::GASP:: ANOTHER CHAPTER?! SO SOON?! I know, it might seem like this is the first sign of the Apocalypse. But...I already had this written in a notebook, so it was just a matter of transcribing it. This is a dark chapter people. If the story has been freaking you out already, I suggest you don't read this one.

Read and review please! Also - I LOVE THAT THIS IS THE FIRST FIC LISTED WHEN YOU SORT BY REVIEWS. I love you people! I hurt these boys JUST for you.

Wes awoke to find himself in a surprisingly soft bed. For a moment, he couldn't quite remember why that was a surprise. He tried to move his arm to wipe the sleep from his eyes, but it was unnaturally heavy. After several attempts to open his eyes and getting them to focus, it took even longer for him to realize the weight on his arm was a plaster cast from his knuckles to his elbow.

He broke his arm? When?

Wes searched his memory for something that might've caused it and came up disturbingly blank.

Wes felt a gnawing worry in the back of his mind. There was something wrong about all of this. Was there an accident? Why wasn't he at the hospital then? Where was here, anyway? And why couldn't he think? His mind felt fuzzy and strangely disconnected from everything around him. He knew he should be panicking, but the fog engulfing his mind didn't allow for it.

His thought processes were painfully slow. He wasn't in the hospital, that was for sure. The sheets were soft and expensive, and he felt like he was sinking into a cloud.

It wasn't the hotel. And it wasn't either of Alex or Travis's guest rooms.

Which meant he was in an unknown place, with unknown injuries, and no memory of how he got here.

Why couldn't he think?

His blurred vision swept upwards, and after noting the opulent ceiling above him, his eyes finally settled on the IV tree to his left. Two bags hung from it and his befuddled brain opted for saline and something he didn't recognize from his last stay in the hospital.

He followed the lines down to back of his hand where the port was taped into it.

There was a sudden, blinding sense of panic at what was going on. Something was horribly wrong, and he needed to get out of there, now.

His too-heavy casted hand fumbled with the IV until in his desperation, Wes simply swiped at it, yanking the tubes out of the back of his hand with a burst of red as it tore free.

There was a shrill alarm going off in his head as Wes made a herculean effort to roll to his side, attempting to sit up.

It wasn't until the door opened that he realized the alarm wasn't in his head, but from the monitors beside his bed that his brain didn't register before.

Wes turned his head to the door, and the slow, steady beat of his pulse went from a waltz to a tango.

"Hmm. You're awake. That's…unexpected," his father mused. "But it's nice to see you still have some fight left in you. Parker said you gave him a little trouble coming here, but he obviously managed. Hopefully your strength carries over."

Wes pushed himself into a sitting position, and the entire world spun slowly around him. There'd been…an accident? He was driving with Travis and…his memory blanked again. He vaguely remembered fighting with someone, but he was pretty sure it was a car accident.

"Where am I?" Wes asked, swallowing back nausea. "And what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing is wrong with you, my boy. A mild concussion and a broken wrist from the wreck, but otherwise in perfect health. So nice to see you take care of yourself. It gives us a better chance of a successful transplant." Charles strode confidently into the room.

Wes moved to stand, desperate to get away from him, but his legs decided not to cooperate and he dropped to the floor in a boneless heap, unable to support his own weight.

"Oh, poor boy. Let's get you back to bed, shall we?" Charles said. He sounded strangely paternal at that moment, and it made Wes's heart beat faster.

"Parker!" Charles called through the open door.

His father's bodyguard, possibly related to the Hulk, entered through the door.

Wes's heart sped up again. The monitor was barely registering individual beats anymore, but he couldn't push his body to move, no matter how loudly he screamed at it to.

"My son seems to have fallen out of bed. Be so kind as to help him back," Charles said.

It was almost insultingly easy for the bodyguard to lift Wes from the floor and place him back in the bed. Whatever the hell was muddling his thoughts made every movement seem like he was wading through mud. He didn't even have the strength to lift his head more than an inch or two.

Wes immediately tried to shift to the other side of the bed, but Parker anticipated the move. The large man held onto his wrist, fastening a soft fabric restraint around the joint. It looked like the ones used in a mental ward.

"It's for your own safety, Wesley," Charles said, voice patronizing. "I don't want you to hurt yourself. Well, not any more than you already have."

"Let me go," Wes said, and hated himself for begging. He automatically reached over to undo the restraint, but his father caught his arm.

Charles clucked his tongue. "Tsk, tsk, Wesley. There's no reason to be afraid. The surgery is rarely fatal for the donor. The odds of permanent effects are minimal. I'm the one who should be worried."

Charles held his son's arm down while Parker fastened the other strap around it. "Oh, Wesley, the mess you've made," he said when he saw the tear from him ripping out the IV line. "Let's fix that up for you. No sense in causing unnecessary damage. You're here now, which is all that matters."

Charles rummaged through the bedside table which contained a disturbing amount of medical supplies. Some of it was for long term care – Wes recognized a lot of it from when he was a teen. His father found a new IV port and needle, and pulled the plastic packaging off. "Little prick," he cautioned, and slid the needle into the back of Wes's hand with ease. In short order, he had the IV line hooked up once more, and Wes's already cold hand felt a flush of coolness as the medication started again.

Wes didn't manage to suppress the whimper at the pinch, but it was less from the pain and more from the knowledge that this was real. This was happening. The fact that his monster of a father was sitting at his bedside, holding onto his cold hand while his bodyguard dressed and bandaged an injury was a thousand times more terrifying than if his father was angry. The calm, the almost niceness and care he was taking meant he wasn't worried. He wasn't concerned.

He'd won.

"Parker, hand me my son's medication, would you?" Charles asked, holding out his hand expectantly.

The large man provided a syringe and small glass bottle, and Wes's already panicked breathing ratcheted up another notch. He was dangerously close to hyperventilating.

"Dad…" he pleaded. "Please, don't do this. I'll sign the consent form. I'll give you whatever you want. Just please…please take me to a real hospital."

Charles chuckled, withdrawing a small amount of the medication into the syringe. "Oh, dear boy. It's a little late for bargaining, don't you think? You're in good hands. Remember Doctor Martin?"

Wes's mind conjured up the image of a ferret looking man who set his bones and closed his wounds as a child, who helped his parents hide the damage they inflicted.

"Yes, you remember him. He'll be overseeing the procedure. I spared no expense with the experts. You think I would take any risks?" Charles injected the unknown substance into Wes's IV, and he felt a rush of cold that made him shiver. "This is too important. You're my only chance, son. Every precaution is being taken."

Despite the stark terror Wes felt, he could feel his heart begin to slow from its heart attack inducing pace. His limbs started to feel like lead, and he could barely lift his hand in one last desperate attempt to grab his father's hand.

"Please…please don't…" Wes slurred, his eyes hardly focusing anymore. Tears formed in the corners, and he didn't even have the ability to swipe them away. He fought to keep them open, terrified that if he closed them he would never open them again.

"It's too late. You've already signed the consent form. Any expert will confirm that it's your handwriting. Even if your police friends showed up, they can't do anything about it. Just give it up. Next time you open your eyes, it'll all be over."

He pulled Wes's hand off of his and placed it on the bed, patting it gently.

As Wes felt himself sink into oblivion, the last thing he was aware of was his father's hand carding carefully through his hair. The only paternal gesture he'd ever shown to his son, and it was one of the most terrifying sensations Wes could remember.

So I admit. I get a lot of requests from people asking me not to let the Mitchells Senior get away with this. I'm here to tell you now...I've completely ignored all of them. I like psychological thrillers and angst more than the actual maiming, but I'm also one of those people that with the exception of watching "It's a Wonderful Life", I like it when the bad guys get away with it. As Sally Sparrow said it in Doctor Who - "Sad is happy for deep people." I'm going to continue on with this, but this is the last I already had written into a notebook. Good news, though, is that I broke my foot and have been hemmed up on couch duty for the past couple of weeks and it got extended till mid February. Hopefully, I can keep the muse interested enough to get you another chapter.

As always, read, review, let me know what you think! I really do adore the notes some people send me, especially the longer ones or the total freak outs. Lets me know that readers are invested, which makes ME invested.