A/N: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. Among the other things I don't own? A medical degree.

Thanks to miaokuancha for pointing out errors I'd made in describing Charlie's care.

36

The ride back to her place is quiet. I only ask a couple questions, making sure this is where she wants to go. I'm worried that seeing the place where she found him will upset her or that she'll feel compelled to clean up or something, but I understand the benefits of sleeping in your own bed, surrounded by your own things.

Once inside, she starts to head straight to her bedroom, but I stop her, tugging at her hand. "When's the last time you ate?"

"I'm not hungry." She shivers.

"Bella."

With a sigh, she turns and admits, "Lunch? Maybe?"

It's after midnight. Again, I curse myself for not being there for her earlier. For not taking care of her.

"Come on." I steer her toward the kitchen, but then I see all the stuff still sitting on the counter. And I can picture it, see her standing there, laughing and smiling and chopping up something entirely too healthy.

I remember the look of horror on her face the last time Charlie fell.

"Here." Making a quick course correction, I lead her to the dining room table instead, pull out a chair for her and get her to sit.

In the kitchen, I open up the fridge and look for something to get some sugar into her. There's not a lot that fits the bill, but after hesitating for a minute, I pour her a glass of juice and bring it to her. She takes it without saying anything, and I linger for a minute, rubbing her shoulders and kissing her cheek.

To the best of my ability, I clean up whatever she was making earlier, then go digging for something simple. Fortunately, she has the makings for sandwiches. Even I can do sandwiches.

I bring a plate with them out to her and sit down beside her. Nudging her to take one, I grab one for myself and dig in. She picks up hers and takes a few tentative bites, chewing and staring blankly forward. Every now and then, I reach out and touch her hand, but I let her keep her silence.

Until she breaks it.

"I thought he was doing so well," she says quietly. There's an edge of emotion to her voice, like when she broke down in the waiting room, and I brace myself.

"Sometimes you never know."

"I feel like I should have."

"Hey." I stroke her cheek and run my fingers down her arm to hold her hand. "You did everything right. No one could possibly have taken better care of him than you do."

Shaking her head, she drops the uneaten half of her sandwich and rests her head in her hand. "I've been so stressed out. And distracted." She shoots me a meaningful look. It makes me swallow.

I'm a distraction.

I ball my hands up into fists and remind myself she's grieving. That I'm stressed out and exhausted, and overreacting won't do me any good.

Resolving not to take her words too much to heart, I reach out. "Bella…"

"What if I missed the signs, or…"

"Bella, you're only human," I say, my throat tight. "Even Sue said you did everything right."

At that, a dry laugh escapes her throat. "Don't even get me started on Sue."

I sit back in my chair and sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah."

"I called her in a panic, and I didn't even think about what it meant that she came right over until…until she started crying."

"You think…?"

Bella shakes her head and fidgets, running a finger around the rim of her glass. "She said she cared a lot about him. I didn't press. But I assume. God, how did I not know any of this was going on?"

"You have a lot on your plate."

"That's no excuse."

"Hey." I wait until she looks at me, then I squeeze her hand, rubbing her palm with my thumb. "This is not your fault."

Her lower lip trembles. "But what if—"

Oh, God. She thinks this is her fault.

Speaking more firmly this time, I insist, "This. Is. Not. Your. Fault."

"I—"

"It's not your fault."

I'm out of my chair and wrapping my arms around her before she can give in to the first sob. I hold her and rock her and tell her over and over again that she did her best and it was all she could do.

"It's not your fault, sweetheart. It's not."

Eventually, she calms down and pulls away. I gesture at what's left of the food and ask her if she's done. She got about half of it down, which I figure is good enough. Leaving the dishes for later, I lead her to the bathroom and watch as she washes up mechanically.

In her room, she strips down to a blue tank top and little purple panties, then does that trick where she gets her bra off without taking off any more of her clothes.

I hover at the door.

"Do you want—I could—"

I'm about to offer to go sleep on the couch or something, but she crawls into bed and turns back the covers on my side, mumbling, simply, "Come here."

I turn off the lights and take off my glasses and shoes and jeans, then slide in behind her. She presses back against me, and when I pull her into my arms, she places her hand over mine to keep me close.

And that's how we fall asleep. Hand in hand. Heart to heart.