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“Roman?”
Cody’s voice came out hoarse, roughened by the dull throb that had been camping behind his eyes for days. He lifted his head from the pillow, blinking at the dim light bleeding in from the hallway, then he twisted inwards, scanning the room in a blearily unfocused sweep.
The movement was a mistake, as he winced sharply from turning too fast, pain lancing through his skull with vicious precision. The world tilted, and gravity claimed him, causing him to sink back against the mattress with a hiss.
He clenched his jaw and counted silently to three under his breath before trying again, this time forcing himself upright despite the dull roar inside his head. His bare feet hit the floorboards, cold enough to make him flinch, and for a moment, he thought he might just collapse back into bed again. Instead, he pushed forward and staggered toward the stairs.
The staircase was his first real obstacle. Halfway down, his knee buckled and he lurched, gripping the banister until his knuckles whitened. By the last step, he was leaning against the wall, bare skin brushing the chill of the concrete. The shock of cold made him shiver, and without meaning to, he let himself slide down until he was seated on the step, head still tipped sideways against the wall, basically the only thing holding him up. He sat stock still against the wall, his head feeling like it might detach if he dared move too quickly.
The headache had been a constant companion since Drew McIntyre’s parting shot on Friday night, and the religious parade of painkillers he’d been taking had done absolutely nothing to convince it to leave.
Skipping the trip to Medical had seemed noble at the time. Now, not so much.
“Roman,” he called again, quieter than last time. The pounding inside his head didn’t leave him much volume to work with, but his heartbeat eased the second Roman’s head appeared from the kitchen doorway, one hand holding a phone to his ear.
The warmth of relief lasted right up until Roman’s gaze landed on him. The man’s mouth curved down into an annoyed frown that Cody recognized all too well.
“Nightmare, I swear to Christ,” he said, voice equal parts warning and disbelief as he strode out of the kitchen. “If you don’t get back in bed, I will smack you about myself.”
He stopped in front of Cody, looming over his slouched form, displeased.
“Of course he’s not listening—it’s Cody,” Roman said, which was when Cody realized the man was still on the phone.
“Jey says to stop stressing me and do as you’re told.” Roman translated, briefly pulling the phone from his ear before tucking it back.
“Why did you get out of bed?” Cody shot back, voice pitched in a whine that was far more petulant than he meant it to be.
“Because I had to make dinner,” Roman replied easily, switching the phone to speaker before setting it on the banister, “and because Raw was on.” Into the phone, he added, “Jey, you’re on speaker.”
“Goddamn it, Rhodes,” Jey’s voice crackled through the static, sharp and incredulous. “Sitcho ass down till you get better. I can’t even use you as an example to Sami’s reckless ass right now.”
Cody turned to Roman, brows knitting in question.
“Solo and his posse,” Roman explained flatly. “Now—are you going back to bed, or am I going to carry you?”
“Don’t you dare, Roman,” Cody shot back, the threat lacking any actual bite. He twisted toward the phone instead. “Jey, is Sami okay?”
“Sami’s in Medical right now, and he ain’t going nowhere till his head’s wrapped in a pretty little bow,” Jey assured.
Roman shot Cody a slow, deliberate raise of his eyebrow, the exact one that had been a silent chastisement since the first time Cody had refused to get checked out after Drew tried to crack his skull open.
And even with his head pounding, Cody still had the audacity to meet that look like he was the one being reasonable here.
“How about you, you good?” Roman asked Jey, though his eyes were still locked on Cody, daring him to so much as twitch toward standing.
“S’all good, Uce,” Jey responded over the speaker, easy but with that tight undertone Roman knew too well. “I get to get my lick back at Clash.”
“Mm.” Roman’s tone was low. “I saw.”
“Hopefully you also saw the big man strutting around with your J’s around his neck,” Jey’s voice sharpened, clearly still pissed. “Man, when are you g’on handle that?”
Roman sighed through his nose, bending down to gradually lift Cody off the steps. Cody’s balance was shot, his weight leaning heavily against Roman’s side, more deadweight than he’d ever admit out loud. A firm arm slipped around Cody’s waist, steady and protective.
“Talk to you later, Jey,” Roman leaned toward the phone, cutting the conversation before Jey could keep stoking the fire. “I gotta make sure I keep millions of kids’ superhero alive.” Without waiting for a reply, he disconnected.
“That was rude,” Cody mumbled, voice muffled where his face had dropped into the curve of Roman’s neck.
Roman let him linger there for a beat before leaning back slightly. Cody was radiating heat, and not in the usual annoyingly distracting way.
“Nightmare, you’re burning up,” Roman said, his tone somewhere between a diagnosis and a scolding. “You need to go see a doctor.”
“I’m fine,” Cody countered weakly, like they hadn’t already been through this loop twelve times. “Just need to sleep it off.”
“You’ve been saying that since Friday,” Roman countered, easing him down onto the couch with careful hands. “That was seventy-two hours ago.”
Cody groaned, flopping back and hoping the dramatics alone would win him the debate. “It’s just a headache.”
“Which is probably why I could hard-boil an egg by dropping it within a foot of you.” Roman deadpanned.
“It’ll pass.”
“No,” Roman said, his voice firm enough to shut down any more wishful thinking. “What’ll happen is you’ll ignore it, and it’ll get worse. Now, knowing you, you’ll still be up before sunrise come Thursday, suitcase in hand, ready to fly to the next arena just in time for SmackDown on Friday.”
“Well… yeah. Champion duties.” Cody shrugged weakly.
“Wrong.” Roman’s tone snapped sharply. “We either go to a doctor now, or come Friday, I’ll lock you in this house, travel in your place, and beat the Scottish out of Drew for putting his hands on you.”
Cody made a sound that was intended to be a scoff, but ended up falling in the radius of a pathetic croak. He tilted his head enough to meet Roman’s stare. “You wouldn’t.”
One look at Roman, arms crossed rigid, shoulders squared, lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line, said he absolutely would, and he’d make it the main event just to prove a point. Cody let out a defeated whine.
“Fine,” he grumbled
“Good.” Roman pivoted toward the stairs. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll get you a shirt.”
Cody muttered something under his breath, eyes slipping closed again before Roman’s foot hit the first step.
By the time Roman coaxed him to open his eyes again, the man had swapped his lounging sweats for a clean pair of black joggers and a fitted tee, hair freshly tied back, not a wrinkle in sight. A trip to urgent care apparently required a complete presentation from the Tribal Chief.
The sweetness of his cologne hit Cody head-on, curling into his senses until it was all he could smell. Still groggy and feeling the dull throb in his skull, Cody decided the sudden, pressing urge to kiss Roman senseless had nothing to do with feelings and everything to do with the scrambled wires that were shorting out in his concussed brain.
Roman tossed a folded black tee at him, the corners of his mouth tipping up in that satisfied way that always meant trouble. Cody caught it, turned it around, and immediately glared at both the shirt and its smug supplier.
“Seriously?” Cody deadpanned, holding up the tee like it was a contaminated rag.
Roman smirked, arms crossed, eyes alight with mischief. “What? It looks great to me.”
“I am not walking into a hospital wearing this.”
“It’s a perfectly normal shirt,” Roman said with exaggerated innocence. “I don’t see the problem.”
Cody glanced back at the words printed across the front, hoping they might have miraculously changed since he last checked. They hadn’t.
“Nightmare, just throw the shirt on,” Roman said, his smugness finally giving way to exasperated worry. “Your well-being is all that matters to me right now.”
That shouldn’t have been the end of it, but the worry written clearly across Roman’s face was impossible to ignore. Cody sighed heavily in defeat and tried to wrestle the shirt on. Emphasis on tried.
His arms felt like they’d been filled with lead, and in forcing them through, he managed to get so tangled in the fabric that one sleeve ended up plastered across his face like a mask.
Roman, to his credit, just leaned back and watched with no small amount of amusement.
“A little help here?” Cody muttered from inside the cotton prison, glaring through a sleeve hole.
Roman bit back a laugh, stepping in without hurry. One knee braced on the chair, he patiently guided Cody’s arms through the right openings, smoothing the shirt down over his chest like he was dressing a toddler.
“There.” Roman’s tone was rich with self-satisfaction, his hands giving the front of the tee one last, proud straightening.
“‘The Tribal Chief is my Daddy.’” Cody read aloud, looking down at the bold print. “My God. The doctor’s going to think I escaped from a psych ward.”
“The doctor will know exactly who’ll be hunting him if he doesn’t fix you to acceptable standards,” Roman replied without missing a beat, crouching to slip sneakers onto Cody’s feet before Cody even realized they were there.
“Ro, this isn’t WWE medical, alright? This guy can call the police.”
Roman tied the laces with quiet, unnerving precision.
“Let’s hope we don’t find out how hard it is to dial with broken thumbs,” he muttered as he rose to his full height, dusting off his hands slowly, in a way that made Cody suspect he was about two seconds away from putting him over his shoulder like luggage. Roman thankfully instead extended a hand down, palm open and steady. “Up.”
Cody accepted the hand, pulling himself upright, but the moment he was vertical, the blood rushed to his head in full force. He wobbled, swaying forward in a slow, ungraceful arc until Roman’s arm automatically locked around his waist, steady and snug, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
“Can you walk? Because that carrying-you thing was not an empty threat,” Roman asked, his worry bleeding through the reluctant sarcasm.
“I’m fine,” Cody insisted, trying for his usual firm tone but landing somewhere closer to stubborn denial. He made a show of gently shrugging Roman’s arm off, even patting it twice in a ridiculous attempt to reassure him.
It lasted all of one step.
His knee buckled, the floor tilted, and his hand shot out to clutch Roman’s arm in a death grip before gravity could humiliate him further. He froze there for a second, head ducked, his pride stinging harder than his skull.
When he finally found his balance again and looked up, he was met with The Eyebrow™, arched, silent, and devastating.
“…Maybe holding on to you isn’t such a bad idea,” Cody admitted sheepishly.
Roman hummed, low and satisfied, and slipped his arm back around Cody’s waist, with a little extra firmness this time, daring him to try and shrug it off again. “That’s what I thought.”
Step by slow step, Roman guided him toward the door, every movement careful, protective, and quietly possessive.