A/N: This is the long-awaited sequel to "The Words I Wish I'd Said", which has been stuck in development hell for the last couple of years through a combination of writer's block, full time work and a little thing called life. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but after editing it to within an inch of its life, I figure it's as good as it will ever be and so it's time to take a step back. From the first fifteen chapters that is - I'm still writing the sixteenth. Hopefully I'll have it finished by the time we get there... Anyway, enjoy, and let me know what you think.

Chapter One: Picking up the Pieces

"How are you feeling today?"

" … Okay."

"Just okay?"

"Better."

"Better than… ?"

"Than I felt before."

There was a brief silence. A pen scratched across a blank piece of paper. It was distracting; irritating. Why did everything he said have to be written down?

"And is there anything in particular that you'd like to talk about?"

"Not really."

"Nothing on your mind?"

"No. Everything's fine."

"Why do I get the feeling that you're telling me what I want to hear?" The pen paused in its journey and the holder sighed. "Alan, how many times do we have to go through this? These sessions aren't for my own enjoyment – they're a part of your recovery process. They're for your benefit."

Alan Tracy stared out of the window and didn't reply. With the office being on the twenty-ninth floor, he had an unobstructed view out across the city. Hundreds of metres below him cars queued impatiently at traffic lights, and men and women hurried up and down the sidewalks. Directly outside the building, a pair of men were helping a woman out of a car and into her waiting wheelchair.

"Alan?"

He turned reluctantly back to the room's other occupant. The woman had put her clipboard to one side and was watching him from over the top of her black-framed glasses. A slender, middle-aged blonde, Dr Tomass had become an unpleasantly permanent fixture in Alan's life over the last several months, much like the single crutch that now lay beside him on the leather coach. It wasn't that he didn't like the woman or anything – on the contrary, she was very kind, considerate and all she ever wanted to do was listen to him. Which was where the problems began. Because while Alan Tracy usually had no trouble speaking about himself to whoever would listen, this was one subject he wasn't ready to discuss. And Dr Tomass, with her perfect hair and her perfect teeth, just kept smiling at him, pen poised above her clipboard. The woman had a will of tempered steel.

"Alan?" she repeated, voice gentle, caring.

It didn't help. If anything, her sympathy only irritated him further. Why did she have to be so nice all the time? He wasn't being nice – he was being angry, obstinate and refusing to answer her questions. And yet still she sat there, just watching him.

Didn't his silence tell her that he didn't want to talk about this? Every session it was the same – her asking endless questions and him doing his best to avoid answering them. Sometimes he wanted to scream at her, "How do you think I feel? I almost died. I lost months of my life and then I had to learn to walk again!"

But he never did. After all, that was what she wanted him to say. She'd probably be delighted at such an outburst. Her blue pen would go scribbling enthusiastically across the pad of paper on her clipboard.

So Alan remained silent, giving her mindless platitudes where she wanted real emotion and half-truths where she wanted honesty. The same game, every other Thursday afternoon, for the past three months.

"Alan?" Dr Tomass sounded a little impatient now and Alan realised he'd been staring at the woman without really seeing her. She pulled her glasses off and rubbed her forehead. When he finally met her eyes, her gaze was frank. "Why are we doing this?"

It wasn't the question he had been expecting. "Er …"

"Because as far as I can tell, the only thing that these sessions have achieved so far is a lot of wasted time."

Alan blinked, taken aback by the woman's sudden candour and the fact that she seemed to be reading his mind. "Er…" he said again, grappling desperately for some kind of eloquence.

"You obviously don't want to be here, which makes me think that you're bowing to some kind of paternal pressure. And as much as I respect your father and admire the fact that you are trying to please him by coming here, this situation is helping no one. You're wasting your father's money and you're taking up an hour of my schedule that could be used by somebody who actually wants my help."

Alan suddenly felt ashamed. Dr Tomass's words had been piteous, but accurate. And at the end of the day, she was only doing her job. She probably dreaded these sessions as much as he did. And his Dad… what was his Dad going to say when he found out how his time with Dr Tomass was going? Alan had been able to put him off for the first few weeks, but both his dad and his brothers were impatient to know how his recovery was progressing. He had to tell them something and the thought of admitting how much of a failure the sessions were filled him with dread.

"Level with me Alan. Do you want to be here, talking to me?"

Alan sighed and ran one hand through his hair. "No," he admitted finally.

"Finally, some honesty!"

Her reaction surprised him. She was smiling and the clipboard had somehow found it's way onto the table beside her chair. She clasped her hands together and leaned forward in her chair. "And what would you rather be doing?"

What would he rather be doing …? A pretty dark-skinned face jumped into his mind, one with a sweet smile attached that always managed to make his insides melt. Pretty much anything he would rather be doing involved her in someway. Before he could stop himself, he said as much aloud and Dr Tomass laughed.

"Nice to know that you're a normal young man after all – I was beginning to wonder."

Alan raised his eyebrows. This was getting weirder and weirder by the moment. Where had the staid, practical Dr Tomass gone?

"Tell me about this Tin-Tin."

And strangely, Alan found himself complying. It was so easy to talk about Tin-Tin – and such a relief to finally have something to fill the hour with. He'd never spoken so openly about anything to anyone, but there was just something so neutral and ultimately non-threatening about Dr Tomass that as soon as the words started, he couldn't hold them back any longer.

"She sounds like an amazing girl," Dr Tomass commented when Alan's words finally dried up.

He blushed, realising that he'd been gushing like a thirteen-year old girl. "Yeah."

"And do you talk to Tin-Tin about your accident?"

"Sometimes."

"What kind of things do you tell her?"

Alan shrugged. "How I'm feeling. She worries about me a hell of a lot more since I had the accident. They all do."

"Your family?"

"Yeah."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"I dunno … it's irritating sometimes, I guess. They're always fussing over me, like I'm something delicate that's going to shatter if they don't watch me."

"They must care about you a great deal."

"They do and I'm grateful but …"

"But?"

"But they're not helping."

Dr Tomass looked thoughtful. "So you see this as something you need to get through on your own?"

"No I just – well, I am alone, aren't I?"

"How so?"

"Well, they can't know what it was like. To be – to almost –" Alan swallowed.

"To almost die?" Dr Tomass suggested gently.

Alan nodded, suddenly feeling horribly exposed by the turn the conversation had taken. He had seen it coming of course, but for some reason hadn't felt inclined to change the subject as he had so many times in the past. If anything, it actually felt good to finally talk about his feelings; painful, but good. He was calmly admitting things that he'd been wanting to say to his family for months now. It seemed there was truth in the old adage that talking to strangers was easier than talking to those you were close to.

"When I first woke up – after the accident – I didn't understand what was happening. There was a – tube – or something, in my mouth, and it felt like it was choking me. I couldn't breathe; I tried to pull it away, but my hands wouldn't work and … Then when they told me that I'd lost more than two months of my life, and that I had to learn to walk again …" He picked at a seam on the leather chair as his voice dropped to a whisper. " … I've never been so scared."

"Was that so hard to admit?"

Startled, Alan looked up. Dr Tomass smiled slightly at his expression.

"Alan, what you went through was a horrific experience. Frankly, I'd be worried if it hadn't scared you. But what you have to understand is that there's no shame in being afraid. It's a very natural, healthy reaction."

"Not in my family."

"In every family, Alan. Coming from a family of men I can understand why you may not see it, but believe me – it's there."

He must have looked sceptical because she leaned forward and touched his arm. "Alan, what do you think your family felt during those months that you were in the coma?"

What had his family felt... how was he supposed to know? Sadness? Worry … or something deeper? The plush furnishings of Doctor Tomass's office faded away and snippets of conversations began welling up in Alan's mind.

"You've finally achieved what you've always wanted – you're not just going to throw all that away are you?"

"I should have made more of an effort. When we were together … I should have got to know you better."

"You're a good kid Alan, with a lot of potential. Don't let things end here."

"You can't sleep forever and there are things I want – things I need to tell you."

"And now you're here and I'm so scared that it's too late …"

Different voices, but the emotion behind them was the same. Fear. Fear for him, fear for themselves and fear for what the future might bring. It was shaping everything. Why had he never seen it before?

"You're not alone in this, Alan. I know you might feel like that at the moment, but the people around you – your family, Tin-Tin – they'll do anything to help. That's probably why you're feeling suffocated; they want to help you, but they don't know how."

"They're afraid they might make things worse," Alan said slowly, "and they're afraid if they don't try to help me that things will get worse anyway."

"Exactly."

He looked up at Doctor Tomass. "But what if I don't want their help? What if I just want to be left alone?"

She held his gaze. "Is that what you really want, Alan?"

"I …"

Why was he hesitating? It had always been what he wanted before … hadn't it? To be left alone, to deal with all his twisted, mixed-up emotions in his own time. To only talk when he wanted to – which was not at all. But if that was still true then why had he just poured his heart out to Dr Tomass?

"I don't know," he found himself saying.

Dr Tomass smiled. "Then we're finally beginning to make some progress."

Tin-Tin Kyrano stared up at the sky.

She always woke up early on the days that Alan was due back from one of his appointments with Doctor Tomass. Why, she wasn't sure; it wasn't as if he ever had anything new to tell her. Tin-Tin knew how much Alan resented the visits. If it wasn't for the ever-watchful eyes of his family, she was sure Alan would have stopped going weeks ago.

It was always the same. He left on the Thursday morning, attending the counselling session in the afternoon and then stayed in Auckland overnight before flying home the following morning. Not alone, of course; with his body still recovering from the accident, Mr Tracy wasn't allowing Alan behind the wheel of even the gentlest aircraft. One of his brothers always accompanied him – his 'nursemaids' Alan called them. Tin-Tin was glad it was John who had gone with him today. He was the least volatile of all of Alan's siblings and with him for company, the whole excursion was less likely to end in the usual argument.

At least Alan was showing some kind of emotion now. He had been so remote and close-mouthed in those first weeks after the accident. On the rare occasions that he'd brought the subject up, there had been such bitterness there that it had worried Tin-Tin. When he'd finally agreed the see Doctor Tomass, Tin-Tin had hoped it signalled a turning point in his recovery. They all had. But while Alan maintained to his family that the sessions were helping, he hadn't been able to hide his dread and despondency from her. It was so clear that Tin-Tin couldn't understand why the rest of the Tracy's couldn't see it. Maybe they were too busy believing what they wanted to believe: that Alan was getting better and soon everything was going to be back to normal.

"Hey, Tin-Tin."

The voice startled her and she dropped the magazine she had been pretending to leaf through. Squinting up against the morning sun she saw a tall figure detach itself from the shadows of the jungle and move towards her. His wet hair shone like molten copper as he dropped down onto the sunlounger and shook his head like a dog, spraying her with droplets of water.

"You're up early."

"And I've already had my morning shower, thanks Gordon."

He grinned at her before flopping back on the sunlounger and tucking his arms behind his head. "A little water never hurt anyone."

"If you knew how long it had taken me to do my hair this morning …"

He scrutinised her and Tin-Tin instantly regretted her flippant remark. When the wicked grin spread across his face, she regretted it even more.

"You're looking particularly nice today."

Refusing to rise to the bait, Tin-Tin calmly flicked through the magazine. It was only when she ran out of pages that she was forced to look up again. Gordon was still watching her, his eyes dancing.

"What?" she demanded finally.

"Nothing." He adopted an artfully innocent expression. Tin-Tin continued to stare at him and after a moment, he laughed and relaxed again. "But if you really want to know, I was wondering why you would make such an effort this early in the morning."

"I haven't made an effort," Tin-Tin protested, but he wasn't listening.

"Now let's see … who could you possibly be making an effort for?"

"No one."

"I'm pretty sure it's not me … and Scott's got that girl in England that he thinks no one knows about, so it's not him …"

"Gordon."

"What about John? Maybe you're going in for the whole long-distance thing …"

"Gordon."

"Or Virgil? You guys have got that whole science and mechanics thing going on –"

"Stop it."

"No, something tells me that it's the youngest of our little flock that you've got a personal interest in. But honestly Tin-Tin – washed hair, new clothes? Is Alan really worth all of this effort?"

"Gordon – stop it."

Something in her tone pulled him up short and there was an awkward silence. Tin-Tin blinked rapidly, furious with herself for losing her composure. She was normally so calm and collected, but ever since Alan's accident she had been a victim of her surging emotions. It was like being on a rollercoaster; it only took something small to push her over the edge. It was exhausting – and frightening. How had Alan become the most important thing in her life so quickly?

The sunlounger next to hers creaked as Gordon shifted his weight. Tin-Tin dug her nails into her palm. The silence stretched to breaking point. She opened her mouth.

"I didn't mean –"

"I'm sorry –"

A bird shrilled somewhere above them, shattering the tension. Gordon chuckled. Tin-Tin smiled weakly and dropped the magazine onto the patio. Lying back, she closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on how good the warm sun felt on her bare skin. Beside her, Gordon shifted about for a moment and then he too was still.

The bird cried again, a shrill, warbling sound that sent chills down Tin-Tin's spine. She pictured it souring on the thermal currents above her, white feathers reflecting the glare of the sun. Effortless, free, spiralling higher in higher in the piercing blue sky.

The sunlounger next to hers creaked gently. "Tin-Tin … how is he?"

She didn't need to ask who Gordon meant. And if she was honest, she'd long been expecting this question. Even before she and Alan had gone beyond 'just friends', he'd confided in her things that he would never tell his brothers, close as they all were. It was part of what made her believe these growing feelings between her and Alan could work – he trusted her with his secrets. But if he really wanted his brothers to know, then surely he would tell them himself?

So … "Why don't you ask him?"

"I have." All traces of humour had vanished from Gordon's voice. He sounded flat, lost, almost desperate. "But you know what Alan's been like recently. He's hardly said a word to anyone about how he's feeling. Apart from you."

"Gordon …"

"Look, we're all really worried about him. He says these sessions with Doctor what's-her-name are working, but we're not seeing any signs of it over here. We're just – dammit Tin-Tin, he's my little brother! I just want to know if he's doing okay."

Tin-Tin opened her eyes. Gordon was still lying on his back, gazing blankly up at the sky. His hair had almost dried by now; it curled messily around his face. There was a seriousness to his expression that Tin-Tin wasn't used to seeing. He wasn't going to let the subject go this time.

What was she supposed to say? Anyone who looked at him could tell that Alan wasn't doing okay. When he wasn't sullen and withdrawn, he was snapping at anyone who breathed in the same space as him. So while she could palm him off by pointing this out, Tin-Tin knew what Gordon was really asking.

"I … I don't think he's okay," she said finally. "He's angry and he's scared … and he doesn't know what to do or who to talk to."

"He could talk to us. His family –"

Tin-Tin shook her head. "No, he can't. He can barely talk to me and I'm his –" She pulled herself up short. Thankfully, Gordon let that one go.

She looked up at the sky again, eyes following a bird as it soured across the blue expanse. "I think he will be okay," she said after a pause. "It's just going to take some time."

Gordon sighed. "I guess that's all we can hope for."