Posted 2021-10-01; Beta'd by Eeyorefan12

Bella's nerves did her stomach no favors, but by some miracle, she managed to not throw up on Saturday morning. She also made sure to take the vitamins Carlisle had sent over, these carefully spaced out with her tiny meals of applesauce and toast.

Her limited diet worried her. There were a lot of nutritional holes in it. The books she was reading on pregnancy weren't helping to reassure her. At the hospital, both Carlisle and Dr. Chen had told Bella not to worry about it but to make the healthiest choices possible with what she could eat.

Towards this end, she packed water, applesauce, and a banana in her bag. The last thing she wanted to do was get dizzy or throw up with Edward nearby.

And she needed to tell him. She really needed to tell him. This responsibility pressed on her heavily, fighting against her desire to see where she and Edward stood. Maybe he only wanted friendship. Maybe he wanted more—

He does not want more. He's had more and he walked away from it at the very first chance he got.

Still, if he was going to be a father, he had the right to know sooner rather than later. Could she tell him today? Announcing it in the middle of a ball game didn't seem appropriate. When he'd first asked her to go, she'd imagined they might have a few minutes after the game, but now that the day was here, she was waffling again. Maybe the perfect opportunity would present itself, but . . . it was okay to wait a little longer, she told herself. Pregnancies often . . . failed in the first trimester. She could spare him that potential grief.

Who are you kidding? Now you're just looking for excuses.

The knock on the door ended these reflections.

"Hey," Edward said when she opened it. "Ready?"

As Edward had suggested, driving and parking anywhere in downtown Boston was a nightmare, especially on game days. She was grateful he'd driven, carefully easing his car into a tiny little assigned spot reserved for season ticket holders. She glanced around the dashboard, looking for a logo. "I'm glad you didn't have to park one of your giant SUV's. What model car is this?"

Edward chuckled, turning off the ignition. "Well, according to Rosie, this car is macho compensation for my deficits elsewhere."

Bella looked away briefly, hoping to hide the warmth in her cheeks. Rosie was wrong on that front.

"It's a Mustang GT convertible. I got it a long time ago." He seemed embarrassed by this. "Replacing it with something more practical is on my list of things to do."

She glanced at the miniscule back seat. It would be tricky to get a car seat into.

The stadium was already full of people and very, very noisy. It was also heady with the dangerous smells of beer, popcorn, and cooking meat. She lifted her wrist to her nose, inhaling the lavender oil she'd dabbed there. It helped a little.

"Food smells?" Edward asked.

She nodded. Did he miss anything?

You'd better hope he does if you're going to keep being a coward.

"It'll be a bit better in the stands." He gestured to the way they needed to go, his arm barely brushing her back as he stepped between her and a group of rowdy teenagers. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to stifle the tears his touch roused. The moment passed before Edward moved back into place beside her.

Bella was not a true fan of baseball, despite her dad's love of the game, but she had a grasp of the basics. "So, um, who are we rooting for here?" she asked.

The man seated directly in front of her turned around and stared at her, a look of horror on his face.

Edward's snicker was barely suppressed. "The Red Sox, Bella. They'll be the ones in white and red."

She laughed. "Sorry, it's probably like sacrilege or something to say that here."

"Damn straight," the man in front of her muttered.

Edward frowned at him before shaking his head and chuckling. "Remind me not to bring you when we play the Yankees. We might not get out alive." The moment the words were out, Bella saw the rueful expression appear on his face. It made her heart ache for him.

Before he could try to apologize, she reached over and briefly patted his arm, causing him to meet her gaze. "It's okay," she said softly.

No, they weren't in Italy any more, but they hadn't completely left it behind yet, had they?

Edward nodded and gave her a hint of a smile before turning away.

Bella saw some of the game, but mostly she observed Edward. He watched the game with obvious excitement—clapping, cheering, or groaning along with his fellow fans. He was, by far, the most interesting thing in the stadium, and he was having fun. This was a big part of the Edward she felt she'd gotten to know.

That hadn't been an act.

After a couple of innings, Edward turned to her. "Can I get you anything?"

"Thank you, no. I came prepared." She held up her banana, now sad and bruised for its ride in her purse.

He made a face, looking at it. "Well, don't let me stop you from putting that out of its misery."

She chuckled, starting to peel it. "Aren't you going to get something? Or are you hoping to snag one of my prized applesauce cups?" She held one out in offer.

"No, thank you, I'm good," he said gently, turning back to the field as the sharp crack of a bat was followed by cheers.

Bella followed his gaze to the field, too, feeling marginally better for her snack. As more people returned to their seats, she heard them grumble about the long concession lines. Edward's offer had been a kind one, and if she'd said yes, a thorough pain in the butt to fulfill. He hadn't had to do that, and he hadn't had to ask her to the game, especially since she was sure he knew others who would've loved to go. He was at least invested in a friendship.

She could trust that instinct, right?

Oh, how she missed having confidence in her opinions of people and their intentions. She'd been so certain of Edward's feelings in Italy, at least at the end, and the revelation that they weren't real had crippled her faith in her ability to assess others.

Once burned, twice shy. It'll get better. She could hardly blame the man for keeping her alive. He had, and he'd done what he needed to in order to keep his promise. If he'd had to pretend to be in love with her, well, it wasn't his fault he was so good at subterfuge.

Just like it wasn't her fault for falling for it. Or him.

Well, she was not going to hand out her heart to anyone again, not until she was certain of that person's motives. Of course, this was a dilemma to which there was no solution. No one could know with any certainty what anyone's motives truly were.

She sighed.

"You okay?" Edward asked. He lifted his hand from the armrest and then let it fall back.

He'd been about to reach for her. Old habits, she supposed.

"Yep. All good, just thinking."

"Not about the game, I take it."

"No," she admitted, laughing. "Sorry."

"I didn't invite you because I wanted to watch the game with you, Bella. I wanted to spend time with you."

Whoa. Was that him for real? She wasn't sure, but the thought that it might be true was quite dizzying.

"Oh," she said, closing her eyes, her hand to her head.

"No, you're not okay. What's wrong?"

And that would be the worried, medically-trained paraprofessional talking.

"Uh . . . kinda dizzy."

He pulled out her water bottle, encouraging her to drink a few sips. It helped a little, but not much. She knew she was about to go downhill fast. There was no way she could last the rest of the game.

"I'm so sorry, Edward, but I think I need to go home."

"Okay." He stood up immediately, helping her up. A chorus of protests erupted from the people whose views they'd obstructed. "Shut it," Edward snapped at one man. "She's sick." To Bella, he said loudly, "Make sure you aim that way if you need to hurl."

Despite beginning to feel crummier and crummier, Bella laughed and then stopped abruptly, fearing that Edward's suggestion was about to become a reality.

The dizziness struck with a vengeance once they were out of the Stadium. Edward appeared alarmed. "This isn't normal, Bella. I'd—you should probably see someone." He sounded so frustrated.

He wanted to help her beyond what he was doing. It was another mark in his favor. Apparently, she was keeping track.

"You get bonus points for worrying," she muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing." She closed her eyes in the car. She didn't want to throw up over its very expensive-looking leather upholstery .

"Bella?"

"Yes?" No throwing up. No throwing up.

"Can I take you to the hospital?"

"You want a repeat performance from last week?" She opened her eyes to look at him.

"No, I was thinking I could walk in with you this time."

"No thanks," she said with a shudder. "Spending my Saturday in the ER with all the interesting people it collects is not on my to-do list—oh God, pull over."

He did, just in time.

Afterward, she rinsed out her mouth with water from the bottle Edward handed her, spitting it into the gutter alongside the rejected contents of her stomach.

Beside her, Edward huffed quietly.

"Sorry," she muttered. Watching her throw up by the side of the road was probably not on his list of things to do on a nice sunny Saturday.

"No, I'm sorry. I'm . . .I don't like seeing you like this. Maybe I could call my dad for advice. You're not well and you need help."

Which she had refused. The last thing she needed was for him to call Carlisle. "I probably did too much too soon. I think all I need is to go home and lie down."

He reached over for her hand, startling her, but she didn't pull away. Gently, he pinched the top of her forearm, releasing the skin and watching it melt slowly back into place. "You're really dehydrated."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"That," he said, gesturing to her arm. "Your skin should snap back into shape quickly. Dehydration can also make you nauseous." He looked pointedly towards her passenger door, which she closed, buckling her seatbelt.

Okay, fine. He had a point. She was probably dehydrated. "I'll have some water at home."

He shook his head but started the car. "Do you mind if I make a quick stop on our way?"

So long as he didn't expect her to move from the car, she was fine. "Okay."

He parked at the Walgreens closest to her house, keeping his trip inside brief. He came back to the car with a large bag, and Bella was too tired and miserable to ask what was inside it. Besides, it wasn't any of her business.

"I'm good from here," she said when they pulled up in front of her house.

"I'm going to walk you inside, okay? Just to make sure you're safe."

She suspected that resisting this idea would take more energy than giving in to it. "Sure."

"And I'd be a pretty crappy friend if I left you alone like this."

A friend who stayed when you were sick. Another point in his favor.

He took the bag with them, setting it down in the living room beside the couch onto which Bella immediately melted. Being horizontal was marvelous, though. She wished it could cure all her misery.

"Here," Edward said. He held out a thimble-sized cup of something orange.

"Oh," she said, turning away, instantly nauseated. "Not orange juice."

"It's not orange juice. It's Gatorade, which'll help you rehydrate. Water alone isn't going to work."

"Edward, I really don't want—"

"Drink."

She thought about protesting but again, compliance seemed much easier.

"Maybe get a bucket or something first?" she suggested, turning back to him and cracking one eye open.

Edward did as she'd suggested, and then he coaxed her through one teaspoon of liquid every five minutes. After half an hour, it became clear that her stomach had no interest in the Gatorade.

"Okay, time for strategy number two."

Bella groaned. Apparently, he was determined. "Which is?"

"An IV."

"No hospital." She said it firmly. She wasn't budging on this.

"No hospital required."

She opened her one eye again. "How?"

He held up a bag of fluid that looked like the ones at the hospital.

"You can buy that at Walgreens?"

"Yep. It's amazing what they'll sell you when you've got one of your dad's prescription pads." He looked so calm and at ease as he described committing a felony. He had trained as a EMT, she reminded herself, wondering if his father had added to that education.

Edward spoke softly again. "I can also call in a doctor, if you'd prefer. It'd only take a few minutes."

Of course he could. He was technically a mob boss. Hell, he could bring one at gunpoint, couldn't he? Exhausted and probably a bit wobbly, brain-wise, she giggled at this ridiculous reality. It still seemed so surreal.

"Or I can do it myself, if you trust me."

And that was the word that brought her up short. She sucked in a breath at exactly the wrong time, her stomach revolting. She did manage to aim for the bucket, but she was a spluttering mess at the end of it.

Edward wasn't looking so calm now. She could tell because one of his hands was fisted at his side.

"Just so I'm being absolutely clear," he said, "I'm not leaving until you're okay. And if that means I need to stick you in an ambulance, I'm doing it."

She didn't doubt him in the slightest, and the thought of being taken to the hospital—or being anywhere but home—was even more exhausting. "Okay," she said quickly, "get it over with."

Edward pulled out the rest of his supplies. God, he'd been fast with his shopping. Alcohol, gauze, needles—she shuddered—gloves, bandages, and a few other things she didn't recognize were quickly spread over her coffee table. Edward glanced around the room, then got up to drag a tall floor lamp closer—not for a light source, she realized, but to hang up the IV bag.

Watching this display, she remembered the suitcase he'd said was always in his car.

"You don't have your medical kit with you," she mumbled.

Edward chuckled. "Yes, I do."

"Why didn't you use it, then?"

He sat back on his heels from where he'd knelt by the couch. "I don't carry IV supplies, or anything perishable, and I wasn't sure if you had any of the other things I'd need at your house—which you should." He snapped on gloves and then paused. "Sorry, that was—"

"Kinda bossy. Yep."

"Make a fist for me?" He was tying rubber tubing around her upper arm.

"Gonna finally teach me how to throw a punch?"

He grinned but didn't look up as he prodded at the crook of her arm. "I seem to recall that you did pretty well on your own." He kept poking at the skin.

"They're hard to find," she said apologetically.

"Your punches?"

Smartass. "My veins."

"I can tell." He looked at her left arm and sighed. "Can we try the other one?"

She held out her right hand, making another fist and turning her arm over while he switched the tourniquet.

"There we go," Edward said, pulling out another alcohol swab. Then he looked at her, his expression stern. "To be clear, I can do this and I'm usually good at it. But if it doesn't work or, less likely, I mess it up, I'm taking you to the hospital, either in my car or an ambulance—your choice. I'm not going to screw around with your health."

"Not like you screwed around with me, then." The words came out of nowhere and hearing them leave her mouth shocked her. She could barely believe that she'd said them. Horrified, she made herself pull in a breath through her nose and then release it.

She stared at Edward, waiting for his reaction. He furrowed his brow as he nodded slowly. "I deserved that."

Maybe he did, but not right at this moment. "No, you didn't, and I'm—"

"Going to go to the hospital if this doesn't work, right?" Edward lifted his eyebrows, seeking her assent.

If she said no, she'd sound like a complete and total jerk. "Right."

"Good. Now take a deep breath and close your eyes. Maybe imagine throwing that punch."

Or merely talking, she thought. Clearly, her unfiltered words were barbed enough to do damage. Turning her head away, she waited for the pain she knew was coming, but it was only a pinprick, and then the needle was in.

"Whoa." She opened her eyes to see Edward taping the IV in place. "You're . . . really good at that."

"I should be," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the IV site. "You have met my dad, right?" He stilled her arm with a gentle touch of his hand when she tried to move it. "Just keep it there for a bit. I'm pretty sure it's a clean insertion, but I want to make sure."

They sat in silence as Edward studied her arm. "What are you looking for?" she finally asked.

"Any bruising or blood visible under the skin. It can take a few minutes to show up."

Yes, damage could take its time showing up, couldn't it?

The unwanted thought left her eyes brimming with tears, which ungraciously chose this moment to spill over and onto her cheeks. Unlike his father had, Edward did not ignore them.

"Bella? What's wrong? Is something hurting?" The hand that had kept her arm from moving settled gently into her palm.

She jerked her hand away. No, she couldn't do this. Not now. "I'm tired. Being sick for so long has been a pain in the butt. It's . . . kind of overwhelming." The lie spilled from her lips so fluently that she almost wondered who was talking.

It was a bitter realization: she was perhaps becoming more like him and his family than she'd ever been before. She was becoming a fluent liar.

As she closed her eyes, the tears stopped as quickly as they began. She didn't want to be bitter, and she wouldn't be. His family had been kind, too. There were many examples she could draw from, and they stacked up far higher than the number of hurts she'd acquired from the same source.

But maybe there was more hiding behind her tears. Perhaps this feeling wasn't just chagrin over her own negative reaction but over something else she was failing at in that moment. Her compunctions were only intensified by the kindness Edward was showing her.

He didn't comment on her pulling her hand away. Seemingly satisfied with the state of her arm, he sat on the couch opposite hers, watching her for a few moments before settling back against the cushions and pulling out his phone.

The sun was much lower in the sky when she heard Edward say her name.

"Wha—?" Oh God, she'd been drooling—again. Gross! It was another of her less than glorious pregnancy symptoms. Trying to surreptitiously wipe her mouth with her sleeve, she didn't look his way, hoping he would at least pretend not to have seen her slobbering like a passed-out drunk. Fortunately for her, he was currently focused on removing the IV needle from her arm.

"You've been asleep for a bit, and you've had two bags of saline. I'm pretty sure you're going to need to pee. Given that you have stairs between you and your bathrooms . . . "

"Oh, are we back to you watching me do that again?" She cocked an eyebrow at him.

To his credit, he laughed. "Touchė, Swan. All right, c'mon. I don't have a bedpan hiding in my bag and I doubt you want to improvise."

She walked up the stairs under her own steam, but he was right, she really needed to pee. He stayed a few treads behind her, in case she did get dizzy.

When she made it back downstairs, he had already tidied up the supplies, leaving only the few extras sitting on the table. "Where do you want to keep these?" he asked.

"Oh, in the medicine cabinet in my bathroom. I'll put them away later."

"Why don't I put them away and you go eat something?"

Food did sound good, and she was hungry. "Sure, thank you."

It was taking him a long time to find the right place, Bella mused as she spooned her way through a bowl of applesauce. Maybe he was cleaning the bathroom. The thought made her giggle. When he came back down, she teased him. "If you were up there scrubbing the toilet for me, you're setting the bar pretty high for any future guests. Do you do windows, too?"

He chuckled uneasily, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. "Just installing the granny elevator."

"Cool. Having to walk upstairs to pee all the time sucks."

She noticed that his smile didn't reach his eyes and then she glanced at the clock. "Oh my God, it's late, and I haven't offered you anything to eat." She looked down at the bowl of applesauce. "Um—"

Edward laughed a little more genuinely, shaking his head. "I'm good, but thanks. I . . . enjoyed today with you."

She put her bowl down. "Having girls puke and then sticking them with IVs is your idea of a good time, huh?"

"Depends on the girl," he said softly.

He hadn't moved his hand from his neck, and Bella wondered if she'd made him uncomfortable somehow. When he glanced down at the bowl on the table, she realized he was probably hungry. He wouldn't have eaten since before the game, and it was late now.

He cleared his throat. "I should get going."

Bella straightened up. "Of course. Thank you again, for the game and the . . . fluids." She burst into giggles.

She liked watching him smile. "Anytime. Night, Bella." He didn't prolong their goodbyes at the door, and she watched him head quickly down the walkway to his car where he waved a final goodbye before getting inside and then driving away.

DISCLAIMER: S. Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement intended.