#024.

He had settled into a new routine, one that has a familiarity he hadn’t realized how badly he missed until it was back in his hands. In the time he spent locked away, Andy found himself, more often than not, laying awake at night picturing the different places his life had gone -- From being a carefree child, to forcibly growing up and joining the family business, from drinking his way through his early twenties with a bloodied baseball bat in hand, to finally see Rowan walk down the aisle. The house they bought together. The child they should be raising together. The life they could be living, one where he’s not hauled away in a pair of handcuffs as his mother holds his wife. 

It all comes back to her, he’s learned. It all comes back to Rowan Fisher, the image of her laying next to him as the sun pushes through the bedroom curtains and illuminates her; The light catching her green eyes, dimples showing when she gives him a smile and a sleepy hello handsome. He spent years reminding himself of moments like these, the thought of having her back in his life serving as a motivation for him more often than not. And now that he has this routine back? His hands card through her hair each morning as they greet one another, tangled limbs and tired eyes mumbling sweet nothings to each other, Andy realizes just how badly he missed this. He’d thought about it, longed for her, ached to return to who they were before he through a wrench in their lives -- But now that he has her back, he’s almost terrified to leave her side. Part of his brain tells him if he slips away for too long, he’ll come back to an empty bed and reality settling in, a worst case scenario happy to pull him from the daze they’ve lived in for the last month. 

Andy knew better than to get comfortable, but he does it anyway. Consistency isn’t a common factor in this life, if the last thirty-seven years haven’t been enough proof. But he lets himself settle back into this life, lets himself enjoy tucking himself away in her home with her. He cooks, they laugh, he and Rowan share her bed each night. She clears a drawer for his clothes. It’s almost disgustingly domestic, down to the them washing each other’s hair in the shower, holding her close as they lay in bed as she watches Golden Girl’s reruns and he reads. They’re together again, for lack of a better word -- Not necessarily ‘dating’, but still not married, either. They’re floating somewhere between that, with both of them setting ground rules for each other. He’s happy to oblige, having no qualms with working for his relationship with her. 

He gets lost in it, like a deer caught in the headlights -- He ignores the warnings his instincts bring, knowing Kane and the Trojans won’t remain dormant for long. It’s naive to think that the rumors of federal agents snooping around are just small town gossip, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before he meets one directly, surely to be hauled away to the Sheriff’s station. It’s not lost on Andy that he’s roughly one parking ticket away from a life sentence in prison, he knows this -- Maybe subconsciously it’s why he’s so quick to fall back into an old routine, to tuck himself away in his little corner with the love of his life; Because at least then he can enjoy his time with her, and attempt to keep his head afloat at the same time.

The tidal wave that hits isn’t in the form of a federal agent, or an act of violence on the MCs word -- It’s something as simple as a call from a phone number he doesn’t recognize, one he doesn’t pick up on at their first attempt to reach him. 

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Sylvia Warren came into Andy’s life sometime after his twenty fourth birthday. The moment he sees her, he can tell they share a mother -- The darkness of her hair, the curve of her jaw. They even hold themselves in the same way, but in her case, her eyes give away what she’s thinking. She looks just like their mother, and he wants to hate her for it. 

He only learns he has a sister when he finds his mother, after Rowan insists on him reaching out to contact her. Andy knows she had noble intentions, that they could have never anticipated what came next. He always assumed the fire in his bones came from his unnamed biological father, but the second he sits across from Delphine Warren at a table in some shitty diner outside of Kansas City -- He learns it’s all his mother. She’s apprehensive from  the moment they met eyes, something twists in his stomach when he realizes how alike they seem to be, both physically and mentally. She’s smaller than him, doesn’t make eye contact for the first few minutes, the two staring in silence before she breaks it with words he’ll never forget. I never wanted to be a mother. She plies him with a sob story, of how her life had been turned upside down at the age of sixteen because of him, that she wanted to try for him but proved she couldn’t handle it. Five months,she tells him. That’s how long she spent with him. Long enough to give him a name -- He learns his middle name, William, is his father’s name; Long enough to hold him close and whisper promises while she soothes him, telling him they’ll have a better life someday, that they’ll make it through this. 

That never comes, and she leaves him on the fire station door step in the middle of Spring. She tries to justify herself, that she was a child and was afraid, that he just wouldn’t stop crying, and she was losing her mind. It’s confusing, to see the woman he’d spent his entire life picture, the woman who he’d searched for with his actual mother’s help, turn out to have not wanted him. She blamed him for her shortcomings, and he couldn’t stop himself in that moment from asking if she did now, too. Delphine never answers. He leaves without looking back. 

He meets Sylvia a year later. She finds him, showing up at his door one afternoon. They’re not home when she arrives, but she settles herself on the porch until Andy parks his bike in the driveway, hand instinctively reaching for the gun in the waistband of his pants. She’s barely nineteen years old, terrified and unsure. Is your name Andrew? Turns out Delphine didn’t resent him enough to give up, enough to bring Sylvia along for the ride just to leave her in the same manor. Only this time around, his biological mother makes it five years rather than five months, before she leaves her daughter at the daycare, and never returns to pick her up. 

They talk. For hours. She tells her story from the beginning, and he does the same -- She tells him about the different foster family’s she’s lived with, he talks about Rhea and Cronus. There’s no stone unturned, no topic off limits (though he’s careful to spare her a few specifics), leaving the two realizing they have more in common than just their shitty mother. Sylvia remains in his life from that moment, something sacred and held dear to his heart. There’s roughly three people who know she exists at all -- Rowan, Rhea, and Oliver. The former being the only one with more detail, one of the only people to have actually met the person in question. He keeps her a secret from the rest of his family, knowing it’s better for her to remain entirely unattached to the club, to the Thane family name. She doesn’t deserve to be pulled into his world without a choice, and he’s far too terrified of Cronus learning about who she is to even breathe her name outside of pillow talk with Rowan.

They keep in touch after that day, but rarely see one another. Whenever he passes through Dallas, Andy makes sure to stop in and say hello, offering a helping hand whenever she needs it. Whenever she drives through New Orleans they meet up, usually in some hole in the wall diner where they can talk for hours without the stares of disgruntled waitresses. They learn just how alike they are, that they both endured unstable homes as children, that they struggle to say the right thing in the right moment. She laughs, telling him she’s only heard about motorcycles gangs on TV, though. You have me beat with that one. She sends him postcards for each holiday, and he begins to do just the same. They call one another once a month or so, chatting about their lives, bitching about friends and family, whoever she’s dating. 

She stays, even after he’s changed into an orange jumpsuit, and their phones calls open with An inmate from the Louisiana State Penitentiary is attempting to contact you. She visits him, on obscure holidays like the Indepence Day or National Pancake day, finding herself endlessly entertained by the confused expression he gives her during the first year. He tells her about Rowan, the divorce, finding it easier to talk to someone who’s never stepped foot in the clubhouse or knows his father. She does the same. She doesn’t go very long between visits, until seven months pass and he’s only heard from her by mail. There’s an explanation that comes, though -- And he’s three month old baby named Benjamin. Andy cries the first time he meets him, hands shaking as thinks of his own loss. It’s the one thing he could never bring himself to tell Sylvia about, other than a short, clipped explanation. 

She never pushes it. Instead, she waves Benny’s hand as the child laughs, introducing him to Uncle Andy. 

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He picks up on the fourth call, when he returns from dealing with some jackass with a souped up sports car. He hasn’t had a lunch break or a cigarette all day, and his patience wears even thinner at the sight of four missed calls and two voicemails from the same unknown number. He’s still figuring out how to use the iPhone Rowan made him get -- It was the last of her ground rules, said with a laugh and wink -- but it tells him the call is from Dallas, Texas and it’s enough to make his heart sink. The messages are played to deaf ears, a ringing in his ears beginning as soon it begins to play. 

Hi Mr. Thane, this is Debbie from Dallas Regional Medical. Your sister, Sylvia Warren, has been in an accident. She’s in critical condition, and is in her surgery right now. You are listed as her next of kin ---  

He doesn’t hear much past that, his heart beginning to slam against his chest as he pulls the phone from his ear, slumping into the nearest chair. His thoughts go to Rowan, first -- To the shoot out, to her in surgery as he shakily fills out forms before he finally cracks. He thought he’d never have to feel this kind of heartache again, never have to go down that road after that day. Things have come together, he thought. His life had managed to find some sort of order in spite of the chaos around them -- He knew better than to believe something like that could last, to let himself become comfortable. His father’s voice rings in the back of his mind, reminding him how childish he can be. 

A string of curses fall past his lips as he jumped to his feet again, other club members around him share confused looks. Andy doesn’t bother to explain himself, thoughts of the cars he’s supposed to work on or the date he and Rowan had set up for tonight are replaced by the need to figure out what happened to Sylvia. His body moves before he registers where he’s going -- He thankfully remembers his wallet, mumbling a string of curses and pleas to whatever God is up there that she doesn’t die, that part of his family isn’t torn from him. 

He’s on a flight to Dallas within the hour, not bothering to stop at the house to pack his clothes or let anyone in on what’s going on. Tunnel vision takes over, landing him at the Dallas airport in the late hours of the night. He doesn’t know this city, doesn’t know what he’s walking into. It’s all a blur, rushing from one place to another in an attempt to reach his destination, to get the answers he needs. 

The adrenaline wears off the second he enters the hospital, feeling his shoulders tense up and his jaw clench. Memories of only a few weeks prior find him, stopping him in the middle of the waiting room -- He can see it now, him sitting in the chair next to his mother. Addison Fisher hastily shoving a clipboard of papers to fill out, Rhea’s steady arm around his shoulder, the other attempting to steady his hand. It’s almost like it’s happening in front of him, a scene from a movie replaying across a screen. The shoot out, her blood on his shirt, his hand never leaving hers. The feeling as though someone cut him open and left him for dead. Andy reminds himself of what happened after that, after the tears and the fear -- The sight of her in a hospital bed, hooked up to wires and IVs, her raspy voice saying Hi, handsome. It wasn’t the end for her. It doesn’t have to be the end for Sylvia, either.

“Sir?” A voice pulls him from the memory, eyes blinking and suddenly he’s standing in front of a nurses station, a confused man in scrubs looking at him. “Sir, are you alright?” Andy can’t bring himself to speak at first, caught in a strange daze that leaves him feeling like he’s screaming underwater, his lungs burning.

And then -- He comes up for air, as if someone hit play and everything around him returns to it’s regular pace. “Sylvia.” He says her name with surprising firmness, clarity. “I’m looking for Sylvia Warren’s room. My name is Andrew Thane, I’m her next of kin.” He doesn’t know where the sudden steadiness that finds him came from, but he doesn’t stop it -- It’s welcomed, despite the turmoil brewing in him, worst case scenarios filling his head. He can’t bring himself to ask about Benny, either. “I received a call this morning that she was in surgery.” 

He doesn’t know how any of this works, but he notes the way the nurse in front of him twitches. He’s never understood the medical jargon -- That’s Rowan’s territory -- But he knows the importance of body language, and the way the man in front of him moves tells him everything he needs to know. The shift of weight from one foot to the other, the quirk of his eyebrows, the way he tenses at the name Sylvia Warren. She isn’t going to see the other side of this, Andy realizes. She doesn’t get the same result Rowan does, he won’t greet her sitting in a hospital bed, tethered to IVs and an oxygen tank, ready to make a clever quip about him being there. He can hear her voice now, see the smirk at her lips when she tells him You Thane’s don’t fuck around with family, huh? 

The nurse speaks to him, tip toeing around answering him until someone in bloodied scrubs, with a surgical mask around their neck approaches him. She’s a tiny thing, barely over five foot, but she’s a doctor here, her white coat covering most of the blood stains as she reaches for his arm. “Mr. Thane, let’s take a seat.” 

There’s a ringing in his ears, he fiddles with his thumbs as she speaks, his leg bouncing against the worn carpet of the waiting room. She was in a car wreck, hit on the driver’s side. Her son was in the car with her. She was barely alive when she got to the hospital, having lost consciousness multiple times while in the ambulance. Benny was in the car. They performed emergency surgery, it lasted eleven hours. They tried to contact him, but didn’t get any answers. Her son was, miraculously, not injured critically. They want to keep him overnight for observation, to monitor the stitches on his belly, the bruise on his forehead. Her son is alive, but Sylvia was not as lucky. She has given specific instructions for what should happen to her son if she die -- That he would be taken in by his godfather, her next of kin.  

He has a feeling he’s going to throw up. 

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They take him to Benny’s room after the doctor gives him an explanation of what has happened, what’s to come, where this puts him. He barely hears it, only catching what’s important. He’ll have to sign legal documents stating that he will be Benny’s legal guardian, that CPS will be there soon to explain further. This happens as they walked to his room -- It’s the third floor and the seventh door on the left. He doesn’t know why that piece of information sticks the most. 

The sight of him, barely fucking ten months old and sound asleep in the hospital sanction crib eases the weight on his shoulders -- Until he sees the bruise forming on him, the small oxygen wire under his tiny nose. It knocks the wind out of him, causing a physical reaction as he takes a step backward, panic settling over him as reality kicks in. He almost looks serene, peaceful despite the chaos that’s happened around him. Benny has no idea that he’s just lost his mother, that he’s in a hospital. He has no idea what’s going on around them, and it almost makes Andy feel worse.

Sylvia is dead. Benny is alive. 

She wants Andy to be the one to raise him, now that she can’t. 

He wonders if she was out of her fucking mind. 

The doctor leaves him, with a muffled ‘I’ll give you a moment’ as her goodbye. He finds himself backing up until he reaches the wall of the hospital room, sinking slowly to the ground as he tries to grasp the strange left turn this has all been. Andrew Thane has endured loss, has made it an old friend of his. From the loss of his daughter to the loss of his freedom -- And now, the loss of his biological sister. This is nothing new to him, but it doesn’t dull the sting, the way loss carves a part of his chest out and takes it away. Piece of him is gone each time, and this time, it’s in the form of someone who should have been safe from his losing streak, who should have been far enough away that she didn’t witness the horrors that came into his life. Sylvia was supposed to be an exception to the rule, a loophole, someone who was so carefully guarded from Cronus, the club, the nightmare inducing parts of her brother’s life. 

Maddie comes to mind. He doesn’t want her to, not in this awful, bone crushing moment -- But she does, the thought of how differently this would all look with her in the picture. He thinks of himself being in Sylvia’s position, of Maddie sleeping in a hospital bed with IVs and an oxygen tube, of Rowan by her side, pushing hair from her forehead and telling her Everything’s okay, baby. He doesn’t want to think of her, not now. It feels like insult to injury, cruel of her memory to find him in moments like these -- When can barely stand on two feet, reminding him of what knocked him back and has kept him unsteady for the last seven and a half years. A picture of the delivery room follows, of his hand holding Rowan’s as she squeezes the dear life out of his. The excitement and terror of it all, anticipating the moment their daughter will arrive -- Just one more push, Rowan. You’re doing great, one more push. The silence that comes after. The way death comes over them like a wave, taking the one shining light with it, dropping them into a fog of despair. He can hear Rowan’s sobs against his chest, the sound of her muffled voice against the fabric of his shirt, pleading for this to be a lie, some cruel joke the doctor is playing on them. Please, God, anyone but her. Not her. Not her. Not her. He doesn’t want to think of that moment, of the way his life took a one-eighty after -- But he does. It always comes back to her. 

He does the only thing he can think of, the one thing that will distract him from focusing on the beep of Benny’s heart monitor, from letting himself drown in the thought of his own loss. 

She doesn’t answer. He doesn’t blame her. 

You have reached the voice-mail box of Dr. Rowan Fisher. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a brief message with your name and number and I’ll get back to you. If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911. 

He barely hears the beep over the ringing in his ears.

“Hey, baby.” His voice is shaking. She’s going to know something’s wrong. How is it that he can’t seem to push past a monotone voice and stoic demeanor with others, but even leaving Rowan a voice-mail sends him into a spiral? “I --” Spit it out. “She’s -- Fuck, I don’t even know, but it’s bad,” Another pause comes with it, his attempts to remain calm becoming more and more evident with each second.  “I -- Fuck, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Another pause. “It’s Sylvia, Ro. She’s --” He’s almost afraid to say the word. There’s a pause that comes with him cutting himself off, one that lasts too long and will surely make Rowan panic even further. “She’s dead, Rowan.

“She’s dead, and her kid -- Benny, he’s -- He’s okay. He’s -- I’m in Dallas, by the way -- They’ve got him on one of those oxygen tubes, they want to keep him here overnight to watch him, but --” This is all so fucking surreal. “Fuck, have you ever seen a kid hooked up to those IVs? A baby? Christsake, it’s -- He’s just so… small.” He pauses again, a choked laugh pushing past his lips. He’s surprised it’s not a sob. “She wants me to take him. She has it documented, somewhere, fuck if I know -- He’s supposed to be taken in by his next of kin. That’s me, baby.” 

What else is he supposed to say? How’s your day been, baby? Sorry, I won’t be able to make our dinner reservation. Raincheck?