Pete didn't expect to find himself crying, alone in a holding cell at the end of today. He's not entirely sure what he expected; perhaps he and Patrick running off into the sunset together, or he and Patrick lying low in some dark corner of London, he and Patrick, he and Patrick. But Patrick's not here. Pete had hoped, even if it all went to shit, even if they'd been dragged by the hair into police vans and tasered until they drooled, that they'd at least have each other to smile at and reach for.

The moment replays itself in Pete's mind again and again, yet it never quite sinks in. Over and over he sees Patrick look down at the bullet wounds in his chest, over and over he hears Patrick's soft gasp of pain, feels the horror melt through him as he watches Patrick crumble to the floor.

The room is too small and the lights too bright – the cuffs on his wrists glitter and he swears he can hear the hum of electricity through the walls. He should be terrified. He's not a criminal, his record is clean as a whistle. He's a good person, a loyal citizen, he pays his taxes and says no to drugs and nods at police officers when they pass him on the street. But all that doesn't matter one bit when he considers the fact that Patrick is lying somewhere with no heartbeat.

He lets out another runaway sob at the thought. God knows what the officers must think of him; he's been steadily weeping since they ducked his head into the car, his shoulders trembling and his words muffled through tear-strained vocal cords. He's not doing Patrick proud, he's sure of it. Patrick would have fought and screamed and tried. Pete had just stood and watched them haul Patrick's bleeding body away.

Pete stares down at his hands and doesn't look up until he hears the door open at the end of the room.

"Mr Wentz?" Officer Assad calls, her eyes disapproving as always. She never liked him. "Come with me."

With a futile wipe of his eyes, he stands and follows her. He'd hoped for some time to think before the questioning, to get his story straight and evaluate all the possible outcomes, but he can't bring himself to care. What does it matter if he goes to prison, it's not as if he'd be any further away from Patrick.

He's shoved into another, equally glaring room and told to sit down. Perhaps he should have called Joe, or asked for the duty solicitor, anyone to sit beside him and be his puppet master whilst he stares at all the broken pieces of his insides in front of him. He should be constructing intelligent arguments; instead he's watching the look of resignation burning through the hope in Patrick's eyes as he realises that it's all over. They've lost.

Assad unlocks the handcuffs and prises them from his wrists with disdain – but for once, it doesn't seem to be directed towards him. She's glaring at the door, at the voices bleeding behind it. When the door finally opens, Pete discovers why.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Wentz," Wan says curtly as she strides into the room, flanked by two bodyguards, both of whom look like they'd take a great deal of pleasure in tearing Pete's arms from his shoulders. Pete cowers away from them, looking to the officer for some kind of explanation. She retains her scowl.

"You can go now," Wan tells Assad, waving her hand as if to shoo away a fly. "This is off the record."

The officer sticks out her chin, but starts walking. "I'll be right outside," she growls, the words wrapping a threat.

Wan doesn't react. Pete's not sure he can recall her ever expressing an emotion beyond her shiny fake smile. She watches the officer leave the room, then snaps her eyes back to Pete once the slam of the door echoes around the walls.

The first thing Pete does is shake his head. He's so tired of this. He's not sure if he can take another verbal assault, another glimpse into Patrick's cruel past. He wants it all to just stop. But he has a terrible feeling, looking at Wan's smiling face, that this is only the beginning.

"Mr Wentz," she repeats, managing to make even this sound like a threat, "I should've known we weren't shot of you."

Pete just sighs. He's got nothing to defend – she can see the tears on his face and the slump in his shoulders, she's got all the ammunition she needs.

She scrapes a chair out from under the desk and sits down opposite him, folding her arms over the table and watching him with those dark, unblinking eyes. "What the blazes did you think you were doing?" She asks quietly, mockingly, exasperation spread over her face. "What were you trying to achieve?"

The silence is Pete's protection; he gazes down at his hands, at the red marks around his wrists and says nothing. She knows why he did it, and he's not going to spell it out so she can watch him squirm.

"You could go to prison for this," she observes. She's lying. He could, sure, but he's got a firm full of lawyers behind him and a spotless record to match.

"What've you done with him," Pete croaks at the table, watching a stray tear drip through the valleys of his knuckles.

"That's not for you to know," Wan says sharply. She shifts in her chair.

"Is he alive." He has to be. Pete can't have watched Patrick die today. Pete would have felt something, a severed tie, a broken bond. The colours are too bright for a world with no Patrick.

Wan lets out a laugh – an unnatural, canned sound, crackling as if through a broken speaker. "He was shot twice in the chest. What do you think, Mr. Wentz?"

Pete should feel his stomach drop and his heart break, but instead, he just feels anger. That's how he knows she's lying. "That's not true," he growls, "you wouldn't be here if that was true."

"Oh, really?" She says, raising her eyebrows. "This isn't about the boy. This is about you and your crimes, Mr. Wentz."

A bitter laugh drizzles from Pete's lips as he considers her words. She's lying, again. This is all about Patrick. Dead or not, there are two bullets in his chest that they put there. Dead or not, he's endured unimaginable pain and suffering since he was a child. Pete's world of sadness is set alight and he begins to blaze – this should only ever have been about Patrick. "And what about your crimes? Imprisonment, slavery, kidnap, torture, psychological abuse," Pete hisses, counting them off on his fingers. "And now attempted murder."

"As I told you when we first met," Wan scowls, "the law doesn't apply to us as it does to you."

"Do you think the public will see it that way?" Pete asks, cocking his head to one side, "do you think all those people who rushed to see the Angel of London will appreciate the YouTube video of you shooting him in the chest?"

"Well, incidentally, that's along the lines of what we're here to talk to you about –"

"Oh, let me guess, you want to buy my silence? Fuck off," he barks, squaring his shoulders. He's going to kick up as much fuss as he possibly can – the kiss that he and Patrick shared was very deliberate on Pete's part. The tragic story of the Angel and his human lover is tabloid gold.

"Not buy it," Wan retorts, "trade it."

"Oh yeah? What for," Pete says, folding his arms and sitting back in his chair. This better be good.

"For your freedom. We will drop all charges against you and as far as we can, remove all public record of you being involved. You sign a document, and you walk away." She smirks like she's won.

Pete just shakes his head. He took a similar offer three months ago, and all he gained was heartbreak and misery. "No."

"So you'd prefer prison?" Wan asks, but her fists are clenched and her breeziness is faked. Pete wonders how far he can push her.

"I'd prefer a better offer," he shrugs. He needs time to think this over, to comb through small print and loopholes, but for now, all that comes to mind is what he wants most in the world. "Drop all charges – and I want unrestricted access to the lab."

"What?" Wan scoffs, "there's no way –"

"Oh, and I'm not helping you hurt him, either. I want an all-hours permit and no involvement in any of the experiments."

"For god's sake –"

"Or I'll talk," Pete growls across the table, "I'll tell everyone exactly what you've been doing. I'll tell them about the other angels, how you slaughtered them, how you took a kid from his dead mother's arms and stuck him in a fucking cage. I can still make phone calls in prison. I can still ruin you."

Each word is fuelled by the crack of gunfire around lofty ceilings, the burst of blood across pale skin and the fear flooding through bright blue eyes. Pete knows he's won when she looks away.

"Fine," she eventually spits at him, "fine. Sign this. We'll have you on the system by tomorrow." She throws a wad of paper at him and a pen. He makes sure to read every word of it.

When he's finally finished, Wan's face is a ticking red time bomb and her eyes could burn holes in the desk. She snatches the paper from him and stows it in her briefcase, then shoves her chair away from the table and motions to her colleagues.

"Just know, Mr. Wentz," Wan hisses as she wrenches the door open, "the lab will run as normal. You can't stop them cutting him up. You'll have to stand and watch them destroy him."

We'll see about that. Pete flexes his jaw and hopes his glare conveys the loathing he feels. "See you tomorrow."

-

Andy can't quite believe that Wentz is back.

It feels like some horrific déjà vu as Andy shrugs on his lab coat and looks up to see the lawyer in the middle of the corridor.

"Did I not get rid of you?" Andy sighs, rubbing a hand across his well-beaten brow. "How in God's name did you get in?"

Wentz just folds his arms in a way that he must think makes him look macho. "Where the fuck is he. No-one's told me anything since I arrived. White's locked herself in her bloody office, and the interns ran off."

"You're breaking the law, Wentz," Andy tells him, buttoning his coat and placing his glasses on his nose. "Get out."

"No, I'm not," Wentz says, digging a hand into his jacket pocket and revealing not his middle finger but an actual, bona fide pass. "Wan's more easily swayed than she looks."

Andy scoffs. "You've changed your bloody tune. Find your missing spine, did you?"

"Don't avoid my question. Where – is – Patrick?" Wentz enunciates slowly, taking a step towards Andy.

He shakes his head. "How should I know. You were the one that got him shot." Yesterday had been Andy's day off, and he'd spent it hunched over the TV, watching Patrick prove his genius before Wentz showed up and spoiled it all. He has no idea where they've taken him – hopefully to the Chelsea and Westminster A&E department.

Pete's mouth shuts at that, his face crumpling. Andy almost feels bad until he remembers that this is the man Patrick ran back to save. He wasn't worth it.

"Look," Andy sighs, "I've just arrived here. I don't know any more than you do. But I'll get White to talk to you, if you like - I'm sure she's thrilled you're back here."

"You can't kick me out," Pete snarls as Andy sweeps past him and down the corridor, "your anonymity depends on it."

"Well, isn't that lovely," Andy says, walking a head of Pete so the lawyer won't see his eyeroll. "I don't know what you're hoping to change."

"Is he going back in that enclosure?"

Andy huffs shortly. "Not for the moment."

"Then I've already changed something."

He'll be quizzing Wan thoroughly as to why this guy isn't in prison later on, but for now, he just heads for White's office. He braces himself for a whirlwind of yelling.

But when White opens the door, she looks burnt out. Her eyes flick from Pete to Andy, yet she doesn't pounce on either of them. It's somehow so much worse.

"You," she says to Pete, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Stop bloody harassing me. Go – I don't know – sulk in your room, or something. I don't care. You won't see him until tomorrow, no matter how much you pout. Just go."

Pete casts Andy a look that says he's delusional enough to expect support – Andy just gazes steadily at his twitching features as they flit between anger and indecision. At last, Pete lets out a puff of air before turning on his heel and stalking back down the corridor. Andy purses his lips.

"What's he doing here?" he asks White under his breath as she retreats into her office.

She shakes her head. "I haven't the slightest idea. According to Wan, he threatened to talk if he wasn't given access."

"But he can't just be here, we've got to work, for crying out loud!"

"That's exactly what I said to her!" White exclaims, slumping behind her desk and brushing loose hair from her face. "He's only ever caused trouble for us. Speaking of which, the museum contract has fallen through. They don't want him back. Ever. And they want every penny of their money back."

Andy's chest tightens. That was the whole point of this, to make money, to fund the lab, to keep Patrick useful and alive. "So – so what does that mean?"

"Well," White says, wringing her hands together in front of her. "It means we'll have to take up Mr. Zhou on his offer."

"But – you – we can't do that. We can't," Andy tells her. But he knows that sheepish look on her face. "You've already agreed to this, haven't you."

She nods. "Wan's orders. There's no other option."

"But – when - ?"

"Tomorrow morning," she sighs, and Andy's stomach drops.

"No," he says, shaking his head quickly, "no, no. That's not enough time. He needs time to recover, you can't just –"

"It's already been arranged."

"But he had two bullets in his chest! Even at his rate of healing, he won't be fit to come back here for another two weeks! He needs –"

"Come back here?" White sneers, wrinkling her nose at Andy, "What do you mean? He's already here."

Andy's words die in his throat as he stops to register what exactly White just said. "Excuse me? He's being treated, in hospital, isn't he. Tell me he's being treated."

It all becomes so much more painful as White looks up at him with eyes that say exactly what he feared.

"You – you've just left him bleeding, haven't you," Andy says quietly.

She doesn't meet his eyes as she shrugs her indifference. "We took the bullets out. No point cleaning him up properly until tomorrow."

Andy's not sure what to say to articulate the wave of nausea that seeps through him. He's not sure what makes this the final straw, he doesn't know why it's worse than everything else, it just – is. It makes him sick in a way he hasn't felt since he was first handed a screaming baby with a scar running down the centre of its chest.

"For God's sake," he says softly, the words woven with rage he mustn't show, "why would you do that? He could die – he could –"

"Oh, he won't die," White dismisses with a scoff, "when has he ever even come close to dying? They should've aimed at his bloody head, the cowards."

"So – so, what, he's just – just lying somewhere, in pain and alone?" Andy asks, his voice trembling dangerously off-course. He won't cry for Patrick, he's not the overwhelmed intern he used to be, but he's close to shouting for him. "Is he sedated?"

"Not – exactly," she replies, pretending to read whatever paperwork is piled in front of her.

Andy shakes his head. "No – don't you give me that, what've you done? Have you knocked him out, is he high on morphine, what?!"

She shrugs again, her eyes still trained on the paper. Andy boils.

He slams a hand down on her desk. "For God's sake, tell me! When he's in this building, he's my responsibility - I need to know what the hell you've done to him!"

Finally, finally, she sits back in her chair, the coldness in her eyes sending a chill across Andy's skin. "He's under control. He'll be docile enough for tomorrow."

Andy's about to shout, to rage, but he doesn't miss the way her gaze cuts away to the small sink at the far end of her office, surrounded by packets of latex gloves and anti-bacterial hand-wash. Neither does he miss the flash of gold among a nest of tissues.

"You didn't," Andy wishes, taking a deep breath. "Please tell me you didn't." He doesn't wait for an answer – the few steps he takes towards the sink provide him with one.

Patrick's halo sits starkly against the white ceramic, its edges rusted dark with blood. Andy closes his eyes for a long moment and tells himself he can't kill her.

"You really don't give a shit about him, do you," Andy says at last, turning to face her. "You know what this does to him, and you don't care one little bit."

Her jaw clenches along with Andy's fists. "What difference does it make. The anaesthetic is unreliable, and it's not like this is the worst thing we're going to do to him in the next twenty-four hours. He won't feel a thing."

"But this is part of him! It's – it's practically his soul, and you know what happened last time!" Andy cries, his hands flailing wildly as White's remain neatly folded.

"It won't go that far. We'll give it back tomorrow," she says curtly, as if that makes it all better.

"Where is he," Andy asks, his voice quivering with barely-restrained anger. This is too far, he's sure of it – this will be Patrick's breaking point. The halo seems lost without its owner.

White throws him a mocking smile that forces Andy to take a deep breath to keep from screaming. "Why? Are you going to help him? Are you going to hold his hand and pretend that it makes up for everything else? You must think yourself quite the saint. You're no better than the rest of us, Hurley."

She says it like he doesn't know. She says it like he doesn't think about all the times he's heard Patrick scream for help and done nothing, all the times he's watched Patrick weep with pain and failed to comfort him. It's despicable, it's soulless – but it ends here. Andy turns back to the halo hovers his hands around it, not daring to touch.

"It won't make any difference," White calls from behind him as he pulls clean tissues from the dispenser and wraps them around the gold, wincing every time his fingers brush its brilliant surface. "He'll still be on that table at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

Andy simply shakes his head because it will make a difference. It'll make the world of difference to Patrick. It won't change his future but it will change his present. Once it's fully wrapped in tissues, Andy scoops the halo into his hands. Just holding it feels like a violation.

"Where is he," Andy asks again, even though he has a terrible feeling he already knows. His stomach squeezes when he sees her lips form the word solitary. Of course he's all alone.

Her insults fall on deaf ears as Andy turns and storms from the office.

He knows exactly what he's going to find. Patrick's halo is his energy, as vital as the blood through his veins and the air through his lungs - perhaps even moreso. They've tested it before; they've wrestled the band from Patrick's arm watched him shut down. It never takes long – first the dizziness, then the drowsiness, then the desire to curl up in himself and sleep. And yet, Andy still hopes, somehow, that Patrick will shout when the door is opened, that he'll jump up and punch or scold or hug Andy.

Nevertheless, when the handle grinds under Andy's palm, all that greets him is silence. Andy once joked that Patrick will only ever be silent when he's dead – now he fears that might be exactly the case. He's looking for a hospital bed, but what he finds is a corpse.

Patrick's body lies on the ground in front of him, face down and wings bent over his back, his feathers dipped in the filthy floor. The scent of blood and piss floods Andy's lungs, heavy and suffocating. Patrick's bare shoulders scream white into the darkness, blackened stains soak his feet and forearms.

When Andy presses the lights on, everything goes red. It coats Patrick's hands, it sticks in his hair, it dries on the floor beneath him, bright as neon and stinging Andy's eyes. They've finally killed him. They've bled him dry and ripped away his soul and he's given up. Andy tries not to admit to himself what a relief that would be.

Instead, he closes the door behind him and drops to his knees beside Patrick, watching his body for any sign of movement. He remains utterly still – until Andy sees the boy's chest rise slightly, the muscles in his back fluttering with the effort.

"Patrick," Andy whispers, reaching out a careful hand to brush ratty, knotted hair from Patrick's face. He looks truly awful – his eyes are circled with grey and the healthy glow of his cheeks has faded to the pallor of illness, his lips cracked and bleached.

The only response Andy receives is the twitch of a blood-soaked finger. Patrick's hands are ruined, littered with deep gashes that still glitter with glass. Without his halo, they're festering. Andy unwraps the gold band and pushes it towards Patrick, hoping he might reach out, open his eyes, let Andy know that he's going to be okay.

He doesn't stir. Andy's face is pinched tight as he takes the ring of metal in his hands and wedges it as close to Patrick's chest as he can.

"Patrick," Andy says again, placing a hand on Patrick's shoulder. He's colder than he should be. Andy shrugs off his coat and drapes it over the boy, tucking it around him and hoping the warmth is enough. "Patrick, come on."

Andy watches, waits for what seems like hours before the muscles in Patrick's shoulders finally surge with motion, his biceps tensing, curling themselves around the halo. A breath rushes from his mouth as he relaxes again, the next coming faster than before, gentle shifts rippling across his feathers. The relief that floods Andy's chest makes him realise just how much he cares.

The boy's face twitches minutely and his eyes slit open, shards of grey peeking out from under his lashes. He doesn't look at Andy – his gaze is blank, objectless, lips gasping at the blood-stained floor. He needs to turn onto his back, he needs to breathe properly – but when Andy reaches to touch him, his mouth twists into a snarl.

This is what Andy had feared. Last time they took his halo away, he nearly killed someone. If it wasn't for a team of trained officers, Andy would have witnessed Patrick digging a man's heart out of his chest. But although a growl rumbles through his chest, although his eyes slice through Andy, he soon falls silent, motionless. Andy can see the exhaustion written in shadows over his face.

Andy reaches out again, this time managing to settle his hand against Patrick's jaw, thumb brushing across his clammy cheek. Patrick tenses, winces, but doesn't fight back, letting Andy scratch softly beneath his ear.

He lies still for a few moments, breaths rushing through him and eyes flicking from Andy to his own red-stained fingers. He tries to move them, tries to curl them around his halo but lets them fall, limp, at the last second, whining with pain. His brow is furrowed with discomfort and his wings twitch erratically, stretching as he concentrates and shivering with each broken cry he lets out.

Each attempt Andy has at nudging the halo nearer to Patrick gets him a snarl and a snap of the boy's teeth. He won't be himself for many hours after this.

"I'm going to put it on your arm, okay?" Andy tells the boy softly, stroking hair away from his ear as if that might somehow help him understand. "I'm going to touch it, but only for a few seconds, alright? I'm not trying to hurt you."

Patrick's eyes rest upon Andy, awake but not aware, and follow his hands as they reach for his halo. When Andy touches it, Patrick scrabbles at the ground, his wings flapping weakly and snarls ripping from his lips.

"I'm sorry," Andy says, avoiding the clutch of Patrick's fingers as he pinches his wrist, "just a few more seconds, I swear."

Hearing Patrick cry out as Andy loops the halo over his hand makes Andy's stomach twist; he spits and writhes and sobs but Andy can't stop now, shoving the band of gold over Patrick's wrist until it's wedged on his forearm, just above the longest of the cuts. When he sets Patrick's arm down, the boy jerks away from him, curling his hands underneath him and whining with each stuttered breath.

"You're okay," Andy soothes, hoping to God it's true, "no more pain, alright? No more pain."

It's a lie, it's a worn out excuse that he's fed Patrick since he was a child, it's a false comfort to shut him up. Patrick's wounds will have to be cleaned, stitched shut just to be cut open all over again. Andy's known from the start that it'll only end when the boy's dead; perhaps not even then.

It would be easy to leave him. No-one would blame Andy, no-one would bat an eyelid when the kid's still bleeding tomorrow morning. But Patrick squirms with pain in front of Andy, whimpers into the filthy floor and Andy can't face walking away, not again. Instead, he shoves at Patrick's shoulder until the boy shifts onto his side, revealing the weeping bullet wounds in his chest. It's a wonder he's still breathing.

Andy starts to get to his feet, mentally scanning his office for the first aid kit, but Patrick's fingers catch on the hem of his trousers and curl into fists. "No," he moans, dull eyes fixed upon Andy, all aggression drained by fear of loneliness.

"I'm coming back," Andy says, "I promise, I'll come back."

"No," Patrick repeats, slurred and childlike, "no."

With a sigh, Andy crouches down once more - Patrick's shoulders relax but his fingers still clutch at Andy's clothes. "Well, if you won't let me leave, you've got to come with me," he huffs, tilting his head to catch Patrick's gaze.

Patrick seems to consider this for a few moments, his brows furrowing with struggled understanding and his mouth pressed into a frown. Then, he attempts to move, pushing at the floor with his elbows and trying to tuck his legs underneath him. He fails miserably, the scuffles ending with a crack of bone against concrete and a cry of tired pain as the breath is knocked from his chest.

Andy lunges for him, scooping and arm under his shoulders and hauling him into a sitting position. He lets Andy manhandle him with little resistance, the occasional limp growl spilling from his lips but his hands catching a tight hold of Andy's shirt collar. Andy avoids Patrick's attempts at nuzzling him out of habit, pushes his wings away where they try to wrap around them both. He needs medical attention; there'll be time for affection later.

Managing, eventually, to coerce Patrick onto his feet, he steadies Patrick's shoulders and catches Patrick's empty gaze. "Are you alright?" he asks slowly and clearly, watching for any hint of understanding in the boy's eyes. Andy can see him trying, can see him dismantling every syllable and putting it back together again, but in the end, he's simply stood, staring, uncomprehending.

When Andy moves away, Patrick stumbles after him - but his knees buckle and Andy has to fly to catch him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and letting Patrick grab his wrist. His wings waft uselessly behind him, the coat falling to the floor; he shivers against Andy, tucking his head into the crook of Andy's neck. The sharp whiff of stink that hits Andy's nostrils has him steering Patrick out of the room and towards the shower.

Patrick barely reacts as Andy bundles him into the cubicle and unties the ridiculous loincloth from his waist, throwing it to one side and helping him to the floor. The boy watches Andy blankly as he takes off his shoes and socks and unhooks the showerhead, turning it on and testing the temperature on his hand.

When it's reached a gentle warmth, Andy kneels next to Patrick and begins to stroke the water over him in waves, watching the stream run red with bloodstains slipped from Patrick's skin. Patrick's eyes fall shut when Andy begins to wash his hair, massaging shampoo over his scalp and teasing out the knots with a wide-toothed comb.

Careful to avoid the wounds, Andy runs soap across Patrick's shoulders, scrubbing at his underarms and between his legs until the smell of sweat and urine is replaced with the softness of strawberry. Patrick shows his satisfaction by attempting to eat a handful of suds, hastily discouraged by Andy, who instead lets him rest his cheek on his shoulder while he wipes at Patrick's wings.

It's a slow process, teasing the dried blood from between the barbs of Patrick's feathers, but it's nothing Andy hasn't done before and he's learned how not to split the vanes, not to crack the shafts, pull at the fine fluff cloaked close to the bone. By the time Patrick's wings glow pure white, Andy's fingers are littered with tiny cuts from the shards of glass still embedded between his feathers.

Filling his palm with water, Andy begins to wash Patrick's face, rubbing his cheeks clear of the remnants of makeup and soaking the crusted blood from his eyebrows. It's only when Patrick laps at the water streaming over his lips that Andy realises he hasn't been fed or watered for God knows how long.

"Don't drink that, Patrick," he says, pushing at Patrick's chin until he closes his mouth, "I'll get you some water in a second, okay? When you're all clean."

Patrick's eyes squint with sodden lashes as he processes the words, his mouth curving into a concentrated frown until something seems to click into place and he nods uncertainly, thoughtful as he is when solving maths problems. He lets out a huff of either frustration or just plain exhaustion, leaning his head back to let Andy lather under his chin.

When Andy finally turns off the water, Patrick's looking healthier already; his skin blushed pink from the heat and sweet-smelling. But the wounds in his chest spoil the image of the cherub, and honestly, Andy is struggling to think how on earth to deal with them.

Andy is no doctor of medicine. He's patched Patrick up before, but never like this. He suspects, as he helps Patrick up from the floor and dabs a towel over him, that neither bullet has punctured a vital organ – then again, Patrick's vital organs have a habit of regenerating faster than anyone can stitch.

With an arm steadying Patrick, he guides him towards the operating theatre; but once he pushes the door open, the boy begins to squirm. He twists away from Andy, shaking his head and letting out a pained whine. "No," he wails, eyes wide and fixed upon Andy, "no. Not in there."

Andy catches a hold of Patrick's wrist and squeezes. "I need to stitch you up," he says gently, but Patrick just shakes his head, his face alight with panic. "Patrick, please, you won't heal otherwise."

"Not there," he repeats, "no. No." But Andy can't take him anywhere else. Patrick's malleable enough to let Andy pull him back, desperate enough for contact to let Andy wrap his arms around him and lead him through the doorway.

"I just want to help you heal," Andy tells Patrick as the boy starts to cry quietly into Andy's shoulder. "I'm going to stitch you up, Patrick."

He just shakes his head again, his breaths coming too fast and his muscles pulling rigid as he grips Andy's shirt. The panic attacks have been much more frequent recently; Andy knows Patrick's getting worse, he can see the kid breaking right in front of his eyes.

He waits until he's sat Patrick down on the edge of the table before he places his hands on Patrick's shoulders and tries to calm him, taking deep breaths with him until the boy matches Andy's pace. "Stop crying," he tells Patrick, "you're being silly now. Stop crying."

Patrick quickly bows his head and swipes at his eyes, his wings curling around himself. Andy hates the fact that Patrick assumes a scolding means a beating, but he doesn't resist as Andy pushes him down on the table, tilts the surface so that Patrick's still sitting up semi-straight, and examines the bullet wounds closely.

They're not deep. The metal succeeded in ripping open Patrick's skin, but had worse luck getting past his rib cage, given that his bones are composed of what is essentially living titanium. Neither are bleeding, but neither has healed at all, blackened blood still crusted where Andy didn't dare wash. Patrick's stare tracks his every move.

Patrick hates the stitches. He writhes and whines and won't be reasoned with; no matter how many times Andy tells him to calm down, to keep still, to stop making this more difficult than it should be, he doesn't listen. In this state, he's an animal – terrified of pain and unable to focus on anything but.

Yet Andy manages to clean and close the wounds all the same, patching them with gauze and starting work on Patrick's hands. He picks out every single shred of glass and places it with a soft clink into a tray to one side. He cleans each cut with diligence and stitches late into the night, until Patrick's forearms resemble those of Frankenstein's monster but the red is nowhere in sight.

By the time he's finished bandaging over the stitches, Patrick's been silent for a while and his eyes are glazed and vacant – Andy's own droop behind his glasses, the white light beginning to sting. He sits back and sighs, watching the breath rush slowly through the boy, thinking how peaceful he seems with his hair dried red-gold and his wings fanned out behind him, how young he is to have been through all this. It's not fair, not fair at all.

Andy's clearing equipment and pulling off gloves when Patrick finally speaks again. "You promised," he says, hoarse but watching Andy blearily, "you – you promised."

"What did I promise," Andy sighs, hoping against hope that he won't have to explain to Patrick that he was lying when he said there's no more pain coming.

"Water," Patrick says quietly, his gaze drifting to the sink next to Andy, "please. Water."

"Oh – yes, of course," Andy responds, hastening to find a beaker and fill it. When he brings it to Patrick, the boy very nearly manages a smile, his eyes wide with gratitude as Andy puts the beaker to his lips and tips the water down his throat. He drinks the entire glass before he gasps for breath, his chin dripping wet but his mouth curving upwards at the edges.

Andy dabs at his chin with the cuff of his sleeve – his shower-sodden clothes have just about dried by now – and smiles at the boy, brushing hair from his face and noting how much blue has found its way into his eyes. "You did so well," Andy says softly, and the way Patrick's face lights makes Andy mourn every past moment when he failed to praise Patrick. The kid is owed eighteen years' worth of kindness.

It feels like the right thing to do when Andy leans and kisses Patrick's forehead, fatherly instinct overwhelming him for a second or two before he realises his place and sits back in his chair. Patrick stares at him, his head tilting in confusion as he works through whatever's going on in his head.

"Pete?" he asks finally, and Andy can't help but feel his heart sink. The lawyer isn't here, Andy's here, Andy cleaned Patrick up, stitched his wounds, and yet the boy doesn't care for his company.

"No," he sighs, "I'm Andy. Not Pete. Do you remember?" It's a stupid question, of course Patrick doesn't remember, his brain isn't processing what his eyes are seeing, he's a blind thing, an animal. So instead, Andy brings his sleeve to Patrick's nose and lets him sniff at it, sees the realisation cross his face.

"Where's Pete?" he questions, "You're not him."

"No. No, I'm not," Andy huffs, beginning to resent that fact. If he was Pete, he'd have done something vastly more intelligent than smashing up the Natural History Museum.

But Patrick seems so crestfallen. His wings curl to wrap around his shoulders and he frowns a hole in the floor, pouting something chronic. Andy's not sure if he can deny that look anymore.

"Fine," Andy says, giving in, "I'll take you to him."

-

Helping Patrick into some soft, grey trousers and buttoning a sweater around his wings, Andy leads him from the room, chivvying him along each time he pauses to examine the bandages around his wrists. He can barely walk without tripping over his own feet; he needs to sleep, to give his brain a chance to gather itself.

Wentz's room is dark when Andy presses the door open and peers inside. There's clothes scattered over the floor and a lump in the thin duvet, which stirs as Andy raps his fist against the door.

"Wha – Andy?" Wentz slurs, pushing himself up on his elbows and squinting at the wedge of light spilling into the room.

"This is only for tonight," Andy states, pulling Patrick through the door.

"Patrick," Wentz gasps, scrabbling at the covers where they're tangled around his legs, "oh God, Patrick."

The boy seems uncertain as Wentz stumbles towards him, one hand clasped around his halo and his eyes fixed upon Wentz' outstretched hands. But Pete doesn't pay this any mind as he barrels into Patrick and wraps his arms around him, his head dropping to Patrick's shoulder and his fingers curling in Patrick's jumper.

"I thought you might die, Patrick, I thought you'd left me – are you alright, are you gonna be okay, Patrick?" Wentz babbles, sliding his arms from around Patrick and cupping the boy's face in his hands. "Patrick?"

Patrick's mouth flaps wordlessly, his brain struggling to keep up. Wentz frowns, strokes a thumb over Patrick's cheek and looks towards Andy.

"What's happened to him?" he asks, barely-masked panic creeping behind his eyes, "What've you done?"

Andy prepares himself for the verbal assault, sighing and leaning back against the doorframe. "They took away his halo. He won't be fully right for forty-eight hours, at least. I've stitched him up as best I can. Be gentle with him – no, uh, sex, no loud noises, no sudden touches. He needs peace and rest."

Pete's face crumbles and he turns back to Patrick, their noses close and their eyes locked together. "Pete?" Patrick asks finally, lifting a white-wrapped hand to touch Pete's pyjama-clad chest.

"Yeah, that's right, baby, it's me, it's Pete," he whispers, "don't worry, sweetie, you're safe now, I've got you."

Andy averts his gaze as Pete starts to kiss Patrick, feeling voyeuristic enough as it is. He wonders why he dislikes Wentz so much – perhaps it's some protective instinct, perhaps it's that Patrick's found a new person to need. Or perhaps it's that he's jealous of the fact that Pete can show such unforced kindness with no guilt in sight, no loyalty to the system that hurt Patrick. The boy isn't the only one who's been brainwashed by that system; Andy's starting to wonder whether he himself has been duped, too.

Wentz barely looks at him as he takes Patrick's hands in his own and leads him towards the bed, murmuring encouragement in the boy's ear all the while. Andy remains in the doorway as Pete helps Patrick under the covers, watches them curl up together, hears Patrick say "Pete," like it's the answer to everything.

Andy doesn't smile as he bids them goodnight and pulls the door shut. Because Andy knows what happens in the morning.