Patrick is running. He puts everything into every step, his body burning and his mind fuming along with it.

He's always been angry, ever since he can remember, he's always had feelings he doesn't know how to express without breaking something. Other people have words that he doesn't, other people can explain and reason and mediate, but Patrick doesn't understand, has never understood, has never been able to articulate himself well enough to get people to listen to him. They never fucking listen.

They try to stop the anger; they tried shouting it out of him when he was little, when he'd scream the walls down without really knowing what he was screaming about, they tried taking away his books and his paper, they tried beating it out of him, over and over and only stopping for fear they might kill him. Nothing worked, until now.

It hurts more than the beatings, more than anything they've done to him on that table. It hurts more than the sharp pains in his stomach as he strains the stitches, more than the deep ache in his muscles as he runs faster and further than his body can really take. The fact that they're using Pete, his special fucking person, against him, making threats and pointing fingers and taking him away from Patrick makes him want to snarl and hiss and scream. Because it works so damn well.

He's only allowed to see Pete in short intervals, under strict supervision from Andy, or worse, White, who doesn't allow them within fucking eight inches of each other, and if he refuses to comply with their fucking schedule, White likes to describe in intricate detail what exactly she might do to Pete. And there's no way in heaven, hell or anywhere in between that Patrick will let her near Pete. So he's left with no choice. And he's so, so angry.

He keeps running. He slams his feet down with as much force as he can muster, as fast as he can, sweat pooling under his arms and at his hairline, shimmering on his chest. Each step is a scream, each breath a crack of knuckles against bone.

"Okay, stop," White says, clicking her timer and waving it in front of Patrick as the treadmill slows. Patrick stumbles off the machine and slumps against the wall, chest heaving. He wants this to be over as soon as possible; Andy said Pete might join them for breakfast.

"You've beaten your personal best," White muses at her clipboard, "impressive, seeing as you gained eight pounds since your last run." He sees her smirk and resists the temptation to both smack her in the mouth or move his wings to cover his torso. Either would mean giving in.

Next is a shower - he hates that he knows this, hates how the routine still lingers on him like mould – and White spares him no privacy. It's a punishment, a reminder of how he's broken their trust, act like a child, be treated like a fucking child, but even when he was young, she wouldn't bring three of her doting apprentices and they wouldn't stare like they do now. He tries his utmost not to let it bother him; fights the urge to hide his body, doesn't even slam White's head into the tiles when she insists upon washing his hair like he's some sort of invalid.

She watches him shake the water out of his feathers, she watches him struggle with the buttons of his shirt, she watches him shave steadfastly around his sideburns, tutting every so often. When he finally sits down at the table, breakfast in hand, she's there, with her fucking clipboard and her fucking superiority. He stares at his plate until the door opens, and Andy leads Pete into the room.

Patrick gets up automatically, reaching his hands towards Pete and lifting his head to touch him, to kiss him.

"Sit down," White barks, and Patrick starts, drawing his hands back and flinging a glare towards her. Pete seems utterly stricken; he barely looks at Patrick as he sits down, and Patrick's left standing over him, still expectant of a hug. He retreats to his chair.

"Did you sleep okay?" Patrick asks quietly as he watches Pete stare down at the grey lump of his breakfast.

Pete looks up, alarm spreading across his face as if Patrick had shouted, then shrugs noncommittally. "Alright, I guess. What even is this?" he asks, prodding at the food on his plate.

Patrick doesn't really blame Pete for the look of disgust that twists his mouth down at the edges; if he himself had grown up with chocolate and pineapple and ice cream, he'd have high expectations too. "It's, like, vitamins and stuff," Patrick says between mouthfuls, shovelling it down as hunger gets the better of him. It tastes of cold and dust, but Patrick's not about to starve himself for the sake of flavour.

Pete obviously lacks this particular philosophy, as he barely touches the food, just stabs his fork into it until it's disfigured beyond repair.

"You should eat something," Patrick says, because Pete's thin enough without skipping meals. Pete just nods, silent.

Patrick doesn't give him a slap, because that's not what special people do, and Pete's obviously been threatened in some way by White or Andy or Franklin or fucking Johnson, but part of him wants to; this is what they want, they want Pete quiet and passive and conversationally useless so they can do whatever the fuck they want with him.

Andy and White look on, and Patrick can just feel their ridicule, their mocking eyes as they watch Patrick try to prove that another, actual person likes him, wants to talk to him. He thought he could show them that he's worthy of friendship, of love, maybe, but Pete's not showing either towards him, and Patrick feels heat in his face as he remembers the way he shouted at White, insisting that Pete loves him, that Pete cares about him.

"Okay, time's up," she says, once it's clear Pete isn't going to eat any of the mess on his plate.

Pete gets to his feet with a sigh, and Patrick jumps up, because he has to hug Pete, he has to.

"Did I say you could stand?" White snaps, stepping towards him with an eyebrow raised.

Of course she didn't, but she can get fucked if she thinks Patrick's scared of the consequences. He walks around the table, and she pounces, cracking him round the head with her clipboard. Pain bursts through the back of his skull and Patrick nearly laughs because it's nothing, it's nothing at all compared to everything else.

"Sit down," she hisses, and he hisses back, baring his teeth and feeling the sound sear across his tongue. He already knows it's a mistake.

There's pain again, bright white pain across his whole body, digging its fingers into his eyes and pulling until his head's empty but for the fire charring his insides. He feels himself falling, and doesn't have the capacity to care.

The impact never comes; there's hands under his arms, hauling him back up as the pain fades and his vision returns. "- not supposed to touch it!" Pete says over his shoulder, and it occurs to him that Pete's talking to White – to White – in defence of Patrick. Pete gives him a squeeze before looking him straight in the eyes and brushing his hand across Patrick's cheek. "Are you alright?"

The pain is replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling as he looks at Pete's lovely, kind face. He can feel the warmth of Pete's body against his own and huddles towards it, his hands curling in Pete's jumper. Patrick nods, even though there's still a stinging sensation running up and down his arm; White really really meant that. She hates the hissing almost as much as Patrick hates her, and the more hatred in the touch, the more pain. It makes Patrick wonder what might happen if Pete, this Pete, touched his halo instead.

This Pete suddenly leans forward and presses his lips to Patrick's in the first proper kiss they've had since the first night, and Patrick's heart nearly jumps out of his chest; he surges towards Pete, kissing back as if – well, as if they only have a few seconds before somebody –

"That's enough," White murmurs, and Pete's pulled away from Patrick as White grabs him by the arm and drags him towards the door.

"Hey!" Patrick yelps, reaching out for Pete, fully prepared to take White down, when he catches Andy's eye. The man shakes his head quickly, and Patrick wouldn't usually take notice, but there's something grave in Andy's eyes that makes Patrick hesitate to push White any further.

"– but you're not supposed to touch it," Pete's saying, "it's not just some piece of metal, it's – "

"I know full well what it is, Wentz," she snaps as she yanks the door open, "Franklin? Take him to his room." The man appears instantaneously, nods, and marches Pete away.

When White turns to face Patrick, her face reminds Patrick of the storm clouds over London. She strides up to him and grips his jaw tightly, her fingernails digging into his skin.

"Don't you ever hiss at me again, you disgusting animal. You best make the most of Wentz, before he finds out what a repulsive creature you really are," she says, flicking saliva into Patrick's face.

Patrick looks into her washed-out blue eyes, and smiles his sunniest grin, because the man he loves just kissed him and the buzzing hasn't quite subsided yet. At that, White just huffs, dropping her hand before slamming her coiled fist across his face. It hurts, but it's nothing. She stalks out of the room.

-

"I don't know why you're so pleased with yourself," Andy says for the hundredth time that afternoon, when a ripe bruise is blossoming across Patrick's cheek but the smile hasn't quite faded from his features. "Things will only get worse for you if you keep pushing her like that."

Patrick thoroughly disagrees; if he doesn't push her, then what happens? She gets complacent, he gets used, and he won't even be able to say he fucking fought back. He decides not to merit Andy's grumblings with a response, and focuses on the maths in front of him. Or tries to, anyway. He keeps getting distracted by thoughts of Pete. Pete's eyes, Pete's laugh, Pete's mouth. The Riemann hypothesis becomes less and less appealing.

He's so close to fucking proving it, he's nurtured these equations for so long, tweaked his inequalities to perfection and managed to refrain from finding Riemann and beating him and his fucking zeta function to a pulp. But he's been locked in his room for so long, with no lunch and nothing to do but stare at the numbers swimming in front of his eyes.

"Pete's got a really nice smile," Patrick says suddenly, when just thinking about Pete isn't enough anymore. "He's beautiful when he smiles – I mean, he's beautiful all the time, but, like – especially when he smiles. And when, like, I'm with him, everything is just – better. And – oh, Andy, you have to try kissing, it feels so – "

"Focus, Patrick," Andy warns from his desk in the corner.

"But I can't, this is fucking stupid, when can I see him again?" Patrick whines, dropping his pen on the table and shoving the papers away from him.

"Don't swear, and don't act like this is beyond you," Andy snaps, and he's got a point. It's not that non-trivial zeroes don't excite Patrick to the point of self-consciousness, it's just Pete. "I don't know when you'll be allowed to see him. Whenever White's feeling generous."

So, never, basically. Patrick puffs out his feathers and buries his face in his hands. Stupid Riemann.

"Patrick," Andy says, gentler this time. He's actually looking at Patrick too, so whatever this is going to be about, it might be in his interests to listen. "I know you like Pete – "

"I love him, dickhead," Patrick says forcefully, sensing where this might be going.

"Well, yes, but just remember that relationships can be – complicated, and you haven't had much experience – "

"Whose fucking fault is that?"

"All I'm saying is, don't, you know, get your hopes up too much. Love isn't always the kindest thing, Patrick."

For the second time that day, Patrick thoroughly disagrees with Andy, because his hopes are higher than they've been in his life, and Pete's been kinder to him than anyone else ever has. Andy thinks it'll go nowhere, but Andy doesn't know that Patrick is going to get himself and Pete out if it kills him. It'll be more difficult than last time - they've upped security since then, and Patrick also suspects they've hidden the cleaning products – but he'll do it. He has to get back there; he needs music, and food, and cats and – Sam, fucking hell he misses Sam.

He spends the remainder of the afternoon drawing Pete's tattoos all over the paper.

-

He doesn't see Pete for three days.

No matter how loud he yells at Andy for answers, no matter how forcefully he demands to know where Pete is and what they've done with him, he remains clueless, plagued by sleepless nights and fretful days. What if they hurt him? What if they kill him?

On the fourth evening, Andy finally cracks.

He doesn't say anything, just takes Patrick by the wrist and leads him through the winding corridors. Patrick thinks, for a terrifying second, that he's being taken to solitary again, to be starved or beaten or left to watch his sanity unravel in the silence, but they stop outside a room, Pete's room, and Patrick can do nothing but stare in wonder at Andy as he opens the door to reveal a startled looking Pete sitting on the bed in the corner.

He's okay, Patrick thinks as he takes in Pete's scar-less face and unbandaged body. He starts towards him, but Andy's hand remains firmly around his wrist.

"Fifteen minutes maximum, okay? Don't tell White," he adds with a wink, releasing Patrick before backing out of the room and closing the door behind him. Patrick spends a few seconds gaping after him, then remembers where he is and bounds over to the bed, wrapping his arms around Pete and breathing in his scent.

"Patrick," Pete says into his ear, and Patrick feels Pete's arms wind around his waist and his lips move against Patrick's jaw. It's as if whoever's had their hands around his throat has finally let go. Patrick's wings flutter of their own accord and he covers Pete with them, squeezing him gently. His heart lifts when Pete giggles.

"We don't have much time," Patrick breathes when they pull back from each other, faces close and knees touching where they're folded on the bed. The book Pete must have been reading lies strewn to the side, and Patrick pushes down the questions that bubble to the surface of his brain. He's not allowed books like that.

"Where've you been?" Pete asks, "What've they done to you this time?"

"Nothing," Patrick snaps, carefully not thinking about the stinging stitches in his chest from yesterday. They'll heal, just like the cut in his stomach has. "They just stopped me from seeing you after-"

"Because of what I said?" Pete says suddenly, worry flashing in his eyes, "Oh God, did I make trouble for you? I'm so sorry, Patrick, I only wanted to make sure you were okay, I didn't think-"

Patrick shuts up Pete's stupid ramblings by kissing him hard, his hands moving to cup Pete's face. He'd forgotten quite how good it feels. A tingle runs down his spine as Pete's fingers trail down his hips and squeeze them gently, fingertips brushing the small strip of skin between Patrick's shirt and his trousers.

"Are – are you okay?" Pete stammers between kisses, "They – they said I couldn't see you."

"I'm fine," Patrick manages to gasp, "White was just – being a fucking bitch. Did they – hurt you?"

To Patrick's relief, Pete shakes his head. "Just asked me questions," he says as Patrick tries to slide a hand under his shirt. He's wearing his clothes from Earth, which is strange, but there's no time for questioning. "Are you sure you wanna – now?" Pete asks, stilling Patrick's hand on his hip. "I mean, I wanna, but – but – "

"Yeah," Patrick breathes, "we've got time,"- just about - "and – I want you," he finishes, sitting on Pete's legs and resting their foreheads together. Thoughts like this have hit him like an avalanche over the past week; almost every night he's found himself under the covers with his hand shoved into his pants, his teeth biting hard into his lip to stifle his moans of pleasure. He needs the real thing, now. "Wait, you do mean sex, right?" he asks, just to be absolutely sure.

Pete laughs, and it doesn't make Patrick feel stupid anymore, only glad that Pete's smiling because of him. "Yeah – well, not, like actual, y'know, sex sex, but-"

"Why not?" Patrick asks, drawing back from Pete. Then, a horrific thought dawns on him. "Do you not want to have sex with me?"

"Of course I do – I mean, I – yeah, I'd like to," Pete stumbles, his hand reaching up to brush hair from Patrick's face, "but – we need certain things for proper sex, or it's dangerous, y'know – and, and it should be special, not – not rushed. We can do something else for now," Pete says gently, stroking his thumb across Patrick's jaw. Patrick realises yet again how fucking lovely it is to be touched like this.

"Okay," he nods. Then, he has an idea.

He's seen people do this before, on the internet, so he figures it can't be too difficult, but that doesn't mean he isn't nervous as he unbuttons Pete's jeans and tries to work them down his thighs; it doesn't work as well as he'd have liked, and he's left growling at the jeans as Pete takes over.

Patrick settles himself between Pete's legs as the underwear is pulled off too, and finds himself faced with Pete's dick for the second time. He was fucking relieved when he found out it was normal; Andy had insisted that the collection of objects between his legs was perfectly ordinary, but Patrick was never sure until he'd seen one in the flesh. And there it is, fleshy and kind of floppy but attractive in an ugly way. And he's got to put his mouth on it. Huh.

He folds his wings behind his back and leans his head down, when Pete fucking stalls again. "Uh – you don't have to do this if – if you don't want to."

"I do want to," Patrick asserts, he wants to make Pete feel amazing, that's what special people should do.

"Okay," Pete breathes, "just – no teeth, alright? Please." Patrick tries not to feel offended that Pete's looking a little scared.

Taking a deep breath, Patrick ducks his head and licks a shimmering stripe along the side of Pete's cock; it's not too bad. Salty, but he'll deal with it if it means Pete'll make that noise again. Wrapping his fingers around it, he puts his lips to it once more, licking faster and feeling it harden in his hand. That must mean he's doing something right.

When he starts to suck, it's a strange sensation – his tongue pushed flat and his lips struggling to keep his teeth under wraps – but Pete groans, like he wants Patrick, and Patrick feels himself flush with arousal. It must be love, otherwise he wouldn't be getting off to sucking on someone else's private parts. He lets out a moan, and Pete whimpers above him, his hand reaching to rest gently in Patrick's hair. He sucks harder, trying to bob his head like in the videos, but it's apparently more difficult than it looks, especially when Pete's hips snap upwards and Patrick's throat freaks the fuck out.

He jerks backwards, and his teeth pick this particular moment to get involved in proceedings, catching the head of Pete's dick as Patrick pulls off, coughing, amidst Pete's cries of pain.

"Sorry – shit – sorry," Pete's saying, cupping his crotch with his eyes squeezed shut as Patrick wipes the string of saliva from his mouth. "I shouldn't have – holy shit that hurt, didn't I tell you about the teeth?"

Patrick's just about to apologise before he decides he doesn't much like Pete's attitude. "Hey, I didn't fucking mean to, alright, you tried to fit your whole damn dick in my mouth, what the fuck did you expect, asshole?!"

They glare at each other for a few seconds, Pete clutching his cock tighter and Patrick coughing dramatically into his hand to prove his point, before Pete's lips quirk up at the edges, and they both begin to giggle. "You and your bloody biting," Pete huffs, but Patrick knows he isn't really angry because he pulls Patrick towards him and pecks him on the lips, letting Patrick settle against him.

"I'm sorry about your dick," Patrick says as sincerely as he can, but Pete only laughs harder.

"If you wanna ever have sex with me, you're gonna have to keep it relatively undamaged," Pete tells him, beginning to jack himself slowly. "Now, take two?"

Patrick doesn't understand what Pete means, but he pretends to, and he obviously does the right thing when he takes over from Pete, because the man doesn't protest. Patrick smiles when he feels Pete begin to get hard again – at least he didn't do any permanent damage.

"Hey, it still works," Pete says cheerfully, shifting Patrick back into his lap and kissing him again, a smile shaping his lips. His hands drift towards Patrick's butt, pushing his trousers and underwear down and making Patrick yelp when he feels Pete squeeze his ass.

"Your hands are cold," Patrick scowls, but Pete just grins.

"I'll have to warm them up, then," he smirks, then rubs his hands against Patrick's ass, making Patrick squirm and giggle. "Is that better?"

Patrick just grins against Pete's neck, hand still working on Pete's dick. "Are butts sexy?" he asks, curious. He's never thought of butts as anything apart from things to sit on.

"Yours is," Pete shrugs, kneading it in his hands to prove his point. Patrick feels an unexpected pride for his ass. "Anything's sexy if it's on the right person."

Then he kisses Patrick softly, as if he's the right person, and Patrick feels a little sick with how much he wants Pete, his wings spreading and his feathers fanning out as if to bathe in Pete's glow. The way Pete still gazes at them as they move makes Patrick love him even more.

They get each other off like that, Patrick's hand moving fast on Pete's dick and Pete's hand shoved in Patrick's pants, moaning into each other's mouths and laughing at the stupid faces they both make when they finally come undone.

Patrick ends up slumped half on top of Pete, but the man doesn't seem to mind; he wraps his arms around Patrick and kisses the top of his head. Patrick buries his nose in Pete's t-shirt, trying to commit his smell to memory, the warmth of his skin. He hates that he doesn't know how long it will be until they get to do this again, that they don't have weeks to waste exploring each other's bodies. He shuts his eyes and tells himself he can't cry.

"How much longer do we have," Pete says quietly, but Patrick just shakes his head. He's dreading the knock at the door. "Long enough for me to do this," Pete finishes, and Patrick thinks he's going to kiss him, but Pete's fingers move to his face and begin to scratch behind his ear, and holy fuck. Patrick hears himself let out something like a sob at how good it feels, purrs beginning to rumble through him for the first time in too long. He cuddles Pete tighter, hates that he'll ever have to let go.

Pete gets all the good places: behind Patrick's ears, the top of his head, the back of his neck, fingers running rhythmically through his hair and breaths brushing across his face. It's heaven, in all honesty. Perhaps Pete was right all along.

Then, Patrick feels a dull pain in his collarbone as Pete's fingers snag on something. When Patrick reaches to touch whatever it is, his stomach turns.

It's a patch, a large, white circle with a stud of metal in the middle, stuck to numbed skin. There's one the other side, too. Patrick starts to feel sick.

"What the hell?" Pete says, laughing slightly, fingers still rubbing the patches.

"No," Patrick says, pushing himself off Pete's lap and ripping the patches off, his mind racing ahead. Fifteen minutes has been and gone, Andy hasn't stopped them and White hasn't knocked either of them out. White had nothing scheduled for Patrick this evening. White knows where he is at all times because of the tracker in his arm. This is all a setup.

Pete's calling his name as Patrick stumbles around the room, checking the draws and the cabinets and the desks until he finds it. It's buried in the table leg, the same height as the bed. It's a camera. Patrick claws it out of the wood and crushes it against the wall with a cry of anguish. He's been so fucking stupid.

"What the hell, Patrick?" Pete says from the bed, "What's going on?"

Patrick can hardly bear to tell him. He frowns at the floor and pulls his wings around him, as if he still has time to shield himself from this. He can't look at Pete as he starts to speak. "They've been watching us," he says quietly, kicking at the broken bits of plastic littering the floor. "Filming us."

"What," Pete hisses, and Patrick hears movement but he still doesn't look. He won't watch Pete's face, it'll only make everything hurt more. His hands shake as his mind processes what they've taken from him; his freedom, his privacy, and now his intimacy with Pete. He focusses his gaze on a particular spot on the white wall, then slams his fist against it, once, twice, the plaster crumbling and his knuckles splitting against the brickwork underneath. His blood spatters across the wall and begins to drip between his fingers.

"Are you sure," Pete says robotically. When Patrick finally glances up at him, he's in the middle of the room, staring at Patrick, unblinking.

Patrick nods. "They've done this before," he says quietly, feeling the sting of the patches over his pulse. He's seen them before; they monitor his heart rate, his breathing. He didn't notice them. Always check for patches, always check for cameras. He's so fucking stupid.

"What do you mean, they've done it before?" Pete spits, glaring a hole in Patrick's head. "Why the fuck didn't you warn me? That's sick!"

"I didn't know!" Patrick yelps, "I didn't think they'd – fucking..." I didn't think. I didn't think about anything besides you.

They stare at each other for a few moments; Patrick can see Pete's mind working, his eyes boiling and his mouth open in horror. Then he starts to shout.

It's nonsense at first, curses and yells at no-one in particular, but then Pete turns on Patrick with shrieks and wild hand gestures, stuff about what the fuck were you thinking coming in here and why the hell didn't you realise sooner, and Patrick can only watch in agony as Pete becomes the perfect weapon. Patrick wonders whether Pete will hit him for this, knowing that Patrick won't hit back. This is the blame; next comes the punishment. He folds his wings behind him in readiness, they'll only break if he uses them to block the punches.  

He tries to think of something, anything to say in his own defence, but all he can hear is Pete's rage, all he can feel is the anger, inexpressible anger. Its only translation is the pain in his knuckles and the cracks in the wall. 

But the next thing Patrick knows, Pete's gone. The door slams shut behind him, and Patrick's left staring after him, blood still dripping from his hand. Gulping down a breath and blinking the tears from his eyes, Patrick follows.

Franklin grabs him by the shoulders as soon as he steps out the door. He should've expected it, stupid, so fucking stupid.

"Don't even try," Franklin sighs as Patrick struggles, but Patrick's half given up already, watching Pete sprint down the corridor towards Andy's office, no doubt. Andy. The fucking traitor.

"Where's White," Patrick croaks, "'cause I'm gonna fucking kill her."

"No, you're not," Franklin says wearily, "and before you ask, yes, they were all watching. Johnson too," he adds, and Patrick feels a stab of shame in his chest. "So just, y'know, brace yourself, kid."

"Why did they fucking do it?" Patrick cries as he's dragged down the corridor, Franklin's hand close enough to his halo to keep him moving.

"You know them," Franklin grumbles, "they don't need a reason. Wentz looked pretty furious, though."

Patrick can hear Pete arguing with someone, his shouts echoing down the corridor, expectations of privacy and basis for a lawsuit and lots of other things Patrick doesn't understand. "Is it my fault?" he asks. Pete seemed pretty fucking adamant that it is.

At that, Franklin stops, pulling Patrick back. He looks down at Patrick for a few seconds, then places a hand on his shoulder. "No, Patrick. None of it is." He opens his mouth as if he'd like to say more, but lets out a rush of air instead. Patrick releases the breath he's been holding. He didn't expect to not get shouted at. Franklin glances towards the shouting, then back at Patrick. "I've gotta take you to your room. Would you rather go the long way round?"

Patrick listens to the raised voices, hearing his own name among the echoes, and nods quickly. He doesn't want to know what they're saying. He can't go near White, in case he kills her. He can't face Pete, can't face their marred relationship, their ruined intimacy. He focusses on Franklin's grip on his shoulder and away from what's been exposed, all the new insults they'll think up, the humiliation of it all.

Franklin knows to shut the door behind him on his way out; he even gives Patrick's shoulder a squeeze, an apology of sorts. Patrick decides to avoid punching Franklin quite so much in future. The wall, however, isn't quite so lucky.

As he sits on his bed, anger subsiding, amidst his wrecked bedroom and his bloody knuckles, his eyes trail to the security camera in the corner of the room. He wonders what Pete would say if he knew they've been watching Patrick ever since he can remember. Why wouldn't there be cameras in Pete's room? Why didn't Patrick check? Stupid, he's so fucking stupid. Stupid to think he could ever separate himself from his own crushing reality.

He curls up under the covers and prays that whatever his punishment is, it can wait until tomorrow.

-

Andy rubs the bridge of his nose gingerly as Wentz spouts his bloody statutes over and over; he really doesn't have the energy. This was White's idea – they always are – and she's left him to clear up the mess. And what a mess it is.

"...you tricked us into – into exposing ourselves on film, you – what did you tell Patrick to get him in there, huh? Or is he in on this too? What –

"No, he is not in on this," Andy sighs at the flailing lawyer who's currently pacing Andy's office.

"He said you've done this before, is spying on people's – sexual endeavours a regular thing around here? What do you intend to use the footage for?" Pete shouts, throwing his arms about the place like boomerangs.

"Nothing, Mr. Wentz, and I'll tell you again that you were not the focus of this," Andy says calmly, folding his arms across the desk.

"Then I'll ask you again, why is Patrick the focus?" Pete demands, but they've been over this.

"It will be disclosed at a-"

"At a later bloody date, yes, you said that, but right now, all I'm seeing is you filming him - me – having sex and – I don't know, what is it gonna be? Revenge porn? Threats? Or just something to get you in the mood?"

"For goodness' sake, you –"

"Tell me the purpose of that footage!" the lawyer yells, pointing a finger at Andy, his face flustered and his chest heaving.

"Okay, Wentz," Andy says, getting up from his chair. He didn't want to have to do this now, but he doesn't see any other options. "I think it's time for your briefing."