ceci

‧₊˚༘˚⋆𐙚

He didn't even make it to the front porch before the flashing red and blue lights cut through the night fog. An ambulance was parked crookedly across the driveway, its rear doors thrown wide open.

"Fuck, fuck," Andrew muttered. "Fuck, no."

He burst through the front door. The living room was empty, the coffee table had been pushed aside, a box of sweets overturned on the rug.

He followed the sound of murmuring voices down the hallway and into the bedroom.

The scene made him stop dead in his tracks, his frame filling the doorway.

A paramedic was kneeling by the side of the bed, a spiked bag of IV fluids hanging from the lampshade. Another paramedic was carefully taping a catheter into the back of your hand, a dark bruise already forming on your forearm where they had missed the first time.

You were propped up on the pillows. Your skin was pale, with a cold sweat that made your hair stick to your forehead in damp clumps. Your eyes were half open, glazed and unfocused, rolling toward the ceiling. A small emesis bag was clutched in your trembling, non-IV hand.

This wasn’t just a bad blood sugar day. The tiny life growing inside you had turned your body into a battleground. For weeks, the nausea episodes had been brutal, but tonight, it had turned catastrophic. You had taken your insulin expecting to eat, but the severe nausea had hit. Everything went up. Every time you tried to correct the crashing numbers with juice or sweets, your body violently rejected it.

Your glucose monitor had been screaming a frantic alarm, signaling your blood sugar had plummeted past 40 mg/dL with a double arrow pointing straight down. With Andrew out on a job, you had been utterly alone, suffocating in panic.

"What's happening? What are you doing to her?" Andrew’s voice was low. His eyes were darting from the IV line to your pale face, then down to your belly.

"Andrew," you sobbed.

The female paramedic stood up, putting herself between Andrew and the bed. "Sir, are you the partner? She called us. Her blood sugar dropped into a critical range. She’s pregnant and suffering from severe vomiting, she can’t keep anything down. Every time she tries to correct a low, she throws it back up, which is a severe emergency for both her and the pregnancy."

Andrew didn't look at the medic. He didn't care about her explanations. He pushed past her and dropped heavily onto his knees right beside the mattress. He grabbed your free hand, squeezing it.

"I'm here, baby. I'm sorry," he whispered. He pressed his forehead against your knuckles. The weight of his guilt was crushing him. "I didn't see the phone. I'm sorry."

"I tried, Andrew," you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. "I tried to eat. I tried to keep it down for the baby, but it just kept coming back up. I got so scared... I thought I was gonna pass out or something was wrong with the baby."

"I know, I know. You did the right thing," he murmured, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. He looked up at the paramedic, demanding. "Is the baby okay? Is she okay?"

"We've started a dextrose infusion to bring her numbers up safely without forcing her stomach to digest anything," the male paramedic explained, adjusting the roller clamp on the IV tubing. "Her blood sugar is up to 70 now and climbing. But because she’s pregnant and unable to retain fluids, she is at a very high risk for another crash. We highly recommend transporting her to the hospital so OB/GYN can evaluate her."

"No," you breathed, a wave of panic hitting you. The thought of being in a hospital room made your chest tighten. "Andrew, please. Don't make me go."

Andrew looked at you, then down at the IV line tape on your hand. His jaw clenched, a possessive instinct taking over. He could protect you here. He could control things here.

"She stays," Andrew said, his voice flat, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. He stood up. "Tell me what I need to do. I'll monitor her. I'll make sure she stays stable."

The paramedics exchanged a tense look. They checked your vitals again. Your heart rate was coming down; your color was slowly returning as the IV sugar did its job.

"If she stays against medical advice, you need to sign these refusal forms," the female paramedic said quietly, pulling a tablet from her bag. "The anti-nausea medication we gave her through the IV should last for a few hours. You need to try giving her small sips of water every fifteen minutes once we leave. If she throws up even once more, or if her monitor alarms again, you cannot handle this at home. She will need to be admitted. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Andrew said, his voice tight. He took the stylus and scrawled his signature on the screen, his hand surprisingly steady for how fast his adrenaline was pumping.

It took another ten minutes for the medics to pack up their gear, leave extra supplies on the nightstand, and finally exit the house. The quiet that settled over the bedroom afterward was heavy.

"Hey," he whispered. With care, mindful of the taped IV site on the back of your hand, he slid into the bed beside you. He pulled you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you until you were entirely enclosed in his embrace.

You let out a shaky breath, burying your face into the crook of his neck. The familiar scent of him instantly soothed the knots of panic in your chest.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," you murmured against his skin, your voice still a little raspy but stronger now that the dextrose was fully doing its job.

"Don't do that," Andrew muttered, pressing a kiss into your hair. "Don't apologize. You did everything right. You kept our baby safe. You kept you safe. I’m the one who should’ve been here."

"You're here now," you reminded him softly.

He didn't argue. He reached over to the nightstand where the paramedics had left a bottle of light colored sports drink. He carefully unscrewed the cap, guiding the bottle to your lips.

"Small sips, okay? Just a little bit," he instructed, his eyes focused on you as you took two tiny swallows. He watched your face closely, waiting to see if your stomach would reject it, but the IV anti-nausea medication was holding strong. When you gave him a small nod, a relief washed over his face. He set the bottle back down and settled back into the pillows, pulling you right back into his warmth.

His hand slid beneath the duvet, moving down until his palm rested against your stomach. It was still early enough that there wasn't a noticeable bump, but to Andrew, the gravity of what was growing inside you was immense. He kept his hand perfectly still, as if he could shield the baby from the chaotic world outside with his palm alone.

"I called out of the next job while the medics were packing up," he whispered, his lips brushing the crown of your head. "Texted Smurf. Told her I'm out for the week. I don't care what she says."

You blinked up at him, surprised. "Andrew, the boys—"

"The boys can handle it. Or they can't. I don't care," he said. "You and the baby. That's it. That's all that matters to me right now. I'm staying right here. I'm going to make you breakfast tomorrow, whatever you think you can keep down. Toast, tea, whatever you want."

A smile touched your lips. "Toast sounds good."

"Okay," he murmured, his thumb beginning a slow stroke against your hip. "Then we'll do toast."

You closed your eyes. The terror of the midnight was replaced entirely by the protective safety of his arms.

The bedroom fell into a deep quiet. The anti-nausea medication had finally allowed your body to rest, and exhaustion had claimed you completely. Your features relaxed, the tension draining from your face as you drifted into a deep sleep.

Andrew didn’t close his eyes. He couldn't. The adrenaline was still humming faintly in his veins.

Careful not to disturb you, he shifted slightly, adjusting his weight so you were pillowed comfortably against his shoulder. His hand stayed right where it was, slipping under the soft cotton of your shirt to rest directly against the bare skin of your stomach.

His hand looked massive against your skin, but the way he pressed his palm flat was so gentle it was as if he were holding a fragile glass.

He began to move his thumb in tiny and slow circles, feeling the warmth of your skin.

He looked down at your sleeping face, verifying one more time that you were breathing easily, before he leaned his head down. He lowered his face until his lips were just inches away from your belly.

"Hey," he breathed, the sound catching in his throat. It was the first time he had spoken directly to the pregnancy. "It’s me. It’s your dad."

He paused. The word dad felt foreign on his tongue, heavy and terrifying, but as he stared at your peaceful face, a fierce wave of pride swallowed the fear.

"I'm sorry about tonight," he whispered. "I wasn't here when it got bad. But I’m here now. I promise you, I’m always gonna be here. I’m never gonna let anything happen to you. Or your mom."

He rested his cheek lightly against your upper hip, his hand splaying wider across your lower belly, feeling the slight rise and fall of your breath. For a man who had been raised in the manipulative shadow of Smurf, a man who had been taught that family was a business and loyalty was paid in blood, this felt entirely different. This was clean. This was pure.

"You're gonna have a good life," Andrew murmured, his voice vibrated right against your skin. "You’re gonna have a room with windows that gets the sun. You’re gonna have toys, and whatever you want to eat, and... and we're gonna keep you safe. No one is ever gonna hurt you."

He closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing you both in. The thought of a little girl or a little boy with your eyes, running around the house made him feel new things. A warmth filled the empty spaces he had carried for decades.

He lifted his head back up, pressing a soft kiss to your belly, right over the tiny heartbeat he couldn't wait to hear.

"Just grow big," he whispered, settling back into the pillows and pulling you closer against his side. "We're waiting for you."

He kept his hand against your little bump, the slow rhythm of his thumb never stopping as he watched over the two of you.

-'🖤⛓ ⁠*⁠.⁠‧₊˚

He didn’t say anything to rush you. While the rest of the Cody family viewed your compulsions as an inconvenience or something to be brushed past, Andrew understood the weight of a mind that wouldn't let you rest.

"I'm coming," you muttered softly.

You stepped out, pulling the door shut behind you. It clicked into place. You inserted the key, turning it until you heard the clunk of the mechanism.

Then, you pulled the key out.

This was where the trap sprang shut in your mind.

Because this was one of those days.

Is it actually locked?

What if it didn't catch?

What if someone enters while you're out?

Andrew shifted his weight slightly, blocking you from Deran’s annoyed glares.

You reached out, your fingers wrapping around the doorknob.

Twist left. Push. The door held fast.

Twist. Pull. It didn't budge.

You let go, taking a breath. You stepped back one pace.

But the itch in your brain immediately flared up.

Did you pull hard enough?

What if it opens if someone pushes it with more force?

You stepped forward again, wrapping your hand around the knob a second time. You gave it three rapid, firm shakes. Locked. Solid.

"Guys, c'mon, let’s go!" Deran’s voice barked, throwing his arms up.

Andrew turned his head just enough to look at his younger brother.

"Shut up, Deran," Andrew warned.

Deran muttered something under his breath about everyone being crazy, slamming the truck door shut.

You felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck.. You hated feeling like this. You hated that your brain forced you to play out these little rituals just to feel safe leaving your own home.

Andrew stepped closer. He reached down, his hand gently wrapping over yours, lifting it away from the doorknob. His skin was warm.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice softening. "It's locked. I saw it. I heard it."

You looked up into his eyes, finding absolute patience and sincerity there.

"You're sure?" you whispered.

"I'm sure," Andrew nodded once, a firm gesture. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. "It's locked."

Sometimes, when Andrew -or someone who wasn't you- said it was safe, your brain actually believed him.

"Okay," you breathed, offering him a smile. "Okay, let's go."

Andrew kept his hand at the small of your back as you walked down together, guiding you toward the truck. Deran was glaring through the windshield, but under Andrew’s eye, he didn't dare say another word.

Before opening the truck door, you paused, your eyes darting back up to the door one last time. Just to be absolutely sure.

A softness broke through Andrew.

A genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

To Andrew, this was just a part of who you were. He found the seriousness of your focus completely captivating.

It was just another piece of you he got to protect.

Feeling his gaze, you looked up.

"What?" you asked, a slight blush creeping onto your cheeks.

"Nothing," Andrew murmured, his smile widening just a fraction as his thumb brushed comfortingly against your waist. "You're just cute."

He opened the truck door for you, making sure you were safely inside before climbing in.

Deran shaked his head with a smirk on his face. He looked at Andrew, then at you, completely amused by the rare display of softness from his older brother.

"Man," Deran chuckled. "You are so whipped for her."

-'🖤⛓ ⁠*⁠.⁠‧₊˚

Weeks.

Not one day.

Few weeks.

You had rehearsals tomorrow.

If you missed a weeks of training, your placement was gone.

The routines you’d memorized until your muscles burned: all gone.

"I can't..." you whispered, the breath hitching painfully in your throat. "No, no, no. I have to... Dr. Langdon, I can't rest, I'm a dancer."

Frank paused, his eyes instantly dropping to your face.

He saw the precise moment the color drained from your cheeks. He saw the rapid rise and fall of your chest, and the way your hands began to tremble violently as they clutched the rough hospital sheets.

"Hey," Frank said, his tone instantly shifting. He set the tablet down on the bedside table and took a step closer. "it's okay, you just need some rest. Don't overthink it."

But you couldn't. The room was tilting. Your heart was hammering against your ribs so hard it felt bruised. "I can't dance for weeks," you choked out, a sob tearing from your throat, tears finally spilling over. "If I can't dance, I don't... everything is gone. It's over. I ruined it."

"It is not over," Frank said, his voice cutting through your panic. He extended a hand, palm up. "Listen to me, your body is going into overdrive, but you are okay. Match my breathing. Come on."

You tried to mimic him, but your lungs refused to cooperate, catching on a pathetic gasp.

"B-But my career..." you whimpered, your vision blurring with tears.

"You will handle the dancing. I promise you, you will handle it," Frank said, keeping his voice calm. "But right now, I need you to breathe with me. In for four seconds. Do it for me. One... two..."

You stared into his eyes desperately clinging to his voice like a lifeline. You forced your lungs to open.

"Good. Hold it. Now let it out, nice and slow," he guided, watching you intently. "Again. In... and out."

You repeated the cycle, your hands still shaking against his arm, but the roaring in your ears slowly began to recede.

Frank stayed right there. He didn't let go of your arm.

After a few long minutes, the hyperventilating stopped, leaving you weeping quietly from the sheer comedown of the adrenaline.

Frank gently squeezed your forearm before finally pulling his hand back, giving you your space again. He reached over, pulled a piece of tissue from the wall dispenser, and handed it to you.

"There you go," he murmured, his voice softening.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, feeling a deep wave of embarrassment wash over you. "I'm so sorry. You have other patients, I shouldn't have—"

"No, stop, It's okay," Frank interrupted gently. "Do not apologize for that. You just had a massive shock. You came in here in pain, and I dropped a diagnosis on you that threatens the thing you love most. You are allowed to react."

He pulled up a wheeled stool, sitting down so he was at eye level with you.

"Now, listen to me," Frank said, pointing a finger toward your foot to emphasize his point. "A grade two sprain is a setback. It is a painful, frustrating, incredibly annoying setback. But it is not a career ender. Ligaments heal. You are young, you are in peak physical condition, and we caught it immediately. You are going to do the physical therapy, you are going to rest, and you are going to get back on stage."

He paused, making sure you were truly hearing him.

"You're just saying that to make me feel better," you whispered.

"No, no, I'm not. It’s the truth. You haven't ruined anything. You just have to take a temporary pause. Can you do that for me?"

Looking at Frank, the future didn't feel entirely hopeless.

You swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I can pause."

Frank offered a warm smile. "Good. Let's get you that ice pack."

He stood up, but he looked at you for another long moment.

"I mean what I said," Frank added. He leaned against the edge of the bedside table, crossing his arms. "You follow my instructions. You rest, you do the physical therapy, and you don't try to sneak onto a dance floor before those ligaments are ready. You take care of that foot."

You looked up at him, a faint smile finally breaking through your tears. "And if I do?"

"If you do," Frank said with a genuine warmth in his eyes, "then you make sure to save me a few tickets. Because when you're back on that stage for your presentation, I'm going to take my kids to see it. I want to show them what hard work and a proper recovery look like."

The weight in your chest lifted completely, replaced by a sudden, deeply comforting rush of hope. It wasn't just a clinical promise anymore; it was something to look forward to. A goal at the end of the tunnel.

"Deal," you whispered sniffing, wiping away the last trace of a tear.

"Good," Frank smiled, giving you one last reassuring nod. "I'll be right back with the ice."

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