Andrew “Pope” Cody x Fem!Reader
Summary: It’s not unusual that Pope can’t sleep, so he goes to the ocean, but when he finds a little reminder of you in the sand, he can’t stop himself from seeing you.
There’s a certain solace one finds in the night. It drapes bare skin in gooseflesh and clears the mind of its troubles.
Accompanied by the moon, slumber comes easy; the phenomenon of being so at ease that you can’t help but slip unconscious.
Despite this, however, the night terrors and complete noise that plague Andrew “Pope” Cody’s mind could never be eased by the sounds of crickets or a lunar glow. He’s endured, seen, and done too much to truly lay down and just…sleep. Of course there are better moments, but there also times where his body can’t take anymore so he has no choice but to surrender.
Luckily, he hasn’t reached that state yet, but still, now, on a relatively cool, breezy night, Pope struggles to immerse himself in the quiet, which is something he usually thrives in.
Sea foam kisses the tip of his boots, sand collecting within his soles while his hands are stuffed in his pockets. It’s the fourth night in a row he’s gone to the beach in search of some type of familiarity—or comfort, rather. He always does this before a job, finding it easier to separate from his family if he tells himself it’s to keep focus. This separation, however, includes you as well, and he tries to rationalize the distance with the same reasoning.
He can’t, though, that’s the thing.
Andrew wants nothing more than to be laying beside you right now, gazing at your beautiful face as you dream your day away.
It’s all he craves, all he needs to calm his mind, but at the same time, he can’t think straight when he’s around you either. He gets even more stiff and quiet than his norm, which indicates he’s not at his best to perform. He can’t have that, especially when he’s always heckling Craig and Deran about being airheads, or calling out Baz for being too ballsy at times. He’s even called out Smurf for her utter audacity, so to be called hypocritical for his own slip in judgement all because he’s worried about the sun-kissed skin of his lover getting hurt while he’s gone is not what he wants.
With a deep breath to shake away the thoughts, Pope finds himself taking a glance around, and finds a seashell a foot away.
You like seashells, always collecting them how he collects scars: openly, no hesitation.
Pope, even if his own face doesn’t reflect it, enjoys watching your face change to an excited smile when you find a particularly interesting one. It could be sharp at one end, or really smooth at another, or it could have just been some sandstone that happened to catch your eye, but every time, you light up, sometimes making him hold them while you search for more. He'd tease or grunt or just stare at them, but each time he'd hold them as he followed your footsteps without question.
He feels like he’s following them now as sand greets his rough hands, granules finding home between his fingers as he scoops up the shell and simply observes it. It’s a good size, about the size of his palm, and a pearly white color, similar to most of the shells that wash up.
Before he realizes, a smile worms its way onto his lips. He wants to take it home to you, watch you inspect it in that delicate way you do. He wants to hear your thoughts about it, hear how old you think it is, watch your eyes dart between each crevice and groove as you study it with open interest.
He looks down at it, imagining the feel of your hands as you gently take the oceanic treasure from him, nimble fingers brushing his thick ones.
Christ above, he feels so raw. This need for you, your hands, your lips, your heartbeat under his fingertips—any scrap of affection you'd offer him, he craves more than Craig craves coke, and that’s saying something.
Before he knows it, Pope’s eyes are closed, imagining how you'd softly cradle his cheek as you kiss him. How, in an instant, he’d bring your hand to his chest so you'd feel how rapidly his heart beats for you. How you, and only you, could make the one and only Pope eager and compliant should you sigh into his lips.
Even now he can feel it, the way your hands would feel on his chest as you chase your release atop him. How you'd bring his face to your breasts, inviting him to kiss and bite and lick as he pleases while you just take.
A wave crashes in front of him, tearing him from his imagination, because…because that’s all it is.
You don’t belong to him in any way, shape, or form. No matter how many times he walks you home or you come swimming at Smurf’s, the fact remains the same: you’re not his no matter how much he wants to be yours.
He’s never experienced these feelings before, not even with Catharine, which makes them so much more substantial because he doesn’t know how to navigate them.
He recognizes the desire, the compulsion to be near you, the instinct to protect, but there’s something deeper he can’t pin point, something that has him making his way to your house as he desperately clings onto the seashell in his hand.
He knows it's wrong, breaking and entering. He’s done it so many times it comes as a second nature, but this time he feels shaky and hesitant.
This is him picking the lock to your front door and creeping inside with silent steps, not robbing some unsuspecting rich people.
He feels like a live wire as he steps inside.
Immediately, the smell of an extinguished candle meets his nose. It’s a light fragrance, not an assaulting scent like one of Craig’s cheap body sprays. If anything, it coaxes him further inside, inviting him into your kitchen where he sees some plates and forks and what not in the sink.
You’ve had company over. Dinner and wine—if the open bottle of red was any indication. There was also the lingering smell of chicken parm and…ravioli?
Either way, at least the stove and oven were off, along with the lights—he knew how you felt about burning unnecessary power, “save energy, save the planet” was always what you said.
He’d overheard you telling Lena to turn off the tap while brushing her teeth once, and despite himself, he swears he fell in love at that moment.
Ever since then, whenever you took Lena to babysit, Pope had to resist the urge to follow you just to make sure both of you were safe.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
A fuzzy little appendage curls around his leg, then an even fuzzier body follows the motion.
Whiskers, your tabby cat, has somehow managed to not claw Pope’s eyes out despite his dubious arrival. If anything, Pope thinks that if he were anyone else, the animal would’ve attacked him, and he doesn’t know what to do with that thought.
Whiskers, now rubbing his face against Pope’s shin, offers a meow or two before looking up at Andrew with eyes too cute to ignore.
“Are you hungry?” Pope asks the kitty politely, reaching down to scratch behind an ear. However, he quickly trashes that idea when Whiskers walks away towards the living room.
Andrew follows that cat without hesitation, concluding he’s being led towards the pantry to find some food, but when Whiskers stops in front of the sofa, Andrew’s eyes attach to the sleeping being on the couch.
Your chest rises and falls softly with each breath, your hands close to your chest as you dream.
Pope feels his hands begin to shake, he itches to stroke your cheek, run a rough finger over those plush lips. The lamp on the end table casts a gentle light in the room, further accentuating the calm on your face, further luring him to touch.
You're wearing a tank and some shorts; the wine would’ve had you feeling warm, so that was no surprise.
What is surprising though, is how the tabby cat jumps up on an arm of the couch and noses at your hair. He then looks back at Andrew, as if he’s asking the man to do something. When no movement comes, Whiskers meows to drive the point home.
Pope hesitates, it doesn’t take a cat whisperer to understand what said cat wants, but it feels wrong to touch you when you’re not awake and don’t even know he’s here, in your house, watching you like you’re God’s gift to Earth.
He snaps out of his daze, it seems Whiskers is getting irritated with Andrew’s immobility.
He has to admit, you’re dead asleep, but the slight scrunch in your brow tells him it’s not exactly the best position to sleep in. Hell, he knows for a fact that, if you stayed there any longer, you'd wake up restless with a pain in your neck.
Pope doesn’t want you to have a pain in your neck.
Pope doesn’t want you in pain.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he saunters around the couch and scoops you up. He’s careful not to jostle you too much lest you wake up and scream at the fact that not only is the scariest Cody currently in your house, but he also has you within his grasp and has somehow made friends with your cat.
Luckily, you just huff out when he picks you. He feels just how warm you are and resists the urge to just sit down and hold you. It doesn’t help that you’ve nestled into his chest before letting out a little happy sigh. Andrew feels like he’s about to combust, he’s never been this close to you before.
Anytime he was with you, it was always in the prescience of some other person.
On the beach collecting shells? You, him, and Lena.
Swimming at Smurf’s? His insufferable mother, idiot brothers, and J accompany you.
Hell, even when he'd show up to the cafe to “get a snack for Lena”, there was always some impatient customer in the way of him having a conversation with you—if him staring and saying two words at you counted as a conversation, anyway.
Now, though, as he quietly carried you to your bedroom, he felt selfish, greedy.
He had you all to himself, and he just wanted to bask in it.
The feel of your soft skin against his, it was driving him insane. The smell of your hair, the rhythm of your breathing, all of it made him want to keep you close to him.
He felt like an animal wanting to tear into supple flesh. He felt hungry and ravenous for you.
He felt like a gourmand with its favorite meal in front of him, but he’s unable to taste.
It was pathetic, really, Andrew was willing to admit that, but it was his truth, so there was no means to deny it.
Pope toes open your bedroom door, careful not to bump even an inch of you on the threshold.
Your bed is unmade, half of the comforter revealing the dark sheets underneath. He wants to be disappointed in you for not making your bed; he knows that if he was with you, if you'd grant him such a treasure, that he'd make sure your house was never unkept—not that he thought you were unkept, for all he knows you could’ve taken a nap earlier and forgot to fix the bed, or you could’ve been in a rush this morning and forgot.
Either way, Pope would take care of you. He would make sure you had everything you needed. He'd make sure Whiskers was happy and fed, make sure the laundry was always done, make sure you would never have to worry about making a bed or doing the dishes.
He'd do anything you needed, anything you wanted.
After placing you gingerly onto your sheets, Pope’s mind circles back to the dishes and messy kitchen. He decides to clean up the mess for you, after all, dirty dishes attract bugs, you don’t need bugs.
When you met the sheets, you turn and adjust yourself, as if your body recognized you the comfort of your bed even while unconscious.
He’s not exactly a love bug, but the sight of you so utter content makes Andrew’s chest warm and his ears hot.
He wants to kiss your cheek and tell you good night, but he won’t, because he has no permission to.
One could argue that he had no permission to literally break into your house, but Pope chalks that up to something that could be explained by his…Pope-ness so to speak, so he doesn’t really give it much thought.
Before he loses himself completely to your entrancing peace, he turns around and heads to the kitchen, figuring it best to clean now before you wake up and throw a hammer at his head or something.
Pope works quietly and efficiently, somehow not marking a peep despite all the glass and silverware. When he’s done washing them, he dries them just as quietly and effectively as he did everything else.
Placing the object back where they belong, he then wipes the counters and sweeps the floor, knowing that he’d most definitely tracked some sand inside no matter how hard he’d wiped his shoes before entering.
When he’s completely finished, he turns off all the lights, then he walks back into your room to find Whiskers sound asleep next to you, the covers now over your waist as you continue to sleep. You must've gotten cold, and by the looks of it, Whiskers just wanted enough space to lay beside you, which, Pope can't blame the cat, honestly.
But if he’s being completely thorough, he’s a bit jealous, all he can do is sit on your comfy chair and stare. It feels oddly like a cuck chair, but Andrew refuses to acknowledge that at the moment. Instead he continues to watch your breaths, even catching the way your eyes move beneath your eyelids.
In that moment, in the stillness of your bedroom, for the first time in four whole days, Andrew can immerse himself in the quiet. His mind is still running him ragged, but it’s more manageable for now. He doesn’t feel like he’s drowning in his own head, or that he’s one bad day away from completely flying off the hinges. He feels…ok.
Something he rarely feels nowadays.
He selfishly gives himself an hour or two to just be in presence, and when that time is up, he goes to stand.
Just then, a sudden prod at his leg catches his attention, and Pope then remembers the seashell in his pocket.
When he first picked it up, he planned to give it to you when he saw it in the morning, but what better time than the present?
Andrew slips the sandy thing from his pocket, cringing at the speckles of sand that surely live in his front pocket now, and he places it on your bedside table.
He nearly backs out of the gesture, convincing himself that you'd find out it was him who had left it, him, who had broke into your house and…and cleaned your kitchen…
Whatever, the chances of you figuring out it was him was slim, unless he or Whiskers told you. He doubted the latter would happen, but that cat is pretty smart. Either way, he leaves, cracking your bedroom door before carefully exiting through the front door.
There’s a mix of shame and accomplishment coursing through Pope at the moment, but he pushes the odd cocktail away.
As he walks back to his own house, he begins to feel the tug of drowsiness, and when he finally makes it home, he nearly collapses into his bed.
Finally, he is able to at least sleep more than an hour, and subsequently, he dreams of you waking up and seeing the gift he left you. The best part being the kiss you grant him as you thank him over and over.
When Deran and Craig show up to Pope’s house because he’s not answering his cell, they find their brother sound asleep on his back, arms crossed with…with a slight smile on his face.
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