A/N: Thanks goes to Twila Reaux, who's not only my alpha, but also my very good friend.

As always, Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

Chapter Thirteen: A Little Bit More

"And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore.

Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before:

'Maybe Christmas,' he thought, 'doesn't come from a store.'
'Maybe Christmas…perhaps…means a little bit more.'"

~Dr. Seuss, 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas'

JPOV

"Right, that's it," I say, slamming my laptop closed and tossing it on the recliner next to the couch.

Alice looks up, startled, from the magazine she's reading. "What's wrong?"

That right there—that's what's wrong. Those five words are pretty much the only words we've exchanged since Sunday, and I don't fucking know why. I've been wracking my mind for the past two days, trying to figure out what the hell I could've done, but nothing makes any sense. One minute we were decorating the little Christmas tree that I bought for the apartment (well, technically Alice was decorating—apparently there's more than one way to decorate a tree, and my way is the wrong way), and the next minute… nothing. Silence.

"Can you please just tell me what's bothering you?" I say, shifting slightly so I'm looking towards her end of the couch, "I can't… this is driving me insane."

She frowns and tilts her head slightly in confusion. "Nothing's—"

"Alice," I warn, cutting her off before she can finish her sentence. I've spent the past two days worrying and feeling sick and nervous, always thinking in the back of my mind that whatever I've done this time—it might finally be the last straw for her. If I have to hear that passive-aggressive "I'm fine" bullshit, I'll probably snap.

She looks at me for a minute before sighing and tossing her magazine on the floor. "All right," she says quietly, drawing her knees up to her chest and clasping her fingers together around her ankles, "I'll tell you. But you have to promise not to get angry."

I know I'm in real trouble the minute I see the way she's sitting. I've only seen her do that once before—that night at her house when she was telling me how much I'd hurt her by ignoring her in the hospital. So... what? I've hurt her again? Jesus, Jasper, it hasn't even been three damn weeks! Don't you think you could've waited just a little longer before you screwed things up?

I take a deep breath to steel myself for whatever she's about to tell me and then nod my head in affirmation, knowing already that whatever the hell it is, I probably have no right to be angry about it.

Alice rests her cheek on her knees, facing me. After several minutes of excruciating silence, she finally says, "You're not gonna see them, are you."

My forehead knots together in confusion. "See who?"

Instead of answering me, Alice lifts her head and glances out into the living room. I follow her gaze until my eyes settle on the Christmas tree in the corner. I knew it had something to do with that damn tree. But I'd asked her if it was okay if we got one. Hell, I'd even asked her if she wanted to celebrate Christmas at all, knowing that it might be a difficult holiday for her. Both times she'd said 'yes,' and it was clear from the enthusiasm with which she'd thrown herself into decorating that she was enjoying the whole thing. In fact, she'd even asked me to tell her about how I'd celebrated Christmas growing up so that she could—

Oh.

I remember thinking at the time that it was a really fucking bad idea to be talking to her about my family, but she'd insisted, and when I finally gave in, she actually seemed okay with it—laughing and asking questions and making jokes. But obviously, it'd bothered her more than she'd let on. And dammit, I get why it's upsetting for her—I get that she feels terrible about being so alone, and that my refusal to see my family must seem much like rubbing salt in a fucking festering wound to her—that's why I didn't want to say anything in the first place.

I sigh and push myself up off the couch. Usually I wait until Alice has gone to bed before attempting this ungraceful task, but tonight, unfortunately, it can't wait.

"Hey!" Alice cries as I walk stiffly past her towards my bedroom, "You promised you wouldn't get mad!"

"I'm not mad," I say, shaking my head, "Just hold on a minute. I'll be right back."

Part of the fucking problem here is that she has no idea what kind of hell I've put my family through, which, of course, is my own fault. In the hospital, she didn't really need to know; I was so convinced that I'd never see her again that I could hide things from her without feeling guilty. But now… now I guess it's only fair that she know exactly what kind of monster she's living with. If nothing else, at least it might help her understand that I'm actually protecting my family by staying away from them.

I enter my room and rummage through the drawers of my desk until I find what I'm looking for. When I walk back out into the living room, Alice is still balled up at the far end of the couch, looking like she hasn't so much as taken a breath since I left the room. She raises her head when she sees me though, and watches as I sit down next to her.

"Here," I say, holding the picture out for her to take. She does so timidly, and studies it for a moment before looking back at me in confusion. "My sister's child," I explain.

I wonder how much of our first conversation about my family she remembers; how much I'll have to explain again. I don't have to wait long for an answer—after just a few more seconds of looking at the picture, her forehead smoothes and her shoulders relax in comprehension. "Oh," she says, running her thumb lightly along the edge of the photograph, "so, this is why they got married."

I nod my head in agreement even though she's still concentrating on the picture. "It was stupid—they were stupid—and I told them so. Several times. But they went ahead with it anyway. She's fucking twenty years old—what makes any of them think she can raise a kid? I stopped speaking to Emmett; I stopped speaking to my parents. The last time I said anything to any of them was the night before the wedding. Which I managed to ruin. Twice, actually. Once because of the things I said, and once when I…" I stop, not really knowing how much of my stupid-ass behavior at the lake I'd like to detail for her. "They were married on March 15th," I conclude, hoping she'll understand.

"Oh," she says absently, still processing what I've told her. Suddenly though, she gasps and snaps her head up to look at me. "Oh," she repeats purposefully, as her eyes flicker from my face down towards my chest. I may have three layers of clothing on, but I've never felt more fucking exposed than I do in this moment. Instinctively, I bow my head and shove my left hand further into the pocket of my sweatshirt, trying to hide the damage I know she can't possibly see.

"Yeah," I say, after I've paused to calm myself as much as possible, "So you can see why I haven't talked to them. I don't want their pity. And I'm pretty fucking undeserving of their love at this point. So it's best that I just stay away. They can move on. I can move on. No more lives get ruined."

Out of the corner of my eye I see Alice's gaze move back and forth between my face and the boy in the picture. Hopefully she's able to reach the conclusion I do every time I make the same comparison. He's just a baby—he's the one who needs the attention, the support, the care, the affection. Rosalie and Emmett—they need all that too, even if they did make a fucking stupid decision. I don't factor into that equation anywhere, except possibly as a negative force, draining and straining my family's capacity for patience and love.

"So, you think because you said something stupid, and did something stupid, your family's better off without you. And you're better off without them."

I roll my eyes and lean my head back against the couch. Judging by the slightly sarcastic tone in her voice, we haven't reached the same conclusion after all.

"It wasn't just one stupid thing, Alice. It was a whole shitload of 'em. I did everything short of calling my sister a whore. I broke my friend's nose. I told my mom and dad that they were bad parents. I made an ass of myself in front of all our friends and family. And then I—"

I stop, suddenly aware that my voice is trembling—not from anger, but from the steadily increasing constriction of my throat. Of course I've always been aware of how much I've screwed things up, but hearing it all aloud like that, facing for the first time the exact measure of shame… holy shit.

I close my eyes and shake my head slowly against the back of the couch. "Of course they're better off without me."

It doesn't surprise me that Alice doesn't argue—after all I've just spelled out for her, I'm pretty fucking certain she gets it by now. In fact, after what I've just told her, it's a wonder she's even still sitting next to me. And even that doesn't last long.

"It's late," she says, as I feel her finally unravel herself and get up off the couch. She doesn't make a move to leave though, and after several rather unnerving moments of listening to her quiet breathing, I finally open my eyes to see her standing right in front of me, one hand on her hip, and one hand holding the picture out to me, which I take without looking at it.

"Obviously I don't have much experience with what you're talking about," she says, smiling slightly, though not sadly. "But still, I'm pretty sure it doesn't work like that."

Instead of explaining what she means by that fucking elusive comment, she just grins again, says 'goodnight,' and walks off towards her bedroom. I shake my head in frustration; as much as I'm glad that she's not currently packing her things to leave, part of me is a little appalled that she can still smile at me after learning all the things I've done.

I sigh and look down at the picture in my hand, expecting to see, as I've always seen in the boy's face, validation of my decision to keep my family away from me. Without my realizing it, however, Alice has handed me the picture face down. So, instead of getting validation of my thoughts, I see, for the first time, the truth behind hers.

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't work like that."

Charles Jasper Hale.

----------

The year we turned thirteen, Rose and I fought over the venue for our joint birthday party. I wanted to go to go-karting and mini-golfing at Fire Mountain, and she wanted to have a dance at our house (which, even now, I still think was a pretty fucking lame idea). When our parents announced that Rose's idea won 'cause it was 'more practical than transporting dozens of kids back and forth between our house and the park,' my sister shot me this look of condescending smugness that made me want to smack her upside the head. I managed to refrain from physical violence, but I did, eventually, get even.

The night before the party, I snuck into her room while she was sleeping and cut several chunks out of her hair. She ended up having to get most of it cut off in order to correct the damage I'd done. As a result, in all the birthday pictures from that year she looks like some horrific combination of Ellen Degeneres and Mark-Paul Gosselaar circa Saved by the Bell. Me, I'm not in those pictures at all, since my ass got grounded the minute my parents figured out what I'd done.

Obviously, I deserved it. Even so, it was pretty upsetting to have to sit upstairs and listen while other people celebrated my birthday. I remember listening as they all sang to Rose and thinking to myself that they probably weren't even going to save me a piece of cake. Just as I thought that though, I heard a knock on my door. When I opened it no one was there, but sitting on the ground was a plate on which rested a neat square of chocolate cake with chocolate icing; my fucking favorite. It took me all of about two seconds to figure out who'd put it there—my parents were extremely strict in seeing punishments through to the end, and none of my friends would have been allowed upstairs to see me. Bringing me that piece of cake didn't exactly mean that I was forgiven, but for my sister, it was a step in that direction.

Rose and I are alike in our unfortunate inability to clearly articulate any emotion except anger. As a result, for weeks after the whole birthday fiasco we didn't talk to each other at all. But in our reticence, we said more than we ever could've said with words. Though neither of us ever mentioned either the ruined hair or the ruined party, the fact that I was the one to eventually break our mutual silence signified both an admission and an apology—just as whatever she'd said to me in return was evidence of her forgiveness. It may sound strange, but that's the way it was with us. That's the way it's always been.

When I first got the picture of Rose's son in the hospital, I had no fucking clue why she would choose to give him my name. First of all, the name itself is pretty stupid—I've always thought it sounded better suited for an 18th century British aristocrat than… well, pretty much anyone living in the modern-day United States. But even if the name weren't so ridiculous, I still couldn't understand why she would want any part of me to be a part of him as well.

It's taken me more than twelve hours of thinking and reasoning and staring at his picture and replaying Alice's words in my head, but I think I might finally get it now.

He's my fucking birthday cake.

Well, if I'm being honest, I suppose that technically only about an hour or so of my sleepless night was devoted to that particular revelation. The rest of the time has been spent trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do about it. After all, the things I've done this time are a little more serious than hacking off a few strands of hair. Hair grows back; birthdays come and go. But recently I've made wounds that take far longer to heal—that may never heal. And it's not just one person I've hurt this time either, it's my whole family. How on earth do I start trying to make up for all that?

For what's probably the thousandth time since last night, I look warily at the cell phone sitting on my desk. At first, I was putting off calling until Alice had left for work, and then, once she'd gone, I'd remembered the time difference between Texas and Pennsylvania, which effectively bought me a few more hours. It's almost noon now though, and my perfectly valid excuses for not making the call have officially run out. Clearly, at this point, I'm stalling out of fear.

Or shame, or nervousness, or self-loathing… take your fucking pick.

Slowly, I reach over and pick up my phone, while trying as hard as I can to ignore the tremors in my hand. I stare at it for a few minutes before finally working up the courage to flip it open. My shaking fingers dial the number carefully, and somehow I successfully fight the almost overwhelming urge to pause dramatically over the last digit. This accomplishment seems like a small victory over my nervous consciousness, until of course I lift the phone to my ear and find myself sending up a small prayer that the call goes directly to voicemail. Since my prayers never do seem to get to where I intend for them to go however, the line continues to ring until it's answered.

"Hello?"

Time has changed my sister's voice in subtle ways that are probably only recognizable to someone who both knows her well and who hasn't heard her speak for months. She sounds older, tired, tense—all of which is to be expected I guess when one becomes a mother so young. Somehow though, and somewhat surprisingly, she doesn't sound unhappy.

"Hello?" she says again, drawing out the 'o' to emphasize her annoyance at my silence. I know her next step is to hang up on me, so I take a small, defeated breath and clear my throat.

"Rosalie?"

Her end of the line goes so quiet that, for a minute, I'm almost sure she actually has hung up. Which would be pretty damn fair, I suppose. But just as I'm about to shut my phone, I hear a quiet rustling that assures me she's still there.

"Hang on," she says, as the noise of her movement continues to echo through my earpiece. She has a quick, incomprehensibly soft conversation with someone, and I tense up a little when I realize that she's not alone. However, I then hear the unmistakable sound of her high heels clacking against the floor, which is eventually punctuated with the barely audible click of a shutting door.

"All right," she says, more quietly than before. "Mom and dad are here. I figured you wouldn't want… Anyway, I'm alone now."

I'm a little ashamed that she feels the need to sneak around like that, but at the same time I'm also really fucking grateful that she understands, without my having to explain it, the need for privacy.

"How are you?" she continues when I don't speak immediately. "Where are you? I don't recognize this number."

I clear my throat again self-consciously, wondering, briefly, if my voice has undergone any noticeable changes as well.

"I'm… okay," I start. It's a bullshit answer and we both know it. But details aren't something I'm prepared to give at this point, so for now she'll have to live with equivocation. "I'm still in Philly," I continue, "but I, uh… I had to get a new phone." That much at least is true. My phone, my wallet, my clothes—pretty much everything I had with me the night of the fire were thoroughly and irreparably destroyed.

"You changed your number though," she insists, seeing right through my fruitless attempt at evasion. "No wonder mom hasn't been able to get through to you."

I shut my eyes tightly and massage my temple with the top of my phone. Direct accusation isn't exactly my sister's style, but insinuation and veiled implications—those are different matters entirely. Obviously she's not gonna make this easy. Not that I had any right to expect that it would be.

"Why'd you call, Jasper?" she finally asks after a few more minutes of silence.

My reasons for calling seemed pretty damn clear about ten minutes ago, but now I can't seem to remember a single one of them. The only thing passing through my mind right now is the word "mistake," over and over again, like a goddamn broken record. I frantically search my mind for any word that doesn't begin with the letter 'M,' and finally settle on repeating her first question back to her.

"Um… How are you, Rose?"

She pauses for a moment before returning the gesture. "I'm okay," she scoffs coolly. "Mom, dad, Emmett; we're all okay."

I shake my head wearily from side to side. I'd been hoping that our mutual silence during the past nine months would be enough to dissipate some of her anger. Clearly I should've given it more time. I didn't call to pick a fucking fight with her, but the angrier she gets, the harder it becomes for me to control my own complementary frustration. I take a few shallow breaths to calm myself as best I can, knowing that eventually, she'll either soften or hang up on me. Either way, at least I'll know where I stand.

"What about your… How about the… the—"

"Your nephew's fine."

I flinch involuntarily at her words, not because of her biting tone, but because it's always been difficult to think of 'her child' as 'my nephew.' At first, my aversion was due to the fact that I blamed him for ruining my sister's life. Even after I'd directed all that blame back towards myself, where it belonged, I found that I still couldn't really bring myself to think of him as my anything. After all, what the hell kind of uncle wishes his nephew had never been born?

"He's big now;" Rosalie says unexpectedly, hesitantly, her voice suddenly much more gentle, "huge actually. He eats like a horse."

Just like his fucking dad, I think to myself, remembering how difficult it was to keep food in the house when I lived with Emmett. It didn't matter what it was, or how long it'd been in the refrigerator, or who'd bought it—Emmett would always eat it.

"Em calls him Chip," Rosalie continues, a hint of a smile in her voice.

"Uh… Chip?" I ask cautiously, not wanting to offend her, but honestly believing that that is, in fact, the worst nickname I've ever heard in my life.

"Yeah, you know, like, 'a chip off the old block?' He thinks it's clever." I can't help but smile at her tone. 'Indulgent sarcasm' is definitely one of the languages one comes to learn well whenever spending time around Emmett.

"Did you get the picture I sent?"

"Yes," I say, turning unthinkingly to look at the photograph in question.

"He's beautiful, isn't he?" she sighs affectionately.

Something clicks for me in that second, when I hear Rose speak with such reverence about the little boy in the picture. Even when I stopped actively blaming him for all the trouble his birth had caused, I still considered him to be nothing more than a disastrous mistake—something my sister would end up regretting for the rest of her life. But the way Rose speaks about him now, I realize that even though he was conceived in a fucking stupid way, he will never be a mistake—not to her, nor to anyone else who loves him.

"Yeah, he's beautiful."

"He looks a lot like you, you know," Rosalie says, the timbre of her voice sounding hoarse and choked and strangely similar to my own.

I wince and breathe in sharply as I process her words. I'm sure she thinks she's being sincere—nice even. But Rose never saw me after the fire, so she has no idea how wrong she is. She can't really know how little I resemble the boy she holds in her arms each night; how little I resemble any fucking normal person at all.

"You're not coming home, are you?" she whispers after a few minutes.

I swallow deeply to try and ease the pressure building in my throat. "No. Not yet."

Rose breathes deeply into the phone, and I can tell that she's fighting for the same control over her emotions that I've been struggling with throughout this whole damn conversation. "You know I'm going to have to tell them you called," she says finally, her voice tight. "But I'll tell them you're o—" she stops herself before using the prevericative word we've both been tossing around. "I'll tell them you're doing fine."

"Thank you," I say, relaxing minutely as I decipher the meaning behind her words. Obviously, she'll have to let my parents know that she's talked to me—that much, I guess, I expected. But she's also going to reassure them about my… condition enough that they won't be tempted to do something stupid like fly out here to see me. Essentially, she's giving me time to work through some more of my shit on my own before I really have to deal with facing my family. Considering the surgery I have coming up in a few days, this guaranteed privacy is crucial. Also, I really don't want to have to deal with anyone else's views on my relationship with Alice right now—especially when I'm not even fucking certain myself what that relationship is. I get that it's not an indefinite amount of time my sister's granting me, and that sooner rather than later, I'll have to face all the crap I've been avoiding. But for now at least, she can put my parents' worries to rest, and my family and I can live in the relative peace of knowing that eventually, a kind of resolution will occur.

"You'll keep this number," she says quickly, a statement rather than a question.

I smile a bit when I recognize the condition on which she's predicating her cooperation. "Yes. I'll answer if you call."

Her end of the line goes almost silent again, though I can tell from her steady breathing that she hasn't hung up. There's not much else I can think of to say, so I'm just about to open my mouth to tell her goodbye when her voice stops me.

"I'm not sure if I'll talk to you before then, so… Merry Christmas, Jasper."

There's no anger in her voice now, nor tiredness nor sadness, nor any of the other things I've heard from her during this conversation. For the first time in months—years even—my sister, the girl I grew up with, the twin I shared almost everything with, is speaking to me. When my mind recognizes this familiar voice, all the memories I'd told Alice the other night come flooding back with renewed intensity and meaning.

The Christmas before we were born, my parents found a bird's nest hidden in their tree, and that's how they knew that we'd be healthy and happy, since finding a nest is supposed to be a sign of good luck.

When we were five, Rose was so sick with the flu that she couldn't even get up to open her presents. My parents said that I could open mine without her, but I waited, for four days after Christmas, until we could do it together.

I remember the year that Rose and I decorated the tree by ourselves, and our mom had to rearrange everything while we slept 'cause it looked so awful. Some things never change, I guess.

I remember listening to Christmas songs on the radio while we decorated Christmas cookies, and eating so much of the dough that we made ourselves sick.

I remember sleeping on the floor in my sister's room so we could try to stay up and hear Santa and his reindeer on our roof. We stayed up for so long that my dad eventually snuck out there and started banging around so that we'd finally go to sleep.

I remember…

"You too, Rose. Merry Christmas."

A soft click in my earpiece assures me that she really hangs up this time. I pull the phone away from my ear, and sit there watching the little call-duration display flash 5:23 until the power saver kicks in and the screen goes dark. Five minutes. Jesus Christ, it felt like a fucking lifetime.

I toss the phone on my bed next to me and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. I'm exhausted and drained, and honestly a little bit confused by the fucking awkward conversation I've just had. But somehow, I also feel oddly lighter, more relaxed, like something I didn't even realize had been strangling me has suddenly loosed its hold and I can breathe again. And I do, breathe deeply, savoring the way the air feels in my fully-expanded lungs.

I pivot gently to lie back against my pillows and shut my eyes, hoping to get a few hours of sleep before I pick Alice up from work. I'm sure that somehow, she'll know without being told that I've been in touch with my family; Alice is almost freakishly perceptive like that. It's the same way she knew, even before I did, that I missed them. But though I'm obviously fucking ecstatic that we'll be talking again, I'm not exactly sure what I'll say when she asks me how things went. Our conversation was characterized more by silence than by actual words. But somehow, despite, or perhaps due to all the pauses and the quiet, my sister and I at least have reached some sort of understanding, however vague it may be. I have no idea how the hell we got there, but it's a good first step all the same.

***

APOV

Jasper comes out into the kitchen the moment he hears me turn off the stove. He waits for me to transfer the omelet I've just finished making onto a plate before wrapping his arm around me and pulling me to him. Even though the smell of breakfast food lingers heavily in the air, the moment I'm pressed up against him, I become totally immersed in his scent: wheat, rain, silk, and cotton, all at once—without a doubt, the most delicious smell in the world.

"What's this for?" I murmur contentedly against his chest.

Jasper squeezes me gently before taking a step backwards, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. "It's Christmas," he shrugs. The warm grin on his face quickly changes into open-mouthed shock when his eyes travel over to the kitchen table. "Jesus, Alice. Just how many people were you planning on feeding this morning?"

I look over at the table sheepishly. I'll admit that somewhere in the planning stages of my "brunch on Christmas" idea, things may have gotten slightly out of hand. What started out as a simple menu of eggs and French toast somehow developed into a fruit cocktail, muffins, sausage, bacon, and pancakes… in addition to the omelets and the bread.

"We don't have to finish it all right now," I say, placing the final plate on the table and taking a seat, "whatever we don't eat we can save for leftovers."

Jasper shakes his head and sits down across from me. "We'll be eating this for a week," he laughs as spears a piece of his omelet on his fork. He pops it in his mouth and chews conscientiously for a minute before smiling and adding, "which is absolutely fine with me."

I relax a little at the knowledge that he actually likes my cooking. Technically, I've been doing all the cooking for weeks now, but things like spaghetti and Hamburger Helper hardly qualify as home-cooked meals. Today's the first time I've actually made him anything from scratch—it's part of my Christmas present to him. Brunch was the easy part since breakfast foods are just about all I can make well, but dinner tonight will be more difficult: ham, twice-baked potatoes, corn pudding, and biscuits. According to Jasper, these are the makings of a typical Southern Christmas dinner. More importantly however, these are all things he would be eating if he were with his family.

A few days ago, he probably would have found such a gesture on my part antagonistic, and I suppose I can understand why he might have thought that, even though it wouldn't have been true. I've never wanted to push him into doing anything he's not comfortable with, or even remind him of things he'd rather forget. But on Sunday, I realized from the way that he was talking about his family that he missed them far more than he'd ever let on—possibly even more than he was willing or able to admit to himself. The voice he'd used to describe them that day was the exact same voice he'd used when he was sitting on my bed at my old house, telling me that he regretted pushing me away. He was hurting for them in a way I'd never heard him hurt for anything. The pain was so great for him, in fact, that his words eventually failed him and he went silent. Though he may think otherwise, he was the one who stopped talking that night, not I.

Of course, all that changed after he called his sister. I don't know exactly what happened between them, and honestly, I have neither right nor desire to know the specifics. All that matters to me is that he's talking, laughing, and smiling again—there's not much else I really need to know.

I'd be lying if I didn't admit to feeling a little insecure in the knowledge that, while Jasper is quite literally all I have, he obviously longs for things that I can never give him. I can't be his mother or his father or his sister or his brother, but he's all those things to me. Until I learn otherwise at least (which is becoming increasingly less and less likely, given that I haven't had a single memory since that night in the hospital), Jasper encompasses the entirety of my family. And still, I have no idea what I am to him.

"You gonna eat those?" Jasper asks, calling me back to reality. I look up to see him staring at the relatively untouched sausage links on my plate. I smile and shove my plate across the table, pleased that Jasper seems to be enjoying the first of his gifts.

When we're both finished eating, Jasper helps me clear the table and then stands in the kitchen and talks to me while I clean the dishes, as per the arrangement I set forth that first night we ate together. I'm finishing up with the last few pans when Jasper's conversational tone suddenly becomes serious.

"Are you okay?" he asks. I look up at him, confused. In answer to my silent question, he directs his gaze towards my right hip, which I didn't even realize I'd been massaging gently with my hand. I glance out the window, and sure enough, dark clouds are just beginning to form in the sky.

"It's nothing, honestly" I say, opening the cupboard next to the sink and standing on my toes to try and reach the shelves where the pans go.

Jasper frowns at me as he takes the pans from my hand and puts them effortlessly back where they belong. "You sure, kid? You've been doing that all morning."

"Yes, I'm fine," I repeat, rolling my eyes in a gesture of annoyance, even though part of me is secretly thrilled that he watches me closely enough to notice things like that. "It's just the weather, Jazz."

I'd thought up that nickname in an effort to get him to lay off the 'kid' stuff. Of course, that whole plan backfired when I realized that he thought it was the coolest thing he'd ever heard. He even changed the freaking screen saver on his computer to scroll, "Jazz plays here" at regular intervals. That poor attempt at a pun was almost enough to get me to drop the name altogether, but the way he beams at me when I use it—the way he's beaming at me now, in fact—is incentive enough for me to keep it in use.

"What does the weather have to do with anything?" he asks as he follows me out into the living room.

"I dunno," I say indifferently, collapsing onto the couch. "Whenever it's going to rain or something, my hip gets a little sore, that's all."

Jasper slowly sinks down next to me. "Always?"

"It hasn't failed me yet."

He stares out the window silently for a few minutes before turning his attention back to me. "Okay, if you're that sure, then how about a bet?" he asks playfully.

"You don't believe me?" I challenge. He shrugs in response. "What do you mean, 'bet'?"

Jasper looks up at the ceiling in thought for a minute, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "If it doesn't rain before 12:00am, I win. And if I win, then we're going out to dinner sometime."

I look quickly down at my lap in a vain attempt to hide the furious blush that spreads across my face at his words. Jasper's proposed such an outing a few times before, usually on nights when I'm working late and yet still insist on making dinner when I get home. So I know his suggestion is only made out of an irrational guilt he feels at having me cook for him. Even so, I can't stop the absurd fluttering of my heart that occurs whenever I think of the two of us going out on what, in any other context, could possibly be seen as a date.

"Deal?" Jasper says, thankfully ignoring my scarlet face and extending his hand to me.

"Don't I get to state my terms as well?" I ask. Jasper drops his hand and nods for me to continue. I think for a second, and then decide that if he can play up the guilt angle, then so can I. "When I win," I say, gaining back my confidence through my assurance that this particular bet is one I can't lose, "you start actually cashing the checks I give you each week." I don't give him much—far less than I'm sure I should be paying to live in an apartment like this—but I still try to give him everything I can afford so I don't feel like a complete freeloader.

Jasper rolls his eyes, but holds out his hand again which I take. "Deal."

"In the meantime…" he hedges, glancing slyly out towards the living room. I don't even have to follow his eyes to know what they land on. This is a moment I've been simultaneously dreading and looking forward to for weeks now: the celebration of my "first" Christmas. There aren't many presents under our tree—three from Jasper and two from me—nothing too dramatic, really. But I'm fairly confident that Jasper has found a way to go completely overboard despite my repeated insistence that he keep it simple. In addition, picking out suitable presents for him was next to impossible. The things I finally settled on have seemed daily more ridiculous the longer they've sat beneath the tree.

Honestly though, what do you get someone who was the only person to ever seek you out? The only person to ever want to find you? What do you get for someone when you want to tell him that you love him, but are too afraid to say the words?

Jasper pushes himself up off the couch and walks over to the tree. ""You first," he says, piling his three gifts up and then handing them out for me to take. "Start with the little one."

I set the other presents down on the couch and pick up the 'little one,' which is nothing more than a small, thick envelope. I place my finger underneath the back flap and begin to tear gently, trying to convince myself that something so small can't possibly be that bad. Of course, because it's from Jasper, I couldn't be more wrong.

"Jasper," I groan as I flip through the five separate gift cards to clothing stores around the city, "I told you not to do this."

"Don't pretend like you don't like it," he admonishes, "I know you've been dying to go shopping again since we got that dress. Now you can. And I don't even want to hear that crap about how it's 'too much,'" he says, stopping me just before I can say it. "I've already told you that's not an issue."

I frown and run my hand through my hair insecurely. For him, maybe it's not an issue, but for me it definitely is. He's already spent more on this one gift than I spent on both of mine for him combined. So even though he's right that I want and, truthfully, need to go shopping, this doesn't really seem like a fair way for it to happen.

"Stop," Jasper says, lightly gripping my wrist and gently pulling my hand down to my side, "I wanted to do this for you. Can you please just be happy about it?"

The small but genuine traces of hurt in Jasper's voice are enough to make my frown disappear and my attitude towards his presents soften a little. Clearly, it's still too much, and the ever-increasing list of things that I owe Jasper has just grown exponentially. But for now at least, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to show a little tact.

"Thank you," I say sincerely, slipping my captive wrist backwards in his grasp until my fingers are entwined with his, "I can definitely use these."

"You're welcome," Jasper says, squeezing my hand gently. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Here," he continues, reaching for the biggest item in the pile, "open this one next."

I tear at the wrapping a little less reservedly this time, and gasp aloud when I see the contents of the box. Shoes. He got me shoes. And not just any shoes—really nice black ones that are obviously a perfect match for the dress that's hanging in my closet.

"You picked these out?" I ask suspiciously, smiling inwardly at the thought of Jasper in a women's shoe store.

"Hell no," Jasper laughs, probably picturing the same image. "I got your size from the shoes in your closet and then I called up the store where we got the dress and someone there picked them out. I know it's a little impersonal, but if I'd chosen them, you probably woulda ended up with loafers or some shit. I figured you'd like these better."

"They're perfect," I say, as I rub the soft satin of the straps beneath my fingers. "Thank you so much."

"No problem. You can wear them when I win my bet."

I feel the heat rise to my face again, which I try to hide this time by busying myself with rearranging the shoes in the box they came in. When the flush finally fades from my cheeks, I look up to see Jasper staring nervously at my final present.

"I wasn't sure about this one," he says, handing it out to me hesitantly, "I don't know if you'll like it. If not, don't worry about it. It was just an idea."

I take the envelope from his hand apprehensively, not really knowing what to expect with an introduction like that. I tear the back of the envelope off, and pull out a monogrammed letter from something called the Fairmount Art Center. It takes me a few times reading it through before I finally understand what the gift is, but when I do, my heart swells with so much excitement that I think I might burst.

"Really?! I can really do this?"

Jasper appears to relax a little when he senses my enthusiasm. "If you want to. I hope you don't mind—I took them some samples of your stuff and they were really impressed. We'll have to go online to look up the class times, but—hey!"

Hugging someone while sitting a couch isn't exactly the easiest thing to do—especially when that someone is Jasper, whom I could hurt so easily without meaning to. But hugging him is the only thing I can think of to do in this moment, so while he's still speaking, I pretty much launch myself—as carefully as possible given the circumstances—into his side. The way he flinches at the contact immediately sobers my mood, but before I can pull completely away from him, he drapes his arm loosely over my shoulders and holds me gently against his side.

"I'm glad you like it. There is a caveat though," he adds.

"Caveat?" I say, confused by both the word and his sudden change of tone.

"A condition. The studio, it's kinda far away—probably a little too far to walk. It would probably be better if I could drive you there. But don't worry, kid," he says when I shudder involuntarily at his suggestion, "Classes don't start for a few months. We'll work on it; I'll help you. And if you're still uncomfortable with it by the time classes start, I'll walk you the whole six damn miles myself. But I think it's a good goal to shoot for."

I nod slightly against Jasper's chest, my tense muscles beginning to loosen under the influence of his promise to help me. "Does this mean you're going to start helping me in the kitchen?" I ask, almost as a joke.

"Mmm, 'help' might be a bit too strong a word at this point," he answers seriously. "But yeah. I'll try."

This sudden determination on his part surprises me a little, since I've always considered Jasper's fears to be far more pronounced than mine. But he's also more aware of the limitations his fears place on him—more ashamed of them—and thus more eager for them to disappear. Whereas my phobias are a mere inconvenience for me, Jasper sees his as the things that are keeping him from being whole.

"Thank you for all this," I say, unraveling myself from under Jasper's arm and turning my body to face his on the couch. "What I got you… it doesn't even compare."

Jasper sighs and shakes his head. "Don't worry about that, Alice. I'm sure whatever you got is fine. But if it's making you that uncomfortable, you don't have to give me anything at all. I wouldn't mind."

"Unlikely, Jazz," I snort as I stand up and walk over to the tree. As tempting as his idea is, I have to give him something after everything he's just given to me—even if that something is pretty freaking stupid. I grab my two bags by their handles and resume my place on the couch, determined to do this, even though I risk serious embarrassment. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I pick up the lighter of the two bags and hand it to him.

"It's a scarf," I say dejectedly, before he's even gotten a chance to open it.

Jasper immediately bursts into a fit of laughter, during which he throws his head back so hard against the couch that I'm actually afraid he's hurt himself. When I'm quite certain that he hasn't, I fold my arms across my chest and stare at the floor, waiting for his laughter to subside.

"It's great," he says finally, struggling to make his words coherent through his lingering laughter.

"You haven't even opened it," I pout, continuing to avert my gaze.

"I still think it's great," he repeats before reaching into the bag and pulling out his gift. "Here—tell me how it looks."

I have to laugh a little when I look up and see the awkward way he's wrapped it around his neck—like he's trying to strangle himself or something. I roll my eyes and get up on my knees so that I can better straighten out the mess he's made, all the while trying very hard to ignore the slight shivering that passes through my body every time my fingers brush against his skin. When I've finally gotten it adjusted, I rock back on my heels to see the full effect.

"It looks…" I pause, not knowing how to finish that sentence without making a fool out of myself. Just as I knew it would, the grey in the scarf complements his eyes perfectly and looks gorgeous set against the medium tones of his skin. It's just a stupid scarf, I know, but the way Jasper wears it—he looks really freaking "… good," I conclude, weakly, "It looks good on you."

"Thanks," Jasper smiles, "Like I said, it's great. Now, are you gonna let me open the next one on my own, or would you like to tell me what it is now?"

I grimace slightly as I sit back down on the couch. This is the present I've really been nervous about; this is the one I almost wish I could take back. It's too late for that now though, so I nod for him to continue, and close my eyes the minute his hand comes into contact with the tissue paper. The rustling stops after a few seconds, so I know he knows what it is, but for whatever reason, I still feel the need to explain myself.

"It's a journal… You know, in case you ever want to start writing again."

When he doesn't speak, I open my eyes cautiously to see him running his fingers over the soft leather binding. I groan inwardly when I realize that he hasn't opened it, which means that he still has yet to discover the most embarrassing part about the whole thing. "You have to open it," I tell him, figuring that, since he'll find out eventually, he may as well do it now.

He shoots me a quick, curious look before opening the journal to reveal the four drawings I've made on the inside cover: the restaurant where Jasper and I saw each other for the first time, the outside of the hotel where I work, the mall where Jasper took me shopping for my dress, and the living room of our apartment. Jasper studies this odd collection of images for a second before looking back at me for explanation.

"A while ago, you asked me what my favorite place in the city was," I say quietly, avoiding his eyes. "So far, I have four of them."

For the longest time, neither of us moves, and I can't even be sure whether Jasper is looking at me, or at the journal, or at something else entirely. The only thing I'm aware of is the phrase 'stupid girl' that's repeating in my head incessantly and making me want to curl up in shame. Before I can actually act on this impulse however, I see Jasper set the book down on his other side, and then feel his arm wrap around me and pull me to him with more force than I think he's ever used with me. It's not gentle or tender or sweet like the hug he gave me the morning—it's something more insistent, more urgent, almost like the hug we shared the first night I moved in with him.

"That's the best damn present ever," he says, bending his head down to rest it on top of mine.

"You really like it?" I ask, though of course both his words and his actions make this question a bit superfluous.

"I love it, Alice," he murmurs into my hair, so that the vibrations that begin with his voice continue to radiate through me long after they leave his lips. "Thank you. I…" His voice trails off as he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "Best damn present ever."

"You're welcome," I say, burying my face happily into his chest. I love you, I add silently, wishing more than ever that I had the courage to say it out loud.

It takes a few minutes, but finally Jasper's grip begins to loosen and I reluctantly sit upright again. When our eyes meet, I see that his are once again marked by that same bluish hue that they assumed the day I tried on my dress for him. I have to look away because of the strange intensity emanating from him, but before I do, I swear I actually see a faint rush of pink color his cheeks.

"I have to start dinner," I hedge awkwardly. "Are you going to be all right?"

Jasper nods. "I'll clean up out here."

Even though I suggest the whole 'starting dinner' thing as a way to give myself the necessary space to calm down, it's a good freaking thing I start so early, 'cause following recipes isn't nearly as easy as it sounds. It takes me a good thirty minutes to gather all the necessary ingredients, and another hour or so to chop and measure and divide everything into the right amounts. Jasper takes his time 'cleaning the living room,' but eventually, true to his word, he comes out and sits nervously at the kitchen table while I continue to cook. I try talking to him for the first few minutes, but the poor guy can barely form a sentence, so eventually I just shut up and work faster, hoping that I can lessen the duration of his agony.

I don't realize how pale his skin has gotten until I finally turn off the oven and see the color slowly returning to his face. It almost makes me sick to see him like that after how happy we were only a few hours before. That something could have hurt him so severely; that something could cause him to react this way… it's frightening really. Of course, I'm sure when I start trying to get used to cars again, the word 'frightening' will assume a whole new meaning for me.

"That was fucking rough," Jasper says hoarsely as I begin bringing the food out to the table.

"You made it though," I say in a lame attempt to find something positive in what he's just been through. Jasper just nods slightly and closes his eyes. "Do you want to wait?" I ask, recognizing that food may be the absolute last thing on his mind right now.

"No," he says immediately, "no, I'm fine now. Honestly. Let's eat."

Whether because his nerves are all shot to hell or because he's just not paying attention, Jasper unthinkingly reaches out to grab the handle of the corn dish, which is still hot from being in the oven. Fortunately I realize what's about to happen the second before it actually does, but unfortunately there's not time to do much else other than slap his hand out of the way.

"Fuck, Alice," Jasper yells, shaking his hand out in the air, "what the hell was that for?"

"Hot," I say unapologetically as I point at the dish.

Comprehension flickers immediately over Jasper's face as he realizes what just almost happened. "Sorry," he sighs, looking down at his empty plate, "I wasn't… Maybe you oughta handle the food."

I do—carefully. Once it's all dished out and we begin eating, Jasper's mood improves considerably. During the meal he describes the different types of classes I can enroll in at the art institute, which of course gets me so excited again that eventually, he has to remind me to eat.

The meal itself is seriously flawed. The ham is too dry, the corn is too runny, the potato skins are far too crispy. The only things that've managed to emerge unscathed from my futile cooking endeavor are the biscuits, the credit for which goes not to me, but to Pillsbury. If Jasper notices my mistakes though, he doesn't comment on them. He even dutifully asks for seconds when he's done with his first helping. His patience is rewarded when I serve peach cobbler for dessert. Which I bought pre-made from a bakery.

After we're done with the dinner and the kitchen is cleaned, we walk back out into the living room. I ended our unspoken agreement about the television about a week ago when I realized that just sitting together in silence each night was getting a little old, so once we're seated Jasper flips through the channels until he lands on some apparently hilarious Christmas movie starring some guy whose name sounds like an automobile. I sit through it for a little while, but eventually the physical and emotional exhaustion of the day must catch up with me, because the next thing I know, Jasper's gently shaking my shoulder, urging me awake.

"Wake up, kid," he's saying softly, the corners of his mouth lifted into a complacent smile.

"What is it?" I say groggily, a little annoyed that he's woken me from my nap.

"I just thought you should know that you were wrong about the rain."

My eyes flicker to the digital clock on top of the television. "Jazz, it's only 9:30," I groan, definitely annoyed now. "You said we had till midnight."

"Doesn't matter," he insists smugly. "You're still wrong. C'mon, get up."

I close my eyes again, hoping, futilely, that he'll just leave me alone. Seconds later though, I feel him get up off the couch and start slipping my sneakers onto my feet, not even bothering to tie them. Then, he grips my hand and pulls me up into a standing position.

"What are you doing?" I say, as I stumble into him. Instead of answering me, he just leads me towards the balcony door, which he opens and guides me through. For a moment, all I can process is that my hair's getting wet. But when my mind eventually begins working again, I finally understand that Jasper's right: I was wrong about the rain.

A thin blanket of white covers every surface below us, and soft, powdery crystals are falling heavily from the sky. Each time one of them lands on me, I feel a quick blast of cold, followed by a cool fire as the flake dissolves into my skin, like it's becoming a part of me. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, knowing that this is not the first time I've ever had this exact same thought.

I don't even realize that Jasper has left me until he returns and drapes his heavy coat over my shoulders, not even appearing to care that it's so big on me that it drags on the ground. When I'm completely enveloped in both his warmth and his scent, he wraps his arm around my front and pulls me gently back against him so that we're both looking out at the frozen skyline.

"Are you all right?" he asks concernedly after a few minutes.

I smile and lean back into him. "I'm better than all right," I whisper. "I remember the snow."

Also, Rose's haircut, Alice's shoes, and Jasper's scarf and journal are all up on my profile.