EPOV

"Hey, love," Jacob said gently, as calmly as possible, but there was a sort of rush to his words, like he was expecting me to pay heed to his words. It was urgent – could save us all from a lot more trouble. "We need you to sit up straight, alright? Can you do that?"

I nodded, and my head seemed to be simply lolling up and down, as if I didn't really have any control over it. With the support of trembling arms, I tried to lift my upper weight, Jacob's hand on my back helping me get in the position required. A memory inundated my mind, a vision of my father propped up against several pillows while he breathed out in relief, amidst a series of coughs and shakes, his dark hair slicked with sweat that trailed down his crinkled forehead. He had always bore an appearance that never betrayed his actual age, a classical sort of handsomeness, and his moustache was always well-trimmed, his black hair always tidy, and he moved through space with a quick step, a bourgeois habit, and a confident glint in his blue eyes. And he'd been reduced to that because of a virus, all because of a virus…

"You have to take your shirt off," Jacob urged. "Lift your arms." I did as he asked, and he raised my shirt and slipped it off my torso in an instant, during which I took a deep breath to vacuum the scent of sweat, but there was nothing… Jacob threw the white shirt behind him, and from what I could see through the threatening mist over my gaze it didn't seem darker, wetter, than before. Fevers usually caused people to sweat… My father had been dripping, with his back against the pillows, which made it easier for the oxygen to travel through his airways, and now I was sitting up, too, and my lungs weren't so strained, but it was Jacob's hand supporting me. His burning hand…

"Jacob, let him go," Carlisle's voice ordered. I felt his hand twitch on my middle back, hesitating, before it was gone, replaced by the cushion of the hospital bed, which had been lifted meanwhile. I was momentarily stunned by the relief that pervaded me when he retreated and the simultaneous longing filling my chest, both mine and his. I looked to the side, and there he was, with shoulders hunched, his fists balled at his sides, as if he was preventing himself from moving them.

A whisper surged from my conflicted throat, "It's just temporary."

"Don't talk," he said, almost through gritted teeth, and I knew he meant that I shouldn't exert myself any further. The clench of his jaw signaled that he was controlling himself, and his harshness derived from the desperate howling of his wolf, the one I could vaguely hear in my own head, like a strong gust of wind in the far distance. I wondered for a moment if he would phase, sensing the trembling of his body like a weak current travelling through mine.

Carlisle noticed it, too. "I think you should leave, Jacob."

But I wanted him there, where he could be given something to do, so as not to pace a hole in the carpet in the hallway, waiting for news. I wouldn't be risking it, that much I was sure of, because if he'd stayed at my side through whatever ordeal I'd been involved in without losing control, if he'd maintained his human form for me, he wouldn't give it all up now. And I couldn't bear to hear the wounded fear eating away at him, knowing that it could be prevented. Much too soon I sensed a shift in his position, an inclination in the direction neither of us wished him to take, and I became restless, my lungs tightening.

"Let him stay," I choked out, eyeing Carlisle pleadingly. He was fiddling with the buttons of a machine next to the bed, a low hum sliding across the space of the room and adding to the atmosphere the sound of medical machinery, and that made all of this so much more terrifyingly real. The plastic of the oxygen mask in his hand flashed bluntly as he raised it to poise it over my face, while his didn't betray a single thought, like he hadn't heard me, or didn't care, and I felt Jacob's presence further and further away from me. It'd be useless, I thought in a rush. No sort of assisted breathing would work if Jacob wasn't here with me. "Dad," I wheezed, just when the mask was inches away from my face, and he stopped suddenly, his golden eyes darting to mine. "Please… let him stay," I begged, now past all pretense of ease, under the fear of Jacob's depart, of whatever was happening to me, and of what could happen to Thomas if Carlisle didn't come up with something soon.

Carlisle seemed wary, his eyebrows furrowed uneasily, but when he lifted his gaze to where Jacob was surely standing, he gave him a curt nod, and the pressure in my chest diminished considerably.

I turned my face immediately, shying away from the oxygen mask. "Take the rest of my... clothes off," I ordered through my panting, and saw Jacob's broad chest expanding even more with the sudden determination that certainly filled it, because now he had a purpose, a way of helping me, instead of standing outside, feeling useless. My head shifted in Carlisle's direction once more, raising itself a little from the bed so that he could slip the green elastic band under my skull, above my ears, and I felt the cool borders of the plastic mask around my mouth and nose. Meanwhile Jacob worked on removing my pants, sliding them down my legs carefully, leaving me only in my boxer shorts.

Rosalie appeared a moment later, her blonde hair flowing wildly as she rushed to my side and told Jacob to step away for a minute. She spread the soaked sheets over my body, without warning, and a muffled gasp was heard when they came into contact with my too-hot skin, and only a second later, after the initial shock, their coldness drew a relieved exhale from my lungs. But I was certain that my temperature would take a while to drop to the recommended mark, and even with the soaked sheets I felt like a steam engine was churning inside me.

"Jacob," I mumbled, my voice sounding stifled because of the mask. "Go get some ice packs."

"There's no need," Rosalie objected, her hand coming up to touch my neck. I sighed gratefully.

"Go get the ice packs, Jacob," I repeated. Rosalie pursed her eyebrows in confusion, clearly oblivious to what I was trying to do. Even with Jacob gone to do as I had told him, I knew that he probably felt more relieved if he was able to move, help in whatever way he could, instead of watching restlessly while his wolf kept trying to burst out of his skin. "You need to keep him occupied," I muttered, so low that only Carlisle and Rosalie's hearing would catch it. I sagged against the bed after speaking. My head just wouldn't stop spinning, and the edges of my vision were darkening, my mind threatening to slip into a state of incoherency once more.

"And you need to worry about yourself now," Rosalie hissed, her fingers pressing more forcefully against my neck. "And the baby. Do you have any idea what could happen to him?"

"Rosalie," Carlisle stopped her harsh reprimand. "Prepare an infusion of thiamine." He held my hand in his cold one, tracing one of my veins with a piece of damp cotton. I heard some rustling behind me, and recognized the sound as Rosalie abiding by Carlisle's order. "Don't mind your sister," he said lowly, and reached behind him for an IV pump. "Thomas will be fine, and so will you. I'll make sure of it."

"You don't know that." My voice wavered. Rosalie's comment had settled in, and now the idea of losing Thomas or having him suffer with this was becoming a distinct possibility – a frightening one at that. I had no idea why this was happening, and if we didn't know the cause we wouldn't find the cure, and if something happened to my son, if he couldn't get enough oxygen, enough nutrition, or if the heat was hurting him–

"Edward." He brought his free hand up to my face, catching the stray tear that had slipped from the corner of my eye. I didn't mean to hinder his work, but I felt like I was crashing beneath the fear that I'd suddenly start bleeding from below, or that Thomas would somehow be affected so severely that he'd be born in precarious conditions, and there were so many images flashing through my head, and I swear I could hear the cries of a child in the background… Carlisle's eyes were suddenly staring into mine, with a firmness that I had never seen before. "I'll do everything in my power," he assured me. "But you need to stay calm, alright? Stressing will only worsen things. Try to take deep breaths."

"Okay," I assented through the ache in my throat and the weight in my chest. I tried to ward off the different scenarios running through my mind, focusing instead on Carlisle's white hand holding mine, his thumb tapping one of my veins unnecessarily, before he brought the IV pump closer to my skin. A sharp, pricking pain followed, the needle pushed into my vein, and almost too quickly he had a piece of tape cover the end of the pump and holding it in place.

"I've got the ice packs," Jacob announced after barging into the room. He halted at the sight of my water-filled eyes, a deep frown marring his face. "Hey, beautiful," he said gently, and came to sit down on the edge of the bed. A flash of blue moved in front of my face, before I felt something cold on my neck. I sensed Carlisle's gaze fixed on him, measuring his proximity, afraid that the heat radiating off his body would worsen my situation. I knew he'd have to step back soon, for my and Thomas' sakes, but for now I allowed his presence to ease some of the turmoil inside. "You've got to stay calm."

I chuckled bitterly, hearing for the second time someone telling me to stay calm when I was lying in a hospital bed, semi-naked, on the receiving end of supplemental oxygen, as if the probability that this wouldn't take a turn for the worse was not startlingly high. As if everyone knew exactly what was happening and had everything under control.

"I know you don't like needles much, but…" Carlisle's attempt at humor would have been more appreciated if it wasn't so weak. And I truly didn't mind needles. He smiled tightly, aware of the gap in his usual smoothness, and brought a thin tube into view before attaching it to the pump. "This is for fluid replacement," he informed quietly, and placed another piece of tape over the tube.

"Shouldn't we check his temperature?" Jacob asked the million-dollar question. Obviously that's what should've been done already, but Carlisle seemed to be procrastinating that one step for some odd reason.

"Maybe you should go and get Jasper," he replied after a moment of silence. Jacob eyed him warily, then understandingly, and a hint of sadness was present in his tanned face. He shifted his molten stare downwards, until it rested over my own. I thought I might be pleading with him tacitly not to go, even if it was for the best, but I couldn't be sure of what I was doing, what I wanted, which option was the most viable. Things were getting confusing again. Jacob's thumb was poised over my cheekbone, and when it fell softly on my skin it wiped away the droplet of water that'd been traveling downwards.

"We'll get through this, alright?" he said. "I'm going to call Jasper, but he can't do all the work on his own, yeah?"

"Yeah." I nodded. It was for the best, I told myself. Jacob would go, so that the cooling could actually work, and Jasper would come instead and maybe he'd put me to sleep. And if something happened, if during my sleep Thomas' little body started changing because of this… I fisted the wet sheets, felt the dampness coat my hand, and saw that my knuckles were white. I couldn't feel Jacob's presence in the room anymore, and I couldn't do as he said either, because the thought of having something happen to my son while I dozed off had me choking up with panic.

"Edward." Carlisle was trying to grab my attention again, but this time his voice sounded rather stern. He had his lips pressed against each other, his jaw set in a firm line. "I know that it is hard, but you must try and focus. You have two degrees in medicine – think about what we have been doing here and tell me what we have to do next."

I couldn't for the life of me understand what he was trying to do, why on Earth he'd demand something like that, as if he didn't know what the proceedings ought to be. But he was staring so intently, waiting for an answer, and so racking my brains became suddenly a priority. I had to block out much of what'd been in the forefront of my mind until then and rummage through the memories. There were many things of my time as a vampire that I couldn't remember, but when I tried to focus on the right terms, a few things came back to me. Heat stroke is a medical emergency, the condition in which a person's core temperature rises above… Patients who are unable to protect their airway should be… The core temperature had to be monitored throughout the treatment, and–

"You need to monitor for gastrointestinal bleeding," I said. "And fluid losses."

Carlisle acquiesced. "How?"

"With a nasogastric tube," I replied after a moment. "But you have to monitor the temperature."

"With a normal thermometer?"

"No," I breathed. "It's inaccurate… We need a thermistor probe."

"That's right." Carlisle nodded. He seemed to be gauging my reaction, searching for any signs of unease related to the proceedings. I closed my eyes tiredly and signaled with a slow bob of my head that it was okay. I didn't bother explaining that I'd do anything to make sure that Thomas was safe, even if it included letting someone insert a probe in my rectum, or stick a tube up my nose. He could cut me open without anesthetics if it was needed, as long as it assured my son's well-being.

"Why did you ignore Rosalie's suggestion? It would have been faster than using soaked sheets."

"It's too extreme," Carlisle answered quietly. There was a metal table next to him with scattered tools on top, and he sat with his back to me as he prepared the tube. "And you'd run the risk of seeing your temperature lower too rapidly, perhaps more than necessary."

"But if it's too slow…" I trailed off. "If it doesn't drop fast enough and my organs start failing–"

Carlisle tensed. "Your organs will not start failing, Edward."

"Will I have to deliver him?" I asked. The tremble to my voice made the return of my fear much too evident.

"If the need arises…" Carlisle took a deep breath, and turned to me once again. "If the need arises, we will immerse you in ice water. But you are not in extreme danger, Edward, and neither is Thomas. Otherwise we wouldn't be talking right now."

I realized he was right. It wasn't nearly as hard to breathe as before, and the dizziness was not as strong either. I still felt incredibly hot, immeasurably uncomfortable, like my skin was too tight and my insides were burning up, and that was perhaps the reason for my overthinking. Or maybe it was the fact that I simply didn't know why this was happening, and the fear of the unknown had always been the most alarming.

"Do you have any theories?" I questioned hesitantly. He'd seemed so helpless before and had said it himself – he had no idea why this was happening. But I could hope that the passing of minutes, maybe a full hour, had resulted in something more than a blank field of hypotheses.

Carlisle sighed. "If Thomas has given you trouble before for known reasons, it's possible that his Quileute heritage is what is causing this, too. Maybe…" he trailed off, pensive.

"What?"

He stood up suddenly, approached the bed, and lowered the sheet until my belly was exposed. His stone-hard hand came up to touch my stomach. I saw a wince flitter across his face, as if he'd discovered something that wasn't so pleasant, just as his other hand moved towards my head and spread across my forehead. My aching back arched slightly, my body inclining naturally towards the coldness of his fingers.

"Don't you feel it?" he asked.

I drew in a shuddering breath. "I feel him eerily still," I stated, rather worried. For all he'd been kicking me during the past few weeks, he was – surprisingly and disturbingly – not moving much.

"Your stomach's hotter than the rest of your body," Carlisle said. Seeing my eyes widen, he rushed to explain, "It's not necessarily bad news. Perhaps he's… going through some changes, which are uncommon to the development of fully human babies. We knew already that pregnancies of this sort implied certain complications."

"Complications," I echoed, and my face contorted in confusion, like I was missing an important detail, like the word had more meaning than I was willing to give it. And Carlisle knew it. "Werewolf complications?" I murmured. "Or… Incubus complications?"

"Edward," he sighed, and sat down next to my thigh after throwing the sheet over my torso again. His gaze lowered. "I can't be certain. Perhaps…"

"You're hiding something," I realized.

Carlisle's eyes shot up to mine, worry etched onto his face. "I didn't think it would matter much… In the past very few Incubuses survived the pregnancy. Their bodies are not prepared for the birth. Obviously it wouldn't be a problem for us, son."

"It would've been for me if you hadn't found out what Ephraim did," I murmured.

It would've been. The chances that I'd find someone trustworthy to do a caesarian were very slim, and now that I thought about it – no, I wouldn't have survived, if Carlisle had refused to overlook his idea of me as a demon despite having lived with me, seen me struggle to accept his way of life at first and then abide by his rules with as much reverence as I was allowed. And it was maddening, yes, but mainly sad, how I'd put so much effort into helping the new members of the family feel integrated, how I'd kept quiet when I didn't agree with his decisions, how I'd never shown resentment for having been changed without my consent, and especially how I'd refrained from killing Bella thinking of what that would mean for the family and how much I would disappoint him.

Because I'd always been afraid of disappointing him. And in return he'd shoved me aside and privileged his own sense of safety to my very survival.

"Edward." He frowned, and I saw the guilt rotting his insides reflected in his golden irises. "It's alright. You're here now." A flash of white above me, trying to reach me, made me breathe out heavily in anger.

"Don't."

I was not repelled by his touch, or so mad that I wouldn't allow him to stay in the room to help me, but for the moment, after having processed the new information, I simply couldn't bear the thought of having any affectionate contact or dialogue with him. A feeling of betrayal festered in my chest, evident in its heaviness. I couldn't stop thinking that if Jacob hadn't helped me, if Carlisle hadn't known the truth, I'd probably have rotted away in a ditch, or Ephraim would have gotten hold of me much sooner, and perhaps, with the absence of some much needed mental strength, I would've been powerless to stop him.

I felt like I was going to be sick.

I was going to be sick.

I took off the oxygen mask quickly. "Bucket," I rasped.

It wasn't Carlisle who put the black bucket in front of me. Rosalie was there suddenly, holding it in her hands, and a second later I was grabbing its sides to empty the contents of my stomach. But I had yet to eat anything at all, and so the only thing that managed to come out was bile. I sat there for some moments, dry-heaving into the abyss of the bucket, my ribs hurting from the exertion. A horrible taste lingered in my mouth.

A horrible set of thoughts and memories lingered in my mind, too.

«-»

Amidst the dreams that came over me while the effect of Jasper's gift rested over my mind and body, there came a memory that wasn't too distant from the present. By then the haze was beginning to lift, and I was swinging between awareness and unconsciousness, hearing a pair of quiet voices in the background and wondering for a couple of minutes what was travelling down my throat, until I remembered that in the middle of my anger I'd let Carlisle do his job and put the nasogastric tube in place while I tried to remain indifferent to his presence. Visions of a sunlit room ran through my head, and I lay there silently, watching them play out and become a vivid display of something that had already happened, something that I had the tendency to leave aside. It wasn't particularly important by any means, but it was…

Nice. It was a nice memory.

I was sitting on the floor of Jacob's bedroom, my back resting against the side of his bed, my legs crossed Indian-style. And there he was, sitting, too, but his torso leaned against the wall instead, and his long legs were extended in front of him, his feet managing to rub against my thigh. The light of the morning sun flittered through the curtains of the window and lay over the wooden floor, over the back of my head, and it beamed off Jacob's russet skin, highlighting the curves of his carefully sculpted arms. But his muscles flexed, and when they did his veins bulged for a second. Life flowed beneath his soft skin, I remembered, and suddenly, hearing almost like a vague echo a steady heartbeat, I found him utterly, absolutely, beautiful in his anciently Greek version of humanity. Or in his semblance with the miners of the era I'd been born in, bearing in the fibers of their body the strength needed to ward off the difficulties of their job. But his skin wasn't coated in coal-dust or sweat. It maintained the slightly reddish bronze that glowed softly under the mid-morning sunlight.

I unfolded my legs, and they stretched over the floor like his, my feet managing to reach his knee. The contact was simultaneously foreign and familiar. Strange, but right. It was as if I was spreading lemon juice over a message that had been written but couldn't be seen. And I felt a bond blooming quietly and slowly as our legs moved closer, closer, until they were intertwined. Jacob didn't smile, and neither did I, because I was lost in the flashing amber with which his eyes seemed to have been filled as the rays of the sun stretched over his face, too. The chirping of birds outside and the ruffling of tree leaves mingled with the sound of our breathing, and it was the first time I considered the possibility of enjoying an endless life, as long as I could stare at the rise and fall of his chest forevermore.

But his chest vibrated suddenly and the slight movement broke me out of my trance. I realized he had been speaking.

"Sorry," I said with a smile. "Can you repeat that?"

"Your hair," he said, "it's got some blondish strands."

My stomach fluttered. A flush spread over my cheeks. "Your eyes have amber in them," I replied.

He chuckled, and his smile was a set of white teeth contrasting against the hue of his skin. "Really?"

I nodded, and we settled into silence once more. A comfortable kind of silence. My feet fiddled idly with the hem of his cutoffs, and he stared down at them absently, like he wanted to touch me somehow but didn't know if he should. It was the middle of July, some weeks after Ephraim's…visit, and I still shied away from the shadow of a door closing or a sudden flash of tanned skin. It bothered me that my instincts had become inimical to some of the things Jacob did, and the way he appeared all of a sudden, in moments when I couldn't see his face and was instantly rewarded with terrifying flashbacks. I wanted to be absolutely comfortable with his presence, with every single one of his movements or features, because looking at him then, silent and beautiful and bathed in sunlight, I came upon a startling realization.

I think I'm falling in love with you.

"Would you love someone you used to hate?" I asked when a sliver of boldness seemed to be present in my chest. Jacob looked up, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Yes," he said. "Would you?"

I scratched my wrist lightly, my shoulders sunken. "I don't hate anyone," I mumbled. "Except…"

Him. Jacob understood who I was talking about.

"Your family?"

I felt a recent ache come alive once again within my ribcage. I shook my head. "No."

"And when you were a vampire, didn't you hate me?"

"Not for a second."

"Do you have some kind of criteria?" Jacob chuckled.

"No," I muttered. "I couldn't possibly dedicate that much time to something like that."

"But you used to have all the time in the world."

"But you didn't, and still don't."

Jacob pursed his eyebrows, while my words made something click in his head. "Was it my finitude that made it impossible for you to hate me?"

"It was your mutability."

"Darwin taught you more than Catholic School, then." He smiled. "By that logic, there's no point in hating something that's bound to change."

"And no point in hating a life with ups and downs."

"But what about… him?" He frowned. "What if he changes?"

"He already has." I smiled sadly. "There's no turning back for some."

"You think they're doomed?"

"No." I laughed. "People aren't prefabricated burgers."

"So?"

"So I hope you never have to learn that there are things that humanity, the condition of being self-aware, does not allow."

«-»

I opened my eyes to sunlight pouring from the spaces between the window blinds. I was curled up on my side, the hand with the IV hanging from the edge of the bed, and the continuous hum of several machines told me that I was quite a sight in that moment, with a tube trailing up my nose, taped to the side of my face, and another coming out of my anus, though no one could actually see it, because I still had the soaked sheets over my body. A bigger rustling than I was expecting alerted me to the presence of one more person in the room besides Carlisle and Rosalie, seeing as their movements were always naturally silent. Jasper had probably left; the emotional blanket was gone, and I knew that the tiredness that'd settled into my bones was all mine. I sighed, blinking lazily, trying to get my vision to adjust to the semi-darkness in the room. I saw that the window blinds had been almost shut, but white stripes of light managed to enter the room, and so I guessed that it wasn't too late in the day.

"His core temperature is lowering steadily," Rosalie's voice announced quietly. She was sitting next to Jacob, who was doubled over for some reason, while a crunching sound made itself heard. It sounded as if he was rummaging through a box of Legos… "Take that look off your face, mutt. I didn't give you the bucket for you to moan about it."

"I'm not moaning," he replied tightly, as if he was in… pain. Or discomfort. Something was definitely wrong with him. I moved over to the edge of the bed, as much as I could, to see what he was doing, and I was hit with the vision of his tanned arm immersed in ice, while his face displayed a range of emotions that weren't really to anyone's liking in particular. I could only imagine what it felt like to be in contact with something so cold while your body ran under a temperature of 104 degrees, until I remembered that he was used to standing in the rain and going around half-naked. But then again it was ice. We all had our limits. "Hey." He smiled up at me, and his hand was suddenly out of the bucket, reaching for mine. His skin was damp and… sufficiently cold.

"What…" I tried to speak and found that my voice was almost too low for human ears to pick up on it, the tube interfering with my ability to communicate. It was also pretty damn uncomfortable. "What're you doing?" I croaked.

"It's called moral support," he said with a tone of hesitance, his thumb drawing a circle on the back of my hand.

"He can't keep his paws off you," Rosalie snipped. "So I found a solution."

"Pretty smart for a blondie," Jacob muttered.

I smiled weakly, their small banter managing to amuse me for a couple of seconds, as a warm feeling spread in my stomach. I guessed it would be correct to say that I was… touched. Jacob's desire to go through that just to touch me and Rosalie's idea to get him what he wanted had me wishing that I could enjoy their interaction more thoroughly, but I still felt too tired to open my eyes fully and I didn't think I'd be able to really concentrate on anything with the burning above my lower lashes.

I breathed out heavily. "What time is it?"

"Midday," Rosalie replied. "Carlisle has gone downstairs to greet the new guests. We're getting some fans after all."

"Her dream come true," Jacob joked, and when he noticed that his skin wasn't cool anymore his hand withdrew and dived into the ice again.

"You should go eat something," I said.

"I already have."

Sure thing. I thought it was better not to insist, even though I was certain that he was lying.

"Are you still feeling hot?" Rosalie asked.

I've never felt sexier.

"Ed?" my wolf drew my attention to her question.

"Not nearly as much," I answered with some relief.

She stood up and laid her hand on my covered stomach. "You're breathing fine?"

"Yes."

"Do you think he's doing okay?"

"Blondie," Jacob growled threateningly.

I took a shuddering breath to ward off the anxiety that suddenly came over me, thoughts of bloody sheets and a child struggling inside an amniotic sac stamping themselves onto my memory. And the new information certainly didn't help. There wasn't just one life at stake; if I didn't survive, it was possible that Thomas wouldn't make it either. For the moment I could only hope that despite everything Carlisle was right about the caesarian and that this was really just a phase, something common to all pregnancies in which a child with wolf genes grew inside a womb.

"I don't know," I sighed.

We wouldn't know until only a few hours after that. I was told that more nomads arrived throughout the afternoon, but they were kept out of the house for obvious reasons, shown the wildlife around and told the story that might render them either our enemies or our allies. I didn't reckon that our offer would be turned down, especially if Jasper persuaded them by demonstrating what their options were in that moment. As for Alice's visions, I didn't know much, though I sensed a shared piece of knowledge between the members of my family, the ones that came into the room to see how I was fairing. They exchanged brief looks that I didn't bother deciphering, certain that whatever they were hiding, however relevant it was, wouldn't be laid out in the open as long as I lay in a hospital bed with needles and tubes binding me to the machines on its sides. And my body and mind felt too drained for me to involve myself in more safety plans or mindless conversations, so they all pretty much drifted past me, while Jacob stared, sticking his hand into the already molten bucket every half an hour, and I brooded, grateful for his touch and yet hopeful that I could go back to having his hands on me at his normal temperature, warm and strong and ever-so-familiar.

Midday graduated into mid-afternoon and mid-afternoon saw its end at twilight. Now the room was bathed in a glow of dark blues, and the light from outside was so weak that the one in the ceiling had to be switched on. Carlisle had returned just moments before, along with Jasper, when only Rosalie and Jacob, who'd stayed by my side throughout the day, as well as Esme, were present in the room. A heavy silence settled, the rubbing of shoe soles on the wooden floor and their slight movements the only sounds that vibrated across the air that filled the ample space, and it was in a quiet voice that Carlisle informed me that my core temperature had dropped to the mark recommended and asked me if I was feeling cold. In that very second I shivered, a sign that confirmed his suspicions, and that's how I ended up putting on one of Emmett's tee shirts. People turned when the soaked sheets were replaced by cotton layers, all of them except Jacob and Carlisle, while Esme went downstairs to prepare my dinner, seeing as intravenous "food" made me more nauseous than my… condition itself.

"You're recovering steadily," Carlisle said, his stare lost between the machines and the IV pump that still rested on the back of my hand, should the need for it arise. I could sense his hesitation to look at me, as if it would remind him of his mistakes and my throat ached with the need to tell him that it was alright, even though it wasn't. "No gastrointestinal bleeding; the treatment for fluid replacement seems to have worked; your temperature has gone back to normal… We need to monitor for any changes for a couple more days and do an ultrasound, but for now…"

The rest of what he said was drowned out. Not because I didn't want to listen to him, but because out of nothing, with no presage whatsoever, a blinding, excruciating pain blew up somewhere down below, like something inside me was being torn to shreds. My hands curled around the bed sheets tightly, and I might've seen my legs spreading open somewhat through the blur that fell over my vision, although I didn't do it consciously. Rather, they imitated what I sensed was happening inside me. Something was… being torn open after being tightly wound together for years, and I felt as if someone was doing it with a goddamn chainsaw, the way it seemed to be happening, so fast and so painfully. My teeth were grit together in such a manner that I thought for a second my jaw would snap.

"Edward," someone called urgently. "Tell me what's wrong. What hurts?"

Something between a moan and a growl erupted from my throat. The pain was so motherfucking strong… If I racked my brains hard enough I'd be sure that this had happened before when I was traveling back to the States with Ethan, only this time the pain was increased tenfold. I could feel my lungs tightening again, my muscles coiling while the seams were pulled on either side until they were ripped open. My name was called again, more times than what I was able to register; questions flowing towards me and ricocheting off my ears, receiving no answer other than a pained whimper; faces moving above me, a clash of contrasts, brown and cream and swirling masses, blurry and dotted with black spots; toes curling over the fabric of cotton sheets; hands fisted above the bed, falling against it, but the slight ache was not a good enough distraction; fingers entwined in my hair, and when they pulled it back the dampness on the edge of my forehead descended, and now – now there was a hint of the smell of sweat. And down below there was dampness, too, sprinting towards an end, squashing away the recent dryness of my skin, and I couldn't understand why, not when the pain was still riding a towering wave…

And definitely not when the wave crashed. I screamed, unable to contain it, my back arching off the bed, until the wave fell in salty rain and foam onto the shore, only to be absorbed, drained away.

"Edward."

It was Jacob. I knew from the familiar sound of his voice, now broken and terrified, that he was right there, just next to me, leaning over my almost limp frame. I was a rag, sinking into the bed, my chest heaving with the air that'd help my mind get clearer. My muscles seemed to have been turned into mush. I opened my tired eyes, and Jacob's were boring into them, the concern swirling in them reaching an indescribable level. His breathing was labored, too. I was confused; my eyebrows furrowed, and I had a feeling that they did it in slow motion. Everything was happening in slow motion, or not happening at all. A chilling stillness had taken away the clamor from minutes ago.

"Edward," Jacob echoed, but this time… This time his voice was all wrong. Too thick and hoarse and wounded, like he had something cutting into his throat. He was crying. I lifted my hand to wipe away the tears that had crawled over his cheek, but his eyes were still beaming liquidly, and his chin was so still, like he was preventing himself from letting it move.

"It's okay," I whispered, as I caressed his temple. "Whatever it is, love. It's okay."

"Ed…" He seemed to choke on whatever he wanted to say, and the urge to comfort him, bring him back from wherever abyss he appeared to have slipped into, made me sit up straighter and reach for his other cheek. And there was something… I felt, as if I couldn't feel at all, a moving wetness below, a thick, liquid smattering between my legs dripping onto the bed and soaking the sheets above and the cushion beneath. I didn't look down. For some reason I thought I ought to keep my gaze trained on the black hairs drifting slightly from Jacob's left eyebrow. But my hand moved downwards, underneath the sheets, rushing past my stomach and coming to a halt when my fingers touched something. Something that slithered slowly, continuously and tortuously – something that crawled over my skin and now coated my hand.

My fingers were red. I brought them up to see what it was, and the light from the ceiling highlighted the web-thin lines, like crimson festoons, hanging between my middle and index fingers. I looked down, and there was white… There was still some white left, and there was the bump and my feet down below. But there was also red. So much red.

So much blood.

I gasped, and Jacob's arms were suddenly around me, wrapped around my chest and the top of my back, while his hand brought my head closer to his chest, as if… As if I should hide there, so that I couldn't see what was happening, but the vision would always be engraved in my mind. It was right there. There was the bump, and Thomas had to still be in there, even if below that there was a scarlet lake spreading and wetting me further, and, for God's sake, I could feel it moving out of me… I could feel the blood running out of me…

"No," I mouthed. My head shook against Jacob's shoulder. And suddenly, like a wave rising, an unbearable ache enlarged inside my chest. It was Nietzsche, I remembered, who had once said that some things are no more than a bellow – by swelling, they simply augmented the emptiness. And as my lungs expanded with the sharp breath I took, a feeling of nothingness, of loss, like something that had been so knowingly present, attached to every single part of me, was ripped away in a matter of minutes.

Like it was slipping out of me in that very moment.

"Darling, shhh," Jacob whispered in my ear, and I trembled, eyes wide open, watching as blood imbrued cotton, the knot in my throat seeming to me to be a knot in the invisible rope around my neck, a death sentence that just wouldn't be carried out.

As if I was dying, except I never did.

"No, no," I repeated, the emptiness dressing itself in a cloth of blind rage and failed denial. Because I couldn't deny it, but I couldn't bear it either. And everything just hurt. Every single one of my limbs, every single one of my fibers, throbbed, pulsed with an immeasurable pain, and I wanted to tear my hair out, wanted Jacob's arms off me, wanted to bring it back – I wanted all that'd left me in the form of blood inside me again. Because it just couldn't be. I couldn't have my son hurt in any way; I'd vowed to myself; I'd promised myself I'd raise him and love him and care for him. So it couldn't be. Jacob had to get off me and dry his stupid tears, because nothing was happening. Didn't he know? Hadn't I told him that we would bring him up together? He had to–

"I've got you," he choked out, and his arms tightened around me, holding me in place.

"No, get off me," I shouted, squirming, writhing, shaking against him, trying to push his shoulder away from me, and suddenly there was blood on his skin, too, passed around like a plague. "I told you… I told you we'd do it together. Can't you remember? He can't be–"

"I've got you," he said shakily, and I felt his body trembling against mine, his tears against the back of my neck.

"No," I repeated, but it was a loose breath this time, a tired exhale, a way that my voice had found to say that I surrendered. The fight drained out of me, and the emptiness was back. Back in full force. And it was permanent, a wound that'd never heal, burning now despite the coldness that seeped into my bones. The ache enlarged, weaving my throat into a whirlwind, and everything was hurting again. "I…" My voice wavered, caught in the maelstrom. I had the sense it wouldn't be able to get past it, like my lungs couldn't stand the weight of one more word – and, yet, they slipped out, intersected, cut into little pieces, fragments scattered over a line that had been only curvy until this moment but now it was broken. Irrevocably. "Thomas…"

"It's alright, sweetheart." Jacob's lips pressed against my temple.

"He's… H-he…"

Dead. He was dead.

And as I sobbed, inconsolable, my fingers white around Jacob's arms, I thought I might be, too.

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A.N.: Thank you for reading.