully conscious, he takes in his surroundings properly as they emerge into a brightly lit corridor. Everything is white, blindingly so, the polished tiles throwing back Pete's own reflection.

"We'll show you to your room," Wan says, touching a hand to his back and making him flinch forward. Franklin walks ahead of him, and Pete shuffles after.

"Are you angels?" Pete blurts, "Where are your wings?"

"That's classified," she says easily, "you'll be fully briefed when Hurley sees fit."

In Pete's mind, it sounds like a yes. As for the wings, Pete dreads to think. Perhaps that's why Patrick wanted to leave so badly. "Where's Patrick?" he asks again, feeling his missing spine begin to reappear.

"I'd advise you to stop asking that," she responds, "his is not a side that you will benefit from being on."

Pete has no idea what that means; it's phrased like a fact but feels like a threat, and Pete becomes aware of the gun in Franklin's belt again. He wonders if the man's ever actually used it to hurt someone. They turn a corner, passing grey door after grey door, with no windows for Pete to peek through. Perhaps they're farming souls in there, perhaps the only afterlife there is is the few seconds before incineration.

"This is your room," Wan states when they come to an abrupt stop outside yet another door. Franklin pushes it open, then pushes Pete inside.

Hospital is the first thing that springs to mind when he sees the room; it's cell-sized, with the same head-splitting white walls of the corridors, and a spindly metal bed pushed up against the far wall. An equally spidery table perches next to it, and a second door gives Pete a narrow view of a dark bathroom. It's all a little surreal.

"We can get you more furniture - wardrobes, cabinets - if you need it," the woman continues, "and we'll fetch everything you might need from your home."

Pete feels a little sick at the thought of these people sifting through his stuff, but, just like everything else, he doesn't suppose he has much of a choice. He stands awkwardly at the edge of the room, hands firmly wrapped inside the sleeves of his jumper. "Uh, thanks," he mumbles, scuffing his shoeless feet on the floor.

There's a painful silence as Wan apparently waits for Pete to do or say something more, but Pete simply stares down at his dismal reflection in the floor and wonders how he could possibly have ended up in this situation.

"So, would you like some time to settle in, or would you like Franklin to show you around?" Wan says once her patience wears thin. Pete meets Franklin's dull eyes for a terrifying few seconds and thinks his mind's made up, but then he looks back at the room and realises he can't spend another second in it without vomiting. Somehow touching anything would make all this far too real.

He takes the tour instead. There's very few rooms he's actually allowed in; a sort of common room, an open space with tables and chairs and bookshelves that he doesn't get a close enough look at, an office belonging to the elusive Hurley who will apparently deal with any problems, and a tiny 'kitchen' space, with no fridge or oven or toaster or other food-preparation unit. Pete wonders what angels might eat; he doubts he'll have access to Shreddies while he's here.

By the time he's being led back to his room, he's really none the wiser. He's gleaned that everything is on one level, all the corridors make him feel like he's been dropped into the set of The Shining, and all the rooms need a more imaginative colour scheme.

Pete's been waiting for Franklin to say something so he can unleash all his questions upon the man without seeming weird, but it seems the Schwarzenegger-doppelgänger's spoken word rate is less than four per hour, and Pete's shakes are reaching critical.

"So - so I'm employed here now?" he says with a smile, like it's a joke, like it's colleague banter and he's not utterly terrified.

"Yes," Franklin grunts, and fails to expand.

"So, what kind of stuff am I supposed to do?"

Franklin doesn't even look at him, just keeps striding ahead. "You'll be briefed."

Great. "Why'd they want to know all that stuff about Patrick?" Pete persists, beginning to feel a little childish in his socks, hurrying to keep up with Franklin the half-giant.

"You'll be briefed," he repeats, with a short sigh this time to indicate his dwindling fuse.

"When?" Pete snaps as loud as he dares, trying to replicate Patrick's trademark glare. He thinks he does pretty well until Franklin stops in his tracks and turns to face Pete.

"Listen, kid," he growls, and Pete's confidence gives up on him and scurries out of the hole in his sock, "I'll give you some advice: don't ask questions. Do what you're told. Keep your head down, and you'll be out of here in no time. As for Patrick, don't get close to him, it won't help you."

Pete stares at the man for a few seconds, taking in the lines on his face and the weariness in his eyes, then stutters out an "Okay." Something feels so incredibly off about this place, it's crawling under Pete's skin, the way Patrick's name is banded around like a virus, the warnings about forming a relationship with him.

"Soon, you'll understand," Franklin says, almost gently, and perhaps he thinks it'll reassure Pete but really all it does is remind him of the shitstorm in his brain. They begin walking again, slower than before.

"Pete!" A voice rings out all of a sudden, bouncing round the hallways and punctuated with footsteps hammering into the floor. Pete whips around just as Patrick skids into view, his wings spread wide, heavenly-vision style. He's not wearing white, but it's close enough to keep Pete staring as the boy hurtles towards him, lighter on his feet than Pete would've expected, and fast enough to seem not entirely natural. There's a flash of black behind Patrick, and Pete barely registers the fact that he's being chased before Franklin's shoving him out of the way.

Sudden contact with the wall makes his vision spin, but he still sees Franklin grab Patrick by the shoulders and attempt to contain him; then there's a shrill shout and a grunt of pain and Franklin's letting go of the boy, whose snarls echo through the corridors. Then Patrick's flying at Pete, and it's all Pete can do to stop himself flinching away from him.

"Pete," Patrick says again, throwing his arms around Pete and squeezing tight. Pete thinks about pushing him away, shouting him down, asking him to explain exactly what's going on, but then Patrick's wings close around them both and the boy nuzzles his nose into Pete's neck and Pete forgets whatever he's angry about and melts into it, his hands squeezing Patrick's soft middle and feeling feathers brush his fingers.

Then it's over, because Patrick's being pulled away by Franklin and whoever was chasing him, their hands clamping around his arms. There's no fear on the boy's face, though, as he turns and smacks his fist into Franklin's face and shoves the other guard - Johnson, perhaps? - hard into the opposite wall. It all feels very familiar as Patrick stands steadfast in front of Pete, breathing hard.

"Did they hurt you?" Patrick asks, turning to meet Pete's gaze, "tell me they didn't hurt you." He seems more panicked now than when he was being chased, more panicked than when a gun was being held to his face, and Pete shakes his head as quick as he can just to wipe the distress from Patrick's eyes.

"Patrick," Franklin growls, hand on his gun, "step away."

"Get fucked," the boy says easily, his wing bones pressing into Pete's chest.

"Brat," the other guard spits, but it's empty and he makes no move to attack again.

"Patrick!" A voice calls, and Pete looks to see another man in a white coat hurrying down the corridor, "what do you think you're playing at?! Get back here!"

Patrick acknowledges the man with a glance, but his fingers brush Pete's hand and Pete clasps them on instinct. It's strange how Patrick could ever have seemed foreign to Pete; in this context, he's blissfully familiar. Pete's missed his constant expletives.

"What's going on?" Pete whispers as the man approaches punching distance.

"That's Andy," Patrick responds, gesturing to him. He's in his forties, maybe, with short, brown hair and the beginnings of a goatee. He wears glasses and a tight frown, his gaze flicking between Pete and Patrick. So that's the famous Andy, Pete thinks. Can he really be God?

"This isn't helpful, Patrick," he says sternly, coming to a halt a few feet away. Pete tries not to think too much of the fact that none of these grown, armed men have remained within touching distance of Patrick. "White's waiting."

"I don't care," the boy spits, "I'm staying with Pete."

Andy sighs, shaking his head. "No, you're not. You're coming with me and you're not going to cause trouble, remember?" It's steeped in insinuation, and Pete wonders what kind of conversations Patrick might have gone through before all this.

The boy turns to look at Pete, a hand clasping at his forearm. "They said you were crying, Pete, was that true?"

Pete tries to pretend there aren't three other people judging him when he nods. Come to think of it, Patrick looks a little teary himself; blue eyes tinged with red and lips bitten raw. He looks even worse as he registers Pete's affirmation.

"Patrick -" Franklin tries, but Patrick's already talking over him.

"- away from him, just leave him the fuck alone! I'm not letting White near him, or anyone, you're not going to touch him!" he cries, backing closer to Pete.

"No, Patrick, I'm fine, I promise-" Pete starts to say, swallowed up by the ensuing responses.

"-furious!" Andy asserts loudly, just shy of yelling, "you know what she'll do, Patrick! You know! And if you cross her again, she won't just hurt you, she'll hurt-"

"Don't you dare say Pete! I'll kill her, I'll rip her to fucking pieces before she touches him, I fucking swear!" Patrick shouts, but the guards are creeping closer and there's a crack in his voice. Pete shrinks back against the wall.

"Patrick!" Andy bellows, like thunder, and Pete feels the boy flinch. Everything goes strangely still.

"First," he continues with a sigh, "make a threat like that again, and you won't be seeing Pete for a week."

"But-"

"No. Second, language like that will not be tolerated. I assume this is your influence?" he asks, and then he looks at Pete, who feels a chill over him and loses the ability to speak.

"No - uh, not at all sir, he came like that, I didn't -"

"Of course," Andy says with an eye roll, "it's his own fault, as always. And third, Patrick, you will come with me now, because White is waiting, and if you aren't on that table in five minutes, you know full well what she will do to you. Or worse, to Pete."

Patrick stops breathing at that. Pete watches what he can see of the boy's face, the way his mouth remains shut and his jaw locked but his eyes flash with fear. Pete wonders what in the known universe could possibly scare Patrick, the angelic volcano, then abruptly doesn't want to think about it.

"You heard him, feathers," the guard interjects, a smirk smeared over his mousy face. "Do as you're told, or your little boyfriend helps decorate the walls." He taps his gun, then points two fingers straight at Pete.

Pete swears he feels the moment Patrick gives in. His wings slump a little, and so do his shoulders, but he stays put to ask, "Can I still see him later?"

Andy's eyes narrow, but he nods after a few seconds pause. "Fine. But you'd better be on your best behaviour, alright?"

"Okay," Patrick says quietly, but he ignores Andy's beckoning finger and Pete finds himself being hugged again, gentler this time, but with no less conviction. "Don't let them hurt you," the boy mumbles against Pete's shoulder. Someone, probably that Johnson guy, says fags, but Patrick doesn't seem to have the energy to punch him and Pete lacks the guts.

"Where are you going?" Pete asks when Patrick pulls away, but Patrick avoids Pete's eyes and gives Pete's hand a gentle squeeze before he lets go. "Patrick?"

"None of your business," Johnson smirks as Andy takes the boy by the wrist and drags him back down the corridor, muttering things Pete can't quite hear. "Just a quick trip to the butcher's."

With that, he stalks off after them, and Pete decides that the man has secured a place on Pete's seldom-used people-to-hate list. He stares until Patrick's folded wings disappear around the corner.

"Right," Franklin says heavily, placing a hand on Pete's shoulder. There's a shiny red patch on his cheek where Patrick hit him, but no blood. Pete's oddly relieved. "Let's get you back to your room."

"Where are they taking him?" Pete asks, glancing back down the corridor. The kitchen was back that way, and Andy mentioned something about a table, perhaps a meal? Dinner table, he tells himself, dinner table. Not operating table. Please, not operating table.

Franklin doesn't reply, but there's a graveness in his eyes that Pete hates the look of. He doesn't ask any more questions.

-

Pete sits quietly in his room for a long time. It's a horrible place, blank and cold and hostile, but it's clean and he's alone, finally. He has yet to decide whether this is beneficial or not.

He cries a little more, curled up on the bed, then goes to the bathroom. He wonders where the water goes, where they get it from. He wonders how this is all possible, and when he can call his mum. If he can call his mum. God, he wants his mum.

That's another thing. He found out from Franklin that Andy, Hurley to everyone but Patrick, is his supervisor. Franklin didn't say yes when Pete asked if Andy really was God, but he didn't say no, either. And Pete's not about to take any chances.

He stares at the clock on the wall long enough to begin contemplating his sanity, wondering whether humans stole their system of time from these beings, or the other way around. When it hits five o'clock, Franklin knocks on the door and tells him that if he'd like to see Patrick, he should come now.

And of course he wants to see Patrick, Pete tells himself, they're supposed to be dating, somehow, they're supposed to be getting to know one another. He pushes back the feeling that maybe he doesn't want to know more about Patrick's past; he spent so long pondering over it, and now he's scared of finding out the truth. And he's a little scared of Patrick, too.

Maybe it was the carelessness with which he fired a gun in Pete's house, maybe it was the punching, or the hissing, oh God the hissing. It sounded like paper being torn, or a match being struck, the type of sound Pete's only familiar with through wildlife documentaries. He hopes he never hears it again. But he's scared he will. He's scared that beneath all this, there's someone even worse than the temperamental tramp.

There's something different, though, when Franklin pushes open yet another grey door, and Patrick appears to pull Pete into yet another hug. There's something off, something dimming Patrick's hundred-watt smile, something dulling his eyes. When they break apart, Patrick's hands remain curled in Pete's jumper, a wing draped around them both.

"What's the matter?" Pete asks, patting the small of Patrick's back, "Where did you go?"

The boy simply shakes his head, his face hidden in the crook of Pete's neck.

"We had urgent business to attend to," Andy's voice sounds from across the room. He's sitting at a desk littered with papers, eyes trained on them both. "Come, Patrick, stop sulking, Pete won't be here long."

With a short sigh, Patrick pulls away, avoiding Pete's eyes but taking his hand gently. Pete watches him for a few seconds, trying to work out what's going on in his head, but gives up in favour of working out where he is now. It's a bedroom, like Pete's but slightly bigger, and with more signs of Patrick. The lampshade has drawings all over it, there's a bookshelf next to the bed, and the walls are covered with pieces of paper, not posters or pictures but numbers, formulae. Pete thinks he recognises the quadratic formula, but that's about it.

"You like maths?" he asks softly, still staring around at the room.

Pete looks back just in time to see Patrick nod. "Is that weird?" the boy asks suddenly, wide eyes trained on Pete.

"Yeah," Pete laughs, then drops his smile at the hurt on Patrick's face. "I mean - it's weird to me 'cause I hate maths, I was always awful at it, I guess. But it's cool, though, everyone's got stuff they're into."

"Okay," Patrick nods, smiling a little. "Um. So this is my room."

"Yeah, I figured," Pete says, then feels like an asshole for putting it like that and squeezes Patrick's hand in apology. Patrick simply squeezes back and leads Pete over to the bed.

"Do you have a room?" Patrick asks as they sit down, "did they treat you okay?"

"Uh," Pete starts, deciding that telling Patrick about the head smashing and the forced contract and the interrogation and the tears probably isn't the best idea. "Yeah, I guess so. I've got a bedroom, and they're gonna get some of my stuff, I think?"

"Okay," Patrick says again, "okay. That's good."

Pete's hand fidgets in Patrick's as the atmosphere descends into awkward; Andy doesn't look up from his papers, but Pete has the feeling he's listening. Pete glances at Patrick every few seconds, watches how Patrick chews his lip and frowns at the floor, sees the small white plasters on his arm and the back of his hand. He's in a t-shirt, and it makes his halo stand out painfully in the white light. Pete feels a want to cover it up, to hide it from whoever made him learn never to let people touch it.

When Pete sees the shine of tears in the boy's eyes, he decides this has gone on too long. "Patrick, what's going on? Where are we, why am I here? I'm so confused, Patrick, please," Pete says, just short of begging.

Patrick pulls both his feet up onto the bed and holds Pete's hand in his lap. "This - this is where I live."

Pete considers the white walls, the bare minimum of furniture, the blankness of it all. "Your whole life? You've been in this place? No, like, outings or anything?"

The boy shakes his head. "No. Just here."

"Where are we, then? Is this another world, is this heaven?"

"I told you, it's not - heaven. It's not," Patrick huffs, glaring at Pete's hand like it wronged him.

"Then where are we?!" Pete near-cries, trying to look Patrick in the eyes and failing.

"I don't know, it's just home, okay!" Patrick retorts, his voice wavering.

"Why do they want me, then?!"

"I don't know, Pete, I don't fu- I don't know why they brought you here, you shouldn't be here!" Patrick turns his scowl to Pete as if any of this is his fault.

And Pete won't have that, no thank you. "Oh, yeah, 'cause I asked for it alright, I really wanted my head cracked against a wall-"

"That's not what I meant! I don't want them to hurt you, they can't-"

"Well they have, Patrick, this whole situation has screwed me up so bad, no-one's telling me where the hell I am, no-one's telling me why I'm here, and no-one's telling me when exactly I'm gonna get out! Who are these people? Is everyone here a freak like you?!"

Now Patrick looks at him. His expression boils, and he shoves Pete's hand away. "Fuck you."

Pete watches as Patrick scrambles away from him and wraps himself in his wings, hiding his face, and realises too late that he might have gone too far. "I - I'm sorry," he says pathetically, "you're not a freak."

"Then why the fuck did you fucking say I am?" Patrick mumbles, curling himself up tighter.

"Language, Patrick," Andy calls from across the room. Patrick only huffs in response.

Shuffling closer to the ball of white fluff, Pete reaches out and touches his fingers to Patrick's feathers, stroking as gently as he can. How soft they are still floors him a little. "Well - by freak, I meant...y'know, unique. I mean, you're the best kind of freaky. No-one else here has wings, right?"

Patrick shakes his head, and Pete takes this as his cue to wrap his arms as far around the feathers as they can reach. "You know I think you're kind of amazing, don't you?" Pete continues, figuring sweet-talk might lead him to some answers.

He knows he's forgiven when Patrick leans into the hug, lets Pete sneak a hand round his waist and kiss him lightly on the head. The boy's warm, as always, and Pete's reminded of waking up in his arms, of feeling more at peace than he had in a long while. Can that really only have been this morning?

"Patrick," Pete starts, taking a softer approach this time, "what did they do to you?"

The boy just shakes his head again, and the wing that isn't trapped between them moves to cover his body.

"Did they hurt you?"

The silence is as good a confirmation as any.

"How did they hurt you?" Pete asks quietly. Anything above a whisper might scare Patrick off.

"I'm fine," the boy says, far too late. "It's nothing - I've had worse."

"Show me."

"No."

"Please, Patrick." Somehow, Pete thinks this will help him understand everything.

Patrick's hands twitch in his lap, and finally, they reach for the hem of his shirt. All Pete sees at first is skin and gauze, until Patrick picks at a corner of the dressing and pulls it back to reveal a neat row of stitches stretching along the top of his belly, a seething red cut straining against them. Pete doesn't realise he's been holding his breath until he feels a lightness in his skull. Operating table.

"It's nothing," Patrick says again, smoothing the gauze back over the wound and pulling his t-shirt down.

"Oh my God, Patrick," Pete finally manages to say, "what - why did they do that to you?"

The boy just shrugs. "Always have. I'm different, or something."

"But that cut's huge, why - wait, you've had worse?!" Pete exclaims. Seeing what they did hasn't helped Pete understand anything at all; now he's even more panicked. "Is that what they do here, they - cut you up, and stuff, what the hell, Patrick?! What else have they done?"

But Patrick's face has returned to its baseline frown, and he's gone awfully still in Pete's arms. "I don't want to talk about it," he says quietly.

That makes Pete angry. "No, no, Patrick, you have to tell me what they've done, exactly what they've done, so I can make a list and - and formulate allegations-"

"Mr. Wentz," Andy says, and Pete looks up to see the man's cold, grey eyes focussed solely upon him, "you'll be briefed in five days' time. If you could refrain from suing us until then, that would be very much appreciated."

Pete opens his mouth to reply, but the way Andy raises his eyebrows and sits back in his chair reminds him that the man is technically his boss, that these people have power of life or death over him, that his precious law system may not even apply in this place. Instead, he turns his attention to Patrick, who's gone strangely quiet. "Does it hurt?"

"No," Patrick says indignantly, as if the assumption that he can feel pain is thoroughly offensive to him.

Pete doesn't call him on it, though, even if the hurt is written all over his face. He just takes Patrick's wing and guides it out of the way, so it sits around Pete's shoulders too, so Pete can put his arms around Patrick properly. He's careful to avoid the stitches, but strokes his thumb over the fold of Patrick's belly, hoping it might be enough to make the kid purr. The sound doesn't quite forgive Patrick of the growling and the hissing, but it's a start.

"I'm glad you're here," Patrick says suddenly, after ten minutes of purrless silence. "I know you're not supposed to be here - you shouldn't be here, but - I'm glad you are. Is - is that selfish?" he asks, shifting his head from where it's nestled in Pete's shoulder.

"No - I mean, I'm kinda not glad I'm here, but - but I'm glad you're here with me," Pete tries, trying to convince himself it's true.

Patrick's obviously convinced, though, and he smiles, wide and genuine. Pete doesn't know if this makes him feel better or worse.

He kisses Patrick then, just to give him something less empty than words, and Patrick kisses back like it's his last act. For a few moments, Pete lets himself revel in how responsive Patrick is, how his hands fly to cup Pete's face and his body wriggles impossibly closer, how this kind of reaction is what Pete's been chasing after for whatever growing number of lonely years it is now. Patrick's lips are soft, and so is his skin, so is his stomach and his thighs and the nuzzle of flesh beneath his jaw, and between this and the way Patrick's pulling gently on the hair at the base of Pete's neck, Pete really has no motivation to stop whatsoever-

"Patrick!" Andy's voice snaps them both out of it, and they pull apart quickly. "Enough."

Pete feels the growl before he hears it, rumbling through Patrick's body before ripping through his lips. "Why?" he snarls, and Pete flinches.

"That kind of behaviour is not appropriate," Andy replies. Pete wonders if the man's originally from the 18th century, or if he just took a trip there and picked up some of the language. "And you know what White said," he sniffs, and looks back at his papers.

Patrick's face falls at that, and he slumps against Pete. White had been pretty intimidating, sure, but the amount of fear she seems to strike in Patrick makes Pete wonder exactly who sliced open the kid's stomach. Pete dives in an pecks Patrick on the lips as a small act of rebellion, and Patrick smiles like he knows.

"Mr. Wentz," Andy says to him later on, when he's being led away from Patrick and back to his bedroom, "this will all make sense soon. I'm sorry about the confusion." Pete was allowed to hug Patrick goodnight when he left, and a maximum of one kiss on the cheek. Patrick told him to sleep well and to fucking kill any fucking dickheads who try to fucking hurt him.

"Okay," Pete nods, because what else can he say? It's not even eight o'clock and he's being shepherded into his bedroom by a man who might possibly be the almighty God.

"Dinner will be delivered to you soon. I apologise for the tardiness, it's been a difficult day for everyone." Andy says, and it's only then that Pete realises how horrifically hungry he is. And woozy. He didn't take his pills this morning.

He's almost glad when they reach his bedroom; he needs time to think, time to recalibrate his brain. He needs sleep, more than most things. He turns to wish Andy goodnight, but the man speaks before Pete forms the words. 

"He's not what you think he is," Andy says suddenly. "You won't get what you want."

Pete nods, slowly so as not to spill the brain full of thoughts he's been carrying around, and adds Andy's words to the pool of things to think about. 

"He thinks he loves you, you know."

Pete nods, because he does know. He's just not quite sure how it makes him feel yet.