Broyles made it clear: "You'll be working for us now, Mr. Bishop."
"What if I don't want to?"
Broyles made no move but somehow communicated his lack of concern. "You obviously enjoy working at Brown, you're right that we probably won't put you in jail, but we can get you fired. Instead of getting fired, we've arranged for you to take a position at MIT, starting this summer."
"I like Brown, I don't like MIT," Peter said.
"We need you in Boston. MIT has agreed to take you as an adjunct. You'll teach, do research and experiments, and take the coursework necessary to get your BS, MA and PhD. Once you've done that, you'll be on tenure track. No worry about being discovered or having to run," Broyles said.
"What if I want to run? I don't like being settled down," Peter said.
"I don't believe you," Broyles said.
"I think he thinks it," Francis said.
"You're just after my father," Peter said.
"No," Broyles said.
"How am I supposed to have time to teach, research and consult with you while I'm taking all these college courses?"
"I understand from our records that you have an IQ of 190. We're not expecting you to do the coursework in a year, my friend at MIT suggested it would take about 5 years."
Peter tasted bile in his mouth. "You're trapping me for five years, at least."
"I'm offering you a job," Broyles said.
Peter could construct a way out, he could run right now. Or, he thought, he could take the job and lull them into a false sense of trust. Build up some savings and disappear one morning in a year or two. He smiled, showing his teeth. "Well, let's do it, then."
Peter sulked for a week. The Dean had been informed Peter was leaving but not why. Something about national security. The Dean looked upset saying he wished Peter could stay. Peter said, "You and me both. But there's still this semester.
"We'll always have the 2002-2003 academic year," Peter muttered.
He wanted to get laid. It was a petty rebellion against the FBI but Peter almost never said no to petty. He took home women and men. He let them answer his phone in the morning or in the evening in case it was his bosses at Homeland. He got lucky a few times. He laid on his back, scratching at his stomach, listening and laughing as Kevin answered the phone, saying, "I think this is Peter's phone, he's the one you want? Good taste, my man, his mouth is very skilled."
Sadly, Broyles didn't take the bait. Neither did Charlie, who got Sally who actually had a real Valley Girl accent and intonation.
Even if Broyles or Charlie never said anything, Peter still liked the sex. He'd been practically celibate for a year before Raisa. Iraq wasn't a place to focus on getting laid, and before that he'd been too preoccupied with his jobs to sleep around.
The cases weren't dull. Broyles said their cases were scientific in nature which Peter pointed out covered every case ever. Peter took samples at weird deaths, looked up research and found the most effective thing was to ask himself if his father was behind it, how would he do it?
He'd had a very pleasant few hours with a guy who had a pierced tongue and the odd name of Branton. Peter was lying on his stomach, looking through final papers and lab write ups. Finals were in a week. Branton came back from the bathroom and sat down between Peter's legs, spreading them wider. "You're really a professor?"
"I am really a professor," Peter said.
"I had a huge crush on my high school chemistry teacher. I was in deep denial about being gay so I told myself I just really really admired him," Branton said.
"You admired his butt, you admired the way he dressed left," Peter said.
"All of those things," Branton said. Then he stopped talking and Peter was reminded how arousing a pierced tongue could be.
Branton left in the morning, and Peter went to his usual coffee place. He'd never had a crush on a single professor or teacher, or authority figure in general. He was a rebel, Peter thought, rolling his eyes at himself.
He got in his car and drove to see his father. He made it past the parking lot this time, all the way into the facility.
Walter was a zombie. He said, "I thought you'd be fatter."
Peter said, "Nice. First words since 'sorry, son, your mother is dead.' I'm so glad I came."
Walter looked abashed and then his attention wandered again. And again. Peter didn't want to talk about his life in any way, shape or form. Instead, he brought up the cases Broyles and Charlie forced him to work.
Walter looked up and his eyes almost focused. He offered surprisingly lucid suggestions and then started dithering about pudding.
Peter said, "This has been great, Walter. Good to see you."
"Will you come back? Please come back."
Peter didn't reply until he finally said, "Probably."
Homeland rented Peter a nice hotel room until he found himself an apartment in Boston. It was a very nice room and Peter appreciated the expense. He liked making his employers pay through the nose. He told the two guys and three women he brought back the first 8 days he was there to order any room service they wanted.
Broyles said to him, "Promise me you're actually looking for an apartment, Peter."
"Not only that, but I found one, moving in next week," Peter said. He'd found it his second day in Boston, did the application and signed the lease on his fourth day in Boston. "I wanted a place to study for my classes." MIT was insisting Peter start his undergraduate classes over the summer term. "You know I don't need to take those classes. My year at Brown demonstrated I don't need a degree to do the work of a professor."
"When you earn your PhD, I can call you Dr. Bishop," Broyles said, sounding bored.
"I always thought that was pretentious for non-MDs," Peter said. "I'd still make you do it."
"In approximately five years, I'll do it," Broyles said.
"Because somehow you think I'll still be here and jumping through MIT's hoops in five years."
"I do," Broyles said. "I think you'll be happy working for us and MIT. You are right now, you won't admit it."
Peter realized his jaw was clenched so hard, his molars were aching. He relaxed with a breath and said, "I want to move Walter out of St. Claire's. They have him drugged to the gills and it's ridiculous. He's been in there as long as any sentence he would have served for what was essentially an accident that could have happened to nearly anyone."
"You want him out of the system?"
"I want him in a place that isn't so much like a prison. Lower security, more chance to be lucid at least 60% of the time he's awake," Peter said. "Can you do that for me?"
"I'll see," Broyles said.
Charlie came by Peter's apartment a day after Peter moved in. Charlie said, "You really went all out with the decorating."
"I'm a minimalist," Peter said. He had a couch, a small table with two chairs, a bookcase already full of books, a very large TV, and a king sized bed. He had no rugs or pictures or side tables.
"Is that your way of saying as a wandering con man for the last 8 years, you don't have many possessions you carry from place to place?"
"I was in the same place for 9 months and it would have been a year, maybe more, if not for you," Peter said.
"That was all me, of course," Charlie said. "Are you gonna offer me coffee or am I not pretty enough for you?"
"You're married, it doesn't matter how pretty you are," Peter said. He was frustrated and pacing. "I'm pretty irritable today, sorry. I had the first day of three of my stupid undergraduate classes today. I'm not happy being a forced student, you know?"
"It's tough, being forced to get a degree you were just faking," Charlie said. "Do you have a chair or anything out on that terrace?"
"It's a bench," Peter said. "Why, you need to smoke? I do have an ashtray."
"You're allowed to smoke here?"
"On the terrace, with the door closed," Peter said. He opened the door and followed Charlie out. He pulled out the pack of cigarettes he'd stashed in the metal box under the bench. Charlie took one and suddenly conjured a lighter for himself. Peter lit his and smiled. "I do like an occasional cigarette."
"My wife is gonna kill me," Charlie said. "I quit back when I was working in New York."
"You were a cop, right?"
"Yes, I was," Charlie said. "Are we becoming friends now?"
"Not if you think I'm secretly hitting on you," Peter said.
"I don't think that," Charlie said. "Do you secretly hit on anyone? I got the impression you were very direct."
"Being direct is a virtue, right?"
Charlie actually laughed. "I don't think you're secretly hitting on me. Sometimes, I even enjoy working with you."
"Now you seem very attractive to me," Peter said.
He went to visit Walter again after a particularly thorny and utterly disturbing case. There had been a wormhole, so all the equipment and logical inferences said. A wormhole in East Dennis, Massachusetts.
Walter made as much sense as the closed wormhole. He blithered and stimmed and barely recognized Peter. Peter said, "I need some of your hair, Walter."
"Drug testing," Walter said. Five seconds of lucidity. Walter yanked at his beard, hard, and then the same right behind his ear. "Skin tags might help, too."
Peter put both in a plastic bag he had. He patted Walter on the shoulder and said, "I'm getting you out of here."
Walter stared at him and then whispered, "Please."
Peter took the hair to some friends he'd already made in forensic lab at the FBI. He leaned against the door. "I'm concerned about this patient, he's being wildly over-medicated and I want to prove it. You guys are awesome, thank you."
He went out for dinner, ate alone at the counter of the bar. An attractive dark-skinned man sat down next to him. He said to Peter, "Have you eaten here before?"
Peter smiled. "I have, actually. I like to come here and brood and now you've ruined it by being nice and charming."
"Your definition of charming is very broad," the man said. He had a great smile. "I'm Myat, from Myanmar."
"I'm Peter from Cambridge," Peter said. "Cambridge, Mass."
"Do you have rules about who you sit with or eat with?"
"Actually, are you now or have you ever been a student or employee of MIT?"
"Nope," Myat said. "Actually, I went to Brown."
Myat had lived in the states since he was 2 and was extremely passionate about the NHL. Peter was honestly a little worried about how Myat would ever respond if he were to meet Gary Bettman in person. Myat's hands fluttered when he talked. He didn't like Peter's apartment because he disliked the loft bed. "You can stand up in the room," Peter said.
"I have a fear of running down those twisty steps and tripping on my way to the bathroom," Myat said.
Peter had to explain why he was taking classes at MIT and teaching there. "They hired me, but they don't like my credentials. Don't measure up to their standard," Peter said. Luckily, Myat didn't press.
They were out to dinner when Peter got a text from Broyles. He sighed and said, "I told you I consult for the feds, right?"
"That's why MIT took you, right? Despite your bad schooling," Myat said. "You're paying for dinner. And if you get off in time, come by my apartment."
"Thanks for saying get off," Peter said.
He drove an hour to stand over a corpse slowly being consumed by an orange fungus. "I was on a date," Peter said, bitterly. He squatted down and scooped up a sample.
"So sorry," Charlie said. "This reminds of an X-file involving a fungus and a chupacabra."
Peter refrained from rolling his eyes. "I read that file, too, Charlie. This isn't that."
The next day Peter brought his completed report on the fungus to Broyles. Peter said, "People should not try to engineer hybrid pot."
"Point taken," Broyles said. "You're delivering this in person."
"My father is being over-medicated to the point that he's a drooling zombie. I want him moved," Peter said. "Somewhere else. Keep him locked up, but somewhere that doesn't give him three times the recommended dose of clonazepam." Peter handed over the other report.
"I'll look into it," Broyles said.
Myat liked to be on top and Peter liked to be fucked so it all worked very well. In deference to Myat's fear of a spiral staircase, Peter got a pull out couch for the front room. He skipped the Boston Globe in the morning and instead read ahead on his books for his classes. He'd decided to major in Physics and minor in cognitive sciences.
Myat said, "You should take classes in film criticism and french literature. Why give them the science classes they want? Fight the man."
Peter laughed. "Maybe I like science. Actually, wait, I love science."
Myat liked to watch HGTV and shows about house flipping. "I might do that sometime," he said. Myat worked for a bank, he dealt with processing and moving money. He was never once tempted to take any. Peter never said to Myat he wouldn't have a lasted a day in that job.
It had been a long time since he stole anything. Or even broke a law.
Finally, Broyles told Peter they had permission to move Dr. Bishop. "It's a mental institution with a very small higher security section. That's where Dr. Bishop will be."
"With murderers?"
"He was already in with murderers, Peter," Broyles said.
Peter went to the institution as Walter was moved to the new place. Naturally, St. Claire's dosed Walter to the point he couldn't even stand as a going away present. Peter came back the next day as they were weaning him off. Walter smiled at him. "Thank you, Peter, I very much appreciate that you have brought me to this far superior place. Will I be going home soon?"
"Nope," Peter said. "But here will be better. More what you deserve."
"I deserve much worse," Walter said. "But I like it here better."
Peter didn't tell Myat about any of it. Peter liked Myat, he didn't want people he liked to know about his father.
In August, Myat invited Peter to a very fancy dinner. "You're dumping me," Peter said.
Myat looked rueful, his fingers drumming on the table. "I got an offer to transfer to Seattle. Which is much nicer than Boston, honestly."
"It's not hard to be nicer than Boston," Peter said. "It gets incredibly cold here. Less so than Seattle."
"I will really miss you," Myat said. "It's not for another two weeks. We have plenty to time to have a good time."
It was a good time. An excellent time. And before Peter knew it, he was single again.
He went back to living down to the stereotypes about promiscuous bisexuals. It was a lot easier since Boston was much bigger and he was only ruling out one of the many universities housed there. His stupid if satisfying acts of defiance.
He went to see Walter in his break between summer classes and the actual beginning of his job. "I like it here, Peter, as much as one can like a prison one will never be released from," Walter said.
"Good to see you, too," Peter said. "You got a haircut."
"They allow that here," Walter said. "I'm on far fewer drugs than I used to be. And I have many questions. Questions for you. Why are you here in Boston? Where are you living? Could you take care of me?"
"Questions not so much about me as about your wish for freedom." Peter sighed. "No, Walter, I can't take care of you. I'm here in Boston because that's where my job is. My main job. I'm working for the FBI and Homeland Security."
"Aren't you more interested in doing things that would get you arrested by FBI and Homeland Security?"
"Because you're such an expert in my interests," Peter said. "I consult. I'm their science expert. It's funny, because I find it very effective when confronted with something disgusting and most likely unethically created, I think, how would Walter do this?"
"I did do a lot of experimenting," Walter said. "I suppose you would argue that I had a very flexible definition of ethics."
To make up for it, Walter told Peter about all his hiding places he could remember and their approximate location.
Peter put off investigating Walter's hordes for another day and went out on a date with a nice young man he'd met online. It was a great date and in the morning Peter sat naked on his couch, reading a book for his next round of classes. Giles was drying his hair when someone knocked on the door.
Giles, bless his perfect butt, opened the door. Peter heard a woman's voice saying, "I'm looking for Peter Bishop."
Giles held the door open and a blonde woman, clearly FBI, walked in. "Charlie sent me," she said.
Giles said, "You're clearly a cop."
"FBI," Peter said. "I told you I consult with the government."
"I didn't know it was the FBI. You know they sent letters to Martin Luther King, Jr telling him to kill himself?" Giles was addressing the pretty blonde.
"I did," she said, calmly.
"I'm out, Peter, don't call me," Giles said. He went upstairs and came down with his clothes which he put on quickly. Thankfully he threw Peter a pair of sweatpants. "Don't want to talk to the man with your dick hanging out." Then Giles left with a slam of the door.
Blonde FBI had an impassive face as she'd watched all of that. Peter smiled at her. "Charlie sent you," he said.
"Yes," she said. "I'm Olivia Dunham. I have a few questions for you."