Authors Note:

Thanks for the reviews! Y'all are amazing! Keep 'em coming.

It's been awhile since we've heard from Bella. Let's check in with her, shall we?

Disclaimer:

S. Meyer owns Twilight. While I borrowed several obvious quotes from her books, no plagiarism is intended.

BPOV

True to his word, Edward knocks on my door twenty minutes later. While he was gone, I managed to pull myself together. Well, on the inside at least... I think, maybe. On the outside, I probably look like a crazy person in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

I shouldn't be surprised that they want to lock me up in some hospital.

I am now sitting up in the center of my bed, my arms wrapped around my knees, my chin resting on top. With my eyes closed, I rock in time to the beat of the music in my mind, mentally rehearsing the choreography for the upcoming Christmas performance. The rocking motion is calming, and concentrating on the sequence of steps is a welcome distraction from what I'm about to do.

The idea of eating something terrifies me. It's been a long time since anything more than water has passed my lips. Jacob tried to get me to eat a few crackers the other day, but he was too late. Everything that goes in now eventually comes right back up.

I honestly didn't do it on purpose. It all started that horrible night, when Edward… when I came back from Florida, and my nightmare became reality. I knew what was coming the second I tried to approach him and he stepped away. He hadn't even uttered a word yet. He didn't need to; it was written all over his face.

His face.

I shudder as I recall the look on his face that night. I didn't recognize him at all. I'd thought I knew his face better than my own. I may as well have been blind.

Blind.I huff out loud. It's true what they say about love making you blind. It makes you blind and stupid. So stupid.

Those first few days, I was just too depressed to think about anything other than the pain. Then, when the grief started to subside in the days that followed I felt… numb. There's no other way to describe it. I felt nothing. I honestly don't remember much else about that first week. Jake told me later that I looked like the walking dead. I guess I went into some type of shock or something, because he said I literally shut off.

When I first realized I hadn't eaten anything, an entire week had already gone by. It was weird, because I didn't feel hungry at all. I forced myself to eat a couple grapes, but they made my empty stomach twist and churn uncomfortably, so I decided I'd try again in a few more days. The next week, just the smell of food made me want to vomit. So I stayed away from the kitchen and didn't come home from school until well after dinner was over.

The routine suited me fine. I honestly didn't want to see any of his family. Having to live in his house, constantly surrounded with reminders of him was bad enough. I just wanted to be alone. I wanted to wallow in my misery.

I did notice when my clothes no longer fit right. The straps of my skin-tight leotards began to slip off my shoulders during studio class, but I ignored it. Jake would have noticed too if the studio didn't decide to turn on the air-conditioning in the middle of November. I had to start wearing my warm-up wraps, sweatshirts and legwarmers during class just to keep from freezing to death. It wasn't like this before; usually I was sweating buckets after five minutes in the studio. I idly wondered, on more than one occasion, if Victoria was older than I thought, possibly having hot flashes twenty years early.

Like I said, stupid and blind.

What I didn't realize was just how much weight I had lost until Victoria confronted me yesterday. I was in her office when she called Carlisle after I fainted. They used terms like "clinical depression" and "eating disorder."Of course, this wasn't the first time the latter had been used to describe me, by either of them no less. They talked about some doctor here in Seattle that Carlisle wanted me to see, the prescriptions he wanted me to take, and why I kept refusing to do either. I got the full, comprehensive, exhaustive, annoying lecture I've heard a dozen times about the damage I was doing to my body. I nodded and agreed in all the right places, but honestly, it wasn't sinking in.

And then Victoria said the one thing I never thought I'd hear – I wasn't allowed to dance. My scholarship was suspended until I made a noticeable effort to change my behavior. What shocked me even more was when Carlisle actually thought this was a good idea. He had been my only ally just a few weeks ago when Charlie demanded I come home. He had been the one to convince everyone else that taking me away from school was a bad idea.

I was livid. All the way home I yelled and cursed and called him a traitor. I'm pretty sure the phrase "like father like son" came out once or twice. Jake just drove in silence while my tirade went on and on. By the time we pulled into the driveway, I was exhausted. Jake helped me from the car, and I almost slapped him when I saw the satisfied smirk on his face.

My anger flared again. "What the hell, Jacob!"

"I'm just glad to see you're still in there. You've barely spoken ten words in the last month. It's nice to hear your voice again, even if you are screeching at top volume."

Ten words? That can't be right.

Jake practically carried me to my room. It was completely unnecessary; there was nothing wrong with my legs. I think he was afraid I'd pass out again, fall and hit my head or something, so I humored him. I begged Jake not to call Emmett, but he wouldn't listen. I knew Emmy would freak out and probably call Esme and Carlisle again. I just wanted everyone to leave me alone. My anger had subsided, and the harsh reality that everything I had worked for had just been stripped from me was starting to sink in. There was nothing left now.

I actually fooled Jake by pretending to fall asleep while he was on the phone, and I was grateful when he finally went downstairs to wait for Emmett. Of course, I wouldn't be able to actually sleep in this bed. Every time I tried, the nightmares got worse.

Two weeks ago, after waking up trembling and terrified in the darkness, I snuck down the hall and climbed into Edward's bed. I thought it was a good idea at the time - the familiar smell, the way his pillow cradled my head, the feel of the sheets against my skin – it quickly lulled me into a dreamless sleep. But I just ended up trading one nightmare for another. When I woke the next morning, the sun illuminated the room I hadn't seen the night before, and I was assaulted by the memories this place held.

Of course, the destruction he left behind only reminded me of the last time I saw him. I got down on my hands and knees, frantically clearing the mess from the floor while endless tears streamed down my cheeks. My cruel mind tricked me into thinking if I rid this room – our room – of the wreckage, the damage, then maybe my Edward would come back to me.

Stupid and blind.

He hadn't come back. I tried to stay away from his room, but every few nights my exhaustion won out, and I'd drag myself down the hall in the middle of the night.

So last night, after a physically and emotionally draining day, I used the balcony to slip past my babysitter downstairs and climbed into Edward's bed. Sleep found me instantly, but this time, so did my dreams. Thankfully, this vision was different from the nightmares that had been plaguing me. I felt safe and warm, like coming home from a long journey. For the first time in weeks, I wasn't alone in my dream. I could feel someone with me, someone watching over me. I heard a familiar voice. I felt a familiar touch on my skin. In my dream, I smiled. My Edward had finally returned to me.

Abruptly, the mood of my dream changed. Sadness and pain obscured my vision, and I blinked to clear it. That's when I saw him, and it frightened me at first. In my dream he was obscure, a phantom, not real.

But this was real; he was really here. I hadn't seen him since the night he left me, and all of the emotions I was trying to represses slammed into me like a wrecking ball. I tried to escape, but he stopped me. And while everyone else had been walking on eggshells around me, talking about my condition with cautious and delicate words, Edward got angry. He actually got upset and yelled at me. I felt like, by hurting myself, I was hurting him too. For one fleeting second, I felt a glimmer of hope float through my body.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

After all that pain, after what he put me through, you'd think I'd learned my lesson. Nope. Go ahead and add gluten for punishment to my diagnosis.

What the hell was I thinking last night, letting him get to me like that? Talking to him. Listening to him. To him! Of all the people who have reached out to me, why the hell did I open up to him!

I should have run to Jake last night. Run screaming. I started to, but Edward had me trapped when he stole my pants like the immature child he is. Had I raced downstairs with my boney legs on display, everyone would see just how bad it had gotten.

When I sent Edward away last night, I was certain he would disappear again, but he didn't. He came back this morning. It didn't take long for me to figure out what he was up to, and I was determined not to give him the satisfaction of letting him come to my rescue. But my resolve kept faltering. I kept seeing small glimpses of the Edward I knew, the Edward I fell in love with - the Edward that wasn't real.

And when he kissed me… I shake my head and try to rid the thought from my mind.

Then he told me Carlisle was going to send me to the rehab hospital in Phoenix. I knew a couple of girls from my old studio that spent some time there. I knew all about what happened in those kinds of places: the group therapy sessions, the supervised meals, the constant intrusion into every facet of your life.

The eating part wasn't what scared me; this wasn't about food. It was the exercise restrictions. No, not restrictions, it was practically forbidden. The thought of not dancing for weeks, for months, sent me into a panic. I would never be able to get back on track. Not like I was dancing a lot right now anyway; my suspension took care of that. But if I stayed here, close to school, the possibility of getting back into studio class was better than if I left.

So, I gave in. I saw a chance to get back one part of my shattered life. Maybe that part would be enough to make me happy again… one day. I resigned to let Edward help me so I could stay. What did I care if he fooled his father into thinking he was some hero. Maybe it would make life better for the rest of the family if things weren't so hostile between Carlisle and Edward. I could do that for Esme and Emmett.

But I knew I needed to guard what was left of my heart. I couldn't let Edward get close enough to hurt me again. I couldn't fall for his little act again. I would not survive if he… no, I couldn't think about that right now. I had just pulled myself together, and thinking about that would surely send me over the edge again.

Edward knocks again. "Bella?"

I take a deep breath and shake my head to clear my thoughts. "Come in."

Edward opens the door slowly. I expected him to be carrying a tray filled with food. I imagined a breakfast-in-bed assortment of bacon, eggs, and toast. But all he has is a shot glass, filled a little more than halfway with a thick, raspberry colored liquid. He walks straight to the bed and hands the glass to me. I notice his laptop tucked under his other arm.

"What is it?" I ask as I take the glass from him, warily studying the syrupy liquid.

"Hulk Berry Smoothie. Two tablespoons."

I look up at him, confused.

"You can have two tablespoons now, and if you keep it down for one hour, you can have two more. After that, we double to four tablespoons an hour until we reach six."

"Oh." I look down at the tiny amount of liquid in the glass, and suddenly the idea of bringing it to my lips seems like a monumental feat. From the corner of my eye, I see Edward sit on the foot of the bed facing me, watching me, his laptop now resting on his knees. I look up at him with what I'm sure is an expression of dread.

"It's OK. Take your time."

I study the glass again for a moment, then my gaze flashes back to him. "This is stupid. You don't have to sit here."

"I don't mind."

"I can do this by myself," I spit back, stubbornly.

"I'm not going anywhere." His placating tone is starting to grate on my nerves.

"Don't you have -"

"Bella," his voice is stern, "I have to see you drink it."

"Oh, right." Of course, they don't trust me not to pour it out the second I'm alone.

I stare at the glass again. Why is this so hard? With a deep breath, I close my eyes and drink. The liquid is overly sweet, and the slimy texture coats my throat as I swallow.

I open my eyes again to see Edward smiling at me before holding out his hand for the empty glass. Now that his job is done, I'm sure he's anxious to leave. I hand him the glass and he stand and walks to my desk, not the door. He sets the dirty glass aside and crouches down to plug his laptop into the outlet under my desk.

"Um, what are you doing?"

He looks at me with a perplexed expression as he sits down in the chair. "We have an hour to kill before your next… meal."

I nod slowly, mockingly. "Riiiight, so what's with the laptop?"

"I wanted to do a little… um, homework while we wait." He twists around in the chair, flipping the latch and opening his laptop. The screen blinks a few times before coming to life. The desktop appears with a dozen or so icons lined up across a solid wall of black. That stings a little – a lot. His wallpaper used to be the picture of us from the sculpture park.

"Can't you do your homework in your own room?" I seethe.

"No," he says flatly without looking away from the computer. He launches his internet browser, and then leans back in the chair, positioning the machine so he can type comfortably. The new angle prevents me from seeing what he's doing, but I don't think it's intentional.

"Well, you can't stay in here."

He twists in the chair slightly, turning his head to face me. "We could go downstairs if you'd be more comfortable."

My eyes grow wide. "We?"

He stares at me for a second, like I'm missing some glaringly obvious fact. "Bella, I'm not supposed to leave you alone."

"What! Why?"

Edward gives me another pointed look.

"Oh, for Christ's sake! I'm not going to stick my finger down my throat."

He turns back to his computer again. "Not on my watch you're not," he mumbles under his breath.

This is not happening. This is not what I signed up for. Edward completely dropped off the face of the Earth the night he destroyed my world, and now he wants to hangout in my bedroom! No way!

I jump off the bed and stomp to the desk, grabbing my phone from the charger next to Edward's laptop. I pace back and forth as I scroll through my contact list, searching for Jake's number.

Edward sighs, clearly annoyed. "Bella, what are you doing?"

"I'm calling Jake."

"Good, call him," he says sarcastically. "He and I can take shifts. I'm sure he'll be more than happy to – "

Whatever he's saying, I don't hear. I'm already out the door and halfway down the hall to the bathroom, one hand clasped over my mouth as my stomach rolls.

I make it to the toilet just in time to expel the entire contents of my stomach, though it isn't much. I'm finished by the time Edward catches up to me, his hands pulling back the loose strands of hair from my face as I kneel on the floor. When the heaving stops, I feel him place a cool cloth across the back of my neck.

"My mom used to do that when I was little," he says softly. "It always made me feel better."

Edward sits down on the floor next to me and places his hand on my back, moving it gently in comforting circles. I don't realize I'm crying until he takes my face in his free hand, forcing me to turn and look at him.

"Hey, hey, it's OK. Don't do that." His face is a mixture of distress and concern, and for a second I feel that pang of guilt again – like this is hurting him too. He takes the cloth from behind my neck, sweeping it over my face to wash away the tears. The cool rag feels good against my flushed skin, and I close my eyes as he continues to brush it over my cheeks and forehead.

"We're going to get through this, OK? We're just getting started. Carlisle says this will be a slow process, but we'll get through it."

I don't respond, opening my eyes to stare at his saddened expression. Edward brushes the cloth across my forehead one more time, and then stands up. He walks to the sink and soaks the cloth under the faucet. He rings it out then raises one wet hand, roughly rubbing his face, wetting it with the cool water. Before I have time to contemplate the gesture, he shuts off the faucet and quickly dries his face and hands with the towel hanging on the rack. He turns to face me, picking up the wet cloth again.

"Come on. Let's go lay down," he says. I allow him to pull me up from the floor. He wraps one arm around my waist and practically carries me to my bedroom.

I crawl into the center of the bed, and Edward covers me with the blanket, tucking it around my body like a cocoon before returning the cool cloth to my forehead. The gesture reminds me of when I had the flu in the ninth grade, and Charlie had to miss a week of work to take care of me.

"You're going to make a great dad someday," I blurt out without thinking.

Edward freezes for a second, probably just as shocked by my statement as I am. Then his expression softens, and although I can tell he's fighting a smile, he can't hide the way his eyes light up.

"Try to sleep," he says softly. "I'll wake you up in an hour, and we'll try again." He doesn't wait for a response. Instead, he stands up and returns to his laptop to resume his homework.

I close my eyes, but only for a minute or two. I know there's no way I'll be able to sleep with Edward in the room. I open them again, and my gaze instantly falls on where he's sitting at my desk. He's casually leaning back in the chair, his long, lanky legs stretched out to one side, crossed at the ankles. One hand is shoved in his pocket while the other rests on his laptop, and every few seconds he taps a key on the keyboard. I assume he's scrolling through whatever webpage he's reading.

For all I know he could be looking at pictures of what's-her-face.

Abruptly, he sits up and leans toward the screen, something apparently grabbing his attention. His eyes flash from side to side as he studies the display in front of him. He taps a key again with one finger, pauses, and then brings both hands to the keyboard, mashing the keys determinedly.

You'd think he'd feel me staring at him, but he's so engrossed in his task that he doesn't seem to notice. So I continue to watch him, trying to decipher what he's reading from the changing expressions on his face. Whatever the topic is, it seems to be holding his attention more than his homework usually does.

Back when we were together, Edward occupied the back corner of my studio two or three nights a week, spreading his books across the floor. I often mused over how different our 'homework' processes were. Of course, I'd done my share of endless algebra equations and English papers, but now my homework consisted of perfecting a grand rond de jambe or working on my epaulement in the mirror. All the while, reminding Edward to focus on his books whenever I'd catch him watching me. Some nights, if he had a big test or paper due the next day, I'd send him to his room if he couldn't concentrate. Other nights, I'd… well, I may have fed into his distraction.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the memories back into the recesses of my mind.

"You OK?"

My eyes fly open again to see Edward watching me. I must have zoned out, because I didn't notice him looking at me before.

"Does it hurt?" he asks concerned.

Of course this hurts, but not in the way he thinks. In my mind, his words start replaying, over and over.

"We are going to get through this."

We, we, we. He keeps saying we.There is no we. He needs to quit talking this way. I know I agreed to this arrangement, but he doesn't need to keep up the pretense when we're alone. The day he left, it felt like a great hole had been torn in my chest where my heart used to be. Every time he says 'we,' every time he touches me, when he says things like he 'can't live in a world where I don't exist,' he tears the wound open a little more.

Edward twists in his seat as if he's about to stand up.

"I'm fine," I say quickly to stop him. If he comes any closer, I have a feeling I might lose it.

I roll over so my back is to him. He sighs, and I'm thankful when I hear him resume typing a moment later.

I stare out the windows, watching as the grey clouds roll in and block the late morning sun. I try very hard to trick my mind into thinking I'm alone, but despite my best efforts I can't ignore the atmosphere in the room. It's like every cell in my body is aware that he's close by. That, and the fact that I can't stop myself from trying to decode every sound coming from behind me.

The typing is simple to figure out. I can easily differentiate the rhythmic taps of scrolling down a page from the sporadic strikes of entering text. He must be gathering notes for a research paper or something. I can hear him shift his weight in the chair, bouncing his foot nervously on the floor; I can even pick up the faint rustle of his hair when he runs his hand through it. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and I listen to the unmistakable click, click, click as he taps out a response to a text message. That sound bothers me the most, my mind immediately jumping to the most likely and worst possible conclusion – he's texting her.

The virtual conversation continues for several minutes before Edward stands and walks slowly out the door, clicking away on his phone as he moves. I glance over my shoulder to his laptop, still angled away from my line of sight, but in the reflection of the picture frames on my dresser, it's easy to make out the bright, multicolored ribbons dancing across the screensaver.

Edward returns a few minutes later, not bothering to knock as he enters my room with another shot glass of Hulk Berry hell. He sits down on my bed, handing the glass to me. I try to protest, but Edward simply shakes his head and nudges the glass toward me again.

The entire day progresses in exactly the same way. It's like living through a horrible version of Groundhog Day and I'm Bill Murray. Every hour, Edward forces another shot down my throat, and within fifteen minutes I'm back in the bathroom throwing it up. I only get one break – an extra thirty minutes between torture cocktails to be sure I keep down the second round of pills.

I notice the sun beginning to set, and I realize I've been living through this nightmare for six hours. I no longer even have the strength to lift myself from the bathroom floor. Edward has to carry me back to my bed, and I beg him, tears streaming down my face, that I can't take anymore today. He reluctantly agrees.

"I'm going to call Carlisle. Will you be all right?"

I don't answer. I simply roll over and turn my back to him again.

EPOV

I step out into the dark hallway and quietly shut the door. My body slumps against the adjacent wall, my head making a dull thud as I deliberately throw it back and stare up at the ceiling. The light from the first floor casts strange shadows up the stairs and down the narrow corridor to where I'm standing. For one second, everything is silent, calm. Then the faint sound of Bella's muffled sobs penetrates the stillness, sending another jolt of pain through me. I abruptly straighten up and walk away. I have to get out of here before I completely lose it.

I stumble down the stairs and out the front door, practically tripping over my own feet in my stupor. If my car had not been parked directly in front of the house, I probably would have fallen face-first on the gravel drive. Instead, I catch myself, my arms braced against the cold, metal frame. There's a strange sound, and it takes a second before I realize it's coming from me, the air moving in and out of my lungs in deep, shaky breaths.

I want to scream. I want to hit something. I want someone to hit me. I want to break down and cry. I want to throw things. I want to run away. I want run to her. I want her.

I wince and close my eyes. I want her.

I want her to tell me this is going to be OK. I want her to be OK. I want to wake up from this horrible nightmare and find her sleeping next to me, happy and healthy. Not like this. Anything but this.

Rage flares inside me, and before I even register the movement, my fist connects with the metal door frame. Again and again, over and over. I would have punched a hole through the car if I could, but the erratic movements throw me off balance and I stumble forward, catching myself on the hood this time. The exertion leaves me gasping for air, and the knuckles on my right hand covered in blood, but I don't care.

I twist my body around and slide to the ground, my heels digging long trenches in the gravel as I allow gravity, and stress, and exhaustion to pull me down. Leaning back against the door, I bend my knees and position my elbows on top, pressing the heels of my hands roughly into my eyes.

Several minutes pass as I try to slow my breathing and pull myself together. Before I can completely get a grip, my phone begins to vibrate in my pocket. I don't have to check the ID to know who it is. I'm not ready to have this conversation yet. I'm not ready to admit this isn't working. I'm not ready to give her up.

Selfish, selfish asshole.

With my good hand, I fumble to retrieve the phone from my pocket.

"Edward, how's she doing?" Carlisle asks after I choke out a "yeah" into the receiver.

I let out a deep, defeated breath. "Not good."

"Still no progress?"

"No. She hasn't been able to keep anything down. We haven't progressed past two tablespoons an hour."

"And you're sure she isn't making herself sick?"

I swear to God if he asks me that one more time! He probably texted that exact phrase twenty times today.

"Yes, I'm sure," I growl, my annoyance seeping into my words. "I've barely left her side all day. She has no control over it."

"Tomorrow should be better. The medication probably hasn't built up enough in her system."

My voice takes on an accusing tone. "Then why didn't we wait? Why didn't we just start her on the medication today and let her try to eat tomorrow?"

"Honestly, I expected her to have some success by this afternoon. I anticipated the first few tries would make her sick, but she should have shown some progress by now."

Pinning the phone between my shoulder and my ear, I use my good hand to push myself up from the cold ground. I walk back toward the house, but decide against going inside. I don't want to risk Bella overhearing our conversation. Instead, I settle for pacing across the front porch.

"So have we compounded the problem now?" I ask critically. "I mean, we could be dealing with dehydration and severe electrolyte imbalance, not to mention depleting her already low potassium levels. Didn't you consider that? That has to be the cause of all the muscle cramps in her legs. And shouldn't we be checking her -"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Carlisle interrupts. "Slow down. Take a breath, Son."

I do as I'm told, the long exhale turning to steam in the cold night air, curling around my face like smoke.

"Now," he continues, "where are you getting this information?"

I roll my eyes although he can't see. "I've been doing my homework."

"Clearly," he says, his tone almost sarcastic. Carlisle sighs into the phone. "I don't have time to go into all the specifics, but trust that there is a detailed treatment plan in place. I have been in contact with Dr. Weber throughout the day. He specializes in treating eating disorders and has been advising me for the last few weeks on how best to proceed. I've already made an appointment for Bella to meet with him on Monday morning, and he's scheduled a full metabolic panel."

I can't help but notice Monday morning is outside the forty-eight hour window, but there's no way I'm going to point that out.

"I also placed an order this morning for PN therapy with the Home Health Services department here and - "

"For what?" I interrupt. "What's PN?"

"Parenteral Nutrition, intravenous nutritional solution. You were concerned about her being dehydrated," he reminds me.

"Right."

"The nutritional formula contains various nutrients like water, electrolytes, glucose, with added vitamins and dietary minerals. If you had been unsuccessful talking with her this morning, I would have admitted her immediately for PN treatment here."

"But you said the order was through Home Health," I point out.

"Yes. I thought it would be easier for… everyone if Bella could be treated at home."

"When?"

"Protocol is to send an R.N. or an L.P.N. to administer and monitor the infusion pump, but census is high so it's all hands on deck around here. I can take care of it myself, no need to leave them short staffed. I'll bring everything we need home with me tonight."

"When was the last time you started an IV?" I ask critically.

Carlisle laughs. "Edward, I'm the Chief of Surgery! I think I can handle a standard IV."

"You think?"

He laughs again, louder this time. I fail to see what's so humorous about my questions. I know damn well anytime I got stuck by a needle it was always the nurses who did it.

"I started a central line the day before yesterday, all right?" he says, still chuckling.

I have no idea what that means, but I assume by his tone that it's some advanced procedure. No doubt it will be the first thing I Google the second I'm back upstairs.

"What do you think about an omega-3 supplement?" I ask. "There has been evidence that increasing the intake of omega-3 can benefit various neuropsychiatric disorders."

"Edward," he scolds, his tone now a mixture of humor, shock and disbelief. Carlisle lets out another low chuckle. "I will ask Dr. Weber about that if you'd like. I should be home in about an hour. We can talk about what the next steps should be, all right? In the meantime, stay off the internet."

"Fine. Oh, and Carlisle?"

"Yes?"

"I think I broke my hand."

~o0o~

After saying goodbye to Carlisle, I make my way to the kitchen, intent on following his instructions to wash, wrap, and ice my injury. While on the phone, Carlisle had me flex and move my fingers, and although it hurt like hell, he didn't believe it was broken. I clean the cuts in the sink, ruining another of Esme's kitchen towels by using it as a makeshift bandage. The weight of the ice pack on my knuckles is almost intolerable, but I suck it up and hold it in place.

I walk slowly toward the stairs, cradling one hand in the other, trying to think of the best way to explain my injury to Bella. The sound of a key turning in the front door makes me pause.

That was fast. Carlisle wasn't due to leave the hospital for another half-hour.

I turn around just as the door swings open.

"You have a key?" I ask Jacob as he storms across the living room.

"Fuck you," he growls, shoving me out of the way as he marches to the stairs. "What did you do to her now?"

I stare after Jacob as he bounds up the stairs, barely pausing to knock before pushing his way into her room. Bella must have finally gotten around to calling him when I left her alone.

Retreating to the couch, I slump down onto the cushions and rest my wounded hand across my chest. I have to remind myself that Jacob is just trying to protect Bella, but now that he's here I know my access to her will be hindered. Her little guard dog isn't going to let me anywhere near her.

Thirty minutes later, the front door opens again. This time Carlisle appears, carrying a large, plastic case in one hand and a smaller, paper sack in the other. He's still dressed exactly as he was this morning. The only addition is the black stethoscope hanging around his neck.

He walks straight to the couch and sets the large case down on the floor. He tosses the paper bag on the coffee table and sits down next to it, directly across from me.

"Let me see," he says, gesturing to my hand.

I press my hand protectively against my chest. "I'm fine. Check on Bella," I demand, jerking my head toward the stairs.

"A bleeding patient takes priority. Now let me see."

I can tell he hasn't decompressed out of his work mode, and even though I'm anxious for him to see Bella, I'm not sure I want him talking to her while he's in this… mood. Reluctantly, I hold my hand out, and he immediately goes to work undoing my makeshift bandage. I watch as he studies my hand, turning it over and back again, moving my fingers and poking at the gashes along my knuckles.

Still holding my hand in one of his, he reaches into bag next to him and produces a roll of white gauze, a handful of cotton swabs, and a tube of something – antibiotic ointment I assume.

"Is stealing hospital supplies one of the perks of being Chief?" I ask sarcastically.

Carlisle smirks but doesn't look away from his task. He unscrews the cap from the tube and squeezes out a drop of clear gel onto one of the swabs. He brushes it across the largest cut in the center of my hand.

"Shit!" I try to yank my hand from his, but Carlisle's hold tightens. "That burns!" I hiss through clenched teeth.

"Sorry. I should have warned you."

"Ya think?" I mutter. Carlisle gives me a warning look, so I bite my lip to restrain the snide comment I was about to make about his bed-side manor.

"Do I even want to know how this happened?" Carlisle asks. His eyes dart quickly to mine then back to my hand. He doesn't sound angry, more worried than anything else.

"Today was…," I struggle to find the right word to describe this nightmare, "rough."

Carlisle doesn't press for details, only nodding solemnly as he continues to work on my hand. He opens the roll of gauze and begins wrapping it over my bleeding knuckles, covering my entire hand from the center of my fingers to my wrist. Only my thumb remains free from the dressing.

"There," he announces once the roll is depleted. "We'll need to change that in the morning."

I nod and take back my bandaged hand, cradling it protectively against my chest again. "Thanks."

"Get rid of that towel before your mother sees it," he says with a nod toward the bloody rag on the table. "And if she asks, I gave you a solid lecture on finding a healthier outlet for your emotions."

We both smirk. "She still pissed?"

Carlisle rolls his eye and puffs his cheeks as he lets out a breath, the gesture answering my question without him having to utter a word. He returns the unused cotton swab and the tube-of-pain to the paper sack.

"Now," he says, leaning forward and interlacing his fingers. "I've tended to my patient. You tell me about yours."

I recount the entire day, starting from when Bella took the first round of pills, and filling in all the details I couldn't include during our short text conversations. Carlisle listens intently without interrupting.

"She's exhausted. She wants to give up," I conclude.

Carlisle nods sadly. "And what about you? How are you doing with all of this?"

"Me?" I ask a bit shocked, then vehemently shake my head. "That's not important. Bella needs to -"

"Edward," Carlisle warns, shooting a knowing glance toward my injured hand.

I sigh, annoyed that he wants to focus on me. I spit out my response as quickly as possible. "It was just like you said, feeling helpless watching someone you love go through this. All I could do was sit back and watch her get more physically and emotionally drained as the day went on and… well," I hold up my hand to prove my point.

"I see." Carlisle places his hand on my knee. "She will be OK. You know that right?"

I nod, but I'm not sure my response is convincing.

"Just because today didn't go as we planned, you shouldn't see it as a failure. You should be proud of what you've done. I know I am."

"Proud!" I balk.

"Yes, Edward, proud. You've accomplished more in one day than anyone else has been able to do in the last month. You were able to get through to her. You got her to take those first crucial steps."

I chuckle humorlessly. "So I should be proud because I'm cleaning up the mess I made."

"Edward, we've been through this."

"Yeah, I know. It's not all my fault," I say, rolling my eyes.

"If anything, you probably kept her healthy for longer. Your mother kept telling me how good Bella was for you, but I'm starting to see that you were good for her too."

My eyes snap to Carlisle's, and I stare at him, stunned. He opens his mouth to say something, but the sudden buzz from his pocket interrupts him. With a groan, he pulls out his phone and checks the caller ID.

"Your mother," he announces, and twists his mouth in a look of mock horror. I would laugh, but I'm still reeling from his comment.

"Hi, sweetheart, how was your meeting today?" Carlisle listens attentively to her response while I fiddle with my bandaged hand. "That's great news... No, I haven't checked on her yet… About thirty minutes ago, I guess. Because I've been talking with Edward."

At the mention of my name I look up, and Carlisle smiles warmly at me. "No, he's here. He came home last night. Yes, yes… no, we didn't – well, because I - "

I can make out Esme's voice now, rising in pitch with every question she hurls at Carlisle. She doesn't even pause to listen to his answers. Carlisle rises from his seat and wanders to the kitchen, patting my shoulder twice as he passes.

As I try to tune out the one-sided conversation behind me, the case Carlisle brought in from the hospital catches my eye. I reach over and slide the massive box forward to rest at my feet. I start to unlock the chunky, metal latches, but I pause and glance over my shoulder at Carlisle. He's watching me from the kitchen, still holding the phone to his ear. He nods and waves his hand, signaling it's OK for me to continue. I finish unlocking the case and raise the lid.

Inside is a square machine, roughly the size of a coffee maker, nestled into a foam liner which has been cut to fit it exactly. The top half of the device is comprised of a large display screen with a numeric keypad underneath. I examine the other content inside the case: a coil of clear tubing, a collapsible metal stand, a plastic pouch – needles I assume – and various plastic clamps and power cords. Tucked securely down the left side of the case are two clear, plastic bags filled with liquid.

I lift the larger of the two bags, the liquid sloshing inside as I flip it over in my hands. A large, white sticker attached to the clear plastic lists the ingredients and the quantity of each in grams or milligrams.

"That's the PN solution," Carlisle says as he walks up behind me. I hadn't notice his phone call had ended. "And this one," he pulls the small bag from its compartment, "this is the good stuff." He smirks.

The confusion on my face is mirrored in my voice. "The good stuff?"

"We give this to cancer patients before they undergo chemo. It will completely eliminate the nausea."

"Oh, right. Zofran," I say knowingly.

Carlisle drops his hand to his side, staring at me like I just knocked the wind out of his sails. "That's right. How did you know that?"

It's my turn to smirk at him. "Homework," we say in unison.

Carlisle shakes his head and holds up the bag again. "I plan to setup a slow drip overnight. She can try to eat again in the morning."

I nod and look down at my bandaged hand, feeling somewhat discouraged. My part in this is over. I had been counting on this time together to find a way to show her the truth, to prove I'm still the same person she loved before, to make this right again. But now…

No, I scold myself.I should be happy that she's getting the help she needs. That's all that matters.

"Are you ready?"

My eyes snap to Carlisle's. "Me?"

He chuckles. "Don't worry, I'm not going to let you stick her with the needle, but I thought you would like to see how to setup the IV. I can show you how we calibrate the machine and control the flow of the piggy-back." Carlisle pauses for a moment, considering his next words. "I think it will make you feel better - to see some positive outcome."

I wish he would quit worrying about how I'm feeling, Bella is all that matters right now, but I don't mention it. "Yeah, OK."

I follow Carlisle up the stairs to Bella's room, and Jacob's husky voice invites us in after Carlisle knocks.

Jacob is the only one to look up as we enter. His massive form takes up most of Bella's bed, making her frail body appear even smaller cradled into his side. He gently strokes her hair with one hand, the other wrapped protectively around her back. Bella's eyes remain fixed straight ahead, but from her expression, I doubt she's actually seeing anything. Even from this distance, I can see the fresh tears that continue to dampen her lashes, and I wonder if she's stopped crying since I left her room over an hour ago. I hover in the doorway, hiding my injured hand behind my back as Carlisle walks into the room.

"Hello, Jacob," he says.

"Hey, Doc." Jacob's return greeting is solemn.

"Hello, Bella," Carlisle says soothingly. "Edward tells me you've had a rough day. How are you feeling?"

"Tired," she says. Her voice sounds rough from crying.

"Well, I believe I have something that will make you feel better." Carlisle sets the case down on the floor with a dull thud. Bella doesn't even look up.

"What is that?" Jacob asks.

"Edward thought Bella might be dehydrated after today's… activities. He suggested we get some IV fluids in her."

Bella's eyes snap to mine, and she keeps them locked on me as Carlisle continues his explanation.

"I would like to setup a drip and piggy-back it with a stronger version of one of the medications she's taking. It should completely eliminate the nausea, so when she tries to eat again tomorrow, she will likely have greater success. Does that sound all right with you, Bella?"

At the mention of her name, Bella looks away from me and back to Carlisle. She nods and slowly disentangles herself from Jacob's grasp to sit up.

"Great, let's get started." Carlisle moves to join Bella on the opposite side of the bed, carrying the large case with him. He sets it on the foot of the bed, opens the lid, and begins unpacking the contents.

Jacob rolls off the bed and walks to where I'm standing in the doorway, his eyes glued to the floor. I move aside, giving him plenty of space to get around me.

"I need to talk to you," he grumbles as he passes though the door.

"Jake," Bella calls out in a warning tone.

"It's fine, Bells. I'd worry more about that huge needle the doc is about to sick in you." He winks at her, but she only glares back at him, a silent conversation passing between them.

Jacob sighs. "Bells, I promised, didn't I?"

Another moment passes before she concedes with a simple nod. Her eyes flash to mine for a second and then her focus returns to Carlisle.

"Go ahead, Edward. I can show you this process another time," he says as he unwinds a long, clear tube.

I nod and turn to see Jacob disappear down the stairs. I follow him to the first floor, but Jacob clearly has no intention of having this conversation in the house. He marches out the front door, leaving it open for me to trail along after him.

I step out onto the porch and close the door behind me. The second the latch catches, Jacob whirls around and charges me, slamming my body against side of the house. He pins me, one arm crushing my chest while his other hand wraps tightly around my throat. His grip is solid and strong, and as he applies another ounce of pressure, he effectively cuts off my air supply.

Author's Note:

Voting is open until December 10, 2011 in the Season of Our Discontent Anonymous Angst Contest. I have a story entered but I can't tell you which one it is (hence the "anonymous") but there are some great reads over there! check it out. http:/www[dot]fanfiction[dot]net/u/3142288/Season_of_Our_Discontent

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