Patrick is barely conscious when he feels their hands on him.

He tries to move, but his arms are pinned down, and his wings are useless under the weight of their boots, their fucking boots, and he barely has time to process that this is them, this is what he's been running from, they've got him it's over he's failed, before he sees the glint of a syringe in the gloved hand of one of the men. And he's sure as fucking hell not letting that get anywhere near him.

He cries out, wrenching his arm from its hold and slamming his fist into the nearest thing he sees, which just so happens to be that fucking dickhead with the fucking needle. The room's coming into focus now, he can see their outlines in the grey light, he can see their guns pointed at him.

They're all shouting, like they always are, directed at him, like it always is, and he yells as loud as he can just to hear himself over them. They don't like people, they won't want to draw attention, so he keeps yelling until a hand clamps over his mouth, squeezing until his cheeks burn with future bruises and his jaw aches.

"We've got you now," the man silencing him smirks, and of course it's Johnson, with his horrid crooked teeth and his pinched face. "Get a move on," he hisses at someone, and there's the needle again; Johnson grabs Patrick by the hair and drags his head back, exposing his neck, hand still crushing Patrick's cheeks into his teeth.

With a muffled shriek, Patrick thrashes as hard as he can, twisting his head away from the needle and pulling desperately at the hands pinning down his wrists. If he could only get his hands free, he's stronger than them and they know it, and he's going to... yes! His coiled fist flies into Johnson's stupid fucking face, and the hand disappears from his mouth. Gasping for breath, he lurches towards the man, wing still trapped under his feet, and shoves him off the bed, right into the guy with the needle.

The man on the other side of him – Benji, he's always been a fucking coward – has already let go, and backs away as Patrick scrambles out of the twisted duvet and almost collides with the floor, catching his balance at the last second and running, running anywhere but here. Running out of the bedroom and straight into Pete.

Pete.

Pete who looks more terrified than Patrick's ever seen him, Pete who should still be asleep, cuddled up to Patrick, Pete who's trapped in the arms of another man with a gun to the back of his head.

"I'm sorry, Patrick," he cries, his voice in pieces, "they came in and they grabbed me and I couldn't stop them, I couldn't and they've got guns, Patrick, they've got guns!" They both manage to regain their balance as the men rush towards them, and Patrick knows he has to act fast.

As soon as he feels hands on his wings, he flaps them as hard as he can whilst launching himself at Pete's captor, twisting the arm with the gun until the man's hand loosens and he drops the weapon with a shout of pain. Patrick doesn't recognise that one, and almost feels bad when he slams the man's head into the wall. At least he knows for certain that the others are bastards.

Sweeping the gun off the floor, he grabs a horrified-looking Pete and tries to figure out an escape. But the men are blocking the stairs, and the skylight is the only window on the landing. Instead, he backs them both into the corner, spreading his wings to shield Pete and pointing the gun towards the advancing men. "Stay the fuck still or I'll shoot," he asserts, feeling Pete shift behind him.

To his relief, the man at the front waves a hand to stop his team-mates, and there's a few seconds of stunned silence in which Patrick manages to get his breath back, and the man he knocked down is helped to his feet. There's blood running down the faces of a few of them, and a sting in Patrick's knuckles.

"Patrick," the man at the front says, and Patrick feels a chill over him when he realises it's Franklin. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be," he goes on, always calm. He's the tallest of the lot of them, and the oldest. There's seven of them; Patrick recognises four, but he'll be sure to learn the names of the others so he can curse them, too.

"Patrick, what's going on?" Pete says, whispered. "They – they don't have a search warrant, this is illegal, they know who I am, Patrick, how do they know that?" His fingers rest lightly on Patrick's hips, clutching at his bare torso. Patrick wishes he was wearing more than just pyjama pants.

He wants to reply, to tell Pete that it'll be okay, somehow, he's got away from them before and he can do it again, but Franklin's stare is boring into him, and he can see the smug face of fucking Johnson close behind. "We've been looking for you for months. It's time you came home."

It's sweet talk. He's making home sound like a place that misses him, a place that he misses. It's bullshit. "No," Patrick spits, "I'm not going back."

"Oh, yes you are," Johnson smiles, laughing when Patrick trains the gun on him. "You don't even know how to use that."

He's wrong about that, though. Patrick may never have fired a gun before, but he once stole one and disassembled it, and God knows he's been around them long enough to know roughly what to do. There's no safety, so he simply raises it with both hands and squeezes the trigger.

The kickback is more than he expected, and he's slammed backwards into Pete, ears ringing.

"...Oh my God, Patrick, oh my God..." he can hear Pete saying, and Patrick sees he's made a hole in Pete's wall, near the ceiling. The group's heads are ducked away from the firing line, shock across their faces.

"Patrick, for goodness' sake, put the gun down," Franklin says, but his hand rests upon his own gun, and Patrick's still revelling in the fear on the men's faces. They don't have to know that he'd never aim it at a person; they think he's a crazed lunatic, always have.

Patrick shakes his head and trains the gun on Franklin. "I'm not going back."

Johnson steps forward, his own gun aimed at Pete's face. "Put the gun down, brat, or Wentz is dead."

"Don't fucking talk to him," Patrick growls, leaning back until he can feel Pete's chest against his wings. He takes a hand off the gun and places it over Pete's, squeezing his trembling fingers.

The smirk that appears on the man's face makes Patrick's blood boil. "Oh, has feathers got a boyfriend? Is feathers a faggot?"

Patrick doesn't know what that word means, but the way the other men laugh is enough for him to know it's a fucking shitty thing to say. When Johnson steps forward, Patrick hisses as loud as he dares, baring his teeth and letting the sound rip through him; his feathers puff out and he hears Pete make a sort of whimpering noise. Pete hasn't heard him hiss before.

Johnson has, though, and he just steps closer, gesturing towards Pete. "What are we doing with this one?" he asks in the direction of the other men.

Franklin holds up a finger, the other hand pressed to his ear. "...yes, he's here. Yes. No, he's armed. Blame Carmichael. What about Wentz?" His eyes move between the two of them, lingering on their joined hands. "Yes, I would assume so. Yeah, once we've got the kid, Wentz will come easy. Fine. Out."

"Are we killing him or what?" one of the other men asks, and Patrick feels Pete shrink further into the wall.

As Patrick begins to growl, Pete begins to plead. "Listen, I'm not worth it, please, don't shoot me, I didn't ask for this, please, you're – you're – this is illegal! I'll take you to court!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Franklin says, tutting, "they want him too." He signals to the man with the needles, says something too quiet for Patrick to hear.

Pete takes a deep breath. "Who wants me?! What are they going to-!"

Johnson lets out an exaggerated groan, and looks past Patrick at Pete, cutting the man off. "Shut up," he says, then steps far too close for comfort. Patrick snarls deep in his throat, louder when Johnson presses the muzzle of his gun to the soft skin underneath Patrick's jaw. He won't shoot, but he smiles like he's thinking about it. "I've missed you, feathers. My favourite freak."

"Fuck off," Patrick growls, "You're not doing fucking anything to him. You won't hurt him. You won't take him up there. I won't fucking let you."

Johnson just raises his eyebrows in that way that makes Patrick feel so incredibly small. "You've learnt some new words," he notes, then leans in close to Patrick's face, lowering his voice. "Did you let him fuck you, feathers?"

And Patrick's mouth doesn't know which answer to form, distracted by the metal against his skin and the leering face of Johnson looming over him. Underneath everything, the confidence he's putting on for Pete, he's utterly terrified. He's been dreading this, he's had countless nightmares about them dragging him from his bed and taking him back home, he's blocked these people from his mind and now his defences are crumbling. He's so, so scared. And they know it.

"It's over," Johnson murmurs, "we've chased your stupid fat arse around the country for long enough. We're going to knock you out and take you back where you belong, being cut open on that bloody table."

"Fuck off," Patrick says again, but it's broken in half by traitor tears. Pete's thumb strokes gently over his hip, and Patrick wishes, wishes that they could have had more time, more touches and kisses.

"Hey," Pete pipes up, renewed energy in his voice. Johnson's eyes snap towards him, and Patrick tightens his hold on the gun. "Don't – don't talk to him like that. You can't take him anywhere by force, I've already got allegations of an unwarranted search, unauthorised carrying of firearms, attempted abduction and abuse, this is not a legal means of finding missing persons, if you want Patrick back I'd advise you to seek further government -"

"I'll tell you one more time," Johnson interrupts, "shut up, lawyer."

"Wentz," Franklin sighs, stepping closer. "It's in your best interests to stay out of this, but by the looks of it, you know too much already. I suggest you step away from the angel, and neither of you will get hurt."

Patrick just presses himself more tightly to Pete and begins to growl again. "You're lying. You never stopped fucking hurting me."

For a moment, Franklin's eyes soften, and he purses his lips. Then, in the next second, he turns back to stone. "That's up to White. Who is furious, by the way." He says it with a heaviness, like even he feels sorry for Patrick. "Hurley's been worried sick."

"I don't care," Patrick says, even though he does. He aggressively doesn't think about Andy, or White, or what they'll do to him if they take him home. When they take him home.

Throughout the course of the conversation, the group have moved closer. One of them holds a syringe in his gloved hand, and stands back from the rest, waiting. Patrick can feel Pete's stuttering breaths against the back of his neck, he wants to turn and kiss Pete one last time before this is over and he's put back in his prison. Instead, he just stares, daring them to touch him.

When Johnson trains his weapon on Pete again, Patrick snaps. A smack to the back of the head with the grip of his gun has Johnson falling to the ground, and after that, things begin to get confused; the others lunge at Patrick, and before he knows it, he can't breathe, Franklin's hand tight to his throat.

He struggles, like hell he struggles, aiming his fingers at their eyes and his knees at their guts, but he sees the moment that Franklin gives up playing nice, and realises too late.

Someone's hand grabs his halo, and the pain is blinding.

He hadn't forgotten, he doesn't think he ever could, but the memories of them hurting him like this had begun to fade into the background. Now he forgets everything but pain, like someone's torn his chest open and smashed through his ribcage, like he's imploding. They don't do this normally, not since it was proved to be detrimental to his health, but they remember exactly how to make it hurt most: rough hands and ugly intentions.

In his hysteria, they've dragged him away from Pete; through blurred vision Patrick can see him being restrained with gloved hands. He tries to flap his wings, but someone's holding them in place, tries to shout, but someone's fingers push against his windpipe. Then there's metal raking against his halo, and his legs give out, it's too much, too much pain, too much to stay awake through.

His vision clouds over for a second, and it's a second too long. There's a hand in his hair and his head's being pulled back as someone barks orders. He tries to cover his neck, but his arms won't move and the needle's already coming for him. The sting in his throat lets him know that it's over. He drops the gun.

It's slow – too slow, he'd rather they just cracked his head against the wall – and maybe it's his imagination, but he can feel it spreading around his body, messing with his head. He breathes hard, fighting their every move, but he can't stop his head falling to the side when the hand leaves his hair, and his wings only manage a few feeble flaps before they're heavy and useless. He blinks furiously, he's got to keep his eyes open, that's the key, keep your eyes open, but they surrender as quickly as the rest of his muscles.

He can hear someone – Pete, the remaining conscious thoughts tell him – shouting his name, but it fades too fast as he falls to the bottom of the darkness and hits his head. After that, there's nothing.

-

When Patrick wakes up, he cries.

Not because he's a fucking baby, he's just drowsy from the drugs and disorientated because he's back where he belongs. It takes him a few moments to register this, to look around at the white walls and the lights and same fucking white sheets and realise it's over. His discovery, his laughter, his relationship with the man he's pretty sure he loves. The lights sting his eyes.

He can't face it, at first. He stares at the ceiling for a while, then sobs quietly into the pillow for a while more. It doesn't smell of Pete, and for a terrifying moment, he thinks maybe it was all just a dream, and Pete doesn't exist. Maybe his mind made it all up to distract him from the terrible loneliness he's just opened his eyes to.

There's no one in the room when he finally wrenches himself up onto his elbows. It's not his own room, it's the recovery room, and instinctively, he looks down at himself, pulling up his shirt and checking for new scars. They've put him back in his usual clothes; his grey shirt, buttoned at the back around his wings, his grey trousers, grey everything. He feels a little bit sick when he tries to move his legs, and sees that one of his ankles has been cuffed to the end of the bed.

He stiffens when he hears a key in the lock of the door - it won't open without a key, not since the incident a few years ago - and tries to hide himself under his wings. He can't face White right now, not without crying, not without begging, and he hates hates doing either. They love it when he's weak.

"Patrick," Andy's soft voice says, and Patrick feels himself relax when the man steps into the room and closes the door behind him. He looks a strange mix of tired and furious.

"Andy," Patrick squeaks, curling further into the corner of the bed and feeling his confidence flee as Andy nears, his expression darkening. He watches as Andy sits down carefully in the seat next to the bed - he's got that look on his face that says they're going to have a little talk, and it's not going to be a fun one.

"Patrick," Andy sighs again, clasping his hands in front of him and meeting Patrick's guilty gaze. "What were you thinking?"

"What was I thinking when?" Patrick asks, not sure whether Andy's most angry about Pete, or the gun, or just everything in general. 

Andy purses his lips. "You know when, Patrick. When you ran away like that. When you cost us so much time and resources. When you nearly got yourself killed down there."

Ah. So they're saving Pete 'til later. "I didn't get killed," Patrick says stupidly, bringing his wings tighter around himself.

"No, Patrick, but you could have. Didn't we tell you, there's all sorts of dangerous things down there, you-"

"They have animals, Andy!" Patrick yelps all of a sudden, "like, other living things that aren't shaped like people! And the food, it's - it's nice, and there's no ceilings outdoors, there's just sky and it makes water sometimes and sometimes ice, and - and they have music! Not just piano music, different types, different sounds, it was amazing, Andy!" His voice rings around the room and he snaps his mouth shut quickly, watching Andy's face.

"Enough," Andy growls, shaking his head. "You're not going back there, Patrick, and don't think for one second that you won't pay for this. When White asks, you tell her it was awful. You tell her you've learnt your lesson, and that you wouldn't dream of going back."

"But it wasn't awful, I want to go back, I-"

"I know, Patrick," Andy says over the top of him, and Patrick flinches, but Andy's expression softens. "I know. But you'll only make this worse for yourself if you antagonise her. She's already angry."

Patrick nods, tracing the bruises along his forearms. He can't have been out for too long, or they would have faded. "I don't regret it," he mumbles at his knees.

Andy's face twists into a bitter smile. "You never do, Patrick."

A long silence stretches out between them as Patrick tries to decide whether to ask about Pete, and simultaneously tries not to start crying again. Andy's not the worst person to cry in front of - he even gave Patrick a hug, once - but he doesn't appreciate searches for sympathy.

"Where's Pete," Patrick says quietly after finally plucking up the courage.

"He's with Franklin and Wan. They're just sorting some things out." Andy says, avoiding Patrick's gaze.

"You brought him here?!" Patrick exclaims, the chain around his foot rattling as he squirms. Sure, the prospect of Pete being all the way back on Earth and Patrick never seeing him ever again was enough to nearly kill Patrick, but him being up here, getting hurt too? It might be even worse. "I won't fucking let you hurt him," he spits, "I'll kill you all before you touch him."

At that, Andy snorts. "Don't be stupid, Patrick. He's simply being written into the schedule. You do realise that him being here changes a lot of things, don't you?"

"Like what?" Patrick bristles, his hands clenched into fists. "What are you going to do to him?"

"What is your relationship to him?" Andy interrupts, but Patrick doesn't have time to growl an answer before the door opens again.

This time, it's White.

She doesn't look any different; her brown hair's still in its ruffled bob, she still wears her white coat, identical to Andy's. She's got a briefcase in her hand which she sets silently on the spindly metal table across the room. The lines around her mouth still crease when she looks at Patrick, her eyes still blaze with fury. He resists the urge to hide his face in his wing.

"Of all the stupid things you've done, Patrick," she snarls, spitting his name like a curse, "this tops the list." She stalks towards Patrick, and before he knows it, she's grabbed his face, fingers tight to his chin, forcing him to look at her. Then she shines a light in his face, and he automatically shuts his eyes; this is a mistake.

"Don't act like you've forgotten how this works," she hisses, forcing his eyes open with her fingers and shining the torch again. He doesn't dare resist her; he's done that multiple times before, and it always results in an absence of anaesthetic the next time he's on the table.

So he lets her jerk his jaw up to expose his neck, listens to her hum words of approval as she runs her fingers over the spot where the drug was injected. She pulls at his feathers, inspects his fingernails (which Patrick thinks might've been cut since he last saw them) and briefly touches his halo. It doesn't hurt, not really, because she's not intending to cause Patrick pain, but he flinches anyway, and she tuts at him.

She keeps tutting as she combs her hand through his hair and he yelps as her fingers snag on knots. "This needs to be cut," she says as she lets the long strands fall in Patrick's face. He blinks rapidly, circular smudges of white still imprinted on his vision. 

"Where's Pete?" he asks again when she's retreated towards the briefcase, as loudly as he dares.

"Probably still crying, I expect," she says absently, lifting a gun-like contraption out of the case. Patrick's chest tightens at the thought of Pete crying, Pete doesn't know that you shouldn't cry in front of these people, they'll only use it against you. "You picked a real coward, Patrick."

"Don't insult him," Patrick snaps, then regrets it when she turns her glare on him, wielding the gun. He's seen that thing before.

"Don't talk back," she responds, grabbing his wrist and pressing the gun to his forearm. He doesn't push her away, just squeezes his eyes shut as she pulls the trigger and the machine makes a mechanical hissing noise. It hurts like hell, but she holds his arm in place as she removes the gun and places a round plaster over the spot of blood underneath. Patrick glares at it. It's a tracker, just like the last one, the one he clawed out of his flesh in a London alleyway. "Damage this one, and the next one goes in your chest," she says curtly.

"Don't hurt him," Patrick pleads, cradling his arm, "Let him go."

"He knows too much, Patrick," she sighs, "you told him too much."

"He asked! He made me tell him!"

At that, she stares at him. "He forced you? Who is he working for?"

"No," Patrick huffs with slightly too much attitude, "he wanted to know. He wanted to know me." He says it with no small amount of pride.

"Oh, let me guess," she smiles, "you love him, do you? You think he'll get you out of this, you think he'll save you?"

"I-"

"He's a coward, Patrick, he's scared out of his mind, he'll leave you at the first opportunity. You're a novelty, he'll get bored of you soon."

At that, Patrick bursts into flame. "Fuck you!" he shouts, and he hears Andy say his name as White rounds on him. "He's not a fucking coward, he's amazing and clever and I fucking love him, you piece of shit!"

There's a small and terrifying silence as White takes in his words. Then, she walks calmly over to the bed and grabs a handful of his hair, dragging him upwards and sending white-hot pain through his scalp. He shuts his eyes, but he can still feel her breath on his face.

"Listen, you obnoxious little brat," she hisses, "never speak to me like that again. You will do as I say. You will keep your filthy mouth shut. You will not put a single damn feather out of line, or I will make your lonely little life so unbearable that you'll beg me to kill you. Is that clear?"

He begins to growl, but she shakes him so hard that all he can manage is a whimper.

"I said, is that clear?"

"Yes," he croaks, and she finally drops him. He crumples onto the bed, curling his wings over himself.

"Good," she says. "You're due at the table in an hour."

"What?" he yelps, desperately looking to Andy for some sort of help.

"This soon?" Andy asks, "I don't think that's-"

"One hour. Unless you want us to cut up Wentz, instead," she shrugs, snapping the briefcase closed and backing out of the room.She doesn't wait for a response before the door slams behind her.

"Well done, Patrick," Andy sighs, voice heavy with sarcasm. "Thank goodness you didn't antagonise her."

But Patrick doesn't have the energy to shout, or to keep the tears in. They spill from his eyes, and won't go away no matter how hard he pushes his hands into his eye-sockets.

"Hey," Andy says, his tone softer. "It's okay, it'll be okay." He touches a hand to Patrick's wing where it's covering his body and strokes a finger across it.

"They don't do this," Patrick sniffs, "on Earth, they don't do this. Do I have to, Andy?" He knows what the answer will be, but he wants Andy to stay longer, to talk to him longer so he doesn't have to go back to crying alone.

"Yes, Patrick," the man soothes, "but it's not a long one, okay? They just want to see what's inside your stomach, and how the different food has affected your digestion, okay? They'll knock you out, you won't feel anything."

Patrick's gut tightens as if in protest. "Is it intrusive?"

Andy's sigh confirms it before his words can. "Yes, but it'll be one cut, at the most. Most of the procedure can be carried out externally."

At least that's something. There's been times when he's woken up bleeding or blind or choking on his own vomit. It doesn't stop the tears, though, doesn't help the fact that his old life seems like torture now that he's tasted freedom, for the first and the last time.

"Hey," Andy says, giving his wing a gentle tap. "I'll have a word with Franklin, see what I can do about letting you see Pete later on, how does that sound?"

Patrick lowers his wing at that, meeting Andy's warm gaze, and nods slightly, attempting something like a smile. "Don't fucking hurt him," he says again. He really really wants to make that point entirely clear.

Andy's smile is as weak as Patrick's. "No. I'll see to it that they don't. But you do need to play nice for a little while, okay? Just until this all passes. Then you can go back to terrorising the whole place, okay?"

At that, Patrick manages a giggle, but then Andy starts to get up and he begins to panic.

"Get some rest, Patrick, I'll come and get you when-"

"Stay," he says, fast, hopefully fast enough that Andy won't react badly.

"I can't Patrick, I've got things I need to-"

"Please."

But Andy huffs in annoyance and shakes his head at Patrick. "No. Clearly, you think you can look after yourself. Get some rest, Patrick."

He slams the door behind him. Patrick looks around at the empty room, his empty life, and traces the spot where the tracker was injected. They've got him, now, forever. There's an ache in his chest that wants Pete like it's never wanted anything before, and he wonders if that really is love. He wonders if he'll ever be allowed to wholly feel it, if they'll ever stop taking pieces out of him. 

He shifts to face the wall and cries into his feathers until he falls asleep.