A/N: So I know Number Seven wasn't overtly stated in the last chapter, but it will be in this one. However, the theme of this chapter is Number Eight.

I worked with a lot of schizophrenics, and this conversation/interaction is very close to one I had with an actual patient. It's a serious disease, and I always try to be accurate in depicting something that deserves proper respect.

Same goes for prescription drug addiction (I have much less experience with this one), and Emmett's issue. I try to avoid specific details because I'm not an expert, and I don't want people thinking I know something I don't.

Thank you so much for reading.

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight.

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FORGIVEN

Chapter 11

JPOV

As a rule, I despised hospitals. My dad spent the vast majority of his waking hours there, so as a kid, I had always hated the place that occupied so much of his time. When I started college, I made a concerted effort to steer clear of anything and everything related to medicine. But it's strange. Sometimes your career finds you anyway.

That word "career" didn't hold much meaning for most sophomores. And so I didn't give it much thought when I decided to major in biology and then ended up volunteering in some kind of loony bin. One-hundred eighty-four people with schizophrenia lived in this place, although technically you could come and go if you wanted. It wasn't like one of those creepy institutions you see on TV, but it definitely had enough craziness to go around.

I can't even say how I started working there, but I remember the day everything changed. You always remember those days—you think about them, dream about them, and sometimes, they actually happen. It happened for me on a cool spring day in April, when I was sitting in the cafeteria, trying to convince a seventy-year-old veteran that the short-order cooks were not plotting to kill him. I was making a speech about paranoia when a very tiny, very attractive girl sat next to me, her hazel eyes glimmering with the patience I so clearly lacked.

"Hi," she said, to the both of us. Stanley looked over at her, and I could see the admiring look in his eyes. Apparently Stanley and I had more in common than I thought.

"Hi," I said, my brain registering her vaguely familiar face, like a very pleasant dream I couldn't quite remember. "I'm Jasper, and uh, this is—"

"Stanley," he said, glowering at me. "I know my own name, kid."

"Sorry," I muttered. "I, um…"

"I'm Alice," she said. "It's nice to meet both of you." She held out her hand, which made me nervous given Stanley's total aversion to women and short-order cooks. But he shook her hand without a trace of his usual anxiety, and if something clicked with him, then it sure as hell clicked with me.

"I save lives," Stanley said, his usual introduction to whoever would listen. Most people just rolled their eyes, but I knew he'd served in Vietnam. A lot of people here had, which was either tragic or inspiring.

"Wow," Alice said. "I can't say the same, that's for sure."

It floored me when he met her gaze. The guy didn't trust anyone, least of all strangers. He ignored me completely, but in some bizarre corner of my brain, I felt as though this whole interaction was intended for me.

"You just did," he said. "See that fucker over there?"

She glanced over toward the kitchen, where the line of underpaid cooks was flipping burnt burgers. "Yes," she said, without a hint of skepticism.

"That shithead had his M-40 all set up and ready to blow my fucking head off, but then you walked in here and changed his mind."

"Why?" she asked, stealing a glance at me. Then she returned her attention to Stanley, who had taken his first bite of dinner in the company of cooks/assassins in three months.

"Don't know," he said. "But every guy's got a soft spot. Right, kid?" He turned to me, addressing me in his usual droll tone.

"Yeah," I mumbled.

"Well, hell," he said, savoring the few seconds of normalcy that had passed between us. "When you find it, don't let it go."

***

I watched Bella go, because for the first time in a long time, it felt like the right thing to do. I felt sick. Physically, emotionally, mentally…I just wanted to reach into my gut with my own hands and wrench everything out. Not only had I targeted Bella—Bella—with my own fucking insecurities, I'd compared myself to Edward in the process. I didn't expect her to ever speak to me again. How could I? I was a coward, an asshole, and a true failure of a friend.

I looked down at my shoes, soaked and muddy and ruined from the trek over here. But I was quickly distracted by the piece of paper lying in the mud, its familiar lettering starting to smear. In a moment of shear panic, I dropped to the ground and fought the nausea churning in my stomach.

It was Edward's list—wet, crumpled, and almost certainly ruined. I tucked it into my jacket and rushed home, wracking my brain for construction-paper-salvage techniques. When I got there, I laid it out on the kitchen table and worked for hours to bring that list back to life.

I stared at it while it dried, thinking of nothing but Edward and Bella and why she hadn't called to see if I'd found it.

And then it clicked—clicked like one of those moments when things just make sense, like riding a bike or meeting the love of your life.

Number Seven was unlike the others. He had written NO FEAR in big red letters, like a challenge to anyone who dared to question him. There were no pictures, no elaborate scenes of planets or duels or airplanes. It was just the words, seeping into the page like a spattering of blood. They screamed at me, drove right through me, until all I could see or hear or understand was fear, as if it were its own living entity.

Bella had, in every way, made her promise to Edward. Her fears, her insecurities, her self-doubt…those things had given way to a stronger, more independent person. And yet here I was, drowning in my own problems, dismissing her every attempt to help me because I was too weak to accept the fact that I needed it.

I flew up the stairs two-by-two, my muscles twitching, my back flaring with the dull, familiar pain. I ignored it. Instead I went to the bathroom, my bedroom, the kitchen, and even the basement to retrieve every single bottle of those fucking pills.

I wasn't usually one for dramatics, but I knew Edward would have appreciated it. I lit up the fireplace, dumped out the pills, and tossed them in.

I thought of those red, angry letters as the pills crackled in the flames.

I watched them burn.

***

I lasted two days.

I showed up at Carlisle's office on Monday morning, feeling as though I had spent the entire weekend burning at the stake. It was my stake, of course—self-inflicted, and well-deserved. And here I was, reeling from the aftermath.

He pulled up at seven o'clock, an hour after I'd arrived. He took one look at me and ushered me inside, saying nothing because there was nothing to say. After last week's sobering conversation, he had no doubt seen this coming.

"I'm glad you're back, Jasper," he said. "I have to admit I didn't think it would be so soon."

I collapsed into the seat, wishing for the thousandth time that hour I could just disappear into some kind of void. "I talked to Bella," I mumbled through clenched teeth.

"I had a feeling," he said, and if there was any subtext behind those words, I didn't catch it. "When did you take the last pill?"

"Friday night."

"And nothing since then?"

"No."

"We're not doing the tapering method this time," he said. "Although I have to tell you that's probably the least unpleasant."

"Whatever…" I half-said, half-moaned.

"Here," he urged, handing me a pill and a glass of water. I didn't question it; I just swallowed it down, grateful for the tiny sliver of hope it provided. "This won't be easy, but I think you know that."

"I know," I mumbled.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I shook my head. "Can I just…sit here a while?"

Carlisle never sat in the chair behind his desk; in fact, he didn't even have one there during office hours. Instead he sat beside me, his hand on my shoulder, his voice firm, but reassuring. Somewhere along the line, this man had perfected the art of compassion. Or maybe he just had a soft spot for people in need. I knew people like that. I knew them, and I envied them.

"Do you miss him?" I asked, after a while. The question had simply drifted into my consciousness, along with those angry red letters and the promise they held.

"Everyday," he said. "But there's meaning in everything."

"You really believe that?"

"I couldn't be a doctor if I didn't believe that."

Neither of us said anything for a while, and it was the sound of my cell phone that shook me from my pain-induced haze. Carlisle's phone rang just seconds later, and for the second time that day, something clicked.

But this time, I didn't want to believe it.

***

We walked across the street to the hospital, which looked especially dreary on this particular morning. The Monday staff had started filtering in, filling the hall with zombie-like nurses, doctors, and even patients. I followed Carlisle to the emergency department, where we found Emmett on a cot and Rosalie standing beside him. His skin was a pale, bloodless white, and when he breathed, it rattled in his chest like a broken radiator.

I wanted to scream, to throw things, to rail against a God I'd never really believed in anyway. I looked at Rosalie, who refused to cry, and then at Emmett, who looked like he wanted to tell a few jokes to lighten the mood but couldn't take a deep enough breath to do so. I looked at Carlisle, surrounded by all the medicine and technology and conviction in the world, none of which could save Emmett McCarty. I looked at all those things, and cried instead.

I walked out of that room, frustrated by my utter breakdown. And then I glimpsed the devastated face of a friend, a survivor; I saw her and I broke all over again.

She looked like my mother all those months ago, her expression haunted by the promise of bad news, her eyes red with tears. And just like my father had done, I took her in my arms and hugged the hell out of her.

"Is he okay?" she croaked. "Rosalie called me and I came over as soon as I could but she wouldn't tell me anything on the phone—"

"It's not good, Bella. You know Rosalie…she doesn't sugarcoat anything."

"What did she say?"

I sighed, angling my back toward the door so as not to be overheard. Even though Rosalie always demanded the most bare-boned assessment of things, I didn't want to risk saying something that might upset her.

"It's end-stage now, which means he'll die without a transplant."

She shook her head, her gaze falling to the floor. "A transplant? But those are almost impossible…"

"He's at the top of the list," I said, although even to my own ears that didn't sound very encouraging. Emmett had a rare blood type, not to mention a serious shortage of time. It didn't look good. In fact, it looked hopeless.

Hopeless…

Fuck, I hated that word.

"What are the chances?" she asked, hope creeping into her voice, her eyes, her beautiful face. I hated to crush all that optimism, so I said nothing.

"Jasper…"

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

***

I sat awake in the waiting room sometime that night, long after Bella had drifted off to sleep on my shoulder. Rosalie came out to join me sometime after midnight, and even in the midst of such hell, she looked strong and composed. If not for the dark circles under her eyes, you would never know her husband was dying in the next room.

"Thanks for staying," she said. She sat down on the stiff, overused couch, and for a few seconds just closed her eyes.

"I'm pregnant," she said, her eyes still closed. She said it in a flat, even tone, almost as if she were reporting on the weather. It took me a few seconds to register what she was talking about.

"You are? Wow. I mean, that's great, Rosalie. Congrats."

"Yeah," she said, her voice hoarse from all the crying, but otherwise uninspired.

"Look, Rose, I know there isn't anything I can possibly say right now to change anything, but you can't just give up on him."

She opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling. She didn't move, didn't even seem to react. "I can't raise a kid on my own. Trying for a baby was a stupid fucking idea," she said.

"You won't be alone."

She turned to me, finally, her eyes finding mine in the sterile light of the room. "He's everything to me, Jasper. Everything."

"I know the feeling."

I didn't say anything for a few seconds after that, and neither did she. She just let the words sink in, hearing them as much as feeling them. I knew she understood, but I wished with every fiber of my being that she didn't have to.

"How'd you do it?" she asked.

I took a deep breath, wrapping my coat around Bella as she stirred in her sleep. "I haven't really done it," I said. "If you haven't noticed, I'm kind of a mess."

She smiled, acknowledging the lightness in my tone. I smiled, too, and for a moment at least, the mood lifted.

"Yeah, you and your pity parties," she said. "I hate those."

"It's okay to throw them once in a while, though. I mean, it's okay to hate life."

"I hate it right now," she said. "I really do."

She leaned into me, resting her head on my other shoulder. Was it wrong to hate life for taking people away, but to cherish it for bringing others back to me? It was a fine line, really. A very fine line indeed.

"You won't be alone," I said again, and within minutes, two of my closest, oldest friends were asleep on my shoulders.

***

Carlisle woke us up at dawn the next morning, shaking us awake as a herd of people rushed in and out of Emmett's room. My heart almost flew out of my chest at the sight of it, and the only thing that calmed me down—aside from Carlisle's futile attempts to explain everything—was the silence of the alarms. If Emmett had suddenly stopped breathing, I figured there would be sirens blaring and people yelling and Code Blues sounding over the speakers. But there was none of that. Nothing but an eerie, quiet chaos that filtered through the air.

"They're transferring him to UW," Carlisle said. "The transplant surgeon in Seattle is one of the best—"

Finally I turned my attention back to him, back to the startling truth in his steady, commanding voice. "Surgeon?" I asked.

He nodded, and I knew. There's meaning in everything, he seemed to say.

***

Those words didn't really sink in until weeks later, when Emmett had finally recovered enough to come home. He looked healthier than he had in months, and it wasn't long before Emmett was talking about the Keg Stand Party of the Year. When that party happened on a balmy Saturday in March, he didn't partake in the keg, but he did spend most of the time talking to three people I'd never met.

Emmett's ordeal had taken my mind off my own issues, but only temporarily. It took me the full month to deal with the withdrawal, most of it spent in utter seclusion, and Emmett's party was my first attempt to rejoin society.

I saw Rosalie first, standing in the kitchen, mixing up her usual assortment of addictive appetizers. She smiled when she saw me, a wide, carefree grin that suited her much better than the sad smile in that waiting room.

"Crab wedgie?" she asked, holding out a mess of crab and cheese and bread. I nodded, smiling as I washed that sucker down with a cold beer. She wasn't drinking, but she insisted I take advantage of the keg.

"Mmm, this is good," I said. "Damn. What's in this?"

"Some goodies," she said. "So, then. How's life?"

"My life?" I pretended to think about it, although there was only one thing on my mind. And that "thing" was standing on the patio, enjoying an unseasonably warm afternoon.

"Have you talked to her?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Don't fuck with me," she said, her voice sharp, but also teasing.

I shook my head. "No, not about...that."

"Why not?"

"I said some things a while ago…I overreacted to something."

"Water under the bridge," she said. "Get over it."

I shook my head. "It's not that easy, Rose."

"It's not like you're sleeping with her. I mean, that's a whole different story—"

"Wait, what?"

She raised an eyebrow so high I thought it might hit her hairline. "You're sleeping with her?"

"Um, no. I mean, she slept at my place once…"

"Have you kissed her?"

I felt my face get hot, which never happened and was therefore a dead giveaway. I had always assumed Emmett had shared our conversation with his wife; wasn't that what married people did?

"Um…"

Her smile vanished. "When?"

"You sound like Emmett," I mumbled.

"You told Emmett?! And he didn't tell me? I'm going to rip him a new asshole—"

"Hold up," I said, glancing outside to make sure Bella didn't wander inside and overhear this conversation. "I told him but it only happened twice, and he was just giving me advice."

"You asked Emmett for advice?"

I stood there in silence for a few seconds, wondering how the hell I had gotten myself into this situation. And yes, it sounded pretty ridiculous that I had at one point gone to Emmett for advice.

"Maybe," I muttered. "But the point is that it's over, because Bella is Edward's girlfriend and it isn't right."

"Jasper, Edward's gone."

"So?"

"So at some point in life, you get over yourself and move on."

"But what if Bella hasn't moved on?"

She shrugged, but her hard stare never wavered. "What if you spend the rest of your life asking yourself that question?"

As if on cue, the door swung open and Bella walked inside. She looked at Rosalie and then at me, her eyes a soft, discerning brown, her smile from a different conversation lingering on her lips. Rosalie gave me a sharp little glance and disappeared into the living room, as I knew she would.

"Crab wedgie?" I asked, gesturing toward the vast array of crabby delights. Bella shook her head, her smile tentative, but heartfelt.

"I'm glad you're here," she said. "I know the last month..."

"Was rough," I admitted, thinking of the long days, the even longer nights, of learning to live without a crutch. Bella had respected my determination to recover on my own terms, but she hadn't accepted the whole "intense seclusion" thing either. Every single day she had come over, sometimes to talk, sometimes just to be there. I wanted to thank her, to repay her, to tell her in a million different ways that I was weak and she was strong, that I couldn't have done this without her. But she would have shook her head, would have smiled that sad, lovely smile, which gave me the sense that the gratitude I felt was returned a thousand-fold.

"Is everything okay with you?" I asked.

She nodded, her gaze drifting toward the woman and her two sons, who were listening with rapt attention to Emmett's football stories. "I was just talking to those people over there."

"Who are they?"

"Her husband passed away a month ago," she said. "He's the reason Emmet's here."

Her eyes met mine, a deep silence settling between us. I thought about the list, dried out and muddy but still intact, with Number Eight in crisp yellow letters: SAVE LIF. It was eerily prophetic in a way, something I hadn't thought about now, something I hadn't considered was even possible. But Alice and Edward had given that gift to someone, to more than one person, and somewhere out there a young guy like Emmett McCarty was living his life because Edward Cullen was not. It was either terribly unfair, or terribly poetic. I liked to think it was the latter.

"I never wanted to meet them, you know?" she continued. "The people who Edward saved…I just couldn't stand the thought of someone else living because he died. It didn't seem fair. You never hear about the people that die. You just hear about the people who get the heart or the lungs or some other piece of an anonymous donor…"

She shook her head, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. "I wonder if those people who benefited…wherever they are...I wonder if they think about him."

"You wonder?" I asked, knowing the answer as well as she did. When I reached for her hands in a gesture that seemed small and simple, but somehow right, she hugged me instead.

"They do," she said. "I know they do."

***

***

A/N: Emmett's diagnosis is HCM. Google it - a lot of young athletes have died from this condition. Heart transplants are a last resort, but often successful.

I tried to convey the fact that Edward was also an organ donor to various anonymous people. I hope this was clear.

As always, thank you for reading. :)