Sorry for the delay in updating! Writer's block seems to be punishing me ruthlessly for making my characters suffer so much! LOL. Although this is only a short chapter, I hope it will fill in a gap or two, rather than jumping from one situation too quickly. I also apologise for any gramatical errors resulting from my haste in posting this. Many thanks again for your reviews! They inspire me to continue!

Boann

He felt absolutely terrible. He couldn't move, but realistically, he had no desire to move. Sounds were too distant to be clear. Light flashed rhythmically above him. He felt unnerved; like a tranquilised animal ready to escape. He was smothered by all manner of contraptions and rows of hands gripped the rails of his cage.

He blinked slowly; even such a rudimentary reaction was excruciatingly sluggish. Time had no meaning. His own heartbeat thundering through him counted the seconds for him. Images above him refused to completely define themselves. The light remained though; a single strip of light constantly passing him overhead, as if it were on a turnstile going around and around without interruption. Focusing on this glow, he somehow managed to deduce that it was not the light that was moving; it was him. However, despite the curiosity sparked by this new awareness, he did not have the will or the ability to understand how his movement was possible. The effortlessness of accepting the facts helped to settle and calm him.

He couldn't swallow, and he didn't want to try again. Someone had thrust a beehive down his throat. A loud noise; much alike to the sound of someone kicking through a door, prompted him to look down from where he lay flat. Such effort remained useless, as by the time he had completed the action, his eyelids had closed to a point where he couldn't see anything at all. He was aware of a new light though; a harsh, clean light that made the muscles in his brow clench. He tried to breathe; to make a sound that would alert whoever was with him to his disapproval of this fierce burst. His right hand was held; at least, he believed it to be his right hand. The other hand did not receive such a soothing touch. It received a pinch instead. Then something cold, like a worm, wriggled up his hand and arm. Before he could withdraw, a black fog arose from under his eyes and soon he knew no more.

TBTBTBTBTBTBTBTB

Scott ran his hand over his mouth, turning around to once again resume his slow, pointless walk to the other side of the room. His father sat with his head propped in one hand, staring at the cup of cold coffee held in the other. He hadn't said a word since they'd been ushered into the Quiet Room. In a sudden burst of despair, Scott had found the words to comfort and support Fermat but, for the life of him, he could summon no such inspiration now. Jeff had seen so much of his family's suffering that it felt wrong to try and console him. In the end, Scott settled for the tense silence.

But something was nagging him. Words that had been spoken hours before poked him in the side, finally spurring him to cease his pacing and initiate some conversation. "Do you blame him?"

His soft question gained a reaction. His father looked up and frowned. "Blame who?" he asked with a tired voice.

"Alan," Scott replied, folding his arms over his chest.

Jeff's hand dropped from his head. "What are you talking about?"

Scott leant against the wall and looked down at the floor. "Before, in Alan's ward, you said that Alan will be the death of you," he explained. He faced his father's gaze. "Why did you say that?" he asked. "Do you blame him in some way for what has happened, for bringing you here to face this kind of pain again?"

Jeff closed his eyes as a gesture of confusion. "Scott..."

"Just answer the question," Scott interrupted, returning his gaze to the floor.

He heard his father sigh. "I wish I could blame Alan. Hell, I wish I could blame someone," Jeff admitted.

Scott looked up to listen.

"Being Jeff Tracy certainly has its perks," Jeff said with a smile. "I can summon some of the richest and most important people in the world to my office. I can live life without worrying that I have nothing to give my children to support them after I'm gone." His father paused and dropped his gaze to the cup in his hand. "But for the life of me, I can't ever seem to keep you boys safe."

As much as Scott understood and sympathised, he insisted, "You haven't answered the question."

Jeff looked up, his face forlorn. "Of course I don't blame your brother. This was an accident, as were all the others. You and your brothers seem to find your way into the middle of accidents," he said.

"Then why did you say that? As if Alan was driving you crazy on purpose. I just don't understand why you said it," Scott admitted. He may have been pushing it. Maybe it was a result of his emotions running high. He tried to believe that it wasn't in pursuit of an emotional outlet. Nothing much made sense at the present time.

"In all honesty," said Jeff. "I don't know. Maybe it was stress or frustration at things going wrong. I'm not excusing what a said," he added at Scott's frown. "But I didn't mean to make it sound like I was holding Alan responsible for what happened."

Scott was still upset with his father, but he nodded anyway. Better to resolve than let the conversation progress into an argument. They didn't need that right now.

The door opening couldn't have come at a better time. A ragged-looking Dr Quaid stepped through, acknowledging them both with a grim smile.

Jeff leapt off the chair, coffee discarded.

"How did it go?" asked Scott, his voice trembling more than his hands.

Dr Quaid let out a sigh of exhaustion, which sent Scott's heart plummeting into his stomach, and replied. "Alan's going to be fine."